FIC: House of Heretics 1/4 (Draco/Astoria, R)

[slumber]

Title: House of Heretics (1/4)
Pairing: Draco/Astoria, mentions of Cormac/Astoria, Viktor/Pansy, also hints at various Slytherin ships
Word Count: <38,000, 9150 for this section
Rating/Warnings: R, mentions of infidelity and crime
Betas: acidpop25 kept an eye out for flow and phrasing, and grrarrg0908 battled my italics valiantly and came out triumphant. Any mistakes are due to my post-beta meddling.
Summary: Seven years have passed since Voldemort's defeat and Draco Malfoy is making do with the lot he's been given--distrusted by the most of the ministry, shunned by the House that he betrayed. When a ministry official goes missing, Draco is given the chance to help restore the Malfoys' place in society. But is Astoria standing in his way or is she just what he needs to be exonerated?
Author's notes: For Slytherins, the loves of my life. Narcissa probably wouldn't be here if not for Helen McCrory's performance in Deathly Hallows. The characters are JKR's, but Foxglove Bakery is Caroline's. Hope you enjoy reading! Written for het_bigbang. On the HBB site here and AO3 here.


i. he left us quite downhearted


"This had better be good, Potter."

The face at the other end of the fire-call craned its disembodied head to look behind Draco's shoulder. "I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"I was in the middle of an experiment," Draco groused. An assortment of vials and test tubes currently littered his desk, in the midst of which a blue-green mixture condensed into a small bowl. He'd been watching it as it shifted colors over the last few hours, tracking its progress in a journal that he kept for just that purpose.

He was also well past his fifth glass of whiskey, but he didn't need to tell the head of Magical Law Enforcement everything.

"You and your hobbies," Harry chuckled. "Why can't you just collect Chocolate Frogs? I hear they're popular again."

"Why would I want to pay perfectly good money so I can look at your ugly mug all day? That already happens far too often."

"I wish it wouldn't either, Malfoy, but here we are anyway. I have a case for you."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Obviously, or you wouldn't be calling. What is it, dark artifact theft? Misuse? Muggle abuse? A third dark lord rising? Merlin knows we're due for another one of those."

"Not quite, no. Missing person."

"Anybody I know?"

"Does the name Cormac McLaggen ring a bell?"

"The Deputy Head of International Magical Cooperation is missing?" Draco asked, his voice rising by about an octave before he could stop himself. Even among the politically disinclined it was thought that, given a few more years, McLaggen would one day become the Minister of Magic. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"This is a delicate matter," Harry said, though his face twisted into the usual sour look it wore whenever he had to do something unpleasant, like petting Blast-Ended Skrewts, talking to Rita Skeeter, or filling out paperwork. "Shacklebolt wants us both to proceed with discretion."

"What happened?"

"His wife called us in. She found blood on the floor of his study and he was nowhere to be found. How soon can you get here?"

Draco glanced at his lab. The mixture wouldn't be ready for another three hours, and if it blew up, then it blew up. It wouldn't be the first time he'd blame Harry for it. "I'll be there in fifteen."

"I need you here in five."

"Ten."

"Fine."

"Anything else I need to know?"

Harry's face prickled, though that could very well just have been the embers' dying sparks in the fireplace. "He disappeared in the middle of his birthday party."

Draco paused. "How many guests did they have?"

"About a hundred."

"So we have a hundred suspects."

"Yep."

"And potentially a hundred witnesses."

"Uh huh."

"And exactly how does Shacklebolt expect us to be discreet?"

"I don't have a fucking clue."

---

In all his years at Hogwarts, Draco had never thought he'd one day be working alongside Harry Potter. Some days it still caught him by surprise.

It started after his seventh year, when everything had fallen into complete disarray and the Ministry scrambled to return to order. Shacklebolt had hired every member of Dumbledore's Army and put them through expedited Auror training, after which the hunt for the last of the Death Eaters began in earnest. Sympathizers were questioned but the Ministry found itself constrained by its own bureaucratic snares. Trials could not be set and arrests could not be made unless there existed some irrefutable proof of Death Eating.

That's where the Malfoys proved useful. They had to go through trial themselves, and though in their case there was little doubt they were guilty, their betrayal of the Dark Lord afforded them some leniency. By then, it hardly mattered to anyone else what happened to them: Lucius was a hair's breadth away from madness, and Narcissa was a shell of her proud self.

Draco negotiated a lesser sentence for his parents in exchange for his cooperation, and at the first trial where it seemed his testimony would not suffice, it was he and Harry who broke into the Baddocks' manor and found the evidence they needed to lock Maxwell Baddock up for twenty years--Draco had known, from firsthand experience, what to look for and where, and Harry had provided the Ministry backing, however implicit.

By the third case, his parents were released from Azkaban. By the fifth, he was, himself, a free man. By the sixth, he became special consultant to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

And now here he was eleven cases later, trudging towards the outskirts of a town east of London in the dead of the night--all because Harry Potter asked.

The McLaggen estate, like many residences of the wealthy pureblooded, was nestled in a vast expanse of the country, Unplottable and protected by numerous ancient wards. But that didn't guarantee absolute safety, not when most families opened their doors for any conceivable reason they could concoct to host a social gathering.

It seemed the McLaggens had played hosts to a well-attended affair. Out on the manicured lawn, a cluster of wizards and witches in evening robes whispered and gossiped amongst themselves. The incident had given them a topic of conversation above the mundane talk that pervaded these evenings, which was just as well considering members of the Magical Law Enforcement squad were stationed around the perimeter of the estate. Draco assumed it was to prevent guests from leaving before their statements could be taken, and he was mostly right.

"Oi! You! What do you think you're doing?" one of them asked.

