Chapter Text
1
He recalled that he had never seen a day so bright or warm in Scotland. All his memories of being at the Quidditch Pitch, either above it or in the stands, it was never so beautiful. The air that came off the Black Lake was fragrant with flowers and water plants, and when it hit his face, he would close his eyes and think of it as some sweet natural caress.
The stands were packed for the Cup final between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and he wore a green and silver ribbon on the lapel of his coat. Banners and pennants of the House colors flapped and ripped the air, but the players sliced the sky in a heated match between the ancient rivals. Streaks of green, streaks of red, and the roar of cheering voices, it made him almost think that he was up there. He had only been a fair player, he knew, and toward the end of his school years, there was never time to really play seriously. Still, he watched his son, playing the same position he had, but was far, far superior.
Scorpius’ hair gleamed like a silvery beacon high above the pitch, and he wore tinted goggles to scan the pitch in the bright light. His son was like a gliding hawk, ready to swoop and take the prize. He watched Scorpius, hands on his hips, sometimes glancing to the Gryffindor Seeker across the pitch and lower, also searching. However, Scorpius would watch the Gryffindor Chaser with the wild curls gusting out behind her like dried blood. Rose Granger-Weasley, like Scorpius, made it on their House teams so early, all on their own merits.
The scoring of a goal for Gryffindor was met with a scream of elation as Granger-Weasley scored, again. He smirked, glancing down the stand to the family below him in the VIP section, curls bouncing, flags waving, a confetti gun shooting off from one of the ginger haired men, George, he recalled.
“Go, Rosie!” a child’s voice shouted, strawberry blond curls swaying in the breeze. The boy was just short of going to Hogwarts himself, he figured, the brother of Rose. He had never really had a proper look at the child, but in the sunlight, he noticed freckles on the boy’s nose, but he seemed finer boned, almost delicate. The pudginess of babyhood was barely beginning to shed off him, and he imagined that when it did go, the boy would be quite a striking man. And when the boy turned, responding to Headmistress McGonagall’s shout of ‘mind the Bludger, Potter!’, he saw that the boy’s eyes were not light brown like his mother’s nor blue like his father’s. They were silvery gray. Odd.
When the boy noticed his survey, he gave him a small smile. Hugo, the boy’s name was Hugo.
He nodded to the boy and turned his eyes back to Scorpius who had leaned forward and began floating a wide arc down into the fray. He pressed his lips, and then, Scorpius shot forward, spinning, barrel rolling, and nearly had his head knocked off by the encroaching Gryffindor Seeker, both reaching for the Snitch. His breath caught, his chest seized, and then both Seekers broke off as the Snitch zipped one way and then the other and was lost. He lifted a hand to his mouth, and sighed. Gryffindor was up fifty points, but Slytherin could take it all with the Snitch.
In a lull, he looked around the stand again, noting that Harry Potter was sitting below him with his wife and daughter. Albus Potter was in the stands with his House, but Potter’s eldest was captain, flying next to his cousin. A lot of the Teams were made of children of their Year. He smirked at that, the nepotism that surely tinged everything. Of course, he was not like his father, he did not get the Slytherins new brooms, though Scorpius had asked once.
Potter and Ginny Weasley’s daughter was sitting next to Hugo, pointing to his sister. Then there was Granger, sitting just below him, her back to him, dressed in a gauzy white, sleeveless shirt, fanning herself with a paper fan, making her curls lift and fall with every wave. He could see silver in her hair, catching the sunlight. She looked, from the back, almost pale, her brown skin having a strange translucence. Even her reddish chestnut curls were lank, not so much as rat’s nest, but just beaten down. When she would turn her head to speak to her son, he could see that her cheek was not nearly so full as he recalled, but she wore a dark color on her full lips. He had not seen her face full on, not even when she spoke to open the match.
In the years after the War, the Quidditch Cup final had become a big affair. McGonagall opened the school on that day, there were family events on the grounds, and Hogsmeade hosted a large street fair, bringing vendors from London to pitch stalls. Families had picnics by the Black Lake, interacted with magical creatures at Hagrid’s Hut, and had tours of the castle, guided by Seventh Years. There were booths in Hogsmeade for children to get their faces painted, to play carnival games, and on the spot where the Shrieking Shack had been, a true carnival with rides. To be honest, he thought it was fantastic. All his childhood there was never anything so geared to building community, fostering magical cooperation, and just letting families be together.
Granger had worked with the Ministry and Hogwarts to have the fete, and it had been chartered as a yearly event when she became Minister. Minister for Magic Hermione Granger. She had never taken her husband’s name. Her husband was conspicuously missing. He had seen the ginger man at the beginning of the match, sitting next to her in a ridiculous red shirt with quaffles zooming around. Ron Weasley had put on weight, his hair was thinning, and he looked unkempt, not at all like the husband of the Minister for Magic. He had inclined his head to Weasley as those blue eyes met his after rising to leave the stands. Weasley only narrowed his eyes and began moving. Weasley said something to his wife, who seemed to sigh, and then left. Weasley had yet to return after an hour of the game.
He checked his Jaeger-LaCoultre chronograph and sighed. He was getting hungry. As much as he loved watching his son play Quidditch, he really would like something to eat. Granger could stand to eat something, his mind hissed, sounding very much like his wife’s voice.
Her tenure had only been a few years, but already she was one of the most loved, and hated Ministers for Magic. He did not agree with all her signed legislation, but most of it was very fair minded. Tori had adored her…
He sighed, glancing to his left and the empty space there. It was where Tori should have been, clutching his arm, squealing when Scorpius took a steep dive or angled too far off his broom. Tori loved Quidditch, but with their son playing Quidditch was just too much. Tori had not been like his own mother, sometimes coddling, but always cool, and distant. She had been so honest with Scorpius, warm, loving, and funny. She loved Scorpius so much that he sometimes felt like an outsider and not the boy’s father at all.
