FIC: House of Heretics 3/4 (Draco/Astoria, R)

[slumber]

Title: House of Heretics (3/4)
Pairing: Draco/Astoria, mentions of Cormac/Astoria, Viktor/Pansy, also hints at various Slytherin ships
Word Count: <38,000, 9877 for this section
Rating/Warnings: R, mentions of infidelity and crime
Betas: acidpop25 kept an eye out for flow and phrasing, and grrarrg0908 battled my italics valiantly and came out triumphant. Any mistakes are due to my post-beta meddling.
Summary: Seven years have passed since Voldemort's defeat and Draco Malfoy is making do with the lot he's been given--distrusted by the most of the ministry, shunned by the House that he betrayed. When a ministry official goes missing, Draco is given the chance to help restore the Malfoys' place in society. But is Astoria standing in his way or is she just what he needs to be exonerated?
Author's notes: For Slytherins, the loves of my life. Narcissa probably wouldn't be here if not for Helen McCrory's performance in Deathly Hallows. The characters are JKR's, but Foxglove Bakery is Caroline's. Hope you enjoy reading! Written for het_bigbang. On the HBB site here and AO3 here.

iii. cunning just like him

"I thought you'd never come," Blaise said, struggling to stand. The impact of his back on the wall must have rattled him. Small mercies, Draco thought.

"I have a ball to return to," was her short response. That explained the long gown she wore and the lace that gloved her hand.

"How did you--"

"Extendable Ears, wireless edition." Blaise said, holding up a fleshy ear between his fingers. "Infused with the Protean charm, it makes for a better alternative than owling, don't you think?"

"Shut up, Blaise," Pansy told him. "I can only be in the ladies' for so long. Viktor's going to wonder."

"Toss me my wand, then," Blaise said. He caught his wand with deft fingers, and Draco found himself on the wrong end of that as well. "I'll take it from here."

"What's going on?" Pansy asked, as though the absurdity of the situation--Blaise and Draco grappling for control in a potions laboratory after hours--had just sunk in.

"He took McLaggen," Draco said.

Blaise sighed, and when he spoke it was with the condescension of a man dealing with a child. "Apparently my answer to any discussion that goes sour is to abduct a man on his birthday. I'm heartless, I know, but there are lines even I wouldn't dare cross."

"He was blackmailing you."

Blaise shook his head. "How soon you forget my preferences for conducting business. I would have simply countered with an offer myself."

"You had nothing on him."

"I would have had, soon enough."

"Quiet," Pansy ordered the both of them, waving her wand to threaten them both. Draco, wandless, had no choice but to do as she said. She turned to him. "You think he took Cormac?"

"He has a motive--"

"And an alibi," Pansy told him.

"What?"

Blaise shook his head. "Pans--"

Pansy never took her gaze off Draco. "Is this why you called me here?"

"Actually, no, I was hoping you just would disarm him," Blaise said. "I'll take care of the rest myself."

"And how did you plan to do that?" Pansy asked. "By dumping his body in the Thames?"

"No, of course not. We're much closer to the sea."

"Blaise."

Draco watched Blaise's shoulders give, saw him sigh before casting Draco a long look. "He might still turn me in," he said. "Wouldn't you?"

"What is going on?" Draco asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Blaise said with a smirk at the same time Pansy blurted out, "He was with me."

Draco was repeating himself too much that night. "What?"

"Pans."

Pansy shrugged, her lower lip jutting out in a pout, the shadows hiding her eyes from Draco's view. "Are my words good enough, or do you need more proof?"

"You were with him?" Draco asked, speaking the first words that came to mind. "Aren't you married to Krum?"

It was not the best thing to have said. She glared at him, and for a moment he feared he would meet his end there anyway. "You think I don't know that, Draco?"

"That wasn't what I meant--"

"We don't need to explain, least of all to him," Blaise cut in.

"The Golden Snitch?"

"Olga told me about that," Blaise said, crossing his arms. "But yes. I was with her then, as I was with her after that spat with Cormac."

"You could have hired someone. You could have paid someone else to do it."

"Someone from the party?" Blaise asked. "How many outsiders would have gotten in with all of the McLaggens' wards? How many wizards there would I have trusted with the deed?"

"Besides, it isn't Blaise's style." Pansy turned to Draco. Her features had softened now, the hardness that was there giving way to pleading. "No one can know."

Draco frowned. He didn't trust them on their word, but Pansy seemed earnest enough. There might have been more at stake if she were lying--the Parkinsons, his mother had told him once, fled the country after the war and married Pansy off as soon as they could to recoup their losses. Viktor Krum had been the best possible match both in wealth and in standing, having worked with the Order before the war ended. And if rumors were to be believed, the Krums weren't the sort to take affairs with a grain of salt either.

Pansy bit her lip. "Please, Draco."

"Fine," he said, and both Pansy's and Blaise's faces visibly eased. They wouldn't like what he was about to say next, though: "But I'll need your memories."

Harry's face was thoughtful, scrunched in the way it usually was whenever he was going over something in his head. His brow was furrowed and his arms were crossed across his chest. He leaned back against his seat, feet propped up on what empty surface of his desk was available, and his eyes were on Draco.

"And the alibi?"

"Solid," Draco said. "Trust me, I had a watch handy. An hour's worth of unadulterated pleasure, as far away from McLaggen's study as possible." He shuddered. He'd tried hard not to look, but he also had to make sure they never moved from the spot either--that had been a torturous moment in the Pensieve. "You can see for yourself, but I'll need to return the memory today. I promised them no one else would see."

"You didn't need to promise them anything."

"Least I could do. Anyway, they heard the windows break." Unfortunately that had been well outside the realm of the memory--he couldn't see, from where they were, who had fled the manor.

Harry nodded. "So we're back to where we started."

"Apparently."

"I'm not quite convinced he wouldn't have paid anyone to do it for him," Harry admitted.

"No, but he did let me go," Draco said. "Either he's confident about what we'd find or he's confident we won't find anything at all."

"He might have let you go to lull you into trusting him." Harry glanced at him. "Isn't that how you'd usually do things?"

