Happenstance

Hermione made tea. It seemed the thing to do. She felt momentarily trapped in a period drama. England, 1944 or something akin to that. Air raid sirens and ground-in misery. It was unreal. But the witch’s reticence and the wizard’s sangfroid came from another era. Her own ingrained reaction to the news had been callous. She could still feel sympathy but only for Narcissa and Draco. Lucius Malfoy could burn in hell. On a spit.

“I’ll speak to Harry.” She said to the kitchen wall as the kettle whistled. The house elves had made themselves scarce at the lady of the house’s obvious distress. They were accustomed to bearing the brunt of any Malfoy unhappiness. Hermione turned around, her face all business. “We know the politics. I’ll see the Ministry puts someone competent on the investigation.”

She made a cup for Draco and his mother, took the letter then went upstairs. Getting changed into her work robes solidified her thoughts. Hermione was not doing this out of altruism. She felt obliged to Draco for his help. He had done a lot for her. It was only fair she repay him.

And something about this ran darker. She was not one for following feelings but her first impression had been a sense of something more than mere revenge. The elder Malfoy had enough enemies to fill Wembley Stadium. How many of them would bother returning him intact, ransom or no?

Hermione flooed to the Ministry, making her way to the Aurors deep in thought. How many of Malfoy’s enemies would bother about the coin? Money was money but the sort of bitter feuds wizards cultivated transcended practical considerations. A traditionalist would crawl over broken glass to get revenge but would never consider taking their victim’s wallet. A traditionalist would want to keep their vengeance pure. This was modern reciprocity.

Harry was swearing at a scroll written in Sanskrit, which was the preferred language of the wizarding folk of East Asia. He looked up as Hermione approached and grabbed a chair from an unoccupied cubicle for her to sit down. She waited as he finished the translation resisting the urge to read over his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, frowning at the elegant script.

“I’m fine. This is business or will be shortly.” Hermione leant back in the chair. She got abdominal cramps if she was not careful of her posture; a legacy from healing magic. All the damage was mended but her body remembered. It would fade in time. That would not be soon enough for her comfort.

“Tell me all. I’m done here.” He put the report from Mumbai aside. More politics. The Indian wizards had not forgiven the British for the Raj. Harry listened as Hermione told him then shook his head. “Bloody unbelievable.” He was not doubting the ransom just the irony of the Ministry searching for Malfoy to protect him. “Fucking hilarious.”

“I don’t like it. It’s too cliché.” Hermione massaged the inside of her wrist where the end of her wand rubbed. “Too Muggle, for want of a better phrase.” She handed him the ransom note. “See if it reads the same way to you. Dark magic threats. Classic Death Eater stuff but the worst of that was propaganda.”

Harry studied the letter as he and Hermione shared the same train of thought. Voldemort and his followers had done horrible, unnatural things and that was not the worst of the Dark Arts. However, the Unforgiveables were relatively easy to learn. Most wizards could master them, which was what made them so devastating. You did not need skill so much as focus and anyone could hate enough to hurt.

“The quill work is practised.” Harry rubbed a thumb pensively over a corner of the parchment. He would bet it was goatskin not calfskin. Recently some Muggle-borns had begun campaigning against the use of hides in magical workings. Although vellum could last for hundreds of years it was neither environmentally friendly nor compatible with a vegan lifestyle. There was quite a lot of debate over paper versus parchment.

“I thought so too.” Hermione crossed her arms, unconsciously lowering her voice. “I’d say whoever sent it is one of us.” She used their familiar shorthand; meaning a Muggle-born or Half-Blood. “Or succeeding very well in seeming like one.” A frown twisted her mouth. “Whoever it is has Malfoy’s signet ring but that doesn’t confirm anything. From what I’ve heard from Draco his dad is getting pretty vague. It’s possible he has lost himself and/or his ring.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.” The Boy Who Bore Grudges handed the letter back. “All just desserts aside, this is a sticky problem. Get Mrs Malfoy to front up to the Department. I’ll put the word out she’s not to be brushed off.” Harry grimaced at the bad taste in his mouth. “Once there’s an official report from relatives, I’ll go to Shacklebolt. He’ll want to know sharpish.”

Neither needed to say there were undercurrents in Ministry politics that made having a prominent ex-Death Eater go missing very inconvenient. It would not take much to blow this out into an Incident and the last thing they wanted was for Lucius Malfoy to become a poster boy for pureblood rights.

“This could be a stunt.” She aired the possibility she had not given voice to in Draco’s presence. “I’d say Narcissa believes Malfoy has been kidnapped but she is a good actress. She wouldn’t have survived marriage to a Death Eater if she weren’t.” Hermione stood, returning the letter to her handbag. “Not quite as conventional as staging your own death but an unsolved Missing Persons case is good enough.”

“You think Ferretboy is involved?” His use of the epithet got Harry a cold look from his friend. He jerked his head to the mound of work on his desk. His temper was stretched and with a new baby sleep was at a premium. Hermione conceded with twitch of her head. They read each other’s body language well.

“He’s a good actor too. And I know he’s a good liar.” She considered the possibility she was being played for a fool. “I don’t think he’s in on it, assuming there is anything to be in on.”

“You are fond of him.” Harry remarked blandly.

“I don’t need you to tell me my judgement is compromised.” Hermione retorted but with less verve than she would if she had not agreed herself. “I know.” She thought about it some more, not second-guessing herself but being careful in her assessment. “I’m still sure. Narcissa might be lying but I don’t think Draco is.”