Chapter 3
Besides herself, Neville and Moody, there were three other Aurors in the room – Nymphadora Tonks, with plain dark hair and dark eyes today, her brother Ron, scowling and belligerent, as he always was when Malf- he was mentioned, and a sleek, dark haired man she did not know.
Moody performed the introductions, naming the dark haired stranger as Jaryd Carlisle, of the Unspeakables. Ginny recognised the surname (Carlisle, one of the older wizarding families, producing mixed Ravenclaws and Slytherins, known for their quiet, subtle machinations)... In her association with he-who-shall-not-be-named, she had learned much of the older houses of the wizarding world. It had not always been romance they had shared.
Nodding to them all, she took her seat at the table, and Carlisle – surprisingly – began the meeting. “You all know what happened this morning,” he said as the others nodded. “But despite that, we – that is, myself and Mr. Moody – believe that there was real truth in that tip, that there is, indeed, something happening at Shadowlands. However,” his voice became very grim, “Evans and Weeks have made it rather more difficult to investigate it, with their reckless bumbling…”
Those words did not bode well for the two offenders.
“So we will have to go slowly, this time, make sure we cover all the bases, so we don’t get another visit from Malfoy’s lawyers. First things first – in front of you all, you’ll find Malfoy’s file. Have a look at it, and then tell me what you think.”
His file. The sum total of an individual’s life, the bare facts rendered in stark black and white, summarised and reduced to concise notes covering some ten sheets of paper. All the decisions and emotions, the rationalisations and the justifications, the doubts and regrets and hesitations, all the shades of grey that coloured the void between the stark facts and the rich, complex, tangled reality had been left out, and all that was left was -
Malfoy, Caius Draconis. Born at Malfoy Manor on the tenth of March 1980, eldest and only child of Caius Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Celeste Malfoy nee Black.
Attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 1991 – 1997, Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy.
No mention was made of the terrifying reputation he had enjoyed at Hogwarts, of the constant feuding with Harry and Ron, of the iron control he had held over his fellow Slytherins, of the gradual change of heart he had gone through after his father had been imprisoned…
Joined the Order of the Phoenix 1996.
It did not say why he had joined, why he had been allowed to join, or the price he had paid for entry into the Order. It did not mention the terrible conflict of interest, the soul searching, the calculations and the irrational, emotional instincts that had gone into such a choice – or the sheer courage it had taken him to make such a step.
Entered Auror Academy January 1998. Graduated July 1998.
Auror training usually took three years. In those days they had been rushing the recruits through as fast as they possibly could, sending them as quickly as they could to the front lines, most of them little more than children…
Awarded Order of Merlin, Second Class, 2000, for courage and sacrifice under fire.
They had been granting medals left and right, that year, hoping desperately to raise morale – he had laughed, she remembered, laughed with skewed, bitter amusement when the notice came informing him of the singular honour. It had been the day after Death Eaters had devastated his family estates, razing the crops and the villages, sowing the fields with salt, leaving nothing – absolutely nothing – left alive that had once sheltered or been sheltered by the Malfoy.
Stripped of all rank, orders and privilege and dishonourably discharged from the Corps, first of November 2005, after being found guilty of murdering a prisoner in violation of the Ministry’s direct order, and of the Geneva Convention.
The day after the very last battle. The day after he had walked away from her, after she had learned of his deceptions and his manipulations, and after Dumbledore and Moody had learned of his treachery: after he had helped his father find escape in the only way left to a condemned prisoner…
They had called him traitor, because he had cared more for his family, for his revenge, than he had for the Order of the Phoenix, or the grand cause of the Resistance Against Voldemort. Because his first priority had been the elimination of the enemies of his House, rather than the elimination of Death Eaters in general. And because he had stepped far, far over the already lax line of acceptable behaviour in doing so…
So be it, he had said, before he turned and walked away. I have nothing to be ashamed of.
******************************************
Years ago, on the shady, disreputable edges of the central London shopping district, the Black family had owned a crumbling, dilapidated townhouse, half destroyed in the Great Fire and never rebuilt, abandoned for a newer, more amenable abode at a newer, more fashionable address. Nevertheless, it had remained in the family, and had eventually been passed down to Draco, the last heir to House Black, who had not appreciated it at the time.
