Tangled Webs, Chapter 16
Oh man, it's been forever. I never thought a project could take this long. But here it is, perhaps the most important chapter of the story. Probably.
Chapter Sixteen
In which there is revenge
Friday, December 8, 2017
He didn't know where Griflet had found the thin manila folder, but it looked very professional. The same could not be said of the untidy mess of scrap parchment and photographs that the folder contained, but that was alright. The important thing was that the necessary information was there, and in that regard Griflet never failed.
There was the short biography: date of birth, date of death, family, House and year of admission to Hogwarts. There was a small handwriting sample, in case it was necessary. And there were photographs; more than a dozen, from all sorts of occasions. The dead man had been a photographer, so a camera had never been far from hand. That was good: the photographs were the most important part. From them, he could learn the dead man's expressions, the way he held himself, could try to guess at the way he thought. It was an incomplete reconstruction - there was no way to tell what the man's voice had sounded like, or how he had phrased his words - but it was enough.
His mother had been friends with the dead man. She didn't discuss the War much - no one did - but she'd mentioned the name once, when he asked who took that photograph of her on the night of the Triwizard Tournament's Yule Ball. Knowing that should have made him feel guilty about what he planned. But it didn't.
Jimmy threw the folder in the fire, and made sure it was reduced completely to ash.
-----
Freddie watched his cousin sniffle, and searched his heart for the shred of sympathy he knew must be there, somewhere. Rosie was both his cousin and his friend, and she was clearly very upset; yet beyond a vague feeling that she'd had it coming, he felt nothing.
"How can he be so mean?" Rosie demanded between tears. Freddie passed her another tissue, but didn't answer. "I hate him so much," she went on. "He's cruel and heartless and I hope he dies!"
"You don't really mean that," Freddie said, patting her shoulder gently and wishing, not for the first time, that Gabby was around to do the comforting. He wasn't very good at it and, to make matters worse, he'd secretly thought it was hilarious. But that was the sort of thing Ginny would call 'unhelpful', so Freddie kept it to himself.
"Yes I do," Rosie said. "He's horrible."
Freddie wanted to tell her that she wasn't much better, and that was why she deserved everything Jimmy had done to her and more. She was the one who had been making snide remarks about that article in the Inquisition, even though anyone with eyes could tell both Gin and Jimmy were extremely upset about it. Possibly Rosie had thought Jimmy deserved it for not being upset about Harry's incarceration in Saint Mungo's, but to Freddie that wasn't a justification at all. He'd always found that Rosie could be just as blindly self-righteous as Hermione. Her comments had been cruel, simple as that.
Jimmy's response, on the other hand, had been inspired. They all knew Rosie wanted to be a writer when she grew up, and so Jimmy had stolen some of her work and put on a play in the Common Room.
"I've never really thought of myself as exceptional," he'd begun, holding the stolen parchment before him as though it were Yorrick's skull, and he was Hamlet in the throws of his madness. "I'm only average height, and have brown hair, although people tell me my eyes are pretty." He'd smiled coyly at his rapidly growing audience, and fluttered his eyelashes. Really, if he ever gave up on the whole 'greatest wizard the world has ever seen' thing, Jimmy could make a killing on the stage, Freddie thought.
"I'm kind of a bookworm, so I guess I'm a good student," Jimmy continued. "But none of that mattered after I met him. My life changed forever after I met him."
That had been about when Rosie came in, and realized what was going on. She'd flown at Jimmy, demanding the return of her papers, but he'd nimbly avoided her, darting around the Common Room as he continued his recitation. "I'd just come back from Quidditch practice, so of course my hair was a mess, and there he was, sitting on the front steps of the school. I'd never seen him before. I would have remembered if I had. His hair shone black like midnight," Jimmy tossed his own brass hair like a model in a shampoo advertisement, "and there was a cold blue fire in his eyes. I knew at once that he was special."
"Give it back!" Rosie shrieked, and finally Jimmy had stopped dodging her. Instead, he caught her around the throat and pulled her close. If they hadn't stopped directly in front of Freddie, he never would have heard what Jimmy said next.
"If you ever say so much as one word against my mother again, Rosalind," he'd growled, "this will be the last thing you ever write." He'd moved closer, looming over Rosie despite being no more than two inches taller. "I will cut off each of your fingers in the most painful way I can imagine, then your hands. And then," Jimmy had said, his voice the most menacing whisper Freddie had ever heard, "I will cut out that hateful tongue of yours."
Rosie had gasped, and turned very pale. Jimmy had shoved her away from him, dropped the parchment pages on the floor, and stormed out of the Common Room. Which left Freddie here, trying to console his distraught cousin while the other students whispered and spread rumours among themselves. Freddie could hear a few wondering, more loudly than was wise, if Harry Potter's madness had been passed on to his son. No doubt this incident would be all over the school by dinner time.
"I hope he burns in hell," Rosie sniffed.
He probably will, Freddie thought, as he patted Rosie's shoulder in what was, hopefully, a consoling way. I just hope he doesn't send the rest of us there before him to pave the way.
-----
Draco could still remember the day Pansy had announced that someday she would become a wealthy independent business-woman and own her own publishing house. It had been a day in the early fall of their sixth year, and many of the oldest Slytherins were enjoying the sunshine down by the lake.
The announcement hadn't been met with quite the acclaim Pansy had hoped for. Greg gave a great, troll-like snort, and Crabbe guffawed. Blaise had been lying on his back with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, but he'd rolled over and fixed Pansy with a piercing stare. "What have you been smoking?" he drawled, sounding like he had a broom shoved up his arse. Blaise had never been as clever as he'd thought himself.
"That's nice, Pans," Draco had said casually, inspecting the core of the apple he'd just finished. Pansy's look of gratitude had been replaced by one of fury when he continued, "You can start by working for the Quibbler. They're always looking for more head-cases to write for them."
Even though Pansy had sworn that she'd show them all, just wait, Draco had still been shocked when Silver Media had grabbed more than a fifty percent market share in the magical media. He'd been even more surprised when, a few short weeks later, someone had proposed to the pug-nosed president of the company. But either Pansy had grown used to being on her own, or she had enough sense to realize that the man was just after her money - or maybe she was a lesbian, as Blaise had always claimed - and the man had been turned down, as had every suitor since.
Pansy might have been a self-made media mogul, but Draco was an aristocrat, a successful businessman, and better looking to boot, so he didn't feel the least bit intimidated when he strolled into the luxurious presidential office at Silver Media. In typical Slytherin fashion, the room was done in rich green and dark wood, with only the tackiness of the silver picture frames giving away Pansy's status as one of the nouveau riche. Maybe that's unfair, Draco thought. After all, it was entirely possible that the lack of taste was unique to Pansy.
The president was reclined on an emerald chaise lounge when Draco entered. Sabine would have had a lot to say if she could have seen the look through lowered lashes that Pansy directed at Draco, starting with disgust at the amount of mascara Pansy wore and progressing to possessive, harpy-esque screeching that Draco was her husband and fat bitches ought to keep their tentacles to themselves. In some regards, Sabine had never really grown up, although perhaps she had a reason to be jealous. Not of Pansy, though.
Pansy's purred greeting pulled Draco's thoughts back to his immediate surroundings. "Draco, darling."
"Save it for someone who doesn't know you, Pans," Draco said, settling himself in the armchair across from her. At a lazy wave of his hand, the teapot obligingly filled a cup for him. He sniffed it appreciatively, his nose catching the dark, spicy aroma. Whatever else might be said of her, Pansy probably brewed the best tea in the country.
"Well, hello to you too," she answered with a sniff, sitting up. "Most men would be offering me the world on a platter right now. Are you sure your banshee of a wife hasn't castrated you?"
"They're just after your money."
Pansy sulkily bit into a biscuit. "That was the only reason you ever had a girlfriend at Hogwarts, you know."
"Are here I thought it was my winning personality," Draco retorted. He didn't bother trying to insult her; long experience had taught him that Pansy was only this openly aggressive when she was feeling inferior. Another woman who never grew up.
Pansy wasn't mollified. "And what does his royal poncy-ness want of me today? Not the pleasure of my company."
"If this is about that dratted ball…" Draco warned, but his words fell on deaf ears.
"Of course, he says that he wants to invite me, but of course he never does. Doesn't even make an effort. Chooses his airheaded trophy wife over his oldest friends. There's loyalty for you - but wait, he always was a traitor, wasn't he? Every cause there ever was…"
Draco slammed the teacup down with enough force that it shattered. Tea went everywhere, splashing on upholstery and robes and soaking the thick carpet underfoot. For the first time in two decades, Pansy was rendered speechless and her mouth fell open in shock.
But even that wasn't enough to keep her silent for more than a minute. "Draco, I…"
"Enough. You want an invite? Fine, come to the damn ball. It'll be a nice send off."
"What…?"
Draco stood imperiously and glared down at her. "I came to negotiate terms, but now I'm in the mood for a hostile takeover. The lawyers will be here in an hour."
He whirled and strode out. The door was falling closed behind him by the time Pansy grasped the meaning of his words. Her scream followed him down the hall. "Not my company!"
-----
"It's not really for me to question, but..." He trailed off, his hesitation making it plain just how uncertain he was. It really wasn't his place to say anything at all, but somehow he found himself overstepping his bounds.