Hugo Granger-Weasley moved, and he watched as he sat on his mother’s lap, looking back up the stands. The boy looked over him, and then back to the pitch. He licked his lips, watching Granger wrap her arms about the boy, dropping her fan, and resting her chin on his shoulder. The boy laughed at something and then shot a pointed cold look to his cousin, Potter’s daughter. The girl glared and began complaining to her mother. He watched all this with some interest, especially when Granger began laughing too, and her voice carried over the sound of the voices around them.
It was just then that everyone had jumped to their feet, and he blinked, surprised.
“Malfoy has the Snitch!”
From that point on, he tried to work his way to Scorpius. The Staff, the families, old classmates, they were patting him on the back, congratulating him. All he had done was provide his semen, he thought. He had never been so good. It must have been from Tori’s side, he wanted to say.
Even Potter came up to him as they waited to descend from the stands. Potter was in a red Muggle tee-shirt and jeans, but he had his Auror’s robes over his arm. Potter looked well, and that was probably all he could say about the man. They were almost friendly, he supposed. When he would go into the Ministry, he usually saw Potter, or Potter found him, stopping him in the Atrium. He supposed that if their sons were going to be best friends, and it seemed they were, they should have some sort of understanding. Potter had been friendly with Tori, as had Ginny Potter. They had come to her funeral, brought a lovely bouquet of flowers.
“Good show, Malfoy. Scorpius is really very, very talented.”
He smirked. He knew that Scorpius loved to pick Potter’s brain for tricks and tips when he would visit Grimmauld Place on the holidays.
“Much better than I ever was,” he mumbled.
Potter blinked at him as they joined the queue to go down. Then he smirked.
“You weren’t bad, Malfoy, but neither of us really got to practice like we should have.”
“True,” he drawled.
The Potter daughter pushed past them then, knocking into his hip, nearly pushing him back onto the seats.
“Lily Luna!” Potter barked, and the girl froze, several of the Staff eyeing her as they went down. When the girl turned, she had tears in her green eyes. “That was extremely rude, apologize to Mr. Malfoy.”
The girl sniffed, rubbed her eyes on the back of her hand, and looked up at him. He flinched. Those green eyes, dry of tears, were so cold. If the girl were Sorted, it would be in Slytherin. It was that thought that brought a spark of understanding, but the girl…she was wrong.
“I apologize, Mr. Malfoy.”
Her voice was deceptively sweet, and then she turned, her red hair flying, and she wove among the adult bodies and away. Potter sighed.
“Sorry about that, Malfoy. My daughter has been a bit of a handful lately. She is usually quite friendly.”
Malfoy said nothing, but spared a look at Potter whose own green eyes were narrowed and distant. The girl was strange, that was all he could think.
He looked back to Granger, her son at her side, speaking to several plain clothes Hit Wizards who were preparing to walk with her. He had noticed the Squad, sitting around the box, a part of the Granger-Weasley entourage. Granger needed protection as due her station, but he knew from The Daily Prophet that there had been several incidents of certain parties trying to disrupt her daily life. The last had been after she signed some Wizengamot legislation into law concerning the trade of designated Dark artifacts and black market potion ingredients. Several businesses in Knockturn Alley had been affected. The ancient establishment of Borgin and Burkes had been hit hard in particular. Even his own father was rather outraged at the new classifications, which meant that his penchant for collecting the morbid and obscure was hindered.
He could care less about his father’s hobbies. His father was becoming more and more the hermit after the directorship of Malfoy Apothecaries was handed over. Still, Granger had enemies. If it wasn’t Dark artifacts, it was legislation on the rights of werewolves and other Magical Beings. He thought it was Granger trying to drag their world into a modern era more than anything.
“Is Scorpius still ready to come to London next week?” Potter asked then and he turned his attention back to the Auror, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, in fact. Potter must have had the day off.
“I believe so. Is Kreacher ready to be annoyed by him?”
Potter chuckled. “Kreacher adores him.”
He was sure the ancient elf did. Except for Teddy Tonks, Scorpius was the only other Black descendant besides himself and his mother. He had only met the elf once, coming to collect Scorpius from a day trip at Easter. The elf had scraped and bowed and grumbled. He only kept one personal elf, but that was not correct. The elf was paid. Old Brutus would have liked to have come with him to the match.
“I don’t think Kreacher will be long for this world, and I begrudgingly agreed to mount his head after his passing…” Potter sighed then shuddered.
Oh yes, Scorpius had mentioned that. The Blacks were a strange family, or had been. The Malfoys had a small cemetery for their elves, but Brutus had at least three more generations of Malfoys before he went.
Finally, the queue moved, and he felt that the Granger-Weasley contingency was finally behind him. He noticed that the boy, Hugo, was whispering to his mother, and the mother, looking very tired, nodded.
“...it’s waiting, darling. I’m hungry too. And where is your father?” he heard her say. The boy clung to her hand and groaned. He wanted to say he was hungry too, ravenous.
Granger lifted her light brown eyes to him then, and blinked. He held her gaze for only a moment and then pointedly looked away, moving to the stairs. They had not spoken in some time, and the last time had been less than conversational.
Granger looked, in a word, terrible. Too thin, too wan, older. If she had some healthy weight, something done to her hair, she might look better, but his opinions on how she should look were just that.
It felt like an age before he found Scorpius outside the locker rooms. The boy had showered, been clapped repeatedly on the shoulder, and was beaming with the Snitch still clutched in his pale hand. He had watched Rose Granger-Weasley and James Potter shake his hand, all smiling. In another time, that never would have happened.
“I want to get with Al, Dad. Can we have supper at the Three Broomsticks? There’s going to be carnival rides and a panto by the boathouse and fireworks later…can I go?”
