Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter is training to be an Auror, and he is finally back together with Ginny Weasley. But when a young woman dies of poisoning at the Ministry’s Midsummer Ball, Harry is the first suspect, and he can only uncover the true murderer by working with his childhood rival, Draco Malfoy.
Rating: R
Categories: Post-DH/AB
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 2018.01.21
Updated: 2021.01.11
Index
Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Midsummer Ball
Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Ghosts
Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Dangerous Scribbles
Chapter 4: Chapter 4: We Were Malfoys
Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Romilda
Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Apologies for Breakfast
Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Lost and Found
Chapter 8: Chapter 8: The Artist
Chapter 9: Chapter 9: The Report
Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Difficult Girls, Part 1
Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Difficult Girls, Part 2
Chapter 12: Chapter 12: Investigating In Vane
Chapter 13: Chapter 13: Bad Boys
Chapter 14: Chapter 14: The Children's Hour
Chapter 15: Chapter 15: The List
Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Interviews, Part 1
Chapter 17: Chapter 17: Interviews, Part 2
Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Mistletoe and Murderers
Chapter 19: Chapter 19: The Lion and the Serpent
Chapter 20: Chapter 20: The New Year
Chapter 21: Chapter 21: Bottled Up
Chapter 22: Chapter 22: Love, Lies, and Betrayal
Chapter 23: Chapter 23: The Other Man
Chapter 24: Chapter 24: In Like a Lion
Chapter 25: Chapter 25: Socialites with Secrets
Chapter 26: Chapter 26: The Diary of Romilda Vane
Chapter 27: Chapter 27: Bubbles
Chapter 28: Chapter 28: Givers of Life
Chapter 29: Chapter 29: The Poison Garden
Chapter 30: Chapter 30: The Most Awkward Double Date
Chapter 31: Chapter 31: The Portrait
Chapter 32: Chapter 32: The Present
Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Midsummer Ball
Author's Notes: 6/20/20: After posting nearly 2/3 of this story (I'm about to post Chapter 21 in a few minutes), I thought it was about time to add an author's note to Chapter 1 because I think the number of warnings I have listed may give people pause. Here is what you can expect from this story: It is dark. It is a murder mystery, and it is post-Battle so everyone has some level of PTSD. PTSD is not the main focus, but it is always there in the background. Also, my characters swear a bit, which I didn't plan, but the F-word keeps coming out of their mouths, and I decided not to censor them if that's how they feel they should express themselves. This story is told in a non-chronological manner and the darkest chapters are definitely the ones set in Carrow-era Hogwarts (which we don't even get to until Chapter 10). Keep an eye on the dates at the beginning of each chapter so you know when we and where we are. What this is fic is not: It's not violent or gruesome. Also, the rape warning is there for mentions of rape. There are no rape scenes. Also, Ginny is not raped. If this fic is too dark for you, I do have a follow up fic planned. It will also be a murder mystery, but it will be much lighter and will be Harry/Ginny, Neville/Hannah. I'm a slow writer, so I probably wont' start this until 2022 . . .
Chapter revised: 6/20/20
Chapter 1: The Midsummer Ball
June 20, 1998, 9:00 p.m.
The Ministry of Magic
Flash! Flash! Flash!
Harry Potter could hardly see with all of the photographers around him, snapping pictures. The world was an explosion of light, and he was vaguely aware of questions being tossed at him. The only real, dependable thing was Ginny Weasley on his arm.
Finally, the photographs ceased and the world came back into focus. He was in the entryway of the ballroom at the Ministry of Magic, and his and Ginny’s entrance had just been announced to the room. The press had immediately swooped in and formed a half-circle around them, effectively walling them away from the other guests. Ginny looked calm and elegant in her gold gown, as if she did this every day, while Harry had to remind himself not to cause a scandal by hexing all of the reporters out of their way.
“Mr. Potter! Are you happy with the appointment of Kingsley Shacklebolt as Minister of Magic?”
“Mr. Potter! You are the youngest person to ever be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class. How does this make you feel?”
“Miss Weasley! Who designed your gown?”
“Mr. Potter! You are the first person allowed into the Auror training program without earning any N.E.W.T.s. Do you feel this special treatment was justified?”
“Miss Weasley! Mr. Potter has allegedly left a long-term relationship with a Miss Romilda Vane to pursue a relationship with you. Were you involved in breaking up Mr. Potter and Miss Vane?”
“Mr. Potter. Miss Weasley is not yet seventeen. Are you keeping your relationship age appropriate?”
“Mr. Potter. Do you feel that Dumbledore would be proud of your defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”
Harry forced himself to uncurl his hand from his wand and smile at the reporters. He had spent a five-hour training session with Patricia Willoughby, the Ministry press secretary, earlier this month, learning how to deal with situations like this.
“I am very sorry, but Miss Weasley and I are not taking questions at this time. There will be a brief press conference in the Atrium at eleven o’clock, following the Order of Merlin ceremony. I will be happy to address any appropriate questions at that time. I will not be answering any questions of a personal nature.”
There. Patricia would be very happy to hear that he was trainable after all. Exactly like a good service Crup.
After that statement, the security guards steered Harry and Ginny away from the press, and Ginny squeezed his arm. She knew how much he hated dealing with the reporters. It was like the Tri-Wizard tournament over again, only worse because they wanted his opinion on everything Ministry related, even the things he didn’t know enough about to form opinions on. And they were no longer interested in learning who he was kissing, but trying to figure out if there were any women sharing his bed. He didn’t know where they came up with half their material. Long term relationship with Romilda Vane? He had never heard anything more absurd.
This was the first time that he and Ginny were out in public together even though they had become a couple again immediately after the battle. They had once attempted an ice cream date in Diagon Alley, but it had been a short-lived outing as they had spotted Rita Skeeter coming out of Flourish and Blotts and had Apparated back to the Burrow with ice cream cones still in their hands.
They had gone into the Muggle world with Ron and Hermione on dinner-and-a-movie double dates that were as much of a novelty to Harry as they were to Ginny and Ron. Each week, they picked a different pre-movie cuisine, and they’d now tried Chinese, Thai, Indian, and pizza.
Being out in the wizarding world, especially with the press around, was new to them, and Harry knew he would have to get used to it. They’d had plans for dates in their own world. They talked of going to a Holyhead Harpies game or having dinner in Diagon Alley or spending a lazy afternoon shopping in Hogsmeade. But this was not what Harry would have picked for their first date in the wizarding world.
The Midsummer Ball was exactly what he had expected it to be: lavish, glittering, and overcrowded. He hated everything about it. The wizarding world had spent all of May burying their loved ones until it felt like all of the earth in Great Britain had been disturbed, and now they were expected to dance and drink champagne like nothing had ever happened? The award he was to receive in an hour felt inappropriate too, and he had only agreed to accept it because Kingsley had insisted it was needed for the morale for the wizarding world.
“The world needs a hero right now, Harry,” Kingsley said. “We can’t recover without visible hope.”
Harry wished they would find a different hope, and in his apathy, he had allowed Hermione to write his acceptance speech.
He looked over at his girlfriend by his side. So he didn’t hate everything about the ball. Ginny was looking particularly beautiful. She wore the gold gown she had worn for Bill’s wedding--it was a shame to let a French designer dress go to waste, she’d said, but Harry knew her decision to wear the dress again was due to money--but it had been modified. A train had been added to make it more formal. Ginny had said it needed some alterations because she had grown. She blushed while saying this, making Harry wonder if it wasn’t the extra inch or two of height that had been the problem but the distracting curves she’d developed.
Around her neck, Ginny wore a simple gold necklace with a heart pendant, an impromptu gift from Harry from one of their Muggle outings. Her long red hair was in waves around her shoulders, which was how Harry liked it best. She wasn’t the fanciest woman there, but she was definitely the most beautiful. His Ginny didn’t need diamonds to shine.
While Harry would never admit it, he had also loved Ginny’s attempts to teach him how to dance. They had practiced in the garden of the Burrow, barefoot because Harry kept stepping on Ginny’s feet in the beginning. At some point, after many a misstep, it had clicked, and Harry no longer felt like he had to concentrate so intently on the individual steps, and his body began moving easily with Ginny’s. He had enjoyed dancing while no one was watching, but he wasn’t sure he’d enjoy it in a crowd.
“There’s Ron and Hermione,” Ginny said.
They moved through the crowd towards their friends. Harry couldn’t help but notice the weirdness of seeing so many people from different parts of his life, all in the same ballroom, wearing dress robes. There was Mafalda Hopkirk who, until Hermione had impersonated her last fall, had only been a signature on Harry’s warnings from the Improper Use of Magic Office. She favored pink dress robes when she wasn’t admonishing underage wizards. There was Hagrid towering over everyone in his rustic brown suit, his champagne glass looking minuscule in his hand. Draco Malfoy sat at a table with a pretty blond girl who was definitely not Pansy Parkinson. His fellow Auror trainees were there, trying to figure out how much alcohol they could drink while at the same party as their bosses.
“That was quite a welcome,” Ron said when they reached him.
“What can I say?” Harry said. “Rita missed me. Did the reporters get you on the way in too?”
“Yes, but they mostly asked us questions about you,” Hermione said, as Ron scowled.
Ron’s scowl was becoming familiar. Harry knew his best mate had been annoyed with him ever since Ron and Hermione had returned from Australia. He also knew his and Ginny’s relationship was the source of the annoyance, although the red-haired man never talked about it.
Most days, he and Ron were fine, playing Quidditch or reviewing their Auror training materials or banding together to distract George from his grief. Other days, Ron was moody and sarcastic. There would be a row eventually, but Harry was determined not to let that happen in earshot of Rita Skeeter.
“So, where does one get a beverage?” Harry asked, searching for a distraction.
“Waiters are circulating with champagne, and there is a bartender making cocktails and pouring firewhiskies somewhere over there,” Hermione gestured in the direction of the far wall.
As if on cue, a black-robed waiter appeared with champagne. Harry grabbed glasses for himself and Ginny, as Ron and Hermione already had drinks.
“Cheers,” Ginny said, and the four friends clinked glasses.
Cheers. It felt so hollow to Harry.
“Are you being melancholy?” Ginny elbowed him gently in the ribs.
“We just buried our dead, and here we are drinking and dancing. And about to receive medals,” Harry said.
Ginny put her free arm around Harry’s waist. On cue, a photographer snapped a picture, but from a distance.
“We need to go on with life. If we don’t, Voldemort wins. Some of the people in this ballroom wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t defeated Voldemort when you did. Drink to that,” Ginny said.
Harry kissed the top of her head. He knew she was right, and he didn’t want to dampen her evening. Unlike him, she had been looking forward to tonight, especially as she was more than a month from her seventeenth birthday, making her one of the youngest people there. He also knew how deeply she was still mourning Fred, so if she could still find joy in the evening, he could as well.
“You know what the Death Eaters would hate?” he asked Ginny.
“What?”
“A photo of us dancing in the Ministry they once had control of.”
They left their glasses on a nearby table and joined the couples on the dance floor. It was nothing like the Yule Ball at Hogwarts. With Ginny in his arms, he finally understood what a ball was meant to be, and for the first time in several days, he was content.
This, at last, was victory. A future with the prettiest, most passionate girl he had ever known.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” he asked.
“Not in words. But I got the message.” He had been speechless when she came down the stairs that evening. Ginny hadn’t been the only one to notice his admiration. There had definitely been a few older brothers eyeing him suspiciously. “You look pretty good yourself.”
He doubted that. He and Ginny might be equals on the Quidditch field, but she far surpassed him in looks.
“I wish we had done this earlier. At the Yule Ball.”
“You weren’t ready,” Ginny reminded him.
That was true. Harry had needed to do a fair amount of growing up until he could appreciate Ginny. He thought he had appreciated her fully in sixth year, but he hadn’t really. It wasn’t until this summer until he realized just how amazing she was.
When the Weasleys had learned about the Horcruxes at last, they hadn’t understood why Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been willing to keep it secret from them, given the dangers. Even Mr. Weasley and Bill who had previously respected Dumbledore’s secrecy thought that the headmaster had been wrong in placing the burden on three teenagers who were barely of age. They weren’t angry with them, just hurt, but Harry would have preferred anger. He wondered if they thought Fred might still be alive if he had shared the dangers of the Horcrux hunt.
Ginny had been on his side the entire time, and ultimately, it had been Ginny who had won over the rest of the family. It was also Ginny who won them the right to privacy when they wanted to spend time alone, as they had needed the summer to catch up.
The summer had been odd so far, full of both the saddest and the happiest days of Harry’s life. Harry Potter had had many strange summers in his life. When he was eleven, a half-giant had told him he was a wizard and that he had been famous his whole life without knowing it. At twelve, he had ruined his uncle’s dinner party due to a rogue house elf. At thirteen, he had blown up his aunt. Every year, something happened that would never happen to anyone other than him.
This summer might be his strangest yet. It began with an endless string of funerals, followed by his first separation from Ron and Hermione in a long time. His best friends had traveled to Australia to locate Hermione’s parents. There had never been a question of Harry going with them. He had needed the time with Ginny, and Ron and Hermione had needed to sort out the complexities of their own relationship.
While he had no regrets about his decision to remain in England, it was a reminder that their relationships were evolving. After years of shared classes, shared adventures, and shared enemies, they would no longer be living in the same place and following the same schedules. They weren’t even a trio anymore. They were, with the inclusion of Ginny, two couples, which felt strangely adult.
Mere days after Ron and Hermione’s return with Mr. and Mrs. Granger, Ron and Harry began Auror training. It was a lot of ten-hour days, with studying to do after hours. As neither Harry nor Ron had earned their N.E.W.T.s, they had more coursework than the others. Harry missed the lazy days he had spent with Ginny in May and regretted starting his training in June rather than September as Kingsley had originally suggested.
While Harry was living at the Burrow and would continue to do so until the decontaminators and decorators both finished working on 12 Grimmauld Place, he felt like he barely saw Ginny anymore. He would get an hour or two with her in the evenings, and they had the weekends, but the Burrow was so busy and full that they rarely had any privacy. Even at the ball, they were always in eyesight of Molly Weasley, as well as every reporter in wizarding Britain.
“Well, I am enjoying this ball much more than the Yule Ball,” Ginny said.
“So am I. The perfect date makes all the difference,” Harry said.
He expected her to say something flirtatious in response, but she was staring in the far corner of the ballroom. “What’s going on over there? Did someone pass out?”
He turned to look, and sure enough, there appeared to be a disturbance in the corner. In moments, the ballroom would be in chaos, the scene of a murder.
Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Ghosts
Author's Notes: This story is not chronological, so it helps to pay attention to the dates at the beginning of each chapter.
Chapter 2: Ghosts
May 10, 1998
The Burrow
She was a ghost, Ginny Weasley thought as she snuck up to the room under the attic. She had always been stealthy. As a child, she had fit into the smallest nooks and crannies and spied on her brothers, gathering up all useful information. She had snuck into the broom shed, often in the middle of the night, and borrowed her brother’s brooms, riding through the air in lovely stolen moments.
Tiptoeing through the Burrow at night was no difficulty. She knew all the steps that creaked and she knew who slept lightly and who slept like the dead. As she moved past the room that Fred and George had shared growing up, she felt she wasn’t the only ghost present. Memories of Fred lingered in every corner.
She was sneaking into her brother Ron’s room. Ron wasn’t there, of course. He had gone to Australia with Hermione to find her parents. His room wasn’t vacant though.
Harry Potter slept there.
Harry had not gone to Australia, and that had caused many a fight between Molly Weasley and Ron. Her mother had been happy to let Ron help Hermione as long as Harry was also there, but she did not approve of Ron traveling halfway around the world alone with his girlfriend.
Harry had been willing to go if that was the only way Ron was permitted to go. Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny had not felt it necessary to let Molly know that. Ron and Hermione needed alone time after spending months in a tent with Harry, and Harry and Ginny had needed time to reconnect. Finally, Hermione had announced that she would just go alone, and Molly’s maternal instinct kicked in, and she agreed to allow Ron to accompany her.
This left Harry Potter deliciously unattended. At least during the hours that her mother was asleep.
She opened the door as she heard a loud snore coming from George’s room below. Ron’s door creaked so timing was everything. She slid through and closed the door behind her. Moonlight slanted through the large window, allowing her to see her boyfriend on the camp bed, curled on his side.
It was a tiny bed. Harry had slept in it nearly every summer for the last six years, but he was no longer a boy. At one inch shy of six feet, he had to curl up somewhat to keep his feet from dangling over the edge.
Ginny lifted up the covers on one side so she could get in the bed with him. He woke, stretched slightly.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said, sliding in the bed.
He pulled her close to him. His body was always so warm. Was sleeping next to a boy always like cuddling up to a dragon, or was it just Harry? She liked his warmth. After those terrible moments when she had thought he was dead, she took pleasure in his every reminder of his aliveness. She touched him at every opportunity, to her mother’s annoyance, sitting with her knee against his at dinner or brushing his hair from his face with her fingers. If he was tangible, then surely he had to be real.
She felt better already, feeling his body curve around her. The nightmares that had led her up the flights of stairs seemed far away, and the feeling of ghostliness, cold and hollow, was gone. She was once again warm and solid.
She hadn’t told him about Hogwarts yet. He knew that Death Eater Hogwarts had been bad. Neville had told him about the Carrows’ use of Unforgiveables, and she was sure his imagination had filled in some of the gaps, but she wasn’t ready to put words to the experience. She had told him some things, safe things, like the DA forming again, this time under her leadership, and the underground newspaper she and Luna had started.
He knew there were things that she hadn’t told him. He said he would listen when she was ready.
“Bad dream?” he asked.
“Pretty bad.” She didn’t mind admitting it. She knew his dreams were as bad as hers. Sometimes, he told her about his. She didn’t offer any detail about hers, and he was being patient.
“Is it the Carrows you have nightmares about?” he asked.
Okay. Maybe his patience was running out.
“No,” she said honestly. “The Carrows were awful, don’t get me wrong, but the other students were the worst--and in some cases, the best--part of last year. When Unforgiveables become a normal part of school discipline, you get to see everyone’s real faces.”
“I heard the Slytherins were out of control,” Harry said.
“It wasn’t just the Slytherins. If it had, it would have been 3 to 1, which are decent odds, even with Death Eater control.”
He was silent a moment and then he said, “Sometimes, I wish we had brought you along.”
“I had the Trace.”
“So did a lot of Muggleborns who were on the run.”
She’d wondered too, what would have happened if she had gone chasing Horcruxes with them. Would she have exposed them? Or could she have been a help, a fourth mind in brainstorming objects and locations. She probably would have been hurt, but she’d been hurt so many times at Hogwarts that she’d lost count. Would sharing a tent with Harry and his friends brought her closer to him or would it have torn them apart?
Things were good between them now, but also slightly strange. The honesty from Harry was new. The day after Voldemort’s death, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had told a select group of Order members (Kingsley, McGonagall, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Fleur, and George) and also Ginny about the Horcruxes, and they’d asked for advice on how much to make public with the Ministry and with the wizarding world in general.
Two days after that, Harry confessed to her the Horcruxes weren’t the full story and he told her about the Hallows, which filled in the more random gaps in the story, like why they had visited Mr. Lovegood and why Dumbledore gave Hermione the gift of Tales of Beedle the Bard. He also talked about life in the tent, of all the times the friendship strained to the breaking point, and of the lonely nights he spent finding her dot on the Marauder’s Map. He said it had been comforting, as he hadn’t known how bad things were at Hogwarts, and he imagined her doing ordinary stuff like studying in the common room or going to Quidditch practice.
Harry was very affectionate these days. As she could not stop touching him, he was the same as if he too needed to confirm that she was alive. He did things for her--small things, like make her tea just how she liked it or he would polish her broom for her--but things she noticed and appreciated.
But he was hesitant too, and very quick to apologize for things. He was definitely aware of what he had put her through in the last year and during the battle, and he seemed afraid that if he messed up one more thing, he would lose her for good. She wasn’t sure how to address it. She wanted him to relax and stop walking on eggshells, but at the same time, she wanted to make it clear that she would accept no more heroic bullshit from him.
“I wish you had brought me along too.”
He ran a hand along her side, and she took it for what it was: an apology. She kissed him so he knew it was accepted.
“We should get some sleep,” she said quietly.
They had now shared a bed at least half a dozen times, but they hadn’t done anything except cuddle, kiss, and on occasion, tentatively explore each other’s bodies.
The first time had been right after the battle. She’d woken in the middle of the night, and she couldn’t recall if it had been a dream, if Harry had really gone into the forest and if he had really come back. She had left her dormitory and snuck into the boys’ seventh year dormitory. She’d pulled back the curtains on Harry’s bed, relieved to find him there asleep. He had woken quickly, grabbing his wand. When he saw it was just her, he’d pushed back the covers in invitation. She’d climbed in, knowing that he was hers again, and she fell asleep in his arms.
Before summer was over and she returned to Hogwarts, Ginny planned to take full advantage of having bedroom access to Harry Potter, but for now, she was okay with the slow pace of their physical relationship. She was still learning Harry’s body, and she enjoyed how alive her body felt with every one of Harry’s caresses. Part of her longed for completion, but she liked knowing they still had many firsts ahead of them, and she didn’t want any of those firsts to blur together, preferring to keep them spaced and distinct.
And there were some fears. Fears of being naked with the only man she wanted to think her beautiful. Fears of pain. Fears of unexpected babies.
But honestly, she was more excited at the idea of giving Harry her virginity than she was fearful. She definitely had no intention of returning to Hogwarts a virgin.
She shifted a bit in the bed, and as she did so, she caught sight of an owl in the tree outside the window.
“Harry, there’s an owl,” she said. “I’m going to let it in.” She figured it must have a message for Harry.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. As she did so, the owl rose in flight instead of moving towards the window.
“It’s gone,” she said. “It’s like it was watching us.”
“Owls don’t spy, Gin. It was probably just Errol hunting. Maybe the tree is a good lookout spot for mice,” Harry said.
But the owl hadn’t been Errol, and it definitely hadn’t been Pigwidgeon. It was a larger owl, possibly a tawny. She knew Harry’s explanation of a hunting owl made sense, but she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The owl hadn’t been looking over the grounds.
It had been peering into the room.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Dangerous Scribbles
Chapter 3: Dangerous ScribblesJune 20, 1998, 8:45 p.m.
The Ministry of Magic
Whenever Astoria Greengrass would first meet a person, she would think about how she would paint them. Her beautiful and mysterious sister Daphne belonged in a forest scene, like a fairy tale maiden on the brink of an adventure. Her Aunt Caresse enjoyed entertaining and having overnight guests. She would be painted in the kitchen, making her famous croissants, with paint colors as warm as her personality. Her great-grandmother was the most beautiful and dignified person she knew. She was meant for a formal full-length portrait, dressed in her midnight blue dress robes, standing next to a staircase with her perfect posture. Some people were meant to be part of action scenes, like her friend Daisy who was on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Other people looked as though they should be painted nude. Astoria had never painted a nude, but she wanted to.
She suspected this habit of hers was part of the reason she did not have any close friends, except for her sister. No one enjoyed being treated like an interesting specimen, reduced to paint shades and artistic style. The problem was, if she found a person really intriguing, her artistic fascination only grew, making it hard for her to concentrate on what that person was saying to her. Boring people she could focus on.
She approached events in a similar fashion. When she entered the Ministry ballroom, she was not thinking about dancing, or starting up a conversation with someone, or finding a glass of champagne. Her first thought was, this would make an amazing mural, and she mentally recreated the scene with swirls of paint. The dance floor would be central in her painting, and it would be a swirl of color and motion, a bit like some Muggle paintings she’d once seen portraying dancers in colorful tutus. The edges of the mural would be darker, more fanciful, with ghosts hovering over the dancers. The scene in front of her looked festive, but she knew that everyone present had thoughts of the recent war and people lost.
Even with her thoughts of murals, she was excited to be entering the ballroom. She was attending a ball at the Ministry of Magic. At sixteen! With Draco Malfoy, of all people. Two months ago, if someone had told her that tonight she would be attending a ball with Draco, she would have laughed. She had known of Draco at Hogwarts, everyone had, but he had never seemed like someone she could ever have anything in common with. He was too loud, too arrogant to ever be her type, and she figured she certainly would not have been his type, timid and introverted as she was.
It was also a small miracle that her parents had permitted her to go, partly because she was only sixteen and mostly because it was an open secret that Draco had been a Death Eater. Given the lengths her parents had gone to in order to distance themselves from both Voldemort and the Order of the Phoenix, allowing her to go on a very visible date with the Malfoy heir had been politically dangerous.
In the end, they gave in because she had insisted, and Astoria rarely insisted on anything. She had always been the obedient daughter while Daphne had been the headstrong one. She supposed it came from being sickly since her infancy. She was used to following orders without question. Drink this potion. Bed rest for a week. Take this note from the healers to your head of house so they don’t make you take flying lessons. Wear this sweater; it’s chilly today. A burst of stubborness from her had been unprecedented.
She wasn’t sure why she had wanted to go so badly. Draco had asked her on a whim, she knew, and she hadn’t yet made up her mind about him. He had proved to be less arrogant than she had remembered, but she sensed a darkness in him, and she didn’t think she wanted to know about the things he had done in the war. Perhaps it was nothing more than that he was a mystery to her, and Astoria, like any good Ravenclaw, couldn’t leave a riddle unsolved.
When she looked over at her date, she was surprised to find Draco looked as nervous as she felt. The Draco she remembered from Hogwarts had been cocky and cool, even under pressure. She knew he had not ventured out of Malfoy Manor since he had been released from the Ministry in May. Theodore Nott had come to visit him at Malfoy Manor, and she knew he was the only person he’d seen socially apart from her. She’d received the impression that the visit from Theodore had not gone well.
She smiled encouragingly at him, and he seemed to snap back into Malfoy form. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.
“Very much.”
This at least was comfortable territory. When she had attended Beauxbatons last year, she had been surprised that the French magical students learned subjects other than magic. She had taken ballroom dancing, cooking lessons, and she had even had a weekly class in the arts, where they studied magical literature, painting, music, and theatre. Beauxbatons staged one school play per year and held two balls, one at Christmas and the other at Valentines Day. She found she was dreading going back to Hogwarts, as she had felt more comfortable at Beauxbatons, even if she had found that she wasn’t quite as fluent in French as she had thought.
“You are an excellent dancer, Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “Tell me, did your mother make you take lessons?”
“Of course,” he said. “I am a Malfoy after all. I have had dancing lessons, fencing lessons, dueling lessons, hunting lessons, and bizarrely enough, poetry lessons.”
Draco was clearly more at ease on the dance floor, and he looked every inch a Malfoy. He was handsome, with an understated elegance. She felt lucky to have him as a date, even with the rumors that surrounded him.
“There is a story behind that?”
“There always is. You are a good dancer yourself. Lessons?”
She nodded. “Not private lessons, though Daph had some when she was thirteen. Beauxbatons. They liked to make sure everyone leaves with a very cultured education. They even made sure that we knew our wines. Do you know how depressing it will be to go back to pumpkin juice at Hogwarts next year?”
“I know this is heresy for a pureblood, but I really hate pumpkin juice,” Draco said.
“I agree,” Astoria said. “Whoever looked at a pumpkin first and thought, ‘I could juice that’?”
The photographers were excited. There was a series of flashes behind them. Astoria looked over her shoulder. Had the Minister arrived?
Draco was scowling. “Potter. And his girlfriend.”
Astoria was madly curious about the relationship between Draco and Harry Potter. She knew they were hostile rivals at Hogwarts, but like everyone else, she knew that Potter’s testimony was the only reason he and Narcissa had escaped Azkaban.
The chaos died down a little, and she and Draco saw security guards escort Harry and Ginny past the reporters. “She looks really lovely.”
She had always admired the Gryffindor girl, who was a year ahead of her in Hogwarts. Like her, Ginny was small, but her body was strong and athletic while Astoria’s was delicate. She’d always thought the red-haired girl to be smart and witty, with a confidence around boys that Astoria had always lacked. She would love to paint Ginny who was as vibrant as a phoenix.
Harry, she had sketched on many occasions although he was unaware of it. At Hogwarts, she had been infamous for her overnight stays in the hospital wing due to a lifelong blood condition, and some of her stays had overlapped with Harry’s. At curfew, Harry’s friends would leave, and she would sketch him as he slept. He had been her favorite subject at Hogwarts, as there had always been so much uncertainty around him.
“She’s all right, I suppose,” Draco drawled, “if you like red hair and freckles.”
“I think she’s beautiful and strong. I admire her.” The song had ended. “Do you want to get champagne? Or circulate?”
They moved away from the dance floor, grabbing glasses of champagne as they did so. The wine wasn’t very good. Aunt Caresse would have never served it. She knew that the Ministry had not purchased its wine from her father, selecting a different distributor. Still, it was alcohol, and alcohol was what Astoria needed to interact with more sophisticated adults with any level of confidence.
Following Narcissa’s lead, Draco and Astoria attempted to strike up conversations with various Ministry officials. It didn’t go well. Each time, they exchanged polite small talk for approximately one minute before each person “remembered” there was someone they urgently needed to speak with. It would be the Malfoys’ new normal, but neither mother nor son was accustomed to it yet. She could practically feel annoyance radiating from Draco.
At least, Narcissa seemed to be having somewhat better luck. She’d been talking to the same lady for quite some time. When Astoria caught a glance at the lady’s face, she rapidly revised her opinion. Muriel Prewitt. A gossip and all around horrible person. Astoria had met the older lady at a charity event once, and she instantly knew Mrs. Prewitt’s painting would be a formal portrait. She would be seated with an angry pug in her lap, surrounded by doilies and fussy knickknacks of the sort women began collecting after they turned sixty.
Draco grabbed two more glasses of champagne and led her to one of the tables.
“Do you have quill and parchment?”
Astoria wasn’t sure what was more odd: That Draco expected her to have a quill, ink, or parchment at a ball or that she actually had those items in her clutch.
She pulled the items out and slid them over to Draco. She expected him to jot down some notes, perhaps something he needed to do later, but he surprised her.
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She very much hoped Narcissa did not catch them playing hangman, as she sensed the matriarch would be scandalized, but she was eager to play as she had exhausted her small talk abilities for the evening. After a few tries she worked it out: dragon fire.
When Draco excused himself to visit the restroom, Astoria began to feel even more awkward sitting by herself. She told herself to get up and socialize. There were a few people she recognized from Ravenclaw, all older than herself of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to stand up and mingle. She wanted to talk to Daphne, but she knew how excited her sister had been about her date, and she did not wish to interrupt.
As a voracious reader, Astoria loved the idea of balls. In many of her favorite novels, a naive young woman went to a ball where she met rich and mysterious men, and there were often cases of mistaken identity, usually on a dark balcony. When she was in second year, and Daphne had stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas break to attend the Yule Ball with Blaise Zabini, she’d thought her sister the luckiest girl in the world, dreaming of her own first ball.
Now her first ball was here. Her dress was pretty and flattering to her figure, and she knew she looked nice. She even had a rich and witty young man for a date. But, as was the case was whenever Astoria had an actual adventure, she wished she was at home, merely dreaming of adventures, as imaginary scenarios were usually the most satisfying kind. She felt so very young. At sixteen, she was probably the youngest one at the ball. Ginny Weasley was only a year older, but Ginny had no idea who Astoria was.
Or maybe she wasn’t the youngest one there. She spotted Romilda Vane seated at a table just off the dance floor. Romilda was in her year, but in Gryffindor. As Ravenclaw and Gryffindor only had Charms together, she didn’t know the dark-haired girl very well, and she preferred to keep it that way. The Gryffindor girl had always struck her as being very aggressive and conceited.
Tonight, Romilda was looking neither aggressive nor conceited. In fact, her expression was very difficult to read. A prickle went down Astoria’s back, and she found herself reaching for the quill and ink she and Draco had used to play hangman. It was a mini-quill she kept in her evening clutch out of habit. She never knew where the urge to sketch would strike, so she was always prepared.
She began with a rough sketch of Romilda. The other girl leaned back in her chair, looking like a disappointed princess. Her legs were crossed and a sparkly gold shoe poked out from under her crimson satin dress robes. Her toenails were painted red. While most of the women in the ballroom wore elaborate updos, Romilda’s dark hair curled around her shoulders, an untamed contrast to her otherwise polished appearance.
It was her face that had Astoria interested. Her lips, full lower lip, thin upper were in a slight pout. Her thin straight eyebrows were drawn together. She looked like she was sulking, except for her eyes. Her dark brown eyes were melancholy. Astoria tried to figure out what Romilda was staring at it.
Harry Potter?
She saw Romilda get up and head in Harry’s direction. The dark-haired girl moved like a panther on the hunt. She picked up a champagne glass from a waiter’s tray at the same time Harry grabbed two glasses. He didn’t notice Romilda inches away from him. His attention was on his girlfriend and his two best friends. Romilda hovered a bit, swirling her wine around in her glass, looking as if she were about to say something.
Before she could do so, Harry led Ginny to the dance floor, still having not glanced in Romilda’s direction.
Romilda had managed to catch Hermione’s attention. She mockingly raised a glass in the older girl’s direction and swished off to the table where she had been sitting with an older couple who were most likely Mr. and Mrs. Vane. As she sat, her eyes remained fixed on Harry.
Astoria’s sketch grew more and more detailed, adding every drape of Romilda’s beautiful gown. After a while, her quill began moving in ways her hand had not directed. She normally enjoyed this part, but tonight it felt wrong somehow. Her mother had always said Astoria had a gift. When she drew, she saw people’s true nature. She also saw other things. Future events, choices they would need to make, forks in their paths.
What she saw around Romilda frightened her. She had drawn a box around the Gryffindor girl, and she sensed it was about to close in. Random doodles appeared on the edges of her sketch: bottles, vials, champagne glasses. Astoria had no idea what any of this meant, but she knew had to warn her and time was not on her side.
“Astoria? What’s wrong?” Draco was back at her side, and Astoria realized what she must look like, sketching like a person possessed.
She stood. “I need to talk to Romilda. It’s urgent.”
She left a startled Draco behind her as she walked quickly in Romilda’s direction. She had no idea what she would say to the other girl, but she felt like if she could just reach her, it would be all right.
But then Romilda held a hand to her throat. She looked as though she was choking. It was mere seconds, but it felt as though time was moving in slow motion to Astoria. Just as Mrs. Vane noticed her daughter’s distress, Romilda flopped over the table, her head landing in a small plate of cheese and crackers.
Astoria knew immediately that she was dead.
Chapter 4: Chapter 4: We Were Malfoys
Author's Notes: We're moving back to May again, and we'll back to June 1998 and the Ministry ball (and Ginny's POV) in chapter 5.
Chapter 4: We Were Malfoys
May 12, 1998
Malfoy Manor
The Malfoys were home. Narcissa had been permitted to stop by on a couple occasions--escorted, of course--but this was the first time that all three Malfoys were home since they had experienced the Ministry’s “hospitality” for nearly two weeks following the battle. It was strange to be in Malfoy Manor, Draco thought. It was home, or at least it should be. It was where he had spent his childhood, walking the corridors with his father, as Lucius talked to him of the accomplishments of the Malfoys in the fifteen foot portraits.
“We are Malfoys, son.”
And it had been a wonderful thing to be a Malfoy. Many wizards didn’t understand grandeur until they arrived at Hogwarts with the trick staircases, the enchanted ceiling, and the cavernous chambers. But Draco had grown up with the extraordinary. Malfoy Manor had a library with books on anything you could ever wish to learn. There were secret passageways. There were doors that you could only see and pass through if you had Malfoy blood and not even Malfoy wives were allowed access. There were family ghosts, who had stories of battles and curses and long forgotten magic. There were two ballrooms, an armoury, four greenhouses, a potions lab stocked with rare ingredients, a maze, a summer house, and a lake.
“Malfoys are leaders, son. We are descended from Merlin himself. And this is our castle. There were always be a Malfoy here.”
He was home. But his home wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same estate where he had run the grounds with Crabbe and Goyle as boys, reenacting the famous duel between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Blood had been spilt here. It hadn’t been glamorous like the ghosts’ stories of dueling scheming Mudbl . . . Muggleborns. It had been shameful, the kind of stain that never washes away. They had been the hosts, but there had no honor in the hosting.The estate had fallen to Voldemort.
It was theirs again in theory, but it seemed to still belong to him.
Draco walked the corridors he had once loved so well. The paintings were there and the statues and the candle lit chandeliers, but it felt so empty. He was lucky to be alive. He knew it. Narcissa and Draco had been cleared of criminal charges, but were to be on probation for five years for assisting known terrorists. Draco was known to be a Death Eater, of course, but technically being a Death Eater was not illegal, only the darker activities one performed as a Death Eater. As much as he hated to admit, it was Potter’s testimony that Draco had once told Dumbledore that he didn’t have a choice, that he had to do the Dark Lord’s bidding to keep himself and his family alive that kept him out of Azkaban.
Narcissa, of course, had never been a Death Eater and was only guilty of feeding and housing Death Eaters, and no one questioned that if she had refused to do so, it would have resulted in her death and that of her family.
Lucius was on house arrest, pending trial. The Ministry had no idea what to do with Lucius Malfoy, but they had decided he was not a flight risk with so many runaway Death Eaters eager to kill him. He was also considered unlikely to commit any further crimes in the near future, as his interest in saving his own skin was legendary. He was simply to stay put, like a good boy, until the Ministry sorted out the fates of the more threatening Death Eaters and could bring their attention back to him. There were protections on the manor, both to make certain he did not leave and also to make certain others did not get in. Aurors were assigned to the manor, and they would be sleeping in their guest quarters and eating off their china for as long as pleased the Ministry.
Draco hoped they had better table manners than the average Death Eater. The Dark Lord, he had to admit, had very graceful table manners, but he had enjoyed the most pungent foods. It was the lack of a nose, Narcissa guessed. Then there was his habit of letting his snake slither all over the dining room table, finishing off his enemies in the place where Draco had eaten his pudding growing up.
Draco opened the double doors that led to his bedroom. Everything looked exactly the same. He had the same row of windows overlooking the lake. The same four-poster bed that Pansy had snuck into when they were both fifteen. The same pale green velvet drapes with a small scorch mark, a souvenir of accidental magic performed when he was nine.
He tossed his cloak on the bed and moved to his bathroom to start a bath in the large tub. He turned on the faucets that gave him warm water, bubbles, and his favorite woodsy scent. He had missed this tub most of all while at the Ministry. While there, he had always had the paranoid feeling that there was someone watching him bathe. He stripped down quickly, banishing his clothes to the laundry room, and settled into his bath.
Could they have done anything differently? Could they have avoided falling into the Dark Lord’s service a second time? Draco didn’t think so. He wasn’t an idealist. There were times in one’s life when the only thing to do was to stay alive.
He was certainly alive. But he wasn’t much more. His future would be strange and lonely. His old friends were no more. By betraying the Dark Lord, they could never return to the pureblood social circles. It wasn’t like the first time when the Malfoys and other families could claim to have been under the Imperius Curse. But the new order would hardly welcome him either. As a Malfoy, he was used to being admired, but now he would have to be the one to reach out to others if he wished to have any social life.
He thought of becoming a recluse. He could tinker with potions all day. Or learn dueling techniques. Or read all eighty-four volumes of A History of Wizardkind in Britain. He could become a wine expert and spend his time looking down on people who couldn’t taste the difference between 1989 Bordeaux and a 1989 Burgundy. He could write poetry. Or be one of those cranky people who wrote letters to the editor for The Daily Prophet. He could become a collector of random items, like 17th century Quidditch brooms.
He was exhausted at the idea of having all the time in the world and no one to share it with. In five years time, he could leave England. He could travel to places where no one knew the name Malfoy. He could sleep with beautiful witches, learn about other magical cultures, and journal about his adventures. But five years was a long time away.
Oh, to be twenty-three.
Until then, he would be alone in Malfoy Manor, making potions, surrounded by a collection of rare brooms, with all of his volumes of history stained by wine and a wadded up letter of complaint in his left fist. His hair would be wild, because who is concerned with grooming when all he has is an assortment of odd hobbies?
Draco reluctantly got out of his bath and towelled dry. He was expected downstairs for lunch with his parents. His mother had let him know that they had very important things to discuss. He had no idea what their plans for him were, but he already disagreed with those plans 100%. He dressed casually and dried his hair with a wave of his wand.
As he walked in the direction of the dining room, he had to admit that it was not the manor that had changed, but him. He had grown up in love with tradition and honor. His life had been refreshingly simple, like the Basil Brothers mysteries he used to read as a child, where the clever pureblood boys always foiled the plans of scheming Muggleborns. It never occurred to him in childhood that a day would come when he would no longer be the hero of his own story.
When he arrived in one of the smaller dining rooms that the Malfoys used for breakfast and lunch, he found both of his parents already seated. There were plates with roast chicken, potatoes, and salad and a half-glass of white wine at each of the three settings. A large bottle of water was in the center of the round table.
He wondered who had prepared the meal. After losing Dobby, they had employed a couple of half-blood maids, who had quit when Lucius had been sent to Azkaban. When the Lestranges had moved in, and Voldemort with them, Aunt Bella’s two house elves had taken over the cooking and housework.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mother, Father.” He sat down and arranged a white linen napkin on his lap. He gestured at his plate. “Who did the cooking?”
“It’s from my sister, oddly enough,” Narcissa sounded amazed.
Draco wasn’t sure how to respond to that, given that Aunt Bella had been buried in an unmarked grave while they had been at the Ministry. “From her elves?”
“No. My other sister. She left a basket of food for us.”
There was nothing more to be said after that, for the Malfoys never spoke of the Tonks family. In fact, Draco had been thirteen before he learned that his mother had a sister named Andromeda Tonks. At Malfoy Manor, having a sister married to a Muggleborn was more shameful than having a sister sent to Azkaban for torturing Aurors.
The food was simple but delicious. Draco was surprised to have an appetite. He had eaten little at the Ministry, and neither had his father who had shared his cell.
“Draco, we wanted to discuss your future,” his father began. Draco sighed, but his father ignored it. “Your mother and I are finished socially and politically, but you are not. Our fortunes are diminished, but not gone. You won’t need to pursue a career, but it may be helpful to your reputation if you do.”
“I really don’t think the Ministry would hire me, Father.”
“No, not right now, but there are other things you could do. You are a fine potion maker. You could work in St. Mungo’s.”
“And people would accuse me of poisoning Muggleborns.”
His appetite disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. Draco pushed potatoes around his plate and forced himself to take a bite.
“Or do something more scholarly. I know the editor of the Journal of Modern Potion Making. She owes me a favor, actually, and I’m sure she could find a job for a promising young wizard. Or you could write a history. Gentlemen scholars have done that through the ages. Your great-grandfather won an award for his history of the Goblin Wars.”
Draco wasn’t sure where his father got the idea that he was eloquent enough to be a writer or editor. Of course, he had read the history his father spoke of and he wasn’t convinced of his great-grandfather’s eloquence either.
“This doesn’t need to be decided immediately,” Narcissa broke in. “Like your father said, a career isn’t essential. We do need to do something to immediately improve your reputation. You could read storybooks to orphans. Or give a large donation to the Hogwarts scholarship fund.”
“All right.” He couldn’t imagine himself reading Beedle the Bard to war orphans and doing all the voices like a proper storyteller, but he knew his mother’s suggestion made sense. It would be fine as long as the children didn’t sneeze on him. Or climb on his lap. Or touch his hair. Or breathe too close to him.
Actually, storytime was probably out. A puppet show, maybe? A little distance between him and the brats would probably be good.
“And we’ll need to have your portrait painted this summer,” she continued.
“What?” He put his fork down and glared at his parents.
“It’s tradition, Draco. Every Malfoy male has their portrait painted at seventeen. We’re a year late, but with everything that happened last year . . .”
“I know it’s tradition, but we’re practically prisoners in our own home, Mother. It doesn’t seem quite the time for pomp.”
“It’s exactly the time, Draco,” his father broke in. “Having your portrait painted and added to the family galleries is an important experience. It really makes you feel the responsibility of being a man.”
That, Draco thought, was precisely why he had no interest in it. He was an adult at last, and he had never been less certain of he was or what he wanted. He amused himself by thinking of titles for his portrait. Wizard in Limbo. The Fall of Pureblood Wizardry. Existential Crisis in the Family Estate.
“It will be good for you, Draco,” his mother added. “Once your portrait is up, you’ll be able to see yourself again. I think I know just the painter.”
“Who is he?” Draco asked. He hoped it wasn’t one of those fellows who would insist on painting him with all sorts of awkward props, like medieval staffs or a falcon perched on his shoulder.
“She. Astoria Greengrass is young.Younger than you, actually, but she has some very unique skills as an artist that make her a perfect portraitist for you.”
“There was a Daphne Greengrass in my year. Any relation?”
“Her younger sister. A Ravenclaw, unfortunately, but the family is quite honorable. To the best of my knowledge, the Greengrasses took no sides in the war, which is ideal.”
Draco wondered how anyone could have possibly managed that. He vaguely recalled that Daphne’s family had something to do with wine. Surely, the Dark Lord would have been interested in that. The opportunities for poisoning would have been plentiful.
“You’re having a kid paint my portrait? Will finger paints be involved?”
“We won’t hire her until we’ve reviewed her body of work.” Something in Lucius’s face indicated he too had concerns about a teenager painting an official Malfoy portrait. “If her work is found to be acceptable, we will offer her the job.”
“I assume this is your idea, Mother? The Greengrass girl?”
“I first became aware of Miss Greengrass a couple of years ago,” Narcissa said. “It was a charity luncheon and some of her paintings were being auctioned for the maternity ward at St. Mungo’s. She was merely fourteen, but her work was extraordinary. I think a portrait by her would be different from the others in the gallery. I don’t think she would paint you wearing brocade cloaks like your father did or that you’d be painted on horseback like your grandfather. What I think she could do is create a Malfoy painting for a new age.”
Draco had to admit he was now curious about the girl’s work, even though he was still uninterested in being the subject. “So no portrayal of ancient glory in my portrait? What would I find in a painting by . . .” he had already forgot her first name, “Daphne’s baby sister?”
“Humanity,” Narcissa replied.
“All my weaknesses on display for the public? What a treat, Mother.”
“I said humanity, not weaknesses, Draco. We are perceived to be monsters. That perception is what we must battle.”
“And sometimes perception is reality.”
Just then, a tawny owl swooped in through the window and deposited a letter in front of Draco. It did not stay and demand a treat. Instead, it circled the room and left the way it had come.
“I thought the Aurors were going to be bringing our mail once the Ministry ‘screens’ it?” he drawled.
“They are.” Narcissa’s eyes narrowed. “It’s possible that’s the only one that made it through so they forwarded it on.”
“I don’t know who would be writing to me.” Draco went to pick it up.
“Wait!” His mother said. She waved her wand over the letter. “No traces of dark magic. It should be safe to open it.”
Draco opened it quickly. It was a short length of parchment. Instead of someone’s writing, there were letters cut out of a newspaper or magazine. The message they formed was short.
We are hunting you.
Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Romilda
Chapter 5: RomildaJune 20, 1998
The Ministry of Magic
Once upon a time, Ginny had hated Romilda Vane. At Hogwarts, Romilda had an army of well-groomed girls whose job was to agree with everything Romilda said. As the daughter of the senior beauty director of Witch Weekly, Romilda received weekly shipments of perfumes, makeup, beauty potions, and designer clothes, all perks of Mrs. Vane’s job. She was captain of the Gobstones Team and used her position to terrorize first years. She’d once referred to Demelza and Ginny as manly for being on the Quidditch team, and she had made remarks about Ginny’s secondhand robes on more than one occasion. All of which could be forgiven. But she was also very obsessed with Harry, and that Ginny had been unable to forgive her for.
That was fifth year.
Last year, all the girls of Hogwarts had looked out for each other, protected each other. But they hadn’t been able to protect Romilda in time. She remembered the morning they’d found her on the fourth floor, bleeding and unconscious. The younger girl had been in the hospital wing for a month, but she’d pulled through. She was stronger than Aimee Cartwright, who had a breakdown and had to be sent home when she’d gone through what Romilda had.
Ginny was vaguely aware of Harry beside her. Her boyfriend had slipped into Auror mode. He had one hand protectively behind her back, but he was also scanning the ballroom, as if trying to memorize every detail and every person, imprinting the scene in his mind. But Ginny only had eyes for Romilda whose limp body was being cradled by her sobbing mother, while her father stood by in shock. She couldn't blame him. Teenagers didn’t just drop dead at balls. Even during the war, there were curses and flashes of green light, and obvious signs that something terrible was about to happen.
“Oh, Harry. It’s too terrible.”
“It’ll be all right,” Harry said, as he guided her back towards Hermione.
“All right? She’s dead, Harry!”
A healer who had been one table over from Romilda had declared her to be so.
Just two hours ago, Romilda had been just another girl getting ready for the ball. She had picked out the lipstick that went best with her gown. Perhaps her mother had helped her with her hair, using a curling charm to get her dark tresses to fall into perfect waves. Romilda would have looked into a full length mirror before leaving to make sure her knickers didn’t have visible lines beneath her satin gown. Her father had likely made some comment about her growing up too fast just like Arthur had done when Ginny came down the stairs. Romilda would have felt very adult entering the ballroom, grabbing a glass of champagne, catching the eye of grown men.
Now, she would never dance again. Never finish Hogwarts, hold a job, or have her father walk her down the aisle. Ginny realized just how badly she had wanted Romilda to move on with life, to thrive. Because if Romilda had recovered from the war, if Romilda was happy, then there was hope for all of the lost girls.
“Sorry, Gin. I just meant . . . I don’t know what I meant. Were you friends?”
She glared at him. “Everyone at Hogwarts grew closer last year. All we had was each other.You wouldn’t know about that.”
Even as she said that, she knew it was an unfair comment. Harry couldn’t have been at Hogwarts last year. He had been Undesirable Number One. And was she honestly blaming Harry for Romilda’s death? Harry, who blamed already blamed himself for every premature death.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t know. Gin, I’m sorry, but Ron and I have to go. Report to Gawain.” He gestured towards a group of gathering Aurors.
She tried to smile at him. “Go. Be an Auror. I’ll be okay. And sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
He squeezed her hand, then moved to join his colleagues.
Hermione gave Ginny a quick side hug. “I thought we were done with this. Do you think it could have been natural causes?”
Ginny shrugged. She didn’t think there was anything natural about a sixteen-year-old dropping into a plate of Stilton. She watched Harry summon parchment and a quill and begin writing whatever Gawain Robards was dictating. An annoyed junior Auror, likely two or three years older than Harry, was refusing to allow the reporters to take photos of Romilda’s body, and he was being completely ignored as flashes erupted all around him.
“Romilda had a terrible year last year, Hermione. I don’t know how she survived it.”
Ministry officials began herding everyone out of the ballroom and into the Atrium. It was made clear that absolutely no one was permitted to leave the building. Beside her, Hermione was murmuring comforting things in a Hermione-ish fashion. Ginny, who normally liked Hermione’s motherly nature, had no interest in being comforted and shook her off by pointing out a Ministry official who had recently drafted a law Hermione was interested in. Ginny disappeared as soon as Hermione spotted the woman in question.
She headed toward the half-completed statue in the middle of Atrium, pretending to be examining it, but instead she was wrapped in her own thoughts. As she adjusted her wrap around her shoulders, she heard an alarming ripping noise that immediately drove Romilda from her mind.
Damnit! Her dress had ripped along a side seam. She had known she was on borrowed time with this dress. When she had been measured for it during Christmas break her fifth year, she had been five feet tall, ninety-five pounds soaking wet, and a B-cup. Madame Fortier, the famous French dressmaker, had been told that Ginny and Gabrielle were both still growing and to make the dresses slightly big.
Therefore, it was not a big deal when she grew an inch by the time of Bill’s wedding, and the dress was a perfect length. What Madame Fortier had not anticipated was Prewitt woman genes that allowed a teenage girl to gain a full cup size in seven months. Evidently, French breasts were better mannered and not permitted to grow in such a reckless fashion.
By late July, Molly had been in hysterics over the amount of cleavage Ginny showed in her bridesmaid dress, and she attempted to bring the neckline up until it even covered Ginny’s throat. If not for Fleur’s intervention, it would have stayed that way. After many a fight between Fleur and Molly, the dress was made more modest but still showed a hint of cleavage, which Ginny was pleased to note caught Harry’s attention. Of course, once middle-aged Death Eaters showed up at the wedding and began looking down her dress, Ginny began to wish her mother had got her way.
Now, nearly a full year later, Ginny was another inch taller and curvier still. She had let Fleur and Hermione do the alteration charms on her dress so Molly didn’t leave her with fabric up to her chin again. It seemed fabric only allowed so much magical adjustment. Hermione had warned her this could happen, but Ginny had been unwilling to purchase a secondhand ball gown when she had such a lovely designer dress in her closet.
Ginny carefully held her bodice in place and adjusted her wrap so no one could see her exposed bra. She began walking down a corridor where she knew from previous visits to the Ministry that she would find a restroom. When she heard raised voices, she ducked behind a large potted plant. She could just imagine what kind of stories Rita Skeeter would write if she spotted her with ripped clothing.
It wasn’t Rita. There were two blond girls, possibly sisters, who were arguing. Ginny recognized one of them as Draco Malfoy’s date. The girl appeared very distressed, and Ginny’s first thought was to hope that Draco had not tried anything inappropriate with her.
She was an extremely pretty girl and as unlike Pansy Parkinson as it was possible to be. Pansy’s hard prettiness was a combination of overgrooming and a fierce personality and had little to do with nature. This girl had a wildflower beauty. She had a delicate bone structure, and her brown eyes were large and doe-like. She was small, maybe an inch or two taller than Ginny. Her hair was a golden blond, different from Draco’s silvery blond. She wore a rose silk dress and its low neckline was the only thing saving her from looking too young and innocent to attend a Ministry ball.
“Tori, you can’t tell anyone about this,” the older girl was saying. Her features were nearly identical to her sister’s, but she lacked Tori’s fragility and appeared to be a year or two older.
“But Daph, she was poisoned!” Draco’s date said. “I saw it when I was sketching her.”
Ginny leaned closer. Were they talking about Romilda?
Daph lowered her voice. “And what would the Aurors think if you told them you drew Romilda Vane’s fate before it happened? Best case scenario, they would think you were crazy. Most wizards don’t put a lot of faith in Divination. But they might think you did it. Or they might try to use you. You know why we left England last year.”
“We left because Grand-pre was dying,” Tori said.
“No, that was our excuse. Astoria, we left England because of you. Maman was frantic that You-Know-Who would find out about your gift and decide you could be useful to him.”
“No, she would have told me if she thought I was in danger. We had to help Grand-pre and then help Tante Caresse take over the vineyard once he was gone.”
Ginny had the impression that the younger girl didn’t really believe this. Or if she once had, she did not anymore.
“Tori, we left in the middle of the night. You’re old enough to know that isn’t normal.”
“Okay, let’s say you are right about why we spent a year in France. It’s over now. You-Know-Who is dead.”
“I’m not convinced the Ministry is much better. And let’s not forget who you came with. Draco’s bad news. Not even Pansy Parkinson could control him. Does he know anything about your abilities?”
“No.”
“Let’s keep it that way. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Your makeup is all smudged. Then you’ll go back to Draco and act neither more nor less shocked than anyone else here.”
As the girls turned the corner in the direction of the women’s bathroom, Ginny tried to make sense of what she had just heard. What did that Daph girl mean when she said Tori drew Romilda’s fate. Like drawing cards? Had she been consulting a Tarot deck? Ginny had never taken a Divination class in her life. After hearing Ron and Hermione’s complaints about Professor Trelawney her second year, she had signed up for Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures for her third year electives. She supposed she could ask Harry. He’d had three years of Divination, although she had the impression that he hadn’t learned anything in the class.
She decided to avoid the loo until they came out. The young blond girl would need a moment of privacy to pull herself together. She sighed and looked down at her dress. A simple Reparo would fix the problem. One tiny underage spell would be undetectable in a building full of qualified wizards, and she had her wand tucked into the side of her corset style bra. But if anyone came around the corner and caught her, her father would be in so much trouble at work.
She saw a familiar head of red hair turn the corner, heading in the direction of the women’s room, and she sighed in relief.
“Mum! Quick! Over here!”
“Ginny? What are you doing in the bushes?”
“Avoiding public nudity, Mum. When I was three, you told me I wasn’t allowed to take off my clothes in public, and I took it to heart.”
“Oh, Ginny! Your dress! Reparo!”
Her mother fussed over her, adjusting a strand of Ginny’s hair and smoothing down her dress. Ginny realized she was taller than her mother at that moment. It was strictly her high heels, she knew, as both mother and daughter stood an even five feet and two inches in bare feet, but it was strange to look down at her mother and realize her brothers had been doing just that for many years now.
“Thanks, Mum. I will be so glad when I no longer have the Trace.”
“I could move the neckline up a little.”
“Mum!”
The corners of Molly’s mouth twitched slightly. “Well, I think it should hold. You should get back. Harry will be looking for you when they release him from the ballroom.”
“The Aurors are still in there?”
“I believe so. Did you know that girl?”
“Yes. She was a Gryffindor. She would have been about to start her sixth year.”
“What a shame! So young! I cannot imagine what her mother must be going through.” Molly sighed. “Well, maybe I can.”
“I’m not ready to go back, Mum.” Ginny wanted to see Harry, but he was still in the ballroom, and she had little desire to mingle with other people. “I’ll visit the loo with you, and then we can go back together.”
In the women’s room, Ginny took her time, adding lipstick and adjusting her hair. She didn’t cry, but she worried that might change once she was in a crowd.
When Ginny and Molly returned to the Atrium, the Aurors were still investigating inside.
“Where did you go?” Hermione asked.
“I had a mishap with my dress,” Ginny said. “Mum fixed it.”
“What did you mean earlier? When you talked of Romilda having a harder time than most? Did the Carrows single her out?”
“No, I don’t think they did,” Ginny said.
They might have, but if they did, it would hardly been the worst thing that had happened to her. Ginny remembered when Romilda got out of the hospital wing after a month’s stay. She had been pale and unsteady, physically a shadow of her former self. But her dark eyes had been determined, and she had told Ginny that she wanted to join the D.A., that she would do anything to fight the dark side. Looking at her, Ginny had known the Slytherins and their allies had messed with the wrong girl, turning a beauty queen into a warrior.
Ginny checked to see if her mother was listening and seeing her in conversation with Arthur, she continued in a shaky voice, “Romilda was gang-raped. She was raped, tortured, then left for dead.”
Damnit. There was no stopping the tears this time.
Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Apologies for Breakfast
Chapter 6: Apologies for BreakfastMay 13, 1998
The Burrow
Crack. I’m sorry about the year of worry. Crack. I’m sorry I took Ron and Hermione with me. Crack. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you what we were doing. Crack. I’m sorry I hurt Ginny. Crack. I’m sorry that the break-up wasn’t enough to protect her. Crack. I’m sorry we put you into hiding too. Crack. I’m sorry Teddy will have to grow up as parentless as me. Crack. Above all, I’m sorry about Fred. And Tonks. And Lupin. And Mad-Eye. Crack. Bloody hell, I’m even sorry about Snape.
Harry Potter was cracking eggs. At almost eighteen, he could have prepared breakfast with magic. He was of age, and necessity had forced him to learn many cooking and household spells over the last year. Today, he wanted to prepare the meal slowly in the Muggle fashion. In every crack of an egg, or swirl of a whisk, or flip of bacon, he was telling the Weasley family everything he could not bear to say out loud.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t say the things out loud, but he knew everyone would talk over him. It’s not your fault. Voldemort is the cause of everything. You did all you could. No one could expect more from you. But he had to say all of the things that churned in his belly, so he said it by cooking breakfast, by de-gnoming the garden, by fixing the broken porch step, by keeping a pot of tea brewing. Finding absolution in these acts, Harry now understood why Molly cooked so much. It was an apology for all the things that could not be fixed, for protection that did not go far enough. It was more than that. It was an offering.
It was seven, and Molly was not up yet. Clearly, she would be having one of her days. Some days, she was the Mrs. Weasley he had always known: warm, loving, and quick to spoon a third helping on your plate when you’re weren’t looking. Other days she was a ghost Molly. She stayed in her bedroom, wearing a dressing gown so ancient she had probably had it when she nursed Fred and George. Either Ginny or Mr. Weasley would bring food up to her, which she did eat. Even the most depressed Weasleys rarely said no to food.
Harry could hear Mr. Weasley moving about in the bathroom upstairs. Arthur was dependable as clockwork, and Harry knew he’d leave for the Ministry at precisely seven-twenty-five. He had been the strong one for everyone in the family, but Harry noticed he had started drinking an extra glass of wine in the evenings, the only sign that all was not well with Arthur Weasley.
Even with Bill and Fleur back at Shell Cottage and Ron and Hermione in Australia, the Burrow was full. George wasn’t ready to go back to the flat he’d shared with his twin and was sleeping in his childhood room. Percy was also back in his childhood room, and Harry, guilt recognizing guilt, knew he would stay at the Burrow as long as George was there. Charlie was in England for one more week before returning to Romania. Once Charlie left, Harry would move out of Ron’s room and into Bill and Charlie’s childhood room. Ginny, of course, was at home.
“Ah, Harry. I thought I smelled breakfast.” Arthur entered the kitchen.
Sorry I put my hand down your daughter’s knickers while you slept last night. Sorry I am not actually sorry I put my hand down your daughter’s knickers.
“Morning, Mr. Weasley. I was up early.”
“Are you the only one up? Is Ginny up?”
Harry frowned. “I don’t think so. Her door was closed.”
He knew that much because he had closed Ginny’s door behind him when he had left her room that morning, but he wasn’t about to tell Arthur that. He did wonder, at times, exactly what Mr. Weasley knew or suspected about his relationship with Ginny.
Both Molly and Arthur approved of Ginny dating Harry. Molly did watch them a bit more closely than she had in the past, but they were also both still children in Molly’s mind, and Harry felt certain she did not know that Harry and Ginny frequently slept in the same bed. With Arthur, Harry had no idea what the older man did or didn’t know. He knew Arthur to be a thoughtful observer who was not easily fooled.
“It may be a late start for everyone this morning,” Mr. Weasley said, his expression unreadable. “Are you off to the Ministry this morning?”
“I am, but not for a few more hours. My meeting with Kingsley is at ten, and then I’ll meet Ginny at the Leaky Cauldron for lunch at one, and then we’ll both go to Andromeda’s to see Teddy.”
“Do you have an answer for Kingsley?”
“I do. I am joining the Aurors.”
“Ah,” Arthur said, and Harry could not tell if the older man approved or disapproved of his decision.
Harry had known what he wanted to do as soon as Kingsley had issued the invitation, but he had known the decision was no longer his alone to make. Ginny had been very supportive of the idea, and he almost wished she had been otherwise, even though she didn’t like the idea of a year’s separation any more than he did.
“They’ll need you to help rebuild the Ministry,” she’d said. “Otherwise, they’ll muck it up like they always do.”
While Harry had wanted to be an Auror since he was fourteen, he was reluctant to sign the paperwork. That would mean he could no longer spend lazy evenings in the common room with Ginny, or play their favorite game of seeing how long they could snog in a private corner of the library before Madam Pince caught them, or watch Ginny’s long red hair whip behind her in Quidditch practice.
His boyhood would be officially over.
Of course, it had ended long ago, perhaps when Dumbledore had fallen off the tower. Things like sitting in Charms class, or making curfew, or dodging Peeves seemed childish now, like things from someone else’s life. He would be restless in Gryffindor tower, longing to be out, catching Death Eaters.
He would miss Ginny terribly though. They had rationalized this in their talks. He would need to put his full focus on his training this year, and she would need to be without distractions in her last year. She was taking all of the classes needed to become a healer, but Harry knew that was her back up choice. Ginny was hoping to become a professional Quidditch player, preferably for the Holyhead Harpies.
Harry knew it would benefit Ginny if he was no longer at Hogwarts, as that would leave her to be captain of the Gryffindor team, which she would need to be to catch the eye of Gwenog Jones of the Holyhead Harpies. To Harry’s amusement, Ginny had decided she would attend all of the Slug Club parties this year, as she had missed the one Gwenog had attended in her fifth year.
“Kingsley will be pleased,” Arthur remarked.
“I think so,” Harry said. “I’ll have to be careful though. He’ll never hear the end of it if an Auror trainee without any N.E.W.T.s mucks things up.”
“Harry, you will be an excellent Auror. No one doubts that.”
“Thank you.”
He wished he was as confident. His lack of N.E.W.T.s did worry him. He would have them eventually. To make certain there would no gaps in necessary knowledge, he, Ron, and other Auror trainees who had not completed Hogwarts would have additional studies on top of their Auror coursework, and in June of the next year, they would take their N.E.W.T. examinations at Hogwarts along with the seventh years. The shame would be unbearable if he did not pass.
Mr. Weasley poured himself a strong cup of tea and loaded his plate with toast, eggs, and bacon. After putting a warming charm on the rest of the breakfast, Harry joined him with his own plate and tea. They talked of the Ministry and of Teddy Lupin until Arthur had to leave.
Once he was alone again, Harry’s pensive mood returned. He washed the dishes by hand, once again feeling that the Muggle chore was an offering or maybe an act of penance.
For the first time in his life, Harry James Potter had everything he wanted. He never had to return to Privet Drive. He had the most loyal friends a man could ask for. He loved a beautiful woman and was loved in return. He had been offered his dream job, even though he technically wasn’t qualified for it. He had a house in London, even if it did look as though it had been decorated by a gothic novelist. He even had a family, for it became apparent in the days after the battle that he wasn’t merely a regular guest at the Burrow; he was now considered one of them.
He even had Teddy. It had never occurred to Harry to want to have a child in his life, but he had loved Remus and Tonks’ baby from the moment he first held him.
It just didn’t feel right that he got everything he ever wanted, practically overnight, while George would never get to share another birthday with his best friend. Or that Harry could be possibly be present for Teddy’s first steps while Tonks and Remus would not. Harry knew it wasn’t his place to decide who deserved what fate, but he felt guilty when he enjoyed his life and he also felt guilty when he wasn’t enjoying his life when so many people had died so he could do just that.
A tawny owl swooped through an open window, and Harry’s stomach churned with unease. The tawny was not a Weasley owl, it wasn’t Neville’s barn owl, nor was it the Scops owl that always brought their mail after the Ministry screened it.
Due to all the Death Eaters on the loose, all of Harry’s mail was being searched for security. Kingsley himself had taken time out of running the wizarding world to place protective charms on the Burrow to ensure no unauthorized owls could fly through the wards. After Kingsley was done, Bill had checked the Minister’s work. There was no reason this tawny should have been able to fly through the kitchen window, drop parchment on the counter, and casually fly back out again.
He remembered Ginny’s insistence that an owl was spying on them a few nights before. Was this the bird she had seen? He had not thought much of her suspicion at the time. She had woken from a nightmare, and Harry figured it had left on her edge, seeing threats that were not there. But Ginny wasn’t one to frighten easily, and she was one of the most perceptive people Harry knew.
He approached the parchment with his wand out. At eleven or twelve, he would have simply snatched it up, but seven years in the wizarding world had taught him that the most dangerous items were often the most innocent looking. He waved his wand over it, murmuring some incantations for detecting dark magic that he had learned from Hermione during their year on the run.
Nothing.
He hesitated another moment and then untied the string wrapped around the parchment, smoothing out the letter.
Dear Harry,
I know you are back with her. Some part of me isn’t even surprised. I wanted to believe you when you said you were over her and in love with me, but I think I always knew.
I am surprised that you don’t feel any responsibility after what happened, that you could just walk away from us. Is this is the behavior the wizarding world expects of its “hero”?
You can’t hide it forever. You know I definitely can’t.
There was a scrawled initial that could have been a B, an R, a P, or an F. The writer had clearly flunked penmanship in primary school.
As far as jokes went, it was a weird one. Not only was it not funny, it didn’t make any sense. The only girl that Harry had ever been romantically linked with aside from Ginny had been Cho Chang. But Cho had been before Ginny, not after. Harry knew Cho’s tidy, feminine script from their D.A. days, and this large slanted scrawl was not it.
And why would anyone work out how to get an owl through ridiculously complicated magic just to send him a nonsensical message? Where was the pay off?
“Mmm, breakfast.” Ginny was in the kitchen, still dressed in her short nightgown. “This looks amazing, Harry.” She filled up her plate, then gestured at the parchment that Harry hadn’t realized he was crumpling in his right hand.
“So, what’s that?”
Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Lost and Found
Author's Notes: Well, this certainly took a while. My apologies for the delay, and thank you to everyone who is still reading, even with the month+ break. This was meant to be a short chapter. It still is, I suppose. Just longer than the previous six, and much longer than my original intent. I was going to tie up some loose ends here and drop a clue there, and then, Draco Malfoy happened and he kept demanding the spotlight for just a little longer. As he tends to do.
Chapter 7: Lost and Found
June 20, 1998
The Ministry of Magic
The Ministry of Magic ballroom was now a crime scene, and Draco Malfoy had no idea what happened to his date. The former should have been more unsettling than the latter, but Draco had lived at Malfoy Manor for part of the Death Eater occupation. He had witnessed both tortures and murders, and in comparison, the murder of Romilda Vane was almost gentle. Whoever did it had wanted her out of the way quickly, as it happened too quickly for anyone to produce a bezoar or an antidote, but they did not seem to have interest in making her suffer either.
Draco’s first thought had been, ‘What poor bastard did that, just as we were all given a chance to live normal lives again?’ He supposed it wasn’t normal that his first instinct was sympathy for the murderer, but he could hardly expect to make it out of Death Eater ranks unscathed. The justice system may have been kind to him, but he was still warped from his wartime experiences, and he knew he wasn’t so different from whoever killed Romilda Vane. He too could have been a murderer. And if not saving people at Malfoy Manor made one a murderer, then he supposed he already was.
He wondered what Astoria would think if she knew he had once plotted to kill Professor Dumbledore. She came from a Slytherin family, and undoubtedly knew a thing or two about self preservation, but she struck him as someone who would have liked the headmaster. Astoria, being a little quirky herself, might have found his eccentricities to be endearing. As a Ravenclaw, she would have admired his sharp mind. Draco sensed that Astoria was a person who felt deeply and understood many things, but she would not understand the necessity of a murder. It would be foreign to her.
Draco’s entire sixth year had been dominated by thoughts of murder. It hadn’t seemed so complicated when the Dark Lord had initially given him the mission. He had been grateful at the time, even though he knew it was a deadly test and he hadn’t been naive enough to believe Voldemort wanted him to succeed. However, it had been an opportunity to prove himself, to bring honor back to his family. Dumbledore was there, then he would no longer be. Simple. Nothing more than a move back to the natural order of things. Those things always came at a cost.
The first few weeks were strangely empowering. He had walked the corridors of the castle, drunk on his little secret. The headmaster was going to die, and no one knew about it except for him. The other students were just going to class, getting into fights in the common room, all stuck in the ordinariness of their lives, while Draco was part of something bigger. The entire world was full of possibilities. And ever since he “accidentally” let his Dark Mark show in the compartment of the Hogwarts Express, his fellow Slytherins had treated him like a dangerous man. Even Blaise, who was normally coldly courteous towards Draco, had seemed impressed. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that he might fail.
Draco had watched Dumbledore for a full school year. His father had always impressed upon him the importance of knowing one’s enemy. Spying on Potter had always proved useful in the past. But watching Dumbledore was a mistake, as Draco became aware of the impossibility of knowing your enemy and still killing him. Death and causing death was not terribly disturbing as an abstract notion. Even killing someone you knew was not that disturbing as an abstract notion.
And up until sixth year, Dumbledore had been more of an idea than a person to Draco. He had been an old man, swooping around, saying witty yet peculiar things and playing favorites. He did things like let Slytherin believe they won the House Cup after a year of hard work, only to give it to Gryffindor on what seemed like a whim. To Draco, he had been like a hideous antique prominently displayed in the family china cabinet–revolting but too much of a crowd pleaser to be disposed of.
But when you watch someone closely enough, you become as aware of them as you are of yourself. As Draco observed Dumbledore and his mysterious comings and goings, he became obsessed with the inner workings of Albus Dumbledore’s mind. What did the headmaster do in that tower office that Draco had never set foot in? Did he think of lofty magical theories all day, or did he dream of lunch like everyone else? Was he planning intricate strategies for the Order of the Phoenix? Or was he merely micromanaging Draco’s professors, telling Snape to work on his people skills or urging Sprout to wash the dirt off her forehead?
Whatever he did all day, Dumbledore was fighting a war, same as Draco was, no matter how calm he might seem, walking throughout the castle in his violet robes. He had seen Voldemort giving his orders with threats behind every request. Dumbledore, he was sure, was quite different, but he suspected he shared the Dark Lord’s preference for keeping the big picture to himself and only letting his followers know bits and pieces.
Draco had obsessed over Dumbledore’s blackened hand. Had he failed to block a hex? Or had he mistakenly handled a cursed object? Most importantly, did it mean he was in decline, which would be good for Draco, or did indicate he was fearless, which was not good for Draco? He thought of that hand so often, he sometimes thought his own hand was black when it hovered on the edge of his vision. He began imagining a loss of feeling in his right hand. He would be writing his Charms essay, and all of a sudden, it would be like his writing hand no longer obeyed him as it normally did. It was the beginning of Draco’s sense that he and Dumbledore were becoming joined, like the headmaster was a Siamese twin that Draco had to destroy.
He began to sense him, his comings and goings. When the headmaster left the castle, sometimes for days at a time, Draco could feel it. It either felt like loneliness or relief, he could never decide which. When Dumbledore returned, Draco felt it before he saw him. Even when Draco was in the Room of Requirement, far removed from all the hustle of castle, he could sense the change in the air. When he would pass the old wizard in the corridors, he had to fight the urge to nod at him, reminding himself Dumbledore didn’t know their fates were linked.
He knew so many things about the man, random things, as if the headmaster was the subject of one of his school reports. Dumbledore had been published in Transfiguration Today 142 times, more than any other modern wizard. He owned four pairs of high heeled boots, one pair–his favorite, Draco suspected–he only wore on Fridays. He had an impressive sweet tooth for a thin man and could put away more pudding than even Hagrid. He didn’t like to be away from Hogwarts for more than three days at a time, but rarely remained in the castle for more than four successive days.
Time moved both too slowly and too quickly that year. Before he knew it, Draco was in the tallest tower facing Dumbledore, with the headmaster’s wand in his hand. The conditions were perfect yet impossible. He was surprised at Dumbledore’s response. The headmaster knew all about his task and he regarded Draco with compassion rather than judgment. And, unless Draco was very much mistaken, Dumbledore felt the connection between them as well, the linking of their lives. They both knew he couldn’t murder Dumbledore–it would be killing himself too–even as his fellow Death Eaters closed in on the tower.
Then Snape was there. He did it so easily, so quickly as if he did not understand the weight of a life.
Draco wondered about Romilda’s murderer. And he didn’t doubt there was a murderer. After the war, Draco no longer believed in accidents. Had he felt connected to Romilda? Did he feel the loss of her life? How had he been able to go through with it? Why had he done it in the first place?
Draco didn’t know Romilda personally. She was in another house and younger than him. They would have passed each other in the corridors and on Hogsmeade trips, but he had never had to talk to her in class or pass the carrots to her at dinner or ask her if she was saving those chairs in the common room. But it was impossible not to know who she was given the events of last year. Even before her assault, talk had been buzzing about her, as it did whenever a girl developed over the summer holidays. The boys of Hogwarts hadn’t been so excited since Fleur Delacour.
Had it been one of the boys who had assaulted her? Draco thought he had a pretty decent guess who the perpetrators were. It was difficult not to, given the appearance of Romilda’s knickers, a lacy trophy of war, in the Slytherin seventh year boys’ bathroom the morning after. But all of them were dead, or being questioned by the Ministry, or keeping an extremely low profile. He certainly didn’t see any of them here tonight. If not them, then who?
He noticed something pale out of the corner of his eye. On the table next to him was the parchment that he and Astoria had played hangman on, but now it was covered with a sketch. He picked it up, his grey eyes widening as he recognized the subject as Romilda Vane. When Romilda had collapsed, Draco had completely forgotten his date’s peculiar behavior in the chaos. She had wanted to talk to Romilda and urgently.
Had she known what was going to happen?
Draco noticed a beautiful young woman standing very close to him, close enough to look over his shoulder. Had she seen the sketch? He folded it up and placed it in the pocket of his dress robes. While it made him uneasy, he certainly didn’t want anyone else seeing it.
Ministry officials began herding all of the guests into the Atrium so the Aurors could conduct their investigation. He permitted himself to be herded without comment. He was still uncertain of Astoria’s whereabouts, although he did spot his mother, but his date would be guided into the Atrium as well.
“We should have listened to your father and stayed home,” Narcissa said when they caught up with each other in the Atrium.
“I doubt Father sensed anything like this would happen,” Draco drawled. “Terrible luck.”
“It’s worse than bad luck. They’ll go straight for the purebloods.” Narcissa sniffed.
Draco shifted uneasily, as he thought of what was in his pocket. He had no intention of sharing it with his mother. She’d probably point the Aurors in Astoria’s direction just to make sure they didn’t go after the Malfoys. And whatever happened with his date, Draco knew Astoria had not killed Romilda.
He was mostly sure of it anyway.
The fact was he knew nothing about Astoria or the Greengrass family. He had been at Hogwarts with Daphne Greengrass, of course, sharing classes and the Slytherin common room with her, but Daphne had always kept a distance from him. She had been friends with Pansy, Tracey, and Nott. She was cordial with Millicent and occasionally tutored the burly girl in Transfiguration. He remembered her being friendly with Blaise the first few years, but they later grew apart. She had disliked him, Crabbe, and Goyle from the beginning and never made an attempt to disguise it.
The Greengrasses were one of the few pureblood families who had been notably absent from England last year. Nigel Greengrass had been in Slytherin like his eldest daughter, and he was friendly with all of the old families. He was a wealthy man, the owner of the oldest wine shop in Diagon Alley, passed from father to son for three centuries. His wife, Sophie, was French and an heiress to a wine fortune. Nigel was a philanthropist, a collector of rare art, and popular at parties.
But he was a mystery too. No one knew his political beliefs, which Draco knew Lucius had tried to puzzle out over the years. Dumbledore’s supporters whispered that he was a Death Eater, while Death Eaters whispered that he was a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. In all likelihood, Nigel was probably neither. He probably found politics to be bad for business.
Whatever Nigel was, his youngest daughter was her own person, and Draco did not think Astoria capable of murder. Some people said anyone was capable of murder under the right circumstances, but Draco wasn’t so sure.
He chatted with his mother for a while, both of them avoiding the topic of the body in the next room until he saw Astoria enter the Atrium with her sister. She looked pale and was nodding in response to whatever Daphne was saying. Their eyes met, and she gave him a small smile.
“Excuse me, Mother.”
He crossed the Atrium to join the sisters.
“Hello,” he said to Daphne, then turned toward Astoria. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you. It’s a shock. Romilda was in my year, and I thought this sort of thing was over. But I am fine.”
Her polite response seemed a bit rehearsed to him. “Were you friends?”
“I honestly don’t know if we ever spoke. We only had one class together. But she was a girl you couldn’t help but notice.”
“Yes, I think everyone knew of her.”
“Well, I should get back to Roger,” Daphne said. “Good evening, Draco. See you at home, Tori.”
“Good evening, Daphne.”
Astoria gave him a small smile, but her large brown eyes were watery. This girl had not killed anyone. He knew it suddenly and certainly, and he was glad he had taken the parchment before the Aurors could find it.
Draco had always thought that he preferred blue eyes in a woman. He had always liked the gleam in Pansy’s light blue eyes when she formed a new scheme. He noted the way his mother’s darker blue eyes sparkled when she laughed at something his father said, and he figured that grey-eyed Malfoy men were drawn to blue-eyed women. But here was this brown-eyed girl before him, a curious blend of mystery and innocence, and she couldn’t be more different from either of Draco’s ex-girlfriends.
He reached for her hand. “Let’s a walk a bit. Some movement will make you feel better.”
“I’m fine,” she said, but she followed him in walking the perimeter of the Atrium. “I didn’t really know her.”
“Neither did I, but no one here is likely to forget her. We don’t have to talk about Romilda. Tell me about your trip to Brighton with your cousins.”
They kept walking hand in hand, and Astoria’s voice grew stronger as they talked. They briefly stopped to speak to Astoria’s parents, who both seemed wary of Draco, by the unfinished statue and then they continued their circular stroll. When they grew weary, they sat in silence in the chairs that had been conjured.
At a quarter to eleven, the Minister left the ballroom where he had been consulting with the Aurors. He announced that to give Mr. and Mrs. Vane some privacy in this difficult time, the Ministry would be vacated. Before leaving, each person was to sign out so the Aurors would have a complete list of everyone in attendance. The Order of Merlin ceremony would be rescheduled for late summer, and the press conference was to be cancelled. He led them in a moment of silence for Romilda before releasing them.
“Ready to go?” Draco asked Astoria once the moment of silence was over.
“Merlin, yes. I’m surprised they are letting us leave, honestly.”
“So am I. I would have thought everyone would be questioned by the Aurors.”
“Unless they believe the murderer has already left.”
“What do you think?” he asked, remembering her sketch.
She shrugged. “What do I know?”
After signing out, they used the Ministry fireplaces to Floo to the Greengrass townhouse in London, as Astoria was not old enough to Apparate and he did not think Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass would approve of an eighteen-year-old side-apparating their daughter. It did not appear that Daphne or Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass had returned yet.