"You can have your men tail him if it makes you feel better. We still need to find whoever had been in the room with him," Draco said. "And then we can decide. When are we supposed to hear about that champagne glass?"

"Next week, Mysteries said. They're still backlogged with other cases."

"Of course they are." Draco glanced at his watch. "It's half past noon, anyway. What say we take a break for lunch?"

"The queue is there for a reason," Henry Stebbins grumbled under his breath. Portly, balding, blurred around the edges with curves where hard lines ought to be, he didn't look the sort to be an Unspeakable, but as a rule every government department had to have their bureaucrat, and Mysteries' happened to be Stebbins.

They'd found him by the fountain, enjoying a turkey-and-swiss sandwich with a napkin tucked against the collar of his robes, speaking in earnest with a fellow Unspeakable about the new memo system the Ministry was trying out. Draco hadn't told Harry they were looking for anyone at all until he walked up to the man and asked if he was in charge of handling the requests to Mysteries.

Stebbins had puffed his chest out with pride and said that yes, indeed, he was.

"Good," Draco had said, and before anyone could protest, he had Stebbins by the elbow and was steering him toward the Department of Mysteries offices.

"We just want to know how it's coming along," Harry said.

"The Unspeakables have been swamped," Stebbins sniffed. He took out a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his forehead and the back of his neck with it. "There are many other things needing our attention--"

"More than McLaggen's disappearance?"

Stebbins gave Draco a baleful look. "We cannot succumb to biased prioritizations," he said stiffly.

They reached the department lobby, an imposing room with black glass for walls and unbreakable mirrors for tiles. Stebbins walked towards a door, hesitating for a moment. He turned to both men. "This is an Unspeakable-only room."

Draco shrugged. "We'll wait out here," he said, picking up a crystal ball from the receptionist's desk.

"Don't. Touch. Anything!" Stebbins said, the door slamming shut behind him.

"What if they're not done yet?" Harry asked once Stebbins was out of earshot. "He's not going to speed the process up for us."

"I doubt he even has anything at all to do with the testing anyway," Draco told him, setting the crystal ball back down. It rolled a little to the edge before he caught it. "But I wouldn't be surprised if the only thing left to do was file the paperwork to send the results to your department."

"Oi." Stebbins popped his head out from a small square hole in the ceiling. "The MLE has too many requests in here," he said, unflapped by the location of his head in relation to the lobby. "Do you remember the case number you filed it under?"

"No. How am I supposed to know? It's the McLaggen file, champagne glass," Harry said.

Stebbins disappeared back inside, muttering more unflattering things about the MLE under his breath.

"Mysteries," Draco sighed. "I bet he did that just to show off."

"It's incomplete," Stebbins told them, emerging from the right side of the room a few minutes later. "Just as I told you."

Harry groaned.

"Wait," Draco said. "What does it say on the file?"

Stebbins frowned. "Hang on," he sighed. "I'll be right back."

"He didn't even read it," Harry said, shaking his head in disbelief. "It was there, and it was what we wanted, and all he could look at was whether it was completed or not."

The third time Stebbins emerged, it was finally with substantial information. "They're conducting final tests," he explained. "They found a sample of the drinker in the glass, but it wasn't enough for the usual polyjuice review, which is why it's taking this long to do. They're trying to piece together as much as they can."

"To do what?"

"To see if they can match her with anyone they have in the database of previous Azkaban--"

"Her?"

Stebbins blinked. "Hm?"

"You said they wanted to match her," Draco repeated. "Not him?"

"No, not him," Stebbins said, frowning in confusion. "The drinker was female."

Draco didn't consider this being back to square one, but truth be told he didn't feel quite at ease pursuing this new lead either.

"It could be any woman," Harry had said. "She could have been there for any number of reasons."

Yet somehow Draco wasn't sure that the implications were more innocent than his first thoughts. He hated admitting he relied on so-called gut instinct, least of all when there was such scarcity for fact, but he couldn't help thinking McLaggen had little reason to conduct business the night of his birthday party.

It shouldn't matter either--it wasn't as though this would be the first case of infidelity he'd come across. But whoever McLaggen had been with that night, and for whatever reason, he knew he had only one place to start looking.

"So what are you looking for, exactly?" Astoria asked. He hadn't owled ahead to let her know he was coming. Pinky had greeted him at the door, and Astoria walked in a few minutes later, in a simple pale green dress that hugged the curve of her hips and a hasty bun that nestled against the nape of her neck. He'd mumbled an excuse--a review of the scene, he'd said--and she'd given him a curious look before leading him to McLaggen's study.

He wondered if she sensed his unease. "I'm just looking over the study again, see if we missed anything the first time," he said. The heels of his feet echoed against the wooden floor of the room. It seemed the house elf had cleaned it up since last he saw it: the desk was upright, the windows replaced, the rug and upholstery thrown out or replaced.

"Looking for what?" Astoria asked. "What happened in France? You never owled."

"Dead end," Draco told her.

"So what brought you back here?" She'd positioned herself between him and the desk. "What's going on? And don't say you can't tell me until you know for certain--I do have a right to know."

Draco sighed. "Your husband," he said. "Did he have female business associates?"

Astoria frowned. "Not that I'm aware."

"None at all?"

"He prefers to do business with wizards, in politics or otherwise," Astoria admitted. "He's... traditional. Why does that matter?"

"I don't know if Potter's told you, but apart from the window, we found two different kinds of broken glass in his study," Draco told her. "One from the scotch he was drinking, and another from a glass of champagne. It established that someone else had been in the room with him and that whoever had taken him was likely someone he knew."

Astoria nodded. "Is this what you went to France for?"

"Yes and no," Draco said. It was doubtful that a woman might have had the ability to overcome McLaggen--and there had been proof of a struggle that night--but regardless of culpability, whoever had been with him that night needed to be found. "The MLE sent the glass of champagne to the Department of Mysteries for testing. They told us they were still trying to find a way to identify the drinker, but they were certain it had been a witch in the room with your husband that night."

If Draco had any concerns, Astoria vindicated them all. She froze, her eyes widening and the line of her jaw clenching in a hard line.