He eyed his son, almost as tall as he was, and Scorpius’ expression hardened. When he grabbed his son and crushed his head into his chest, Scorpius began laughing. His son’s arms wrapped about his waist and he pressed a kiss into his son’s lovely hair. His own father would never, in a million years, ever show such affection, not in private and certainly not in public.
“You have curfew, remember that, McGonagall could strip you of enough House Points to ruin the year.”
Scorpius pulled away, stepped back and nodded seriously. His son was very much like he was, pale, gray eyed, fair haired, built tough. The toughness he got more from Tori’s side. He was not a slight man in his later years, but Tori’s blood, without the malediction, built strong men. Scorpius had Tori’s lips, her chin, her father’s heavier frame. The boy was undeniably a Malfoy though, tall, lean, wide shoulders, long neck and nose. The boy was beautiful.
“Rosmerta's at seven?”
He nodded even as Albus Potter ran up behind Scorpius and nearly jumped onto his back. Scorpius shouted and tried to shove the Snitch in his best friend’s mouth. Albus Potter laughed as they struggled. Al, as everyone called him, was what Harry Potter should have been if he had not been an orphan, starved, and burdened with a Prophecy. He liked the boy well enough, he was in Slytherin, and was very bright with a wry sense of humor.
“Hey, Mr. Malfoy, wasn’t that one hell of a game?” Al said as Scorpius continued to try to shove the Snitch in his mouth.
He cleared his throat. Both boys had taken up cursing recently. It annoyed Lucius.
“It was a game,” he drawled, flicking his left wrist to look at his chronograph again. “Now, I’m off to Hogsmeade for lunch,” he sighed. Then to Scorpius, “I’ll see you at seven, and I suppose you too, Potter?”
Al Potter smirked. “Sure, if you’re buying, Mr. Malfoy.”
He smirked back.
“Of course, he is!” Scorpius growled, throwing his arm about Al’s neck, trying to get him into a headlock.
“Hurray!” Al laughed, and immediately they took off toward the castle, still wrestling.
He watched them, feeling his mouth curve into a true smile. He never behaved so…young.
In Hogsmeade, the High Street was crowded with hundreds of people of all ages. He was chewing a kebab, finding it absolutely delicious, wondering why he had never had one before. He looked at the booths and the open shops, inhaling the scent of food, of sweets, of beer, of people. The air was filled with music, and frivolity. He thought it was lovely, though he knew he’d never admit it.
No one bothered him, though he felt eyes upon him from time to time. He was probably the best dressed of all the people in his gray light weight suit, sage green silk tie, and Italian leather shoes. He knew he stood out with his pale hair, long and pulled into a tail down the middle of his back. He probably looked like some business man and could pass for a Muggle if it weren’t for his quick draw holster on his belt and the silver and green ribbon pinned to his lapel. He was just glad people did not part for him as they would have for his father with that ridiculous cane and cloaks despite the heat. He was glad his father had passed, again, on the Cup Day.
He finished his kebab and wandlessly Vanished the stick and looked at his left sleeve. Tori’s hands should be there, he knew. She would have worn something sensible in green or silver for the day. She would have carried a lace parasol and her little beaded bag. She would have wiped at his lips and fingers with one of her very plain linen handkerchiefs. She would have wanted to look at every booth, buying something from every single one to stuff into her beaded bag to look at later at home. Tori was like a bloody magpie. Or, she had been.
He drew his own handkerchief and wiped his lips and then his fingers, finding the mess not so bad. Seeing that the booth for Malfoy Apothecaries was near Scrivenshafts, he headed there. The staff attending all stared at him wide eyed, apparently shocked to see the owner. He sampled the Superior Red that had been set out in tiny paper cups, and gave the staff a small, satisfied smile.
They assured him they were only serving to of-age patrons, and he just chuckled. He told them they were doing well, that he was happy they were there, though he had no idea they would be at the Cup Day fete. He had left the vineyard mostly to his father. He only dealt in the Potions portion of the business, which was doing very, very well.
He moved on, watching the children play carnival games, watching them run through the crowd with rubber balloons and other whirly-gigs. He watched George Weasley demonstrate some of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes in his booth, strategically placed across from Zonkos. The children were rapt, but he was startled when a cannon on top of the tent boomed and sent glitter and confetti of red and gold all over the street. Someone, a councilman of the village, by the looks of it, began shouting at Weasley, and the children all giggled.
He caught sight of Potter with his wife near Honeydukes, but Potter did not see him. Eventually, he saw Granger, near Tomes and Scrolls, and she was off to one side, arguing with Weasley. He paused before Madam Puddifoots, watching.
Weasley’s hair was mussed, but then again, it might just be his usual style for all he knew. Granger was shorter than him, and she was moving her mouth in a way that took him back to their school days. Castigation, it was castigation. If she balled up her fist and punched the git in the nose, he would not be surprised. She did not however, as suddenly there was a flashbulb from a camera and the Hit Wizards closed ranks. A reporter from the Prophet was removed from the area none-to-gently.
He slipped a little nearer even as Granger and Weasley moved to the mouth of an alley.
“...do this today ? Reporters are everywhere, fucking everywhere , Ronald!”
He blinked, looked around. The wall of Hit Wizards stood with their backs to the couple. The boy was nowhere to be seen.
“...is she? Are you going to disappear again for a quick fuck in an alley next? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“It’s you ! I signed the bloody papers, and you still demanded I come to this!” Weasley hissed back, his blue eyes flashing.
“...for the kids, you know that…don’t give them another excuse, we need to tell them togeth--”
“I thought that was you!” a high voice said, and he jerked, not sensing that someone, a woman, had stepped toward him.
He blinked at the woman, and slowly, he relaxed.
“Pansy.”