While the Greengrasses were one of the wealthier wizarding families, they had a very different sort of wealth than the Malfoys. The Malfoys, along with the Macmillan, Nott, and Bones families, were one of the rare magical families that still had vast ancestral estates. The Lestranges had also been landed gentry until their first imprisonment in Azkaban. The Goyles had been selling off family heirlooms for more than a century, and Draco heard they were selling Goyle Hall to pay for legal expenses. The Greengrasses were more typical of wizarding wealth. Their primary residence was their London townhouse, which was large and expensively furnished, and Draco knew there was also another Greengrass property, a cottage somewhere in the Lake District.
Draco had only seen the townhouse briefly when he had picked Astoria up, but he had immediately liked it. The Greengrass family certainly enjoyed luxury. There were huge paintings everywhere, but it was modern art, not the historical pieces and portraits common to Malfoy Manor. He had noted stacks of books everywhere–on the table in the entryway, strewn across sofas, even one book left open on the dining room table as if someone had just wandered off mid-chapter. A large bar cart was a prominent feature in the parlor, which Draco supposed was appropriate for a family that made their living by selling wine. There were large vases of flowers everywhere, exotic blooms rather than the white roses in Draco’s home.
“Would you like a drink?” Astoria asked him, surveying the bar cart. “We have port, brandy, firewhiskey, various cordials?”
“Are you allowed to drink that?” Draco asked. At sixteen, he had been permitted a glass of wine or two at nice dinners, but nothing harder. He had seen Astoria drink three glasses of wine at the Ministry, the last of which had been consumed while talking to her mother. She appeared perfectly sober, but given her small size, it was only a matter of time. Pansy Parkinson was at least two inches taller than her, and she generally became unsteady on her feet at around drink three.
Astoria laughed. “My mother grew up in a vineyard, and my father has been training both me and Daphne in the family business since we were small. My parents are strict, but not about alcohol. Oh! I know!” She held up a bottle of red wine. “Not a nightcap, I know, but it’s from my family’s estate. It’s the wine I associate with my grandfather’s–now my aunt’s–house.”
Gone was the forced cheerfulness he had noted in the Atrium. The blond girl seemed genuinely at ease and in good spirits. He wasn’t sure what to make of the change other than that they had escaped the grim atmosphere of the Ministry.
“What region is the vineyard?”
“Burgundy.”
“So your mother’s family is from the Burgundy region. Where is Beauxbatons?”
“It is just outside of Angers. That’s in the Loire Valley. Loire wines are crisp and light. Burgundies are more complex and emotional.”
“Is that true of the people as well as the wine?”
“I think all of the French classify as complex and emotional. At least they do in my family.”
“If there was a wine similar in personality to my family, it would definitely be an acquired taste,” Draco said.
Astoria laughed and handed him a glass with a generous pour. “You seem to enjoy your parents’ company, though.”
“I do,” Draco admitted. He sipped at the wine, which was both fruity and earthy at once. “Do you like your parents? If you turned out like them, would you pleased or disappointed?”
“Pleased, I suppose. My parents are good people. They aren’t the heroic types, likely to earn an Order of Merlin, which is all anyone cares about these days. But they are kind and generous, and Daphne and I have always been loved.”
“Your family also makes good wine.”
“Thank you. The soil is good on the vineyard. Good earth makes all the difference. And you? Would you be disappointed if you turned out like your parents?”
“I am already like them.”
“Are you? You strike me as being quite different, particularly from your father.”
That was something no one had ever said to him. From the youngest age, everyone had always told him how like Lucius he was. You look like your father. You laugh just like your father. You fly like your father. You argue just like your father. When he was a child, his parents’ friends would refer to him as “Little Lucius” when they dropped by the house. He was fairly certain that none of them realized he had a name of his own until he was at least thirteen.
The funny thing was he had liked it. In the pause between the Dark Lord’s two reigns, Lucius had been the unofficial leader of the purebloods. His wealth had been the greatest, his influence the strongest, and his charm undeniable. Draco had wanted to be like his father until he no longer did. He didn’t love his father any less, but he loved him differently.
If Astoria didn’t see Lucius in him, what did she see? She was attracted to him; he had sensed that the first day she had shown up at Malfoy Manor with her paints and canvas. He also sensed she was unsettled by this, which likely meant she had not had many boyfriends. But did she like him as a person? If yes, what did she like?
He knew there were girls who liked his bad reputation. They had lined up outside his courtroom during his trail, looking him over with interest and giving him a wink. And most of them not been daughters of Death Eaters or sympathizers–those girls thought him a traitor–they were just girls from all families, classes, and Hogwarts houses. He found them to be ghoulish. Astoria wasn’t one of those, he felt certain.
“I think I am most like my father.”
“Physically, yes. But you seem more like your mother in personality.”
Draco pondered that for a moment. Narcissa was shrewd, practical and utterly unsentimental, and fiercely protective of her family. She also lacked her husband’s cruelty. Lucius would have killed Dumbledore, or at least attempted it. Narcissa wouldn’t have. He would not mind being like his mother.
“Astoria?” called a feminine voice from the front hallway.
“In the parlor, Mum.”
“Did you have a nice . . . Oh! Draco!”
Mrs. Greengrass did not look happy to see him. He wondered if she and Hermione Granger practiced that expression of disapproval together. Perhaps they had a standing lunch date every Wednesday.
“Hello, Mrs. Greengrass. I did not realize it was getting so late. I’ll say goodnight.”
She gave him a sharp look and then nodded. “Astoria, I will see you upstairs.”
When they heard her footsteps move in the direction of the stairs, she gave him an apologetic look. “I am sorry. She can be a bit overprotective.”
“She was fine.” Perhaps not fine, but most mothers would have been worse.
Astoria rolled her eyes. “Daphne isn’t even home yet.”
Given the reputation of Daphne’s date, Roger Davies, Draco would be very surprised if Daphne made it home to mummy and daddy tonight.
“Perhaps your mum just likes you best,” Draco said as he got up.
“Well, I am a fun girl,” Astoria said, also rising from her chair. “I had a good time tonight. Not the murder aspect of the evening, but I enjoyed spending time with you outside the Malfoy library and away from paint fumes.”
Draco laughed. “You love my library.”
“I do. One day, you’ll wake up and find all of the books have been stolen. They’ll all be in my bedroom. I’ll no longer be able to locate my bed, but it’ll be all right as I’ll have too many books to bother with sleep.”
“You officially have more ambition than me,” Draco said.
His shy girl had definitely become more talkative over the last few weeks. He imagined her in her cave of stolen books, and he imagined moving in there with her and living in their literary refuge together.
“More ambition than a Slytherin? No wonder the Sorting Hat tried to put me there.”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Too bad it didn’t. I had a great time tonight, Astoria.”
He shouldn’t kiss her. She was too young, too sweet, too virginal. All things he wasn’t. She would even be better off with a bloody D.A. member than with him. Of course, she didn’t seem terribly impressed with their heroics, but still, he was too tainted to date a sixth year who had not even seen the war.
He kissed her.
He meant for it to be a sweet, innocent kiss but once Astoria opened her mouth and pressed her body to his, his willpower disappeared. They snogged until they heard footsteps on the stairs and they sprang apart. Her cheeks were as flushed as on the day they first met.
“Er, I’ll walk you to the door. Were you Apparating home?”
“Yes.”
In the front hall, Draco remembered what he had in his pocket. He waited until Nigel Greengrass, who had just come down the stairs, went into his study before he pulled it out.
“Er, I wanted to make sure you got this back.”
Confusion was the first emotion he saw on her face. It was quickly followed by realization, and then horror.
“Draco, I . . .er, that is . . .”
“It’s okay. I didn’t show it to anyone, and I am not going to tell anyone.”
“I had nothing to do with . . .”
“I know. Really, I believe you. I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just thought you should have it back.”
They stared at each other.
“Well, good night, Astoria.”
He walked out the door, and on the top step, he Apparated away.
Chapter 8: Chapter 8: The Artist
Author's Notes: This chapter is the last in what I consider to be part 1 of this fic. You’ve stuck with me through all of the introductory stuff, and in chapter 9, we’ll get into the murder investigation.
Chapter 8: The Artist
June 8, 1998
Malfoy Manor
Narcissa Malfoy had arranged for Astoria to Floo directly into Malfoy Manor. She supposed that was considerate of Mrs. Malfoy, but Astoria would have preferred to have one of her parents Side-Apparate her to the Malfoy’s front door. That way she wouldn’t have arrived alone, and it seemed far less intrusive to show up on the doorstep as opposed to materializing directly in someone’s house.
She arrived in the parlor and barely registered her surroundings when a voice drawled, “You must be the painteress.”
Astoria wasn’t sure why a perfectly gender neutral word like “painter” needed feminizing. She was always annoyed when people--almost always purebloods--said things like “poetess” or “authoress.” It was like men were true painters, poets, and authors, and women merely dabbled in artistic endeavors between needlework projects and charity luncheons.
“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” she said to the blond man who had risen from a leather chair in the corner. “ Yes, I am Astoria Greengrass, the portraitist.”
Try feminizing that. Portraitistess. Pretty portraitistesses paint pictures portraying princesses pouring pitchers of punch.
He looked her over, taking a bit more time to do so than could be considered polite. She felt certain that even a Malfoy wouldn’t find fault with her lavender robes. Her clothing was ladylike without being too formal, flattering to her figure yet modest. It was the sort of thing she would wear to a summer brunch at her grandmother’s house when she’d be under the sharp eyes of several older ladies. She had counted on the Malfoy family being well dressed even while lounging about their over large house.
True to expectation, Lucius’s attire would be appropriate for a meeting with the Minister, even though Astoria knew he was not permitted to leave his house. She had recognized the elder Malfoy from his photos in The Daily Prophet, both before and after the fall of the house of Malfoy, but even if he had not been so well known, there would have been no doubt who he was given how strongly Draco resembled his father. Lucius’s long blond hair was pulled back, which she suspected was due to a need to disguise some thinning.
“I am Lucius Malfoy.” He took a pocket watch out of an embroidered waistcoat. “You’re right on time. My son should be downstairs any moment. I understand you have done portraits in the past.”
“A few.”
She knew Mr. Malfoy was familiar with her work, both its style and scope. After her school term had ended at Beauxbatons last week, the entire Greengrass family had returned to England. In the post that had piled up in their absence, they had found a request from the Malfoys to view Astoria’s artwork with the possibility of offering her a commission. Her mother had met with both Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, bringing along a portfolio of her work, and Astoria knew that they knew perfectly well that she had done dozens of portraits on commission.
“Excellent, excellent.”
He was like the gatekeeper to hell. Astoria began to wonder where the rest of the family was. While she found Narcissa Malfoy to be intimidating, she at least would be cordial. As for Draco, she didn’t know what to expect. She knew Daphne thought him to be all swagger and no substance, but Astoria had never said a word to him at Hogwarts. Still, she would much rather deal with him than with his father who gave off a distinctly slimy vibe.
It wasn’t a pervy vibe, mercifully enough. It was something sadder. He was seeking to intimidate her by making her out to be some youthful hobbyist who liked to play with her paints. He had been brought so low that it would take making a sixteen-year-old cower to make him feel big again. And although she was aware of what he was doing, she was annoyed that it was working. If he kept blatantly studying her, she felt like she might start rambling in typical Nervous Astoria fashion. Which was never good.
“Ah, Astoria,” Narcissa strolled into the room. “I did not realize you had arrived. Welcome to Malfoy Manor.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. Your home is lovely. It will undoubtedly make a lovely backdrop for Draco’s portrait.”
It was a beautiful house, or at least, the room she currently occupied was lovely with its tall ceilings and large windows and delicate, antique furniture.
“Thank you. Draco will be on his way shortly. Have you met my son?”
“We have never been introduced, but I know of him, of course.”
“Well, you certainly resemble your sister,” came a new voice from the doorway.
Draco had appeared and was lounging against the doorframe. Like his father, he looked her over, but his gaze was merely curious. He was more attractive in person. From a distance, Draco was all angles, with a pointed chin and nose to match his sharp words. Up close, his eyes were soft and grey, and his hair looked silky and touchable. He was tall like his father, at least six feet tall, and Astoria felt shorter than normal. His all-black attire was simple but clearly expensive, making his silver-blond hair look even lighter in contrast.
“Daphne and I both take after our mother in looks,” Astoria explained.
“Sophie is a lovely woman,” Astoria said. “I have always found her to be very kind and gracious. Draco, this is Astoria Greengrass. She is a very talented young lady. Astoria, this my only child, Draco.”
That was an odd way of putting it. Like Astoria had to be careful with him because there were no spares about.
“Pleased to meet you,” Astoria said.
“Likewise,” Draco said.
After an awkward pause, Astoria spoke up, “Could you tell me a bit more about what you want in the portrait? Will this be an indoor or outdoor scene? Will it be formal or more candid?”
She had addressed this to the room at large, not knowing who had set the expectations. She found Draco looked to his mother for an answer.
“Astoria dear, you will have some license with that. Draco can give you a tour of the house, and you can see the Malfoy family portraits throughout the centuries. They are all of them very formal. However, we are not certain that is what we want in Draco’s portrait. We are interested to know what your vision is.”
Astoria wasn’t too crazy about the sound of that. The elder Malfoys were easy. If she were to paint Lucius, he would be in a high-backed chair, a dissatisfied prince in his throne. Narcissa would be a lady in a garden. Draco eluded her, perhaps because he seemed quite different than she had expected. Less arrogant, more uncertain. But he seemed to be a person in transition, caught in limbo, which is exactly the sort of thing the Malfoys wouldn’t want her to capture on canvas.
“Well, I can certainly generate some ideas. The best portraits are generally painted somewhere or with something that is meaningful to the subject. Like under a favorite tree.” She paused a moment, realizing the Malfoys were not the type of people to have a favorite tree or understand why anyone would ever be fond of plant life. She searched for an example they might be better able to relate to. “Or in a favorite chair or room. When a person is at ease, you can see it in the portrait.”
“Draco, why don’t you show Astoria the house and the grounds and perhaps you’ll have some ideas by the time you return.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Astoria wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to be alone with him, and she nervously followed Draco out of the room, undoubtedly the Malfoy’s third semi-formal parlor or the summer morning room or some such nonsense. She searched for something to say, but “Having a nice summer?” didn’t seem appropriate given that Draco had spent most of the previous month in trials at the Ministry.
“Daphne wasn’t at school this past year. Were you?” he asked when they were alone in the long corridor.
“No, we were both at Beauxbatons,” she said. “My grandfather--my mum’s family is French--was ill. It was pretty sudden, and he needed a lot of help, especially as his finances weren’t in order. My parents spent the year at the family vineyard, first helping my grandfather and then my aunt after he passed away.”
The explanation was becoming routine. Everyone she had seen in the last week had been extremely curious as to where the Greengrasses had been for the last year.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” he said. “Was it difficult going to school in another country? My parents considered sending me to a different school when I was eleven, but it would have been odd to have lessons in another language.”
“Yes and no. I was raised bilingual. In the Paris shops, people don’t realize I’m English and sometimes they complain to me about the stupid stuff English tourists do. Academics are a bit different though. Charms and Transfiguration are easy enough, so much of it is in Latin. But I lacked a lot of language for gardening tools and protective clothing in Herbology in the beginning. History of Magic was the worst. I had to use so many translation spells on my notes. Let’s just say my family doesn’t speak enough of wars, weaponry, and treaties over the dinner table.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry your meal time conversations are so dull. Want to start with the grounds?”
Malfoy Manor was like something out of a storybook. The grounds were green and sprawling. There were woods, a lake, and a lakehouse. One of the greenhouses was dedicated solely to exotic flowers. A tall maze was set behind the house. Astoria had never seen an English maze aside from the one that grown at Hogwarts during the Tri-Wizard Tournament her second year, and she found herself longing to wander its cool shadowy tunnels. Peacocks strutted about, which seemed appropriate as peacocks were nothing if not the Malfoys of the bird world. It was so peaceful that one would think the war had never happened and that the dark side had certainly never had headquarters here.
The house was a thing of beauty. Marble floors, giant colorful rugs, crystal chandeliers, elaborate carved fireplaces in every room, paintings bigger than her bedroom walls. The Malfoys had the best private library she had ever seen, complete with ladders to help you reach books on the taller shelves. She hoped the Malfoys were readers. If not, such a beautiful room was wasted on them. If she had not been with Draco, Astoria would have given into the urge to go into the center of one of the larger rooms of the Manor and just twirl.
“How many ghosts do you have?” she asked.
“Five,” he said. “No, six. The sixth one is pretty shy. I’ve only seen her twice, and I think I surprised her both times.”
“And they all stay in the north wing?”
“I suppose they do. Wait, how did you know that?”
“You know, just the feeling you have when there are ghosts about.” He was staring at her, and she felt her cheeks redden. “You don’t feel ghosts?”
She had always assumed all magical people could sense when there were ghosts in a building. She knew Daphne could. The sisters had always referred to the feeling as “ghostbumps” rather than “goosebumps.”
“Yes, when they are a few feet away. The north wing is the original house, so most of the ghosts would have lived there. The east wing is a bit later; it’s Elizabethan. Then the west wing is pretty modern. I think it was only built in the 1790s.”
Clearly, the Malfoy definition of “modern” was more liberal than most.
What surprised Astoria most about Malfoy Manor was the lack of dark objects. When Daphne would visit one of her Slytherin friends over the summers, she would report back on her creepiest findings when she returned home. Astoria knew there were skulls in Millicent Bulstrode’s home. Pansy Parkinson’s had bloody and violent artwork on every wall. Blaise Zabini’s posh townhouse had a gruesome potions lab, where Daph insisted she had seen human body parts in jars. Tracey Davis had what Daphne called a “dementor’s parlor” where she felt uneasy the moment she stepped over the threshold. Theodore Nott had a full torture chamber in his cellar, which he cheerfully described as being “in regular use all the way through the eighteenth century.”
The darkest thing in Draco’s home was the stares of some of his ancestors from their portraits, a few of whom had inquired about her blood status. She supposed there were some dark objects hidden, but given that there were two Aurors in residence, one of which they had passed in a corridor, they could hardly keep them in the parlor. Even before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s second rise, the Malfoys had done a lot of entertaining and they would have had to be careful when permitting Ministry officials into their home.
Conversation with Draco was less awkward than she had anticipated. She realized she had expected him to be dismissive of her. Draco Malfoy was one of those people who seemed to smell people’s weaknesses, both social and physical. She had heard him mock Harry Potter for his injuries and multiple hospital stays, and the hospital wing was pretty much Astoria’s second home at Hogwarts. Well, third. The library was her second Hogwarts home. But he didn’t seem to be seeking out reasons to be disdainful of her. If anything he seemed lonely, and she noted that he always used the past tense when he spoke of his friends. He made occasional snide remarks, but none of them were directed at her, and she suspected that was just his sense of humor.
They spoke of the teachers at Hogwarts. They talked of Paris when Draco said that he had visited the city with his parents at the ages of 10 and 13, and she told him a little of France’s wine country. When Astoria mentioned his lake house reminded her of a favorite scene in a novel, she found out Draco was a reader after all, and they even had some favorite books in common.
Even as Astoria was completely charmed by Malfoy Manor, she couldn’t help but worry about the portrait. There were a few times when she thought she had it. When Draco had been looking over the lake with a look of distinct pride on his face. A moment at the bottom of the curved stairway, when he had looked up as if he were seeing his home for the first time. When he had laughed at something in a gazebo. But none of these were just right. They were good moments, but they didn’t define Draco Malfoy, but she had no better idea of who Draco was than when she’d first arrived that morning.
They had completed their tour, finished their conversation about Graeme Weatherby, the adventurer and novelist who wrote the most celebrated works of modern wizarding literature, and were returning to the elder Malfoys in a semi-comfortable silence. Astoria was painfully aware that she didn’t have a single suggestion to offer Narcissa Malfoy. She didn’t even know what paint colors she wanted to use, which was typically the first thing she understood about a painting.
“What is your favorite place in the house?” she asked him.
A crease appeared in his forehead. “I don’t know. It’s a big house. I have a lot of favorite places. The potions lab; I spend hours in there. I spend most of my summers by the lake, and I ice skate there in winter. There is the terrace where I tried my first firewhisky, the spot on the lawn where my father taught me how to set off fireworks. I wouldn’t really know how to narrow it down.”
“All right, let’s pretend you’ve had a terrible day,” she said and noted that his lips twitched slightly at that. “So bad that you don’t even want to talk to anyone. Where do you go?”
“Follow me.”
Draco led her back to the library that had charmed her more than any other place in the manor. He went straight to the window seat that she had previously noted made a perfect reading nook. It had the perfect lakeside view of the grounds. He sat back in the window seat, one leg propped up on the seat with the knee bent, and the other leg dangling. His face was in profile as he looked over the grounds, and his expression was undeniably wistful.
It was then Astoria knew she had it: the essence of Draco Malfoy, stuck between a troubled past and uncertain future, a privileged young man who could be anything he wanted if only he could work out what that was.
Chapter 9: Chapter 9: The Report
Author's Notes: This is the beginning of Part II of this story. While Part I alternated between a May timeline and a June timeline, this will alternate between a June-July timeline, which will follow the investigation (mostly from Harry’s POV and occasionally Astoria’s) and a 1997-1998 school year timeline, which will cover Death Eater Hogwarts from Ginny’s and Draco’s POVs.
While writing this chapter, I Googled English pub closing times. Is it true that English pubs typically close at eleven unless they have a special license? What? Why so early? What do people do after eleven on weekends? I’m usually home by eleven on a Saturday, but I’m also nearly forty and starting to fall apart. When I Googled it, I was mostly trying to figure how late pub kitchens would serve food, I wasn’t expecting pubs to close early.
So my apologies to the pub staff of Ottery St. Catchpole. I needed to have George Confund you to have this chapter work.
Part 2
Chapter 9: The Report
June 20, 1998, 9:15 p.m.
Ministry of Magic
When it became apparent that Romilda Vane was dead, Harry Potter’s wild first thought was of a Muggle board game his cousin Dudley had once owned. Harry never had the opportunity to play Cluedo, but he had seen the three Dursleys play often enough to have an understanding of how the game worked. But instead of suspecting Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick, it could be Narcissa Malfoy in the ladies room with the poisoned hairbrush, or Cornelius Turpin at the bar with the untraceable potion, or Zacharias Smith in the doorway with a stolen wand.
He dismissed the thought as quickly as he had entertained it. As Harry was now an Auror trainee, this was officially his problem, and he knew he shouldn’t dwell on fictional scenarios when the murderer could very well still be in the ballroom. In fact, the killer would be almost certainly still around, as he or she would need to know if their plan worked, plus a hasty exit would only draw unnecessary attention.
He looked around the ballroom, even as he was aware of Ginny breathing in tiny gasps beside him. All of his early training was focused on the power of observation, of learning to know what to look for, but even so, Harry did not feel prepared for this. He found himself wishing that he was more like John Dawlish, whom everyone said had a photographic memory. Of course, Dawlish also had quite the CV of epic fuck ups over the last few years, and Harry did not want to follow in his footsteps in that regard, but a photographic memory would be nice. As Harry scanned the ballroom, he wished that he had given into his urge to a buy a Pensieve–a very expensive investment–at Diagon Alley the other day.
Most people wore expressions of shock and curiosity. There weren’t too many breaks in this pattern to arouse Harry’s curiosity. Previously dancing couples were frozen in place. He saw Draco’s pretty date standing alone and looking as though she might pass out. He noted a server who had started downing the champagne that she was meant to be serving. He focused on an old man who wore a look of extreme concentration. He noticed a beautiful young woman who seemed familiar, but whom he was unable to place.
His training also had some cautions regarding observation. While he was to note unusual behavior, he was also to be aware that some people respond to crime and other tragedies in unconventional manners, which could lead to innocent people being perceived as guilty or to victims not being believed when they did not seem traumatized enough.
He was also to be aware of the unreliability of memory itself. During a workshop on Harry’s and Ron’s first week, one of the few led by Gawain Robards himself, the Head Auror had handed each trainee an account of a crime, which they were ordered to study, before returning them and then coming together to compare stories to the best of their memory. Each trainee at some point confused the details of the accounts they had personally read with the details their colleagues had reported, proving that people tend to create a shared story in a group, even when it means dismissing that which they know to be true.
Adding additional uncertainty to uncertainty, Robards had warned them that people tend to remember the details which confirm their own experiences and forget the ones they cannot explain. He had asked if any of them had witnessed a Muggle either forget or rationalize an experience with magic. Harry and a couple others had raised a hand. Robards went to say that witches and wizards were as guilty of that as Muggles.
Harry was aware of all this as he watched Gawain Robards kneel by Romilda’s body, along with his wife, who Harry knew to be a healer at St. Mungo’s. Dawlish was also heading towards the body, as was Harry’s fellow trainee, Terry Boot. As Harry led Ginny back towards Hermione, he tried to comfort her and failed miserably. Feeling useless, Harry left with Ron and joined the investigation.
“Potter.” Gawain noticed him. “I’ll need you to record this.”
Harry summoned parchment, ink, and quill. As a very new trainee, he wouldn’t be expected to examine the body; he lacked the knowledge. But he was to observe and record.
As Gawain waved a wand over Romilda’s still body, he began speaking, “Female, aged sixteen, with no visible signs of trauma. Time of death is 9:13, but the body temperature is dropping rapidly. Too rapidly for natural causes to be cause of death. No odors are detected, but there is a substance coating her tongue. Sparkling wine mixed with something else. We’ll need to scrape her tongue and send a sample to the DMLE potions analysis team. There does not appear to be any food in the victim’s digestive system.”
Harry’s transcription charm ensured that nothing would be missed. With half his attention on the parchment and half elsewhere, Harry noted that Dawlish was doing privacy and silencing charms around the Auror team, which now included seven other qualified Aurors and the rest of the trainees including Ron. Three other Aurors were focusing on Mr. and Mrs. Vane, keeping them away from their daughter’s body, urging the couple into chairs that looked more decorative than practical. He had not heard a word from either parent and suspected they were in shock.
Ministry officials outside of the Auror office seemed to be directing people out of the ballroom, to give the Aurors and the Vanes privacy, but Harry suspected that no one would be allowed out of the Ministry itself. Ginny and Hermione, along with Molly and Arthur Weasley, were among those being directed into the Atrium.
“No traces of known curses are being detected nor do any dark objects seem to be on or near the victim.”
The last time Harry had been this close to Romilda Vane was well over a year ago when she had pressed love potion laced chocolates into his hand in the Gryffindor common room. He looked closely at the girl for the first time that evening. Someone had closed her eyes, and she had the expression of someone having an unpleasant dream.
She looked different than he remembered. At fourteen, she had been tall and gangly with the promise of future beauty. Her most notable attributes had been large, dark eyes, the sharp angles of her body, and her commanding personality. At sixteen, she had a disturbing beauty. She was still very slender, but her body had softened into a more willowy and womanly figure. She had also grown into her facial features. She had met and surpassed the beauty that had been promised in her younger self.
If this beauty had given him love potion chocolates, would he have eaten them? Most boys would. Was he any different?
“Oh!” Gawain’s wand paused over Romilda’s abdomen. He repeated the movement, as if wanting to confirm something. “That is interesting.”
11:25 p.m.
The Drunken Otter, Ottery St. Catchpole
A couple hours later, Harry and Ron were at Ottery St. Catchpole’s best pub, along with Ginny, Hermione, and George. Technically, the pub should have been closed given the late hour, but thanks to George’s Confundus Charm, they were not only open but still serving food. The group had settled into their favorite corner, and made their usual orders. Everyone had a pint of either ale or cider, Harry and Ginny split an order of fish and chips, George and Ron each had an order of shepherd’s pie, and Hermione ordered a salad and stole chips off of Harry’s and Ginny’s plate.
The more senior Aurors were still at the Ministry and would likely remain there until the early morning hours. They were running tests that were well beyond the trainee’s skill level, and although the trainees had wished to observe, Samuel Williamson had informed them they would only be in the way, slowing things down. When the trainees had protested, Williamson had flexed his overdeveloped muscles, which were visible even through his dress robes, but it wasn’t until Gawain Robards had come over and confirmed that they were no longer needed for the evening that they had reluctantly left.
While Harry wished he could be watching the fully qualified Aurors work, he couldn’t regret an opportunity to go to his favorite Muggle pub with his friends. He had never set foot in the Drunken Otter before this summer. The first few summers he had stayed with the Weasleys, he had been too young to go, and when he and Ron had reached an age where it was reasonable to go to a pub, Voldemort had returned and normal teenage outings were not an option. After spending his first year of adulthood in hiding, Harry loved the normalcy of being out with his favorite people for a pint, and he always felt a rush of affection seeing them around the table, even before he took the first sip of his drink.
“Any leads?” Hermione asked after Harry did a Muffliato charm.
None of them had changed since leaving the Ministry, but Hermione had transfigured their clothing to allow them to blend into a Muggle establishment. Harry, Ron, and George’s dress robes had been modified into smart Muggle suits, while Hermione and Ginny’s dress robes had been shortened until they became what Hermione called “cocktail dresses.”
“Not that the trainees have been told about,” Harry said. “An expert potions maker? Or purchaser? Romilda was poisoned.”
He wasn’t supposed to tell them that, of course, but he considered anyone with the surname Weasley and Granger to be beyond confidentiality agreements. And the Muffliato charm ensured that no other person, magical or Muggle, would be able to overhear them.
“That’s definite?” Ginny asked. She grabbed a chip from the platter she was sharing with Harry.
“It’s probable. No signs of curses or dark objects near her body. A substance was mixed with the sparkling wine she had been drinking.” As he spoke, Harry noted a curious look forming on Ginny’s face, and it reminded him of the time she had attempted to work up the courage to tell him and Ron about Riddle’s diary. “You know something.”
“I don’t know anything, but I overheard something curious. It’s probably nothing,” she said.
“Yet the flip side of ‘probably nothing’ is ‘possibly something,’” Harry said.
She sighed and began recounting a conversation she’d heard between two blond girls, one of whom had been Draco’s date.
“You are sure she said she drew Romilda’s fate?” Hermione asked.
Ginny shrugged. “It’s what it sounded like to me. I think maybe it had something to do with divination. Maybe drawing from a deck of tarot cards. Could that be it?”
“Possibly,” Hermione said, “but tarot cards aren’t overly specific. Even Trelawney predictions had some vagueness to them.”
“Her predictions all involved my upcoming funeral.” Harry grinned. “Nothing vague about that.”
Ginny elbowed him. “You aren’t allowed to talk about your funeral. None of us has gotten over nearly losing you.”
George grinned at Harry, as if to suggest that he had gotten over it.
“So, Draco’s date knew that Romilda was going to die,” Ron said, his expression hard, which Harry knew had more to do with Draco than his date. Ron hadn’t quite forgiven Harry for testifying in the Malfoy’s defense, given that Hermione had been tortured under the Malfoys’ hospitality.
“I don’t know what she knew, but she had nothing to do with it. She was as shocked as anyone, and she wanted to help, but her sister stopped her, seeming to think it would place suspicion on her, knowing too much,” Ginny said. She took a gulp of her cider and then continued, “I consider myself to be a pretty good judge of character, and I think this girl is innocent.”
“Does anyone know Draco’s date?” Harry asked.
Ron and George shook their heads.
“No,” Hermione said. “She looks familiar, but given that she’s most likely a Hogwarts student, that doesn’t narrow it down. A Slytherin a year or two behind us, I suppose? You said she was called Tori?”
“Yes, and she called her sister Daph.”
“Of course!” Hermione slapped a hand down on the wood table. Harry hoped it wasn’t one of those times when Hermione indulged in half a dozen utterances of I should have seen it! before enlightening the rest of them to the substance of her epiphany. Luckily, she did not leave them in suspense. “Daphne Greengrass! She’s the older sister. No wonder that girl looked familiar. She looks like her sister!”
“Who?” Harry and Ron demanded at the same time.
“Honestly! We had Potions with her for six years.” Hermione waved a hand around as she spoke. “She’s a Slytherin. Blonde, friends with Pansy Parkinson.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “Her. The pretty Slytherin.”
He had never spoken to the girl, but she didn’t have the mean expression that most of the Slytherins had perfected before they even reached Hogwarts. He recalled she had occasionally spoken up in class to answer a question from Snape, but was otherwise quiet.
“The pretty Slytherin is all you needed to say,” Ron said. “It narrows things down considerably.”
“So, we’re looking for a Tori Greengrass then,” Harry said. He supposed she would be reasonably easy to find in Ministry records.
“She didn’t do it, Harry,” Ginny said quietly.
“I just need to talk to her, Gin. If she knew that Romilda had been poisoned, it makes her a very interesting person. There was something in her sparkling wine that had nothing to do with grapes. And the sparkling wine was the only thing in her stomach, which indicates the poisoning had occurred at the Ministry, not in a meal she’d had at home earlier.”
Hermione frowned. “There was no food at all in her stomach? She was only sixteen, and she was drinking alcohol.”
“That bothered me too,” Harry said. “She landed in a plate of cheese, but she hadn’t seemed to have eaten any of it. When we asked her mother if Romilda had any dinner, she looked at us as if feeding growing teenage girls was a questionable practice. She told us her ‘Romi’s’ robes were very form fitting and all of the wizarding photographers were present, and, of course, she hadn’t had any food. ‘Photographs are forever.’ What kind of parent denies their child dinner because of her clothes?”
Harry had been denied dinner several times in his life, and it was always because his aunt and uncle were punishing him. Food, sunlight, and occasionally even water were all tools that the Dursleys used to control Harry.
“It’s shitty parenting,” Ginny said, “but I don’t think it’s ominous if you take Mrs. Vane’s day job into consideration. I don’t think she was trying to punish Romilda or ensure that her belly was empty so that a poison would work quickly. It’s probably just what she said, she wanted Romilda to look her best in photos.”
“But Romilda was very thin,” Harry protested. “How much could a bit of dinner affect her appearance? If she had passed out because of drinking on an empty stomach, that would have made more of an impression than her figure ever could.”
“What is Mrs. Vane’s job, anyway?” Ron asked.
“She’s the beauty director of Witch Weekly,” Ginny replied. “But before that, she was a fashion model. She made the cover of nearly every fashion magazine in the late seventies and early eighties. She literally set the beauty standards for our mums. She was famous for her ultra-thin figure, and I’ve heard use of unsafe dieting potions skyrocketed among witches while she was modeling. Then one day she eloped with one of the most powerful wizards in Gringotts, and Romilda came along within the year.”
“Didn’t Rita write an expos on the modeling industry and Witch Weekly in particular a couple years ago?” Hermione asked.
“Yes! Sharon Vane wasn’t permitting any models shorter than 5’11” or heavier than 125 pounds to appear in it. The models were getting weighed before every shoot and if they were even an ounce over, they were out of a job.”
Harry knew very little about Witch Weekly other than it was particularly fond of Gilderoy Lockhart’s smile. He had a feeling he would be learning more about women’s magazines in coming days.
“That sounds very unreasonable. I have no idea what girls weigh, but I weighed that in fourth year, and I was only five four,” Harry said.
“Five foot four in stilts maybe.” George laughed. “You were a full head shorter than any of the other Tri-Wiz champions.”
“You’ll always be our favorite runt, Harry.” Ron grinned.
“I’m not a runt anymore,” Harry complained. “I’m taller than George.”
By half an inch. But he was still taller.
“That’s just it,” Hermione said. “That rule is insane. I weigh 118 and I’m nearly half a foot too short to be a model. I’m not saying that body type never occurs in nature, but it’s rare. By those standards, even Fleur is short and chubby. Rita’s article talked about the extremes models went to in order to make the coveted Witch Weekly cover. It wasn’t until a model died from overdosing on a dieting potion that people started paying attention.”
“In trying to understand Romilda, I think one needs to start with her mother and her magazine,” Ginny said. “Witch Weekly is full of fashion tips, diet advice, and quizzes on how to tell if a man is into you. It’s no wonder Romilda has always been boy crazy and fashion obsessed. In her world, that’s the measure of a woman’s worth.”
“So, it was Mrs. Vane’s influence that nearly got me killed on my seventeenth birthday,” Ron said.
“Sort of, but it was Harry she wanted as Witch Weekly approved arm candy, not you.” Ginny grinned at her brother, but then she frowned suddenly. “Last February, we were all in the Room of Requirement, working on a project. Our newspaper, maybe. I don’t remember. Lavender’s mum had sent her some chocolates so we were eating them as we worked. Lavender offered some to Romilda, and she told us her mum didn’t allow her to eat sweets anymore because her hips were about to grow. Romilda was never terribly big on following rules, but it didn’t even occur to her to break her mum’s diet rules. As for the rest of us, our only rule last year was to never say no to sweets or alcohol. Self medication was big.”
They went quiet for a moment, and Harry suspected they were all thinking of the other girl in that story. Over one month after the battle, Lavender Brown was still in St. Mungo’s in critical condition. Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and Ron had visited her once, and she hadn’t seemed to know they were there, although her mother–a middle-aged version of Lavender herself–had been touched that they had brought flowers.
Finally, Hermione broke the silence. “How did you get either sweets or alcohol in the castle?”
Ginny shrugged. “It wasn’t that hard, honestly. It was a bit like Umbridge’s year with Filch checking the post. Care packages made it through okay, but non-food items had to undergo additional inspection by the Carrows.”
George nodded. “Fred and I quickly realized that the only way to send shipments to Hogwarts last year was hidden in a cake from grandma.”
He had started bringing up Fred in casual conversation lately, Harry had noticed. A crease would appear in his forehead when he would do so, but his voice remained steady now.
“Frederika and Georgiana were everyone’s favorite grandparents last year,” Ginny agreed.
George laughed suddenly. “The best part was Mum baked the cakes. She had no idea, of course. Fred kept raving about her cakes, so she’d send over two a week. We’d magically duplicate them and off to Hogwarts they would go.”
Ginny smiled sadly. “Fred could talk anyone into anything.”
“Mum loved it. You know how she just wants to feed everyone whenever things get difficult. She baked all of her anxiety over you lot into those cakes. Mind you, I have no intention of telling her what we used them for until I am at least forty.”
“The cakes were almost as popular as the products hidden inside. If Mum ever wished to start up a bakery, she’d be surprised to find she already has a following,” Ginny said.
Harry shook off his amusement at the twins’ antics. “Let’s get back to Romilda. Is it safe to say her mum is controlling and obsessed with appearances?”
“Oh come on, Harry,” Ron said. “You can’t possibly suspect her mum. Did you see her grief? She looked like my mum did after, well . . .” He stopped, shooting a guilty look at George.
“After Fred,” George finished, his mouth set in a grim line.
Harry leaned across the table. “Emotion can be faked. She was a model. She understands the importance of appearances.”
“Harry, yes, Mrs. Vane is controlling and obsessed with appearances,” Ginny said. “That hardly makes her a murderer. It just makes her a mum. Do you remember how controlling my mum was when the twins wanted to open their shop? Or when she found out the three of you weren’t going back to Hogwarts?”
“But that’s just because she wanted us all to be successful, which to her means finishing school and working for the Ministry. Nothing sinister in that.”
“Nothing sinister in the Vane family either,” Ginny said. “Well, the conditions are ideal for the development of eating disorders, maybe, but not murder. To a former model, beauty would be important to her daughter’s success.”
An idea was forming in Harry’s mind. “What if she was trying to hide something about Romilda? Something she felt would permanently ruin her family’s image?”
“You think Romilda’s mum killed her because she was knocked up?” Ron demanded.
“Because she was what?!” Ginny shrieked.
“When Gawain examined the body, he found that she was at least two months pregnant,” Harry said.
“Ginny, you need to tell them what you told me,” Hermione said quietly.
Harry looked at his girlfriend. She stuck her chin out defiantly. It was an expression he was becoming accustomed to, as she wore it every time he pressed her too far on the topic of Hogwarts.
“I was going to tell you,” she said.
“Tell me what?”
“Romilda was assaulted last year. She was restrained, raped by several people, and there were signs that they may have used Cruciatus against her, as well.” She rattled this off quietly, but she kept her eyes on the table. “She was in the hospital for a full month. She didn’t talk for the first two weeks. When someone tried to ask her about the assault, she would choke. Literally. Madam Pomfrey suspected that the Fidelius Charm might have been used by the boys, so no one could speak of it.”
Harry felt ill, and he wanted to block out the images in his head. He had never liked Romilda for his own selfish reasons, but no one deserved what happened to her at Hogwarts or tonight at the Ministry. He could tell by the expressions on Ron, Hermione, and George’s faces that they too felt ill.
“Madam Pomfrey told you this?” Harry couldn’t picture that, but everything about Hogwarts last year was impossible.
“Of course not! The staff didn’t tell us anything last year. Every now and then, McGonagall would give us cryptic warnings, and we quickly learned to obey them without question. No, I had Luna break into the hospital wing and make a copy of Madam Pomfrey’s records. She’s good at breaking through secrecy charms.”
Luna would be a good choice for an office break in. If she got caught, she would be able to convince Madam Pomfrey that she had only been leaving her a medicinal Gurdyroot. Then Harry remembered something.
“But Luna was only at Hogwarts until Christmas,” Harry said. “Romilda would have conceived in April.”
“She was assaulted in October. Demelza and I found her when we were going down to breakfast on Halloween.”
“You found her?” Harry asked.
“Yes. I’d rather not describe it. Let’s just say, it’s not how I want to remember her,” Ginny said, her voice small.
“So, the pregnancy is not from the rape,” Ron said.
“I don’t see how it could be,” Ginny said. “She certainly never looked pregnant at any point last year.”
“So no suspects, then?” Harry asked.
“Oh, there were plenty of suspects, just no proof. One simply did not go about accusing the Carrows’ pets of rape.” Ginny paused, her eyes widening. “Blaise Zabini! I completely forgot about him.”
“Zabini was one of them?” Ron asked.
“No, no! But he knows who is, I’m positive of it. He gave me cryptic warnings several times last year. ‘Avoid the Muggle studies corridor, you might want to stay in your common room this evening.’ That sort of thing.”
“Why was he warning you? Did you think they were after you?” George asked.
“I know they were after me; they just didn’t get me. It wasn’t just Romilda. First, it was Aimee Cartwright. She’s in Ravenclaw, my year. Then it was Romilda. And nothing until Mandy Brocklehurst, another Ravenclaw, just before the Christmas holiday. There was a list, you see. I was on it. I was number five.”
Ginny took a deep breath. Harry knew that she was going to tell them everything then, all of the things she had been keeping bottled up. He just hoped he was ready to hear it.
Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Difficult Girls, Part 1
Author's Notes: Please note the date on this chapter. We’ve gone back nearly a year to Romilda’s last year at Hogwarts. Also, I have decided to break this chapter into two. Partly because it’s been over a month since I’ve updated. Partly because it was simply getting too long. Part I will focus on September, while Part II will cover October, and both chapters will be from Ginny’s POV.
Also, a thank you to melindaleo for teaching me, through her own fic, that rubber johnnys are the preferred term for condoms in Britain. At the time I read that, I thought it was random knowledge I would never, ever use, but here I am, using the term in a fanfic. And I hope I never use it again.
Chapter 10: Difficult Girls, Part I
September 1, 1997
The Hogwarts Express
For the first time in her life, Ginny hated the very sight of the Hogwarts Express. She stood on the platform with both of her parents, arms crossed over her chest, eyeing the train warily, displeased about where it was about to take her. She wasn’t alone. It was the quietest she had ever seen Platform 9 . Normally, kids were shaking off clingy parents to join their friends, but today, kids were staying close to their families. There was a power shift as well. Slytherin parents, as well as some other pureblood parents, had booming voices while others spoke in whispers.
Then there were those who were not seeing children off, but merely vultures observing the changes in the wizarding world. Ginny recognized one of the wizards who had crashed Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and she could tell he recognized her too. She remembered how he had said to her, “Well, we wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like you getting hurt,” while looking like he wanted precisely that. He had tried to corner her behind a tent, but Bill, Charlie, and Fred had formed a blockade between them. Seeing him again, she met his eyes coolly, suppressing a shudder.
“We should have said Ginny has Dragon Pox,” Ginny heard her mother say to her father in a low voice. “Severus Snape running a school. Who knows what will happen?”
Her parents had argued all summer about her going back to Hogwarts. Legally, she had to return due to new Ministry decrees. Her mother said if they could pull off convincing people the ghoul was Ron, they could convince people that Ginny was deathly ill as well. Ginny had worried that her mother would get her way. As much as she dreaded returning to Hogwarts, staying at the Burrow was still a worse option.
August had been a nightmare. Once the Death Eaters had abandoned the Burrow, leaving no small amount of property damage behind, the Weasleys had lived as quietly as mice hiding from a prowling cat, unsure of how much surveillance was on them. They had managed to get the Delacours back to France. Bill and Fleur had missed the Portkey to their honeymoon in Portugal due to the chaos. They were about to give up on their honeymoon and simply head to Shell Cottage and spend their first couple of weeks as a married couple there, but Arthur convinced them to resume their original plan. It was best to keep things normal, he urged them, and also they would regret missing out on their honeymoon, especially as there was no guarantee of a return to normalcy. As a wealthy Hogwarts friend of Bill’s had been able to get the newlyweds a new Portkey, they started their honeymoon only two days later than originally planned.
Once the Delacours were gone, Bill and Fleur were on their honeymoon, and the twins returned to their flat, Ginny’s world contracted. She felt like she could no longer breathe in her own home. She was terrified for Harry, slightly ashamed that she wasn’t nearly as worried for her own brother or for Hermione, and she was smothered by her mother, who focused all of her many anxieties on Ginny. During the day, she helped her mother in the house, garden, and kitchen. In the evenings, Order members visited, speaking in a code so cryptic not even Ginny could decipher it.
She regretted not seducing Harry when she had the chance. She’d made an attempt the morning of his birthday, but it was half-hearted given that it was only a matter of time before Ron burst in or her mother found some object that still hadn’t been adorned with lace, ribbons, or flowers. But still, her hands had been tied. It couldn’t have happened before his seventeenth birthday as neither one of them would have been able to cast a contraceptive charm without alerting the Ministry, and on his birthday, the house had been so full with guests that sneaking around with Harry would have been impossible.
Or was that an excuse? She knew from her Muggleborn friend, Holly, that Muggles had non-magical and easily accessible forms of contraception. Last spring, Holly had explained rubber johnnys to a dormitory of horrified witches. “It’s like a penis glove,” she said matter-of-factly, ignoring the shrieks of disgust around her. “Keeps sperm from doing their job. There are used ones all over the bushes in my neighborhood park.”
While Ginny thought Muggle birth control sounded rather messy, Harry would be worth it. Her mother would have never let her into the village alone to make those key purchases, of course, but she had enough blackmail on Fred and George to bury them. Certainly enough for the twins to buy them for her and buy their silence. And Harry was Muggle raised. Surely, he would know about rubber johnnys. Or so she hoped, as she really did not want to explain their use to him. Still, now it was too late.
The boy simply had to return to her. They had too much unfinished business. And in the meantime, she had to keep things together while he did . . . whatever he was doing.
“Mum, Dad, I’ll be fine,” Ginny said. “Dad, if you’ll help me get my trunk on the train, I’d like to join my friends.”
She didn’t actually need help with her trunk, of course, having been able handle it herself since first year. But she knew her parents had felt helpless ever since they had been unable to protect their family at the wedding. She didn’t actually want to find her friends either. More to the point, she did not want to find out which of her friends were not returning. But she wanted her parents to see her brave and determined. They did not need one more thing to worry about.
Arthur lifted Ginny’s trunk unto the train. “What do you have in there, sweetheart? Bricks?”
“Just the usual. Clothes. Makeup. A couple dozen bludgers.” She kissed her father on the cheek. “Thank you, Daddy.”
She turned to say goodbye to her mother. Ginny initiated the hug, but her mother squeezed her so hard, she thought she might pass out.
“Mum! Mind the ribs!”
“Oh Ginny, I’m going to miss you so much.”
“Mum, I’m not going into battle. It’s just school. And Christmas will be here before we know it.”
“I hope so. Write home whenever you get an opportunity.”
“I will. I need to go. The train will be leaving soon.” She gave her parents a second, much quicker hug. “Bye! Love you!”
Ginny boarded the train. She did not dare look back.
All of the students seemed to be scurrying into the compartments without much socializing. She peered into compartments as she moved down the train. Third year Hufflepuff girls. The Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Fifth year Gryffindors with Romilda Vane holding court. In the fourth compartment was . . .
“Luna!”
Her friend was reading The Quibbler, but the publication was right side up for once. The cover proclaimed the issue was devoted to “The Rise and Fall of the U.K.’s Ministry of Magic.” Ginny raised her eyebrows. Had the Lovegoods left Crumple Horned Snorkacks behind?
“Wait,” Ginny said. She transfigured the cover to look like Witch Weekly.
Annoyance on Luna looked a bit like a grumpy toddler waking from a nap. Ginny thought it was adorable.
“Hello Ginny. I would have thought you of all people would know the importance of telling the truth in dark times.”
Ginny felt a sting. It had been many years since Luna expressed disapproval of her. In fact, it had only happened the one other time.
“Just keeping you safe so you can keep telling the truth,” she said lightly.
“I should be keeping you safe. It’s what Harry would want.”
“Harry’s not my boyfriend anymore, so he doesn’t get a say,” Ginny said.
“But he loves you. Everyone knows it, which is why you need the rest of us to protect you.”
“Really?” Ginny rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows that? I must be out of the loop because I know no such thing.”
Luna gave her a disgusted look and muttered something under her breath about Ginny being more stubborn than a herd of snorkacks, but Ginny had not been fishing for reassurance. She hoped Harry loved her, she even had some evidence to that effect, but was she certain? No, she was not. She sometimes wondered if her desire to seduce Harry before he left was nothing but a pathetic attempt to make sure he did not forget her.
“I don’t want to talk about Harry,” she said. “Tell me about your summer. Mine was all housework.”
Just then, the compartment door slid open, and Neville Longbottom entered, accompanied by Seamus Finnegan. It was strange seeing Seamus without his best friend, Dean. Of course, Dean would not be there. He was a Muggleborn, and he no longer had the Trace. Ginny felt unease churning in her stomach. She had not given this particular ex-boyfriend a thought, and until that moment, she had completely forgot that his blood status placed him in danger. She hoped Dean was all right. He had a mother and sisters. Would his Muggle family be safe?
“We are so glad to see you two. It’s like the Junior League of Death Eaters decided to hold a meeting in the corridor. Not even the trolley witch is able to get through,” Seamus said before stuffing his trunk into an overhead compartment.
“Malfoy’s doing?” Ginny asked.
Seamus paused. “You know, I don’t think I saw him out there. Grabbe and Coyle, yes.”
“He wasn’t out there,” Neville said. “But I’m sure he’s in on whatever they are planning. Malfoy likes to be in on things.”
Ginny thought of what she’d learned of Malfoy’s involvement in Dumbledore’s death. Harry felt confident that Draco would not have killed the headmaster had it been left solely his responsibility. Did he regret his involvement, or had he come back meaner and stronger than ever? She suspected the latter. A humiliated Draco was a dangerous Draco.
The compartment door opened again, and Ginny braced herself to confront Slytherins. But it was just Parvati Patil and Ron’s ex, Lavender Brown. Ginny had never sat with the older girls on the train, but she knew they were following Seamus, not her.
“Did the Slytherins multiply?” Parvati asked crossly. “I am fairly certain there have never been so many.”
With the reduction in Muggleborn students in the other houses, the ratio of Slytherins to other houses had become skewed. Muggleborns were rarely Sorted into Slytherin, even though they were as ambitious as anyone. Perhaps they were more so, having to find their way in an entirely new world, but they tended to be placed in other houses. Ginny did not know if thinking caps were capable of compassion, but if they were, she suspected that might be the Sorting Hat’s motivation.
As the afternoon went on, Ginny acquired the knowledge she had been dreading, as people commented on who was and was not on the train. There were nine sixth year Gryffindors. Aside from Ginny, five had returned. Demelza Robins, Martin MacGregor, Chris Benson, Gemma Barclay, and Pippa Preston were all on the train. The three Muggleborns–Colin Creevey, Holly Griffith, and Ritchie Coote–were not present. Ginny did not know if she had been hoping to see her Muggleborn classmates, so she would know they were fine, or if she was grateful they were not there so they would not be in Snape’s clutches.
As alarming as the shrinking of her own class was, Ginny was aware that the Gryffindor seventh years had reduced to four people: Neville, Seamus, Parvati, and Lavender. The seventh years were not populous in any of the houses. Slytherin, of course, had the most, but even they were down one student she heard.
While Ginny enjoyed catching up with her classmates, she couldn’t help but miss those who weren’t there. She missed Colin rushing into her compartment to tell her something about his summer, his voice getting higher each time he got excited. She missed sitting next to Holly and leafing through the Muggle fashion magazines she always brought on the train. Most of all, she missed Harry and her traditional train game of seeing how many times she could “accidentally” brush against him.
She reminded herself that most of her Gryffindor friends had returned, and she was always grateful to have Luna around. Childhood friends, Ginny and Luna had drifted apart during their first year of Hogwarts–Ginny distancing herself from everyone because of her possession by Tom Riddle and Luna dealing with her first experiences with peer bullying–only to renew their once strong friendship in fourth year.
Most of Ginny’s life had been spent surrounded by males. Growing up, the Burrow had smelled like sweaty socks and fireworks. The exception was the year that Ron first went off to Hogwarts. For the first and only time, Weasley females outnumbered Weasley males in the home, which left Arthur looking bewildered as he kissed his wife and daughter goodbye every morning. Ginny had been dreading that year ever since the twins went off to Hogwarts, but it ended up being one of the best years of her life. Because it was the year of Luna.
Throughout childhood, Ginny had played with Luna Lovegood on and off. The Lovegoods had moved to a home just outside Ottery St. Catchpole when the girls had been five, and they quickly became friends as the only underage witches in the area. They played at Luna’s, as the Burrow’s pranks and loud bangs were overwhelming to the blond girl, who was accustomed to spending time around adults. Ginny had been in awe of Pandora Lovegood, a blond beauty in flowing dresses.
When Ginny was nine, Pandora died. She had been inventing a new potion, and she had included the wrong herb, mistaking a poisonous plant for its medicinal lookalike. Mrs. Lovegood’s funeral was the first Ginny had ever attended, and seven years later, she could still recall the family’s grief. Mr. Lovegood and Luna disappeared for a full year. Xenophilius shuttered The Quibbler, and father and daughter went off in search of new adventures.
One week after Ron boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time, the Lovegoods returned. They were different. Quieter. A little stranger. The Quibbler reopened, but it was no longer the quirky, intellectual publication it had once been, but a home for conspiracy theories. Ginny was just happy to have her friend back, and she was thrilled when her mother offered to tutor Luna for the year in order to allow Mr. Lovegood the opportunity to focus on reopening his paper.
Every weekday for nine months, Luna Flooed to the Burrow in the morning. As Xenophilius was not known for his cooking skill, Luna ate breakfast with the Weasleys. After the last plate was washed and dried, they began their school day. There had been pranks, explosions, and giggles when Ginny had lessons with her brothers, and oftentimes lessons were still incomplete at dinner time. When Ginny saw Luna’s silvery strands falling in her face as she intently worked on her maths, she knew that year would be different. From her dreamy friend, Ginny learned the simple pleasure of pure concentration, of losing herself in an essay or a maths problem.
They usually managed to complete their work by lunchtime, so Mrs. Weasley began giving them cooking lessons in the afternoon or letting them have free time to read books of their own choosing. When Ginny thought of that year, she remembered the smells of cinnamon and apples, as there was always something sweet coming out of the oven. She thought of the adventure novels that Luna had found in her mother’s locked trunk, which both girls had sighed over, loving the stories of soul bonds, household curses, brave princesses, and dastardly villains. She remembered their giggles as they played games of pretend in the Burrow’s treehouse during their free afternoons.
It was the first sisterhood Ginny had ever known. Later, she would know a similar warmth when she would stay up late, talking and laughing with the girls in her dormitory or when Hermione spent summers at the Burrow and they kept secrets from the boys. But back then it was new, and it was her first experience with female bonding.
Ginny and Luna wrote a novel together–a novella, really–based on the dramatic stories they both favored. Inspired by Charlies’s new job, they wrote about an intelligent and passionate young woman who roamed the Romanian countryside on her pet dragon, rescuing witches and wizards in distress. They were very proud of it until the twins came home for the summer and found the copy. Fred and George never missed an opportunity to quote from The Adventures of Daniela Dimitriu, Dragon Princess.
When Harry came to stay with them in August, the twins thought Princess Daniela was every bit as funny as they did in June. Luckily, Harry never asked why Fred and George kept saying things like, “My dragon and I will save the day!” and “His kisses are like tickling charms!” He just seemed to accept that the twins were eccentric. When they toasted her on her eleventh birthday with “May your dragons be swift, your rainbows bright, and your enemies stupid”–a classic blessing of Princess Daniela’s land–he still didn’t comment. She now knew Harry had been overwhelmed being in a wizarding home for the first time, and everything had been odd to him so the things that would be odd to a Weasley wouldn’t necessarily be the things he noticed first.
Ginny felt a fresh rush of affection for her blond friend, remembering their Princess Daniela days. At ten, they had been certain they would conquer the world, as little girls who knew nothing of the world were always certain. Since then, the world had done all it could to crush them–nearly succeeding in first year for both of them–but they had both become stronger. Impulsively, she grabbed Luna’s hand, remembering how she used to hold her friend’s hand when they ran across fields as a child. Luna squeezed her hand, and Ginny knew her friend was remembering too.
She found she enjoyed sharing Luna with the other Gryffindors. Neville was used to Luna, but Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati had no experience with the Ravenclaw aside from a handful of D.A. meetings two years before. When Luna went on a long (and rather gross) explanation of the mating habits of Crumple Horned Snorkacks, which no one had asked for, Ginny exchanged a glance with Neville, and they enjoyed the horrified expressions on their housemates’ faces. However, when Luna announced that there were nargles in the compartment, Ginny grew concerned, as she had begun to suspect that Luna’s “nargles” were actually Luna’s acute sense of when they were being spied on.
Later in the afternoon, after the talk had been exhausted and the sweets long since consumed, she looked up to see Vincent Crabbe staring at her from just outside the compartment. She was startled. She had never seen Crabbe by himself and had never thought of him as an individual, merely a thuggish extension of Malfoy rather than a human being with plans, hopes, and thoughts of his own. He had always seemed more like a villain from the silly novels she and Luna had once read, menacing but without motive or personal history.
But here he was in all his personhood, his attention solely on her. Their eyes met. He had blue eyes so cold she could not believe she had never noticed them before. Keeping eye contact, he licked his lips. Then he smiled and walked away.
The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
7:15 p.m.
Ginny had not anticipated the wrongness of having Severus Snape sitting in Dumbledore’s seat and welcoming the students back. Even the headmaster’s dark billowing robes gave the Great Hall a bleakness that contrasted with the clear night sky above. For the first time, she was grateful Harry was not here to see this.
She had not been certain of what she would find at the staff table. She had heard Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Slughorn, Vector, and Sinistra would still be there, but she did not truly believe it until she saw their grimly determined faces. Hagrid was there, but it appeared Snape had not permitted him at the staff table, instead creating a separate table for him to the left of the staff table. She supposed You Know Who had been unwilling to spare too many Death Eaters to fully staff Hogwarts. She knew Professor Burbage was missing and presumed dead. She didn’t see Filch. She wasn’t sure what she expected in his case. As a Squib, the Death Eaters would consider him vermin, yet he had always been friendly with Snape.
There were two new faces, and she was alarmed to recognize one of them. The stout, doughy malicious-eyed wizard who had shot curses at her on the night of Dumbledore’s murder was sitting at the staff table. Next to him was a female version of him. Death Eater twins or siblings? Ginny couldn’t imagine the Death Eater she’d fought last spring teaching a class. Or reading a book. Or anything that required brain power.
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Snape said in a silky voice, as if what he really meant was, Pour yourself a glass of poison. His voice was soft, compared to Dumbledore’s more enthusiastic speeches. “I am Professor Snape, your newly appointed headmaster. A new headmaster means a new era, and those of you capable of thought will be wondering what that will mean for you. As headmaster, I have three goals for Hogwarts. The first is to strive for excellence. The second is the cultivation of discipline. The third and final goal is to honor our magical heritage.
“I say ‘strive for excellence’ rather than excellence itself, as the pursuit of excellence is a never ending quest. It requires dedication and talent in both teacher and student, and not everyone is capable of meeting the challenge. But even the lowliest of dunderheads will be expected to aspire to more.”
Snape talked on, confirming Ginny’s suspicion that this year would be all about power and blood purity. He eventually introduced the doughy Death Eaters as Professor Amycus Carrow, Professor of Dark Arts and Deputy Headmaster and Professor Alecto Carrow, Professor of Muggle Studies.
The grotesque books she’d had to purchase in Flourish and Blotts, An Illustrated Guide to the Dark Arts and The Brutality of Muggle Civilizations, an Illustrated History, suddenly made more sense. She had wondered why her textbooks resembled grim comic books solely devoted to the topic of torture, but now she suspected the Carrows were barely literate and heavily dependent upon pictures. She’d once read that 75% of British wizards never opened a book after leaving Hogwarts, and she supposed the Carrows were the poster children for that.
A few minutes later, Snape wrapped up what was the longest welcome speech since the year of the Tri-wizard Tournament, and announced the feast would begin. The feast looked as delicious as it ever had–roast chicken, ham, beef, potatoes, and roasted vegetables–but for the first time, Ginny did not feel as though she could eat a bit of everything.
She sat with the girls from her dormitory, Demelza to her right and Gemma and Pippa across the table, and only tiny Pippa appeared to have much of an appetite. Normally, she would have had Holly to her left and Demelza to her right, but they had shifted with the circumstances. She knew already that she would miss Holly greatly.
Of the five girls, Ginny and Holly had been the ones gifted with impersonation, and it had been their role to entertain the others in their dormitory. On dull nights, they had acted out scenarios for the other girls. The plots had been basic: Severus Snape is introduced to shampoo; Dolores Umbridge meets the Muggle Queen and informs her of all the Ministry decrees she is violating; the Weird Sisters go deaf; Gilderoy Lockhart loses his hair. Ginny hoped she would not be expected to be court jester all by herself.
Ginny placed some carrots and roast beef on her plate and forced herself to chew. Normally she talked so much at the start of term feast that she struggled to complete her dinner before the dishes disappeared and pudding appeared, but tonight everyone was so quiet that Ginny realized she could hear people chewing and swallowing. The munching sounds did nothing to encourage her appetite.
She felt as though someone was staring at her and looking up from her plate. Amycus Carrow was looking straight at her. He gave her a wink.
September 22, 1997
Three weeks had passed, and Ginny’s statement to her mother about merely going off to school, not battle, was being tested.
The Carrows were awful. Alecto Carrow seemed to have a comprehensive list of every terrible act ever committed by a Muggle throughout the course of human history. There was even an Adolf Hitler fellow who sounded like a Muggle Voldemort, not that Ginny thought the She Carrow would appreciate the comparison. Sitting in her class, one would think that Muggles had no technological, artistic, or intellectual achievements, only wars, genocide, witchcraft trials, and crime.
But Alecto was still preferable to Amycus, who was an extra special blend of dim witted and pure evil. He would talk about dark spells and torture and then giggle. He had giggled the entire time he had aimed curses at her in the tower last June. His idea of a practical class was making the students practice dark curses on each other. The worst thing about the He Carrow was the way he looked at Ginny and several of the other girls. She had quickly decided she would avoid detention with him at cost.
Like Umbridge before him, Snape would show up in classrooms, sit in the back and observe. Unlike Umbridge, he never interrupted or corrected the teachers. Ginny had no idea what he was looking for. Even when he wasn’t there, their long term professors did not behave any differently than in previous years, as if that was the only normalcy they had to offer their students. Aside from that curious habit, Ginny saw very little of the headmaster. After his very conspicuous speech, he had gone into the background. She did note that he was often missing in the evenings, and she wondered if You Know Who was summoning him.
Filch, in spite of his Squib status, had some of his wishes fulfilled. He was now permitted to paddle students who broke rules, including students who were of age. Ever since the first days, the Carrows had threatened severe punishment, even use of the Cruciatus. They had not used this, and Ginny suspected they had not received authorization to do so. But whose permission did they need? Snape’s? Or You Know Who’s?
It was lunchtime in the castle. Ginny sat with her friends, her Transfiguration book propped in front of her so she could get a bit of studying in before the He Carrow began his weekly propaganda report. Every Monday, Hogwarts received a “communications update” from “the Ministry.” Sometimes, Snape presented it. Most often, he let Amycus Carrow do the honors, reading from a roll of parchment and stumbling over any word longer than two syllables. Today, Snape was nowhere to be found, so it would be the He Carrow.
“Did you hear about Terry Boot?” Pippa asked. The small blond girl was sitting directly across from Ginny.
“No. What happened?” she asked, her attention still on her studying.
“He stood up to the He Carrow in class, refused to practice a curse. Told him that the use of the curse was outside the scope of a proper magical education. Carrow promised to make an example of him.”
“He’s been promising that for weeks now,” Gemma added in. Gemma and Pippa had been best friends since their first day of Hogwarts, but they couldn’t be more different in looks or personality. Gemma was tall, black, slender, and calm, while Pippa was tiny, dimpled, blonde, with an excitable personality. It was Pippa’s job to stir things up in their dormitory, and Gemma settled them all down. “So it could be more hot air, but the Ravenclaws seem to think a line has been crossed.”
Amycus Carrow entered the Great Hall, dragging Terry Boot behind him. It wasn’t that he physically dragged him. The Ravenclaw was at least five inches taller than the Death Eater and in much better physical condition. But he had Terry by the elbow, and the seventh year wasn’t resisting.
“This student,” Carrow announced to the school, gesturing behind him at Terry, “has refused to participate in class, has not shown the discipline we expect in students, and er . . .” Here he glanced at his sister, having evidently forget Snape’s third Hogwarts goal. She mouthed something to him. “And he is dishonoring our magical heritage. And so he must be punished.”
“Wait just a moment.” Professor McGonagall had stood. “The headmaster is not here! Professor Snape is in charge of discipline in the castle.”
Carrow’s lips curled. “Yes, the headmaster isn’t here. That means the authority is mine as deputy headmaster. Surely, you remember that from the days when you used to be deputy headmistress.”
His sister chuckled.
The head of Gryffindor House continued to stand tall. “We have rules of conduct here at Hogwarts.”
“Those rules are being fixed,” the He-Carrow said. He then sighed, a highly exasperated sound. “Eff it!” He shot a stunning spell at the Transfiguration teacher, and she crumpled to the floor, with several teachers coming to her aid. “As I mentioned before that interruption, there will be punished for insu. . inspir. . .” Again, the She-Carrow mouthed something to her brother. “Insupordination.” He frowned, squinted his eyes. “Insubordination.”
He turned towards Terry. “Crucio!”
Ginny thought that Terry screamed, but he wasn’t the only one. Throughout the Great Hall, there were shrieks and screams. She realized belatedly that she was responsible for one of those screams.
“Stop! You can’t do this to him!” A blond girl that Ginny would later know to be Mandy Brocklehurst was standing up at the Ravenclaw table.
“Sit down, you slag!” someone called from the Slytherin table.
“Do you want to join him, girly?” the He Carrow asked.
For a moment, Ginny thought she was going to remain standing, but then Mandy’s lip trembled and she sat down. She had no idea if she was relieved or disappointed in the girl.
“Good choice,” the He Carrow stated. “I have made my point. Now, you all know the cost of insuportination. Now, get to class.”
Silently, they all did.
Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Difficult Girls, Part 2
Author's Notes: Life is crazy. My stepchild is flying to another continent BY HERSELF today. As she is sixteen, I am very nervous about this. And I’m actually somewhat surprised this chapter did not take me as long as the previous two to complete. Even though, it did take me longer to edit. The word count on this indicates I made a good decision in splitting “Difficult Girls” into two parts. Chapter 10 had a lot of exposition, as I felt it was needed to introduce readers to Death Eater Hogwarts, but this chapter definitely has much more happening. And yes, we finally get back to Romilda. I know you have all missed her.
Chapter 11: Difficult Girls, Part II
October 3, 1997, 8:10 p.m.
Room of Requirement, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Ginny lounged in the Room of Requirement with Luna and Neville after dinner on an unusually quiet Friday evening. The room was decorated with soft couches and end tables, with a fire in an ornate fireplace. If Ginny ignored the radish garlands and Atlantis travel posters that had no doubt been Luna’s doing, it was perfect. Luna was creating an intricate series of plaits in Ginny’s hair while Ginny and Neville helped themselves to the ginger biscuits that Mrs. Weasley had sent her in the morning post.
It was the most peaceful moment she’d had since before Bill’s wedding. At first, the school year had been tense due to fear of the unknown. It then it became more fearful when the unknown became the known. Terry Boot may have been the first of the Carrows’ victims, but he was far from the last. Even after Snape’s return, the use of the Unforgiveables in student discipline had continued. Ginny who was doing her best to remain unnoticed by the Carrows, or as unnoticed as it is possible for a redhead to be, had only experienced it once. She had asked the She Carrow a question on an assignment and her request for clarification had been interpreted as sarcasm by the older witch. The Death Eater had only used the Cruciatus for a moment, making a point before moving back to her lesson, but Ginny had still felt as if each nerve in her body was on fire.
But at the moment, things were fine, or as good as they could be under the circumstances. No one had experienced unusual punishments that day. The house elves had made Ginny’s favorite roast chicken for dinner, and when most of the students had gone back to their common rooms for the evenings, Ginny and her friends had headed to the Room of Requirement. Ginny liked the feeling of breaking rules when she was actually not breaking any rules at all by being in this secret room. Curfew was more than two hours away, but most students rarely strayed from their common rooms when not in classes, the library, or the Great Hall these days. The Carrows, while sloppy as teachers, were diligent in patrolling the corridors and inventing new rules for students to unknowingly break.
Ginny was sick of her common room. She’d previously loved the Gryffindor Common Room, as it gave her a place to chat with her friends and to celebrate Quidditch wins, but once people found themselves crammed in there due to necessity rather than choice, it had lost its charm. Everyone was sick of each other and fights were frequent. Parvati Patil and Seamus Finnegan had gotten together and broken up a record three times in the past month. Pippa and Martin were in competition with two break ups in the same time frame. Ginny wished they would date people in other houses. Then they would never get sick of their significant others because they would never be able to see them.
“What did you want to talk to us about, Ginny?” Neville said, pushing the plate of biscuits away.
The seventh year had lost quite a bit of weight over the last year, and Ginny had noticed he now physically pushed food away when he was done eating, as if removing temptation. With the loss of weight and shyness, Neville was getting hopeful glances from girls these days, but he hadn’t seemed to notice the effect he had on females. While Ginny hoped her friend would get a girlfriend, she had to admit there were few girls she would consider worthy of him. Neville was a bit like Luna. He had been bullied and excluded, but Ginny had never known him to plan revenge or even hold grudges. To Ginny, who thought of her temper as a family pet that habitually ran away from home, this was the attitude of a saint.
While she knew Neville was resilient, she worried the wrong girl might take advantage of his kind nature. Lately, she had noted that Lavender Brown had been eyeing Neville, which could only be a disaster. Even Ron, who lacked Neville’s consideration of female feelings, had nearly drowned in Lavender’s neediness. The sweet-faced Hannah Abbott, on the other hand, would be a perfect complement to Nev. She would do something to encourage that, she decided.
“Can’t I just enjoy an evening spent with good friends?” Ginny asked.
“Demelza, Pippa, and Gemma are your good friends,” Neville said. Ginny noted that he did not mention Holly, even though she had always been her closest friend at school. “We are the people you get into trouble with.”
“Oh, nonsense. I adore you both,” Ginny said.
“But there is something you want to tell us,” Luna said, fastening the plaits into a crown on Ginny’s head.
She hoped whatever Luna was doing to her hair was not too Guinevere in nature, and as soon as she thought it, a hand mirror appeared on the end table to her right. She picked it up and was surprised to find the twisted hairstyle was flattering.
“Thanks, Luna. That’s really pretty.”
“My mum used to do my hair like that. Sometimes, she would put daisies from our garden in the plaits. It’s too hard to do with my own hair,” Luna said, waving her now-free hands over her blond head. “Does it have to do with Harry?”
“My hair?” She wondered for a moment if they thought Harry was breaking into the school to see her.
“No. The thing you are being so mysterious about,” Neville said. “I too suspected it has something to do with Harry and his equally missing friends. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy spending my evening with you two. Especially when the alternative is watching Seamus and Parvati fight and snog. But I wish you would spit it out.”
She sighed. “There is nothing to spit out. Or, at least, I am not sure I should involve anyone else.”
“Does it have to do Harry?”
“Yes.”
“Does it involve you doing something dangerous?”
“Most likely.”
“Then you need to tell us. When doing something stupid and reckless, there is safety in numbers. Luna and I can handle it. It can’t possibly be worse than breaking into the Ministry, can it?”
“I don’t know.”
Theoretically, it shouldn’t be worse. It did not even involve leaving Hogwarts, but if they got caught, she didn’t know what Snape might do to her. Or to them, if Luna and Neville helped. Would they be punished by the Carrows? Or handed over to You-Know-Who? She knew Harry would want her to keep out of You-Know-Who’s notice. It was why he had broken up with her. But she couldn’t avoid every situation that might attract his notice, especially if it might possibly help Harry.
“Tell us,” Neville said.
“I don’t want to put anyone else in danger.”
“We would be putting ourselves in danger,” Luna said.
“It would put you in danger. But it might put others in danger too.”
She had fixated on the Sword of Gryffindor ever since Harry’s birthday. Harry said he had no idea why Dumbledore had wanted to leave it to him, and Ginny knew he was telling the truth. Harry was a good liar. Like her, he could look someone in the face and lie, but while he kept his face and voice composed, his body went rigid. She had observed him enough to know when he was telling the truth and when he was lying, and he was telling the truth about the sword.
A sword, a children’s book, a snitch, and a deluminator. A sword and a snitch. A deluminator and a book. A snitch and a deluminator. A book and a sword. A sword and a deluminator. A book and a snitch. A deluminator. A sword. A book. And a snitch.
She had pondered all of these items individually, as a group, and in various combinations, but she could not work out their purpose. At the time the sword was forged, Beedle the Bard had not yet been born, the deluminator had not been invented (in fact, it might have been an invention of Dumbledore’s), and Quidditch did not yet exist in its current form. The Tales of Beedle the Bard did mention a sword, the sword of Sir Luckless in The Fountain of Fair Fortune, but not snitches or deluminators. It was like a puzzle with a trick answer. Or a very obvious answer that was hiding in plain sight.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she felt that the deluminator, the book, and the snitch would not serve their purpose without the sword. The sword somehow brought it all together, and they did not have it. Ginny knew it was most likely still in the headmaster’s office, but she did not know how to get in there. If she did manage to get the sword, she still had no idea how to get it to Harry.
She’d spent most of her library visits researching the sword rather than studying for her classes. As a result, her grades were slipping but so were everyone else’s so she blended in with the crowd. The sword was forged by Ragnuk the First specifically for Godric Gryffindor in 972. It was made of pure goblin silver, decorated with large rubies and an engraving of Gryffindor’s name. It was mostly a reflection of wizarding honor, as wizards dueled with wands and not swords, but it had been used to slay two dangerous beasts. In 1159, a descendent of Gryffindor used it to save a village from a manticore, and in 1993, Harry had used it to slay the Basilisk of Hogwarts. It had gone missing for most of the 14th century, stolen from Gryffindor’s descendents who were at that time living in Godric’s Hollow, but it was later purchased on the black market in 1398 by a famous alchemist who gave it to Hogwarts where it had been ever since.
She didn’t know if the sword’s significance was due to its ownership by Gryffindor, or because it was made of goblin silver, or because of its history. She suspected it had powers that were still unknown. Perhaps You-Know-Who could only be killed with goblin silver? His appearance could only be the result of Dark experiments he had done on himself, and perhaps they had left him only partially mortal, and she knew goblin silver was an unusually pure substance.
“But is he more in danger if you don’t get help?” Neville pressed, bringing Ginny back to the present.
“He’s at a disadvantage,” Ginny said. “Or so I suspect. I don’t know if he’ll be in more danger than he currently is.”
“I don’t know what is going on with Harry, Hermione, and Ron,” Neville said. “No one does, right? They live and breathe secrets. But I am pretty sure Harry is the key to everything, chosen one or not. And I am positive that I don’t want him at any type of disadvantage.”
“Neville is right. If we lose Harry, we lose our greatest hope” Luna said, but she said it as dreamily as if she had been discussing types of chocolate.
Ginny knew deep down that Harry’s mission had to remain as secret as possible. But, as she didn’t know any details, could she possibly endanger him? She trusted Luna and Neville both. Surely, it wasn’t any more dangerous for them to know about the sword than it was for her.
And it was possible that Dumbledore’s will wasn’t even all that secret. A sizeable portion of the Magical Law department must have known that he had left the sword to Harry, and most likely, any curious and resourceful Ministry official could uncover that information.
“All right.” She sighed. “I don’t know much, but what I do know, I will tell you.”
She explained about Dumbledore’s will, the ownership dispute over the Sword of Gryffindor, and her plan to steal the sword from Snape’s office.
“Supposing we work out how to make this happen,” Neville said. “How will we get it to Harry?”
“That might be more difficult than getting it out of Snape’s office, which, in and of itself, is near impossible,” Ginny admitted. “I think the twins might be our best bet. They don’t know where Harry and the others are any more than I do, but they have a network available that I lack.”
Or at least, she hoped they did. Before she went to Hogwarts, George told her of a secret radio program that he and Fred, along with Lee Jordan and some members of the Order, hoped to start. If they managed it, surely they could share some message that only Harry and the others would understand.
She had a favorite daydream in which she gave the sword to Harry himself over the Christmas holiday, with the help of the twins. While dreaming about this reunion got her through many a Carrow class, she knew the possibility was unlikely and that Harry might even be unwilling to meet her, as he had thoroughly avoided her ever since Ron had caught him kissing her in her bedroom. He had not acknowledged her in any way at Bill’s wedding, even though she did catch him staring at her a few times. Also, she knew he needed the sword now, not two months from now.
Ginny and her friends discussed the matter of getting into the headmaster’s office. There would be a password. Likely either a rare potions ingredient or some term only a Death Eater would know. They all agreed that while a password would have been sufficient for Dumbledore, Snape would never stop there.
They brainstormed some ideas, discarding most of them. Finally, it was settled that Luna, a Ravenclaw through and through, would get the book work and she would research wards and other security spells. She would need to do all of her research in the library, without checking books out, since it was suspected that Madam Pince supplied the headmaster with a list of books checked out by students, flagging anything suspicious. Meanwhile Ginny and Neville would practice Disillusionment Charms and take turns skipping class to stand guard outside the headmaster’s office, waiting to hear someone say the password.
Once they had the information needed, they would break into Snape’s office, again Disillusioned, on the first evening he was away from the castle. They would duplicate the sword, taking and hiding the real sword in the Room until they could pass it along to the twins. It was far from a perfect plan, but it was far better than some of the crazy schemes Ginny had thought up on sleepless nights.
“We have a good plan,” Luna said. “This calls for a toast.” Three small glasses appeared next to her, and Luna reached for a bottle that had been next to her all evening.
Ginny and Neville exchanged a glance, and Ginny could see that Neville too had read the bottle’s label earlier that evening.
“Luna, my beautiful friend, you aren’t really proposing a toast with earring cleaner, are you?” Ginny asked. She didn’t care if it was some harmless herbal concoction from the Lovegood’s garden, essence of chamomile or some such; she wasn’t drinking it. She wasn’t sure why the Ravenclaw had brought it to their gathering, but she figured her radish earrings must have caused a minor infection and that Luna needed to reapply frequently.
Luna stared. “Why would I give you earring cleaner? That would be poisonous.”
“That’s what’s in your little bottle,” Ginny reminded her.
Luna continued to look puzzled. “No, it’s not.”
“Luna, I can read it from here. It says ‘Earring Cleaner,’” Neville said.
She blinked. “Yes, it does. Is that why you thought it had earring cleaner in it?”
“Doesn’t it?” Ginny asked.
“No, it doesn’t. I would never drink earring cleaner. It’s most unhealthful. This is Gurdy Whisky.”
“Gurdy Whisky?” Neville asked. “Why doesn’t it say so? Otherwise, someone might clean their jewelry with it.”
“I didn’t think Filch would let my trunk pass inspection if it said ‘Gurdy Whisky.’ Do you think Filch would let me have Gurdy Whisky? It would make things much simpler if I didn’t have to mislabel my things.”
“So, let’s get this straight,” Ginny said. “You smuggled in whisky at the start of term by disguising it as earring cleaner?”
Luna nodded. “I thought Filch might not know what earring cleaner smells like. He’s very devoted to his job, but he is easily confused, isn’t he? We don’t think much of Mr. Filch in Ravenclaw.”
Neville grabbed the bottle from Luna’s hand and sniffed at it. “You could get drunk just by smelling this!”
“You drink it, Neville,” Luna said. “I don’t know what happens if you inhale it, but I don’t recommend it. It’s much more pleasant if you sip it.”
Ginny suppressed a laugh. “So, we’re 100% sure this is alcohol and not jewelry cleaner?”