After the war, after his own estates had been destroyed, his accounts and investments confiscated, and everything taken away except this, he had revised his opinion of it. In dire financial straits, desperate and determined to create something – anything – that would generate money, it had been his last and only throw of the dice.
He had transformed it into Shadowlands.
Draco understood the minds of his generation perhaps better than most; they were a generation brought up in the innocence of the end of the first Rising, only to find themselves, at the most impressionable age, at the centre of the second, even more horrifying Resurrection. For ten long years, the war had dragged on, and they had gone from Hogwarts straight into the fight, until they knew nothing else but war, lived on fear, hatred, nerves and adrenaline, and had no dreams other than a final end to the fighting. After the war was no more than a dream, so much so that when it was finally over, they had not known what to do, how to cope.
In a society desperate to forget the horrors of the war, no matter which side they had fought for, desperate for any sort of illusion that would make the devastation and sudden emptiness of a peacetime Britain better and easier to bear, Draco had created a house of dreams, of shadows, and of fantasies. He offered oblivion, whether sexual, chemical, alcoholic, magical – it mattered not, so long as it brought surcease. Shadowlands was a nightclub, it was true – but it was so much more, and in so many ways…anything a patron could possibly want, it had; anything they wished it to be, it became.
Sex and illusion – these were the fundamental strengths of Malfoy magic.
And in return for these fantasies, at the very first generated by Draco himself, exhausting himself night after night spinning webs of illusion, of fantasies for those first patrons, and later created, sustained and powered by many-layered spells and enchantments that did the same thing, the patrons were prepared to pay – cold, hard galleons, as many as they could afford, willing to pay anything for one more experience, one more dream, one more thrill…
*****************************************
Another file, unopened as of yet, lay on Draco Malfoy’s desk. He hadn’t touched it since Higgins handed it to him – was, in truth, a little afraid to touch it, lest it should in some way awaken memories better left alone. He wasn’t exactly sure how this would be accomplished, true, but even so…
He laughed a little roughly.
He was a master of fantasy and illusion. He could create visions so real that those caught within them could actually come to harm as their minds convinced themselves of its reality. Using any medium – words, magic, music, and even art – he could convince people that black was white, up was down and that Slytherins were good, brave, honourable and extremely trustworthy.
And yet every time he had anything at all to do with Ginny Weasley, his vaunted powers and skills disappeared. That was the one and only reason that he had never, at any time, ever spun a fantasy of his own for himself. He knew that it would be of her, and that, driven by the unsettled, volatile emotions she invoked in him, it would turn dangerous…
Because he might begin to believe it, might want to believe it.
****************************************
“Exactly what kind of shady dealings are we trying to discover, Mr. Carlisle?” Neville looked concerned as he flicked again through the file. “Surely you don’t think he’s a neo-Death Eater.” Even so long after the war, there were some who still refused to believe Voldemort was really, truly dead.
“No,” replied Carlisle. “No, he lost too much to the Death Eaters. This has nothing at all to do with any kind of Death Eater activity, or so our analysts believe. But it’s – as you say, Mr. Longbottom – shady enough on its own.” He flipped to the first page of the report, to where a recent photograph of Malfoy had been stapled to the corner.
Neville copied the movement, spared a moment to look down at what his childhood nemesis had become. Despite his sneering, ferret faced adolescence, he had been quite stunning in his twenties, Neville remembered – pale, icy, perfection of face and feature and form. Complete maturity had hardened the delicate edges, any last lingering traces of boyhood completely vanished – now, one could not call him beautiful, it was too…soft.
Neville far preferred to call him feral. Fey. Untouchable. He was slightly unreal, as if he were not entirely in or of this world; Neville remembered the look in his eyes as he had, head high, uttered those words that would forever be his main impression of Draco Malfoy.
So be it. I have nothing to be ashamed of.
A remembered shudder crawled down his spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck.
“Have you ever been to Shadowlands, Mr. Longbottom?” Carlisle’s clipped, aristocratic accent intruded into his thoughts. Startled, he shook his head. No, he had never been to Shadowlands. He had never, ever wanted to see Draco Malfoy again, after those last words.
Tonks cleared her throat. “I have,” she said abruptly. “Once.”
