![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slumberTitle: House of Heretics (4/4)
Pairing: Draco/Astoria, mentions of Cormac/Astoria, Viktor/Pansy, also hints at various Slytherin ships
Word Count: <38,000, 8378 for this section
Rating/Warnings: R, mentions of infidelity and crime
Betas:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
het_bigbang. On the HBB site here and AO3 here.
iv. you'll make your real friends
"You can't keep showing up here and asking for favors without telling me what's going on!" Harry exclaimed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's getting bloody annoying!"
"Not my intention at all, to get on your nerves," Draco said. He was rocking on his heels, veins pumping with three doses of caffeine and mind still full of Astoria--the way her fingers had curled against his robes, the silk of her hair in his hands, the sigh of her lips against his own. Her eyes on his, when the kiss ended. The sound of their breathing, as loud and deafening as the guilt-ridden silence between them. The rattling of his heart when the door nearly opened to the two of them still tangled in each other's arms. They'd jerked apart, filling the air with mumbled excuses and babbled niceties before Draco finally left.
"Malfoy!"
"What?"
Harry looked at him with exasperation. "Are you going to tell me what you need the Pensieve for or not?"
Draco nodded. She'd owled him that morning, asking for a moment to talk. He hadn't replied yet--it had been a mistake, he knew that well enough. He just didn't want to hear it from her so soon. "Yeah, I was just--I think I've found the woman with McLaggen."
"You think you have?"
And that was the unforgiving thing, wasn't it? That he was so close to finding McLaggen, so close to reuniting husband and wife. "I need to look at the Pensieve again, see if I can confirm a few things first."
"All right," Harry said, fishing out the key and tossing it towards Draco. "Try not to break anything while you're in there. And tell me what you find when you come out, you hear?"
There were a few limitations to memories as captured in runed stone basins, but Draco hoped he could get past a few of them. The last time he and Harry went through Tracey Davis' memory, they had time only to look for Blaise as he stormed out of the ballroom following his argument with McLaggen. Blaise had gone outside, and Draco knew now it was so he could meet Pansy in the gardens.
The problem, Draco realized, is that they had focused too much on one suspect when the entire ballroom had been full of them. Harry had asked some of his rookies to go over the memory again to see if they missed anything, but how would they know what to look for? How would they know if they'd found something worth noting?
Ilsa claimed she was on the clock the night McLaggen disappeared, and while Draco doubted she alone had abducted McLaggen--in Ilsa's memory he'd prattled on about his wealth and the things he would buy her, the places he would show her; he'd promised her the world, why wouldn't she demand it given the chance? A ransom was unnecessary if only McLaggen had access to his vault--it occurred to him that he could still have paid for her to attend his party. There had been so many guests that it would have been so easy to go unnoticed.
So when he stumbled into the middle of the party, brushing past the ghosts of the McLaggens' guests, he didn't bother to follow McLaggen or Blaise behind the draperies. He side-stepped the dancers, wove around drunkenly swaying wizards, and slipped to the edge of the ballroom, his eyes on everyone in attendance.
Champagne, of course, seemed to be the drink of choice among the witches. Penelope Clearwater went through hers like it was water, arms folded and eyes hard as Caleb Warrington ignored her for the adoration of his friends. Emma Dobbs reached for a glass when she tired of having her feet stepped on by Graham Pritchard. Katherine Bundy shared one with a young wizard that Draco often saw in the lifts whenever he visited the ministry. Sally-Anne Perks smiled at Rodrick Urquhart while discreetly dumping the contents of hers into a nearby planter whenever Urquhart wasn't looking.
Draco could not find Ilsa anywhere. He could not even see anyone who might be Ilsa. There was a rustling from behind the curtains and Draco tried to focus, knowing his time was nearly up. He scanned the crowd for faces familiar and new and saw Cormac stalking up the stairs that led to his study.
He sprinted up the stairs, hoping to get a better vantage point that way. But it was harder to see faces from that distance, and as he tried to descend he felt a tugging on his stomach, and he was sucked back into the tight closet that housed the Pensieve.
"Damn it," he muttered, reaching to touch the surface of the Pensieve.
Again.
Sarah Fawcett, making a toast to the birthday boy, who was across the room and could not hear a word of what she said.
Morag MacDougal, raising her own glass with an indulgent smile but sharing a knowing look with her companion.
The Vane sisters, complaining about the brand of champagne the McLaggens deigned to use and waxing poetic about their own trip to the northeast of France, where only the best champagne came from.
Susan Bones, looking a bit out of place and sipping hers every five seconds while she tried to act nonchalant.
Cormac McLaggen, stomping out in anger. Blaise Zabini, storming out the other way. The tug on his stomach, the ground dropping from beneath his feet.
Draco growled, losing his footing and crashing against the door.
Again.
Daphne Macmillan, refusing a glass from her husband as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Katie Bell, handing Roger Davies hers before joining a group of her friends while they danced and laughed to the music.
Orla Quirke, admonishing her date for committing the grievous faux pas of adding ice to his wine while she sipped hers haughtily.
From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of blonde hair, a hand that reached out for a new glass from the refreshments table, and Draco all but leapt to his feet then and there, but it was just Tracey, fresh from the dance floor with Theodore, talking with a woman Draco didn't recognize.
Draco had never been a patient man to begin with, but he couldn't stem the frustration that was beginning to bubble to the surface. It was a pity he couldn't touch anything in the memories--he would have liked to slam his hand on something hard right about then. From where he stood, it was easy to see how he could have made that mistake. Tracey had the same length of golden hair that Ilsa did, though their eyes were different shades and Tracey was willowy where Ilsa was buxom. It seemed McLaggen had a type.
A tug, then a pulling sensation. Draco's rear collided against the floor, but this time, he hardly noticed. His eyes bore holes into the runes etched on the Pensieve, and he sat there for a long time, jolting back to his senses only when Harry knocked on the door.
"All right there, Malfoy? I heard a thud."
"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."
"Done yet?"
"In a minute," Draco said, pulling himself up to his feet. He took his wand from his back pocket, whispering a spell as he tapped it against his temple. He drew out a long silvery strand, taking care to keep it attached to his wand before he spilled it into the basin. His own memory fell in tendrils into the pool, and when the image was clearer, he reached out to touch the surface.
It was one thing to enter another's memories, but Draco found it altogether eerie to look into his own. Harry swore by it, said Dumbledore created the Pensieve for that very purpose, but considering Dumbledore had knowingly asked for his own death, Draco was as willing to put his full faith in something just because Dumbledore thought it a good idea.
He grimaced as he fell through his own apparition, stalking down the hall from the McLaggens' foyer to meet Harry. His eyes were stone cold, fists curled into tight little balls. Draco frowned; Blaise must have really pissed him off. He touched his temple self-consciously--was his hairline really that high?
"You're late," Harry said, standing from where he'd been waiting for Draco.
"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..."
Draco let the conversation fade into the background. He only had as long as the time his memory lasted for, and too much of it had been wasted on mindless chatter. He went ahead of himself and Harry, waiting until his memory extended just a bit more with every additional step they took until he reached the door to McLaggen's study.
It was, of course, closed to him until Harry opened it, and as it was, he was still gabbing with Draco. Did they really spend so much time milling about talking?
"And how does she know it's an abduction?" Draco asked.
"Tell me what you think of the study."
Draco slipped inside while his memory-self and Harry took in the scene. He'd drawn too far back in his memories, but while he had the scene to review he might as well look through the study again. He itched for time to move faster, though.
He walked toward the broken window, unmindful of the shards of glass that littered the floor; they would not cut through his skin. He looked out the window, and from the second floor he could see the glint of the moonlight off more pieces of glass on the ground below. Flight was the only answer, but they'd found no remnants of broomsticks around the window, inside or out. They must have used one of the newer models, a type that didn't shed its bristles. From where he leaned over, the dark ground looked like the sky, glittering with reflected light. It seemed like the entire window had fallen out.
"...since we're a floor up, that whoever took him Summoned a broom to escape," Harry was saying.
"Anybody's wand register Accio?"
Draco frowned. He studied the glass that remained on the windows, jagged edges that bent and cracked under the force of a broom, or whatever it was that had broken through. The edges slanted outward.
"Glacialum. Her drink needed ice."
Draco turned back to the room. If he were to trace how the struggle might have happened, he wouldn't know where to begin. The armchairs closest to the spilled drinks, perhaps? Those were almost in the center of the room--the bookshelves were by the windows, the desk at the other end. Three different corners of chaos, somehow all originating from the center? From the corner of his eye he saw himself heading towards the upturned desk while Harry, arms crossed, stayed where he stood.
"Just paperwork, odds and ends, she said." Harry scanned the room as he spoke. "He kept his most important documents in a Gringotts vault."
The study was a veritable war zone. The shelf had been shaken free of all the books it held. Draco stepped over the rug and knelt to examine the broken chair. It was mahogany, it looked like, a sturdy wood. If McLaggen had put up a fight, and it looked like he'd put up a hell of a fight, then perhaps he hadn't been as incapacitated when the abduction took place. Quick wandwork could even the playing field between a large man and a much smaller woman, but with McLaggen struggling, Draco was no longer sure that Ilsa could have done anything to subdue him.
"Nothing," Harry said behind him. "We can't do much with only conjecture at this point."
"Alright, Potter. Let's talk with Mrs. McLaggen."
Draco trailed behind himself as they descended the stairs, heading towards the kitchen, which bustled with frenetic activity.
"You're a guest, Tracey," Astoria said, giving Tracey a drink as she tried to shoo her away.
"Mrs. McLaggen?"
"You're Daphne's little sister."
Draco cringed. He'd been moronic, on second viewing.
"Well spotted, Mr. Malfoy."
