Tangled Webs, Chapter 17
It has been a very long time, I know. There are several things I could say in my defence, but the simplest hinges on something once read about writer's block: you get writer's block because you're trying to force the story in the wrong direction. Whether it's true or not, I don't know. I do know that I never intended to write this chapter, but once I started it came together in less than a week, and it eliminates a few tiresome deux ex machina devices I was going to need in future chapters. In all, I'm quite pleased.
This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful nonoji, whose art guilted me into writing this in a timely manner. (Yes, five months is timely for me.) It's highly relevant to this chapter, so I suggest you go admire it.
Chapter Seventeen
In which questions are answered
Saturday, December 9, 2017
He stood on the dais, small and scruffy and attracting far too much attention, his glasses digging into the bridge of his nose. Conversations buzzed at the long tables that ran the length of the Great Hall; the students didn't even bother to keep their voices low. A stern-faced old woman with a scroll of names in her hand said, "Harry Potter," and the buzzing increased briefly before subsiding into an expectant silence. Palms sweating, he took his place on the stool and put on the Sorting Hat.
"Ah, Mr. Riddle," the Hat murmured. "So good of you to join us. Let's see now… I don't suppose Ravenclaw interests you? No? You could do very well there. Well, it was worth a try. Better be…"
"Gryffindor!"
Jimmy pulled the Hat off and made his way to the politely clapping table. His cousin Victoire gave him a big grin and a thumbs-up. Across the room he could see Fabian making a face - when they'd placed bets, Fabian had been sure Jimmy would be a Ravenclaw.
The walls twisted, writhing and closing in, darkening, becoming a damp stone hall. The Chamber. He stood before the statue of Salazar Slytherin and hissed a few words. The basilisk came, hissing in return, greeting its master. Then he blinked dizzyingly and was holding a sword, locked in a deadly struggle with the serpent. His arm ached. He stared at it.
A knife sprouted from the bloody wound, and now he was cowering against the kitchen cupboards the Burrow. His father stood over him, his eyes wild and unfocussed. "I told you he'd come back. He's not dead!"
Jimmy woke with a jolt, thrashing against the suffocating hold of the blankets before he stilled. His breathing gradually slowed, but his heart still pounded in his throat. The dreams - the ones that combined memories and stories of his father and other things he'd never heard of but which nonetheless felt as real as the rest - had been coming more often of late. They faded quickly, but they always left him feeling very unsettled. He pulled the covers up over his face and thought, with the frantic alertness of one who has been jolted awake, about the pieces refused to fade.
Riddle… he knew that name, although he wasn't supposed to. Probably most people still didn't know the Dark Lord's real name but, then again, most hadn't been so integral to the War as Jimmy's family. They didn't like to talk about it, but now and again something slipped, and that name had been one of those things. But that didn't explain why Jimmy not only dreamed about Riddle, but dreamed of being him. Or why it was happening more often.
He touched the place on his arm that had ached so horribly in the dream. There wasn't a scar, not even the faintest mark to show where his father had tried to kill him. In the throws of his madness, Harry Potter had believed his oldest son was the reincarnation of the Dark Lord, and set out to save the world as he had so many times before. That was the last time Jimmy was ever alone with his father. Sometimes he wished it was the last time he'd seen the man at all.
His father…
Ignoring the cold that made the fine hairs on his arm stand up, Jimmy grabbed the book that rested next to his alarm clock on the bed stand. It had been a gift from Uncle George for his birthday, and was one of the few WWW products that would never hit shelves. Those inventions never left the Weasley family - most stayed with George or Ginny, or Freddie now that he was older - but they had a healthy presence in the imaginations of the public. Variations on Canary Creams that made you an instantly, temporarily, an Animagus. Cloaks which made the wearer impervious to Unforgivable Curses. Daydream charms so powerful they could be used to imprison someone for years. A hundred other things, each more fanciful and less probable than the last.
And this. A book of moderate thickness, with a cover that changed colour and title each week, but which always seemed completely innocuous. Jimmy leafed through it until he reached the page he needed. "Page thirty one, open," he whispered. Suddenly, where before there had only been a boring description of toadstools, there was a shallow compartment. The book was full of such secret spaces, of all different sizes. Page thirty one held the photograph he'd taken from Dennis Creevey.
The more Jimmy stared at the image by wandlight, the more he believed the scowling Scorpius Weasley was his father. They had the same eyes, the same sharp glare that flashed with temper. The man's hair was redder than Jimmy's, but his eyebrows were paler. But mostly, Jimmy knew, he believed it because he desperately wanted it to be true. He didn't want an unapproachable mad hero for a father, he wanted someone he could relate to. Scorpius Weasley looked like someone Jimmy would get along with. And it was so easy to imagine what he would be like, when he had no evidence but what his own imagination could provide.
Mostly, Scorpius Weasley was like Mr. Malfoy, except that Scorpius Weasley smiled a bit more often. But in Jimmy's mind they shared that dry sense of humour and flair for understatement, were quick with a wand or an insult or a helping hand. Once or twice he even imagined that Scorpius Malfoy was Mr. Malfoy in disguise, but he forced himself to let that daydream go.
Jimmy sighed. "Page thirty one, close," he whispered, and returned the book to the bed stand. It was all just daydreams. Harry Potter was his father - hadn't the paternity test yesterday proved that? Nothing would come of wishing for the impossible. But the thought wouldn't go away, and sleep was a long time in returning.
The irony - that he'd killed a man for suggesting Mr. Malfoy was his father - was entirely lost on Jimmy.
.oOo.
When the fireplace chimed, Draco didn't even look up. A call at this hour of the morning spelt nothing but trouble. "What now, Sabine?"
"Don't you take that tone with me. This is your mess we're cleaning up."
Draco, immediately humbled, turned to face his wife. "I'm sorry, dear."
"Hmpf." Sabine could put a lot of meaning and emotion into that single sound. "Very well then. I wanted to speak with you about your list of English wizards."
"Ah…" Shit. He knew he'd forgotten something.
"I was very surprised when Candice forwarded me the list."
Candice? Oh, right, that was the secretary with the abominable tongue piercing. But how had she known about the list? Draco quite clearly remembered forgetting to mention it to anyone. It was a puzzle for later.
"How so?" he asked, hoping he sounded like he knew all about the list.
"You said it wouldn't be long." Sabine laughed. "I confess, I questioned your judgement at the beginning, but perhaps you know what you're doing after all. Our plan may work even better than expected."
Draco was completely baffled, but one thing was clear: if this kept up, Candice might be due for a raise despite the tongue piercing and inability to report succinctly.
"The boy in question, he is a Weasley, no?"
"Jimmy Weasley?"
"Yes." Sabine frowned. "Odd, that it sounds less common than James Potter. No matter. I had not realized his uncles were such esteemed gentlemen."
Esteemed gentlemen? Draco tried to remember Ginny's descriptions of her ten million brothers. The Weasel King, the doppelgangers, the prat who always had his panties in a twist, the dragon one, the one that had carried Fleur back to his cave… somehow, 'esteemed gentlemen' didn't seem to fit any of them.
"And of course Professor Sprout. Hogwarts may be… provincial, but it is after all one of the largest schools of wizardry in the world."
Now they were on firmer ground. "She has better manners than the twit that runs Beauxbatons these days."
"Indeed." The word was edged with ice.
"Those seem like good choices," Draco said hurriedly.
