One cannot hope to bribe or twist,
Thank God! the British journalist
But seeing what the man will do
Unbribed, there's no occasion to.
~ Humbert Wolfe: "The Uncelestial City," 1930
Outside the rain beat in horizontal brush strokes across the shrubbery. The wind, getting in on the act, wuthered
enthusiastically away in the chimneybreast. The square-built house of smoke-blackened stone on the edge of Roughlee-in-Pendle
glared across the valley at the Hill, barely visible today beneath its shrouding of low cloud. It was a staring match that had been
going on for a hundred and fifty years.
So far, it was still a no score draw. The house had been built by a race that had prized above all else the ability to stand
upright and glare back at whatever opposed you for however long it took until the opponent blinked. There were very few of them
left now
Emily Longbottom looked up wearily as the family house-elf, Betsey, skidded excitedly into the room, whirling her arms in
a frantic effort to stop as the initial impetus of her arrival threatened to carry her across the highly polished parquet and into the
fireplace.
"Madam is never, ever, guessing who is in the porch now," Betsey announced.
"Hmph! Proper house elves wouldn't leave me guessing. They'd either announce whoever it was in a decent fashion or let
them in so I could find out for myself. And they wouldn't wear them bloody daft roller skates, either."
Betsey muttered something, which might, or might not, have been "Spineless southern buggers". Old Mrs. Longbottom
prudently succumbed to an attack of deafness. Wherever two or more Pendle witches were gathered together "the house elf
problem" was pretty sure to be high on the list of conversational topics. "They've got Boggart blood" was the most popular theory
to explain the peculiarities of the local elves.
"Go on, then. Surprise me."
Betsey looked smug. She leaned over and whispered in Mrs. Longbottom's ear. The old woman sat up even straighter.
Betsey grinned. "I is telling you."
"Well, that is a turn up for the book, all right. I suppose we'd better find out what she's up here for. Go and let her in.
And-- Betsey--"
"Madam?"
"Under no circumstances are you to ask for her autograph."
The house elf vanished. Moments later the door swung soundlessly open, revealing a very tall blonde woman standing in
the entrance, shaking rain-drops from her impeccably cut black robes. Betsey, from an unseen vantage point, announced
"Narcissa deVries to see you, Madam."
During what wizards and witches were now coming to refer to as Recent Events, Voldemort had had a simple initiation
test for those recruits who -- depressingly -- had flocked to join him after his initial successes. If they wished to become a Death
Eater they must kill a victim selected for them at random, within twenty-four hours, without assistance. Furthermore, if
Voldemort's star should fall, it would be clear to the whole world that the individual's decision to take the test had been one of
pure free will: no hope this time of sheltering behind Imperius.
Dying in the attempt was a honourable end (and, of course, neatly weeded out those whose incompetence might
embarrass the Dark Lord later). Failing to carry out the test and surviving was not an option. Refusing the test, warning the
intended victim, and then walking back to Voldemort's HQ to inform his second in command that one had done so was an act of
such spectacularly suicidal stupidity that a depressed lemming would have earnestly counseled against it.
Even if the second in command concerned was the recruit's own father. Especially if the second in command was the
recruit's own father.
Naturally, in the aftermath of Recent Events, when the wizard world had leisure to think once more, the question of Why?
tended to arise. Various far-fetched theories were spun as to what exactly had happened the night Draco Malfoy went out to
murder Hermione Granger, and returned some hours later, to tell his father that, actually, he thought becoming a Death Eater
was a rotten idea, and he'd rather be excused.
Perhaps the best explanation was, after all, the simplest: Voldemort, whose grasp of his own psychology was, by that time,
slipping considerably, had simply failed to appreciate that dislike, even intense dislike, is much further from hatred than it
appears. Killing someone whom you have seen across the breakfast table for nearly half your life cannot be comfortably classified
as mere garbage disposal, or the clinical negativing of a subject, however much you may have cringed inside at every bite of toast
they ate for every breakfast of every week of that time.
Why, in any event, was not a question that occurred to Lucius Malfoy. His main objective was damage limitation. Thirtyodd years in the Dark Lord's service had polished his ability to regard people as things to a high degree.
Twenty minutes later Draco was lying in a deserted quarry forty miles from Voldemort's headquarters, already feeling the
first effects of the Death in Life Potion his father had forced down his throat. As Lucius Disapparated he tossed over his shoulder
two pieces of information. First, that the potion had been carefully designed to produce death and most of its after-effects, but in
the wrong order. Decomposition commenced while the victim was both alive and sentient, and death, when it came, was a relief
not only to the well-rotted victim, but to anyone strong stomached enough to remain in his vicinity. Secondly, that there was no
antidote.
Some time later that evening, it appears, Lucius Malfoy mentioned to his wife that he had dealt with a potential family
embarrassment.
This was a tactical misjudgment possibly never equaled since that of the general whose last words had been: "Don't worry,
they can't possibly hit an elephant at this dist--"
Legend, and the will to believe, clouds much of what happened next. Those allied against Voldemort were doing very badly
at the time, and the impact on morale of the slightest victory was wholly disproportionate to its tactical value. Narcissa received
the news quietly, but can have wasted no time. Within three hours Malfoy Manor, the fourteen top Death Eaters it was sheltering,
and a cache of valuable intelligence information about Voldemort's plans had been turned over to his enemies with not a drop of
allied blood being split.
As the advance party made their way unopposed into the enemy stronghold they found Lucius dead in the basement, an
expression of extreme annoyance on his face. It was believed that he had committed suicide, lacking the nerve to meet either
Voldemort or Narcissa alive.
By dawn Narcissa was standing over the best Potions wizard the allies could put at her disposal, holding her wand with an air of
indefinable menace. Whether it was the threat, the sheer intellectual challenge, or the fact that against considerable odds she had
found one of the few allied wizards who actually quite liked Draco, but Lucius Malfoy's confidence that the effects of the Death In
Life Potion were irreversible proved as illusory as all his other hopes. Narcissa and her son had joined the allies, and the rest, as
they say, was herstory.
The furor was amazing. As someone said, "Never in the whole history of the struggle against Voldemort was so unexpected
a reversal inflicted so effectively by one so stunningly photogenic". Others might justifiably feel they had contributed more to
Voldemort's defeat; Narcissa, however, got the book deals.
When, interviewed on live wizarding TV, Narcissa had looked up shyly under the new haircut that had already launched a
thousand bobs, and confessed that she was reverting to her maiden name as she "no longer felt comfortable" being called Malfoy
(and, subsequently in the interview, announced the launch of "Fragrance deVries") the biggest celebrity of the post-Voldemort era
was born. Her famous smile, shy sidelong glance, and huge, haunted violet eyes followed the magical world from every newsstand.
And now the most celebrated witch of the twentieth century had arrived inexplicably in Emily Longbottom's living room.
"I had to come," she said simply. "You were the only one I could think of who might help."
Emily Longbottom was clearly none the wiser. Narcissa handed her a piece of paper: the front page proof from the next
Sunday Prophet, most of which was occupied by a rather blurry photograph of two figures on a palm fringed beach, apparently
engaged in re-enacting the surf scene in From Here To Eternity. Unlike the subjects of most wizard photographs they were not
waving back at the viewer, and, indeed appeared completely unaware that they were being photographed. The indistinct nature of
the shot hinted strongly that it had been taken by a concealed camera, although the two were sufficiently absorbed in each other
that they might not have noticed a squad of dragons playing Quidditch in their immediate vicinity, either.
Mrs. Longbottom inhaled sharply and put her hand on her heart. "Well, I'll-- I'll go to our house," she spluttered
eventually. "It's our Neville. And he's kissing a-- a man--"
"No shit, Sherlock," Narcissa muttered in possibly pardonable exasperation. The older woman's eyes narrowed.
"I'm not having language in my living room, young lady."
She glared momentarily at her, and then back to the photograph; back again at Narcissa and then back down at the
laughing blond boy in the surf. There was the sound of Knuts audibly dropping.
"That wouldn't be-- it wouldn't happen to be your son, would it?"
Narcissa nodded, wordlessly. Mrs. Longbottom bent her beady gaze back to the page proof. "I just don't believe it," she
hissed.
Narcissa nodded sympathetically. "I know: that's just what I thought."
"I don't mean that." She paused. "I mean, I've been telling Neville to throw out those swimming trunks for the past two
years and now they're all over the newspapers."
Narcissa bent over the photograph again and studied it closely for some seconds. "Mm. Well I'd bet serious money that
Draco will have endorsed your recommendation by now."
Mrs. Longbottom's eyes narrowed. "Are you criticising our Neville's dress sense?"
"No. I'm merely commenting on Draco's tendency to regard relationships as home improvement projects." Her lip quivered
for a moment. "He gets it from his father."
Suddenly, with the mention of Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa's composure abruptly left her. She buried her head on the sofa
arm, and sobbed. For a moment Mrs. Longbottom's world had lurched perilously close to the unfamiliar; now there was a
distraught witch howling her heart out in her living room. Unsatisfactory men folk were to blame. Mrs. Longbottom drew ninetyodd years of experience around her, and found herself sitting straighter, as though they were corseting her. She sat herself stiffly
down next to Narcissa, and patted her on the shoulder. "Now, now, love. It's not that bad. Nobody died. We'll think of something."
"But it'll be all over the papers by Sunday--"
"So it'll be round someone's chips by Monday."
"And he won't give me any grandchildren--"
"As I've just been finding out, grandchildren aren't everything they're cracked up to be."
"And what'll the neighbours think?"
"If everything they say about you is true, your neighbours are in the next county."
Narcissa raised a tear-stained face and managed a weak grin. "Actually, I'm not speaking to the neighbours. Something to
do with getting their son and daughter-in-law sent to Azkaban." Her grin faded. "As a matter of fact, that's pretty much true of all
our-- of all Lucius's friends. And I seem to have lost touch with most of my old friends since I married--"
Another fit of howls overtook her. Emily Longbottom patted her briskly on the shoulder. "Well, look on the bright side.
Cuts down the Christmas card list." Narcissa sobbed on, uncaring. Mrs. Longbottom drew herself stiffly to her feet. "What you
need is a nice cup of tea and something solid inside you. You don't look as if you've had a square meal in months. Betsey!"
There was a rustle from behind the window curtains.
"Make yourself useful, for once, and get the kettle on. No, wait a moment, there's something I have to see to in the
kitchen--" She tactfully took herself out of the room, leaving Narcissa whimpering on the sofa.
When she returned Narcissa had pulled herself together, restored her makeup to its former flawless perfection, and was
standing by the fireplace, in apparently intent study of a sepia photograph of a young man in uniform over the mantelpiece. Mrs.
Longbottom nodded in its general direction.
"That's Frank. My first husband. He went with the Pals."
Narcissa looked blank.
"The Accrington Pals. They were a regiment. In the first Muggle world war. Some daft ha'porth at the War Office thought
it'd encourage lads to join up if they could be in the same unit as their friends from the mills. And they did, of course. Gave them
two weeks training and sent them off to the Somme. Three quarters of the battalion killed or wounded within minutes. There
wasn't a family in the town that hadn't lost someone. They didn't have any more Pals regiments after that, but it was too late for
Frank."
Mrs. Longbottom paused. "Mind you," she added with a certain grim satisfaction, "none of the War Office buggers who
thought up the whole daft caper had a decent night's sleep for the rest of the decade."
Narcissa raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Conscience?"
Mrs. Longbottom snorted. "I doubt if any of them could even spell conscience. Embarrassing itches, more like. Rashes-generally in places I wouldn't care to mention. Invisible scorpions. The invisible scorpions were good. Mostly, they got diagnosed
as DTs. Actually, after a year or two of itches and scorpions that they couldn't see, most of them did have DTs."
The expression on Narcissa's face came close to awed respect. Mrs. Longbottom, once adrift on a sea of comfortable
reminiscence, was clearly in no hurry to steer for the whirlpools of the matter at hand. She sighed comfortably, and settled back
into one of the two overstuffed armchairs by the fire, gesturing her guest into the depths of the other one.
"Anyway, tea." She waved her hand, and a silver teapot floated gently through the air and poised itself over the two china
cups positioned on the small Victorian inlay table by the fire. A procession of toasted crumpets, honey, damson and strawberry
jams and a walnut cake with pink icing drifted into the room, hovering politely at their elbows.
"Hmm. DeVries. That'll make you one of Charlie Device's grandchildren? Your father would have been be his youngest, the
one who changed his name to deVries after the dragon hide financial futures trial, then?"
Narcissa flushed. "He was acquitted on all charges."
"I like that in a man," Mrs. Longbottom observed dryly.
There was a pause.
"In my father's day, Chattox & Device Witchgear was the biggest occult engineering firm in Europe. Half the cauldrons in
the country came from our shops. Of course, when my father retired and my brother took over he and your grandfather didn't see
eye to eye, and they went their separate ways. But you'll be too young to know about any of that."
Narcissa frowned. "My grandfather always used to claim your brother had pinched the design for a radical new multioperation lathe from him. It was supposed to give four times the output for half the spell power. He used to tell me about it when I
came to stay. It was a sort of game: I had to think up ways your brother might have done it. If he hadn't thought of my suggestion,
he'd give me a Galleon. But I don't think we ever worked it out."
She took a sip of tea and continued. "His R&D plant was designed to be impregnable. It was centrally heated so you
couldn't hack into it from the Floo Network -- his research team had the best salary and benefits package in the country, but you
didn't get on it if you weren't prepared to consent to random Veritaserum testing -- no-one, including a Board director, was
allowed to pass into the restricted area without spending an hour under observation, to stop Polyjuice -- the windows were all
secured with Double Gravity hexes and Unbreakable Charms -- the duct-work was all far too narrow to crawl through...."