He ignored the conversation and looked at the kitchen. He hadn't seen it when he first came in. There was Pinky, peering into the oven cautiously. She was the only elf Draco had ever met, he realized. He wondered whose elves the others were. There was an ancient one with scraggly white tufts of hair, hunched over the trays as he took his time laying out the hors d'oeuvres piece by careful piece. A younger elf in a bright pink pillowcase whose sleeves were capped with ribbons listened with rapt fascination to Tracey as she told her how to mix the batter. Tracey was beautiful in her dress and, with an apron half-tied on, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and glamors beginning to fade, she looked completely at home. She stirred the mixture, chattering about the different ingredients as she poured measured cupfuls of them in.
"It won't take very long, Mrs. McLaggen."
"I'll take care of things here," Tracey piped up, retying her apron around her neck.
"All right," Astoria sighed, taking what was left of her red wine and gulping it down. "Let's head somewhere quiet, shall we?"
Draco almost didn't notice when he fell back against the door of the closet, brought back to reality once his memories ended. He felt for the pockets of his robes, fingers closing around a thin roll of parchment. He took it out, unfurling it and reading through the list once more.
He ignored Harry when he stumbled out of the closet a few minutes later, heading straight for the nearest Floo station.
"Oi, what's--"
"Later," was all he told him.
"Damn it, Malfoy!"
"McLaggen estate!" Draco had called into the Floo when he reached it, a burst of verdant green smoke engulfing him from the Magical Law Enforcement grates and depositing him in the McLaggen living room moments later. He landed on his feet, robes heavy with ashy residue, but he wasted no time dusting himself off.
"Draco! I've been trying to owl--"
"You!" he snarled, whipping his wand out. He'd been going over the memories in his head since, had been consumed by the images of walking through the study and heading to the kitchen, a constant loop playing in his mind's eye. He had found no need for a Pensieve for everything to scream as crystal clear as they did then. The complete and utter disarray of the room. The windows, broken from the inside. The rug, stained with blood and hiding more under it. His hand shook with anger, his blood curdled with rage. How could he have been so stupid?
Astoria shrank back. "What--what are you talking about?" she asked, stepping away.
"Don't move."
She halted. "Draco, please--"
"How long were you going to make a fool out of me?" he asked. She bit her lip, looked at him with pleading eyes. Draco's jaw tightened and his resolve steeled. His teeth ground against each other, fingernails digging into skin where his fist gripped his wand. He wouldn't let his thoughts turn sentimental. Not for her.
She shook her head. "I tried to tell you--"
"Yesterday?"
"I didn't know I could trust you," she said, wringing her hands. "Draco, please, I just--"
"You knew," Draco said. "You gave me the memory because you knew where it would lead me."
She said nothing. Her silence confessed enough for him.
"And you let me run around, fed me morsels like your damned dog!" Draco licked suddenly dry lips. "You must have had such a grand time, pulling your strings at will."
"That's not true," she insisted. "Draco, I'm sorry, but I didn't know I would--"
"Don't you dare say it."
"I tried to tell you, I swear!"
"When? When I found out? If I did? It's a bit too late for that now, Astoria," Draco told her. "Fuck. Tell me something."
She looked up at him, her eyes shining with a plea for mercy.
"What did you do with the rug?"
"I didn't--"
"Where's the damned rug?"
"They burned it," she whispered. "Potter's men. They stayed until morning and said they'd help clean up. I told them to get rid of it."
Draco lowered his wand. "That is--" he murmured, shaking his head. "You are--"
"I had no choice!" she told him. "What would you have done?"
Draco's eyes didn't flinch from her. "You know what I would have done," he said.
"You're right. But do you know, the funny thing is--" she said, her lips curling up into a smile that didn't quite match the sadness in her eyes. "I don't regret it at all."
He knew he should have headed straight for Harry, right back to Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had questions and Draco knew the answers to most of them. Astoria had let him leave, had simply looked at him with those damned sorry eyes of hers. No last-minute plea, no final confession. No bargaining, no bribery. She'd let him go.
That wasn't what had held him back, though. He was done doing as she wanted him to. But he needed to calm down, to think, so instead of going back--it was late, anyway, too late for Harry to still be in the ministry building--he headed back home. He opened a full bottle of Firewhiskey, swirling its amber liquid in a short, stout glass by his fireplace. There was nothing leisurely about his posture. He leaned forward, elbows resting just above his knees. His eyes were on the flames, but his gaze was far away.
He almost didn't notice when the fire died out, giving way to dimly glowing embers and crackling with the beginnings of a fire-call.
"Draco?"
He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the face in his fireplace. "Mum. It's late. What are you--"
She smiled. "Couldn't sleep," she admitted. "I had a thought you might still be up. You always work so hard. I'm not interrupting, am I?"
"I'm not working," Draco told her, raising his glass to show her.
She laughed. "You are truly my son," she murmured. "Ogden's?"
"1983."
"Good year." She snuffed the flames from her end, and came in through the Floo not five minutes later. "I had a bottle of red," she told him. "But I have half a mind for something stronger."
"Nightcap?" Draco Summoned a glass from his kitchen cupboards, adding ice to it before he handed it to his mother.
"Thank you, dear," she said, pouring herself a healthy dose from Draco's bottle while he rekindled the flames. "Any special occasion?"
"Not really."
"Does this have anything to do with work?" When Draco didn't answer, Narcissa smiled. "I won't ask."
"Why couldn't you sleep?"
"Insomnia comes with age, Draco," she said, though Draco didn't think that was a direct answer to his question.
"And father?"
"Snoring in the bedroom." She winked at him. "He sleeps better than I do."
"He fantasizes more than you as well," Draco countered. "It's easy to sleep when you're wrapped up in your own world."
"Now, love--"
She was cut off by the fluttering of a barn owl that came flapping through an open window. It hooted with its arrival, dropping a note onto Draco's lap. His name was scrawled on the back, in the writing Draco recognized was Astoria's. He stared at it for a moment before Banishing it to his desk.
"There are treats on the mantel," he told the owl, who took his payment before flying away. To his mother, who gave him a curious look, he shook his head. "It was nothing."
"It looked important."
"It can wait until tomorrow."
"I see."
"How do you stand it?" Draco asked, steering the conversation away. "How can you listen to him prattle on about becoming Minister?"
"He is your father," Narcissa told him. "He is my husband. We are Malfoys. We will always be Malfoys. If we don't stand by our own, then who will?"
Draco's gaze flickered to his mother's. Narcissa had always been dignified even in the face of utter humiliation, and now, wrapped in robes that covered her nightgown, her silvering hair cascading in curls against her shoulders, freed from the tight bun she favored, she looked no more proud than she did whenever she stepped outside Malfoy Manor's walls and faced the world. Her eyes blurred around the edges, sight failing with age though she refused to wear glasses, but her gaze was sharp on his. They never missed anything, though Draco could not decide whether that was due to her being a Black, a Malfoy, a mother, or a wife. It was, quite possibly, a combination of all four.
He was the first to look away.
"Draco."
"Do you hate him?" Draco asked. "Did you ever wish--"
"Your father is trapped by dreams of grandeur because he hasn't stopped wishing," Narcissa said. She smiled at her son. "Why would I do the same?"
"You'd both drive me mad."
She laughed. "Can't have that now, can we?"
Draco shook his head in response, both of them falling into a comfortable silence. The fire was beginning to die, the chill of the air starting to creep into the warmth of his sitting room. Narcissa drew her robes closer around her shoulders. The ice had melted into her whiskey, diluting the liquid into a lighter amber. The faint traces of a smile remained on her face, and without the glamors she put on Draco could see the lines of time aging her beyond her fifty years. He glanced at his drink--it was rich and full-bodied, the way he preferred his liquor, but he'd lost his appetite for the night.
"You can stay in the guest room if you like," he said. "I'll head back with you by Floo tomorrow morning."
"Will you really?" He hadn't stepped into the Malfoy Manor in a while. Narcissa stood, smiling. "I'll make the Floo back, no need to put me up for the night. But I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast?"
"Yes, mum."
"I'll make poached eggs and sausages," she said. "Not quite how Dobby used to make them but close to it; at least, I hope so. And coffee--I have a bag of arabica beans, the foulest I've ever had the displeasure to taste, but you like them, don't you?"
Draco laughed. "You must have prepared it incorrectly," he said. "I'll brew us a decent batch if you promise to make the eggs the way I like them."
She agreed, kissing him on the cheek ("When did you get taller than your father?") to bid him good night.
Rest came easier than expected when Draco went to bed, long after his mother had gone. He was asleep almost as soon as his weary head hit the pillow, and when he dreamt, it was of fresh coffee and poached eggs and toast and home.
When he woke, it was to find more owls delivered to him overnight, a small pile of envelopes gathering on his kitchen table and a near-empty saucer of treats on his mantel. Draco gave them a cursory look after he stepped out of the shower. Four from Harry, one more from Astoria, although what it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. It was thick, sure to have more than two dozen inches of parchment inside, and heavy as well.
Draco set them all back down, intent on ignoring them as he scrubbed the water from his hair. He strolled back to the bathroom, towel slung around his waist. He wanted to have breakfast first. Harry Potter can wait. Astoria can--well, she can go to hell.
He'd never been more determined to make breakfast as casual an affair as he did when he finally made it to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa set the table in the garden--insisted on it, his father whispered to him as they watched Narcissa fuss with the plate settings and cutlery, waving off their offers to help.
"Are we ever going to eat?" Lucius asked.
"Quiet, you," Narcissa muttered, wiping her hands on a towelette before she gave Draco a bright smile. "You weren't supposed to see that; I was expecting you at seven, not six-thirty! We don't normally have breakfast this early."
"Mum, I'm not a guest," Draco said, grabbing his usual chair and plopping down upon it. "No need to use the nice china on me."
"We always use the nice china," Narcissa sniffed.
Draco held his tongue, instead Summoning the pot of coffee he'd been brewing from the kitchen. "May I present: real coffee," he said with all the formality of royalty.
Lucius made a face. Narcissa slapped him lightly on the wrist and poured them both a cup, quieting his protests with a stern look.
There was a feast on the table, and Draco filled his plate with a little bit of each dish. Breakfast in his flat meant burnt toast and butter, and his mouth watered as he took his fill of eggs, croissants, at least three different kinds of marmalade for his breakfast rolls--
"Goodness, son, has your house elf been starving you?" Lucius asked.