“I don’t know if anyone can ever be 100% certain unless they have never left their Gurdy Whisky unattended,” Luna said. “I do leave this in my dormitory during classes. I suppose someone could come into my dormitory, pour my whisky into another bottle and pour earring cleaner in this one. But why would someone do that? Did they find out this isn’t earring cleaner?”
Ginny did laugh that time. “One way to find out, Luna. Let’s drink it.”
Luna poured them all a glass, all the while muttering about how if someone did break into her dormitory and switch out the contents, they would have to be both female and a current Ravenclaw, which would narrow things down considerably.
Ginny’s first thought was that Gurdy Whisky was the worst thing she had ever put in her mouth, tasting a bit like sauerkraut infused firewhisky. Then the buzz started, and she decided she had judged it too harshly. The second sip was much smoother than the first. By sip number three, she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Luna, where did you get this? This is the most alcoholic thing I have ever had in my life, and my Great Uncle Algie is terrible at keeping track of his firewhisky bottles,” Neville said.
“You steal your uncle’s whisky, Neville?” Ginny asked, unable to process the idea of Neville Longbottom, Whisky Thief.
“He once dangled me out of a two-story window,” Neville said. “He owes me. Plus Christmas dinner is really dull at Gran’s house.”
They didn’t talk much about the Longbottom family, but Ginny had always suspected Neville had it almost as difficult at home as Harry did at the Dursleys. Even his gran, who was his guardian, hadn’t given him much attention until he broke into the Ministry at the end of his fifth year.
“Daddy distills it,” Luna said. “We give all of our friends a bottle at Christmas.”
“Better than a Weasley family Christmas card,” Ginny said, as Luna refilled their glasses.
There was a series of drunken toasts, where they drank to their plan, to their health, to Harry’s success, to Mrs. Weasley’s baking and Mr. Lovegood’s distilling, and then finally Ginny decided she had the perfect toast.
“May our dragons be swift, our rainbows bright, and our enemies stupid,” she declared, raising her glass. The whisky sloshed down her hand as she did so. Oops.
“Inside joke?” Neville asked, as both girls went into giggles. Normally, Luna was the last person to stop laughing at any joke, but Ginny didn’t couldn’t stop giggling, even after her sides hurt. He stared at the girls a moment, and then said, “I hate to break this up when you are both so happy, but curfew is in fifteen minutes. We really should leave now.”
After leaving the room, they parted ways. Luna headed west to Ravenclaw Tower with the Gurdy Whisky tucked under her arm, while the Gryffindors went in the direction of the Fat Lady’s portrait, with Ginny swaying the entire way back.
October 20, 1997, 2:13 p.m.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, just outside the headmaster’s office
This was just as interesting as History of Magic class, Ginny thought from her place behind a statue on the seventh floor, where she had a clear view of the gargoyle that guarded Snape’s office. She had Disillusioned herself after relieving Neville of his post, so unless someone also hid behind the statue, bumping into her, she could remain undetected as she stared at the stone wall for the next two hours.
Luna’s preparation for the break in had gone well. She said she had identified 40 possible protective charms Snape could have put on his office, and she felt confident she could get past 38 of them.
Ginny and Neville’s job of spying on Snape’s office to learn the password had not gone well. After they developed their plan, Snape had left the castle for eight days, returned for two days, then left for another four. They figured it was unlikely anyone would dare enter his quarters in his absence, so they hadn’t bothered to stand guard. When he returned, either Ginny or Neville had stood guard at all times when they thought Snape likely to be going to and from his office: during class periods, immediately after meals. They hadn’t caught him once, but they had missed seven classes between the two of them.
Ginny was beginning to suspect that Snape knew another way into the office. Perhaps the entrance with the gargoyle was strictly a visitor’s entrance, and the headmaster had his own way of accessing his office and living quarters.
Fearing she might fall asleep staring at the grey stone wall, she began mentally reviewing for her upcoming Muggle Studies examination.
When the Holocaust began, Adolf Hitler was the Muggle leader of Germany. He created concentration camps in 1933, the first of which was in the town of Dachau, to house the types of Muggles he did not approve of. These included the homeless, disabled, Gypsies, and most famously Jews. The concentration camps were work camps, but the Muggles who ran them also conducted grotesque medical experiments.
“You need to get your house under control, Amycus!”
Ginny started, forgetting all about Muggle Studies and World War II. That was definitely Snape’s voice around the corner.
“The girl was asking for it, Severus. And boys will be boys.”
“I may need to send Miss Cartwright to St. Mungo’s if she fails to make any progress in the hospital wing. Was she asking for that? Do you think her pureblood parents will be happy when they find out what happened?”
“It is too bad they picked a pureblood,” Amycus said.
“This will not happen to any other student, pureblood or otherwise. If it does, I will hold you–bezoar–personally responsible.”
The entrance opened, and Ginny could hear Amycus say, “We don’t know that they were Slytherins. It could have . . .” before the entrance closed again.
What had that been about? Aimee Cartwright had been in the hospital wing for a week, and it was well known that she was unconscious. There were whispers that the He Carrow had gone too far in a detention, but no one could work out how she had gotten into detention as Aimee was quiet, studious, and rule abiding.
Aimee had only been in trouble once, having been caught in the Astronomy Tower with her boyfriend last year, if one believed the rumors. Given there were also many rumors about her and Harry in that same Astronomy Tower (and the Quidditch pitch and various broom closets and even Hagrid’s hut), Ginny wasn’t sure she did.
Perhaps there was no detention. If she correctly understood Snape’s and Carrow’s conversation, some boys–most likely Slytherins–had injured Aimee. But what had happened to her, and why couldn’t she wake?
Oh, Merlin. She had missed the password. She hadn’t heard a password while they were talking, and she had no idea how to tell Neville she’d failed.
Oh.
Bezoar. Bezoar was the password.
October 30, 1997, 11:38 p.m.
Gryffindor Common Room
Of all of the frustrating things about Professor Severus Snape–and the things were numerous enough to fill a book–Ginny found she was most annoyed by his timing. When she and Neville needed him to be there so they could learn his password, he was gone for nearly two full weeks. And once they had his password, he seemed settled in for the term.
She’d tried to tell herself that it was a good sign. If Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been caught, Snape would have been summoned to the Dark Lord. Plus the delay had allowed Luna to work out how to get past the 39th of the 40 possible protective charms. But Harry was stalled as long as he didn’t have the sword. She knew it, even as she didn’t know how she knew it.
Finally, Snape had been absent at both lunch and dinner that day, indicating he was out of the castle. She just hoped his absence did not mean anything had happened to Harry or to any members of the Order. Taking immediate advantage of the situation, she, Neville, and Luna all agreed to meet in front of Snape’s office at midnight.
She wished she felt more confident about it. Conditions couldn’t have been better. Setting off a dungbomb had effectively cleared out the common room. Ginny made a mental note to thank Fred and George for their new alternative packaging for dungbombs; the package labeled Madam Florence’s Magically Sanitary Napkins had not enticed Filch to investigate any further. Professor Sprout was on duty for patrolling the corridors that evening, and Ginny felt certain the Herbology teacher would merely send them back to their dormitories with a verbal warning if she caught them out of bounds. The original Hogwarts teachers were no longer reporting discipline matters back to the headmaster.
“Ready?” Neville asked her.
They had both done Bubble-Head charms as the dungbomb Ginny selected had been a particularly large and powerful one.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ginny said.
“Let’s meet Luna then.”
Ginny didn’t have Harry’s experience with being out of bed after curfew, or that of Ron or Hermione. It often amazed Ginny that Hermione Granger had more experience with breaking school rules than she did. As a Weasley, she should have broken twice as many rules as Hermione had.
But it was only her third time sneaking out at night. The first time, she had done a late night kitchen run with Fred and George in her third year. And she and Dean had once snuck out in her fifth year. But those had been very different times. Although she was Disillusioned, she felt exposed and noisy as she tiptoed through the dark castle. She regretted the dinner she’d had that evening, as it was threatening to come back up. She reminded herself that she was a Gryffindor and a Weasley, and no greasy haired Potions Master turned Dark Headmaster was a match for her. How many bad schemes had Harry pulled off through sheer nerve? She could do this.
As they neared a staircase, Ginny heard a female shriek from a floor or two below them. She grabbed Neville’s arm. Luna.
“I don’t think that’s her, Ginny,” he whispered. “It didn’t sound like her, and Ravenclaw Tower is to the west. I doubt she took the scenic route.”
Ginny knew it wasn’t likely, but if Luna had encountered someone on her walk to the headmaster’s office, she could have taken a circuitous route. Or she might have done so if she thought a specific path was good luck or something Luna-ish like that. She didn’t loosen her grip on Neville’s arm. Someone was in trouble, she felt certain of that, and she worried it might be Luna.
“It’s someone else caught by Professor Sprout,” Neville whispered. “You know Sprout; she’s reasonable. She’s probably giving her a lecture and then sending her back to bed. I don’t even hear anything anymore.”
Ginny listened. Neville was right. It was silent. If the Carrows had caught someone, they would have made a lot of noise about it.
“Okay, let’s go, but if Luna isn’t there, I am heading down there,” Ginny whispered.
They walked on, Ginny worrying that they might have made a terrible mistake. The corridor seemed endless in the dark, and she felt as if she had already been walking so long that she could have made it back to England already.
When they neared Snape’s office, she walked into an invisible wall.
The wall sounded strangely like Luna in pain, and Ginny realized she had walked directly into her Disillusioned friend.
“Shhhh!” Neville said behind.
“Sorry,” both Ginny and Luna whispered at the same time. Ginny rubbed her nose, which had collided with Luna’s chin. Yet another disadvantage of being short. The wetness on her hand confirmed her suspicion that her nose was bleeding. She’d worry about that later. She was so grateful it had not been Luna who was caught.
And whoever it was, she would be fine. As Neville said, Professor Sprout was fair, and she’d want to protect the girl from Snape and the Carrows. The girl’s capture would mean Professor Sprout would be less likely to come down this particular corridor, as she would probably accompany the girl back to her house to make sure she stayed there.
But that didn’t mean it was wise to linger here.
“Bezoar,” she whispered.
For a moment, she thought that Snape had changed the password, which was a fear that had plagued her ever since she learned the password. But then the entrance behind the gargoyle opened. The three of them did not hesitate to climb the staircase, which instantly began moving. The moment the entrance closed behind them, they risked some light and then removed their Disillusionment charms.
“Lumos!”
The staircase brought them to a large door.
”Alohomora,” Ginny said, and she was amazed when it worked.
Her relief was short lived. As soon as they entered the headmaster’s circular office, books flew off the shelves and began pelting them.
”Immobulus! Oww!” Ginny had been struck in the face with 40th anniversary edition of A History of Magic, one of the book’s fattest editions, before it stilled and then dropped on her foot in slow motion.
Luna uttered a few incantations, and the books all zoomed back to their original position on the shelves.
“That wasn’t one of the forty,” Luna said, rubbing her arm where she had assaulted by half a dozen potions books. “It turned out all right, though.”
Neville who had also been hit in the head with a heavy book looked as though he wanted to disagree.
Taking advantage of a moment of quiet, Ginny looked around the office. She had been in this office twice before, once after the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and once when her father had been attacked by Voldemort’s snake. As a result, she had never been fond of this room, associating it with tragedies, but she had never found it to be frightening before because it had always been Dumbledore’s place.
In some ways, it looked the same: lots of books, lots of portraits of dead headmasters and headmistresses. But there was a new darkness. The large window that looked over the Quidditch pitch now had heavy, dark curtains. Fawkes, of course, was gone. In place of Dumbledore’s pretty silver instruments, Snape had brought up his jars of pickled potions ingredients. Like having Snape at the center of the high table in the Great Hall, it was quietly wrong.
She spotted the sword. It was being kept in a glass case, and it looked just as grand as it did when she was a first year. She took a step forward, and for the second time that night, she had the feeling of walking into an invisible wall.
This time the wall was not solid, like Luna. It was like walking into a rubbery barrier that propelled her backwards. Once she regained her balance, she extended an arm in front of her, trying to determine where the barrier began. She prodded it with her finger. It was cold and kind of jiggly like jelly, but it was strong. She couldn’t break past it.
“I think it’s a Shield charm,” Neville whispered.
Fortunately, that was one of the 39 enchantments that Luna knew how to get past. Next was a humming noise that made them all sleepy, and her dreamy friend was prepared for that, as well. Then the last challenge was to acquire and duplicate the sword.
“Get it, Ginny,” Neville said. “This is your moment, not mine or Luna’s.”
The case opened with a simple Alohamora..
“Accio, sword!”
The sword came to her, but not in the manner she had expected. She had to jump to the side, to avoid getting jabbed in the stomach. The sword went for a new attack, this time at neck level. She dodged it again.
“Immobulus!”
Nothing happened, and the sword continued its attack. And then Ginny remembered something she had read in her research. The sword required an act of bravery from a true Gryffindor before it could be yielded.
She stepped directly in the path of the sword, causing Luna to shriek, and grabbed the hilt. It was hers.
She placed the sword in front of Luna, who said, "Geminio.”
Luna’s duplication charm had been so successful that Ginny would not have known which sword was real and which was fake if she had not had one hand still on the hilt.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Luna placed the fake in the case and closed it back up.
After a glance around the office to make sure they were leaving it as they found it, they headed down the stairs, Ginny in the lead with the sword. Her mind was so fixed on getting the sword to the Room for concealment that it did not immediately occur to her that the gargoyle entrance should have been closed until she walked directly into Amycus Carrow just outside the entrance. The Carrow was accompanied by Severus Snape.
The He-Carrow grinned at Ginny. “Headmaster, if I may, I have some ideas of what to do with these Undesirables.”
Looking at his pleased, doughy face, Ginny’s stomach turned. His hands were like steel in their grip, even though he did not give the impression of being a particularly strong man.
“Thank you, Professor Carrow,” Snape said in his driest tone. “But I am perfectly capable of deciding appropriate punishments in my own school. Accio, sword.”
The Sword of Gryffindor zoomed out of Ginny’s hands and into the headmaster’s. She was displeased that it did not try to attack him as it did her.
“See you in the morning, Amycus.” The headmaster’s tone was stern, but the Carrow did not move. “Kindly let go of Miss Weasley, Amycus.”
Once he let go of her, Ginny let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Up!” Snape made a gesture towards the staircase, and the three students scrambled up to his office.
With the He-Carrow dismissed and everyone assembled in the headmaster’s office, Snape just stared at them. Ginny was all too aware of how bloody, bruised, and frightened she was. Her hair was falling out of its hasty ponytail and she had never felt smaller. She almost wished the He-Carrow was still there. His glee for pain was ghoulish, but he added a certain level of absurdity to the situation that would have dulled the fear somewhat.
“You made it further than I would have thought. Your work, I am guessing, Miss Lovegood? Longbottom here is not known for his intelligence, and Miss Weasley, while more clever than her brothers, lacks the subtlety and patience to learn how to get past protective charms.”
Ginny stole a glance at Luna, pale, still, and innocent, and she blurted out, “It was my idea. All of it. Neville and Luna only came along to protect me. The only rule they broke was being out of bed.”
Neville and Luna protested, but Snape kept all of his attention on Ginny.
“Just a nighttime stroll, Miss Weasley? It seems like an unusual destination. And you just happened to pick up a priceless school artifact along the way? What, may I ask, were you planning to do with the Sword of Gryffindor?”
She knew he had to be aware of Dumbledore’s will and what she would want with the sword, but she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of telling him. She raised her chin. “Fencing, sir.”
“Fencing?” He said the word as if it was something truly distasteful. It probably was to him, as it was a Muggle sport.
“It’s what one does with swords, is it not?”
Snape swooped bat-like to his desk and pulled a small vial out of a drawer. He raised the vial so they could all see it. “Do you know what one does with this?”
“Make someone drink it?”
“Ah, the legendary subtlety of Gryffindor House. Yes, this recently deregulated potion is meant to be drunk and generally either force or stealth is involved as very few drink it willingly. I trust you’ve heard of Veritaserum?”
She didn’t answer.
“You can tell me the truth, or I can administer this to you. And to your friends.”
He stared at her, and she suddenly remembered that Snape was an Occulumens. Between his ability and his knowledge of the situation, she knew further evasion or lying was pointless.
“We wanted the sword because Dumbledore had left it to a friend in his will. The Ministry did not heed his wishes.”
“And how were you going to get this item to your friend? Is he here in this castle?”
“No. I hadn’t figured out that part yet,” she admitted.
He continued to gaze at her, as if drinking in her knowledge–or lack thereof–of Harry’s whereabouts.
“So, if I were to search this castle, I wouldn’t find your friend?”
“No. I don’t know where he is.”
“Details, details, Miss Weasley. Traditionally one plans a crime before committing it.”
For the next twenty minutes, Snape insulted their intelligence, their planning, and their loyalties.
And then he sent them to bed.
The three of them exchanged glances.
“What is our punishment?” Ginny demanded.
Snape gave her an evil smile, “Come and see me after breakfast tomorrow. I need to reflect and decide what would be most appropriate for the crime.”
October 31, 1997, 6:42 a.m.
Gryffindor Girls’ Dormitories
In spite of not making it to her bed until 2:00 a.m., Ginny was awake early. She’d had strange dreams. In one, she was on trial for stealing a school thestral in her fourth year. Vincent Crabbe was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and he’d had the Dark Mark on his Ministry robes. In another, she was hiking through the Forbidden Forest with a teenaged Snape and a young Filch, and Snape was gently instructing her on how to tell poisonous mushrooms from edible ones. In the final dream, she was telling Harry she had failed in stealing the sword, and he told her that was fine and everything was occurring as prophesied. He said all this in a dreamy voice and then he asked her if she had tried the Gurdy Whisky.
Then she was awake, and early morning light was streaming through the windows. Around her, girls were sleeping peacefully and she wondered if they had noticed that she had been gone last night. She tried to go back to sleep but kept fretting over the events of the previous night, until she decided she would prefer to fret while standing upright.
In the light of morning, she knew Snape’s delay tactic had been effective. He had known what their punishment would be all along; he just wanted to extend the punishment with a sleepless night. She just hoped he gave them to the She-Carrow rather than the He-Carrow. Alecto was equally vicious, but Ginny was more concerned about the way the He-Carrow looked at her body and she remembered his hands on her shoulders last night.
She got up and began gathering her things for the shower. Snape would not see her looking scared or defeated. She was going to look amazing at breakfast and walk into the Great Hall with her head held high. Once in the shower, she began to relax and feel like herself again. It was very possible that Snape might try to keep the events of last night quiet. He wouldn’t want to draw attention to the sword any more than she did.
She spent considerable time on her hair and makeup, realizing the irony of making herself pretty for a man who could not be bothered to wash his hair. Ginny didn’t normally wear much makeup. Mascara and cherry-flavored lip gloss were all she typically bothered with, but she pulled out the shadows, blushes, and eyeliners she typically reserved for special occasions. Gemma and Pippa would be proud, she thought, as she applied blush.
Finally, she stepped back. Perfect. The dark circles under her eyes were hidden, and her cheeks glowed. No one would ever know how little sleep she’d had, yet she didn’t look conspicuously made up either.
“Morning,” Demelza said, yawning as she entered the bathroom. “Where were you last night? Pippa was very curious. She was speculating that you and Chris had become an item, so I told her you were in Lavender and Parvati’s dormitory.”
“Me and Chris?”
“He fancies you, in case you didn’t notice. That’s why he’s always hovering over your shoulder.”
“Oh, shit. I thought he was just lonely, with Ritchie not coming back and Martin ignoring him to hang all over Pippa.”
“You really didn’t notice?” Demelza leaned against the wall, studying Ginny closely.
She shook her head. “I haven’t been noticing boys lately.”
Thinking about a specific boy, yes, but she was less interested in the boys who were around her.
“So, I am guessing you weren’t snogging a cute boy last night?”
“Definitely not.” She hesitated, and then added, “Mel, I did something really stupid last night. And I’m in trouble.”
“In trouble with who?”
“Snape.”
“Shit, Ginny.”
“I know. I really need some coffee. I barely slept last night. Will you go down to the Great Hall with me?”
Demelza nodded. “Sure. Just give me ten minutes.”
The nice thing about Quidditch girls was when they said ten minutes, they meant ten minutes. Pippa would have been in the bathroom primping all morning, but Demelza quickly showered, dressed, and put her long dark hair into a plait.
“So, what happened?” Demelza asked as they swiftly walked down the stairs to the common room.
“Neville, Luna, and I broke into Snape’s office. We thought he was out of the castle, but then he and the He Carrow caught us.”
“Ginny, I knew you had nerve, but breaking into Snape’s office? What were you looking for? Wait, were you,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “spying for the Order of the Phoenix?”
“No, no, my mother would kill me if I did that. Can you keep a secret?”
“You know I can.”
“Dumbledore left Harry something in his will, but Harry never got it. I was going to retrieve it for him.”
They walked through the common room and out the portrait hole.
“What did Snape do when he caught you?”
“Nothing yet. There was a series of insults, ranging from the subtle to the ridiculous, but he said he would let us know what our punishment is after breakfast.”
“Is that why you are up so early? To get it over with?”
“Exactly.”
They were quiet down the next few flights of stairs. When Ginny reached the fourth floor, she turned around the corner and immediately tripped over something large, landing on the ground.
At first, she thought there was a dead body. Dark hair completely covered the girl’s face. Crawling toward her, Ginny gently moved the long dark curls back. She gasped when she saw the girl was Romilda. She placed two fingers on the side of her neck and was relieved to find a pulse.
“She’s alive. Mel, will you get Professor McGonagall? Madam Pomfrey too.”
As Demelza ran back up the stairs, Ginny took in Romilda’s torn clothing and knew it indicated rape. She also knew that you were supposed to leave a crime scene intact and not touch anything. But Romilda in that moment, with her pale skin and shallow breathing, was the most vulnerable thing Ginny had ever seen in her life, and she could not just leave her like that.
She adjusted Romilda’s clothing to cover her fully. Her skirt had been flipped up, and there were no knickers underneath. She had seen Romilda traipse around the girls’ dormitory in her expensive bra and knicker sets often enough to know that Romilda loved her lingerie and she would have never left Gryffindor Tower without her knickers. She had been proud of her beauty and her new womanliness.
Someone had stolen her knickers as a trophy. Someone who wanted to take away Romilda’s pride in her own body and sexuality. In that moment, Ginny could not think of a more terrible thing to take away from someone than ownership of her own body and sexual choices.
Ginny pulled her cloak out of her bag and covered Romilda with it, thinking she must be cold on the stone floor. How long had she been there? She suddenly remembered the feminine shriek she had heard the night before. Could she and Neville have saved Romilda? They had been so intent on getting the sword–the sword that they had failed to steal–that they had refused to believe someone was in danger.
She lifted Romilda’s head slightly to put her book bag underneath as a pillow and wondered what she could do to make the girl more comfortable. She knew all of the feminine gentleness in the world could not undo the brutality she had suffered at the hands of a boy, but gentleness was all she had to offer Romilda.
“Who did this to you, Romilda?” she whispered as she moved herself into a sitting position next to the unconscious girl.
She didn’t have to question what had been done to her. But why was she unconscious?
And had this also happened to Aimee Cartwright?
Author’s note #2: In Deathly Hallows, Griphook says that Ginny and her friends smashed the case when they stole the sword. As the story is third or fourth hand at that point, it is possible that the goblin just liked the idea of the case being smashed. Personally, I feel Ginny and her friends would have tried to cover their tracks, not wanting Snape to know the sword was going to be given to Harry. I also like the idea that Luna might have made a copy so excellent, that even Snape was impressed and had it put into Gringotts.
Chapter 12: Chapter 12: Investigating In Vane
Author's Notes: Hello all. So this chapter took forever. Thanks to everyone who is still reading this.
I’m excited to introduce you all to my idea of the Auror department. I’ve tried to limit the number of characters I introduce and just keep it to the people already listed in canon, so it’s not overwhelming, but I’ll eventually add more characters. In my head, Framed is the first in a series of Auror mysteries. All of them will have a Harry/Ginny romance, but each fic will have a different secondary romance. Like this one has a Draco/Astoria love story, this second mystery will, tentatively, have a Neville/Hannah love story. I probably should have started with N/H given how grossed out some of you seem by Draco as romantic hero, but Cursed Child left me curious about our favorite ferret. What is fanfic for, if not to write out our fascinations?
I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 12: Investigating In Vane
June 21, 1998, 8:43 a.m.
Conference Room 4, Auror Department, Ministry of Magic
It was a Sunday, but every Auror not on international assignment was assembled in C4, the only conference room that could hold them all. Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had recently moved from temporary Minister for Magic to permanent Minister, had rejoined his former department for the meeting, sitting with Gawain Robards at the head of the long table.
Harry, who was beginning his third week as an Auror trainee, had just reached the point where the department no longer looked like foreign territory. The large main office space no longer looked like a maze of cubicles, but was a series of familiar paths where work spaces were assigned due to hierarchies and skill sets that Harry was beginning to understand. He knew the desk with photos of a dark-haired young woman belonged to Daniel Savage, who lost his much younger wife at the Battle of Hogwarts. The desk that was barely visible under stacks of books written in dozens of languages was that of Dawlish. Williamson’s workspace could be identified by the dumbbells stacked underneath, and the Auror often did bicep curls while he read the reports the Junior Aurors submitted.
This conference room was also a familiar space as Harry, along with the rest of the department, reported here at 8:45 every weekday morning. In addition to the usual pots of tea and coffee on the side table, there was a selection of breakfast foods available. Harry knew the Senior Aurors had remained in the Ministry until 4:00 a.m., because they had been quick to tell the trainees so, as they did every time they wanted to emphasize that the Auror role wasn’t all fun and games. He supposed the food was there because most of the Aurors had likely not had time for a proper breakfast.
Harry sat in his usual space about two-thirds down the table on the right side, between his trainer Kelly Proudfoot and Ron. Kelly was enjoying toast and tea and examining some parchment. Ron, who had eaten a full breakfast at the Burrow, still took a full plate of toast and bacon. Harry, who was full but sleepy, merely had a black coffee. He didn’t particularly like his coffee black, but he had noticed that the Aurors considered those who used sugar and cream in either coffee or tea as weak, and he was not above attempting to change his palate to appear convincingly adult.
“There is a chance you might get to go out on assignment,” Kelly murmured to him. “Gawain wants a few of the trainees to get on this case, but he hasn’t told us which ones.”
“Really?” Harry murmured. He and Ron had exchanged excited glances.
They had not yet left the Ministry on Auror business yet. After each morning’s departmental meeting, the trainees went to the Ministry classrooms. On Mondays and Wednesdays, they took Introduction to Magical Law, which they shared with trainees in other DMLE departments, such as Ernie Macmillan, Michael Corner, and Padma Patil in Wizengamot Administration Services or Seamus Finnegan who was training to be a Hit Wizard. Tuesdays were for Criminology class, which was also shared with fellow DMLE trainees. Thursday was a review morning, which addressed gaps in their Hogwarts education, based on the skills tests they all took coming in. Harry’s customized plan for the next few months consisted of mostly Potions, with an occasional Charms or Transfiguration lesson thrown in. Friday mornings, they went to St. Mungo’s where they took Poisons and Their Antidotes along with the healer trainees. In the afternoons, they were in the hands of their trainers who usually had them do research, review case reports, or work on dueling practice.
Having spent so much time with books, reports, and lectures, Harry and Ron were both eager to see an investigation in progress.
“Good morning, or good second half of this morning to those of you who just left four hours ago,” Gawain said. “We have a lot to cover before we begin interviews this morning, so take a seat if you haven’t already done so. As you can see, the Minister has joined us, so we need to start this meeting on time, as he is a very busy man.”
With a wave of his wand, Gawain moved pots of coffee and tea to the conference table, removing all excuses to be up and about.
Gawain Robards was a man who could blend into any crowd. He was of medium height and average weight. His hair was medium brown and his eyes blue. Harry had never seen him in robes that weren’t a conservative navy blue. With his coloring and his trimmed mustache, he looked like he should be the proud owner of no fewer than three “World’s Best Dad” mugs, and Harry occasionally found himself glancing at Gawain’s coffee mugs to see if they did say this. While his appearance could not get more fatherly, the Aurors knew Gawain to be the best. He was an excellent strategizer, an unbeaten dueller, and even a black belt in the Muggle martial art of Judo.
“John led the examination of Miss Vane’s body last night.” Gawain nodded at John Dawlish, who was seated towards the head of the table as a Senior Auror. “We will begin with his team’s findings. John?”
John cleared his throat. “A full examination of the victim confirmed the original hypothesis of poisoning to be correct. We were able to extract poison from the victim’s digestive system, and it has been identified as celeri morte as the active ingredients–fluxweed, scurvy-grass, eye of a horned toad, acromantula venom–were all present. Since Miss Vane had no food in her system at the time of death, the team is confident in the accuracy of these results.
Harry studied Dawlish. He was greyer than when Harry first met him in Dumbledore’s office nearly three years ago. His short thick hair had been a golden brown then. Kelly had described him as someone who shouldn’t be underestimated. He was a mediocre dueler, she admitted, but he was brilliant, often solving cases on very few clues. Harry wasn’t sure what he thought of him, but he had survived the purge that had reduced the Aurors to less than half of their original ranks.
“The potion is merely moderately difficult to brew; anyone who earned an N.E.W.T. in Potions could manage it. The ingredients can all be found in Diagon Alley, and most of them are quite mundane. The exception is acromantula venom. While it too can be purchased in Diagon Alley, it is both unusual and expensive enough that we may be able to track recent purchasers.”
John skimmed through his parchment before continuing. “Celeri morte is a poison that works quickly. There is only one recorded case of an antidote–a bezoar, in that instance–being given in time to save the drinker’s life. Despite being deadly effective, this poison is rarely used. Some of you may remember our last case involving this poison was several years ago.”
Judging by the glances exchanged around the table, the seasoned Aurors all remembered the case and recalled it being very difficult.
“While it is not difficult to brew, it is time consuming. It requires six months to mature, so it would never be used in a crime of passion, and sales of this potion have been outlawed in most countries since the sixteenth century. However, once the potion is brewed, it remains effective for three years, if stored at the correct temperature.”
“We did some calculations to determine the time the poison would have likely been consumed. Based strictly on Miss Vane’s weight of 122 lbs and the lack of food in her stomach, the poison should have taken 1 minute and 45 seconds to kill her. However since the examination at the Ministry revealed that Miss Vane was at least 2 months pregnant, an estimate we have been able to narrow down to ten weeks, we can no longer depend on a 1 minute, 45 second estimate as a pregnant body fights poison longer than a non-pregnant body will. Therefore based on Miss Vane’s size, the lack of food in digestion, and stage of pregnancy, we have estimated the potion was consumed 3 minutes and 5 seconds prior to the time of death, which would be 9:10. Room for error is give or take 30 seconds.
“To summarize the findings of our team’s investigation, Romilda Vane was murdered by celeri morte, a poisoning process that took place between 9:10 and 9:13. The poisoner may have planned this for 6 months, or the length of time needed to brew the potion, or else he or she had brewed the potion some time in the past three years, or this individual knew where to purchase the potion and had adequate funds to do so.”
“Thank you, John,” Gawain said. “That was most thorough. Any questions for the examination team?”
After some questions regarding where potions ingredients could be purchased in Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, and Hogsmeade, Gawain asked Harry’s trainer, Kelly Proudfoot, to give her report on the killer’s profile.
Kelly was a compact woman, a mere five feet tall and less than 100 lbs, but she was powerful. She had a tiny nose ring and kept her dark hair in a pixie cut, which hinted at time spent in the Muggle world, even though she was a pureblood. Harry liked her. She had a blunt yet friendly personality that had instantly reminded him of Tonks, and he wasn’t surprised when he learned the two had been best friends. Once when he had gone to visit Teddy, he had found Kelly was already there, giving him a bottle.
At 26, she was young to be a Senior Auror, but she was a war hero and had been promoted just after the Battle of Hogwarts. Recruited to the Order of the Phoenix a few months before the fall of the Ministry, she had conducted Order business within the Ministry along with Kingsley, Tonks, and Savage. Once Kingsley and Tonks were forced into hiding, she and Savage had kept up the resistance in the Auror Department. Harry knew that Kingsley had depended on Kelly and Savage to advise him on which Aurors could be trusted to remain in their roles and which had been corrupted.
“The profiling team, at this time, has more questions than answers, but we are confident that the questions can be resolved with additional investigation. As we all know, the Ministry underwent new security last fall so that people disguised under Polyjuice Potion will set off building alarms.”
Harry tried to look innocent, but several people shot glances at him and at Ron.
“Due to this, the killer either arrived either under his own appearance–and I use the masculine pronoun strictly for convenience–or with minor transfigurations that wouldn’t set off security charms. Everyone present last evening was either an invited guest with an invitation that was inspected by security wizards before admittance to the ballroom or else they were staff of Magical Feasts Catering, all of whom had passed Ministry security clearance. However, there is a possibility that a guest or a staff member had been Imperiused by the killer. In that case, he would not have to be on the premises.
“We attempted to ascertain the age or the sex of the killer, but the information was too incomplete. We all know, statistically speaking, that murdered pregnant women are usually killed by an intimate partner. However, we do not know if Romilda or her baby’s father knew of her condition. She was only two months along, and she was drinking, suggesting she was either unaware or hoping for a miscarriage. If this potion was brewed six months ago with Romilda as the intended victim, she would not have been pregnant yet. Also, statistics tell us that killers who use poison are almost always female. In addition to being uncertain of the killer’s gender, we do not know if there has been more than one person involved.
“The time and location of the murder is curious. To murder a young girl in such a public circumstance, with trained Aurors and Hit Wizards on the premises, could mean that our killer was sending a specific message to the wizarding world. Yet it could also mean that this was the only way he could gain access to Miss Vane. Our killer is either very bold or very desperate. While the murder was bold, it was not impulsive or committed in a rage. This was carefully planned. He knows how to blend in, knows how the Ministry works.
“So as a summary of what we know. The killer did not use a Polyjuice potion, he was either permitted in the building as either invited guest or staff or he Imperiused someone who had legitimate access. He likely is familiar with the Ministry. He planned the crime in advance, possibly six months in advance. In all probability, our killer is not a violent person, as poisoning is the preferred form of murder for the squeamish.
“The things we need to learn include, but are not limited to the following: Where did Miss Vane get her wine–from a waiter, from a fellow guest, or did she swipe one of her parents’ glasses when they weren’t looking, and the poison was actually intended for them? Was she–or anyone around her–aware of her condition? Even if Romilda was aware of her condition, it does not mean anyone else was. It is not uncommon for pregnant teenagers to attempt to hide their condition for as long as possible. She may have hoped to make it back to Hogwarts without her parents finding out.
“If this proves unrelated to the pregnancy, we need to learn if Romilda had any enemies. Did Mr. or Mrs. Vane have any enemies who might use their daughter to make a point? Have there been any unusual financial transactions in the family that would indicate problems? If we can get these questions answered, we may be able to identify some suspects.”
“Thank you, Kelly,” Gawain said. “Any questions?”
To Harry’s surprise, Neville Longbottom raised a hand.
“Yes, Neville?”
“This isn’t so much a question as it is a comment. To those of us who were at Hogwarts last year, it was common knowledge that Romilda was raped by a serial rapist who was targeting several of the older girls in the school. This happened in the fall, so the pregnancy couldn’t have been a result, but in criminology class last Tuesday, it was mentioned that victims of crimes are more likely to be victimized in the future.”
Harry remembered Ginny’s comment: “I know they were after me; they just didn’t get me.” How many had they got?
Gawain looked thoughtful. “Thank you, Neville. Kelly, we will need to send an owl to Minerva McGonagall requesting the release of all of Romilda Vane’s records–medical records, school records, any records of her time at Hogwarts.” He gave a glance in Kingsley’s direction, and the Minister murmured that he would be willing to sign and seal the release of information request.
“Today, we begin interviews. Williamson, your team will go to Magical Feasts Catering. Interview everyone who was there, with particular emphasis on servers and bartenders.
“Dawlish, your team will be in the Hall of Records. I will need you to compare the list of people security checked into the ball against the list of people who signed out. Once that is done, look up each attendee for any connections to Romilda or other members of the Vane family.”
Normally Harry would be delighted that he wasn’t part of the team that would be cooped up in the Hall of Records, which was deep in the bowels of the Ministry, but he was still curious about Tori Greengrass and had been hoping for a chance to go the records room himself.
“Savage and Proudfoot, your teams will be needed at the Vane residence. Kelly’s list of questions is an excellent starting place, but don’t forget to find out if Romilda spent the Easter holidays at school or home in London. If Dawlish’s calculations are correct, she either conceived at Hogwarts in the last few days before the break or she conceived over the holiday, when she might have been in her parents’ home.
“I will be in my office if anyone needs me. Do good work today. I don’t need to remind anyone here that the wizarding world has lost too many young lives. Romilda’s killer must be brought to justice. And quickly.”
Before they went to the Vane home, Kelly had her team–Team Green–meet at her desk.
They had learned the significance of the Auror teams very early on in their training. On the day they were first assigned trainers and by extension teams, Kelly had said to them, “Welcome! As Gawain informed informed you, we are divided into four investigative teams–Red, Blue, Green, Purple–and you have been assigned to Green.” The “you” referred to Harry and Ron who would be trained by the Green Aurors with Kelly taking primary responsibility for them. “As Gawain is locked up in his little office, allow me to tell you what we really call them.”
She had gestured over to where Dawlish was huddled with Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot, showing them his books. “Those are the Brains, a.k.a. Team Purple, experts in dead languages and possessors of arcane knowledge. They are nerds who were too sexy to end up in the Office of International Cooperation so we got them.”
Harry could sense Ron plotting an opportunity to tell Percy that.
“Over there, we have the Blue Bloods.” Apparently, Daniel Savage, Susan Bones, and Neville Longbottom qualified as aristocrats in this department. “Also known as Team Blue. These are second, third, and fourth generation Aurors. Sometimes, their parents were in other DMLE departments, but most of them have at least one Auror as a parent. They grew up living and breathing DMLE. It’s an open secret that Blue Blood families are lax with confidentiality at home, so they often come into the department with decades worth of top secret knowledge.”
Harry supposed Neville was there as a courtesy. His parents had both been Aurors and extremely brave ones, but neither Longbottom was in any condition to mentor Neville in Auror ways, having been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix and her friends when Neville was still an infant.
She drew their attention to Williamson, talking to sandy haired boy Harry remembered as a Hufflepuff beater a year older than him. “Any guess what we call Team Red?”
“The muscles?” Harry had guessed.
“What gave it away? Team Red is Team Brawn, or the team that wastes perfectly good lunch hour in the Ministry gym and likes it. If you are ever interrogating a reluctant witness, just bring a Red in. They tend to scare the truth out of people.”
“So, what are we Greens if we are not brainy, brawny, or heirs to the department?” Ron had asked.
“We are the best team. Misfits and Secret Weapons.”
Kelly had said this with a great deal of relish, but Harry could not help but feel that he had been Sorted into Auror Hufflepuff. Which he supposed was better than Portkey Office Slytherin or Office of Misinformation Gryffindor.
“Misfits?” he had said.
“And secret weapons!” She said this, as if they were completely missing the honor of their classification. “Though I suspect you are a bit of both, Potter.”
“Lucky me. Okay, I am guessing Tonks and Moody were fellow Greens, but I can’t place Kingsley. What was his team?”
“Kingsley is a bit of a mystery, isn’t he? He was terribly misplaced. They grouped him into Brawn because of his physique, but within a month, it became obvious that he was actually a Brain and more of a Secret Weapon than our actual Secret Weapons.”
“Why aren’t the teams more diverse?” Harry had asked. “When investigating, it seems like it would be beneficial to have brains, brawn, experience, and whatever we are all grouped together so they can take advantage of each other’s strengths.”
“We do all work together. The Aurors are definitely a family, but we tend to get assignments that play to our strengths. You’ll see.”
It had seemed very strange to Harry initially, but he had learned over the last two weeks that being a Green had its advantages. The Purples spent all their time in the library. Anthony Goldstein’s inglorious first injury on the job was an excess of parchment cuts when he summoned a record, only to get pummeled by a large amount of books and parchment rolls rather than the single record he had been anticipating. Blue trainees always looked stressed as they were expected to know things that they hadn’t yet been trained in, and the Red trainee was forced to do push ups and obstacle courses daily. All the while, he and Ron practiced their dueling or else did independent study on topics that interested them.
That morning would be the first time the Blue and Green trainees would work together, and Kelly had some instructions for her Misfits before they joined the Blue Bloods.
“Okay, for those of you who are trainees, you’ll be there strictly to observe. I know this is your first time, and I know you are eager after spending so much time in lecture, but you will need to leave the questioning to fully qualified Aurors. I am hoping to let you do some questioning later in the investigation, but you aren’t ready today, and questioning the family of a murder victim is the most delicate task an Auror can perform. If there is a question you think Savage or I failed to ask, by all means let us know, but don’t ask the questions yourselves.”
She studied Harry and Ron carefully, and Harry sensed that she had been warned that they both had a reputation for recklessness.
“Any questions, trainees? No? How about my other Misfits? No? Okay, let’s meet Daniel and his team in the Atrium.”
10:00 a.m.
The Vane townhouse, London
When a butler let the Aurors into the entrance hall of the Vane townhouse, Harry thought they had stepped into Gilderoy Lockhart’s home by accident. But then his setting came into focus and he saw that the framed photos–six foot tall magazine covers, actually–did not depict a wizard with golden curls but an extremely thin brunette woman. Sharon Macmillan Vane winked in bikinis, moodily posed in elegant dress robes, and perched on desks while dressed in jewel-toned career robes. The covers belonged to Teen Witch, Corsets and Cauldrons, and primarily Witch Weekly.
She looked like her daughter. Harry supposed it was the other way around, that Romilda looked like her mother, but in the young Sharon Vane of the late 1970s and early 1980s, he could only see the daughter. They had the same wide black eyes, the same full lips, and the same short straight nose.
In most of the covers, she stood alone, like a Grecian statue brought to life, but in a few she posed with a handsome young wizard or with a group of carefree young witches. Harry found himself staring at the October 1978 cover of Corsets and Cauldrons where Mrs. Vane posed with another beautiful woman, both of them in dress robes with necklines that plunged in a very daring fashion.
“That one is Blaise Zabini’s mum,” Susan Bones whispered, following his gaze.
Harry had been studying the other woman, trying to figure out why she looked so familiar until Susan’s words made him realize she had many features in common with Blaise.
“The one that killed all of her husbands?” Harry whispered back.
“Seven of them,” Susan said. “She was Sharon Vane’s best friend back in their single days. They were the It Girls of the late seventies.”
“Ah, you found the Enemy Number One of the Auror Department,” Kelly said, glaring at the image of Mrs. Zabini. “Seven murders and we cannot prove a single one. We once passed legislation that said anyone with more than five marriages had to get their marriage licenses pre-approved by the Ministry before anyone was allowed to officiate. She responded by holding her next two weddings in Fiji where different laws applied.”
“What a resourceful woman,” Harry said, studying the photograph. The young Mrs. Zabini winked at him in response.
He moved on to the next photo, which had Mrs. Vane striking a pose in a gold bikini held in place with mere strings. Her ribs could be counted and her hip bones protruded. He thought of Ginny’s strong limbs and soft curves and the way her warm body felt in his hands. He clearly had a different idea of female beauty than Witch Weekly, preferring a woman who lived in her body as opposed to starving in her body.
The butler returned to the entrance hall with Mrs. Vane. She wore some black satin garment, and Harry had no idea if these were witches robes meant to be worn outside the house or if it was more an indoor garment. The tall woman was fully covered, but the garment had a slight lingerie look to it, even though he could not quite pinpoint what made it look slightly inappropriate.
“I am so sorry to keep you gentleman waiting,” she said. Harry noticed that Kelly and Susan exchanged a quick glance. “It has been a morning that no mother should ever have to face, as I had to tell Sara and Emilia what happened to their older sister. Mortimer and I couldn’t bear to do it last night. We got home, and they were sleeping like angels. How could we possibly wake them?
“It’s strange, but all I could think about, watching them sleep, was the first time I brought each of my babies home from St. Mungo’s. With each baby, I wanted them to stay asleep until well after I placed them in their cribs. I had this bizarre conviction that transitioning from womb to hospital to home within 48 hours was too much change for a new human to deal with. I had this idea that once they were a little older–maybe half a day older–they would understand they were home.
“Last night was a little like that. I didn’t want to move my girls into a world without their big sister until I absolutely had to. And then today they woke up and of course the first thing they wanted to know was how Romilda’s first ball was, and there is no avoiding that, is there?”
She teared up, and Daniel gave her a handkerchief.
Harry glanced sideways at Ron to see if his best mate was finding this as rehearsed as he did–the attire, the speech, the dramatic pauses. Ron was looking quite stricken, and Harry smothered a sigh. Ron always did have a thing for beautiful older women, he thought, recalling his friend’s crush on Madam Rosmerta. No wonder he would be caught up in Mrs. Vane’s theatrical distress.
A glance around assured Harry that Ron wasn’t alone. All of the Aurors looked stricken by Mrs. Vane, even Kelly and Susan who had just been referred to as gentlemen. Was he cynical for suspecting Romilda’s mother? Was she a mourning parent who deserved nothing but Harry’s compassion?
“We are so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vane, and we will do everything in our power to see justice for Romilda,” Kelly said quietly. “And we do hate to intrude on your earliest mourning, but we find that time is of the essence in these investigations, and it is best to ask questions while recollections are fresh. Of course, if you require some time, we would like to ask to search Romilda’s room, see if we can evidence that someone was focusing on her.”
Mrs. Vane was sobbing openly, a curiously attractive cry that would have not looked misplaced in a Muggle film. “What could you possibly find there? She was barely sixteen. What enemies could she have possibly had? What kind of monster kills a child?”
“It is our job to find that out. Now, you have some options in how we proceed. We can talk to you, we can talk to your husband, we can talk to you and Mr. Vane together, or we can–with your permission–examine Romilda’s bedroom. We will eventually need to speak to your daughters, but that does not need to occur today.”
Mrs. Vane dabbed at her eyes. “Why don’t you go to Romi’s room, although I cannot imagine how that could help you. I will check on Mortimer. Perhaps he will be ready to speak with you. I will show you upstairs.”
Sharon led them up a grand staircase and into a spacious second floor. The Vane townhouse made Grimmauld Place look like a broom cupboard. There were no magazine covers up here, but instead several giant portraits of three young girls. Romilda, clearly the family favorite, was front and center in all of them. The Vane girls all had their mother’s dark hair and eyes and fair skin, three Snow Whites. Harry looked at one portrait. Romilda had her arm around the youngest sister, both of them beaming, while the chubby middle sister tried to back out of the frame.
Mrs. Vane opened some double doors on the left, and the Aurors found themselves in a bedroom larger than the first floor of the Burrow. Romilda’s furniture was clearly expensive, but it was the crystal chandelier, marble fireplace, and the five foot portrait of Romilda twirling in dress robes with clouds of tulle that made it clear that this was the bedroom of a modern day princess.
Why would anyone kill Romilda Vane? Could this girl with an endless collection of nail polish on her vanity table and unicorn figurines pacing her bookshelves have been any sort of threat to anyone?
She had been pregnant, and therefore a potential embarrassment to her appearance obsessed parents. She was also a victim of rape who knew the identity of the Hogwarts Rapists. Ginny mentioned that Madam Pomfrey suspected use of the Fidelius Charm, but what if the secret keeper had died during the Battle of Hogwarts?
He thought of Vincent Crabbe, killed by his own Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. He couldn’t quite picture anyone electing Crabbe as secret keeper, but that could have been the point. His parents had believed Peter Pettigrew to be an excellent choice because he had been an unexpected choice. If Crabbe had been secret keeper, all of the boys and Romilda would now be secret keepers. Were they seeking to prevent the day she realized she could now speak of it?
“Could you leave her things in order?” Mrs. Vane asked. “Her belongings are what we have to remember her by.”
“Of course. It is our policy to leave things as we found them,” Kelly said.
Once Mrs. Vane had left and they heard her footsteps heading towards the stairs, Kelly and Daniel consulted quickly before giving the other Aurors orders.
“Okay, Team Green. Potter and Weasley, you get the bookshelf. MacLeod, the vanity table. Simmons, the bed. I’ll check her wardrobe,” Kelly said.
After the Blues finished their own huddle, Harry saw Susan begin sorting through Romilda’s dressers while Neville checked the floorboards and under the rug, Savage took the desk, while the other Blue Senior Auror checked under the sofa upholstered in violet velvet and in its cushions.
Harry began with the bookshelf itself, looking behind and under it for hidden objects and using his wand to look for hidden compartments. With nothing unusual found, he and Ron resigned themselves to pulling out Romilda’s textbooks and novels one by one and examining them.
“What are you looking for?” A young girl had come into the room and was looking at Harry and Ron, sitting on the floor and sorting through volumes. Harry recognized her as the middle sister who had tried to tiptoe out of the family portraits in the hallway. She was still in pajamas, a silky green pair in some Asian looking print. He guessed she had entered through the bathroom, which likely linked her room with Romilda’s.
“We don’t know,” Harry said. “Anything that might indicate someone wanted to hurt Romilda. I’m Harry and this is Ron. We’re Auror trainees.”
She rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows who you two are. I’m Sara. Did you like my sister?”
Harry paused, seeking something diplomatic to say. “Of course. She was very brave.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t like her either,” she said. “I loved her, of course. She was my big sister, but she took all the air in the room.”
Sara was about fourteen, Harry guessed. She was tall, pudgy, and curvy for her age. She was a very pretty girl, prettier in person than in her portraits, but her statuesque older sister had likely received all of the attention.
“Did she confide in you?” Harry asked.
He noticed that the other Aurors were no longer focused on their tasks, but listening to his conversation with Sara. Susan had frozen with a handful of Romilda’s lacy knickers in her hand. Neville was absentmindedly prodding at a floorboard with his wand. Daniel Savage was more subtle, continuing to sort through the desk drawers, but there was a tenseness to his back that indicated he was listening.
“Romilda didn’t confide in anyone, especially not after last fall. I always knew what color nail polish she was wearing, but nothing important.”
“She didn’t talk anyone about what happened? Not even her closest friends?”
“Romilda didn’t have friends. She had followers. It might have been easier for her if she’d had some friends.”
“Friends make everything more bearable,” Harry agreed. “I would do anything for mine. Did you notice any changes in Romilda over the summer?”
“Like her throwing up every single day?” Sara asked, studying Harry.
“Exactly like that.”
Harry had remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be questioning anyone, but Daniel hadn’t stopped him, and even Kelly had emerged from the wardrobe to listen.
“So, she was pregnant,” Sara said, almost to herself. “I don’t know who the father is. As far as I know, Romilda didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Did she keep her . . . condition hidden?”
“I dunno. I shared a bathroom with her, so it was impossible not to notice. Emilia’s too young, and Dad doesn’t pay much attention to us. Mum had a fit when Romi’s dress robes didn’t fit on the evening of the ball and she laced her up in some medieval looking corset until her waist was 22 inches and told her not to eat anything, but I don’t know if she knew why Romi had gained a couple pounds.”
Harry raised his brows, but the tight corset did not seem to be news to the Senior Aurors. Of course, they had been there for the examination of Romilda’s body, and he had not. “Did she object to being laced up? The dress robes could have been magically altered.”
“If she did, she knew better than to voice it. Mum had just signed Romilda up with her old modeling agency, and she seemed to indicate Romi had put on weight to spite her. Which is what she normally says to me, but never to Romi.” She gestured at her figure, in case no one had noticed she looked different from the rest of the females in her family.
“Was Romilda happy about becoming a model?”
“She was really excited at first. Mum started modeling at sixteen too, just summers and holidays until she finished Hogwarts. Romilda always said that she wanted to do the same, and she got a really good contract with Teen Witch. Then things, er, changed for her, and she started telling Mum it might be better if she waited until she finished school.”
“And how did your mother take this?”
“Let’s just say Mum won that fight.”
Harry thought Ginny may have been right in that the worst of Romilda being the result of her mother’s influence.
“What else was going on with Romilda? Did you know if her having problems with anyone other than your mum? Boys, maybe?” Harry asked.
“Mum would have never killed Romi! She was always the favorite, the beautiful one, Mum’s obvious heir.”
“I’m sorry, Sara. I wasn’t suggesting your mother had hurt her.” Although lacing up a pregnant girl in a corset is hardly harmless, he thought. “I worded that badly. But she did capture the attention of someone dangerous. It sounds like she was under a lot of pressure, getting a modeling contract at the very time she couldn’t possibly model. But could something else have been going on with her?”
Sara looked smaller than she had since coming into the room. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me anything.”
“Would you be able to tell me who her friends were at Hogwarts? Even if they were more followers than friends?”
She nodded, and then flipped her long black hair over her shoulder. “Start with Rachael Reynolds. And then Rosemarie Walker and Raven King. They’re Gryffindors. They used to call them the Four R’s. And try Flora Clearwater. She’s Romi’s Ravenclaw friend.”
“Thank you, Sara.” Harry quickly wrote down the names. “We’re going to find out who did this to your sister.”
Sara studied the floorboards. “She wasn’t a bad person. People treated her like royalty, and sometimes it went to her head, but Romi was funny and smart and she could be really silly when it was just the three of us sisters.”
“Sara!” Mrs. Vane came back into the room. “What are you doing in here? And in your pajamas! The Aurors are working.”
“I heard voices,” Sara said. Her tone was more quiet than when she had been talking to Harry.
“Go to your room and get dressed. There is some Dexameal in the dining room for you when you are ready.”
Harry knew Dexameal was a drink with weight loss potion in it. Mrs. Weasley had drank it every morning in the days leading up to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and the lack of calories had made her grumpy. He felt certain the Dexameal was not Sara’s idea, and his dislike of Mrs. Vane increased. He hoped Sara ate a cupcake just to spite her.
When Sara left, Mrs. Vane turned towards the Aurors. “Mortimer and I will see you in his study when you are done here.”
The examination of Romilda’s bedroom took another 20 minutes. There was little noteworthy in her bookshelf. Harry found notes to and from her friends jammed in her History of Magic textbook, but could find nothing relevant in them. They were typical notes passed between kids during a boring class. Ron had the only good find of the bookshelf; one of Romilda’s unicorn figurines was hollow and held a mystery powder inside.
Susan found a WWW love potion in her underwear drawer. Daniel found years worth of correspondence in her desk. Kelly found skimpy Muggle clothes hidden in the very back of her closet, speculating that it could indicate a double life her parents were unaware of. But Neville had the big discovery.
Underneath a loose floorboard were five years worth of diaries.
1:30 p.m.
The Hidden Pumpkin, London
“She was lying,” Daniel said to Kelly. “She knew Romilda was pregnant.”
They had finished with interviews for the day. Questioning Sharon and Mortimer Vane had taken nearly two hours, and it had yielded very little new information.. With the workday over, the Blues and the Misfits had decided a long, boozy Sunday lunch was needed.
Harry had quickly learned that the Aurors hated The Leaky Cauldron as much as they despised cream and sugar in their tea, considering it to be the domain of knitting grandmothers and excited schoolchildren. Their pub of choice was The Hidden Pumpkin, which was located near the Ministry and favored by all departments within the DMLE. And when the Aurors were interested in serious drinking and food was not a consideration, they went to Felix Felicis, which was a bar that hid in plain sight on Diagon Alley and served 213 different types of firewhisky.
“What makes you say that?” Kelly asked.
“She was just a little too shocked. Her reaction was a little too perfect, like something out of a play.”
“Mortimer Vane also seemed shocked. Do you also think he too was lying?”
Daniel shook his head. “It’s not the same thing. You know how you sometimes know someone is lying to you? You don’t know how or why. They are saying all the right things, putting on a good show, but you just know. Ask Potter. He didn’t believe her either.”
Harry looked up from his menu, startled. Was he so transparent?
“Harry thinks the mum did it,” Ron said, then put down his own menu. “I think I’ll get the fish and chips.”
Harry turned red. He tried to kick Ron under the table, but it was Susan who yelped in response. He gave her an apologetic look. “I never said I thought she was the murderer. I just thought there was something off about her. And she’s definitely controlling.”
“Controlling how?” Kelly asked.
Harry quickly went over the points he had explained to Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and George the previous night and told them Ginny’s story about Romilda being put on a strict diet even while at Hogwarts, which Susan confirmed having also been in the Room of Requirement the evening it came up.
“I don’t think anyone thinks Sharon Vane is a model parent,” Kelly said. “But the world has a lot of bad mothers, and most of them do not murder their children.
“I still think she was lying to us,” Daniel commented. “I don’t think she killed her daughter, but she didn’t want us to think she had been aware of the pregnancy. I think she might be hiding something else from us, as well.”
A server came along and took their orders. Once, they all had pints of ale, the talk moved away from the investigation. Kelly pulled out a copy of The Daily Prophet. Harry and Ron were talking about playing a game of Quidditch in the orchard that evening, when Harry looked up to find Kelly looking at him.
“Potter, have you read The Daily Prophet today?”
Fuck. What was it this time? He shook his head.
“Well, you might want to read this.”
He exchanged a glance with Ron and then opened the paper. He did not need to scour the pages. The article Kelly referenced was on the front page.
Harry Potter’s Ex-Girlfriend Murdered at Ministry Ball
By Rita Skeeter
The photograph that accompanied the story showed him and Romilda selecting champagne glasses from the same tray. Had he really been so close to her in those final moments? He had no recollection of seeing her until the time of her death. The angle of photo was curious, as it made his hand look huge. As the movement stopped before he picked up his and Ginny’s glasses, it looked as though he was waving his hands over the glasses, possibly even sprinkling something in them. With unease churning in his stomach, he began to read.
Yesterday evening, longtime girlfriend of The Man Who Triumphed, sixteen-year-old Romilda Vane died of seemingly unnatural causes at the Ministry of Magic’s Midsummer Ball and Order of Merlin Awards ceremony. Shortly before her untimely death, Miss Vane was found hovering near her ex-boyfriend, looking as though she had something urgent to tell him, but Harry Potter, 17, did not even spare her a glance.
“He devoted his attention to a tray of champagne glasses, so that he would not have to look up at Romilda,” said Amanda Merryweather, of the Department of Magical Transportation. “In fact, one could say his hands lingered over the selection of glasses for a suspiciously long time. You could tell Romilda was upset, and who could blame her? She had supported him through difficult times in his sixth year of Hogwarts and during his year on the run, and he left her for the first girl to flutter her eyelashes at him after the Battle of Hogwarts.”
Harry Potter’s latest fling is Ginevra Weasley, 16, the youngest of impoverished family and notorious flirt. “She collected boys at Hogwarts,” said Zacharias Smith, seventh year Hogwarts student and member of a respected Hufflepuff family.
Apparently Miss Weasley’s charms were sufficient to steal young Potter’s affections from Miss Vane, who had been his girlfriend of a year and a half. Potter and Vane’s relationship began in the Gryffindor Common Room following a Quidditch win when Mr. Potter kissed Miss Vane in front of all of their classmates. Members of Gryffindor House described the kiss as “madly romantic” and the couple’s relationship as “fast and passionate.” Miss Vane is reportedly the only person in Hogwarts who Harry Potter kept in contact with during his year on the run.
“After poor Romilda died, Potter was surprisingly cold. He seemed every inch the hardened Auror, accustomed to seeing corpses, in spite of still being in training,” said a Ministry official who refused to be named. “He was there calmly doing the transcription. You would never know that this was a girl had claimed to love once.”
And had Potter’s once famous love turned to hate in the midst of his success?
“I hate to think it,” said Miss Merryweather. “I especially hate to say it out loud, but did Harry Potter do something to Romilda’s glass? It seems impossible that anyone could be that evil to kill a young girl whose life was just beginning, but her death wasn’t an accident. Someone is responsible.”
[See “Political Turmoil and Domestic Abuse: Correlation and Causation,” page 10]
Harry Potter may be innocent of his ex-girlfriend’s death, but appearances reveal too many suspicious coincidences.
The amazing thing about Rita Skeeter was what she wrote was always reliably worse than even Harry expected of her. Harry pushed his steak and kidney pie away, no longer interested in eating. Ron, who had read the article over Harry’s shoulder and had made a sound of disgust when he read Zacharias’ comment about Ginny, did not suffer Harry’s loss of appetite. He eagerly moved Harry’s plate closer to him.
“Harry,” Kelly said, “I hate to ask, especially as I know 98% of what Skeeter writes is bullshit, but were you ever romantically involved with Romilda Vane? If you were, you can’t work on this case. It’s a very clear conflict of interest. Even an innocent date at Hogsmeade a couple years ago would look really bad.”
“No!” Harry said. “We never dated. I think I had two or three conversations with her in the course of my life, and one of them involved me yelling at her to get off the Quidditch pitch if she wasn’t going to take Gryffindor tryouts seriously.”
“It’s the truth,” Ron said. “Harry and Romilda were never together, in spite of Romilda’s best attempts.”
Kelly looked stern. “In spite of her best attempts? Explain.”
Harry sighed. “Professor Slughorn had an invitation only Christmas party a couple years ago. It was a really big deal to go as the guest list was so limited. It was well known that I had an invite, and a lot of the younger girls kept hinting that they wanted to go as my date. Romilda went a step further. She gave me some chocolates laced with love potion.”
“Did you eat them?”
“No, Hermione warned me that she’d overheard some girls giggling about love potions and, well, me in the girls’ bathroom. When she gave me the chocolates, I had a pretty good suspicion that there was more than just chocolate in them.”
“But they could have been mere chocolates,” Kelly pointed out. “You could have missed out on a really good snack.”
“No, I said I never ate them,” Harry said, “but they did get eaten. Ron ate them by accident. And let’s just say the love potion wasn’t weak or diluted.”
Kelly looked over at Ron, eating Harry’s food. “Only you would ‘accidentally’ eat someone else’s food. So, do you have a conflict of interest?”
Harry answered for him as his best mate had a mouthful of food, which he would not hesitate to spew all over the table. “Nah, I took Ron to Slughorn’s office before he had an opportunity to serenade Romilda in the Great Hall.”
Kelly put her head in her hands. “You two are going to be really fun trainees. I can feel it.”
“That’s not the posture that indicates a successful interview.” Gawain Robards had arrived.
“Everyone went smoothly at the Vane house, boss,” Kelly said. “My current irritation is all Rita Skeeter.”
Gawain sighed. “What now?”
Kelly took the paper out of Harry’s hands and gave it to their boss. Harry squirmed as Gawain read it.
“This is fabulous!” Gawain said.
Kelly, Harry, and Ron just stared at each other. There was no sarcasm in Gawain’s voice. He sounded genuinely delighted.
“Sir?” Kelly said. “Did we read the same article?”
“We did. Potter, do you have a conflict of interest?” Gawain asked.
“No. Romilda was never my girlfriend.”
“Glad to hear it.” Gawain gave the paper back to Kelly. “Take a good look at the photo. Then tell me what is cropped out of this photo.”
“A server,” Harry said quietly.
“Exactly. The Daily Prophet will need to surrender all of their photos to us. Some of them are bound to contain the person who gave Romilda that fatal glass.”
Chapter 13: Chapter 13: Bad Boys
Author's Notes: This is probably my darkest chapter thus far, but it's necessary. Chapter 14, which is nearly done, will be quite a bit lighter. Thank you to everyone who is still reading. I know it's been quite a break.
Chapter 13: Bad Boys
October 31, 1997, 4:00 a.m.
Slytherin Dungeons, seventh year boys’ dormitory
Draco sat upright in his bed. The darkness disoriented him. Even after he realized he was in his dormitory, his heart continued to beat loudly as if it could help him outrun his dream.
Fucking snake. Three months ago, he reminded himself. It had been three months since Nagini had slurped up Charity Burbage like a spaghetti noodle. It wasn’t a moment ago, it wasn’t even last week, it was three full months ago. Yet Draco felt as though he was still there, that he would never be permitted to leave, that he would be forced to watch the great snake eat the professor in some never ending loop.
He made his way to the bathroom, nearly tripping over a bottle of some sort on his way. Once there, he threw up in the nearest stall. When his stomach settled, he rinsed his mouth at one of the sinks. His reflection was pale aside from the dark circles under eyes.
He was at Hogwarts. The Dark Lord and his reptilian monster were at Malfoy Manor. The thought should have brought him comfort, but he kept imagining Nagini’s thick body shimmying through the manor’s darkened corridors. Also, he may have managed to have escaped, being of school age, but his parents were both still there, prisoners in their own home.
He spotted something emerald out of the corner of his eye. Lacy knickers were attached to the side wall, no doubt with a Permanent Sticking Charm, like the virginal white cotton pair next to them. When the white knickers first appeared in the bathroom two weeks ago, Aimee Cartwright appeared in Hospital Wing. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.
Who was the new girl? He discounted Aimee, partly because it was terrible to imagine an attack on a girl who was unconscious and defenseless in the hospital wing, and mostly because the owner of the white cotton knickers would not have owned the skimpy jewel-colored lace pair. If he were to guess, he would say the emerald knickers girl was wealthy, confident, sexy, and possibly vain.
He remembered the bottle he had nearly tripped over on his way into the bathroom. There had been empty Firewhisky bottles about the first time too. Draco wanted out of the bathroom. He wanted to get away from the knickers. Just by being in the same room, he began to feel as if he shared in the guilt. His belly churned again, but he knew it was empty this time, so he backed out of the bathroom, making his way back to bed. He would put this out of his mind until the morning.
He didn’t know anything after all. It was just middle of the night speculation.
The Great Hall, 6:30 a.m.
Sleep eluded Draco so he found himself in the Great Hall for the earliest breakfast of his Hogwarts years. He had never even set foot in the Great Hall that early, unless one counted the strange Sirius Black pajama party of his third year. Amused, Draco recalled that had also occurred on Halloween.
Snape was already at the breakfast table with his austere meal of toast and marmalade with strong tea. Draco realized he had never seen Professor Snape at breakfast since he had become headmaster. He must have made it his custom to dine before the rest of the school even woke. Two Hufflepuff boys, sixth years Draco thought, were eating bacon and toast sandwiches and having an animated conversation. They shot him an uneasy glance but quickly resumed their discussion.
Draco went to his usual spot in the Slytherin table, feeling strange sitting down at an empty table. As soon as he sat down, platters appeared with poached eggs and buttered sourdough toast. A pot of tea appeared, but no pumpkin juice. It was, essentially, Draco’s preferred breakfast since the age of eight.
His eyebrows rose. Did the house elves know what each individual student ate? He had never sat down alone before so his favorites had always blended with everyone else’s.
He remembered that as a child whenever he had been punished, confined to his nursery and forbidden to play outside or join family meals, his food trays had always contained one of his favorite treats. He had always assumed that his mother had been responsible for this, that it was her way of softening his father’s punishments, but for the first time, he realized it was likely Dobby who had cut cheese sandwiches into wand and cauldron shapes and added tiny chocolate cakes to his rations.
He probably should have been nicer to that elf.
He tucked in, suddenly hungry. Merlin, the buttery toast was perfect. He ate his meal quickly but lingered over the tea, his nightmare and the knickers display in the bathroom both forgotten. He was on his second cup of tea, his plate pushed away, when Tracey Davis joined him at the table.
“Hi Draco,” she said, sitting across from him. “You’re up early.”
She normally sat on the same side of the table as him, three spots down, with Crabbe and Bulstrode separating them, but typical seating didn’t matter when you were the only two at the table.
“Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“Morning person. I swear, Millie’s snoring gets louder over every year. It’s like having a cow for a roommate. I have to leave the dormitory by seven or else I go mental.”
Draco smiled. Pansy, his ex-girlfriend, had certainly complained enough about Millicent Bulstrode’s snoring. “It’s Goyle in our dormitory. Nott reckons he is part troll.”
“I could draw that conclusion without hearing him snore.” A bowl of porridge appeared in front of Tracey, clearly her preferred breakfast.
Draco shrugged. “He’s a good friend though, part troll or no.”
“Is he though?” Tracey eyed him carefully. “You seem to be less chummy these days.”
He also eyed her carefully. He had never paid much attention to Tracey. Of the Slytherin girls, Pansy had been the leader, Daphne had been the pretty one, and Bulstrode had been the tough one. Tracey had always just blended in, a friend to all of the other three, with nothing to distinguish her from the pack. Though with Daphne missing, Draco supposed that Tracey was now promoted to the pretty one. Pretty little brunette or not, he knew little about this girl he had shared a common room with for seven years and he wasn’t about to confess that his relationships with both Crabbe and Goyle were strained.
It began last year, the break. He’d asked them to take Polyjuice a few too many times. At the beginning of their Hogwarts years, they had been in his debt. The Malfoy family fortune had kept Crabbe and Goyle’s fathers out of Azkaban in the early eighties, and it had been well understood by all parties that Crabbe and Goyle would look after him, and he in turn would look after them as noblesse oblige had been drilled into him since birth.
The leadership role had come naturally to him and so did popularity. He had learned early on that he could make his fellow Slytherins, even the older students, laugh at his jokes just like Lucius could make people laugh at social gatherings. So he hammed it up and discovered he had a knack for impressions. His detached humor had allowed him to bounce back from embarrassing situations that would have socially destroyed other students.
In third year, when his dementor prank had been foiled, leaving him and his friends in an undignified heap of robes, being told off by Old McGonagall, he’d simply waited until the Transfiguration teacher stormed off and then he had taken a bow in front of his fellow Slytherins as if to suggest it had been all in good fun. When Fake Moody had Transfigured him into a ferret in fourth year, he’d drawled to the Slytherin table that it was a pity he had returned to form before he could sneak into the girls showers to more fully appreciate his classmates.
But everything had begun to change in sixth year. With all of their fathers in Azkaban, he’d been on more equal footing with the other boys, Crabbe and Goyle no longer his indentured servants. Initially he’d retained control because of his new Death Eater status and his mysterious project, but his friends tired of guard duty on the seventh floor and the strain he couldn’t hide proved his status was not as elevated as he had boasted.
Over the summer, both Crabbe and Goyle had visited Malfoy Manor with their fathers, and it was impossible to hide the state of his family’s disgrace. When MacNair taught the burly boys how to perform the Cruciatus on the Malfoy estate peacocks, Draco had kept his face neutral knowing the birds would be tortured to death if he attempted to intervene, but he hadn’t fooled Crabbe, who had watched him with a tight lipped smile, sensing how disturbed he was by both the terrible sounds the birds made and the violation of his family’s estate.
Afraid of revealing his weakness, he did not return to the birds until after everyone had gone to bed. In the early hours, he had given the birds potions to both heal their pain and regrow their tail feathers. And he buried the birds that did not survive the torture curse under the rose bushes and was grateful that the only thing he had ever requested from his parents and been denied was a dog.
“Me and Goyle? We’ve been best mates since we were six. I’m studying a lot this year. My father wants me to get enough N.E.W.T.s to get into the Ministry, you know, and Goyle’s not really into academics . . .” Draco’s voice trailed off as he tried to remember what Goyle was up to these days. Just following the Carrow like a puppy, he supposed “. . . so he’s doing his thing, but he, Crabbe, and I will always be the Slytherin Trinity.”
He injected his voice with snobbery as if to indicate this grouping was too sacred to be questioned.
“It’s okay if you’re growing apart,” Tracey said, stirring sugar and dried fruit into her porridge. “You were always different from them, and we’re nearly done with school. We can do whatever we want next year.”
It was a nice thought, but the tattoo on Draco’s forearm said differently. He had already used two of three Unforgivable Curses in the service of the Dark Lord. It was only a matter of time before he was required to use the third. In fact, He Who Must Not Be Named would be certain of it, given his bungling of the Dumbledore mission.
No, he would be returning to Malfoy Manor, sitting through the Dark Lord’s meetings, all plotting and self glorification. He’d torture and kill, and he’d watch other people being tortured and killed, and none of it would bring the better world he’d been promised as a child. He could never leave, could never run, or else his parents would be killed, and then he himself would be hunted down and killed.
For just a moment, he remembered his conversation with Dumbledore on the top of tower last spring. Was only five months ago? It felt like a lifetime. The headmaster seemed to think Draco was not yet at the point of no return. It could have been pleading to save his own life, but Draco didn’t think so. He had been the frightened one in the tower, not Dumbledore. Had he given the headmaster his wand back, he could have taken care of the Death Eaters, even Bellatrix, and modified their memories.
No.
He was forgetting Snape, who had Dumbledore’s unwavering faith. Snape. He was more wily than Draco had ever given him credit for. He always knew Snape was clever and disciplined, but he had always taken him to be a follower, first of Lucius, then the Dark Lord. But Snape was more than that. The quiet control he had always held in dungeons also extended to the most dangerous circles of wizards.
He couldn’t have done anything differently. No matter what he had done or could have done, it would have brought him to the exact same place.
“What do you plan to do next year?” Draco asked. He wasn’t interested in the answer, but if he was going to share a meal with her, it wasn’t going to be an awkward silence.
“I’m applying to Teen Witch. They need someone to write about culture.” Draco suspected “culture” meant fangirling over the Weird Sisters. The magazine wasn’t known for its journalism. “If that doesn’t work out, I am thinking about traveling. Dad is really busy these days, and my stepmum is the worst, so seeing the world would be nice.”
Her father was indeed busy, as Draco had seen Hamish Davis at Malfoy Manor many times over the summer. Davis was not a Death Eater, but he had been volunteered into the Dark Lord’s service, a call that few dared to refuse. He had a dead look in his eyes these days, which was the usual indicator that a man was emotionally ready to become a Death Eater.
“Sounds nice,” Draco murmured, as he poured himself a third cup of tea. “I always thought I would travel after Hogwarts, maybe spend some time in Asia, but I am thinking I will just go straight to the Ministry. I’d like to start my career right away.”
He looked up to see Professor McGonagall enter the Great Hall, her eyebrows drawn together. The facial expression was permanent on the Transfiguration professor these days, but the brisk purpose with which she strode towards Professor Snape caught his interest. He remembered the emerald knickers and wondered if a second bed in the hospital wing was now occupied.
Whatever she had to say also caught Snape’s interest, as he stood instantly in a swish of dark robes. While they moved swiftly through the Hall, there was a notable moment where both professors fixed eyes with Draco, both unified in their suspicion, and he couldn’t help but think the famous Occulumens had just probed his mind.
1:00 p.m
Potions Dungeon
Romilda Vane. It was so obvious once Draco knew. Who else would have owned those flamboyant knickers? Who else had every boy talking about her since she boarded the Hogwarts Express on September 1st. He had even once overheard the usually quiet Nott telling Zabini, in graphic detail, everything he would like to do to Romilda.
Some girls had been talking too. Draco had overheard Pansy speculating that Romilda had her chest magically enhanced over the summer, which was illegal in underage witches. (Draco was quite certain that Pansy was wrong. Like every other straight wizard in England, he had seen Sharon Vane’s infamous 1977 topless photo in Wizards’ Quarterly, and he felt sure some assets just ran in families.)
People were still talking, but it wasn’t excited gossip or jealous whispers this time. It was fear. Romilda was beautiful, rich, and pure blooded, and it was rumored that she might never regain consciousness. If it can happen to her, it can happen to any of us, was the unspoken fear lurking behind all of the gossip. While what had happened to Aimee Cartwright had gone mostly unnoticed–she’d been ushered into the hospital wing without students knowing why or when and the Carrows’ new punishments had distracted all of the houses–everyone knew what happened to Romilda. Evidently, some Gryffindor students had found Romilda unconscious and it had left little to the imagination.
He was grateful that it was double Potions, as neither Crabbe nor Goyle had qualified for N.E.W.T. level potions, which enabled him to be alone with his thoughts. There were other Slytherin boys in the class–Nott and Zabini–but Draco had no idea if they were involved. He suspected not. Nott was too timid, the shy son of a powerful father, and the beautiful and arrogant Zabini would only have sex with girls who worshipped the ground he walked on.
Potions was Draco’s favorite and least favorite time of the week. His love of the class had nothing to do with old Slughorn, that pseudo-Slytherin, who was ambition sans ideals. Creating a potion was the most meditative activity Draco knew. Other activities–such as drinking or sex–were more distracting, but potions making was peaceful. Also, it was nice not to have Granger or Potter in class, stealing the spotlight, although he did occasionally miss the entertainment provided by Longbottom’s exploding cauldron.
The only downside of the class was Slughorn himself. Now that Granger was gone, Draco was without contest the best student, but old Slughorn was always fawning over Zabini. It made him want to puke into his cauldron.
He shared a table with Nott, who was easy to work with. He was nearly always silent, but his mind was quick and he was careful with his potions. Why had he not befriended Nott in first year? He and Zabini could never have been more than friendly acquaintances, but Nott wasn’t tedious like Zabini and Draco wouldn’t have to explain all of his jokes like he did with Crabbe and Goyle. He did always suspect that Nott had a dark side, but he doubted it was anything horrific. He couldn’t picture Nott torturing peacocks, which was Draco’s new minimum requirement for friendship.
He thought about starting up a conversation with Nott as they worked, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Back when he started Hogwarts, he would just walk up to people and tell them who his father was. But that was a juvenile approach at seventeen. Besides Nott knew who his father was. He’d met Lucius many a time at social gatherings of pureblood families.
So Nott, got any hobbies?
They were in the seventh year of sharing a dormitory, so Draco was supposed to know that sort of thing about him by now.
Hey Nott, that’s a good looking Energizing Potion you have brewing there.
No, he wasn’t trying to sleep with Nott. Or his potion.
Nott, were you as surprised as me to find Romilda’s knickers in the bathroom this morning. She wears Slytherin colors under her clothes, who knew?
Definitely not.
They continued stirring their potions in silence, adding salamander tails almost in unison, until Draco overheard something that caught his attention.
“. . . At the next Potions club, Professor,” Ernie Macmillan was saying.
There was a Potions club? Or was this just the Slug Club rebranded for the Carrow era? If Draco was honest with himself, he had really wanted to be a Sluggie last year, to sit in parties, singled out from the rest. He hadn’t actually had time for it last year, but he’d wanted to be there, and it annoyed him that Zabini who had no winning traits other than his looks had been automatically included.
But a Potions club would be even better than an exclusive club. Draco, though a lifelong bibliophile, was sick of the Hogwarts library. Even being of an age to access the Restricted Section had lost its allure, particularly since the Dark Arts were basic classroom curriculum these days. He had not outright lied to Tracey that morning; he was focusing heavily on his studies this year. But it was mostly due to loss of interest in other things that kept him in the stacks. He was Head Boy this year at Snape’s appointment, so he had responsibilities, but given the lack of order in Hogwarts, they were not overwhelming.
A club was just what he needed. Even if Macmillan was a member. Ugh, Ernie Macmillan should have been his first clue that his father’s pureblood pride had been misplaced. Generations of pureblood breeding only to produce the uptight and upright Macmillan? What a waste of carefully arranged marriages.
“Yes, yes, I’ll let you know when it’s scheduled,” Slughorn boomed.
Of course. Slughorn would like Macmillan.
“Sir?” Draco said a few minutes later when Slughorn was walking around the class, checking people’s potions.
“Yes, my boy?”
“I’m sorry to eavesdrop, but a moment ago, I thought I heard Ernie mention a Potions club. Has one been formed?”
Slughorn’s smile, which had been quite natural when he had turned towards Draco, seemed to tighten somehow. Even Macmillan seemed to stiffen at his cauldron.
“Yes, there has, but perhaps a club isn’t the correct term. It’s more a study group. Macmillan and a few other sixth and seventh years are considering a career in healing, so I’ve started a group, preparing for the N.E.W.T.s.”
Draco felt positive that Slughorn was lying, but it only sharpened his interest.
“That’s quite a coincidence, sir,” he said. “I’ve been considering a career as a healer, as well.” Slughorn’s bushy eyebrows rose, an unconscious gesture Draco supposed, but a telling one. Draco supposed it was fairly well known that he was about as selfless as a housecat, making healing an unlikely career choice. “Or maybe working in an apothecary. I haven’t really made up my mind yet.”
“Well, who has at your age? I had dreams of acting when I was seventeen. So, healing, my dear boy?”
“Or an apothecary,” Draco said.
“Both very respectable careers. Very well, Mr. Malfoy, I will let you know when the next meeting will be held. As I was telling Mr. Macmillan, it is not scheduled at this time.”
Ernie wasn’t even pretending to stir at this point.
“Thank you, sir,” Draco said, even though he was certain that Slughorn was lying about including him.
November 13, 1997, 10:25 a.m.
Library corridor
“There you are, my dear boy.”
Draco turned to find Professor Slughorn behind him, wearing garish robes in an unfortunate shade of mustard. “Good morning, professor.”
“I just wanted to ask if Mr. Macmillan had been able to find you.”
“Find me?” He had just shared a Transfiguration class with Ernie.
“Yes, yes, to tell you about the next meeting of the Potions Club. We’re meeting in the Dungeons at seven tonight. We’re covering pain potions, a basic for any healer.”
He bloody well hadn’t told Draco. “Thank you, sir. Ernie and I must have not crossed paths today.”
“Well, hope you can make it! Excuse me, I have to teach my second years.”
Why was Slughorn willing to include him? And why was Ernie determined to exclude him?
7:25 p.m.
Potions dungeon
That evening things began to make more sense. No one talked freely in front of Draco, but he had a strong suspicion of what this group was organized for, and it wasn’t the N.E.W.T.s. In fact, some of the attendees weren’t even in N.E.W.T level Potions. Finnigan definitely wasn’t, and he suspected some of the sixth years weren’t either.
