Resurgence of Evil

CHAPTER 11

Oliver stalked out of the room, making no attempt to hide his irritation. Malfoy hadn't grown into as much of a prat as he'd previously thought - hell, everyone had thought - he would. But the git was damn irritating nevertheless.

He'd known that there was something different after the trial, he wasn't dense. Most people figured Malfoy had used his position, money, and influence to get off scotch-free, like his father had twenty years ago.

But Malfoy's manner, his reclusive attitude, was the complete opposite of what everyone expected - when the heir to the Malfoy fortune quietly slipped into the background, it had been done with such subtle skill that most people hadn't even noticed. When he should have been celebrating, glorying in the public attention that naturally followed his release, he'd become a hermit, living on the fringes of the wizarding and muggle worlds. Oliver couldn't for the life of him figure it out. He'd interrogated Malfoy before the trial, but hadn't been able to get any information out of him - a skill he prided himself on.

Oliver walked into the small room, the walls and doors warded to be spellproof, and found Malfoy sitting in his chair, exactly as he'd been left. Only his chains were in a small heap by his left foot.

Malfoy didn't make any move as Oliver pulled out his wand, and Oliver said, "Give me your wand."

There was no way Malfoy could've gotten free of those chains without magic - they were specially spelled to resist lockpicking (a device thought up by the Weasley twins, no surprise there). They'd taken his wand initially, but he could have a spare - it wasn't unheard of. Many Dark witches and wizards kept the wands they'd grown out of, simply as decoys or tools. They carefully kept from doing Dark magic with these wands, so that Priori Incantatem wouldn't pick anything up, and they could still have a wand if apprehended and forced to sacrifice one to the Aurors' custody.

Malfoy held out his hands, palms up, and showed that they were empty. Unimpressed, Oliver motioned for him to stand, and called in several Aurors. Malfoy was restrained - none too lightly, but the Death Eater scumbag didn't deserve gentleness - and thoroughly searched.

No wand. Glaring outright, Oliver growled a spell and watched, impassive, as Malfoy's features tightened and his body stiffened with pain. Surprisingly, the boy who'd whined for months over a hippogriff cut didn't make a sound.

"Where is your wand?" Oliver snapped, lifting the curse.

No response. Not even an arrogant glare. Malfoy's eyes were locked on him, but they were carefully devoid of emotion. Not empty like some, but wary.

Good, Oliver thought grimly. I'll give him something to be wary of.

An hour later, Oliver moved from the relatively light curses to more painful, heavier magics. Still Malfoy was silent through the bruises and blood, but his mouth was open slightly as he panted for breath. Oliver continued to question him, but changed tactics, trying to elicit some reaction. Nothing seemed to work.

Frustrated, he jerked Malfoy to his feet, and several Aurors held the limp man up. He yanked the left sleeve of Malfoy's shirt up, and spat, "

Ecce!"

The appearance of unmarked skin melted away as the mark, glowing with a dazzling blackness, glared up from Malfoy's arm.

Oliver heard Malfoy's breath catch, and he looked up quickly. The other man's face was stripped of all pretenses, and there was a look of loathing on Malfoy's face as he stared at the mark. But the emotion disappeared, a set look taking its place.

"Death Eater scum," snarled a man to Oliver's left. He glanced for a moment at Jude Sloane, then turned away and walked to the door, leaving the Death Eater in the capable hands of his aurors. He heard the impact of a fist with flesh and turned, almost at the door.

Malfoy was doubled over, and Sloane was flexing his hand. "His trial is in three days," Oliver said lightly. "No obvious, or crippling, damage. That's what Azkaban's for. I'll have a mediwizard here two hours beforehand." He turned and left.

Oliver still didn't know if he regretted leaving Malfoy to Sloane and his men for the better part of three days, but he hadn't been present at the trial, and had no idea of the following circumstances. The man was free, but that didn't mean that Oliver trusted him, or even the joint verdict of the Wizengamot. Influence like that wielded by the Malfoy family wasn't easily ignored.

Pushing those thoughts from his mind, he then considered the information Malfoy had relayed in regards to the mark, his feet automatically taking him to the cells for Death Eaters, located in the most protected part of the Ministry. Snorting at the trustworthiness of his source, he decided that Malfoy was lying until proved right.