"We don't know what it means yet," Draco said, finding himself quick to try and soften the implication of what he'd told her.

"Spare me," she said, turning away from him to settle herself on the couch with a soft sigh. "They wrote about him once, did you know? In The Daily Prophet. Blind item, of course; they'd never dare give names."

He had heard, in fact--it was what made it difficult to accept any other explanation. His mother often kept track of that sort of gossip, and though she'd never admit it in public, she never shied of sharing her theories with Draco. Small perk of being Narcissa Malfoy's only friend. "I didn't know," he lied.

"Everybody else did," she said. "He tried his best to be discreet, but it was for his career's sake, not mine."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she murmured. "My mother warned me not to expect much of marriage. We're dear friends, Cormac and I, and the arrangement worked for both of us--" She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment, as though considering her next words. "But I suppose it wounds the pride a little, doesn't it, to know you've been found lacking?"

In retrospect, Draco should have noticed sooner. Astoria had been worried about her husband, yes. She'd made sure she was aware of any progress made, demanding the most out of the squad assigned to the case, but she never wavered between the hysteria of loss and blind hope the way most would have. She'd gone through the process with the composure of someone fulfilling her duties, grieving out of obligation and not much else. He sat beside her and gingerly tapped the back of her hand, which she'd folded across her lap. It seemed the right thing to do.

"This woman," she spoke again, turning to face him. "Do you think she took him?"

"We're not sure," Draco said. "It seems improbable for her to have overpowered someone of your husband's size, which is why we never even thought to look for a witch."

"You haven't met my husband drunk, have you." Astoria laughed, though there was nothing cheerful in her laughter. "Whiskey had always been his weakness. Two glasses, and you could convince him to do anything. Merlin, he could convince himself to do anything."

"I see." Draco frowned. "We don't know if she was there the moment he disappeared, but we would like to know who she is. If she had been, and if your husband was indeed under the influence, then--"

"Do you think she had someone else with her?" Astoria asked again. "Someone who helped take him? She could have found a way for them to get inside--"

"Astoria--"

"Was she at the party too?" she asked, a hint of worry lining the whisper of her words. "But who could it have been?"

"Astoria." He squeezed her hand by instinct, a subconscious reaction meant to soothe her. He was surprised at how slender it was compared to his, how soft it felt in his palm. Her gaze flickered to their entwined hands before she looked up at him. He pulled his hand away, a few seconds too late, and averted his gaze as he stood, straightening the non-existent wrinkles on his robes. "I thought I might look in his study again," he said. "He might have written something in the journal."

"Of course," she said, clearing her throat as she stood as well. Her footsteps receded from him. "Feel free to look around. I'll check with Pinky--get some coffee--"

"It's all right, I won't be here long," Draco said, looking up to apologize, but she had already fled. He winced. Served him right, really, to have acted like a blistering teenaged boy. Astoria needed comfort, yes, but Merlin. He didn't have to lay it on thick, did he? He always knew working with Potter would be the end of him, but he never realized it would be from inheriting the git's damned hero complex.

He shook his head, determined to forget about the embarrassment of the evening. McLaggen's desk had been tidied, his journal tucked away in a corner drawer. It had been filled with a few letters, none of which had amounted to much, and the gold coin he'd palmed out of whim. He never did figure out what to do with the coin--it certainly hadn't been real gold, but the goblins at Gringotts hadn't been able to tell him what it was. He took it out from a hidden pocket in his robes, studying the odd symbols and shapeless curves that were engraved on its sides.

"Ah well," he muttered. "Best return you." He flipped the coin, watching it spin in the air. It caught the light from the lamp overhead, and Draco blinked as it clattered with a tinny thunk on the desk, rolling to a stop by the journal. He picked it up again, made sure to position it so the top half had the symbols and the lower showed the lines. He flipped it again, and this time, with the coin in a continuous spin, the image revealed was clearer. In a semi-circle on the top half, a series of numbers. In the middle, the silhouette of a flower.

Draco had seen it before. He couldn't count the number of times he'd watched Blaise Zabini duck beneath a wooden awning that had the exact same image etched onto it.

It was difficult not to remember--the image was a perfect symbol for its name: The Black Orchid.

Draco had scarcely seated himself in the booth--black leather, plush cushions, a table of rich mahogany, indulgent bordering on opulent--when Theodore Nott's figure cast a shadow over what dim light he had on him.

"That was fast," he remarked, tone more casual than he felt. In truth, he'd hoped he'd have time for a glass of water, something cool to counter the dryness of his throat, something solid to keep his hands busy with, something to look at that wasn't Theodore's hard gaze.

"You need to be a member to enter," Theodore said. "What did you tell Ilsa?"

"As it happens," he said, forcing a smile on his face. "I came into a membership. Funny how that works."

"Whose?" Theodore asked before shaking his head, the realization hitting at last. "Never mind, I think I know." His shoulders lost the stiffness they held and his eyes flickered towards Draco as he slid into the seat across him. "Has Dima taken your order yet?"

"It's fine; I won't be here for long."

Theodore beckoned Dima to their table. "Scotch on the rocks for the two of us, please, and the spring sampler?" He turned to Draco. "The chef is trying out truffled chips--insisting it be added, actually--but I haven't decided if I like how it's turning it out. You can tell me what you think."

Draco blinked. "Of course," he said. "You know what I'm here for?"

"Business, am I correct?" Theodore asked. "The Prophet's been wary of you handling the case, but they've been harder on the MLE."

"Don't tell me you've given in to reading that drivel."

"It's different when viewed as entertainment instead of fact," Theodore said. "Even more attractive as an investment. The incredible garbage wizards will eat up is second only to the extortionate prices they will pay for it."

"You own a bit of The Prophet now too?"

"Minority share, that's all," Theodore said, but it was a long way up from the year he spent in Azkaban after the war--a year spent there thanks in large part to Draco's own testimony. It may not have been the death knell to what was left of the Notts' wealth--Theodore had lost plenty in the first few years since his return, restoring a manor that had been looted and pillaged in the absence of its only tenant, and living off what little money remained when companies refused his galleons or his services--but it had signaled the end of something regardless.