Mrs. Longbottom looked thoughtful. "I remember that lathe. Amazing bit of kit, but so much trouble. We had no end of a
job working out the manufacturing tolerances for it. Took us weeks of overtime in the shops until we cracked it."
She took a sip of tea. "Only to be expected, really." She helped herself to another crumpet and buttered it slowly. "Have
you any conception of how difficult it is drumming the concept of thous into a bat?"
Narcissa, caught unawares with a mouthful of tea, spluttered it helplessly all over the front of her robes. Mrs. Longbottom
grinned wickedly at her.
"Good. I thought that'd put some colour into your cheeks. Who'd have thought old Charlie would have decided to tell you
all that ancient history? It makes you practically family."
Narcissa looked hesitant. "I don't think my grandfather losing out to your brother in a piece of industrial espionage sixty
years ago counts as being related."
"It does in East Lancashire. Anyway, the industrial espionage wasn't all one way. They reckoned Charlie Device had half
the Veela showgirls in London on his payroll at one time or another. What they didn't get out of the reps come trade show time
wasn't worth knowing."
Narcissa dropped her long lashes in the Look that had launched a thousand column inches. "Oh, that wasn't the half of
it," she purred. "He married his best operative."
Mrs. Longbottom looked at her, appraisingly. "Well, I can see that, now you come to mention it. But I always thought
Charlie Device married into the Little Hangleton Nutters?"
"First wife. Grandma was his second."
Mrs. Longbottom paused for a moment. Then, decisively, she gestured with one hand. The tea things scrambled rapidly,
but in an orderly way, towards the door to the kitchen (Narcissa envisaged them queuing up over the sink to wash themselves up);
the crumbs brushed themselves into the fireplace, and the old lady visibly moved from Social to Business.
"Well," she said, fixing Narcissa with a beady gaze." What are we going to do? Can you get hold of your son?"
"I don't think so. I don't even know where they are -- the article just says "exclusive Indian Ocean hideaway resort"."
"I'll give Neville "hideaway" when I catch up with him. He said he was going to Brighton. I was wondering why I hadn't got
an owl yet."
"I did get an owl," Narcissa said grimly. "Allegedly from Paris. I should have wondered why the poor bird looked so
bedraggled if it'd only done a cross channel hop."
Mrs. Longbottom looked thoughtful. "If it was just Neville I could cut off his allowance, and that'd bring him home soon
enough. But I suppose your lad's independent since his father passed on?"
"What Draco inherited," Narcissa said precisely, "is a moth-eaten, over-large Jacobean draught-box full of dubious and
unshakeable magical artifacts, which costs a mint to run and which has only remained in the family for the last eight generations
because of the proud family tradition that Malfoys Always Marry Money. As on current form that looks like yet another family
tradition Draco won't be upholding, I probably am able to exercise quite a lot of financial leverage. I could, for example, tell him
that the death-watch beetle in the roof is now officially his responsibility. If I wanted to play really dirty I could probably persuade
Gringotts Gruinard Offshore to exercise their discretion under the trust deed in favour of the Knutsford Kneazle sanctuary. What I
don't see is what use it's going to be."
"If we threaten to cut off supplies, they'll have to come home, and then they can sort out this mess for themselves."
Narcissa blinked. "Er, Mrs. Longbottom? Exactly how old were you when you married your first husband?"
"Seventeen, but I don't see what--"
"And he was a Muggle who worked in a mill, wasn't he?"
"Yes--"
"And what did your parents do when you announced your engagement?"
"Well, my father burned my wand, locked me in my bedroom, and told me I'd never see a penny of the family money if I
went through with it. I had to climb down a drainpipe to run away with Frank; that was no picnic in the corsets we wore then, I
can tell you. I didn't speak to either of my parents again until 1928."
"So-- why do you reckon these tactics are going to work better this time around? Just because you're dealing with two
young men at the tail end of the twentieth century, rather than with an Edwardian schoolgirl, perhaps?"
Mrs. Longbottom paused. "Well, young people today don't have the gumption my generation had," she muttered, but it
didn't sound as though her heart was in it.
"Even if we could get in touch with them, they couldn't get home in time to make any difference. The Prophet goes to press
tonight. That frightful Skeeter woman's been trying to get hold of me all day so I can 'give my side of the story'. If I refuse, she'll
make up some frightful tosh about "withdrawing into her world of empty privilege", probably implying I'm holed up in the Manor
slashing my veins with one hand, cuddling a half empty bottle of vodka in the other and drawing Dark Magic sigils on the floor
with my feet. If I do give the interview, she'll twist everything I say."
"Can't you sue them?"
"My lawyer says that it'd be a total waste of money. He said if we tried the Prophet'll only run the story at twice the length,
probably under the headline "Shock Sex Romp Snaps They Tried To Ban"."
"Hmm. Well, there's only one thing for it. Betsey!"
The house elf skidded into the room. "Madam?"
"Find my hat, and make sure the front drawing room's tidy. I'm having some people from the Press here."
"I's doing that right now, Madam."
Emily Longbottom donned the stuffed vulture and straightened it in the mirror over the fireplace. "Get yourself out of
sight," she told Narcissa. "If they can't find the organ grinder, there's more chance they'll agree to interviewing the monkey."
She knelt down onto the hearthrug, leaned into the flames, and announced: "Sunday Prophet offices."
Rita Skeeter looked up at the porch in front of which she and Crispin Camilleri, the Prophet's duty photographer, had just
Apparated, and swore acidly at the broken cast iron drainpipe from whose ragged edge approximately half a gallon of rushing
rainwater had just overflowed and cascaded down the neck of her robes.
"You'd have thought they'd have heard of Reparo charms even in this godforsaken neck of the woods," she hissed
venomously.
Camilleri, who had spotted the danger in time to pull his equipment away from the flood, grinned wholly
unsympathetically at his colleague. "Cool it, Reet," he advised, having a final drag on his Gauloise and flicking the butt into the
laurel bush at the side of the front door. "You're just sore because you wanted to have a go at Ice Maiden deVries, and instead all
you've got is an interview with a mad old bat who thinks it's chic to wear a moth-eaten eagle on her hat."
At this moment the door swung impressively open in front of them, and they were conscious of a silent invitation to enter.
They made their way down a dark hall, dimly populated by the shapes of numerous stuffed animals. Camilleri, catching the odd
glimpse of fangs or claws from the shadows, thought that the overall impression was as if some Longbottom ancestor had
systematically built up the collection using Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, cross referenced by inherent dangerousness
coupled with ease of stuffing.
The next door to swing open lead into a dark room, with an air of musty grandeur which gave the impression that it was
opened up for weddings and funerals only. The red velvet curtains were drawn across the last of the fading daylight; the only light
came from two candles on the mantelpiece and a small, depressed, fire on the hearth.
Emily Longbottom turned to face the two journalists as the door swung open. Her eyes skimmed briefly over Camilleri (he
momentarily regretted his new hard-man haircut) and rested upon Rita Skeeter.
"Eh," she said at last. "Things you see when you haven't got your wand."
Rita Skeeter looked straight back at her. "It really is very good of you, Emily, to spend these few moments talking to the
Prophet. I realise that for someone of your generation this news must have come as a particularly great shock to you."
"The name's Longbottom. Mrs. Longbottom. And I don't know what you mean by "shock". I'm 103. I've lived through two
bouts of You Know Who's nonsense, as well as two major Muggle wars. I've had to deal with influenza epidemics, TB, typhoid and
polio. Sometimes the potions worked and sometimes they didn't. With one thing and another I've outlived two husbands and four
children. If you've done your homework, you'll know where my last child is. Believe me, it'd take more than young Neville's likely to
think up even to startle me."
Camilleri felt his face begin to crease. He pulled it hastily straight as he intercepted a frown from Rita Skeeter. He held out
his hand. "Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Longbottom. I'm Crispin Camilleri, photographer for the Prophet."
"Hmph. Did you take That Photograph?"
Camilleri heard, in the tone, the implication that there was a nice space in the hallway where "Paparazzo, Wild:
Barehanded in Drawing Room" would complement the other hunting trophies to perfection. He shook his head hurriedly. "No, that
was, er... one of our freelancers--" One lucky moment and the bastard doesn't have to work for the rest of the millennium. Probably
picking out his next racing broom as we speak. And technically it's such a lousy photo. I mean, it's not as if he wouldn't have had
time to put a grey-grad filter on, stop it looking so washed out in the sun. Come to think of it, they don't look as if they'd have noticed
if he'd stood right next to them and looked up all the stops and aperture settings in Wigglesworth's Complete Wizard Photography
Compendium. Which is about the level the lucky bastard is on.
"I'm glad to hear it. Because I don't think it looks very good. In fact, if any of our holiday snapshots came back looking
that blurry I'd not bother collecting them."
"This is hardly a holiday snapshot, Emily." Rita Skeeter tapped her long nailed fingers for emphasis on the page proof,
which was lying on the table. "Our readers will hardly see it in that light. 'After a year of turmoil and upheaval, is this revelation of
her son's secret sexual identity the final straw for troubled beauty Narcissa deVries?'"
"Well, no, I shouldn't think so, really." Both journalists spun round in the direction of the husky voice from the shadows.
The fire suddenly blazed up on the hearth; a dozen more candles leapt to life on various sconces, and as Narcissa leaned forward
from the depths of her chair into the firelight, her robes fell sideways to reveal the seemingly endless length of her silk-cocooned
legs. Camilleri suddenly heard his blood pounding in his ears as the full mega-wattage of the wizarding world's most famous smile
was turned upon him.
"We thought," she said, smiling apologetically up at the photographer "It would save you an awful lot of time if you
interviewed both of us together."
Rita Skeeter glanced down at her parchment of pre-prepared questions, pulled out her notebook and a freshly sharpened
quill, and smiled winningly at Narcissa. "Emily, it's been speculated that your grandson may have had a vulnerable moment of - let's
call it late adolescent confusion - shamelessly exploited by a charismatic young man with - to put it frankly - an unhealthy level of
Dark Arts experience. How do you honestly feel about Draco Malfoy?"
She looked up, met the steady gaze of the young man's even more charismatic mother (who was currently giving her the
Look she was accustomed, in the office, to refer to as the "cocker spaniel in a bacon slicer" of the deVries repertoire) and decisively
scored through Question One with her quill. A quick glance consigned questions two, three, four, six, seven and nine through
thirteen to a similar limbo.
Narcissa took advantage of the pause that followed. "I'm still puzzled at the Prophet's justification for running a story
about Draco's private life. It's not as if he's the Minister of Magic or someone. What's the public interest?"
Rita looked patronising. "Surely, Narcissa, that's a bit hypocritical coming from you? After all, you were hardly shielding
Draco's privacy when you gave That Interview, were you? One witch's tragic tale of how she sacrificed home and marriage for her
only son's life, wasn't that how they billed it? Your book, too: Fallen Angel: Twenty Tormented Years with the Dark Lord's
Lieutenant. Not exactly the title someone who was being reticent about family matters would choose, hmm? No, Narcissa, you
can't use your family when the publicity suits you -- how is Fragrance deVries doing, by the way? -- and then scream foul as soon
as we find something which you think might spoil your carefully drawn picture."
Mrs. Longbottom sniffed. "Neat explanation, I'll give you that. However, I can't see how it explains why you're dragging
Neville into it. He's no celebrity."
"He will be by Sunday afternoon," Camilleri said cheerfully. "At least down Canal Street." Camilleri took a further glance at
the photograph. "Shame about the trunks," he added thoughtfully.
Mrs. Longbottom glared at him, and reverted to the main attack. "Anyway, what's wrong with hypocrisy? A bit of
hypocrisy's needed to grease the wheels of life. Makes the world go round."
"As does money, of course," Narcissa added.
Rita's smile broadened, but still did not reach her eyes. "You wouldn't, be any chance, be asking me how much the
Prophet would accept not to run the story?"
"No, she isn't," Mrs. Longbottom snapped. All three of them looked at her in surprise, and Narcissa's mouth began to form
an 'O' of denial. Mrs. Longbottom gestured impatiently with her wand hand. "I know how much trouble the Prophet group's in.
You did yourselves no favours during Recent Events, did you, backing the Ministry long after most of your readers had realised
Fudge was a spineless worm? Then when you did cotton on, you panicked -- did nothing but run editorials about our only hope
being trying to make the best surrender terms we could with You Know Who. Those "Goblins -- the enemy within?" stories must
have put a percentage point or two on your overdraft interest rate, as well. No wonder the Prophet's share price is at its lowest for
ten years." Mrs. Longbottom paused for breath. "Now with this story -- you must be betting that this will double your circulation
for this Sunday, and I daresay you've got a follow up planned for next week. Goodness only knows what kind of advertising you've
been able to sell on the back of it. All things considered, I reckon you'd be a fool to pull the story for anything less than a half a
million Galleons. Believe me, nobody's embarrassment's worth that kind of money."
There was a pause. Camilleri broke it. "You seem to know a lot about our business."
"There's a saying in these parts: "Where there's muck, there's brass." Accordingly, our family has always taken care to
have newspapers well represented in our investment portfolio. You might care to mention to your editor that the market wouldn't
react at all well if a significant bloc of Prophet shares hit the markets -- say, tomorrow at nine."
Rita paled. Camilleri smiled cheerfully at her. "Now you wouldn't do that, would you, Mrs. Longbottom?"
"And why not, young man?"
"To begin with, I suspect it's against your religion to sell on a falling market. Secondly, once you've sold, any leverage you
have as shareholder vanishes; we run the story, the share price rises and you've lost the opportunity to get the value of it. Sounds
pretty much no win to me."
"Hmph. Well, at least you're not as green as you're cabbage looking."
