The Better Part of Valor 2/9 (R/D, PG-13)

[wideworldsend]

Title: The Better Part of Valor
Author: Mad Maudlin
Rating: high PG-13
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Summary: Discretion is the better part of valor. But for Ron Weasley, a rash of Muggle poisonings coupled with the abrupt and disturbing return of Draco Malfoy to his life threaten to blow the lid off his best-kept secret.

The Better Part of Valor

by Mad Maudlin

2.
I hoped in a vague way that the morning would bring me a dazzling moment of clarity. Instead, it brought Hell's own hangover. This is why I really ought to listen to the Hermione-voice more often that I do.

While I was standing in the shower and praying for death, I tried unsuccessfully to sort out the chain of events of the night before. I had followed my fit and bitchy pianist into the corridor. I had grabbed somebody of the right size and shape and gender. It had turned out to be Malfoy. They couldn't have just changed places, at least not after I'd got my hands on him—maybe the pianist had ducked into the loo right quick while he was out of my line of sight, so I'd grabbed the wrong bloke. But that left the question of what the hell was Malfoy doing at my sodding birthday party in the first place.

I mean, I hadn't seen him in years. Nobody had seen him in years. Not since the Wizengamot acquitted him, in fact. They'd only done it because Harry had leaned on them—at that point Harry could've talked himself into being named Minister if he'd tried—and he'd only done that because of Malfoy's help with the Horcruxes. Malfoy had apparently decided to show his unending gratitude by falling off the face of the planet. There were always rumors, of course, but I'd never really believed he was retired to a private island and blowing his vast fortune on piña coladas, or escaped to a foreign dungeon to plot his rise to power as the next Dark Lord, or any of the other silly stuff. He was just gone, and I hadn't really minded.

Not that I wanted him to be gone. Or that I wanted him around, either. I just didn't care either way. I mean, yeah, in school I'd wanted to break his pointy face most of the time, but after the war I'd had more important things to worry about. Too many people were dead to care about insults from when I was twelve (and thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen...oh, you get the point) and if Harry could forgive him for the things he'd done, I reckoned I could as well. If Malfoy wanted to disappear for a while I really didn't blame him, but I also didn't give a shit about where he went or what happened to him when he did.

Only I'd just tried to suck out his tonsils last night. Even if I'd been drunk, that suddenly made matters a bit more personal.

(Not too personal though. I mean, we'd just snogged, is all. Even if he was fabulous at it.)

I mulled this over as I made my way to work, hangover and paperwork in tow. Harry met me at the lift with a cup of coffee, a sympathetic smile, and a really big hickey. "Good morning," he said, though it came out sounding sort of like a question.

I grunted and took the coffee, and drank down half of it in a go. It did absolutely nothing for my stomach, but it did make me marginally more alert than I had been.

"You don't look so good, mate," Harry said with his smile slipping.

"No hangover potion," I said. "We ran out last weekend, remember?"

He cringed. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." I glanced at the hickey. "Harry—er—vampire?"

"What—? Oh." He actually blushed at that and tugged his collar up, which completely failed to hide the hickey. That's the problem with Harry dating Ginny, I know way more about her love life than I ever wanted to. At least that explained why he hadn't come back to our flat last night. That's Harry's kind of luck, that he gets to score at my damn party.

(Well, I'd almost scored—if the loo door hadn't opened when it had I probably would've. With Malfoy. Bloody hell, why wasn't I more repulsed by that idea?)

"Kingsley's looking for you, by the way," Harry said as we headed towards my desk.

I thought about the large pile of paperwork I still hadn't turned in, and winced. "What's he want?"

"Dunno, probably your new assignment."

Which was only a slightly better prospect than a scolding over late paperwork. "Probably another idiot trying to grow magic marijuana, I bet."

"You really think there could be two of them?"

"Well, something like that." I dumped my satchel on the desk and let the paperwork fall all over the place; the top drawer of the desk flew open and all the memos I'd shut up in there the night before burst out and started sailing around my head. It looked like they'd been breeding, too. (See? Even my memos get laid more often than I do.) "Fucking hell!" I snapped, swiping at them.