Draco paused mid-bite, catching the look Narcissa gave him. "Just hungry, father," he said. "My elf doesn't make food quite as good as yours."
Lucius seemed satisfied with his response. He settled in his seat, conversation shifted to the mundane, and for a moment, Draco almost believed it was just another morning at the manor.
An owl arrived carrying the day's paper and, between delicate bites of her blueberry muffin, Narcissa deposited a knut in the pouch tied to its foot.
"Are you still reading that rubbish?" Draco asked through a mouthful of toast.
"Manners, dear," Narcissa told him, unrolling the paper. "I like being kept up to date, even if--"
Draco swallowed his food before speaking again. "Even if what?" he asked, frowning when he saw the look of pure confusion on Narcissa's face. "Mother?"
"Draco," she said, hesitating before she turned to face him. "I know we've agreed not to speak of work, but I think you might want to see this."
"See what?"
She handed him The Daily Prophet.
He blinked. He read the headline, over and over again, but it made no less sense than it did upon first reading: MCLAGGEN ALIVE? MISSING MINISTRY OFFICIAL SIGHTED IN DIAGON ALLEY.
There were more owls from Harry when he returned to his flat, only a few minutes after he first saw The Daily Prophet and excused himself from breakfast. Narcissa nodded her understanding, and even Lucius did not seem to mind that he barely said goodbye before he hurried to the Floo.
One of the owls, he realized, was in fact a howler. It had been hopping up and down the pile, burning red with every second it remained ignored. Draco winced, reaching for it and tearing it open.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" Harry's voice, shriller and two octaves higher than normal, screamed. "I'VE BEEN TRYING TO GET HOLD OF YOU SINCE LAST NIGHT!"
He Transfigured ear plugs out of two sugar cubes from his pantry, tucked them in, and tried his best to leaf through the other owls with Harry's muffled ranting in the background.
"...NO IDEA WHAT'S GOING..."
Harry's owls contained little more than demands for answers. The MLE had heard of the Prophet article off a tip from someone who worked the presses, and Harry had sent men off to investigate. The sighting, according to the article, occurred late yesterday afternoon in downtown Diagon Alley. McLaggen had been wearing a cloak and a large hat that obscured most of his features, and a witness thought they saw him leaving Gringotts just as it closed. Multiple requests for comments to the goblins that ran the bank remained unanswered, the article claimed.
"...SHACKLEBOLT WANTS TO KNOW..."
Smith, who of course had written the article, then went on to wonder what McLaggen could have been doing. The actual news filled only the first two paragraphs, but Smith succeeded in cramming the next three and a half columns of newspaper space with pure speculation.
"...NEED YOU HERE RIGHT NOW..."
Draco chucked the paper in the bin and scanned through the rest of Harry's owls to see if they'd found anything more useful. One of the later owls yielded something--an MLE officer had gotten hold of the Gringotts' president, who confirmed that a withdrawal had been made from one of the McLaggen vaults. As was typical for goblins, however, they'd refused to say whether it was Cormac McLaggen's personal vault or not, how much or what had been taken out, and if it had indeed been Cormac McLaggen who withdrew the money, saying only that their employees followed protocol to the letter and that nothing was amiss with their vaults.
"...FUCKING HELL, MALFOY..."
He slipped that owl inside his pocket. He threw the rest away, his eyes glancing past the last envelope that lay on his table. He hesitated, but curiosity won out in the end. He picked it up, sliding his index finger beneath the flap and running it down the envelope's length to open it.
Reluctantly, he read.
"...WHERE ARE YOU?"
He was still reading, long after Harry's outburst had ended. He folded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, and pocketed that as well. Someone cleared their throat behind him and he jumped, wand drawn.
"No, wait! I knocked, but I think you were--" She gestured toward his earplugs. "The door was open, so I let myself in."
Draco frowned. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to confess."
"Where were you?" Harry asked, not for the first time that day, when Draco arrived at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Officers went over papers and talked in hushed whispers, but Draco did not mistake the hum of activity for any real action: they knew nothing at all, but hoped to look busy enough that Harry would not notice.
"I had my suspicions, but there were a few things I had to know for sure first," he said. The officers were still doing busywork, but their movements were slower now, more careful. They leaned closer, straining to hear his conversation with Harry. "Can we talk in private?"
Harry looked as though he wanted to protest, but instead he shook his head and sighed. "As you wish," he mumbled in resignation, signaling for Draco to follow him into his office. "This had better be good," he said as soon as the door shut behind them. He crossed his arms across his chest and fixed a glare on Draco. "You took your sweet time getting here."
"I placed a call to a goblin I know in Gringotts. Alrik. Tell him I sent you," Draco said, placing Alrik's business card on Harry's desk. "Asked about the McLaggens' shared vault, and if anything had been withdrawn from it at all. Your men have no sense when it comes to working with the goblins, you realize that?"
"No need to be so smug, Malfoy," Harry said, though he pocketed the card. "What did you find?"
"The shared vault was untouched. The withdrawal had been made from McLaggen's personal vault. That was McLaggen."
"Doesn't tell us much, though, does it?" Harry asked. "All it takes is a polyjuice potion and Confundus--"
"Washed away by Thief's Downfall, no doubt," Draco pointed out. "The goblins say nothing's amiss, either, and as far as we can tell, no dragon has gotten loose from the Gringotts dungeons."
"All right," Harry conceded. "So let's say that's McLaggen. What the bloody hell is going on, then?"
Draco sighed. "Didn't you wonder why we found the study like that?" he asked, taking one of the seats in front of Harry's desk. "The mess they'd made?"
Harry nodded, sinking into his own seat with a sigh. "Robards warned me about those," he said, referring to his predecessor. "Called it an orgy of evidence."
"Exactly. I knew something was up but I wasn't sure what it was."
"And did you find out?"
"Think about it, Harry. No one could find a sign of a broom anywhere at all, could they?"
"We combed the grounds--"
"The windows were shattered from the inside," Draco said. "Too much glass outside, less in the room. The furniture--how long was the struggle, how wild, that it would take McLaggen and his abductor wrestling through the entire room and knocking everything down before McLaggen could be subdued?"
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying it was a set-up, Harry. It had been a set-up from the very beginning."
"But who? And why?"
"I didn't know right away. I thought Zabini did it. McLaggen had been using his company to make a lot of extra galleons on the side. But he never deposited them in his account with his wife. He kept them in his other vault, where only he could take the money whenever he needed it."
Harry frowned. "You're saying--"
"There was another woman. Nineteen years old, a server in some private lounge that McLaggen was a member of. Her name was Ilsa." Draco shook his head. "She told me they were in love, and I thought--well, what would you have thought if you were talking to a nineteen-year-old nobody who was carrying on an affair with a ministry official?"
Harry shrugged. "He was leading her on."
"I made a call to The Black Orchid this morning, and they haven't heard from her in days," Draco said. "She didn't send in a note or anything. Just up and disappeared."
Draco watched the way Harry's brow furrowed in thought.
"I got her memory last week," Draco continued. "It's in the Pensieve shelf. Top-right corner, labeled with the date and case number, if you wanted to look. I should warn you it isn't the most, ah, appropriate of memories to examine during work hours, but you should listen to McLaggen talk afterward. I thought he was just filling her head with pretty lies, but he'd been making promises, and he'd intended to keep them all."
"So he ran off with a waitress he met at a lounge?" Harry asked. "He faked his own abduction for a girl?"
Draco shook his head. "Crazy, isn't it?" he asked. "But it didn't click in my head until I saw the rug. How could there be so much blood for a struggle? And how would the blood have made it under the rug?"
Harry's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell--"
"They must have been planning it long before the party," Draco concluded. "They must have been taking some of his blood to spread around that night. Probably spilled too much at first, then decided to cover it up with the rug."
"Merlin."
"That he had a personal vault was key too. I don't think he signed a pre-nuptial agreement with his wife. If he'd divorced her, she would have dragged him through court for everything he owned. If he'd faked death, all of his assets would have turned over to her, and he'd have no way of getting all the money he'd been squirreling away for Ilsa. A disappearance, though, that was different. How long does a person have to be missing before they're considered dead?"
Harry sank back in his seat, scratching his head in wonder. "Merlin's balls."
"Yeah."
"Fuck, we're gonna have to tell his wife, aren't we."
"She knows, Harry."
"What?"
Draco nodded grimly. "She's suspected all along." His fist clenched. "Theodore Nott was a friend of hers; she must have known her husband had been seeing a girl who worked for Nott. Did you ever wonder why the glass of champagne was crushed to fine pieces? She tried to hide it to cover the fact that McLaggen had been in there with Ilsa. And didn't she ask you to get rid of the rug? Had your men looked closer they would have started to suspect something wrong too."
"But why would she--"
"Pride," was Draco's answer. "She'd rather lose her husband to an unidentified abductor instead of another woman. She strung us along just because she couldn't face the truth."
Harry frowned. "Does she know where McLaggen is?"
"I don't think she does," Draco said. "But they are very likely running far, far away, where they won't have to worry about the wrath of a woman scorned."
Harry only nodded, saying nothing for a good long while. "Well," he said at last. "Some case, huh?"
"Can't say I've seen any as twisted," Draco said dryly.
Harry snorted. "Shacklebolt'll love this," he muttered.
"I think I'll leave you to that," Draco told him.
"Thanks, Malfoy," Harry sighed, leaning out the door as he escorted Draco out. "Peakes! Get me Shacklebolt right away!"
"Anytime," Draco said, but he doubted Harry heard him.
The sun was high, bright on a cloudless sky. It didn't dim beneath the translucent roof of a small gazebo. The air was still and calm, filled with the earthy smell of a fresh pot of coffee and the sweetness of berries baked in bread.
"Was this part of the plan too?" Draco asked. He dug for the galleon, heavy in his pocket, which had been wrapped along with the owl she sent him. If he deigned to speak to her, the letter had said, the galleon will take him to her at noon exactly. He flipped it toward her, and she caught it, slender fingers curling around its golden edges.
