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.
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Category: Post-DH/AB Characters:None Genres: Action/Adventure, Romance Warnings: Dark Fiction, Death, Extreme Language, Mild Sexual Situations, Negative Alcohol Use, Rape Story is Complete Rating: R Reviews: 193 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. Hitcount: Story Total: 56276; Chapter Total: 1455 Awards: View Trophy Room Author's Notes: |
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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 rosés 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.” |
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