"I've got them," Harry said, and started plucking the memos out of the air like Snitches. "Go on, go find Kingsley, you're already late."

I thanked him and headed over to Kingsley's office—becoming head of the division had its perks, I guess, like real doors and windows. He let me in as soon as I knocked, and I found a couple of people I didn't recognize sitting in with him. "Weasley," he said, "so glad you could join us, we were just discussing your next assignment."

"What's that, sir?" I said.

"Muggle poisonings," Kingsley said, and nodded at one of the other people in the office—who, actually, I did recognize after a minute. His name was Rickets or Riplick or something, and he worked for my dad in the Muggle Affairs Office. "Mr. Rickler can explain it.

Rickler, right, I was close. Rickler cleared his throat and leaned forward in his seat a bit; he wasn't as old as my dad, but only just, and his glasses were as thick as coasters. "There have been four in the past three weeks, right here in London," he said. "All of them very public, I'm afraid. The poor fellows turned up in shops or parks, unconscious and covered head to toe in spots. Green ones. Two of them had tails, as well."

"The Healers at St. Mungo's haven't been able to identify the poison," the other person in the office said—a witch, just a bit older than me, with a tight little ponytail on the top of her head. "It doesn't match anything they're familiar with, which lead us to suspect it was Dark magic at work."

"And you are...?" I asked.

"Emilia Aldershot," Kingsley said. "The Enforcer assigned to the case. I don't necessarily share her conviction that the poison is Dark magic, but I agree the situation is highly suspicious, and considering the circumstances of the last case of mass Muggle attacks..."

He didn't have to finish—Walden MacNair had escaped capture for five years and killed a dozen Muggles in their beds before we nabbed him in Wales. I wasn't aware of any other Death Eaters who might still be on the loose, but if there was even a chance the poisoner was one—or even a copy-cat—well, I can see why they might want an Auror on hand, just in case. "I understand sir," I said. "When do we start?"

"Right now, if you don't mind," Aldershot said. I think she could tell I was hungover, because she was frowning at me a little bit. Though it's actually kind of surprising she was able to make any kind of facial expression at all, with her hair pulled that tight. "Our liaison with the Muggle police has questioned all the victims, and they all reported visiting the same club the night they were poisoned. I was hoping to start the investigation there."

"By all means," Kingsley said, before I could even get a word in edgewise. "This matter remains the jurisdiction of the Muggle Affairs Office until we can actually prove that Dark magic is involved."

"Excuse me," I said. "If it's their jurisdiction, what am I supposed to do?"

Kingsley smiled at me, the kind of smile that crocodiles might give you when they're not hungry yet. "Consider yourself on loan for the time being, Weasley."

"Loan? What?"

"To Miss Aldershot, for the duration of the investigation." Yes, definitely a crocodile smile. This is why you should always turn your paperwork in on time, kids. "I'm sure you'll comport yourself with all due professional courtesy."

"But, erm, who do I report to, exactly?"

"Oh, I'll be keeping a close eye on the case," Kingsley said confidently. "But Miss Aldershot will remain in charge, and you'll report to her first and foremost."

You see what I meant about things going subterranean on me?

I followed Aldershot and Rickler out of Kingsley's office, and couldn't quite manage to swallow a yawn. Aldershot gave me another one of those little frowns. "This club is called the Golden Claw," she explained as we walked towards the lifts. "From what we've been able to gather, it's quite posh and on the exclusive side."

"Lovely," I said.

"All the victims admitted to visiting it the same night they were found poisoned," she said, "although the interviewer said they seemed very cagey about doing so, and they all claimed not to remember most of what happened to them while they were there."

"Sounds pretty typical of a night on the town," I said. "Have a bit too much to drink, you start to lose track of what happens around you, you know?" (Or, at least, you start to wish you would.)

"I don't go to clubs," Aldershot said stiffly as the lift arrived.

"Why am I not surprised?" I mumbled to Rickler. I don't think he head me.