"Can we get on?" Rita Skeeter asked irritably. "Would you say, Narcissa, that Draco's inclinations are a result of the
influence of his father?"
Mrs. Longbottom nodded sagely. "Wouldn't surprise me. After all, they invented it, didn't they -- the aristocracy?"
"Invented what?"
She pursed her lips. "Homo-sex-u-ality, of course."
Rita Skeeter bit completely through the end of her quill, Narcissa gazed into the middle distance with the Look that
Celestina Warbeck had once described as 'having the serene remote beauty of an Alaskan peak" and Rita had dubbed "the
stunned albatross expression", and Camilleri bent over his photographic kit, apparently suffering from an acute sneezing fit. Mrs.
Longbottom straightened the vulture by half an inch or so, smiled in a satisfied way, and said, "Anyway, I mustn't interfere. Do go
on."
Rita muttered something under her breath, refixed her smile, and said: "Well, what do you think, Narcissa? Some sort of
unresolved Freudian conflict there, do you think?"
Narcissa looked blank. "Froydian?"
"He was what the Muggles call a trickcyclist," Mrs. Longbottom informed her helpfully. "My Frank -- Neville's father, that
is -- read all his stuff when he was training to be an Auror -- said he was trying to work out what turned people into Death Eaters.
I could hardly make head or tail of it, but I will say that Freud man had some ideas about broomsticks which I wouldn't care to
repeat in mixed company."
Rita Skeeter bit through her second quill and made a noise of sheer exasperation. Mrs. Longbottom leaned inquisitively
towards the parchment on Rita's lap where her notes were beginning to take shape.
A tear glistens like a perfect diamond in the corner of Narcissa deVries's eye. Her voice scarcely above a whisper, she
breathes "I feel Draco is looking for an emotional outlet he missed in his relationship with his father. Lucius was always so reserved,
so inadequate at expressing his feelings for his son."
"You can't write that," Mrs. Longbottom interjected. Rita glared at her.
"And why not?"
"Well, to begin with, it's daft. Everyone knows that Lucius Malfoy tried to murder young Draco. Now, personally I think
that's a dreadful way to treat your own flesh and blood, but whatever the man's faults were, you can't accuse him of hiding how
he felt about his lad."
Narcissa gave a sudden sob, and Emily Longbottom patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. "Oh, I'm sorry, love. I didn't
mean to reopen old wounds."
Rita gritted her teeth. "Old wounds. Exactly," she hissed. "Perhaps, on balance, we oughtn't to be talking about possible
Oedipal influences. Maybe the myth we should be talking about is-- Clytemnestra, perhaps?"
Narcissa looked up from under her eyelashes. "I was so dim at Hogwarts. My top mark was Care of Magical Creatures,
best-kept Diricawl, you know. Who was Clytemnestra?"
Camilleri fixed his eyes on his colleague. "Rita, dear," he breathed, "Would you be implying that Draco is suffering from
Oresteid development?"
"I think," Rita said, "You all know what I'm talking about. It's what our readers are interested in, after all. Narcissa: you
must know that most people assume that you killed your husband. It seems your son may have reached the same view. What else
explains his getting as far away as possible and concealing his whereabouts from you (oh, yes, I know all about that so-called owl
from Paris)? Why else would he avoid confiding in you about his boyfriend, and let you have the shock of finding out about it from
the papers? Would you care to give The Prophet your perspective on Recent Events, Narcissa?"
Camilleri sat back in his chair, allowing the shadows in the room to obscure his suddenly deeply worried expression.
Bloody hell. Here was I thinking that she was just being the muckraking back stabbing bitch we all know and loath, when she pulls
this one out of the bag. This isn't journalism: this is personal.
Narcissa's tone was utterly dead. "If you are proposing to imply anything of the kind in your filthy rag, I hope you are
prepared for the consequences."
Rita's smile reached her ears. "I have my editor's full backing. If there is anything in the story as published to which you
object, no doubt your lawyers will be talking to our lawyers. If, of course, at the end of the day you decide that you haven't
grounds to bring proceedings then I'm sure you'll agree that it would be only fair for us to inform our readers of that and allow
them to draw their own conclusions."
There was silence in the drawing room. From the hall, the strokes of the grandfather clock striking the hour came like a
church bell at a funeral. Mrs. Longbottom sat up even straighter on the horsehair chair.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "You're planning to imply that Narcissa here killed her husband, and Draco found out
about it and ran off to the Tropics with our Neville as a result. Then, you're going to wait and see if Narcissa sues you. If she does,
you make another story out of being sued, and get to repeat the whole thing again in court where you get a free pass to say what
the devil you like and quote it in the paper afterwards. If she doesn't sue you, you run another story about "why is she too scared
to challenge the first story?". Well, I can't say I like your morals, but you've got a good notion of how to boost circulation, I'll say
that for you."
Rita looked even more like a crocodile after a particularly good lunch.
"If I were you," Mrs. Longbottom continued. "I'd get on your knees and pray to whatever you do pray to that Narcissa does
serve a Writ on you."
Camilleri leaned forward, and caught Mrs. Longbottom's eye. "And why would that be?"
"Work it out for yourself, young man. The Prophet's logic seems to be that if it isn't true she'll sue, and if she doesn't sue,
it must be true. Which means that if she doesn't sue you've just made an enemy of a witch who was powerful enough to take out
You Know Who's right hand man in his own headquarters, clever enough to do it without being suspected by anyone who saw the
body, and cute enough to do it in a way which meant she and her boy got to keep the family home and all Lucius Malfoy's money.
If you live as long as I have, young man, you'll find out that there are far worse things than lawyers."
Narcissa bent down and pulled her wand from its mink-lined Fendi wand case, allowing it to droop negligently in her long
fingers. "Scorpions," she muttered. "Invisible scorpions."
Rita had stopped smiling. "Emily, are you threatening me?"
"No. I'm just applying logic. The difference being, that if it were a threat I might choose to go through with it or not, and
you could take a calculated risk. Logic, on the other hand, will catch up with you whatever I do about it."
Camilleri gulped. "Mrs. Longbottom -- could you let me and my colleague have a few moments to discuss it?"
Emily nodded regally. "We'll be next door. Just call through the fireplace when you want to talk to us again. Come on,
Narcissa love."
The two journalists had an indefinably chastened air when Narcissa and Mrs. Longbottom returned. Camilleri cleared his
throat.
"The last thing the Prophet wishes to do would be to cause any unnecessary distress to a young man who's been so
recently bereaved. I think you can take our word for it that the article will not be making any suggestion along the lines we
recently... ah... canvassed with you. Now can we get on?"
Narcissa leaned forward. "Yes -- but I have a question for you. Just what would you put in this story if we didn't give you
these interviews?"
Unexpectedly, it was Mrs. Longbottom who answered. She had, on her return to the room, taken the corner of the sofa
previously occupied by Rita Skeeter, and was riffling through some sheets of parchment Rita had left there. "All sorts of rubbish
from their so-called school-friends, it looks like."
"Here, you can't read those! They're confidential! The Prophet protects its sources." Rita had risen menacingly to her feet,
but Mrs. Longbottom pinned her back in her chair with a negligent flick of her wand.
"Now, don't do anything you might regret. I'm reading, and I don't like to be disturbed. Betsey! My reading glasses."
They dropped out of mid-air onto Mrs. Longbottom's nose. Camilleri, to break what was becoming an awkward silence,
said: "You should have encrypted them, Reet."
Rita gritted her teeth. "I did encrypt them."
Mrs. Longbottom looked up over the top of her glasses. "I reckon the Prophet ought to use something a bit more up-todate. A first year Arithmancy student could go straight through this one. Spottiswoode's Reversing Sequence, with a minor variant
in the fourth and the eighth. Come over here, Narcissa, and read this one. I don't know who she is, but she seems to have it in for
young Draco."
"I feel I have simply been used by him as a prop to conceal his real nature. All the time when I was dreaming about the life I
hoped we could share together he was cynically manipulating me, casting me as part of his cover story. I look back at all the good
times we shared, and ask myself "Was none of it for real?"
"No wonder she's a bit miffed. Sounds like she had the wedding planned down to the flowers in her bouquet, and a set of
robes that'd look good from the back. Mind you, if she believes any teenage boy who tells her it's marriage he's got on his mind,
she'll be lucky if this is the worst trouble she lands herself in. Though finding your young man's run off to a desert island with our
Neville would be a turn up for the book, I grant you that."
"That's Pansy Parkinson," Narcissa said distantly. "So far as I'm aware they split up when Draco was sixteen."
"So far as you're aware," Rita said nastily. "After all, he doesn't seem to be big on the mother/son confidences thing, does
he? Miss Parkinson -- who, I might add, is the daughter of a member of our Board -- gave a very full interview about her long
and... ah... intimate relationship with your son to our reporter. Some of the... er... details she was prepared to reveal we could
hardly use in a family newspaper, but I'm sure her father will be interested in having a private word with Draco on his return to
the UK."
"Well, the Prophet will know exactly how far to trust its source," Narcissa said blandly. "However, as during an
interminable fortnight Pansy spent at the Manor one summer holidays she amused herself by making pretty explicit come-ons to
the master of the house, the Quidditch professional, and the man who came to trim the beaks and toes of the family owls, I don't
think it's merely maternal over-protectiveness which makes me unconvinced she has my son's best interests at heart."
There was a pause. "By the way," Narcissa added, "that was on the record."
"I don't suppose you've any idea who he's been seeing since he was sixteen, if that's true? Absence of other girlfriends not
strike you as a bit odd, with hindsight, eligible young man like him?"
"There's been a war on for most of the last three years. Romantic entanglements have hardly been the first things on
anyone's mind."
Rita laughed. "Come off it, Narcissa. Danger makes people more likely to fall into each other's arms, not less."
"She's right, you know," Mrs. Longbottom put in. "I saw that with both the big Muggle wars, as well as with You Know
Who's two efforts. I expect you've noticed it a lot in your line of work, Miss Skeeter. In fact, I daresay you've had a few invitations
that you'd never have reckoned on being offered if it hadn't been for Recent Events."
Rita was running out of facial grimaces. Mrs. Longbottom turned back towards the parchments. "Oh -- I like this one: "Of
course Neville isn't my boyfriend. He never has been. We've been to the Yule Ball together a couple of times, is all. Shocked? Yes, of
course I'm shocked. I'd be shocked if any friend of mine was going out with Draco Malfoy. Well, I suppose if your secret source tells
you so he may be fantastic in bed, but only an absolute sweetie like Neville who tries to see the good in everybody would be
prepared to persevere past the shitty personality for long enough to find out. Look, since you're likely to see Draco before I do could
you tell him from me that if he does anything - anything at all - to make Neville regret it I shall personally pull his guts up out through
his gullet and tie them into a big floppy bow round his neck. After that I'll get out my wand and do something really unpleasant to
him."
"We weren't thinking of using that one," Camilleri said. "Doesn't quite fit the Prophet house style. In fact, I think you'll find
that the rest of them comprise some rather emphatic no comments, a few samples of semi-pornographic fiction, not especially well
spelt, and an imaginative and rather enchanting little excursion signed by someone calling themselves Gred which purports to be
an eyewitness account of something seen in the broomstick closet at Hogwarts starring Draco, supported by two individuals called
Crabbe and Goyle (who I believe were both casualties on You Know Who's side during Recent Events), with the late Minster of
Magic, the Hogwarts Potions Master, four Crups and a Puffskein taking assorted bit parts. That one would undoubtedly represent
the journalistic scoop of the century (though not, as Rita puts it, in a family newspaper) if any of us could believe a word of it. I
understand some of the news room are planning to dramatise it for the Christmas party."
"I see," Narcissa said levelly. "No doubt you'll be sending me an invitation."
Camilleri smiled back at her. "Delighted, I'm sure. Oh, and I forgot -- the final parchment was a rather desperate
statement from some character called Finch-Fletchley to the effect that he did not have sexual relations with your son. Strictly
entre nous I suspect he's hoping to be disbelieved."
Narcissa drew a deep breath. "Well, while we were next door, Mrs. Longbottom and I had a talk. It seems to us that this
interview isn't really getting any of us anywhere, although I, for one, have been quite fascinated by what the Prophet planned to
say if we had not agreed to meet you. I shall certainly ask my agent to bear in mind the Prophet's apparent standpoint on some
issues when considering interview requests in the future. Anyway, we've decided to issue a joint statement to the Prophet. This is
it, and it's all you're getting."
She nodded to Mrs. Longbottom, who pulled a piece of parchment from the sleeve of her robes, and began.
"In our view this is not a proper news story. Furthermore, we have to deplore anyone who sticks a long range lens into what
two young adults choose to do on a private beach during the first few days of relaxation they've been able to take following a vicious
war in which they were both combatants, and suffered heavy personal losses.
"We'd prefer the Prophet didn't run it, but we can see that in a straight choice between prurient and distressing muckraking
and declining circulation figures, considerations of good taste will naturally end up taking a back seat. But we wish to state that the
deVries and the Longbottom families have had close family and business ties for a very long time, and we seriously advise the
Prophet not even to try driving a wedge between us over this so-called story. It takes two to tango, in our experience, and that's how
we propose to treat it.
"Finally, we would like to stress that we see this as a family matter. Family means not washing dirty linen in public. Family
also means giving support, and hoping your children and grandchildren find happiness, even if in your own personal view - and we
stress this is an entirely general observation not to be taken to refer to any particular set of circumstances - they seem to be looking
for it in some bloody strange places."
She took a deep breath. "Well, I think that wraps it up. Betsey! Show the people from the Prophet out."
When the door had finally locked shut behind them Emily Longbottom returned to the living room, where Narcissa had
slipped her high-heeled shoes off and curled up on a corner of the sofa. Her shoulders drooped with utter exhaustion.