This was the first time Draco had spoken to him since then. He grappled for polite conversation and neutral topics, but he'd had an easier time responding to Blaise's anger. Theodore's distance was a different matter altogether. He couldn't help it. Where he'd always disliked Blaise, Theodore was the closest he'd had to a friend. When their drinks arrived he gulped a large dose of liquid courage. "Theodore," he started to say, "for what it's worth--"

"Save it," Theodore said with a shake of his head. "You didn't come here for that."

"I am sorry, anyway."

Theodore's lips drew a thin line, his eyes flashing with something fierce for a moment before it receded behind the usual cool of his blue gaze. "Past is past," he intoned, neither an acknowledgment nor an absolution. "You're here for business."

Draco nodded. "Yes," he said. "You've done a fine job with the place."

"We have passable food and mediocre entertainment--" Here Theodore nodded at a poster of a scantily clad chorus of witches, framed and hung on the wall-- "But you'd be surprised at what people will pay for the guarantee of privacy, and what they'll ignore to get it."

"Privacy?"

"Surprisingly difficult to come by, for some of our clients."

"I've seen Zabini entertain here."

"As he should; he owns half the shares."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything the Zabinis don't own?" he asked.

"You'll be hard pressed to find it," Theodore said.

"And McLaggen?"

"What about him?"

"He's a member of the club, then?"

Theodore shrugged. "I don't keep records of members. I don't know them off the top of my head."

"Surely you have some way of tracking them."

"You found the coin and you clearly have strong enough proof that it's his," Theodore said. "What else do you want from me?"

Draco frowned. "I want to know who he's been meeting with here. I want to know who he's been seen with."

Theodore cocked his head. "Have you listened to anything I've said? I'm not at liberty to say."

"Excuse me?"

Their drinks arrived then, and Theodore took the moment to thank Dima before he raised his glass in toast. "To old friends?" he said, but Draco couldn't say there wasn't a smidge of mockery in the gesture.

"Theodore, this is an MLE case. You could be held in contempt for refusing to cooperate. You could be sent back--"

"Please do," he said. "I've been to Azkaban--it isn't much to fear anymore without the dementors, and I'll likely come back all the richer for it."

"You can't be serious."

"Let me spell out the economics for you: I could sell you my clients for nothing but walk free, or say nothing and be arrested but prove to my clients that no matter what happens, I keep their secrets. Do you have any idea how much mileage that gives us? Why should we work with the MLE when the galleons come from somebody else?" Theodore met Draco's eyes, and asked his next question with an even tone. "What loyalty do I owe you?"

"None," Draco said, unable to muster any other form of protest. He sat back. Theodore still held his gaze, and where earlier his eyes had curbed any kind of emotion, now they openly flashed with anger. Draco felt a strange sensation wash over him--guilt, yes, and plenty of remorse as well--but there was something else as well that loosened the constriction at the back of his throat and lungs. It was only when Theodore looked away that he realized it had been relief, of all things. "You owe me nothing."

"Another dead end," Draco groused. He stabbed at the lettuce leaves in his salad, though he speared a plump cherry tomato instead. He bit into it, somewhat satisfied when its juices filled his mouth.

"Not quite a dead end, though, just an unwilling--what's the term?--person of interest." Astoria sat across him, buttering her bread. "Theodore's been known to hold a grudge or two, and you did send him to Azkaban."

"Now's not the time for guilting," Draco mumbled. He hadn't intended to rant to Astoria, but he'd asked to meet her and as it happened, she was the first person he saw after his visit to The Black Orchid. "Not my fault he told me where his father kept his rubbish."

"In confidence, in fourth year, because he wanted to impress you." At the baffled look Draco gave her, Astoria smiled. "Tracey," she explained with a delicate shrug. "She's besotted with the man, almost as much as he is with her. Someday I might just push one of them onto the other's lips, but not until Christmas Eve next year. I have ten galleons riding on that date, and Pansy's betting it's sooner than that."

"Oh."

"But now we know Cormac spent time there," Astoria said. "If you can't talk to Theodore himself, perhaps you can talk to his staff?"

"I already tried," Draco admitted. "Even tried to bribe them."

"You must be on the right track," Astoria murmured. "Maybe one of them knows what happened."

Draco frowned. "Yeah," he said. A plan was beginning to form in his head. He knew a warlock in Knockturn Alley who used to be a Potionsmaster before a stint in Azkaban that never quite cleared his name...

"What are you planning to do?" Astoria asked, voice piercing through his thoughts as though she could see right through them. She peered at him, curious, and Draco shook his head.

"Alternatives," was all he would say. He glanced at her purse, which had the gnarly edge of a familiar leather-bound book peeking out. "I didn't ask you here to complain about Theodore Nott."

"Could have fooled me." Astoria laughed when Draco started to protest and silenced him by drawing out the journal. "What did you want to look at this for?"

"I was hoping to see something I may have missed the first time," he said, flipping through the pages as easily as any other book--he'd taken out the wards and was much happier for it. "Am I still not allowed to take this home with me?"

"Seeing the way you work, I'm not quite sure I trust you to keep the journal intact."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You make a mess!" Astoria said, laughing. "Last time I had you in the guest study you--" she started ticking items off her fingers-- "smudged ink on the oak grain surface, left crumpled up parchment around the bin and not in it, re-organized my novels--"

"They weren't alphabetical," Draco protested. "And I take care of borrowed items."

She narrowed her eyes. "The potion you use for Amos," she said. "Where do you make it?"

"At home?"

"In a different area from where you'd study the journal?"

Draco hesitated.

"So you'll spill who knows what on it too!"

"Will not!" Draco denied.

"I rest my case," she said anyway. "You can read that here, if you like." She glanced around the bistro. "Let's see you try to make a mess in such a nice place."

"That sounds almost like a dare," Draco said, and when she turned to look at him, the corner of her lips quirked up. He returned the smirk, and for a fleeting moment allowed himself to pretend they weren't at lunch for business, that they were seated there just for the sake of each other's company--

Their main course came then, just in time to break Draco out of his thoughts, and a good ten minutes later than it should have arrived though neither minded. Astoria twirled the angel hair in her fork, Draco pierced pieces of penne with his as he read.