Pansy Parkinson, she smirked up at him, her hand out to touch him. He recoiled gracefully and banged into the front window of Madam Puddifoots. At that, she took a step back into the sunlight while he remained in the shade. Pansy was overdone, her makeup, her blue black hair looking almost like plastic. She had on a very revealing blue sundress that fell to her knees, but resting on her shoulder was a black lace parasol. He had not seen her in a few years.
“Your boy, he was great.”
“Thank you, Pansy.”
The funeral. She had come to the funeral, dressed like some Victorian mourner with black lipstick and black fingernails. Tori did not like her, no one liked her, as far as he knew. She was not unattractive, but her voice was grating, and her family was garbage.
“Walk with me?” she suggested.
“I am headed down to the boathouse, Pansy, and then meeting my son.”
She eyed him skeptically, and then, he watched her dark eyes cut to the bickering couple near the bookshop. He could see the mirth in her eyes, the sick fascination she had always had when something particularly nasty was happening within her eye line. Pansy was…bad. He had fancied himself something to her once, but there was something just slimy and pathetic about her. Tori was more of a woman of worth. Even Granger. Pansy was the anti-Granger, he thought.
“Trouble in paradise?” she purred and he was forced to look over again.
Weasley was shouting, but he could not hear it. The couple obviously had cast a Muffliato around themselves. Weasley was pink in the face, and Granger…she was cowed. He frowned at this. Her shoulders were down, her face turned toward the wall of the shop, her body betraying some extreme emotion.
They were in the process of divorce, that much was clear by what snatches of the conversation he heard. Infidelity. He swallowed, watched as Granger rubbed her face with the back of her hand and then began looking around, eyes clearing. And then Weasley canceled the Charm and was pounding his stupidly large feet away. The Hit Wizards moved tighter around Granger then, and she whispered to one of them, he thought it was Creevey, the one that obviously had not been killed at the Battle of Hogwarts.
Pansy was sniggering, but he ignored her.
“Hugo?” he heard Granger call.
When Pansy pulled on his arm, insinuating herself at his side, he stared down at her. The Malfoy glare was useless on Pansy.
“Show me the Apothecary booth. Maybe you can give a discount on a bottle to take to my Papa.”
He knew she could not be removed easily from his arm, and was more or less forced to walk with her. He set his face, disgusted. Tori was the only one ever to hold his arm like that. As far as he knew, Pansy had never married, and probably had designs on him or some stupid Pureblood bachelor. He was not a bachelor, he was a widower.
When he finally was able to be rid of Pansy, it had been over an hour since seeing Granger and Weasley arguing. He had walked up to the carnival ground and watched children getting tossed about on the attractions, noting that someone had put a plinth up to mark where the Shrieking Shack had been. He smiled at it, remembering the days he, Crabbe, Goyle and sometimes Zabini would walk to the Shack and try to frighten the younger students. Of course, the pleasant reminiscence turned dark, and he spun on his heel and began down the road.
“Mr. Malfoy, have you seen little Hugo Weasley up that way?” one of his staff asked at the Apothecary booth.
He frowned. “No, why?”
“The boy is missing…they think…”
He took off toward the Three Broomsticks. It was still two hours away from seven, but he thought maybe he’d find Scorpius along the way. The street was still crowded, but there were more adults than children.
“Hugo! Hugo Weasley!” he heard Potter shout from around Honeydukes. The voice was not amplified, but it drifted over everyone. When he saw Potter, he felt something in his chest seize. Potter’s face was one of distress, his green eyes flashing. He had his Auror’s robes on, and his wife was at his side, wand out. A Patronus of a horse galloped around people, sniffing the air. There were soon other Patronuses, a stag, a swan, even a small dog.
When a voice boomed over the village, everyone stopped.
“We have a missing child, Hugo Granger-Weasley, please, everyone, check around, send up red sparks if you locate the child!” it was Rosmerta, he knew her voice.
“Dad!”
Scorpius collided with his chest, Al right behind. “Have you seen him?”
The expression on his son’s face was baffling. His son was upset.
“My little cousin? Hugo?” Al added.
He pressed his lips, and drew his wand. “Come with me, boys, let’s check down by the Black Lake.”
The frivolity and cheer of the fete turned subdued very quickly, and the echoes of the boy’s name went all the way to the castle. He saw Aurors then, running up the road, down paths to the Forbidden Forest, and overhead on brooms.
“Aunt H said that there’s been threats,” Al gasped as they jogged down to the boathouse where the panto stage was lit, but no one was performing yet. “She said that people tried to attack her in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago. Do you think someone took Hugo?”
“With all those Hit Wizards around? That’d be mental!” Scorpius breathed as they slowed and began looking around the stage.
“Yeah, but they’re mostly protecting her, not Rose or Hugo,” Al said, catching his breath before poking into the makeshift dressing area behind the stage.
“Rose said there’s an Auror posted here at the school, Al, why wouldn’t they watch her brother?”
He went into the boathouse, the voices of his son and Albus Potter cutting off. The boathouse was cast in late day shadow and empty. He went to the dock edge, looking down at the many tiny boats, and into the dark green water. A million thoughts went through his mind. Hugo Weasley, young, not having a wand, would be a soft target. He knew of at least two wizards and one werewolf who would love nothing more than to hurt Minister for Magic Hermione Granger in some way. Taking the boy, it could be a ransom situation. One of the bankrupt proprietors of Knockturn Alley might do it. Borgin, surely.
He ground his teeth, his mind turning to something more terrible. Killing the boy, it might break someone like Granger. He knew it would kill him.
“Anything, Mr. Malfoy?” Al called from the door.
“No.”
“I’ll send a Patronus to Dad then,” he said, and moved to cast.
He sniffed, looking out across the Black Lake. There could be so many places, if the boy was still in Scotland. The Black Lake could be one of them.