"You'll be staying the night," Emily Longbottom said abruptly. "I've had Betsey put a hot water bottle in the bed in the
Blue Room. I'll send her to collect your overnight things from the Manor. Anything special you need?"
Narcissa looked up gratefully. "You couldn't ask her to pick up an owl from the O'Leary, could you? Tell her to bring
Maximilian, if he's rested; he's the best of our Search & Deliver birds."
The fire in the bedroom had sunk to glowing embers, and everyone else in the house had gone to bed. Narcissa pulled a
sheet of parchment towards her, and dipped her quill in the small bottle she always carried in her vanity case. Recipes for the
right ink for Howlers varied from family to family, but her grandmother's belladonna and pangolin bile mixture had always worked
for her.
Draco, you horrid little hedonistic brat, there are times when I wish I'd left your father to it and saved myself a heap of
trouble. How you got through Recent Events with a whole skin if you don't even have the brains to run a few Intrusion
detection charms over the shrubbery before deciding to go exploring your boyfriend's tonsils on the beach I find hard to
imagine. If they have newspapers wherever it is you are (and I have to add I don't remember the Seine having palm fringed
beaches, though I'm told the Muggles have a concept called Global Warming which I daresay may account for it) you'll know
by now that you and Neville have made the front page of the Prophet. I can't say they've caught either of you from the best
angle, and I won't even mention those trunks. I've been doing damage limitation back here for all it's worth, but that Skeeter
cow is seriously out for blood. I suggest you two get yourselves home at once before she surprises us all with next week's
fascinating installment.
Yr loving mother,
Narcissa
PS: IMPORTANT - did you at any time propose to Pansy Parkinson? If so, does she have any hard evidence of it?
PPS: Kindly let Neville know that a really annoyed note from his grandmother follows by separate owl.
~~~
Draco and Neville sat on the floor of the muniments room of Malfoy Manor surrounded by piles of papers. There was an
open bottle of Chateau Petrus and two glasses in the midst of the chaos. It was getting close to low tide in the bottle, but the wine
had not helped to spread clarity. Lucius Malfoy appeared to have regarded Accountancy as one of the blackest of the numerous
Dark Arts he practised, so deciphering his hieroglyphics was not easy, but such conclusions as the two had been able to draw
were depressing. The room's heavy oak paneling, tiny mullioned windows, and age darkened portraits of sundry Malfoy ancestors
contributed to the general atmosphere of gloom.
"Well, what are you planning to do about it?" Neville enquired. There was a sense that it was not the first time this
question had been asked. Draco shrugged.
"Well, I suppose I could try to get a job. Can't say what I'm actually qualified for, though. I mean, all the guidance I can
ever remember on the subject assumed "Heir Apparent to the Dark Lord's Number Two" was my only viable career option, really.
Perhaps I should set up as a consultant, pointing out the great glaring clangers in would-be Evil Overlords' cunning plans. Soul
destroying work, but someone's got to do it."
"Just so long as any Evil Overlord with a vacancy didn't think you'd inherited your talents in that direction from your
father."
Draco grinned and took another swig of claret. "True. If the Dark Lord hadn't been such a sexist so-and-so he'd have
appointed my mother as his Exec instead. Then he'd have won, and we wouldn't have these problems."
Neville made a distressed sound. Draco looked up at him from under his eyelashes. "Come on, I didn't say we wouldn't
have problems, did I? Just -- not these particular ones."
"Well, I don't think you should joke about things like that. Suppose someone heard you and took you seriously? Look,
why don't you ask your mother to bail you out? After all, she is loaded."
Draco looked at him. "Would you like to summarise the key point about my mother?"
Neville looked faintly baffled. "Stunningly beautiful? Currently abroad? Pissed off with me?" he hazarded.
"Oh, I wouldn't say she was really pissed off with you. After all, you've got so much "Not being Pansy Parkinson" on the
credit side of your ledger that it'll outweigh a practically infinite amount of "male" on the debit side. In fact, about the only smile
I've had out of her in the last few weeks was when I finally managed to convince her that I really was in no danger of a breach of
promise suit from Pansy."
"And did you do everything with Pansy they hinted at in the Prophet?"
"Do it? I couldn't even spell it."
Neville giggled. "Draco, you're probably the worst speller I've ever met."
"Ah well, you'd better put the answer to that question in with my indefinable air of mystery, then. Anyway, the key point
about my mother is eligible. She's barely forty. In fact, she claims she isn't forty yet, but fortunately my arithmetic is a lot better
than my spelling. She's practically bound to remarry, and she’ll probably present me with a whole litter of half-brothers and
sisters, with whom her loot will -- in a hundred years or so -- eventually have to be shared. What she won't do in the interim is
give me any money to spend on the Manor -- in her own inimitable words she "spent the best years of her life keeping the roof on
this dump, and now it's your turn"."
Neville passed over a dragon-hide bound ledger with uncharacteristically neat entries showing regular annual payments
from a Gringotts Gruinard Offshore account to Lucius Malfoy, under the general heading "Upkeep and Sundries".
"Well, I can't say I precisely blame her. If these are what I think they are then if she'd been a Muggle she could have run a
private jet for less."
"A private what?"
"Doesn't matter. Think appallingly expensive, symbolically luxurious, and definitely minus the deathwatch beetle."
"Hey -- don't knock the deathwatch beetles. If it wasn't for them holding hands this whole place would have fallen down by
now." He stared gloomily into the fire, whose leaping flames provided most of the minimal light in the muniments room. It seemed
to give him a flicker of inspiration. "How about, we burn the Manor to the ground and collect on the insurance?"
"On these figures, burning down the Manor and not collecting on the insurance would still improve your financial position
by about three hundred and fifty percent."
Draco looked across at Neville. "Is that yet another of your gentle hints that you regard yourself as the keeper of my
conscience?"
Neville blushed. "Well, you know I don't exactly like your habit of problem-solving by prioritising the illegal, immoral and
excessively violent options first. But, as a matter of fact, it wasn't that this time. You insure through one of the Goblin companies,
don't you?"
"Well, technically speaking, they're Kobolds. We get lower premiums if we put the business through the Zurich office. But
yes, why?"
Neville dropped his voice. "My grandmother used to tell me about a second cousin of hers who got caught out in an
insurance scam on a Goblin company. They were picking the pieces out of every pothole between Warton Crag and Malham Tarn
for months. And--" His eyes widened with remembered horror, "Some of the bits were still twitching when they buried them."
Draco looked at him. "Just how old were you when your grandmother told you this little piece of family history?"
Neville shrugged. "Six or so, I suppose."
Draco sounded fascinated. "And... er... were all her bedtime stories along the same lines?"
"Mostly. There were some really creepy ones she saved up for Hallowe'en."
Draco considered saying something, thought better of it, and tipped the rest of the Petrus into the two glasses. "Well, the
traditional Malfoy line here is for me to start looking out for an eligible heiress."
"Hardly an option, since you're gay."
Neville's voice was brittle and somewhat chilly. Draco looked up at him in surprise; then smiled. Reaching out his hand he
traced gently down the line of Neville's jawbone with the ball of his thumb. "Not an option in any circumstances. But a little detail
like that would never have stopped the wicked ancestors. There are at least two well documented precedents, and I've always had
my doubts about Great Uncle Roger."
One of the portrait figures leaned forward and shook a Mechlin-lace-ruffled fist at him. "Withdraw your demmed
insinuations instantly, you young blackguard, or I'll call you out!"
Draco gestured negligently towards Great Uncle Roger with his wine glass. "Hm, marriage out, paid employment out,
insurance fraud out--"
"Why don't you sell the Manor? Or at least, sell part of it? There's heaps of the grounds and outbuildings you never go
near, and all except the East Wing has been shut up since your father died."
Draco frowned. "No one to buy it. Anyone on the winning side in Recent Events wouldn't touch the Manor -- far too many
bad associations. And all the people who were on the losing side are in the same boat as me financially, if not worse, not to
mention having huge grudges against the family."
Neville hesitated. There was a sense that he was picking his way carefully through some very treacherous quick sands.
"That doesn't... er... eliminate all the possibilities."
There was a pause. Draco looked at him suspiciously. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
"I'm just recommending that you don't dismiss any option without thinking about it very carefully."
Draco pulled himself to his feet and swayed slightly unsteadily, a condition for which cramp and claret were perhaps
equally responsible. He gestured expansively around the room, encompassing in one sweep of his pale elegant fingers ten
generations of family continuity, and three hundred and eighty years of oppression, arrogance, greed, treachery and financial
malfeasance. "See Malfoy Manor in the hands of Muggles? Over my dead body," he declared.
Draco raised himself up on one elbow, and looked mulish. The patch of leaden sky visible through the bedroom window
matched the stormy expression in his sulky grey eyes. "I don't care what your grandmother says, Neville, I'm not involving
Granger. All we're trying to do is let half the Manor and the old dragon pens to some Muggle company who wants a European
headquarters that'll look drop dead amazing in the corporate brochure. It's practically a done deal. Why complicate everything?"
"Look, my grandmother does know something about business. And she says that when they do business, Muggles like to
put people into boxes."
"Well, so did the Death Eaters, but I never thought I'd hear your grandmother recommending it."
Neville made an irritated "Tsk!" sound. "She means, they feel much happier if they can put you into some sort of context.
If they feel comfortable with you the deal's on: if not, you're dead in the water. Now, the CEO himself is coming over from the US to
sign off on this. According to my grandmother that either means some of the other Board members are against the proposal, and
he's trying to use his personal authority to shove it through, or he's taken a dislike to the idea and wants to kill it personally given
half a chance."
"Well, where does Granger come into it?"
"Look, Draco, how many Muggles have you ever actually met, to talk to? Properly?"
Draco looked faintly shifty. "Well -- some. More than you'd think, actually. At least a dozen. Perhaps even twenty."
Neville persevered. "Do you really seriously think you could single-handedly negotiate with a Muggle businessman for
several hours, and he wouldn't grasp that there was something pretty -- different -- about you? You'd Summon the coffee instead
of getting someone to bring it in, or say "tell your people to owl my people" or mention Recent Events, or consult one of your
ancestral portraits about the small print-- "
"Muggles are awfully good at not seeing what they don't want to see."
"'Even Muggles have limits. And anyway, stupid people don't get to be CEOs of quoted corporations. At least, if they do,
they don't last long. Now Hermione grew up with Muggles. She still watches Muggle TV, and such. If she's there, this American
won't have any reason to doubt she's a Muggle, and if you make any slips he'll probably just put it down to your being an
eccentric English aristocrat."
Draco got up and paced around the room. As he passed under the central ceiling rose a small avalanche of decorative
plaster-work detached itself, landing on the foot of the bed. He glared upwards, caught up his wand, and muttered "Reparo!" As
the moulding reattached itself Neville pointedly refrained from raising his eyebrows.
"And what about you?"
"Oh, come off it, Draco. Nelcorp Offshore Inc's based in Norfolk, Virginia. It's hardly going to be the toleration capital of the
US, is it? Those members of the Board who'd freak out if they found out they were about to lease their European headquarters
from a wizard aren't going to be that much more chuffed if they know we're a couple, either."
At that moment Draco looked more furious than Neville had seen him since the day the Sunday Prophet had landed on
their veranda as they breakfasted. He threw himself back down on the bed with such dramatic energy that the ceiling plasterwork
detached itself again. "Well, if that's going to be their attitude, they can stuff the deal. I'm not shuffling you off into the country
like you were some dirty little secret. If that's the price of selling the Manor then it's too high."
Neville was so stunned by this display of uncharacteristic altruism that he put his arms round Draco's neck and kissed
him.
"Nevertheless, " he continued some time later "You can't pass up your only chance of solving your money problems and of
keeping the Manor just because you're afraid of hurting my feelings. It'll only be for a week or so, and I'll find plenty to do in
Scotland. There’s at least four estates I want to take a seriously close look at, and that’s if I leave out Gigha and Inverewe."
Draco looked unconvinced, but then shrugged. "Well, I suppose so. Just don't think I actually like it. Quite apart from
anything else, you know, your friends aren't necessarily mine, and I don't see why all of them need to know all the gory details
about my overdraft."
"You know that isn't fair. Hermione's absolutely famous for not gossiping. If you tell something to her, she's the only
person who knows until you say otherwise. What's more, she owes you one. After all, you did save her life."
"Even speaking as a rampant egomaniac with few moral scruples I have to point out that "not murdering someone when
you're supposed to" is pretty much towards the far end on the spectrum of "saving someone's life"."
"Trust me. I'm sure she'll be simply delighted to help."
Outside the window the first flakes of what would become a serious snowstorm began to drift unnoticeably down.
"I just want to make things absolutely clear," Hermione said firmly as she walked into the room. "I'm only doing this
because I like Neville. And on the basis that you pay me 1.5% of the lease premium as a consultancy fee."
Draco raised one eyebrow. "Ah. You've been talking to Mrs. Longbottom, I see. 0.5%."
"0.75%. And expenses."
"Only if agreed in advance."
"And a comprehensive two-way confidentiality clause. I don't talk: you don't either."
"Done."
"I'll get my things from the car."
"What do you call those?" Draco asked in an awful voice.
Hermione flushed. "They're dogs." Her voice was definitely defensive. The liver and white springer spaniels lolled their
tongues and grinned up impartially at them.
"Well, I didn't expect you to claim they were a brace of Animagi you were having a free and open relationship with. What I
mean is, what are you proposing to do with them here?"
"They're part of your cover story."
"Oh no they bloody aren't. They'll shed."
"No they won't. I used a special No-Moult Potion I got from Diagon Alley before putting them in the car. They haven't lost a
hair in a hundred and twenty miles."
"I don't care. I'm not having them in the Manor. Take them back where they came from, at once."