He opened a cell, one of twenty identical ones, and found Ralf Hardesty still chained to his chair. The man was glaringly furious, and Oliver pulled his wand. Directions had been given, and Calwell was being interrogated by another crew as Oliver spoke to Hardesty. Backup was waiting, monitoring the rooms, in case Oliver needed it. Oliver, however, thought that unlikely.

"Ralf Hardesty," he said, his tone even, friendly.

"Fuck off, asswipe," snarled the man.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"Of course," he snapped. The man snorted, and finally smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. "The question is, do you know why I'm here?"

Do you think I'd be asking if I did?

Oliver thought, irritated that the man seemed familiar with interrogation. Time to change tactics.

He lifted his wand, and spat out the nastiest curse he could think of, short of the Unforgivables. Although Auror's powers had been drastically revoked since Voldemort's death, they were still authorized to use Forbidden spells in extreme cases.

He lifted the spell, and Hardesty started to laugh. "Is that the best you can do?"

Angry, Oliver cursed him once more, and he left Hardesty writhing and groaning in agony for several minutes.

When he finally lifted the curse, the Death Eater slumped, panting, for several seconds. "You're like him, you know," he finally rasped, without looking up. His head of lank brown hair rested on his heaving chest.

"Who?" Oliver demanded.

There was a pause. "Voldemort."

Oliver felt ill.

"You won't do the Dark magic, but you're so alike - predictable in your unpredictability. It's only names, you know, that separate us from you. Good, bad - it's perspective. All perspective."

"You're mad," Oliver said, unable to believe that Hardesty was spouting philosophy.

"Am I?" Hardesty raised his eyes. "You know it. You know I'm speaking truth."

"I know no such thing," Oliver retorted, listening in spite of himself.

"Maybe you're not as like him as I thought, then. Even Voldemort knew the truth when he saw it. Never could see a lie, though, that one - too full of 'em himself. Not like -" Hardesty was almost talking to himself, staring past Oliver, at the door.

"Not like who?" Oliver asked quietly, afraid to break the semi-reverie that had settled over Hardesty, unwilling to dam this flow of speech that could lead to real information.

"The new one." Hardesty shuddered. "Voldemort was cold, but he had a goal, an admirable one. The new Lord - he's - " Hardesty stopped. He was silent for several minutes, and Oliver finally lost his patience. He'd never been gifted with much, anyway.

"Why did you attack Draco Malfoy?"

"Oh, that one." There was a tone in Hardesty's voice - an awareness, of . . . something. "The Lord wants him."

"Why?"

"He's good." The answer was simple, and seemed obvious, but told Oliver exactly nothing. And he didn't believe it.

"It's all perspective, remember?" he snapped, throwing Hardesty's words back at him.

"No, not for him." Hardesty leaned forward, wincing as he glanced at his arm. He seemed to be trying to make Oliver understand something. "He isn't just on the side of what you call the good, he is the good. Everything else is shades of gray, but this is the black and white. The new Lord is, and Malfoy is - only opposite. And - " his face twisted, pain wracking his features.

Alert, Oliver stood straight, wand on Hardesty. "It burns," the other rasped.

A green glow originated on the man's arm, radiating through his shirt, and Oliver carefully pushed the sleeve back with his wand. The mark was glowing green. Hardesty's sweaty features glanced anxiously at it. "I'm a dead man," he whispered.

The green light flared, lighting up the whole room. Hardesty screamed, and Oliver blinked back the spots in front of his eyes. Hardesty was screaming, panting, struggling violently, with all his might, against the chair and the pain he seemed to be in.

His eyes caught Oliver's. "Don't you forget what I said, now, boy," he managed. Another bright flash of light lit up the room, and Oliver shielded his eyes. But there was no accompanying scream from the chained Death Eater.

The glow went out abruptly, and the door burst open. Five Aurors, wands at the ready, rushed in.

Oliver turned toward Hardesty. His eyes were open, unseeing, and his jaw slack. "The Killing Curse," breathed a female Auror. "But how?"

Oliver stared at the Mark on Hardesty's arm. "That's how." He pointed with his wand, rather than touch it himself.

Stepping back, he looked at the situation again, and similarities flashed through his mind. The recent, unexplained deaths. Where the victims had been killed by Avada Kedavra, with their houses left standing, and all protective wards intact. The solution was lying - or rather, sitting - right in front of him. And Oliver understood.

"They were all Death Eaters," he breathed, shocked. And then he turned and ran, his revelation spurring him on, to the office of the Head of the DMLE.