"Out with it, then," the younger boy sighed. He didn't look up from his house of Exploding Snap cards, which featured Gringotts's characteristic columns today. Building these structures while deep in thought was a habit he seemed to share with Freddie although, unlike Freddie, his never seemed to blow up.
The older boy sighed. "Are you sure this isn't going to make things worse?"
"How do you know what I have planned?" The question seemed mild enough, but there was a slight edge to it that would have been overlooked by anyone who didn't know the speaker well.
The boy chose his answer carefully. "I know nothing, but I suspect everything."
"And everyone," came the dry reply.
"Do I suppose too much?" He heard a slight bite creeping into his own voice, and immediately regretted it. It wouldn't do for him to lose his temper, especially with this boy.
The younger boy's sigh made the card house shiver precariously, but it didn't collapse. "Unfortunately not."
He wanted to ask if the smaller boy would rather not go through with it, but he had already overstepped his place too many times in this conversation. Asking such a question would be tantamount to be asking for the younger boy's thoughts, the knowing of which was not a luxury given to him. "It is the best course, then." It wasn't a question, not really, but it was hard to put away his doubts entirely.
"It would seem so." He didn't command that not a word be said of the matter, but the older boy wouldn't say anything anyway. His role - his only role, for now - was to be loyal, and he would never betray that.
-----
Draco's feelings of dread started as soon as he saw the haggard expressions that his secretaries wore. Hearing the words, "Your wife has been fire-calling, sir. Every fifteen minutes," was like hearing the bells of Armageddon tolling just for him.
"Oh, fuck," he muttered. At any other time, the looks of deep sympathy and understanding that he received from all three secretaries might have been heart-warming. Now it only filled his stomach with dread. If Sabine was calling that often, rather than destroying property and leaving for her parents', she was angrier than he'd ever seen her before. And there was only one thing it could be about.
A string of profanities that no well brought-up witch had any business knowing greeted him when he stepped into the office. Draco shut the door carefully behind him, moving slowly as though any sudden movement would trigger actual violence from Sabine. Which, in fact, it might - he wouldn't put it past her to floo right here and hex him, then yell at him after.
"Sabine," he began, although he wasn't sure how he was going to continue past that.
"Don't tell me you can explain," she snapped.
Oddly enough, that helped him think of something to say. "I won't, because I can't."
"What were you doing with that woman?" Never once, in all their years of marriage, had Sabine said Ginny's name. It only occurred to him now that he'd never told her, either. Which raised the question of how Sabine had known about Ginny to begin with, and how much she knew. Now's not the time for that, he reminded himself.
"I had not seen that woman, as you call her, for fifteen years before Jimmy broke Scorpius's nose and Pomona called me in to the school," Draco said, as levelly as he could. Belatedly, it occurred to him that calling the boy 'Jimmy' would do very little to help his case with Sabine. Hopefully she was too distracted by her anger to notice his slip.
"And you expect me to believe that, do you? Rumours don't start from nothing, Draco." Unfortunately, she had a point. Two, actually: there was always something underneath rumours, if you looked deep enough; and it wasn't strictly true that it had been fifteen years since he'd last seen Ginny.
"Are you angry because I didn't tell you about the article right away, or because you think I was cheating on you?" Draco knew that most people would consider the answer to this question obvious, but you could never be entirely sure with Sabine. The strangest things could set her off - like that business with her mirror last week. Not now… really, he needed to start getting more sleep. He was just too easily distracted these days.
"Both," Sabine said, decisively. She paused for a minute, perhaps trying to decide if there was anything else she should add to the list.
"Then I will point out," Draco said, "that the curse on the Malfoy family stands, as it has for centuries. So unless you're telling me that Scorpius isn't my son, there is no way that Jimmy Weasley could be."
Sabine's eyes narrowed dangerously, and her lips tightened, but at last she nodded. "Fine. So the article is a lie. That doesn't excuse you from not telling me. Mon puce had to tell me." And he was very, very upset, was added implicitly to her words.
"You're right. I should have told you, and then we could have addressed this properly as a family." He said it as sincerely as he could, but Sabine's eyes still narrowed suspiciously.
"'As a family'? It's been a while since I heard those words from you."
Draco sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. "Can we stick to one fight at a time, please, Sabine?" he asked wearily. "Yes, I am a cold, cruel bastard who neglects his family for his work. Can we set that aside for the moment to try and deal with the current crisis? We'll address my bad habits later, I promise."
"Oh, yes, we will," Sabine agreed firmly. But, apparently mollified and willing to follow good sense when she heard it, she asked more calmly, "Would it help if I came over there?"
Draco's first instinct was to dismiss the idea outright, but he fought it aside. "I don't know," he said. And really, he didn't. He should - he always made it his business to know things like that, to be better prepared and more aware than anyone else. But this last week things just seemed to have been moving too fast, and his head was constantly spinning, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on and stay in control. "You've never come over here before," he added, thinking aloud. "What would people make of it, do you think?"
"Are you saying it would be suspicious?" she asked.
"No. I'm honestly asking what you think - you know how people think and react." He scrubbed a hand across his face, as though doing so could wipe away some of the tiredness. "I'm too stressed to think clearly about it right now," he admitted, "so I was hoping you'd know."
Had Sabine ever looked so pleased before? Anyone would think he'd given her the greatest compliment in the world, instead of just admitting he was tired and confused. "Absolutely," she said. "What we will do is this: I will stay here. If I come to England, it will only look like this article has affected us. And we will step up preparations for the ball." Not my ball, Draco noticed. The ball. It was now officially an event for the entire Malfoy family.
But… "I'm not sure I follow."
"Surely you remember - Albus Potter is coming to stay with us. We will use this as an opportunity to show people that we are close with the Potter family because our sons our friends."
Actually, that made a lot of sense. Sabine had always been very astute when it came to family reputation and gossip, but he'd never really appreciated just how clever she could be. Perhaps once this was all over he would think about using her frequent vacations to help out Malfoy Enterprises - she would probably be even better at the social finagling than Daphne.
But Sabine wasn't done. "We'll invite a few more prominent members of England's magical community. Just a few, though - we don't want to appear reactionary. And," she gave a resigned sigh, "perhaps I will enlist the help of that odious little wretch Gabrielle Delacour. She is Harry Potter's sister-in-law, after all."
That reminded Draco of something Ginny had said last week. "Isn't Scorpius friends with a number of the Weasley spawn?"
Sabine frowned slightly at the crude term, but didn't correct it. Well, she had opinions about English wizards in general, and those who favoured muggle ways over traditional wizarding ones in particular. She could be very like his father, in that respect. "Fleur Delacour's daughter, yes, and I believe a few of the others." She considered for a moment. "I should like to invite Fleur, but I do not think I can. It has been too long since she retired from Society."
"That's a problem?" Draco asked, baffled. Whether she'd retired from Society or not, Draco remembered Fleur Delacour as being a beautiful, enchanting woman. Surely people would be willing to overlook the fact that she had chosen to live a normal life, instead of one filled with glitter and gossip?
But Sabine was nodding very seriously. "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Ah, but! His Excellency Percival Weasley -" His Excellency? Draco thought, shocked, "- will be attending, and that will do very nicely. There is the family connection, but it will not appear that we are trying to make a statement. It will simply show how very…" she waved her hands, searching for the word, "connected everyone is."
"Yes, I suppose it will," Draco agree. His Excellency Percy the Prat… He could still vividly remember Ginny griping about her brother's exonerations to work hard at her studies - "As though I don't get enough of that from Hermione as it is!" she'd said.
Thinking of school reminded him of something else he ought to tell Sabine. "I know you dislike her," he began hesitantly, "but I'm afraid I've invited Pansy to the ball." He held up his hands quickly, buying himself a moment to explain. "Silver Media owns the Inquisition, and in a fit of pique I initiated a hostile takeover." He paused, trying to gauge her reaction.
"Go on," Sabine said slowly.
"She kept harping on about how she was never invited, so I told her that she might as well come, since it would make a nice send-off."
Unexpectedly, Sabine laughed. "If we are lucky, she is so angry that she won't even poke her nose through the door. Well, perhaps it's a good thing," she added, sobering. "I had wondered if you might be more willing to attend if a few more of your friends were in attendance." Coming from Sabine, that was quite the concession. Draco was amazed.
"So you wouldn't mind if I invited a few people who are tolerable company?" he asked, scarcely able to believe this turn of events.
"Well, only a few," Sabine said. "We cannot lower the tone of the event by too much."
It was probably a joke, but Draco wasn't sure. Still, he smiled and said, "I'll make you a list of those who know how to use a fork. It won't be very long, I promise."
She laughed appreciatively. "Perhaps this will be good for us, Draco. Perhaps we can finally become a proper family."
Draco's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe," he said. But I doubt it.
-----
It was all very well to put Weasleys in Gryffindor, Jimmy thought. The pack of them were brave to the point of stupidity, after all, not to mention courageous and stout-hearted and all those other synonyms which meant they thought with their guts instead of their heads. But why, why did the Gryffindor colours have to be red and gold? There was nothing in the world which clashed quite so horribly with the Weasley hair as red did, except maybe maroon. Gryffindor himself had reputedly been a red-head, which made the colour choice completely nonsensical. How silly must he have looked, riding into battle all dressed in red?
"So, what aren't you thinking about?" Freddie was sprawled on his bed in the dormitory, his hair clashing riotously with the bedspread. The image he presented was what had initially prompted Jimmy's musings, although his cousin was right in guessing that he was mostly trying to avoid thinking about other things.
