The Better Part of Valor 5/9 (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

5.
Because it was a weekend, I had a serious lie-in; it wasn't quite noon when I rolled out of bed, but only just. I headed for the loo and found an elderly man wearing nothing but a pair of Harry's boxers squinting at himself in the mirror. He glanced at me and grinned, revealing intermittent teeth. "Morning, mate," he said, and with a few prods of a very familiar wand he gave himself a couple more hairy warts on the nose. "What d'you think?"

I rubbed my eyes, and shook my head a bit. "Er. Too much," I told him. "Can I have a piss?"

The old man tapped his face with his wand and turned back into Harry. "Sure. Didn't think you'd be up for a another couple of hours, the way you were snoring."

I watched him cast another charm on his face, this time turning into a hook-nosed Pakistani. "Can I have a piss without you in here?" I asked.

"Oh, right." Harry popped his glasses back into his face, which made the illusion flicker and fade out in patches—a peculiar thing to watch. He scooted out of the loo past me, and I pressed myself against the door frame to let him by. "Something wrong?" he asked with one cocked eyebrow.

"I'm fine," I said, and shut myself up in the bathroom. I was still feeling off-kilter, and rather more gay than usual, if that makes any sense, and dropping my boxers with Harry changing faces two feet away from me was just a bit much to be putting up with. He likes to remind me how it doesn't bother him to be undressed around me just because I'm queer; he doesn't seem to have caught on that it might occasionally bother the hell out of me.

A shower and a bowl of cornflakes did wonders for my head, and I watched Harry—now properly dressed—practice a few more facial illusions in the loo. "What's the project?" I asked him.

"Surveillance with Tonks," he said, and gave himself a green mohawk and lip ring. "Got to be able to keep up with her, you know?"

"Bit dicey using illusions though, isn't it?" I asked. "A low-flying pigeon or something and poof—" I flicked my finger at the mohawk, which flickered and vanished entirely.

Harry scowled at me and conjured it again. "That's why I'm practicing," he said. "There's no way I can transfigure and untransfigure myself that many times, I'd end up leaving my nose on my chin or something."

"Might be an improvement," I said.

"Wanker." He prodded his face and added a few more piercings. "What about you, then? You were out late."

"Trailing a suspect," I muttered, which was technically true.

"Eh?" Harry grimaced at himself in the mirror, then banished all the piercings and turned the mohawk pink. "So the new assignment was decent, then?"

"Depends on your point of view," I said, and explained about being on loan and the poisonings. He nodded, snorted and grimaced in all the right places, and his eyebrows shot up when I mentioned Malfoy's involvement. "...and spent the night trying to find out more about White."

"And did you?"

I shrugged. "Not much." I didn't mention running into Malfoy; in the cold light of dawn...well, early afternoon...I was beginning to wonder if I'd made a mistake. If he wasn't going to help me—us, that is—with the investigation, he could easily turn right around and warn White that we were onto him. Or if Aldershot and Rickler were right and he was the poisoner, well, I'd blown the whole case to hell, hadn't I? But I really didn't think Malfoy was the poisoner. "Do you think Malfoy's the poisoner?" I asked Harry.

Harry shrugged and sat on the edge of the toilet. "Truthfully? The circumstantial evidence is stronger."

"But it's still circumstantial," I said. "And it's not like he's another MacNair."

"No," Harry said sort of thoughtfully, "Malfoy's never been a killer."

"So you agree that it's probably White, then?"

Harry raised his eyebrow at me. "I didn't say that."

"But if it's not Malfoy, it has to be White."

"Not necessarily," Harry said. "What about customers, at this club? Got any names for them?"

I sighed. "No. They're a bit too discreet for that. Though Aldershot says she's still interviewing employees."

Harry rolled his wand through his fingers a few times. "So it still looks like Malfoy's your best bet for information, at least."

"How d'you know he knows anything about it?" I asked.

"Two wizards in a Muggle club—it's an awful coincidence."

"But it could be one, and we'd be wasting our bloody time on the wrong bloke."

"You really think he's innocent?" Harry said with his eyebrows knit.

"Let me put it this way," I said, "last time I saw him, he didn't look guilty."

"What did he look like?"

I thought for a moment about Malfoy's wind-burned face in the streetlights. "Annoyed," I said, then added, "tired. Sad, maybe."

I glanced back at Harry, who was looking at me very oddly. "Mate," he said slowly, "you sure this is just about wasting time?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

He shrugged and looked at his wand. "I just haven't seen quite that sort of look on your face in a while, that's all."