Draco scowled. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Returning to the scene of the crime?" another suggested, and both squad members laughed at the joke.

"Do we need the Head Auror to get out here because you two imbeciles won't let me in?" Draco snapped. "I haven't got all night."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," came the reply, and in a few moments the wards eased to let Draco through. There were a few other choice insults muttered, but Draco didn't even bother to bristle. Getting the entire MLE to like him was not part of his job. He strode past the guests, most of whom parted to give way save for one.

"Little late to the party, aren't we, Malfoy?" Blaise Zabini asked, his lip curling into that one-sided, self-assured smirk that, for the better part of seven years, Draco had wanted to punch. "The main course was served a full two hours ago."

"Evening to you too, Zabini."

"Send my love to Potter for me, why don't you? That is, if you can remove your lips from his arse long enough to--"

"Blaise, don't be crude," Pansy scolded. She turned towards Draco and offered him a stiff smile. "Hello, Draco."

"Pansy." Of all the ties he'd cut, Pansy's was one of the two he most regretted severing. He'd not spoken to her since seventh year, but what could he say to absolve himself? He'd testified against his own Housemates during the trials. Even among the Slytherins there existed a line, if not between right and wrong, then at least between what can and cannot be done.

"Why not? The man's a filthy traitor," Blaise said. "He ratted everyone out before flinging himself to hide beneath the Ministry's sanctimonious skirts. Just because you were once infatuated with him--"

"That's enough, Blaise." Pansy narrowed her eyes, snapping before Draco could cut him off himself.

"Pansy?"

Everyone turned at the sound of the voice. Pansy's face broke into a sweet smile when she saw who it was. "Viktor, darling."

"I don't see you until now. Bagman talks and talks and talks. I try to find excuse to leave, say my wife is looking for me, but--"

"It's fine," she said, linking her arm with his. "I couldn't find you either."

"How long do we stay here?"

"We haven't been told anything since they asked us to go outside," Pansy told him. She nodded at Draco. "He might know."

Draco shook his head. "You might have to wait some more. I still need to find Potter."

"He is inside, I think," Viktor said.

"Thank you," Draco told him, avoiding eye contact with anyone else as he headed toward the manor.

---

"You're late," Harry said. He stood up from his seat and signaled for Draco to follow him to the stairs.

"It was a long walk. Did you know Sharp and Diggle are wasting taxpayer galleons milling around with the guests outside?"

"I asked them to do that. I've got Peakes and Quinnville taking statements."

"Prior Incantato?"

Harry glared at him. "I know protocol, Malfoy. This isn't my first crime scene."

"I still say this would be easier if the Wizengamot just let us use Dumbledore's Pensieve."

Harry snorted. "You would think. It's been in the MLE custody for years and they still have those bloody Unspeakables performing tests to confirm it can't be tainted. Hermione drafted a process checklist within two days and she reckons it'll be another two years before we'd actually be allowed to use Pensieve statements in court."

It was in Draco's esteemed opinion that confirming the accuracy of information was secondary to acquiring it as soon as crimes were discovered, but the Wizengamot was a notoriously suspicious lot. It didn't matter that the Pensieve was an invention of one of their own--they didn't trust that it couldn't be tampered with--and it certainly didn't matter either that their own system was flawed. It wouldn't be as much of a problem (the MLE could still use the Pensieve to guide investigations even if they couldn't use it as proof) if not for the fact that explicit permission had to be given to obtain memories. That was one thing he had yet to find a way to... creatively acquire. "Bully for us," he said, following Harry up the stairs. "Where are we headed?"

"McLaggen's study."

"Is Mrs. McLaggen up there too?"

"She's tending to the guests; I've got Williams with her."

"Got it." Draco was interested in getting her testimony, but he didn't need it until after he'd seen the scene. "So tell me the timeline."

"The party started at seven. About three hours in, his wife noticed he was missing so she went upstairs to find him. Found the study a mess, didn't see where he was. She called us right after, she said."

"Were the guests aware of what happened?"

"Some, but no one knows the entire story."

"Neither do we," Draco said. "And how does she know it's an abduction?"

Harry gave him a look. "Tell me what you think," he said before flinging the door wide open.

The study was trashed. Books littered the floor, the desk--its drawers ajar--lay on its side, an ugly rug bunched up near the fireplace, and the chair was split in two. There were pieces of broken glass by the window and blood spattered on the carpeted floor. "That's quite the struggle for one man. Whoever it was must have had to overpower him."

"We're thinking the wizard probably used his hands more than his wand. You don't see too much spell damage around."

"Anyone know how long McLaggen had been gone from the party?"

"We have conflicting reports from the guests. Some thought they saw him leave an hour ago, others swore they saw him just minutes before. Mrs. McLaggen herself couldn't remember the last time she saw him."

"That's helpful. What's McLaggen doing up here with a glass of scotch?" Draco asked, taking care not to step on anything as he made his way to a corner of the room. He Levitated an empty glass whose amber contents were staining the floor, examining it for a moment before he set it back, his gaze caught by a similar stain a few feet away. The glass that held the alcohol had been crushed into pieces that, at first glance, seemed to belong to the window, but its shards were finer, thinner. He knelt down and sniffed the air around the stain, catching a whiff of wine. "He had someone else with him as well. Smells like champagne."

"That narrows it down, doesn't it?" Harry scoffed.

Draco nodded toward the window. "It doesn't explain why that's been broken. If the abductor had been inside, why not just open the window to take McLaggen out?"

"The windows were warded shut," Harry said. "I'm assuming, since we're a floor up, that whoever took him Summoned a broom to escape."

"Anybody's wand register Accio?"