“What was it like?” Ginny asked, curious despite herself, despite her avowed hatred for anything to do with him. Or perhaps because of it.
“It was…” Tonks tilted her head, thinking, “intoxicating. There was…there was too much.”
“Too much what?” Ron asked, puzzled.
Her mouth twisted. “Too much temptation.”
There was a small beat of silence, and then Moody spoke. “Why don’t you make your point, Carlisle?”
Carlisle hesitated. “The shadows, the fantasies the patrons experience – we believe that they’re dangerous. Addictive. That patrons hooked on the fantasy life will do anything – and I mean anything – to have just one more dream…”
“You mean like muggle drugs?” Ginny asked. “Like opium? What did they call opium addicts?”
Tonks’ face was serious. “Lotus eaters, they called them. And those who sold it to them were called dream traders. Is that what you mean, Mr. Carlisle?”
He nodded. “In a way, yes. But these addicts – they’re not just poor, ordinary people off the street. Some of them are important witches and wizards, with positions and connections in high places…”
“Oh.” Neville frowned. “Oh, dear. That’s not good.”
“No,” said Moody. “It’s not. And that’s why you’re going to find out exactly what’s going on, and you’re going to put a stop to it.”
Ginny blinked. “We are, sir?”
Carlisle’s face was impassive, his eyes hooded and far too calculating as he watched her. “I understand you and Mr. Malfoy were…lovers, at some point, Weasley?”
She met his eyes, her own blank. “I am sure Mr. Malfoy has had many lovers, Mr. Carlisle.”
They stared at each other for a while, neither willing to give ground, and then Moody cleared his throat roughly. “What we mean, Weasley, is that you were close to him before. You know him. So get close to him again, without alerting him to what’s going on.”
“I should think he already knows he’s under investigation,” she said, a last ditch effort.
“I didn’t say go in as yourself, Weasley, or even as an Auror. I’m telling you to go in undercover, see what you can discover from pillow talk, or anything else he might possibly let slip.”
She stared at him in appalled silence, unwilling to believe what she had just heard. Then she shoved her chair back, stood up, and marched out of the room.
**************************************
Besides herself, Neville and Moody, there were three other Aurors in the room – Nymphadora Tonks, with plain dark hair and dark eyes today, her brother Ron, scowling and belligerent, as he always was when Malf- he was mentioned, and a sleek, dark haired man she did not know.
Moody performed the introductions, naming the dark haired stranger as Jaryd Carlisle, of the Unspeakables. Ginny recognised the surname (Carlisle, one of the older wizarding families, producing mixed Ravenclaws and Slytherins, known for their quiet, subtle machinations)... In her association with he-who-shall-not-be-named, she had learned much of the older houses of the wizarding world. It had not always been romance they had shared.
Nodding to them all, she took her seat at the table, and Carlisle – surprisingly – began the meeting. “You all know what happened this morning,” he said as the others nodded. “But despite that, we – that is, myself and Mr. Moody – believe that there was real truth in that tip, that there is, indeed, something happening at Shadowlands. However,” his voice became very grim, “Evans and Weeks have made it rather more difficult to investigate it, with their reckless bumbling…”
Those words did not bode well for the two offenders.
“So we will have to go slowly, this time, make sure we cover all the bases, so we don’t get another visit from Malfoy’s lawyers. First things first – in front of you all, you’ll find Malfoy’s file. Have a look at it, and then tell me what you think.”
His file. The sum total of an individual’s life, the bare facts rendered in stark black and white, summarised and reduced to concise notes covering some ten sheets of paper. All the decisions and emotions, the rationalisations and the justifications, the doubts and regrets and hesitations, all the shades of grey that coloured the void between the stark facts and the rich, complex, tangled reality had been left out, and all that was left was -
Malfoy, Caius Draconis. Born at Malfoy Manor on the tenth of March 1980, eldest and only child of Caius Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Celeste Malfoy nee Black.
Attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 1991 – 1997, Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy.
No mention was made of the terrifying reputation he had enjoyed at Hogwarts, of the constant feuding with Harry and Ron, of the iron control he had held over his fellow Slytherins, of the gradual change of heart he had gone through after his father had been imprisoned…
Joined the Order of the Phoenix 1996.