Hermione's lip trembled. "I can't. Their owner got killed in Recent Events, and no one's been able to find a home for them
since. I can't keep them in the flat, and anyway Crookshanks doesn't get on with them."
"I never thought I'd say this, but I can see that cat's point."
"But, Draco, they were going to be destroyed."
"Yes? Look, since when did I turn into a soft touch for springer spaniel sob-stories? How long have you known me,
Granger? Quite frankly, with my reputation, would you trust me with a goldfish?"
"But you've got all this space down here, and you've got people to take them for walks, and things. You'd hardly have to
lift a finger. And they don't eat much."
"Don't be totally ridiculous, Granger. They quite evidently eat anything they can get their jaws round."
Hermione was nothing if not a realist. She acknowledged the hit with a defiant lift of the chin, and reverted to the stronger
aspects of her case. "If you're trying to come over as your typical impoverished English aristocrat this American will be expecting
you to be surrounded by cute floppy dogs. I couldn't expect you to know that, but that's why you brought me in as a consultant in
the first place. You need to make the Manor as much like something out of the Muggle movies as possible. Think of these dogs as
an investment for the future."
"Remind me, why was it I ruled out the insurance fraud option?" Draco muttered.
Hermione looked at him. The
spaniels looked at him.
"Reminds me of a demmed nice little long haired bitch I had once," Great Uncle Roger interjected unexpectedly. Hermione
jumped.
"Don't worry, " Draco advised. "I'm sure he's being purely literal. Names?"
"What?"
"I asked, do your furry faced friends have names?"
"Oh." From her expression, it appeared she was collecting her thoughts rapidly. "Well, as a matter of fact I've been calling
them Dog 1 and Dog 2. I didn't want to let myself get too fond of them, as their futures were so uncertain."
"So you won't mind if I rename them?"
She smiled gratefully at him. "Anything you like. Just so long as it makes you feel they're part of the family."
One of the spaniels wandered over from the hearthrug and slobbered trustingly against the knee of his robes.
The thin pale sunlight of a fine February morning streamed in through the tiny diamond panes of the Manor's breakfast
room. Draco was reading a letter from Neville and sharing his bacon rinds with the owl which had brought it. Across the table the
shells of two boiled eggs (turned neatly upside down in the egg cups) and the remains of a tub of low fat, polyunsaturated spread
indicated that Hermione had already breakfasted, and was out somewhere putting the finishing touches to tidying up the Manor
for the Patullos' visit. The Malfoy portraits, mostly protesting indignantly, had been temporarily moved into the bedrooms in the
East wing and replaced by a selection of still lives and Guaranteed Not To Give Any Backchat Modernist Abstracts.
Draco buttered another piece of toast, and skipped two paragraphs of "amazing micro-climate", "four distinct sub-species of
umbellifers" and "at least two unrecorded types of wild orchid" in favour of the infinitely more satisfactory material towards the end.
There was a disapproving cough from the doorway.
"Haven't you finished yet? They'll be here any minute."
Draco looked up with exaggerated patience. "Granger, has it ever been explained to you that "morning person" and "me"
do not have any real conceptual affinity? If they'd only understood that at school, perhaps they might have given me some
sensitive pastoral care, rather than writing me off on the assumption that I simply had a foul personality."
"Well; and unacceptable politics and dreadful taste in friends, surely."
Draco changed the subject. "Granger, what's that thing you're holding?"
Hermione brandished the Barbour over the breakfast table "It's your jacket."
"Sorry, think you're mistaken there. That frightful green oily object has never been given closet-room in any wardrobe of
mine."
"Is this going to be another case of your calling me in just to ignore my advice? It's what Muggles wear in the country."
"Go right ahead, then. I'm not stopping you."
"What's wrong with your wearing it?"
"It's too new, it's too nouveau, it's too uncomfortable and it's too bloody Islington."
"What do you mean, Islington?"
"I have got the right place? That is, an area of Muggle London populated by trendy media types and weekend cottageowning wannabes, no?"
Hermione's jaw dropped. Draco gestured at the window seat of the breakfast room. It was piled high with Muggle
magazines; she spotted Living etc, Elle Dec, Tatler, Country Life, FHM and Loaded . A few battered looking Penguins, including Cold
Comfort Farm, The Empress of Blandings, Brideshead Revisited and The Monarch of the Glen, lay scattered around.
"Research. You obsessed about research, so I did some. And all I can say is that the Muggles are bloody lucky it never
occurred to the Dark Lord to read Muggle magazines. He'd have only had to get a really good Dark research team onto this
Internet thing they seem so keen on and they'd never know what hit them."
"Anyway, even if you don't wear this, you can't possibly meet the Patullos in that decrepit tweed object. It looks as though
it's been slept in for the last ten years."
"It was you who said "Emphasise the English aristocrat bit." This happens to be the jacket in which my grandfather
seduced the Duchess of Argyll in the driver's seat of an Alfa Romeo Spyder on the summit of the San Bernardino pass. It couldn't
get more aristocratic if you held auditions."
"Your grandfather seducing a Muggle? Bit out of character for a Malfoy, wasn't it?"
"This may be Dorset, but I did have two grandfathers, actually. My mother's father didn't object to Muggles at all provided
they were female, aristocratic, and horizontal. There were so many Dukes and Earls turned up at his funeral to check he was
really dead that they had to take The Times social column into a special edition. And I inherited his entire Muggle wardrobe, which
he had precision engineered for him in Saville Row at a cost approximately equivalent to the gross national product of Belgium. By
some freak of inheritance they happen to fit me perfectly, and if the choice is between wearing them and-- and-- that, I'm not
going to let the minor fact that they're nearly forty years old stop me. Retro, I understand, is in, anyway."
Hermione opened her mouth and shut it again. This, unfortunately, gave Draco time to get his second wind. Her left hand
was resting on the table, revealing the large sapphire surrounded by brilliant cut diamonds that decorated her third finger.
"And what's that?"
"If we're supposed to be engaged, the Patullos will expect to see an engagement ring. I Transfigured that little dolphin one
of mine to make it look more plausible."
"Well you can just un-Transfigure it. You might want to project a total lack of natural taste, but you aren't foisting it off on
me. Oh, give it here."
He caught her wrist and turned her hand over, pulled out his wand, frowned, and muttered. For a moment the ring's
shape blurred back to the original dolphin, and then changed again. Hermione gave a gasp of pleased surprise. The ring was now
a sprung balance of dynamic tension caught in platinum, set with a flawless diamond which hung between delicate points,
suspended by nothing more than the precise balance of opposing forces.
"There!" Draco’s tone betrayed that he felt rather pleased with himself. "You know what they say: if you want a decent
ring, get a Dark wizard to design it for you."
Hermione sounded rather hesitant. "Draco? I... er... never thought I'd find myself saying this."
"What, Granger?"
"I think this research thing can be taken too far."
"Ah. Well, while we're into constructive criticism, can I make a suggestion?"
"What?"
"Turn down the volume on your nag control. We're supposed to be projecting Recently Engaged; you've currently got it set
to Married for the Last Ten Years."
Before Hermione could say anything there was a shout from the hall, and the sound of frantic barking and claws
scrabbling on polished flooring. The owl took off indignantly and went into cover behind the carved fruit of the Grinling Gibbons
chimney-breast.
"In here!" Draco yelled. The door to the breakfast room was pushed tentatively open, and a grey haired man with a
weather-beaten face poked his head round.
"Hi. I'm Tom Patullo. No one seemed to be answering the bell, and the door was open so we just came in. I hope you don't
mind."
"No, not at all." Draco pulled himself gracefully to his feet, and extended a hand. Patullo came fully into the room, followed
by a tall, elegantly dressed grey-haired woman in a taupe trouser-suit.
"And this is my wife, Irene."
"How do you do. Welcome to the Manor. This, of course, is my--" Draco gathered from Hermione’s expression that he must
be looking visibly boggled.
"Partner in crime, Hermione Granger, " he concluded, with an impish grin.
Tom Patullo smiled at him. "Still takes a bit of getting used to, eh? I swear, Irene and I had our thirty-fifth wedding
anniversary last August, and I still find myself surprised we're even married yet. It's wonderful you people down here can still
leave the front door wide open. When I was a boy, growing up in the country, we did that all the time. Can't do it now, even in the
country--"
It had never occurred to Draco that any Muggle would even think of burgling the Manor. Before, however, he could
express this, Irene said "Do you know any place I can go antique hunting? I figured I'd let you guys climb all over the site, and
then meet up with you for dinner this evening. I hoped there'd be an antique shop in the village, but no luck."
"Do people buy antiques? I've always thought you should grow your own."
"Draco! There'll be heaps of places in Dorchester, I should have thought. Or Wareham, perhaps. Or you could go to Bath,
but that's at least fifty miles, I'm afraid. Or you could go to Lyme Regis, and see the place where Louisa Musgrove fell, as well."
"Perfect! I adore Austen. Look, darling, I'll be back about six, ok?" Irene stretched out her hand towards the chair on
which she had dropped her scarf and handbag. "Ohmigod!"
Something small and aggressive swooped towards her. She cowered back; Tom grabbed her bag and lunged blindly at the
threat with it. It skittered past, and hooted derisively. "Malfoy, what in hell's that?"
"Scops, I think," Draco observed, collaring the owl firmly. "I'm most terribly sorry. She does tend to get a bit over-excited.
Hermione, you couldn't possibly organise some coffee for our guests, could you? And I suspect there are some very good pork and
leek sausages under that cover. I'll drop this one off at the Owlery: it's way past her bedtime. Can I see you at the front door in ten
minutes?"
They nodded wordlessly as he left, carrying the owl in the crook of one arm. Hermione sighed. She felt it would probably
be a very long day.
Draco was unsurprised, if a trifle depressed, to note that Hermione had Transfigured her Renault Clio overnight into a
Range Rover, complete with designer dents in the bumper and an authentic layer of mud splashes. However, he did think she was
overdoing it when she neatly intercepted his advance towards the driver's door.
"Darling! You know the doctor said you shouldn't drive until he's quite sure there are no complications from your head
injury."
Draco sighed. He had, as a matter of fact, suffered a skull fracture in the dying days of Recent Events, at the hands of a
serious-minded young wizard on the Allied side who had misinterpreted some pre-combat gallows humour in execrable taste as a
confession that Draco was on the point of re-defecting to Voldemort with the Allied dispositions in the pocket of his robes. The
principal complication which had resulted was Draco's unenviable reputation as probably the only person who had ever received
life threatening injuries from both sides in the same conflict, in each case from a member of his own side. He scrambled resignedly
into the seat behind her, although he had to admit, as she produced from the depths of her handbag a set of car keys he had not
suspected she possessed, that she was indeed better at remembering the minutiae of Muggle life than he was.
Tom Patullo turned and looked at him sympathetically. "A head injury? Anything much? How'dya do it?"
Draco shrugged. "Depressed fracture of the skull. You know -- the usual thing. Recent Events. I thought that the sensible
place to put your private road through would be about here, by the way: it could join the M-main road at the old South Lodge
gates, and come straight up to the front of the Manor, going past the pens -- I mean, your new research facility -- on the way. That
would make your facility completely self contained: I'd run a short sweep from the East wing entrance onto the current main drive,
and then neither of us would have to go over the other's part of the land at all."
"That ought to work; I was going over the plans on the plane, and I'd been reckoning on that line as the best for putting
our fibre-optic cabling through. If you are sure we aren't going to run into any problems getting planning consents, that is. After
all, the Manor must be a pretty historic sort of house. When was it built?"
"1620," Draco said, abandoning "planning consents" as "Muggle stuff: Hermione's problem".
'We've been around for a lot longer, of course, but the old Manor got burned down by a mob from the village who
suspected the Malfoy of the day of practising the Dark Arts."
"And was he?" Patullo enquired. Hermione's hands twitched on the wheel; she appeared to be considering whether putting
the Range Rover in the ditch now would be the simplest option.
"Well, not hard enough, evidently, or he'd never have let the villagers burn him alive in his own house. Actually, the whole
thing was being whipped up by one of the local Puritans, who went by the name of Zealous-In-The-Cause-of-the-Lord Fletcher.
The King at the time had published a book on Demonology, and anyone who wanted to get on at Court had to show off their witchhunting credentials. I reckon old Zealous hoped he might get granted the Manor grounds when the ashes had cooled."
"God," Patullo muttered, fascinated. "Looks as though corporate infighting hasn't changed much in 300 years."
"Anyway, it all blew up in Zealous's face, because the next Malfoy heir, who everyone thought had been lost at sea, turned
up from the West Indies while the ruins were still smouldering, with absolute shed-loads of loot, and announced he was going to
get his revenge on his brother's murderers. Zealous was so terrified that he didn't stop running until he got to Plymouth and he
hopped on the first boat he could find. It turned out to be the Mayflower and there you are."
Patullo threw back his head and laughed. "Nice one. But before you tell that yarn again, Malfoy, you'd better remember
that in some parts of my country they keep pretty good records of everyone who was on the Mayflower, and their descendants, and
I'm damn sure you won't find a Zealous-In-The-Cause-of-The-Lord Fletcher on the list."
"Well, naturally he'd have changed his name, being pursued by my vengeful ancestor," Draco suggested hopefully, but
Patullo shook his head.
"I'm not buying it. It's a good story, though. But you'd better be careful who you tell it to; I can think of a couple of guys
on the Board, for example, who wouldn't approve at all of your claiming to be descended from someone who'd dabbled in the
occult."
"Well, I can definitely say that none of the Malfoys have dabbled since."
The Range Rover jinked, sharply.
"Sorry, darling," Hermione said sweetly. "I was trying to avoid flattening a ferret."