Eventually, Aurors swept in after him, finding nothing. He felt oddly inadequate, watching them cast unknown Charms. He could have been an Auror, he had seriously considered it. Instead, he went for his Potions Mastery to further cement his future with the success of the family business. He sometimes wished he had just done it, become an Auror, wear those red robes, have adventures.
Al and Scorpius kept near him as they moved to the gates of the castle. The school was on full alert, even Filch was poking at every bush, shining a lantern into every dark place. The sun was nearly set by the time they moved back to Hogsmeade proper. A lot of people had left, the High Street quiet. He felt ill, moreso when he saw Potter running toward them from the Three Broomsticks.
“Al, where have you been? You didn’t send word after the boathouse?” Potter gasped, grasping his son by the shoulders, his cloak flapping, his wand curled in his thumb.
“We went to the gate and along the road. There’s nothing, Dad…are you sure he’s still in Hogsmeade?”
Potter looked over Al’s head to him, their eyes meeting.
Checking the Lake…they think…
He stiffened at the mental intrusion and then nodded. Potter was not a good Legilimens, but he had some ability.
“Al, Scorpius,” Ginny Weasley said, approaching. “I’ll walk you back to the castle now.”
“But, Mum!” Al protested and Potter shook his son a bit.
“You go back now . Help search there. Check the Pitch, and send a Patronus, but do not, and I repeat, do not leave the grounds, is that understood, Albus Severus?”
The boy nodded, his dark hair falling into his green eyes.
“Dad?” Scorpius asked, turning to him.
“Go with Mrs. Potter. I’m going to continue searching.”
Scorpius blinked at him and then Al grabbed his arm. Ginny Weasley nodded at him, walking behind the boys, wand still in hand.
“Sir!” a voice shouted from up the street.
Potter turned, and then they were both jogging. He kept up with Potter, and when one of Potter’s men moved to cast a Muffliato, Potter nodded to him, wanting to include him. A part of him was glad that Potter thought so highly of him.
“Your…your daughter, sir. We found her near the carnival attractions.”
Had Lily Potter been missing too?
“Where is she now?” Potter growled.
“With the Minister at the Three Broomsticks, sir, but…but she said that she saw someone grab the boy, pull him down an alley.”
Potter’s face darkened. “Who?”
The Auror, Cauldwell licked his lips. “Borgin.”
He blinked. Had he been right after all? No, something seemed off.
“Which alley?”
“No clue, sir.”
Potter seemed to think, and after telling Cauldwell to continue looking at the Lake and conferring with the Merfolk, turned to him.
“Still good with your hexes, Malfoy?”
He lifted his chin. “Of course.”
Potter nodded. “I’m deputizing you, I guess that is the way to do it. My men are stretched over the Forest and the Lake, I need an extra wand.”
He nodded.
“I’ll take the alley next to Scrivenshafts, you take the next? Red sparks?”
He nodded again and gripped his wand tighter. The old hawthorne had gone to Potter a lifetime ago, and he was satisfied with his newer hawthorne wand, a twelve inch hawthorne with phoenix feather. Potter left him as he moved to the alley beside The Green Neep. He found only old vegetable matter and crates. Potter told him he was trying the alley next to Honeydukes and he should look by the Hog’s Head.
It was getting dark, fast. There were lanterns and floating lights over the High Street, but in the alleys the darkness was inky. He hated that oppressive weight of fear over the village, he hated that there were still Aurors flying overhead, shining wandlights like searchlights over the village. The music, the smells, the overall merriment was gone, sucked away like it had been taken by a Dementor. As he passed the Three Broomsticks, the door open, he caught sight of Weasley pacing in his ridiculous shirt, Lily Potter on Granger’s lap, her face pressed into her aunt’s shoulder. Even George Weasley and his wife were there.
There was a lamp lit over the door of the Hog’s Head, but the pub and inn was closed. There was a sign that read that the proprietor had a booth on the High Street, but he did not remember seeing it. Below, near the station, he could hear movement, wand lights searching. The same down by the shore of the Black Lake.
He lit his own wand, stepping outside of the spill of the pub door. He heard brooms zipping at times, the wind through distant trees, but nothing more.
If Borgin took the boy… It had to be a ransom situation. Perhaps that was why the Granger-Weasleys were in the pub and not looking. If he had been Ronald Weasley, he would be pounding the street, the road, every corridor, every vale in the Forbidden Forest. If it had been Scorpius, he would tear out every obstacle, shine a light brighter than the sun into every shadow. But no, Weasley was pacing, sweating, he recalled.
And Granger. He knew she would be doing the same as he and Potter were, but he also knew that she was Minister for Magic. She had to maintain some facade of control. Besides, if it were a ransom situation, she would need to stay put. He could only imagine the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside her at that moment.
As far as he knew, she was a good mother. If what Scorpius told him was true, Granger was a great mother to her daughter. Whether or not Granger was a good wife…? Well, he knew that Ronald Weasley apparently could not keep his prick in his pants. And Granger…she…
He shook his head and inhaled.
The Hog’s Head was a hideous building, almost as bad as the Shrieking Shack had been. It was set into the hillside, and he moved along a path that went down into a cellar in the back. He had only ever been behind the Hog’s Head once, and that had been in school, in the winter. He knew there were rubbish barrels, old crates and kegs. The cellar was locked, and he had no idea what would be in it.
Indeed, there was a lock and a ward on the cellar door. He looked at it in his wand light and sighed. Turning, he nearly stumbled over a pile of what looked to be rags, a sack of broken glasses, and vegetable rubbish. He grunted, his wand catching something pale, and he froze.
His jaw snapped shut, and carefully, slowly, he crouched.
Oh please, he whispered in his mind. Please, gods, no.
His fingers reached out, pushing the sack of glass, and he felt his heart drop into his stomach.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.