"Of course they are. I was not asking you, Draco. The owls have already left with the invitations."
.oOo.
"Hey Freddie. Any plans for the hols?"
Freddie grasped for the boy's name. He wasn't very good with names in the first place, and lately all the older students had come around chatting like he was their best friend.
"Push off, Jenkins," Rosie said, saving him the trouble. On his other side, Jimmy (who probably didn't know the boy's name, or care) levelled a chilling glare at the upper year Gryffindor. It was probably that hard gaze, and not Rosie's indignant glare, that made the boy back off without another word.
"What is this all about?" Rosie asked. "That's the fourth one this evening."
Freddie hesitated, waiting to see if Jimmy would answer. His cousin was the one who had explained it to him in the first place. But Jimmy stayed firmly silent, still refusing to talk to Rosie. At least the two of them were willing to be in moderate proximity now. They hadn't fully made up, but it was progress, and it made being between them a little more bearable.
"It's WWW," he said, and couldn't help but sound a bit morose. "They all want something: discounts, invitations to the holiday party, special products, whatever."
"That's just…" Rosie trailed off, unable to find a wo rd to express her indignation at such behaviour.
"Yeah," Freddie said, although that wasn't what really bothered him. It was the way they all assumed he'd just ask his father for those things. None of them realized that he did product development and testing too. Hadn't he come up with one of WWW's best sellers when he was only seven? George had to do the actual spell-casting, true, but the idea had been Freddie's. And everyone still assumed he was just some dumb first year.
Suddenly, he noticed the hush that was rapidly spreading across the Grand Hall. He looked up at the teacher's table. There was George, standing next to Ginny with a cheeky grin on his face.
"George Weasley, how in Merlin's name did you do that?" Professor Sprout demanded.
George's grin grew a little, filling with mischief, and Freddie knew what was coming next. With a soft pop that echoed through the quiet Hall, George Disapparated.
.oOo.
Jake Kontapopolous stared morosely at the little vial of blood on his desk. In it his a secret that could destroy his career, if he'd read Healer Weasley's veiled warnings right. Some career, he thought bitterly. But still, he'd tossed and turned the night before, unable to sleep or to decide whether he should take that small sample of Harry Potter's blood. Curiosity had gotten the best of him, but now sense was reasserting itself. He should destroy the vial and pretend he'd never had that conversation with Healer Weasley.
Hadn't that been one of her first lessons? Don't do it if you're not sure. Jake was never sure these days.
Healing was a scarce step from Dark magic; Healer Weasley had taught him that too. Most Healers refused to see it, but it was the truth. The more powerful a potion or healing spell, the more likely the slightest mistake could maim or kill the patient, and sometimes the Healer too. The work Jake's team did - the team founded by Healer Weasley to perform the spells she had created - walked the very precipice of the line between the two. Almancy and sangremancy were difficult and dangerous beyond the imagining of most of the Healers at Saint Mungo's, which was why the team who performed them laboured in the darkest, most remote corner of the hospital where they could be forgotten until every other cure had been tried. And so Jake Kontapopolous spent his days in his dingy office, making a fortune for work he rarely performed, reviled and revered by his coworkers, unable to make it past the second date with any women, growing grey and bitter and tired, so tired. The once powerful team had withered so that, when Healers Maier and Grond returned to Austria at the end of the month, there would be only three left: Jake, Healer Wind, and Helen, who was too young to understand what her place on this team meant for her career. Sometimes Jake wished he could turn to drink, the way Healer Jens had before the sudden heart attack ended it all, but his Puritan upbringing had too strong of a hold on him.
Suddenly decisive, he snatched up the vial and emptied the contents onto his desk. This sort of magic wasn't performed with a wand, but with the heavy knife from his belt, stabbed into the thick wood of his desk. As Jake chanted, the blood began to writhe, squirming across the desk to trace lines and letters. Jake kept chanting, sweat beading on his forehead, until he collapsed back into his chair, exhausted.
He closed his eyes for a minute, waiting for his heart rate and breathing to slow, then opened them to study what the spell had wrought.
It was Harry Potter's family tree, written in his blood. There was his name, closest to Jake. Above him, his parents, the famed James and Lily Potter. Further back through the ages, the writing got smaller and fainter, though here and there a name was still legible, when the heritage was particularly strong. It was exactly what he had expected to see, and held no surprises.
But underneath, so faint that at first he didn't notice it against the dark wood of the desk, was a second tree. It spread like a sinister shadow beneath the first. Only one name was legible. It hovered, ghost-like, under Harry Potter's. Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Jake frowned. He didn't know the name, but it niggled at him. The second tree was an oddity. Jake had never heard that Harry Potter had a blood-brother, and anyway, blood-bonding produced a second tree which was nearly as strong as the first, not ghostly as this one was. And who was Tom Marvolo Riddle? He reached for a thick, black book that was chained to the shelf behind him.
There were less than a dozen copies of Caractacus Rosier's War Almanac in the world. The printing had just finished, the binding barely started, when the Ministry banned the book and ordered the freshly printed pages burned. The completed books were confiscated too. Only the intercession of Harry Potter had saved them from the bonfire. The truth about the War - the whole truth, such as was published no where else - should not be buried, he said. But it had been, deep in the labyrinth under the Ministry, except for three copies: the printer's proof, still in the author's possession; Harry Potter's own copy; and this one, which Healer Weasley petitioned for on the basis that most of their patients were veterans of the War. In fact, Jake could count his patients that hadn't been involved in the War on one hand. All of the others had biographies somewhere in the enormous book. Perhaps Tom Marvolo Riddle would be among them.
He was.
Jake Kontapopolous put the Almanac away with shaking hands, and went to find a drink.
.oOo.
With the impeccable timing of a born showman, George reappeared before the crowd of bewildered students and staff. "Artificial Apparition Charm, only seven Sickles! Get yours at WWW today - London, Hogsmeade, and by owl-order catalogue!" He waved his cloak with extra gusto, which made Ginny sigh, and a huge stack of catalogues appeared behind him. There was stillness in the hall for a heartbeat. Then the student body descended on the pile in a wave of bellowing excitement.
"Really, George. Was that strictly necessary?" Pomona asked, her voice weary. "No doubt there will be bones broken in this mess, which Ginevra will have to fix."
"I'll make sure anyone hurt in this little foray gets a little something special from WWW," George promised. Behind him, a catalogue was torn in half with the sound of a distressed owl. Pomona did not look mollified. "That was just a little side trip, anyway. I need to talk to Ginny."
Pomona glanced worriedly at Ginny. "Is that alright? I know you came here for some space, not so you could be solving everyone's problems all the time."
George made a face, and Ginny laughed. "It's fine, thank you, Pomona. WWW business is never a burden."
"But sometimes it burns," George said mischievously, and raised his wand.
"George Weasley, you put that down right now, or I'll have you scrubbing cauldrons until you're grey!" Pomona thundered. Shocked, George dropped his wand. Every student in the Hall froze in place, terrified at this display of temper from their mild-mannered Headmistress.
Pomona surveyed the Hall. "That goes for the rest of you as well," she announced. "The next person that pulls a Weasley in my school will answer directly to me. That means no fireworks, no swamps, and," her gaze swung to fasten on Ginny, "no destroying the masonry."
Ginny blushed. "Yes, ma'am," she whispered, before she could stop herself.
