Chapter Text
History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.
— Richard Siken, “Little Beast”
+
“Another Ministry Official Vanishes: Echoes of Dark Times Return?”
Draco Malfoy skims through the latest article in the Daily Prophet, his attention immediately caught by the headline. As he reads, he notes that the latest victim to vanish is Undersecretary Lionel Prewett, a mid-level ministry official who was last seen leaving the Ministry premises late Thursday evening. Sources close to him say he never made it to his destination. While foul play is suspected, Draco knows that just like the last two victims, no real evidence will be found. Lionel’s body will never be recovered.
The disappearances are beginning to send small ripples of unease throughout the Wizarding community. However, this piece is the first to directly attribute them to something this sinister. Draco reads on as the article says, “The disappearances are prompting inevitable comparisons to the Dark Days of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s reign of terror. The sudden vanishing of yet another Ministry official has ignited fears of a resurgence of dark forces, lurking in the shadows and preying on the unsuspecting.”
He closes the paper after reading another four lines of members of both the DMLE and Ministry downplaying the disappearances. Fucking typical, the powers that be never want to recognise there’s an issue until it’s much too late. The usage of the term “resurgence,” in the article is also not lost on him—he wouldn’t be surprised if this were but an intentional taunt, a thinly veiled announcement to the Wizarding World of who exactly was responsible.
“You know nothing good ever comes out of reading those dirty rags, darling,” a voice interrupts.
Draco glances up to find Pansy standing in the doorway of his study, which is really just a small, cramped room with bookshelves lining one wall opposite a large antique desk shoved in the corner where the singular window is.
Immediately, Draco wonders how long she was there watching him. He has only ever allowed her and his mother to be tuned to his wards, but Pansy has grown much more perceptive in the years following their adolescence. He briefly questions if he should consider changing his wards to protect his secrets. He thinks better of this quickly, though, and instead allows himself to be glad to see her for the first time in over three months.
“Considering you make your Galleons on gossip, that’s rich coming from you,” Draco retorts as he smirks up at Pansy.
Pansy clicks her tongue in response, her demeanour teasing as she walks over and rests on the desk Draco is currently inhabiting. “Now now, Draco,” she chides gently. “No need to be defensive. One, I make my Galleons on preventing gossip. And two, I’m just stating the obvious. Those articles are often nothing but fearmongering and speculation.”
Draco pauses, acknowledging the truth in her words as he shoves the paper to the side of his desk. “Thanks, but I’m well aware of that,” he concedes. “And yet, sometimes, amidst the threads of sensationalism, there’s a few grains of truth.”
“And what supposed truths are hidden behind these disappearances?” Pansy inquires, sliding off the desk and taking a seat opposite him. Draco watches as she leans back in her chair and kicks one of her dragonhide boots up on the corner of his desk. As she does so, her mini-skirt slips even higher on her thigh. He thinks this skirt is from her latest collection, the one he missed while she was away.
For a moment, Draco pauses to appreciate the subtle sheen of intricate magical embellishments she has adorned along the hemline. As the sunlight from his window catches it, the designs change minutely, and he allows himself to be caught up in it as he considers sidestepping the very line of questioning he just encouraged.
“Draco?” Pansy probes, shifting his focus back to her.
“I know there’s something ominous at play,” he responds, looking back up at her face. “Three disappearances in as many months, and all within the Ministry’s own walls.” He pauses for a moment, careful in his words even with his closest friend, “It’s too deliberate to be mere coincidence.”
Pansy nods thoughtfully, her dark bob swaying slightly with the movement. “There’s always more going on than they share. This is true. But do you really think it’s of concern to us specifically?” she asks. “I mean, it’s not as if any of us are the ministry’s pets. Let the rest of them rot in the ruin they made for themselves.”
“If it doesn’t concern us yet, it will,” he answers. “These disappearances... they’re a symptom of something larger, something darker that is growing. The thing about poison is that it seeps slowly but it still holds the power to taint all in its path. And even we can find ourselves in its way.”
