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“Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me, Draco,” the graduate student said as she sat down across the desk from him in the tiny library study room she had booked for the occasion. She settled in her seat, adjusted her clipboard of notes, and looked him in the eye. “I really appreciate you taking the time. I’m Brigitte, the one who answered your owl, but my supervisor Healer Lee is also working on this project.”
“Brigitte, it’s a pleasure,” Draco replied politely, shifting a little in his seat. The student glanced up at him from her notes over her sensible, low-profile eyeglasses.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she replied, more perfunctory than sincere, “Healer Lee and I are the only ones who will have access to the raw, de-anonymised interview transcripts,” she continued, and Draco realised he had interrupted a monologue. “However, anonymised direct quotes may appear in public-facing publications. I want to make it clear that if you ever become uncomfortable at any point, you are free to skip a question, terminate the interview, and/or ask to have your data withdrawn. Are you willing to go forward with the interview?”
“Uh, yes,” Draco answered. He hadn’t even thought about what would happen if he got uncomfortable. When he had seen the poster in St. Mungo’s soliciting research participants who were formerly Death Eater affiliated, he jotted down the mailing address at the bottom without a second thought. Now that he was actually here, though, in the research library, sweating through his robes, he realised that discomfort was a distinct possibility.
Brigitte continued. “Great, then I’ll just start with some basic background questions,” she said. Draco heard her papers shuffle, but he was staring out the window into the small, still courtyard beneath. “You told me in your owl that you were active in the group from 1980-1998, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is,” Draco said. It isn’t a timeline he would get wrong any time soon.
“And how old are you?” Brigitte asked, quill poised for notetaking.
“30 as of yesterday,” he said, trying not to panic at the answer. The further his age moved down the number line of life, the more ashamed Draco felt for still spending so much time thinking about what happened when he was young. He watched Brigitte do the mental math.
“Happy belated birthday. So you consider yourself born into the group, then?” she clarified after a moment. Draco swallowed the little spit in his dry mouth.
“Thanks, uh, yes,” he mumbled. Brigitte nodded and caught Draco’s eye. Something about her gaze was self-aware and reassuring; it calmed him a little. “My parents were Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, her maiden name was Black.”
“You said in your owl, yes, thank you for confirming that,” Brigitte replied, flipping over two pieces of paper. Draco caught a glimpse of his own handwriting on the page she was checking. She paged back to the front of her clipboard. “So, considering you were born into the group, some of my first section doesn’t apply… Oh, this one kind of does. What was your, uh, first impression of the group and its leader? As early as you can remember.”
Draco fixed his eyes on the plain white wall behind her. He wasn’t sure he had an answer to that. At least, not until one started coming out his mouth. “When I was very young, I thought F- my father- was in charge, actually. And I looked up to him, which I think is natural for any child. So my first impression of what it meant to be a Death Eater was quite positive, actually.”
Brigitte nodded and considered his answer as her automatic note-taking quill scratched itself into the parchment beside her. Draco glanced at the page and saw both their words reflected back at him in a neat, compact script.
“Why were you under the impression your father was in charge?” the student probed curiously.
“Well, in my defense, at that time he basically was, in the Dark Lord’s absence. My father kept the group together, what was left of it at least, until the Dark Lord did come back,” Draco explained. The words sounded completely foreign to his ears. He hadn’t said that honorific aloud in at least a half-decade.
“I see,” Brigitte said calmly. “And when you say he kept the group together, what activities did that entail?”
The word activities in this context reminded Draco anxiously of the Wizengamot. This isn’t a trial, he reminded himself with the last ounce of logic he had. “Uh,” he began, pulling himself together, “Back then? He would throw parties at our property on weekends and holidays- Well, my mother would do most of the organization, but he was… In charge. And on weekdays, he would have meetings with the other men from these parties in his study, but I was too young to attend those. That’s all I really knew as a child. Of course, I know now there were other things going on, like making sure everyone was adequately defended in their legal battles… Covering up crimes…” Draco trailed off before deciding to give his rambling paragraph of a quote some sense of structure and adding “My father kept everyone free, involved, and committed to the cause.”
“Hmm,” Brigitte replied, mouthing on the back of her manual quill absentmindedly. “And as a young child, what did you perceive the cause to be?”
Draco’s eyes slid back to the lone tree in the tiny, enclosed courtyard out the window. It didn’t move; there was no breeze between the four tall library walls surrounding it. “To stop muggles from ruining wizardry, I suppose,” he reflected.
“At that age, in what way did you believe muggles were ruining wizardry?” the student followed up quickly.