"Your mother's hosting another dinner this Saturday," Astoria said, breaking the silence when it started to make both of them a little restless. "My mother told me she's been invited."

"Is she?" It had been the only topic of conversation between him and his mother the last few times they've spoken. Narcissa spent half the conversation elated, the other half fretting about the menu, or the state of the manor, or what Lucius might say in front of company. "She hasn't mentioned."

"You wouldn't be there, then?" Astoria asked. "Mother thought it was so Miranda could ask you about the investigation. I told her you wouldn't be able to say much more than what you've already told me, but they seem determined to know everything."

Narcissa had not told Draco about that. "What?"

"I thought I'd let you know."

Draco sighed. "She hasn't told me to come, but I'll find an excuse not to show up if she does." He wrinkled his nose, dreading the fire-call that would entail. He'd cross the bridge when he reached it. There were other things needing his attention at the moment, and he nodded towards the journal before asking Astoria, "Have you gone through this in detail?"

"I haven't studied it, no, but I've picked it up and looked a few times," she told him. "I always think I'd find something new that I haven't seen before, but it all blurs together for me."

Draco nodded. "I think--" he started to say, flipping the journal over so that Astoria could see them too. "I thought these were just cloud doodles, at first, a way to track the weather forecast or something." His fingers were pointing at a small scribble. He turned the page and showed her another cloud. "But see how they always seemed to be at the upper right side of the date? And there's never any other kind of weather but cloudy?"

Astoria nodded, fingers light on the pages and a thoughtful look on her face. "So what is it?"

"What if these weren't clouds?" Draco asked. "What if he'd been trying to draw orchids?"

The alley stank of garbage and rats, spoiled meat and the dankness of wet earth. It was quiet but for the scuffling of feet and the creaking of a door, dark save for the small light off the burning end of a cigarette, illuminating the gaunt lines of the young man who lit it.

He never saw Draco coming, never heard the whisper of a Stunning spell.

"Sorry about that. Believe me, it's nothing personal," Draco told him. The body pitched forward, unconscious, slacking just before it hit the floor. Draco hooked his arms under the man's armpits and dragged him to a dark corner before he threw a large black canvas over him.

Tonight he was determined to find out what happened to Cormac McLaggen inside The Black Orchid.

He plucked a strand of hair from the unconscious man and dropped it into a thin flask that he kept in his back pocket. The potion had cost a handful of galleons and a furtive trip down Knockturn Alley, and it took only a few seconds before the last ingredient did its work. The scentless mixture wafted with a heady, musky fragrance, like grass after a heavy rain. It wasn't bad as far as essences go; Draco has had much worse. He tipped his head back and downed a mouthful.

The transformation was not without the normal discomfort that came when old skin shifted and molded itself to fit a new body. His flesh shrank, clinging to longer bones. He winced as his jaw tightened and his teeth moved--that was always the worst part. He shook his head, and a shock of long black hair--the last part of the body to change--fell over his eyes. Satisfied, he tucked the offending locks behind his ears and headed back to the lounge.

"Dima! What took you so long?"

He glanced at the woman--long wavy blonde hair, tight skirt, stockinged legs--who accosted him. Ilsa, he thought. She'd sat him at the lounge. "Needed a break," he said.

Ilsa frowned. "What's wrong with your voice?"

Crap. He shook his head. "Coming down with something."

"Well, you better hurry. You're late; Caterina's already arrived."

Draco glanced around. The lounge, for all that it was meant to be some popular establishment for a secret few, was practically empty. There were one or two staff members, Ilsa included, and only three customers. Draco wasn't sure which of them was Caterina, or why she had to be served by Dima in particular.

"Where are you going?" Ilsa grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a wall panel that swung open at once. "Here," she said, shoving him in and shutting the door behind him.

Draco blinked. He found himself at the end of a long and narrow hallway lined with wood paneling and muted wallpaper. There were rows of closed doors on both sides, a soft classical tune that played in the background somewhere, and absolute silence otherwise. There was no furniture except for a table that carried a vase of various blooms and a candelabra.

"Dima!" someone whispered.

Draco looked up. There was another woman at the other end of the hallway who was walking toward him. She was older, much older than anyone Draco had ever seen that night, and also more clothed. Her gray hair was tied in a bun and while rather portly, she moved with the severity and comportment of a headmistress. She waved him over.

"Caterina?" Draco guessed as he neared her.

"In there," the woman said, nodding at the door to her left. When Draco reached out to open the door, her eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

"I'm late," Draco began to protest--late for what, he wasn't sure--but the woman instead opened a hidden panel on the wall and grabbed a ready vial of thick brown mud from among a row of similar vials. Another panel opened, releasing a gust of arctic cold air, and from that she took out a small tube of what looked like ice.

"Fundum," she whispered, and the tube overflowed with melting ice. She took out a strand of hair that had been frozen in the tube, and dropped it into the concoction Draco was holding. It bubbled for a moment before turning into a shade of navy blue, and Draco caught a whiff of the ocean just before she nodded for him to drink in.

For the second time that night, Draco had to undergo an uncomfortable transition. This time, he expanded. His stomach began to bulge, he felt his nose and arms and feet grow, and his chin itched with the sudden spurt of facial hair.

"That will do," the woman said to herself. "You've made her wait long enough. Go in."

Draco hesitated, gripped with the sinking sensation of knowing what was about to happen, and not certain he knew what to do to avoid it. He took a deep breath and turned the knob.

"You're late, mon amour," a low, melodious voice drawled.

He was in a private suite illuminated in fuschia tones. To his left was a large mirror and dressing table. To his right, a chaise lounge, over which a few articles of clothing were draped. And dead front and center, a circular bed of thick satin and a lingeried woman who lay provocatively atop it--cleavage peeking through black lace and silk garters, thighs splayed over red sheets, lips puckered to a sultry pout. It would be any red-blooded man's fantasy, if not for the woman resembling Umbridge more than Delacour.

"Marc?"

"Uh. Sorry," Draco squeaked. He glanced back at the door, wondering if the woman would be waiting outside, and what excuse he could make to leave.