Just what those things were, he wasn't prepared to tell Freddie, however. "Best you don't know."
"One of those things, huh? But if I'm coming with you..."
"You're not," Jimmy cut him off. He had no idea where Freddie had gotten the idea that he was going somewhere, but it wouldn't do to encourage it. "I'm working solo on this one." There was no sense in denying he was up to something: he'd run into Freddie shortly after leaving his mother's room yesterday, and there had been no disguising his anger.
"Secret agents shouldn't work alone." There was no sense asking where Freddie got this idea from - he had millions of them, all seemingly plucked randomly from the ether. "They need partners to provide cover, and..."
"Exactly." Cutting Freddie off in the middle of a sentence was so natural to Jimmy that neither boy ever noticed that he did it frequently. It had been his prerogative for as long as either of them could remember, and the only shocking thing would have been if someone suggested that he should let Freddie finish. "But there's no room for a Bond Girl on this one. I need you to play Q."
Freddie couldn't hold his pout for long, and it quickly changed into a wicked grin. "That's alright. My cat suit is at the cleaner's, anyway."
Really, really, best not to ask how he comes up with all this, Jimmy thought. Freddie was Freddie, after all, and it was probably best for his sanity if he didn't question some things.
"So," Freddie continued, "what can WWW do for you today?"
Jimmy's return grin was crooked, and slightly feral. "Cover. I might be back late." And I don't want anyone to know I was gone. Freddie nodded, obviously understanding the unspoken addendum. "A couple of those disguises you're working on... four should do it."
"Four?" Freddie yelped. "That's half my stock. And they're still experimental, anyway."
Jimmy shrugged. If they failed, then they failed: he would have back-ups in place, anyway. "I doubt I'll need them all, but I'd rather not be caught needing one and not have it."
"Fine," his cousin grumbled. "You'll let me know what you think, won't you? Purely for R&D purposes. But I'm sure you won't have a problem: you could fool your own mother with these things."
Jimmy raised a single aristocratic eyebrow. "I hope I won't have to test that claim."
Freddie contrived to suddenly look both very red and very pale. "Oh shite... Gin'll kill me if she finds out I'm covering for you on something. You won't get caught, will you?" He was almost pleading.
"I never get caught," Jimmy said with a smirk.
-----
"Hello Ginny," he said. Today his eyes were the beautiful bright green that she remembered from long ago, without the fog of madness that had clouded them for so many years.
"Hello Harry. How are you?" Ginny asked, although she could see without his saying. Today was one of the good days, when Harry was truly present. In a way, these times were the most heartbreaking, because they were the only time that Harry realized the full extent of what had happened to him. She would have spared him that pain if she could.
His smile was gentle. "I'm well, thank you. I'm glad you finally brought me in."
"Harry…"
But he shook his head. "You should have left me years ago. No, you never should have married me. But I know why you did, and…"
"Now's not the time, Harry," she said urgently, frantically indicating the small group that had followed her into the hospital room.
Harry's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Oh," he said. "I see. May I ask what's going on?" But when Ginny opened her mouth to respond, he cut her off. "I'd rather hear it from James himself, if you please."
Ginny clenched her jaw to keep herself from retorting sharply. Whenever something happened, Harry always assumed it was Jimmy's fault, even if he hadn't been involved at all. He never even seemed to realize how unfairly he treated the boy.
"It's alright, Mum," her son said quietly. "I know he doesn't mean it like that." Ginny wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but she appreciated that he was trying to reassure her. But oh, how she wished he didn't have to! She was his mother; she ought to be the one defending him. "You see, Dad, Mr. Creevey here published an article in the Inquisition claiming that I was Mr. Malfoy's son, and finding that out was what drove you 'round the twist so you ended up here."
Ginny glanced down at her son. As a summary, it was correct and complete, but she wished Jimmy had thought a bit more about his delivery. Some parents believed in being very informal with their children, but they'd always raised their children to show respect for their elders. And she'd certainly taught Jimmy better than to bait Harry like this.
"Creevey… Dennis?" Harry asked, turning his attention to the reporter. Dennis Creevey, odious creeper that he was, shuffled a little under the scrutiny of his boyhood idol. "I see. So," he continued, slipping into the mannerisms that he had used when mediating disputes between feuding children and Aurors alike, "that explains why you and James are here. But why Mr… I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name. From the Prophet, right?"
"Jenkins, sir," the man said. Harry apparently didn't remember the man, but Ginny did: Jenkins was a fanatical Harry Potter fan who had somehow contrived to cover every public event the Potter family attended. He was mostly harmless, but still very annoying. "Mr. Creevey's allegations have created quite a sensation, and since we at the Prophet feel it is our duty to let people know the truth…" he trailed off under Harry's stern glare.
"The Prophet's truth, Mr. Jenkins, is whatever the Prophet feels will best serve its own interests."
"That's all very well, Harry," Ginny cut in, "but Creepy's allegations have caused problems for me and the children. Albus is taking it especially hard." Which was sort-of true: he wasn't speaking to her, at any rate.
"What do you expect me to do about it?"
Ginny wanted to groan. He really had the bit between his teeth now - she'd thought the mention of Albus would make him more amicable, but apparently it was only serving to remind him that while one of his sons had come to visit, it wasn't the one he wanted to see. "We'd like to do a paternity test to clear things up once and for all."
"Are you sure, Ginny?" Harry asked. He was looking at her suspiciously. "I seem to remember that you and Malfoy were quite close. You even lived with him for a time."
"Harry!" Ginny snapped. Of all the times for his ridiculous jealousy to surface, now was quite probably the worst possible. "That was almost twenty years ago." She could feel the shocked eyes of everyone in the room on her now, and she had to keep from flushing brilliant red. Blast Harry and his jealousy. If only he'd been mad today, this would have been so much easier. Even as she thought it, she was appalled at herself.
"Fifteen. Until just before we got married."
"I left him to marry you." And even after so many years, it hurt to say it. She'd cried over it on her wedding night, and then promised herself she would never look back, would never regret the choice she'd made.
"And I always said you shouldn't," he shot back.
There was only one card left for Ginny to play, and she was angry enough to do it without feeling guilty. "If I have to sedate you and take your blood by force to keep this family together, Harry Potter, so help me Circe I will." She saw his eyes widen in guilt and fear. She continued, more levelly, "Think of the boys, Harry; you know how close Albus and James are." From the corner of her eye, Ginny could see Jimmy staring at her. He'd be wondering why she'd said that, when anyone who knew the boys could tell it was a blatant lie. Harry, though, would know that she was referring to how close the boys weren't, especially with regards to their blood.
Harry's jaw tightened. "Fine. But you can't blame me if things don't go the way you want."
"Have no fear of that," Ginny snapped. "Jake, if you would."
Jake Kontapopolous stepped forward from where he'd slouched against the wall behind Creevey and Jenkins. Ginny didn't like the assessing look he sent her, but pretended she didn't see it. "Sorry about this, Harry," he said, pulling out his wand. "This'll sting a bit." He used his wand to open a small cut in Harry's hand and squeezed the blood into a glass vial. He healed the cut absently, then turned to Jimmy.
"I'll do it myself," the boy said pettishly. Ginny frowned, but didn't say anything. Jimmy could be particular about some things, often for no apparent reason, but there was no reason why he shouldn't do this himself. So when Jake glanced at her questioningly, she nodded her approval.
When Jimmy's blood had been added to Harry's, Jake turned to Ginny again. "Are you sure you want to go through with this, Healer Weasley?"
"Of course I am," she said, rolling her eyes.
He shrugged. "Sorry, it's protocol. You know how it is." With a slight incline of her head, Ginny acknowledged this. She well remembered that Saint Mungo's was a bureaucratic place, full of protocols and procedures. "Well gentlemen," Jake continued, turning to the two journalists, "this is a standard paternity test." He held up a bottle of bright green potion. "It turns blue when there's a match, and yellow when there isn't. Quills ready?"
Ginny couldn't help rolling her eyes, and noticed Jimmy doing the same. This flair for the dramatic really was tedious.
"Here we go," Jake said, uncorking the bottle and pouring a portion of green liquid into the vial. It was terribly anticlimactic, as Ginny had known it would be. There was no flash of light or swirl of colour; the green simply faded to a deep teal and settled there. This, Ginny thought, is why standard procedure is just to tell people the results. They get so disappointed when important tests aren't concluded in a dramatic fashion.
"Blue?" Creevey asked, sounding disappointed.
Jake gave the vial a little shake. "Not as strong a blue as normal - the potion must be old. But indisputable, nonetheless."
"I see," Jenkins said. "Mr. Potter, a comment?"
Harry looked about to say something, but closed his mouth again when Ginny glared fiercely at him. "I'll have a word with you. With both of you," she said, glaring at Creevey, who was inching towards the door. "Jake, if you wouldn't mind taking Jimmy down to the floo portal? He needs to get back to Hogwarts to do his homework."
"No problem, boss," Jake said, as casually as if he had never doubted her fidelity to her husband. Ginny didn't believe it for a moment.
----
It was a small flat, poorly decorated with posters of quidditch teams and muggle bands. A plastic plant sat on the television, and another had been pushed behind the lone armchair. The dishes were clean, but mismatched, and the dirty laundry made a pile that spilled out the bedroom door. It was, quite obviously, the flat of a bachelor who spent very little time at home.