"Six guests did. Roberts is confirming their alibis downstairs."

"And Mrs. McLaggen?"

Harry shook his head. "Glacialum. Her drink needed ice. You think she might have something to do with it?"

"She's the last one who could have seen him and whoever took him," Draco said. "First witness, first suspect, right?"

"She's also the wife of a public figure and if it turns out that she's innocent, we're going to get slammed for treating her like a criminal. You can't use your usual tactics with her, Malfoy."

"My usual tactics?"

"Play nice."

"I always play nice." Draco eyed McLaggen's overturned desk. "Those drawers--do you know what's in them?"

"Just paperwork, odds and ends, she said. He kept his most important documents in a Gringotts vault."

"Office supplies," he muttered, noting a few seals, letters, and envelopes. His hand skimmed over its contents, closing over a gold coin and moving to the next drawer before Harry noticed how long he lingered there. He picked up a few envelopes and waved them in the air. "You think he had any political enemies?"

"You think he'd write to people who hated his guts?"

"He's in politics. Of course he does," Draco said, slipping the envelopes inside his breast pocket.

"Be my guest," Harry said with a shrug, though Draco was certain that detail wouldn't escape Harry's attention later as he filed his report.

Draco cocked his head toward the blood spatter on the floor. It was partially hidden under the rug, which he toed out of the way. "Oh. That's a lot more than I thought it would be. We're sure it's McLaggen's?"

"We're sending samples to our potions lab for further analysis, but I'd say yeah, we're sure it's his."

"Your men have searched the grounds for his body?"

"Every last inch."

"And nothing?"

Harry scowled. "Nothing. We can't do much with only conjecture at this point."

Draco gave the entire room another look. "Alright, Potter. Let's talk with Mrs. McLaggen."

---

They found Astoria McLaggen in the kitchen, directing house elves to create more hors d'oeuvres for the guests and trying to shoo Tracey Davis outside. Tracey had put on an apron and was attempting to mix some batter together, insistent on staying to help.

"You're a guest, Tracey," she was saying, thrusting a glass of iced drink at her just before Harry cleared his throat and knocked on the open door.

"Mrs. McLaggen?"

She turned to look, and Draco realized exactly why the name rang a bell. "You're Daphne's little sister."

It wasn't the stark drama that was Pansy's severe black bob and pale skin, or the ethereality of Tracey's gentle blonde curls and bright blue eyes, but the Greengrasses were nonetheless striking in their own ways. Daphne smiled like she knew your secret, prone to bursts of laughter and fits of impish mischief. Astoria had the same dark brown hair, the same heart-shaped face that framed delicate features, and she even quirked her lips in the same manner that Daphne would have.

"Well spotted, Mr. Malfoy. I can see now why the Ministry pays so handsomely for your services."

The difference, it seemed, was in the delivery. Where Daphne's sharper features gave way to lighthearted, malice-free banter, there was a layer of subtle mockery that hid beneath Astoria's more cherubic face.

"I was wondering if I could talk with you for a moment," Draco said, ignoring the jibe and giving Harry a pointed look. Whoever said he couldn't be nice if he wanted to be?

"Now?" Astoria asked. She chewed on the bottom of her lip, wiping her hand on a small towel as she glanced at the chaos of her kitchen.

"It won't take very long, Mrs. McLaggen," Harry said.

"I'll take care of things here," Tracey assured her, retying her apron around what looked like an expensive powder blue gown.

Astoria sighed. "All right," she said. She grabbed her glass of red and drank the last of it in two quick gulps--impressive considering the amount left. She motioned for Draco to follow. "Let's head somewhere quiet, shall we?"

"See you in a while," Harry told him, lips quirking as Draco passed him by.

"Don't think I don't know what you're thinking," Astoria said as soon as they entered a small drawing room near the kitchen. She walked toward one of the chairs and sat herself down, legs primly crossed, hands folded on her lap. She nodded at the couch in front of her. "Please, take a seat."

"What am I thinking?" Draco asked.

"Auror Potter's been nothing but gracious, and so have his men, but I know you suspect one person and that's why you're talking to her right now, is it not?"

"We have to start somewhere, don't we?"

"How about trying to find him first? How many men were sent to look for him compared to the men who stayed to inconvenience our guests?"

"Potter knows what he's doing. They're looking for your husband, but as soon as whoever took him got past the wards they could have Apparated anywhere. The MLE are combing the perimeter of your estate as we speak--" Draco hoped they were, at least-- "and will let us know as soon as they find anything. For now, it's a better use of everyone's time to find out who might have anything to gain from his disappearance."

Astoria pursed her lips in response. "Fine," she said. "We'll do it your way, then."

"What do you know of your husband's enemies?"

"Many wizards are jealous of his position, I imagine."

"You imagine?"

Even the way she shrugged was refined. "I don't know much about politics. I care even less about his."

"You don't think it wise to concern yourself with your husband's activities?"

"Wouldn't that then make me complicit?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying something with that statement?"

She smiled: a beatific, close-mouthed smirk that caught Draco by surprise. "Hardly. But my mother always cautioned me against knowing too much. She said it wasn't a lady's place to know."

Draco shifted in his seat, closer to the edge so he could sit straighter. "Be that as it may," he said, "we have reason to believe that whoever took him may have come in as a guest."

Astoria frowned. "How? Everyone's still here."

"If you have a guest list, we'd like to confirm that," Draco said. "And it's possible they may have found a way to return without being noticed--we don't know how long your husband had been missing before you saw his study, after all."

"You realize we invited over a hundred guests?"

"I do. This is why any information you may have could come in handy."

"And if I don't have any?"

"You're his wife," Draco said. It was his turn to smile. "If you don't know anything, you at least have access to something that might."

