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Detachment
I
She saw Draco Malfoy in the bar of the Queen Victoria, the old, run-down hotel that had once been the grandest building in the city. It retained much of its old-world Victorian opulence, but as with the rest of the country, the rot had well and truly set in. Still, it served the best drinks in the city, and so inevitably it became the watering place for all the foreign journalists, photographers and correspondents come to cover the war.
She noticed the distinctive white hair first, long, sun-streaked and shaggy, restrained by a pair of sleek, mirrored muggle sunglasses. It was forty degrees in the shade, and the old-fashioned ceiling fans did little more than stir the hot, humid air; they were all wearing lightweight clothes, and Malfoy was dressed in a short-sleeved, khaki shirt and cargo pants festooned with pockets. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him so casually dressed.
His camera hung about his neck – and she remembered, with a start, that fifteen years ago he’d been one of the foremost photographers of the Resurrection, his brutal, visceral images capturing the horror, terror and violence of the last war against Voldemort. After the end, he’d gone overseas to travel and take photographs, and had returned to England only rarely, for the odd exhibition or book launch.
Ginny hesitated, biting her lip, but then thought of all the people dying or dead because of a senseless civil war – and of how the rest of the wizarding world couldn’t care less. She would bring this conflict to their attention. She would.
Bolstering her courage, she threaded her way through the tables, greeting acquaintances here and there, until she came to where Malfoy sat, alone, smoking and nursing a half-empty glass. He was drinking Scotch, she saw, the ice melting in the glass and condensation forming on the outside.
“Malfoy,” she said, sliding her way into the seat beside him. He flicked her a glance, and she swallowed at the flat, considering look. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m –”
“I know who you are, Weasley,” he interrupted, breathing out a long, acrid stream of smoke. “I remember you.”
“Right,” she said, a little taken aback. Yes, he’d worked with the Order, but that had been fifteen years ago. She hadn’t thought she’d made that much of an impression. “I was wondering,” she began delicately, “whether you might be interested in a mutually beneficial proposal…”
******
II
Once, he’d snapped a candid picture of a worn, tired Auror, her face white and blood-spattered, standing out in a storm with her head tilted back, laughing and smiling as the rain came down around her…
******
III
“A mutually beneficial proposal?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ginny said. “My photographer was murdered two days ago. Mudengo snatched him off the street –”
He made a small, conciliatory gesture. They had both seen too much horror to be sickened or even surprised by such a violent, senseless death. Some of the other journalists, those who had not spent six years fighting for their very survival, had not understood her determination to continue.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
********
IV
Once, she’d seen him standing in the midst of a burning street, his hair and face smoke blackened, his wand clenched tight, grey eyes bright, burning and feral. Six dead men surrounded him, five Death Eater assassins sent to kill him, and the sixth, his best friend, Blaise Zabini…
********
V
Ginny smiled, a little wanly. “Without Ben, I need to find another photographer.”
She saw his sidelong look, amused this time. “Trying for subtlety, Weasley?”
“You’re the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Flattery as well. How badly do you want this story? ‘Flyspeck African country tears itself apart’?”
“No one cares about this war. Hundreds of thousands killed, and no one turns a hair – your pictures are powerful enough to make people pay attention.”
His smile sharpened into something grim and bitter. “In my experience, it takes far more than pictures to push people into action – haven’t you learned that yet, Weasley? Fudge denied the truth until it was right under his nose; this is on the other side of the world…”
“What are you doing here then? Why are you here, covering this flyspeck African country tearing itself apart?”
******
VI
Once, he’d been trapped for a week in a safehouse with Colin Creevey, who, nervous and fidgety, had babbled on endlessly about cameras and photography. The house had been attacked; Malfoy had survived, but Creevey had not. On a whim, out of curiosity, he began to take pictures, solely to distract himself from the horror around him – soon, it became a defence mechanism. Through a camera’s lens, he could view burned out homes and massacred families with analytical detachment –
After the war, he’d found he couldn’t stop, that he was driven to seek out more violence, more war zones, more children with huge, haunted, empty eyes; it was as if other, gentler images no longer had the power to move him.