Jimmy wandered about, picking up books and photographs at random, getting a feel for the place. Compared to the Burrow, where he had grown up, it felt empty. The Burrow wasn't always a happy place, but it was a place to go back to at the end of the day, a place to call home. This flat was just a place to store things - including, on occasion, its owner's unconscious body.
When ten minutes had passed, he put on the first of the disguises he'd got from Freddie. He didn't feel any different, but to all appearances he now occupied far more space. Though also small for his age, the boy he now resembled had been sixteen, and therefore much taller than Jimmy's twelve year old self.
He'd only had the disguise on for a minute when the fire flared up, and Dennis Creevey stepped out. For a minute, words seemed to fail him. "Sweet mother of God," he murmured at last, and fell to his knees. "Colin… you're…"
Jimmy smiled. The expression Dennis saw on his brother's face was not one Colin had ever worn in life. This smile was dark and bitter, hardly a smile at all. "Alive? No. Nor a ghost."
"You're dead," Dennis said. The mix of emotions in his voice was heartbreaking, but wasted on the young man before him.
Jimmy advanced slowly towards the kneeling reporter, stalking his prey like a cat. "You've done it, Dennis. You've made your name as a reporter."
"Yes," Dennis answered, and there was something like pride in his voice.
"And you did it by hurting your friends. My friends. You dragged Ginny's name through the mud, Dennis. And your own. Hmm?" It wasn't how the real Colin would have spoken, Jimmy was sure. Colin had been a teenager, and a muggle-born besides, and it probably came through in his speech. But Dennis looked too shocked to think of that.
"But I have evidence," the reported wailed. "I'm sorry Colin, I'm so sorry, but it's true."
"Show me," Jimmy said. He didn't sound like Colin at all.
Dennis didn't notice. He scrambled to his feet and over to the bookcase, from which he pulled a tattered old album. He flipped through the album hurriedly, and Jimmy could see his hands shaking. "Here. This photo." He brought it forward for Jimmy's inspection. "I took it during my fifth year, at Christmas."
Jimmy stared at the photo. The photographer - Dennis - had captured two people in the act of turning, irritated expressions on their faces. Snow swirled around them, adding to the dramatic quality. The woman, with her shining hair and multitude of freckles, was obviously a much younger Ginny Weasley. And next to her was a red-haired young man who might have been an older version of Jimmy himself. The resemblance was so strong that he could almost believe it was himself, magically transported to the end days of the War.
"I wrote on the back. See?" Dennis pulled the photograph from page and turned it over. On the back, written in shaky school-boy script, were the words, Ginny and Scorpius Weasley, December 19th, 1998.
"Scorpius Weasley?" Jimmy meant to sound casual, but the words came out in a breathless whisper.
"That's what he said. What they both said. But doesn't he look like someone?"
And he did. Oh Circe, does he ever.
------
"Not that it's any of my business," Jake began, in that tone of voice which so often accompanied extreme nosiness, "but why a standard paternity test? The one you developed is far more conclusive."
Ginny shrugged as casually as she was able and accepted the mug of tea he passed her. "Don't you think that would have seemed a little suspect? Since I developed the test, there would always be someone who wondered if I didn't control the outcome."
"They're the same people who will think teal isn't a conclusive result either," he returned.
The problem with Jake, Ginny had long ago learned, was that beneath all that self-importance lay an extremely agile mind. On those occasions when he was willing to bestir himself, his ready intelligence could be a great blessing - or a royal pain in the arse. "Then perhaps that test would have revealed something I preferred to keep hidden." She peered challengingly at him through lowered lashes. "You're Harry's primary Healer, Jake. Do you mean to tell me you've never tested his blood?"
"I've never had reason to." Until now. No doubt he would run the test as soon as she left the hospital tonight. She had hoped to avoid this, but Harry's behaviour earlier had made this inevitable. She could only hope that, once Jake had discovered what was hidden in Harry's blood, he would have the sense to keep it to himself.
"You'll be bound by Healer-patient confidentiality, of course," she told him with a lightness she didn't feel.
Jake frowned. "What could be bad enough that you need to remind me of that?"
"I'd rather you didn't check and find out," she said. Too late for that, though. Before the night was through Jake would have discovered that the last traces of the Dark Lord had not, in fact, disappeared at the end of the War, but slumbered in the veins of the Potter family. Such a secret… she sincerely hoped that the threat of losing his position at Saint Mungo's would be enough to keep Jake silent.
------
Ron concentrated, trying to block out the voices and camera flashes that surrounded him. Concentrate, he chided himself, but he could feel his attention slipping, exhaustion turning his thoughts to fog. How long since he had slept well? Too long. A week, at most, but it felt like years. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Ginny's face when she told them she was taking Harry to Saint Mungo's. All that heartbreak etched deep in his baby sister's face, even as she tried to be strong. He hated going home, seeing the gaps that Ginny and Harry had left with their departure, hated to see Lily, who raged and cried by turns, alternately hating her parents, her grandparents, and herself. These days, he welcomed late night calls like this one, which kept him away from the Burrow and the pain that filled its hallways like a dark miasma.
But mostly, he hated how at every turn, he felt like a traitor. He hadn't been able to help Harry when his friend needed it most, during the War, and after. He hadn't listened to Ginny, hadn't stood up for her when she tried to leave Harry. He hadn't said anything - Merlin's beard, he'd celebrated - when Ginny had agreed to marry Harry, even though it was the worst thing for both of them. He'd… oh, he'd failed them, so many times, in so many ways, and always turned his eyes away and pretended not to see.
"Ron. Ron?"
Ron's attention snapped back to the present, to the young Obliviator snapping her fingers under her boss's nose, trying to get his attention. She was dressed as a muggle - properly, thanks to Harry's insistence that his staff be able to blend in. Even broken beyond repair, Harry had been good at his job, clever and wise in ways Ron could never hope to be.
"Yes, yes, I'm listening," he said irritably, taking a step back.
"I've spoken with all of the neighbours. They didn't see the victim come home, but they rarely do. He Flooed, most of the time, probably. Their electikity went out at the time of the incident."
"Electricity," Ron corrected absently. Clever of muggles, making things that shut down automatically when things go wrong. Wish we could do that. "Anything else?"
"No one heard anything. Not a scream, nothing. Was it suicide, then, do you think?"
"It does seem that way." The man had died in his bathtub, fully clothed, killed by the wires that ran into the water. Or so the forensics team said. Ron had trouble believing that electricity, the muggles' answer to magic, could be so dangerous. But the expert said so. They'd brought the man in from Glasgow when it became apparent that none of the regular Aurors could make sense of the crime scene.
The man, a muggle-born, had lived in a muggle apartment, had been killed in a muggle way. Had killed himself in a muggle way, judging by the note - half apology, half goodbye - that had been found on the table. Surely no wizard would have thought to kill that way.
But they had to be sure. The man had been embroiled in all sorts of trouble, from overdue loans to a dead-end job to a very recent and public slander of Draco Malfoy and the Potter family… Ron was trying to be dispassionate, and do his job properly, but there was a small part of him that couldn't help feeling that justice had been served. The man - Ron couldn't bring himself to even think the name, although he'd known the victim for years - had hurt those Ron cared about. If he'd been murdered, Ron would find the culprit, but only because it was his job.
"Sir, could you come take a look at this? We've found something we think you should see. Might help us find the killer." The forensic techs were properly deferential, not like the cheeky Obliviators. Ron nodded, and moved to follow the man, but paused, looking back at the young Obliviator.
"Don't bother wiping them, unless some idiot pulls out a wand where they can see. Tell them the police are handling it, and we'll be out of their hair soon."
"Are you sure?" No 'sir' from this one. Cheeky brat. Obliviators were too eager by half to go about modifying memories.
"Very. Being a muggle isn't a crime."
Her frown said she thought being a muggle near her crime scene might be, but she'd do as she was told. She'd better, or Ron would snap her wand and ship her off to Azkaban himself. He'd fought too long and too hard to let old prejudices come creeping back in.
"We used a new technique, sir," the tech told him when they reached the bathroom. "It's still a bit experimental, but we've had very good success with it so far. It lets us see the last thing the victim saw."
The water had been drained from the tub, and the heavy wires moved safely away, but the body was still in the tub, bloated and grotesque. A brass mask, all knob and strangely shaped dials, covered its eyes and nose, for which Ron was glad. He couldn't bring himself to look at remains of that face. A mess of wires ran from the mask to a curved mirror.
"See, here," the tech said, pointing to the mirror, but Ron was already backing up.
"No," he whispered. "No, that's impossible."
"Sir?" asked the tech. His colleagues, tinkering with the machine, stopped what they were doing to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"Colin. That's Colin Creevey." He couldn't take his eyes off the picture. It was Colin but, hazy though the memory had become, it was not the Colin he had known. Colin had been brave and kind and sincere and irritating and good. The eyes that stared at him from the mirror were cold and dead.
"Then we have a lead," the tech said eagerly.
"No." There was something beside Ron's foot, looking like it had been dropped by the victim. A frame photograph, the glass shattered. It had been damaged a bit by the water, but was still easily recognisable. It was Colin, age sixteen, looking just as Ron remembered him. He stared at it, then at the Colin in the glass, and finally passed the photograph over to the tech. "He's been dead for twenty years. This is impossible."