---

"Tomorrow? Why couldn't you speak with her today?"

Draco wasn't sure if it was part and parcel of talking with Harry over fire-call, but it seemed anytime the man received bad news his face bristled and hissed with the burning coals of the flames. "She's got obligations today, Potter, and as it happens, so do I."

Harry blinked, uncomprehending.

"It's Saturday," Draco enunciated. "Go home."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but he always had something to protest. Snuffing out the flames ended the conversation more efficiently, so that's what Draco did. He dusted the soot and sand off his robes, but they smudged regardless.

He was heading to his room for a change of robes when he heard the familiar thud of someone coming through the Floo. He hurried for the door, intent on closing it behind him before--

"Draco?"

Damn it.

"Draco, darling, I'm only a minute early. Where are you?"

Draco sighed. "Upstairs, mother."

"Whatever for?" came Narcissa's question. "We were supposed to have tea and you haven't started brewing anything yet. I've got something to tell you; hurry down, will you?"

"Just a minute, I've--" from the kitchen came the sound of clattering cups and the creaking of cupboard doors. Too late. He closed his door and descended the stairs. "Mother, I can--"

"It's no bother, love," Narcissa told him, coming out of the kitchen to meet him in the foyer. Her smile was warm, as it always was for him, silver-graying hair tied in a neat bun. Soft lines, usually charmed to fade, drew the passage of years on her pale face. "You should have told me you needed help. We'd have gotten you a house elf."

"It's fine," Draco said, stemming the bitter pang that rose in his throat. There would be no elf--most elves came with the centuries-old houses that only the oldest wizarding families owned, and the Malfoys had lost theirs long ago--but it was a nice thought to have, and she seemed to find comfort in saying those words, however empty. "I don't need an elf."

"What happened to your robes?"

"Just some soot, Mother, it's--"

She was already fussing, waving her wand to clean the sooty residue with a murmured Tergeo. "There," she said, pleased with her work. "You don't go to work looking like that, do you?"

"No, Mum," Draco said with a sigh. It was hard to feign formality when his mother insisted on acting like a hen. "I wash my clothes."

"Good, can't have a law enforcement consultant dressed in rags," she said. "I heard you were at the McLaggens' last night?"

Draco blinked. "How did you even--"

"It was only on The Prophet's second page," his mother told him. "'The MLE, immediately at a loss, have already requested the expertise of Draco Malfoy'--"

"That is not what The Prophet said," Draco said with a snort. While Rita Skeeter may have favored those she could use for information, she'd been bumped down to handling the society pages and Zacharias Smith now covered most of the MLE beat. He was just as nosy as his predecessor, but with all the bluntness of a badger and the bristles of a hedgehog. Draco had no doubt Smith had already gotten wind of the investigation, but he didn't believe for one moment that Smith would have called him an expert in anything.

"The facts don't change. I owled Miranda McLaggen this morning. The poor woman is absolutely beside herself with grief! Did you know," she said, ignoring the look Draco gave her--it wasn't like his mother to be so bold as to reach out to women who hadn't spoken to her since Lucius was last arrested. "Miranda owled me back not two hours later, asking if I'd heard anything yet."

"Is that what you wished to discuss today, then?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Your work is yours, but I told her not to worry. My son is on the case." She beamed then, proud as the peacocks that used to wander the manor grounds.

Draco only nodded, loathe to promise anything that might be taken as a guarantee. There were few things that the Malfoys had in excess these days. Pride was one of them, even if it no longer came with the esteem that most others had given the family. He chose to busy himself instead with preparing tea, now that the kettle whistled its signal, pouring his mother first a cup of strong Earl Grey before he stirred some milk and sugar into his English Breakfast. It was the closest he'd come to coffee, whose smell Narcissa found revolting.

"Your father, though," she started to say once they had settled in their seats--skinny chairs with slim cushions that scarcely separated bottoms from hard surfaces.

Draco cringed despite himself. "What about father?"

"He only wants to see how you're doing," she said.

"Oh?"

Narcissa sighed. "He's curious, as well, about what the Ministry plans to do in Cormac's absence," she admitted. "He says word is that Cormac had been running most of International Magical Cooperation."

Draco shook his head. Where his mother at least attempted to mask her ambitions with delicate correspondences, Lucius was all but deranged in his delusions. "Its head is running the department, Mother. Cyrus Walden is perfectly capable, and if they find him otherwise, please do tell your husband that Malfoy Manor is the last place they'd look for a replacement."

Narcissa set her cup down on its saucer, the porcelain clinking louder than normal. "That was not at all what he was saying," she said. "Your father is concerned, that's all."

"Of course he's concerned," Draco said. He didn't want to argue with his mother, even though he disagreed with her then. Lucius Malfoy had never held a position in public office, yet now that most private company boards have either politely declined to renew his term or strong-armed him out altogether, he spent his days misguidedly plotting out his rise to power.

"I shall tell him the department is not looking, then," Narcissa said. "The investigation. It's going well?"

"As well as a day-old case can go," Draco told her. "I'm to meet with the wife after she brunches with her family tomorrow."

"That reminds me--I should send an owl to Helene as well, I think," she murmured, almost to herself. "We haven't caught up with each other in ages. Was she close with her son-in-law, do you know?"

Draco gave a helpless shrug.

"Didn't one of her daughters go to school with you? Daphne, wasn't it? You used to be such good friends."

