Draco Malfoy and the Face of Death

The business meeting’s pure torture, but Draco’s been forcing himself to follow its every twist and turn, carefully deciphering each circumlocution, making meticulous notes, and marking (with a star) any points that he and Granger might need to clarify with research in the library of Malfoy Manor.

He’s just one more bit of bullshit away from committing hara-kiri, when the doors to the conference chamber open, and the lackey who guards them enters, carrying a small, undistinguished-looking owl. “It’s for Mr Malfoy, junior, sir,” he says, to the Chairman and Founder of Moran Holdings. “The missive’s marked ‘urgent’.”

Lucius Malfoy turns to his son, frowning.

Draco shakes his head. He has no idea who might be trying to reach him, though his thoughts naturally turn to Granger.

“Well, it gives us an excellent opportunity,” says Edgar Moran, “to take a short break. Capper, have the refreshments brought in.”

The lackey bows.

Draco, meanwhile, has removed the parchment from the owl’s leg, broken the seal, and is skimming the message. “Fucking hell,” he mutters. Then, “I have to go, Father. Mr Moran, gentlemen, please excuse me.” And, despite the general buzz of surprise, and Lucius’s horrified expression, he rises, and hurries from the chamber.

...

“Where is she?” he yells, storming past the rows of cubicles until he finds the one labelled Potter (beside another marked Weasley).

“I couldn’t stop him, Potter,” yelps the runt who’s snapping at his heels. “He threatened his way to the front desk, and then he just barged in here.” He waves a hand, indicating the Auror Office.

“It’s all right, Abercrombie,” says Potter, dismissing his colleague with a friendly nod. He turns to Draco. “Sit down, Malfoy.”

Draco scans Potter’s cubicle. There’s a desk—reasonably tidy—with a map of Diagon Alley pinned above it, and there are two wooden chairs, but there’s no sign of Granger. “I said,” he shouts in frustration, “where is she?”

Potter waves his wand at the map and, immediately, it becomes a window, through which Draco can see Granger, curled up on a narrow cot, in some sort of cell.

“What?” He turns this way and that, looking for a door and, when he can’t find one, he slams his fist into the wall.

Nothing happens—Granger doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Malfoy…”

“What the fuck are you doing to her?” He nurses his bruised hand.

Potter grasps his arm. “Sit down.”

“Fuck off!” Draco shrugs him away. “I want to take her home. Now.”

“You can’t do that just yet.”

“She’s your best fucking friend, Potter! Why’ve you got her in there? And,”—he pulls the crumpled parchment from his pocket and waves it in Potter’s face—“what’s this fucking bullshit?”

“She’s safe in there. Sit down, and I’ll explain.”

Draco opens his mouth to argue but his mind’s in so much turmoil, he can’t form the words.

“Sit down, Malfoy!”

Draco throws himself onto one of the chairs.

“Good.” Potter perches on the edge of his desk. “Now, the facts, as far as we know them, are these: Hermione was arrested by Auror Belby at approximately eleven thirty this morning, in Knockturn Alley, following an anonymous owl—”

“What?”

“She was found in Knockturn Alley, ferret,” says Weasley, who’s emerged from his own cubicle and is now blocking the entrance to Potter’s, “crouching over a dead prostitute—a Muggle woman, street name—”

“Delilah Caine,” says Draco, shaking his head.

“Fancy you knowing that,” says Weasley.

Draco looks from one man to the other. There’s clearly no reasoning with the Weasel, but Potter has a chink in his armour: “Granger needs me,” he begs. “Let me go to her.”

“I can’t.”

Draco does the unthinkable: “Please.”

“He can’t,” says Weasley. “Regulations.” And he folds his arms across his chest, as though he’s just delivered a death sentence.

“You shit house,” growls Draco, “you’re enjoying this—”

“If it gets Hermione out of your clutches—”

“Ron! Not now! Please!” Potter runs a hand through his messy hair. “Look, Malfoy, tell us everything you know, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“I know,” says Draco, “that she didn’t kill anyone, and so do you—both of you. Whatever game he,”—he jerks his head towards Weasley—“might be playing, you both know she’s innocent. What’s she told you?”