Astoria sighed. "No. You stopped being part of anything since--"
"But I was, wasn't I?"
She nodded, her gaze averted from his. "I needed to buy us time, at first, to help us figure out what to do," she admitted. "It happened so fast. I didn't have time to think."
"So I hear. At least, that's what Tracey told me."
Astoria's eyes flew to his. "She went to you? I told her to leave right away. We didn't know what you would do."
"She said that too." Draco frowned. "You honestly didn't send her?" He'd wondered, when Tracey showed up at his flat that morning, if that had been another one of Astoria's machinations.
She shook her head. "I would never have risked it, not after the last time we spoke."
"She could have told the MLE that she was just defending herself." It had been an accident, Tracey confessed. She'd stumbled into McLaggen's study, where he'd come onto her and refused to take no for an answer.
"They'd have asked for her memory--Harry Potter relies on his Pensieve too much, and then they'd have heard everything," she said. "He accused her of breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and all those claims get investigated."
"That was nothing, though," Draco said, thinking back to the casual way Tracey had Summoned her cupcake from the counter when he visited. "She was just--nobody saw when she cast that spell."
Astoria picked up one of the small cakes. "Do you remember the cupcake you had at the bakery?"
"Chocolate, yeah."
"Chocolate Cheer. Do you remember how it made you feel after?"
"Sure. It was really good, I thought. I felt--"
"Cheerful?"
Draco licked his lips. "She didn't--"
"Muggles don't notice. They never notice anything. She uses harmless potions in her cupcakes, anything first years might make. Happy ones. It doesn't harm anyone, but what would the Wizengamot say if they found out?"
They would have imprisoned her, no questions asked. The law was blunt and undiscerning that way.
"Exactly. There isn't much room for leniency when it comes to the Wizengamot," she said, taking his silence for understanding. "I walked in on them. I watched as she drove the knife into his stomach. He'd gotten so close, she said. She had only her wand to Transfigure." Her voice was even, though her fingers were restless on her lap and her face creased in a frown as she recounted the events of the night.
Draco had already heard it from Tracey. She'd only wanted to get McLaggen off her, but the sight of his blood had frozen her in place, and when she came to her senses, McLaggen was dead and Astoria had started to cover everything up. They'd turned the study upside-down and broken the windows themselves, and then they went downstairs. Astoria had gone back up to discover the scene, and it was that snippet of her memory that she gave the MLE. The memory that Tracey had given was sometime earlier in the night, before she went upstairs in search of quiet and found Cormac McLaggen instead. They'd given Draco the memory, hoping that by volunteering it he'd overlook her, and he had.
"And then she used Tergeo," he said. "It was the last spell she cast with her wand. She'd spilled some of the blood on her dress and had to take out the stain."
"She told Harry she'd spilled some wine on herself."
"And the rug," he added. "I remember looking at the rug and thinking, why would it have blood beneath it? Then I saw it again, and I thought, why would a rug be bleeding?"
"There hadn't been any time to move him. I'd always been good at Transfiguration, so I thought--"
"Hidden in plain sight."
"Yes."
"You used his wand to hide his own body. I couldn't figure out why you had to make ice--it certainly wasn't for the wine--until The Daily Prophet article this morning."
"I thought we might need a piece of him, but I didn't know what for just yet."
"Did Theodore teach you that trick? That's how they store samples in The Black Orchid. How long have you known about Ilsa?"
"All along," she admitted. "I lent Theodore some money when he first started."
"Did you borrow his employees too? Who went to Gringotts yesterday?"
She hesitated. "Theodore."
"He'd do anything for Tracey, wouldn't he."
"He'd do anything for his friends."
"How did he get past the goblins?"
"Did you ever find out how Cormac made his money?"
"No. What does that have to do with--"
"Half-breeds," she said. "He sold half-breed parts as potions ingredients. Half-goblin blood was his biggest seller. Blaise found out--Cormac had been using his company to smuggle them in. When the goblins heard, they didn't really mind what was taken out of Cormac's vault anymore, or who took it out."
"What did you do with the money?"
"It's all Ilsa's now," Astoria said, her gaze on the food on her plate. "He promised her, after all. Are we done here?"
"What?"
"I don't see anybody here to arrest me, but you've got enough for a confession now, don't you?" she asked, looking up at him. "You won't find Tracey, though. Theodore's taken her to hide for a while, until this dies down."
"Why help her?"
"Why shouldn't I? She's like a sister to me," Astoria said. "She'd have done the same if our roles had been reversed. I'm guilty of a lesser crime and I have money for counsel."
"You don't need to worry about the MLE, at any rate," Draco told her. "They're not going to waste resources looking for a runaway official and his mistress. If they ever discover the whole truth, it won't be from me."
Astoria studied him. "Why are you doing this?"
It was Draco's turn to avert his gaze. Until Tracey came by that morning, he'd been ready to report everything to Harry. But she was willing to turn herself in if it meant Astoria would be absolved of any involvement, and that had given him pause. "It wouldn't have been a fair trial," he said. "Tracey would have been painted the villain and McLaggen the victim long before she even reached the Wizengamot."
"Thank you," Astoria said, but when she reached out to touch his wrist he drew away.
"So what are you going to do now?" he asked again, his tone abrupt, more brusque than he felt.
He thought he saw her lip tremble, but it must have been his imagination. She folded her hands on her lap, curling her lips up to a bright smile. When she spoke, her words rang loud, filling the hollow quiet that had settled between them. "I imagine the news will hit The Daily Prophet by tomorrow morning," she said. "And Zacharias Smith or Rita Skeeter, whoever's got faster legs and a keener sense for blood, will be banging on my door for a statement. I'll ignore them, perhaps spend a few months abroad to get this behind me, and in a year's time nobody will even remember who Cormac McLaggen's wife was."
He nodded. His coffee, when he picked it up, had gone cold. The bread crumbled between his fingers, and the clanging of the cutlery raked down his spine. "I should go," he said, giving her the courtesy of a curt nod before he stood to leave.
"Draco?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth," she said, and this time her lower lip did tremble, "I wish things had gone differently."
Draco allowed himself a rueful smile. "I'm sorry too," he said, before he Apparated away.
"Draco, darling, if you're going to hang about us like a dreadful shadow, at least make yourself useful and try to glower a little," Narcissa scolded, smoothing back Draco's hair and patting his cheek lovingly. "You're doing well enough scaring the children but the bigger men don't seem intimidated at all by your presence."
Beside her, Lucius laughed. He stroked the back of her hand. "Narcissa, leave our son alone."
"He ought to have left us alone!" Narcissa murmured with a laugh, though it was not soft enough that Draco could not hear. "How is this meant to be a romantic stroll through Venice if he skulks about behind us like that?"
"You didn't tell me you wanted to be alone," Draco muttered, burying his pockets deep in his own robes and turning the other direction. "Don't worry; I'll leave you be now."
"Oh, now look what you've done," Lucius told Narcissa, who only whispered something in his ear that made him chuckle.
Draco rolled his eyes. The holiday had been Narcissa's idea to begin with, and he'd gotten roped into it only because Lucius mentioned it at breakfast. He hadn't wanted to go, but his parents had insisted. A good change of pace, his mother had said, especially since he hadn't taken on any cases in a while.
'A while' had been six months, and he hadn't taken on any cases because he'd been refusing them. It was potions work that took up his time now--just the other day he sent Apothicaire de Zabini a potion that covered up skin blemishes. A somewhat fortuitous side effect of his attempts at getting rid of Amos, the potion lasted longer than glamors, and was something even squibs could use. The form owl he received told him to expect a response within the month, so he owled Blaise to let him know he'd also sent the sample to a rival apothecary.
Venice was a beautiful place, and each second that he stayed made it even clearer that it had been a mistake to make the trip. He spotted his parents up ahead, heard their distant laughter as they got onto a rocking gondola. The moonlight scattered on the rippling surface of the water.
Dear Merlin, he thought, he really shouldn't have come.
He didn't actually think Merlin would answer his prayers then and there, but who was he to ask questions when a hawk descended from the star-cloaked skies, talons digging into an envelope addressed to him?
Blaise's note was terse and to the point, but they made Draco smile. He shook out the small key that came with the letter, and when it tugged him away, he found himself wondering only where the Portkey might take him.
The interiors looked very similar to the potions laboratory that Draco had visited, but nothing about the plain white walls and cramped desk told him much else.
"You better have an international Portkey to return me to Italy," Draco said. "I'm not sure I can explain how I returned to the country without going through the appropriate registries."
"We could still be in Italy," Blaise drawled. He was resting against the table--lounging, since Blaise never does anything without turning it into some sort of affected pose--resisting the tug of a smile on the corner of his lips.
"Then your watch is an hour behind."
"You didn't really send the potion to Slug and Jiggers," Blaise said. "I had my men check."
"And yet here I am, summoned anyway."
"The potion isn't fit for an apothecary."
"You sell Pepper-ups and Skele-Gro potions by the thousands."
"I didn't say I wouldn't consider taking your potion," Blaise said. "It does have more of a Sleekeazy's feel to it, and one of our board members wants us to start competing in that market. If you could create a line of potions similar to the one you sent us--we'll need to brand it, too, on top of testing--then we could be on to something."
"You want me to make more?"
"We'll only take it on if you make more. Maybe a direct competitor to the hair potion, maybe something to--ah--" Blaise tapped the edge of his hairline, eyes fixed on Draco's-- "help with that, too."
"You're a right arse--"
A third voice cut him off. "Now, Blaise, try to remember your manners, will you? We're trying to court the man, not drive him to the enemy."
Blaise laughed, signaling the newcomer to enter the room. "You are running the new division, so for this, I suppose I'll defer to your judgment."
"As you should," she murmured.
"Draco, I'm sure you know--"
"No, actually," she said, ignoring the look Blaise gave her, and when she turned to face Draco her smile was shy. "I don't believe we've met."
"We haven't," Draco said. He quirked an eyebrow at her, taking her proffered hand and shaking it. "Draco Malfoy."