That was a bit of a stretch. He remembered speaking to her just three times at Hogwarts--the first time was to ask where she got the bag of sweets she'd been carrying around all day and sneaking handfuls of when the professors weren't looking; the second time, he'd tried to coax her into snogging him so Pansy would get jealous after the Yule Ball; the last time, it wasn't even her. (He'd tapped her shoulder to tell her something, he didn't even remember what it was now, but it was Astoria who turned around to ask him what he wanted.) Daphne was friends with Pansy and Tracey, and Draco had been friends with both girls--with Pansy because she liked him, and with Tracey because the only way to remain in Theodore's good graces was to be in hers--so he supposed that counted. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"You ought to catch up," Narcissa suggested. The smile that came with her words was small and wistful, but it made Draco uncomfortable enough to busy himself with brewing another pot of tea. He didn't care that his father dreamt of power--Lucius was easy enough to ignore--but Narcissa only wanted things to be as they were.

"I will," he lied, because truth be told, so did he.

---

Astoria still hadn't returned from brunch when Draco arrived at the estate after noon the next day. She left her house elf with instructions to let Draco in, but Draco refused the elf's offer to bring him anything to drink, choosing instead to sit himself at the desk, where a lone leather journal lay.

Was that the entirety of her so-called information? Draco wrinkled his nose, but, resigned to start somewhere, opened the journal to the first page.

There was a loud cracking sound, a sudden gust of angry wind, and in the next second, his back hit the wall with a resounding thud.

"Fuck," he groaned, crumpling onto the ground. He should have known, should have seen that coming. Of course McLaggen's journal would be warded.

Bloody hell.

He picked himself up, ignoring the sharp throbbing in his side from where he had collided against an edge in the wall, and limped back toward the desk. The journal was shut tight, glowing a menacing red. Draco swore, running his hand through his hair. He didn't have time for this, although he supposed it was enough to let him know he may just be on the right track after all.

The ward McLaggen had placed on his journal wasn't uncommon--Draco had encountered it a few times in the past, and it wasn't too complicated that it would be impossible to break. It did require some time, as Draco was certain the journal would need a few minutes to calm down. The leather cover bristled with volatile magic as Draco neared it, and he wondered if it could sense him from two feet away.

"Nasty bugger," he muttered under his breath, remembering a moment in third year when that ridiculous half-giant thought to assign his students a book that was intent on devouring its owner. He'd nearly had his hand bitten off. He stayed a fair distance away, noticing now the runes that lined the journal's spine.

Draco Summoned a blank piece of parchment and his self-inking quill from the desk. Careful not to step any closer, he squinted to make out the characters and wrote an approximation of them down. Some runic sequences were so powerful that the simple act of writing them served as incantation enough. He glanced at what he'd written, wishing he hadn't been so rubbish at Ancient Runes.

"Pinky?" he called out, hoping the elf was somewhere within hearing distance.

"Would you like tea now, Mister Malfoy?" Pinky asked, though when she popped in she already had a tray of tea to offer.

"No, thank you. I was wondering if you knew whether or not your mistress keeps a runes textbook around the house?"

"Of course, Mister Malfoy," Pinky said, disappearing before Draco could tell her more and returning not five seconds later, her tiny spindly arms wobbling with the weight of six thick books. "Can Pinky bring Mister Malfoy anything else?"

"These should be fine, thank you," Draco said. He took the stack from Pinky and sat on a leather armchair at the other end of the room, intending to brush up on basic runic theory to get a better idea on how to disarm McLaggen's journal.

It wasn't until Astoria knocked on the door and he looked up for the first time that he realized he'd been stuck in the position for too long. There was a crick in his neck that had been building from being hunched over so much, and he took the opportunity to stretch a little to ease the discomfort.

Astoria walked in with a pot of coffee and biscuits, setting them down on what little space was available. "Pinky says you haven't had anything since you arrived. I'd be remiss in my duties as host if I didn't make sure you were at least fed."

Draco set down his quill, marking the new combination he'd been in the middle of translating. There were seven of them now, but he hadn't yet gathered the nerve to try any. "Is that coffee?"

"You didn't seem like the sort to have tea."

"What made you think that?"

"You're too wired," she admitted, and even Draco had to crack a smile.

"Guess I deserve that," he said, pouring himself a cup and taking a sip. "That's as sharp an observation as any that Potter's rookies have made."

"They've been keeping my counsel updated," Astoria said. "But so far, they've found nothing."

"They might have found something from the journal," Draco pointed out.

"They'd have the discretion of Skeeter on a Babbling Potion. I'd rather have this kind of material handled appropriately," she declared. "I meant to ask--have you found anything so far?"

"I think so. Your husband didn't want anybody looking into this, which tells me we're probably on the right track. I've been trying to figure out the runic code needed to unlock it."

"I suspected he may have warded it."

"Little bit of warning would have been nice."

"I didn't think it was something you couldn't handle."

Draco caught the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I can handle it," he said, taking one of the combinations he'd drawn up and scratching it out in a circular pattern on a piece of parchment. The runes glowed for a moment. Draco picked up the journal and eyed it with some trepidation.

"Scared, Malfoy?"

"Of course not," he denied, knowing full well she was goading him but feeling quite goaded regardless. He placed the journal right in the middle of the runic circle.

The runes glowed green; the journal started to tremble.

"Is it working?" Astoria wanted to know.

"I think--shite, no. Duck!"

There was another loud blast, the sound of furniture hitting the wall. When Draco's head emerged from the ground he couldn't help wincing at the damage that the explosion had caused.

"Are you planning to blow up the entire estate?" Astoria hissed from where she was sprawled on the ground. Her skirt had gathered well above her knee; Draco caught a glimpse before forcing his gaze away. "You could have had us both killed!"

"Calm down," he said, picking up the combination he'd used. "Now we know this isn't the right one."

"And how many more are you intending to try out?"

"Six?"

"Six?"

