Dizzy

Chapter Five

And so it went; days of the mundane work, Draco learning everything Harry could teach him in a remarkably fast span of time. He was hunched over computers and on phones constantly, wearing off his fingerprints from the excess of typing he did profiling. He racked his brain for new and interesting ways to categorize, given the Ministry’s frightfully awful, psychologyesque organized and disorganized, which was more than a fault, given the Death Eater’s grayish manifestation.

He attended Death Eater meetings with the usual regularity, passing tedious information and trying to deface the small bits he gave to the Ministry as ‘casualties of war.’ He convinced Voldemort and his father that it was best to do it this way - infiltrate the Ministry and garner everything they could possibly know. Sabotage missions. What Draco failed to mention to the Death Eaters is that he had little to no access to the things and files he’d need. And so, Potter kept him insanely busy doing what Draco figured to be easy work. It didn’t help his already aroused suspicions, really, but what could he say? To shine any attention on himself would be futile and possibly damaging, if they decided to look too close. And so he meandered in monotony, filing and typing and chattering on as if he really had a job to do, and better yet, knew how to do it.

One day, surprisingly, as he was milling through papers about the latest Death Eater attack in East London, Harry rapped on his office door, and came in smiling, though his eyes were distracted and bordering on grim. He folded his arms over his chest, the shoulder pads of the suit bunching and making his shoulder look comically tilted.

“What do you need, Harry,” Draco asked, cocking his head and covering the mouth piece of the telephone he held. He kept his voice light and nearly friendly.

“I’ve got an assignment for you... if you’d take it...” Harry looked like he was secretly wincing at the design. Draco glanced down at his desk, reminding himself of the heavy work load he still had to mull through, and looked back up apologetically.

“I dunno yet,” he said. “It depends on the urgency, maybe. And what it is. I’m pretty busy here...”

“It’s a field assignment,” Harry explained, dropping his arms to the sides. “We need you to come down to a crime scene.”

Without conscious thought, Draco’s interest was piqued. He nodded curtly at Harry, and lifted his hand off of the mouth piece. “Listen, I’ve got to get going.... yeah, I understand... if you could forward me the information by owl...? Sure. Thanks. Bye.” He clicked the phone off and rose from his desk, glancing around the room and smoothing his hands over his thighs. “I think I’m ready, if we’re leaving now.”

Harry nodded.

“Grab a coat.”

-----

The ground beneath their feet was squishy muck. Draco made a disgusted face as he trailed behind Potter, wand clutched gently between two fingers, coattails dragging in the smelly, muddy earth. He didn’t protest, but every once and a while, he’d turn back with an apologetic smile and Draco would glower. They walked some miles, and Draco busied himself by staring at the back of Potter’s neck and coat collar. He wasn’t sure why they couldn’t just apparate, but whatever the reason, it made his mood even more sour.

“Nearly there,” Harry tossed over his shoulder. Draco gave a nod and grunted, nearly tripping over a loose stone and growling a curse word. He brushed off the knees of his trousers and kept walking. “Did you bring your camera,” Harry asked, and Draco pointed to his rucksack. “Good...” he trailed off, increasing his step until it was nearly a jog.

The scene before them was an explosion of disaster. A house was in shambles, even the charming blue window shutters ripped from their hinges and crackling as if they were kindling. The yard looked like it might have been pleasant normally, with wide trees and bushes lining the cracked pathway. The house itself could hardly be called one - nearly on its side, one half of it still immersed in smoke from the fire that had just been put out. It looked as if a tornado had hit it in full force, but the three scalded and nude bodies that littered the unsound steps at the front told another story.

It was a muggle family, Draco knew, and the Death Eaters had planned the attack less than a week ago. A ‘sport’ they called it. To get back into ‘hunting season.’ Draco had declined the invite to tag along - murder was distasteful to him, even when absolutely necessary. His scowl deepened into disgust and repulsion as he neared them and smelled the god awful scent of blistered, plundered human flesh. Draco’s nose objected severely to the smell, and his body shook with nausea.

“I know,” muttered Harry softly. “It's brutal, what they do..”

“I...” he couldn’t force a reply, and instead concentrated on shutting out the smell and keeping his eyes averted.

“I know,” Harry sighed again. “We’d better get to work.”

“I don’t think I can,” Draco bit.

Harry turned towards him, his expression stony, eyes hard, as if he knew exactly how much of this Draco was used to (or supposed to be used to). But no. That couldn’t be. He didn’t know about Draco being a Death Eater, or he wouldn’t be so foolish, Draco reasoned.

“Start taking pictures, Draco,” Harry prompted him, and Draco’s hand went for his camera. He shakily took a few photos of the mottled exterior, frowning when they proved to be just slightly out of focus.

Later, when the photos were developed, the strikingly clear pictures showed the aftermath of murder - the part that no family could stomach to clean up, and no normal magic could clean. From a distance, Draco snapped the zoom button and closed in on the corpses, the angle changing to better record the charred state of the bodies. The photo chemist took ten minutes to call on his family and make sure they were all right.

Draco didn’t have that option.

They were done in a surprising amount of time, and afterwards, after the trek to the car, Draco rested his head in his arms and didn’t surface until the pulled back in front of their Ministry Offices. He woke up later that night, around 3am, with a cold, dripping sweat and on the floor, panting.

Draco didn’t deal well with death.