Satisfied that everyone had been suitably impressed with the inadvisability of using certain WWW products at school, Pomona nodded firmly. "Off you go, then."
Ginny and George scampered out as quickly as if they were still students. They were halfway to Ginny's rooms before George broke the silence. "Bit of a shocker, that. Didn't know the old girl had it in her."
"I think she means it, George. She gets very cross when her orders are disobeyed."
"So does Mum. I've moved back to London. I told her it was so I could be closer to the shop for the Christmas rush. I won't lie, it's been hard to stay at the Burrow lately."
Guilt lanced through Ginny like a hot knife. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was all based on a lie, anyway. The truth hurts at first, but ultimately it's for the best."
Ginny looked at him suspiciously. "Who are you, and where's George?"
Her brother laughed. "Alright, no more words of wisdom, I promise."
They'd reached Ginny's rooms. George whistled when he stepped inside. "Nice place you have here. Like Shell Cottage without the damp."
Ginny looked around, from the comfortable armchairs to the cheerfully burning fire. It was nice, and it felt more like home than anything she could remember. Even the Burrow, where she'd lived almost her entirely life, couldn't compare to this place, and she'd lived here for less than a week. Was it really so little time? It felt like several lifetimes.
"It's not that I'm not happy to see you, George, but why are you here?" Ginny asked, taking a seat and motioning for George to make himself comfortable.
"Yes, that. But first…" He flicked his wand, and suddenly Jimmy and Freddie appeared in the corner. "Trying to use my own products to deceive me. Cheeky bastards."
"What…?" Ginny was too stunned to know what to say.
George held up a bracelet. "The Artificial Apparition Charm. It has a low grade invisibility spell in it. Only lasts a few minutes, but theoretically if you had several of them, you could stay hidden for quite a while." And indeed, both boys wore several of the bracelets.
"How else was I supposed to know what's going on? You never tell me anything anymore," Freddie accused George.
George looked as though he'd been struck. "I… I…"
"And what's your excuse, Jimmy?" Ginny demanded. "The same one your father uses, that you know better than anyone else?"
Jimmy seemed to shrink in on himself, and she knew she'd hit the nail on the head. "I just thought I could help."
"It's alright, Gin. There's no reason they can't hear this," George said.
"Then why didn't you let us stay hidden?" Freddie demanded.
"That was always Dumbledore's favourite trick," George said, his voice touched with bitterness. "And see how well it worked out? There's already enough sneaking around without that sort of pointless subterfuge."
Ginny was inclined to agree, although she wouldn't say so out loud. Jimmy already had twisted ideas of what was permissible, and letting him sneak into her rooms and try to eavesdrop without punishment wouldn't disabuse him of those notions. She was a teacher now, too: that should increase his punishment, and her motivation for giving it. But after the whirlwind of events in the last week that had ripped her life apart and rebuilt it into something she didn't recognise, she couldn't find the energy for it.
"This is what I wanted to ask about," George said, and pulled a card from his robes. Even after being crumpled in his pocket, it was an elegant thing: heavy cream linen, edged with a delicate tracery of silver that shimmered in the midday light that streamed through the windows, and written over with a beautifully flowing script. He handed it to Ginny.
It took only a glance for her to know what it was, but several seconds for the full implications of it to register. She didn't notice the slight tremble of her fingers as she passed it back to George.
"Well?" Freddie demanded.
"Sabine Destrier's Christmas ball," Ginny said numbly. "It's an invitation."
"The one Gabrielle always talks about, where everyone swarms around with their head up their arse?"
"Mind your language, Freddie. And yes, the very same."
"What I want to know is, what do those toffs want with me?" George asked.
"How should I know?" Ginny said. A feeling of uneasiness - she didn't know, but she could certainly guess - rose in her stomach. George gave her a look which said he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"The question isn't what they want with you," Freddie said, taking the invitation from George, "but what you want with them." Three sets of eyes fastened on him, waiting for him to elaborate. "They're rich," Freddie said, exasperated. "They're customers."
Enlightenment dawned on George's face like a sunrise, spreading to a look of joyous glee. "Of course! An international boutique… nothing but the finest, and at a premium price…"
"No offense, Uncle George, but I still don't see why they'd invite you," Jimmy said, studying the invitation. "Sabine Destrier is Mr. Malfoy's wife, isn't she? After everything that's happened…" He looked guiltily at Ginny.
"Gin?" George said. "I admit, I don't get it either. That's why I'm here. I know you and the tosser were close, but now?"
"We're not… we weren't…"
"Come off it, Gin. We're the ones who helped you spring him from Ministry custody, remember?"
She remembered. She remembered all too clearly those days in her seventh year, when her crazy not-quite-enmity with Malfoy was the only stable, rational thing in the world, the only thing that made her sure of who she was. How could she not remember? She had spent nearly fifteen years trying to forget.
Jimmy's eyes were wide with curiosity. Freddie's were closed tightly, as though he was trying to remember something. Ginny looked from one boy to the other, then at her brother, who was watching her with the same understanding, slightly impatient look he'd worn she'd tried to explain why she wanted that particular favour all those years ago. Maybe he was right, and keeping secrets wouldn't help anymore.
"I snuck Malfoy out of Hogwarts over Christmas while his whole family was under house arrest." It was easier if she talked directly to her son. Let him know that she'd broken the rules when she was young too, so she knew what she was talking about when she said it was a bad idea. "We accidentally wound up at Malfoy Manor, which was full of Aurors. But he couldn't go back on the Hogwarts Express - no one knew he'd left, you see. George helped me get him out of there so we could sneak back in with no one the wiser. Of course," she added dryly, "Minerva McGonagall knew what we were up to the whole time."
"She was as good as Dumbledore at knowing what was going on," George agreed dryly. "Difference was, Dumbledore didn't care about anyone but Harry."
"So what happened?" Jimmy demanded.
"Oh, nothing," Ginny said. "Minerva didn't let on that she knew until years later." That was all she was prepared to say on the matter for now. George might be right about the truth, but Ginny couldn't stand to have any more of her past laid bare just yet.
"You and Mr. Malfoy were good friends, weren't you?" Jimmy asked.
"I don't know," Ginny said, as honestly as she could. "But I suppose we were close. He's never been the sort to trust other people much."
"Why's he doing this, Gin?" George asked. Now that they'd come full circle, Ginny knew the question couldn't be avoided any longer.
"I think, just maybe, he's covering up for that article in the Inquisition. The world watches that bloody ball, and if a handful of Weasleys make an appearance, then it will seem like our families are friends. But…" She trailed off.
"But?" Freddie prompted.
"It's the sort of thing he'd think of, but not the sort of thing he'd do. It's much too nice."
George's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say this is Sabine's work, with or without Draco's involvement. It's a non-confrontational way out: it makes Creevey's article look like a silly mistake by a reporter who doesn't check his facts. Everyone will have a good laugh and forget about it. Draco's more vengeful than that." It may have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a thoughtful look flit across her son's face.
"It's too late for that," George said. "I figured you wouldn't be reading the papers these days, but it was in the Prophet this morning: Creevey's dead. Suicide."
Ginny sagged deeper into her armchair and closed her eyes. "Cock-sucking Calchas. It's one thing to wish a man dead, another for…" Realizing abruptly where she was, she fixed her wide-eyed son and nephew with a stern glare. "If either of you ever use language like that, I will scrub your mouth out with the foulest soap I can find. Understood?" Both boys nodded fervently, and even George joined in.