"What look?" I demanded. "I haven't got any look."

"All right," Harry said, "suit yourself."

"No." I stepped toe-to-toe with him, even though that technically put his head about level with my navel, since he was sitting down and all. "No, you explain that, Potter. You think I fancy him or something?"

"Let's go with 'something,'" Harry said, leaning back to look at me properly. "'Cause there would be a lot of things wrong with you suddenly fancying Draco Malfoy."

"I know that," I snapped, "so it's good that I don't fancy him."

"You're awful devoted to the idea that he's just an innocent bystander in this," Harry said.

"You sound just like Aldershot," I snapped, and headed for the kitchen.

Harry followed me and took up a position on the other side of the table, while I poured myself some coffee. "I didn't say anything about you fancying him before," he said, "You brought it up."

"You said I had a look!"

"I could've meant you looked constipated!"

"But you didn't!"

"No, because last time you had that look you were piss-drunk on the floor and telling me what you wanted to do to some footballer you saw on the telly!"

I gaped at him. "I never did!"

"You did so, but that's not the point." Harry folded his arms over his chest. "Mate, we're talking about professional ethics here. If you can't be objective about a suspect, you should quit the case."

"I can be objective," I told him. "I'm totally objective."

"You're just positive, in the absence of any evidence, that Malfoy's boyfriend is the poisoner."

"Yes! No!" I shook my head. "There's evidence. It's just a bit...er...."

"Dodgy?"

"Y—no!" I shook my head and looked at him. "Harry, I can't fancy Malfoy, I don't even like him."

"You used to despise him," Harry said.

I had; when we were kids, I had hated him more than just about anything else in the world. But now... "I reckon...I feel sorry for him," I told Harry. "He's got a pretty shitty job, and his boyfriend is apparently the world's biggest bastard, and...well...he's come so far off his high-horse he's working for Muggles, you know? And he just looks...sad."

Harry said, "You've got that look again."

I rolled my eyes at him. "You're making that up."

"I am not!"

"I haven't got any bloody look—"

"—it was Christmas before last—"

"—and I don't fancy Malfoy—"

"—I didn't even know what some of it meant—"

"—and even if I did, he bloody started it!"

You shouldn't have said that, the Hermione-voice told me, while Harry said, "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

For a moment I blanked out completely.

Then an owl crashed through our kitchen window, shrieking like a banshee with a hangnail. Harry swiped at it, but it banked and drilled me straight in the abdomen before I could get my hands up to catch it. I toppled back into the kitchen counter, and the owl started hopping around my feet, hooting and pecking at my socks. It had a scroll tied to its leg, and it was wearing a very small purple helmet. "Express owl from the Ministry," I told Harry, who was peering at it from behind a chair. I plucked the owl's leg and broke the seal. "It's for me—"

Weasley—
Report to St. Mungo's immediately. There's been another incident.
—Aldershot

"Fuck me backwards," I mumbled, and crumpled the scroll.

"Something wrong?" Harry called.

"New victim. Got to go."

He watched me throw on my uniform robe and a pair of trainers from my bedroom door. "This conversation isn't over," he said.

"Yes," I said, "it is. Good luck with the mohawk."

Harry's frown dissolved into the hospital as I Disapparated. I know I wasn't being particularly diplomatic with him, but there's only so many diplomatic ways to say you're dead wrong. And there wasn't any look involved. I don’t get looks. Hermione and my mum and Ginny get looks, and those are usually the last warning sign before an eruption. Harry was mad.

The witch at the hospital's front desk directed me to a closed, secure ward on the fourth floor, where I had to show my badge three different times to get in. It turned out not to be a proper ward, even—when I stepped inside, I found myself in a long corridor lined with doors, where Aldershot and Rickler were talking to two Healers.

"...transferred for treatment as soon as possible," one of the Healers was saying as I walked up. "There's an Obliviator stationed at his bedside, of course, but I'm afraid a nurse or two is starting to show the strain."

"He's conscious, though?" Aldershot asked. "And verbal?"

The other Healer nodded. "Oh, yes, he's quite well aside from the spots and all. A bit groggy, but we suspect it might be something the Muggles did."

Aldershot nodded. "We'll talk to him immediately, then. Once they bring him here, he'll be useless."