But the evidence was staring him in the face.
Chapter Sixteen
In which there is revenge
Friday, December 8, 2017
He didn't know where Griflet had found the thin manila folder, but it looked very professional. The same could not be said of the untidy mess of scrap parchment and photographs that the folder contained, but that was alright. The important thing was that the necessary information was there, and in that regard Griflet never failed.
There was the short biography: date of birth, date of death, family, House and year of admission to Hogwarts. There was a small handwriting sample, in case it was necessary. And there were photographs; more than a dozen, from all sorts of occasions. The dead man had been a photographer, so a camera had never been far from hand. That was good: the photographs were the most important part. From them, he could learn the dead man's expressions, the way he held himself, could try to guess at the way he thought. It was an incomplete reconstruction - there was no way to tell what the man's voice had sounded like, or how he had phrased his words - but it was enough.
His mother had been friends with the dead man. She didn't discuss the War much - no one did - but she'd mentioned the name once, when he asked who took that photograph of her on the night of the Triwizard Tournament's Yule Ball. Knowing that should have made him feel guilty about what he planned. But it didn't.
Jimmy threw the folder in the fire, and made sure it was reduced completely to ash.
-----
Freddie watched his cousin sniffle, and searched his heart for the shred of sympathy he knew must be there, somewhere. Rosie was both his cousin and his friend, and she was clearly very upset; yet beyond a vague feeling that she'd had it coming, he felt nothing.
"How can he be so mean?" Rosie demanded between tears. Freddie passed her another tissue, but didn't answer. "I hate him so much," she went on. "He's cruel and heartless and I hope he dies!"
"You don't really mean that," Freddie said, patting her shoulder gently and wishing, not for the first time, that Gabby was around to do the comforting. He wasn't very good at it and, to make matters worse, he'd secretly thought it was hilarious. But that was the sort of thing Ginny would call 'unhelpful', so Freddie kept it to himself.
"Yes I do," Rosie said. "He's horrible."
Freddie wanted to tell her that she wasn't much better, and that was why she deserved everything Jimmy had done to her and more. She was the one who had been making snide remarks about that article in the Inquisition, even though anyone with eyes could tell both Gin and Jimmy were extremely upset about it. Possibly Rosie had thought Jimmy deserved it for not being upset about Harry's incarceration in Saint Mungo's, but to Freddie that wasn't a justification at all. He'd always found that Rosie could be just as blindly self-righteous as Hermione. Her comments had been cruel, simple as that.
Jimmy's response, on the other hand, had been inspired. They all knew Rosie wanted to be a writer when she grew up, and so Jimmy had stolen some of her work and put on a play in the Common Room.
"I've never really thought of myself as exceptional," he'd begun, holding the stolen parchment before him as though it were Yorrick's skull, and he was Hamlet in the throws of his madness. "I'm only average height, and have brown hair, although people tell me my eyes are pretty." He'd smiled coyly at his rapidly growing audience, and fluttered his eyelashes. Really, if he ever gave up on the whole 'greatest wizard the world has ever seen' thing, Jimmy could make a killing on the stage, Freddie thought.
"I'm kind of a bookworm, so I guess I'm a good student," Jimmy continued. "But none of that mattered after I met him. My life changed forever after I met him."
That had been about when Rosie came in, and realized what was going on. She'd flown at Jimmy, demanding the return of her papers, but he'd nimbly avoided her, darting around the Common Room as he continued his recitation. "I'd just come back from Quidditch practice, so of course my hair was a mess, and there he was, sitting on the front steps of the school. I'd never seen him before. I would have remembered if I had. His hair shone black like midnight," Jimmy tossed his own brass hair like a model in a shampoo advertisement, "and there was a cold blue fire in his eyes. I knew at once that he was special."
"Give it back!" Rosie shrieked, and finally Jimmy had stopped dodging her. Instead, he caught her around the throat and pulled her close. If they hadn't stopped directly in front of Freddie, he never would have heard what Jimmy said next.
"If you ever say so much as one word against my mother again, Rosalind," he'd growled, "this will be the last thing you ever write." He'd moved closer, looming over Rosie despite being no more than two inches taller. "I will cut off each of your fingers in the most painful way I can imagine, then your hands. And then," Jimmy had said, his voice the most menacing whisper Freddie had ever heard, "I will cut out that hateful tongue of yours."
Rosie had gasped, and turned very pale. Jimmy had shoved her away from him, dropped the parchment pages on the floor, and stormed out of the Common Room. Which left Freddie here, trying to console his distraught cousin while the other students whispered and spread rumours among themselves. Freddie could hear a few wondering, more loudly than was wise, if Harry Potter's madness had been passed on to his son. No doubt this incident would be all over the school by dinner time.
"I hope he burns in hell," Rosie sniffed.
He probably will, Freddie thought, as he patted Rosie's shoulder in what was, hopefully, a consoling way. I just hope he doesn't send the rest of us there before him to pave the way.
-----
Draco could still remember the day Pansy had announced that someday she would become a wealthy independent business-woman and own her own publishing house. It had been a day in the early fall of their sixth year, and many of the oldest Slytherins were enjoying the sunshine down by the lake.
The announcement hadn't been met with quite the acclaim Pansy had hoped for. Greg gave a great, troll-like snort, and Crabbe guffawed. Blaise had been lying on his back with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, but he'd rolled over and fixed Pansy with a piercing stare. "What have you been smoking?" he drawled, sounding like he had a broom shoved up his arse. Blaise had never been as clever as he'd thought himself.
"That's nice, Pans," Draco had said casually, inspecting the core of the apple he'd just finished. Pansy's look of gratitude had been replaced by one of fury when he continued, "You can start by working for the Quibbler. They're always looking for more head-cases to write for them."
Even though Pansy had sworn that she'd show them all, just wait, Draco had still been shocked when Silver Media had grabbed more than a fifty percent market share in the magical media. He'd been even more surprised when, a few short weeks later, someone had proposed to the pug-nosed president of the company. But either Pansy had grown used to being on her own, or she had enough sense to realize that the man was just after her money - or maybe she was a lesbian, as Blaise had always claimed - and the man had been turned down, as had every suitor since.
Pansy might have been a self-made media mogul, but Draco was an aristocrat, a successful businessman, and better looking to boot, so he didn't feel the least bit intimidated when he strolled into the luxurious presidential office at Silver Media. In typical Slytherin fashion, the room was done in rich green and dark wood, with only the tackiness of the silver picture frames giving away Pansy's status as one of the nouveau riche. Maybe that's unfair, Draco thought. After all, it was entirely possible that the lack of taste was unique to Pansy.
The president was reclined on an emerald chaise lounge when Draco entered. Sabine would have had a lot to say if she could have seen the look through lowered lashes that Pansy directed at Draco, starting with disgust at the amount of mascara Pansy wore and progressing to possessive, harpy-esque screeching that Draco was her husband and fat bitches ought to keep their tentacles to themselves. In some regards, Sabine had never really grown up, although perhaps she had a reason to be jealous. Not of Pansy, though.
Pansy's purred greeting pulled Draco's thoughts back to his immediate surroundings. "Draco, darling."
"Save it for someone who doesn't know you, Pans," Draco said, settling himself in the armchair across from her. At a lazy wave of his hand, the teapot obligingly filled a cup for him. He sniffed it appreciatively, his nose catching the dark, spicy aroma. Whatever else might be said of her, Pansy probably brewed the best tea in the country.
"Well, hello to you too," she answered with a sniff, sitting up. "Most men would be offering me the world on a platter right now. Are you sure your banshee of a wife hasn't castrated you?"
"They're just after your money."
Pansy sulkily bit into a biscuit. "That was the only reason you ever had a girlfriend at Hogwarts, you know."
"Are here I thought it was my winning personality," Draco retorted. He didn't bother trying to insult her; long experience had taught him that Pansy was only this openly aggressive when she was feeling inferior. Another woman who never grew up.
Pansy wasn't mollified. "And what does his royal poncy-ness want of me today? Not the pleasure of my company."
"If this is about that dratted ball…" Draco warned, but his words fell on deaf ears.
"Of course, he says that he wants to invite me, but of course he never does. Doesn't even make an effort. Chooses his airheaded trophy wife over his oldest friends. There's loyalty for you - but wait, he always was a traitor, wasn't he? Every cause there ever was…"
Draco slammed the teacup down with enough force that it shattered. Tea went everywhere, splashing on upholstery and robes and soaking the thick carpet underfoot. For the first time in two decades, Pansy was rendered speechless and her mouth fell open in shock.
But even that wasn't enough to keep her silent for more than a minute. "Draco, I…"
"Enough. You want an invite? Fine, come to the damn ball. It'll be a nice send off."
"What…?"
Draco stood imperiously and glared down at her. "I came to negotiate terms, but now I'm in the mood for a hostile takeover. The lawyers will be here in an hour."
He whirled and strode out. The door was falling closed behind him by the time Pansy grasped the meaning of his words. Her scream followed him down the hall. "Not my company!"
-----
"It's not really for me to question, but..." He trailed off, his hesitation making it plain just how uncertain he was. It really wasn't his place to say anything at all, but somehow he found himself overstepping his bounds.
"Out with it, then," the younger boy sighed. He didn't look up from his house of Exploding Snap cards, which featured Gringotts's characteristic columns today. Building these structures while deep in thought was a habit he seemed to share with Freddie although, unlike Freddie, his never seemed to blow up.