From the angle, he was struck, however, at the way the lashes rested on pale cheeks. Normally those cheeks would be a lovely rosy color. That nose, it was thin and straight, with only a few freckles across the bridge. That dip above those lips, the philtrum, he recalled, reminded him of his father’s. And the lips…they were hers, but the chin…
The red sparks went up almost separate from his mind. A part of his magic throbbed and ached, and it had lifted his hand and wand, canceling the lighting charm to send up the signal. In the light, the little body was poised as if sleeping on its left side, the face pointed toward the sky. There was blood on the gravel and soil under it, so much blood.
Then, magic moving faster than his mind, he caught sight of something just below the pub, a figure, scurrying rather than running.
An Incarcerous shot out of his wand next, and he stood, the shock, the sorrow, morphing into infernal anger.
“Malfoy!”
He moved, faster than Potter, and kicked at the body on the ground, just next to a tree, bound in spidery webs of a binding hex. He rolled the body over, and did not hesitate to Stun the face under his shoe.
“Hugo? Hugo!”
Granger was screaming, and it seemed like the whole village was there, behind the Hog’s Head. Lights were cast down from the mounted Aurors, there were so many of them all of a sudden.
“No! Noooooo! ”
“No, Hermione, don’t touch him!” Potter shouted.
The unconscious face under him was hideous, old, filthy, but he knew who it was.
“Cauldwell, Dunn, get Mr. Borgin up and back to the Aurory. Malfoy, go with them!” Potter continued shouting. “The rest of you lot, secure this fucking scene, now !”
Granger was screaming all the while, and he turned as the two Aurors took Borgin away, Apparating. Malfoy lowered his wand and stared at Granger. She was on her knees, her face a mask of the most profound sorrow he had ever seen. Weasley was trying to hold her back from reaching the boy whose curls rustled in a wind from the Black Lake.
“Is he dead?” he heard someone say, and looking past Granger and Weasley, saw Potter’s youngest standing next to her uncle.
“George, get her out of here, please!” Potter said gruffly, his voice cracking.
George Weasley grasped the Potter girl by the shoulders and steered her back up the path just as Ginny Weasley Apparated by her husband’s side. The couple whispered even as Aurors began laying wards in concentric circles around the boy. A female Hitwizard, Karasu, whispered to Weasley and he nodded. Weasley had to lift Granger up into his arms, straining, to get her away so that more wards and cordons could be laid.
“No, fucking let me go, that’s my baby! My baby, Ron!” Granger screamed. Her voice cut through him, and he felt his breath catch. “Hugo? Hugo !”
And then she was silent. He did not see what had happened, but Granger was suddenly limp in Weasley’s arms.
“Mr. Malfoy, I can take you to the Ministry, if you are…” another Auror said, and he blinked at her. Cho Chang. He had not known she had become an Auror.
“N-no, I need to see my son…at the castle.”
Ginny Weasley, her face like a thunderhead moved down the hillside toward him.
“I can take him,” she said stiffly to Chang. “You can follow, take him from there.”
Chang nodded, but he moved his attention back to Weasley and Granger and the Hit Wizards moving around them to form a type of barrier. There were flashes of a camera bulb toward the front of the pub, and he grit his teeth.
“C’mon, Malfoy,” Ginny Weasley sighed.
He began moving, not looking at the child on the ground or Potter’s stony face. He walked, though he had no recollection of doing so. When he came into the Entrance Hall, his mind began moving again. Headmistress McGonagall had met him, Ginny Weasley and Chang, escorting them to the Headmistress’ office. McGonagall looked frail, he thought, as they walked through the silent corridors.
Inside the office, he found a scene of such sadness that he had to inhale deeply to keep his face from crumpling. On a red armchair before the Headmistress’ desk was Rose Granger-Weasley, staring blankly, mutely at nothing. Al Potter was sitting on the floor, his head on his cousin’s knees, his shoulders trembling. As for his son, he sat on the left arm of the chair, holding onto the girl, eyes closed, lips pressed tight.
“Mum?” Al said, lifting his head. “Is it true?”
He wondered how fast word traveled. Surely it had traveled ahead of him.
Ginny Weasley strode past him and Chang and met her son halfway. Al was weeping so animatedly that he had to look away. And then Scorpius was in his arms and he took a step back, pulling him just outside the door.
“You found him?” Scorpius whispered, staring up into his face, his eyes liquid silver.
He nodded mechanically.
“And he’s…he’s dead ?”
“Yes.”
Scorpius’ face crumpled then and he pressed his son’s face into his chest. Scorpius wept, Al wept, and Rose just stared as she had been, numb. Even when Ginny Weasley went to her niece, wrapping her up in her arms, the girl did not react.
“You need to stay in the castle, do not go out,” he murmured toward the crown of Scorpius’ head. “This is a Ministry matter now.”
Scorpius sniffed, nodding against the front of his shirt.
“I have to go to the Aurory, I’ll…” he trailed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Scorpius sniffed again and pulled away.
“I…Rose…she…” he stuttered.
He sighed and forced a smile. “Be a good friend, Scorpius…to Albus too.”
His son nodded and they went back into the office. He took time to scan the portraits, all silent, all grave faced, even Dumbledore.
“I’m ready, Chang. The Floo?” He said first to the Auror and then to the Headmistress who nodded and moved a hand to the fireplace in the side wall near her desk.
Chang moved ahead, and waited as he gave Ginny Weasley a look. The woman nodded and he stepped toward the Floo.
He had only been to the Aurory twice and that had been years ago. After the Battle of Hogwarts to turn himself in as a conspirator with the Dark Mark and turn over everything he knew, which was little, to the reformed MLE. The second time had been to report a theft of several books from the Manor library after his engagement party. The books were never found.