Recently, the Carrows had begun inventorying the potions in the Hospital Wing, saying Madam Pomfrey had used disproportionately more potions than she had in the last five years combined. This was true for obvious reasons. Amycus had insisted that there was a growing trend of pain potion abuse in the student body, enabled by the staff. He had severely restricted what potions could be ordered from the apothecary in Hogsmeade.
And conveniently here was a club, brewing one of the most essential healing potions.
Oh, the cover was good. Healers did need to know how to brew an expert pain potion; it was common for there to be no fewer than two pain potions in the N.E.W.T exam each year; and professors commonly offered extra sessions to sixth and seventh year students. The Carrows couldn’t possibly prove this was more than just a study club.
But he was the only Slytherin in the group. That was telling.
Draco suspected the group met weekly, and they had met once since his talk with Slughorn and discussed the risks and benefits of inviting him. Disbanding would draw too much attention, and transparency about their mission was impossible. He suspected he would be invited to meetings here and there, only when the purpose clearly overlapped with the aims of the N.E.W.T Potions exam. He was determined to willfully attend every meeting, if only to see them squirm, wondering if he’d guessed.
Oh, he wasn’t about to turn them in. He needed this as much as they did. He wanted to stay busy. The more work he did, the fewer dreams he had. Besides, his Potions N.E.W.T was very important to him. Since he doubted any of his classmates (possible exception: Zabini) would want to spend time with Slughorn, he supposed he was safe enough here.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with the do-gooders.
“Macmillan, do you have a spare manticore toenail? I seem to be out. Something to put on the list for the next Hogsmeade weekend.”
Ernie handed over a toenail without speaking.
“Thanks, old boy. I need to be more careful about my potions supplies. It’s a shame that Madam Pomfrey is having her potions access restricted, isn’t it?”
Ernie did not speak, but he continued to look uncomfortable.
“I mean, I get where the Carrows are coming from. Pain potion abuse is no joke, especially at our age. But sometimes a bloke just gets a headache, you know? Merlin, headaches are the worst. They are like hangovers but without the preceding fun. Do you get headaches, Macmillan?”
“No more than the average wizard.”
“Well, that’s fantastic. Me, I get headaches. Especially when I haven’t slept. Do we get to keep the potions we make?”
Ernie gave him a shrewd look. “No, it’s just like Potions class. It’s all just for practice.”
“Oh, so we just vanish the cauldron contents when we’re done? That’s a shame. Mine’s a perfect shade of teal. A total textbook potion, if I’ve ever seen one. Take a look at my potion, Macmillan.”
Ernie looked and murmured something vaguely complimentary.
“I’m done.” Draco closed his textbook with a hearty slam. “Do I vanish this now? Or do I have Slughorn inspect this?”
“You can leave it. Slughorn will vanish them all.”
“Well, that’s unfair that he has to do all that work. I’d be happy to do it myself, even though I am proud of this. Say, Macmillan, have I told you how much I’ve enjoyed being a prefect with you over the last couple of years?”
Ernie’s eyebrows were so closely drawn together, they were a straight line.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve always respected your hard work. Of course, now I’m head boy and you’re still a prefect, but I want you to know that I still think of you as a peer. Even though we aren’t anymore.”
9:04 p.m.
Corridor outside the Slytherin common room
Draco’s amusement at baiting Ernie Macmillan was short lived. The return to reality occurred as soon as he neared the Slytherin dungeons.
Screams. Draco couldn’t even say if they were male or female, just high pitched and terrible. It was like he was back in Malfoy Manor. He started to back away out of habit, but then he remembered he was head boy and this was his house. He took a deep breath and turned the corner.
He was not sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been Crabbe using the Cruciatus on a second year boy. There was a smell that made Draco wrinkle his nose. He didn’t have to wonder what it was. It wasn’t uncommon for people to shit their trousers while under the Cruciatus. If adults did it, Draco didn’t find it terribly surprising that this small boy had lost control of his bowels.
“Crabbe! Stop!”
Crabbe didn’t stop, so Draco Stunned him. It didn’t injure Crabbe, massive as he was, but it did stop him.
“Draco! What’d you do that for?” Crabbe demanded.
“Me? What the fuck are you doing? That’s a forbidden curse. Are you trying to get expelled?”
The Carrows performed it frequently, it was true, but students were definitely not permitted to do Unforgivables.
“I have authorization,” Crabbe said.
Normally, Draco would have mocked him for saying “authorization” as Crabbe was typically a one syllable or two syllable type of bloke, but all he could do was stare blankly. “Authorization?”
“From Professor Carrow. Students of good standing are now allowed to punish other students when they step out of line.”
“Since when? I’m head boy, in case you forgot. I would have heard of this.”
“It’s true,” Goyle added. He had been leaning against the wall, enjoying the spectacle. “He’s allowed. Carrow just told us.” Then he hooted with laughter. “You should have been here, Draco. The kid shat his trousers.”
Draco glanced at the young boy, who was standing still as a statue, staring at him fearfully.
“Yes, I haven’t lost my sense of smell, Goyle. Get out of here, both of you. I’ll talk to Snape about the changes in the morning.”
To his surprise, both Crabbe and Goyle went into the common room and Draco was left alone with the terrified and stinky boy. He had a terrible suspicion that the expression on the boy’s face was the same one Draco had worn all summer at the Dark Lord’s meetings. Cornered Prey Face.
He wanted to tell him to be careful, to learn to take care of himself, to go unnoticed. He couldn’t say any of that to the young Slytherin, of course. This was a game, and only appearances mattered anymore.
“Go,” he said to the boy. “Clean yourself up. You reek of shit.”
Chapter 14: Chapter 14: The Children's Hour
Chapter 14: The Children’s HourJune 22nd, 11:00 a.m.
Greengrass Townhouse, London
Astoria considered cancelling for the umpteenth time. It had been two weeks ago, on a beautiful summer day, when she had offered to go to St. Mungo’s with Draco. He was going to be volunteering there–Astoria suspected the Malfoy family was attempting to repair their image and Draco was the guinea pig–and he was a bit nervous about it. She had spent so much of her own time in the hospital, particularly before her diagnosis, that she had no fear of hospitals or of sick people, but she knew other people did. She had once seen someone pass out in the entrance of St. Mungo’s, not because he was the patient but because he dreaded seeing the patient in the hospital.
Offering had seemed so harmless. Draco had been posing in his window seat, and with the sunlight streaming over him, turning his silver hair and pale complexion golden, he had looked almost innocent. She had been in an excellent mood, as she frequently was when she found her way in a painting. She had been volunteering at St. Mungo’s herself since she was a preteen, so it had been the most natural thing to offer to go with him the first time. He was in charge of the children’s story hour, which is something she frequently did herself, but he had decided to make it into a puppet show. Which had something to do with distance and his fear of sickness, she suspected.
But that was before the ball. Before he had found her sketch of Romilda. She was grateful that he had returned it to her, but she still worried that he might have duplicated it first. She wasn’t sure what to expect from him. At times, she believed that he had returned it to her out of sheer decency and that he really had no intention of showing it to anyone. Other times, she expected the Aurors to appear on her face doorstep, demanding to know why she had drawn Romilda with potions bottles just minutes before her death. A death that Astoria felt positive was due to poison.
He had sent her an owl yesterday. His note had been friendly, saying what a nice time he’d had talking to her at the Ministry. He had made no mention of her drawing or the murder. She had not replied. He had clearly understood something had changed in their relationship as he had owled again this morning, this time with a single sentence: “Are we still on for St. Mungo’s today?”
She had sent back, “Yes, see you at 11:30,” although what she really wanted was to stay home with a pot of tea and read the latest Ariel Prescott novel. Even as she tied the message to the leg of Draco’s eagle owl, she reconsidered her message, toying with claiming illness, hinting at feminine issues so he wouldn’t ask questions.
But she and Daphne had discussed this at length yesterday. Daphne’s advice had been, “Talk to him. You need to find out what he knows, but do not trust him. Draco looks out for Draco and Draco alone.” This had seemed like solid advice to Astoria when she’d had a constantly refilling wine glass in front of her, but now that she was sober with a hangover, she wanted nothing less than to spend a couple of hours with Draco Malfoy.
Their parents had both been away yesterday, providing wine to an elaborate house party in Wales, so the sisters had gone through two bottles of wine, a full baguette and wheel of Brie, the jar of fancy olives their mother brought home last week, and an extra large bar of chocolate.
Daphne had been in a confiding mood over the Chablis, likely because Astoria had helped her sneak into the house that morning without their parents realizing she had been out all night. She told Astoria how Roger Davies had introduced her to Quidditch stars at the ball, all of whom he knew through his job at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Astoria who had never known her sister to care about sports did not comment on Daphne’s newfound interest in Quidditch. Daphne then described Roger’s fancy flat in Manchester, undoubtedly the product of too much family money. Last but not certainly not least, Daphne confided how Roger had charmed feathers to tickle the most sensitive spots on Daphne’s body during foreplay.
Astoria felt certain that her big sister would have never confessed the last detail if they had been drinking tea, as Daphne usually behaved as if Astoria was twelve and had been known to cover Astoria’s ears when the sisters were part of racy conversations. But it wasn’t until the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and chocolate that Astoria felt equally confiding and confessed that she had not only lost her sketch but that Draco had been the one to find it.
“Merlin, Tori!” Daph said, knocking over her wine glass in the process. “How are we going to get it back?”
Astoria went to clean up the spill in the Muggle fashion, being underage, but Daphne had already cleaned it up magically. “I have it back. He gave it back to me at the end of the night. I hadn’t even realized I’d left it behind. I had been chatting to him about nothing at all, and then we were snogging. And all that time he had my sketch in his pocket!”
That was the essence of what was upsetting her. He had kissed her as if he meant it, and all the while, he had been holding something from her.
Draco wasn’t her first kiss. She’d had a boyfriend, Michel, at Beauxbatons last year, a fairly chaste romance that involved some kisses in meadows or abandoned classrooms. But she wasn’t familiar enough with snogging for it for it to be casual for her. The kisses she’d shared with Draco, had been more intense than any of her sweet kisses with Michel, and she’d felt betrayed when she learned her sketch had been in his pocket the entire time.
“Did he threaten you?”
She frowned, trying to remember Draco’s exact words. I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just thought you should have it back. “No, nothing like that. He said he hadn’t shown it to anyone, that he wasn’t going to tell anyone, that he wanted me to have it back.”
“But you don’t believe him? You don’t look convinced to me.”
Astoria tried to sort out her thoughts, but she was having a hard enough time staying upright in her chair as she was on wine glass number five, all of which had been consumed over the course of three hours.
“I think he meant it at the time, but I keep worrying he’ll have a change of heart.”
Daphne snorted. “Draco Malfoy doesn’t have a heart. Ask Pansy Parkinson, if you don’t believe me.”
“The thing is, I didn’t get a chance to explain anything. What if he thinks I killed her?”
“Well, the good news is Draco probably doesn’t care who killed Romilda Vane. It doesn’t affect him; therefore, he is uninterested. You’re only in danger if he thinks he can use this information to get into the Ministry’s good graces.”
Astoria thought about the melancholy boy she’d spent hours with throughout the month. Would he turn her in? She knew he liked her, that he was lonely in exile and he looked forward to her visits. She also knew he was growing anxious in his isolation, and he would do anything to be welcomed back into wizarding society.
“Merlin, do you think he will?”
“Did he have an opportunity to duplicate it?” Daphne asked.
“He was unattended for, I don’t know, twenty minutes? How long were we in the loo when you were trying to calm me down?”
“Fuck,” Daphne said. “That’s not good. Well, we don’t know if he did duplicate it. It might not have occurred to him. Or he might be aware that he should keep his head down for a while. My advice is don’t panic. You do need to find out what he knows and if he plans to do anything with that knowledge.”
They had drunkenly plotted through the rest of the Cabernet, before disposing of the evidence of their excesses and heading to bed.
Now that it was morning, Astoria was full of regret. Regret that she had to face Draco so early. Regret that she’d had wine glass number three. And number four. And five. And–Merlin, what had she been thinking–glass number six.
She was freshly bathed and sitting at her vanity table, wrapped in her peach satin dressing robe and putting on her makeup when there was a knock at her door.
“Come in,” she said, expecting her mother with a fresh lecture about Draco Malfoy.
It was Daphne with a small blue bottle. “Hey, I brought you some hangover elixir.”
“May Merlin bless you,” Astoria said. She downed the bottle in a single gulp.
“Are you ready?” Daphne asked.
“No, but I will be. What choice do I have?’
“It’ll be okay,” Daphne said, although she looked unconvinced. Then she perked up and grinned, showing the Greengrass dimples that both sisters inherited. “And if it’s not, I can always modify his memory.”
Astoria laughed. “Let’s leave that as a last resort.” She stood. “How’s my makeup?”
“Good, I think. I can’t really tell you are wearing any.”
The sisters had very different approaches to cosmetics. Astoria preferred to keep it natural, merely adding some rosiness to her pale complexion and darkening her lashes, while Daphne favored a more sophisticated look.
Astoria shed her dressing robe and put on the dark blue robes she had laid out. With the puppet show she and Draco had planned, she would be on her knees quite a bit and she did not wish to wear any of her favorite clothes. The attire she picked out was practical, not overly delicate, but showed off her little waist. Once dressed, she pulled her hair into a ponytail for practicality.
At 11:35, surprised by his tardiness, she made her way downstairs, wondering if he had changed his mind about her and decided she was too much trouble to know. If he had, it would be very hypocritical of him, given that he was the hardened Death Eater and she was the shy bookworm.
She was again surprised to find that he was already there. Her mother was serving him tea in the morning room, and Draco was listening politely to whatever she had to say.
Astoria paused in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you knock.”
Draco gave her a smile. It was a relieved smile, she thought. “I didn’t.”
“Draco arrived when I was getting home from the market. He helped me carry the flowers in,” her mother said.
No wonder her mother was being so friendly. She always appreciated a gentlemanly gesture.
“That was kind, as you tend to go a bit overboard with the orchids.”
“Astoria, there is a time and a place for minimalism, and my vases are not the place. Would you like a cup of tea before you go?”
“No thank you. I’ve already had my tea, and we’re supposed to meet with Mrs. Gilbert before the noon story hour.”
Draco stood. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Greengrass.”
Astoria could see Draco turning green as they entered the lobby of St. Mungo’s. After they checked in with the Welcome Witch and received their visitor badges, she turned to him.
“We’ll be on the second floor. Let’s go down this corridor. The lifts over there don’t get as crowded as the ones off the lobby.”
He looked relieved not to have to share the lift with a wizard sporting tentacles, and she smothered a giggle. While Draco had seemed threatening when she had been drinking wine with her sister, he was certainly out of his element here. That gave her the advantage.
Temporarily, at least.
When they arrived at Florence Gilbert’s office, they found the Lead Healer of the Isabella Black Children’s Wing for Critical Maladies, sorting both puppets and potions.
“Hello, Draco,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry, so this will be quick. The puppet stage is set up . . . oh, Astoria! Thank heavens. Perhaps you can orient Draco since you are so familiar. We’ve had a potions mishap in Room 211 with some mislabeled potions. One child is growing tulips out of his ears while the other cannot stop singing. In Mermish.”
Draco and Astoria both made a face at the mention of Mermish singing.
“Precisely. So here, I will just give you this.” With that, Mrs. Gilbert handed Astoria a large potion bottle and left with the puppets.
“She’s always like that,” she told Draco.
Five seconds later, Mrs. Gilbert swept back into her office, realizing she had handed Astoria the potions she needed while taking the puppets they needed. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t know where my head has gone.” She gave Astoria the puppets and took the potions back and left once again.
“Story hour is this way,” Astoria said.
The puppet stage was already set up, and although the show would not start for ten minutes, the children were all there. The healthier ones sat on a rug, cross-legged, while others were in wheelchairs with small blankets over their legs. Draco was turning green again.
“Relax,” she said once they were hidden behind the stage. “None of those children are contagious. If they were, they would be quarantined, not in story time. Mostly, they are just bored and grateful for any entertainment.”
They sorted out their puppets, Draco taking the boy puppets while Astoria took the girls, and Draco muttered, “Lumos,” to illuminate their scripts. At noon exactly, they began their show, a modernized mash up of The Tales of Beedle the Bard they had found in the Malfoy library.
Draco was good. Astoria had expected him to be half-hearted in his roles, but he made an especially good Sir Luckless. She wondered if Lucius or Narcissa had taken the time to do voices during his boyhood story times. The children were all laughing at his lines the most, which annoyed Astoria slightly. Yet she had to admit they worked well together, and she was having fun in spite of her worry.
After the show, the children flooded them. She sensed Draco’s discomfort, and she redirected their attention until Mrs. Gilbert arrived to retrieve the children, apparently having cured the child who had been singing in Mermish.
“Thank you, Draco, Astoria. I heard the puppet show went just swimmingly. What a treat. It hasn’t been so lively in this ward since before the war. Astoria, you will be here next Wednesday for portraits?”
She promised her she would.
“You do portraits at St. Mungo’s too?” Draco asked when Mrs. Gilbert left. “How do you find the time?”
“Well, I only do them over the summer holidays. Any other time of the year would be too busy. I told you I volunteer 10 hours a week.”
“Yes, but I figured you were reading storybooks to small children. Or visiting old people who don’t have grandchildren.”
“I do both of those things, but mostly I paint. I only paint children, and only those who are terminally ill.”
“I know I should be impressed by how selfless that is, and really I am impressed, but it sounds depressing. I couldn’t do it. How did you get started painting dying kids?”
She paused. She had never told him about her illness, and she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to, given that he appeared to be a person who feared all types of illness.
But she did not want to pretend to be someone she wasn’t either.
“Did your mother tell you I have a blood disorder?” She asked. When he simply looked at her in surprise, she went on, “No? Well, it’s nothing contagious or even immediately threatening. Ever since I was diagnosed, it became manageable.
“But when I was little, no one knew what it was and I spent a lot of time in St. Mungo’s with healers running tests and trying experimental potions on me. Later on, we learned my disease was hereditary . . . sort of. Apparently, my great-great-whatever grandfather was an awful person, and someone put a curse on our family, so every few generations, the firstborn male would have the then-incurable blood sickness. It hadn’t been seen in the family for at least a century. Everyone thought it had died out with generations of marriage diluting it, and I wasn’t the firstborn or male, so no one ever connected the curse with me. But one day my father mentioned it to a healer who was the first to ask some unusual questions, and sure enough, this rare disease was a perfect fit.
“Anyhow, it was pretty stressful before I was diagnosed. When I was nine, I spent the entire summer in St. Mungo’s. I was the sickest I had ever been. I had a roommate, Julia, and she also had an undiagnosed sickness. We became best friends that summer, linked by illnesses that no one around us could understand. At some point, I decided I wanted to paint Julia. She was about to turn ten, and my painting was going to my present to her, and my parents brought me the supplies.
“I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was painting her as she was before the illness, not as she was when I knew her and she’d lost most of her body weight and even some chunks of her hair. Then she had a diagnosis and I had a diagnosis, and she was dying and I would get better with appropriate treatment. She was gone before her tenth birthday, so I gave the painting to her parents. Her mum asked me how I knew what she had looked like before she was sick, what photos I had looked at. I hadn’t seen any photos and I told her that, but I don’t think she believed me.
“That was the last time I was in St. Mungo’s as an overnight patient, but the story of the portrait spread. A mother of a dying child asked me to paint her son, and I received a reputation as a child painter who could paint children as they truly were inside, not as their diseases distorted them. So now I paint kids. I do it on a volunteer basis, but St. Mungo’s covers the cost of supplies.”
“How do you do it? Paint them well again?”
“I dunno. It’s just how I see them. At the end of their lives, all you can see is the evidence of their illness, but that isn’t who they are. They are kids who want to play games, go to Diagon Alley for ice cream cones, and hear bedtime stories from their parents.”
He was eyeing her carefully. “So when you paint someone, is it only the past you see? Or sometimes the future?”
Her heart began pounding. He had guessed her secret. Whether he already figured it out, or if it just put the pieces together as she told him, she did not know. “I sense many things about my subjects. Mostly, I sense their nature, but I can sometimes see defining moments in their lives. Sometimes, these moments are in the past, but usually they are in the future.”
“So, if you were to sketch . . “ Draco began, but she interrupted him.
“I am happy to discuss this with you. But not here. Will you take me home? I can answer questions there.”
When they arrived back at the Greengrass townhouse, they were quite alone. Her parents and Daphne were all at work, and their housekeeper, Arlene, had the day off.
Astoria’s heartbeat had not yet returned to normal. She wasn’t ready for this conversation. She did not like how big and echoey the house felt without her family, as it only served to make Draco feel more present. For the first time in weeks, she was reminded of just how tall he was, a full nine inches taller than her, and it made her feel fragile and childlike.
She drew herself up to her full five feet and three inches. It wasn’t much, but it was all there was of her. “Do you have lunch plans today?”
“Er . . . No.” His wry smile seemed to indicate that he never had lunch plans these days.
“Well, you are in luck because I make a fabulous Croque Madame,” she said in her best attempt at flirtation.
His eyebrows raised. “You can cook?”
“Why so surprised?”
He gestured in the general direction of some statues in her entryway. “I just thought you wouldn’t need to learn.”
“I didn’t need to learn. Daphne can’t boil water. But I like to cook. I am very close with our housekeeper Arlene and with my aunt Caresse. Both of them are legendary cooks, so I just picked it up, and I do love French food.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Draco asked, as she led him into the kitchen.
“Have you ever cooked anything?”
“No.”
She laughed. “Then you can help me by having a seat.”
She was glad she had asked him to lunch. The simple tasks of slicing bread and cheese, whisking bechamel, and frying eggs were soothing to her. On a whim, she assembled a green salad with homemade lemon vinaigrette to accompany the sandwich, thinking it would balance out the richness. And once her hands and body were calm, she knew her mind would calm as well.
“About my art,” she began, “the thing you need to understand is that I don’t control what I see. Sometimes, it’s the past, but it could also be the future or a present situation.”
“Do you consider yourself to be a Seer?” Draco asked.
“No, even though that’s probably the closest term there is. I’m not really a Seer; I’m not an Occulumens either. I am something in between.”
“How does it work?” Draco asked.
“I”m not sure. At least, I am not sure what triggers it. I will be sketching a subject and all of a sudden, I will know something that goes beyond the five senses. It could be their mood. It could be something that will happen tomorrow. It could be something that happened last year. Usually, it’s nothing more than flashes of their personality, but I’ve picked up secrets before. Last year, this wealthy grandmother hired me to paint her grandson, and while painting, I learned that the grandson was stealing from the grandmother.”
Draco looked uneasy at that revelation. “What do you see when you paint me?”
“You’re tricky. You’re in a limbo of sorts. Entangled in the past--partly by circumstances and partly by choice--but edging towards the future. I see promise in your future, but there’s darkness there too. While I still have to do much of the shading in your portrait, I think it will be a conflict between tradition and individualism, but I’m never really sure until it is done. I just hope it satisfies your mother.”
“My mother? Am I not the customer?” He smiled at her.
“The subject rarely is. And your mother picked me, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever wonder at her unconventional choice?”
“A little. She likes being a trendsetter. Maybe she just wanted an Astoria Greengrass original before everyone else did.”
“Hardly. Tobias Gilberts should be doing your portrait, not me. He paints all of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and he would trip over himself to do an official Malfoy portrait. I’m good, but Gilberts is great.”
“I think you’re pretty great,” Draco said quietly.
Astoria plated both of their meals, and set them on the kitchen table, preferring to continue this conversation in the warmth of the kitchen rather than the formality of the dining room. She opened an icy butterbeer for each of them.
“Thank you, but I can safely guess your mother did not pick me for my proficiency. A couple years ago, she saw some of my work at a charity to benefit St. Mungo’s, and she asked me some pretty shrewd questions. My mother pretty much shooed me away and answered all of her questions before I could say anything. A month later, I had my first opening at a gallery, and your mother was there. She didn’t talk to me, but she studied everything. I am pretty sure she knows there is more than just artistic inspiration in my work.”
“And what do you think she expects to see in the portrait?”
Astoria considered that thoughtfully. She’d pondered that, but she’d never articulated her suspicions before, not even to herself. “I think she needs to know that you will be all right. I think she’s worried that she and your father ruined everything for you.”
“And will I be all right?” he asked lightly, as if in jest, but she knew her answer would carry weight for her.
“That’s up to you, Draco. You have strength and intelligence, and you can do anything you put your mind to. I knew that before I began painting you. So it’s your choices that will determine your destiny.”
“And do you think I will make good choices?” He took a bite of his sandwich.
“Draco. You are asking the wrong questions. Do you think you will make good choices? Because it is what you think that determines your future.” Draco didn’t look fully comforted at that, so she added. “You aren’t your father. Your life is your own.”
They ate in silence for a while, until Draco spoke.
“This is delicious. This may be the best lunch I have ever had.”
“Thank you. Chocolate croissants are actually my specialty, but I enjoy making Croque Madame almost as much.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes more before Draco spoke again.
“Do you mind if I ask what happened with Romilda at the ball?”
“I think someone poisoned her, but I don’t actually know. She caught my eye because she looked really sad.”
She did not know how to express the wrongness of Romilda’s sadness, of how opposite she looked from the girl she remembered. The girl she’d shared a Charms class with had been an attention seeker, always flipping dark, glossy hair over one shoulder while circulating notes throughout the class with the precision of a post owl.
“She looked just so different from how I remembered her from school. I had this funny feeling, so I started sketching. I found myself drawing a border of bottles around her, and as I drew, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.” She looked up from the sandwich crusts she’d been studying and into Draco’s dark grey eyes. “I didn’t know she was going to die; I just knew she was in trouble in a very immediate sense. I didn’t get to her in time. It was all so fast. I don’t know why I even gained that knowledge if there was nothing I could do to help.”
“If it was poison, it moved quickly. I don’t think you could have helped.”
“Perhaps, but I feel awful about it. She wasn’t a very nice girl, but she didn’t deserve to die.”
“No, she didn’t. She . . .” Draco broke off, staring at something at the other end of the table.
“What is it?” she asked, as Draco had gone even paler than normal.
“The Prophet” he said.
She took a glance and immediately realized why he reacted the way he did. Almost in unison, they moved to the end of the table to read the article.
Possible Motive for Potter’s Advocate of Malfoy Pardon
By Rita Skeeter and Ellen Smith
The wizarding world has been puzzled over Harry Potter’s testimony in favor of the Malfoy family in the late May trials.
“The Malfoys are Death Eaters through and through,” said Flora Clearwater, a current student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. “Draco never even tried to hide his enthusiasm for the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.”
“Of course, I was surprised,” said Ernie Macmillan of Potter’s testimony. Macmillan is a recent graduate of Hogwarts who is currently a trainee for Wizengamot Administrative Services. “They were always rivals and total opposites at Hogwarts. Harry frequently does surprising things though.”
Perhaps Potter’s motives were more than just mere whim. In light of the recent murder of Romilda Vane, age 16, Potter may have found the Malfoy family to be convenient for his own purposes.
“Draco was always really good at Potions,” said Pansy Parkinson, a recent Hogwarts graduate and housemate of Draco Malfoy in Slytherin house. “He could whip up a deadly poison faster than you could swish your wand.”
It is strongly suspected that Romilda Vane was fatally poisoned. Final autopsy reports will be made public soon, if the Ministry of Magic truly has made steps to remove the corruption of the last few years. [See “New Leaders, Same Corruption?” on page 5B]
While the Auror Department has not identified any suspects in the case, the wizarding world speculated on the possibility that Harry Potter, ex-boyfriend of Romilda Vane, could have been involved. Potter is also a trainee in the Auror Department and is involved in the investigation in spite of the clear conflict of interest. Interestingly, the Auror Department has recently requested all of the Daily Prophet’s photo coverage of the Midsummer Ball, prompting speculation that the Aurors may be seeking to destroy evidence and promote a cover up.
“Potter was never good at Potions,” said Parkinson of her former classmate. “Professor Snape had to correct him endlessly to keep him from blowing up the Potions dungeon.”
Could Potter’s championing of the Malfoy family been in exchange for a deadly favor from the Malfoy heir?
Reporters from the Prophet visited both the Abercrombie and Sons Apothecary in Diagon Alley and Magical Herbs and Wizarding Greenhouse Supply in Salisbury and both businesses confirmed that the Malfoys are regular purchasers of both exotic plants and rare potions ingredients.
Had Draco Malfoy, age 18, been convicted of aiding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he could have faced a minimum of 20 years in Azkaban. One could speculate that his freedom was the perfect price for his cooperation and his silence.
Astoria was able to skim the article quickly, but Draco kept his eyes on it, as if hoping the words might change if he just stared long enough. It was exactly the sort of thing one expected from Rita Skeeter, who had once accused Astoria’s father of bribing Ministry officials to keep wizarding trade policy in his favor.
“It’s pure rubbish,” she said. “Magical Law Enforcement knows better than to get leads from Rita Skeeter. No one will remember this in a week’s time.”
Of course, her father had seen his business profits plummet for a full year after Rita’s article, but she didn’t feel the need to bring that up.
He laughed without mirth. “There are plenty of people who would like to see me pay for all the ills of the war.”
“Perhaps but you and Harry Potter plotting murder together is pretty far fetched. Anyone in Magical Law Enforcement will be able to see the absurdity.”
While she didn’t doubt that many would be pleased to think the worst of Draco, they would need to think ill of Harry Potter first, and their reluctance to do so would be Draco’s saving grace, as Harry had practically been sainted after the battle.
“My entire life is absurd,” Draco muttered. He picked up his plate and put it into the sink, and then removed his cloak from the back of his chair. “Thank you for lunch, Astoria, but I should get going.”
She sensed that he wanted to get as physically far away from the article as possible. She followed him into the hall, where he stopped dead in his tracks.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t want to go home,” he said.
She heard the unspoken words. But I have nowhere else to go.
1:45 p.m.
The Tate Gallery, London.
“It’s full of Muggles,” Draco said as they stood outside the art museum.
Bringing Draco to Muggle London may have been one of her crazier ideas, but she felt certain that he was in no danger of meeting anyone he knew here and there certainly wouldn’t be any copies of The Daily Prophet around.
Back at the house, Astoria had changed from her day robes to a simple white Muggle dress, and she had caught Draco admiring her bare legs when she came down the stairs. Draco had discarded his cloak for the outing, as his gray shirt and black trousers were simple enough not to attract attention in Muggle London.
“It’s a common problem with Muggle museums,” Astoria agreed, trying not to laugh. “Have you never been in a public spot with Muggles before?”
“Of course I have. I just don’t make much of a habit of it.”
She grabbed his hand, pulling him into the entrance. “And what Muggle infested areas have you visited?”
She could feel the tension in his arm, but he allowed her to pull him in.
“King’s Cross, obviously.”
“That doesn’t count!”
“How does that not count? King’s Cross is elbow to elbow Muggles. I must insist you give me credit.”
Astoria dimpled. “It doesn’t count because the Muggle/wizard ratio is completely skewed on Hogwarts travel days. Ministry officials are always there, in case anything goes wrong, so unless you went to King’s Cross for non-Hogwarts travel, I cannot count it.”
“I have been to the Eiffel Tower,” Draco protested.
She tilted her head. “During Muggle hours or wizarding hours?”
“It’s a Muggle landmark!”
Astoria couldn’t help her giggles. “Oh, Draco! You are sheltered in the strangest ways.”
He did not seem to find that as funny as she did, so she shared the museum map with him, explaining the different wings they could visit and how the art styles differed in various time periods.
“Which is the least crowded?” Draco asked.
“Too many Muggles for you?”
“It’s not the Muggles, exactly. But whenever you have a crowd this size, someone is always sick.”
“Draco! What is with you and disease? I have a feeling that while I and every other magical kid in Britain was little and checking under the bed for ghouls, you were under your bed, looking for Spattergroit!”
“I don’t like being sick, which is a perfectly normal preference.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest, and for the smallest moment, Astoria saw him as he must have been when he was four years old and determined to stay up past his bedtime.
“If it’s any comfort, Muggles don’t even get Dragon Pox or Spattergroit.” She waited a moment before an evil impulse made her add, “They have completely different infectious diseases.”
“That is not comforting! I really don’t care to pick up a Muggle disease. How would I know how to treat it? Or if it’s even treatable?”
“Relax. You are immune to Muggle diseases, and they are immune to ours. Did you know that some Muggleborns never get sick until they go to Hogwarts? With immunity to Muggle disease and no exposure to wizarding disease, their bodies do not need to fight any illness. And Squibs have the opposite problem. Anyhow, that’s part of the reason my mum brought me here when I was young and sickly. The Muggles weren’t a threat to my health.”
“So I can’t catch anything here?”
“You can catch a cold. All mammals are susceptible to colds.”
They walked along the corridor. Draco seemed calmer now, but she noted that he seemed to tilt in the opposite direction any time a Muggle got too close to him.
“How do you know so much about disease?”
“Aside from spending so much quality time at St. Mungo’s and with Madam Pomfrey? I’m kinda interested in becoming a healer. I didn’t take any O.W.L.s last year; French schooling is a little different. But I should have the grades to take the needed N.E.W.T. level courses. I’m sure Professor Flitwick will let me.”
“That should be a safe bet as no one took any O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s last year with the war. Everyone’s grades were terrible, too. I guess I just figured you’d continue with your art after school, but I don’t know why I thought that; you have the brains to do whatever you want.”
Astoria knew that Draco did not give out praise lightly. She had spent time worrying that he might think her too immature, or too sheltered, or just not sexy enough. She hadn’t really considered what he might think of her intelligence in spite of being a Ravenclaw, but she was pleased that he had noticed her intellect.
“I could make a living off my art. It would definitely be the easiest way to go as I already have a reputation. But healers have been some of the most significant people in my life, and I’d like to do what they do. I’m thinking pediatrics, although I have some interest in obstetrics.”
They reached their intended wing of the museum.
“Nothing moves,” he whispered to her when he got his first glimpse of Muggle artwork. “No one finds it strange?”
“It’s what they expect. These people would all panic if anything moved on the canvas. It’s what I like most about Muggle portraits. A Muggle has to capture the absolute perfect moment; it’s more of a challenge.”
Astoria smiled as a random memory came to mind, and on a whim, she decided to share with Draco.
“When I was little, I was obsessed with Muggle art. I kept telling my parents that I was going to be a Muggle and an artist when I grew up. My parents thought that was really funny until some friends of theirs spent the weekend with us. They were part of a really old wizarding family, and they were complaining about managing house elves these days, or something like that, when I proudly informed them that I was a Squib and I loved paints more than anything in the world. My parents were horrified, of course, and quickly told them I was an imaginative child. I think they were relieved when I tripped on the stairs the next morning and the guests saw me do magic to keep myself from falling down the rest of the flight.”
Draco laughed. “I can’t believe you told them you were a Squib.”
“I was only six! When I first told my parents I wanted to be a Muggle artist, they just laughed and my dad called me his little Squib. They didn’t seem upset with the notion, so I figured Squib was an endearment of some sort. I thought they were telling me I was clever or something. It was years until I realized being a Squib was considered a shameful thing and that my parents thought the jokes were funny because they were positive I wasn’t one.”
He laughed harder, and she was pleased to note that he no longer looked terrified to be surrounded by Muggles and all their Muggle diseases.
She frowned. “You know, I think it might have been Pansy Parkinson’s parents that were our houseguests.”
“Merlin! They definitely would have told everyone you were a Squib and campaigned to keep you out of Hogwarts. Be grateful for your staircase clumsiness.”
She commented on a Pre-Raphaelite painting, telling Draco a few things about the techniques, before she transitioned back to their earlier conversation. “So, what are your plans now that you are out of Hogwarts? I’ve told you mine.”
“I’m still working that out. I think I can rule out any Ministry job. My reputation is too tarnished. Ever since I was cleared by the Ministry–or semi-cleared, as I can’t leave the country for five years–I’ve been trying to work out that out. I’ve been thinking about what I’m good at: potions, charms, even more technical skills like writing. But I’m still drawing a blank.”
“Do you have a daydream job?” she asked.
“Curse breaker,” he said quietly.
“Sounds exciting. Are you able to pursue that, or does it require too much international travel for your Ministry restrictions?”
“There are domestic jobs,” he admitted, “but my inability to travel until 2003 leaves me at a disadvantage. 2003! Doesn’t that sound like a completely new era?”
She smiled. “Not as much as it did when I was a kid, but it does a little, yes. Why curse breaking?”
“In my sixth year, I had a . . . special project. I had to fix a broken magical object. I was under a lot of pressure, and it took me a while to figure out how the object even worked. It basically had a series of enchantments on it. One of those enchantments had been removed, which not only kept it from working, but it put the other enchantments out of balance. I had to figure out not only what charms had been placed on it, but in what order they had been cast. I had to remove all of the charms in reverse order and then re-cast them in the correct order.
“It was really stressful, but I enjoyed it. Or I would have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been under a very real threat to fix it. And somewhere in the process, I realized I was good at it, understanding how magic works. And I think that’s why I like potions. You need to understand the essence of things. You need to know the characteristics of pixie wings and doxy venom, and how they work together, how things change if you add one ingredient before they other, and how stirring in a particular direction will bring out certain properties. It’s logical.”
He broke off, looking embarrassed. Astoria guessed he hadn’t intended on giving her a speech. “And that’s what curse breakers do. They figure out how things work and then they deconstruct them.”
“You should pursue it,” Astoria said. “Even if you can’t leave the country for a few years. Gringotts has plenty of dig sites in Britain. The Druids did all kinds of weird stuff back in the day. You could become an expert all things Druidic and when the futuristic year of 2003 arrives, you can go anywhere you want.”
“You think Gringotts might take me?” Draco looked more boyishly hopeful than she had ever seen him.
“Why not? You aren’t the one who broke in and grabbed a dragon on the way out.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe he is not in trouble for that. Or actually, I can.”
“This one!” Astoria said gleefully.
Draco looked around. “The what?”
“The painting,” she told him. “This is my favorite painting in the whole world.”
They stood in front of Sir John Everett Millais’s Ophelia, which Astoria had gazed at many times in her life.
“It does have a peculiar beauty,” Draco admitted. “Even if it doesn’t move.”
“It’s perfect,” Astoria said. “Look at these brushstrokes. I have never been able to create texture like this. And the emerald green is just gorgeous.”
“I think you appreciate beauty more than anyone I know.”
“I have to,” Astoria said. “I won’t live to old age. The healers told me that when I was twelve and declared old enough to hear the bad news. Oh, I’m not dying next week or anything, but it could be at thirty. Or forty. But I won’t die an old lady snug in my bed, surrounded by my grandchildren. In fact, I have been strongly advised not to have children at all.”
She was aware of Draco’s sympathetic gaze upon her, even though she refused to look at him, preferring to keep her eyes on Ophelia. It was funny how opposite their desires were. Draco wanted time to speed by, so he could be twenty-three and free to leave Britain. All the while, she wanted time to slow down, so she could savor things.
She continued on, “So, while I’m here I want everything. Every sunset. Every glass of wine, every piece of chocolate. I want to see every piece of art that I can. Because it’s all just too perfect to be ignored.”
She felt him take her hand, and they just stood in front of the painting, side by side, drinking it all in.
A/N: From my very hasty research of art museums of London, I understand what is now known as Tate Brittain was known as the Tate Gallery from 1932 to 2000. Hopefully, this is accurate. I have only been to London once and am hardly an expert on their museum scene.
Chapter 15: Chapter 15: The List
Author's Notes: To the best of my knowledge, we never know if there was Quidditch at Hogwarts during Snape’s year as headmaster. (Please correct me if I’m wrong.) I’ve always felt like there would be Quidditch initially while people were still trying to keep the school year as normal as possible. So obviously, this was written with that assumption.
Chapter 15: The List
November 22, 1997, 12:15 p.m.
Hospital Wing, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Ginny did not think she had ever been in that much physical pain. It was her first match as Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and it had been a massacre. Not because they had been poorly prepared. She’d trained her teammates well. Not because Slytherin was better. They weren’t, but they were bigger. Not even because Gryffindor’s seeker, a second year named Alaina, was so small, the fierce November wind kept blowing her across the pitch.
No, it was because Amycus Carrow had been permitted to referee, which meant Slytherins had free rein.
Half an hour in, she’d been knocked off her broom when Crabbe had aimed a bludger at her head at close range. When Madam Pomfrey had revived her to make her drink a series of foul-tasting potions aimed at preventing brain damage, she had grimly informed Ginny that she was very lucky to be alive and that she should be grateful for her “thick Weasley skull.”
Without Ginny’s leadership, the team had fallen apart and spent more time avoiding injury than scoring goals. Even with a defensive strategy, every member of the team but Demelza had ended up joining Ginny in the hospital wing. Demelza had only avoided it because when she had dodged Crabbe’s bludger, it ended up knocking Goyle off his broom instead, and Crabbe could only do so much damage as the sole Beater.
“Ginny?” Demelza was at her bedside, her dark eyes anxious. “How are you feeling?”
“Ugh, I’d rather not discuss it. How do I look? Do you have a mirror on you?”
Demelza looked away. “Madam Pomfrey will be able to take care of the swelling and bruising. She’s taking care of the critical injuries before she moves on to the cosmetic.”
“Mel, mirror!”
Demelza reluctantly scrounged in her bag and produced a small compact mirror.
Ginny was not prepared for what she saw. Her nose, as she had suspected, was broken, but the blood, bruising, and puffiness of her face was surprisingly worse than she thought. Her red hair, which was in the messiest of plaits, was the only recognizable thing about her.
“Great. I look like Millicent Bulstrode.”
Demelza didn’t smile at that. “Snape’s back in the castle.”
“Yeah? Is he ecstatic over the Slytherin victory?”
“He cancelled the entire Quidditch season. I suspect Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are relieved.”
It would have been easier to simply kick Crabbe and Goyle off the Slytherin team, along with several of the other more violent players, but that’s what a fair headmaster would have done. Still, this was surprisingly humane of Snape, who had given the Carrows free reign in recent weeks. Even some of the older Slytherins were permitted to punish students these days.
She wasn’t sure what to make of Snape. When she, Luna, and Neville had received their punishment for their break in, they didn’t receive the Cruciatus by the He-Carrow as she’d been expecting. Instead, he had sent them on a task in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid instead. They were to collect some night blooming flower Snape liked to use in potions.
Of course, Snape may have been hoping they would get eaten, but Ginny would take an Acromantula over Amycus Carrow any day. Both the spider and the wizard were interested in the flesh beneath her uniform, although for extremely different reasons, but Ginny was allowed to fight back against an Acromantula and that made all the difference.
Admittedly, the forest had been terrifying. With only darkness around them, her imagination was given free rein. There had been a moment when she’d thought that a centaur was about to charge them, but he’d seemed to reconsider and went on his way without a word. It was almost too eerily quiet in the forest, as if the monsters within were also scared of monsters. Still when they made it back to the castle in one piece, if a bit bruised from tree roots they’d tripped over, all three had to admit that it had been much better than the alternative.
“Is that a good thing?” Ginny asked.
“It is for Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. For us, I don’t know. It would have been easy going forward, with only those houses to face.”
“How are the others?”
“Stable. Jimmy has been released already.” That Ginny already knew as he had been the one to fill her in on what had happened in the match. “Alaina has to stay overnight; she needed some Skele-Gro as Goyle broke her arm. Same for Robby. Kristina will be released soon, but she’s as bruised as you. Goyle, strangely enough, is in the worst shape. He’s been asleep ever since Madam Pomfrey forced potions on him.”
“How very sad.”
“I don’t think I have ever wished that someone would not wake up before.”
“Really?” Ginny said. “I wish that on loads of people these days.”
Voldemort was first for obvious reasons. The He-Carrow was second, for immediate safety reasons. Lucius Malfoy was third, for the diary incident and for being an overall failure as a human being. Then there were about thirty other people who were all equally odious.
She tried to sit up and get a glance at her surroundings, but her head throbbed as soon as she lifted it off of the pillow.
“Do you need some help sitting up?” Demelza asked.
“Yes, please.”
With Demelza supporting her neck and back, she slowly sat up and then scooted back so she could sit up against the headboard with several pillows behind her. Sharp pains shot through the right side of her head, but she ignored them.
She had never seen the hospital wing full to capacity before. She saw Alaina sleeping, looking impossibly tiny in her bed, and her rage at Crabbe grew. Kristina was leafing through the latest issue of Teen Witch with a fellow third year. She was as bruised as Ginny, but only on the left side of her face. Robby, Ritchie Coote’s replacement, was fast asleep with his girlfriend in the chair by his side. Goyle was unconscious, as Demelza had said. Draco Malfoy was in the chair next to his bed. Malfoy was taking notes with a potions textbook on his lap, but his pointed face looked anxious.
Good, Ginny thought. She hoped Goyle’s injuries were severe.
There were two other occupied beds, but they both had heavy curtains drawn around them. Ginny didn’t need to ask who was in those beds.
“She’s awake! Neville, she’s awake!”
Neville and Luna were by her bed with a weedy looking bouquet. Ginny smiled, but the effort hurt her face.
“I’ll see you back at the dormitory,” Demelza said. “Madam Pomfrey didn’t think you needed to stay the night.”
“Thanks, Mel. See you.”
As Demelza left, Luna thrust the colorful bouquet under her nose.
“We’ve been picking these for you. The orange flowers have healing properties, and the yellow ones help in detecting dark magic.”
“I’m pretty good at detecting dark magic these days,” Ginny said. “Where did you find flowers this time of year?”
“Greenhouse three,” Luna said.
Greenhouse three? Ginny nearly dropped the bouquet.
“Er, are they safe?”
Neville smiled. “They are safe. I checked. So did Professor Sprout, who wishes you a speedy recovery.”
Ginny relaxed. “Well, thank you.”
Neville conjured up a vase with ease. Two years ago, even one year ago, he would not have been so confident in his magic. “Here. So you don’t have to hold on to them.”
She thanked him, arranged the flowers in the vase, and placed it on the bedside table.
“Ginny, your face is puffy,” Luna remarked.
“Thanks, Luna,” Ginny said with amusement.
“Would you like some of my Blibberflower ointment? It takes care of bruising really well, but I should tell you that on some complexions, it has been known to turn skin green.”
Ginny took that to mean all complexions.
“That’s really kind, Luna, but Madam Pomfrey has something for it. She’s just been busy.”
“All right. What about some Gurdy Whisky?”
Given that Luna had not been speaking in hushed tones, Ginny and Neville both frantically looked around for Madam Pomfrey, but she was busy hovering over Goyle and did not seem to have overheard anything.
Ginny grinned. “Maybe. So, what’s going on in the rest of the school?”
“We’ve learned Slytherin’s celebrations look a lot like rioting,” Neville said. “There is currently a contained fire in the Great Hall.”
“What’s Filch doing?” she asked. The caretaker was firmly Team Snape, but Death Eater rule had come with more than a little disorderliness.
“He’s currently locked out of the Great Hall.”
Amazing how much chaos Slytherins could create. Her eyes were drawn to the two curtained beds again.
“Luna,” she said quietly, “how difficult do you think it would be to get into Madam Pomfrey’s office?”
Luna was sitting on the edge of her bed and playing with the fringe on her blankets. “Not very. It’s just around the corner.”
“I think she’s asking about security charms, Luna,” Neville said.
“Oh.” Luna looked into the corners of the large room. If it were anyone else, Ginny would have attempted to regain their attention, but she knew Luna well enough to know she looked spaced out when she was deep in thought. Finally, her friend spoke, “Easier than Snape’s office, to be sure. She probably has some charm on the door, and likely some protections on her potions.”
“What about her records?” Ginny asked.
“Those too,” Luna said.
“What are you after?” Neville asked.
“I just think Aimee and Romilda’s records could be very telling.”
Luna looked up. “You want me to steal them?”
“No, I’ll do it. I don’t want you to get in trouble. If I get caught, I’ll pretend my head injury left me confused. And I’m not stealing them. Just duplicating them.”
“I won’t get caught,” Luna said. “It would be best to do it while she’s busy.”
She had a point. Ginny knew Hermione had once stolen from Snape’s office during a class. Harry had distracted the Potions Master, so he had been too busy to note one missing student. And the hospital wing was nothing if not chaotic.
But Malfoy was present. And Malfoy had a knack for noticing everything he shouldn’t.
“No, I’ll do it, Luna.”
Luna shrugged. “Suit yourself. I need the loo.”
The blond girl drifted away.
Ginny and Neville exchanged a worried glance.
“I don’t think she’s going to the loo,” Ginny said.
“I’m going to check on her,” Neville said quietly.
She thought quickly. “No, that won’t help. If Madam Pomfrey heads in that direction, both of us will be needed to keep her put.”
He stayed put, but he remained stiff. Every now and then, his eyes darted in the direction of the office.
“Look natural, Nev. Tell me about what’s going on in Gryffindor Tower,” she urged.
“I dunno. Haven’t been there yet. Luna and I came straight here, but Madam Pomfrey kicked us out because she was dealing with half a dozen patients at once, so we went to the greenhouses. I did hear Seamus say something about firewhisky in passing, so I’m guessing everyone is drinking away their misery.”
“Can’t blame them. Wish I could join them.”
Beating Slytherin was all three of the houses had to look forward to over the last few weeks, especially now that people like Crabbe and Goyle were given outrageous liberties. Even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had cheered Gryffindor loudly from the stands, and Ginny felt they could have won if only Madam Hooch had refereed as usual, but Hooch had suddenly been placed on probation on Friday afternoon, which was the same time Snape had disappeared.
“Well, I am sure Luna will be able to spare you some of her famous cabbage-infused whisky.” Neville grinned for once.
Many students had now tried the suddenly famous Gurdy Whisky. The unanimous verdict was that it was disgusting and only for the desperate. That everyone identified as desperate these days was also a unanimous decision.
“Oh, don’t look so concerned, Mr. Malfoy!” they heard Madam Pomfrey say. “I can give him a touch more pain potion. Only a touch, mind you, as he’s already had plenty. I assure you I have never had a student die on me yet. My bottle seems to be empty and no wonder. Don’t panic, Mr. Malfoy. I have more in my office.”
Ginny and Neville exchanged a horrified glance.
“Madam Pomfrey!” she cried out as the matron passed her bed. “I’m not feeling so well.”
Madam Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. “Not much of a wonder given that you took a bludger to the head. I’m about to get Mr. Goyle some additional pain potion. I can spare a bit more of it for you as well. Head wounds are the nasty, and I, for one, am grateful the headmaster cancelled the Quidditch season.”
“No! I don’t need!” Ginny began to protest, but as she sat up more, the movement brought back her earlier nausea. Horrified, she tried to be still and calm her aching head so she could think, until it occurred to her that vomit might be the only thing that would keep Madam Pomfrey out of her office. She swayed a bit more and promptly threw up all over herself and the bed, splattering Neville and Madam Pomfrey in the process.
It was disgusting, yet also the most spectacular vomit of her life. Fred and George would be proud.
“Oh, dear, dear,” Madam Pomfrey said.
She cleaned up the mess with a swish of her wand, which was too quick for Ginny’s liking, but she was thoroughly distracted from Goyle and his pain. As an added bonus, Malfoy had fled upon seeing her vomit, his pointed face a nasty shade of green.
“Don’t be so stubborn, girl. Gryffindors are always trying to get up and moving before their bodies are ready. Everyone should be a Hufflepuff in the hospital wing, dear, you’d heal so much faster. Now lie back. And. Do. Not. Move.”
Ginny would be happy to channel her inner Hufflepuff once she clapped her eyes on Luna, but until then, she was all Gryffindor. Madam Pomfrey was tucking her in, like a bedtime resistant child.
“You really should get some rest, Ginny.” Luna had reappeared to Ginny’s relief, with a slight bulge under her robes. “It was a nasty bludger.”
“They always are,” Ginny said, but her fight was gone now that she knew Luna was safe. Perhaps, she could nap like a Hufflepuff after all.
9:08 p.m.
It was dark when Ginny woke. Madam Pomfrey had given her another series of horrible tasting potions, for pain, nausea, bruising, and swelling in that order. She had also fixed Ginny’s broken nose. Shortly after, Ginny had fallen asleep and she had no memory of Luna and Neville leaving.
She sat up and found she was the only one awake. By the one torch that had been left burning, she could see that Kristina had been released, while Alaina, Robby, and Goyle were fast asleep. The curtains around Aimee and Romilda’s beds remained closed. There were no more visitors, and Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight.
She stood up as quietly as she could manage. While her head was still sensitive, she no longer felt like she’d suffered an axe to the back of her head. She tiptoed to one of the curtained beds and pulled back the curtain slightly.
The bed was Romilda’s. The brunette was dressed in a high necked white cotton nightgown that she would never have been caught dead in if conscious. The younger girl looked terrible, and Ginny hoped it was merely due to the faintness of the torchlight leaving so many of her features in shadow.
“You shouldn’t be here, Miss Weasley.”
“Will she be all right?” she asked Madam Pomfrey.
Daring a glance at the older woman, she found Madam Pomfrey did not look angry, just old and very tired. She tried to guess how old Madam Pomfrey was, but she was hard to pin down, much like her Great Aunt Muriel.
“I do not know. There is nothing physically wrong with her.”
“And Aimee?”
“The same. Both girls do deserve their privacy.”
“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” Ginny said and dutifully stepped back, putting the curtains back in place.
“Let me check you over.” Madam Pomfrey ran her wand along the length of Ginny’s body. “Well, I won’t say you are as good as new, but I do not believe there will be any permanent damage.”
“Am I free to go back to Gryffindor Tower?”
“You are, but I must insist that you refrain from Miss Lovegood’s, er, I believe she called it Gurdy Whisky? You’ll have a lot of healing to do over the next couple of days.”
November 23rd, 1997
9:30 a.m.
Ginny had a mercifully dreamless sleep in her four poster bed and overslept the next morning. When she woke up, all of her roommates, even Pippa, were showered, dressed, and made up for the day. She told them to go on to breakfast without her, but Demelza not surprisingly chose to wait for her.
She didn’t linger in the shower as long as she wanted to, not with Mel waiting for her, not to mention a hot breakfast when she hadn’t eaten for 24 hours. But the hot water was delicious on her aching body, and she stayed a bit longer than necessary. Once out of the shower, she dressed, did a very hasty drying spell on her hair, and opted to go without makeup. Madam Pomfrey’s anti-bruising potion had been very effective and her face looked nearly normal.
“You look like yourself again,” Demelza said, making her realize that her friend had wondered if the bludger’s damage would be permanent.
“Madam Pomfrey’s potions really did wonders. I didn’t have to resort to Luna’s green skin ointment.”
“I won’t ask,” Demelza said.
They chatted about non-Quidditch matters on their way down the staircases and came across a group of people gathered in front of a girls’ bathroom. Ginny intended to go around them, as there could be no good reason for both girls and boys to be huddled in front of the bathroom, when Gemma called out to her.
“Ginny, I strongly recommend that you look at this.”
There was parchment attached to door. It was attached with Permanent Sticking Charm, given how Mandy Brocklehurst was trying–and failing–to rip it down.
“Let Ginny see it,” Anthony Goldstein said to Mandy.
Mandy stood back, but she crossed her arms over her chest. “Blasting it off may be an option.”
Ginny elbowed her way through the crowd and read.
Whores of Hogwarts:
Romilda Vane
Mandy Brocklehurst
Rosemarie Walker
Ginny Weasley
Lavender Brown
Susan Bones
Raven King
Padma Patil
Pippa Preston
A year ago, this would have merited an eye roll, a few choice words about sexist pigs, and a visit to McGonagall’s office to lodge an official complaint, but now her blood ran cold.
She had never considered herself to be rape proof. She understood enough about the He-Carrow’s interest in her to know she had to move carefully throughout the castle. But she had never truly worried about being safe from her own classmates before. She remembered how helpless Romilda had been on the fourth floor.
She had once promised herself, in the summer after her first year, that she would never be helpless again. She would keep that promise, to the best of her ability.
November 24th, 1997, 8:30 a.m.
The Great Hall
All of Sunday had been a nightmare. She’d had people pointing at her all day, and there had been more than a few whispers of “Potter” and “Potter’s girlfriend.” She started staring people down, which made most blush and look away, but a few bold boys merely grinned back.
Sunday afternoon, she’d met Luna in a corner of the library so she could give her the hospital records she’d stolen from Madam Pomfrey’s office. They were far worse than Ginny had imagined. Romilda and Aimee had both been raped, which she was expecting. They were raped by multiple assailants, which she was not expecting. Madam Pomfrey’s estimate was four to five rapists.
Miss Vane, much like Miss Cartwright, gives every indication of being unconscious, but she will recoil at the slightest touch, suggesting that she may have been under the Cruciatus Curse for an extended period of time.
Ginny and Luna spent some time whispering about what they thought should happen to the boys, which was therapeutic, until they remembered nothing would happen to them. Ginny remembered when she’d overheard the He-Carrow saying to Snape of Aimee, “The girl had it coming.”
These days, Ginny lived with rage beating in her chest. The rage had been there for some time. At least since the time of Umbridge. Possibly earlier than that. It could date back to when Ron told her about the things Harry lived with at the Dursleys’. Or maybe it went as far back as the diary. But, while the rage was familiar, it was becoming less and less bearable, and she felt as if she would burst if she learned of one more injustice.
November 25, 1997, 8:14 a.m.
The Great Hall
On Monday morning, she had a pleasant surprise at the breakfast table. Both Errol and Houdini, Fred and George’s owl, had packages for her. Madam Pomfrey must have let her family know about her injury.
Her mother had sent her scones and a long letter of concern that, if one read between the lines, suggested that girls who played Quidditch didn’t find husbands due to injury related deformities. Her dad added a little note, “Hope you knocked them off their brooms. Love you!” at the bottom.
Fred and George’s note was equally short, “Hope your head didn’t do too much damage to the bludger! Love, Gred,” and was accompanied by a large chocolate cake. If she knew Fred and George, there would be a non-Filch approved present inside the cake.
She was hoping for firewhisky.
11:55 a.m.
Transfiguration classroom
On Mondays, Ginny had double Transfiguration, which was by far her best subject. She was the only one in her class who had mastered the Conjuring Spell, which made it trickier for her to claim to need extra help after class, but so be it. She’d be channeling Hermione today.
When Professor McGonagall dismissed them, Gemma who she shared a table with, asked, “Ready to go to lunch? It’s chicken stew day.”
It was well known that Ginny counted down to chicken stew day, but today her stomach would have to wait.
“You go ahead. I want to talk to Professor McGonagall about my essay.”
Gemma frowned. “I thought you finished that.”
“Almost,” Ginny said, “but I think I over-relied on the Radcliffe text. I’m going to ask if there are some additional books she recommends.”
“Merlin forbid you over rely on Radcliffe’s Transfiguration Theory. Save you a seat, my nerdy friend.”
Ginny slowly packed up her things, lingering so all Slytherins and most of her other classmates had left the classroom.
“Professor,” she said, “I was wondering if we could discuss the essay due next week. I was nearly done when I realized I might be missing some important primary sources and I . . .” She trailed off as the last student left the classroom. “Actually, my paper has been done for two days. I wanted to talk to you about the list. I assume you have seen it.”
Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows raised. With a wave of her wand, she closed and locked her door, making Ginny envy her wordless magic.
“I must say I have. A bit hard to miss when it’s permanently attached to the door of every girls bathroom in the castle.”
“Yes, of course. I’m not entirely sure what I’m asking here . . .”
“You want to protect yourself,” the professor said.
“Yes.”
Ginny saw the same exhaustion that she’d seen on Madam Pomfrey’s face two days ago on her Head of House’s face. She knew Professor McGonagall was powerful and clever, but she’d been rendered nearly powerless by the regime, and like Pomfrey, she wasn’t getting any younger.
“Well, all of the professors, and I mean the real professors, the long term professors have taken to patrolling the corridors more frequently and placing certain creative hurdles in the way of the Professors Carrow. However, that has not been and will not be enough.”
Ginny smiled as she considered what types of creative hurdles her teachers might have implemented. In fourth year, she’d realized what excellent senses of humor her professors had when the majority of the castle had conspired against Umbridge.
“No, I expect we’ll need to take care of ourselves.”
“I believe you will. I regret to say it, as I never thought I would see the day that students would be in danger in the classrooms and corridors of Hogwarts with professors able to do precious little to help. Stunning Spells and the Confundus will be the most important, of course. Learn to do them expertly. And silently.”
She blinked. “I’m not too concerned about the noise I make if someone attacks me.”
“You should. If you ever feel you might be in danger, a silent Confundus could very well save you.”
Ginny considered that. If the He-Carrow cornered her, could she possibly use that? And could he prove it was her if it was silent?
“I see your point,” she said.
Professor McGonagall began writing on a piece of parchment. Ginny noticed she labeled it “Ginny Weasley: N.E.W.T preparation.”
“Here are some spells you will wish to practice. Your classmates should practice, as well. Oh, and consider asking Professor Flitwick to teach you the Praesidium Charm.”
Ginny frowned. “The Praesidium Charm? Isn’t that used to protect diaries?”
She had no diary to protect for obvious reasons.
“In the most common use, yes. But essentially, it prevents people from handling your personal property.” Ginny must have looked confused because she added, “Use your head, girl. If applied to clothing, it could only be removed by you.”
Her eyes widened. “Like a magical chastity belt?”
McGonagall’s lips twitched. “Essentially, yes.”
“That does sound useful.”
“I will think on this some more, Miss Weasley, as I am sure there is much for you to practice, but we should both get to the Great Hall before our absence is noted. I will walk with you.”
As they walked to the Great Hall, Ginny felt better than she had in months.
2:30 p.m.
Third floor
Ginny left the girls’ bathroom to find that Pippa and Gemma had left to go to Herbology without her. Of course, we will wait for you, Ginny, they’d said. Apparently, that meant until a cute boy walked past.
She shook her head. Since when was she scared to walk to class by herself? It wasn’t likely that the rapists were going to strike in the middle of the day. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and prepared to trudge downstairs.
“Ginny!” she heard someone hiss.
She turned around to find Blaise Zabini striding towards her, looking furtive. Being in no mood to deal with Slytherin boys who may or may not be rapists, she closed the distance between them, pulled out her wand, and held it to his throat.
His eyes widened. He held up his hands. “I come in peace, Weasley. If you prefer war, it’s down the Charms corridor with the Carrows.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Did I arrive armed?”
“You’re telling me you don’t have a wand on you?” She waved her own wand menacingly in his face.
“Of course, I do. It’s in my back pocket. I would have drawn it already if I meant you harm.”
She examined Blaise closely. She’d never had a conversation with the Slytherin boy before. She knew of him, of course. The girls of Hogwarts often lamented that a boy that handsome moved in the darkest circles of Slytherin house. He was easy on the eyes, but she didn’t think his beautiful face made him any better than Malfoy.
He looked different up close. His bone structure was perfect and his eyelashes were longer than hers, but he was somehow less intimidating at an arm’s length. Perhaps it was because he looked tired, and his dark eyes were cautious.
She lowered her wand, but kept it firmly in her hand. “Speak.”
A shadow of a smile crossed over his face. “Yes, m’lady. I come with information. You may wish to avoid the corridor outside the library this evening.” She was about to tell him where he could shove his advice when he added, “In fact, anyone female may want to avoid it.”
Her stomach dropped. “You mean . . .”
He looked uncomfortable. “Some . . . people have been getting very good at Disillusionment Charms. Dangerously good.”
“Can’t you stop them?” she whispered.
“Stop them?” He laughed softly. “What do you think I can do? There is only one way to do that, and it’s to outsmart them. That, at least, is doable.”
Ginny supposed she ought to be grateful to him, especially as she had been planning to spend her evening in the library, but instead an anger was growing inside her. How very nice that Zabini could congratulate himself on being a hero for having this conversation without once risking his blemish free skin. Meanwhile, and she and the other girls of Hogwarts had to organize their days around not getting raped.
“You mean it’s more comfortable for you than standing up to your friends?”
He gave her a scornful look. “What would you have me do? Report them to Snape? That would go nowhere. Look around you, Weasley. No one is coming to help. Snape won’t help. McGonagall won’t help. And your boyfriend isn’t coming back to rescue you.”
“I. Don’t. Have. A. Boyfriend.”
“Did I hit a nerve? Library corridor, Weasley. Stay away from it.”
He turned and walked away from her.
“Blaise?” she said when he was some distance away.
“Weasley?”
“Thank you.”
November 29, 1997, 6:00 p.m.
The Room of Requirement
It was a Hogsmeade weekend and, in contrast to previous years, few non-Slytherin students had opted to leave the castle. The town was known to be a Death Eater stronghold these days and most people felt there were enough Death Eaters in the school, leaving them with little desire to immerse themselves in the greater Death Eater culture.
Ginny was disappointed as she had hoped for a day away and possibly some early Christmas shopping. She’d been housebound all summer, and she knew she wouldn’t be permitted to leave the Burrow during the Christmas holidays. But she knew, like Quidditch, Hogsmeade would not be the same as it had been in previous years.
So the older students decided to have their own gathering in the Room of Requirement. It had been a long week. Ginny, who had passed Blaise’s message on to the other girls on the list, had been jumpy and on edge. And since Fred and George had sent her a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky in her chocolate cake, along with something even better, she needed some fun in her life.
It had been Neville, of all people, who had organized the party. A few days before, Luna had lamented the disbanding of the DA, when they needed it more than ever. Neville had gotten excited, asking if they still had their coins. It had taken them three days, but they figured out Hermione’s charm and changed the date on the coins. Ginny didn’t expect anyone to actually see it, but it turned out others were sentimental about the DA and people kept pulling her aside to talk about it.
It had turned into a full party. Hannah Abbott, who was on good terms with the house elves, had got them to provide food so no one would need to go to the Great Hall for dinner. Ginny had supplied her firewhisky, while Seamus had brought a harsher home brewed firewhisky that gave off dangerous fumes. Luna, of course, had brought her equally dangerous Gurdy Whisky, which people were watering down with pumpkin juice and daring their friends to drink straight. Ernie Macmillan had brought some sherry, and Ginny was not sure if she should be impressed that Prefect Ernie had smuggled alcohol into Hogwarts or if she should be dismayed that Ernie favored her Great Aunt Muriel’s signature drink.
All of the returning DA was there. Some had brought friends. Mandy Brocklehurst was new, as were some fifth and sixth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. A few younger siblings of DA members had made it in. But Ginny recognized the classmates she’d trained with, under Harry’s leadership. Michael, Anthony, and Terry, inseparable friends, were there. Luna made the fourth Ravenclaw. Ernie Macmillan, Susan Bones, and Hannah Abbott represented Hufflepuff. She, Neville, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati were the Gryffindor representatives.
Still so many were missing. The instigators, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the most obvious omissions. Some had finished school and left Hogwarts. Others had been unable to return due to blood status, including Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and the Creevey brothers. And while Zacharias Smith was still at Hogwarts, rumor had it that Ernie had broken into his dormitory and stolen his coin so he wouldn’t know about the party.
“What do you think Harry would say if he could see us all together?” Neville said to her, as they sat side by side on a couch.
Ginny smiled, glad she wasn’t the only one reminiscing. “I think he’d ask us to have a glass for him. And he’d be glad that we have each other, like he has Ron and Hermione.”
No one knew where Harry was. She knew this because of Fred and George’s other gift. Wrapped inside the whisky label had been a message. “Look for us Thursday at sunset in the Minister pulpit. Our king will guide you.”
Being a Weasley, she knew that meant they had started their radio program at last. The minister pulpit referred to the wizarding radio. When Percy was eleven, he had decided he wanted to be Minister for Magic, and he pretended to give speeches over the wireless until the entire family referred to the radio as his pulpit. She knew their program would air Thursday at sunset and the password was Kingsley.
The previous night, she’d listened to the first Potterwatch on Seamus’ wireless in Neville and Seamus’ dormitory. Lavender and Parvati had joined Ginny and the boys for the broadcast. There had been news of disappearances, murders, and news within the Ministry, but of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, there was no news. The program had closed with Fred’s tips on how to duel an inbred Death Eater, featuring tips like “Distract him with his prettiest cousin.”
After the program, the five of them had talked for hours, speculating on what was going on outside the walls of Hogwarts. Ginny had not made it to her own bed until two in the morning, which had prompted awkward questions from Pippa the following morning, who was convinced Ginny had a secret boyfriend. Unfortunately trying to explain that she had just been talking with the seventh years had only convinced Pippa that Neville was her new boyfriend, and she had been giving both Ginny and Neville secretive winks all day (which had both confused and alarmed poor Neville).
Luckily, Pippa wasn’t there that night. Ginny had invited Demelza to the party, but Gemma and Pippa were both of the “keep your head down” philosophy for surviving the school year, so she didn’t think they would get along with DA.
“Well, I’ve definitely had a glass for Harry,” Neville said. “In fact, I’ve had several.”
“Neville Longbottom, I do believe you have become a rebel.”
“I hear the ladies like that sort of thing,” Neville said. Ginny smiled to herself, as she saw Neville sneak a glance at Hannah when he said “ladies.”
“They also like it when you talk to them,” Ginny said.
“Huh?” Neville looked up in a panic.
“Ernie has also been eyeing her, and he has far more regular access to her, shared common room and all.”
“I don’t know what you . . . Ernie?”
“Just talk to her, Nev. You are far more interesting than Ernie Macmillan.”
He looked panicked and took a long drink of his Gurdy whisky. Then he choked as he had clearly forgotten it was Gurdy whisky and not Ogdens in his glass.
“Hannah!” Ginny called out, as the blond girl was passing. “Neville and I were just talking about restarting the DA. You know, for proper practice, not just drinking whisky. Would you be interested if we do?”
Hannah’s blue eyes widened. “Absolutely! Susan and I were just talking about this the other day, how we need the practice even more than we did in the Umbridge days.”
“Fabulous! Well, Neville is making a list of everyone’s availability, so maybe you two could talk? Excuse me, I have to go find Luna.”
Yes, her work was definitely done there. It wasn’t just an excuse. She, Neville, and Luna had discussed reforming the DA. McGonagall’s list had given her a starting point, and her Head of House had later in the week offered to give Ginny personal lessons every other week, which she had eagerly accepted.
Oh, and she did need to find Luna too, as her dreamy friend had a terrified looking Demelza backed into a corner. Just look at how honest and not at all manipulative she was that night!
“Hi,” she said to Luna and Demelza.
“What are you looking so smug about?” Demelza demanded.
“I’m not smug! Can’t I be happy?”
“You have that look on your face! I haven’t seen that look since the weeks you spent snogging Harry!”
Well, that wiped the smile from her face.
“Sorry,” Demelza said.
“Don’t be,” Ginny said. “His name isn’t taboo.”
But it was. She hadn’t said it once since coming back to Hogwarts.
Demelza tried again. “So what has you happy?”
“I think the DA might be forming again!” She didn’t feel her former elation, but Ginny knew she could fake it.
“Of course, we are,” Luna said. “Isn’t that why we are all here?”
“I think most of us are just here to drink. And I include myself in that. But I think the time is right to bring back the DA.”
“We’re forming again?” Anthony Goldstein, who had been nearby, demanded.
“Yes!” Ginny said. “You in?”
The mood of the room quickly changed as news spread that the DA was about to be reestablished. Within five minutes, everyone had formed a circle and abandoned their drinks, or else were drinking them more mindfully than before.
They had settled the important matters, such as their first meeting date and how to better secure the room so intruders could not get in this time, when Susan Bones spoke up.
“I think we should have a Plan B,” the Hufflepuff girl said.
“A Plan B?” Ginny asked.
“An escape plan,” Susan said. “Don’t get me wrong. I think learning to fight is the most important thing we can do, but I think we also need to be able to leave the castle if something goes wrong. Or if Snape and the Carrows bring him here.”
“Well, if we leave, we’re fugitives,” Ginny pointed out. “Thanks to the new law. But you’re right. It might come to that. Hagrid, maybe? If anyone can get people out of the castle, it would be him.”
“That would just get Hagrid into trouble,” Neville said. “They’d look to him first. And he’s not a clever liar.”
“I would be surprised if Hagrid lasted the school year,” Terry Boot added. “He hasn’t been subtle in his support of Harry. He’ll likely have to go on the run soon.”
With a jolt, Ginny realized that she hadn’t had a conversation with Hagrid all year. She’d made friends with the half-giant in her first year. Initially, she’d hung around the groundskeeper’s hut, hoping to bump into Harry, but as she learned that Hagrid was genuinely interested in both her and her well being, they formed a curious friendship. While her visits to Hagrid had always been sporadic, she’d consistently visited him all of her first five years. And then last year, Hagrid confessed he had been rooting for her and Harry to get together for five years, endearing him to her forever.
This year, she hadn’t felt free to roam the grounds like she had in previous years, so visits to Hagrid had stopped without her even realizing it. She’d exchanged words with Hagrid in passing, but they hadn’t had any full conversations. She wondered if Hagrid had any company these days. While he was friendly with the non-Carrow professors, Ginny did not get the impression that he had any close relationships with any of them.
She decided that she would visit Hagrid in the next few days. She’d have to take Demelza–no, Neville–with her for safety reasons, but she wouldn’t neglect him. And she would talk to him about staying safe, remind him that Hogwarts needed him, now more than ever.
“I hear there are secret passages in the castle,” said a quiet Ravenclaw girl who was Aimee Cartwright’s best friend.
“There are several,” Ginny said. “The problem is Snape and Filch know all of the known ones.”
“Could there be unknown ones?” Hannah spoke up. “All we would need is one guaranteed exit from the castle.”
Then there was a sound of stone scraping. Everyone sprang up, wands at the ready.
But no one was at the entrance. Instead an opening had appeared in the wall and beyond it, a long passage.
“Blimey! Where do you think that goes?” Seamus demanded.
December 8, 1997, 7:00 p.m.
Room of Requirement
The time from the party to the first official meeting of the DA passed quickly. Ginny had been worried about having too much time on her hands with no more Quidditch practice to distract her, but her workload was heavy this year, and she quickly learned that personal tutoring from McGonagall would be far more challenging than any Transfiguration class. Potions Club was also becoming more frequent, and Ginny was beginning to suspect their healing potions were being used in Hogsmeade as well as the hospital wing. Blaise had given her another warning, this time about the Owlery, which she never visited alone anymore, but no one joined Romilda and Aimee in the hospital wing.
The castle was quiet. In fact, it was so subdued that the Carrows and Slytherin seventh years found few reasons to use the Cruciatus.
Ginny was curious about the passage that had appeared during the party. The evening of the party, she, Seamus, Neville, Susan, and Ernie had traveled it. It had ended at a blank wall, but they could hear voices on the other side. They suspected it led to either the Three Broomsticks or the Hogs Head given the number of voices they had heard, but it was impossible to determine which. Ginny was hoping it was the Three Broomsticks since Madam Rosmerta seemed as though she would be more sympathetic to students than the surly, ancient owner of the Hogs Head. In spite of her curiosity, she hadn’t dared to explore it again, and the entrance remained hidden during their meeting.
Ginny, who felt McGonagall’s advice was wise, had devoted their first meeting to Stunning spells, with the sixth and seventh years attempting to perform the spell wordlessly. They practiced for forty minutes, using mannequins the Room provided as targets, and then met in the middle to discuss the lesson and enjoy the biscuits and cocoa that Dobby had provided for them.
“You all did amazing,” Ginny said. “I know this spell is new to some of you as it is O.W.L. level, but I believe everyone caught on by the end of the session.”
“Ginny?” Hannah said. “Could we talk for a moment about the younger students? It’s great that we are getting this practice, but it’s the first, second, and third years who are the most vulnerable. I know we can’t really open this up to them, as they are on a different level than the rest of us, and it would compromise our secrecy, but surely there is something we can do for them.”
Ginny pondered that thoughtfully. In Gryffindor, the older students did look out for the younger ones, and she assumed it was the same in other houses, but Hannah was right, they were the most vulnerable.
“What about a tutoring program?” Ernie suggested. “I bet Professor Sprout would be willing to be a faculty sponsor, and it would seem merely academic.”
“We might be pushing our luck,” Seamus said. “I feel certain that Draco Malfoy has caught on that Potions Club isn’t just a club, especially as so many of us aren’t taking Potions anymore.”
Ginny had wondered about Malfoy as well. She was in N.E.W.T. level potions, but so many weren’t, and Draco wasn’t stupid.
“What about an underground paper?” Luna suggested. “It could share defense tips and also share what’s going on outside the castle.”
“I like that,” Terry said.
“There are ways to make the authorship of a publication untraceable,” Anthony added.
As they talked and endorsed the official newsletter of the DA, Ginny couldn’t decide if she felt more excitement or more foreboding. The DA would soon be out of the shadows.
December 13, 1997
The first issue of Out of the Fog came out one week before the Christmas holidays. They owed their title to Lavender who, at their first planning meeting, had let her copy of Unfogging the Future fall on the table with a thump and dramatically declared, “Who cares about unfogging the future when the present doesn’t even make sense!”
Michael Corner had commented that the present was indeed foggy thanks to the dementors, and the name was born. First, it was Unfogging the Present, and then Out of the Fog, and they eventually shortened it simply to Fog when they were discussing it, and “eff it” came to mean “I’m writing about this for the Fog,” while sounding like something else entirely.
It had been truly a group effort. Like the Potterwatch hosts, each writer had taken on a pseudonym. Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones, who had family connections everywhere, wrote about what was going on outside of Hogwarts. Ginny and Mandy teamed up to write a column about self defense. Neville, not surprisingly, wrote about the role of plants in defensive magic, while Terry wrote about potions and Anthony wrote about Charms. Lavender wrote a surprisingly witty column about how to fight Death Eaters without losing your sense of style. Luna proved to be a surprisingly strict editor who permitted no purple prose in the Fog, and she also oversaw the typesetting and production of the newsletter. Finally, the seventh year Ravenclaws did a series of protective charms to prevent others from identifying the authorship.
Early on Saturday morning, copies had been left in the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw common rooms. There had been some discussion on how to get copies into Slytherin, as they felt certain not everyone there had Death Eater allegiance, but no one had any realistic ideas of how to identify sympathetic Slytherins or get copies to them.
Ginny wasn’t sure when Snape and the Carrows figured out what had happened. It was possible they merely responded to the sudden rise in morale, but the torture curse was back after a quiet couple of weeks. Ginny, who had not been tortured since the day the she-Carrow had briefly used the Cruciatus on her, had forgotten just how terrible it was, but it was now the he-Carrow who sought out excuses to use it on her. The usual countdown to the holidays became something frantic, as everyone longed for escape.
Every time Ginny saw a fellow Out of the Fog contributor in the corridors, their eyes would meet, and she would see the same question in their eyes that lived in her own.
Were we wrong? Did we create a monster?
December 17, 1997
Hogwarts Library
Ginny and Luna had been so absorbed with the Fog that the pre holiday exams had completely snuck up on them. They shared a table in the library, Ginny reviewing her Transfiguration notes while Luna scanned a chapter of Ancient Runes in a Modern World.
“I will be so glad when it is Christmas,” Luna said. “Daddy has sounded terribly discouraged in his last letters.”
Ginny wondered what Christmas was like at the Lovegood home. Likely quite different than the cozy Weasley celebrations with pranks, piles of homemade gifts, and ridiculous amounts of food. With a pang, she remembered Mr. Lovegood’s terrible cooking and resolved to ask her mother about inviting them to Christmas dinner.
“I hope you have the happiest Christmas, Luna. You deserve it.”
Luna beamed. “Thanks! You too. I better get going. My Ancient Runes exam is in 15 minutes.”
“Good luck!”
As Luna left to head to the fifth floor, Blaise sat down at her library table.
“Did I say you could sit?” Ginny asked.
“Oh, Weasley. Don’t be so excited to see me. It’s embarrassing how you gush.”
She barely looked up from her Transfiguration notes. “What is it? Should I stay away from the Owlery? Or should I refrain from drinking pumpkin juice today?”
He kicked her under the table, making her realize they had never spoken in a public place before. “I just came by to wish you a happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Zabini.”
He stood up, but before leaving he whispered in her ear. “I enjoyed your newsletter.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
December 20, 1997
Ginny chattered excitedly to Demelza about her holiday plans as they wheeled their trunks to the Entrance Hall for transport to The Hogwarts Express. She had been dreading a Christmas without Harry and Ron over the last few weeks, but as it drew nearer, she realized just how much she missed her family. She wanted to talk to the twins about Potterwatch, play chess with her dad, and bake with her mum. Maybe she’d even relive her childhood and build a snow gnome in the garden.
She’d barely reached the Entrance Hall when Terry Boot pulled her aside.
“Have you heard?” he asked.
Judging by his face, it wasn’t happy news like the Carrows resigning. She shook her head.
“Mandy,” he said. “She’s in the hospital wing.”
Her heart sank. Number three. She’d truly thought it had stopped. “When?”
“Last night. Professor Flitwick found her.”
“Oh, Terry. I’m so sorry.” She gave the tall boy a hug. She knew he and Mandy hadn’t been a couple for years, but they had been the rare couple who remained close friends after a break up.
“Do you think there is more we could have done?” he asked.
“No, not even the teachers have been able to stop them, so don’t torture yourself. I wonder how they did it. Mandy never went anywhere alone, not after the list.”
Terry shook his head. “Dunno. She was so careful.”
With another quick hug, they went their separate ways. Ginny was quiet for the carriage ride and then as she selected a compartment with other members of the DA. She kept thinking of how Romilda looked when she found her, only it was Mandy’s face she saw this time. When the trolley came by, she had no desire for food.
Neville bought some chocolate frogs and pressed them in her hand. “You might want these later.”
She tried to smile. “Thanks.”
Hours passed and when they drew near to London, her spirits lifted. Home. She was going home. She would be safe at the Burrow. And she would build her damn snow gnome.