“They used to scare me with all the stories of all the times muggles have rounded us up for slaughter, in history. They- the adults- were always making us- the children- listen to these awful, grotesque stories. I don’t know- I don’t know how much of it was real,” Draco admitted, only realizing it as the words tumbled clumsily out of his lips. He did his best to assess the expression of the young woman in front of him, but it was unreadable. “They also convinced me that mudb- muggleborns were worse at magic,” he added.
“And do you still believe that?” Brigitte followed up quickly, glancing away from her stack of notes to look at Draco over her glasses.
“What? I- Of course not,” Draco responded defensively, bracing his body physically against the accusation. “I don’t believe any of it,” he insisted. Brigitte’s neutral expression did not change enough to make her look convinced.
“Mmhm,” the graduate student mumbled through a mouthful of quill. “Okay, wait, let me circle back…” she began, flipping back to the typewriter-neat page of interview questions near the top of her stack. “Let’s just focus in on your early childhood for now- You said in your owl that you were initiated officially in 1996, so at 16. I think-” Brigitte glanced at the following paper in her stack, “I think it makes the most sense to take the interview in two phases, then: Before and after.”
Draco nodded. It occurred to him to wonder if Brigitte had gotten any other participants for her project yet. He felt sweaty imagining anyone else who’d avoided death or Azkaban in this same library seat. He played with the sleeve of his robe.
“So, um, before your official initiation, can you tell me what your average day with the group was like?” Brigitte asked, marking a little X on the parchment next to the question with her quill. Draco wasn’t trying to peek at her papers, but the movement of her writing kept drawing his eye. He looked out the window again and thought before answering.
“Well, before school, there were two kinds of days, sort of… Some days, it was just me, Mother, and Father. Father would meet with, but nobody who spent time around the Manor. So, on those days, I’d have tutoring lessons, or practice piano, or go bathing, or read… Mostly keep to myself… We’d have meals together. Sometimes Mother and I would go shopping.” Draco paused, confirming visually that Brigitte was still listening. Her impassive eyes were still trained on him, and Draco wondered if they might look a little bored. “But, uh, if it was the weekend and everyone was around, or if Father had to meet with Mr. Goyle or Mr. Crabbe, or both, their whole families would come by, and often other, uh, family friends, Pureblood families, would come by…”
“When you were all gathered at your property, what sort of things would you all do?” Brigitte asked precisely, “Before your initiation at 16,” she added for good measure.
“Um, the adults would drink and chat, sometimes in the parlor, or on the veranda, or in the garden… Sometimes they would do a little work in Father’s study, but mostly they would just… Talk. Us, the children, we would be sent off to play unless there was a meal,” Draco explained, feeling like he was reconstructing the scene in his mind as he went, “We were all to stay at the table until after the dessert toast, then we were allowed to go play again.”
“What would the adults speak about?” Brigitte probed. Outside the window, someone entered the courtyard from the north wall with a lunchpail. Draco watched him sit down on the sole bench and take his food out of the container on his lap.
“Um,” Draco hesitated, having been momentarily distracted, “Sometimes they’d reminisce, or make plans. Mostly they’d just… Chat, you know… About personal and professional matters. News. That sort of thing.”
“I see,” Brigitte said, and Draco could have sworn he heard a tone of disappointment in her flat, polite voice. “And how did that sort of average-day-with-the-others change after your initiation?”
“Well, obviously, the Dark Lord was back by then, so it changed quite a bit,” Draco quipped, surprised at the bitter tone that had embedded itself in his tongue without his permission. “I was in school, too, so I was only at home during school holidays…” he trailed off, looking out again at the man on the faraway bench, eating his sandwich.
“Mmhm?” Brigitte prompted him.
Draco closed his eyes. “Um, well, it changed because there were lots more people there, all the time. It was a… Revolving door of people… I never really knew who was in the house… And the Dark Lord, well, he took a few rooms, like the dining room, and the cellar…” Draco trailed off again.
Brigitte jumped in quickly. “What did he use the dining room and the cellar for?” she asked, fast enough that she sounded almost eager to know. It turned Draco’s stomach almost imperceptibly.
“He took audience in the dining room. The cellar was for hostages,” Draco indulged her quietly, flatly. Despite Brigitte’s preamble to her interview, he didn’t really feel like he could feasibly skip any questions. He didn’t want to give her reason to doubt his other answers. “But, uh, yes, things also changed because everyone was… Tense, after the Dark Lord came back. And Father was in trouble, after he failed… So, uh, I was in trouble as well. And then I was in trouble for my own mistakes, so, uh. Things were much more… Tense.” Draco’s mouth was dry.