"Have you a better idea?" Draco gestured towards the journal. "This is the only lead we've got and it's warded shut, thanks."

Astoria stalked towards him. "Do you even know what you're doing?" she asked, glancing at the runes he'd written down. "None of those look remotely correct!"

"It wasn't my best subject," he muttered.

"Where's the journal?" She sat herself at the desk, grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill. Her eyes narrowed when he handed her the still-thrashing journal, studying the wards and jotting a few characters down. "Here," she said, thrusting forward a slightly different combination of the same runes he'd been using. "Use this."

"Are you sure?"

She glared at him. "It's that or one of the six you think may be right."

She made a fair point. Draco nodded, taking the parchment and setting it down. "You'll want to step back for this," he warned her. "Just in case."

"Way ahead of you there," she said, and he looked up just in time to see her disappear around the door.

"Coward!" he called out after her.

"I happen to like this dress!" She peeked out from behind the frame. "Go on, now. Why don't you try it?"

Draco rolled his eyes, picking up the journal and making a show of inching closer to the desk. "On three," he said. "One..."

"Two--"

Draco put it down at two, resisting the urge to flee right after. The journal shuddered, its fiery halo swallowed by the white glow of Astoria's runes at work, but after a beat, then two, then three, it was clear that was all the journal planned to do. Draco let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Did it work?" Astoria asked.

"Yeah." Satisfied, Draco reached out and turned the page. "All right, McLaggen. Let's see what you've been hiding."

---

Harry Potter, even with the greenish glow of the fireplace, never failed to wear the best look of utter confusion whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was a talent and a skill, and some days Draco toyed with the idea that it was what had offed the Dark Lord in the end. "I don't understand," Harry said, hair and glasses askew as his face scrunched up.

"It's simple enough, isn't it? The journal's full of gibberish." Draco leaned back against his seat, tapping the feather end of a quill against his cheek. "I'm working on deciphering it but it could take some time."

"How long?"

"I don't know, Potter!" Draco exclaimed. "I've got to crack the code first, haven't I?"

"You can send it to Mysteries--Hermione says Terry Boot's the best cryptographer they've got. He's bound to be able to help."

"I can handle it fine as it is, thanks."

"This isn't your case," Harry protested. "It's the entire department's--"

"Look, she asked that nobody else get involved unless they have to. Her husband's a prominent figure and she wants to be cautious about how everything is handled. I don't see why we should violate her trust while we've got it, do you?"

Harry glared.

"You're only doing that because you know I'm right."

"This isn't your case, Malfoy." Harry's voice held a tone of warning, but to Draco they'd long lost their meaning. Whatever involvement Harry desired for the MLE only got in Draco's way. "I'm serious. Shacklebolt wants McLaggen back."

"Don't we all? It'll be more embarrassing for your department if you lost your primary witness because you wanted to butt in. Tell Shacklebolt that, why don't you?"

Harry started to snarl something in return but before he could, Draco threw a bucket of sand over his face. With the flames snuffed and the call terminated, Draco gave in to the childish urge that he'd been fighting since Harry called to tell him off and stuck his tongue out at the empty fireplace.

"What a prick," he muttered under his breath. His usual potions lab was cleared out--there were no bubbling cauldrons or simmering infusions. His notes from the other day were scattered, a mess to anyone but Draco, who worked best with a structured kind of chaos. To the left, various entries which he'd copied by hand onto spare parchment. (Astoria had refused to let him leave the estate with the actual journal.) To the right, different texts on cryptography and ancient magical methods of decoding. In the middle, a list of possible ciphers he'd spent the night hashing out.

Draco had plenty of work ahead, but the day was young and he had everything he needed on parchment. If he was lucky, it would be enough to figure out what happened to McLaggen. Enough, he hoped, that he'd be able to find the man alive. His mother's social standing with the elder Mrs. McLaggen did depend on it, after all, he thought wryly. It wasn't every day Miranda McLaggen deigned to have tea with the wives of former Death Eaters.

As though on reflex, the muscles in his left forearm clenched, and he reached out to rub it. He couldn't see it through the sleeves of his robes but he could feel every line and curl that burned the Mark on his skin. It came with a sharp, stinging sensation, similar to the kind he experienced whenever he was called all those years ago, but it was a different brand of pain all the same.

Still rubbing his arm, Draco padded over to his kitchen, waving open the cupboard door above his sink and Levitating a series of multi-colored potions stoppered in small, fluted bottles. Each landed onto his counter with a tiny clink.

He Summoned a dropper from his potions cupboard and set it next to a bottle of acidic amber. He picked up a thick green potion and took a quick swig straight from the bottle, careful not to spit it out as a foul stench filled his mouth. There were many pain-killing potions in the market, but none that were as quickly effective as his own. Already he could feel it spreading through his veins, numbing his senses as it reached his nerves and muffled them, the effect of a special combination of crushed paracress leaves and root of rosemary. Still reeling from disgust, he began to roll up his left sleeve, careful to leave it tight around his upper arm to stem blood flow.

The Mark pulsed with an angry streak of black, thrashing against the reddened skin that surrounded it. Draco dabbed the area with alcohol, hissing as his skin burned anew. The snake that threaded through the skull looked all but ready to leap at him and wrap its coil around his neck if it could, but Draco ignored it.

Harry Potter had killed its master, and Draco was determined to destroy what was left of it.

The Mark had lost some of its color, rubbed clean from the first time Draco applied his new solution. It was never supposed to fade, his father told him. It stayed dormant and permanent, as most ancient kinds of magic did, which explained why it wanted to battle him now that he'd started attempting to erase it from his skin.