It did not say why he had joined, why he had been allowed to join, or the price he had paid for entry into the Order. It did not mention the terrible conflict of interest, the soul searching, the calculations and the irrational, emotional instincts that had gone into such a choice – or the sheer courage it had taken him to make such a step.
Entered Auror Academy January 1998. Graduated July 1998.
Auror training usually took three years. In those days they had been rushing the recruits through as fast as they possibly could, sending them as quickly as they could to the front lines, most of them little more than children…
Awarded Order of Merlin, Second Class, 2000, for courage and sacrifice under fire.
They had been granting medals left and right, that year, hoping desperately to raise morale – he had laughed, she remembered, laughed with skewed, bitter amusement when the notice came informing him of the singular honour. It had been the day after Death Eaters had devastated his family estates, razing the crops and the villages, sowing the fields with salt, leaving nothing – absolutely nothing – left alive that had once sheltered or been sheltered by the Malfoy.
Stripped of all rank, orders and privilege and dishonourably discharged from the Corps, first of November 2005, after being found guilty of murdering a prisoner in violation of the Ministry’s direct order, and of the Geneva Convention.
The day after the very last battle. The day after he had walked away from her, after she had learned of his deceptions and his manipulations, and after Dumbledore and Moody had learned of his treachery: after he had helped his father find escape in the only way left to a condemned prisoner…
They had called him traitor, because he had cared more for his family, for his revenge, than he had for the Order of the Phoenix, or the grand cause of the Resistance Against Voldemort. Because his first priority had been the elimination of the enemies of his House, rather than the elimination of Death Eaters in general. And because he had stepped far, far over the already lax line of acceptable behaviour in doing so…
So be it, he had said, before he turned and walked away. I have nothing to be ashamed of.
******************************************
Years ago, on the shady, disreputable edges of the central London shopping district, the Black family had owned a crumbling, dilapidated townhouse, half destroyed in the Great Fire and never rebuilt, abandoned for a newer, more amenable abode at a newer, more fashionable address. Nevertheless, it had remained in the family, and had eventually been passed down to Draco, the last heir to House Black, who had not appreciated it at the time.
After the war, after his own estates had been destroyed, his accounts and investments confiscated, and everything taken away except this, he had revised his opinion of it. In dire financial straits, desperate and determined to create something – anything – that would generate money, it had been his last and only throw of the dice.
He had transformed it into Shadowlands.
Draco understood the minds of his generation perhaps better than most; they were a generation brought up in the innocence of the end of the first Rising, only to find themselves, at the most impressionable age, at the centre of the second, even more horrifying Resurrection. For ten long years, the war had dragged on, and they had gone from Hogwarts straight into the fight, until they knew nothing else but war, lived on fear, hatred, nerves and adrenaline, and had no dreams other than a final end to the fighting. After the war was no more than a dream, so much so that when it was finally over, they had not known what to do, how to cope.
In a society desperate to forget the horrors of the war, no matter which side they had fought for, desperate for any sort of illusion that would make the devastation and sudden emptiness of a peacetime Britain better and easier to bear, Draco had created a house of dreams, of shadows, and of fantasies. He offered oblivion, whether sexual, chemical, alcoholic, magical – it mattered not, so long as it brought surcease. Shadowlands was a nightclub, it was true – but it was so much more, and in so many ways…anything a patron could possibly want, it had; anything they wished it to be, it became.
Sex and illusion – these were the fundamental strengths of Malfoy magic.
And in return for these fantasies, at the very first generated by Draco himself, exhausting himself night after night spinning webs of illusion, of fantasies for those first patrons, and later created, sustained and powered by many-layered spells and enchantments that did the same thing, the patrons were prepared to pay – cold, hard galleons, as many as they could afford, willing to pay anything for one more experience, one more dream, one more thrill…
*****************************************
Another file, unopened as of yet, lay on Draco Malfoy’s desk. He hadn’t touched it since Higgins handed it to him – was, in truth, a little afraid to touch it, lest it should in some way awaken memories better left alone. He wasn’t exactly sure how this would be accomplished, true, but even so…
He laughed a little roughly.