She grinned. "Astoria Greengrass. Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise."
the beginning
Previous
Pairing: Draco/Astoria, mentions of Cormac/Astoria, Viktor/Pansy, also hints at various Slytherin ships
Word Count: <38,000, 8378 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.iv. you'll make your real friends
"You can't keep showing up here and asking for favors without telling me what's going on!" Harry exclaimed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's getting bloody annoying!"
"Not my intention at all, to get on your nerves," Draco said. He was rocking on his heels, veins pumping with three doses of caffeine and mind still full of Astoria--the way her fingers had curled against his robes, the silk of her hair in his hands, the sigh of her lips against his own. Her eyes on his, when the kiss ended. The sound of their breathing, as loud and deafening as the guilt-ridden silence between them. The rattling of his heart when the door nearly opened to the two of them still tangled in each other's arms. They'd jerked apart, filling the air with mumbled excuses and babbled niceties before Draco finally left.
"Malfoy!"
"What?"
Harry looked at him with exasperation. "Are you going to tell me what you need the Pensieve for or not?"
Draco nodded. She'd owled him that morning, asking for a moment to talk. He hadn't replied yet--it had been a mistake, he knew that well enough. He just didn't want to hear it from her so soon. "Yeah, I was just--I think I've found the woman with McLaggen."
"You think you have?"
And that was the unforgiving thing, wasn't it? That he was so close to finding McLaggen, so close to reuniting husband and wife. "I need to look at the Pensieve again, see if I can confirm a few things first."
"All right," Harry said, fishing out the key and tossing it towards Draco. "Try not to break anything while you're in there. And tell me what you find when you come out, you hear?"
There were a few limitations to memories as captured in runed stone basins, but Draco hoped he could get past a few of them. The last time he and Harry went through Tracey Davis' memory, they had time only to look for Blaise as he stormed out of the ballroom following his argument with McLaggen. Blaise had gone outside, and Draco knew now it was so he could meet Pansy in the gardens.
The problem, Draco realized, is that they had focused too much on one suspect when the entire ballroom had been full of them. Harry had asked some of his rookies to go over the memory again to see if they missed anything, but how would they know what to look for? How would they know if they'd found something worth noting?
Ilsa claimed she was on the clock the night McLaggen disappeared, and while Draco doubted she alone had abducted McLaggen--in Ilsa's memory he'd prattled on about his wealth and the things he would buy her, the places he would show her; he'd promised her the world, why wouldn't she demand it given the chance? A ransom was unnecessary if only McLaggen had access to his vault--it occurred to him that he could still have paid for her to attend his party. There had been so many guests that it would have been so easy to go unnoticed.
So when he stumbled into the middle of the party, brushing past the ghosts of the McLaggens' guests, he didn't bother to follow McLaggen or Blaise behind the draperies. He side-stepped the dancers, wove around drunkenly swaying wizards, and slipped to the edge of the ballroom, his eyes on everyone in attendance.
Champagne, of course, seemed to be the drink of choice among the witches. Penelope Clearwater went through hers like it was water, arms folded and eyes hard as Caleb Warrington ignored her for the adoration of his friends. Emma Dobbs reached for a glass when she tired of having her feet stepped on by Graham Pritchard. Katherine Bundy shared one with a young wizard that Draco often saw in the lifts whenever he visited the ministry. Sally-Anne Perks smiled at Rodrick Urquhart while discreetly dumping the contents of hers into a nearby planter whenever Urquhart wasn't looking.
Draco could not find Ilsa anywhere. He could not even see anyone who might be Ilsa. There was a rustling from behind the curtains and Draco tried to focus, knowing his time was nearly up. He scanned the crowd for faces familiar and new and saw Cormac stalking up the stairs that led to his study.
He sprinted up the stairs, hoping to get a better vantage point that way. But it was harder to see faces from that distance, and as he tried to descend he felt a tugging on his stomach, and he was sucked back into the tight closet that housed the Pensieve.
"Damn it," he muttered, reaching to touch the surface of the Pensieve.
Again.
Sarah Fawcett, making a toast to the birthday boy, who was across the room and could not hear a word of what she said.
Morag MacDougal, raising her own glass with an indulgent smile but sharing a knowing look with her companion.
The Vane sisters, complaining about the brand of champagne the McLaggens deigned to use and waxing poetic about their own trip to the northeast of France, where only the best champagne came from.
Susan Bones, looking a bit out of place and sipping hers every five seconds while she tried to act nonchalant.
Cormac McLaggen, stomping out in anger. Blaise Zabini, storming out the other way. The tug on his stomach, the ground dropping from beneath his feet.
Draco growled, losing his footing and crashing against the door.
Again.
Daphne Macmillan, refusing a glass from her husband as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Katie Bell, handing Roger Davies hers before joining a group of her friends while they danced and laughed to the music.
Orla Quirke, admonishing her date for committing the grievous faux pas of adding ice to his wine while she sipped hers haughtily.
From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of blonde hair, a hand that reached out for a new glass from the refreshments table, and Draco all but leapt to his feet then and there, but it was just Tracey, fresh from the dance floor with Theodore, talking with a woman Draco didn't recognize.
Draco had never been a patient man to begin with, but he couldn't stem the frustration that was beginning to bubble to the surface. It was a pity he couldn't touch anything in the memories--he would have liked to slam his hand on something hard right about then. From where he stood, it was easy to see how he could have made that mistake. Tracey had the same length of golden hair that Ilsa did, though their eyes were different shades and Tracey was willowy where Ilsa was buxom. It seemed McLaggen had a type.
A tug, then a pulling sensation. Draco's rear collided against the floor, but this time, he hardly noticed. His eyes bore holes into the runes etched on the Pensieve, and he sat there for a long time, jolting back to his senses only when Harry knocked on the door.
"All right there, Malfoy? I heard a thud."
"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."
"Done yet?"
"In a minute," Draco said, pulling himself up to his feet. He took his wand from his back pocket, whispering a spell as he tapped it against his temple. He drew out a long silvery strand, taking care to keep it attached to his wand before he spilled it into the basin. His own memory fell in tendrils into the pool, and when the image was clearer, he reached out to touch the surface.
It was one thing to enter another's memories, but Draco found it altogether eerie to look into his own. Harry swore by it, said Dumbledore created the Pensieve for that very purpose, but considering Dumbledore had knowingly asked for his own death, Draco was as willing to put his full faith in something just because Dumbledore thought it a good idea.
He grimaced as he fell through his own apparition, stalking down the hall from the McLaggens' foyer to meet Harry. His eyes were stone cold, fists curled into tight little balls. Draco frowned; Blaise must have really pissed him off. He touched his temple self-consciously--was his hairline really that high?
"You're late," Harry said, standing from where he'd been waiting for Draco.
"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..."
Draco let the conversation fade into the background. He only had as long as the time his memory lasted for, and too much of it had been wasted on mindless chatter. He went ahead of himself and Harry, waiting until his memory extended just a bit more with every additional step they took until he reached the door to McLaggen's study.
It was, of course, closed to him until Harry opened it, and as it was, he was still gabbing with Draco. Did they really spend so much time milling about talking?
"And how does she know it's an abduction?" Draco asked.
"Tell me what you think of the study."
Draco slipped inside while his memory-self and Harry took in the scene. He'd drawn too far back in his memories, but while he had the scene to review he might as well look through the study again. He itched for time to move faster, though.
He walked toward the broken window, unmindful of the shards of glass that littered the floor; they would not cut through his skin. He looked out the window, and from the second floor he could see the glint of the moonlight off more pieces of glass on the ground below. Flight was the only answer, but they'd found no remnants of broomsticks around the window, inside or out. They must have used one of the newer models, a type that didn't shed its bristles. From where he leaned over, the dark ground looked like the sky, glittering with reflected light. It seemed like the entire window had fallen out.
"...since we're a floor up, that whoever took him Summoned a broom to escape," Harry was saying.
"Anybody's wand register Accio?"
Draco frowned. He studied the glass that remained on the windows, jagged edges that bent and cracked under the force of a broom, or whatever it was that had broken through. The edges slanted outward.
"Glacialum. Her drink needed ice."
Draco turned back to the room. If he were to trace how the struggle might have happened, he wouldn't know where to begin. The armchairs closest to the spilled drinks, perhaps? Those were almost in the center of the room--the bookshelves were by the windows, the desk at the other end. Three different corners of chaos, somehow all originating from the center? From the corner of his eye he saw himself heading towards the upturned desk while Harry, arms crossed, stayed where he stood.
"Just paperwork, odds and ends, she said." Harry scanned the room as he spoke. "He kept his most important documents in a Gringotts vault."
The study was a veritable war zone. The shelf had been shaken free of all the books it held. Draco stepped over the rug and knelt to examine the broken chair. It was mahogany, it looked like, a sturdy wood. If McLaggen had put up a fight, and it looked like he'd put up a hell of a fight, then perhaps he hadn't been as incapacitated when the abduction took place. Quick wandwork could even the playing field between a large man and a much smaller woman, but with McLaggen struggling, Draco was no longer sure that Ilsa could have done anything to subdue him.
"Nothing," Harry said behind him. "We can't do much with only conjecture at this point."
"Alright, Potter. Let's talk with Mrs. McLaggen."
Draco trailed behind himself as they descended the stairs, heading towards the kitchen, which bustled with frenetic activity.
"You're a guest, Tracey," Astoria said, giving Tracey a drink as she tried to shoo her away.
"Mrs. McLaggen?"
"You're Daphne's little sister."
Draco cringed. He'd been moronic, on second viewing.
"Well spotted, Mr. Malfoy."
He ignored the conversation and looked at the kitchen. He hadn't seen it when he first came in. There was Pinky, peering into the oven cautiously. She was the only elf Draco had ever met, he realized. He wondered whose elves the others were. There was an ancient one with scraggly white tufts of hair, hunched over the trays as he took his time laying out the hors d'oeuvres piece by careful piece. A younger elf in a bright pink pillowcase whose sleeves were capped with ribbons listened with rapt fascination to Tracey as she told her how to mix the batter. Tracey was beautiful in her dress and, with an apron half-tied on, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and glamors beginning to fade, she looked completely at home. She stirred the mixture, chattering about the different ingredients as she poured measured cupfuls of them in.