“I think things are going to turn around in the spring,” Luna announced as she wheeled her trunk off the train.
Ginny and Neville exchanged a glance. Everyone had been gloomy and quiet on the train ride, even Seamus, so this burst of optimism from Luna was unexpected.
“This spring? Or twenty years from now?” Ginny asked.
“This spring,” Luna replied. “You’ll see. Oh, there’s Daddy.”
“At least one of us is confident,” Ginny said to Neville with a smile.
The seventh year was struggling with Trevor, and when the toad leapt out of Neville’s arms, Ginny caught him, her Chaser catching skills still in evidence after a Quidditch free month.
“Thanks,” Neville said, securing Trevor in a basket.
Ginny turned back to wish Luna a happy Christmas, but the blond girl was gone.
Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Interviews, Part 1
Author's Notes: Feels like I haven’t written from Harry’s POV in forever. Probably because Chapter 13 took me nearly a year to write (100% Draco’s fault), so it has been some time. Due to length, this is being split into two parts.
Is anyone willing to beta Part 2 before I post it here? I currently have a conversation between Harry and Ron that is way too mature to be authentic. While I feel like both of them grew up a lot during Deathly Hallows, they are still very much teenage boys, and I need a stronger element of teen boy in this scene.
On a more random note, I recently revisited Chamber of Secrets, and I have decided my sympathies are entirely with Myrtle. Forget the injustice of being murdered by eyeballs. She was stuck in the middle of her awkward phase for all eternity. I’m imagining spending my entire afterlife in my middle school as a permanent twelve-year-old and I’m horrified.
Okay, I’ll shut up and let you read the chapter now.
Chapter 16: Interviews, Part 1
June 22, 1998, 5:30 a.m.
The Burrow
They weren’t morning people, he and Ginny, but they did their best to become morning people because the early morning hours were the only ones where they were guaranteed privacy. When Ron and Hermione were in Australia, he and Ginny had become accustomed to sneaking into each other’s beds once Arthur and Molly were asleep, and they had grown quite bold with their hands in their nighttime explorations.
Then his friends had returned, and Harry had learned that Ron’s hearing could be quite sharp when he was motivated to play watchman. With Hermione living with her parents again, he had little incentive to turn a blind eye. Two days after his return, Ginny had commented that, if she didn’t know that the duplication charm didn’t work on humans, she would have thought that Ron had performed it on himself so there would always be an older brother to supervise herself and Harry.
But these early morning hours were theirs, and Ron slept too late and too deeply, as did any potential duplicate Rons, to know they were sneaking into the orchard, far beyond sight of the house. While Harry did miss his sleep, seeing Ginny at sunrise more than made up for it. It had become his favorite part of the day: the sight of Ginny’s vivid hair at sunrise, the smell of dewy grass, the slight chill of the morning air, and the warm weight of his sleepy girlfriend in his arms.
That morning, they were naked on a blanket, and boldness with their hands had turned into boldness with their mouths, which was very new territory for both of them. When they were done and both contented, they lingered on their blanket, with Ginny in his arms. By the time Molly and Arthur woke, they would both be dressed and playing Quidditch, but this time was theirs.
“I wish you didn’t have to go into work,” she said.
He kissed her. “Me too. But you’re busy too. You’re going over to Luna’s with Hermione today.”
“I’m kind of dreading it, much as I love seeing Luna.”
When Harry, Ron, and Hermione had escaped from the Lovegood home, Xenophilius had been imprisoned by Death Eaters. He’d been tortured so badly that no one knew if he would recover. Amazingly enough, Luna did not blame Harry, Ron, or Hermione for this. A healer visited the partially rebuilt home daily, which was part of a health program Kingsley had implemented to deal with the aftermath of the war, but Luna dealt with the majority of her father’s care.
She had also inherited the running of The Quibbler, which was the reason for Ginny and Hermione’s visit. Worried about the load on Luna’s shoulders, they had agreed to help write the summer issues. Both girls had been busy with interviews and writing while Ron and Harry were at the Ministry. The July issue was devoted to the aftermath of the war, and they had interviewed dozens of people who had either fought in the Battle of Hogwarts or else been displaced during Voldemort’s takeover of the Ministry.
“That’s understandable. You’re a good friend, Ginny. She’s lucky to have you.”
“And I’m lucky to have her. It’s just sad. She’s talking about not coming back to Hogwarts because it would mean putting her dad in St. Mungo’s.”
“September is more than two months away,” he reminded her. “Xenophilius could make significant improvement by then.”
“But if he’s not, she’s not going back.” Ginny flipped over on to her belly. “Luna wants to be a magizoologist. You not only need N.E.W.T.s for that, you need schooling years past Hogwarts.”
“She can sit her N.E.W.T.s without attending Hogwarts.” He ran a hand over Ginny’s bare bum. “Not easily, I admit, but Luna is a Ravenclaw, and I’m sure Flitwick and McGonagall would set a self-study curriculum for her.”
“I don’t want to go back without her. I know how selfish that sounds, but you aren’t going back, Ron and Neville aren’t going back, and now Luna probably won’t go back.”
“This isn’t like last year. We’ll see each other. I will be there every Hogsmeade weekend and every Quidditch game I can get off work.” He kept his tone confident, but he was dreading it as much as she. He had loved his summer with Ginny and didn’t know how they would deal with a long distance relationship. “And you’ll have Hermione and your seventh year friends. And you’ll see Luna too; we’ll make it work if she doesn’t go back.”
Getting restless, Ginny started pulling her clothes on. “I just hate the thought of her alone with just Xenophilius for company. She’s solitary enough as is.”
“You forget that Ron, Neville, and I consider her to be our friend as well. We’ll get her out of the house. And your mum will make sure she is well fed.”
“You’d better take care of my friend.” Ginny crossed her arms over her chest. “Well? Are you getting dressed? It’s too easy to beat you at Quidditch if you’re naked.”
12:30 p.m.
Auror Department, Ministry of Magic
After their Monday morning Magical Law class, Harry and Ron were not thrilled to find out that they would be assigned to Dawlish for the afternoon because Kelly, along with another female senior Auror, would be interviewing both Mandy Brocklehurst and Aimee Cartwright. While Harry had wanted to attend these interviews, he did understand the Auror policy that dictated that victims of sexual violence could only be interviewed by Aurors of the same sex.
Still he did not enjoy the prospect of spending hours with Dawlish, who was a walking library.
“Green trainees!” he said when Ron and Harry reported to his desk, joining Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot. “We have a big afternoon of interviews lined up.” Harry and Ron exchanged excited glances. “You won’t be doing any of the questioning yet.” Less excited glances were exchanged. “However, this will be one of your more valuable training experiences.
“Your attention should focus on the questions asked. Pay attention to the language of the Aurors interviewing. Also, pay attention to those being interviewed. Their language, facial expressions, and body language. You’ll also be expected to provide a full transcript of all interviews.”
It was better than book work, but Harry longed for a more active role in the investigation.
“Who is being interviewed, sir?” he asked.
Dawlish passed a piece of parchment to him and Ron. “It’s quite an assortment of people. Some classmates, some family friends, a few cousins, some Hogwarts staff. Minerva McGonagall was quite prompt in sending Romilda’s records, so that gave us a decent start on finding people to interview. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the Daily Prophet. Their legal representative is fighting the order to surrender their photos. It could take weeks to untangle the bureaucracy, so we are going to go ahead with the sources that we currently have available.”
“Will we be permitted to read the records from Hogwarts, sir?” Anthony Goldstein asked.
“You may,” Dawlish replied. “I don’t think I need to remind anyone that anything you read is confidential and not to be discussed outside this department. It’s tempting when you know the parties involved, but it cannot be shared under any circumstance.”
The trainees all nodded.
“Come.” Dawlish slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “I’ll show you where you will be. It’s a room outside the interview room. There is a mirror that you will be able to see and hear through, although we will not be able to hear or see you.”
“We won’t be in the room?” Ron looked disappointed.
“No, it would be too stressful for the interviewees to be surrounded by Aurors. It’s the next best thing. Even when you are out of training, you will find yourself in the observation room from time to time. All right, our first interview is with Valerie Hawkins. Does anyone know who she is?”
The four young men all shook their heads.
“Creative director of Witch Weekly,” Dawlish stated. “Second in command to the Editor in Chief. Previously, Sharon Vane held this role, but after a scandal involving dieting potions and a dead model, Mrs. Vane was demoted to Beauty Director.”
“Very interesting,” Harry said.
“I heard you suspect the mother, Potter,” Dawlish said.
Harry put his hands up. “I have never said that.”
“Well, you should,” Dawlish said. “Always, always suspect the family. The deepest secrets are usually at home.”
With that, he lead them down the corridor to a door that Harry had always assumed opened to a broom cupboard, since it was the only one not labeled with a room number. The room, which was definitely not a broom cupboard, was much larger than the exterior suggested. It had a gleaming conference table, a series of brown leather armchairs, and even a side table stocked with coffee, tea, and water.
The trainees all claimed arm chairs that gave them a good view of the interview room, and Anthony Goldstein set up the transcription charm.
Valerie Hawkins was already in the conference room. The Aurors had not joined her yet, and Harry’s first thought was that she looked like a calculating woman. She was a tall, beautiful woman in her late thirties, and even Harry, who knew nothing about fashion, thought her ivory robes were very classy.
When Dawlish and Adams, a Green Auror, entered the interview room, Harry watched Valerie change her facial expression to one that was pleasant, bordering on blank. Interesting. He began writing his notes.
There were introductions and fetching of tea before Dawlish officially began the questioning.
“How long did you know the victim?” He asked.
“Since her infancy,” Hawkins said, her tone friendly and helpful. “Sharon frequently brought her children into work whenever it was the nanny’s day off. We all watched Romilda grow up.”
Adams, a wizard in his late twenties spoke up next, “And how would you describe the victim?”
“She was a clever, pretty girl, and she was always more interested in the magazine than either of her sisters. Everyone loved Romilda. When she was small, she was frequently in trouble for sneaking in the wardrobe room and playing with the designer robes. There would be missing sequins in the dress robes needed for the following week’s photo shoot and shoes with high heels broken off because a six-year-old had tried to walk in them.”
“And as she grew older?” Dawlish asked.
“Same excitement, better behavior,” Hawkins said. “She was being groomed to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Around the time she started Hogwarts, she stopped playing in the wardrobe room and began trailing the young models, pestering them with questions about their makeup and their boyfriends. If she were still with us, I expect she would have become a model herself in the next year or so. I suspect Sharon was trying to get her a contract, even though Romilda was still in school. Sharon began modeling when she very young–too young–and I think she would have expected the same of Romilda.”
“Is it unusual for models to be in school?” Adams asked.
“Not unusual, no. Modeling is a short-lived career, so many do start young. And the profession requires a figure that is near impossible to maintain after adolescence. But what’s best for the career isn’t always best for the girl.”
“Isn’t the best for Romilda?” Dawlish asked. “Or any girl of a young age?”
“Both. I’m not a mother, so I’m talking as an outsider here, but I’ve seen so many girls of fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen start modeling, and they are suddenly in an adult world where they are being offered alcohol, hallucinogenic potions, and sex. These girls aren’t ready for that. They are still students at Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or wherever they came from. And that would have been Romilda’s world had she started modeling.”
Harry couldn’t help but think that she didn’t feel that conflicted about the exploitation of young girls, as she would have found another field to work in if she were.
Dawlish continued, “But, as Sharon Vane has witnessed the same things, she could potentially shield her daughter from the worst?”
“I suspect Sharon’s idea of a terrible fate for her daughter would have been obscurity. She had fame, and a great deal of it, at a very young age. She and I were at Hogwarts together.”
Harry straightened up, feeling this would be where Valerie Hawkins would get personal and possibly nasty.
“Different houses, of course,” she continued. “She was a Slytherin and I was a Ravenclaw, but we were in the same year, so we knew each other. Our sixth year, she turned seventeen a month or so into the school year. Over the Christmas holidays, she did her first topless photo shoot and came back to school bragging about her new boyfriend, a 27-year-old photographer. And like that, every girl was talking about her, and every boy was wanking to her nude photo.”
Adams seemed to share Harry’s opinion that she was there to gossip.
“Is this relevant, Ms. Hawkins? Romilda wasn’t a model. So there was, in all probability, no adult photographer boyfriends and no nude photo shoots. We are concerned with what Romilda’s life was like, not what it could have been. What can you tell us about her life as a student, a daughter, a sister?”
“I don’t know much about her life at Hogwarts. I expect she was a leader. She took after her mother, so how could she not be? As a daughter, she was eager to please. She wore what her mother told her to wear, took the classes her mother suggested, befriended children from just the right families, and always skipped pudding because her mother never ate pudding. How’s that for a waste? The gift of a teenage metabolism, and she always skipped pudding, only to die before her metabolism had a chance to slow down.”
“And her relationship with her father?” Dawlish asked.
“I can only speculate. I’ve worked closely with Sharon for nearly two decades now, and Mortimer is still a shadowy figure to me. I could tell you how each of the Vane daughters takes her tea, but I have only seen Mortimer at the office once. She’s very controlling, you know. She doesn’t want her husband near the models lest he realize that women come younger than Sharon.” She said the last part in a mock whisper, as if sharing a dirty secret about the Vanes.
“And how did Romilda take her tea?” Dawlish asked.
Hawkins blinked. “Black, of course. Sugar and milk both have calories, dear. With one ice cube because she didn’t like it too hot. Sara prefers a touch of milk and two sugar cubes, while little Emilia likes hers very milky with half a sugar cube. You might be asking if sugar cubes can be divided, and yes, they can. Every single assistant Sharon Vane has ever had, and Merlin knows she goes through them quickly, has learned the charm that divides a sugar cube perfectly in half for the littlest Miss Vane.”
“And what was Romilda’s relationship with her sisters?” Adams asked.
“Well, they are sisters, best friends one moment, bitterest of enemies the next,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Romi was closest to Emilia in spite of the five year age difference. Sharon was grooming Romilda to be like her, while Romilda was grooming Emilia to be like Romilda. Sara is her own person, which never went over well with either Sharon or Romilda. She’s a sensitive, bookish type and not terribly bothered by her appearance. Over the Easter holidays, I heard Romilda make a comment about how Sara could fit into the sample robes too, if only Hufflepuff’s common room wasn’t so close to the kitchens. Sara’s a bit stout, if you didn’t know. And she said that right in front of Sharon, who didn’t reprimand Romilda for her cruelty, but instead took a pastry out of Sara’s hand and threw it in the rubbish. But other times, I have heard Romilda being quite sweet to Sara and comforting her when she was upset by something Sharon said to her.”
“I’m sorry, but what are sample robes?” Dawlish asked.
“The sample clothing that designers send us for photo shoots. They are all in the same size, which is why models all have the same body type. Romi was just the right size to fit into the sample robes.”
She held her hands a few inches apart, as if to indicate the waistline of a very small invisible woman.
Kelly Proudfoot and Ingrid Matthews, apparently back from interviewing Aimee and Mandy walked into the room. A smell of something sweet entered the room with them.
“What’d we miss?” Kelly asked in a whisper, even though the participants in the other room couldn’t hear her. She sat next to Ron and Harry, while Ingrid, a member of Team Purple, sat next to Anthony and Terry.
“Creative director of Witch Weekly is painting a very careful picture of Sharon Vane as a bad mother,” Harry whispered back.
“So, she agrees with you?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “She has an agenda. Not sure what it is, but she’s not here out of the goodness of her heart or out of affection for Romilda.”
“Drama. Good thing I brought snacks.” Kelly pulled some fresh biscuits out of a bag, which explained the sweet smell they had brought into the room. She slapped Ron’s hand when he tried to sneak a biscuit.
Adams was talking, “Do you know if Romilda was social when she was home on holidays? You mention seeing her over Easter. Did she mention seeing any of her friends? Or having dates?”
Valerie shrugged. “She mentioned a friend coming to stay. Robin, maybe? It was a girl from her dormitory.”
“Raven King?”
“Sounds right. It was a bird name. Other than that, I don’t know. I know Sharon had a dinner party that week, but I doubt the girls would have been permitted to invite their friends to that.”
“Do you know who any of the guests were?”
“Not really,” Valerie shrugged. “I got the impression it was as trip down memory lane for Sharon. All of the people she used to party with before she met Mortimer. I wasn’t a socialite in the seventies. I was too busy beginning my career.”
“Do you know of anyone else Romilda might have encountered on her Easter holiday?” Adams asked.
She shrugged. “She was at the office. Any number of people could have talked to her here. She saw her friend Robin, as I said. She might have talked to some of Sharon’s guests. Why? She wasn’t killed at Easter. Shouldn’t you be concerned who knew Romilda at the party?”
“We’re interested in her whereabouts during the last few months of her life, and anyone who might have taken a particular interest in her.”
“And you think one of her school friends did it? I don’t recall seeing an excessive number of teenagers at the ball. Wouldn’t your murderer likely be closer to home?”
She overplayed her hand on that one, Harry thought.
“Do you know of anyone with a motive to kill Romilda?” Dawlish asked.
She hesitated. “No. I just think it’s unlikely that a child did it, given the reports coming out of Hogwarts indicate it was chaos last year. Undoubtedly, it would have been easier to kill her at school at the Ministry of Magic if someone had been so inclined.”
It was a decent point, but Harry assumed Valerie Hawkins had no idea of what had happened to Romilda at Hogwarts.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Hawkins. If you ever think of something else or learn something new, please let us know.”
There was shaking of hands, and then Valerie Hawkins was escorted from the interview room.
“So, what do we think, boys?” Ingrid asked the trainees.
“I think she told the truth,” Terry said. “But I think she told it slant.”
Anthony nodded. “She’s threatened by Sharon Vane, but she doesn’t have anything concrete on her.”
“I don’t think we learned anything new,” Ron said.
“We learned a bit about Romilda’s whereabouts over Easter,” Harry said. “But it’s not particularly enlightening.”
“It’s worth following up on,” Kelly said. She’d vacated her chair and was looking over Anthony’s shoulder at the transcript. “Oh dear, she really doesn’t like Sharon, does she?”
“Nope,” Harry said. “So, how did things go with Aimee and Mandy?”
Kelly sighed. “Not well. There seems to be a Fidelius charm at work because neither of them can answer any direct questions without choking. We tried some indirect questioning in the hopes they could reveal something, but eventually, we just got the impression we were re-traumatizing them, so we opted to leave rather than cause additional harm.”
Both Anthony and Terry looked quite grave, and Harry remembered that Ginny had told him that they were both close friends with Mandy, in addition to Terry being her ex-boyfriend.
“So Romilda wasn’t murdered because of the lifting of a Fidelius?” Harry said.
“It doesn’t seem so,” Ingrid said. “It’s possible another Secret Keeper could have been used in Romilda’s case, but it’s unlikely.” She looked up at Kelly. “It’s us next?”
Kelly nodded. “Poppy Pomfrey, 1:15. Nearly a decade out of Hogwarts, and I still feel she’s about to scold me for playing Quidditch too roughly or for not wearing a coat outside.”
“You played Quidditch?” Harry asked. He wondered if she was a fellow Seeker. She certainly had the small size that was advantageous.
“Hufflepuff Captain, 1988-1990,” she said. She’d nodded at Ron, “Charlie will remember me well.”
“Let’s go,” Ingrid said.
The two women left, and Dawlish and Adams joined them in the observation room. Within a minute, the two female Aurors escorted Madam Pomfrey in.
Their first few questions centered on the condition in which she’d first found Romilda. The school healer was unflinchingly detailed in her report, and if she had to stop at any point and blink hard, she always continued ahead with her description. Harry’s fellow trainees all looked as uncomfortable as he felt as they heard what their female classmates had endured.
“Is it possible that Romilda could have conceived?” Ingrid asked.
“No,” Madam Pomfrey said. “This was seven and a half months ago. While there are certainly charms to disguise pregnancy, they would not have continued after her death. There were three girls who were assaulted at Hogwarts during the last school year, and none of them became pregnant.”
“Was that pure luck?” Kelly asked.
Harry had no idea what she was getting at, but he did note that Madam Pomfrey seemed to shift in her chair. “There’s nothing lucky about sexual assault,” she said, harshly. “If they did not become pregnant, that’s a small mercy, not luck.”
Ingrid seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “As I am sure you have heard, many people have been given immunity for war time acts that would typically require sentencing. Using an Unforgivable to save the lives of innocents, for instance. So, if someone were to administer a contraceptive potion to assaulted victims who were in no condition to consent to its administration, that person could receive immunity.”
Oh. That’s what she had done.
If anything, Madam Pomfrey looked more uncomfortable. “Yes, I did administer the 24-hour potion to Romilda, as well as to Aimee Cartwright and Mandy Brocklehurst, as well as a potion that would protect them from any sexually transmitted infections. I didn’t list either of these in their official records.”
She sighed and looked out the magical window, which was showing rain that day.
“I am not proud of it. I do support the law that prohibits administering either contraceptive or abortive potions to a patient without their consent. I do believe girls and women should be empowered to make their own reproductive choices. But with the girls, we had no idea if or when they would wake, so they were in no position to make any decision. With Aimee–she was first, you know–I discussed the matter at length with a couple of my colleagues, and we all agreed that it was a lesser evil than potentially allowing her to become pregnant with the child of one of her attackers.”
“You wanted to minimize harm,” Ingrid said.
“Yes.”
“Was there an official investigation into what happened to the girls?” Kelly asked.
“Not exactly. To his credit, Snape did tighten up rules after the attacks. Earlier curfews, more professors patrolling the corridor. But were any of the likely suspects questioned? Not to my knowledge.”
“Who were the likely suspects?”
“No one is really certain,” Madam Pomfrey said. “That’s the trouble. It is a pretty universal suspicion that the older Slytherin boys–the 6th and 7th years–were responsible, and I have no doubt the ringleaders were there. But just because a group of people looks guilty doesn’t mean that they are.”
“Who would you consider to be most likely?” Kelly asked. When Madam Pomfrey hesitated, she added, “You won’t be ruining anyone’s life here if your suspicion is wrong. It’s simply a starting point of who to interview.”
“Gregory Goyle, who finished his final year in Slytherin,” Madam Pomfrey said, “and Geoffrey Bulstrode, who will be a seventh year Slytherin. While I think Vincent Crabbe also falls under this category, he did not survive the Battle. Possibly Markus Weatherby, who will be starting his seventh year in Ravenclaw.”
“What is it about these boys that sets them apart from the others?”
“Cruelty,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Last year, certain elder students were permitted to administer punishments. These four had a certain enthusiasm for the Cruciatus.”
“Did other students use Unforgivables on classmates?”
“Yes, but no others were quite as effective. There needs to be both force and emotion behind an Unforgivable. Not all students who supported the Carrows had the necessary inner fury.”
“Is there any possibility that not all of the attackers were students?” Kelly asked.
“It’s possible. More than a few girls were overheard saying that they would not want to be caught alone with Amycus Carrow, and he certainly was caught staring at the young girls often enough. I know Minerva made it her responsibility to trail little Ginny Weasley, whom Carrow seemed to have a particular fascination with.”
Harry’s stomach clenched. While Ginny had certainly mentioned that the Carrows had been terrible, she had never mentioned this.
“Was there any reason to believe she might have been attacked?” Ingrid asked.
“Ginny Weasley? Not as far as I know.”
“So the three girls who were attacked, what were their parents told?”
“I don’t know,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Under Dumbledore, I was always responsible for notifying the parents of children under my care. If the case was critical–injuries sustained in class or due to Quidditch–sometimes the headmaster would add his signature, but Snape completely took that role over, or so he told me, and I wasn’t allowed to contact any parents at all that year. None of the girls were well enough to go home for the Christmas holidays, so they must have been told something.”
Madam Pomfrey answered some more questions about both Romilda’s experiences and the general culture at Hogwarts the previous year, then the Aurors rotated through a long string of interview subjects. The senior Aurors seemed in agreement as to which interviews would be performed by certain Aurors and who would be in the observation rooms.
Some of the interviews were pointless and seemed to serve no purpose other than to provide catharsis for the person being interviewed.
“She was just the most darling girl,” sobbed the Fashion Director for Witch Weekly. “She loved helping me in the wardrobe room. She really had quite an eye for fashion, and she wasn’t afraid to tell me when I outfitted the girls wrong. She’d say, ‘Hope, can’t you see this crushed velvet is all wrong on the blond model? Put it on the mysterious brunette over there.’”
Others were outright ridiculous.
“I was gazing in my crystal ball the evening of the ball,” said the Vanes’ elderly next door neighbor. “And I saw danger coming for poor Romilda.” She shook her head and sighed. “Her father should have never angered the goblins. I could see, clear as day, that Swiss goblins were coming to take her life as punishment.”
Others seemed to trying to sort through their own suspicions.
“Romilda grew strange in the spring,” said Flora Clearwater, who had just completed her fifth year in Ravenclaw. “Not haunted and jumpy like she was when she came out of the coma in winter. She became moody and unpredictable. Sometimes, she was angry and bent on revenge. Other times, she was dreamy and didn’t seem to know where she was. I started wondering if she had begun abusing pain potions.”
Others got straight to the point.
“Those boys tampered with her memory,” Professor McGonagall stated. “I’m positive of it. It became clear that all three girls had been put under the Fidelius because none of them could speak of their attacks, but they used a memory charm too. Aimee never resumed classes, but Romilda and Mandy did, and we watched them closely to see if there were any boys or men they shrank from. It was tricky at first, as they were scared of everyone, including us, but as time went on, neither Mandy nor Romilda reacted specifically to any person or persons.”
Others had theories.
“She did it to herself,” said a cousin of Romilda’s. “Have you met my aunt and uncle? I would do anything to get out of that house.”
The interviews were like a giant confusing quilt. Harry felt there must be a pattern somewhere, but he was too close to see it. The only things that seemed consistent were that no one liked Sharon Vane, and that everyone thought that Romilda had been attacked by Slytherins.
8:00 p.m.
The Burrow
They didn’t finish observing the interviews until well past dinner time. Ginny would not be pleased about them being home so late. He didn’t like it much either, though he had to admit Dawlish had been right about this being an excellent training experience. He certainly had a great deal to think about.
When they got to the Burrow, Molly was in the kitchen with a cup of tea, but Ginny was nowhere in sight.
“Hello, dears,” she said. “I put a warming charm on your dinners. Harry, you received an owl today.”
He found the parchment on the counter. It was from Thom Wright, who was in charge of the decontamination of number 12 Grimmauld Place.
Renovating his townhouse had proven to be quite the project. Bill had been the first one to enter Grimmauld Place after the battle. He had gone in as a favor to Harry, as Harry had been attending a couple dozen funerals in May. Bill had donned full cursebreaker protective robes and deactivated anything left by Yaxley and his mates to cause death or injury.
Kreacher had been next. In exchange for removing Wallburga’s portrait from the entrance, Harry had given him permission to keep any Black artifacts not tainted with dark magic in either his cupboard or the attic. Kreacher had also been offered a bedroom of his own, but he had declined, so Harry planned to give him the coziest cupboard any house-elf ever had.
After that, Harry had gone through the library with Gawain Robards, who had been intrigued by the amount of books on the dark arts Harry had inherited. Not wanting to live surrounded by volumes on curses, Harry had permitted Gawain to take whatever he wanted for the Auror reference library. He wasn’t sure if he should be alarmed at how his boss had drooled over some of the more rare and menacing volumes and hoped it was merely the Ravenclaw in Gawain. Once those books had been moved to the Ministry, Harry had marked the rest of the Dark Arts books for destruction, keeping only the wizarding history and literature books on the shelves.
After that, it had been time to hire his decontaminator, Thom, and his decorator, Elisabeth, who was a close friend of Andromeda’s. If Kingsley had not negotiated with the goblins about the Gringotts break in, he would have never been able to afford it, as the goblins had initially wanted to claim half the contents of his vault for restorations. Kingsley had made an agreement that they could seize the contents of the Lestrange vault instead, arguing that the Lestranges had been the ones to store stolen objects on goblin property in the first place, in exchange for them leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s vaults alone. As the Lestrange vault was four times the worth of Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s vaults combined, with plenty of goblin silver inside, the goblins had given in as gracefully as was possible for goblinkind.
Thom had been busy at work, getting rid of doxies and small rodents, identifying more minor dark objects that had not dangerous enough to be included in Bill’s sweep, and dusting oversized chandeliers. He kept in regular correspondence with Harry, and his owls never, ever contained good news.
On the greenhouse that Harry had never set foot into due to its haunted appearance: “There isn’t a single plant in there that won’t try to kill you.”
On the attic: “Congrats! You have a school of ghouls. Normally, ghouls are solitary creatures, but yours have bonded.”
On the hallway cupboards: “One of my workers went into a cupboard, hasn’t come out, and we can’t find him. Where does it go?”
On a wardrobe in one of the third floor bedrooms: “There is a family of furry creatures living in there. I can’t ID them. I brought in my mate, who once interned with Newt Scamander, and he has no idea what they are either. Seem to be friendly little things though.”
On mystery pets: “There are lots of toxins in this house. You really shouldn’t leave your cat here while we’re working.”
And so, the greenhouse plants had been burned and their ashes banished.
Silencing and deodorizing charms had been placed on the attic, as the ghouls were harmless but loud.
Larry, the missing worker, turned up in the library the next day and he had stories.
Luna and a family friend had turned out to inspect the furry wardrobe dwellers and declared them to be a magical marsupial from New Guinea, and Luna was in the process of domesticating them.
Harry and Ginny arrived and found there was, in fact, a black-and-white cat living in his house. Unsure if she was a dark creature or an Animagus left by Yaxley and his mates, they took the feline to the Magical Menagerie. After an examination, she was declared to be a perfectly normal, dark magic-free cat. As Yaxley and his fellow Death Eaters had not bothered to secure the house after they had trashed it, she must have just wandered in on a cold winter’s day. Ginny had named her Domino, and she was now living at the Burrow and sleeping in Ginny’s bed.
Harry unrolled the parchment from Thom reluctantly, hoping he hadn’t discovered some dark creature lurking in the parlor. He, Ron, and Neville were hoping to move into the house in September, but it seemed unlikely that the house would be ready by then. He knew Kreacher, who was currently helping out at Andromeda’s, was also very eager to move back in.
Harry,
After the biting candelabras, the ravenous cupboards, the swinging chandeliers, the rats, spiders, ghouls, and whatever that was living in the wardrobe, I declare your home to be free of unwanted creatures and objects. My staff has one more full day of work where they will wash the walls, mop the kitchen floor, tear out moldy carpeting, and remove the wallpaper you called “dizzying.”
Your decorator should be able to begin work on Wednesday morning.
It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.
Thom
P.S. My last bill will be substantial. One of those mutant rats bit me, and Larry is still upset about the vanishing cupboard.
“Yes!” he said. “Ron, the decontaminators are all done! One more day, and they’ll be out, and the decorator will be in!”
“Harry, you aren’t eating,” Molly said, her lips pursed.
Harry realized she had put roast beef and mashed potatoes in front of him. He also knew her displeased expression was due to her dislike of his and Ron’s decision to move out rather than Harry ignoring his plate. He supposed he shouldn’t have shown his excitement at moving out of her house.
“Sorry,” he said. “It looks delicious. Where is Ginny?”
“Upstairs, I suppose. I would have thought she would come down when you both got home.”
Harry ate his dinner quickly and washed his plate, so he could go upstairs and tell Ginny the good news. He took the stairs two at a time and knocked on her bedroom door. There was no answer, so he went to his own room to change his clothes and figured he’d look for Ginny outside.
When he opened his bedroom door, he found his girlfriend sitting cross legged on his bed, a book in her lap. And on Ginny’s face was an expression of pure fury.
“Hi?” He unconsciously backed a few steps out of his room.
He had seen Ginny extremely angry on a few occasions before, but only once before had it been directed at him. The day after the Battle of Hogwarts, Ginny’s relief at Harry being alive wore off and a year’s worth of fear and anger had kicked in. She’d screamed at Harry for a solid twenty minutes in the Gryffindor seventh year boys’ dormitory.
Her expression today rivaled her post-battle face, and he knew this would not end well.
“So. I came in here to borrow your copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. Do you know what I happened to find inside?”
Harry’s mind was a blank. As far as he knew, nothing had been in the book. Had Ron borrowed it and absentmindedly put some smutty pictures inside?
“Er . . .”
She wasn’t waiting for an answer. “This!” She raised some parchment in the air. “And this! And this! Were you going to tell me about this?”
He had no idea why she was getting so worked up over parchment, until he leaned and recognized it. The mystery letters that had been delivered by the tawny owl that should have never been able to get into the Burrow. His stomach sank.
“I did show you that,” he pointed out. “We agreed it was probably a weird prank from a classmate or something.”
“You showed me the first one. You did not let me know that two more letters followed.”
“Because we agreed it was a joke!”
“Why would you save a joke? You were storing these just in case. And one letter might have been a prank, but three? Who is sending these to you?”
“I don’t know! Nothing in them makes sense!”
“Have you been telling anyone about these, Harry? Ron? Hermione?”
He shook his head. “I thought I was just being paranoid. I thought about asking Hermione to see if she might have some theories as to how that bird got onto the grounds but . . .”
”Hermione’s not your girlfriend!”
“I know that! I . . .”
“You promised me. You fucking promised me, Harry. Do you remember after the battle when you told me that there would be no more secrets?” He didn’t respond because he had promised her exactly that. “But nothing has changed, has it? Ron and Hermione are still your confidants, and I’m just here, conveniently off to the side.”
“But I haven’t been talking to Ron or Hermione! I just thought Hermione would have some insight, you know, because she’s brainy.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
“I’m brainy! I received nine O.W.L.s. I believe you had seven?” Ouch. “Even if I didn’t have brains, I am still your girlfriend and the one you are supposed to confide in first.”
“I know, I know. I just wanted it to be nothing.”
“Well, if it turns out to be something, I’m sure you’ll just run to Ron and Hermione like you always do.”
With that, she slammed out of the room.
Harry flopped face first onto his bed. Why hadn’t he told Ginny about the follow up letters? He’d had his reasons at the time. Because none of the letters made sense. Because he thought they might make sense if he just mulled it over. Because Ginny had been crying over Fred, and he didn’t want to bother her with something so ridiculous. Because it had been too sunny and beautiful to bother with mysteries. Because it had been too rainy and miserable to bother with mysteries.
And yes, he was a creature of habit, and he was unused to confiding in anyone other than Ron and Hermione. He had thought he was over that. He had told Ginny so much over the last month, and he’d been repeatedly surprised at how well she understood him, but he wasn’t used to talking to her first. And had the long conversations lessened once Ron and Hermione were back and his attention was divided?
He felt a cut on his face and realized he’d landed in the perfect position to get a parchment cut on his cheekbone. He glared at the offending letter. And he instantly sat up.
Merlin. He’d seen that illegible handwriting somewhere. And recently.
The letter writer’s sloppy cursive resembled that in Romilda Vane’s diaries.
Chapter 17: Chapter 17: Interviews, Part 2
Author's Notes: Just wondering, where else do authors on here post their stories? Currently, I have this story only on SIYE, but I am thinking of branching out. I like it here because it feels like a community, but yet I’d like to have Framed read by a wider audience. But fanfiction.net scares me. It’s like Walmart; there’s a ton of stuff there, but why would you want most of it? And how does one even get read on such a giant site? And I don’t think AO3 is terribly user friendly, but maybe that’s because I haven’t spent much time there. What do you use? What do you like?
And oh dear. I need to write a Death Eater Christmas chapter next. How very festive. Prayers and wine are appreciated.
Chapter 17: Interviews, Part 2
June 23, 1998, 5:15 a.m.
The Burrow
Harry was on his way to the broomshed. He didn’t expect Ginny to meet him there after the previous night’s fight, but he had tossed and turned all night, redoing his fight with Ginny in his head and creating alternate endings, so he hadn’t had more than an hour or two of sleep, and he needed a good fly to clear his head before work.
When he encountered a figure by the shed door, he yelped and pulled out his wind.
“It wouldn’t be sporting to hex me,” Ginny commented. “I can’t do magic for more than a month.”
“Ginny?”
As far as he could tell in the semi-darkness, she had a stubborn set to her jaw, but yesterday’s fury was eliminated from her heart-shaped face.
“It occurred to me that perhaps that it was unfair for me not to permit you an opportunity to grovel last night. Especially since this is a situation that calls for a great of groveling.”
“Does this mean we’re . . . still together?”
She looked startled. “I am not dumping you over a couple pieces of parchment. Are you dumping me over a couple pieces of parchment?”
“Of course not!”
“Well, good. Because we’ve been through worse. But Harry. We are not okay. We are definitely not okay.”
“I know, I know. And it’s my fault.”
While Harry still was of the belief that the letters weren’t a huge deal, he understood that, to Ginny, they were, and he should have realized that before.
“We are in agreement on that.”
“I won’t do this again.”
She sighed. “Harry, I worry that you will. I know that Ron and Hermione are your best friends. I’m not trying to split that up. And I know that you are used to going to Hermione first for advice, which she is very good at giving. But we’re in a relationship, and you need to discuss things with me.”
“I know. I need to go to you first.”
“Yes.” For a moment, she looked much older than her not-quite-seventeen-years. “I’m not really in the mood to fly today, but I’m going to spread out the blanket in the orchard. And we can talk. And you can grovel properly.”
They settled on a blanket, and Harry was pleased that she did not keep him at a distance. He expected her to sit stiffly, at least a foot away from him, but instead she sat with her legs almost touching his.
He began to talk, explaining that it had never been his intent to hide things from Ginny. There had been a lot going on–Hermione and Ron’s return, starting his new job, the hours of training for the press conference that was originally supposed to follow the Midsummer Ball–and the weird letters had the thing he had pushed to the back of his mind, for no reason other than that he didn’t want to deal with it.
Ginny asked some questions, but she seemed to understand that he hadn’t deliberately kept her in the dark, that it had never been about shielding her, and it helped that Hermione and Ron knew even less than she did about the matter. After he addressed her concerns, he shared his realization that the writing seemed to match Romilda’s, something that had struck him as odd but struck Ginny as downright ominous.
“So the letters are from the murderer!” she said.
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“Harry, hasn’t it occurred to you that you might be being framed? Someone has been telling the Daily Prophet that you and Romilda were once a thing.” She raised a hand as Harry started to protest. “Yes, I know Rita enjoys making things up, but this started before Romilda’s murder. A reporter–and not Rita–asked you about it when we first arrived at the ball. I didn’t think anything of it at that time. The Daily Prophet isn’t actually known for their accuracy, but it was convenient for the murderer, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“Harry, someone has been feeding stories to the press about you and Romilda. Possibly since the Battle.”
He opened his mouth, and then closed it. Of course. He was so used to being the scapegoat for everything–the heir of Slytherin, hoodwinking the Goblet of Fire, even Dumbledore’s murder–that it hadn’t struck him as truly odd to be cast as the villain in the Daily Prophet’s melodrama. It was simply life as Harry Potter to be accused of everything that went wrong, but Ginny was right in that rumors had begun while Romilda was still alive.
He remembered the profile Kelly had given of the killer two days before. She had speculated on why the killer had opted to commit his murder in an area populated with Aurors and Hit Wizards and had concluded the murderer was either desperate or making a point to the wizarding world. Had he chosen the ball because it meant that Harry would be present?
“Someone has been giving you the appearance of a motive,” Ginny went on. “And conveniently there is correspondence detailing a breakup in handwriting similar to Romilda’s. How would this look if the Ministry got a search warrant?”
“But surely someone would need evidence of an actual relationship,” Harry protested. “Anyone who was at Hogwarts with us would know that Romilda and I were never together.”
“But could you really prove that you weren’t together?”
“Why would I need to prove we weren’t together? Wouldn’t investigators need to prove we were?”
They discussed the matter at length, but they had no idea how to unmask the Prophet’s source. Neither of them knew anyone who worked at the newspaper, even in a friend of a friend sense.
Ginny sighed. “I suppose I could ask Luna if she has any idea where the Prophet gets its sources. It’s a long shot, but she’s the closest thing to a journalist I know. Even if she does think the Prophet is funded by the Magia.”
“The what?”
“Magia,” Ginny said with a wave of her hand. “Supposedly a secret society that runs the entire wizarding world. Total urban legend, of course. No proof that such a group even exists.”
In the end, the only practical course of action they were able to settle on was to find out what type of owl or owls the Vane family owned, if only to rule out the possibility that Romilda had sent the letters herself. Harry wasn’t sure how he’d manage that since he didn’t know if he would be permitted to return to the Vane house, but he figured he’d weasel the information out of someone. He vaguely recalled Romilda’s friends as being a giggly, chatty crew. Surely they would be willing to discuss correspondence with Romilda.
9:00 a.m.
The Auror Department
By the time Harry got to work, he felt much better about his relationship with Ginny and much worse about the investigation.
At the Auror daily meeting, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he and his fellow trainees were not expected to report to Criminology class that morning. As the legal representative from Wizengamot Administrative Services had proved to be more persuasive than expected, the Auror Department was now in possession of the Daily Prophet’s entire photo collection from the ball. As all fully qualified Aurors were needed for interviews, it fell to the trainees to sort through all 1,573 photos of the event, flagging anything suspicious and identifying the server who gave Romilda her fatal glass.
The trainees remained in the conference room after the morning meeting ended, a giant pile of photos in front of each of them. Harry was sitting next to Ron, who had been stiff and unnaturally polite all morning.
If Harry was honest, things hadn’t been comfortable between him and Ron ever since they had returned to the Burrow after the Battle. He had been ignoring it, hoping things would go back to normal, even though Ron always seemed to be lurking around him and Ginny. When Ron had gone off to Australia with Hermione, Harry had been relieved, even though he had never been happy to be separated from his two best friends before. His hope had been that Ron would sort through whatever was bothering him while in Australia.
But Ron had returned, and things were still strange. Sometimes, they were fine, and work was usually one of those safe zones. But at the Burrow, Ron always seemed to be watching him, waiting for him to do something.
A fight had been brewing for a month and a half. While Harry did want to get it over with, he really hoped that the fight would not happen today. While he and Ginny had made up, the fight with his girlfriend and the sleepless night that followed had left him feeling raw, and his new concern over the correspondence and the rumors about him and Romilda had his stomach churning with unease.
“Your pile is getting mixed in with mine,” Ron complained.
It was a solid six inches away from Ron’s. “Sorry,” he said and moved his photographs closer to him.
After a moment of silence, Ron spoke again. “Ginny was crying last night. I heard her when I was going upstairs to my room.”
After a moment of silence, Harry said, “Sorry about that. We made up this morning.”
“She did enough crying over you last summer.”
Harry sighed and cast a Muffliato, not wanting Susan, Neville, Anthony, Terry, or Lawrence the Hufflepuff Beater in on this discussion. While there were two other conversations ongoing at the conference table, it was better safe than sorry. “We had a misunderstanding. I’ve apologized.”
“What did you do?” Ron demanded.
“Why do you assume I did something? It was a bloody misunderstanding.”
“My sister does not fall apart over misunderstandings!”
“Your sister does not fall apart,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “You’ve been waiting for this all summer. You’ve been watching us and waiting for me to do something you could criticize. You have been upset with me ever since Ginny and I got back together. I know you have some weird issue with your sister having boyfriends, but you need to get over it. She’s almost seventeen.”
He was sorting his photos by subject, but he was so angry, he knew he’d have to go back and check his work later.
“It’s not that,” Ron said. “I wanted you to get together years ago. I even tried to tell you that once on the Hogwarts Express.”
That Harry remembered vividly, and he marveled that he’d ever forgotten that particular incident of fifth year.
“And in sixth year, you were both so happy when you did,” Ron continued.
“And then what changed?”
“You broke up. And Ginny spent a full month hiding away in her room. Mum thought she was just hiding from Fleur and the wedding preparations, but I knew it was because she had been crying. She didn’t tell anyone that you had been together and that you had broken up. She didn’t want anyone to be mad at you. I think the twins suspected, but everyone was so distracted by the wedding and by V-Voldemort.”
“So you were the only one who could be mad at me on her behalf?”
“I didn’t want to be mad at you. I wasn’t mad at you. But it didn’t occur to me until I saw it for myself just how badly you could hurt her.”
“I never intended to hurt her. Ron, I was expecting to die. Was I supposed to leave her as a half widow?”
“Dunno. Did you ask her what she wanted?”
Harry reddened, but insisted, “I was trying to protect her.”
“I know. But you still have a lot of power over her, and she’s not as tough as she acts.”
“And she has the same power over me. Do you honestly think I’m going to wake up one day and break it off?”
“No,” he said, and then he added more quietly, “but you are impulsive. And so is she.”
Harry stared. “Impulsive?”
Ron turned a blotchy and unflattering shade of red. “Harry, you’ve surely noticed my parents have more than the usual number of children.”
Whatever Harry was expecting, this was not it. “You think I am going to knock her up?”
“Well, not on purpose. But yes, the possibility has crossed my mind, and you do spend an awful lot of time together.”
“Actually, we don’t because you are always hovering over us,” Harry said, but he was smiling as he said it. “Look, I don’t know what you and Hermione did in Australia, and honestly, I’d like to keep it that way, but Ginny and I . . . we haven’t.”
“You haven’t?” Ron looked as though he wanted to believe him.
“Really, we haven’t yet,” Harry said. He wasn’t about to tell Ron that he and Ginny had enjoyed trying everything but the deed. “I’m not telling you we’re waiting for marriage or anything because that would be a lie, but I am aware that your parents have always treated me like a son, and sleeping with their daughter before she comes of age would be a poor way to repay them.”
“And Ginny’s agreed to that?”
“Well, she did roll her eyes, and say ‘If you must,’ if you count that as agreement.”
Ron started laughing, but quickly stopped when something else occurred to him. “And once Ginny is seventeen? It’s hardly years away.”
It was 49 days away, as Harry and Ginny were both aware.
“Then it’s no one’s business, but mine and Ginny’s,” Harry said firmly. “We are both aware that she has likely inherited a great deal of fertility, and we’ve agreed that we’ll use the Charm and she’ll be on the Potion when the time comes.”
“You could forget in the moment,” Ron said.
Ugh, he hoped Ron wasn’t talking from his own personal experience in Melbourne.
“I don’t think we will, but that’s the point of using two forms of birth control. If we forget the Charm, there will be the Potion. And vice versa. Ginny has fought so hard to have a normal life. I won’t take that away from her.”
His girlfriend had nothing, if not, very definite plans for her future.
“Well, I need to get my N.E.W.T.s,” she’d told him earlier that summer. “I’m aiming to get more than Charlie, who got four, but there’s no competing with Bill or Percy who both got eight. I’m not even taking that many classes!”
After Hogwarts, she planned to try out for professional Quidditch teams.
“Holyhead Harpies, if I’m lucky. But there might not be openings. I’m so worried that everyone is going to try out this year. That everyone will have this post-war urge to live life to the fullest and do all the things that normally scare the shit out of them, like trying out for professional Quidditch teams.” She’d scowled, imagining all of these Quidditch dabblers vying for her place. “But I have options if that happens. I’m taking the right classes to be a Healer, and my Transfiguration skills would make me a good candidate for several Ministry jobs, even if I cannot imagine taking a desk job.”
She may have been flexible on her career possibilities, but she was insistent that she wanted to live on her own for exactly one year.
“I have wanted my own place ever since I first visited Bill in Egypt. He had this tiny little flat, and everything in it was so Bill from his shelf of ancient Egyptian artifacts to the collection of shot glasses he had around his firewhisky bottles. Growing up in a big family, that seemed like heaven to me. To have your own stuff exactly where you want it and get up whenever you want or go to bed whenever you want. I think I’ll regret it if I don’t live alone for at least a year.”
After that year, she said she wanted them to move in together, hinting so strongly that not even Harry could miss it that she wanted to be his fiance and not his girlfriend at the time of cohabitation. She indicated she wanted them to have some time alone, either engaged or married, before kids. And when she did retire from Quidditch so they could start a family, she thought she might try her hand at writing a book, but she was very secretive about just what type of book she planned to write.
She’d tried to get him to share equally detailed life plans with her, but given that Harry’s only two life goals were to shag Ginny and become a fully qualified Auror, he was a bit of a disappointment in the five-year plan department. Harry was proud of her ambition and wanted her to achieve her goals.
“Better not,” Ron muttered. “Harry? When that time comes for you and Ginny? Please don’t tell me.”
Harry burst into laughter. “Agreed.”
With that settled, Harry felt able to concentrate on the task at hand. He remembered Ginny’s theory about the murderer and felt a fresh enthusiasm to find this server, who was the potential murderer or possibly knew who was. It was weird looking through the photos and seeing the optimism that preceded Romilda’s murder. Should any of them have been able to sense what was coming?
Fifteen minutes in, it was Neville who found the key photos. There were thirteen photos that included Romilda and a tall blond server, and Harry was in seven of them. Once Harry had the photo in hand, the man seemed familiar but only in the sense that the neighbors he’d never talked to in his life were familiar. He was not much older than Harry, maybe 21 or 22, so they had likely overlapped at Hogwarts in his earlier years. Perhaps the server had been in Percy’s year.
Which was too old to know Romilda. Romilda would have started Hogwarts when this man was in his sixth or seventh year.
The familiarity that Harry felt wasn’t limited to seeing someone he’d once passed in the Hogwarts corridors. It was triggering memories of the ball. He remembered the briefest flash of the man’s jawline; he had a weak chin in an otherwise handsome face. He remembered some jostling of the tray. At the time, he’d thought he’d caught the server by surprise, grabbing glasses from his tray as he’d been on his way to another part of the ballroom, but perhaps the sudden shifting of the tray had been deliberate, a way to ensure that Romilda picked a specific glass?
If one were to walk around with a dozen glasses of wine, eleven untainted and one poisoned, how would one ensure the poisoned glass went to the intended recipient?
The trainees all combed the photos for any additional shots of the server, their previous conversations forgotten, and they managed to find another eight although they had no way of knowing the proper chronological order of the images.
Daniel Savage stopped by the conference room as they were setting the photos aside.
“How is it going?” he asked.
“We found the server,” Neville said, handing his mentor the stack of photos.
“Excellent work,” Daniel said.
It was Harry and Neville who were permitted to accompany Kelly and Daniel to the Magical Feasts Catering offices. Harry supposed Neville got to go because he found the photo first and that Harry was allowed to be there because he had also taken wine glasses from the server.
Harry was excited to leave the office, especially as the people willing to come into Auror headquarters and talk about Romilda Vane had entirely too much to say on the topic of robe lengths and eyelash lengthening charms. He was fairly certain that all of Witch Weekly was scheduled for interviews, and he didn’t mind missing some of those.
Harry didn’t think he would ever understand the pull of the fashion world. He had always been pretty indifferent to his clothing, which probably stemmed from wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs for so many years. Two weeks after the battle, it had occurred to Harry that he no longer needed to dress like a modern day Dickens orphan, and he had dragged Ginny to Twilfitt and Tattings with him. As a result of this single shopping trip, he was now very well dressed, but he could claim no credit for this change in his appearance.
What had happened was that while the magical tape was taking his measurements, Ginny had made friends with the sales associate and they began to discuss his wardrobe as if he wasn’t even there. Harry had quietly left to go to Quidditch Quality Supplies, mostly to test if the females even noticed his absence. When he had returned to the clothing shop, he had found he was the proud owner of a classic work wardrobe of robes and cloaks, one set of dress robes, an off duty wardrobe that could work in both Muggle and wizarding society, four cashmere jumpers, and–much to his surprise–a pair of black dragonhide trousers, which Ginny had informed him that she was looking forward to taking off him.
Harry supposed he should have had complaints about the situation, but given that he had little desire to weigh in on which swatch of forest green fabric looked the most Aurorly, he had no complaints at all and would probably continue to let Ginny pick his clothes in the future.
The Aurors Apparated to Diagon Alley, where the catering business had its headquarters. The sign declared “Magical Feasts Catering: Weddings, galas, and parties since 1862. Winner of the Magical Bride magazine Award of Excellence since 1980.” In the shop windows, there were small chandeliers hanging over display food, and Harry was reminded of the fake grapes Aunt Petunia kept in a bowl at the house on Privet Drive.
A bell tinkled when they entered. Inside the shop, the walls had images of feasts Magical Feasts Catering had provided, as well as framed testimonials of past clients.
“Thank you, Magical Feasts Catering, for the impeccable job on my daughter’s wedding. Everyone is still talking about the quiche bites and the champagne fountain!
“Agnes Welles, Bristol.”
There were close ups of prime rib and dessert trays and glasses of sparkling wine. He saw photos of sleek haired servers in black robes, but the mystery blond man was featured in only one photo.
Harry felt a quiet thrill. Was this it? Was this boy-next-door type really Romilda’s murderer? Or was he merely a piece in someone else’s puzzle? He didn’t look like a murderer, but then again, neither had the Tom Riddle that came out of the diary.
“Hello! How may I help you?” The man was beaming when he entered the waiting room, but his face quickly fell when he saw that he had Aurors rather than paying customers. Harry supposed that Romilda’s murder had not done any favors to the company’s business.
“Mr. Pym?” Kelly asked.
The man quickly rearranged his face into a more professional expression. “Yes, I am Mr. Pym, manager of Magical Catering. How may I assist?”
“We are here to determine the identity of one of your staff members,” she passed a photo on to Mr. Pym. “Can you identify this man?”
Mr. Pym only needed a glance at the photograph.
“Eddie Sommers. Eddie’s an Edmund, not an Edward. He’s new, hired after the War. Before he worked here, he worked in a few pubs. I think he’s been at both the Leaky Cauldron and Hidden Pumpkin. A good server when he’s there, but he calls in sick a lot. He cares for a sickly younger sister, you see. Not sure what the story is with their parents. Eddie’s definitely a quiet sort. Does his work and does it well, but doesn’t really socialize with the rest of the staff.”
“Do you know where we can find him?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. He and his sister live in a flat above Quality Quidditch Supplies. His uncle owns the building.”
“Thank you,” said Daniel.
Mr. Pym hesitated, then added, “Eddie’s a good sort. He wouldn’t have murdered that little girl.”
Kelly nodded. “Eddie was one of the last people to interact with Romilda Vane. It’s important that we speak with him. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Eddie Sommers did not attempt to run or to hide. Instead, the man seemed resigned and very unsurprised as he let the Aurors into the small but tidy flat. A teenage girl---the sickly sister, he supposed---who Harry recognized as a Hogwarts student was in the sitting room, but Eddie quietly encouraged her to go to her room, which she did, with one curious and timid look over her shoulder at the Aurors.
Daniel introduced all of the Aurors, while Harry glanced around the flat. Mr. Pym indicated the building was owned by an uncle, which indicated there was money in the family, but he could see no evidence of money in the flat. Perhaps Daniel and his sister were the poor relations. It was cluttered, as if they had recently downsized from a family home to a flat, and the furniture seemed too large for the rooms. A guitar was propped in one quarter, and Harry wondered if it was Eddie or his sister who played. A cross stitch was abandoned on a side table, which also housed a family portrait with both parents, son, and daughter. The Sommers had been a handsome family.
“You were expecting us?” Daniel asked.
“It was inevitable,” Eddie said. “And Madam Fortunus did predict I would be questioned today.”
The Aurors exchanged glances, but did not ask who this Madam Fortunus was.
Unlike his flat, Eddie was not tidy. He appeared to have not shaved since the ball, and his clothes were rumpled. The staff of Witch Weekly would not have been impressed with him. Harry had the sense that Eddie had been expecting the worst for days and was almost relieved to have it arrive.
Harry was disappointed. Not in the man’s sloppy appearance, but for how not like a murderer he seemed. He might have been an excellent actor, but Harry couldn’t picture this dejected man murdering anyone, even if poisoning was the preferred method of squeamish killers.
“Why do you say that?” Kelly said. “Did you have some involvement in Romilda’s murder?”
“No,” Eddie said quickly, then added. “I don’t think so.”
“Could you explain what you mean by that?” Kelly asked, but Harry noted that her voice was gentle.
“Would you like to sit?” Eddie asked. “Some tea?”
“We’ll have a seat, but no thank you to the tea, unless you need some,” Kelly said.
He shook his head, then crumpled into a chair. The rest of them sat. Harry sat a bit closer to both Neville and Kelly than he was comfortable with, as it was impossible not to touch knees on the couch.
“I don’t remember much of what happened that night,” he began.
“Memory gaps are common when these things happen,” Kelly said. “Just tell us what you recall.”
“No, I don’t mean that in the normal sense. It’s not a ‘Everything happened so fast’ or a “I can’t recall the exact order of events’ sort of thing. I mean, I have one very large gap in my memory. Like most of the night,” Eddie said.
“Like Auror Proudfoot said, just tell us what you remember,” Daniel said.
Eddie nodded. “It started out fine. I was circulating with shrimp cocktail. I was nervous. Most of my experience is in pubs, not in black tie events. But everything went smoothly in the beginning. The last thing I remember clearly was a flurry of photography at the entrance. I don’t remember who was being photographed, as there was a wall of reporters blocking my vision.”
“And then?” Daniel asked.
“And things went blank. Not blank really. More like fuzzy.”
“Did you faint?” Kelly asked.
“No, I was still there serving, but my mind was gone. It was weird. Like every concern I’d ever was stripped away. I felt this deep contentment, but my body was going through my work routine without once consulting my mind.”
Harry and Neville exchanged a glance. In their fourth year, the fake Professor Moody had put each of them under the Imperius Curse. Years later, Harry remembered the wonderful sensation of being taken care over, how he had felt carefree and had wanted nothing more than to give into the curse’s control.
“Do you remember what your body did while under this trance?” Daniel asked.
He shrugged. “Served shrimp, I suppose. At some point, I remember going back into the kitchen. To refill my tray. When I got there, there was a tray of champagne glasses, so I abandoned my tray and grabbed that one. I didn’t consider any of my actions. I just did these things.”
“Were the glasses being filled in the kitchen, then?” Kelly asked.
He frowned, as if puzzling something out for the first time. “No, no they weren’t. The bartenders were opening them in the ballroom and filling glasses. I have no idea how this tray got in the kitchen. Or why I grabbed it. I wasn’t supposed to be serving drinks that night. I was solely assigned to shrimp cocktail.”
“Was anyone in the kitchen when you grabbed the tray?”
“Sure. There was a full catering staff, but I couldn’t tell you if I interacted with anyone specific. My mind was so separate from my body.”
“Did you serve drinks to Romilda Vane?” Kelly asked.
“I don’t know. It was all a blur, like a half remembered dream.”
“When did you become aware of your surroundings again?” Daniel asked.
He thought a moment. “A little before the Aurors began ordering people out of the ballroom. It took me a while to figure out what had occurred.”
“And when did you begin to wonder if there was a connection between your memory lapse and Romilda’s murder?” Kelly asked.
His response was little more than a whisper. “A couple of hours later.”
Eddie Sommers was not arrested for the murder of Romilda Vane. After they left the flat, the four Aurors discussed their impressions. Both Daniel and Neville felt he had told the truth and that he’d been placed under the Imperius by the true murderer. Kelly agreed that it was quite possible and even probable, but they needed to look into the Sommers finances. A young man with a sickly sister might be willing to accept payment for terrible deeds if it gave the household economic security.
Harry did not know what to think. He didn’t think Eddie was a murderer, but he would be interested to know if he had been at Hogwarts in 1994. If Eddie had, he would have been Fake Moody’s student and would know what it felt like to be placed under the Imperius. He told the others as much, and they resolved to look into the dates of Eddie’s education.
When they arrived back at the Ministry, Kelly and Daniel went to report to Gawain while Neville and Harry joined their fellow trainees. Ron, Susan, Terry, Anthony, and Lawrence all looked at Harry strangely, making him wonder if he had something on his face. Everyone but Ron looked away quickly, and Ron looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Mate,” Ron began, “there’s something you should know.”
“We tried to tell them it was rubbish,” Susan added in. “I mean, we were all at Hogwarts.”
“What’s rubbish?” Harry asked.
Kelly poked her head around the corner. “Potter! We are needed in Gawain’s office.”
“Okay.” He looked at Ron.
“Just us,” Kelly clarified. “This doesn’t involve Ron.”
The sound of that made Harry uneasy, but he followed his mentor into Gawain Robards’ office.
“Potter,” Gawain said when he arrived with Kelly. “Bad news, I’m afraid. You’re being pulled from this case due to conflict of interest. Not one, but three, of Romilda’s closest friends claim that you are Romilda’s ex-boyfriend. The diaries that were taken from Romilda’s bedroom confirm this story.”
Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Mistletoe and Murderers
Author's Notes: I have Death Eaters for you. Merry Christmas?
As I wanted to post this chapter while it is still (somewhat) seasonal, I am quite unfortunately posting a rough draft. I have no doubt I will go back and correct typos and things I missed in my final read through, so please be patient with any errors.
Chapter 18: Mistletoe and Murderers
December 20 1997, 2:00 pm
Malfoy Manor
Nothing made Christmas quite so fucking festive as having Aunt Bella at Malfoy Manor.
Draco knew better than to expect a cozy family Christmas. There was a bloody war going on, and their fearless leader had headquarters at Malfoy Manor. In his childhood, there had been seven course Christmas dinners, all day reading sessions in front of the fire while his parents drank champagne and listened to music on the WWN, and wintry walks on the grounds. Now instead there would be cloaked wizards stopping by with cryptic messages, surprise visits from the Dark Lord himself, and his trustiest companion would be the thick tension that had settled into the manor nearly two years ago. He would have preferred to stay at Hogwarts, except he knew it would reflect badly on his parents if he avoided the Dark Lord.
But he had not been expecting a bad Christmas. The Death Eaters around the tree were the same friends their family had for as long as Draco could remember. He knew Nagini was not in the manor, but keeping guard somewhere, so he no longer had to experience the shock of coming face-to-face with an enormous snake whenever he turned a corner. Best of all, the Dark Lord had been busy elsewhere of late. Draco figured he’d keep to himself when he could, and be the visible and dutiful son and heir when it was expected of him.
He knew it wasn’t going to be that easy when Aunt Bellatrix returned from King’s Cross with a hostage.
His mother had been the one to meet him at the station. He’d been so glad to see her that he hadn’t even noticed that Aunt Bellatrix and Uncle Rodolphus were also there. Of course, no one ever noticed when Uncle Rod was in the room. His ability to blend into the walls while in plain sight had made him one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted lieutenants, even while that same ability had quickly killed any romance in his marriage. He and his mother had talked excitedly as they left the station and found an alley where they could discreetly Disapparate.
He and his mother had just Apparated in front of the manor, when a loud pop made him turn around. He found his aunt and uncle with a blond girl who he recognized as a friend of Potter, Longbottom, and Ginny Weasley.
“What’s she going here?” he blurted out before he could think better of it.
“Widdle baby Wuna is spending Cwistmas with us,” Aunt Bella said, giving the girl’s pale round check a pinch. The girl’s flinch was barely perceptible and she did not look at Bellatrix.
“Because you wanted a pet Gryffindor?” he demanded. His mother gently patted his arm in a silent reminder not to question his aunt.
“Wuna’s daddy has been a bad, bad boy, isn’t that right, Wuna? So he can’t have his widdle Wuna for Cwistmas.”
The girl, Luna, looked him in the eye. “I’m a Ravenclaw.”
He frowned. “Aren’t you always with the Gryffindors?”
“Yes.”
Well, all right, then.
The girl was strangely calm. An act? Or did she truly not know his aunt’s deadly reputation?
“Draco, we need to make Wuna very, very welcome. She’s going to be sharing Ollivander’s luxury suite.” Bellatrix gave the girl a terrible smile. “And widdle Wuna? Be careful. We don’t know if Ollivander likes young girls.”
Under other circumstances, Draco would have missed the Christmas trees that usually lined the entrance hall of the manor. There were always a dozen tall trees, all decorated with fairy lights and ornaments of the best goblin silver. His mother had put them up last year when she was trying to keep up appearances with Lucius in Azkaban, but this year all pretense was gone. If anything, Malfoy Manor looked as bleak as Draco felt as they led Luna inside.
“Now, Luna. You are going to be a very good girl as Draco takes you to your accommodations. Do you know why?”
Bellatrix did not wait for an answer, but instead placed the girl under the Cruciatus. Luna screamed, her body twitching in what was now a familiar manner. Bellatrix stopped.
“Because he has my permission to do that, if you are not,” Bellatrix said in her sweetest tone.
Luna was teary faced and wide eyed, her former spacey dignity gone, while Bellatrix looked smug, Rodolphus gleeful, and his mother bored. Draco tried to mimic his mother’s bored expression but suspected that he failed.
Given that Aunt Bellatrix had placed Luna in his care, he expected her to go and conduct her business elsewhere, but she followed them into the dungeon. Draco retrieved the key from where Wormtail had left it on a bench and unlocked the cell.
Fuck. There really wasn’t any privacy in here. If Ollivander was an old perv like his aunt had suggested, this girl was in trouble.
Luna went into her cell without prompting, undoubtedly afraid of another round of the torture curse. She looked at Ollivander with a combination of curiosity and pity, but no fear and then sat cross legged on the cold floor.
Aunt Bella was going through the school trunk that Draco had not noticed. Uncle Rod must have been wheeling it, which would have rendered the trunk as invisible as the man.
“Black robes, black robes, black robes, one cloak with silver fastenings,” Bellatrix recited, as if reading off the Hogwarts supply list. Each item was thrown on the floor as she named them. Luna’s at-home wardrobe of colorful robes and dresses soon joined her uniforms.
“One jewelry box. Is it full of rubies? Emeralds? No! It is jewelry constructed of the finest fishing supplies and embalmed vegetables.” Draco ducked to avoid being hit in the head with a necklace. It hit the cell bars with a clang and landed on the floor.
“What appears to be an antique toothbrush.” Draco looked curiously as his aunt held it up. It resembled a very tiny racing broom. “Tsk, tsk. Should have sold that. It probably belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw.” The toothbrush hit the wall.
His aunt held up an Ariel Prescott novel. “Sentimental trash!” This she set on fire.
“Mystery bottle.” She uncorked a clear bottle and sniffed. “The fuck is this, dear girl? Fermented cabbages?” Glass was also not safe from being thrown at the wall, and the dungeon was soon filled with glass shards and a terrible smell that Draco could only describe as sauerkraut farts.
While Aunt Bella staged a dramatic reading of Luna’s half written History of Magic essay where she played two warring goblin clans, Draco noticed the girl kept glancing at an item in her trunk. As she had been pretty stoic about the destruction of her belongings thus far, he went to examine what she was looking at and found it was a framed photo of a young Luna, a woman who resembled Luna, and an older man. He pocketed it while Aunt Bella waved around an invisible sword and recounted a goblin battle.
The desecration of Luna’s trunk continued. Her textbooks were magically ripped up except for the two Carrow assigned books, An Illustrated Guide to the Dark Arts and The Brutality of Muggle Civilizations, An Illustrated History, which Bellatrix seemed to find entertaining. His aunt made Luna’s bras and knickers zoom around the dungeon, and she made a garland of her feminine hygiene products for “a little festive cheer.” There was a publication (a copy of Out of the Fog, Draco suspected, a newsletter he knew by reputation but had never seen a copy of) that Aunt Bella kept for herself.
Finally, it was just Draco and the prisoners. He shot Ollivander an uneasy glance.
“I’ll just put up some privacy screens,” he said awkwardly, as he put up some magical barriers. As Luna’s clothing had suffered the least destruction, he gathered those and put them in the cell. He then summoned some bedding from the cupboards upstairs and gave it to Luna, along with the photo he’d rescued from her trunk.
“Thank you,” she said.
He knew she was thanking him for the photo and not the bedding.
“Er, do you need anything?”
She stared at him, and he found himself reddening in spite of the power imbalance. A stupid question. She wanted her family, her freedom, both things he could not give her.
“Well, I’ll just have the house elves bring you some tea,” he said.
He went to the kitchen, glad to be out of that terrible dungeon with the remains of Luna’s belongings strewn about. He informed the Lestranges’ house elves that their mistress wanted them to take sandwiches, biscuits, and a pot of tea to the two prisoners. As an afterthought, remembering both the Cruciatus and the amount of feminine hygiene products Luna had been traveling with, he added that they needed some pain potion as well. He could tell the elves doubted that it was Bellatrix who had given that order, but he also knew they would never actually dare to ask her if the order came from her.
7:00 pm
When Draco arrived in the dining room, he was pleased to find there was a Christmas tree in Malfoy Manor. Or at least he was until he got a closer look at it. The ornaments consisted of things like a bloodied baby boot, a decapitated teddy bear, and a set of false teeth. He jumped back, and the false teeth chattered at him.
“Your aunt wanted to decorate the tree,” his mother said behind him.
He stared at her. He opened his mouth to ask where the items came from, only to close it when he realized that he would rather not know where Aunt Bella had acquired her trophies. He glanced around the room, trying to think of another topic of conversation. Unfortunately, the thing he noticed next was the mistletoe that was hanging above the head of the table, which was where the Dark Lord sat when he was present.
Ugh, Aunt Bella.
“Has he been here lately?” he asked.
His mother did not need to ask who he was talking about. “No, he has been away for a few weeks. He’s on the Continent, but I do not know the details.”
Good, Draco thought. Stay there.
His aunt was clearly moping though. Her normally thin frame had grown noticeably chubbier since summer, indicating she had turned to cakes for comfort in the absence of her lord. He doubted she had ever been heavy in her life.
Aunt Bella entered the dining room, followed by Lucius and Rodolphus, and the discussion moved to the search for Harry Potter.
December 24, 1997
On Christmas Eve, Draco spent the morning in the library with his father. Lucius sat at his desk, reading the Daily Prophet and smoking a cigar. His father was dressed as if for a business meeting, and not like a man who’d just had breakfast and was prepared to spend the day doing nothing at all. Draco still wore his pajamas and dressing gown. He should have been reading up on antidotes for his Potions NEWT, but instead he sat in his window seat with his long legs stretched out in front of him, a stack of popular novels by his side.
But the adventures of Wolf Wallace, rogue Auror, were failing to distract Draco. He kept thinking about the girl in the dungeon. He wasn’t sure why. She was weird, and he didn’t like her. And he’d seen his share of vaguely familiar people paraded through Malfoy Manor. Some, like Luna, were tortured, then thrown into the dungeon. Some, like the Muggle Studies teacher, were tortured, then killed. Draco was far from immune to this, but he never allowed himself to think overlong about any of it. He had not spent time thinking of Ollivander, after all. He’d just been mildly surprised that the old man was still alive.
Maybe it was because Luna was near his own age. Maybe because it was Christmas and that girl, like Draco, had thought she was going home to her family. Aunt Bellatrix mentioned a father. Did she have siblings? A mother? He remembered the blond lady in the photograph.
He couldn’t free her. That could only end in his own death and that of his own parents. And probably the girl’s, once the Death Eaters caught up with her.
He could bring her a book. She’d said that she was a Ravenclaw, so she’d probably like that. But what did weird girls read? She liked Ariel Prescott, he thought recalling the book Aunt Bella burned, but no one in his family was a fan of melodramatic fiction like that. Poetry maybe. She seemed like the kind of girl who wrote poems, pressed flowers into books, and dreamed of domesticating a unicorn. In other words, she was the type of girl that Millicent Bulstrode tried to trip on the staircase as a public service.
Draco tossed Wolf Wallace and the Cursed Mask away. He got up and began scanning the shelves. He picked out some 19th century poetry volumes that he thought might interest Luna and threw in a spy novel and a volume of military history for old Ollivander who had to be bored silly after a year in that cell.
He was leaving the library when he ran into Crabbe in the corridor.
“What are you doing here?”
“Father’s here on business, and I came to see you,” Crabbe responded. “Tell me about the girl in the dungeon.”
“The girl?”
Draco couldn’t help but remember Aimee, Romilda, and Mandy.
“Yes, Father said there was a new prisoner and she’s a classmate. Is she pretty?”
“No, not at all,” Draco said quickly. It wasn’t untrue. Luna wasn’t his idea of pretty. Her features were attractive enough, he supposed, but she presented herself like someone who had been raised outside civilization and thought her fellow human beings were curiosities.
Crabbe looked disappointed. “Does she seem like the type who would scream?”
“Er . . .”
Damn. Crabbe wasn’t waiting for an answer. He was heading towards the stairs to the dungeon, with Draco jogging along behind him. When had Crabbe become difficult to control? He’d been an obedient pet less than one year ago.
Crabbe took the stairs two at a time. Draco was disappointed to find that Wormtail was not keeping guard. He wasn’t sure what help Wormtail would be, but maybe, just maybe, Crabbe would be reluctant to try anything with him there.
“Oh this one is pretty!” Crabbe said. “Nice figure. And she’s definitely a screamer.”
Draco tried to think, but no distraction came to him. He looked at Luna, he looked at Crabbe, he looked at Ollivander, and he looked at Crabbe again. With regret, he aimed a Stunning Spell at Crabbe.
Bugger. What was he supposed to do now?
He was a Malfoy and therefore not a complete idiot, so he did a Memory Charm first. It was best that Crabbe not remember that he Stunned him or that Luna was even in the Dungeon. He’d have to levitate Crabbe’s unconscious body upstairs and come up with a reason why Crabbe had been unconscious. Perhaps he could take advantage of his aunt’s well known insanity and say he suspected Bellatrix had placed jinxes in some of the rooms in the Manor.
He noticed that both Luna and Ollivander were staring at him. He decided to act as if he Stunned his best friends all the time.
“Here are some books from the Dungeon Lending Library,” he said, passing the books one by one through the bars to Luna.
She looked like she wanted to shrink away, but instead she took the books from him.
“Well, happy Christmas then.”
Chapter 19: Chapter 19: The Lion and the Serpent
Author's Notes: Is this where I apologize for a long absence? Yes, that is the tradition. Sorry, friends, and I'm really hoping my dialogue is properly British.
Chapter 19: The Lion and the Serpent
June 23, 1998, 7:45 p.m.
The Drunken Otter, Ottery St. Catchpole
“You’re telling me all of Romilda’s friends said that you were her ex-boyfriend?” Ginny demanded, nearly knocking over her pint of cider. “Raven, Rachael, Rosemarie? All those girls?”
Harry shrugged. “I suppose so. I wasn’t there.”
“I was,” Ron said. “And yes. Every last one.”
Harry, Ron, and Ginny were spending the evening at the pub. It was strange not to have Hermione there, but she’d had prior plans to go to a movie with her mother.
Given how precarious her relationship with her parents had become when they realized she’d removed their free will in sending them to Australia, Hermione was careful about how much time she spent at the Burrow these days. Ron was now expected at Hermione’s house for dinner every Friday, and on Saturdays, Harry, Ron, and Ginny met Hermione for lunch at a cafe near her house, but her time away was very limited. Hermione was taking her limitations well, but Harry could sense she was growing frustrated, especially as her parents had not even treated her as a child when she actually was one.
“But they were part of the resistance! They worked on our newsletter and they joined the D.A. They joined late, but they joined. And Romilda! She wasn’t the same girl last year. She was strong, determined, not gossipy or girly anymore.”
Just then, Neville joined their table.
“Harry, this is more than my job is worth, so this cannot be tracked back to me.” He dropped a thick roll of parchment in front of Harry.
He looked through it quickly. “Neville! Are these Romilda’s diaries?”
“It’s a copy of a copy of Romilda’s diaries, but yes.”
Harry had first learned of Neville’s loyalty in first year when Neville had tracked him to the Astronomy Tower at midnight to warn him about Malfoy, but even after seven years, it never failed to astonish him.
“Thank you. I don’t know how to . . .”
Neville grinned. “Then don’t. You needed it, now you have it.”
“Nev, what do you make of Romilda’s friends?” Ginny asked.
“No idea. Something changed with Romilda and her friends after Easter. They distanced themselves a bit from the D.A. Not completely. They still went to meetings and things, but they were distracted.”
“But I don’t understand the motive for this!” Ginny said. “The entire school knows that Harry and I started dating after that Quidditch match, not Harry and Romilda!”
“They didn’t say Harry and Romilda dated in sixth year,” Ron added in. “Their story was that Harry started sneaking into the castle to see Romilda in the spring, some time after Easter.”
Now, Gawain had not shared that with Harry, and he’d assumed that the story was the same as the Daily Prophet had printed on Sunday. “That doesn’t make any sense. We were at Shell Cottage!”
Ron made a face. “Believe me, I know. I tried telling them that, and Susan and the others told them you were not seen anywhere near Hogwarts until the Battle, that even if you had snuck in through the Hog’s Head tunnel, someone from the D.A. would have seen you enter the Room of Requirement.”
“So, why is Harry pulled off the case?” Ginny asked. “He has alibis at Shell Cottage, and there is no one who can claim to have seen Harry at Hogwarts during that time.”
“Politics,” Harry said. “Gawain said as much. There is so much criticism of the Ministry right now, there can’t be any appearance of corruption or a cover up.”
“And John Dawlish did point out that everyone at Shell Cottage was either very close to Harry or else had been rescued from Malfoy Manor, which is an incentive to be loyal to Harry,” Ron added. “Griphook apparently would be considered our most reliable witness, and goblins are never considered believable witnesses.”
“Well, how do we know they won’t take it a step further and remove you from the Auror Department, with no evidence of wrongdoing?” Ginny asked.
Harry had been wondering that himself ever since he had left Gawain’s office. Surely, he wouldn’t be fired or even suspended without a proveable offense, but he wasn’t so certain. Gawain had made it clear that he wasn’t suspended, that he could work on other cases, but he worried that might change.
“None of the Aurors seem to actually suspect Harry,” Ron added. “Everyone says there is something dodgy about the stories. Alison Alsworthy–she’s the librarian for the DMLE book collections–even said there was something off about Romilda’s diaries, but she couldn’t pinpoint what since it passed all the normal tests. But I don’t know if that will stop them from pulling a Scrimgeour and scapegoating Harry to reassure the public.”
“Daniel and Kelly are on Harry’s side,” Neville added. “It was Kelly who helped me get that copy of the diary out of the Ministry.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “Kelly helped you?”
“Well, yes. I couldn’t have got it out of the Ministry on my own, not with heightened security.”
His mentor had been quite unreadable in Gawain’s office. He’d honestly had no idea what she made of the stories. He began to feel hopeful for the first time since entering Gawain’s office that afternoon.
“Oh hello everyone.” Luna floated into the pub. “Neville told me that you would all be here.”
After everyone had greeted Luna, Harry asked her about her father.
“Not very good. He thinks my mother is still alive. That makes me quite sad, but I am not sure if that’s because my dad doesn’t know she’s gone, or because she gets to be alive to my dad while she is still dead to me.”
Harry wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to Luna’s tendency to say the most depressing things in a matter of fact way.
“But,” Luna added far more cheerily, “he seems to enjoy the marcowoos very much. Even Eric, his visiting healer, has commented on how much his spirits have improved since they moved into the house.”
Harry almost asked what a marcowoo was, but then he remembered the small marsupials Luna had rescued from the wardrobe in Grimmauld Place.
“The marcowoos are thriving then?” He asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m still not sure what they eat. I thought they were fruit eaters because apples were the only thing I found in the house that they would eat, but I found one eating a caterpillar the other day, so they can’t be strictly herbivores.”
“I’m getting a pint,” Neville said. “Luna, can I get you anything?”
“Oh, no you are not,” Harry said, remembering the diaries. “I’m getting your drinks tonight. I’ll get Luna’s too.”
“I’ll have a gillywater then,” Luna said.
“I heard someone say they are out,” Harry said, biting back a smile. “They have good Muggle drinks though. I could get you a cider if you want something light. That’s what Ginny drinks. Or I could get you a scotch or an Irish whisky if you want something heavier.”
Given the stories Ginny had told of the Lovegoods infamous Gurdy whisky, Harry suspected she would take to Muggle whisky like a fish to water.
Ginny held out her glass for Luna to taste. The blond girl sipped cautiously.
“Oh, that’s quite good. I’ll have a cider.”
When Harry returned with pints of cider and Neville’s preferred Muggle ale, he found his friends were once again discussing the Romilda Vane case.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Ginny was saying. “It’s as if both Romilda and her friends had an interest in shielding her killer. Why would a girl who didn’t know she was going to die frame someone for her own murder?”
“Her cousin thought she did it to herself,” Ron commented.
“That’s absurd! Romilda wasn’t suicidal!” Ginny said.
“It wasn’t suicide,” Harry said. Every instinct he possessed told him Romilda’s death was murder.
“Well, we have been trying to figure out who had access to her glass,” Ron said. “And Romilda very obviously had access to her own glass.”
“There is a great deal of photography of Romilda that evening. And none of them show her adding anything to her own glass,” Harry said. “That girl didn’t want to die.”
“What about Romilda’s friends?” Neville asked. “What if one of them has a motive?”
“Like what?” Ginny asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Romilda had blackmail on her. Let’s say that friend started the rumor about Harry breaking into the castle, and Romilda went along with it.”
Ginny looked thoughtful. “That’s a theory. Romilda would have been sick of being The Tragic Victim. She would have wanted people talking about her on her own terms, and Harry wouldn’t have been around to disprove the story. The murderer would be quite clever to use Romilda’s pride against her. But I can’t imagine what would cause any of those girls to murder Romilda! Take petty revenge for something silly, sure, but murder?”
“The diary still makes no sense,” Neville added. “I could see her encouraging a rumor, but why write about it in a diary that was for her eyes only? Alison had to break through a Praesidium Charm, as well as several jinxes, before she was able to make a copy of the diary for Gawain. Why write fiction in a book no one else would access?”
“Maybe she wanted to write it down so she could stick to her own story with consistency?” Ginny suggested. “I don’t know.”