The Healers both nodded, and one of the suddenly transfigured her uniform robes into a baggy greenish shirt and matching trousers underneath a long white coat, with some kind of metal and rubber apparatus wrapped around her neck. She opened one of the long doors, which lead into another busy corridor full of people: some were dressed like the Healer, some were sitting in rolling beds with rails, some were walking around in short little smocks and pushing wheeled racks with bags of water dangling off the top. I heard a fellytone ring before the door shut again.

"Weasley," Aldershot said, dragging my attention back. "Glad you could make it so quickly."

"Your timing was great," I said. "What happened?"

Aldershot gave Rickler a nasty sort of look (see, it's only women who get looks) and he coughed and cleared his throat. "I, ah, I wasn't particularly successful in tracking Malfoy through the Golden Claw," he mumbled.

"What d'you mean?" I asked. "He works there, it's not like he's going anywhere during the night."

"It appears," Rickler said, "that the club is frequented by a certain...type."

I sighed and rubbed my nose. "Don't tell me. Somebody started flirting with you and you ran away screaming."

"How did you know what sort of a place that was?" Aldershot asked indignantly.

"I thought it was obvious." They both blinked at me. I struck a limp-wristed pose with my pinky sticking out and mimicked Mr. Cox's lisp. "'Our clientssss value our dissscretion.'"

"I thought he was just terribly posh," Rickler muttered.

Aldershot folded her arms across her chest. "Still, we've another victim on our hands and we at least know that Malfoy was in the building."

"Which doesn't make him guilty," I said. "Look, I lost White last night—"

The Healer in Muggle clothes came back and interrupted me. "He's awake," she announced. "You can talk to him now."

Once again, we transfigured our robes into trenchcoats and followed the Healer through the doorway, into a Muggle hospital. It was loud, and it smelled bad, and I kept waiting to see a doctor cutting somebody up in the corridors. The Healer lead us to a private room and nodded to a bloke at the door who was not at all discreet about the wand tucked into his jacket sleeve.

The poor bastard lying in the bed was indeed covered in small green spots, some of which had become shiny blisters. His hair and eyes had also turned green, but he was sitting up and looked alert. "Hello again, Mr. Norrington," the Healer said. "These people are here to ask you some questions."

"Are they with the police?" Norrington asked in a whiny sort of voice.

"We're investigating what happened to you," Rickler said, which didn't technically answer the question. "Now, er, what can you tell us about your whereabouts last night?"

Norrington shrugged a bit. "I just closed a massive deal for my firm, thought I'd celebrate with—er—with a business associate."

"At a club called the Golden Claw?"

"Yes," Norrington said, drawing it out hesitantly. "I, er, might've been in there for a bit."

"Do you remember what happened while you were there?"

"Don't think it's any business of yours."

I sat down on the edge of Norrington's bed. "Look," I said, "we know what sort of a place the Golden Claw is, so there's no need to play dumb. What we'd like to know is who you saw and what you did while you were inside."

Norrington's face went a pasty color under the spots. "I don't know what you're talking about, the sort of place that is, it's as if you're implying—"

"You're queer," I said. "And you go to the Golden Claw to hang out with other queers. That about right?"

Norrington's mouth started to open and close like a fish. Aldershot said, "Weasley, let me handle this," in the sort of voice that ought to have left a layer of frost on everything in range. I stood up and let her take my place. "Mr. Norrington," she said, "my colleague didn't mean to imply anything untoward—"

"I certainly hope he didn't," Norrington rasped.

"—but we would like to know what you did at the club," she added firmly. "It may be important."

Norrington pondered this for a moment, and his brows furrowed deeply; this caused one of his blisters to crack and start leaking greenish fluid. "I went with my—er—personal assistant, Jack Williams," he said, with a tone that meant the main thing he got assisted with was his cock, "and...and I don't remember what we did."

"Had a bit too much to drink?" Rickler said sympathetically.

Norrington shook his head emphatically. "No no no, I'm on a medication—I was only going to have a bit to drink, I can't drink too much or my heart gets funny."

I leaned forward out of my corner. "Do you remember arriving at the club?"

"Yes, yes..." He paused, pursing his lips tightly and cracking another blister. "We arrived, we took our seats, I ordered a bottle of champagne, and Jack said something about the pianist...and the next thing I remember, I woke up here." He forced a smile at us. "Isn't that strange?"