"But you're right that he was out for revenge. Malfoy Enterprises is buying out Silver Media," George said.
"Who?"
"The Inquisition's parent company which is - fun fact - owned by Malfoy's old pal Parkinson."
"What, Pug-face Pansy?" Ginny asked, surprised.
"The same. The business pages are full of it." Since when had George read the business pages? Ginny wondered. It didn't match the image of a carefree prankster that he'd never outgrown in her mind.
"They don't suspect Mr. Malfoy of… of killing Creevey, do they?" Jimmy asked worriedly.
George frowned at him. "Of course not. It was suicide, as I said. Besides, we all know Malfoy couldn't kill a toad. He was always a little shite, but even as a Death Eater he didn't have the stones to kill a person."
"Which isn't a bad thing," Ginny said firmly.
"I suppose not."
Jimmy looked immensely relieved. "That's good." It seemed like Jimmy had bonded more with Draco than Ginny had expected. Perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised; the pair of them were very alike, after all.
"Back to the point: are you going to the ball?" Freddie asked.
"If I am, you are too," George said firmly. "I'm not suffering through that alone, no matter how good a business opportunity it might be." Freddie made a face.
"You won't be alone," Ginny said. "Albus should be there. He's staying with the Malfoys over the holidays."
George gave her a sympathetic look, but all he said was, "I see." He looked around awkwardly, for once lost for words, then said abruptly, "Well, I should be getting back. Lots to do before the holiday rush. Come on, boys, I bet Gin has a ton of work to do." He gave Ginny a peck on the cheek and Disapparated away.
Her door opening to let him out gave the joke away, but it still made Ginny smile.
.oOo.
"I intend to turn it down," Percy said, wondering why his brother had fire-called just for this. "Which reminds me, I need to find an unavoidable prior commitment. I don't see any reason to pretend I like making small talk with Malfoy and his cronies."
"Here's one: Ginny," George said. "We can minimize the damage that article in the Inquisition did if we appear friendly with the Malfoys."
It was a valid point. Percy wondered who had pointed it out to George. It wasn't the sort of thing his younger brother would have thought of unaided. "I suppose," was all he said.
"I have a plan," George told him.
"No."
George tried to look hurt, but couldn't manage it convincingly. "You haven't heard it yet."
"But I know it will be a bad idea."
"We take Ginny with us."
"On what pretence?"
"What?"
"On what pretence? Granted, it would be more effective than us going alone, since it would show that Ginny is close with the Malfoys - it would be even better if we could take Jimmy too - but she's not on the guest list."
"So?"
Percy sighed. Whose bright idea had it been to invite George to Sabine Destrier's Christmas ball? The man was going to make a complete arse of himself. "The hoi polloi of wizarding Society are not exactly beating a path to Ginny's door. In their eyes, she's a nobody. She can't just show up uninvited."
"But she's a great Healer. And she's written a load of books. And she works for WWW, and I was invited."
"None of that matters. She's spent the last fifteen years being Harry Potter's wife." Percy felt like he was explaining that fire is hot to an idiot child. "That might have been enough before he went back to Saint Mungo's. Now it'll take a miracle to get her through the door."
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to. Has it occurred to you that your little plan might open Ginny up to more scrutiny and speculation? I can't imagine Sabine Destrier would be happy if the mother of her husband's alleged illegitimate child turned up at her precious ball."
George's face fell. "I hadn't thought of that."
Percy softened. "I'll think about it. Perhaps Jess has some ideas. It's a last resort, but we're both bachelors."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"A bachelor can typically bring a female relative as his date. Normally a spinster or widow, neither of which Ginny is, but it might work."
"It'd be better if she were," George said glumly.
"Don't say that. It will work out," Percy said. "I'll ask Jess to pop by sometime. I don't trust you to pick dress robes by yourself." He ended the fire-call before George could retort.
.oOo.
"George says our idea probably won't work," Freddie said, balling up the scrap of parchment just delivered by one of WWW's garish purple-and-red owls.
Jimmy nodded slowly. His mind, always spinning with possibilities, had already presented him with an alternative. It would be a huge risk, which was not his normal style, but maybe, just maybe…
.oOo.
Ron stared at the flying snow outside his window and thought. Either that retina scanning contraption had been malfunctioning - entirely possible, in light of some of the gadgets the tech department had come up with in the past - or he was dealing with a possible homicide. He hoped it was a malfunction, or a quirk of the machine. They'd found Colin's picture next to the tub, after all. Maybe Creevey had been looking at it, and the picture had become distorted when he was electrocuted. It was a stupid machine anyway, barely functional.
He desperately wanted that explanation to be true. Otherwise, he had a murder case on his hands, and his only suspect had been dead for nearly twenty years.
.oOo.
Narcissa appeared as cool and unflappable as ever, but the fact that she had arrived on Draco's doorstep so late in the evening told him something was terribly wrong. Even with the convenience of an international Portkey, she wouldn't make the journey from France without good reason.
She waited until Draco poured her a cup of lemon tea before she got to the point. "I received a letter from your son today." She placed a few papers on the table between them.
"Scorpius? What about?" His hand, reaching for the papers, froze at her next words.
"Your other son."
Silence stretched between them, growing deeper with every tick of the clock, swallowing any words Draco could think of to say. Slowly, he reached again for the papers. The first was the article from the Inquisition, untidily torn out, the cheap paper already yellowing. The second was a small piece of the common parchment all Hogwarts students used for taking notes. The writing was jagged and uneven, the work of a boy who had never been taught proper penmanship.
I look forward to making your acquaintance at the ball, and to laying to rest all the unflattering rumours about my parents. Until then I remain,
Most sincerely,
Your grandson
The last, and most damning piece, was a photograph. It was a poor copy, so it didn't move the way a proper wizarding photograph should, but it didn't need to. On the back, replicated by the same basic copying spell that had frozen the photo, were the words Ginny and Scorpius Weasley, December 19th, 1998. Narcissa would have recognized the boy in the picture in an instant, despite his red hair.
"I don't know where to start," Draco said at last. He set the papers very carefully back on the table.
"Start by telling me it's not true," Narcissa commanded. "The result of James Potter's paternity test was in the Prophet's international edition this morning. He is most certainly Potter's son. I don't know what the boy is playing at, sending me that, but it's not funny."
"He wants to go to the ball," Draco said. "It's the same reason Sabine invited several English wizards: to provide an alternative explanation for why I would take Jimmy to buy a wand."
"Then he should let Sabine handle it," Narcissa said. "Children have no business playing at Society."
He might have been a child, but Jimmy clearly wasn't playing. Draco was once again stunned, and more than a little worried, at the extent of the boy's influence. All it had taken was a few words from him to have Narcissa rush across the Channel. And where had he found that photograph? A photograph that old was…
Draco looked over his shoulder, preparing to give the irritating little Gryffindor some choice words. He had an instant to register Weasley doing the same before there was a blinding flash of light.
… was taken by Dennis Creevey. Creevey, who had written that article. Who had killed himself so suddenly, just when his career looked about to take off. So suddenly, in fact, that one couldn't help but be suspicious.
Draco crushed that line of thought. If Creevey had been in possession of this photograph, he would have published it at the same time as the article. Unless he was saving it for a follow-up article.
"Draco?"