"It won't take very long, Mrs. McLaggen."
"I'll take care of things here," Tracey piped up, retying her apron around her neck.
"All right," Astoria sighed, taking what was left of her red wine and gulping it down. "Let's head somewhere quiet, shall we?"
Draco almost didn't notice when he fell back against the door of the closet, brought back to reality once his memories ended. He felt for the pockets of his robes, fingers closing around a thin roll of parchment. He took it out, unfurling it and reading through the list once more.
He ignored Harry when he stumbled out of the closet a few minutes later, heading straight for the nearest Floo station.
"Oi, what's--"
"Later," was all he told him.
"Damn it, Malfoy!"
"McLaggen estate!" Draco had called into the Floo when he reached it, a burst of verdant green smoke engulfing him from the Magical Law Enforcement grates and depositing him in the McLaggen living room moments later. He landed on his feet, robes heavy with ashy residue, but he wasted no time dusting himself off.
"Draco! I've been trying to owl--"
"You!" he snarled, whipping his wand out. He'd been going over the memories in his head since, had been consumed by the images of walking through the study and heading to the kitchen, a constant loop playing in his mind's eye. He had found no need for a Pensieve for everything to scream as crystal clear as they did then. The complete and utter disarray of the room. The windows, broken from the inside. The rug, stained with blood and hiding more under it. His hand shook with anger, his blood curdled with rage. How could he have been so stupid?
Astoria shrank back. "What--what are you talking about?" she asked, stepping away.
"Don't move."
She halted. "Draco, please--"
"How long were you going to make a fool out of me?" he asked. She bit her lip, looked at him with pleading eyes. Draco's jaw tightened and his resolve steeled. His teeth ground against each other, fingernails digging into skin where his fist gripped his wand. He wouldn't let his thoughts turn sentimental. Not for her.
She shook her head. "I tried to tell you--"
"Yesterday?"
"I didn't know I could trust you," she said, wringing her hands. "Draco, please, I just--"
"You knew," Draco said. "You gave me the memory because you knew where it would lead me."
She said nothing. Her silence confessed enough for him.
"And you let me run around, fed me morsels like your damned dog!" Draco licked suddenly dry lips. "You must have had such a grand time, pulling your strings at will."
"That's not true," she insisted. "Draco, I'm sorry, but I didn't know I would--"
"Don't you dare say it."
"I tried to tell you, I swear!"
"When? When I found out? If I did? It's a bit too late for that now, Astoria," Draco told her. "Fuck. Tell me something."
She looked up at him, her eyes shining with a plea for mercy.
"What did you do with the rug?"
"I didn't--"
"Where's the damned rug?"
"They burned it," she whispered. "Potter's men. They stayed until morning and said they'd help clean up. I told them to get rid of it."
Draco lowered his wand. "That is--" he murmured, shaking his head. "You are--"
"I had no choice!" she told him. "What would you have done?"
Draco's eyes didn't flinch from her. "You know what I would have done," he said.
"You're right. But do you know, the funny thing is--" she said, her lips curling up into a smile that didn't quite match the sadness in her eyes. "I don't regret it at all."
He knew he should have headed straight for Harry, right back to Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had questions and Draco knew the answers to most of them. Astoria had let him leave, had simply looked at him with those damned sorry eyes of hers. No last-minute plea, no final confession. No bargaining, no bribery. She'd let him go.
That wasn't what had held him back, though. He was done doing as she wanted him to. But he needed to calm down, to think, so instead of going back--it was late, anyway, too late for Harry to still be in the ministry building--he headed back home. He opened a full bottle of Firewhiskey, swirling its amber liquid in a short, stout glass by his fireplace. There was nothing leisurely about his posture. He leaned forward, elbows resting just above his knees. His eyes were on the flames, but his gaze was far away.
He almost didn't notice when the fire died out, giving way to dimly glowing embers and crackling with the beginnings of a fire-call.
"Draco?"
He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the face in his fireplace. "Mum. It's late. What are you--"
She smiled. "Couldn't sleep," she admitted. "I had a thought you might still be up. You always work so hard. I'm not interrupting, am I?"
"I'm not working," Draco told her, raising his glass to show her.
She laughed. "You are truly my son," she murmured. "Ogden's?"
"1983."
"Good year." She snuffed the flames from her end, and came in through the Floo not five minutes later. "I had a bottle of red," she told him. "But I have half a mind for something stronger."
"Nightcap?" Draco Summoned a glass from his kitchen cupboards, adding ice to it before he handed it to his mother.
"Thank you, dear," she said, pouring herself a healthy dose from Draco's bottle while he rekindled the flames. "Any special occasion?"
"Not really."
"Does this have anything to do with work?" When Draco didn't answer, Narcissa smiled. "I won't ask."
"Why couldn't you sleep?"
"Insomnia comes with age, Draco," she said, though Draco didn't think that was a direct answer to his question.
"And father?"
"Snoring in the bedroom." She winked at him. "He sleeps better than I do."
"He fantasizes more than you as well," Draco countered. "It's easy to sleep when you're wrapped up in your own world."
"Now, love--"
She was cut off by the fluttering of a barn owl that came flapping through an open window. It hooted with its arrival, dropping a note onto Draco's lap. His name was scrawled on the back, in the writing Draco recognized was Astoria's. He stared at it for a moment before Banishing it to his desk.
"There are treats on the mantel," he told the owl, who took his payment before flying away. To his mother, who gave him a curious look, he shook his head. "It was nothing."
"It looked important."
"It can wait until tomorrow."
"I see."
"How do you stand it?" Draco asked, steering the conversation away. "How can you listen to him prattle on about becoming Minister?"
"He is your father," Narcissa told him. "He is my husband. We are Malfoys. We will always be Malfoys. If we don't stand by our own, then who will?"
Draco's gaze flickered to his mother's. Narcissa had always been dignified even in the face of utter humiliation, and now, wrapped in robes that covered her nightgown, her silvering hair cascading in curls against her shoulders, freed from the tight bun she favored, she looked no more proud than she did whenever she stepped outside Malfoy Manor's walls and faced the world. Her eyes blurred around the edges, sight failing with age though she refused to wear glasses, but her gaze was sharp on his. They never missed anything, though Draco could not decide whether that was due to her being a Black, a Malfoy, a mother, or a wife. It was, quite possibly, a combination of all four.
He was the first to look away.
"Draco."
"Do you hate him?" Draco asked. "Did you ever wish--"
"Your father is trapped by dreams of grandeur because he hasn't stopped wishing," Narcissa said. She smiled at her son. "Why would I do the same?"
"You'd both drive me mad."
She laughed. "Can't have that now, can we?"
Draco shook his head in response, both of them falling into a comfortable silence. The fire was beginning to die, the chill of the air starting to creep into the warmth of his sitting room. Narcissa drew her robes closer around her shoulders. The ice had melted into her whiskey, diluting the liquid into a lighter amber. The faint traces of a smile remained on her face, and without the glamors she put on Draco could see the lines of time aging her beyond her fifty years. He glanced at his drink--it was rich and full-bodied, the way he preferred his liquor, but he'd lost his appetite for the night.
"You can stay in the guest room if you like," he said. "I'll head back with you by Floo tomorrow morning."
"Will you really?" He hadn't stepped into the Malfoy Manor in a while. Narcissa stood, smiling. "I'll make the Floo back, no need to put me up for the night. But I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast?"
"Yes, mum."
"I'll make poached eggs and sausages," she said. "Not quite how Dobby used to make them but close to it; at least, I hope so. And coffee--I have a bag of arabica beans, the foulest I've ever had the displeasure to taste, but you like them, don't you?"
Draco laughed. "You must have prepared it incorrectly," he said. "I'll brew us a decent batch if you promise to make the eggs the way I like them."
She agreed, kissing him on the cheek ("When did you get taller than your father?") to bid him good night.
Rest came easier than expected when Draco went to bed, long after his mother had gone. He was asleep almost as soon as his weary head hit the pillow, and when he dreamt, it was of fresh coffee and poached eggs and toast and home.
When he woke, it was to find more owls delivered to him overnight, a small pile of envelopes gathering on his kitchen table and a near-empty saucer of treats on his mantel. Draco gave them a cursory look after he stepped out of the shower. Four from Harry, one more from Astoria, although what it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. It was thick, sure to have more than two dozen inches of parchment inside, and heavy as well.
Draco set them all back down, intent on ignoring them as he scrubbed the water from his hair. He strolled back to the bathroom, towel slung around his waist. He wanted to have breakfast first. Harry Potter can wait. Astoria can--well, she can go to hell.
He'd never been more determined to make breakfast as casual an affair as he did when he finally made it to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa set the table in the garden--insisted on it, his father whispered to him as they watched Narcissa fuss with the plate settings and cutlery, waving off their offers to help.
"Are we ever going to eat?" Lucius asked.
"Quiet, you," Narcissa muttered, wiping her hands on a towelette before she gave Draco a bright smile. "You weren't supposed to see that; I was expecting you at seven, not six-thirty! We don't normally have breakfast this early."
"Mum, I'm not a guest," Draco said, grabbing his usual chair and plopping down upon it. "No need to use the nice china on me."
"We always use the nice china," Narcissa sniffed.
Draco held his tongue, instead Summoning the pot of coffee he'd been brewing from the kitchen. "May I present: real coffee," he said with all the formality of royalty.
Lucius made a face. Narcissa slapped him lightly on the wrist and poured them both a cup, quieting his protests with a stern look.
There was a feast on the table, and Draco filled his plate with a little bit of each dish. Breakfast in his flat meant burnt toast and butter, and his mouth watered as he took his fill of eggs, croissants, at least three different kinds of marmalade for his breakfast rolls--
"Goodness, son, has your house elf been starving you?" Lucius asked.