Again, he doesn’t add.
It’s one thing to know, to be following it himself. But it’s another to put it out there in the world—acknowledge it directly with her. As much as he missed her while she was in France, at least he felt more confident in her safety the further she was from all of this.
He watches as she flattens her perfectly manicured nails over her skirt once, twice, and then closes her eyes for a moment before reopening them. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” Her voice doesn’t betray her, but he understands her worry all the same.
In the eight years following the war, various factions of disgruntled purebloods, Death Eater sympathisers, and Death Eaters who either avoided capture or escaped Azkaban by bribing Wizengamot members have risen to notoriety across Britain. While some divisions have inevitably died out due to internal fighting or capture by the DMLE, there is always another waiting to take its place. Although the papers still attempt to shield it from the public eye, those on the fringes of acceptable society are more than aware of what is lurking in the shadows.
Draco studies Pansy’s face for a moment. “Yes, I believe so.” He pauses, noting her silence. “But let’s set it aside for now. Did you just get in? How are you? How was the show?”
As the conversation shifts, Pansy engages more animatedly with him. Draco knows it isn’t a matter of her being indifferent or oblivious to what’s happening. Rather, he understands that, like many from their year, she has worked hard to build a life far removed from the mistakes of their adolescence. Once those protective walls are in place, they’re not easily torn down. So, he lets go of any desire to push further and instead chooses to appreciate the glimpses she offers into the life she’s created without him.
“Draco, I am much more brilliant than they give me credit for,” she preens as she unceremoniously dumps her feet back on the floor and sits up straighter in her chair. “It was both magnificent and utterly exhausting.”
“Magnificent?” Draco questions, a grin playing on his lips. “I know you’re dying to share, so quit being mysterious.”
Pansy sighs dramatically, but there’s a proud glint in her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe the chaos. One of our lead designers had a public meltdown and started bad-mouthing the creative director just days before the show. It was a PR nightmare and could have led to a massive loss of revenue or worse, the cancelation of the entire show.”
Draco leans back, intrigued. “But let me guess, you swooped in and saved the day?”
“Precisely,” Pansy nods, a smile forming. She explains how she reframed the entire narrative of the meltdown, highlighting the designer’s passion and the director’s vision, and redirected the focus of the French fashion house back to their latest autumn collection. Pansy continues, describing how her efforts also allowed her to feature several of her own designs on two of the models; this helped her establish a few connections of her own, even though her primary role within the fashion house is PR-oriented for now.
“I’m not surprised you could make it work in your ambitious favour,” Draco jokes. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”
She nods at him with a laugh, “Thanks to you. Merlin knows you’ve given me enough practise to last a lifetime.”
“I’ve missed you,” he says genuinely.
“I know,” she responds. “And that’s why I came straight here from my portkey point,” she says, brilliant red lips turning into a scowl. “You quit returning my owls, you arse. I reached out to Blaise, but he said he hadn’t heard from you in even longer.”
“Pans,” he starts. “I’m sorry that I was not there to offer more support. You deserve more than that and I recognise it. I am so proud of you and the success you saw on this project. I would have been more present, but some things here came up. And well…” He pauses and tries to swallow, get some spit back into his dry mouth, but it’s futile. “The details aren’t important, but I’m sorry. Honest. I know I fucked up—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts firmly. “Don’t try to minimise it, and don’t try to apologise it away. That’s not going to work this time.”
She pauses for a moment, and visibly takes a deep breath in front of him before she blows it back out. “There is a time for that, and we’ll discuss it, and you will owe me a million times over for it. But right now? Right now, I refuse to allow myself to turn this into that. This isn’t about the show or me at all.”
“Then please do enlighten me on what we are actually discussing,” he says. He means to say it with a little more menace, but it falls flat, empty.
“You,” she says with a long sigh. “We’re talking about you, Draco. Blaise said he came by here three separate times and each time he found the place uninhabited.” She’s staring him right in the eye—daring him to lie to her.