"My darling, is something the matter?" Caterina asked.

"No, of course not. Not at all." He'd gone this far. He'd found out this much. It was enough for now, more than anything that he could have ever hoped to uncover in one night's work. It would be easier to find out what McLaggen had done, now that he had this on Nott. But he needed a way out, and it had to be within the hour he had left, with no one any wiser. "You look beautiful tonight."

At this, Caterina smiled. "I knew you would come back for me," she murmured. "I knew you would see through that vile witch and return to me."

"Of course. How could I not?"

"Come here, then," Caterina purred. "Show me how much you missed me."

"No," Draco said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Caterina frowned. "No?" she echoed. She sat up, drawing her blankets to her chest. "Dima, what is wrong with you tonight?"

Fuck. "Nothing," Draco quickly denied, his mind on overdrive as it scrambled to stall the inevitable. "I was thinking perhaps tonight we can try something new, that's all."

Caterina's eyes narrowed. "Oh?" she asked anyway.

"Yes," Draco said. "I was thinking tonight, maybe I should watch?"

Caterina smirked. "You naughty boy. Do you want me to put on a show for you?"

"If you would please." Draco's gaze fell upon a silken scarf, part of the outfit he presumed Caterina had discarded in favor of a night with Marc, whoever that was. "And if you'd let me, I have an idea..."

"Do tell."

Draco took the scarf and crawled onto bed. He nearly recoiled at the strength of her perfume. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Not at all," Caterina said. "Impedimenta!"

Draco did not have time to react. He was thrown back from the bed, body colliding with the wall at the other end of the room with a sickening thud. He groaned, and before he could attempt to get up Caterina had already cast Incarcerous on him.

"Who are you?" she demanded, wand pointed in his direction as she gathered her clothes about her. "What did you do with Dima?"

Draco shook his head. "I'm Dima."

"You would never have answered to Dima if you were. You would never have tried to play games." Caterina raised her wand, uttered another spell that emitted a loud, wailing noise, and within moments Theodore Nott strolled in.

"Caterina, what are you doing with my employee?" he asked after taking one look at Draco's prone form.

"He's an impostor."

"Is he? Let's see, shall we?" Theodore knelt beside Draco, tipping his chin up and studying him. He took out a small bottle from his pocket, unstoppering it and tipping its contents into Draco's mouth. Draco attempted to move away, to spit the potion back out, but Theodore pinched his nose and he choked on it instead.

"Who is he?" Caterina gasped when Draco morphed back to his true form.

"That isn't important. Caterina, I am very sorry that this happened. Trust me when I say we will be taking care of this right away." Theodore turned to Draco and, without so much as a word or a flicker of acknowledgment in his gaze, yanked him by the arm and dragged him out of the room.

"What do you think you're doing?" Theodore hissed, his fingers digging into the flesh of Draco's arm.

"What do you?" Draco asked. "The Ministry would lock you up for this, are you--"

"I should Obliviate you right now. I should replace your memory."

"And have the rest of the MLE knocking down your door?" Draco asked. "They know I'm here. They know what I'm doing. They'll come after you if I don't return."

"Liar."

Draco clenched his jaw, eyes resolute as he stared Theodore down. "Do you want to risk it?" he asked.

Theodore looked like he wanted nothing more but to punch Draco then and there, but luckily for Draco, Theodore was a more patient man. "What do you want?"

"You know exactly what I want."

"Fine," he bit out. "But with a few conditions."

He'd seen her before, but only in passing. Blonde hair, red lips, stockings and heels. When Theodore Nott brought Ilsa to him, he was surprised to find she was less the generic fantasy and more a nervous girl who fidgeted with her fingers and compulsively braided and unbraided her hair--bewitched blonde, if the dark lines of her eyebrows were anything to go by--to fend off the anxiety of talking to authority. She'd discarded her heels in favor of clunky black shoes that looked more suitable for school. Her lipstick had faded to the natural shade of her lips and her glamor charms were beginning to disappear as well. In the initial silence of their meeting she pulled out a hair tie, gathering her hair up in a loose bun on top of her head and leaving it there. Curious light green eyes looked up at Draco, until at last he spoke.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one?" her reply was whispered, but her voice was husky and tinted with an accent that told Draco English was not her native language.

"How old are you really?"

Ilsa glanced around, but Theodore had gone to recover Dima from where he was unconscious behind The Black Orchid, and there were still clients left to--well, the other girls were looking after them. They were alone. "Nineteen."

"How long have you been working here?"

"One year."

Her hand kept glancing up the bottom of her bun, but without her hair to toy with, her hands were left restless. She folded them across her lap, but they clenched and fisted and smoothened until even Draco could not stand the tics any longer. "You're not in trouble, if that's what you're worried about," he said. "I only want to ask a few questions."

She nodded, though she looked no less comforted.

"You knew Cormac McLaggen?" Draco asked.

If she'd looked fretful before, it was nothing compared to the panic in her words now. "I know nothing," she pleaded, wringing her hands against her skirt. "You cannot send me to Azkaban because there is no one else to blame, Sasha says--"

"Calm down," Draco said, palm raised to quiet her before she grew hysterical. "No one's going to Azkaban for anything they didn't do." That was true enough. "All I want to know is what you know."

"I am a secret," she said. "Mr. Nott--"

"He's agreed to have you speak with me," Draco told her. "He says there's no harm in letting me talk to his wait staff."

She nodded, understanding the meaning behind the words he did not say. Should her testimony ever be needed, it would be given as an employee of the lounge and not the brothel. Draco's silence for Theodore's cooperation, that had been the deal. Considering the inches that had, just earlier, separated Draco's face from Theodore's wand, it was a deal he was only too happy to make.

"So you'll tell me about Cormac?"

"He was customer," Ilsa said, speaking in soft, halting tones. "At first he had many... servers."

"How often did he visit?"

"Once a week, maybe every other." Ilsa shook her head. "I do not remember."

"And then?"

"And then I serve him."

Draco caught her gaze and gave her what he hoped was a look of encouragement. "Go on."