Except for the one, single image of the laughing woman in the rain…
*****
Detachment
I
She saw Draco Malfoy in the bar of the Queen Victoria, the old, run-down hotel that had once been the grandest building in the city. It retained much of its old-world Victorian opulence, but as with the rest of the country, the rot had well and truly set in. Still, it served the best drinks in the city, and so inevitably it became the watering place for all the foreign journalists, photographers and correspondents come to cover the war.
She noticed the distinctive white hair first, long, sun-streaked and shaggy, restrained by a pair of sleek, mirrored muggle sunglasses. It was forty degrees in the shade, and the old-fashioned ceiling fans did little more than stir the hot, humid air; they were all wearing lightweight clothes, and Malfoy was dressed in a short-sleeved, khaki shirt and cargo pants festooned with pockets. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him so casually dressed.
His camera hung about his neck – and she remembered, with a start, that fifteen years ago he’d been one of the foremost photographers of the Resurrection, his brutal, visceral images capturing the horror, terror and violence of the last war against Voldemort. After the end, he’d gone overseas to travel and take photographs, and had returned to England only rarely, for the odd exhibition or book launch.
Ginny hesitated, biting her lip, but then thought of all the people dying or dead because of a senseless civil war – and of how the rest of the wizarding world couldn’t care less. She would bring this conflict to their attention. She would.
Bolstering her courage, she threaded her way through the tables, greeting acquaintances here and there, until she came to where Malfoy sat, alone, smoking and nursing a half-empty glass. He was drinking Scotch, she saw, the ice melting in the glass and condensation forming on the outside.
“Malfoy,” she said, sliding her way into the seat beside him. He flicked her a glance, and she swallowed at the flat, considering look. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m –”
“I know who you are, Weasley,” he interrupted, breathing out a long, acrid stream of smoke. “I remember you.”
“Right,” she said, a little taken aback. Yes, he’d worked with the Order, but that had been fifteen years ago. She hadn’t thought she’d made that much of an impression. “I was wondering,” she began delicately, “whether you might be interested in a mutually beneficial proposal…”
******
II
Once, he’d snapped a candid picture of a worn, tired Auror, her face white and blood-spattered, standing out in a storm with her head tilted back, laughing and smiling as the rain came down around her…
******
III
“A mutually beneficial proposal?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ginny said. “My photographer was murdered two days ago. Mudengo snatched him off the street –”
He made a small, conciliatory gesture. They had both seen too much horror to be sickened or even surprised by such a violent, senseless death. Some of the other journalists, those who had not spent six years fighting for their very survival, had not understood her determination to continue.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
********
IV
Once, she’d seen him standing in the midst of a burning street, his hair and face smoke blackened, his wand clenched tight, grey eyes bright, burning and feral. Six dead men surrounded him, five Death Eater assassins sent to kill him, and the sixth, his best friend, Blaise Zabini…
********
V
Ginny smiled, a little wanly. “Without Ben, I need to find another photographer.”
She saw his sidelong look, amused this time. “Trying for subtlety, Weasley?”
“You’re the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Flattery as well. How badly do you want this story? ‘Flyspeck African country tears itself apart’?”
“No one cares about this war. Hundreds of thousands killed, and no one turns a hair – your pictures are powerful enough to make people pay attention.”
His smile sharpened into something grim and bitter. “In my experience, it takes far more than pictures to push people into action – haven’t you learned that yet, Weasley? Fudge denied the truth until it was right under his nose; this is on the other side of the world…”
“What are you doing here then? Why are you here, covering this flyspeck African country tearing itself apart?”
******
VI
Once, he’d been trapped for a week in a safehouse with Colin Creevey, who, nervous and fidgety, had babbled on endlessly about cameras and photography. The house had been attacked; Malfoy had survived, but Creevey had not. On a whim, out of curiosity, he began to take pictures, solely to distract himself from the horror around him – soon, it became a defence mechanism. Through a camera’s lens, he could view burned out homes and massacred families with analytical detachment –
After the war, he’d found he couldn’t stop, that he was driven to seek out more violence, more war zones, more children with huge, haunted, empty eyes; it was as if other, gentler images no longer had the power to move him.
Except for the one, single image of the laughing woman in the rain…
*****
The End.
LadyRhiyana is the author of 16 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 5 members. Members who liked Detachment also liked 318 other stories.
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