“She can’t remember,” says Potter.

“Can’t remember? You mean she’s been Obliviated?”

Potter shakes his head. “No. There are magical residues on her, but not from Obliviation, and there’s no evidence of anything else that might have affected her memory.” He shrugs.

“Have you tried Veritaserum?”

“The healer says it’s pointless. She’s too confused.”

Draco turns back to the window, and watches Granger take a deep, shuddering breath, and he knows that she’s exhausted herself crying, the way she did the day Crookshanks died.

“All right,” he says, “I knew Delilah Caine. I suppose you could say that I was one of her regulars.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” says Weasley. “Don’t you have buttons on that bloody fly of yours, Malfoy?”

“Ron,” warns Potter.

But Draco’s already leapt to his feet, and anger’s bursting from his fingers in sparks of rogue magic—he clenches his hands into fists. “Do you seriously think,” he snarls at Weasley, “that a man who has Granger would want anyone else?” Weasley’s the bigger man, but he takes a step backwards. “I haven’t touched another woman since the moment she said yes.”

“Malfoy,” says Potter, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Malfoy, calm down! We believe you. And we believe that you care for her—”

“She’s going to be my wife, Potter!”

“We all love her, Malfoy—all three of us—and we’re going to help her—why do you think I took the case from Belby?—but I need you to tell me everything you know.”

Draco straightens his robes, and—dropping heavily into the chair that Potter’s shoved towards him—he gives them a carefully edited account of the previous day’s trip to Knockturn Alley: how he’d ‘unexpectedly bumped into’ Delilah; how she’d thrown herself at him—adding, for Potter’s benefit, that he’d turned her down because he was engaged; how he’d heard someone cast a freezing charm on him; how Granger had seen him; and how he’d convinced her that he was innocent.

Potter listens carefully, making notes on an official sheet of parchment. “And you’ve no idea who cast the charm?”

“No,” says Draco.

“You think it was a trap?”

“Of some sort. The moment Delilah tried to get me into the house, I knew that something was wrong.”

“It couldn’t have been her who cast the charm?”

Draco shakes his head. “She’s—I mean, she was—a Muggle. No magic.”

“Why would a pure-blood Prince be playing hide the sausage with a Muggle?” asks Weasley, with what sounds like genuine curiosity.

“You git,” sneers Draco. He turns to Potter. “That isn’t relevant.”

“We’ll decide what’s relevant,” says Weasley.

“We do need to know more about your relationship with the woman,” says Potter. “This is a murder enquiry, Malfoy, and Hermione’s the prime suspect.”

Draco sighs. “Does he have to be here?”

“Ron’s on the case.”

“All right... But I swear to Merlin, Weasley, if you make one more stupid remark, I’ll—I’ll...”

“Set Daddy on me?”

“I’ll set Granger on you,” says Draco, “and she’ll have your balls in a jar.” He sighs again, and adds, quietly, “On the shelf, next to mine.”

The glimmer of a smile flits across Potter’s face. “Tell us about Delilah Caine,” he says.

Draco—doing more rapid editing—tells them what he’d told Granger the day before—how he’d sought out someone who reminded him of her. “Physically,” he stresses. “Obviously, Delilah was nothing like her mentally.”

“When did you stop seeing her?” asks Potter.

“The moment Granger said yes.”

“So, about six months ago?”

“Five months, two weeks and six days.”

“Isn’t that romantic,” says Weasley.

“It’s a long time for her to wait to take her revenge for being jilted,” says Potter, rubbing his chin.

“She wasn’t jilted, Potter,” says Draco. “We had a business arrangement. I paid for it. If anyone had wanted revenge, it would have been ‘Madam Mafalda’—whoever she might be—for losing a good source of income. But I shouldn’t think she’s missing my galleons—there are always plenty more where I came from.” For a moment, he considers sharing Granger’s theory that the incident had been orchestrated by his father. But then he remembers how many lies he’s already told to keep his father out of this mess.