"He asks for me all the time, after," she said. "He gives me gifts."

"Did you see him outside The Black Orchid?"

"No, we are not allowed."

"I will not tell Theodore if you did," Draco assured her. "Did Cormac ever ask to see you outside of work?"

Ilsa shook her head, insistent. "Black Orchid only," she said.

"Do you remember the night he went missing?"

"I read about it in paper." Ilsa was still playing with her hands, smoothing out wrinkles that nobody could see on her skirt. "But it wasn't me, I was working, Anca will tell you. She keeps the log."

A log was nothing but a piece of paper, and what use is a memory in a place full of polyjuicers? Draco wasn't sure he trusted Ilsa on her word alone, but while it seemed natural to her profession, she did not look like a woman who could weave lies to her advantage. "You will show me where Anca keeps these logs, then?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I will."

"Thank you. When you were together, did Cormac mention anything outside of--other than what you do?" Draco asked. "Anything about men he worked with, things he was planning to do, anything like that?"

Ilsa shook her head. "He does not talk much," she said, frowning. "When he does, he likes to say--"

Draco caught the hesitation in her voice, the soft pause of thought that stopped her from speaking. "Yes?"

"Cormac--" Ilsa sighed. "He likes to talk big. Anca says it's because he's politician. He makes a lot of promises, but Anca says he only keeps half of them."

"Sounds about right," Draco muttered. He quirked an eyebrow at Ilsa, curious. "What promises did he make, Ilsa?"

"I hope, Harry, that you know what you're doing."

"You can trust me, sir."

"Of that I have no doubt. It's Draco Malfoy I'm not so sure about."

"Understood. He's got his own way of working, but--"

"But he works for us," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, his voice a calm baritone that by its very timbre commanded authority. "We aren't just trying to discover what happened to Cormac McLaggen. Considering his position, we need to be delicate in the way we conduct our investigation."

"Yes, sir. We're doing what we can."

"I know you are, but like I said, I'm not so sure about Malfoy. Not everyone trusts him as you do."

Harry's response came after a long pause. "He's paid his dues."

"Sometimes wounds take more than just a few years to heal. We lost many good men and women in that war."

"I know, sir. I hear that a lot."

"Just make sure you keep an eye out on him," Shacklebolt said. "But I've kept you enough. If there's nothing else to talk about, I'll be on my way."

"All right. Thanks for stopping by, sir."

There was a rustling--perhaps a billowing of the regal robes that Shacklebolt favored so much--and then heavy footsteps headed for the door. Draco had just enough time to scramble a few steps back and position himself mid-step before the door to Harry's office swung open.

"Minister!" he greeted, an extra dose of sunshine infused into the cheer of his voice. "Lovely surprise seeing you here."

"Mr. Malfoy," Shacklebolt said coolly. He'd brought Lucius to Azkaban twice, first after that skirmish in the Department of Mysteries and then again after the Battle at Hogwarts. Draco suspected Shacklebolt wasn't happy about having Lucius walk out both times.

"Billow away, sir," Draco mumbled under his breath as Shacklebolt swept past him, a gathering of fine silks and bright fabric swishing in his wake. He turned to Harry and caught the look on his face. "What?"

"How long were you outside for?"

"Not long at all. Why? Did I miss anything of great importance?"

"How long?"

Draco thought a half-shrug was an eloquent enough answer. "Long enough," he admitted when he sensed Harry was not about to drop the subject anytime soon.

Harry sighed. "He's under a lot of pressure too," he said. "Magical Cooperation can't decide what to do in McLaggen's absence and the Ministry's released next to no information to the public. He's answerable to them too."

"He's answerable to no one; he's the bloody Minister!"

"You'd be surprised," Harry said. "Anyway, it's just words."

"I know that," Draco said, narrowing his eyes when he realized what Harry was trying to do. "I'm a grown man, Potter. No need to worry about me."

"Wasn't worrying--"

"Then let's talk about something else, shall we?"

"Yeah, of course. Is that what you came in here for?" Harry asked. "I tried to call but you didn't answer your fireplace."

Draco shrugged. "I wasn't home," he said. "How long are you here for?"

"Not very long," Harry told him, giving him a curious look that Draco ignored. "I've got a couple of reports left to file."

"You wouldn't mind if I nipped in and took a look in the Pensieve then, would you?" Draco asked.

"Of course. Whose memory did you get?"

"No one's," Draco lied. "I thought I'd take some time to review a few things, that's all."

Ilsa was a sweet girl, Draco had thought. She was nervous and quiet, and when he asked her questions she seemed close to crying many times. She looked innocent, by all accounts, yet when Draco secluded himself in a corner of her last memory with McLaggen he started to doubt just how much of the Ilsa he saw had been an act, and how much of the real her he had really been speaking with.

He'd asked for examples of what McLaggen had told her, snippets of what she remembered from their time together, hoping that he might be able to cull from McLaggen's own mouth what may have been lost in the nuances of Ilsa's interpretation. Unfortunately she had misunderstood the request, and instead of giving Draco a strand of the last night she spent with her client, she gave him all of it.

Closed doors remained closed within memories; objects remained stationary and unmovable by the intruders that examined them. Draco had cringed when he realized, had run for the corner farthest from the pair as McLaggen strode in like a stallion about to mount his mare, throwing Ilsa to the bed and laughing like a conquering king.

Ilsa did not have to polyjuice into anybody, as the girls and boys of The Black Orchid did. She'd put on a few glamor charms to lighten her hair and plump her breasts, but that was all. And in bed, she was not sweet, or innocent, or anywhere close to girlish. She moaned with gusto, straddled Cormac's thighs with confidence, and threw her long hair back and screamed his name when he--they?--came.

It wasn't Draco's best dip into a memory, least of all when desire began to stir deep in his stomach and coil just so. He shifted, crossing his legs and forcing unattractive thoughts into his mind: Dolores Umbridge, Caterina, Slughorn. He thought of the big massive blobs of worms at Hagrid's hut, the blank stare of Charity Burbage's dead eyes--Draco winced. Perhaps nothing too unattractive.