Checking his chronograph as he followed Chang along a corridor, he found it was after ten o’clock. The Aurory with its offices, interrogation rooms, open plan offices for junior Aurors, was mostly dark and empty. He knew that the Aurory was not so busy after so long after all of the known Death Eaters had been captured or executed. Or, in his case exonerated and forgiven, mostly. He took a half step as Chang stopped along the corridor, under a lamp, freezing as if being caught unawares by some unseen force.
“Malfoy, just wait here,” she said, moving her hand from under her red cloak to a bench between a door for Williamson and Interview 3. “I’ll see who can take your statement.”
He sighed, nodded as Chang glanced at him over her right shoulder. Soon, he was sitting on a very hard bench staring across at a plaque on a wall. It was a plaque for the Department’s annual Quidditch Open, and a list of Most Valuable Player for every year going back into the 1910s. The newest name was from last year: Harry Potter. He smirked at that. So, Potter did get to play some, he thought. Seven years before, however, it was Ronald Weasley, and he frowned. If he remembered correctly, Weasley had been a good Keeper, but he thought maybe he had been a Beater.
‘No, he was the Keeper, you’re confusing him with the Twins.’
He sighed, and learned to rest his elbows on his knees, placing his hands palm up. Slowly, in his mind’s eye, Tori’s thin, pale hand slipped into his left. She had not spoken to him in some time, and only ever did when he was stressed.
‘It’s okay, darling. I know you need me after such a shock.’
He dared not look to his left. He knew she wasn’t there, and if he tried to look at her face, it would be blurry and wrong. He couldn’t imagine her face, not after those last few days. He did not want to remember her that way, reanimated, albeit mentally formed.
“Murder…there hasn’t been a recorded murder in over fifteen or sixteen years, Tori. And a child ?”
‘You aren’t certain it was murder, D.’
But he was. He just had not wanted to recall the sight of it. The blood coming from the boy’s chest, the cuts to his palms and fingers. Or the blood splashed up on the boy’s sharp jawline.
“He looks like…”
‘You can’t do this right now, D. You are…in shock. Potter will come, you can give your statement, and then…’
“Why would Borgin do something so…” he trailed, staring down at the knuckles of her right hand in his. He sighed. Tori’s hand was like holding a little bird, light bones, so fragile. It was why she always seemed to hold his arm. He believed she was afraid he’d crush her hand with his.
‘We don’t know that. Kind of convenient he was skulking around, don’t you think?’
He frowned at the tiled floor of the corridor. Tori’s hand was gone and he checked his wrist again. He had been sitting, mulling, for over an hour.
“I think…Granger’s unwell.”
The weight of her pressed against his left shoulder and he inhaled shakily.
‘Or just completely stressed out. Then again, we’ve seen her completely stressed before in school…’
He had, and it had looked very different. This was new, extreme.
‘I feel so bad for her. She loved that boy…’
He wondered how Tori knew that.
‘And losing a child? We’ve had so much peace since the Dark Lord. Maybe we’ve been lulled into a false sense of peace.’
He agreed. Murder was rare, there was only one penalty if one was found guilty, and it was not imprisonment in Azkaban. That alone most likely deterred a lot of women from murdering their husbands, he thought. No, murder was not common in their world.
Two hours, and his ass was beginning to ache. He stood and began pacing up and down the corridor, not seeing anyone, not hearing anything. Maybe they had forgotten about him.
‘Forget you ? Doubtful, darling. They will probably want your memories to review.’
Perhaps.
How had this happened? There had been hundreds of people in Hogsmeade, surely someone saw something. A young boy behind the Hog’s Head, that was unusual.
‘Isolation, privacy, now there’s only motive. Means, maybe.’
He sniffed and removed his coat and tossed it on the bench. He hesitated to roll up his sleeves, but opted to loosen his tie. He smelled, and realized that he had been sweating ever since running up the High Street with Potter to start searching.
‘We don’t know what Granger may have been dealing with in terms of threats, darling. It could be something we are totally unaware of…’
He shook his head. “But a child ? It’s too…” he trailed.
Tori had enjoyed crime stories. It was always so odd to him. Muggle telly procedurals and series, and something called podcasts. His parents were aghast at the books she read about Muggle killers, serial killers, and historical cases. He found it novel, morbid.
‘Women want to know more about the things that want to kill them, D. It is an ounce of caution. This world, Magic and Muggle, is a dangerous place for women.
Now, means, opportunity, motive… Opportunity is obvious. The child may have been lured away, or simply not minded properly.’
“I doubt that. Granger…she…”
Yes, Granger had noticed her son was not at hand while arguing with her husband. Perhaps she had asked the boy to step away as the couple laid into each other. Perhaps the boy had merely wandered off.
He sat on the bench again, catching his mental construction of Tori at his left side again, his coat on his right. He stretched his legs out, winced, and leaned back into the wall.
‘We don’t know how long he had been missing, do we? Or when he was killed. There were hours, weren’t there?’
He sighed. “And so many people. Diagon Alley is never so crowded just before the Term.”
She snorted. ‘No, it isn’t, but if it had been in Diagon Alley, you best believe the Aurors would be tearing out everything from Knockturn Alley.’
Why had Borgin been there?
A door opened down the corridor and he blinked. Three hours, he had been waiting for over three hours. Potter strode down the passage, pulling off his red cloak from where it had fallen over his left shoulder. When the other man sat down, it was to his left. Potter grunted, balled up his cloak, and sat very much like he was.
“Borgin was Obliviated.”
He frowned. “You’ve interrogated him?”
Potter nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face. He watched Potter’s fingers brush over his faded scar.
“He has no recollection of coming to Hogsmeade. We found his wand, broken near the carnival attractions.”
No Priori Incantatem. He scowled.
“You think he was set up?” he sighed.