“The only people with an obvious motive are the Hogwarts rapists,” Harry said. “And whoever the father of her baby was.”
“But poison is a traditionally feminine weapon,” Neville said. “And as far as we know, no one has made any attempt on Aimee or Mandy, who would be equally dangerous to them.”
“Traditionally feminine, yes, but not exclusively,” Harry said. “Someone who is good at potions, or has easy access to potions, would be more inclined to use a poison, regardless of sex.”
“That rules you out, mate,” Ron said.
Harry threw a chip at Ron, hitting him in the head.
“Should we be considering Draco Malfoy?” Ginny asked. “With Hermione gone last year, he would have been top of the class at Potions. He was pretty quiet last year, but he’s never tame.”
Draco had attempted murder by poison before. It had been a clumsy attempt and had nearly killed Ron rather than Dumbledore, who had been the intended target. And he had been a seventh year Slytherin last year, which was where rumor indicated the Slytherin rapists had come from.
Still Harry remembered the frightened Draco facing Dumbledore on the tower, the reluctant Draco who had refused to identify Harry and his friends at Malfoy Manor, and the Draco who had grieved for Crabbe outside the Room of Requirement. Draco Malfoy had many faults, but he thought Dumbledore had been correct in thinking that he was not a killer.
“I wouldn’t rule him out,” Harry said, “but I wouldn’t put him at the top of the list either. Given Sunday’s Daily Prophet article, the killer–assuming the newspaper’s source is our killer–seems to have it out for Draco too.”
“What enemies would both you and Draco have?” Ginny asked.
“Any old Death Eater, I suppose. Neither one of us is a fan favorite in that crowd,” Harry said. But even as he said, it did seem absurd that he and Draco could have a mutual enemy.
“Lucius Malfoy pulled a Karkaroff and identified the Death Eaters to the Ministry,” Ron added. “The best way to get to the old man is through his son.”
“Well, who was in NEWT level potions aside from Draco?” Harry asked. “Crabbe and Goyle didn’t qualify. Blaise Zabini was in our class, as well as that skinny Slytherin kid.”
“Theodore Nott?” Neville asked.
“Yes,” Harry said. “There were some other people in our class–Ernie, Susan, Daphne, Terry, and Padma–but I can’t imagine any of them would be suspects.”
“Daphne Greengrass wasn’t at Hogwarts last year,” Neville commented.
“Oh right,” Harry said, remembering the Greengrass girls had been out of the country. “Who was in sixth year Potions?”
“Marcus Weatherby,” Ginny said immediately. “A Ravenclaw, but he was very chummy with the Slytherins last year. He was always a creep. Martin MacGregor, Demelza, and I were the Gryffindors. Marcus, Luna, and Jennifer Bennett were the Ravenlaws. Ellen Fawley and Zacharias Smith were the Huffepuffs, and Geoffrey Bulstrode from Slytherin.”
“Only one Slytherin?” Harry said in surprise.
“Potions popularity dropped in Slytherin after Snape stopped teaching.”
“How was Marcus’ potion making?” Harry asked.
Ginny shrugged. “Not top of the class, but competent. If motivated, he could probably make anything.”
“The celeri morte requires six months to brew unless you buy it ready made,” Harry said. “Do you think that Marcus Weatherby has the patience to create that?”
“Not a fraction of the patience,” Ginny said. “But his daddy has the galleons.”
“And is Geoffrey Bulstrode any brighter than his sister?”
“My only experience with Millicent consists of the time in fifth year when she pushed me down a flight of stairs after the Slytherin/Gryffindor Quidditch match, but I’m going to say probably not. He also doesn’t have the funds that Weatherby does,” Ginny said.
“So, Weatherby is a possibility,” Harry said. “Likewise, Malfoy has both the skill and the money. Goyle doesn’t have the skill, but does he have the money? Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott likely have both the skill and money.”
“Blaise helped me and several other girls avoid the rapists. I don’t see him as the killer. And isn’t Theodore Nott kind of timid?”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know if I have ever heard his voice. Ron?”
“No. He’s the sort of person that you don’t notice.”
This was where they needed Hermione. Harry felt positive she had never spoken to Nott either, but she always seemed to know things about people.
Neville looked thoughtful. “But that could be his secret power? Who suspects the bloke who blends into the background? He could have stalked Romilda without her realizing.”
Ginny shivered. “That’s a terrible thought.”
Harry wanted to put his forehead on the table in frustration, but fortunately the stickiness of the table was curbing that impulse. “Is there anyone we can rule out? This Geoffrey bloke, maybe? And what do we think of Draco?”
An idea–possibly a stupid one–was forming in Harry’s head. If he was right that the killer was also targeting Draco–and he felt reasonably sure he was–then Draco might be his most valuable source of information. Draco had been in the seventh year Slytherin dormitory last year, and he knew potions. And Harry felt certain that he would sell out any of his friends to avoid Azkaban.
Of course, if he was the killer and he incriminated himself to gain Harry’s trust, he would be paving the way to his own imprisonment in Azkaban.
“Don’t we always assume the worst of Draco?” Ron said.
“But should we this time?” Harry asked.
“Is this because your testimony got him out of Azkaban? You aren’t responsible if he did murder Romilda,” Ginny said.
“I know that,” Harry said. “This isn’t about that. I’m thinking Draco might be my best source of information. Goyle is already in custody. Being of age, he’s being tried for his acts under the Carrows’ leadership. The others are free, but have no incentive to talk.”
“Draco has been asked to come in for questioning,” Ron said. “As have Zabini, Nott, Weatherby, and Bulstrode.”
“I need to talk to him,” Harry said.
“Harry,” Neville said, “you are off the case. I can’t blame you for wanting back in–I’d be furious if it were me–but this could get you fired.”
“I don’t plan to speak to him as a Ministry employee, but as a private citizen,” Harry said. “If I am right, Draco and I are in the same boat.”
“Or he could want you to think you are in the same boat,” Ron said.
Did Draco have the patience to mastermind this scheme? The man had spent an entire school year repairing a broken cabinet. Harry watched Luna hold her glass of cider up to the light, as if admiring the amber shade.
Luna.
She had spent most of a school year in the Malfoys’ dungeon. If Draco enjoyed tormenting girls who were unprotected, Luna would have been in a very dangerous place. It was a terrible thought, but he couldn’t rule it out as much as he did not want to think about it. Luna might appear calm, but Harry knew she wore trauma differently than other girls.
But one did not just ask one’s friend if she’d been raped recently.
So, ask a different question, Potter.
“Luna, did you see much of Draco while you were at Malfoy Manor?” he asked.
He felt Ginny stiffen next to him, and he wondered if the same thought had crossed her mind.
The blond girl shook her head. “He was at school most of the time.”
Relief flooded through Harry. “So, he didn’t come down to the dungeons while on holidays?”
“No, he came to the dungeons,” Luna said, and Harry’s stomach sank again.
“What did he want?” Ron demanded. Harry considered kicking him but he was too far down the table.
“He brought us books.”
“Books?” Ginny said.
“It was very boring there,” Luna said. “He brought me poetry and Mr. Ollivander military history. He never asked us what we wanted to read, but he always guessed the books we liked correctly. The Malfoys have some nice volumes. First editions.”
Draco Malfoy, prison librarian. Just when he thought the world couldn’t get any stranger.
“So he didn’t do anything dangerous?” Harry asked. “Cruciatus?”
“No,” Luna said. “I think he felt sorry for us.”
“I definitely need to talk to him,” Harry said.
“Let me do it,” Neville said. “Or Ron. This could get you into too much trouble with Gawain.”
Harry shook his head. “I know Draco. He won’t talk to either of you.”
While he was aware that his role in the Malfoy trials wouldn’t have lessened Draco’s hatred towards him--it could have possibly even increased it--he felt certain that Draco considered him to be his equal. If he did not, he would have never picked him as his rival on his first day of Hogwarts. Draco might have disliked Neville and Ron as much as he disliked Harry, but he had never competed with either of them.
“Harry, if this gets back to Gawain, I think Neville’s right,” Ginny said softly. “This has been your dream job for years. Are you sure you are willing to risk it?”
“It’s not just about me and my job, this is also about Romilda. Whoever killed her is so close to getting away with it.”
He would have admired the elaborate spider’s web the killer had spun if it hadn’t been personal. The killer tugged one string and “evidence” appeared against Harry. The killer tugged another string, and the Daily Prophet was dancing to his tune. This was no crime of passion. This trap had been set for some time.
And what was the motive? How could he, Draco, and Romilda all ended up caught in the same scheme? The only thing they had in common was they were all in their late teens and magical. If this was a political revenge murder from a Death Eater sympathesizer, he would have been the victim rather than Romilda. And if it was about Romilda’s baby, then it had nothing to do with him and most likely nothing to do with Draco. Was there a link between the three of them that Harry just couldn’t see?
“Harry, I don’t think you appreciate how much you were able to get away with at school because Dumbledore liked you,” Neville said. “Gawain isn’t Dumbledore. He’s not going to let you off because your intentions were good. And there’s a world of difference between being an underage student and a paid employee.”
“I won’t be an Auror anymore if I get arrested for murder,” Harry said. “And there’s nothing criminal in talking to an old classmate.”
“If anyone finds out you’ve been speaking to him, then they’ll think it’s because you’ve been in league with him all along,” Ginny said, but she looked uncertain.
Ron studied him carefully, then spoke. “Harry is going to do what Harry is going to do. The question is, how do we keep him out of trouble?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Neville protested. “And I think Kelly and Daniel would prefer not to hear anything.”
“So, we cover for Harry,” Ron said. “When do you plan to get in touch with Draco?”
Harry frowned. “I think the question is not so much when, but how?”
He couldn’t think of any secure way to get in touch with Malfoy. Harry’s incoming owls were still being monitored by the Ministry for safety, while his outgoing owls were not. He was fairly certain that both incoming and outgoing owls were being monitored for the Malfoy residence. He did not think there was surveillance on the Floo at the Burrow, but Malfoy Manor was another story. Given that he was told in no uncertain terms that he could have no involvement in this case, he thought any sudden correspondence with Draco Malfoy would be viewed with suspicion.
When he told his friends as much, Ginny said, “So make contact through Andromeda.”
Harry had forgotten that Andromeda was Narcissa’s sister and Draco’s aunt. He thought it would likely always surprise him just how intermarried the wizarding world was. Once during a group project for Criminology class, the DMLE trainees began discussing families, and they had discovered that Susan was Neville’s second cousin and Ernie’s third cousin. Terry and Michael were second cousins who had not met until they were Sorted into Ravenclaw together. And while Terry and Ron were not related, Terry’s older sister had married Ron’s first cousin five years ago, making it possible for them to cross paths at family events. It made Harry lonely to think that everyone had relatives but him.
“She told us that she has started visiting Narcissa once a week,” Harry remembered. “Do you remember which day?”
“Thursday afternoons, I believe,” Ginny said.
Harry looked at his watch. “It seems too late to visit her tonight. I’ll go tomorrow after work.”
“I’m going with you,” Ginny insisted.
Harry nodded his agreement, hoping that his instincts were right on this matter.
June 24, 1998, 5:15 p.m.
Tonks Residence
Andromeda no longer looked like Bellatrix to Harry. They both had the same aristocratic bone structure and impressive height, but Andromeda’s eyes were a warm blue and she and her daughter had the same smile. She also had a baby in her arms as she opened the door, which was not something Harry could ever picture Bellatrix doing.
“Harry, Ginny, come on in. It’s good to see you,” she said, ushering them into a now familiar home.
They came in and Ginny, who Harry had learned was an unrepentant baby hog, immediately took Teddy from Andromeda’s arms.
“Can I get you anything? Tea? Lemonade? Biscuits?”
While Andromeda was Molly Weasley’s opposite in looks, she was equally determined to feed anyone who entered her home.
“No thank you, Andromeda. Mrs. Weasley is expecting us home for supper in an hour. We came by to talk.”
He wondered, given the shortness of the visit, if he would be able to persuade his girlfriend to let him hold his own godson at all.
“Yes, Ginny mentioned that you had something to ask in her owl. Well, come into the parlor and we can talk there.”
Harry and Ginny settled on a sofa that still reminded him of the night of the seven Harry Potters. Andromeda sat in an armchair and looked at Harry expectantly.
He decided to get straight to the point. “It’s about Draco.”
“Draco!”
“Yes. Have you been keeping up with the Prophet?”
Andromeda had a look of disgust on her face. “I would have thought they would improve in the current political climate, but kneazles never lose their spots.”
“So you’ve seen that I’ve been selected as Murder Suspect 1, with Draco as accomplice?”
“I have.” She frowned. “Are you comparing notes with Draco?”
“Yes and no. Something . . . something happened to Romilda at Hogwarts last year. Something potentially involving some Slytherin boys.”
Andromeda looked ill. “I can guess.”
“Right. So, to find out more, I need to talk to someone who was in Slytherin last year, and Draco is the only one with any incentive to tell me anything. Any other Slytherin would gleefully send me on a wild goose chase.”
“Well, hasn’t he been called in to the Ministry if he might know anything?”
“He has, yes, but I’ve been pulled off the case, so I can’t question him.”
“You’ve been pulled off the case? Harry, that’s not good.”
“I know. That’s why I need to find the real killer. Draco’s narrowly missed Azkaban once. He’s not going to want to be on trial again.”
“Has it occurred to you that Draco might be the killer?” Andromeda asked. “I don’t like to say that of a nephew, not even one I know so little of as Draco, but Lucius Malfoy is a vicious son of a bitch, and he raised him.”
At that, Ginny looked as smug as anyone could while cooing at a baby.
“I have not ruled out the possibility,” Harry said. “I don’t think it’s likely. Our theory is that the killer is feeding information to the Prophet and has been for months now, and if that were Draco, he would have made sure his own name stayed out of it.”
“And so you want me to talk to Draco when I meet Cissy tomorrow?”
Cissy?
“Yes, if you’re willing to do so.”
“And where do you plan to meet with him? There is an Auror stationed at Malfoy Manor. If you go there, he will report back to Robards.”
“Albert Jones,” Harry said, remembering a tall Auror he had only met once. “I understand he enjoys the wine cellar at Malfoy Manor.”
Andromeda smirked. “Cissy used some different vocabulary to express the man’s interest in her wine cellar.”
Harry laughed. “I’d imagine she would. I definitely don’t want Jones to be aware. Does Draco ever leave Malfoy Manor?”
“Not often. Narcissa has said he’s gone to Flourish and Blotts a couple of times–always cloaked–and he’s started volunteering at St. Mungo’s.”
Harry stared in horror. “Have they checked their potions for poisons?”
Andromeda laughed. “It gets better. He’s doing story time in the children’s ward.”
All three of them laughed, which startled Teddy who flailed his arms a little.
“Poor children,” Harry said.
“Yes, but I’d still give all my galleons to be a fly on the wall during story hour,” Andromeda said.
“But he can leave the house?” Ginny asked, getting them back on track. “He doesn’t need to sign out with the Auror first?”
“I don’t think so,” Andromeda said. “It’s my understanding that the Auror is there for Lucius. His trial hasn’t even been scheduled yet. Draco can move freely as long as he doesn’t leave the U.K.”
“Is there a village near Malfoy Manor?” Harry asked. “Preferably with a high Muggle population.”
“Marlborough. Narcissa and I went there once when she was sick of the manor. There’s a small pub there. I think it’s called the Hare and the Hound. I don’t know if Draco’s ever been.”
“That’s a possibility. If he has another suggestion that’s far from wizarding ears, I’ll consider it. I just need him willing to meet me.” He turned to Ginny and held out his arms. “My turn. I hardly see Teddy now that I’m working.”
“You see him right now. Oh, fine.”
Harry adjusted the baby in his arms until he felt Teddy was comfortable. On his first few visits, he’d held Teddy out of obligation, madly nervous and praying that the baby didn’t poo his nappy. But now, he liked the heavy warmth of Teddy in his arms and knew that he could change a nappy if needed.
“Let him get the practice, Ginny,” Andromeda urged. “You’ll be grateful for it someday.”
“Oi! We’re still teenagers,” Harry said.
The women both laughed.
“You do look nice with a baby in your arms,” Ginny commented.
Harry felt himself turning red. He’d always thought she looked surprisingly sexy with a baby in her arms–something he’d rather eat booger flavored Bertie Botts than admit–but was it possible she thought the same about him?
“Now that we’ve both embarrassed Harry,” Andromeda said. “I agree to talk to Draco and would like to know how everyone is doing at the Burrow.”
June 27, 1998, 11:45 a.m.
The Hare and the Hound, Marlborough
Harry was early in arriving at the pub. It was strange, being eager to see Draco Malfoy. At Hogwarts, the sight of Draco’s pointy face had always filled him with annoyance. He wondered if Draco would actually show. He might find it funny to let Harry sit there all afternoon.
It had been on Thursday evening that Harry had received Andromeda’s owl. Mindful that incoming owls were being screened by the Ministry, she’d kept her message cryptic.
Dear Harry,
I was at the pub today, the one I told you that I like, when I was delighted to make the acquaintance of an old classmate of yours who knew you quite well from Quidditch. It turns out he also loves that pub and is there every Saturday at noon. I will have some very amusing stories to share with you when you next visit me and Teddy.
Sincerely,
Andromeda
Initially he had been pleased that Andromeda had secured a meeting so quickly, but the period of two days had felt abnormally long.
Perhaps it was because the last few days of work had been frustrating. All of the other trainees were still excused from morning classes due to the urgency of the Vane case, but Harry was once again attending Criminology and Magical Law with Ernie, Padma, Michael, and Seamus. He’d told them that they’d needed one of the Auror trainees to take notes for the rest of the group, but he suspected they did not believe him.
While the mornings were bearable in that he at least had company in class, the afternoons were never-ending. Harry had been assigned all of the paperwork that the Auror department was months behind on, and so he’d spent two afternoons in the Hall of Records, trying to compile an updated list of everyone who had unpaid fines and color code it by urgency and lateness.
He knew now that Mr. Borgin kept getting caught selling illegal merchandise, Zabini’s mum liked importing forbidden plants, Doris Crockford had been caught hoarding kneazles on three different occasions, and Zacharias Smith’s father had been in trouble for giving his secretary a love potion. All of these people owed the DMLE a ridiculous sum of money. It would even be entertaining knowledge if Ron had been working on it with him and had there not been a murder investigation going on.
Ron had filled him in on details when they arrived at the Burrow each evening. Harry knew that each of the rape suspects had been questioned, and none of the Aurors doubted that Goyle and Bulstrode, who couldn’t keep their stories straight, and Weatherby, who was impossibly smug, had raped Romilda and likely the two other girls.
Malfoy, Nott, and Zabini were a bit trickier to judge. All of them claimed varying states of uncertainty regarding the full identity of the rapists. Each of them stated that Crabbe’s behavior had been strange before and after each attack and that in all probability Goyle had been involved too, although Malfoy stated that he had never known Goyle to make a decision on his own and he’d likely just followed Crabbe’s directions. All three had said that Weatherby and Crabbe had become surprisingly chummy that fall.
They all related waking up to find empty firewhisky bottles in the dormitory on three different mornings and mere hours later, learning that a female classmate was in the hospital wing. Zabini confessed to warning some female classmates whenever he overheard Crabbe saying anything concerning.
“It was never anything overt,” he had told the Aurors. “He would make a comment to Goyle that a good place to get a girl alone was behind the tapestry on the third floor. Or that he noticed when certain girls tended to leave the library in the evening. It’s even possible that his comments meant nothing, but sometimes something just feels wrong.”
It was exactly the information that was common knowledge before the interviews, and Gawain wasn’t happy that none of the Aurors could get any new admissions from a collection of what he called “misfits, imbeciles, and pretty boys.”
Harry wasn’t sure which category Gawain had put Draco in.
Draco was not abnormally early, as he was. Everyone in the Hound and the Hare was decidedly a Muggle, and the pub had a comfortable village pub vibe, not unlike The Drunken Otter. Harry liked the gleaming dark wood bar, the prosperous looking villagers, and the pleasant midday noise level. He wondered a moment if Draco even owned Muggle style clothes. He supposed that he would find out soon.
He ordered a pale ale at the bar and then settled into a corner table where he could see the door.
Draco arrived five minutes before noon, and he seemed surprised to see that Harry was early. Or perhaps he was surprised that Harry had shown up at all. Harry gave him a wave, and Draco joined him at the table.
“Malfoy,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Draco would hate it if he acted friendly, and he didn’t need a suspicious Malfoy on his hands.
“Potter,” Draco responded, his voice equally neutral.
Harry was surprised to find that Draco did not look particularly out of place. The blond boy’s dark shirt and trousers were a little unusual in their cut, but given that they were impeccably tailored, someone might think Draco was ahead of fashion rather than outside of it altogether.
“Er, how are you?” It was a common enough pleasantry, but nothing had ever felt so false coming out of his mouth.
Draco clearly felt the same way because he gave a bitter smile before replying. “Splendid. It’s parties every night at the manor. We’re incredibly popular. My . . . er, aunt said you had something you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes, but it can wait.” He supposed it would only be polite to buy Draco a drink since he had been the one to invite him here. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No!” Draco seemed embarrassed at how forcefully that had come out.
Harry understood. He wouldn’t trust any drink that Draco offered him, and buying Draco a drink would mean Harry would have to leave his own beer unattended, which he did not really want to do, so he was slightly relieved at his answer.
Draco looked at the bar, quickly looked away. He looked at Harry’s drink almost longingly and then back at the bar. Harry had a moment of confusion, but then he remembered Mr. Weasley and the trouble he had with Muggle money.
“Do you . . . have Muggle money?” Harry asked.
“Yes!” Draco said immediately.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Do you understand the notes?”
“Why? It’s not as if there is something illogical about paper money.”
Harry smiled in spite of himself. “When I first learned I was a wizard, I thought it was strange that all wizarding currency is in coin form. In Muggle currency, the paper notes are the most valuable.”
Draco looked horrified. “Are you taking the mickey? Paper is worthless. How would they know I’m not drawing my own money with a nice set of quills?”
“Dunno. You any good at sketching the queen?” Harry laughed. “I promise I’m not taking the mickey out of you. Show me what you have and I’ll tell you what you need to get a drink.”
Draco looked uncomfortable as he pulled Muggle notes and coins out of a small leather bag. “I didn’t know what I needed. Is this enough for a drink?”
“Sure if you’re going to buy the whole pub a couple rounds.” Harry pointed to a 5 pound note. “Use that one. Nothing you could order will cost more than that, but it’s a small enough note not to draw any attention. You’ll get some change back, but not as much as you would if you used a bigger note.” He paused, then added, “Muggles don’t do firewhisky, gillywater, or butterbeer. Your choices will be cider which is sweet, beer which is not, and wine which tastes just like wizarding wine.”
Draco nodded. He got up, nervously crumpling the note in his hand, and went to order his drink.
He was obviously uncomfortable around Muggles, and Harry supposed that with parents like Lucius and Narcissa he would not have any experiences in Muggle society. He wondered if Draco wanted to speak to him too, if he had been willing to enter a non-wizarding establishment.
Draco returned with a glass of red wine. “They have French wines,” he said in a note of pleased surprise. “You wouldn’t think it given how barbaric this place looks.”
“That’s great,” Harry said, who didn’t know the first thing about wine and who thought the pub was quite nice.
“So, this is about Romilda?” Draco asked and then took a sip of his wine.
“Yes.”
“Do the Aurors think I did it?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Harry said. He had intended to keep his information to himself, but now that he was here, it seemed time was of the essence and that he ought to come clean with Draco. “I’m off the case. Everything I know I’ve learned from Ron.”
To his surprise, Draco didn’t gloat and make jokes about him being second to Ron. Instead he looked even paler than usual. “If you’re a suspect, then I am too.”
“The Prophet has definitely run with that. Now, I don’t know if anyone in the DMLE thinks that either of us did it. My concern is that it won’t matter.”
Harry did not think Kingsley was like Scrimgeour, and he hoped Gawain wasn’t either, but he did not know what the killer planned to unveil next other than that it would not help his public image. Or Draco’s.
Draco smiled bitterly. “The Ministry hates to be seen as ineffective.”
Harry nodded. “Every single resource is devoted to finding Romilda’s killer right now. They want someone in Azkaban yesterday.”
“So, what do you want from me? I didn’t do it.”
“You were at Hogwarts last year.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes narrowed. “You mean I was in Slytherin last year. You know plenty of people who were at Hogwarts last year.”
“You were in Slytherin,” Harry agreed.
“The Aurors already asked me about Romilda’s assault, and I told them what I knew. Everyone knew about Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, and Weatherby. Every teacher, every student. Snape knew. But no one knows who the mastermind was, aside from the people involved.”
Harry frowned. “The mastermind?”
“There was never any proof of anything. Even the girls never accused any person of anything. I don’t know if there was a memory charm or if it was just a threat so dire that none of them were willing to breathe a word.”
“A memory charm?”
“I don’t know. It’s one possibility. Or maybe they concealed their identities somehow. But what you need to understand about Hogwarts last year is that the girls moved in packs. You couldn’t get a girl alone to ask to borrow her Charms notes, much less for mischief of any type. But someone was able to lure both Romilda and Mandy away from their protection systems. Weatherby is the cleverest of that bunch, but he has his limitations.”
Harry had always thought of the rapists as animals hunting in a pack, looking for prey at random, but Draco’s perspective was more grim. Hungry animals were simple to understand. But someone who orchestrated evil, arranging circumstances and preventing the discovery of evidence, that was more unsettling.
“And you have no idea who this mastermind is?”
Harry had never known Draco to miss anything. It was, by far, his most annoying trait.
“I’m not certain.”
He didn’t know how to read the look on Draco’s face. Reluctance? Doubt? Was he just hoping to make Harry beg for information?
“You have an idea, then?”
“Not really. The sixth years are total idiots.”
“You don’t mention Zabini or Nott.”
“I’ve wondered, but it doesn’t seem to fit either of them.”
“You don’t think either one is capable of rape?”
“Capable, maybe, but I don’t think they did it. Part of me wishes Zabini was the one, but it’s because I think he’s an arse, not because I think he did it.”
Harry was getting a headache. “So he’s the non-rapist variety of arse?”
“He’s above it, but not due to any moral reason, Zabini thinks he is Merlin’s gift to womankind. For him to rape someone, he would need to acknowledge that there was a female who doesn’t want him.” Draco waved a hand dismissively. “It would crush him as much as it would crush her.”
Harry supposed this logic made sense in Slytherin. “And Nott?”
“Nott is brilliant, but he’s spent his entire life under his father’s high heeled boot. He practically asks permission before speaking. He couldn’t take away anyone’s free will when he’s never exercised any of his own.”
Harry frowned. “But could that be the appeal? If he’s always been powerless, maybe he’d enjoy having someone else be in that position instead.”
Draco shook his head. “It’s just not in him.”
“But he’s smart enough?”
“He is,” Draco agreed. “As is Zabini. I don’t think either of them did it.”
“Who was in sixth year?”
“Sixth year Slytherins?”
“Yes.”
“Geoff Bulstrode, Jack Walsh, and Aiden MacNair.”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know any of them. I’ve heard a bit about Bulstrode over the last few days.”
“Bulstrode is as thick as you’ve heard. Walsh is the heir to a cauldron company that will likely go bankrupt by the time he inherits it. Which, as a side note, is Weasel King’s brother’s fault.”
“Thin cauldron bottoms?” Harry asked, remembering Percy’s long ago report for Mr. Crouch.
“Indeed. Kept the prices competitive for over a hundred years, but now it just gets them fined by the Ministry.” Draco did not look sympathetic to the Walsh family woes.
“I will let Percy know he is a menace to the budget conscious cauldron buyer,” Harry said. “Could Walsh have a grudge against the Ministry?”
“I’m sure he does. Most people prefer to keep their family fortunes in their families. But he’s roughly as smart as Longbottom, so I think the Ministry can sleep soundly.”
Ignore it, Harry, he told himself. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.
He took a deep breath and moved on. “So the last is MacNair?”
“Animals won’t go within ten feet of MacNair, which indicates he takes after his grandfather, but he’s not particularly bright either.”
“Are you sure all three of them are idiots? Even if they aren’t book smart, it doesn’t mean they can’t plan a crime.”
“They may have hidden talents,” Draco allowed, “but if I were to rob Gringotts, I wouldn’t ask any of them to drive my getaway cart.”
“Of course not. You’d need a goblin for that.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s a common enough saying, Potter. Most people don’t actually break into Gringotts.”
“Er, right. Are you sure Weatherby isn’t the ringleader?”
“It’s possible. I don’t know him well. He was Crabbe’s friend.” Draco took a gulp from his wine glass, set it down, and gave Harry a stern look. “I’m not going down for this, Potter. I never touched any of those girls.”
“I’m not either,” Harry said.
“So, what now?”
Harry had not thought of anything beyond talking to Draco. He shrugged. “I’ll keep digging.” He then remembered one thing he had meant to ask Draco. “At the ball, you were with a girl.”
Draco’s expression hardened. “I had a date, yes. It’s traditional when attending a ball.”
“Yes, of course. Well, a friend of mine happened to overhear her talking to a friend of hers. Well, her sister. That was Daphne and Tori Greengrass, yes?”
Draco gave him a look of disdain. “Astoria. Her name is Astoria. Only her sister calls her Tori, and she hates it. If you did your research, you’d know that. You’d also know that both Greengrass girls were in France all of last year due to their grandfather dying and had nothing to do with Romilda.”
“I did know they were in France, actually. But . . . Astoria . . . does she have any unusual abilities?”
“She paints,” Draco said. “She’s a talented artist and she knows pretty much everything about art, both wizarding and Muggle.”
There was a finality to Draco’s statement. Harry knew he’d get nothing else out of him, not even to save his own skin. It was irritating to say the least, but it was also admirable, given that Harry knew he too would do anything to protect Ginny.
Draco Malfoy in love. The world only got stranger.
“Really? She sounds like quite a girl,” Harry said. He thought it best to move the conversation to a friendlier topic. “Thank you for meeting me. Well, look at us! We’ve been here nearly an hour, and we haven’t hexed each other once. Does this mean we grew up?”
“Perhaps,” Draco said and then gave Harry an evil grin. “But I wouldn’t turn my back if I were you, Potter. I might give into my nature.”
Chapter 20: Chapter 20: The New Year
Chapter 20: The New YearJanuary 4, 1998, 6:45 p.m.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The Hogwarts grounds were covered in snow. Ginny normally loved winter in the castle: mammoth icicles dangling from turrets, fires roaring in every fireplace, and comforting stews served in the Great Hall. Everyone complained about the drafts in dungeons and how you could always see your breath in Potions class, but Ginny didn’t mind it. She had been raised in the Burrow, where winter drafts were inevitable as neither of her parents excelled at insulation charms.
But this year, she was not smitten with Hogwarts in winter. She saw it for the lie it was, a perfect picture coating a nightmare.
She felt Luna’s absence in a way that she hadn’t felt Holly’s or Colin’s. It was strange because she’d always claimed that Holly was her best friend at Hogwarts, but Luna was her oldest friend, her first friend outside of family.
Somehow, while she and Neville had been preoccupied with capturing a spooked Trevor just before Christmas, Luna had vanished. Two weeks later, she could still see Mr. Lovegood’s grief stricken face at King’s Cross. Ginny and her parents, as well as Neville and his gran, had helped Xenophilius search the entire station, but she was nowhere to be found.
“All my fault,” Mr. Lovegood had said.
Molly Weasley had taken Luna’s disappearance as a personal warning and had not let Ginny out of her sight once during the break. She was barely permitted in the garden on Christmas Day to build a snow gnome, and she’d had the twins with her on that occasion.
It had been the gloomiest Christmas Ginny could remember. It was only Ginny, her parents, and the twins at the Burrow. Bill and Fleur had opted to remain at Shell Cottage, Charlie was not able to leave Romania, and Percy was not able to leave his stupidity. And, of course, no one knew where Ron was.
They had listened to Celestina Warbeck as usual, but even her mum seemed to find the saccharine tunes to be out of touch this year. Fred neglected his tradition of singing in his Celestina Warbeck voice whenever Mum was out of earshot, creating dirty parodies of her famous love songs. They had made platters of food as usual, but it wasn’t as enjoyable without fighting over the mashed potatoes with Ron. She wasn’t sure what it said about her that she didn’t appreciate food that she didn’t have to fight for.
She played wizards chess with her father, she baked with her mother, and she snuck firewhisky with her brothers who marveled at her newfound tolerance.
No one spoke of Luna. No one spoke of Ron. Or Harry. Or Hermione.
She thought about Luna a lot. She felt certain that her friend was not dead, although she couldn’t say how she knew this, but it was a grim comfort given that she was most likely in the care of Death Eaters. She’d had a dream about Luna on the first night of the holidays–a nightmare, really–where Luna, dressed in a long white nightgown led her through an abandoned house and said she was staying where the lost girls were kept. Everywhere, there were young girls in nightgowns and bare feet, staring blankly in cobwebby rooms without furniture.
She also thought about Harry a lot. She wondered if he, Ron, and Hermione had any type of proper Christmas. She doubted it. She didn’t really know what it meant to be on the run. Were they staying in caves like Sirius had when Harry had been in the Triwizard Tournament? Or were they staying in shady, Hogs Head type inns, wearing heavy disguises, using code names, and getting information by eavesdropping on drunk wizards? It frustrated her that she couldn’t even guess what his life looked like anymore.
On Boxing Day, she had broken down and told the twins what had happened at Hogwarts. She hadn’t planned on doing so. She’d wanted to leave the twins with the impression that Umbridge era Hogwarts was as bad as it got, but as she listened to George tell her father about Weasley Wizarding Wheezes new protective products, it occurred to her that Hogwarts needed the twins.
It hadn’t gone well. Ginny had forgotten that the twins were, in fact, big brothers as they had never babied her as Bill, Charlie, Percy, or even Ron did. But when Fred–the bloody hypocrite–had threatened to let their mother know that teenage girls were being raped at Hogwarts, she realized that she hadn’t properly thought this through. She’d decided not to let the twins know that she was number five on the List.
She’d been able to talk them down in the end, and her parents remained ignorant of the situation, and the twins promised to work on a line that could benefit the students of Hogwarts. They also developed their cake delivery plan on an afternoon when Molly seemed determined to force feed them cake.
After the holidays, she had been grateful to leave the Burrow. At least until she remembered what she was returning to.
Ginny sat in the thestral drawn carriage with Neville, Seamus, and Demelza. She thought it strange that with everything she’d seen, everything that had happened to her and around her, she still couldn’t see the thestrals. She didn’t want to, of course; it was merely odd to realize she was still innocent of one type of suffering.
“Ever think about jumping out of the carriage?” She asked her carriage mates, then immediately regretted it when they all looked alarmed.
Well, all except Seamus who grinned at her. “Run away? Sure, why not? Where would we go?”
“I don’t know. Is Ireland nice? I’ve never been,” Ginny said.
“You’ve never been? Well, Weasley, that hurts my heart. Someday, we will go, and I will teach you lot how to drink like real men.”
“I think Luna already taught me how to drink like a real man,” Ginny said.
Seamus shook his head. “You aren’t drinking like a real man until you drink a flight of fire whiskies, get into a bar fight, and then drink a second flight to celebrate your win.”
Ginny blinked. “How is that different from Hogwarts?”
Seamus thought it over. “Better firewhisky.”
“Italy,” Demelza said suddenly. “We could eat all the pasta, look at art, and jump into fountains.”
“Greece,” Neville said. “The Greek islands have the most amazing water plants. I’ve wanted to go to Mykonos since fourth year.”
“Calm down, Longbottom,” Seamus said. “We are not going on a plant hunting expedition, not even for an imaginary holiday. If we’re going to Greece, we’re drinking ouzo and exploring the nightlife.”
“I know how to have fun,” Neville said, hugging a potted plant to his chest.
“Japan,” Ginny said. “I’m even sure what’s in Japan. It just sounds so far away.”
They continued their discussion of travel as they entered the castle and throughout most of their dinner in the Great Hall.
The trick to enjoying mealtime at Hogwarts, Ginny had learned, meant not looking at the head table or at the Slytherin table. If you could manage to look only at your food and at your housemates, it was possible to have a relaxing hour and pretend things were normal.
After dinner, she went straight to her dormitory, even though her friends had all opted to linger in the common room. The second helping of shepherd’s pie had not been her best idea, and her bed was calling her name.
Much to her surprise, there was someone sitting on her bed.
“Romilda!”
“Hello, Ginny.”
While Romilda looked better than she had when Ginny had seen her in the hospital wing, it wasn’t by much. There were shadows under her giant dark eyes, her skin was pale and her cheekbones so prominent that they could only be called sharp. Most noticeably Romilda’s clothing was now loose and shapeless on her. Her elegant, willowy figure, which had been the subject of much female envy at Hogwarts, was now gaunt.
“How are you feeling?”
Romilda shrugged. “I’ve been better. I understand that you were the one who found me.”
“I was.”
“I need to know how you found me.”
“How?”
“Madam Pomfrey won’t tell me anything other than that I had an incident. Even McGonagall, the reigning queen of bluntness, is being very delicate in her explanations.”
“You don’t remember?” Of all things, Ginny had not been expecting this.
“I don’t think so. There are flashes, but I don’t have any way of knowing if they are real memories.”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
She couldn’t possibly tell Romilda about her torn clothing, her missing knickers. She had been vulnerable, so very vulnerable, when she’d found her. She remembered the torn clothing, the paleness of exposed flesh. How could Romilda ever be powerful again if Ginny told her?
But Romilda kept staring at her with those great dark eyes, as if she wanted to suck the memory from her.
“It’s not a matter of wanting. Wouldn’t you need to know?”
She sat down so she and Romilda were side by side. It was easier than looking her in the face.
Ginny took her time before responding. She thought back to the days after the Chamber. She’d tried to figure out everything she had done while possessed, but if she mentioned it to her mother or her brothers, they would shush her. That’s all over. He can’t hurt you know. So instead out of talking out the poison, she’d relived it over and over again in her head, until years later when she felt she understood things enough to begin putting them away.
Yes, she would want to know. And if Romilda didn’t get answers or if Ginny lied to her, she would do the math in her head for the rest of her life, working out what didn’t add up.
“I was coming down the stairs for an early breakfast. Demelza Robbins was right behind me. And I almost tripped over you when I reached the fourth corridor.”
“I was on the ground?”
“Yes, you were unconscious. I don’t think anyone else came across you that morning. I don’t think anyone would have left you like that if they’d seen you.”
“I was . . . injured?”
“Yes. You were sprawled on the ground.” She debated on how much to tell Romilda and then proceeded. Romilda could always stop her if needed. “Your clothing had been torn, and your curls were covering your face. It wasn’t until I brushed your hair out of your face that I knew who you were.” She hesitated then added, “ Your knickers were gone.”
“My knickers?” Romilda said it as if it were an unfamiliar word.
“Your skirt was flipped up. That’s how I knew someone had taken them. I asked Demelza to go for Madam Pomfrey. I stayed with you until she and Professor McGonagall arrived. While I waited, I put your clothing back in place. It was a cold morning, and I didn’t know how long you’d been on the floor, so I covered you with my cloak.” While Ginny didn’t look at Romilda, she sensed the younger girl was crying. “When they arrived, Madam Pomfrey said, ‘Just like Aimee.’”
“She’s still unconscious. Aimee Cartwright,” Romilda said in a whisper. “How many people know what happened to me?”
“No one knows, Romilda, but people suspect. No one really knew about Aimee, but once it was you, and then Mandy, people began working things out.”
“So, everyone is going to be staring at me once I go back to class?”
It sounded like a self-absorbed question, but Ginny understood it for what it was. The question of a girl who didn’t know how to face classmates after tragedy. She’d been there herself at age eleven. And age twelve returning to Hogwarts after the Chamber.
“Keep your chin high. Everyone will respect you for it.”
Romilda laughed without humor. “Sure. Well, thanks for telling me when no one else would.” She stood to leave.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have better news.”
While Romilda looked paler than she had when Ginny first arrived, she knew she had done the right thing in telling her.
“It’s what I was expecting.”
January 19, 1998, 7:00 p.m.
The office of Professor Minerva McGonagall
Classes resumed the following day. Ginny threw herself into her studies and into the D.A., and three weeks passed with little incident. Some things were better. She’d learned that Muggle Studies was easy to get an Outstanding in if you just sounded outraged in your essays and used exclamation points. The He-Carrow was more subdued, and Ginny got the impression that Snape had curtailed some of his powers over the break.
Other things were not. Ginny had not realized how much work Luna had done on the Fog until it was all on Ginny’s shoulders. She had half a dozen tardy articles from nearly half a dozen writers, and she wasn’t sure how to produce the newsletter once she did have all the pieces. Luna had taught her how to typeset it, but she wasn’t sure how to duplicate and distribute it once it was typeset, and she couldn’t remember who had done the protective spells that had been used on the first edition to disguise authorship.
And then there were the boys.
Ever since Demelza had mentioned that Chris Benson fancied her, she was unable to un-see it. He was always there, eager to start a conversation in the corridors or save her a good seat by the fire. Once he’d put a chocolate cupcake on her plate at dinner without asking if she wanted one. There must have been outrage on her face because he’d immediately started stammering, “I’m sorry. I thought you liked chocolate cakes? The chocolate ones go so quickly, I didn’t think there would be any left by the time you finish your potatoes. Do you want me to put the cake back? I can put it back! Would you prefer a spice cake?”
Blaise Zabini wasn’t much better. He always seemed to be popping out of corners, wanting a word with her. Now that they were past the grim warnings phase of their relationship, Blaise was far more flirty than she wanted him to be with her. She supposed she should be flattered. He was the best looking boy in school, and she knew she would be safer from the rapists if she had a boyfriend since it was primarily her status as “Potter’s girl” that endangered her in the first place.
But she just didn’t want a boyfriend. It wasn’t even that she was waiting for Harry. Once Ginny had failed to get the sword, she finally understood that Harry was good and truly out of her life. Their lives had overlapped for so long that she hadn’t understood what it would be to not see him at school, to not see him walking around the Burrow in his pyjamas over the holidays. That this thing he was doing could take years, and even if they found their way back to each other, they would no longer be the boy and the girl who had kissed in the common room.
Although she was not waiting, she was also uninterested in a boyfriend who wasn’t Harry. Relationships were work, and she didn’t see the point in investing the work in one if she couldn’t have the boy she really wanted.
“Weasley. You aren’t paying attention,” Professor McGonagall said.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny said for the second time that evening.
Professor McGonagall had followed through on her promise to give Ginny private lessons. It was infrequent, but neither of them wanted to attract Carrow notice.
“If you are going to be attacked, it will likely happen when you are distracted. You need to keep focused.”
“Constant vigilance,” Ginny muttered.
“Alastor was never wrong about that. Now try the incantation one more time.”
“Why didn’t you tell Romilda what had happened to her?”
She hadn’t meant to ask the question, but it came tumbling out of her. She’d wondered about it during Transfiguration classes over the last three weeks. Had Snape forbidden it? Or had Professor McGonagall thought it best as Romilda’s head of house?
Professor McGonagall eyed her. “Did you?”
“Yes. If it were me, I’d want to know.”
Professor McGonagall drew herself up to her full height, and Ginny braced herself for the storm. But then the fierce lady seemed to deflate.
“How did Miss Vane take the news?”
“Resigned. I think she already knew. Or suspected.”
The professor nodded. “When she woke up not knowing why she was in the hospital wing, it seemed a small blessing. We thought it best to give her a few days of peace. She was startled enough to learn Halloween was two months ago and that her classmates were all home with their families. But then, her mother arrived with her sisters, and Romilda became agitated with the fussing.”
“Her mother arrived? Here?” Ginny couldn’t imagine any parent at Hogwarts this year. There simply was no way to normalize the Carrows.
“Yes. Had her husband been anyone but the most powerful wizard at Gringotts, I am sure Professor Snape would have hexed her straight out of the castle.”
Ginny understood the power of money, as someone who had spent her entire life without it, but she also knew that allegiance was more important than money these days.
“Is Mr. Vane . . .”
“A Death Eater? No. Just extremely wealthy. Even Dark Lords need to eat.”
Ginny had a sudden image of You Know Who blowing on a bowl of soup like a human being. She pushed it aside, uncomfortable with the idea of a Voldemort that needed to eat, drink, breathe, and visit the loo like everyone else.
“And she left her here?”
“Professor Snape can be rather persuasive. And I think it was not a coincidence that the Carrows left the castle while she was in residence.”
No, Snape would not want Amycus Carrow there, informing Mrs. Vane that her daughter had it coming. That the boys had merely been being boys.
“But she could see Romilda was not fine, no matter how persuasive Snape was. She’s a mum.”
Professor McGonagall gestured for Ginny to sit and then passed her a tin of ginger biscuits. “Not all mothers are like yours. In the way of family, you are far luckier than Romilda Vane.”
She thought of spoiled, pretty Romilda. Did she have it harder at home? One wouldn’t think so, with all her natural confidence, but her mother had seen her pale, thin, and jumpy and left her within the cold castle walls. By choice.
“But she left her!” Ginny couldn’t explain the fury rising in her at the thought of Mrs. Vane leaving Romilda in the hospital wing to attend New Years parties with her well-dressed Witch Weekly colleagues. She knew that had Mrs. Vane been in Bat Bogey Hexing distance, Professor McGonagall would have had her in detention for the rest of the year. “There’s never going to be outrage over what is going on here? If people like the Vanes, with power and influence, can be resigned to leaving their own daughter here, no one is going to speak up for us.”
“There is outrage,” Professor McGongall corrected her. “There is outrage over what is happening here, over what is happening with the Ministry, over wizards in other countries pretending like people aren’t being murdered in Great Britain.”
“Too much outrage, not enough power,” Ginny said.
She realized she was mindlessly munching Professor McGonagall’s biscuits as if she were back home at the Burrow, trying to eat treats before her brothers ate them all up. She passed the tin back, embarrassed.
Professor McGonagall selected and bit into a biscuit. “Too many things to fight. But you have chosen to fight this. I have chosen to fight this.”
“Is this a choice?”
It didn’t feel like one. She didn’t feel like she had any choices. Even the D.A. and the Fog felt reactionary, since the enemy always grew stronger no matter how hard they fought.
“Why are you here, Ginny? Here at Hogwarts rather than safe and sound at the Burrow.”
Ginny blinked. “I have to be here. It’s the law.”
Professor McGonagall seemed to be picking her words carefully. “Spattergroit is very contagious. You could have been home. You chose to be here in the fall and again after the holidays. And why is that?”
“At home, I would be protected. But also smothered and useless. I would never be permitted to help the Order, even if I didn’t have the Trace.”
“And here?” McGonagall looked at the biscuit in her hand, as if she was unsure how it had got there. She passed a considerably lighter tin back to Ginny.
Ginny bit into a biscuit and thought it over, remembering her fear that Fred would tell their mother about the rapes and she would be forced to stay home. Would that have been so terrible?
“I can protect others. The first and second years. Even people in my own year. It’s not doing anything to defeat Voldemort, but it matters to the people who are trapped here.”
“Exactly. You have made this your fight. And a sixteen-year-old Ginny Weasley is far more formidable than a forty-year-old Sharon Vane, even with all the wealth and the media behind her. Because you teach girls to be brave, while Mrs. Vane teaches them lash lengthening charms.” Professor McGonagall gave her a smile, something Ginny could not recall her ever doing before. “Which is why I am asking you to try that incantation again. Because what you do here matters.”
When Ginny walked back to her common room that evening, she felt much better. Or at least she did until something jumped out of the corner at her.
“Shh! It’s just me.”
“Merlin, Romilda! Don’t you know better than to jump out at solitary girls? You’re lucky I didn’t hex you!”
“Sorry! I needed to talk to you and not in the common room. Demelza said you had a meeting with Professor McGonagall so I figured you’d be coming up this stairwell.”
While Romilda hadn’t quite regained her aura of leadership, she had lost her lost little girl look. Ginny suspected it was more her makeup expertise than actual healing that had produced this miracle.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Do you run the Fog?”
Ginny dragged the taller girl by the elbow into the nearest classroom and placed an Imperturbable Charm on the door.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Well, are you?” Romilda persisted.
Ginny looked her over and then gave a curt nod.
“I want to help.”
“No,” Ginny said, “it’s not a light commitment, and it’s dangerous.”
While they could use more people, Ginny liked that she could trust everyone in the D.A. They had all done this together two years ago, and she trusted each and every one, even the people she didn’t know that well.
And Romilda Vane had the biggest mouth at Hogwarts. She had once tried to give Harry a love potion, only to find Harry was forewarned because Hermione had overheard Romilda telling everyone in the girls’ bathroom what she was up to. No, telling Romilda about the D.A. would damn them all.
Romilda crossed her arms over her chest. “Existing right now is dangerous.”
“Where are you going to find the time? You’ve missed two months of class work.”
Merlin, she was turning into her mother two decades earlier than projected.
“Classwork! What the fuck, Ginny! Do you think I can concentrate on classwork right now? I’m so angry that I can’t think of anything else. I wake up angry, I am angry in class, and I go to bed angry. I need something to do. And I don’t care about my bloody grades!”
Just half an hour ago, Ginny had swelled with pride when Professor McGonagall had told her that she taught girls to be brave. And here was one very brave girl in front of her, a girl so brave that Ginny should be learning from her. Part of her still wanted to send Romilda to bed and to safety in her dormitory, and keep her own world comfortable, but she squashed her inner Molly.
She really hoped Romilda would not make her regret this decision.
“Okay, okay. Have you heard of the Room of Requirement?”
January 29, 1998, 8:45 p.m.
The Room of Requirement
When Romilda Vane joined the D.A., so did Raven King and Rosemarie Walker. The fourth of the “Four R’s” did not.
“We didn’t tell Rachael,” Romilda said at her first meeting. “Her mum just got a promotion at the Ministry. A big one.”
Ginny didn’t want to know what one had to do to gain a huge promotion at the Ministry these days.
Romilda, Raven, and Rosemarie added a bit of color to the D.A. in a very literal way. They arrived to their first meeting in full makeup and the Parisian fashions that Mrs. Vane had just sent Romilda. Meanwhile, the veteran members had all remained in their black school robes and wore the grim expressions of people about to oversee an execution.
Even so, they fit into the D.A. better than Ginny could have expected. Raven was mostly quiet and likable. Rosemarie was articulate and always up on current events. She had a dad who was very uneasy with the changes at the Ministry, as a member of Magical Law Enforcement. From what she said, Ginny felt that Arthur and Rosemarie’s dad would get along well. Romilda was determined in D.A. classes, practicing as if her very life depended on it, and during the Fog meetings that followed D.A. meetings, she surprised Ginny with her insight.
It turned out that Mrs. Vane had taught Romilda more than just fashion and beauty. She knew a great deal about layout, and how to place articles in a way that naturally caught the eye. She rewrote weak headlines and made suggestions of what could be trimmed from articles. The end result was more concise, powerful, and thoughtfully presented than the emotion driven and amateurish articles that had been submitted.
On the last Fog meeting before the publication of the February issue, it was just Ginny, Neville, Romilda, Rosemarie, Terry, and Anthony in the Room of Requirement putting on the finishing touches. About half of the group, including Raven, had gone back to their common rooms after the D.A. meeting, as they were not involved in the newsletter. An hour after that, a remaining quarter had left after they finalized the article selection for the issue.
The planning meetings for the Fog that occurred early in the month were always casual. People brainstormed ideas and swirled firewhisky around crystal glasses. A few of the boys chomped cigars, as if parodying hardened newspaper editors in pulp fiction.
The production meetings at the end of the month were the opposite. There was no firewhisky and no cigars. There was strong tea, served in sturdy mugs as opposed to dainty china cups, and sugary treats to help dull the stress. Ginny had proofread everything for spelling and grammar; Neville had proofread it to make sure there were no details that could identify the authors; Ginny had typeset it with Romilda’s guidance; and Anthony had performed a protective charm that would keep the curious from identifying the creators.
“It’s good,” Ginny said. “It’s really good, isn’t it?”
Terry Boot had written the lead article for this issue, which had explored the link between torture and authoritarianism. He had compared the current situation with similar events in Europe over the twentieth century, identifying the stages that preceded human rights violations.
“It’s really good,” Anthony replied.
Ginny needed it to be good because this issue was for Luna, wherever she was.
She had disappointed Luna once before. The summer after first year, she had gone over to the Lovegood home. She had lost herself in the diary and in the Chamber over the school year, and she felt that if she just saw Luna, she’d be whole again.
But she didn’t realize that Luna had also lost herself in first year, tormented by classmates, and Ginny hadn’t even noticed, just as no one had noticed her fading away over the year. And when the blond girl had opened the door, she wore a hard expression that Ginny had never seen on her.
“So you want to be friends again now that your school friends can’t see us spending time together?” Luna asked.
“What friends?” While Ginny had been on friendly terms with her classmates, she hadn’t formed any true friendships her first year.
“I know I’m not popular like your brothers or Harry Potter, but I would have thought you’d stick with me even if the rest of the school thinks I’m mental.”
And so she had closed the door in Ginny’s face.
For two years, they barely spoke. Ginny had always tried to be kind to Luna, feeling guilty that she had been so wrapped up in her own problems during her first year that she’d never once checked in on her friend.
It wasn’t until the train ride back to Hogwarts fourth year that Luna truly entered her life again. She, Neville, and Harry were trying to find a compartment together, when the boys, clearly unfamiliar with Luna, were reluctant to join her. Ginny had found herself giggling and saying, “It’s just Loony Lovegood.” Once the words were out of her mouth, Ginny felt instant shame. What a thing to say about her oldest friend. Luna was unique, but she was perfectly sane.
But that train ride proved to be a turning point, and over that year, Luna and Ginny became friends again. They both realized that neither one had deliberately abandoned the other in first year. They’d both had incredibly difficult first years and had not noticed the other girl was drowning too. Ginny had confided in Luna about the Chamber, her first time speaking of it to someone other than family or Professor Dumbledore, and Luna had apologized for how she had treated Ginny over the summer.
Now, Luna was once again in a place that Ginny couldn’t help her. The only thing that she could do was produce a newsletter that would make her friend proud.
As children they had written a novel about a heroine named Princess Daniela. Ginny understood now that Princess Daniela was how they had seen each other and themselves, the strength they knew existed inside them. Wherever Luna was, Ginny knew she was displaying Princess Daniela’s brand of bravery. Ginny would do the same.
“It’s your turn, Ginny,” Terry said, bringing her back to the present.
It was her turn. She performed a duplication charm that turned the newsletter into a tall stack of newsletters, ready for distribution.
“For Luna,” she said.
Chapter 21: Chapter 21: Bottled Up
Author's Notes: I think this may now be the longest thing I have ever written. And I still have about a dozen chapters to go.
Thank you to everyone who has been keeping up with this story.
Chapter 21: Bottled Up
June 24, 1998
Greengrass & Sons, Fine Wines Since 1783; Diagon Alley, London
Astoria loved the family store. They had a prime location in Diagon Alley, tucked between a bookstore and an exclusive restaurant. She loved the crowded shelves and the rolling ladder used to get the exclusive wines from the top shelves. She had been the one to design the display for her mother’s family wines in the front of the store, just as she had been the one to design their wine labels when she was only fourteen.
As children, she and Daphne had played in the store, hiding in places too small for anyone but a child to notice. As young teens, they learned the family business, feeling grown up any time a customer addressed them as “Miss Greengrass.” They learned to love wine and identify the delicate layers of flavors in each bottle.
However, Astoria didn’t like working at the family store. She knew more about wine and also food and wine pairings than any customer that came in, but customers still insisted on explaining wines to her, even as they inquired after the perfect pairing for the prime rib they planned to serve to houseguests.
Of course, what she disliked the most was what Daphne liked best. Daph could put a wine snob pretender in his place, or pretend to be impressed with his knowledge if he happened to be handsome enough or wealthy enough. This was why Astoria had no objection to her older sister inheriting the family business. As much as she loved the family store–when it was empty, anyhow–she didn’t care to be its future.
She never complained about working at the store. She knew she was lucky to have a nice home and all the clothes and books she wanted. But she would much rather be at home reading and working on her art, or wandering the museums and art galleries of London, or even volunteering at St. Mungo’s.
On that day, their parents were catering a Ministry function–the Department of International Cooperation was still loyal to Greengrass & Sons–while the assistant manager had the day off for a family reunion, so it was just Astoria and Daphne to mind the store.
Sunday was the slowest business day, so Astoria hadn’t minded the shift. So far, she and Daphne had eaten croissants and coffee for breakfast, read the latest issue of Witch Weekly and completed the magazine’s latest quiz (“What is Your Love Personality?” with the results of “Total Enchantress” for Daphne and “Sexy Romantic” for Astoria).
By afternoon, the store remained empty, but the sisters could not deny that it was time to do some actual work. Daphne wrote out the tasting notes for the month’s featured wines on the blackboard in fancy script while Astoria filled orders for regular customers who would be in later in the week.
She had always liked filling the wine subscription orders. There were cards that listed each customer’s preferences, but Astoria was able to pick out whatever she liked. For Harold Fudge, the jovial younger brother of the former minister, his card said that he preferred clarets, so she selected three superb clarets, a bottle of champagne in case he had company, a port, and a delicious wine of an obscure varietal that would appeal to the wine snob in him. She wrote out cards with tasting notes for each bottle.
For Rosalind Macmillan, socialite and closet alcoholic, it was easier still. This was more about quantity than quality. She selected wines that would appeal to her sense of beauty. There were delicate whites with floral notes, a few bottles of sparkling wine, some ross of gorgeous hue, a few light reds.
“Tori, I’ll be out tonight. If Mum and Dad ask, tell them I’m sleeping over at Pansy’s,” Daphne said, stepping back and critically reviewing the blackboard she’d just finished.
“When did you two make up?” Astoria demanded.
“I never said we made up. I said that’s the official story should they ask any questions.”
“So, Roger then,” Astoria said. “Does he have an actual personality, or do you just keep him around for his charmed feathers?”
Daphne covered her face with her hands. “I must have been so drunk to tell you that. And who are you to talk? You’re dating the bloke who begins every sentence with, ‘Father always says . . .’ At least, Roger doesn’t let his daddy do his thinking for him.”
“What?”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “You’ve spent a sizeable portion of the summer with a certain pointy faced exile. Haven’t you noticed his favorite topic of conversation?” She put on a deep drawl. “Father says that Muggleborn vermin are taking over the Ministry, and they’re getting promoted. How can they be expected to govern when they don’t even understand our heritage?”
The drawl was dead on, Astoria had to admit, but otherwise she had no idea what Daphne was talking about.
“Draco hardly ever talks about his father. And I’ve never heard him quote him.”
“You must be joking.”
A tinkling of a bell announced that customers had entered the store. Astoria spun about, preparing to start a welcome spiel, but it got stuck in her mouth when she saw that it was Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley who had entered the shop. They wore Muggle style clothes, with Harry’s clothing looking quite new and Ginny’s a bit worn. Even in jeans and trainers, an aura of fame still seemed to linger on both of them.
Harry’s eyes, greener than she’d realized, locked with hers. She knew instantly that they were there for her, that his expression was not a, “Do you happen to have a 1993 Chardonnay?” look.
Her heart began to pound. Had he somehow found out about her sketch of Romilda at the ball? Draco had said he didn’t show it to anyone. Or did he? What exactly had he said to her? Her mind was going blank, as she tried to recall the conversation she and Draco had at her front door one week ago.
Daphne also seemed to sense trouble. She quickly crossed the store and addressed the couple, business on her face and her hand on her hip. “Welcome to Greengrass & Sons. Could I interest you in a bottle of champagne?” She gave a glance at Ginny’s hair. “Or perhaps, you’d prefer red?”
Surely, if Draco were to show her sketch to someone, Harry Potter would be the absolute last person he would confide in. The Chudley Cannons would go to the Quidditch World Cup before that happened.
Harry gave Astoria a glance. “I just had a couple of questions.”
“Our wine expertise is unrivaled.” Daphne took a step directly in front of Astoria so she was in between them. “And don’t let the amateurs at Magical Wine Imports tell you otherwise. They couldn’t pass a blind taste test.”
“Er, I’m not here for wine. I just need to ask your sister a couple things. It’ll take a couple minutes tops, as you are obviously, er, busy.” He glanced around the empty shop.
“I’m sorry then. We have a very strict no loitering policy. A couple years ago, we had these witches who would linger all day, looking for rich wizards to marry. It completely dried up business, with wizards afraid to come into the shop, so now it’s wine business only.”
Astoria blinked. She was pretty sure that had never happened in any wine shop ever.
Harry was about to respond, but Ginny spoke first. “We need a red, don’t we, Harry? We’re having a roast for dinner.”
“I know just the thing.” Daphne crossed over to the Bordeaux shelf and fetched a bottle of red that cost as much as a Cleansweep. Astoria couldn’t help but admire her sister’s nerve.
“Looks perfect,” Harry said. “Astoria, could you ring us up?”
“I’ll do it,” Daphne said with a smile. “Astoria’s still in training.”
Astoria had been using the register since she was barely tall enough to look over the counter.
“I’m very patient.” Harry smiled back at Daphne.
“Oh, we wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
“We have all day, don’t we Gin? And the Weasleys are a big family. We’ll probably need another bottle.”
“How many people?”
“Eight.”
Daphne tsked. “Two more bottles, I think. This is delicious. You’ll be kicking yourself if there isn’t enough.” She added two more bottles of Bordeaux on the counter.
“I look forward to trying it. Now, I believe Astoria could use some practice on the register?”
“I can’t have you questioning my sister, Potter. Not without my parents here. Astoria is only sixteen and very delicate.”
Astoria gritted her teeth. Delicate?
“What brings you here?” She joined the others at the counter, addressing Harry directly.
“I’m very sorry to bother you at work, but I just wanted to ask you some questions about the ball.”
Damn.
“This is my fault,” Ginny blurted out. “I overheard the two of you talking about Romilda outside the ladies. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I’d torn my dress and I hid behind a potted plant to assess the damage. I heard you say that you drew Romilda’s fate. Was it the tarot?”
“The tarot?” Whatever Astoria had been expecting, this was not it. “No, I’m not a seer. I don’t even study divination.”
“No?” Ginny looked disappointed. She was as beautiful up close as she was from a distance, but it was a more approachable beauty once you saw the light dusting of freckles across her small nose.
“What did you mean, Miss Greengrass?” Harry was frowning, but his tone was polite.
“This is very inappropriate,” Daphne said. “Astoria wouldn’t hurt a fly. If you knew the first thing about her, you’d know that. If you want to ask her questions, come back when our parents are present. I believe minors are permitted a parent or guardian when being questioned by Aurors.”
“I’m not here as an Auror,” Harry said.
“What do you mean you aren’t here as an Auror?”
While her sister seemed more alarmed that Harry was there on an unofficial basis, Astoria felt relieved. She was not in immediate danger of being dragged into the Ministry for questioning. She remembered how spooked Draco had been when he had seen the Prophet article suggesting that he’d been an accessory in Romilda’s murder, and she wondered if the famously brave Harry Potter might be spooked as well.
“It’s personal,” Astoria said. She met Harry’s eyes. “He’s being framed.”
“Yes,” Harry agreed. “Could you tell me what you meant about drawing Romilda?”
“Don’t answer that,” Daphne said.
But Astoria didn’t see the point in evasion. If she didn’t answer, they would only draw their only conclusion, which would be far more damaging than the truth.
“I meant that in the conventional sense. I drew a picture of her.”
“A picture?” Harry looked startled. “Yes, of course, you’re an artist.”
The last part Harry seemed to say to himself, and Astoria wondered how Harry could possibly know that about her.
“I’m a portraitist. I’ve been a working artist since I was thirteen. I’m interested in faces, and Romilda’s caught my attention at the ball. I began sketching her. It was just before . . .”
Without thought, Astoria’s hand drifted towards her throat, remembering how Romilda had seemed to choke to death.
Ginny frowned. “So, you were upset that she died while you were in the process of sketching her.”
“Well, yes.”
Astoria could see Daphne almost visibly relax, but Harry was frowning.
“There is something else,” he said. “Is there anything unusual about your art?”
“Talent,” Daphne said. She added a bottle of champagne to the growing wine collection. When he glanced at it, she added, “To celebrate getting your answer.” The grin she gave Harry was little more than a baring of teeth.
“There is something else, Astoria,” Harry said.
“She was my classmate. She should have been ready to start sixth year with me. And now she’s dead.”
She didn’t know how Harry knew her art was more than just art, but she did not think he was going to let this go. Her heart began to pound, as Harry’s emerald green eyes studied her face.
“Yes, but there is something else. Your art is . . . magical somehow.”
She meant to say no, but instead she blurted, “I don’t control it!”
“Tori!”
“I don’t! I didn’t know anything when I began sketching her.”
“Harry,” Ginny said. “She’s upset. Don’t push her.”
Harry didn’t look at his girlfriend. His tone was gentle. “And as you sketched her?”
“I realized something was about to happen to her. About one minute before anyone else did. But I couldn’t do anything. By the time I neared her, she was already dead.”
“You sketch the future?” It was Ginny who asked the question.
“No. Or at least not always. I told you, I’m not a seer.”
“What are you?” Harry asked.
Daphne added a bottle of white from Sancerre to the counter.
“I don’t know. I don’t know any others, so I don’t know if there is a term for it. When I paint or draw someone, I see their . . . Other selves. Sometimes, I see a past self of a person. Other times, like with Romilda, I see a future self. Sometimes, I see a secret self, an aspect that a person hides from the world.”
“How do you know what version you’ll see of a person?” Ginny asked.
“I don’t. Not until I draw someone. And it doesn’t always happen. Sometimes, a portrait is just a portrait.”
“What was in your portrait of Romilda?” Harry asked.
Daphne decided Harry could use a Pouilly-Fuisse in his life, adding it to the collection.
“Bottles. Vials, really.” She wondered if she could get information out of Harry. Information for her information. “Was she poisoned?”
Harry gave the slightest of nods, apparently not allowed to give verbal confirmation of Romilda’s autopsy. “And if you were to sketch Romilda again?”
“It’s not a party trick,” she said annoyed. “I don’t control it.”
“This is true,” Daphne offered. “I’ve been trying to get her to paint how I’ll earn my fortune for years now with no luck.”
Harry gave a quick glance at the crystal chandelier and marble sales counter, as if trying to work out if Daphne was joking. He then moved his attention back to Astoria.
“Have you tried sketching her again? From memory?”
She gave a quick nod. She had done so that the very next day. For hours.
“Nothing came of it. It didn’t even look like her.”
“So you need to be looking at a person for it to work?” Harry asked.
She frowned. “I don’t know. I do mostly oil paintings, which are time consuming, and my subjects aren’t there the entire time. I’ll do shading and texture from memory on my own.”
“But do the flashes of insight come when the subject is not there?” Harry persisted.
She thought about it. “No.”
“So sketching Romilda is a dead end.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “What if you sketched me?”
“Why?” she asked, bewildered by this request.
“I’m with Astoria,” Ginny said. “Why?”
“Because the killer isn’t just fixated on Romilda. He’s fixated on me. And Draco too, I think.”
“But I’ve been painting Draco all summer,” Astoria said. “I haven’t seen anything related to Romilda.”
“Painting Draco!”
“Well, yes. It’s how we met. A lot of pureblood families have an official portrait done when a witch or wizard comes of age. Mrs. Malfoy hired me to paint Draco’s.”
Harry looked disappointed. “And nothing out of the ordinary?”
Daphne added a bottle of claret to the mix.
“No.”
“Well, would you be willing to sketch me?”
“Does this look like an art studio to you?” Daphne demanded.
“No, but I do seem to have my very own wine cellar forming here,” Harry said. “Daphne, do you happen to know what the most expensive bottle of wine in the store is?”
Daphne grinned at him. “Of course, I do. I’ve given you three bottles of it.”
“I’ll buy three more for a sketch.”
Astoria crossed her arms over her chest. “Shouldn’t you be bargaining with me? She can’t draw a stick figure, much less your destiny.”
“Are all Slytherin families like this?” Harry asked, but he looked amused. She wondered if he’d still be amused once he learned what the Bordeaux cost. Being barely of age to buy wine, he probably had little idea of the range of wine prices.
“I’m a Ravenclaw.”
“Are you now? Well, do we have a deal, Miss Greengrass?”
She grinned at him. “Six more bottles.”
“Five.”
“Deal.”
They shook hands. He had a nice handshake, she noted, firm but not oppressive.
It didn’t take too long to get Harry posed. Daphne put the “closed” sign on the front door and locked up. Harry’s purchase was more than double what they typically made on a Sunday, so they felt no guilt in closing the shop early. Astoria gathered up some parchment and quills from the office, and they settled in some leather armchairs at the back of the store, where they sometimes held private wine tastings.
“Just get comfortable,” Astoria told Harry as she sharpened her quill. “Don’t worry about posing.”
Harry leaned back in his armchair, his posture stiff.
“Just relax. Focus on Ginny, have a conversation if that makes it easier.”
Ginny took the lead and started up a neutral conversation about Quidditch. While Harry seemed to be relaxing, Astoria began to get nervous. She’d never done this on purpose before. What if she couldn’t?
She tried to empty her mind, but she was having difficulty in seeing or sketching anything beyond the surface. She had created a wonderful likeness of Harry’s build and the shape of his chin, but that’s all she had accomplished. She sketched on, annoyed.
But when he laughed at something Ginny had said, something shifted. While she had been sketching him from a coffee table’s distance, she now felt very far away, even as she watched him up close. It reminded her of being twelve years old and watching the Quidditch World Cup through Omnioculars.
She began sketching more quickly. There was something unsettling about this close but far view, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It seemed private, invasive somehow. But why? Harry knew she was drawing him. He’d asked her to do so. As her quill moved quickly, almost as of its own accord, she understood why it felt wrong. Because she wasn’t seeing Harry through her own perspective, but someone else’s.
So the killer–and Astoria knew instinctively that she was seeing Harry through the killer’s perspective–was watching him.
But why? What did he want?
Astoria finished her sketch. She looked at it, as if it could provide her with the answers. But it was just a sketch. A very good one that captured Harry Potter perfectly, even if it did seem as if the artist had sketched him from above rather from three feet away.
Wait. The answer was there. It was in Harry’s eyes, in his gaze.
“Ginny.” She looked up at Harry. “The killer wants Ginny. And you are in his way.”
Chapter 22: Chapter 22: Love, Lies, and Betrayal
Author's Notes: I must confess that I find the chapters where Draco is at Hogwarts to be the most difficult to write, and I am relieved that I only have one more pre-Battle Draco chapter left. As someone with strong Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff characteristics, I have a hard time understanding the Slytherin mindset. It doesn’t help that while I have the beginning and end of this story very well planned out, the middle is elusive to me. The previous chapter with Astoria was more planned out than this, and it still went to a place that surprised me.
What surprises me most is that I love this chapter. I love where it went. I hope you all love it too, but I might be alone in this, as there is very strong anti-Draco sentiment in this site, and this chapter is definitely Draco at his most Dracoish. I tend to begin every chapter with a strong emotion or mood that will govern the chapter as a whole, and then I let the emotion dictate the action. For this one, that emotion is ennui. Ennui is such a self indulgent word that it could only apply to Draco Malfoy.
Disclaimer: I have never played poker in my life. I briefly Googled some rules before writing this chapter so please forgive any errors. Or attribute them to differences between wizarding and Muggle poker.
Chapter 22: Love, Lies, and Betrayal
February 14, 1998, 11:00 p.m.
Slytherin Common Room
It was at the wizarding poker party that Draco remembered why he loved being a Slytherin.
It wasn’t the mystique that surrounded the black sheep of the Hogwarts Four. It wasn’t the high percentage of pureblood students. It wasn’t because you were allowed to admit things in the Slytherin common room that would make the good simple souls of Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor pass out in moral shock. It wasn’t even that they had the best house emblem or because Draco looked handsome in green.
He loved Slytherin for the drama.
At the party, which he had thrown out of pure desperation, he’d invited all Slytherins fifth year and up and told them it would be black tie, and they’d responded with no shortage of style.
Pansy Parkinson glided into the common room wearing fuschia dress robes that barely contained her bosoms, a foreshadowing of her future as the fourth or fifth young wife of a rich and elderly pureblood wizard. Theodore Nott poured firewhiskey into a crystal highball glass, heir to an immense fortune and looking the part. Blaise Zabini leaned against a stone wall, dressed all in black, looking as though he were playing a moody duke on a London stage. In formal wear, Crabbe and Goyle no longer looked thuggish, but dark, mysterious, and dangerous. Millicent Bulstrode wore mens dress robes, but she made them sexy somehow. And Tracey . . . well, she looked like a woman who wanted Draco to undress her.
Yes, this had been one of his better ideas. It was the perfect distraction for a bloke who was sick of absolutely everything.
Draco had spent the summer and Christmas holidays attempting to become as invisible as humanly possible. When the Dark Lord had returned from Godric’s Hollow in a rage on Christmas Eve, he’d hid outright. There was no glory in being dead. Then at school, he was sick of doing Head Boy rounds, unclear on if there were even any rules left to enforce. He was still attending “Potions Club” meetings, but he couldn’t even rattle Ernie Macmillan anymore, which had been the best part of meetings. The Hufflepuff prefect seemed to have worked out that Draco knew perfectly well what the club was for and that he had no interest in ratting them out.
Once again, Draco had become invisible, but this time, it was by default and not by preference.
But the breaking point had occurred in the Slytherin common room. It was one of those incidents that were nothing and everything at the same time. Geoff Bulstrode had proposed a prank on the Gryffindors, and he’d sought permission as he aired his idea.
He’d looked to Crabbe for silent permission. Draco knew that, Please think I’m clever for my idea expression because he was typically on the receiving end. He had always been the alpha in his own year since he was eleven, and he’d been the alpha in Slytherin house since fifth year.
It was not acceptable for Vincent Crabbe to be the alpha male of Slytherin.
Crabbe wasn’t the smartest, the wittiest, the most daring, the best looking, or the wealthiest. He was, Draco had to admit, the toughest person in Slytherin, but his muscle mass did give him a bit of an advantage in that department.
Draco was brooding, he knew. He was aware that he had it easier than most at Hogwarts. As Head Boy and a Death Eater, no one was out to torture him and that Hogwarts was the absolute safest place he could be.
But he also knew he had nothing to look forward to. Being of school age, Draco was a Death Eater in name only, but he had seen enough to know what it meant. Once he finished Hogwarts, his life and his will all belonged to the Dark Lord. He would need to do things that sickened him and he would need to pretend to glory in it.
His father had gloried in it once upon a time. How had he done it? Lucius had tortured and killed people and then had come home to kiss his wife and tuck his infant son into bed.
Draco might not be his father’s son in the way he always thought he would be, but it was not in the nature of a Malfoy to be docile. He had never been obedient before, yet here he was doing his homework and his Head Boy rounds. He didn’t even know if he’d broken any school rules that year. What had happened?
He had thought it was simply that he’d seen too much, had done too much, and he had simply become weary. But when he was in Potions class, striving to make a better Fogging Vapor than Zabini, he realized that was only part of the story.
If Vincent Crabbe was currently king of Slytherin, it was not because he was better than Draco. It wasn’t even that he adapted to Snape’s Hogwarts better than Draco. It was because Draco had given up the role willingly last year. He’d had other priorities, so he had bid his social life farewell.
And who would the crown go to other than Crabbe? Goyle wasn’t smart enough, Nott was too shy, and Zabini was too self absorbed. Who else would play king to Pansy Parkinson’s queen?
Well, Draco wanted his life back, so Crabbe would just have to return the scepter. He had four months until it was all over. Until he died to himself and was born to Lord Voldemort. Did he really want to spend that time being a nauseatingly good boy?
No. Draco Lucius Malfoy wanted to live.
Draco surveyed the common room. The low firelight and the green lamplight suited the occasion, making the black satin of dress robes shimmer and the drinks glitter in crystal decanters. Although he’d already set up the round tables with cards and chips, he had no intention of beginning the games until everyone had socialized and had at least one drink in them.
He’d purchased a large quantity of food and alcohol from Hogsmeade, making a considerable dent in his allowance. He’d used Slughorn’s name on the order, thinking the Potions professor’s name would stir the least suspicion from the Three Broomsticks, but had requested for it to be delivered to Hagrid’s hut as the gamekeeper and his giant dog had not been seen for weeks.
He hadn’t really expected that plan to work, thinking Madam Rosmerta might owl Professor Slugthorn for clarification, leaving Draco to raid the kitchens and put duplication charms on Crabbe’s firewhisky stash on the day of the party. Only it did work, and he and Goyle had smuggled the food and drink from the gamekeeper’s hut to Slytherin dungeon during dinner that evening.
He supposed it may have been reckless of him to hold the party in the common room given that there would be unauthorized drinking and gambling, but he knew the habits of the Carrows well enough to know they wouldn’t enter the common room unless noise attracted their interest, and Draco knew how to do a damn good silencing charm.
“Do you ever regret breaking it off with her?”
Draco turned to see Theodore Nott at his side. His classmate had his eyes fixed on Pansy’s cleavage.
He hadn’t actually broken anything off. He and Pansy’d had a row the previous April and had never made up, but he wasn’t about to admit it given that Theodore seemed to think Draco had done the breaking off.
Did he miss her? Sometimes he missed their snarky conversations. Pansy could gossip like no one else he knew and she could skewer anyone with a witty one-liner. He definitely missed the sex, as they had always flirted with expulsion by having frantic, half clothed sex in semi-public places. But he didn’t miss how exhausting the relationship had been. Or how Pansy had weighed and measured every word that came out of his mouth to use against him at any opportunity.
He didn’t even know if Pansy knew about him and Tracey. Not that he and Tracey were together, but when a girl and a bloke end up alone and disheveled in a broom closet on a semi-regular basis, the bloke can’t pretend that nothing is happening.
“The relationship ran its course,” Draco said. “Are you interested? She would definitely date you.”
For all Draco knew, Pansy could have a new boyfriend, but he felt confident that she would be interested in Nott, who was wealthy and intelligent. Looks wise, they were well matched. Nott was slender with patrician features, but his lack of confidence lessened his natural good looks. Pansy had less natural beauty, but she smelled good, kept her figure, and her confidence made her prettier than she was.
“Our relationship isn’t like that,” Nott said, sipping at what Draco guessed was his second firewhisky.
Nott always had been closer to the Slytherin girls than the Slytherin boys. Daphne Greengrass, who wasn’t at Hogwarts that year for unknown reasons, was his closest friend, and Merlin knew she was way too pretty to be a healthy bloke’s best friend. But for as much time as he spent with the girls, Nott had never had a girlfriend as far as Draco knew.
“But it could be if you wanted it to be. The girls all know you’re a bloke, Nott.”
Or at least Draco assumed they did. They definitely would when Mr. Nott, who was much older than Lucius, died and passed his considerable fortune on to his only son.
Nott just sipped at his drink in silence, which made Draco want to punch him and tell him these were their last few months to live before the Dark Lord owned all their souls. He had no doubt that Nott would also be a Death Eater before long. His father would make sure of it.
“Why don’t you bring her a drink? She likes Madam Rosmerta’s mead.”
“I know that,” Nott said, making Draco wonder if he had been Pansy’s drinking buddy after the break up last year. If he had been, he would have definitely got an earful about Draco.
“Well, you are wasting your time talking to me,” Draco said, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re a good bloke, but not my type.”
He gave Nott a gentle shove. Nott gave him a dirty look, but he moved in the direction of the glasses and mead.
Draco mingled with the guests. He talked about the Ministry with a fifth year boy who obsessively read the news and had opinions on every political development. He joked with a group of admiring sixth year girls. Tracey kept catching his eye and giving him a nod towards the door, her usual signal that it was time to snog in an empty classroom, but he just smiled and shook his head, needing to be the host that evening. As he watched people relax under the influence of alcohol, he knew it was time to begin the festivities.
“I think it’s time to begin the games,” Draco said to the room at large. When no one but a couple of fifth years paid him any attention, he said, “Oi! Fellow Slytherins! The games are about to begin!”
Everyone looked at him, and getting a familiar rush of pleasure from the attention, Draco took it up a notch and stood on a chair. This, at last, was his real life. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am Draco Malfoy, your Head Boy, and as you can see I have never broken a school rule and am an excellent role model for all of you cunning boys and girls.”
He lifted his glass of contraband firewhisky as he spoke, and everyone laughed.
“Before we begin, I would like to give you a little history lesson that you would never get from Professor Binns. Back in 1921, there was a famous wizarding poker game in Slytherin where three students gambled–and lost–their family estates. Nott can back me up on this, as it was his grandfather who won those estates.”
He gestured at Nott, who was lurking a corner with firewhisky three or four. Nott inclined his head, verifying the truth of Draco’s account.
He continued, “Some people explain the loss of landed wizarding estates in the first half of the century as the economic fall out due to the conflict with Grindelwald, but we Slytherins know the truth. It was because Nott’s grandad cheats at cards!”
The Slytherins roared with laughter, including Nott, and Draco raised his glass again. “To Grandad Nott and all the scoundrels of Slytherin!”
Everyone cheered and toasted.
“While I have the utmost respect for Hezekiah Nott, it is my sad duty to inform you that none of us will be following in his footsteps. In the interest of protecting the finances of the wizarding world, there will be a 30 galleon cap on all gambling.”
Some people groaned, while the less affluent Slytherins looked alarmed at the high stakes.