Narcissa's voice pulled Draco from his thoughts. "I'm sorry, Mother. I wasn't listening."
"I was saying, even though I know the article isn't true, I can't shake this feeling. It's so unsettling."
"But it is true."
This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful nonoji, whose art guilted me into writing this in a timely manner. (Yes, five months is timely for me.) It's highly relevant to this chapter, so I suggest you go admire it.
Chapter Seventeen
In which questions are answered
Saturday, December 9, 2017
He stood on the dais, small and scruffy and attracting far too much attention, his glasses digging into the bridge of his nose. Conversations buzzed at the long tables that ran the length of the Great Hall; the students didn't even bother to keep their voices low. A stern-faced old woman with a scroll of names in her hand said, "Harry Potter," and the buzzing increased briefly before subsiding into an expectant silence. Palms sweating, he took his place on the stool and put on the Sorting Hat.
"Ah, Mr. Riddle," the Hat murmured. "So good of you to join us. Let's see now… I don't suppose Ravenclaw interests you? No? You could do very well there. Well, it was worth a try. Better be…"
"Gryffindor!"
Jimmy pulled the Hat off and made his way to the politely clapping table. His cousin Victoire gave him a big grin and a thumbs-up. Across the room he could see Fabian making a face - when they'd placed bets, Fabian had been sure Jimmy would be a Ravenclaw.
The walls twisted, writhing and closing in, darkening, becoming a damp stone hall. The Chamber. He stood before the statue of Salazar Slytherin and hissed a few words. The basilisk came, hissing in return, greeting its master. Then he blinked dizzyingly and was holding a sword, locked in a deadly struggle with the serpent. His arm ached. He stared at it.
A knife sprouted from the bloody wound, and now he was cowering against the kitchen cupboards the Burrow. His father stood over him, his eyes wild and unfocussed. "I told you he'd come back. He's not dead!"
Jimmy woke with a jolt, thrashing against the suffocating hold of the blankets before he stilled. His breathing gradually slowed, but his heart still pounded in his throat. The dreams - the ones that combined memories and stories of his father and other things he'd never heard of but which nonetheless felt as real as the rest - had been coming more often of late. They faded quickly, but they always left him feeling very unsettled. He pulled the covers up over his face and thought, with the frantic alertness of one who has been jolted awake, about the pieces refused to fade.
Riddle… he knew that name, although he wasn't supposed to. Probably most people still didn't know the Dark Lord's real name but, then again, most hadn't been so integral to the War as Jimmy's family. They didn't like to talk about it, but now and again something slipped, and that name had been one of those things. But that didn't explain why Jimmy not only dreamed about Riddle, but dreamed of being him. Or why it was happening more often.
He touched the place on his arm that had ached so horribly in the dream. There wasn't a scar, not even the faintest mark to show where his father had tried to kill him. In the throws of his madness, Harry Potter had believed his oldest son was the reincarnation of the Dark Lord, and set out to save the world as he had so many times before. That was the last time Jimmy was ever alone with his father. Sometimes he wished it was the last time he'd seen the man at all.
His father…
Ignoring the cold that made the fine hairs on his arm stand up, Jimmy grabbed the book that rested next to his alarm clock on the bed stand. It had been a gift from Uncle George for his birthday, and was one of the few WWW products that would never hit shelves. Those inventions never left the Weasley family - most stayed with George or Ginny, or Freddie now that he was older - but they had a healthy presence in the imaginations of the public. Variations on Canary Creams that made you an instantly, temporarily, an Animagus. Cloaks which made the wearer impervious to Unforgivable Curses. Daydream charms so powerful they could be used to imprison someone for years. A hundred other things, each more fanciful and less probable than the last.
And this. A book of moderate thickness, with a cover that changed colour and title each week, but which always seemed completely innocuous. Jimmy leafed through it until he reached the page he needed. "Page thirty one, open," he whispered. Suddenly, where before there had only been a boring description of toadstools, there was a shallow compartment. The book was full of such secret spaces, of all different sizes. Page thirty one held the photograph he'd taken from Dennis Creevey.
The more Jimmy stared at the image by wandlight, the more he believed the scowling Scorpius Weasley was his father. They had the same eyes, the same sharp glare that flashed with temper. The man's hair was redder than Jimmy's, but his eyebrows were paler. But mostly, Jimmy knew, he believed it because he desperately wanted it to be true. He didn't want an unapproachable mad hero for a father, he wanted someone he could relate to. Scorpius Weasley looked like someone Jimmy would get along with. And it was so easy to imagine what he would be like, when he had no evidence but what his own imagination could provide.
Mostly, Scorpius Weasley was like Mr. Malfoy, except that Scorpius Weasley smiled a bit more often. But in Jimmy's mind they shared that dry sense of humour and flair for understatement, were quick with a wand or an insult or a helping hand. Once or twice he even imagined that Scorpius Malfoy was Mr. Malfoy in disguise, but he forced himself to let that daydream go.
Jimmy sighed. "Page thirty one, close," he whispered, and returned the book to the bed stand. It was all just daydreams. Harry Potter was his father - hadn't the paternity test yesterday proved that? Nothing would come of wishing for the impossible. But the thought wouldn't go away, and sleep was a long time in returning.
The irony - that he'd killed a man for suggesting Mr. Malfoy was his father - was entirely lost on Jimmy.
.oOo.
When the fireplace chimed, Draco didn't even look up. A call at this hour of the morning spelt nothing but trouble. "What now, Sabine?"
"Don't you take that tone with me. This is your mess we're cleaning up."
Draco, immediately humbled, turned to face his wife. "I'm sorry, dear."
"Hmpf." Sabine could put a lot of meaning and emotion into that single sound. "Very well then. I wanted to speak with you about your list of English wizards."
"Ah…" Shit. He knew he'd forgotten something.
"I was very surprised when Candice forwarded me the list."
Candice? Oh, right, that was the secretary with the abominable tongue piercing. But how had she known about the list? Draco quite clearly remembered forgetting to mention it to anyone. It was a puzzle for later.
"How so?" he asked, hoping he sounded like he knew all about the list.
"You said it wouldn't be long." Sabine laughed. "I confess, I questioned your judgement at the beginning, but perhaps you know what you're doing after all. Our plan may work even better than expected."
Draco was completely baffled, but one thing was clear: if this kept up, Candice might be due for a raise despite the tongue piercing and inability to report succinctly.
"The boy in question, he is a Weasley, no?"
"Jimmy Weasley?"
"Yes." Sabine frowned. "Odd, that it sounds less common than James Potter. No matter. I had not realized his uncles were such esteemed gentlemen."
Esteemed gentlemen? Draco tried to remember Ginny's descriptions of her ten million brothers. The Weasel King, the doppelgangers, the prat who always had his panties in a twist, the dragon one, the one that had carried Fleur back to his cave… somehow, 'esteemed gentlemen' didn't seem to fit any of them.
"And of course Professor Sprout. Hogwarts may be… provincial, but it is after all one of the largest schools of wizardry in the world."
Now they were on firmer ground. "She has better manners than the twit that runs Beauxbatons these days."
"Indeed." The word was edged with ice.
"Those seem like good choices," Draco said hurriedly.
"Of course they are. I was not asking you, Draco. The owls have already left with the invitations."
.oOo.
"Hey Freddie. Any plans for the hols?"