The older boy sighed. "Are you sure this isn't going to make things worse?"
"How do you know what I have planned?" The question seemed mild enough, but there was a slight edge to it that would have been overlooked by anyone who didn't know the speaker well.
The boy chose his answer carefully. "I know nothing, but I suspect everything."
"And everyone," came the dry reply.
"Do I suppose too much?" He heard a slight bite creeping into his own voice, and immediately regretted it. It wouldn't do for him to lose his temper, especially with this boy.
The younger boy's sigh made the card house shiver precariously, but it didn't collapse. "Unfortunately not."
He wanted to ask if the smaller boy would rather not go through with it, but he had already overstepped his place too many times in this conversation. Asking such a question would be tantamount to be asking for the younger boy's thoughts, the knowing of which was not a luxury given to him. "It is the best course, then." It wasn't a question, not really, but it was hard to put away his doubts entirely.
"It would seem so." He didn't command that not a word be said of the matter, but the older boy wouldn't say anything anyway. His role - his only role, for now - was to be loyal, and he would never betray that.
-----
Draco's feelings of dread started as soon as he saw the haggard expressions that his secretaries wore. Hearing the words, "Your wife has been fire-calling, sir. Every fifteen minutes," was like hearing the bells of Armageddon tolling just for him.
"Oh, fuck," he muttered. At any other time, the looks of deep sympathy and understanding that he received from all three secretaries might have been heart-warming. Now it only filled his stomach with dread. If Sabine was calling that often, rather than destroying property and leaving for her parents', she was angrier than he'd ever seen her before. And there was only one thing it could be about.
A string of profanities that no well brought-up witch had any business knowing greeted him when he stepped into the office. Draco shut the door carefully behind him, moving slowly as though any sudden movement would trigger actual violence from Sabine. Which, in fact, it might - he wouldn't put it past her to floo right here and hex him, then yell at him after.
"Sabine," he began, although he wasn't sure how he was going to continue past that.
"Don't tell me you can explain," she snapped.
Oddly enough, that helped him think of something to say. "I won't, because I can't."
"What were you doing with that woman?" Never once, in all their years of marriage, had Sabine said Ginny's name. It only occurred to him now that he'd never told her, either. Which raised the question of how Sabine had known about Ginny to begin with, and how much she knew. Now's not the time for that, he reminded himself.
"I had not seen that woman, as you call her, for fifteen years before Jimmy broke Scorpius's nose and Pomona called me in to the school," Draco said, as levelly as he could. Belatedly, it occurred to him that calling the boy 'Jimmy' would do very little to help his case with Sabine. Hopefully she was too distracted by her anger to notice his slip.
"And you expect me to believe that, do you? Rumours don't start from nothing, Draco." Unfortunately, she had a point. Two, actually: there was always something underneath rumours, if you looked deep enough; and it wasn't strictly true that it had been fifteen years since he'd last seen Ginny.
"Are you angry because I didn't tell you about the article right away, or because you think I was cheating on you?" Draco knew that most people would consider the answer to this question obvious, but you could never be entirely sure with Sabine. The strangest things could set her off - like that business with her mirror last week. Not now… really, he needed to start getting more sleep. He was just too easily distracted these days.
"Both," Sabine said, decisively. She paused for a minute, perhaps trying to decide if there was anything else she should add to the list.
"Then I will point out," Draco said, "that the curse on the Malfoy family stands, as it has for centuries. So unless you're telling me that Scorpius isn't my son, there is no way that Jimmy Weasley could be."
Sabine's eyes narrowed dangerously, and her lips tightened, but at last she nodded. "Fine. So the article is a lie. That doesn't excuse you from not telling me. Mon puce had to tell me." And he was very, very upset, was added implicitly to her words.
"You're right. I should have told you, and then we could have addressed this properly as a family." He said it as sincerely as he could, but Sabine's eyes still narrowed suspiciously.
"'As a family'? It's been a while since I heard those words from you."
Draco sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. "Can we stick to one fight at a time, please, Sabine?" he asked wearily. "Yes, I am a cold, cruel bastard who neglects his family for his work. Can we set that aside for the moment to try and deal with the current crisis? We'll address my bad habits later, I promise."
"Oh, yes, we will," Sabine agreed firmly. But, apparently mollified and willing to follow good sense when she heard it, she asked more calmly, "Would it help if I came over there?"
Draco's first instinct was to dismiss the idea outright, but he fought it aside. "I don't know," he said. And really, he didn't. He should - he always made it his business to know things like that, to be better prepared and more aware than anyone else. But this last week things just seemed to have been moving too fast, and his head was constantly spinning, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on and stay in control. "You've never come over here before," he added, thinking aloud. "What would people make of it, do you think?"
"Are you saying it would be suspicious?" she asked.
"No. I'm honestly asking what you think - you know how people think and react." He scrubbed a hand across his face, as though doing so could wipe away some of the tiredness. "I'm too stressed to think clearly about it right now," he admitted, "so I was hoping you'd know."
Had Sabine ever looked so pleased before? Anyone would think he'd given her the greatest compliment in the world, instead of just admitting he was tired and confused. "Absolutely," she said. "What we will do is this: I will stay here. If I come to England, it will only look like this article has affected us. And we will step up preparations for the ball." Not my ball, Draco noticed. The ball. It was now officially an event for the entire Malfoy family.
But… "I'm not sure I follow."
"Surely you remember - Albus Potter is coming to stay with us. We will use this as an opportunity to show people that we are close with the Potter family because our sons our friends."
Actually, that made a lot of sense. Sabine had always been very astute when it came to family reputation and gossip, but he'd never really appreciated just how clever she could be. Perhaps once this was all over he would think about using her frequent vacations to help out Malfoy Enterprises - she would probably be even better at the social finagling than Daphne.
But Sabine wasn't done. "We'll invite a few more prominent members of England's magical community. Just a few, though - we don't want to appear reactionary. And," she gave a resigned sigh, "perhaps I will enlist the help of that odious little wretch Gabrielle Delacour. She is Harry Potter's sister-in-law, after all."
That reminded Draco of something Ginny had said last week. "Isn't Scorpius friends with a number of the Weasley spawn?"
Sabine frowned slightly at the crude term, but didn't correct it. Well, she had opinions about English wizards in general, and those who favoured muggle ways over traditional wizarding ones in particular. She could be very like his father, in that respect. "Fleur Delacour's daughter, yes, and I believe a few of the others." She considered for a moment. "I should like to invite Fleur, but I do not think I can. It has been too long since she retired from Society."
"That's a problem?" Draco asked, baffled. Whether she'd retired from Society or not, Draco remembered Fleur Delacour as being a beautiful, enchanting woman. Surely people would be willing to overlook the fact that she had chosen to live a normal life, instead of one filled with glitter and gossip?
But Sabine was nodding very seriously. "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Ah, but! His Excellency Percival Weasley -" His Excellency? Draco thought, shocked, "- will be attending, and that will do very nicely. There is the family connection, but it will not appear that we are trying to make a statement. It will simply show how very…" she waved her hands, searching for the word, "connected everyone is."
"Yes, I suppose it will," Draco agree. His Excellency Percy the Prat… He could still vividly remember Ginny griping about her brother's exonerations to work hard at her studies - "As though I don't get enough of that from Hermione as it is!" she'd said.
Thinking of school reminded him of something else he ought to tell Sabine. "I know you dislike her," he began hesitantly, "but I'm afraid I've invited Pansy to the ball." He held up his hands quickly, buying himself a moment to explain. "Silver Media owns the Inquisition, and in a fit of pique I initiated a hostile takeover." He paused, trying to gauge her reaction.
"Go on," Sabine said slowly.
"She kept harping on about how she was never invited, so I told her that she might as well come, since it would make a nice send-off."
Unexpectedly, Sabine laughed. "If we are lucky, she is so angry that she won't even poke her nose through the door. Well, perhaps it's a good thing," she added, sobering. "I had wondered if you might be more willing to attend if a few more of your friends were in attendance." Coming from Sabine, that was quite the concession. Draco was amazed.
"So you wouldn't mind if I invited a few people who are tolerable company?" he asked, scarcely able to believe this turn of events.
"Well, only a few," Sabine said. "We cannot lower the tone of the event by too much."
It was probably a joke, but Draco wasn't sure. Still, he smiled and said, "I'll make you a list of those who know how to use a fork. It won't be very long, I promise."
She laughed appreciatively. "Perhaps this will be good for us, Draco. Perhaps we can finally become a proper family."
Draco's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe," he said. But I doubt it.
-----
It was all very well to put Weasleys in Gryffindor, Jimmy thought. The pack of them were brave to the point of stupidity, after all, not to mention courageous and stout-hearted and all those other synonyms which meant they thought with their guts instead of their heads. But why, why did the Gryffindor colours have to be red and gold? There was nothing in the world which clashed quite so horribly with the Weasley hair as red did, except maybe maroon. Gryffindor himself had reputedly been a red-head, which made the colour choice completely nonsensical. How silly must he have looked, riding into battle all dressed in red?
"So, what aren't you thinking about?" Freddie was sprawled on his bed in the dormitory, his hair clashing riotously with the bedspread. The image he presented was what had initially prompted Jimmy's musings, although his cousin was right in guessing that he was mostly trying to avoid thinking about other things.