“If it was a trap,” asks Potter, on cue, “how could Delilah have known that you were going to be in Knockturn Alley?”

“I...” Draco wonders whether Potter could be using Legilimency on him. He carefully closes his mind, and shrugs.

Fortunately, Weasley’s stupidity comes to his rescue. “And what does Hermione think about you paying for it with a woman that looked a bit like her?” he asks.

“She has brains, Weasel, and a good heart, so she understands.”

“Are you sure she understands?”

“For the hundredth time, you moron, Granger did not kill Delilah!”

“I know that,” says Weasley.

Draco turns to Potter. “Can I see her now?”

Potter looks him up and down, as though assessing his worth. Then, “Ten minutes,” he says. “We’ll call it a conjugal visit.”

“Harry...” growls Weasley.

“It will help Hermione, Ron.” He turns to Draco. “You’ll have to leave your wand out here.”

Draco automatically clamps his hand over his sleeve, where his wand’s stowed in its pocket. “No,” he says, “I want to check her for magical residues.”

“We’ve already told you,” says Weasley, “that that’s been done.”

“Not by me, it hasn’t.”

“Leave your wand out here, Malfoy,” says Potter, firmly, “or I can’t let you in. I’m already bending the rules for you.” He pulls out his own wand and, pronouncing a spell that’s unfamiliar to Draco, he draws a rectangle in the air. Draco watches a door appear beside the cell window. “It’s unlocked.”

“You mean—she really is behind that wall?”

Potter nods. “Each cubicle has a cell attached to it.”

“Will you close the window, and let us have some privacy?”

“No.”

Draco hadn’t really expected it. “Well... Thank you, anyway,” he mumbles.

He opens the door, and steps inside.

...

The room’s oppressive, its four walls straining to contain the layers of dampening, bewildering and silencing charms intended to keep its prisoner quiet, and Draco finds himself briefly disoriented by their crushing weight.

Granger raises her head, and stares at him, and then—with a cry of pure joy—she launches herself at him, and throws her arms around his neck.

Draco lifts her off her feet, and holds her close. He can feel her tears, wet against his cheek.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she whispers.

“Oh, Hermione! Why would you think that?”

He’s never used her first name before. It sounds strange, but it seems to comfort her—her arms tighten, and she hugs him more possessively—and some primitive, instinctive part of him just wants to make love to her, as though that will put everything right.

Instead, he sits her on the bed and kneels before her, holding her hands.

“I thought,” she says, “that you’d be angry with me.”

“Angry?” His mind is racing. She’s clearly not herself. It’s as though someone has taken a club to her head and bludgeoned away part of her mind. And he doesn’t know whether it’s the magic in the cell or something that happened in Knockturn Alley, but he knows that he must bring her back from wherever she’s retreated to, and he has absolutely no idea where to start. “Tell me what happened,” he says.

“I don’t remember, Draco.”

“There must be something...”

“No.” She shakes her head.

“Well...” He thinks of a starting point. “Do you remember waking up this morning?”

Her brow wrinkles as she searches for the memory, then her eyes suddenly widen, and she blushes.

“Oh. Yes.” He leans forward, and presses his lips to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, remembering the glorious taste of her on his tongue, “I’d forgotten about that.” He kisses her again. “All right... Do you remember us having breakfast with my parents?”

She nods, slowly.

“You’re sure?”

“I think so...”

“Do you remember waving to me, just before I Apparated away with Father?”

“Yes...”

“You’re sure?”

“I... I don’t know!” She’s beginning to lose it. He climbs onto the bed, and takes her in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Draco,” she sobs.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

Fucking hell! he thinks. Maybe she hasn’t been Obliviated, but surely those idiots can see that someone’s done something to her. Why aren’t they trying to find out what?

And why can’t I have my fucking wand!

“You have to concentrate, Granger,” he says. “You must try to remember.”

She nods, like a child trying to make amends, and it almost breaks his heart.

“Do you remember going to Knockturn Alley?”