“I’m not sure what you’re implying,” he says slowly, playing oblivious. “One’s existence is not confined to a flat in Kensington.”
She leans forward and puts both palms on his desk. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” she says sharply. “I may not know the specifics of what’s going on, but I know enough to see that something isn’t right. You can’t keep shutting us out like this.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but it sounds hollow even to him. “I have a lot of things going on, but please believe me when I say I’m doing what’s necessary.”
“Necessary for what, Draco? Don’t tell me it’s related to the rubbish in that.” She dips her head in the direction of the Prophet still sitting on the side of his desk. “That entire paper needs put in the bin alongside The Quibbler and you know it.”
“I assure you,” Draco begins, his voice tight with forced composure, “There’s nothing going on that you need to be involved in.”
But even as the words leave his lips, he knows he’s saying the wrong thing. For months now, he has woven a tapestry of lies around Pansy, holding her at a careful distance to shield her from the peril he willingly embraces. Deception has always come naturally to him, and despite this, he has yet to master the art of it with her.
She knows him intimately for she has known him before and after. In the years before their futures were ripped from their hands by the sins of their families. And again, in the aftermath of the war, during those uncertain years when they teetered on the cusp of the unknown. She was the one who sat beside him after his trial, who quieted his sobs when he narrowly escaped a lifetime prison sentence he had almost welcomed. A fate his own father, despite his best attempts and tricks, was unable to escape.
He can never lie to her, not really, so instead, he uses space to create distance.
Pansy narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced by his feeble excuse. “I’m not a bloody fool, Draco,” she says in a raised voice, frustration evident on her face. “I’ve let you have your space, but the truth is that you’re never around anymore, and the fact that you’re sneaking out of even your own flat…it’s just suspicious.”
Pansy’s words hang heavy in the air, her gaze piercing through Draco’s defences. He feels the weight of her scrutiny, the burden of her unspoken questions pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket.
“I appreciate your concern, I do,” Draco replies, his tone softer now as he wrings his hands together on his side of the desk. “But trust me when I say that I’m handling things. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Pansy regards him silently for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Is this about Narcissa?”
“What? No—,” he cuts in cruelly. “This isn’t about her, and we are not speaking further on the matter.”
“But Draco…”
“This is not up for debate,” he says harshly as his eyes narrow and jaw clenches. “Not now, not ever. I am allowed to reserve some things for myself.” It’s unfair of him, but he’s still stunned that she would have the audacity to apply a name to his loss.
“Fine,” she responds, her voice tinged with disappointment. “If that’s the way you want it. I’m not going to just sit around while you close yourself off to all of us and pretend it’s okay. Owl or don’t owl, I can’t be bothered.”
With that, she stands, turns on her heel, and strides towards the door, leaving Draco alone. As the door closes behind her, Draco sinks back into his chair, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. He knows he’s playing a dangerous game, treading the razor’s edge with every step he takes. But for now, he has no choice but to continue down this path, to embrace the darkness that threatens to consume him.
With a resigned sigh, he stands and walks out of the room to prepare for the evening’s meeting.
+
Hours later, Draco sits alone at a dimly lit table in an underground pub on the outskirts of Knockturn Alley. His fingers tap nervously on the chipped wooden surface of the table. He knows from the last tempus he cast that he has been waiting for over an hour. His pint has long grown warm and the rain outside has transitioned from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour. He brushes a stray hair out of his face as he takes another look around the pub.
The tavern is empty except for a few individuals lurking in the shadows and what appears to be two regulars arguing with the barkeep at the front. Draco’s table is set in the far corner; his back safely resting against a wall so he can view all entry and exit points to the pub. He knows that whoever The Resurgence sends to meet him will likely be under a disillusionment charm, so he won’t be able to recognise them. That doesn’t stop him from trying, though.
After another fifteen minutes, Draco’s gaze flickers to the entrance, where a figure cloaked in darkness slips into the pub. The dim light barely outlines their form, but Draco’s senses sharpen as he watches them. The figure’s movements seem deliberate and purposeful, and as they lock eyes with Draco, a shiver courses down his spine.