But the memories came regardless, punctuated in turns by McLaggen's grunts and Ilsa's groans: the screams that filled Malfoy Manor whenever his aunt decided to visit the dungeons, his Marking. Draco grimaced, remembering the way the Dark Lord's wand burned into his skin--yet the pain seemed muted now, especially in light of the way his potions have been reacting to his skin. The way Amos squirmed and hissed--that blasted snake, now named and acknowledged thanks to Astoria. Ilsa tossed her hair back, and for a moment Draco thought he caught sight of dark brown curls instead of Ilsa's blonde.

He wondered what Astoria might look like, atop McLaggen like Ilsa was, with breasts just as full and skin even paler. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shifted in his seat to cover the one between his legs. McLaggen reached out to yank Ilsa's hair and Draco wondered what Astoria's hair might feel like between his fingers. Ilsa moaned, low and guttural--would Astoria sound the same?

"Fuck," Draco swore, because it was wrong, so very wrong, a married woman whose husband he was trying to find, for god's sake--Ilsa pressed herself up against McLaggen--but when Draco's gaze followed the curve of her back down to the swell of her arse as she ground against McLaggen and found himself aching for what Astoria might feel like against him, in the same way Ilsa arched towards McLaggen, he knew he was lost.

He wasn't a fucking saint.

He shrugged off his robes and undid his trousers--it took only a few quick strokes, timed with the climax of the pair on the bed and superimposed with the images in his head, but even after Ilsa had curled against Cormac, even after he'd cast three different cleaning charms on him and his clothes, he found himself burning with want all the same, and the image of Astoria, cheeks flushed and swollen lips parted, seared into his head.

"I don't understand," Miranda McLaggen said. "I'm flesh and blood--I am his mother!"

Draco winced. "I understand that, Miranda, but all the same--"

"I have the right to know of the investigation as it progresses!" she all but screeched, and not for the first time that afternoon, Draco wondered why his mother thought paying Miranda a visit would be a splendid idea. He'd turned down Narcissa's invitation to dinner the previous day, but Narcissa never took no for an answer--she'd shown up at his flat early that morning, announced they ought to spend more time together, and between lunch at Diagon Alley and heading back home she'd somehow maneuvered them into Miranda McLaggen's estate.

"Miranda, he's doing what he can. But he works with Magical Law Enforcement and they've got rules about what the immediate family can and cannot know," Astoria said, calming the elder Mrs. McLaggen with a sympathetic pat on the arm. She glanced at Draco and gave him a small smile, but it didn't help Draco any. He and his mother had caught Miranda with company, and it had turned out to be the last person he wanted to see so soon after--whatever happened at the Pensieve. He looked away, focusing instead on Miranda.

"I'm afraid we've found little conclusive evidence so far," he explained.

"How long will it take for you to make conclusions?" Miranda demanded. "It's been weeks and my poor son--"

"We're following as many leads as we can," Draco said. "The MLE has opened a mailbox for any help the public can give and Auror Potter's making sure each owl we receive is given attention."

"He'll be dead before you even get a sniff of what happened!"

"I'm sorry, Miranda," was all Draco could say. "I really--I am doing my best, and we're going to find your son whatever it takes. But I should--" he stood up, pushing back his cold cup of tea and dusting the crumbs off his robes. "Thank you for your time, but I should be going."

"Draco!" Narcissa called out, grabbing him by the arm before he could Apparate home, just a few steps outside the manor's doors.

"I don't have anything that will help her, Mother," he hissed. "Her son is still missing and the people who might want him dead probably have good reasons."

"Draco."

"What am I to tell her? That he engages in illegal trade, that he blackmails his business partners, that he cheats on his wife with a whore? Because that's all I've found, and believe me, if I knew it would give Miranda McLaggen any kind of comfort to know that, I would have told her long ago."

Narcissa stepped back with a gasp.

"Exactly," Draco said grimly.

"I didn't know," Narcissa whispered. "Oh, darling, I thought--"

"I know, Mum."

"I was only trying to help her; I thought--"

She thought Miranda might find her useful enough to keep around, that she might soon vouch for the Malfoys as acceptable company. "It's fine," he said, sighing. "You should go back in there and apologize for my behavior, tell them I'm under a lot of stress or something--"

"Draco? Narcissa?" Astoria closed the door behind her, a worried look on her face. "Is everything all right?"

"It's all fine, dear, thank you," Narcissa said, turning to give Astoria a reassuring smile. "My son--"

"Is stressed, and has forgotten his manners, that's all," Draco finished for her.

Astoria nodded. "My mother--Miranda's broken down into sobs, and my mother's not the best at providing comfort," she said. "To be honest, neither am I. Narcissa, I was wondering if you could help?"

"Of course," Narcissa said. She glanced at Draco, and when he nodded his consent, she walked back inside, leaving Draco and Astoria alone.

"I really should go," Draco said, as soon as Narcissa was gone.

"Is that true?" Astoria asked.

"What?"

"The things you told your mother." She bit her lip. "Blackmail? A whore?"

Draco shook his head. "Astoria, I am so--" Before he could stop himself, he'd crossed the distance between the two of them, gathering her into a firm hug and rubbing circles on her back. "I am so sorry."

"I'm not crying," she protested, voice muffled against his chest.

"Oh." Draco let go, catching Astoria's gaze as she raised her head.

"I always knew he wasn't perfect," she confessed. "But he was a good match and--"

"I know," he said. She'd not shed any tears, but her eyes shone with them, threatening to spill any moment.

"Have you ever--" she started to say, tearing her gaze from his and staring at the collar of his robes. "Have you ever done something because it was the right thing to do, the reasonable thing to do--"

"The proper thing everyone expected you to do?"

"Who hasn't, right?" she asked, looking back up at him with a soft laugh. "Have you ever--" she trailed off, and Draco could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation as she worried at her lower lip.

"Have I ever what?"

"Have you ever regretted it?"

Draco's words, if he had any, caught in his throat. "Sometimes," he admitted at last.

"Draco, I need to--" Astoria started to say, and maybe it wasn't right or reasonable or proper, but Draco stopped her mid-sentence, closing what little gap remained between them and pressing his lips to hers.

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