“When you say in trouble, what do you mean?” the student probed further. “Were you punished?” Draco watched the man in the courtyard enter the towering building again and disappear out of sight.
“Yes,” Draco answered quietly.
“What kinds of punishment did the leader use on members of the group?” Brigitte asked. Something about the strange, ivory tower phrasing allowed Draco to put a little emotional distance between himself and the answer.
“Usually the cruciatus curse,” Draco said calmly, as if it were insignificant, “But he could get quite creative.” He couldn’t help but let a dismissive snort out of his nose at that.
“Can you give me some examples?” Brigitte pressed.
Draco nodded, staring at a spot on the wall, and took a deep breath. “Most of it was, well… Sexual,” he explained, pausing for permission to continue.
“Mhmm?” Brigitte granted it, her quill going to her mouth again. She was looking at him so intently, Draco had to keep staring outside. His eyes wandered now to the interiors lit up behind other windows on other floors, seeing medical offices, classrooms, and the like.
“He would rape… Someone,” Draco said quickly, quietly, matter-of-factly. He wished he didn’t have to. “Usually in front of others… Or everyone. Or watch some or all of… The people… Rape someone else. He would…” Draco began, but found himself unable to continue.
“Mhmm?” Brigitte prompted again, in a way that felt almost voyeuristic to Draco. He felt his cheeks redden. If she noticed, she didn’t react.
“He would, uh, use people’s relationships, people’s closeness against them. Make people… Hurt one another, or be hurt for the other’s wrongdoing. If they were too close,” the words spilled out of Draco’s mouth like floodwater, laden with grime and death. “He didn’t want us getting too close.”
“I see,” Brigitte said, then jotted something down. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and scratched her neck before continuing. “Did you ever rape anybody?”
“No,” Draco insisted quickly, leaning forwards in his chair and looking the student in the eye. “I never did.”
“Why not?” she inquired, far too casual.
“Because I was usually the one getting raped,” Draco spat out breathlessly, unable to keep a hint of frustration out of his voice. Brigitte jotted something down.
“Did you use the cruciatus curse on anybody?” she moved on, and it felt like a punch to the gut. Nobody ever wanted to hear about what had happened to Draco during those years. Why would she be any different?
He didn’t say anything. Brigitte stared at him.
“Yes,” he said quietly. She nodded, as if she approved of the admission. It felt insulting.
“How did you justify it to yourself?” Brigitte asked bluntly, and Draco couldn’t help but blink. He wasn’t sure if the question was appropriate.
“Um,” he found himself admitting anyway, “Really, I just knew he would kill me if I disobeyed.” It was the honest truth, but somehow, Draco felt like it came across as a weak excuse. He felt his heel begin to bounce, his leg jiggling under the table.
Brigitte nodded again and circled something on a page. “Did the leader threaten to kill you, then? Did you get the sense it was a serious threat?”
Draco couldn’t help but laugh, cold and caustic. “Yes, and yes. I saw him kill plenty of people. His own people. I didn’t doubt it for a second.” He couldn’t believe that someone academically researching the Dark Lord would even ask that question. For a moment, it helped him feel better to feel superior to the graduate student across the desk from him.
Then, she asked her next question.
“During that time, after your initiation, did you feel a sense of belonging?” Brigitte asked, not looking up from her page, as if it weren’t actually an interesting datapoint to her. To Draco, it was crushing.
“No,” he replied flatly.
Brigitte looked up at him over the rim of her eyeglasses, possibly (probably?) skeptical. “But you stayed until the group was dissolved, correct?” she asked. Draco felt he was on the back foot, now. It wasn’t pleasant.
“It was that or my life,” Draco said coldly. He began to chew on the skin around his thumbnail.
Brigitte didn’t react at all. “How did you feel, in the immediate aftermath of the dissolution?” she inquired. Draco felt like he’d been in this conversation for a thousand years. He looked out the window. The sun had hardly changed angles, it was still nearly straight above.
“Relieved,” Draco replied honestly. He exhaled through his nose, an echo of the sensation.
“Because of your acquittal?” Brigitte volleyed back quickly.
“Um, well, I was relieved by that too,” Draco acknowledged, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. He hadn’t considered that Brigitte would already know the details of his trial and verdict, but now he felt foolish for that. Why wouldn’t she? It was in the public record. And the newspaper archives. “But, no, I meant that I was relieved by… Being free,” Draco clarified.
“Mmhm,” Brigitte replied, tracing her feather quill along her lower lip as she thought. “Do you still keep in touch with other former-”
“-No.”
“Nobody?” Brigitte clarified.
“Nobody,” Draco repeated.