We went to the club, which was a much bigger fiasco than it sounds like. Rickler spent about half an hour instructing us on how to Transfigure our robes into undetectable Muggle disguises (hint: trenchcoats), then spent the entire Tube ride asking very loud questions that made everyone around us edge away slowly. I don't know how Dad finds these people. It didn't help that Aldershot didn't actually know where this Golden Claw place was, so we rode four different trains in circles until she and Rickler together figured out the correct stop, and when we got off it we still had to walk about forty-five minutes before we got to the location. I spent the whole trip with my head between my knees as a precaution, and when Aldershot pointed out the front door of the club I gave in to the temptation to grumble. "Why couldn't we have just borrowed a car?"

"The expense couldn't be justified," Aldershot said. "There's no point in wasting Ministry resources."

I looked at Rickler, who was huffing and puffing a bit, and he shrugged at me. I asked Aldershot, "Have you ever met my brother Percy?" She wouldn’t answer me.

The Golden Claw, when we finally got there, didn't look particularly interesting from the street; it was just a doorway, set between other doorways, in a building that looked like it belonged on some sort of historic registry, if it wasn't on one already. I can't actually describe it—ask somebody who knows something about architecture—but it was very pretty, and very old, and sort of dignified, like somebody's maiden great-aunt in her best hat and robes at teatime. There was a plaque on the door, embossed in fancy calligraphy: The Golden Claw Gentlemen's Club, est'd 1867. That was all. Aldershot knocked.

Everything about the man who answered was long and thin, from his hair to his fingers, and he was dressed like the maitre d'. He looked at all of us down his long, thin nose and twiddled his long, thin moustache for a moment before he asked, "Can I help you with something?" and even the s in something was long and thin.

Rickler held up some kind of Muggle identity card—at least, I assume it was a Muggle identity card, thought my dad had something that looked the same and he called it a billfold. "We're with the police," he said very importantly. "We'd like to speak to the, er, the keeper of this establishment."

The maitre d' raised his long, thin eyebrows at us and looked us over again in a way that made me want to wipe my nose, just in case there was smut on it. "I'll speak to the manager," he said finally, still lisping. "If you'd like to come in and have a seat..."

The inside was very dim, even in daylight, and all the furniture was dark wood and burgundy upholstery with delicate gold and brass accents everywhere. I was pretty confident that the chair I sat in cost more than the Burrow. I mean, I'm not exactly an expert on how the other half lives, but I'd had enough brushes with poshness to know "really bloody rich" when I saw it. This place was the kind of rich where they don't even have to show it, you're just supposed to know. I hated it immediately.

Since it was the middle of the morning, there weren't any customers, and just a couple of waiters cleaning things up. Still, it took the maitre d' quite a while to find the manager, who turned out to be round-faced and gray-haired and very, very nervous. "Good morning," he said, and started shaking our hands way too vigorously. "Good morning, I'm Mr. Cox. Always glad to be of service to the police."

The manager was lisping almost as bad as the maitre d'; I resisted the urge to clean my ears with my fingers. Aldershot took over, introducing us all and explaining, "We're investigating a few illnesses that seem to be linked to your establishment."

Cox blinked at us. "Illnesses?" he lisped. "What sort of illnesses?"

"We suspect that someone may have—er—drugged your customers," Rickler said. He found a piece of parchment in his trenchcoat and squinted at it. "With, erm, a contaminated batch of street drugs, such as perhaps Peeseepee, Ecstasy, Co-cane, Hair-oyn—"

Cox giggled, sort of shrilly. "Surely you must be mistaken," he said. "My club is quite clean. We don't have—those sorts of things here, I can assure you."

"We've got four very ill men who report this as their last stop before a hospital," I said, and leaned in on Cox. Aldershot frowned at me again; I think that was the only expression she could manage without tearing her scalp off.

Cox giggled again. "Well, Mister—er—Weasley, let me put it this way: if there is anything untoward going on at the Golden Claw, I'm certainly not privy to it."

"Are you familiar with these men?" Aldershot asked, and passed him a list of the victims.

Cox picked up the paper and skimmed it. "It's certainly possible."

"It's possible?" I asked. "You mean you don't know?"

"Well, the names certainly ring a bell, but..." He leaned forward, hands folded. "You must understand, my patrons tend to be rather, ah, significant gentlemen. They place a certain premium on discretion."

"Do you meant to say that you won't tell us what you know about the victims?" Aldershot asked.