Freddie grasped for the boy's name. He wasn't very good with names in the first place, and lately all the older students had come around chatting like he was their best friend.
"Push off, Jenkins," Rosie said, saving him the trouble. On his other side, Jimmy (who probably didn't know the boy's name, or care) levelled a chilling glare at the upper year Gryffindor. It was probably that hard gaze, and not Rosie's indignant glare, that made the boy back off without another word.
"What is this all about?" Rosie asked. "That's the fourth one this evening."
Freddie hesitated, waiting to see if Jimmy would answer. His cousin was the one who had explained it to him in the first place. But Jimmy stayed firmly silent, still refusing to talk to Rosie. At least the two of them were willing to be in moderate proximity now. They hadn't fully made up, but it was progress, and it made being between them a little more bearable.
"It's WWW," he said, and couldn't help but sound a bit morose. "They all want something: discounts, invitations to the holiday party, special products, whatever."
"That's just…" Rosie trailed off, unable to find a wo rd to express her indignation at such behaviour.
"Yeah," Freddie said, although that wasn't what really bothered him. It was the way they all assumed he'd just ask his father for those things. None of them realized that he did product development and testing too. Hadn't he come up with one of WWW's best sellers when he was only seven? George had to do the actual spell-casting, true, but the idea had been Freddie's. And everyone still assumed he was just some dumb first year.
Suddenly, he noticed the hush that was rapidly spreading across the Grand Hall. He looked up at the teacher's table. There was George, standing next to Ginny with a cheeky grin on his face.
"George Weasley, how in Merlin's name did you do that?" Professor Sprout demanded.
George's grin grew a little, filling with mischief, and Freddie knew what was coming next. With a soft pop that echoed through the quiet Hall, George Disapparated.
.oOo.
Jake Kontapopolous stared morosely at the little vial of blood on his desk. In it his a secret that could destroy his career, if he'd read Healer Weasley's veiled warnings right. Some career, he thought bitterly. But still, he'd tossed and turned the night before, unable to sleep or to decide whether he should take that small sample of Harry Potter's blood. Curiosity had gotten the best of him, but now sense was reasserting itself. He should destroy the vial and pretend he'd never had that conversation with Healer Weasley.
Hadn't that been one of her first lessons? Don't do it if you're not sure. Jake was never sure these days.
Healing was a scarce step from Dark magic; Healer Weasley had taught him that too. Most Healers refused to see it, but it was the truth. The more powerful a potion or healing spell, the more likely the slightest mistake could maim or kill the patient, and sometimes the Healer too. The work Jake's team did - the team founded by Healer Weasley to perform the spells she had created - walked the very precipice of the line between the two. Almancy and sangremancy were difficult and dangerous beyond the imagining of most of the Healers at Saint Mungo's, which was why the team who performed them laboured in the darkest, most remote corner of the hospital where they could be forgotten until every other cure had been tried. And so Jake Kontapopolous spent his days in his dingy office, making a fortune for work he rarely performed, reviled and revered by his coworkers, unable to make it past the second date with any women, growing grey and bitter and tired, so tired. The once powerful team had withered so that, when Healers Maier and Grond returned to Austria at the end of the month, there would be only three left: Jake, Healer Wind, and Helen, who was too young to understand what her place on this team meant for her career. Sometimes Jake wished he could turn to drink, the way Healer Jens had before the sudden heart attack ended it all, but his Puritan upbringing had too strong of a hold on him.
Suddenly decisive, he snatched up the vial and emptied the contents onto his desk. This sort of magic wasn't performed with a wand, but with the heavy knife from his belt, stabbed into the thick wood of his desk. As Jake chanted, the blood began to writhe, squirming across the desk to trace lines and letters. Jake kept chanting, sweat beading on his forehead, until he collapsed back into his chair, exhausted.
He closed his eyes for a minute, waiting for his heart rate and breathing to slow, then opened them to study what the spell had wrought.
It was Harry Potter's family tree, written in his blood. There was his name, closest to Jake. Above him, his parents, the famed James and Lily Potter. Further back through the ages, the writing got smaller and fainter, though here and there a name was still legible, when the heritage was particularly strong. It was exactly what he had expected to see, and held no surprises.
But underneath, so faint that at first he didn't notice it against the dark wood of the desk, was a second tree. It spread like a sinister shadow beneath the first. Only one name was legible. It hovered, ghost-like, under Harry Potter's. Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Jake frowned. He didn't know the name, but it niggled at him. The second tree was an oddity. Jake had never heard that Harry Potter had a blood-brother, and anyway, blood-bonding produced a second tree which was nearly as strong as the first, not ghostly as this one was. And who was Tom Marvolo Riddle? He reached for a thick, black book that was chained to the shelf behind him.
There were less than a dozen copies of Caractacus Rosier's War Almanac in the world. The printing had just finished, the binding barely started, when the Ministry banned the book and ordered the freshly printed pages burned. The completed books were confiscated too. Only the intercession of Harry Potter had saved them from the bonfire. The truth about the War - the whole truth, such as was published no where else - should not be buried, he said. But it had been, deep in the labyrinth under the Ministry, except for three copies: the printer's proof, still in the author's possession; Harry Potter's own copy; and this one, which Healer Weasley petitioned for on the basis that most of their patients were veterans of the War. In fact, Jake could count his patients that hadn't been involved in the War on one hand. All of the others had biographies somewhere in the enormous book. Perhaps Tom Marvolo Riddle would be among them.
He was.
Jake Kontapopolous put the Almanac away with shaking hands, and went to find a drink.
.oOo.
With the impeccable timing of a born showman, George reappeared before the crowd of bewildered students and staff. "Artificial Apparition Charm, only seven Sickles! Get yours at WWW today - London, Hogsmeade, and by owl-order catalogue!" He waved his cloak with extra gusto, which made Ginny sigh, and a huge stack of catalogues appeared behind him. There was stillness in the hall for a heartbeat. Then the student body descended on the pile in a wave of bellowing excitement.
"Really, George. Was that strictly necessary?" Pomona asked, her voice weary. "No doubt there will be bones broken in this mess, which Ginevra will have to fix."
"I'll make sure anyone hurt in this little foray gets a little something special from WWW," George promised. Behind him, a catalogue was torn in half with the sound of a distressed owl. Pomona did not look mollified. "That was just a little side trip, anyway. I need to talk to Ginny."
Pomona glanced worriedly at Ginny. "Is that alright? I know you came here for some space, not so you could be solving everyone's problems all the time."
George made a face, and Ginny laughed. "It's fine, thank you, Pomona. WWW business is never a burden."
"But sometimes it burns," George said mischievously, and raised his wand.
"George Weasley, you put that down right now, or I'll have you scrubbing cauldrons until you're grey!" Pomona thundered. Shocked, George dropped his wand. Every student in the Hall froze in place, terrified at this display of temper from their mild-mannered Headmistress.
Pomona surveyed the Hall. "That goes for the rest of you as well," she announced. "The next person that pulls a Weasley in my school will answer directly to me. That means no fireworks, no swamps, and," her gaze swung to fasten on Ginny, "no destroying the masonry."
Ginny blushed. "Yes, ma'am," she whispered, before she could stop herself.
Satisfied that everyone had been suitably impressed with the inadvisability of using certain WWW products at school, Pomona nodded firmly. "Off you go, then."