He was a master of fantasy and illusion. He could create visions so real that those caught within them could actually come to harm as their minds convinced themselves of its reality. Using any medium – words, magic, music, and even art – he could convince people that black was white, up was down and that Slytherins were good, brave, honourable and extremely trustworthy.
And yet every time he had anything at all to do with Ginny Weasley, his vaunted powers and skills disappeared. That was the one and only reason that he had never, at any time, ever spun a fantasy of his own for himself. He knew that it would be of her, and that, driven by the unsettled, volatile emotions she invoked in him, it would turn dangerous…
Because he might begin to believe it, might want to believe it.
****************************************
“Exactly what kind of shady dealings are we trying to discover, Mr. Carlisle?” Neville looked concerned as he flicked again through the file. “Surely you don’t think he’s a neo-Death Eater.” Even so long after the war, there were some who still refused to believe Voldemort was really, truly dead.
“No,” replied Carlisle. “No, he lost too much to the Death Eaters. This has nothing at all to do with any kind of Death Eater activity, or so our analysts believe. But it’s – as you say, Mr. Longbottom – shady enough on its own.” He flipped to the first page of the report, to where a recent photograph of Malfoy had been stapled to the corner.
Neville copied the movement, spared a moment to look down at what his childhood nemesis had become. Despite his sneering, ferret faced adolescence, he had been quite stunning in his twenties, Neville remembered – pale, icy, perfection of face and feature and form. Complete maturity had hardened the delicate edges, any last lingering traces of boyhood completely vanished – now, one could not call him beautiful, it was too…soft.
Neville far preferred to call him feral. Fey. Untouchable. He was slightly unreal, as if he were not entirely in or of this world; Neville remembered the look in his eyes as he had, head high, uttered those words that would forever be his main impression of Draco Malfoy.
So be it. I have nothing to be ashamed of.
A remembered shudder crawled down his spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck.
“Have you ever been to Shadowlands, Mr. Longbottom?” Carlisle’s clipped, aristocratic accent intruded into his thoughts. Startled, he shook his head. No, he had never been to Shadowlands. He had never, ever wanted to see Draco Malfoy again, after those last words.
Tonks cleared her throat. “I have,” she said abruptly. “Once.”
“What was it like?” Ginny asked, curious despite herself, despite her avowed hatred for anything to do with him. Or perhaps because of it.
“It was…” Tonks tilted her head, thinking, “intoxicating. There was…there was too much.”
“Too much what?” Ron asked, puzzled.
Her mouth twisted. “Too much temptation.”
There was a small beat of silence, and then Moody spoke. “Why don’t you make your point, Carlisle?”
Carlisle hesitated. “The shadows, the fantasies the patrons experience – we believe that they’re dangerous. Addictive. That patrons hooked on the fantasy life will do anything – and I mean anything – to have just one more dream…”
“You mean like muggle drugs?” Ginny asked. “Like opium? What did they call opium addicts?”
Tonks’ face was serious. “Lotus eaters, they called them. And those who sold it to them were called dream traders. Is that what you mean, Mr. Carlisle?”
He nodded. “In a way, yes. But these addicts – they’re not just poor, ordinary people off the street. Some of them are important witches and wizards, with positions and connections in high places…”
“Oh.” Neville frowned. “Oh, dear. That’s not good.”
“No,” said Moody. “It’s not. And that’s why you’re going to find out exactly what’s going on, and you’re going to put a stop to it.”
Ginny blinked. “We are, sir?”
Carlisle’s face was impassive, his eyes hooded and far too calculating as he watched her. “I understand you and Mr. Malfoy were…lovers, at some point, Weasley?”
She met his eyes, her own blank. “I am sure Mr. Malfoy has had many lovers, Mr. Carlisle.”
They stared at each other for a while, neither willing to give ground, and then Moody cleared his throat roughly. “What we mean, Weasley, is that you were close to him before. You know him. So get close to him again, without alerting him to what’s going on.”
“I should think he already knows he’s under investigation,” she said, a last ditch effort.
“I didn’t say go in as yourself, Weasley, or even as an Auror. I’m telling you to go in undercover, see what you can discover from pillow talk, or anything else he might possibly let slip.”
She stared at him in appalled silence, unwilling to believe what she had just heard. Then she shoved her chair back, stood up, and marched out of the room.
**************************************
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