His hand trembles slightly as he reaches for his glass, trying to maintain composure as he takes one last gulp of the warm drink. He feels the weight of their stare, the anticipation heavy in the air. As Draco rises to welcome them, he exhales deeply and forces a shrug of his shoulders as he attempts to slip into his father’s persona.
“A Malfoy,” the figure says, their voice cold and distant.
Draco clears his throat and takes a seat back down, motioning for the unknown figure to do the same. As he sits, he pushes the arms of his cloak up, intentionally revealing his Dark Mark for them to see.
"Did you expect someone else?” he sneers, voice raised with scepticism.
Of course, the organisation would have no tangible reason to expect him. Before today, all their communication had occurred through a series of codes and encrypted messages. Neither party’s identity had been revealed; despite this, he knew it was likely that someone in The Resurgence had tried to put traces on each of their communications. Draco had put in effort to obscure his post so that it was still traceable under the right charm while remaining covert enough not to raise any other suspicions.
“It is always best when one’s speculations are confirmed, Mr. Malfoy,” the figure responds. As the last word leaves them, Draco feels a Muffliato charm sweep over their table. “I am sure you can understand our desire to verify you are who we expect you to be.”
It was a calculated risk for him to wear his own face to the meeting today. The Wizarding World has long associated the name of Malfoy to be one drawn to power and influence at the most sinister of prices; he just hopes the name still means something similar in this setting despite his father’s fall from grace.
“Very well then.” Draco clasps his hands together on the table. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Of course. We appreciate your generosity,” they respond, their tone measured. There’s a short pause that Draco interprets as laden with unspoken implications. “Each piece of intel you have provided thus far has been screened through our sources and has proven to be accurate. However, you must recognise any further trust must be earned beyond this encounter.”
“I've done my part, as agreed,” Draco replies calmly, eyes narrowing. “I've provided you with crucial dates of several raids, led you to hidden collections of Dark artifacts, and ensured the safety of our mutual contacts. My loyalty to our cause should not continue to be questioned after six months of service.”
The figure leans back slightly, their face still concealed by the cloak’s hood. Draco senses a flicker of acknowledgment, but their suspicion remains evident.
“Your loyalty is yet to be fully proven,” the figure reaffirms.
“Excuse me? Please, do elaborate.”
“We’ve had reports of your hesitations, and your information, while concise, tends to lack additional depth. It makes one question the extent of your loyalty.”
“I’ve made choices that ensure my survival, as any sensible person would,” Draco retorts, his voice growing firmer. “But make no mistake, I am committed to our cause. My hesitations stem from the need to protect those who are still vulnerable, who could be collateral damage in our fight. I won’t compromise innocent pureblood lives for the sake of blind vengeance.”
Silence hangs heavy in the air as the figure absorbs Draco’s words. Finally, a sigh emanates from beneath the hood.
“Understood,” the figure concedes, their voice now tinged with a hint of reluctant acceptance. “Your caution and concern for collateral damage have been noted. But remember, we are at a critical juncture, and we cannot afford hesitation. Lives hang in the balance, and we need resolute commitment. It’s one thing to offer intel from the safety of one’s home, but another to engage directly in the field.”
Draco listens intently, fully immersed in the gravity of the conversation. The figure leans forward slightly, their face still obscured.
“There is a crucial operation underway,” they continue, their voice low and urgent. “Information has reached us about an upcoming gala for political officials. It’s a gathering of significant importance, with key figures from Wizarding Britain and representatives from several other countries slated to attend. The event is poised to shape alliances, sway policies, and influence the future of magical society far and wide. Considering your family’s…” the figure pauses briefly, seemingly deliberating their next words, “inclination towards such gatherings, I trust you are prepared to take on the responsibility of attending?”
Draco nods, understanding the implicit expectation placed upon him. This task serves as a test of his commitment to engage directly in the organisation’s operations.