Draco paused mid-bite, catching the look Narcissa gave him. "Just hungry, father," he said. "My elf doesn't make food quite as good as yours."
Lucius seemed satisfied with his response. He settled in his seat, conversation shifted to the mundane, and for a moment, Draco almost believed it was just another morning at the manor.
An owl arrived carrying the day's paper and, between delicate bites of her blueberry muffin, Narcissa deposited a knut in the pouch tied to its foot.
"Are you still reading that rubbish?" Draco asked through a mouthful of toast.
"Manners, dear," Narcissa told him, unrolling the paper. "I like being kept up to date, even if--"
Draco swallowed his food before speaking again. "Even if what?" he asked, frowning when he saw the look of pure confusion on Narcissa's face. "Mother?"
"Draco," she said, hesitating before she turned to face him. "I know we've agreed not to speak of work, but I think you might want to see this."
"See what?"
She handed him The Daily Prophet.
He blinked. He read the headline, over and over again, but it made no less sense than it did upon first reading: MCLAGGEN ALIVE? MISSING MINISTRY OFFICIAL SIGHTED IN DIAGON ALLEY.
There were more owls from Harry when he returned to his flat, only a few minutes after he first saw The Daily Prophet and excused himself from breakfast. Narcissa nodded her understanding, and even Lucius did not seem to mind that he barely said goodbye before he hurried to the Floo.
One of the owls, he realized, was in fact a howler. It had been hopping up and down the pile, burning red with every second it remained ignored. Draco winced, reaching for it and tearing it open.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" Harry's voice, shriller and two octaves higher than normal, screamed. "I'VE BEEN TRYING TO GET HOLD OF YOU SINCE LAST NIGHT!"
He Transfigured ear plugs out of two sugar cubes from his pantry, tucked them in, and tried his best to leaf through the other owls with Harry's muffled ranting in the background.
"...NO IDEA WHAT'S GOING..."
Harry's owls contained little more than demands for answers. The MLE had heard of the Prophet article off a tip from someone who worked the presses, and Harry had sent men off to investigate. The sighting, according to the article, occurred late yesterday afternoon in downtown Diagon Alley. McLaggen had been wearing a cloak and a large hat that obscured most of his features, and a witness thought they saw him leaving Gringotts just as it closed. Multiple requests for comments to the goblins that ran the bank remained unanswered, the article claimed.
"...SHACKLEBOLT WANTS TO KNOW..."
Smith, who of course had written the article, then went on to wonder what McLaggen could have been doing. The actual news filled only the first two paragraphs, but Smith succeeded in cramming the next three and a half columns of newspaper space with pure speculation.
"...NEED YOU HERE RIGHT NOW..."
Draco chucked the paper in the bin and scanned through the rest of Harry's owls to see if they'd found anything more useful. One of the later owls yielded something--an MLE officer had gotten hold of the Gringotts' president, who confirmed that a withdrawal had been made from one of the McLaggen vaults. As was typical for goblins, however, they'd refused to say whether it was Cormac McLaggen's personal vault or not, how much or what had been taken out, and if it had indeed been Cormac McLaggen who withdrew the money, saying only that their employees followed protocol to the letter and that nothing was amiss with their vaults.
"...FUCKING HELL, MALFOY..."
He slipped that owl inside his pocket. He threw the rest away, his eyes glancing past the last envelope that lay on his table. He hesitated, but curiosity won out in the end. He picked it up, sliding his index finger beneath the flap and running it down the envelope's length to open it.
Reluctantly, he read.
"...WHERE ARE YOU?"
He was still reading, long after Harry's outburst had ended. He folded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, and pocketed that as well. Someone cleared their throat behind him and he jumped, wand drawn.
"No, wait! I knocked, but I think you were--" She gestured toward his earplugs. "The door was open, so I let myself in."
Draco frowned. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to confess."
"Where were you?" Harry asked, not for the first time that day, when Draco arrived at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Officers went over papers and talked in hushed whispers, but Draco did not mistake the hum of activity for any real action: they knew nothing at all, but hoped to look busy enough that Harry would not notice.
"I had my suspicions, but there were a few things I had to know for sure first," he said. The officers were still doing busywork, but their movements were slower now, more careful. They leaned closer, straining to hear his conversation with Harry. "Can we talk in private?"
Harry looked as though he wanted to protest, but instead he shook his head and sighed. "As you wish," he mumbled in resignation, signaling for Draco to follow him into his office. "This had better be good," he said as soon as the door shut behind them. He crossed his arms across his chest and fixed a glare on Draco. "You took your sweet time getting here."
"I placed a call to a goblin I know in Gringotts. Alrik. Tell him I sent you," Draco said, placing Alrik's business card on Harry's desk. "Asked about the McLaggens' shared vault, and if anything had been withdrawn from it at all. Your men have no sense when it comes to working with the goblins, you realize that?"
"No need to be so smug, Malfoy," Harry said, though he pocketed the card. "What did you find?"
"The shared vault was untouched. The withdrawal had been made from McLaggen's personal vault. That was McLaggen."
"Doesn't tell us much, though, does it?" Harry asked. "All it takes is a polyjuice potion and Confundus--"
"Washed away by Thief's Downfall, no doubt," Draco pointed out. "The goblins say nothing's amiss, either, and as far as we can tell, no dragon has gotten loose from the Gringotts dungeons."
"All right," Harry conceded. "So let's say that's McLaggen. What the bloody hell is going on, then?"
Draco sighed. "Didn't you wonder why we found the study like that?" he asked, taking one of the seats in front of Harry's desk. "The mess they'd made?"
Harry nodded, sinking into his own seat with a sigh. "Robards warned me about those," he said, referring to his predecessor. "Called it an orgy of evidence."
"Exactly. I knew something was up but I wasn't sure what it was."
"And did you find out?"
"Think about it, Harry. No one could find a sign of a broom anywhere at all, could they?"
"We combed the grounds--"
"The windows were shattered from the inside," Draco said. "Too much glass outside, less in the room. The furniture--how long was the struggle, how wild, that it would take McLaggen and his abductor wrestling through the entire room and knocking everything down before McLaggen could be subdued?"
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying it was a set-up, Harry. It had been a set-up from the very beginning."
"But who? And why?"
"I didn't know right away. I thought Zabini did it. McLaggen had been using his company to make a lot of extra galleons on the side. But he never deposited them in his account with his wife. He kept them in his other vault, where only he could take the money whenever he needed it."
Harry frowned. "You're saying--"
"There was another woman. Nineteen years old, a server in some private lounge that McLaggen was a member of. Her name was Ilsa." Draco shook his head. "She told me they were in love, and I thought--well, what would you have thought if you were talking to a nineteen-year-old nobody who was carrying on an affair with a ministry official?"
Harry shrugged. "He was leading her on."
"I made a call to The Black Orchid this morning, and they haven't heard from her in days," Draco said. "She didn't send in a note or anything. Just up and disappeared."
Draco watched the way Harry's brow furrowed in thought.
"I got her memory last week," Draco continued. "It's in the Pensieve shelf. Top-right corner, labeled with the date and case number, if you wanted to look. I should warn you it isn't the most, ah, appropriate of memories to examine during work hours, but you should listen to McLaggen talk afterward. I thought he was just filling her head with pretty lies, but he'd been making promises, and he'd intended to keep them all."
"So he ran off with a waitress he met at a lounge?" Harry asked. "He faked his own abduction for a girl?"
Draco shook his head. "Crazy, isn't it?" he asked. "But it didn't click in my head until I saw the rug. How could there be so much blood for a struggle? And how would the blood have made it under the rug?"
Harry's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell--"
"They must have been planning it long before the party," Draco concluded. "They must have been taking some of his blood to spread around that night. Probably spilled too much at first, then decided to cover it up with the rug."
"Merlin."
"That he had a personal vault was key too. I don't think he signed a pre-nuptial agreement with his wife. If he'd divorced her, she would have dragged him through court for everything he owned. If he'd faked death, all of his assets would have turned over to her, and he'd have no way of getting all the money he'd been squirreling away for Ilsa. A disappearance, though, that was different. How long does a person have to be missing before they're considered dead?"
Harry sank back in his seat, scratching his head in wonder. "Merlin's balls."
"Yeah."
"Fuck, we're gonna have to tell his wife, aren't we."
"She knows, Harry."
"What?"
Draco nodded grimly. "She's suspected all along." His fist clenched. "Theodore Nott was a friend of hers; she must have known her husband had been seeing a girl who worked for Nott. Did you ever wonder why the glass of champagne was crushed to fine pieces? She tried to hide it to cover the fact that McLaggen had been in there with Ilsa. And didn't she ask you to get rid of the rug? Had your men looked closer they would have started to suspect something wrong too."
"But why would she--"
"Pride," was Draco's answer. "She'd rather lose her husband to an unidentified abductor instead of another woman. She strung us along just because she couldn't face the truth."
Harry frowned. "Does she know where McLaggen is?"
"I don't think she does," Draco said. "But they are very likely running far, far away, where they won't have to worry about the wrath of a woman scorned."
Harry only nodded, saying nothing for a good long while. "Well," he said at last. "Some case, huh?"
"Can't say I've seen any as twisted," Draco said dryly.
Harry snorted. "Shacklebolt'll love this," he muttered.
"I think I'll leave you to that," Draco told him.
"Thanks, Malfoy," Harry sighed, leaning out the door as he escorted Draco out. "Peakes! Get me Shacklebolt right away!"
"Anytime," Draco said, but he doubted Harry heard him.
The sun was high, bright on a cloudless sky. It didn't dim beneath the translucent roof of a small gazebo. The air was still and calm, filled with the earthy smell of a fresh pot of coffee and the sweetness of berries baked in bread.
"Was this part of the plan too?" Draco asked. He dug for the galleon, heavy in his pocket, which had been wrapped along with the owl she sent him. If he deigned to speak to her, the letter had said, the galleon will take him to her at noon exactly. He flipped it toward her, and she caught it, slender fingers curling around its golden edges.