"Madame, I cannot tell you what I don't know," Cox said with a bit of a wink. "I believe the term is 'plausible deniability.'"

Aldershot just blinked at this, but I suddenly understood his meaning perfectly, and hated the club all the more for it. There are gentleman's clubs and then there are gentleman's clubs, and judging by Cox and the maitre d' we had stumbled into one of the latter. At least that explained all the bloody lisping.

I leaned in while Aldershot was still pondering things. "If you're so discreet about the activities of your customers," I asked Cox, "how can you be so certain that there aren't any drugs in your establishment?"

Cox's smug little smile collapsed. "Er...well, of course, there are...there are certain things I do attend to...that is, where matters of criminality are concerned...well, of course I would never..."

I cut him off before he could keep gibbering. "Mr. Cox, if you wouldn't mind, we'd like to look around the place a bit."

"Certainly!" he said, and leapt to his feet. "I can give you a grand tour, if you'd like—I'm always at the service of the authorities—"

So we followed Mr. Cox around the Golden Claw, which he showed off like he was going to sell it to us. The main floor was full of nooks and crannies where all sort of things could go on out of sight of the staff, and there were "privacy lounges" in the back and on the second floor that had their own liquor cabinets, "restocked daily with the finest products on the market." Mr. Cox claimed again that there was no firm way to know who had been up here when, and at that point I was really wondering if we'd have to go through and test every bottle on the premises for poison. Unfortunately, that might've actually improved my day, compared to what happened next.

"What about your staff?" Aldershot asked Cox, after he'd finished gloating about the amazing quality of their wine cellar. "Might we be able to talk to some of them?"

Cox waved his hands sort of vaguely on limp wrists. "Well. I don't suppose that would be impossible, but I'm not certain they would be of any help you—our patrons value our—"

"—Discretion, right, you keep telling us that." I said. "That being said, can you tell us who was working on the dates these men got sick?"

"I suppose I can look it up," Cox said a little tartly. "If you'd care to step into my office?"

We stepped into his office, while I thought evil thoughts about idiots who'd rather protect their own arses than help catch a criminal. The office was small and much less posh than the public areas of the club, and there were two desks crammed inside at awkward angles. Cox sat down at one and started fiddling with one of those big gray Muggle box-machines, a comoopter. I don't care for the things myself—Dad always warned us about minding where things keep their brains—but Rickler looked terribly excited to see one in action as we all maneuvered behind Cox's chair. The other desk also had a comoopter, but this one wasn't lit up, and there was a big stack of envelopes in a box on top of the key board.

"It'll just be a moment," Cox said while he fiddled with the comoopter. "The schedules have been relatively stable recently, but—ah—what did you say the dates were?"

"February eleventh, nineteenth, twenty-fi—"

Behind us, the door to the office opened. "Mr. Cox?" someone called. "Are the paychecks ready?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Cox said irritably, "they're on the desk there, Black. Can't you see I'm busy?"

Aldershot repeated the dates. Rickler poked and stroked the comoopter with big eyes. I folded my arms, and just happened to glance over my shoulder at the intruder, the first staff member I'd met today without a lisp. He was sorting through the envelopes on the desk, not looking at any of us, a thick scarf hanging loose around his neck. Even though he was wearing a hat, and his head was bent over the stack of envelopes, I could still see enough details to recognize him.

Aurors are trained in stealth and tactics. In that moment, I wasn't using either.

"Malfoy?" I blurted.

He looked up—yep, I would've recognized that pointed face a mile away—and blinked at me. I blinked at him. He spun away, out the door, and with Aldershot and Cox blocking me in, I had to vault over the desk after him. "Malfoy, wait!"

He shot ahead of me—I was a good six inches taller, but he'd had the head start—and bumped around a corner, weaving through the main floor of the club. I hurtled over a table and made a swipe for the trailing edge of his scarf, shouting for him to stop. He abruptly turned and headed up the stairs, past the doors of the privacy lounges, through a door at the end of the corridor and out of sight.

I crashed through the same door at full speed. It opened directly onto another staircase. Because that is just how my life goes. By the time I came tumbling to a stop on the bottom step, Malfoy was gone.

Chapter One
Chapter Three