"Excellent. Your presence will be needed to join Henrik Papp in attendance,” the figure emphasizes, the weight of their words hanging heavily in the air. “Throughout the evening, you will be his shadow, his confidant in the midst of the political fray.”
Draco does not immediately recognise the name. He retains it to memory to do further research before he’s thrown into the fray with the man.
“As Papp’s companion, you will move as he moves, speak as he speaks, and anticipate his every need. Your role extends beyond mere attendance; you will be his shield against prying eyes and hostile intentions. Your task is to ensure his safety, protect his interests, and safeguard his alliance with our organisation. Our goals are his goals.”
He continues to nod his head in understanding, encouraging them to continue.
“Can we rely on you, Malfoy?” The question hangs in the air, laden with expectation and urgency, awaiting his commitment to the cause.
“Of course,” Draco responds quickly.
“Then stay close, and we will be in touch,” they say before leaving the table and inevitably disappearing into the shadows once more.
Draco takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, feeling both excitement and apprehension at the same time. He understands that by pledging his allegiance to The Resurgence, he has crossed a point of no return. He finishes his pint in one last gulp and makes his way out of the pub.
As he walks through the dark streets of Knockturn Alley, he thinks about what lies ahead, and for the first time in years, he feels like he has a purpose. He knows his death will only ever mean something if something good comes out of it.
+
The post arrives four days later with an unrecognisable owl. Draco’s attention is immediately captivated by the charcoal grey wax seal stamped upon it, an intricate and ornate design. At its centre, a stylised serpent coils gracefully, its scales adorned with miniscule, almost imperceptible symbols and runes. The imagery is not lost on him; each detail speaks on the traditions and sentiments of the organisation it was founded after.
Your attendance is requested at the below coordinates.
Date: 20 October 2006
Time: 7:30PM
Venue: Loxley House
Initial Contact: Tobias WycliffeYour discretion is paramount. As a measure of prudence, this letter will automatically self-incinerate upon the completion of its reading by the intended recipient.
No sooner has Draco finished reading the letter does it burst into flames in his hands; quickly, he drops the remaining ash to his floor and stomps on it with his shoe.
Bloody bastards, he thinks as he sweeps up the mess and deposits it into the rubbish bin.
Draco gets to work quickly after that, using a lesser-known contact of Blaise’s to gather information on Henrik Papp. Although he briefly entertains the idea of going to Blaise for more comprehensive details, he quickly dismisses it as a foolish notion. Blaise Zabini is not only perceptive but also greedily curious, especially when it comes to matters of ambition and power. Involving Blaise would inevitably lead to unwanted questions and scrutiny—and possibly a subtle form of blackmail, pressuring Draco into donating to the latest charity Blaise happens to be championing.
So rather than obtaining more reliable information and the headache that comes along with it, Draco uses Blaise’s extended influence to communicate with Winston Finch. Winston works in Records at the Ministry, and he’s ideal for this type of task because he never asks follow-up questions about any less than legitimate requests. Instead, he focuses more of his energy on asking after Blaise and his latest conquests as if the poor git stands (another) chance.
With Winston’s assistance, Draco learns that Henrik is a twenty-eight year old pureblood with a lineage that dates back only a fraction of Draco’s own. He attended Durmstrang in his youth, and just recently started immersing himself in politics two years ago. Initially, Draco wonders what could have drawn The Resurgence’s attention to Henrik, but it soon becomes clear that Henrik’s wealth, along with his dual citizenship in Hungary and Britain, offers a strategic advantage—granting access to additional networks, resources, and political influence.
And if The Resurgence gets word on Draco checking into Henrik, which he suspects they will, this won’t look any more suspicious than his usual dealings with Winston. The source is removed enough. Instead, it will just be another move in a game Draco has played before.
Draco sets down the parchment Winston gave him, staring at the name scrawled across the top: Henrik Papp.
Whoever this man is, Draco thinks, he’s about to become either a valuable ally—or a very dangerous enemy.