The amber potion was the closest he'd come in years of experimentation, and even then, he wasn't sure it wouldn't have adverse effects. At least this one did not burn his skin like the last one did--he'd lost sensation on the pad of his pinky after the first and only test he conducted for that potion.

He opened the bottle once his forearm turned bloodless pale. He dipped his dropper halfway down the bottle's mouth, fingers pinching its rubber top until he had 7 milliliters of the liquid. The snake hissed and writhed, coiling and uncoiling in and out and around the frozen skull.

"Stay the fuck still!" Draco snapped, dropping a bead of amber liquid right onto its tail just before it slithered behind the skull's jaws.

It hurt.

He'd forgotten just how much. It stung and burned, cutting a thousand tiny lacerations on a concentrated area of the dying snake's tail. Draco bit his lip, held his arm down to keep himself from reaching for a salve--it wouldn't work anyway--and before he could dwell on the pain, he spilled the rest of the potion onto the Mark.

"Fucking Salazar's godforsaken balls!" he groaned, Summoning a bottle of Firewhiskey from a different cupboard and gulping it down. It helped almost as much as his pain-killer did--that is, barely--but downing subsequent mouthfuls helped pass the excruciating ten minutes it took for the poison to do its deed.

This is how wizards should be cautioned against engaging in dark magic. Forget the moral high ground--the dark arts hurt like a fucker, and if Draco had known this is how he'd spend his morning, he'd have made different choices.

The first time he did this, he'd been rendered physically incapable of doing anything other than huddle in pain. He wasn't any more ready this time, hobbling over to his couch, collapsing upon it and curling into a fetal position there, swearing every few seconds when a new wave of pain hit.

The last thing he wanted at this point was company, but one came in the form of a horned owl that flew in from his chimney, dropping a sealed note and a small pouch onto his lap.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" Draco wondered, unable to recognize the seal on his package. The owl cocked its head at Draco, hooting inconsiderately. "There's a bowl of treats on the mantel. Shoo!"

The distraction kept his mind off the agony, at least for a tiny bit. Right hand still wrapped around his arm in a death vise, he used his left hand to attempt to break the seal on the note. When he found his fingers numbed and useless, he grabbed the pouch instead, using his teeth to undo the knot that bound it.

"What the hell is in here?" He turned the pouch upside down, and it spilled what looked like a single white pebble onto his open palm. He had just enough time to close his hand around it before the familiar, dizzying sensation of being hooked stomach-first through a whirlwind of color and whoosh of air took hold. "Fuck."

---

Draco had traveled by Portkey before. He knew how to maintain his balance throughout the duration of the ride. He knew how to land. He could do it in his sleep if needed.

But he hadn't expected to get Portkeyed away and he hadn't been ready for any sort of movement, least of all the kind that twirled him around like a simple baton.

He groaned when he fell onto a hard surface, one side of his body crashing against wooden floor with a dull thud. The potion's effects hadn't abated, so on top of wanting to cut his arm off he now also had a throbbing headache and a stomach threatening to empty itself.

"Merlin, are you all right?"

The voice was Astoria's, that much he could tell. Through a haze of swirling colors and white-hot pain, he became dimly aware of more movement--a hand light on his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. She hovered over him, brow creasing as she looked him over, eyes widening as she saw his arm.

Draco glared, rolling over to hide it from her view, his back now turned to her. "What's the big idea, anyway?" he growled, choosing to cover his embarrassment with well-placed indignance. "I could have used a bloody warning or two. Or three."

"That's what the note said! Didn't you read it?"

"I tried," he said. "Wasn't exactly the best time."

"What is that?"

"Nothing," he snapped, though a scream wrangled its way out of his throat. "Fuck. Do you mind?"

"But what's going on?"

"Later," he bit out. "I'll tell--later. Just--just go."

"I won't go until--"

"I'll tell you later."

He heard nothing more from her save the rustle of clothing, the staccato click-clack of heels on the floor, and the bang of a door being shut. He closed his eyes, wondering how much time that had killed.

The snake on his arm bared its fangs at him when he glanced down to check, and Draco winced, the blood in his veins curdling anew.

---

When Astoria returned to the room ten minutes later, Draco had had enough time to find a comfortable armchair upon which he lounged, immersed in the pages of an ancient book with faded blue binding. He'd rolled his sleeves back down and even smoothed out his hair--a mess earlier, slick with sweat and flying Potter-like in every which direction.

"I brought coffee," Astoria announced. Draco hadn't looked up when she opened the door.

"This is a fascinating history of Merlin as a young lad," Draco said, and when Astoria caught his gaze he smirked at her. "I had no idea he had been trapped in the body of a rogue pirate captain, freed only by giving in to his carnal desires for Morgana's descendant, an exotic soothsayer lusted after by half the town. Have you ever read this?"

"Once or twice," she admitted, tone nonchalant if not for the faint blush in her cheeks. "Lucky for me no one else has. Cormac wouldn't touch a book if it didn't have pictures or a summary page written by his assistant."

"Once or twice in full, I take it?" Draco asked, setting the book down and letting it fall open to where the well-worn binding had been creased the most. "Rosalind's breath hitched as Marcus' strong hands grasped her tiny waist--"

Astoria Levitated a cushion to smack him in the head. "Clever trick. Feel free to shut up now."

Draco snickered. There was a beat of silence. "I've read your note, by the way," he said, holding up a crumpled piece of parchment, at the same time Astoria asked, "What was that about?"

"I don't care about the note right now," she added, just as he responded with, "What was what about?"

"You know perfectly well," Astoria said, keen on not letting the matter drop. She gestured towards his arm. "He isn't back, is he?"

Draco scoffed. "Of course not! No, he isn't back. I was just--" he sighed. "It's nothing."