Astoria sighed. "No. You stopped being part of anything since--"
"But I was, wasn't I?"
She nodded, her gaze averted from his. "I needed to buy us time, at first, to help us figure out what to do," she admitted. "It happened so fast. I didn't have time to think."
"So I hear. At least, that's what Tracey told me."
Astoria's eyes flew to his. "She went to you? I told her to leave right away. We didn't know what you would do."
"She said that too." Draco frowned. "You honestly didn't send her?" He'd wondered, when Tracey showed up at his flat that morning, if that had been another one of Astoria's machinations.
She shook her head. "I would never have risked it, not after the last time we spoke."
"She could have told the MLE that she was just defending herself." It had been an accident, Tracey confessed. She'd stumbled into McLaggen's study, where he'd come onto her and refused to take no for an answer.
"They'd have asked for her memory--Harry Potter relies on his Pensieve too much, and then they'd have heard everything," she said. "He accused her of breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and all those claims get investigated."
"That was nothing, though," Draco said, thinking back to the casual way Tracey had Summoned her cupcake from the counter when he visited. "She was just--nobody saw when she cast that spell."
Astoria picked up one of the small cakes. "Do you remember the cupcake you had at the bakery?"
"Chocolate, yeah."
"Chocolate Cheer. Do you remember how it made you feel after?"
"Sure. It was really good, I thought. I felt--"
"Cheerful?"
Draco licked his lips. "She didn't--"
"Muggles don't notice. They never notice anything. She uses harmless potions in her cupcakes, anything first years might make. Happy ones. It doesn't harm anyone, but what would the Wizengamot say if they found out?"
They would have imprisoned her, no questions asked. The law was blunt and undiscerning that way.
"Exactly. There isn't much room for leniency when it comes to the Wizengamot," she said, taking his silence for understanding. "I walked in on them. I watched as she drove the knife into his stomach. He'd gotten so close, she said. She had only her wand to Transfigure." Her voice was even, though her fingers were restless on her lap and her face creased in a frown as she recounted the events of the night.
Draco had already heard it from Tracey. She'd only wanted to get McLaggen off her, but the sight of his blood had frozen her in place, and when she came to her senses, McLaggen was dead and Astoria had started to cover everything up. They'd turned the study upside-down and broken the windows themselves, and then they went downstairs. Astoria had gone back up to discover the scene, and it was that snippet of her memory that she gave the MLE. The memory that Tracey had given was sometime earlier in the night, before she went upstairs in search of quiet and found Cormac McLaggen instead. They'd given Draco the memory, hoping that by volunteering it he'd overlook her, and he had.
"And then she used Tergeo," he said. "It was the last spell she cast with her wand. She'd spilled some of the blood on her dress and had to take out the stain."
"She told Harry she'd spilled some wine on herself."
"And the rug," he added. "I remember looking at the rug and thinking, why would it have blood beneath it? Then I saw it again, and I thought, why would a rug be bleeding?"
"There hadn't been any time to move him. I'd always been good at Transfiguration, so I thought--"
"Hidden in plain sight."
"Yes."
"You used his wand to hide his own body. I couldn't figure out why you had to make ice--it certainly wasn't for the wine--until The Daily Prophet article this morning."
"I thought we might need a piece of him, but I didn't know what for just yet."
"Did Theodore teach you that trick? That's how they store samples in The Black Orchid. How long have you known about Ilsa?"
"All along," she admitted. "I lent Theodore some money when he first started."
"Did you borrow his employees too? Who went to Gringotts yesterday?"
She hesitated. "Theodore."
"He'd do anything for Tracey, wouldn't he."
"He'd do anything for his friends."
"How did he get past the goblins?"
"Did you ever find out how Cormac made his money?"
"No. What does that have to do with--"
"Half-breeds," she said. "He sold half-breed parts as potions ingredients. Half-goblin blood was his biggest seller. Blaise found out--Cormac had been using his company to smuggle them in. When the goblins heard, they didn't really mind what was taken out of Cormac's vault anymore, or who took it out."
"What did you do with the money?"
"It's all Ilsa's now," Astoria said, her gaze on the food on her plate. "He promised her, after all. Are we done here?"
"What?"
"I don't see anybody here to arrest me, but you've got enough for a confession now, don't you?" she asked, looking up at him. "You won't find Tracey, though. Theodore's taken her to hide for a while, until this dies down."
"Why help her?"
"Why shouldn't I? She's like a sister to me," Astoria said. "She'd have done the same if our roles had been reversed. I'm guilty of a lesser crime and I have money for counsel."
"You don't need to worry about the MLE, at any rate," Draco told her. "They're not going to waste resources looking for a runaway official and his mistress. If they ever discover the whole truth, it won't be from me."
Astoria studied him. "Why are you doing this?"
It was Draco's turn to avert his gaze. Until Tracey came by that morning, he'd been ready to report everything to Harry. But she was willing to turn herself in if it meant Astoria would be absolved of any involvement, and that had given him pause. "It wouldn't have been a fair trial," he said. "Tracey would have been painted the villain and McLaggen the victim long before she even reached the Wizengamot."
"Thank you," Astoria said, but when she reached out to touch his wrist he drew away.
"So what are you going to do now?" he asked again, his tone abrupt, more brusque than he felt.
He thought he saw her lip tremble, but it must have been his imagination. She folded her hands on her lap, curling her lips up to a bright smile. When she spoke, her words rang loud, filling the hollow quiet that had settled between them. "I imagine the news will hit The Daily Prophet by tomorrow morning," she said. "And Zacharias Smith or Rita Skeeter, whoever's got faster legs and a keener sense for blood, will be banging on my door for a statement. I'll ignore them, perhaps spend a few months abroad to get this behind me, and in a year's time nobody will even remember who Cormac McLaggen's wife was."
He nodded. His coffee, when he picked it up, had gone cold. The bread crumbled between his fingers, and the clanging of the cutlery raked down his spine. "I should go," he said, giving her the courtesy of a curt nod before he stood to leave.
"Draco?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth," she said, and this time her lower lip did tremble, "I wish things had gone differently."
Draco allowed himself a rueful smile. "I'm sorry too," he said, before he Apparated away.
"Draco, darling, if you're going to hang about us like a dreadful shadow, at least make yourself useful and try to glower a little," Narcissa scolded, smoothing back Draco's hair and patting his cheek lovingly. "You're doing well enough scaring the children but the bigger men don't seem intimidated at all by your presence."
Beside her, Lucius laughed. He stroked the back of her hand. "Narcissa, leave our son alone."
"He ought to have left us alone!" Narcissa murmured with a laugh, though it was not soft enough that Draco could not hear. "How is this meant to be a romantic stroll through Venice if he skulks about behind us like that?"
"You didn't tell me you wanted to be alone," Draco muttered, burying his pockets deep in his own robes and turning the other direction. "Don't worry; I'll leave you be now."
"Oh, now look what you've done," Lucius told Narcissa, who only whispered something in his ear that made him chuckle.
Draco rolled his eyes. The holiday had been Narcissa's idea to begin with, and he'd gotten roped into it only because Lucius mentioned it at breakfast. He hadn't wanted to go, but his parents had insisted. A good change of pace, his mother had said, especially since he hadn't taken on any cases in a while.
'A while' had been six months, and he hadn't taken on any cases because he'd been refusing them. It was potions work that took up his time now--just the other day he sent Apothicaire de Zabini a potion that covered up skin blemishes. A somewhat fortuitous side effect of his attempts at getting rid of Amos, the potion lasted longer than glamors, and was something even squibs could use. The form owl he received told him to expect a response within the month, so he owled Blaise to let him know he'd also sent the sample to a rival apothecary.
Venice was a beautiful place, and each second that he stayed made it even clearer that it had been a mistake to make the trip. He spotted his parents up ahead, heard their distant laughter as they got onto a rocking gondola. The moonlight scattered on the rippling surface of the water.
Dear Merlin, he thought, he really shouldn't have come.
He didn't actually think Merlin would answer his prayers then and there, but who was he to ask questions when a hawk descended from the star-cloaked skies, talons digging into an envelope addressed to him?
Blaise's note was terse and to the point, but they made Draco smile. He shook out the small key that came with the letter, and when it tugged him away, he found himself wondering only where the Portkey might take him.
The interiors looked very similar to the potions laboratory that Draco had visited, but nothing about the plain white walls and cramped desk told him much else.
"You better have an international Portkey to return me to Italy," Draco said. "I'm not sure I can explain how I returned to the country without going through the appropriate registries."
"We could still be in Italy," Blaise drawled. He was resting against the table--lounging, since Blaise never does anything without turning it into some sort of affected pose--resisting the tug of a smile on the corner of his lips.
"Then your watch is an hour behind."
"You didn't really send the potion to Slug and Jiggers," Blaise said. "I had my men check."
"And yet here I am, summoned anyway."
"The potion isn't fit for an apothecary."
"You sell Pepper-ups and Skele-Gro potions by the thousands."
"I didn't say I wouldn't consider taking your potion," Blaise said. "It does have more of a Sleekeazy's feel to it, and one of our board members wants us to start competing in that market. If you could create a line of potions similar to the one you sent us--we'll need to brand it, too, on top of testing--then we could be on to something."
"You want me to make more?"
"We'll only take it on if you make more. Maybe a direct competitor to the hair potion, maybe something to--ah--" Blaise tapped the edge of his hairline, eyes fixed on Draco's-- "help with that, too."
"You're a right arse--"
A third voice cut him off. "Now, Blaise, try to remember your manners, will you? We're trying to court the man, not drive him to the enemy."
Blaise laughed, signaling the newcomer to enter the room. "You are running the new division, so for this, I suppose I'll defer to your judgment."
"As you should," she murmured.
"Draco, I'm sure you know--"
"No, actually," she said, ignoring the look Blaise gave her, and when she turned to face Draco her smile was shy. "I don't believe we've met."
"We haven't," Draco said. He quirked an eyebrow at her, taking her proffered hand and shaking it. "Draco Malfoy."
She grinned. "Astoria Greengrass. Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise."
Previous