The track wound through a small copse of beech trees, rounded a final bend, and Hermione pulled up with a flourish.
"Good God, Malfoy, what was your ancestor thinking of?"
The Malfoy dragon houses had been built by the architect who had designed the Brighton Pavilion, and his commission
had apparently consisted of being given a pipe-full of opium and told to use his imagination a bit more this time. They were a
spectacular riot of orientalism, and the suddenness of the impact only increased the effect.
"Oh, he collected exotic animals, and he wanted somewhere where they'd feel at home. Want to come inside?"
"You cannot possibly believe them until you've seen them, Irene. We could put the entire R&D facility in there and hardly
notice they were there. And the light! Goodness only knows how they did it, but the amount of natural light that gets in there is
just sensational. The guys will just adore it."
Irene wandered into the bathroom. "Oh, Tom! I thought you'd be much further on than that. You'll never be ready if we're
to get to the Manor in time for drinks."
"I know, I know. But I got looking at the plans, and seeing just what we could do with that place. Tux or not, do you
reckon?"
"Tux," Irene said definitely. Tom looked at her.
"Sure? Seems a bit too formal. It's practically the twenty-first century, after all. I nearly didn't pack it."
"I can flat guarantee that our host'll be wearing one."
"Really? I've seen better dusters than the jacket he was wearing this morning."
"That duster was hand-tailored Gieves & Hawkes. Anyway, the tuxedo won't be his decision."
"Oh?"
Irene shook her head decisively. "Well, look at it this way. That young man is really exceptionally good-looking. It's
obvious he'll be a knock-out in formal evening wear. I'm sure his fiancée looks for any excuse to get him into it."
Tom began meditatively to soap his face and neck. "Well, I daresay you're right." He hummed a little. "Still, it shows how
young folks are different these days."
"Uh-- hm?"
Tom grinned wickedly at Irene. "I seem to remember when we were engaged you looked for any excuse to get me out of my
clothes."
"Champagne?"
Irene was just holding out her glass when there was a bang, followed by a flurry of barking as the two dogs streaked into
the hall to greet the new arrival. Draco spun on the spot. "What the--?"
A golden halo of hair framed Narcissa's head as she pushed open the door to the living room. "Draco darling, those dogs--"
Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of Draco in a dinner jacket, two total strangers, and Hermione, who had turned
to face the door, reflexively flicking back her hair in a gesture which picked up and shattered the candlelight in shards from the
diamond on her left hand.
"I know, mama. I've told them and told them that you said it would be obedience classes next, but they simply wouldn't
listen -- champagne?"
"Please."
Narcissa's lips fastened on the champagne flute. One eloquent eye signaled there had better be a good explanation for this
one, sunshine in the general direction of her son. Equally without moving a muscle, Draco signaled back trust me. Just don't say
anything -- unfortunate.
There was a legend that Narcissa had once acted as hostess for her husband at a cocktail party during which Voldemort
had reduced five Death Eaters to steaming heaps of ash on the carpet for failure to carry out his orders to the letter. Throughout
everything the canapes had been served and the wine had flowed with uninterrupted grace and style. Narcissa was not the sort to
disconcert easily, still less to betray it by any uncontrolled word or gesture.
"Anyway, may I introduce Tom and Irene Patullo? As you've probably guessed, this is my mother."
"Narcissa deVries," she murmured, extending a delicate hand. The lack of anything more than polite interest which
greeted this introduction confirmed her suspicions. Unobtrusively she adjusted the drape of her travelling cloak, ensuring it
concealed her robes beneath its swathes of safely anonymous charcoal-grey pashmina.
"I've just flown in from Prague," she added experimentally. There was an unmistakable air of tension on Draco's face.
Narcissa decided to turn the screw a little.
"Didn't you get my--"
The delicate crystal of his champagne flute shivered into shards on the floor.
"--message?" Narcissa finished innocently, as Hermione tried to keep the over-excited dogs away from the wreckage.
"Prague is so amazing," Irene enthused, as Draco and Hermione made a rather ham fisted and not entirely bloodless job of
getting rid of the glass. "Tom and I were there last year. It's totally romantic. You should really think about it for your honeymoon,
you know, Hermione, if you and Draco haven't already decided where to go--"
"I expect Draco's planning on the location being a surprise, " Narcissa said, raising one eyebrow pointedly at her son, who
continued to scrabble about on the floor, keeping his head firmly down. "He enjoys surprising people."
"You must be so thrilled about the engagement."
"Well, to be honest, everything's been in such a whirl since I was told about it that it's hardly had time to sink in."
Hermione coughed, dug in her handbag and pulled out a mobile phone. "Shall I phone the restaurant and put back our
reservation by half an hour and say we'll be five instead of four? Or are you too tired after your flight?"
"No, not too tired, I'd love to join you. But you know M-mobiles won't work in the Manor--"
"They've put in a new ariel up on the top of the hill," Hermione put in quickly, making a rather complex little gesture over
the phone as she flipped it open. "The problem you used to have getting a signal here has practically vanished."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Tom Patullo observed. "Comms are absolutely central to our business. If we locate our
European headquarters here it simply will have to have 24/7 availability to the rest of the corporation."
"Hermione, dear, can I borrow you for five minutes or so while I change? There's a couple of things I need to discuss with
you. Do excuse us."
Narcissa set down her glass and vanished decisively upstairs. Hermione cast one dubious look at Draco (who had begun a
long and implausible anecdote about one of the Elizabethan Malfoys and the world premiere of Dr Faustus), evidently decided he
could probably cope unaided for five minutes, and followed in her wake.
"Hermione, just what is going on? And where's Neville? And does he know about this-- this engagement farce?"
Narcissa pulled her travelling cloak off and dropped her robes to the ground in one energetic movement. 'I'm waiting," she
added, beginning to riffle through racks of dress robes, apparently in search of a Muggle evening gown. "I may have all the
maternal instincts of a seahorse, but I'm not going to stand by if some half-baked scheme of Draco's is messing up his
relationship with the only more-or-less stable and sensible person who's been prepared to take him on. Where's Neville?"
"He's in Scotland. And yes, he does know. As a matter of fact it was his grandmother's idea."
Narcissa snorted, and vanished into the attached bathroom to shower. If Hermione had hoped that this would take the
heat off her, she was mistaken.
"Was it?" Narcissa called back through the part-open door. "Well, I suppose I should be relieved at least to know someone
with half a brain's been involved in this idiotic caper. Well, go on. Enlighten me. What's this all in aid of?"
Hermione bit her lip. "Well, you know the problems with the roof?"
"I know everything there is to know about that roof. Wet rot, dry rot, woodworm. Death watch beetle. Splaying. Infestation
with bats. Bowing of the central timbers. Damage from mis-aimed hexes. War damage. Hurricane damage. Sabotage by frustrated
Animagus (don't ask). I am probably the only witch in this country who, given a straight choice between meeting the Dark Lord in
the immediate aftermath of bungled root canal work and a Wizarding roofing contractor with a set of estimates would
unhesitatingly opt for Old Red Eyes."
She reappeared in the bedroom, toweling vigorously. "So what's this got to do with the roof?"
"Well, Draco had to think up something to do about it. And we've had the chance to let all the unused bit of the Manor,
the land on that side, and the dragon pens on a long lease at an absolutely stupendous premium to this American engineering
group who make stuff for the offshore oil and gas industry. They want it for their European headquarters and R&D facility. Neville
thought the CEO and his wife -- that's them downstairs, by the way -- mightn't think he and Draco were... er... quite respectable.
So he asked me to help."
"Such tact," Narcissa murmured, her eyes beginning to sparkle. "Do you have any conception of how Lucius would have
felt about a Muggle company full of Americans using the Manor for trade?"
Hermione nodded. "I know. But it really was the only thing they could think of, and they couldn't get hold of you to let you
know."
"Oh, don't think I mind. It's just rather a shame I can't tell him about it. So the Patullos are here to close the deal, are
they? Well, you can count on me to help."
She was now wearing a backless evening gown in dragon-fly blue. She tucked her wand into the matching bag and
straightened up. "Well, lead on, Macduff. Oh, there's just one thing. Hermione?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you do, don't mention the roof."
Thirty years of perfectionism, hard graft and crockery hurling had gone to make Barton Cleeve Country House Hotel a
Michelin-starred player in a league that recognised few peers and no superiors. Barton Cleeve might not be as long established as
Sharrow Bay; as hard to get to as the Altnaharrie Inn or have the high profile hand on the tiller of Le Manoir Aux Quat' Saisons,
but it fought level with all of them, and no-one in the know would have dared to suggest that any sommelier or sous-chef patissier
lured to Barton Cleeve from one of its better known rivals was thereby taking a downwards step.
The dining room glowed in the soft light of multiple candles. Their steady flames were reflected in the heavy silver, gave a
creamy warmth to the acres of white linen and picked out the soft rich tones of oriental rugs here and there on the polished
hardwood floors.
The owner took his customary mid-evening tour of inspection, catching an eye here, pursing his lips in disapproval there.
A minute hand signal brought the head-waiter over to him.
"That couple in the corner? The ones who've just been seated?"
The couple were behind the owner as he stood, but the head-waiter was an old player at this game of discreet semaphore.
He picked up the two intended instantly. "Yes, sir. Restaurant critic?"
"I hope. Not one of the regulars, though. Better take no chances. After all, we do have--" a slight inclination of the head
indicated a member of the Cabinet, seated in a discreet little alcove just outside the dining room and waiting for his companion to
return from the Ladies.
"Indeed, sir. And it would be such a pity if anything were to spoil his evening, or, of course, his wife's."
"Ye-es. A very lovely lady. If a little... um...?"
"Changeable in her moods, perhaps, sir?"
"Exactly. They've been coming here for over five years, and sometimes it's hard to believe she's the same woman."
"I believe, sir, that something of her volatility may be attributable to her health. From my observations this evening, sir, I
understand her to be an unfortunate martyr to sinus trouble."
Their eyes met in perfect understanding.
"Tell the staff it's code aubergine on that restaurant critic or whatever he is for the rest of the night."
The owner passed serenely on through his domain, noting that the party of five for the big table in the bay window had
arrived at last, and that the Cabinet Minister and his lady had been shepherded to their well-sheltered nook by a route which
never crossed the suspect restaurant critic's line of sight. In any event, he seemed far too absorbed in watching the new arrivals to
pose any threat to the Minister's privacy.
"And after all," the owner thought, "Who can blame him? Even I can't remember if I've ever seen a blond that stunning in
here. And certainly not more than once."
Hermione's handbag broke into Flowers of Scotland, and she dived for it, retrieving the mobile after an apparent eternity.
"I am so sorry about this -- I ought to have switched it off -- hi, yes? Oh, hello. I hadn't expected you to ring. Well, yes he
is here but we are about to eat-- OK, I'll pass you over to him."
She looked across the table at Draco. "It's Neville. He says he needs a quick word."
Draco took the mobile with the approximate amount of enthusiasm with which he would have approached a live
tarantula, and put it gingerly to his ear.
"Hi-- Neville? Oh, yes, we're all fine. Yes, the Patullos have been here all day, they're with me now as a matter of fact. Oh
yes, I think so. My mother arrived from Prague a couple of hours ago, too. Um? Well, yes, it was rather. She's here with us now
too, actually. Oh, we're at Barton Cleeve. No, I don't think you have, come to think of it. Look, can you make it snappy? I'm using
that ghastly gadget of Hermione's -- what do you mean, that explains it? Oh, OK, I will talk a bit quieter. That better? Now, what is
it? Yes, she arrived perfectly safely. Yes, of course I'm treating her right, what do you take me for? Well, yes, but that was a long
time ago and I was under a lot of stress then. Of course I remembered to feed her. Yes, exactly in accordance with your
instructions. Yes, that's right. Two minced mice and a sprinkling of feta cheese across the top in case she was feeling homesick.
No, I shouldn't imagine she's suffering from stress. Well, she's seemed perfectly happy since she got here. What do you mean, toe
nibbling? They all do that. It doesn't mean anything. No, honestly. Yes, I will make sure she gets plenty of sleep. OK. Well, enjoy
yourself. Yes, you too. Bye."
He closed the phone with a snap. "Neville. He's in a flap about his owl. He hasn't had her long, and he's convinced I'll do
something dreadful to her."
Narcissa's eyes danced. "I fancy I speak for the whole table here in expressing my appreciation for that clarification,
darling."
Irene smiled at him. "So who is Neville? Apart, of course, from a worried owl owner."
"Oh, we were at school together. And after that, we were in the same unit during Re- We've been through a lot together.
I'm looking after his owl while he's up in Scotland."
Tom Patullo looked interested. "You were in the Forces?"
"In a manner of speaking. Am I the only one having the lobster? Do you think that they'd give me even more gadgets to deshell it with if I claimed I was a brain surgeon?"
The meal was winding down to a gentle and satisfactory close. They were finishing up cheese or pudding and giving
thought to coffee and brandies when two tables away behind them the inconceivable happened.
For possibly the first time in the history of Barton Cleeve one of the oriental rugs had somehow moved from its wellordered position in the general scheme of things. The people whose job it was to notice such things and put them instantly and
discreetly right had apparently slipped out for a quiet cigarette. The waiter, who was in the course of delivering main courses to a
party of four, caught his toe in the fold of carpet as he turned a little too rapidly to answer a question about the steak. He lost his
footing, tried to recover himself, failed, grabbed wildly for support, and tipped the table edge beyond the point of no return as he
went down with an unholy crash.
The clatter of falling plates seemed to go on, and on. Finally, and almost in slow motion, the big silver covered serving dish
slithered to the floor and up-ended. The whole suckling pig it had been concealing slithered across the polished floor in its own
grease and came to a stop by Draco's feet. The smell of crackling came richly up from it.