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, proof positive of how persuasive Draco had been. "You can't keep something like that to yourself. Does Potter know? He'll need to know if he's back."

"It's not a bloody call to arms!" Draco exclaimed, yanking his sleeve back up. "See?"

He'd seen the Mark a thousand times, knew that it lived on his arm. It was embedded in the fabric of his nightmares, and even though he was well aware that everyone knew he was Marked, he still burned with shame at having to show it. She shrank back at the sight, and he didn't blame her. Though faded, it was still a stark battle of charcoal ink on red skin. The skull was an imposing cage, the snake its murderous prisoner.

"I've been trying to remove it," he explained. "Bit troublesome considering I have no idea what sort of magic was used to imprint it, but it's beginning to go away. I think."

"It looks like you'd sooner have your skin fall off."

"I looked into that too. Turns out we can't grow skin and put it onto flesh that's been burned off."

"What?"

Draco laughed. "Ironic, isn't it? All the new potions and spells in the world, and we can't figure out how to get rid of a bloody tattoo."

"No, I meant--you would burn your own skin off?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"It seems a little excessive," she told him. The snake had caught sight of her now, slanting its beady eyes and flicking its tongue at her. It was more threatening than any tattoo had any right to be. "Does it--does it bite?"

"Does it bite?" Draco echoed. "What kind of question is that?"

"Valid, considering who made it!"

"No, it doesn't bite," Draco said, flicking at the snake, which leapt at his finger like a predator pouncing on prey. He wiggled his unharmed hand for Astoria. "See?"

"Yes, I suppose," Astoria murmured. She paused to consider what he'd just shown her, and then: "Can I?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Of course." Just as Astoria placed tentative fingers on the Mark--her touch remained light, as though she feared Draco's skin still burned from the potion--he added, "You can most certainly touch my snake."

Astoria snorted. "Are you twelve? Oh. Hmm. That's odd."

"Hm?"

"He's letting me pet him."

"What?"

Astoria didn't answer, watching the way the snake had coiled itself by the base of the skull. She stroked down the length of its body from the top of its head down, and it visibly eased, the end of its tail languid as it curled against a still-unblemished part of Draco's skin close to his wrist. Draco squirmed. The snake unfurled, and he felt a light tickle prickle the hairs on his arm. Whether it was the Mark or Astoria he could not say, and yet, he didn't quite want to move.

"I think your snake likes me," she said, biting her lower lip before she burst into laughter. "How's that for a double entendre?"

"Shut it," Draco muttered, swatting her hand away. The snake tensed up then and bared its fangs. "It's an evil bugger."

"Maybe Amos just doesn't like you."

"Amos? You-Know-Who made this damned thing!"

"Yes, but you said he isn't back. I don't think he lives through his creations anymore. Could only do seven at a time, or whatever that theory was. Amos can't be that bad, if he's got the good grace to appreciate my attention," Astoria said. "You should try playing nice."

"I don't want to--cease that at once!" Draco snapped, jerking away from Astoria, who had tried to pet the snake again. He rolled his sleeve back down. "We're done looking, thank you. You said you had something?"

Astoria stuck out her bottom lip. "Yes," she said. "You told me you were having trouble deciphering the journal notes."

"Not my favorite discovery, I'll tell you that."

"I couldn't believe it when you showed me, actually." Astoria Summoned McLaggen's book from the desk and settled on the couch. Draco sat down beside her. She smelled faintly of some indeterminable summer bloom, a mix of something fresh and sweet. He fought the urge to breathe her in, careful to keep himself a professional distance away, and waited for her to open the journal. "Cormac had no faculty for language."

"Are you telling me this is the incoherent ranting of an illiterate public official? Well then, our work here appears to be done."

Astoria dug her elbow in his rib. "Let me finish! When you found out he'd been writing in code, I thought it unlikely that he'd have the patience to remember the entire cipher by heart. If I know my husband well, and don't say anything about his activities because that's different from living with him for the last four years, then he must have had a way to make this easier somehow. Besides, he had a terrible memory. Ate one too many Doxy eggs in his youth or some rubbish like that."

She seemed to be getting somewhere substantial. "Go on."

"My first instinct was to look for a cipher. I had Pinky turn Cormac's study inside out, but I couldn't find anything."

"Maybe he put it in his vault."

"Then he wouldn't have been able to decode it at his leisure."

"He could have hid it really well, then."

"I'm his wife, Draco. I know most of his tricks," Astoria said. "But even this, I admit, was rather sneaky of him."

"You've decoded it?"

Instead of answering, Astoria tapped the page with the tip of her wand. "Lacuna Revelio," she murmured, and the ink faded out, replaced by actual English.

"A glamor charm."

"Hidden in plain sight, isn't it? If he'd left it blank, that would be the first spell you'd think to use, but if it looked like he'd hidden the writing in a code--"

"Have you read through this?"

Astoria shook her head. "I sent you the owl you as soon as I found it."

"This is brilliant," Draco said, running his fingers through McLaggen's January. "Absolutely brilliant."

He looked up to thank her but was surprised to find her leaning over his shoulder, her face mere inches from his. She startled, jerking away the same time he hastily glanced back down. "I'll leave you to it, then?" she said.

"I'll call if I need anything, yeah. Thanks," Draco murmured, his gaze steadfast on the journal even as he Summoned fresh parchment and quill. What was he doing? Astoria was attractive, yes, and her sense of humor was surprisingly sharp, but he was here to work. He was here to find her missing husband. This was no time to flirt, for Merlin's sake.

"Call for Pinky; she'll hear you if you do, and she'll know where to find me," Astoria said before leaving the room, Draco's gaze following her until she disappeared behind the door.

There was nothing wrong with looking, was there?

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