Ginny and George scampered out as quickly as if they were still students. They were halfway to Ginny's rooms before George broke the silence. "Bit of a shocker, that. Didn't know the old girl had it in her."
"I think she means it, George. She gets very cross when her orders are disobeyed."
"So does Mum. I've moved back to London. I told her it was so I could be closer to the shop for the Christmas rush. I won't lie, it's been hard to stay at the Burrow lately."
Guilt lanced through Ginny like a hot knife. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was all based on a lie, anyway. The truth hurts at first, but ultimately it's for the best."
Ginny looked at him suspiciously. "Who are you, and where's George?"
Her brother laughed. "Alright, no more words of wisdom, I promise."
They'd reached Ginny's rooms. George whistled when he stepped inside. "Nice place you have here. Like Shell Cottage without the damp."
Ginny looked around, from the comfortable armchairs to the cheerfully burning fire. It was nice, and it felt more like home than anything she could remember. Even the Burrow, where she'd lived almost her entirely life, couldn't compare to this place, and she'd lived here for less than a week. Was it really so little time? It felt like several lifetimes.
"It's not that I'm not happy to see you, George, but why are you here?" Ginny asked, taking a seat and motioning for George to make himself comfortable.
"Yes, that. But first…" He flicked his wand, and suddenly Jimmy and Freddie appeared in the corner. "Trying to use my own products to deceive me. Cheeky bastards."
"What…?" Ginny was too stunned to know what to say.
George held up a bracelet. "The Artificial Apparition Charm. It has a low grade invisibility spell in it. Only lasts a few minutes, but theoretically if you had several of them, you could stay hidden for quite a while." And indeed, both boys wore several of the bracelets.
"How else was I supposed to know what's going on? You never tell me anything anymore," Freddie accused George.
George looked as though he'd been struck. "I… I…"
"And what's your excuse, Jimmy?" Ginny demanded. "The same one your father uses, that you know better than anyone else?"
Jimmy seemed to shrink in on himself, and she knew she'd hit the nail on the head. "I just thought I could help."
"It's alright, Gin. There's no reason they can't hear this," George said.
"Then why didn't you let us stay hidden?" Freddie demanded.
"That was always Dumbledore's favourite trick," George said, his voice touched with bitterness. "And see how well it worked out? There's already enough sneaking around without that sort of pointless subterfuge."
Ginny was inclined to agree, although she wouldn't say so out loud. Jimmy already had twisted ideas of what was permissible, and letting him sneak into her rooms and try to eavesdrop without punishment wouldn't disabuse him of those notions. She was a teacher now, too: that should increase his punishment, and her motivation for giving it. But after the whirlwind of events in the last week that had ripped her life apart and rebuilt it into something she didn't recognise, she couldn't find the energy for it.
"This is what I wanted to ask about," George said, and pulled a card from his robes. Even after being crumpled in his pocket, it was an elegant thing: heavy cream linen, edged with a delicate tracery of silver that shimmered in the midday light that streamed through the windows, and written over with a beautifully flowing script. He handed it to Ginny.
It took only a glance for her to know what it was, but several seconds for the full implications of it to register. She didn't notice the slight tremble of her fingers as she passed it back to George.
"Well?" Freddie demanded.
"Sabine Destrier's Christmas ball," Ginny said numbly. "It's an invitation."
"The one Gabrielle always talks about, where everyone swarms around with their head up their arse?"
"Mind your language, Freddie. And yes, the very same."
"What I want to know is, what do those toffs want with me?" George asked.
"How should I know?" Ginny said. A feeling of uneasiness - she didn't know, but she could certainly guess - rose in her stomach. George gave her a look which said he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"The question isn't what they want with you," Freddie said, taking the invitation from George, "but what you want with them." Three sets of eyes fastened on him, waiting for him to elaborate. "They're rich," Freddie said, exasperated. "They're customers."
Enlightenment dawned on George's face like a sunrise, spreading to a look of joyous glee. "Of course! An international boutique… nothing but the finest, and at a premium price…"
"No offense, Uncle George, but I still don't see why they'd invite you," Jimmy said, studying the invitation. "Sabine Destrier is Mr. Malfoy's wife, isn't she? After everything that's happened…" He looked guiltily at Ginny.
"Gin?" George said. "I admit, I don't get it either. That's why I'm here. I know you and the tosser were close, but now?"
"We're not… we weren't…"
"Come off it, Gin. We're the ones who helped you spring him from Ministry custody, remember?"
She remembered. She remembered all too clearly those days in her seventh year, when her crazy not-quite-enmity with Malfoy was the only stable, rational thing in the world, the only thing that made her sure of who she was. How could she not remember? She had spent nearly fifteen years trying to forget.
Jimmy's eyes were wide with curiosity. Freddie's were closed tightly, as though he was trying to remember something. Ginny looked from one boy to the other, then at her brother, who was watching her with the same understanding, slightly impatient look he'd worn she'd tried to explain why she wanted that particular favour all those years ago. Maybe he was right, and keeping secrets wouldn't help anymore.
"I snuck Malfoy out of Hogwarts over Christmas while his whole family was under house arrest." It was easier if she talked directly to her son. Let him know that she'd broken the rules when she was young too, so she knew what she was talking about when she said it was a bad idea. "We accidentally wound up at Malfoy Manor, which was full of Aurors. But he couldn't go back on the Hogwarts Express - no one knew he'd left, you see. George helped me get him out of there so we could sneak back in with no one the wiser. Of course," she added dryly, "Minerva McGonagall knew what we were up to the whole time."
"She was as good as Dumbledore at knowing what was going on," George agreed dryly. "Difference was, Dumbledore didn't care about anyone but Harry."
"So what happened?" Jimmy demanded.
"Oh, nothing," Ginny said. "Minerva didn't let on that she knew until years later." That was all she was prepared to say on the matter for now. George might be right about the truth, but Ginny couldn't stand to have any more of her past laid bare just yet.
"You and Mr. Malfoy were good friends, weren't you?" Jimmy asked.
"I don't know," Ginny said, as honestly as she could. "But I suppose we were close. He's never been the sort to trust other people much."
"Why's he doing this, Gin?" George asked. Now that they'd come full circle, Ginny knew the question couldn't be avoided any longer.
"I think, just maybe, he's covering up for that article in the Inquisition. The world watches that bloody ball, and if a handful of Weasleys make an appearance, then it will seem like our families are friends. But…" She trailed off.
"But?" Freddie prompted.
"It's the sort of thing he'd think of, but not the sort of thing he'd do. It's much too nice."
George's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say this is Sabine's work, with or without Draco's involvement. It's a non-confrontational way out: it makes Creevey's article look like a silly mistake by a reporter who doesn't check his facts. Everyone will have a good laugh and forget about it. Draco's more vengeful than that." It may have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a thoughtful look flit across her son's face.
"It's too late for that," George said. "I figured you wouldn't be reading the papers these days, but it was in the Prophet this morning: Creevey's dead. Suicide."
Ginny sagged deeper into her armchair and closed her eyes. "Cock-sucking Calchas. It's one thing to wish a man dead, another for…" Realizing abruptly where she was, she fixed her wide-eyed son and nephew with a stern glare. "If either of you ever use language like that, I will scrub your mouth out with the foulest soap I can find. Understood?" Both boys nodded fervently, and even George joined in.
"But you're right that he was out for revenge. Malfoy Enterprises is buying out Silver Media," George said.
"Who?"