"Excuse me a moment," Draco said, and bolted towards the Gents. The remaining party gazed, stunned, at his retreating
back. Hermione reached her hand across the table and gripped Narcissa's wrist.
"I'm so sorry," she said. " I didn't realise--"
Narcissa looked bleak. "I know. I know. It's not your fault. If only Lucius--"
Uncertainly, Hermione rose to her feet and leaned across the table. The thin silk of her preposterous sleeves dabbled in
her glass of Leoville Barton as she put an arm around Narcissa's thin bare shoulders and hugged.
As the sound of stiff upper lips cracking resounded like the 1812 Overture around her, Irene looked desperately at her
husband. In the best traditions of his corps and corporation, he rose stunningly to the occasion.
"Honey, can you ask the waiter to serve the coffee and liqueurs in that little sitting room they took us into first? I'll be
right back."
He dived after his host.
In the corner of the white tiled cubicle, completely bleached out in the glare of the lights, Draco sat slumped against the
toilet bowl. It was some moments before he realised that there was a strong arm gripping his shoulders, and the edge of a balloon
glass being forced between his lips. He spluttered.
"You-- you shouldn't do that with that stuff. That must be 50 year old Armagnac you're wasting here."
Tom grinned down at him. "I wouldn't know. I just intercepted the first waiter I saw carrying anything that looked like
brandy. Hey, I'm sorry. I figured you were too young to have been in real combat--"
"Quite real enough for my liking. Look -- one thing -- if we do come to visit you in Norfolk... I-I seriously am not a
barbecue person. Not after--"
Draco turned, and grabbed for the white porcelain of the toilet bowl. Tom steadied Draco's shoulders as his meal suddenly
went the way of all flesh.
"Do you want to talk about it? After all, I reckon I've been in the same place."
"In hell, you mean? Funny, I didn't see you there."
Tom barked a short laugh. "Yep. I guess you're about right. In hell. Tell me about it."
Draco swallowed. His mouth was dry and -- despite the Armagnac -- evil tasting.
"I can't tell you a lot. You find yourself in the middle of a war and don't know how you got there. Or what the right side is,
or whether you're on it." He was shaking uncontrollably on the white-tiled floor. "And you can't let the Mu-- the majority know the
war is even being fought. And then friends die, and if you'd only made some different choices -- woken up quicker -- perhaps--"
He twisted one hand up and spread his fingers in front of his face, as though looking for blood on them. It was, as it
happened, his wand hand.
Tom looked down at him. "Yes, it is kinda tough. And it's hard to tell people who haven't been there how tough it can be.
However much you love them. And somehow, however many years go past, it doesn't get any easier. But I reckon we need to go
back now to the lounge for coffee and such. OK, son?"
Draco grinned palely. "OK."
"Plus, I'd better buy another Armagnac for the guy I stole that one from. Little guy who looked like a garden gnome, you
should've seen his face when I dived in--"
They walked back to the dining room.
"Is he going to be all right?" Irene asked, as they watched the Range Rover out of sight, and turned back into their hotel.
At that late hour the sitting room was deserted, and they flopped gratefully into armchairs either side of the fireplace.
"Sure. Combat flashback, that's all. He'll be OK after a good night's sleep."
Irene looked hesitant. "You know -- earlier this evening, I wasn't quite sure it was for real. That house -- and the dogs -- it
was all a bit too much-- like something out of the movies."
Tom grinned. "I know what you mean. But I reckon that's the girlfriend. Not that I've anything against her, but I reckon
she's marrying a bit out of her league. She probably thinks that's how it ought to be with the aristocracy, so she dresses it up.
Him and his mother, they just treat that place like part of the furniture. You can't fake that. And the combat stuff was real
enough, too. You hear guys who're blowing smoke about having been in, and they tell you all the details -- accurate, too -- half the
time they know more than people who were there. But he was very cagey -- special forces, I bet, and in some war that isn't
officially supposed to have happened. Did you see him when the plates started to go?"
Irene shook her head. "On his feet before I could blink and reaching straight inside his jacket. If this weren't England and
if it wasn't that he didn't have room inside that monkey suit I'd have sworn he was carrying."
"Of course," Tom mused to himself, "That doesn't explain why his mother and fiancée both dived for their handbags in the
same split-second. How do you explain an entire family with combat reflexes?"
He shook his head, like a swimmer trying to clear water from his ears. "Anyway, I reckon we've made the right decision.
Those elephant houses or whatever they were have got absolutely huge potential for our R&D function. We can turn them into
something so state of the art it isn't true. Solid imaging suites -- VR capability -- there isn't any form of cabling we can't pipe into
there. And as for the Manor--" He contemplated it happily.
"Anyway," he added practically "There's another benefit. With a project this major I can certainly convince the Board that
the conversion needs day-to-day supervision from one of the Directors of our British subsidiary. That should keep the clown out of
my hair, and even he shouldn't be able to screw up. I mean, heaven knows, it's only watching a bunch of builders, and our
architect will be taking all the real decisions, anyway. He can't possibly make as big a hash out of converting Malfoy Manor as he
does out of selling drills."
Irene had the resigned air of one who had heard all about the cock-ups of the errant director several times, probably for
six hours running, at thirty three thousand feet. "Tom, wouldn't it be simpler just to sack him?"
"Simpler, yes. But much more expensive. The smart-assed lawyers they used when we bought the business insisted on 5
year service contracts for all the existing UK Board. Unless I can prove he's done something truly awesomely incompetent (and
give me time, honey, just give me time) he'll waltz away with the balance of his contract monies, and Nelcorp Offshore will have
just made him a sizeable millionaire. I'm not planning to let that happen on my watch."
Tom glared into the embers of the wood fire on the hearth, and tapped the ash decisively off his cigar. Then a happier
thought seemed to strike him. He grinned, slowly. "Anyway, if he's on project management down here for the summer he'll have
that young man to deal with. You know, Irene, somehow I can't imagine Draco Malfoy being Vernon Dursley's cup of tea at all."
~~~
Melanie Schwartz struggled, futilely. The plant had the collar of her shirt firmly in its tentacles, and refused to give it up.
Her ankles were equally entangled, and the long sharp thorns which completed the plant's formidable armoury were digging into
her scalp, preventing her turning her head at all. Along her bare shins, below the hem of her calf-length cotton skirt, the rash
produced by its corrosive leaves throbbed and itched. Blisters were already rising on her hands, legs, and everywhere else where
the plant's tendrils had touched unprotected skin. Under the blazing noontide sun her sweat poured into her various scrapes and
cuts, stinging unmercifully.
There was the sound of heavy, moist panting behind her. She briefly compared the unattractive alternatives of "stuck
irrevocably in patch of malignant vegetable" and "prey of sex attacker in remote woodland", the latter being a peril her mother had
repeatedly impressed upon her as the almost inevitable consequence of solitary walks in the English countryside.
"Don't be ridiculous," she scolded herself, "any rapist trying anything on in this plant's vicinity is going to regret it pretty
quickly. More effective than a pepper spray, I shouldn't wonder. Pretty much incapacitating, in fact."
She had almost succeeded in convincing herself when the source of the panting broke through the undergrowth at her
feet and revealed itself to be an inquisitive, and quite remarkably filthy, springer spaniel, who gave her a quick once-over, and
then burst into a torrent of barking, in which Melanie felt she detected a slightly self-congratulatory note.
"What is it? What've you found this time, cloth ears?"
The sound of another human voice at close quarters convinced Melanie: the chance of being rescued from her current
state of vegetative arrest was worth any possible risk of an assault on her virtue. "Help!"
There was the sound of breaking undergrowth, and the same precise, clipped accent that had spoken before said, "Hello?
You do realize that you're technically trespassing, don't you?"
The burst of sheer rage that this comment inspired in Melanie caused her to lose the habits carefully instilled by her
mother over the entire eighteen years of her life to date. "I may be bloody well technically trespassing," she retorted to the unseen
speaker. "I'm also being bloody well actually attacked by a mutant triffid, or something, and I'm in no position to stop trespassing.
So if you object to my being here, I suggest you pull your finger out and do something about it."
There was a sharp intake of breath, and a rapid outbreak of muttering, which Melanie thought sounded vaguely like
someone quoting from Tacitus, in the original and in a huff. At the same moment, by some freakish chance, the thorns in her
scalp released themselves, permitting her to turn round, and she found the branches being held aside for her to struggle out of
the woodland and onto the path.
"Thank you," she said with sarcastic emphasis.
"My pleasure."
An icy flicker of uncertainty made its way up from somewhere near the base of her spine. The young man she found facing
her on the path, looking her up and down insolently from cold grey eyes, was undoubtedly far better looking than anyone she had
seen before except on a cinema screen. He was, however, unnaturally pale and his over-formal, faintly archaic clothes lent him the
air of someone playing at dressing up.
In a moment of sudden panic Melanie strained her ears for the sounds of cars -- aeroplanes -- any noise at all which
would confirm to her that she was still in the last decade of the twentieth century.
"In another minute," she thought frantically, "someone's going to come round that corner on a bicycle, and call out 'My
Lord, the Archduke Ferdinand's been assassinated at some place called Sarajevo'."
What in fact came round the corner was the spaniel she had met earlier, accompanied by another, which was, if anything,
even grubbier. They bounded up to her, jumping up to lick her hands and wuffling about the trailing shoe laces on her trainers.
She covered her general confusion by dropping to her haunches and rubbing their ears with a rather overdone show of
enthusiasm.
"Good boys! Who's going to have to have a bath when you get in, eh? Good dogs. Oy, paws, down! Now; now, I mean it.
There's a good dog. Oh, you are a mucky pup. What have you been paddling in, eh?"
"She's right, you know, you horrible hounds," their owner observed sardonically. "Make sure you report to the scullery
and get someone to clean you up before you can expect me to let you back into the Manor."
With this last comment the penny suddenly dropped. She straightened up so quickly that she felt a moment's dizziness.
"Oh, gosh! You must be the wicked Count-- I mean-- oh, golly--"
The young man's face came alive with what could only be described as a grin of sheer mischief. He extended a hand.
"Draco Malfoy. How do you do?"
"Melanie Schwartz. Oh, I am so sorry--"
"What was that you just called me?"
Her face flamed. "I'm awfully sorry -- it just slipped out -- it's a nickname the Nelcorp management trainees invented.
Well, you know. The Manor is awfully creepy, even the bits they've converted already -- and no one ever seemed to see you, and of
course--"
"The name," he finished for her. He poked gently with one booted foot at the larger of the two spaniels, which rolled over
onto its back and presented its tummy to be tickled. "Sorry the children of the night are a bit unimpressive, but at least I'm
having a good deal of success teaching this one to play the ukulele."
He turned and looked at the patch of undergrowth out of which she had struggled. "Well, the Nelcorp land's that side of
those plants. I don't know how you actually managed to get through there at all. I know the barriers have been in a dreadful state
since my father died, but the one over there's supposed to be new. I'll have to have a word with the groundskeeper. In the
meantime, you'd better come up with me to the Manor, and I can let you through the security gates at the top."
They started walking up the path towards the house, the spaniels bounding ahead of them. Draco looked at her. "So
you're a Nelcorp management trainee--?"
Melanie felt that the way Draco's glance passed enquiringly over her was hardly flattering, even if her mother's favourite
phrase of disapprobation: "Melanie, you look as though you've been dragged through a hedge, backwards" was more than usually
applicable at the moment. "No-o. I'm working at Gaia's Place -- you know, that organic whole-food B&B in the village. It's my gap
year, you see."
Melanie wondered from the baffled expression on Draco's face whether she had somehow slipped into talking Polish
without realising it. She ploughed desperately on. "Do you happen to know if the trainees looked as though they were more or less
finished for the morning?"
Draco shrugged. "No idea. When I left they were doing something complicated involving poles and ropes, and a quite
remarkable amount of bad language. Since I've no idea what it was intended to achieve, I can't say when they'll be finished."
Melanie fished a crumpled leaflet from the depths of her shoulder bag and peered at it. "It's a series of exercises intended
to develop corporate problem-solving abilities, iterative analysis of team strengths and weaknesses, and the organic emergence of
a mutually supportive matrix," she reported.
"In that case, I'd say they'd be some time."
"Drat! I did hope I might be able to meet up with Dudley for lunch. I'm back on duty at three."
"Dudley? Not Dudley Dursley, by any chance?"
Melanie nodded. "Yes. He's my boyfriend. Have you met him yet?"
Draco shook his head. "No-- I haven't met any of the trainees."
It was clear from his tone that he regarded "trainees" as an approximate synonym for "slugs". Melanie bristled up
protectively, and glared at him. He looked at her, and appeared to take pity. "But as a matter of fact, I did use to go to school with
his cousin," he added.
Melanie's voice contained a note of pure horror. "You-- you can't mean the psychotic one who poisoned poor Dudley's
childhood?"
Draco looked positively enchanted. "What-- there's someone else out there who feels that way about Potter?"
Melanie nodded, eagerly. "Poor Dudley suffered so much. He never says a lot about it, of course, but it's left him with a lot
of baggage I'm trying to help him talk through."
She had a sense that she had dropped into Polish again. The expression on Draco's face clearly indicated that all the
talking he ever expected to do about baggage could be summed up in the words: "Porter! Deal with that!" Also, the bit of her brain
that from time to time caught up with her vocal cords and disapproved of their activities was now prompting her that Dudley had
vaguely mentioned something distinctly unflattering about his cousin's school, and it was probably not at all sensitive of her to
bring the subject up. It seemed that Draco had reached a similar conclusion, because he said abruptly, "I'd hate to add to his
problems -- I know what he must be going through. Perhaps you'd better not mention I said that."