Potter lifted his face from his hands and glanced over his shoulder to him. “Maybe. If Borgin had been absent from Hermione’s sphere, I would say most definitely, but Borgin accosted her a while back in Diagon Alley, him and a few others. There’s been threats, written, verbal. Someone cast several hexes on her residence, making it visible to the Muggles…”
He nodded. He had read that in The Prophet a while back. There had been more, however. A manticore appearing in her back garden, a horde of Cornish Pixies released inside, dead animals eviscerated and thrown all over the front door and threshold, surely there was more than that that did not get into the newspaper. It all seemed quite childish, in his opinion.
“When you found him…” Potter trailed, leaning back into the wall next to him. “Did you notice anything peculiar?”
He considered. “No, other than it was a dead…” he could not finish and he lifted a hand to press against his mouth.
He had seen dead bodies before. He had seen people murdered before his very eyes, but never with so much blood, and certainly never a child. He felt ill. He stood suddenly and Potter startled. He moved across the empty corridor, eyes on the floor. When he turned and leaned his back into the wall, he gazed at Potter. Potter was pale, angry, but holding it together quite well.
“We’ll need your memories, Draco,” Potter whispered, eyes distant. Potter never called him by his first name, never until that moment.
“I can provide them.”
Potter nodded, took a shaky breath and crossed his arms.
“I shouldn't be telling you this, but the boy, Hugo, was stabbed to death. He had…had defensive wounds on his hands and arms.”
He nodded. Yes, he had seen that his left hand was cut, he remembered.
“My guys are still running the forensics, but…there’s not much. The site was very clean, and with Borgin being Obliviated…it is going to be a while before we can figure out what happened or why.”
He mimicked Potter’s pose, his upper back against the wall. Forensics, yes, Tori would have known more about that.
‘Fingernails, hair, it could be something as small as contact DNA,’ he heard Tori’s voice whisper into his mind. ‘It will take time, even for us. For Muggles, it could take weeks or months.’
Potter pressed his lips and then his face softened. “Ron and Hermione are in the process of finalizing their divorce. It hasn’t hit The Prophet yet.”
Why was Potter telling him this? He nodded.
“And Hermione is not well.”
“Well?” he echoed.
Potter stood then and moved nearer, his voice shifting into a whisper.
“Age and the Cruciatus. It was a wonder that she ever had children, Draco.”
He blinked. Cruciatus? Oh gods, yes, that day… Potter nodded, sensing his understanding.
“It affects us all differently. It hardens some of us, but it is like a cancer, the lingering aftereffects. Hermione has been hiding it for years, but I think the stress with Ron, the threats, it was beginning to wear her down. And now this ?”
He inhaled. “Will she resign?”
Potter shrugged. “Knowing her? Probably not. Let her term run out… The…the kids don’t know about the divorce yet. And Ron…he was fighting it even though he…”
Potter did not finish but looked up the corridor as a door opened.
“Sir, we’re ready for Mr. Malfoy,” one of the Aurors announced. Potter nodded.
“Sorry about this, Malfoy, hopefully it won’t take long.” Potter had slipped back to his surname.
It took hours. After having his memories extracted and reviewed by Potter, Alastor Gumboil, someone from the Minister’s office, and someone from the Wizengamot, Draco was allowed to return home. It was nearly two in the morning.
He stepped into the foyer of the Manor, his coat over his arm, and paused. His father was standing at the base of the stairs in his dressing robe and wand in his hand, ready to hex the late arrival.
Brutus was soon at his side, taking his coat.
“Master needs supper,” Brutus grumbled.
“Not now…” he whispered, passing the elf to go to Lucius.
Lucius surely had been up reading in his study, as he usually did before a late bedtime.
“What’s happened?” the older man asked, apparently seeing something in his face.
He shook his head. “Not now. I need…I need to lay down,” he whispered.
Lucius scowled, lowered his wand and reached to grab his arm before he could pass by and head up the stairs. It was just like Lucius to lash out, but he paused before his father, looking so old in the few candles still lit, could demonstrate his unassuming strength.
“Draco?” he grumbled.
He took a step back and slowly regarded his father, shorter than him since he was full grown. Lucius Malfoy was still so fey, but the lines in his face had grown harsher. The silvery hair was thinner, his mouth more like a gash. Once upon a time, Lucius Malfoy had been so imposing, handsome even, but after the War, the time in Azkaban, and his complete fall from grace, Lucius Malfoy was just a pale old man.
“A child was killed.”
Lucius’s silvery gray eyes blinked slowly, his mouth setting.
“A Hogwarts student?” he intoned.
He shook his head, feeling strands falling from the tie on his hair. “A young child, Granger’s son.”
Lucius’ expression darkened. “Not Scor--”
“I found him, Lucius. I…I had to submit to Ministry questioning. They think…think Borgin is responsible.”
“Jasper? Why ?”
He sighed and made to move to the stairs. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep.
“Draco!” Lucius snapped.
“Because I bound him and Stunned him trying to flee the scene,” he growled.
Lucius’ lips parted, his eyes blinking. “But you’re not…”
“Not now, Lucius, please . I need some rest. I need to collect Scorpius in a few hours.”
Lucius’ expression shuttered, but he did not feel like saying anything more. He bounded up the stairs and toward his room. Brutus had his bed turned down on the right side, Cooling Charms on the sheets. He did not undress other than to pull his tie off, unbutton his shirt, and fall face first into the bed.
‘Poor little thing, he must have been so scared,’ Tori whispered, sitting on her disused side of the bed, her fingers touching the back of his head. ‘Stabbing…it must have hurt so much.’
“Enough, please ,” he muttered into the mattress. “I don’t want to think about it now.”
‘Call Brutus for a Dreamless Sleep. You fetch Scorpius from King’s Cross tomorrow, you need to rest, look strong for him. He might need you more than you think.’
He rolled onto his side, looking at Tori’s empty side of the bed. He had considered changing the room, the bed, after she was gone, but he could not bring himself to do it. Rolling onto his back, he called for Brutus and did just as his dead wife suggested.