"The Inquisition's parent company which is - fun fact - owned by Malfoy's old pal Parkinson."
"What, Pug-face Pansy?" Ginny asked, surprised.
"The same. The business pages are full of it." Since when had George read the business pages? Ginny wondered. It didn't match the image of a carefree prankster that he'd never outgrown in her mind.
"They don't suspect Mr. Malfoy of… of killing Creevey, do they?" Jimmy asked worriedly.
George frowned at him. "Of course not. It was suicide, as I said. Besides, we all know Malfoy couldn't kill a toad. He was always a little shite, but even as a Death Eater he didn't have the stones to kill a person."
"Which isn't a bad thing," Ginny said firmly.
"I suppose not."
Jimmy looked immensely relieved. "That's good." It seemed like Jimmy had bonded more with Draco than Ginny had expected. Perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised; the pair of them were very alike, after all.
"Back to the point: are you going to the ball?" Freddie asked.
"If I am, you are too," George said firmly. "I'm not suffering through that alone, no matter how good a business opportunity it might be." Freddie made a face.
"You won't be alone," Ginny said. "Albus should be there. He's staying with the Malfoys over the holidays."
George gave her a sympathetic look, but all he said was, "I see." He looked around awkwardly, for once lost for words, then said abruptly, "Well, I should be getting back. Lots to do before the holiday rush. Come on, boys, I bet Gin has a ton of work to do." He gave Ginny a peck on the cheek and Disapparated away.
Her door opening to let him out gave the joke away, but it still made Ginny smile.
.oOo.
"I intend to turn it down," Percy said, wondering why his brother had fire-called just for this. "Which reminds me, I need to find an unavoidable prior commitment. I don't see any reason to pretend I like making small talk with Malfoy and his cronies."
"Here's one: Ginny," George said. "We can minimize the damage that article in the Inquisition did if we appear friendly with the Malfoys."
It was a valid point. Percy wondered who had pointed it out to George. It wasn't the sort of thing his younger brother would have thought of unaided. "I suppose," was all he said.
"I have a plan," George told him.
"No."
George tried to look hurt, but couldn't manage it convincingly. "You haven't heard it yet."
"But I know it will be a bad idea."
"We take Ginny with us."
"On what pretence?"
"What?"
"On what pretence? Granted, it would be more effective than us going alone, since it would show that Ginny is close with the Malfoys - it would be even better if we could take Jimmy too - but she's not on the guest list."
"So?"
Percy sighed. Whose bright idea had it been to invite George to Sabine Destrier's Christmas ball? The man was going to make a complete arse of himself. "The hoi polloi of wizarding Society are not exactly beating a path to Ginny's door. In their eyes, she's a nobody. She can't just show up uninvited."
"But she's a great Healer. And she's written a load of books. And she works for WWW, and I was invited."
"None of that matters. She's spent the last fifteen years being Harry Potter's wife." Percy felt like he was explaining that fire is hot to an idiot child. "That might have been enough before he went back to Saint Mungo's. Now it'll take a miracle to get her through the door."
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to. Has it occurred to you that your little plan might open Ginny up to more scrutiny and speculation? I can't imagine Sabine Destrier would be happy if the mother of her husband's alleged illegitimate child turned up at her precious ball."
George's face fell. "I hadn't thought of that."
Percy softened. "I'll think about it. Perhaps Jess has some ideas. It's a last resort, but we're both bachelors."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"A bachelor can typically bring a female relative as his date. Normally a spinster or widow, neither of which Ginny is, but it might work."
"It'd be better if she were," George said glumly.
"Don't say that. It will work out," Percy said. "I'll ask Jess to pop by sometime. I don't trust you to pick dress robes by yourself." He ended the fire-call before George could retort.
.oOo.
"George says our idea probably won't work," Freddie said, balling up the scrap of parchment just delivered by one of WWW's garish purple-and-red owls.
Jimmy nodded slowly. His mind, always spinning with possibilities, had already presented him with an alternative. It would be a huge risk, which was not his normal style, but maybe, just maybe…
.oOo.
Ron stared at the flying snow outside his window and thought. Either that retina scanning contraption had been malfunctioning - entirely possible, in light of some of the gadgets the tech department had come up with in the past - or he was dealing with a possible homicide. He hoped it was a malfunction, or a quirk of the machine. They'd found Colin's picture next to the tub, after all. Maybe Creevey had been looking at it, and the picture had become distorted when he was electrocuted. It was a stupid machine anyway, barely functional.
He desperately wanted that explanation to be true. Otherwise, he had a murder case on his hands, and his only suspect had been dead for nearly twenty years.
.oOo.
Narcissa appeared as cool and unflappable as ever, but the fact that she had arrived on Draco's doorstep so late in the evening told him something was terribly wrong. Even with the convenience of an international Portkey, she wouldn't make the journey from France without good reason.
She waited until Draco poured her a cup of lemon tea before she got to the point. "I received a letter from your son today." She placed a few papers on the table between them.
"Scorpius? What about?" His hand, reaching for the papers, froze at her next words.
"Your other son."
Silence stretched between them, growing deeper with every tick of the clock, swallowing any words Draco could think of to say. Slowly, he reached again for the papers. The first was the article from the Inquisition, untidily torn out, the cheap paper already yellowing. The second was a small piece of the common parchment all Hogwarts students used for taking notes. The writing was jagged and uneven, the work of a boy who had never been taught proper penmanship.
I look forward to making your acquaintance at the ball, and to laying to rest all the unflattering rumours about my parents. Until then I remain,
Most sincerely,
Your grandson
The last, and most damning piece, was a photograph. It was a poor copy, so it didn't move the way a proper wizarding photograph should, but it didn't need to. On the back, replicated by the same basic copying spell that had frozen the photo, were the words Ginny and Scorpius Weasley, December 19th, 1998. Narcissa would have recognized the boy in the picture in an instant, despite his red hair.
"I don't know where to start," Draco said at last. He set the papers very carefully back on the table.
"Start by telling me it's not true," Narcissa commanded. "The result of James Potter's paternity test was in the Prophet's international edition this morning. He is most certainly Potter's son. I don't know what the boy is playing at, sending me that, but it's not funny."
"He wants to go to the ball," Draco said. "It's the same reason Sabine invited several English wizards: to provide an alternative explanation for why I would take Jimmy to buy a wand."
"Then he should let Sabine handle it," Narcissa said. "Children have no business playing at Society."
He might have been a child, but Jimmy clearly wasn't playing. Draco was once again stunned, and more than a little worried, at the extent of the boy's influence. All it had taken was a few words from him to have Narcissa rush across the Channel. And where had he found that photograph? A photograph that old was…
Draco looked over his shoulder, preparing to give the irritating little Gryffindor some choice words. He had an instant to register Weasley doing the same before there was a blinding flash of light.
… was taken by Dennis Creevey. Creevey, who had written that article. Who had killed himself so suddenly, just when his career looked about to take off. So suddenly, in fact, that one couldn't help but be suspicious.
Draco crushed that line of thought. If Creevey had been in possession of this photograph, he would have published it at the same time as the article. Unless he was saving it for a follow-up article.
"Draco?"
Narcissa's voice pulled Draco from his thoughts. "I'm sorry, Mother. I wasn't listening."
"I was saying, even though I know the article isn't true, I can't shake this feeling. It's so unsettling."
"But it is true."