“No...”

“What I don’t understand is why you’d go—I mean, obviously, to see Delilah—but why did you go there alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you...” A disturbing idea pops into his head. “Did you tell my mother about Delilah?”

She frowns.

“I know you didn’t speak to Father, because he was with me all morning, but you could have spoken to Mother, and she might have told you to go and put Delilah in her place. But—no—you’d still have waited to talk it over with me—wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

She’s so pathetic, he can’t ask his next question without hugging her, but it’s the sort of hug an adult would give a child. “Do you remember seeing Delilah’s body, Granger?”

“Yes...” She nods her head against his shoulder.

He buries his face in her bushy hair. “They say that you were holding your wand, but that means nothing. You could have been defending yourself, or... Knowing you, Granger, you were probably trying to defend Delilah.”

Crap.

He needs to get her away from the Auror Office, and seen by a proper healer.

He needs to check her wand and work out what spells she was casting just before they found her.

He needs to read Auror Fucking Belby’s report.

And Potter isn’t going to let me do any of that, he thinks.

He pulls away, intending to have another talk with the bastard-who’s-imprisoned-his-best-friend, but something down the scooped neck of Granger’s blouse catches his eye.

Scarlet satin?

“Granger...” He opens a few of her buttons—she watches him curiously—and pulls the fabric aside.

Yes, scarlet satin.

It’s a lovely brassiere—one of his favourites—lightly padded, with broad ribbon straps—strawberry red against the cream of Granger’s skin. And—he shoves her skirt up to her waist—it has matching French knickers.

The door bursts open behind him—Potter’s yelling and Weasley’s bellowing incoherent threats—but Draco merely smooths down Granger’s skirt, and calmly turns to face them.

“I still don’t know how she came to be in Knockturn Alley, Potter, but I do know that she was planning to meet me,” he announces.

...

“Because she’s wearing red knickers,” scoffs Weasley.

“You don’t know a thing about women, do you, Weasel?”

“Well, I’m not some sort of shag-anything-on-legs pervert, like you, if that’s—”

“Shut it, Weasley.” Draco turns to Potter. “She’d only wear scarlet because she was planning to seduce me.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” mutters Weasley.

“She must have been waylaid by someone on her way to me,” Draco insists.

“It isn’t exactly proof, Malfoy,” says Potter.

“It’s a starting point. It may help you jog her memory. Look, bring her out here—out of that bloody room that’s giving her brain damage—and ask her about something called ‘a shower’.”

“A shower,” says Potter, and his face suddenly splits from ear to ear—it’s the most annoying grin Draco’s ever seen.

“What the bloody hell’s a shower?” asks Weasley.

Potter explains. “But, normally,” he says, “you just wash yourself under it.”

Weasley turns to Draco. “You really think we’d believe that Hermione, of all people, would have sex in one of those things?”

“You don’t know her, do you, Weasley?” says Draco, angrily. “All that time she was pining for you, and your head was so far up your arse—”

“Malfoy,” says Potter, sternly.

“She found herself a better man, Weasley. Merlin help your poor wife.” He turns back to Potter. “Did this healer who saw her know why she’s so confused?”

“He says it’s shock.”

“Shock? Do you believe him? ”

“He says she saw someone killed and she’s blocking it out.”

“Does that sound like the Granger you know?” Draco sighs. “It’s more than that, Potter. You know it and I know it. She’s acting like a child. We need to bring her back to reality—ask her about the shower.”

“No—it’s all right,” says Potter. “We’ve just had the results back on her wand. They confirm that she didn’t cast the Avada, so—even though Belby wants her charged as an accessory—I’m going to let you take her home.”

“Thank Merlin!”

“But it’s not over yet, Malfoy. Ron and I still have to prove her innocence and, until she’s formally cleared, she must be available for further questioning. So no hiding her on one of your family’s private islands.” He opens the cell door.

“Don’t worry,” says Draco, “The only place I’m taking Granger is St Mungo’s. It’s time the Abraxas Malfoy Wing started earning its money.”