“As you can see we have three tables set up, where three separate games will be played. To keep things simple, we have the fifth year table, the sixth year table, and the seventh year table.” He pointed at each table as he spoke. “You have five minutes to refresh your drink and get situated.”
At the seventh year table, Draco opened a bottle of champagne and poured a glass for each of his classmates. The fifth years were doing the same but had managed to get sparkling wine all over the poker chips, while the sixth years seemed determined to stick with straight firewhisky.
“Aw, Draco, this is some girly shit,” Crabbe complained, tasting the champagne. “Firewhisky is for men.”
“This ‘girly shit’ sells for 40 galleons a bottle, but by all means, get another firewhisky. The drunker you get, the more money we win.”
“I can hold my liquor,” Crabbe said, as he made his way to the beverage station.
The game began with cautious bets and intense concentration. Draco was now sipping his drink more cautiously now and reading his classmates. When Lucius had taught him how to play years before, he had spoken more about sizing up opponents than he had cards and strategy. As a result, Draco had learned about opponents from Lucius and strategy from books.
He quickly learned that Pansy had no strategy, that she seemed mostly to be posing her chair. Crabbe and Goyle were enthusiastic and reckless and lost money at record speed. He’d thought Tracey kept getting bad hands in the beginning but he quickly realized her looks of panic indicated that she had never played before.
Some time later, it was only Draco, Zabini, and Millie Bulstrode in the game. Crabbe and Goyle were breathing all over the sixth year girls after losing all of their money. Tracey had become bored with the game as no one seemed inclined to teach her the rules. She initially tried playing footsie with Draco, but she wasn’t able to break Draco’s concentration, so went into a corner of the common room to do shots of something fruity with Pansy. Nott meanwhile had become too drunk to play or, at least, too drunk to hide his hand properly.
Draco wasn’t sure which player he should be concerned about: Millie who was less intelligent but never changed facial expressions or Zabini who told the truth of his cards for a fraction of a second before his face went blank but knew damn well how to play the game. Draco currently had a good but not fabulous hand. Zabini, he thought, likely had a poor one as there had been the tiniest fraction of panic on his face. And Bulstrode? It was anyone’s guess.
Crabbe had apparently finished looking down the dress robes of the sixth year girls as he stumbled back to their table.
“I think it's time for a new girl,” he said, sloshing firewhisky over the table.
Blaise shot Crabbe a dirty look, while Nott rested his head on the table, knocking over a bottle of firewhisky in the process.
“Goyle!” Crabbe called. “Time for a new girl, don’t you think?”
Draco was trying to ignore what Crabbe was saying and focus the game. But instead of studying Zabini, he found himself staring at the firewhiskey bottle that Nott had knocked over, which only reminded him of what tended to happen when Crabbe got drunk.
Goyle returned to the table grinning. “You find the girl, and I’m in.”
“You’re both pissed,” Zabini said. “Go to bed before you end up expelled.”
“You’re no better than us,” Crabbe said. “I don’t care how handsome you are.”
Draco was still staring at the firewhisky bottle, but it occurred to him that he should be concerned about Nott, who seemed to be unconscious. Was he in danger of choking on his own vomit in that position? “We should get him on his side,” he said to Zabini and Bulstrode who were the only other somewhat sober seventh years. “Just in case.”
The three of them picked up Nott and carried him to one of the black leather sofas. They propped him on his side, with an emerald throw pillow under his head. When they returned to the table, they found Crabbe and Goyle were gone–to bed, Draco hoped, not to what they had been discussing.
Draco, Millicent, and Zabini continued their game, but there was no more joking or small talk between them. Draco tried to focus on his cards and his fellow players, but he kept thinking of Crabbe and Goyle off Merlin knew where. He was strongly aware that he had been the one who had supplied Crabbe with firewhisky this time, giving him a level of responsibility for their actions.
He played on, and soon Millie was out as well. On his last hand, Draco felt confident as he had caught the faintest glimmer of panic in Zabini’s eyes.
But he was wrong. And he knew it the moment he showed his hand, and Zabini’s lips twitched. His full house was beat by Zabini’s four aces.
Losing was disappointing, as Draco had been looking forward to this game all week. At the same time, he realized that if this had happened two years ago, he would have tipped over the table in disappointment. To his surprise, he had no desire to do so, and he even had to grudgingly admire Zabini for having a better poker face than Draco had realized.
“Well played,” he said to Zabini. “But next time, we play for 50 galleons. And I will beat you.”
Zabini laughed. “You’re all right sometimes, Malfoy.”
The entrance to the common room opened, and Draco looked up to find Amycus Carrow telling off a very drunk Crabbe and Goyle. Carrow’s eyes widened when he took in the scene, and there was a definite look of triumph when his eyes scanned the bar that Draco had set up. No doubt, it would all become part of Carrow’s personal collection.
“Those idiots,” Blaise said quietly. “We’ll be in detention the rest of the year.”
Damage control, Draco thought. It was too late to do anything about the bar, but he could activate the charm that he’d put on the playing cards. One silent spell later and all of the poker cards had been transfigured into Exploding Snap cards. He noted a pile of galleons on the fifth year table which he quickly disillusioned.
“What is going on here?” Carrow demanded.
Draco figured he should speak as the ringleader. “Sir? We were having an Exploding Snap tournament. We have all been in the common room since well before curfew. We did lose track of Crabbe and Goyle for a moment, but I suppose they must have gone to the kitchens for a snack.”
“Is Exploding Snap a drinking game, Malfoy?” Carrow had never dared to sneer at him before, but he was definitely sneering now.
“A drinking game?” Malfoy looked at the bar as if he had never seen it before. “You mean . . . is that alcohol?”
“You know perfectly well that it is, Mr. Malfoy.”
“But sir! We’ve been drinking butterbeer all night. Or at least, I think we have. I don’t even know anyone who drinks!”
“As Mr. Malfoy seems forgetful, I demand to know who brought this into the common room?” Carrow gestured at the bar.
There was silence.
“No one? Well, I’ll just meet with you all individually in my office.”
Draco remained in a leather chair in front of the fire for the next two hours. Carrow had forbidden anyone to go to bed and was determined to grill them all in his office one by one. In the common room, they’d all agreed the story was they were playing Exploding Snap and no one knew where the alcohol had come from. But as each person returned from Carrow’s office, they avoided the eyes of those still waiting and scurried off to bed.
He supposed he had learned one thing that evening. There were still some rules left at Hogwarts.
Draco was the last one to get pulled into the office, and Amycus Carrow was positively full of glee.
“Well, well, well.” He leaned over his desk in a manner that he probably thought was intimidating, but Draco had seen real evil, and this sweaty little man wasn’t it.
“Organized gambling, binge drinking. You have been breaking a lot of rules for a Head Boy, haven’t you?”
“Sir, I played a civilized game of Exploding Snap with my friends. I fail to see how that is criminal. I am very sorry that your evening was disrupted, but I have a lot of Potions homework to do tomorrow and would like to be in bed at a decent hour. May I be dismissed?”
“Once you hand over your badge.”
Draco’s hand went to his Head Boy badge. “The headmaster gave me this badge, and only he can revoke the privilege. It’s in chapter 4 of Hogwarts, A History.”
Draco had never read Hogwarts, A History, but it seemed safe to assume that Carrow had not either.
“As the deputy headmaster, I also have that authority.”
“Not while Professor Snape is in the castle, which he is. If he demands my badge in the morning, I will most dutifully hand it over.”
They stared each other down, watery blue eyes versus what Draco hoped were steely grey eyes.
“Hand it over, Mr. Malfoy.”
“I will not. You have no proof that I was gambling or drinking.”
Carrow began to giggle. “But I do. Do you think your little friends covered for you? They turned you in.”
Draco felt as though he had been punched in the stomach, but he kept his face neutral. “And who supposedly put the blame on me?”
Carrow was still giggling. “Why, Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle, of course. And Miss Davis.”
The common room was empty when Draco returned. Or at least he thought it was until someone stood up from a chair.
“Draco, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
He wasn’t interested in Tracey’s apology. Nott was so drunk that he didn’t know where he was, but he hadn’t turned him in. Bulstrode hadn’t turned him in. Neither Pansy nor Zabini even liked Draco, but neither of them had turned him in. It had been his two best friends and his sort of girlfriend.
He simply raised his eyebrows. He was grateful he’d managed to escape with his Head Boy badge, if only for the moment. It would have been even more humiliating if he hadn’t had that on.
“I was drunk, and you had been ignoring me all night! When I sobered up, I felt terrible.”
“How awful for you.” He swept past her to go to his dormitory.
Draco Malfoy, former king of Slytherin house, was done with girls. There was room for a woman in his life, as he wasn’t entirely closed minded. But girls. He was definitely done with girls.
Chapter 23: Chapter 23: The Other Man
Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone who is still reading. I’m starting to feel like the end is close. It’s not really, because I have approximately 13 chapters left (assuming I stick to my outline), and I don’t write 13 chapters quickly. But! I am nearly out of the muddy middle, which is by far the hardest part to write, and I am so close to some chapters that I am really excited to write. Chapters 25 and 27, I’m looking at you!
So onward! Sir Cadogan beckons us forward.
Chapter 23: The Other Man
June 28, 1998, 6:45 a.m.
The Burrow
Romantic Rendezvous at Hogwarts
By Rita Skeeter
Recent correspondence of Miss Romilda Vane has surfaced, providing a tantalizing glimpse into her deadly and ill-fated relationship with current Auror trainee, Harry Potter.
According to letters Romilda sent by owl post, Harry Potter was a frequent visitor to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft throughout the spring, using a little known secret passage to visit his then-girlfriend Vane.
“There was a passage that led to a secret room on the seventh floor. All of the Hogwarts resistance knew about it,” said a correspondent of Vane’s, who asked to remain anonymous to ensure her personal safety. “I’m not sure how Potter found out about it, but he came by every two weeks to see her.”
“She was always so happy when he came to Hogwarts,” said another anonymous friend. “She had no idea that he would leave her as soon as You-Know-Who was defeated.”
Different witnesses recall the timing of Mr. Potter’s visits differently, but they call agree on certain details: that Mr. Potter always arrived at midnight, that he always arrived wearing an emerald green cloak, and that he reached the school through a secret passage.
“He snuck in and out of the castle, as smoothly as he’s sneaking away from justice. For Romilda’s sake, I hope the Aurors work out who they have taken under their wing,” said a close friend of Miss Vane.
Harry pushed the article away, but he had little desire to eat the toast in front of him. Not for the first time, he wondered about Rita’s sources. While Rita was perfectly capable of writing this without any help from sources, her account had agreed with Romilda’s diaries, which Harry had familiarized himself with. Romilda had written at length about “his” visits to the Room of Requirement and an emerald cloak he supposedly favored.
While Hermione could testify that the only wizarding clothes that had been in his on-the-run wardrobe had been the dress robes he’d worn to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, he didn’t think that would go very far in a court of magical law.
Damn. He wished he knew how the killer was spreading his misinformation.
And what was the relationship between the killer’s propaganda and Romilda’s diary? He wished he could get the story of the diaries. Everyone agreed that they were odd. Not just in terms of accuracy, but in general. Alison the DMLE librarian hadn’t been able to put her finger on it. Harry and Ginny had both read the diary more than once with unease, but couldn’t explain precisely what was wrong aside from the obvious.
Hermione, at last, had identified the “what,” but she was similarly mystified as to the “why.”
“It’s written in two different styles,” she said after an afternoon of familiarizing herself with the diary. “Romilda was a gifted writer. Most of this diary is clear and sharp. She was very self-aware and she noticed everything, and she had the ability to put the right words to her feelings and her observations. And there is anger–strong anger–running through the first two-thirds.
“But then ‘Harry’ enters the story, and it suddenly reads like an Ariel Prescott novel. Suddenly, Romilda is no longer a person at all, but an idea, society’s notion of what a female in love ought to sound like, to think about. It’s melodramatic and revolting and completely divorced from everything real in Romilda’s life.”
Which would all be well and good if they could just blame it on the killer and say he stole Romilda’s diary and added the passages. But there was clear testimony from Romilda’s friends that she had spent the last month before the battle telling them she was receiving visits from Harry Potter. None of them had claimed to see Harry in the castle, but their stories were all in agreement.
The worst part was that Harry was beginning to question his own memories. He had spent the spring at Shell Cottage, hadn’t he? He knew that he had multiple witnesses to that. But he also knew he hadn’t spent all that time within the cottage walls. There had been solitary walks and hours of indulging dark thoughts on the beach. No one could really account for all of his hours, including him because those hours simply hadn’t seemed significant at the time, even to himself. Shell Cottage was simply where he received a welcome break of being cared for while deciding his next move.
Every midnight, he had been in bed, with both Ron and Dean as his roommates. But both boys fell asleep easily. Neither of them could say for certain that Harry had been in his bed the entire night. And Harry’d had strange dreams, not only at Shell Cottage, but the entire time they’d been on the run. Could he have sleepwalked? Did he even know where he had been at midnight?
Of course, he still didn’t own a bloody emerald cloak, but it was pretty sad if that was his only proof to himself that he hadn’t met Romilda Vane in the Room of Requirement.
“Hey,” Ginny entered the kitchen, swiping a piece of toast off his plate. “Are we not flying today?”
“Not today. I’d be too distracted, and then you and the Bludgers would probably kill me.” He held up the newspaper. “Rita’s at it again. Not as nasty as her usual work, mostly just murderous suggestion, but it meshes a little too well with Romilda’s diary.”
She grabbed it out of his hand and began to read. Even when lost in dark thoughts, Harry couldn’t help but admire how her long hair looked aflame as the sunlight streamed through the kitchen’s eastward facing windows. When she finished reading, she asked, “Could she have a copy of the diary?”
“Anything is possible. The thing is everything that’s in the diary, Romilda told her friends, so she wouldn’t really need the diary itself.”
She sighed. “Why has no one invented a way to talk to the dead?”
“Because we Aurors would be out of a job?” Harry suggested. “It’s infuriating. Everything points to me. I’m almost starting to wonder if I did it.”
“Everything points to an imagined relationship, yes,” Ginny said. “But to a murder? Not necessarily.”
“Does that make it any better?”
“From a legal standpoint, not really, but from a logical standpoint, yes. But the fact is, teenage relationships end all the time, and hardly anyone dies in the process. If they did, the human race would die out pretty quickly. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to establish a fictional relationship with you, with Romilda herself as an accomplice. But what is your supposed murder motive?”
Harry shrugged. “The baby, I’m assuming.”
“But Rita doesn’t know Romilda was pregnant. If she did, her deadlines would be much nastier.”
“So you think the killer might now know she was pregnant?”
“I have no idea, but if he did, he’s not leaking that information to the press. Or at least not yet.”
Harry pondered that. Did the killer not know? Or was it in the killer’s best interest to hope the pregnancy remained secret?
“But if this isn’t about the baby, why would anyone kill her? What could Romilda Vane possibly know that made her so dangerous?” Harry asked.
“Maybe she knew about a Death Eater that got away, I don’t know.”
“Do you know any Death Eaters that got away?”
She gave him a strange look. “No. You know I’d tell you if I did. Are you fixating on Astoria’s prediction?”
Harry didn’t want her to know just how much he had thought about Astoria’s revelation. Romilda had been in the Ministry itself, surrounded by the entire staff of DMLE, and she had still died. How could he possibly keep Ginny safe from a murderer?
“It does suggest that you and Romilda had something in common.”
“As far as I know, I don’t have any knowledge that wasn’t commonly known at Hogwarts, so put that thought out of your mind. Brooding won’t solve anything.”
Harry took a sip of his tea, mostly for something to do. He made a face when he discovered it was cold.
Ginny took his cup, dumping the cold tea in the sink and refilling it with freshly brewed tea. “I’ll do another read through of Romilda’s diary while you’re at work. See if I notice anything new. And don’t forget we’re going to Grimmauld Place at seven.”
Harry, who had completely forgot that he and Ginny were meeting his decorator that evening, felt uneasy. Would she be safe in London?
“You don’t have to go with me. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Potter. Your decorator is not going to murder me. She’s Andromeda’s best friend for Merlin’s sake. And if you think of locking me up again, I won’t need magic to hurt you.”
He grimaced, remembering their post-Battle fight. “Right.”
She dropped her stern look and smiled at him. “Besides you do need me. Weren’t you just telling me that you know nothing about color palettes?”
“Yes, and I also recall you telling me not to be such a boy, that Elisabeth is just making sure she doesn’t upholster my sofa in a color I hate, not quizzing me on what colors go together.”
Ginny maintained her smug look. “Still true. But you still need me there, in case you are feeling too diplomatic to tell Elisabeth what you really think of her color choices.”
Harry nodded, but he was thinking that he was grateful that he had just reconnected 12 Grimmauld Place to the Floo Network. They could simply Floo in and Floo out without making any additional stops in London. Surely, that would be safe enough.
7:00 p.m.
After another long day of class work and paperwork, Harry found that he was actually looking forward to the meeting. He still didn’t know how helpful he would be in selecting a color palette, but he hadn’t set foot in Grimmauld Place since the decontaminators had finished their work and was curious to see what it would look like after its divorce from the Dark Arts.
Harry and Ginny arrived via Floo powder only to be disoriented.
“Are we in the right house?” he asked Ginny.
The windows did face east in the parlor of Grimmauld Place, but the proportions seemed all wrong. While he had no doubt that Elisabeth was talented, she couldn’t make the house bigger.
The dark carpeting he remembered was gone, and instead there were gleaming wood floors. The wallpaper, he knew, had been torn out as Thom’s crew had taken care of that at his request, and the walls were painted a fresh white. The ceilings were higher than he recalled, and there was detailed crown molding that he didn’t remember.
His girlfriend shook her head, looking as bewildered as Harry felt.
“Ah, there you are.” Elisabeth entered the parlor. “I wasn’t expecting you to Floo in. Isn’t it amazing what can happen when you tear out carpeting and replace wallpaper with paint?”
When Harry had first met Elisabeth, he was not surprised that she was Andromeda’s most trusted friend. The women looked nothing alike. Elisabeth was fair and petite, while Andromeda was dark and tall, but they had a similar elegance and confidence. They also shared a similar way of making entertainingly snarky comments, while sounding entirely polite and proper in the process.
“This is the same room? You didn’t knock out any walls or do any Expansion Charms?”
She laughed. “Neither one. I’ve actually been bringing it back to its Muggle roots. Look at how beautiful the original flooring is. The Blacks covered up this parquet floor with that awful serpent print carpeting.”
Harry looked down. It was quite nice. “It has never looked so big in here before.”
Elisabeth began strolling the perimeter of the room. “There are a few reasons for that. The obvious is there is no furniture in here right now. Once there are sofas and tables in here, it won’t look quite as large and the ceilings won’t look quite as high. The other is the dark print of the wallpaper and the carpet just made the room close in on itself.”
That, Harry thought, was an accurate description of the house. It always had seemed to close in on itself, which probably only made it worse for Sirius, who had also been trapped here in the literal sense.
“I never guessed it was so pretty in here,” Ginny said.
“It’s a lovely old house. The Muggles who built it took some obvious pride in their craftsmanship. You’ll need magic to protect it and to heat it, but not for much more.”
“That sounds good,” Harry said.
“What I brought you here for is, first of all, is so you can see what the place looks like stripped down and then so I can tell you my ideas and what we can see how they mesh with your ideas of a home.”
“Okay. I don’t know anything about decorating.”
Harry had never so much as picked out as a poster in his life. At the Dursleys’, he was in Dudley’s old bedroom and there had never been anything that was truly “his” other than his school trunk and Hedwig. The Burrow had always felt homey to Harry, but there too he was always living in some Weasley’s space or former space.
“I don’t expect you to. That’s why I’m here, but it is important that the house match your lifestyle.”
“Okay. What are your thoughts?”
“Well, you have two sitting rooms. I was thinking this could be a more formal parlor, while the other could be more of a casual den where you could relax after work or spend time with friends. You’re young now, but you’ll rise up in the Ministry, and eventually you’ll need to entertain in this house, which is where this room and the dining room come in.”
Harry thought briefly about Uncle Vernon’s disastrous dinner party with the Masons on his twelfth birthday. He could not imagine himself rehearsing bad golfer jokes or Ginny portioning out false compliments like his uncle and aunt had done.
“So what makes a parlor formal?”
“On a practical level, this room will be designed for guests while the den will be designed for you. I’m thinking a chandelier, some sofas and chairs grouped into conversation areas. A bar cart will be essential as a tipsy guest is a happy guest. We could put it over there. And one large piece of artwork that is a conversation starter.”
“That sounds fine.” As long as the conversation starter wasn’t Mrs. Black.
Harry didn’t see himself hosting the parties that Elisabeth envisioned in his future, but her vision for the room seemed benign enough.
“Okay, let’s move through the house.”
They walked into the front hall, which was as unrecognizable as the parlor. Walking into the house would no longer feel like meeting his doom, but he would feel like he was walking into a wealthy man’s house and not his own home.
“This entry is quite lovely on its own. I wouldn’t recommend doing much to it. I’m thinking some new lighting and a bench and perhaps a mirror on that side of the hall.”
She walked them through all of the rooms and talked about functionality. Harry mostly nodded, as if he knew exactly what she was talking about while Ginny asked questions. Eventually, they sat at the kitchen table–the only piece of furniture left in the house–and she pulled out a heavy book.
“This is where I get a sense of your style.”
“Er . . .”
“Yes, you’ve told me. You don’t know anything about decorating. Don’t worry. This will be painless.” She opened it to a page that showed four different dining rooms. “How this works is, each page will show you either four rooms or four color schemes or four pieces of furniture. You tap whichever one you like best with your wand. Don’t think about it. Just go off instinct. The book will record your answers, and it will identify patterns in your preferences.”
It didn’t sound particularly painless to Harry, but he nodded. At first, he lingered too much over the pictures, afraid of answering incorrectly and ending up with a house that resembled Number 4 Privet Drive. When he tapped an image, the book turned pages without any of them touching it.
“Don’t think so much, Harry. You have more opinions than you realize,” Elisabeth prompted.
Eventually, he began tapping images quickly, and began to understand what she meant by instinct. After a half hour, the book turned to its last page, and they watched as words began to form.
“So, it seems you are drawn to cool, soothing color schemes, to squashy sofas and armchairs–that’s a Gryffindor trait, by the way– and furniture with little to no embellishment. You are drawn to earthy organic textures, you prefer landscapes to portraits, and you like plants.”
“I like plants?”
“This states you were 50% more likely to click on an image if it contained a plant.”
“Well, Neville will be happy,” he said to Ginny, and then added for Elisabeth’s benefit, “One of my future housemates. He’s crazy about herbology.”
“You don’t particularly like prints, knickknacks, or accent furniture that is more ornamental than practical in purpose.”
Harry supposed that came from avoiding any image that struck him as Dursley-esque.
“So, what next?” He asked.
“Next I decorate your house. I have your budget, your preferences, and we’ve talked about the uses for the various rooms.”
“So, I don’t have to do anything else?” Harry had never felt more relieved.
“Nothing at this point. I have enough information to proceed.” She gave him a small smile. “Unless, of course, you wish to select your own draperies.”
He laughed. “I leave that in your capable hands.”
After they said their goodbyes to Elisabeth, Harry headed towards the fireplace to Floo back to the Burrow, but Ginny pulled him back.
“I thought we might head into London for a bit.”
Harry felt instant alarm, remembering Astoria’s revelation. He wanted to take her back to the Burrow, keep her safe, but he also knew that she hated to be protected as much as he did.
“I know. You worry. And please don’t be cross, but I did something today.” He stared at her until she sighed and explained. “I wrote to Blaise Zabini and asked if we could meet him in London.”
“Blaise Zabini!” Harry spat out.
“Yes, Blaise Zabini. You want to find out what happened in Slytherin last year, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but . . “
“But nothing, Harry. Blaise was in Slytherin last year. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I feel confident that he is not one of Romilda’s rapists. He could be the key to your case.”
Harry couldn’t deny that, but of all people, he did not want to talk to Blaise Zabini. If Blaise proved to be useful, he did not want to be indebted to a man who wanted to shag his girlfriend.
And Blaise did want to shag her. He’d suspected as much in sixth year when he’d snuck into the Slytherin compartment on the Hogwarts Express. He’d overheard Blaise deny being attracted to Ginny, but it was the type of protest that no one believed. And when Ginny told him about how he had kept her away from the Hogwarts rapists, he couldn’t help but think the Slytherin had an ulterior motive.
But he couldn’t come up with an excuse that wouldn’t leave him sounding like a jealous git.
“Where?” It was all he could bring himself to ask.
They met at the Hidden Pumpkin. Ginny had never been to this pub before, but Harry had with his Ministry colleagues. If the Leaky Cauldron was the place to meet when you wanted a family outing, the Hidden Pumpkin was where you went when you were avoiding family. At lunchtimes and evenings, it was full of Ministry employees, still talking business long after work hours or engaging in ill-advised flirtations with colleagues.
When they arrived, it was to find Blaise leaning over the bar, flirting with a pretty blond witch.
“Weasley!”
Blaise looked up from the bar with a smile. Harry had never seen him smile before and was annoyed to find it only made him more handsome. Ginny and Blaise greeted each other with a hug, and Harry marveled over how much he must have missed of the previous school year if Slytherins and Gryffindors could meet with a hug.
“Potter.” Zabini nodded at him.
“Zabini.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “There’s a table open. Shall we claim it?”
“Go on. I’ll get the drinks,” Harry said. “Cider?” When Ginny nodded, he looked at Zabini.
“I have a firewhisky coming,” Zabini said.
Ginny and Blaise settled Into their chairs, while Harry went to get drinks. Harry knew the bartender from outings to the pub with Kelly and Daniel after work, and they chatted easily. On a whim, he ordered a firewhisky for himself. He actually wanted a pale ale, which was his normal preference, but he didn't want to appear a lightweight next to Zabini.
He went to the table with all three of their drinks to find Blaise and Ginny talking like old friends. They thanked him for the drinks but resumed their conversation.
“And your mother is still dating this man?” Ginny said. “Even after he dug up half her garden to sell for potions ingredients?”
“Well, she never had much taste in men. Plenty of enthusiasm, but no taste.”
Harry thought Mrs. Zabini directed her enthusiasm in curious ways, but did not comment. He just hoped her son was of better character. He knew he was probably too harsh in his judgement of Blaise who, to the best of his knowledge, had never been one of the Slytherins who went out of their way to torment him, but he simply didn’t like the other boy.
Was it simply because Blaise was so handsome? Harry had never been particularly fond of the boys who were unusually handsome and seemed to have easy lives. He had resented Cedric Diggory until they had teamed up against mutual threats in the final task, and he’d never liked Roger Davies, one of the other infamous Hogwarts pretty boys, either.
Much like Cedric and Roger, Blaise had always appeared beautiful and effortless. He even seemed to settle into adulthood easier than Harry. Flirting with a twenty-something bartender comfortably. Sipping at a firewhisky as if he had been raised on it.
Harry knew his jealousy was stupid. Because he did trust Ginny. He knew that if Ginny had wanted Zabini, she could have had him last year, and he didn’t doubt that Ginny had chosen Harry as her first choice, so why did he dislike Blaise so much? His mother was terrifying, certainly, but that was hardly the fault of the son.
As if Blaise sensed his judgement, he changed the subject.
“So, I don’t think you brought me here to hear about my mother’s misadventures in love.”
“We wanted to ask if you knew anything about what happened to Romilda,” Ginny offered. “Certain names keep coming up, and a few of them shared your dormitory.”
“Crabbe and Goyle.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Harry said. “The question is, if there were others.”
“Bulstrode and Weatherby,” Zabini offered. “Beyond that, it’s speculation.”
“Is there anyone who could have been the mastermind?” Harry asked, recalling his conversation with Malfoy.
“Mastermind?” Zabini asked.
“Yes. Crabbe and Goyle are . . .” Harry hunted for the correct term, “simple creatures. From what I’ve heard, Bulstrode and Weatherby aren’t much more complicated. But someone stripped the girls–not just Romilda, but all of them–of their memories, of their ability to speak. It was the work of a clever wizard.”
Blaise swirled his firewhisky around his glass, ice cubes and amber liquid both swishing. He looked conflicted, making Harry wonder if he was sheltering someone.
“That thought has occurred to me,” he said at last. “I don’t know if I can help you.”
“Can’t?” Harry asked, “Or won’t?”
“That isn’t fair. I understand what you’ve saved the wizarding world from, and yes, I am a Slytherin who was glad to see the Dark Lord’s downfall, but I cannot produce knowledge I don’t have.”
“What about your instinct?” Ginny asked. “What does that tell you?”
“I don’t believe in instinct,” Blaise said. “It’s a term that people use to sanitize their bias and dislike.”
Harry hated to admit that Blaise had a point. “I wouldn’t much like to point fingers at my mates either. Is it worthwhile to look at this the other way? By who you would discount?”
“Well, Nott,” Zabini offered. “Not just because he’s my best mate. Nott simply doesn’t have it in him. He talks tough, but it’s image, not reality. And while I don’t know the sixth year Slytherins well enough to discount, they don’t seem clever enough.”
Harry noted that he didn’t bring up Malfoy, and it made him squirm a bit. Was he wrong to assume Malfoy was being framed as he was? Or did it mean nothing more than that Zabini didn’t like Malfoy any more than he did? Reading between the lines the other day, Harry got the impression that Daphne Greengrass also found the ferret to be overrated, so perhaps Malfoy wasn’t as popular in Slytherin as he’d always supposed.
“Could it be . . . a witch? It’s unlikely, but maybe someone wanted to keep a boyfriend out of trouble?” It sounded more ludicrous out loud than it had in Harry’s head.
“No girlfriend would excuse her boyfriend raping another girl,” Ginny said. “It’s a violation of both the relationship and all notions of sisterhood.”
Blaise looked thoughtful. “Not a girlfriend, no, but a friend or a sister might.”
“Is Millicent Bulstrode protective of Geoff?” Harry asked.
“She is,” Blaise confirmed. “But that might just be because he never outgrew her. I don’t know if she’d cover something like this. At the best of times, Millie is difficult to read.”
“Never outgrew her? Is he small?” Harry asked, unable to picture a tiny Bulstrode.
Zabini laughed. “No. He’s about our height and he’s stocky. But Millie wasn’t done growing at the end of sixth year. She’s well over six feet now. I think she might have been taller than Crabbe. She got prettier though. Not in a girly sense. More like a Renaissance painting.”
Harry had an unfortunate image of Millicent Bulstrode as Botticelli’s Birth of Venus that he immediately exorcised from his mind. Whatever the relationship was between the Bulstrode siblings, Harry had a hard time imagining Millicent Bulstrode mastering a Fidelius charm.
Harry supposed he ought to be relieved that Blaise’s report didn’t contradict Draco’s, but instead he was frustrated. How was it possible that people could be in Slytherin House and not know these things?
Both of them had discounted Nott, using the exact same wording–“he doesn’t have it in him”–and they both thought the sixth year Slytherins were idiots. Could they be wrong about Nott? And he couldn’t help but notice that while Malfoy had discounted Zabini, Zabini had not done the same for Malfoy.
June 29, 1998, 2:07 p.m.
Ministry of Magic, Hall of Records
Harry wondered if he’d ever be able to leave the records room. Ron and the rest of the Auror trainees were back in morning classes with him again, so he was no longer the only Auror trainee conspicuously present, but every afternoon he still reported to the Hall of Records to handle paperwork issues instead of helping the rest of the Aurors on the Vane investigation.
That day’s assignment was to take a list of witches and wizards fined for being illegal Animagi and organize it according to geographic area. He wasn’t sure what the point of the assignment was. If it was a list of people who were suspected of being Animagi, he might understand mapping it to check against incoming complaints, but these people had already been heavily fined and Registered, making them all quite legal.
“Hi there, mate.” Harry looked up to find Kelly grinning at him. “How is the illustrated guide to Animagi of Britain going?”
He glared. “Great. I’m up to my eyeballs in owls and raccoons and rabbits.” He lifted up one record. “And one rhinoceros.”
“Sounds like you’re having fun. Maybe I won’t talk to Gawain about bringing you back on the case.”
“Like he’d let that happen,” Harry said moodily.
“You might be surprised. Alison has just undone the charm on Romilda’s diaries.”
“What charm?”
Kelly leaned against a file cabinet, looking smug. “The one that scrambled the letters, making it spell out things that it didn’t say before.”
“What? I’m cleared?”
“Well, that depends on what the diary says once the letters settle back into place. But someone definitely put a Tumultum Charm on it, which takes existing handwriting and rearranges it. Romilda’s diary could say anything.”
Harry felt a leap of hope before another feeling of dread. Yes, Romilda’s diary could say anything. Would that work in his favor? The tampered diary had matched what Romilda had allegedly told her friends after all.
“Kelly, we’re needed back in the interview room.” Daniel Savage joined them. “Jasmine Weston, of Witch Weekly, just came in. She says she saw Sharon Vane purchase illegal potions one week before Romilda’s death.”
As Daniel swept out, Kelly gave him a stern look. “Potter, is it true that you have a special cloak?”
Chapter 24: Chapter 24: In Like a Lion
Author's Notes: How is everyone? I start a new job on Monday, and I am rather nervous about being trained on Zoom. It's weird to think it might be a full year before I meet my new boss in person.
Chapter 24: In Like a Lion
March 5, 1998, 7:45 p.m.
Room of Requirement, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Life at Hogwarts continued to be strange. Something happened in February that left the Slytherins peeved. No one outside Slytherin was sure what it was, but the Slytherins all seemed to be serving detention with Mr. Filch, and there was a full week where Malfoy wore a defeated expression instead of his Head Boy badge. Then the group detentions came to an end, and Malfoy got his badge and a measure of his swagger back.
While the weeks of watching Slytherins do Muggle cleaning with Filch had been entertaining, it only made the Slytherins nastier once it was done. The tricks they had pulled all year–casting hexes in the corridor and tripping people on the stairs–increased. In response, the D.A. practiced a silent Confundus to use on any Slytherin who appeared to be planning mischief. The girls had already been doing this for months as a rape prevention technique, but now the boys were in on it too.
By that point in the school year, Ginny figured that Crabbe and Goyle had been Confunded so many times, it had likely caused permanent brain damage. Luckily, they were both slow enough that it would be hard for anyone to know for sure, and if Snape questioned why the two boys kept walking into walls in a daze, he didn’t seem inclined to investigate.
On the surface, the D.A. remained well behaved, as the Carrows and their student followers had escalated their use of the Cruciatus. But every now and then, someone would snap, stand up for themselves or for a friend, and be sent to the dungeons for punishment. Most recently, it had been Seamus who had stood up to the He-Carrow when the teacher had started rubbing the back of a horrified Parvati Patil in the middle of a Dark Arts class. Seamus was brave, but he had definitely appeared haunted when he’d returned to the Common Room well after curfew.
That evening, Ginny found herself at the meeting of the Fog. There had been a time when she had felt a rush of excitement every time she joined her friends in the Room of Requirement, but today she felt exhausted and hoped for a shorter meeting so she could tackle the Arithmancy homework that was waiting for her back in Gryffindor Tower.
It should have been a pleasant evening. They were with friends, away from the Carrows, and they had treats and several pots of coffee, tea, and cocoa. But that night, every single face around Ginny was somber, and the staff was discussing whether the newsletter should go on given the increase in abuse. The year had dampened the light-hearted like Seamus Finnegan and made cynics of those who assumed the best of people like Hannah Abbott. Ginny thought it best not to closely examine what it had done to her.
It was clearly delivery day for Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes as Ginny counted three of her mother’s cakes on the conference table; the sugary treats had become the twins’ product packaging of choice lately. It was strange to see the cakes she had grown up with–ginger Bundt, lemon poppyseed, and dark chocolate hazelnut–on the table of the teenage resistance. While she knew her mother to be a strong member of the resistance herself, Molly had always had very different rules for teenagers.
“We can’t let them break us,” Terry Boot said.
Terry was a quiet boy, but there was a principled stubbornness about him that indicated he could have been an excellent Gryffindor. Ginny knew he didn’t say this lightly, as he had been the first student to be tortured by the Carrows and he remained a favorite of the He-Carrow for punishment. If he could keep going, then surely all of them could.
“But it doesn’t just affect us,” Ernie Macmillan said. “When they get angry, the younger students suffer too. And they can’t protect themselves as well as we can.”
“They know the Fog isn’t coming from first years,” said a fifth year Ravenclaw. “Have you ever seen a first year try to spell? It’s not pretty, folks. And the content is clearly at the N.E.W.T. Level.”
“But is that obvious to the Carrows?” Susan Bones asked. “They can’t spell either. I’m not fully convinced they can read for that matter, given that they assigned us textbooks written in hieroglyphics.”
“We started the Fog to encourage people and to help them protect themselves,” Ginny reminded everyone. “The question is, is it actually serving that purpose?”
Raven spoke up. “As someone who joined late, I have to say I felt braver after I read the first issue. I wasn’t certain who had put out the newsletter, but for the first time since my name ended up on that awful list, I felt like we were all in this together and that we’d take care of each other.”
Ginny remembered that bravery, as she had felt it too. At one point, she had felt like nothing was stronger than the D.A., but that feeling had long since faded. It was the loss of Luna. It was too many classmates being sent to the Dungeons as rebellious teenagers and resurfacing as tired adults.
She’d been in the Dungeons only once herself. It had been the She Carrow who had punished her. Ginny had always thought it would be the He Carrow who finally managed it, but Ginny had become good at silently Confunding him whenever he got that hungry look in his eye. Professor McGonagall’s defense suggestion had saved her many times over. She hadn’t been properly on guard with Alecto, though. She only lost one class period, but she felt like they had been down there with the Death Eater for a week. She couldn’t remember the incident very well, as it had become a blur of pain in her memory.
She wanted to return to her brave self, for the Ravens of Hogwarts and for herself, but she didn’t know if that girl was still there.
“We are in this together,” Neville said. “And no matter how bad it gets, we have to remember that we outnumber them.”
Neville had been in the dungeons two times that Ginny was aware of. If he, who was always aware of what that curse had done to his parents, could keep going, surely she could as well.
“There isn’t always safety in numbers,” Demelza said. “It doesn’t matter what our numbers are if they have all the power.”
“But do they? The Carrows are idiots. The Slytherins aren’t much better,” Anthony Goldstein said. “Snape is no idiot, but he’s not always here.”
“Fighting is our only choice,” Seamus said. “Because soon we’ll be done with school, and we have to be brave enough to make the choices that our parents aren’t brave enough to make.”
The discussion went on, and a vote determined that two-thirds of the staff wanted the Fog to continue. After yet more discussion, all agreed to continue the newsletter with extra precautions. New protective charms would be placed on the issues, and each issue would be weighed to make sure it would be more likely to protect than to endanger.
After the meeting, Romilda held back. She kept glancing at Ginny, so Ginny told Demelza to go back to the common room without her. Everyone left to return to the common rooms before curfew until it was just Ginny and Romilda, but Romilda didn’t speak, and Ginny had no idea what this was about.
“Is everything all right?” It was a stupid question, given the year Romilda was having, but she wasn’t sure how else to initiate the conversation.
Romilda opened her mouth, stared at Ginny, then closed her mouth.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
Once again, Romilda opened her mouth and closed it. After a moment, she finally said, “I can’t.”
Ginny felt certain that whatever Romilda had to say was big. “Whatever it is, it can stay between us. I won’t tell anyone without your permission.”
Romilda shook her head. “No, I can’t.”
Ginny thought she finally understood. “Is that literal? You can’t speak of it?”
Romilda continued to stare at her, but now she was crying. It was terrible, seeing Romilda cry. Even when the younger girl had visited Ginny in her dormitory last January, she had been pale, quiet, and frightened, but there had not been a single tear. When Romilda had returned to classes, she had been icy and had kept her back straight. It was only during Fog and D.A. meetings that Romilda relaxed and came alive.
Ginny pulled Romilda into a hug. It was awkward trying to hold someone eight inches taller than her. In spite of her height, Romilda felt frail and bony in her arms. She wondered how much weight the fifth year student had lost, as her impressive bosom was the only meat left on her. The younger girl began shaking, and Ginny felt as though she could feel all of the secrets trying to escape from her.
March 10, 1998, 6:30 p.m.
Office of Minerva McGonagall
“I think Romilda’s memory charm broke,” Ginny told Professor McGonagall at her next tutoring session.
“Did she say something to you?” the professor asked.
Professor McGonagall, like the members of the D.A., seemed drained of energy. Even her bun, though as severe as ever, seemed slightly crooked.
Ginny shook her head. “No, but she tried. She tried really hard. I think she can remember, but she is literally unable to tell.”
Professor McGongall sat and gestured for Ginny to do the same. “I’m afraid that may be even worse. There is a reason that the Fidelius charm is rare. It’s not because it’s difficult to cast, although it is. It comes at a great cost. If it didn’t, everyone would use them. Cover up crimes, marital infidelities, hide truth wherever they can.”
“What kind of cost?” Ginny asked.
She thought she had an idea. She remembered being a first year and desperately longing to share the secret of the diary while fearing it more than anything. She also remembered there had been a time where she was afraid to talk at all because she felt like every last one of her secrets would burst out of her if she opened her mouth.
She also realized that being fearful to tell the truth was something very different from being unable to tell the truth.
“Being unable to tell a secret leaves a mental toll, especially if you or a loved one are being hurt by the secrecy. Some people have gone insane from it. Healers call it the Willetts Effect.”
“The Willetts Effect?”
“After Unspeakable Willetts who was in charge of the Hall of Prophecy nearly a century ago. Willetts kept the prophecies, but his boss was the Secret Keeper for them. Willetts was not permitted to share a prophecy unless his Department Head permitted it.
“Then one day, a new prophecy was added. It prophesied all kinds of death and destruction, but the incident that would trigger all the tragedy was a drowning. The drowning of Willetts own son, then an infant. Now, Willetts was not permitted to share this prophecy with anyone, not even his own family.
“He became a neurotic man. He never permitted his son to swim, never took his family to the beach on holiday, and did not permit his wife to make any of the parenting decisions. As you can imagine, it was a terrible home to live in, and his family never knew what triggered the change in him. He became fearful, he lost weight, and after years of chronic worry, he hanged himself.
“After his death, his widow decided a family seaside holiday was needed to deal with their collective mix of grief and relief. And as one might expect, his son drowned on that trip, and his death did set into motion a chain of tragedies.”
While Ginny had not been a fan of prophecies since her trip to the Department of Mysteries, she definitely wanted nothing to do with them after hearing that story
“So Romilda could be going insane?”
Her professor’s facial expression was difficult to read.
“The Willetts case was extreme, which is the reason the disorder is named after him. I do not think Miss Vane is destined for insanity. If anything, the girl is unusually strong. But the Fidelius charm does cause trauma. And Romilda already has trauma to deal with, without the complication of the Fidelius.”
“So what do we do?”
“You can do nothing.” Professor McGongall lifted a single finger as Ginny opened her mouth to protest. “She can’t communicate what she knows in any way. She can’t talk about it, write about it, or even draw it. Any attempt to draw it out of her will only hurt her. You can be her friend. And watch her. If she remembers, her attitude towards some of her classmates may change.”
Ginny’s eyes widened at hearing that. Perhaps Romilda would tell her secret in her own way.
“I will keep an eye on her as well.” Professor McGongall opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file Ginny suspected to be Romilda’s records. “I will need to consult with Madam Pomfrey. She may have calming potions and relaxation techniques that will help her. Neither would cure Romilda, of course, but it could help her to live a normal life.”
Relaxation techniques were nothing compared to what Romilda was up against, and the threat was still out there. But deep down, Ginny knew that her Head of House was right and they couldn’t risk bringing additional harm to Romilda.
“I’m already her friend,” Ginny said, “but I’ll work on being the type of friend she needs at this time.”
March 26, 1998, 9:00 p.m.
Gryffindor Common Room
After her discussion with Professor McGonagall, Ginny went out of her way to include Romilda. She sat with her and her friends at breakfast once and learned that the Fifth year girls had strong opinions on hair potions. She invited Romilda to spend the night in the sixth year dormitory on a Friday evening when Pippa received a (well disguised) present of wine and the 1998 Corsets and Caudrons Guide to New Sex Positions from her older cousin. Not only was the April issue one of the highest in demand among the older Hogwarts girls, Corsets and Cauldrons was Witch Weekly’s closest (and much raunchier) competitor, and Ginny suspected it was probably forbidden in the Vane house. She helped the younger girl with her Arithmancy homework in the library when she found Romilda looking bewildered at her textbook one evening.
While Romilda never discouraged any of this, Ginny got the impression that the brunette was no longer comfortable around her. Perhaps it was because she had been tearful in the Room of Requirement. Romilda seemed to be the type who would regret showing any type of weakness in front of someone else, even if that person would never tell another soul about the incident. Therefore, after the library incident, Ginny decided she would let Romilda be the one to approach her.
It was an annoying strategy, to say the least, because Romilda began to completely ignore her while Ginny–in what she thought of as her “Molly Weasley mode”–couldn’t stop worrying about Romilda who became thinner and paler every day.
Finally one day, Ginny spotted Romilda talking to Raven and Rosemarie in the common room, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity. It wouldn’t be threatening to Romilda as her friends and fellow D.A. members were there. Also, Rachael Reynolds, who had never joined the D.A. due to her Ministry connections, was not there. It was rare to catch the “Four R’s” minus one, and she wouldn’t have to watch what she said without Rachael around.
“Hi!” Ginny said brightly, trying hard not to focus on Romilda.
It may have been her imagination, but she felt the three girls exchanged significant looks at her approach.
“Oh hi, Ginny,” Rosemarie said, politely but not warmly. “How are you?”
“Oh fine. I was just wondering if you girls would be able to make the next D.A. meeting. We missed you at the last one.”
“Oh, we’re busy,” Rosemarie said.
“O.W.L.s,” Raven added. “Even Professor Sprout seems out to kill us.”
“Well, I always have said Professor Sprout is one of the most underestimated professors here,” Ginny said. “Have you seen the things she keeps in Greenhouse Three?”
Ginny knew it wasn’t funny even as she said it, but all three girls gave laughs just a bit too hearty to be authentic.
“Well, if you change your mind, I know some of the fifth year Hufflepuffs are doing a Transfiguration study session in the library just before the meeting.”
Romilda flipped her dark hair back. “Oh, I’m sure that’s fine for Hufflepuffs. They all get hired to scoop ice cream in Diagon Alley after Hogwarts. You don’t need O.W.L.s for that.”
This was the old Romilda. The one who had tried to convince Luna that Romilda’s mother wanted to showcase Luna’s handmade jewelry on Witch Weekly as a prank last year. The girl who had told Ginny she was so angry that she didn’t even care about her grades anymore was gone and replaced by this pretty, mouthy doll.
Ginny noted that Romilda’s appearance had even changed again. She was still impossibly skinny, but she had clearly embraced hair curling charms and a full face of makeup. She’d changed out of her school robes after dinner and was wearing a clingy red jumper.
“Funny, some of the most studious people I know are Hufflepuffs,” Ginny said.
“Well, thanks for the tip,” Raven said, “We’ll think about it.”
As Ginny walked away, she couldn’t help but wonder what had changed with the fifth year Gryffindor girls.
Chapter 25: Chapter 25: Socialites with Secrets
Chapter 25: Socialites with SecretsJune 29, 1998, 2:23 p.m.
Ministry of Magic, Auror Department, Observation Room
Under the pretense of giving Ron direction, Kelly held the door to the observation room open.
“Weasley, don’t forget I need that report before the end of day, so finish it up once this interview is complete.”
In actuality, she was allowing Harry an opportunity slide into the room while disguised under his cloak.
Once he was in the room, he found it seemed much smaller once one was invisible. Most of Harry’s adventures under his cloak involved sneaking around Hogwarts while most of the school was asleep or as an added precaution while in wide open spaces during the Horcrux hunt. But moving inside a smallish room while it was quiet and occupied was a new challenge, and Harry was acutely aware of the slight rustling sound that his cloak made and hoped the sound of Anthony Goldstein sorting through parchment disguised the sound of his movements.
With irritation, he finally understood why girls complained that boys took up too much space as he scooted sideways across the back wall, trying to not to scrape against the wall or let his cloak brush any of his fellow trainees. Ron, Neville, Anthony, and Terry all sat far back from the conference table and sprawled in their chairs. If Harry stood behind any of them, he would be in danger of being detected if they so much as shifted an inch. He scooted himself past Terry and Anthony to stand directly behind Susan, who was sitting very close to the table, her ankles crossed under her chair.
Once he was settled, Harry looked through the one-way glass to see the woman being interviewed by Kelly and Daniel. Even if Daniel had not brought it up, he would have known instantly that she was from Witch Weekly. While Jasmine Weston was much younger than Sharon Vane or Valerie Hawkins–Harry estimated her to be about Fleur’s age–she had the same overly groomed look of deliberate simplicity. She was a pretty woman with glossy brown hair that fell halfway down her back.
“Thank you, Miss Weston, for coming to the Ministry,” Daniel was saying. “I understand you have something to tell us.”
“Might,” said Miss Weston, her hands placed on her lap.
“Might what?” Kelly asked.
“Might have something of interest,” she said. “The conversation I overheard was a couple of weeks ago, and it was only yesterday that it occurred to me that it might be of significance.”
Daniel frowned. “Who was in the conversation?”
“Sharon Vane and another woman. I didn’t see her face.”
“Didn’t see her face?”
“I was in the wardrobe room,” Jasmine said. “There was a photo shoot about to start in a neighboring park, and one of the models had damaged the beading on her robes. When I accepted the job as the fashion director’s assistant, I thought I would be styling the models for photo shoots, but mostly I do alteration spells when the clothes don’t fit well or repair the shoes that models break heels off of.”
“So you were repairing the dress gowns of a model when you overheard the conversation?” Kelly asked.
She had, Harry thought, the facial expression of a woman who did not care about Jasmine Weston’s job description.
“Yes. I was at the work desk when two women came in. I couldn’t see them, but I recognized Sharon Vane’s voice at once.”
“But not the other woman’s?”
Jasmine shook her head. “The voice was familiar, but the woman wasn’t a Witch Weekly employee. I would have recognized it if she had been anyone who worked in the building. There were a few racks of clothing between me at the work desk and them, so we couldn’t see each other.”
“But you are certain that one of the women was Sharon Vane?” Daniel asked.
“Yes, she’s my boss’s boss. I’d know her voice anywhere.”
“All right. So, we have two women, Sharon Vane and an unknown female, having a conversation in the wardrobe room,” Kelly summarized. “What were they discussing?”
“Potions. Sharon wanted to buy a potion off the other woman, but she was nervous about it.”
A potion. Could the answer be as simple as Sharon Vane all along, while they had been busy attempting to work out the hierarchy of the Hogwarts rapists? As the investigation went on, Harry had taken on Daniel’s theory on Sharon Vane: that she was hiding something, possibly something of great significance to the investigation, but she wasn’t a likely murderer.
“How did you know she was nervous?” Daniel asked.
“Because she asked the other woman, ‘What do I do if I can’t get her to drink it?’”
He imagined Sharon Vane carrying around a vial of potion around during Romilda’s last few days, pondering putting it in her morning tea or her lunchtime pumpkin juice, until it occurred to her that the best place to murder her own daughter was in public, where countless suspects would be around. As for placing the Imperius on Eddie, she could have done it. She could have pulled him aside, asked about the calories in the shrimp cocktail, placing the Unforgivable Curse on him once she had his attention.
But how would she have poisoned just the right glass?
And why would she kill her own daughter?
Daniel frowned. “Did she ever specify who the drinker was to be?”
Jasmine shook her head. “No, I assumed they were talking about Sara at the time. I was trying to go unnoticed. When they first entered the wardrobe room, I thought about letting them know I was there as a courtesy, but they started talking right away and the topic was obviously personal, and it seemed too awkward to let them know.”
“Are you referring to Sara Vane? Why did you think they were discussing her?”
The young woman looked uncomfortable. “It’s an open secret at Witch Weekly that Sharon has had her daughter on diet potions since she was eight. It was rumored that Sara got sent to Camp Porcus the summer before she went to Hogwarts?”
“Camp What?” Daniel asked.
“Fat farm,” Kelly said. “It’s where pureblood families send their daughters when they think they are too fat to be married off.”
You could always count on Kelly to be as tactful as Ron, Harry thought. He couldn’t help but feel sympathy for Sara. If the Dursleys had heard of a camp that turned wizards into Squibs, he knew they would have packed him off in a similar manner.
Daniel did not appear interested in learning more about fat farms. “So you thought she might have been purchasing a diet potion. When you begin to suspect that it wasn’t?”
Jasmine shrugged. “I don’t know that she wasn’t. It is the most logical explanation.”
“But you’re here,” Kelly pointed out. “No one asked you to come in. So you must feel there is a chance that they were discussing something other than a diet potion.”
Jasmine nodded. “A couple of evenings ago, some of us–the younger girls at the office–went out for drinks after work. Some of the girls started expressing the opinion that Sharon had killed her own daughter. At the time, it struck me as absurd.”
“Why absurd?” Daniel asked.
“Romilda was the golden child,” Jasmine said. “Her mother doted on her. She also just signed a very lucrative contract with Teen Witch. Why would Sharon kill her favorite child?”
“But?” Kelly prompted.
“But it occurred to me that neither women mentioned the name of the potion they were discussing, nor did Sharon name the person who it was intended for.”
“Jasmine, we need you to tell us exactly what you remember these women said. Do you think you can recall the wording?”
Jasmine nodded, looking nervous. “I think so. I remember the door closing with a thud. It startled me. Then Sharon spoke first. She said, ‘Can you get it?’”
Kelly and Daniel were both listening intently. Around Harry, his classmates were scribbling madly even though a transcription charm was listing the conversation word for word.
“Then the other woman spoke. She had a low, husky voice. A sexy voice. She said, ‘You know I always keep that in my potions store, Shari,’ No one at Witch Weekly ever called her ‘Shari.’ No one would dare. She was either ‘Sharon’ or ‘Mrs. Vane,’ depending on who you were.”
“And what was Sharon Vane’s response?”
“She said, ‘I’m not sure if I can do this.’ I don’t think I can recount word for word what the other woman said. I know she said something about the pain being minimal, that Sharon would be grateful later, and that she uses this item every two to three years.”
“On herself? Or on other people?” Kelly asked.
Jasmine frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t know. I think she said, ‘I use it myself every two or three years.’ I don’t know if she said she used it on herself.”
“And what was the response?” Daniel asked.
“Sharon said, ‘What do I do if I can’t get her to drink it?’ Then the other woman said, ‘Then you’ll have to use force. Unless you are prepared to deal with the alternative.’ Then Sharon said, ‘She’s my own daughter.’ At that point, someone burst in the wardrobe room, told Sharon the photographers were waiting for her, and both women left without realizing I was there.”
“And you definitely didn’t recognize the voice?” Kelly asked.
“It was familiar, but familiar in a I-think-we’ve-met-before way. Had the woman worked in reception, in the finance department, or been one of the cleaners, I would have recognized the voice. My initial theory of diet potions could be accurate here. Apart from fashion designers and cosmetics companies, makers of diet potions are some of the biggest advertisers in Witch Weekly. I could have easily met a potion maker in passing, but not spend enough time in conservation with them to recognize their voice weeks later.”
“Do you still think they were discussing diet potions for Sara?”
“I don’t know. I hope that’s all that it was. Sharon Vane is . . . not the most popular of bosses.”
“You don’t need to tiptoe. Your colleagues have lined up to talk about her,” Kelly said.
“Yes, I have heard. While she isn’t the nicest person, she did appear to love her oldest daughter, so I am hoping the conversation that I overheard was more mundane than I have made it out to be. There are any number of reasons why a person might choose to bypass the apothecary to buy a potion.”
“Yes, of course, there are many reasons. Simple embarrassment being the most common,” Daniel said. “But you did the right thing in coming here. Like you, we hope there is a simple explanation. However, if there isn’t one, it’s best that things come to light sooner rather than later.”
6:00 p.m., The Burrow
“So, Sharon Vane might have poisoned her own daughter?” Ginny demanded, pulling a loaf of bread from the oven.
It was just before dinner time. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were busy in the kitchen. Harry and Ron had got home from the Ministry, and Mr. Weasley was expected within the half hour. George was tinkering with a fake wand at the table, Bill and Fleur had just arrived with a pie, and Percy was planning to stop by after a late meeting.
“Well, she definitely bought some potion for one of her daughters,” Ron said. “We don’t know what kind of potion, or which daughter it was for. But she definitely bought it secretly, so either the potion can’t be purchased legally or else she didn’t want to be seen buying it in an apothecary.”
“So suspicious definitely and murderous possibly,” Ginny said.
“I don’t see why she would murder ‘er own daughter,” Fleur said. “‘Er ‘usband iz an awful leetle man. Everyone would understand if she killed ‘im.”
Harry turned to Fleur and Bill in surprise. “I completely forgot that you both know Mortimer Vane. Why is he awful?”
“Because ‘e is still alive,” Fleur said darkly.
“Mortimer is . . . not popular with female Gringotts employees,” Bill said.
“‘E has ze wandering eyes. And ze wandering hands.” Fleur pantomimed smacking a bum. “When I get called to ‘is office, I bring Bill wiz me.”
Harry had not paid much attention to Romilda’s father during the interviews at the Vane house. His more theatrical wife had drawn the attention of the Aurors. Mortimer had been quiet and at least a decade older than his wife. He had a distinguished look, like Laurence Olivier, one of the classic film stars Aunt Petunia had liked. Harry would have never guessed that the man preyed upon twenty-something women in his employ.
Mrs. Weasley crossed her arms over her chest. “And no one has done anything about that? That’s a terrible abuse of power.”
“Mortimer reports only to the goblins,” Bill explained. “There have been complaints about him, and the goblins can’t help but notice female employees don’t last very long. But they make it a point not to get involved in what they view as wizarding personal affairs, and at the end of the day, Mortimer Vane is the best at defending goblin interests in spheres where goblins cannot move freely.”
“Well, that’s just awful. And a man with three daughters!” Mrs. Weasley said.
“That is consistent with what Valerie Hawkins told us,” Ron said thoughtfully. “I thought she was trying to make Sharon Vane seem controlling when she said didn’t want her husband at the Witch Weekly offices.”
“Oh, she definitely was,” Harry added. “But that doesn’t mean Sharon Vane couldn’t have a valid reason not to have her husband around models.”
Just how young did Mortimer Vane like women? Fleur was young enough to be his daughter, but the models ran even younger. By all records, many were girls under the age of 17.
A wave of revulsion swept over Harry. Surely, he wouldn’t . . . no, Harry didn’t want to even think about that. With the year that Romilda had, surely not that. Not even if she might have conceived over the Easter holiday when she’d been at home.
And if that had happened, wouldn’t Sharon Vane be in danger of murdering her husband, and not her daughter?
Harry noticed Ginny looked troubled as she stirred the stew her mother had abandoned in her anger against Mr. Vane. Was it possible she’d had the same thought about Mortimer Vane?
June 30, 1998, 1:00 p.m.
The Ministry of Magic, Auror Department
Kelly had a harder time sneaking Harry into the observation room the next day. Not only were his fellow trainees there to see Sharon Vane’s first interview on Ministry premises, so were several senior Aurors, as well as Gawain Robards himself. Harry held his breath, squished himself into a back corner very carefully, and hoped for a sneeze free hour.
He hoped Kelly knew what she was doing. If Gawain caught him here, his career as an Auror would be over before it began.
Sharon Vane did not look quite as effortless as she had in the Ministry ballroom or even in her own home. Her clothing and hair were perfect as ever, but there were dark circles under her eyes and even Harry could tell she had been biting her nails.
Could it be guilt? Or panic?
“What is it?” she asked. “Is there news? Why didn’t you ask Mortimer to be here as well?”
“I’m afraid we don’t have news at this time.” It was Dawlish who was to lead this investigation, with Williamson as back up. “However, a few things came up during interviews that we need to ask you about.”
“What kinds of things?”
“One person reported hearing a conversation between you and another woman approximately two weeks ago,” Dawlish continued.
“What?” Sharon looked bewildered.
“Have you purchased an off-market potion to use on one of your daughters?”
Sharon put a hand over her mouth. “I wouldn’t! Well . . . I thought about it, of course, but I wouldn’t have been able to do it in the end. Some things a mother just can’t do.”
“So you admit to considering the poisoning of your own child?” Williamson asked.
“Poisoning!” Either Sharon Vane was an excellent actress or else she was genuinely shocked. “Am I to be a suspect in my own child’s death? Are you so eager to wrap this up tidily that you have no regard for the truth?”
“Please forgive Auror Williamson. He sometimes jumps to conclusions,” Dawlish said, causing Williamson to glare at him. “We brought you here to ask what you had purchased.”
“Not a poison! Oh, I could have bought it at St. Mungo’s, but people talk, and I was so frightened that it would get out.”
Dawlish frowned. “St. Mungo’s! Are you saying the potion you purchased was medical in nature?”
Sharon nodded, looking miserable. “A week ago, some of your colleagues asked me if I knew my daughter was pregnant. I lied to them. I did know. I just didn’t think it would matter to admit it then. She was dead, after all.”
“The potion was related to Romilda’s pregnancy, then?” Dawlish pressed.
“Yes, it was an abortive potion. Perfectly safe, perfectly legal.”
“Yes, assuming the person who takes it made the decision,” Williamson stated. “Was this Romilda’s idea?”
“She said she wanted the baby. Sixteen years old, a freshly signed contract with Teen Witch. I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t like getting a cute doll. Her entire life would be defined by this baby. Her career prospects would go out the window. Her marital prospects would narrow. She was so stubborn, wouldn’t even tell me who the father was.”
While Harry thought it was disgusting that Sharon Vane had attempted to force her daughter into an abortion, he too could not quite picture Romilda as a teen mother.
“I told you she was hiding something!” Daniel said within the safety of the soundproof observation room. “Pay up, Higginbotham!”
In the interrogation room, Williamson opened his mouth, but Dawlish shot him a look, and he closed it quickly.
“Did you think she would drink it willingly?” Dawlish asked.
Sharon nodded. “She wasn’t herself this summer. Minerva McGonagall wrote to me to tell me that she’d released Romilda’s Hogwarts records to you, so you know what those boys did to my beautiful girl. All of her decisions were made through fear. I thought, at some point, she might start thinking rationally and make the right decision for her future.
“She didn’t trust me though. I sent up breakfast trays with the maid every morning because she never came down before noon. But she never drank the tea, never ate the toast. It wasn’t just the morning sickness. She didn’t trust me to leave her tea alone.”
Williamson looked like he didn’t blame Romilda, but Dawlish had not altered his sympathetic expression once throughout the interview.
“And by the time of the ball?” he asked.
“She hadn’t budged. I thought she’d have second thoughts when her dress robes no longer fit, encasing a new belly. She was indifferent. I . . . lost my temper. I put her in a corset, tied it tighter than I should have. Once we got to the Ministry, and Romi looked so pale, I felt so guilty, but there was nothing I could do. When she collapsed on the table, I thought she’d passed out from the corset. I didn’t believe it when that healer said she was dead.”
She was weeping. Not the pretty tears that Harry had seen back in her elegant townhouse, but the genuine ugly tears of a woman who had spent the last ten days facing her own failures as a mother.
After the Sharon Vane interview, Harry returned to the Hall of Records, but there was no concentrating on Animagi now. If he hadn’t believed Sharon Vane before, he did now. His previous sense of insincerity made sense now, just not in a homicidal way. Did it bring things back to the Hogwarts rapists? Things always seemed to return to the Hogwarts rapists.
He pulled out the map he’d been working on for the last few days so he would look like he was busily at work when the next person walked into the records room. It was the dumbest assignment, he thought. He should be out, finding out who was framing him, not mapping Animagi. The only semi-interesting that came out of this exercise was that Harry had learned the witches and wizards who lived in coastal areas were more likely to turn into birds like owls, eagles, and hawks, while witches and wizards who lived inland were more likely to turn into mammals.
Owls . . .
Oh, bloody hell . . .
“It was watching us,” Ginny had said of the mystery owl at the Burrow.
When a tawny owl had delivered a letter to him, he had found it strange that a non-Ministry owl could get through the barriers set up by Bill and Kingsley. But the cryptic contents of the letter had completely driven the mystery of the animal out of his mind. Even when that same owl had returned to deliver two more letters.
Had it been a wizard delivering those little notes and not a post owl?
Animagi were at an advantage with protective spells, Harry knew. Sirius had been able to sneak out of Azkaban because the spells designed to keep wizards in did not extend to dogs. And Rita Skeeter had been able to sneak in and out of Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament because even protections created by Dumbledore himself could not keep beetles out. And Harry was willing to bet that spells meant to control the behavior of post owls wouldn’t extend to owls that were actually Animagi.
Would an Animagus have been able to enter the Ministry the evening of the ball? While the Ministry charmed paper airplanes for interoffice notes, they did still use owls for any correspondence that went outside the Ministry. Harry had, in fact, received his Hogwarts expulsion from a Ministry owl three years before. The evening of the ball, there could have been any number of owls flying to and from the Ministry. The security guards would not have been interested in testing whether they were all actually birds.
While the killer would have had to revert to his human form at some point, as it would be difficult for a bird to poison a champagne glass, he could have avoided the ballroom altogether. All he had to do was blend in with the catering staff in the kitchen to poison Romilda’s glass and to place the Imperius Curse on Eddie Sommers.
“Potter!” Kelly had returned to the records room.
“Kelly!” Harry said, getting up so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. “I have a theory. Romilda’s killer is an Unregistered Animagus.”
His mentor rolled her eyes. “That’s what you got out of the Sharon Vane interview? You’re spending too much time with the Animagi records.”
“No! Sharon Vane was there in the ballroom with us, and nowhere near the glasses. How could she have poisoned her own daughter when she was in sight the entire time? He’s an owl. Or he becomes one. He’s been taunting me for weeks now.”
Harry realized how crazy that sounded when he took in his mentor’s facial expression.
“Potter. You aren’t even making sense now. I came here because I have good news. Alison decoded Romilda’s diary. And the diary is no longer damning for you.”
Chapter 26: Chapter 26: The Diary of Romilda Vane
Author's Notes: So I made my first major change to my original outline. I was supposed to write two more chapters set in spring 1998 (Draco at Malfoy Manor over Easter and Ginny seeing Harry for the first time just before the battle). I’ve decided to scrap those. I’ve given out all of the clues I have wanted to give out during the earlier time period, and I think it would be an annoying distraction from the investigation. So, as much as I hate to alter my carefully planned structure, those chapters were non-essentials and must go.
Also, I did my own small scale NaNoWriMo during the month of November, where I wrote the first draft of the remaining 17,000 words of this story, so from here, I will merely be revising the chapters before I post.
And so we begin the third and final part of this story. From here, the chapters will all be chronological.
Part 3
Chapter 26: The Diary of Romilda Vane
June 30, 1998, 3:00 p.m.
Ministry of Magic, Auror Headquarters
Harry entered the conference room cautiously. Kelly had let him know that he was officially back on the investigation, but he still half expected to be ordered back to the Hall of Records to die among the 1992 Animagus records.
“Ah, there you are, Potter,” Gawain said. “It will be nice for you to get information directly and not secondhand from Weasley and Proudfoot.” When Kelly gave him a startled look, he added, “I know you, Proudfoot. I trained you personally.” He turned to Daniel. “Please continue with your report, Savage.”
Harry settled in his seat, feeling watched as he did so. Clearly, Gawain had a similar understanding of the activities of the Auror department as Albus Dumbledore once had of Hogwarts. Like with Dumbledore, it was comforting and unsettling all at once.
Daniel cleared his throat. “Romilda’s diary will require careful study over the next few days, but even from the preliminary review, it appears that Romilda’s memories were attacked on more than one occasion. Our previous theory that Romilda had been both memory charmed and placed under the Fidelius last October still appears to be very probable, and there seems to be a possibility that a second memory charm was placed on her in the spring, around the time she would have conceived, and possibly the Imperius Curse as well.”
Harry’s eyes widened. He thought of Bertha Jorkins, memory charmed into forgetfulness by Barty Crouch. Romilda had been violated in both mind and body multiple times in one year. If she had lived, would she have been as damaged as Bertha? Of course, Bertha had not lived a long life either.
“Team Blue and Team Green will be staying late this evening. We have made multiple copies of the corrected diary, and we will prepare a report for tomorrow’s meeting.”
Ron sent a memo to Arthur letting him know they would be staying late at the office and to tell the others not to wait for them before starting dinner. A couple of the Blue Team wizards returned to the office with hot pizzas and Muggle soft drinks. Harry settled at the conference table with a heaping plate of pepperoni and mushroom pizza, a can of Pepsi, and a copy of Romilda’s diary that he charmed to resist stains.
After studying the previous version, he felt that the corrected copy should come as a relief. Instead, he found that he was afraid of learning exactly what had happened to Romilda Vane.
February 27
Yesterday I __________________
February 28
I don’t know what _______________
March 1
Why? Why? Why? Can’t I ______________
March 2
I don’t know what’s happening. I never thought it would be such a relief to write “I don’t know,” but I am literally crying with relief. Luckily, the dormitory is empty, so no one can see me all curled up, with mascara running down my face like some tragic raccoon.
What the hell kind of spell has been put on me that I can’t even write about it in my own diary? After days of simply trying to complete a sentence, it occurred to me that the Praesidium Charm the D.A. girls taught me to put on my clothes could work on my diary as well.
And voila! I can write.
But where to start?
It started last Friday, I suppose. The girls and I were in the dormitory in our pyjamas, trying out the latest Witch Weekly hairstyles. Rachael’s mum had sent her sweets from home. I ate a Chocolate Frog and immediately felt guilty, even though I had unintentionally lost 12 lbs since the school year began.
At some point, I told the girls I had left something in the Common Room and went down the staircase. I don’t know what I was thinking. My nightie was so short, and I didn’t even grab a dressing robe. And did I actually leave something in the Common Room? I have no idea.
I remember the Common Room was empty. It was well after midnight. Then I went out the portrait hole.
And the next thing I remember is waking in my own bed the next morning. My entire body ached. Alarmingly, I was sore between my legs, and I had no idea what I had done the night before.
At breakfast, I couldn’t eat. The girls were chattering away, while I was realizing for the first time in my life that eggs smell disgusting. Eventually Raven turned to me.
“So what happened to you last night?”
I knocked over a pot of honey.
“Come on,” Rosemarie added. “You weren’t subtle. You disappeared in that sexy little nightie, didn’t come back for two hours, then returned with a wink and went to bed without saying a word.”
I did what?
I wanted to ask them if we could talk somewhere private. I felt a need to spill everything. I was even willing to risk the possibility that I might cry in front of them. I just needed to tear this question out of my chest and put it out in the open where it would have less power.
I didn’t do that.
I couldn’t do that.
Instead I leaned forward and words that didn’t match my own thoughts, words I didn’t plan poured out. “Can you keep a secret?”
March 3
I have a plan. It isn’t a good plan. But it is the only thing I can come up with.
I can’t speak of anything that has happened to me lately. I tried with my friends, but instead I told them I had been meeting Harry Potter in the Astronomy Tower and trying out sexual positions I have never even heard of. I have no idea what I have been doing, but it seems unlikely I’ve been doing Harry Potter, who may or may not be still alive at this point.
I even tried to talk to Madam Pomfrey, thinking she might have some idea of what was happening to me, but what came out of my mouth was, “Are there any pain potions? I have the most crippling cramps.” Then I sat down on the nearest bed as if it pained me to stand.
So I am not going to tell her anything. I am going to ask her questions.
Process of elimination is, at least, something.
March 5
So that was terrible.
I caught Ginny Weasley’s eye during the meeting and hoped that she had not heard that I had been telling everyone that I had been having rather gymnastic sex with her boyfriend under the night sky. Her expression was curious, but not angry, so I supposed the gossip had not spread that far.
It has spread though. Rosemarie has never been able to keep her mouth shut. It’s only a matter of time before it gets to Ginny.
I figured I could ask one of two of things:
“Have you heard from Harry?”
“Do you know if Harry has been in the castle?”
Weird, yes, but theoretically safe questions given the limitations placed on me.
I was wrong though. My limitations were much stronger than I had expected. Instead of asking either of these, I felt words–mean words–forming in my mouth: “I fucked your boyfriend, and he said he doesn’t miss you at all.”
It took everything in me not to say those words out loud.
I don't know where–or from whom–they had come from, but my need to say it and my desperation to not say it were equally strong. I wasn’t sure whose will was stronger–mine or the unknown male who had cursed me.
While I was standing there, looking like an idiot who had swallowed her own tongue, I was aware of Ginny softly asking me questions. I can’t remember exactly what she said now, but eventually she understood that I could not speak due to magic.
It was such a relief. This girl I barely knew understood something my closest friends had not figured out.
But this only addressed part of the problem. Even with my limitations identified, I still could not communicate anything.
Ginny pulled me into a hug, and I have never loved or hated anyone more than I did her in that moment.
I loved her for seeing what no one else could see. I loved her for hugging me. Even my own mother and sisters have treated me like glass since the rape. Even Emilia, who is too young to understand any of it, has been loath to touch me. This was my first hug since leaving my parents at the Hogwarts Express on September 1st.
But I hated her as much as I loved her.
I hated her because she could go to class or eat in the Great Hall without wondering which of the boys around her were her rapists. I hated her for having an uncomplicated past with Harry Potter, while I had what was most likely a fictional relationship with him. I hated her because I wished I had fucked her boyfriend. Which probably makes me a terrible person and definitely makes me a bad friend, but having romantic rendezvous around Hogwarts is far less horrible than walking to a rape that you can’t even remember.
Most of all, I hated her for being whole.
I hate everyone who still is whole. It’s luck, nothing more, who is whole and who is broken. I want someone else’s luck. I’ve had enough of mine.
March 6
Is it possible for a person to explode???????
Harry kept reading. He read about a Romilda who tried to fill the holes in her memories, and who distanced herself from the D.A. because she worried that she might be used to leak information about the group to their enemies. Who went home after the war to find her mother was delighted with her weight loss and acquired a lucrative modeling contract for her. He sensed her delight in this new start, and then her despair when she realized she was pregnant with an unknown man’s baby. He read as Romilda got ready for the ball with a combination of excitement and dread, the diary ending as abruptly as Romilda’s life had.
Harry looked around. Ron and Neville were still reading, but Harry met Susan’s eyes and she looked as ill as he felt.
“So, we’re back to the Slytherin boys, aren’t we?” she asked him.
“It does always seem to return to them. But the diary is still a mystery,” he said. “How did he alter a protected diary that was hidden in Romilda’s house?”
He still felt certain the murderer was an Animagus, so that made access simple. But how had he known that there was a diary and where to find it?
“That,” Savage said behind them, “is the biggest question. There is no doubt that what we have now is Romilda’s own writing, but how and when it was altered is a mystery. Either our killer is known–and trusted–by the Vane family or else he is getting help from a specific member of the Vane family.”
Harry pondered that possibility. This time, he discounted Sharon Vane. Could it be Mortimer? Perhaps the killer had blackmail on Romilda’s father. Or even Sara? She was young and had seemed innocent to Harry, but it couldn’t have been easy growing up in Romilda’s shadow. Could she have possibly jumped on the chance for revenge? Or maybe she had been fooled by a charming boy who used her to get to Romilda?
But, if he was right about the killer being an Animagus, an ally inside the home would be helpful but not essential.
“What if the killer simply had access to the home?” Harry asked.
“Like the Vane servants?” Daniel asked.
“Actually, I was thinking possibly an Animagus.”
“Harry, do you still think the killer is an owl?” Kelly joined them, a piece of veggie pizza in her hand.
Daniel blinked. “An owl?”
“A few weeks ago, a tawny owl delivered some cryptic notes to me. It wasn’t the Ministry owl that brings pre-screened mail to the Burrow, and it was not one of the half dozen approved owls that can get through the Burrow’s wards. I thought that it was a joke, a weird one but a joke, so I ignored it.
“It wasn’t until I began working with the Animagi records that I realized that owls are a fairly common Animagus form. Owls can go anywhere in the wizarding world. They get into the Ministry even when security levels are high. They can get into wizarding homes.”
Kelly started looking more thoughtful. “It’s a decent theory, Potter, but Animagi are rare. It takes a strong flair for Transfiguration and an obsessiveness to become an Animagus. You don’t just pick it up because you are plotting murder. It takes years.”
“Am I the only one who needs to back up here?” Daniel asked. “Potter, are you telling us you’ve been receiving owl post from the murderer?”
“I think so, yes. He wasn’t a murderer yet, because Romilda was still alive at the time, but I am pretty sure they are from him.”
Daniel looked stern. “Okay, Potter. You are going to tell us the full story from beginning to end. Do not leave anything out.”
Harry’s story took about twenty minutes. He talked about the notes he’d received, the visits to Draco and Blaise. He omitted the visit to Astoria as he knew the Greengrass family didn’t want her talents to be known to the Ministry and he didn’t want his mentor to know that he had literally paid for information.
In the end, Daniel and Kelly were furious with Harry for not bringing his information to them earlier, Susan and Neville looked baffled at the weirdness of Harry’s life, and Ron looked like it was just another Tuesday at the office, which of course it was.
“I cannot believe you didn’t bring those notes to our attention!” Kelly said. “They were evidence. You wouldn’t believe what Daniel and I went through to get that diary copy to you. And Neville! He was the one to sneak it out.”
“I’m sorry!” Harry said. “I was kicked off the case, I thought I was going to be sacked, and I had in my possession a bunch of odd notes that made me look guilty. Surely you can see why I wouldn’t want to bring it to Gawain.”
“How about bringing it to me and letting me handle Gawain?” Kelly demanded.
Harry shifted in his chair. The combined anger of the two senior Aurors was intimidating. Daniel had a muscular build that any of the gym rats in Team Red would be proud of, and he hated to disappoint his mentor, Kelly.
“Well, what’s done is done,” Daniel said, but he didn’t look any happier with Harry. “Do you still have the notes?”
Harry nodded. “Should I bring them in tomorrow? Or owl Ginny to send them here now? She knows where they are.”
An hour passed before the Ministry owl returned with the notes. In that time, the Aurors continued their study of Romilda’s diaries, occasionally tossing theories around, and Ron polished off an entire sausage pizza on his own.
When the owl landed on the desk Harry was working from, both the Blue and Green teams gathered around.
“Damn, I wish Alison were still here,” Kelly said. “She’s the handwriting expert.”
The notes were passed around until Susan voiced an opinion. “These notes are forged. It looks like Romilda’s writing, but look at the L’s. Romilda’s are loopier, girlier.”
The next morning, Alison the DMLE librarian confirmed Susan’s statement on the handwriting, and Harry found himself wishing that Kelly and Daniel’s anger had been the worst of it as he found himself ordered into Gawain’s office.
He had only been in Gawain’s office once before, on the day he learned he had been kicked off the Vane case. The senior Aurors were in and out all of the time, but it was rare for a trainee to be invited in, and Harry wished he was there for a happier circumstance.
The office had a luxury that was absent in the Auror cubicles. Gawain had a wall of windows, a wall of books, and a gleaming desk bigger than the dining room table at the Burrow. On the desk were a line of family photos, confirming Harry’s guess that Gawain was a family man. On the wall behind the desk were various medals and certificates that had been bestowed upon Gawain over his career.
In the chair opposite Gawain’s, Harry tried not to shift like a guilty schoolboy. As a boy, Harry had always found Dumbledore’s disappointment inspired more guilt than Snape’s worst temper. Kelly and Daniel were no Snape, but disappointing Gawain inspired a familiar shame in Harry.
“Do you know why I hired you, Harry?”
Harry had never pondered the matter, having been under the impression that he was in the Auror Department because Kingsley wanted him there.
“No, sir.”
“You’re here because Dumbledore once told me he had never had a student with a stronger instinct for justice or truth. When Scrimgeour was promoted to Minister, and I inherited this department, I remembered those words. You were still a boy of sixteen and hiring you was out of the question, but at that time, I thought that was what I wanted for my department. A steadfastness that did not bend to the whims of politics.
“Tell me, Harry, was Dumbledore right about you?”
Harry gulped. He understood he was being asked a multi-faceted question in the form of a simple question.
“Sir, I don’t have Dumbledore’s wisdom, and I am sorry about what occurred. At the time, I received the notes, I had no idea there was a criminal element. It was simply a small mystery, and I had other things on my mind. By the time I realized otherwise, I had lost credibility here, and I didn’t feel like coming forward was an option anymore.”
“Ah, but that’s part of my problem. Your presence here today is as much my fault as yours.”
Harry simply stared at him.
“You were never in danger of losing your job. I thought Kelly would help you understand that, but I forgot a key thing about Auror Proudfoot. She enjoys a good intrigue. She was at her best during the war, sneaking information out of the Ministry to the resistance. Instead of assuring you that you were keeping a low profile for the optics, she turned it into her own quest for justice.
“And so here, we are delayed in our investigation because we haven’t been playing on the same team.”
He broke off as Dawlish opened the door and poked his head in. “John, I’m in the middle of something as you can see.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” John said, making no attempt to move. “I wouldn’t intrude if it wasn’t urgent. Evelyn Gillespie is here, demanding to see you.”
If Gawain had been an eye roller, Harry felt certain he would have done so. “That’s your urgent news? The Department of Magical Transportation can wait. I’ve already told them those flying carpets in Kent aren’t our responsibility. Magical Law Enforcement is more than qualified to provide them with the appropriate back up.”
“It’s not about the carpets, sir. She’s here because of the photos of the ball that were printed in the Prophet.”
“I hope you told her that we don’t dictate what the Prophet can or can’t print.”