Just what those things were, he wasn't prepared to tell Freddie, however. "Best you don't know."
"One of those things, huh? But if I'm coming with you..."
"You're not," Jimmy cut him off. He had no idea where Freddie had gotten the idea that he was going somewhere, but it wouldn't do to encourage it. "I'm working solo on this one." There was no sense in denying he was up to something: he'd run into Freddie shortly after leaving his mother's room yesterday, and there had been no disguising his anger.
"Secret agents shouldn't work alone." There was no sense asking where Freddie got this idea from - he had millions of them, all seemingly plucked randomly from the ether. "They need partners to provide cover, and..."
"Exactly." Cutting Freddie off in the middle of a sentence was so natural to Jimmy that neither boy ever noticed that he did it frequently. It had been his prerogative for as long as either of them could remember, and the only shocking thing would have been if someone suggested that he should let Freddie finish. "But there's no room for a Bond Girl on this one. I need you to play Q."
Freddie couldn't hold his pout for long, and it quickly changed into a wicked grin. "That's alright. My cat suit is at the cleaner's, anyway."
Really, really, best not to ask how he comes up with all this, Jimmy thought. Freddie was Freddie, after all, and it was probably best for his sanity if he didn't question some things.
"So," Freddie continued, "what can WWW do for you today?"
Jimmy's return grin was crooked, and slightly feral. "Cover. I might be back late." And I don't want anyone to know I was gone. Freddie nodded, obviously understanding the unspoken addendum. "A couple of those disguises you're working on... four should do it."
"Four?" Freddie yelped. "That's half my stock. And they're still experimental, anyway."
Jimmy shrugged. If they failed, then they failed: he would have back-ups in place, anyway. "I doubt I'll need them all, but I'd rather not be caught needing one and not have it."
"Fine," his cousin grumbled. "You'll let me know what you think, won't you? Purely for R&D purposes. But I'm sure you won't have a problem: you could fool your own mother with these things."
Jimmy raised a single aristocratic eyebrow. "I hope I won't have to test that claim."
Freddie contrived to suddenly look both very red and very pale. "Oh shite... Gin'll kill me if she finds out I'm covering for you on something. You won't get caught, will you?" He was almost pleading.
"I never get caught," Jimmy said with a smirk.
-----
"Hello Ginny," he said. Today his eyes were the beautiful bright green that she remembered from long ago, without the fog of madness that had clouded them for so many years.
"Hello Harry. How are you?" Ginny asked, although she could see without his saying. Today was one of the good days, when Harry was truly present. In a way, these times were the most heartbreaking, because they were the only time that Harry realized the full extent of what had happened to him. She would have spared him that pain if she could.
His smile was gentle. "I'm well, thank you. I'm glad you finally brought me in."
"Harry…"
But he shook his head. "You should have left me years ago. No, you never should have married me. But I know why you did, and…"
"Now's not the time, Harry," she said urgently, frantically indicating the small group that had followed her into the hospital room.
Harry's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Oh," he said. "I see. May I ask what's going on?" But when Ginny opened her mouth to respond, he cut her off. "I'd rather hear it from James himself, if you please."
Ginny clenched her jaw to keep herself from retorting sharply. Whenever something happened, Harry always assumed it was Jimmy's fault, even if he hadn't been involved at all. He never even seemed to realize how unfairly he treated the boy.
"It's alright, Mum," her son said quietly. "I know he doesn't mean it like that." Ginny wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but she appreciated that he was trying to reassure her. But oh, how she wished he didn't have to! She was his mother; she ought to be the one defending him. "You see, Dad, Mr. Creevey here published an article in the Inquisition claiming that I was Mr. Malfoy's son, and finding that out was what drove you 'round the twist so you ended up here."
Ginny glanced down at her son. As a summary, it was correct and complete, but she wished Jimmy had thought a bit more about his delivery. Some parents believed in being very informal with their children, but they'd always raised their children to show respect for their elders. And she'd certainly taught Jimmy better than to bait Harry like this.
"Creevey… Dennis?" Harry asked, turning his attention to the reporter. Dennis Creevey, odious creeper that he was, shuffled a little under the scrutiny of his boyhood idol. "I see. So," he continued, slipping into the mannerisms that he had used when mediating disputes between feuding children and Aurors alike, "that explains why you and James are here. But why Mr… I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name. From the Prophet, right?"
"Jenkins, sir," the man said. Harry apparently didn't remember the man, but Ginny did: Jenkins was a fanatical Harry Potter fan who had somehow contrived to cover every public event the Potter family attended. He was mostly harmless, but still very annoying. "Mr. Creevey's allegations have created quite a sensation, and since we at the Prophet feel it is our duty to let people know the truth…" he trailed off under Harry's stern glare.
"The Prophet's truth, Mr. Jenkins, is whatever the Prophet feels will best serve its own interests."
"That's all very well, Harry," Ginny cut in, "but Creepy's allegations have caused problems for me and the children. Albus is taking it especially hard." Which was sort-of true: he wasn't speaking to her, at any rate.
"What do you expect me to do about it?"
Ginny wanted to groan. He really had the bit between his teeth now - she'd thought the mention of Albus would make him more amicable, but apparently it was only serving to remind him that while one of his sons had come to visit, it wasn't the one he wanted to see. "We'd like to do a paternity test to clear things up once and for all."
"Are you sure, Ginny?" Harry asked. He was looking at her suspiciously. "I seem to remember that you and Malfoy were quite close. You even lived with him for a time."
"Harry!" Ginny snapped. Of all the times for his ridiculous jealousy to surface, now was quite probably the worst possible. "That was almost twenty years ago." She could feel the shocked eyes of everyone in the room on her now, and she had to keep from flushing brilliant red. Blast Harry and his jealousy. If only he'd been mad today, this would have been so much easier. Even as she thought it, she was appalled at herself.
"Fifteen. Until just before we got married."
"I left him to marry you." And even after so many years, it hurt to say it. She'd cried over it on her wedding night, and then promised herself she would never look back, would never regret the choice she'd made.
"And I always said you shouldn't," he shot back.
There was only one card left for Ginny to play, and she was angry enough to do it without feeling guilty. "If I have to sedate you and take your blood by force to keep this family together, Harry Potter, so help me Circe I will." She saw his eyes widen in guilt and fear. She continued, more levelly, "Think of the boys, Harry; you know how close Albus and James are." From the corner of her eye, Ginny could see Jimmy staring at her. He'd be wondering why she'd said that, when anyone who knew the boys could tell it was a blatant lie. Harry, though, would know that she was referring to how close the boys weren't, especially with regards to their blood.
Harry's jaw tightened. "Fine. But you can't blame me if things don't go the way you want."
"Have no fear of that," Ginny snapped. "Jake, if you would."
Jake Kontapopolous stepped forward from where he'd slouched against the wall behind Creevey and Jenkins. Ginny didn't like the assessing look he sent her, but pretended she didn't see it. "Sorry about this, Harry," he said, pulling out his wand. "This'll sting a bit." He used his wand to open a small cut in Harry's hand and squeezed the blood into a glass vial. He healed the cut absently, then turned to Jimmy.
"I'll do it myself," the boy said pettishly. Ginny frowned, but didn't say anything. Jimmy could be particular about some things, often for no apparent reason, but there was no reason why he shouldn't do this himself. So when Jake glanced at her questioningly, she nodded her approval.
When Jimmy's blood had been added to Harry's, Jake turned to Ginny again. "Are you sure you want to go through with this, Healer Weasley?"
"Of course I am," she said, rolling her eyes.
He shrugged. "Sorry, it's protocol. You know how it is." With a slight incline of her head, Ginny acknowledged this. She well remembered that Saint Mungo's was a bureaucratic place, full of protocols and procedures. "Well gentlemen," Jake continued, turning to the two journalists, "this is a standard paternity test." He held up a bottle of bright green potion. "It turns blue when there's a match, and yellow when there isn't. Quills ready?"
Ginny couldn't help rolling her eyes, and noticed Jimmy doing the same. This flair for the dramatic really was tedious.
"Here we go," Jake said, uncorking the bottle and pouring a portion of green liquid into the vial. It was terribly anticlimactic, as Ginny had known it would be. There was no flash of light or swirl of colour; the green simply faded to a deep teal and settled there. This, Ginny thought, is why standard procedure is just to tell people the results. They get so disappointed when important tests aren't concluded in a dramatic fashion.
"Blue?" Creevey asked, sounding disappointed.
Jake gave the vial a little shake. "Not as strong a blue as normal - the potion must be old. But indisputable, nonetheless."
"I see," Jenkins said. "Mr. Potter, a comment?"
Harry looked about to say something, but closed his mouth again when Ginny glared fiercely at him. "I'll have a word with you. With both of you," she said, glaring at Creevey, who was inching towards the door. "Jake, if you wouldn't mind taking Jimmy down to the floo portal? He needs to get back to Hogwarts to do his homework."
"No problem, boss," Jake said, as casually as if he had never doubted her fidelity to her husband. Ginny didn't believe it for a moment.
----
It was a small flat, poorly decorated with posters of quidditch teams and muggle bands. A plastic plant sat on the television, and another had been pushed behind the lone armchair. The dishes were clean, but mismatched, and the dirty laundry made a pile that spilled out the bedroom door. It was, quite obviously, the flat of a bachelor who spent very little time at home.