None of us had a chance to offer our opinions on the question, because the door to the room burst open, and a bloke about my age with a barrel of gel in his hair came in, the Obliviator hanging off his shoulder. "Peter!" he cried out. "Peter, I've been so—oh my fucking—"

The Obliviator, at just that moment, must've Confunded him from behind; he froze, eyes still bulging at the sight of Norrington's sores, and then blinked a few times. Norrington said, "Er. This is Jack Williams, my...assistant. Jack, I was just talking to the police."

He blinked at us, then turned back to Norrington, moving in slow motion. "Pe—er, Mr. Norrington," he said. "I was worried sick about you."

"You were with him last night, Mr. Williams?" Aldershot asked.

"Yes," Williams said, with the same guarded look as his boss.

"At the Golden Claw?"

The poor bloke looked cornered, so Norrington said, "He was with me when I walked in, I remember that much."

"What?" Williams said, and his voice hit an unfortunate octave. "You've lost your memory? Do you have amnesia? Quick, what's my name?"

Norrington batted away Williams' pawing hands. "For Christ's sake, Jack, I'm fine!" he said. "You're making a scene!"

Williams recoiled, blushing. "Sorry."

"Mr. Williams," I said, before that touching show of domesticity could go any further. "You were with Mr. Norrington all night at the club?"

"Well—yes—mostly," he stammered.

"Define 'mostly.'"

Williams glanced at Norrington sheepishly. "He disappeared on me, at the end—I was going to get him one last club soda, but when I got back to the table he had gone. I thought perhaps he went for the car, so I ran out to look, but the driver hadn't seen him, and by the time I got back to the club they were closing up for the night..."

A shrill, tinny jangle lit up the room: Aldershot and I both jumped, Rickler looked around wildly, and Williams pulled a small device from his jacket pocket and held it to his ear. He proceeded to talk into it like we weren't even there. "Hello, Jack Williams...yes...no, I've found him, he's in hospital right now..."

"Who is he talking to?" Aldershot asked Rickler warily. Rickler shook his head.

"It's called a—a sellone," I whispered—I'd shagged blokes who had them. "It's like a fellytone without all the wires."

Williams' eyes bulged out again, and the Obliviator readied his wand, just in case. "What?" Williams shrieked. "What do you...? No. No, that can't—you're not—there must be some—because he's right here, and he's lost his mind, but only a bit—look, tell the bank they're wrong! They've got to be...he can't have! I'll call you back." He clicked the fellysone shut and turned to Norrington, looking stricken. "Peter...there's a problem with the bank."

"What sort of a problem?" Norrington said.

Williams swallowed. "They've, er, they've just processed an EBT for...for..." Williams swallowed, then leaned in and whispered the amount into Norrington's ear.

Norrington's jaw dropped. "WHAT?" he shouted. "Who in God's name authorized that?"

Williams swallowed again. "According to Ms. Pinksy...they used your account information."

"Impossible," Norrington said, "I guard all that very carefully, there has to be a mistake—"

"It's no mistake—"

"Ring my solicitor immediately!"

"I think we're done here," Aldershot said quietly.

We walked back to St. Mungo's and stashed ourselves in a corner of the tearoom. "Aldershot, you did check to see if the other victims had their memories modified?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes. "What do you think we are, Weasley, amateurs? There was no sign of a Memory Charm—it must be a side-effect of the poison."

"Terribly convenient side effect, don't you think?" I asked. "Since it's protecting the poisoner and all."

"He did mention Malfoy," Rickler pointed out. "And champagne—perhaps the poison was in the champagne?"

Aldershot shook her head. "Can't have been, the assistant drank it as well."

"And it's not like Malfoy served them anything," I said. "He plays the bloody piano."

We all stared into our teacups for a moment. I thought about Malfoy, and White, and professional ethics. Malfoy leaves the wizard world, goes to work for Muggles, shacks up with White...someone poisons a load of Muggles...Malfoy snogs me...this bloke loses his money and his memory.... Nothing lined up. And, Malfoy had mentioned someone named Higgs last night—maybe Harry was right, and White was a red herring—

"Someone has to go back into the club," Aldershot said again. "Someone who could pass for—er—the usual crowd."

The both looked at me. I said, "What?"

"Aren't you lot trained in disguise?" Aldershot asked.

"Oh—yeah, of course." Once my heart rate went done a bit, I asked, "Are you suggesting I—?"

"You've been so eager to follow Malfoy before now," Aldershot said. "Unless you don't think you can pretend to be—er—"

"No," I said, "I'll be fine." After all, I've been pretending to be straight for the better part of seven years. "It'll be a piece of cake."

Chapter One
Chapter Four
Chapter Six