John shook his head. “That’s not it, either.” He entered and placed a paper in front of Gawain. “Here is a photo of Evelyn.”
“Yes, I do know her, John.”
“She’s telling me that she wasn’t at the ball.”
Gawain looked exasperated. “Obviously, she was.”
“She told me that she was in Belgium that day, visiting a factory that makes Floo powder. I checked the Hall of Records. She had a Portkey to Antwerp three hours before the ball, and she returned to London two days later, also by Portkey. The distance is too far for Apparition. I also checked with the concierge of the hotel where Evelyn stayed, and he confirmed her check in time, which was shortly before Romilda’s murder.”
“But Polyjuice doesn’t work in the Ministry,” Gawain said.
“Exactly,” John said.
Evelyn Gillespie was taken directly to Gawain’s office rather than to the interrogation room.
“Would you like me to leave, sir?” Harry asked.
“You may stay, Potter.” Gawain turned to John. “Bring in Savage, Proudfoot, and Williamson in as well.”
The Head Auror conjured up five more chairs.
“Have a seat, Evelyn.”
As she sat, Harry marveled at how vividly he remembered this woman from the ball. At the ball, she (or someone who had looked just like her) had been wearing ivory and black dress robes and had her hair up in a topknot that emphasized her high cheekbones. Harry remembered that she had reminded him strongly of someone.
In her work attire, she was still incredibly beautiful and without the type of effort that the Witch Weekly staff seemed to put into their appearances.
Had he met this woman before? She was from Magical Transportation, so it’s possible that she could have been around on the day Harry took his Apparition test. Or maybe they simply took the lift at the same times in the morning.
Or did she resemble someone he knew?
The other Aurors joined them and sat at Gawain’s request. Harry felt uneasy–and more than a little pleased–at being the only person not a Senior Auror in the room. It helped make up for all of the meetings he had been excluded from.
“Evelyn, I hope you don’t mind if my trainee stays,” Gawain said.
“No, of course not. Mr. Potter is welcome.”
Harry had the feeling the elegant woman would say that, whether or not she objected to his presence.
“Excellent, excellent. Now, Dawlish tells me you were in Antwerp when this photo was taken?” Gawain held up the copy of the Daily Prophet.
“Yes, I was supposed to be at the Ball like everyone else, but there had been strange mishaps with Floo powder in the days preceding, so I was sent to Antwerp to meet with some factory officials. It turned out to be a matter of supplies. Some thrifty buyer had ordered knockoff unicorn hair, which rendered thousands of orders ineffective.”
“And you did not take a Portkey back for the ball that evening?” Gawain asked.
“I did not. I had one Portkey to Antwerp and one Portkey back. I have never made or purchased an unauthorized Portkey. I do not have access to a Time Turner, and to the best of my knowledge, no one has access to my hairbrush. That woman in the photograph is not me, but I don’t doubt that she could fool my mother.”
“And you are willing to sign a legal document testifying to that effect?” Gawain asked.
“That’s why I’m here,” Evelyn said. “Gawain? There is one more odd thing.”
Gawain raised his eyebrows. “Only one?”
“I had dress robes custom made for the Ball. Dress robes identical to those in the pictures.”
Gawain looked as though he had the beginnings of a headache. Harry didn’t blame him. He studied the woman, searching for signs of a lie.
She was worried, but calm, and . . .
“Potter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Harry’s eyes snapped back to Gawain. “May I ask a question?”
“You may.”
“Ms. Gillespie, do you have a sister who resembles you?”
Chapter 27: Chapter 27: Bubbles
Author's Notes: I need to add a trigger warning here for a description of a sexual assault. If you need to skip this, you should stop reading when Daphne says, “We’re going to need some wine.” By that point, you’ll know who Daphne suspects of being the Hogwarts ringleader, which is the information you will need to move on to the next chapter.
Chapter 27: Bubbles
July 1, 1998, 6:30 p.m.
Greengrass townhouse, London
Astoria wadded up another piece of parchment. She had never been able to force her gift before, and she didn’t know why she thought that day might be different. But she was worried about Draco, and she knew of nothing else of substance she could do.
She had gone to Malfoy Manor the previous day. Her excuse had been to return a book that Draco had lent her, but she just missed talking to him. He was nervous, noticeably so, and she was beginning to think that he might have good reason to be.
Her art had warned her of Romilda’s death, and it had warned Harry about the killer’s intentions. Why couldn’t it show her what had happened to Romilda?
She tried sketching Romilda as she remembered her at the ball, first pouting in her chair, and then later trailing Harry Potter to the waiter. When neither of those worked, she drew Romilda as she remembered her at school, sitting in the back of Charms classroom, flirting shamelessly with Martin Wells.
Nothing.
She remembered the vials she had drawn the night of the ball, and she tried reproducing those. Again, she didn’t feel even the slightest tingle of premonition.
What hadn’t she tried to draw yet? The answer came to her immediately. Bubbles.
She left her studio and headed down to the wine cellar. The entire back wall was devoted to sparkling wines, her mother’s favorite. She knew her parents would be annoyed with her if she opened a bottle of champagne for an art project, but she thought she might be able to get away with a more reasonably priced Cava.
Besides, the wine had been terrible that night. There was no way it had come from the Champagne region.
She grabbed a bottle that she didn’t think would be missed and took it up to her studio, grabbing a glass on the way. She was opening the bottle when her sister walked into the room.
“Tori, I need a second opinion. Are these robes too dressy for dinner at Chez Magique?”
Astoria smothered a sigh. Roger again. She had no idea what her sister saw in him.
“No, it’s not too dressy. Will it keep your boobs in?”
Daphne looked down at her plunging neckline. “Not much to keep in.”
She had a point. The Greengrass women were not buxom.
“Ooh, champagne. What are we celebrating? My date with Roger?”
“It’s for an art project, but we can. Grab a glass.”
Astoria poured two glasses as soon as her sister returned with her glass. They clinked glasses. Daphne drank immediately, while Astoria held hers up to the light. The color was lovely, like a very light citrine. Had the wine looked like this that night? The smell was of apples and something fresh and acidic like limes. She studied the movements of the bubbles.
Sparkling wine seemed so alive. It was strange that it had caused Romilda’s death.
“Were you serious about the art project? Tori, as your sister, it’s my responsibility to tell you that you’re getting weird. Dating Draco. Reading the future in your wine glass.”
“I’ve been weird my entire life, Daph. What’s new is I’ve found my confidence,” she said, not looking up from her glass. “Besides, I’m not dating Draco. We’re just friends.”
“Sweetie, given how flushed you look after you’ve seen him, you have an interesting notion of friendship. Well, I have to finish getting ready. Enjoy your . . . art.” Daphne swept out of the room in a swish of burgundy dress robes, but Astoria did not look up from her glass as her sister left.
How frantic the bubbles were, like they were trying to tell her something. She took a healthy sip and began to draw. The familiar urgency was building inside her, and she sketched for a half hour without thought.
Astoria was the wine bottle, rattling inside the case as the catering staff carried her into the Ministry kitchen.
Then she was pulled out by the neck and placed in an ice-filled trough with all of the other wine bottles, the innocent ones that would do no damage that night. She bobbed there contentedly as the remaining ice melted to water until someone pulled her out. She expected to be taken to the bar, where all of the other bottles were going, but someone opened her in the kitchen, and it was amazing. She had no idea how much pressure she had been holding in until she was able to let it go.
She was poured into six delicate glasses, and she sparkled magnificently as she filled each glass. She hoped the guests would see for her beauty before she was gone. Then something–something deadly–was added to one of her glasses. The wine fought. She was meant to bring joy, not death, but the poison won in the end.
Then there was a voice, although Astoria did not know if it was audible or if it was simply in her head.
“This glass goes to the young woman with dark curls wearing a ruby red gown.”
Astoria wondered where she knew that voice. Then there was the impression of a blank eyed waiter, and she was carried out swinging double doors into a room even more beautiful than she was. She could see the elegant witches and wizards wanted her, that they loved her for her pale straw color and her millions of tiny bubbles, but the blank eyed wizard walked past them. He knew exactly where he was supposed to go.
Then there were beautiful young people. The waiter shifted her around on the tray, so the wrong young person did not pick up the wrong glass. Then the most beautiful of them, a girl with glossy dark curls and large, sad eyes, picked up The Glass.
Astoria tried to tell her no, that danger was ahead. The girl didn’t seem interested in drinking her though. She was a prop, nothing more. But then, the girl saw something she didn’t like and she took a large sip. She choked immediately, but not from the poison. The girl had forgotten that she was pregnant.
But it was too late. The potion was too fatal, even with the tiniest of sips. Her throat was closing in, then her lungs were burning, then everything went dark for the girl and for Astoria.
Astoria opened her eyes. She was in her studio, and there was a completed sketch in front of her.
Is that what had happened to Romilda? And Merlin . . . had she actually been pregnant?
When she looked back at what she had done, she was fascinated. She had sketched a gigantic champagne coupe, but inside the glass was a dreamworld among the bubbles. There were feathers and dancing couples and in the center was a beautiful woman in floor length dress robes.
The woman was not Romilda.
The studio didn’t have a fireplace, so she walked to the parlor, the sketch still in hand. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder and then froze. What had Ginny called the Weasley home? The nest? The den? No, no, that wasn’t it.
“The Burrow!” she called out, remembering.
Before the kitchen at the Burrow came into focus, she had enough time to feel nervous. Who would be nearest the fire? She knew the Weasleys were a large family. She really did not want to explain things to Ginny’s parents or one of her rowdy older brothers.
To her relief, Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table. With her were two people that Astoria had not been expecting: Hermione Granger, who Astoria knew only by reputation, and Astoria’s Ravenclaw housemate, Luna Lovegood. The three girls were carefully studying some parchment.
“Ginny?”
“Astoria! Is everything all right?”
She had a strong urge to blurt out everything, but she didn’t dare with Hermione and Luna there.
“Oh, fine, fine. I was just working on . . . an art project, and I made something that might interest Harry. Is he around?”
Ginny’s eyes widened. “No, he’s still at the Ministry. Long night for the Aurors. Do you know something?”
“I am not sure.” She looked uneasily at Ginny’s friends.
“It’s okay,” Ginny said “Hermione and Luna are trustworthy.”
Astoria nodded as if she never doubted it. “Could you have Harry fire call me when he gets home? It’s fine if it’s late.”
Ginny nodded, but Astoria thought she looked disappointed. “Sure. I’ll let him know when he gets home.”
“Thank you.” Astoria was about to pull her head out of the fire, when disappointment with having to wait made her hesitate. “Ginny? Do you happen to know if Romilda was pregnant?”
The girls all exchanged startled looks. “Astoria, may we come through?” Ginny asked.
When the three girls all came out of the fireplace, Astoria was having second thoughts. She didn’t know what role the woman she’d sketched had in Romilda’s death, and she wasn’t sure how she’d explain the girls’ presence if her parents got home early that evening. Her parents were used to Daphne’s friends dropping by randomly, but Astoria tended to be more private, and they would wonder at three girls Astoria had never mentioned before sitting in their parlor.
Plus they just looked different from other visitors to the townhouse. Ginny and Hermione were both dressed in Muggle clothing, wearing jeans and sleeveless tops. While Luna wore robes, she stood out even more, as her robes were in a psychedelic print that no one but a ‘60s rock star could pull off, and Luna Lovegood was no rock star.
“May we see it?” Hermione said.
“She knows,” Ginny said. “Luna does too.”
Luna nodded but her eyes were trained on the chandelier as if lighting fixtures were new to her.
Astoria had to glance around a moment before she remembered that she had left the sketch on a side table. She handed it to Hermione without comment.
“I saw her at the ball,” Hermione said.
“I did too,” Ginny said. “I remember thinking she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”
“Do you know who she is?” Astoria asked. “I may have sketched this, but I have no idea what it means.”
Luna, who had not been at the ball as far as Astoria could recall, looked at the sketch without recognition.
“I never saw her before that evening,” Ginny said.
“Neither had I,” Hermione said. “Could she be the one? I thought that it would be one of the rapists.”
“Rapists?” Astoria said.
Ginny nodded. “Last year there was a group of boys who raped three girls–including Romilda–at Hogwarts. We know who some of them were, but the ringleader remains elusive.”
“You’ll never believe it! Roger canceled at the last minute. What a waste of new robes!” Daphne swept in, looking startled to see the other girls.
“Well clearly he didn’t know you would be looking like that,” Ginny commented.
Daphne softened. “Thank you. Definitely his loss.” She turned to Astoria. “What’s going on?”
“My art project went awry.”
Daphne’s eyes widened. “Oh, Astoria. Not again.”
“It’s a remarkable gift. Why shouldn’t she use it?” Hermione asked.
“My sister is remarkable. And I don’t want her being used for her gifts.”
Astoria sighed. “No one is using me.”
Daphne peered at the sketch. “She looks familiar.”
“She was at the ball,” Astoria explained while her sister continued to stare at the sketch.
“So you think she did it?” Daphne asked.
“No one knows. Apparently there are some rapists under suspicion too.”
“Rapists? So it’s true about what happened to Romilda last year?” Daphne asked.
“You knew?” Astoria asked, feeling ill.
“I heard some rumors.”
“It’s true. Daphne, what do you know about Theodore Nott? Could he have been involved?” Ginny asked.
“Theo?” Daphne looked shocked. “No, not in a million years. It was probably Crabbe or Goyle.”
Ginny frowned. “Oh, they were involved and not very subtle. But we can’t work out the leader. Both Malfoy and Zabini discounted Nott, but being underestimated could work in his favor.”
Astoria could recognize the signs of Daphne anger forming and she cringed.
“No, not Theo. First of all, he’s gay. The Slytherin girls all knew, but he kept it from the boys in his dormitory. Slytherin is a pretty macho environment for boys, especially only sons of pureblood families, so he hid it to get by.”
“Are you sure?” Ginny looked disappointed.
“He’s my best friend, so yes, I am positive. We girls used to suggest gross sexist things he could say to the boys to blend in when they talked girls and sex. We’d tell him to say Pansy’s boobs looked especially perky that day, and things like that. We all did our part to protect Theo.”
“Well, that’s one suspect ruled out,” Ginny said.
“And why are you getting your information from Malfoy and Zabini of all people?” Daphne asked. “Did everyone trustworthy die?”
“Because they slept in the Slytherin boys dormitory and could overhear things we couldn’t?”
“And it never occurred to you to suspect them?” Daphne demanded.
Astoria cringed, expecting another anti-Draco tirade.
“Well, we did notice Blaise didn’t exactly discount Malfoy but . . .”
“And what of Blaise? Did no one think it could be the charming boy?”
Ginny laughed, but Astoria noticed her sister was fully angry now. And her stomach turned as she understood something for the first time.
“Blaise? No. He helped me and some other girls avoid the rapists last year.”
“He did something to you,” Astoria said to Daphne. “You were such close friends with Blaise and then you went to the Yule Ball together and you never mentioned him again.”
Daphne looked away. “It was a long time ago, and I wasn’t raped. It didn’t go that far.”
Astoria couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to figure it out. She remembered how excited her sister had been when Blaise had asked her to the Yule Ball, and their mother had sent silver dress robes designed in France to Hogwarts for Daphne to wear.
After the Christmas holidays, when Astoria returned to Hogwarts, she was full of questions for her sister about the Ball. As a sentimental twelve-year-old, she imagined her sister’s first date had been the stuff of novels. Daphne had smiled and obliged her curiosity, but the information she gave was impersonal. She talked of her robes, the decorations, the songs the Weird Sisters had performed, and even of Crabbe daring Goyle to eat a plate of escargot at the dinner.
But she had not mentioned her date once. At the time, Astoria had thought Daphne preferred to keep information about her first kiss private. But Daphne was not a girl of delicate sensibilities and she never uttered Blaise’s name again. Instead of being discreet, Daphne had been protecting Astoria by not telling her the truth about Blaise Zabini.
“Daphne, if you are correct about Blaise, he is about to get away with literal murder,” Hermione said. “You may be the only one who can stop him.”
Daphne’s jaw was set, and she was staring at nothing in particular. “We’re going to need some wine.”
Daphne made herself responsible for the wine selection. She returned to the parlor with the half full bottle of Cava that Astoria had opened earlier, a Pouilly-Fuiss, and a Burgundy Grand Cru. Normally, Astoria would have reminded her that their parents would be furious about her taking the Grand Cru, but under the circumstances, it did not seem important.
By unspoken agreement, they all shunned the delicate chairs and sat cross legged on the rug in front of the fire, drinking from their mother’s beautiful crystal wine glasses. Hermione and Ginny exchanged nervous glances as they sipped from their wine; Luna looked quite unbothered by everything; and Astoria was watching her sister, who was drinking the Grand Cru as if it were a potion that offered courage.
After Daphne refilled her glass, filling it quite full, she began to speak. “Astoria is right in how this began. As kids, Blaise and I were friends. We had similar senses of humor, and he was so charming, even as a little boy of eleven. We visited each other’s houses in the summer, both of us living in London.
“When we reached our teens, our relationship began to change. Became flirty. When he invited me to the Yule Ball, I thought that it was it. That Blaise would be my first boyfriend. My friends were all jealous---all of the Slytherin girls had crushes on Blaise, even Millie---and I thought I was the luckiest girl.
She took a sip of wine and paused, as if working out where it had gone wrong. “The night started out well. He complimented me on my dress robes and my hair, he held out my chair for me at dinner, mealtime conversation was witty, and he immediately asked me to dance when the dancing opened to non-champions.
“When he asked if I wanted to go for a walk on the grounds, I didn’t hesitate. He was my friend, he had been so nice, and I was ready for my first kiss. And at first, it was what I imagined. He kissed me under the stairs, semi-concealed by some shrubbery, and we snogged for I don’t know how long. I didn’t mind overmuch when his hands began to wander; I just moved them off my boobs and back to my waist.
“But his hands grew more insistent, and he wasn’t letting me push them away anymore. I have to admit my concerns were more practical than prudish. I had padded my bra pretty well that evening. As you can see, I’m hardly well-endowed and I was even less so at fourteen, and I was worried he’d find the handkerchiefs. I stepped back and said, ‘No. I’m not ready for this.’
“Then he said, ‘Just relax. You’re going to like this.’ And he placed a Total Body Bind on me. He tugged my bodice down until my boobs were out, and he took off my bra and put it in his pocket, padding and all. I don’t know how long he touched my chest. It felt like forever, and the night air was cold on my nipples. At some point, he put one hand inside his dress robes and began to stroke himself. I wanted to close my eyes, but the Body Bind wouldn’t let me. I was forced to look at him while he masturbated.
“And that’s when Snape came around the corner. To this day, I have no idea if Snape realized that Blaise had been taking advantage of me or if he thought he had just interrupted some heavy petting. He yelled at us, while Blaise leaped in front of me to hide my state of undress, and ordered us back inside.
“Once he was gone, Blaise removed the Total Body Bind, and I was so shaken, I couldn’t even talk. I just pulled my dress up and followed him back into the castle.”
Daphne wiped a tear off one cheek, took a big sip of wine, then continued. “It was three days before I told anyone. I honestly thought Pansy would be on my side. I thought we would talk rubbish about Blaise until I felt better and then Pansy would teach me a jinx to use on him.
“It didn’t work that way. Pansy was shocked that I had gone on the grounds with him. Apparently that was begging for sex, and only the worst of girls did such things. She demanded to know what I had expected and didn’t know I was lucky not to be pregnant?
“I had been planning to talk to Professor Snape after Pansy, but I changed my mind. I couldn’t even look my head of house in the eye anymore. I had no idea if he saw my boobs that night or not.”
“You stopped talking in Potions class,” Hermione said. “You used to answer Snape’s questions, but you didn’t offer answers anymore.”
Daphne nodded. “I was too ashamed. It was years before I realized that what had happened to me was sexual assault. On some level, I knew Pansy was wrong about me asking for it. But I did feel like it had been the cost of being naive.
“At Beauxbatons last year, I told a friend about this. She had been through something similar, but she had told someone and they had believed her. She reminded me that expecting decent treatment from people wasn’t an invitation to abuse.”
Daphne from refilling her glass once more, but Astoria stopped her. She moved the glass out of her hand and pulled her trembling sister into her arms.
A/N 2: I very carefully tried to make Theodore Nott look like a creep in this story and absolutely no one fell for my red herring. :)
Chapter 28: Chapter 28: Givers of Life
Author's Notes: In terms of the timeline, chapter 27 with Astoria occurs in the middle of this chapter.
Chapter 28: Givers of Life
July 1, 1998, 11:00 a.m.
Ministry of Magic, Gawain Robards’ office
If Harry had learned anything in his almost eighteen years, it was that mothers have the ability to change the course of destiny.
“No, not Harry! Not Harry!” his mother had said.
“Is Draco alive?” Narcissa Malfoy had asked, bending over Harry in the forest.
“Not my daughter, you bitch!” Molly Weasley had screamed before destroying the most evil witch of their time and bringing new hope to the battle.
They were givers of life, and they would do anything for the children they had brought into the world. But what if a child had done something truly terrible that was about to be exposed? Would the mother use her powers for evil instead of good?
If he was right, this one definitely would and could.
“Ms. Gillespie, do you have a sister who resembles you?”
Next to him, Kelly gasped and Evelyn’s eyes widened. She looked like she had just done the math and did not like the answer.
“Delilah and I do look alike, but we’re far from identical. She’s also ten years older than me.”
Harry had no idea what Delilah Gillespie Edgar Zabini Macmillan Parkinson Abercrombie MacNair Hannigan looked like these days. He had only seen her as a twenty-year-old winking from a Witch Weekly cover in Sharon Vane’s entryway. But he knew her son. Blaise, Delilah, and Evelyn shared the same almond shaped eyes, long eyelashes, high cheekbones, and full lips.
This was not the first time he had been struck by the strong resemblance yet struggled to place it. He’d stared at Delilah Hannigan’s magazine cover in the Vane home until Susan had told him that she was Blaise’s mum. At the ball, he had been disturbed by “Evelyn” in the crowd, but had not realized that it was her resemblance to Blaise that made her stick out to him.
“De-Aging Potion,” Kelly said. “So simple. It wouldn’t trigger any security charms and half the women at the ball had likely used some to look younger that evening.”
“And some minor Transfiguration on the nose,” Dawlish pondered, studying Evelyn thoughtfully.
“And some flats so the height difference would not be visible under the floor length dress robes,” Kelly added.
Evelyn looked horrified. “She’s my sister. I know what she is, but she’s my sister . . .”
“Romilda Vane was a mere girl of sixteen,” Gawain reminded her. “We need to pursue this. We can make sure your name stays out of it when we question her.”
“But Sharon Vane is her best friend.”
“All the more reason we need your testimony, Evelyn. Romilda was a child and her best friend’s daughter. Not to mention she transfigured her appearance to resemble yours to commit the crime. You owe her no loyalty.”
Evelyn sighed. “What do I need to sign?”
“John can take care of that. Dawlish?”
John led Evelyn out of the room, steering her towards the Wizengamot offices.
“Evelyn is a good sort,” Gawain said to Harry. “It’s amazing that the two women were raised in the same home.”
“We should have known,” Daniel said quietly. “It’s been seven years since our last case with celeri morte, Delilah’s signature poison. We even had her son in for questioning.”
“But everyone vouched for Zabini,” Kelly said. “Four girls testified that Blaise Zabini helped them escape the Hogwarts rapists.”
“It shows he’s clever. He knew he might need character witnesses,” Gawain said. “In all likelihood, Zabini made up the incidents where the girls were in danger to get them to trust him.”
The killer wants Ginny, Astoria had said.
Harry stood.
“Potter! Where do you think you are going?” Gawain asked.
“My girlfriend! She’s friends with Zabini. He has a thing for her. She could be next.”
“Potter, you are absolutely not allowed to share information on a criminal investigation. Especially not now that we appear to be getting close.”
“But she . . .”
“Your girlfriend is Arthur Weasley’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll send a message to Arthur. Let him know to keep his daughter at home the next few days. Now have a seat.”
“Ginny . . . she’s not the most obedient daughter.”
“Your girlfriend?” The corners of Gawain’s mouth twitched slightly. “Imagine that. The Ministry can keep her safe. You have my word.”
Harry sat, but the issue was far from over in his mind. After the meeting, he would ask Gawain if he could Apparate briefly to the Burrow. Ten minutes tops.
Gawain spoke to the group, “Now, we will need the entire department in the conference room at noon. Ask Gladys to order the usual from Hidden Pumpkin catering. We will need all of the reports created in the course of this investigation. We are going to review everything and see if it confirms or disproves the Delilah Hannigan theory.”
“Sorry about your Animagus theory, Harry. It was clever,” Kelly said.
“It hasn’t been disproven,” Harry said stiffly.
“Harry, it is a clever theory, but we’ve been on Delilah’s case for nearly twenty years as a department. This is her handiwork,” Daniel said.
“I’m not saying it’s not,” Harry said.
“What you are saying, Potter?” Gawain asked.
Harry had been piecing a potential timeline together before Gawain had reminded him that Blaise had fooled many girls, Ginny included. While part of him wished to return to the topic of Ginny’s safety, the urge to share his thoughts on the case were equally strong.
“I’m saying it’s possible there were two murderers working together. No, hear me out,” he said as Kelly began to protest. “When I thought it was Sharon Vane, I tried to work out how she could have done it from the ballroom, and later I tried to determine how an Animagus could have done it from the kitchens, and neither timeline made sense on their own. There were too many holes. There had to have been two killers, working from two parts of the Ministry.”
“Elaborate,” Gawain said.
“Well, if we go back to Eddie Sommers’ testimony, he was first placed under the Imperius in the ballroom when the photographers were causing a commotion. That was likely Delilah Hannigan disguised as her sister. But he later went back to the kitchens where he found a tray of champagne in a place wine wasn’t actively being poured. Delilah could not have gotten back into the kitchens, not with those elaborate robes. She could have Imperiused a second person to do the poisoning, but why wouldn’t she pick someone who was already in the ballroom?”
“I see where you are going, but Eddie said his memory of the night was fuzzy,” Kelly said.
“He did,” Harry conceded. “Yet that tray of wine glasses in the kitchen was the only concrete detail he gave us. It indicates it was important.”
Now Daniel was beginning to look as intrigued as Gawain.
“So if I am correct and Blaise Zabini is an owl Animagus, he flew into the Ministry. He could bypass security altogether because wizards don’t look closely at owls. Now the tricky part would have been for Blaise to blend in with the catering staff. If they are a close group, he might have had to do some Transfiguration.”
Kelly shook her head. “Magical Feasts Catering was short staffed. Half the servers working were laid off from two rival catering companies during the war. No one there knew everyone.”
“Then he could have poured out the champagne glasses, directed Eddie towards them, and flew away before anyone had a chance to notice him there.”
“Well, the Animagus angle is a hunch,” Gawain said. “But I think you are correct in that it would take two people to pull off this murder, and a mother/son duo would certainly be able to work together. Let’s gather the team.”
There was a combination of glee and dismay that Delilah Hannigan was now a top suspect. Glee because they had a new opportunity to catch her at her game for once. Dismay because they had not recognized her signature moves and because she had evaded them seven times before.
They ate the burgers, fish and chips, and sandwiches the Hidden Pumpkin provided and reviewed reports and threw out theories. Eventually the chalkboards on the walls were full of notes.
The week of Easter, Sharon Vane had a dinner party reportedly full of her friends from her modeling days. Source: Valerie Hawkins.
Was D.H. Present? B.Z.?
Raven King spent the night at the Vane house over Easter. Source: Valerie Hawkins.
Did R.K. Have any connection to B.Z.?
Two weeks before Romilda’s murder, Sharon Vane asked an unidentified female friend with a husky voice for a potion. Source: Jasmine Weston.
The potion, in question, was a legal abortive potion. Source: Sharon Vane
Was D.H. The potion maker?
Harry still wanted to send a message to Ginny. He’d tried to catch Gawain’s eye several times during the afternoon, only to have the older man give him a stern look. It was ridiculous, really. During the half hour that the Aurors spent discussing whether or not Delilah’s voice could be considered “husky,” Harry very obviously had nothing to contribute, having never met the woman, and could have easily gone to the Burrow and back without missing anything important.
As discussions continued, Harry tried to convince himself that the statistical probability of Ginny seeing Blaise that very day was small. Soon the Aurors had written on every blackboard on the walls, covering everything from when the diary could have been edited and returned to its spot under the floorboards to the possibility that Delilah, a trader of both potions and potion ingredients, could have engineered the crisis that had sent her younger sister to Antwerp.
They still had one significant problem.
When Kingsley Shacklebolt had first become Minister, he had drafted criminal justice reform laws, working with Gawain and the heads of the Wizengamot and Magical Law Enforcement. These laws had passed easily, and protected the Stan Shunpikes of the world. Unfortunately, search warrants were now far more difficult to obtain than they had been under Fudge or Scrimgeour.
In the evening, curries were delivered for their dinner. While eating their butter chicken, the Aurors moved on to reviewing the files of Delilah’s earlier murders. The Team Green Aurors were assigned to the files of Husband Number One, Matthew Edgar, a case Kelly named Murder in the Age of Disco. This, Harry learned, was a fair name as the photographs in the files all contained men in bell bottoms and women in sparkly halter tops.
In 1979, Delilah had not yet perfected her poisoning skills. Her husband had supposedly fallen off a boat and drowned in the middle of a party. It was like the Romilda case in that there was plenty of alcohol, confused testimonies, and impressive backstabbing, but Harry could not spot anything concrete that could tie this case to Romilda’s.
It was nearly ten before the Green team was willing to call it quits. None of the Auror teams had wanted to be the first to give up, so they had all stayed much longer than felt useful or wise. Kelly only permitted them to leave once Team Red packed up, presumably so they could be fresh for their morning gym sessions.
Harry was packing up his bag when the owl arrived for him.
Visited our favorite artist today. We got to talking about BZ. It’s him. He’s played us all. DG is willing to testify against him in the morning. Love, G.
He flagged down Kelly who was on her way out of the door and handed her the note.
“Your girlfriend knows it’s Blaise?” She said, quickly scanning the note. “Who is the artist? And DG?”
“Daphne Greengrass,” he said, even though he had no idea what she meant to testify, given that she’d attended Beauxbatons last year.
“I hate to get my hopes up given that Delilah has slipped out of our hands seven times, but if this Daphne can give us enough for a search warrant, she’ll be my new favorite person.”
To Harry’s surprise, Astoria, Ginny, Hermione, and Luna all showed up with Daphne the next morning. They weren’t allowed in the interrogation room with her, with the exception of Astoria, but they were all emphatic that they were there for moral support and were unwilling to leave until Daphne did. Harry had no idea what was in the wine they drank the previous evening to inspire this type of sisterly devotion.
He also had not been able to get the story out of either Ginny or Hermione the previous night. Both girls had been adamant that it was Daphne’s story to tell.
Theoretically, Ginny should never have been able to leave the Burrow last night. After Gawain’s warning the previous day, Arthur and Molly asked Ginny to have her Quibbler meeting with Luna and Hermione at the Burrow instead of at Luna’s as originally planned. She had complied, only to Floo over to the Greengrass home on a whim.
Harry supposed he should be grateful that she did, as she may have given them the evidence they needed to put the mother/son duo away, but he was definitely less impressed with the promise of the full protection of the Ministry that Gawain had invoked.
Harry was back in the observation room with the other trainees. Today, it was Kelly and Ingrid who were in the interview room with Daphne. Gawain had taken one look at Daphne’s face, and he’d declared it would be female Aurors only. He’d permitted Astoria to be in the room as moral support, which even Harry knew to be a rare occurrence.
As Daphne shared her story of being assaulted by Blaise the evening of the Yule Ball, Harry felt sickened. He had walked on the grounds that evening with Ron, and they’d seen many snogging couples, but it had never occurred to Harry that darker things were happening in the shrubbery.
And an ugly part of Harry was elated because he had felt certain that Blaise Zabini was no good. Feeling ashamed, he did his best to push Judgmental Harry away. No young girl deserved to go through what Daphne had experienced.
After the interview was over, and the girls took Daphne away, Gawain announced that the search warrant for the Hannigan townhouse had been granted.
There was no sign of life in the townhouse. The Aurors knocked, but no family members or servants answered the door. Finally, Kelly just tried turning the doorknob to find the front door was unlocked.
Stepping into the grand entryway, Harry knew he was entering another wealthy wizarding home. The ceilings seemed higher than possible, given the exterior of the townhouse. The decor was so ridiculous that Harry did not know what to focus on. The artwork that seemed far too erotic for a family home? The twisting serpent handrail on the circular staircase? Gold leaf on every fucking detail?
He thought of Eddie Sommers raising a younger sister in a cramped flat and his anger grew at the Zabini-Hannigans. Clearly, Delilah had thought that Eddie would go to Azkaban for her crimes and had not cared what happened to the young girl in his care.
The Aurors called out as they walked through the house. As the rooms seemed endless, they broke into twos and threes.
After some time Harry found himself paired with Nevile, exploring a seemingly endless corridor. Ahead of him, Harry thought he heard running footsteps and the slam of a door. He exchanged a glance with Neville, who had clearly heard it too, and they charged through double doors, wands in hand.
For one wild moment, Harry thought he had entered a portal to the Amazon rainforest. It was hot and humid, and his robes immediately wilted. Around him were lush plants that seemed a bit too large to be natural. He looked down and saw a stone floor beneath his feet. Looking back up at his surroundings, he could now make out brick walls barely visible beyond the dense plant life. Overhead there was a glass ceiling.
A courtyard.
But where had the noise come from? Someone had run into this courtyard, he was sure of it. Were they hiding in the plants?
“Expelliamus!” A male voice called behind him.
Harry turned to see Blaise holding his and Neville’s wands, blocking the doors. Oddly, he had done a Bubble Head Charm and wore dragon hide gloves.
“I can see why you favor that spell, Potter,” Zabini remarked. “Now tell me, how do you like my mother’s poison garden?”
Chapter 29: Chapter 29: The Poison Garden
Author's Notes: Do your characters ever say anything that surprises and disturbs you? Asking for a friend.
On a side note, Delilah’s poison garden is inspired by the poison garden at Alnwick Castle. I’ve wanted to put a poison garden into a story ever since I read about it. Google it if you haven’t heard of it, or if you simply want to put something in your browser history to put your partner on their best behavior. :)
Chapter 29: The Poison Garden
Behind him, he heard Neville choke at the mention of “poison garden.” Harry gave the greenery a worried glance, but given that he couldn’t see anything alarming other than the sheer size of the plants, his attention immediately went back to the man in front of him.
“Zabini, I must confess I didn’t think it was you.”
Now that Harry knew, he couldn’t believe that he had ever not been able to see it. Blaise might have the same beautiful features as his aunt Evelyn, but on him, they were wrong. The long lashed eyes were greedy and there was an evil twist to his lips.
Blaise smirked. “That’s quite all right, Potter. I’m used to being underestimated.”
Of course, any time Harry had been in the same room with Blaise in the past, the other boy had been actively charming someone: Professor Slughorn, Ginny. He wouldn’t have made his calculating nature known.
“Interesting way to look at it. I thought I’d overestimated you.”
“If you had done that, I couldn’t have disarmed you so easily. They don’t teach constant vigilance in the Auror Department anymore?”
He eyed Blaise, wondering if he could simply overpower him. They were approximately the same height, but he knew from the amusement in Blaise’s eyes that the other boy would be ready with a Shield Charm. He glanced over at Neville to see what his colleague was thinking, see if they could join forces, but Neville’s focus was solely on the plants, a look of horror on his face.
If Ron had been here, he would have been on the same page as Harry. The page in question might have been ridiculous, but they would be doing something to take down Blaise, wands or no wands. Instead, he had Neville who was more worried about killer plants than killer wizards.
He supposed distraction would have to do for now.
“So how long have you been an Animagus, Zabini?”
Blaise’s eyes widened. “So, you did work that out? A while.”
“That must have made it convenient for you to keep up with the movements of the girls, know who is going to leave their dormitory and when. So, did you get any studying done last year? Or did you spend all your evenings watching girls undress in their dormitories?”
Blaise raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying you wouldn’t? Probably even Longbottom over there wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“Not everyone is like you.”
Blaise gave him an evil grin. “I’ll say. I must admit I’ve watched you and Weasley. You’ve got her naked how many times this summer, and you still haven’t popped her cherry?”
Harry forgot he was in a poison garden and that Zabini had his wand. He ran at Blaise, his only thoughts involving his bare hands and Zabini in loads of pain.
Unfortunately for him, Blaise had not forgotten that he had Harry’s wand and was prepared with a Shield Charm. Harry, who had never run directly into a Shield Charm before, felt like he ran into very resistant jelly. He windmilled his arms, trying and failing to regain his balance. Then there were arms catching him. Neville. His friend had kept him from falling into a plant.
Fuck. Was that devil’s snare he had almost fallen into?
Harry glanced around him. Even with the devil’s snare, the courtyard garden didn’t look dark or dangerous. The plants here were admittedly unusual. There were lush pink flowers that were larger than Harry’s head, leaves big enough to be used as hats, and ivy that grew three stories high on trellises. If it weren’t for the fact that Neville was afraid of the plants, Harry would have felt as though he had fallen down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.
“Yes, it looks innocent enough, doesn’t it? You might even be able to breathe in here for up to 10 minutes before your lungs dry out, assuming nothing strangles you first. A rather ignominious end for the Boy Who Lived. Fortunately, I’ll be around to comfort Ginny when you’re gone.”
Ginny. Harry snapped his attention back to Blaise.
“Why Ginny?”
Blaise blinked. “Surely, you know the answer to that. She’s a remarkable witch. And not just in looks. First daughter of a seventh daughter and a seventh son of a seventh son, you know. That’s real power.”
“You want to kill her for being powerful?”
Blaise rolled his eyes. “Who said I wanted to kill her? What a waste of a gorgeous little body. I didn’t want Romilda dead either, but she annoyingly got pregnant. If it was mine, well, people all tend to look alike in my family. Could cause some awkward questions. Luckily, you and Malfoy are around to take the blame.”
“Why Malfoy?” Harry demanded.
He knew he should be figuring out how to get past Blaise, but he couldn’t resist the question. After weeks of wondering, why Romilda, why him, why Malfoy, he could actually ask.
“Same reason as you, Potter. I just don’t like him. Well, this Q&A session has been fun, but I should make sure your colleagues don’t come in here too soon. We can’t have you being rescued. Watch out for the Gobbling Greenwood. It can eat you.”
Before Harry and Neville could react, Blaise performed locking and silencing spells on the doors and Disapparated.
Harry ran to the doors. Locked. He backed up several feet then took off running at the door.
“Fuck!” There was a terrible feeling in his shoulder that he hoped were merely bruising and not a broken bone. “I’m out of my element here, Nev. How dangerous is this garden?”
“Very. Blaise’s 10 minute time frame might be generous. Some of the flowers have airborne poisons, as he indicated. Most of the ivys will strangle you. And that thing that resembles a palm tree? That’s the one that can eat you. And the fern can set you on fire.”
In Criminology class, their instructor, an ex-Auror named Angus McHugh, liked to open each class with a game called Worst Case Scenario. He’d come up with random and improbable scenarios: “You’re trapped in an abandoned house with an escaped convict. He has your wand. No one is around for miles, and the only things in the cabin are a cauldron full of water, a niffler, and a wooden stool. How do you gain control of the situation?” The details changed every week, but the premise was always the same. The Auror was left wandless, there was immediate danger, and no obvious advantage.
Harry and Neville had definitely found their Worst Case Scenario. He knew the game’s lesson was there were always choices for the resourceful, but he had no idea what their choices were here.
“So everything can kill us. Is there anything we can use to get out of here?”
Neville gave him a dirty look. “What do you think I’ve been doing while you’ve been interrogating Zabini?” His long term friend took on a bossy tone and, for the first time, Harry saw the Neville Longbottom who had kept together the student body in his seventh year. “We’ll want to ignore the entire southwest corner. Without protective equipment, all of it would kill us instantly. It’s possible we could use the fern as a smoke signal, but I think we have a few minutes before we risk burning to a crisp.”
“Is there anything similar to the Whomping Willow? If we could get a plant angry with the doors . . .”
Neville shook his head. “Only proper trees have that type of strength. The Obstinate Orchids might pack a bit of wallop.”
Harry followed his gaze to some potted purple flowers that would not have looked out of place in Aunt Petunia’s garden. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“The pollen is commonly used in explosives. It’s a primary ingredient in Fillibuster’s Fireworks.”
Harry remembered the fireworks that the twins used to set off in summers at the Burrow, and he had to admit that it wasn’t a bad idea. The orchids were in pots so Neville and Harry could each lift one without touching any part of the plant.
They stopped about ten feet away from the door and in unison hurled the flower pots at the double doors. There was a loud bang and smoke filled the garden. Harry and Neville both fell to their knees and covered their faces, but no splinters of wood came their way.
When there was silence, they looked up. The doors were intact. The flower pots were on their sides a few feet away, shards of terracotta scattered on the stone floor.
“Well, that was a warm up,” Neville decided. “Let’s see what we can find. Don’t step too close to the plant to your left. It’ll break your ankle.
In the longest five minutes of Harry’s life, they tried to use a Barbed Bamboo to break the locks off the doors but only succeeded in cutting themselves deeply in the arms; Harry aimed some trowels he found at the glass ceiling in the hopes the noise of breaking glass would alert the other Aurors but found he could not toss them three stories high; and they both attacked the doors with small shovels.
Then it came time to admit they were out of options. Harry’s lungs began to feel strained, as if he had held his breath under water a few seconds too long.
“We’re down to the fern, aren't we?”
Neville looked thoughtful. “If there is a way to throw it at the door without touching it, it would be worth a try.”
Neville began unearthing the fern with the shovel he had used to try to break down the door. The fern sparked each time he hit a root with the shovel. Harry grabbed a second shovel to help. Eventually they unearthed the smoking fern and carried it to the double doors, balanced between their shovels.
“On the count of three, let’s throw it at the doors as hard as we can,” Harry said. “One! Two! Three!”
The fern became a fireball as it was propelled through the air, and for one moment, Harry thought it would work and burn the heavy wooden doors down. But it bounced off the doors, which had clearly been fireproofed, and Harry and Neville both ducked.
What happened next Harry could only describe as a flaming game of volleyball. The fiery fern landed in the carnivorous palm, which instantly went into the flames, and one of its branches flung the fern towards another plant, which also caught fire and flung the fern towards yet another plant.
There were pockets of fire all over the garden, none of them near the doors. It was very possible they would die in this self contained fire, without anyone even knowing there was a fire in the house.
In Herbology class, Harry had learned that plants could be willful and resistant, but he had never thought of plants as a force before. Not even after seeing Professor Sprout and Neville use them to defend Hogwarts. These plants were soldiers, a defending army, and he and Neville were the invaders who had to be stopped at any cost.
The smoke was unbearable now, and Harry knew he did not have much longer. As Blaise had said, it would be an ignominious end for him.
Chapter 30: Chapter 30: The Most Awkward Double Date
Author's Notes: Nearly done! After this chapter, there are only two more chapters and an epilogue.
Chapter 30: The Most Awkward Double Date
July 2, 1998, 4:52 p.m.
St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
When Harry had joined the Aurors, Ginny had been prepared for many things. That Harry would be Stunned regularly, that he’d collect a few new scars, that he’d have to work the occasional Christmas, and that there would be things about his job that he couldn’t tell her.
She had not been prepared for airborne poison.
When they received the owl stating that Harry had inhaled airborne poisons while out on a case and was being treated with ventilation charms on the Potions and Plant Poisoning floor of St. Mungo’s, she had no frame of reference. How much poison? Was he in critical condition? Or would he simply be coughing for the next week?
And she hated St. Mungo’s with its endless corridors, patients who had been cursed to have eels for fingers or antlers for ears, and it’s bossy staff.
“Ginny, don’t run. We don’t need another inpatient.”
Ginny ignored her mother. She’d paused at the Welcome Witch’s desk long enough to learn where her boyfriend was admitted. Besides she wasn’t running; she was walking briskly.
She couldn’t help it if her mother’s legs weren’t long enough to keep up.
When she reached Harry and Neville’s room, she expected to find grim faced Healers hovering over Harry’s unconscious form. Instead, she found both boys sitting up in their beds, entertaining their colleagues with a story.
“And then we threw the flaming fern at the door,” Harry was saying, making tossing motions.
“And then everything was on fire!” Neville said. “Except the door we were trying to burn down, of course.”
The Aurors all laughed.
“I thought we were done for,” Harry said. “And then . . . Ginny!”
“I was led to believe that I would find you on your deathbed,” Ginny said with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Turns out they don’t make deathbeds like they used to,” Harry said.
“So, this is Arthur and Molly’s disobedient daughter?” A middle aged man asked.
“That she is, Gawain,” Molly remarked behind her, before Ginny could respond.
“What is this?” Ginny said, noting that Harry was pinkening.
“That’s how my parents introduce me too. Hi, Ginny!” Kelly said.
“Hi, Kelly,” Ginny said. She had met Harry’s mentor on a couple previous occasions and liked her very much, but today her focus was all on Harry. She locked eyes with him. “So, you were nearly in flames . . .”
“Oh, it was just a little warm,” Harry said, looking away.
“Oh, but I want to hear this.” She sat down on the edge of his bed. “So, there were flames everywhere. Except the door.”
Harry seemed eager to wrap up story time. “But then Delilah Hannigan came home. As Blaise had done locking and silencing charms on the courtyard, she had no idea she would find her beloved plants in flame.”
“I never thought I would flatten a classmate’s mother,” Neville said. “But if it had to happen, I’m glad Blaise’s mum was the mum in question.”
“She was sent off to Azkaban a bit bruised,” an Auror confirmed. “There may have been a boot print on her face.”
“So, Blaise and his mum are both in Azkaban?” Ginny asked.
She noticed that Harry was staring at her intently.
“Yes, they are,” Kelly confirmed.
“Good,” Ginny said. “May they rot for what they did to Romilda.”
July 17, 1998, 7:00 p.m.
Chez Magique, Diagon Alley
It was a testament to how much Harry loved Ginny that he agreed to a double date with Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass. But she could see his resolve was being tested as he sat across from Malfoy at Chez Magique, the hottest new restaurant in Diagon Alley.
“I forgot to ask, Astoria, did Daphne ever get to come here with Roger?” Ginny asked.
“She did, and she wore her super sexy robes. And they broke up three days later,” Astoria said.
“Well, she won’t stay single for long if she keeps wearing those robes,” Ginny said.
“Ugh, don’t encourage her. She’ll only find another Roger.”
Both boys made a face.
“What?” Ginny said.
“Roger Davies? That Roger?” Harry asked.
“Yes. That Roger,” Astoria said with a face that said she quite agreed.
“You have found your first common ground,” Ginny said to Harry and Draco. “A shared hatred of Roger Davies.”
“Well, what’s to like?” Harry said, and at the same time, Draco said, ““He’s not even that good at Quidditch.”
Ginny and Astoria both laughed.
“Have either of you been here? It’s the first time for both me and Harry.” Ginny asked.
Draco shook his head.
“No, but I was excited when you suggested it,” Astoria said. “It’s getting great reviews. It even won over the cranky food critic at the Prophet, Milton Boyles.”
Postwar, Diagon Alley was in a state of transition. Several stores that had been in business for centuries had been shuttered permanently, while new ones were opening that were at odds with the reigning Diagon Alley aesthetic of cluttered, dark, and antique. And with each new business opening, the Daily Prophet published a new and angry letter-to-the-editor from traditional witches and wizards who were concerned that interest in Muggle culture indicated a backlash against wizarding culture.
There was a new bookshop that offered a tea and coffee shop on premises (“It is a disgrace to the prestigious history of printing to have tea stains on tomes!” Virgil Atkinson, 83, of Northumberland wrote to the Prophet), a boutique that sold Muggle influenced women’s fashions (“An attack on feminine modesty,” Ginny’s own Great Aunt Muriel wrote), and several pricey restaurants like Chez Magique that offered small plates and rainbow colored martinis (“You mark my words, there are mind control potions in those fruity drinks,” Archibald Wallace, 99, of Kent wrote).
But the angriest pureblood of all was Walton Dalrymple, 103, of Cornwall who penned a letter-to-the-editor titled “It’s OK to be a wizard” to the Prophet, which inspired both a movement of support and a movement of mockery.
Ginny didn’t understand the outrage with Chez Magique. While it was more modern than most restaurants in Diagon Alley with its elegant and minimalist decor, the ceiling had been charmed to resemble the sky in a nod to Hogwarts, and there was nothing specifically Muggle about its appearance. The menu did depart from the traditional British fare that dominated Diagon Alley for centuries, instead offering dishes from a fusion of cultures. Milton Boyles, the food critic, was in agreement with her, having called dinner at Chez Magique a meal time Grand Tour of Europe.
“I read that article, too,” Ginny said. “That’s part of the reason I suggested it. My friend, Hannah, is going to start working here next week.”
“Hannah Abbott?” Harry asked.
“Yes, she’s training to be a chef. She’ll need to do a few years of culinary school in France if she wants to start her own restaurant, but the head chef here was good friends with her mum, so she’ll start her training under him.”
“That’s exciting,” Astoria said. “I love to cook, but I’ve never considered it as a career path. It would be fun to follow your own vision and set your own menus, but working nights is unappealing to me.”
“I could never enjoy cooking,” Ginny said. “I’ve been my mum’s sous chef for too long, and our family is huge. I do have a great love of eating–all the Weasleys do–so I suppose that will always force me to cook. But I much prefer this, enjoying a glass of wine and ordering a meal that someone else prepared.”
“It is nice,” Astoria said. “I’m a little surprised no one asked if I was seventeen before giving me wine.”
She blushed after saying that, and Ginny supposed she hadn’t meant to draw attention to the fact that she was the youngest at the table. She knew what the other girl meant though. Ginny had taken great care with her appearance that evening, borrowing a midnight blue fit-and-flare dress from Hermione and following a smokey eye tutorial in Witch Weekly, hoping that she would not look too young to dine at Chez Magique.
It felt glamorous to be eating there, with the long white tablecloths, the heavy silver candelabras on each table, and the witches in beautiful clothing. It wasn’t like having a meal at the Leaky Cauldron with her mum on a shopping day or going to the Three Broomsticks with a Hogwarts date. It was one of those adults only activities that she had always assumed would be in her future when she would have a full time job.
“I’m not of age either,” Ginny confessed to put her at ease. “I have an August birthday. I suppose it’s a perk of being out with these two.”
“Because Draco and I are such old men?” Harry asked.
“Old and venerable,” Ginny said. “I think I see a little silver at your temples.”
“After my second near brush with Azkaban, I feel old,” Draco confessed. “In hindsight, I should have known it was Blaise.”
“Why is that?” Harry asked. “He fooled everyone.”
“After I read the news, I remembered something Crabbe said to Zabini at a Valentine’s Day poker party in the Slytherin Common Room. While everyone else was playing cards and drinking, Crabbe and Goyle snuck out to roam the castle, looking for girls to attack. After they were caught by one of the Carrows, Zabini criticized Crabbe for his actions. Crabbe responded with, ‘You’re no better than us.’ At the time, I thought it was a standard, ‘Who are you to judge me?’ response, but Crabbe was outing Zabini. Because if Crabbe and Goyle were caught, Zabini would go down with them.”
Ginny pondered that. “There were no known rapes after that.”
“Because Zabini had realized what a liability the other boys were,” Draco said. “His reputation was clean, but he could fall quickly.”
“And he began focusing solely on Romilda after that point,” Harry said.
“Why did he kill her?” Draco said. “Was she going to turn him in?”
“No, she didn’t know who her attackers were,” Harry said. He quickly did a Muffliato charm. “It’s been kept out of the papers, but Romilda was pregnant at the time of her murder.”
“And everyone in Blaise’s family looks alike. Do you think Blaise will be convicted?”
Harry nodded. “He confessed to me and Neville when he thought we wouldn’t survive his mother’s poison garden.”
Draco stared. “You were in the famous Zabini poison garden? With the man eating tree?”
“Yes, and everything was on fire,” Harry said.
Ginny rolled her eyes. Count on Harry to want to emphasize the danger. “You caused that fire.”
“Of course we did. We were wandless and locked in a poison garden. How else were we supposed to draw anyone’s attention?”
Astoria took a sip of her wine. “Sounds like you had fun.”
“Join the Aurors and you’ll never miss out on the fun.” Harry paused to ponder that. “Actually, consider that. Our current sketch artist can’t do half of what you can.”
“Astoria’s training to be a healer,” Draco said.
“You can draw, cook, and heal?” Ginny said. “Very impressive.”
“She is very impressive,” Draco said quietly.
“What are your plans, Draco? Please don’t say the Aurors,” Harry said. He leaned across the table and added, “I’ve heard you can’t sketch a stick figure.”
Draco laughed. “You heard wrong. I draw a mean stick figure. But no, not the Aurors. I have an interview with Gringotts next week. They have a new class of Curse Breakers starting soon.”
“You didn’t tell me that!” Astoria said. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s just an interview,” Draco said. “If I don’t get it, I might end up stuck at the potions journal my father keeps pushing me towards.”
Ginny had never seen Draco look uncertain before, and she had a curious urge to reassure him. “Good luck, Draco. My brother, Bill, is a curse breaker, and he loves it. He worked in Egypt when he was single.”
“I’d have to stick to domestic work for five years due to my Ministry ruling, but that’s okay. I’ve been studying the Druids and other civilizations of ancient Britain, and there is some pretty interesting local work.”
To Ginny's surprise, Harry raised his wine glass. “To a successful interview.”
They all clinked glasses, and Ginny felt proud of her boyfriend. She knew he would never like Draco, and she probably wouldn’t either, but they both liked Astoria and felt it was time for a civil and adult relationship with Draco Malfoy.
Chapter 31: Chapter 31: The Portrait
Chapter 31: The PortraitJuly 29, 1998
Greengrass Townhouse, London
Astoria woke early on the day that Draco’s painting was to be revealed. She’d had terrible dreams, and she felt certain that all three Malfoys would hate her work. What had she been thinking to paint him in the library? The Malfoys were all about masculine shows of power and she had portrayed their heir as a poet dreamer.
At three in the morning, all she could think about was what she should have painted instead. Lucius, who was probably the trickiest customer of the three, would have loved to see Draco on horseback. Or she could have painted Draco as a lone figure on top of a hill with his cloak billowing behind him. Billowing cloaks were a huge hit in pureblood circles. When one walked down the portrait gallery of the London Institute of Wizarding Arts, it was pretty much one big billowing cloak fashion show.
At four, she accepted that she wouldn’t fall back asleep. She got up, made herself a cup of tea, and opened and closed the same novel a dozen times.
At seven, she bathed and dressed with care. She selected pale green robes, thinking the Malfoys would respond best to Slytherin colors and that the soft shade complimented her coloring. She pondered putting her hair up, but then thought it would be a too obvious attempt at appearing older. Instead, she’s parted it on the side and left it shiny and straight.
She reckoned there was a decent chance that they’d hate the portrait, so she prepared to sell them on its merits. She knew from Draco’s chattier moments that there was a literary branch in his family tree. There were two mediocre historians, one prize-winning poet, and several speech writers in the Malfoy family. She’d convince them that the portrait was a nod to these Malfoy achievements.
And if her art career came to a fiery end, she always had her dream of becoming a healer. She wouldn’t need Malfoy approval for that.
Ten o’ clock came too soon, and Astoria found herself facing the three Malfoys, a magical sheet draped over the canvas.
While she couldn’t say she had grown accustomed to Malfoy Manor over the last month and a half, it no longer felt like a storybook setting to her. The manor house was impressive and the grounds were breathtaking, but it was now familiar. She had painted Draco in the library, picnicked by the lake, and swapped stories with Draco in the gazebo. She even suspected that one of the family ghosts had taken a liking to her.
The lord and lady of the house, on the other hand, were as imposing as they were in June. Narcissa was unfailingly polite, but never warm. And Lucius was as slippery as the day she had first been introduced to him. Facing them, she felt as shy as she had been as a small child and she summoned up all of her courage.
“On the day I met Draco, he told me that this library was his favorite place in all of Malfoy Manor. Over the last month, I’ve learned more about Draco and also about the literary figures of the Malfoy family, and so the setting just seemed more appropriate.”
She yanked the sheet off of the portrait.
An eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy was immortalized on the window seat of the Malfoy library. He had an open volume of potion making theory open in his lap, but the painting captured him looking away from the volume and on to the grounds that he was to inherit. On the ground were stacks of books Astoria knew to be Draco’s favorites: travel memoir, adventure novels of the late eighteenth century, and magical theory.
In revealing the portrait to the family, Astoria felt like she was seeing it for the first time and what she saw was not the careful depiction of the gardens outside the library or the books she carefully selected to feature, or the rich texture of the silver velvet curtains.
What she saw was Draco. A glowing pinkness to his pale skin, bright gray eyes, and silvery hair that looked very touchable.
Was it too intimate?
Did it look like a portrait painted by a smitten woman? She felt her cheeks pinken, as she wondered how she had never seen it before.
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were both studying the portrait as if unsure of what they thought. Draco, on the other hand, looked relieved. For the first time, Astoria realized he had been afraid of what he would find, what the painting would reveal about him, ever since the day she had told him about her abilities.
He doesn’t trust himself at all, she realized.
Astoria knew what it was to distrust her body, having arranged her life to the whims of her medical conditions. She knew that when she woke up feeling weak and feverish, a relapse was on its way, and she’d spend the next week receiving blood replenishment potions. Then whenever she was stressed or worried, she experienced the same symptoms, whether she was actually ill or not, because fear had always been physical to her.
But to distrust her own character, that would be terrible. What did Draco fear was inside him?
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She smiled at him, but she was still cautiously watching the two elder Malfoys. Then Mrs. Malfoy spoke.
“It has taken eighteen years, but finally someone has noticed that Draco looks like me.”
Astoria blinked in surprise. Draco was so very obviously Lucius’s son from his coloring to his height and build to his pointed chin. But then she saw it. The expression that Draco wore in the portrait was much like Narcissa’s, and there was an emphasis on the long, slender fingered hands that he had inherited from his mother.
“Well, of course,” Astoria said, as if no one could have doubted it.
Meanwhile, Lucius looked horrified that anyone could think Draco to be anything but his double. Draco and Narcissa both laughed at his expression. Astoria wanted to laugh as well, but she didn’t know which Malfoy would be paying her final invoice.
“Come, I need to show you something,” Draco said.
“Now?” She looked at his parents, who were both still studying the portrait.
“They won’t miss us. Trust me.”
To her surprise, Draco dragged her outside through the parlor’s double doors.
“Where are we going?” To the best of her knowledge, she had seen the entire Malfoy grounds on her first visit to the manor.
“You’ll see.”
After a bit of walking, the destination became more clear. “The lake house?”
But when they entered the lake house, it wasn’t the floral wallpapered building she remembered with its equally floral upholstered sofas.
“It looks like a library in here.”
“Do you remember when you said you were going to steal my library and live among the books?” Draco asked.
“Yes?”
“Well, I may have stolen your idea.”
“You stole my stealing mission? How dare you!” She sat on an armchair. “Please explain why you moved your books from the inside of your house to the outside of your house.”
“This is my house now.”
“You live in the lake house?”
“For the time being,” Draco said. “I plan to get a flat once I finish my training at Gringotts, but this seemed like a decent first step. The house has a lot of bad memories attached to it. There are good memories from my childhood, of course, but the last two years were awful. When I was young, this little house was my escape, so for now, it’s my home.”
Astoria took a look around. The floral wallpaper had been replaced by a pale green print, at least in the bits of wall that weren’t covered by bookshelves. The red and green floral sofas were replaced by leather couches. And behind a couch, she could see something furry.
“Is that a puppy?”
“C’mere, Merlin!” Draco called, and a puppy with golden curly fur came running to him.
Astoria got off the armchair and sat on her knees on the floor. She stayed very still, hoping the small dog came to her. Sure enough, he approached her and put his front paws on her knees, looking up at her with large brown eyes.
“Oh, I love him! When did you get him?”
Draco joined her on the ground. “The day after I moved in here. I’ve always wanted a dog, but neither of my parents would permit a dog in their house. They’re a bit less particular about the lake house.”
“But how could anyone resist this face?” Astoria asked, scratching Merlin behind the ear.
“My parents? Easily. Mother calls him my rat.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Astoria assured the puppy. “You’re not a rat.”
“Having a dog might make it a little trickier to find a flat, and I’ll definitely have to wait until Merlin’s housebroken for us to move, but he’s worth it.”
“He is. And until then, this will be a nice place to live. It’s very peaceful in here,” she said.
“That’s what I was going for,” Draco said. “The house is ancestor after ancestor on every wall. I’ve never been able to see who I am apart from them. I may not have gone far, being in the lake house, but it’s enough my own that I can sit with my thoughts and make my own plans.”
“I love it, Draco. It really suits you.”
* * * *
Astoria went back into the house to Floo home. In the corridor, she paused when she heard her name.
“I regret hiring Astoria,” Narcissa was saying, “I can’t help but feel something bigger is in motion, and there is no stopping it.”
“It’s a canvas and oil,” Lucius was saying. “If you don’t like it, it doesn’t need to go up. It’s not like we’re entertaining these days.”
“No, it’s not about the portrait. I like the portrait; it captures our son. But it captured the artist too, and the story it tells is that she loves him. There is so much affection in these brushstrokes. It’s unmistakable.”
“I thought that was why you hired her. Pretty pureblood girl from a respectable family.”
“No, I picked her because she has abilities beyond her skill with a brush. But she’s poorly suited to Draco. Her sister would be ideal, but Astoria is sickly. A blood disorder, a genetic one.”
“And it didn’t occur to you that two teenagers might be attracted to each other?” Lucius sounded angry. “A blood disorder!”
“It should have, but Astoria was a pretty little girl, precocious and sweet, the last time I saw her. I’m afraid I didn’t do the maths. If I’d realized she was less than a year from coming of age, I wouldn’t have hired her.”
“Five miscarriages before Draco.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Lucius.” Narcissa’s voice was the sternest Astoria had ever heard it. “I haven’t forgotten the three miscarriages after he was born either.”
“She will not do. We’ll have to forbid it.”
“Don’t be absurd! If we forbid it, he’ll marry her! Our son is itching for a rebellion, if you haven’t read the signs. She has two years of schooling left. That’s a considerable length of time for the young. If we leave them alone, the relationship should die naturally.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll need to make sure Draco comes to his senses. But he should be given the opportunity to make the right choice on his own.”
Astoria weighed her options. She had to walk past the open door to get to the fireplace she traditionally Floo’d in and out of. The old Astoria would have attempted to sneak silently past and hope they didn’t notice.
The new Astoria preferred to embarrass them.
She backed up silently in the corridor, so they wouldn’t know she had been eavesdropping and then began walking loudly in the direction of the fireplace. As she neared the parlor, she poked in.
“I’m so glad that you’re both here. I was worried that I would miss you.” Damn, they were calm. You’d never know they had just been gossiping from their expressions. “Well, I wanted to say thank you for this opportunity. Otherwise, I would have spent my summer, stocking wine bottles in the family store. I hope you love the portrait as much as I do. ‘Bye now!”
She walked away before they could respond.
She hoped Draco found a flat soon. It had to be terrible living with those people.
Chapter 32: Chapter 32: The Present
Author's Notes: After 3 years, Framed is finally done. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as I loved writing it, and it was nice to write some fluff after so many dark chapters. I’m currently outlining the sequel (working title is Chopped) where Hannah Abbott’s boss at Chez Magique is found murdered. I think, assuming I can keep the swearing under control, that I’ll be able to keep the next fic PG-13. It might be a while before I post anything, as I want to do things properly this time: write a few chapters in advance, get a beta reader, etc. Thanks for reading everyone. If you have been reading but have never commented, I would love to hear from you.
Chapter 32: The Present
August 11, 1998, 8:32 a.m.
The Burrow
“You think I should wear that?” Ginny demanded as Hermione held up some tracksuit bottoms. “Is my birthday surprise from Harry a gardening expedition?”
To her annoyance, both Hermione and her mother laughed at that.
“No gardening, I promise,” Hermione said. “The look you want to go for is casual and comfortable, but very, very cute. You’ll want this too.”
Ginny caught the garment Hermione had tossed at her. “Because nothing says cute and date worthy like a sports bra squishing my chest into a uniboob?”
“You won’t have a uniboob! You’ll look like Sporty Spice, that Muggle singer I told you about.”
Ginny wasn’t about to be flattered with comparisons to celebrities. “If you are directing me towards this,” she said holding up the clothes. “Clearly, Harry has something casual planned. Why can’t I wear jeans and a pretty top?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Not at the moment!” Ginny said.
“Just wear what she tells you,” Molly said. “I can French braid your hair. You’ll want it out of your way.”
“Why?” Ginny demanded. “Is it going to get caught in something?”
Much to her annoyance, everything she said was funny to Hermione and her mum. She gave in and let them dress her and fix her hair, listening for any clues. Apparently, she was preparing to visit a location that demanded sporty attire and a full face of makeup.
A few minutes before she was supposed to meet Harry in the garden, Hermione tossed a bag at her.
“Here! You’ll need this.”
“A ha! Clues!” She rummaged through the tote. Sunblock potion, her swimming costume, and a towel. A beach towel, to be specific. “Underwater gardening expedition?”
Hermione laughed. “Go on, birthday girl. You’ll find out soon enough.”
As went downstairs, she hoped their destination wasn’t Shell Cottage. As much as she loved her older brother and his seaside home, it wasn’t where she wanted to spend her seventeenth birthday. Surely, Hermione would have talked him out of such an unromantic plan.
When she met Harry in the garden, she found he was wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and trainers.
“Why do you get to wear normal clothes?” she demanded. “Thanks to Hermione’s fashion advice, I look like I’m having lunch with Madam Hooch! I’m going back and putting on jeans.”
He grabbed her hand. “No, don’t. What you have on is perfect.”
“No, I . . .”
Ginny forgot what she was about to say when he kissed her.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
“Happy birthday,” she said, then flushed when she realized what she had said. “I mean, thank you.”
He laughed. “We should get going; we’ll be late.”
“But my clothes!”
“Are perfect.”
“Harry! Where are we going?”
“Do you trust me?”
“That’s the second time I’ve been asked that today.”
He kissed her. “Do you trust me?”
“No, but I’ll kiss you.”
“That’s too bad because you can’t see your birthday surprise until you trust me.”
“Boys always play dirty.” When Harry just looked at her, she said, “All right, all right. I trust you!”
He laughed, and then they disapparated.
The first thing she noticed was everything was blue. Blue sky, blue water. It was gorgeous and definitely not Shell Cottage. It explained the items in her bag, but not what she was currently wearing.
In spite of her confusion, an excitement she couldn’t explain was building. There was something about this place.
“A beach day? Why did I need a sports bra?”
Harry was grinning at her. “Welcome to Holyhead.”
“That Holyhead?” She looked around her. There was a wild beauty to this place, but it also felt somewhat remote. Shouldn’t it be busier given it was a major Quidditch town? “But there’s no match today!”
“No, but there is practice, and the Harpies are expecting you. Come on, the stadium is this way.”
She followed him away from the rocky beach and inland. There was a quaint town, but Harry was leading her away from that and down a neglected looking road. “How can they be expecting me? Gwenog and I aren’t exactly penpals.”
“Do you remember when I dropped off some files at Kelly’s flat last month?” Harry asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, Kelly’s girlfriend’s sister was also over at the flat. And Felicity is a Harpie.”
“Felicity Harris? The best Chaser in the league? Kelly is dating Felicity Harris’ sister?”
“I don’t know if dating is the term I’d use given that they’ve lived together for three years, but yes. I told Felicity about you, and she told me that one of their Chasers plans to retire at the end of the season to start a family.”
Ginny frowned. “Which one?”
“I don’t remember, sorry. Anyhow, I was still thinking of what we could do on your birthday. I had considered Holyhead, thinking we could picnic on the beach, maybe walk around the stadium. But meeting Felicity, I asked if she could get us inside the stadium.
“I didn’t hear from her for a while, so I figured I had overstepped. But at the end of last week, I got an owl from her while at work. She said she’d talked to Gwenog and that you were welcome to join the Harpies for their practice today.”
“I’m playing with the Harpies? What if I’m not good enough?” Ginny asked. “If I’d known I’d see Gwenog Jones, I would have practiced.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Of course, you’re good enough. You’re easily the best player at Hogwarts.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend. Also you are easy to please.”
“I’m hardly easy to please. And I say it because you are. Besides, I thought that you’d feel that way. That’s why I kept challenging you on the pitch all weekend.”
It was true. He had done that, and she had wondered why.
“But I could have done more. Run laps around the pond, done sit ups, and not eaten all of those biscuits Mum has been baking.” Her eyes widened. “Merlin, is my belly getting soft?”
Harry laughed as she pinched her waistline. “Your belly is not getting soft. Now come along. Gwenog Jones will not be impressed if we are late.”
Ginny hurried. The road seemed endless.
“They wanted to keep the stadium far from Muggle residents,” Harry explained. “There are Muggle repelling charms, and if a Muggle gets too close it looks like a burned down factory. Any Muggle in Holyhead will tell you that they built submarines here during the world wars even though no one can produce a grandparent that actually worked in the factory.”
“What are submarines?”
Harry got that adorably confused expression he wore whenever her father asked about Muggle devices. “Er, remember the ship that the Durmstrang students traveled to Hogwarts on? It’s the Muggle equivalent of that. They’re basically underwater warships.”
Ginny stopped. “Muggles cannot travel underwater.”
Harry laughed. “I promise you they can. Now come on.”
When they arrived, there was a brunette of medium height waiting outside the stadium gate. Ginny recognized her as Felicity Harris. She looked friendly with her heart-shaped face and bright brown eyes. Like Ginny, she was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms in a shade of Harpies green. Unlike Ginny, she wasn’t wearing a vest over her sports bra, and Ginny could tell from her abs that Felicity had not spent the last week eating biscuits as she had.
“Ginny?” Felicity was clearly of the Molly Weasley school of hugging, where ribs were all cracked in good fun. “It’s so great to meet you!” She moved on to cracking Harry’s ribs. “Hi, Harry! Good to see you!”
“Thanks so much for this, Felicity,” Harry said.
“Don’t thank me. If Ginny is half as good as you say, Gwenog will appreciate the sneak peek.”
Ginny shifted uneasily. What had Harry told Felicity?
“Come on, Ginny,” Felicity said. “We have an hour before practice, so we’ll give you a tour of the stadium and then introduce you to Gwenog before practice.” She stopped, which probably indicated that Ginny had been wearing her panic on her face. “Don’t get intimidated by Gwenog. She’s all poker face.”
“All right.”
“When I tried out, I was convinced Gwenog hated me. After tryouts, I threw up in the bushes outside the stadium, convinced I had blown all chances of a Quidditch career, and then spent the next week telling I knew that I would never be a Harpie. Then I got my owl telling me I made the reserve team. I think it took me a full year before I could read whether she was pleased with me or annoyed.”
If that was supposed to be comforting, it had failed, but Ginny smiled and nodded. As Felicity showed them around the stadium, Ginny found her confidence and asked her questions about her career as a Harpie and how the expectations differed from the reality.
At twenty, Felicity was still new enough that she could remember how she felt as a new recruit, and her advice was of the big sisterly sort, “In the beginning, the Prophet is going to try to convince you that you’re the next big thing to butter you up for an interview, but the important thing is that you work hard because one good game never ensures another” or “Never accept a drink from the Puddlemere players. They are not above adding love potions to a girl’s drink.”
Ginny had relaxed by the time she was to meet Gwenog. Harry had held back and stayed quiet during the tour, even though Ginny knew that professional Quidditch stadiums were as new to him as they were to her. Like her, he’d only seen the Hogwarts stadium and the giant stadium that had been built for the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. While the Holyhead stadium was small compared to the World Cup’s, it was far more luxurious than Hogwarts’ with comfortable seating, boxes for priority guests, and concession stands.
Gwenog was, as Felicity stated, expressionless. “Weasley. So you’re one of the Gryffindor chasers?”
Ginny blinked. “Yes, I’m a chaser for Gryffindor.”
“I’ve seen you play, once as chaser and once as seeker. You’re a good flier, but a little over confident.”
Gwenog had seen her play? She pinkened, hoping Gwenog had not been there the time she’d tried to run over Zacharias Smith when he had been commentator. “Er, I have six older brothers. Confidence is a survival skill in my family,” Ginny said.
“Six brothers? That certainly explains some things. Well, go on. You can use one of our spare brooms today.”
While Harry had brought her broom with them, the “spare” broom they offered her was the latest Nimbus model, so she took it rather than her own broom, which was actually Percy’s old broom.
She felt nervous kicking off in a professional Quidditch stadium with a bunch of grown women who seemed as though they had grown up on a broom. It didn’t help to remember that she too was an official adult, as she hadn’t had time to grow accustomed to adulthood yet. Eventually, the excitement of flying overcame her nervousness, and it helped to know that Harry was watching her in the bleachers.
The view above the stadium was breathtaking. In one direction, Ginny saw the Irish Sea and in all others was the Welsh countryside. It seemed unreal that this was the daily view for the Harpies, and she wondered why most of the wizarding world dreamed of working for the Ministry with its cubicles and programmed window views.
The Harpies were friendly. They teased Ginny good naturedly, Felicity flew by to explain things to her from time to time, and one of the Chasers, Ani, taught her a useful acceleration trick.
By mid-day, she became aware that Harry was no longer in his spot and she grew nervous. She knew he wouldn’t ditch her there; she hadn’t even taken her Apparition test yet. But it did make her nervous not to know where he was. She showered and dressed with the others and when she left the locker room, it was to find Harry was waiting for her with a picnic basket.
“You were brilliant, Ginny. You really belonged out there with the other women. I think even Gwenog was impressed. It was difficult to tell,” he conceded, “but I think she frowned less as practice went on.”
Ginny loved that Harry was as excited by her successes as he was about his own.
“Which could have nothing to do with me and everything to do with the team that her reputation actually depends on.”
“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure you were the one she was pleased with.” He held up the basket. “Lunch on the beach?”
“Yes, please. That was one intense practice session, and I’m starving.”
They walked out to the beach after Ginny thanked Gwenog and the team, and Harry laid out a large blanket on the sand. He pulled out chicken sandwiches, a bottle of chilled white wine, two glasses, bottled water, and a small basket of strawberries.
“I could see you living here, Ginny,” he told her. “You and Domino in your little flat, with everything just how you like it.”
She was pleased that he remembered her plans to have her own place for a year, and she could picture it too. Just her and her little black-and-white cat. Listening to music in the morning as she had her Earl Grey. Picking out her favorite market in town to buy her groceries. Going for drinks with the girls after Quidditch practice. And weekends in bed with Harry in her little flat.
“I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I can see it too. Have you ever visited a place and loved it instantly?”
And she did love Holyhead. She loved the rocky coastline, the country air, and the stadium, and she knew that if she were to walk down high street, it would feel just like home.
“Yes. Twice actually.”
“Really? What were the places?” She took the glass of wine that Harry handed her.
“Hogwarts, of course. Then the Burrow.”
“The Burrow? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. You grew up there, so you don’t understand how special it is. Most people don’t grow up with families like yours. Everything about the Burrow is so very Weasley, and it will always be my favorite place.”
“You’re mental, and I love you.”
As they ate their lunch, Ginny told him about the other girls. When they finished their sandwiches and were working on their dessert of strawberries, an owl arrived.
“That’s Elisabeth’s owl,” Harry said. “I hope everything is all right with Grimmauld Place. We wanted to move in when you and Hermione go off to Hogwarts.”
Harry took the parchment from the owl, giving the bird a drink of water.
“It’s ready. My house is all done!”
Ginny was amused. “Harry, did you ask her to send the owl here?”
Harry looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I recall you insisting that we wait until I came of age. Apparently, the passage of a few weeks would preserve your ability to look my parents in the eye?” She was pleased when he turned a more brilliant shade of red than she had ever seen on a human being. “And here I am, of age. And there is an owl announcing that you have a brand new bed. All when my mum does not expect us for hours.”
“This wasn’t . . . I wouldn’t assume . . . pure coincidence. I planned swimming!”
“Isn’t a little early for you to be unable to string together full sentences? I still have all my clothes on.”
Something registered with Harry. “Still? Does this mean you want to take them off?”
“Have you heard the ancient wizarding custom that a witch gets whatever she wants on her birthday. Especially when she turns seventeen?”
“And what is it that you want?”
She leaned towards him as if to disclose a secret. “Not swimming.”
When Ginny was fourteen, she and the girls in her dormitory discussed how they wanted to lose their virginity. Ginny, who had read her first Ariel Prescott novel that summer, had a very cliche answer involving lacy lingerie, candlelight, and rose petals on the bed.
She would have never expected the real story would involve running through Grimmauld Place with Harry Potter, her decidedly unsexy sports bra ending up on a crystal chandelier in the entryway, their clothing abandoned on the stairs and hallway, Harry saying, “I think this bedroom is mine” as they tumbled through the doorway.
And she wouldn’t have it any other way.
The Burrow, 7:00 p.m.
Like every year, Ginny’s birthday dinner was held outside. Molly had cooked Ginny’s favorites all day, the presents table was higher than usual, Crookshanks and Domino joined forces in gnome hunting, and her family members were milling around the garden, wine glasses in hand now that everyone in the family was of age.
“The house is ready?” Ron was saying. “We could move in now?”
“Theoretically, yes. We can go see it tomorrow,” Harry said.
“I can’t believe you didn’t go over right away,” Ron said.
“Well, it’s Ginny’s birthday, and we were busy in Wales. You should have seen her on the pitch with the Harpies. She was brilliant!”
It might have been Ginny’s imagination but she thought that both Hermione and George were eyeing her and Harry with suspicion.
“I don’t suppose you could get me into the Cannons stadium for my birthday,” Ron said.
“Not unless Kelly has a contact there too,” Harry said, the corners of his mouth twitching. He turned to George. “Are you sure you don’t want to move in with us? You’d still be close to the shop, and there’s plenty of room.”
“I’ve thought about it, mate,” George said. “But I’ve made some plans for the fall.”
“Are you finally going to tell us what you’ve been so secretive about?” Ginny said.
“I’m an open book,” George said in mock offense.
“You and Lee have been planning something for months now.”
“Has anyone told you’re bloody nosy?” George said, but he was smiling. “Yes, my plans involve Lee. Angelina and Alicia too.”
“What’s going on?” Ron said.
“During the war, the five of us spent a lot of time together. Usually, we hung out after Potterwatch broadcasts, but other times too. We drank too much, and we made plans of a sort. We created our bucket lists of what we would do if we survived the war. Given that none of us expected that we would, the lists got kind of extravagant with daring feats and faraway travel.”
“So, you’re completing your bucket lists? Don’t you have the rest of your life to do that?” Hermione asked.
“No, we’re completing Fred’s since he’s not around to do so. We think he would approve. We might have made this decision when we were under the influence of firewhisky after Fred’s funeral, but we were all still in agreement once we sobered up.”
“Do you need to travel?” Ginny asked.
George nodded. “We’re starting in China in September and then working our way west. There are travel stops and some dares along the way. I’ll need to cliff dive at some point. And snog royalty; not sure how I’ll manage that.”
“Have you told Mum?” Ron asked.
“I plan to tonight. She’ll be in a good mood, and I’ll make sure she’s had some wine before I share the news. And just in case she takes it badly, I made sure my Portkey to China was nonrefundable.”
“I think it’s brilliant,” Harry said. “And you’re right. Fred would have loved it.”
“He would have,” Ginny agreed.
Soon after, Luna arrived, Neville a few minutes later. Ginny counted herself lucky to have the people she loved most in the world there to celebrate her seventeenth. The family that had formed her character. The friends who had been through every challenge of the last few years with her.
And Harry. Her future.
Epilogue
From the August issue of The Quibbler:
We Are All Romilda Vane
By Ginny M. Weasley
In my sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I was lucky enough to get to know Romilda Vane.
I’m not here to glamorize Romilda. It is a well known truth that beautiful dead girls sell newspapers, and many articles have focused on her beauty and her tragedy, neither which require embellishment. I’m not here to pretend that I was her best friend and that no one knew her like I did. Romilda and I existed on the edges of each other’s lives.
I’m here to tell you what the rest of the articles miss: Romilda was a warrior, one of the strongest girls I ever met.
Our paths crossed when Romilda went through a terrible experience that would have broken other girls. It was a horrible year to be at Hogwarts, one where Unforgivable Curses became a routine part of school discipline. Every student there either endured unthinkable things or did unthinkable things.
Romilda endured magical attacks on her mind and her body, and she fought back. She became a critical part of the Hogwarts Resistance. Over the school year, a girl who had always been decorative became accomplished.
Romilda Vane is not a cautionary tale to tell your daughters. She did nothing wrong, nothing to deserve her fate. She wasn’t a predestined tragedy who lived and died to entertain readers. She should not be reduced to merely a beautiful face on the cover of your newspaper.
She was a real flesh and blood girl, who could have been any of us. Like all of us, she was neither sinner nor saint, living in the murkiness of life. She was a natural leader, a girl who loved beauty, and she was incredibly alive. She was strong willed and difficult. Like many who died during the war, she deserves to still be here with us.
In this post-war time, we are all Romilda Vane. We have lived through things no one should have to live through. We have found strength in ourselves that we never suspected could be there. And we are all more vulnerable than we ever realized.
And at this time, we need all the difficult girls, all of the Romilda Vanes that we can get.