“I see,” she repeated again. “I just have a few more questions.”
Draco looked out the window again, and nodded. The shuffling of paper. The vibrations of footsteps in the corridor outside. The too-bright lamp in the too-small room. The sweat on his skin.
“Actually,” Draco found himself invoking a survival instinct he didn’t realise he still had, “I think that’s enough for me.”
“Oh, uh,” the graduate student replied, looking up quickly from her paper. The disappointment in her voice was transparent at first, but she smoothed it over for her next utterance. “That’s perfectly alright. Thank you so much for participating in this study, Draco. For your compensation, you can pick between a 10 Galleon gift certificate for the St. Mungo’s café - The one in the lobby, not the cafeteria - or a 10 Galleon voucher for the apothecary shop.”
“Uh, I’ll take the café one, thanks,” Draco replied. He hadn’t brewed a potion himself in a long time. He watched as Brigitte rifled through a large beige envelope, procured a coupon, and slid it across the table to him. Draco took it and stood, eager to get out of the claustrophobic environment.
“Thank you again for your time, oh, wait-” Brigitte started. Draco paused and looked back at her, impatient. “-Do you want to receive a copy of the published paper by owl at the same address we have on file?”
“Um, sure,” Draco replied, not particularly caring either way.
“And that address is…” Brigitte flipped to the very bottom page of her clipboard of notes, “12 Grimmauld Place, Islington?”
“Yes,” Draco confirmed, feeling slightly relieved at the thought of getting back there soon.
“Great,” Brigitte replied, writing something down near the address. “Thanks again, Draco, have a nice day!”
“Uh, you too,” Draco replied, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as he pushed open the door into the library corridor. He walked in a trance to the grand spiral staircase at the center of the building, then slowly descended it, a hand on the rail.
“How did it go?” was the first thing Harry asked when Draco emerged from their living room hearth. Harry was still wearing his boxers and muggle tee shirt from the night before, curled up on the couch with a book. One of his Nirvana discs was spinning one room over. It provided a slightly melancholy aura to the sunny living room, one that Draco was willing and able to contribute to.
He sighed. “Fine,” Draco complained, flopping down on the sofa next to his partner. “Coffee’s on me next time we go to the hospital,” he said, passing Harry the strip of paper that Brigitte had given him. Harry took it and read it.
“10 Galleons? That’s a lot of coffee,” he commented with a light tone that contrasted Draco’s. It was a tactical move, one designed to de-escalate his upset, Draco knew. He appreciated it. “Nice,” Harry continued, “Do you think they’d let us buy out all their pastries at once?”
“You know how I feel about empty carbs,” Draco snipped back. Despite the words, he leaned in closer to Harry, resting his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Harry pressed the side of his cheek to Draco’s hair.
“Speaking of, have you eaten today?” Harry asked gently. Draco had left the house when he was still asleep, and had used the opportunity to skip breakfast.
“...No,” Draco admitted. Harry turned and kissed his temple.
“Let me make you something,” Harry insisted, “I made eggs like, an hour ago. If you want some too, we won’t have to wash the pan.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Thank you,” Draco said softly. “Do you mind if I stay on the sofa?”
“No problem, I’ll just be ten, fifteen minutes maximum,” Harry responded, pecking his partner on the cheek and extricating himself from the cuddle. Draco repositioned himself into the spot Harry had just been occupying, wedged into the corner of the cushions. He watched Harry’s muscular arse in his tight cotton boxers as he made his way to the kitchen at the back of the house.
When he was gone, Draco took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice by speaking to Brigitte. Originally, Draco had felt drawn to tell his story for the sake of making it known, of bringing the unspeakable to light so that the same mistakes would never be made again. Now, though, that he’d actually gone through with the interview, he wasn’t so sure that was the lens the student was planning on presenting it through.
I did what I could, Draco told himself. I told the truth.
“UH,” Harry called from across the ground level, “DO YOU MIND IF THE YOLK IS BROKEN?”
“THAT’S FINE!” Draco yelled in reply. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. When would that man learn how to flip an egg? Immersed in the past as he had been that early afternoon, the return to domestic normalcy was a grounding relief. So was the familiar taste of the toad-in-the-hole when Harry brought it back to the living room. It was comfortingly undersalted, just like every time Harry made it.
“Thank you,” Draco said earnestly between mouthfuls of butter-fried bread and half-stiff yolk.
“No problem, babe,” Harry smiled back at him, warm brown eyes big and full of affection, “You deserve it.”
Draco smiled back around a mouthful of his lunch. If he’s the only one who thinks I do, he thought to himself, palate savory and crumb-lined, that’s enough.