Jimmy wandered about, picking up books and photographs at random, getting a feel for the place. Compared to the Burrow, where he had grown up, it felt empty. The Burrow wasn't always a happy place, but it was a place to go back to at the end of the day, a place to call home. This flat was just a place to store things - including, on occasion, its owner's unconscious body.
When ten minutes had passed, he put on the first of the disguises he'd got from Freddie. He didn't feel any different, but to all appearances he now occupied far more space. Though also small for his age, the boy he now resembled had been sixteen, and therefore much taller than Jimmy's twelve year old self.
He'd only had the disguise on for a minute when the fire flared up, and Dennis Creevey stepped out. For a minute, words seemed to fail him. "Sweet mother of God," he murmured at last, and fell to his knees. "Colin… you're…"
Jimmy smiled. The expression Dennis saw on his brother's face was not one Colin had ever worn in life. This smile was dark and bitter, hardly a smile at all. "Alive? No. Nor a ghost."
"You're dead," Dennis said. The mix of emotions in his voice was heartbreaking, but wasted on the young man before him.
Jimmy advanced slowly towards the kneeling reporter, stalking his prey like a cat. "You've done it, Dennis. You've made your name as a reporter."
"Yes," Dennis answered, and there was something like pride in his voice.
"And you did it by hurting your friends. My friends. You dragged Ginny's name through the mud, Dennis. And your own. Hmm?" It wasn't how the real Colin would have spoken, Jimmy was sure. Colin had been a teenager, and a muggle-born besides, and it probably came through in his speech. But Dennis looked too shocked to think of that.
"But I have evidence," the reported wailed. "I'm sorry Colin, I'm so sorry, but it's true."
"Show me," Jimmy said. He didn't sound like Colin at all.
Dennis didn't notice. He scrambled to his feet and over to the bookcase, from which he pulled a tattered old album. He flipped through the album hurriedly, and Jimmy could see his hands shaking. "Here. This photo." He brought it forward for Jimmy's inspection. "I took it during my fifth year, at Christmas."
Jimmy stared at the photo. The photographer - Dennis - had captured two people in the act of turning, irritated expressions on their faces. Snow swirled around them, adding to the dramatic quality. The woman, with her shining hair and multitude of freckles, was obviously a much younger Ginny Weasley. And next to her was a red-haired young man who might have been an older version of Jimmy himself. The resemblance was so strong that he could almost believe it was himself, magically transported to the end days of the War.
"I wrote on the back. See?" Dennis pulled the photograph from page and turned it over. On the back, written in shaky school-boy script, were the words, Ginny and Scorpius Weasley, December 19th, 1998.
"Scorpius Weasley?" Jimmy meant to sound casual, but the words came out in a breathless whisper.
"That's what he said. What they both said. But doesn't he look like someone?"
And he did. Oh Circe, does he ever.
------
"Not that it's any of my business," Jake began, in that tone of voice which so often accompanied extreme nosiness, "but why a standard paternity test? The one you developed is far more conclusive."
Ginny shrugged as casually as she was able and accepted the mug of tea he passed her. "Don't you think that would have seemed a little suspect? Since I developed the test, there would always be someone who wondered if I didn't control the outcome."
"They're the same people who will think teal isn't a conclusive result either," he returned.
The problem with Jake, Ginny had long ago learned, was that beneath all that self-importance lay an extremely agile mind. On those occasions when he was willing to bestir himself, his ready intelligence could be a great blessing - or a royal pain in the arse. "Then perhaps that test would have revealed something I preferred to keep hidden." She peered challengingly at him through lowered lashes. "You're Harry's primary Healer, Jake. Do you mean to tell me you've never tested his blood?"
"I've never had reason to." Until now. No doubt he would run the test as soon as she left the hospital tonight. She had hoped to avoid this, but Harry's behaviour earlier had made this inevitable. She could only hope that, once Jake had discovered what was hidden in Harry's blood, he would have the sense to keep it to himself.
"You'll be bound by Healer-patient confidentiality, of course," she told him with a lightness she didn't feel.
Jake frowned. "What could be bad enough that you need to remind me of that?"
"I'd rather you didn't check and find out," she said. Too late for that, though. Before the night was through Jake would have discovered that the last traces of the Dark Lord had not, in fact, disappeared at the end of the War, but slumbered in the veins of the Potter family. Such a secret… she sincerely hoped that the threat of losing his position at Saint Mungo's would be enough to keep Jake silent.
------
Ron concentrated, trying to block out the voices and camera flashes that surrounded him. Concentrate, he chided himself, but he could feel his attention slipping, exhaustion turning his thoughts to fog. How long since he had slept well? Too long. A week, at most, but it felt like years. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Ginny's face when she told them she was taking Harry to Saint Mungo's. All that heartbreak etched deep in his baby sister's face, even as she tried to be strong. He hated going home, seeing the gaps that Ginny and Harry had left with their departure, hated to see Lily, who raged and cried by turns, alternately hating her parents, her grandparents, and herself. These days, he welcomed late night calls like this one, which kept him away from the Burrow and the pain that filled its hallways like a dark miasma.
But mostly, he hated how at every turn, he felt like a traitor. He hadn't been able to help Harry when his friend needed it most, during the War, and after. He hadn't listened to Ginny, hadn't stood up for her when she tried to leave Harry. He hadn't said anything - Merlin's beard, he'd celebrated - when Ginny had agreed to marry Harry, even though it was the worst thing for both of them. He'd… oh, he'd failed them, so many times, in so many ways, and always turned his eyes away and pretended not to see.
"Ron. Ron?"
Ron's attention snapped back to the present, to the young Obliviator snapping her fingers under her boss's nose, trying to get his attention. She was dressed as a muggle - properly, thanks to Harry's insistence that his staff be able to blend in. Even broken beyond repair, Harry had been good at his job, clever and wise in ways Ron could never hope to be.
"Yes, yes, I'm listening," he said irritably, taking a step back.
"I've spoken with all of the neighbours. They didn't see the victim come home, but they rarely do. He Flooed, most of the time, probably. Their electikity went out at the time of the incident."
"Electricity," Ron corrected absently. Clever of muggles, making things that shut down automatically when things go wrong. Wish we could do that. "Anything else?"
"No one heard anything. Not a scream, nothing. Was it suicide, then, do you think?"
"It does seem that way." The man had died in his bathtub, fully clothed, killed by the wires that ran into the water. Or so the forensics team said. Ron had trouble believing that electricity, the muggles' answer to magic, could be so dangerous. But the expert said so. They'd brought the man in from Glasgow when it became apparent that none of the regular Aurors could make sense of the crime scene.
The man, a muggle-born, had lived in a muggle apartment, had been killed in a muggle way. Had killed himself in a muggle way, judging by the note - half apology, half goodbye - that had been found on the table. Surely no wizard would have thought to kill that way.
But they had to be sure. The man had been embroiled in all sorts of trouble, from overdue loans to a dead-end job to a very recent and public slander of Draco Malfoy and the Potter family… Ron was trying to be dispassionate, and do his job properly, but there was a small part of him that couldn't help feeling that justice had been served. The man - Ron couldn't bring himself to even think the name, although he'd known the victim for years - had hurt those Ron cared about. If he'd been murdered, Ron would find the culprit, but only because it was his job.
"Sir, could you come take a look at this? We've found something we think you should see. Might help us find the killer." The forensic techs were properly deferential, not like the cheeky Obliviators. Ron nodded, and moved to follow the man, but paused, looking back at the young Obliviator.
"Don't bother wiping them, unless some idiot pulls out a wand where they can see. Tell them the police are handling it, and we'll be out of their hair soon."
"Are you sure?" No 'sir' from this one. Cheeky brat. Obliviators were too eager by half to go about modifying memories.
"Very. Being a muggle isn't a crime."
Her frown said she thought being a muggle near her crime scene might be, but she'd do as she was told. She'd better, or Ron would snap her wand and ship her off to Azkaban himself. He'd fought too long and too hard to let old prejudices come creeping back in.
"We used a new technique, sir," the tech told him when they reached the bathroom. "It's still a bit experimental, but we've had very good success with it so far. It lets us see the last thing the victim saw."
The water had been drained from the tub, and the heavy wires moved safely away, but the body was still in the tub, bloated and grotesque. A brass mask, all knob and strangely shaped dials, covered its eyes and nose, for which Ron was glad. He couldn't bring himself to look at remains of that face. A mess of wires ran from the mask to a curved mirror.
"See, here," the tech said, pointing to the mirror, but Ron was already backing up.
"No," he whispered. "No, that's impossible."
"Sir?" asked the tech. His colleagues, tinkering with the machine, stopped what they were doing to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"Colin. That's Colin Creevey." He couldn't take his eyes off the picture. It was Colin but, hazy though the memory had become, it was not the Colin he had known. Colin had been brave and kind and sincere and irritating and good. The eyes that stared at him from the mirror were cold and dead.
"Then we have a lead," the tech said eagerly.
"No." There was something beside Ron's foot, looking like it had been dropped by the victim. A frame photograph, the glass shattered. It had been damaged a bit by the water, but was still easily recognisable. It was Colin, age sixteen, looking just as Ron remembered him. He stared at it, then at the Colin in the glass, and finally passed the photograph over to the tech. "He's been dead for twenty years. This is impossible."
But the evidence was staring him in the face.