She nodded, eagerly. "I think you're right." Her expression turned slightly wistful. "I was rather hoping I'd meet his father
down here, but Dudley says he's been much too busy over the conversion work to introduce me to him. Dudley's so proud his
father got selected for this one: all the family reckon it's a real step towards the main US Board. Of course, it's selfish of me, but I
do hope they don't all have to go off to Virginia just yet--"
She coughed, a little self-consciously, and equally self-consciously changed the subject. "You must see Dudley's father a
lot."
"As a matter of fact, Hermione handled all that sort of thing, when Vernon Dursley came down at Easter."
"Oh! Yes. Dudley said his father had met your fiancée-- "
"Ex-fiancée, actually."
Melanie was conscious of the all-too-familiar sensation of Having Put Her Foot in It. She was only relieved her mother had
not been there to hear her. "Oh, I'm so sorry--"
Draco smiled. "Oh, you needn't be. We still get on OK, it's just that we concluded that as the biggest single thing we had
in common was that we both preferred shagging men, the odds weren't good for a long term relationship. Are you sure that
colour's completely healthy for you? Do you have heart problems?"
Melanie virtually doubled over, spluttering a sequence of squeaks, which came out something like "I'm sorry-- you mean-you're-- oh golly-- I haven't actually met-- I mean-- before." Through her confusion she was dimly aware of Draco observing her
response with fascination.
She had barely recovered herself enough to stand upright, and was still having difficulty speaking, when they came in
sight of the Manor's orangerie, which lay at the back of the East Wing among a scatter of other out-buildings.
"Well, I suspect I have to offer you some tea and something for those blisters in the circumstances. Coming in?"
Melanie nodded, speechlessly. They passed under an arch surmounted by an elegant clock (which, she noticed in passing,
was certainly not set to British Summer Time, whatever else it was showing) and into the orangerie, which was a long, thin, sundrenched greenhouse with a soaring glass roof. Its only inhabitant was a tall, thickset young man with very broad shoulders and a
broken nose, who was perched at a bench, repotting some seedlings with an expression of immense concentration.
"Oh, I thought you'd be here. Neville -- this is Melanie. Melanie -- Neville. She's going out with Potter's cousin Dudley, and
she's just been attacked by a plant down where the main drive curves into the edge of Nelcorp land."
Neville looked up and frowned. "Description?"
For one wild moment Melanie considered saying: "Well, it had white flowers, green leaves and was wearing a balaclava
helmet, and it made its get-away in a terracotta plant pot."
Neville gestured impatiently
"Palmated leaves? Succulent? Woody-stemmed? Trefoilated? "
Melanie looked helplessly at him.
"She said it was a mutant triffid," Draco observed.
"Yes, well, I find that hard to believe, even on Malfoy land." He vanished through a door into a small office at the back of
the orangerie, muttering something that sounded rather like: "Knowledge of herbology: nil; knowledge of contemporary literature:
patchy", and returned a minute or two later bearing a ledger-sized herbal which he put on the bench in front of Melanie. After a
little hesitation she had no difficulty in putting her finger on a plate clearly depicting her late assailant.
"Bugger!" Neville said with feeling. "You know what this means? That patch of Virulent Chancrewort we had them root out
at the end of autumn must have seeded down the slope before we got to it. Draco, you'll have to divert one of the working crews
onto it ASAP, otherwise it'll be all over that part of the grounds."
He pulled an Ordnance Survey 6-inches-to-the-mile map from a drawer in the bench, uncorked a bottle of Indian ink and
carefully etched another skull and cross-bones sign on it, adding to a cluster which was already as thick as blackberries at
Michaelmas.
"Well, I suppose I'd better go and get Mrs. P. to produce some more tea," Draco said. "Are those blisters going to be ok, or
should I ask her to get out some salves while she's at it?"
Neville considered. "Well, unless you're one of the small minority of people who are allergic to Chancrewort venom--"
"What are the symptoms of that?" Melanie enquired apprehensively.
"Hm. How long ago did you get stung?"
"Fifteen minutes ago? Maybe a bit more."
"Well, if so, we can safely assume you aren't allergic. Good. Funerals really depress me. In that case, there's actually
nothing you can sensibly do for those except not scratch them, and they'll go down of their own accord in a couple of days. But tea
would definitely help. And possibly biscuits."
Draco shrugged, moved off the stool he had appropriated when he came in, brushed his lips gently over the back of
Neville's sun-burned neck as he squeezed past him, and vanished through the back door of the orangerie, calling out for someone
as he did so. The spaniels pattered after him. To cover her momentary confusion, Melanie said brightly,
"They're such lovely dogs. What're their names?"
Neville's face twisted into an expression of indefinable distaste. "Ah. That was Draco's choice, I'm afraid. I did tell him I
thought it wasn't such a good idea, but he named them while I was away, and by the time I got back the little beasts wouldn't
actually answer to anything else."
An expression of wild curiosity crossed Melanie's face. "And-?" she prompted. "What are they called?"
Draco reappeared in time to hear her question.
"The bigger one's Marvolo, and the smaller one's Riddle," he said. Melanie looked puzzled.
"What's so bad about that?"
Neville looked as though he wanted to say rather more than he was permitting himself.
"You had to have been there," he muttered vaguely, and returned to a depressed perusal of the map. "This abortion really is the
most snarled up excuse for a planned and managed estate you could possibly imagine. Draco -- whatever your ancestors could
have been thinking of (and it's all too obvious in at least some cases what they were thinking of) sustainable development and
viable ecosystem clearly weren't phrases that ever crossed their minds. Still, I suppose there's one thing to be said for them. At
least they didn't plant rhododendrons."
"So that's it? When the history of the age comes to be written, you're going to summarise the entire Malfoy family
contribution in the single footnote 'Didn't plant rhododendrons'? "
"I wouldn't go that far. Call it the single positive family contribution."
Melanie started to relax. She might have little prior experience of eccentric gay aristocrats with sinister reputations, but
she was wholly at home with people who tossed about phrases like "viable ecosystem" and rabbitted on about the reckless damage
introduced species had done to the British countryside.
"So you're running the estate reclamation project?" she enquired.
"Oh, Lord, no. It'll take me at least ten years more training before I'll know enough to run any reclamation project, and I
certainly wouldn't start with this one. All I'm doing is helping out on the preliminary survey work."
At this point an elderly lady wearing a flowered apron and an expression of extreme disapproval appeared from the house
bearing a tray with a teapot, three mugs and a plate of biscuits.
"Will you be Melanie?" she said. "If so, I'm to tell you that the trainees seem to have finished and I'm to let you through the
security gates as soon as you've had your tea."
Before Melanie could respond she had plonked the tray down on the bench, uttered a loud sniff, and stalked off muttering
something, which Melanie could not quite make out, but which seemed to include the phrase: "Never thought I'd live to see the
day."
Melanie scrambled down from her stool, taking a quick swig of rather too hot tea, and looked rather shyly at Neville and
Draco. "Well, I'd better be going. Thanks for everything." She scurried after the housekeeper's retreating back.
"She seems like a nice person," Neville observed.
"I expect that's why she's ended up with Potter's cousin. I daresay if she'd been able to choose she'd have opted to have
stunning good looks and an amazing figure, and stuff the nice personality. Anyway, tell me what I've got to tell the crew to do
about those plants, so I can see them started before we've got to go out. I take it we'll need to issue full protective robes for
everyone again?"
"Do I really have to go to this ghastly dinner party?"
As Draco was already rummaging for his dress robes Neville guessed, accurately, that the question was no more than a
token complaint, meant to put a stake in the ground if, as was all too probable, the evening turned into the disaster he feared. He
put his arm round Draco's shoulders.
"Please. Do you have any idea of what a massive gesture Grandma's making here? The only people there are going to be
my family and the poor sods who married into it. Specifically inviting us, as opposed to me, is practically her equivalent of taking
out a full page ad in the Prophet: 'Neville and Draco OK -- Official.'"
"You make the whole event sound so attractive."
Neville's voice was gloomy. "I didn't say I was expecting to enjoy it. In fact, just so you aren't under any illusions about
what's in store, I suggest you imagine the most awful dinner party you've ever been to, and double it."
Draco twisted round to face him. "Really? The most awful dinner party I was ever at was the one where the Dark Lord
cast Cruciatus on the host for offering him Brussels sprouts."
"Ugh! That's horrible."
"Mm, I know. I think the pudding was rhubarb crumble, too."
There was a tense moment, and then Draco quirked one eyebrow and Neville released a reluctant snort of laughter.
"And don't -- whatever you do -- even think of coming out with a line like that in front of Eustace. Anything he ever had
which vaguely resembled a sense of humour was surgically removed shortly after birth."
"That must be fun for whatserface who's marrying him."
"Elaine. She's a South African, over here to study. They met," Neville added portentously, "at Eustace's church group."
"At his what?" Draco's tone conveyed a perfect blend of shock and horror. Neville nodded sadly.
"He's a big wheel in the Pendle and Hyndburn Ecumenical Group, is Eustace. He had a religious experience at the age of
fourteen, and the whole family's been suffering from it ever since. He went through endless moral dilemmas about whether using
magic was theologically sound or not. Eventually he decided it was, provided each usage was individually justifiable on moral
grounds within an overall spiritual context. So he went into the Ministry."
Draco, wisely, realized that there are some statements with which even a life-long habit of irony cannot contend. His voice
still dripping horror, he changed the subject. "And -- Elaine? She is-- she is a witch, isn't she?"
"Oh yes. Mind you," Neville added, "She might as well not be. Eustace, you see, has Views on married witches practising
magic outside the home."
"And you really think we've got to go to this party?"
Neville nodded again. "I strongly recommend you leave your imagination at home, though. I can assure you, in an evening
with the family, you'll be much happier without it."
Draco's tone changed. "Well, in that case, perhaps I ought to let it out for some exercise before leaving it in for the
evening with a plateful of biscuits and a flask of cocoa."
His hand drifted lightly down Neville's back. "Any objections?"
The rest of the guests had already assembled by the time Neville and Draco Apparated into the porch of Emily
Longbottom's house in Pendle. The evening air was still and warm, scented with gorse and heather. The Hill slept serenely in the
summer sunshine.
Indoors, however, the mood was far from matching the serenity of the day outside. Eustace, who was a tall broadshouldered man with an unfortunate resemblance to a camel, was standing sternly over the chair in which Mrs. Longbottom had
installed herself, and from which she had been supervising Betsey's service of pre-dinner sherry.
"Great-aunt Emily, this puts me and poor El in a most awkward position. I hate to say this, but I believe you actively
misled me."
"Hmph! And how do you reckon that? I invited you to a family party to celebrate your engagement. If you didn't want your
fiancée to meet the family, you should have said."
"Of course, I want her to meet the family. I hope you think of her as part of it, after all, and I want her to feel-- welcome."
"Good. I'm glad we've got that settled."
Eustace gritted his teeth. "It's not the family to whom I'm objecting. As you know perfectly well."
She looked steadily at him. "This is Neville's home. He knows my views on his living comical but -- he is my only
grandson, and this is his home."
"Well, I'm not saying you shouldn't have invited Neville. It's inviting that-- that-- I mean, it's just encouraging them!"
"Hmph! It's clear you don't read the Prophet. When I saw That Photograph, it didn't look as though they needed any
encouragement."
"You might have had the decency to make it clear to Neville that that-- creature-- should find himself a prior engagement
for the evening."
Emily Longbottom's lips thinned into a tight line. It was clear that her great-nephew had finally succeeded in getting her
undivided attention. "I'd have bloody well disinherited him if he'd accepted any invitation of mine on that basis. And if his father - god bless him -- had known, he'd have shaken my hand for it."
Eustace looked rather as the skipper of the Graf Spee might have done, on realizing that Ajax, Achilles and Exeter were
not about to turn and run for safety. He loaded his guns with heavy shells, and charged heedlessly back into the fray.
"His father! Can you imagine what Uncle Frank would say about this, if he were able--" His voice dried up. Emily
Longbottom had, in a turbulent century of existence, been through death and loss, madness and annihilation. For one split
second she looked straight into Eustace's eyes, and laid it bare. It was enough. He recoiled, chalky pale and sweating. Her voice
dropped to a whisper.
"I'd be obliged if you wouldn't mention my son's name again. The subject is closed." She turned half away, to supervise
something in the further reaches of the room. Eustace clenched his fist, and half raised it.
"Great Aunt Emily - "
But at that moment there was a swish of air in the room and Betsey announced: "They'se here, Madam."
Emily Longbottom smiled serenely. "Good. Then we needn't wait dinner. In a quarter of an hour, Betsey."
With the arrival of Draco and Neville the average age of the people in the room dropped by at least a decade. There was a
somewhat confused scramble of introductions, which might have been easier to keep straight had they been accompanied by an
annotated family tree.
"And, Great Aunt Florence, this is Draco," Neville finished up. Great Aunt Florence, a small wispy witch swathed in chiffon
scarves, goggled nervously up at him.
"Yes, of course. You're Neville's... er... um..."
"We thought the best word for it was 'Watkin'," Draco said helpfully. She goggled even more, clearly wondering whether
she dare enquire further, or if the answer would turn out to be wildly improper. She took a deep breath and decided to chance it.
"I'm sorry -- what? I mean, why?"
Draco shrugged. "Oh, when the story broke in the Prophet the reaction of everyone we'd been to school with seemed to be
'Watkin Neville possibly see in him?' So we decided it was obviously the only way to introduce me."
Mrs. Longbottom, who was within earshot, gave a brief bark of laughter. "You shouldn't put yourself down, young man.
You'll find plenty of volunteers to do that, without you starting."
"Thank you so much for that vote of confidence, " Draco muttered.
Eustace emerged from the group at the back of the room, towing by the hand a young woman of about 26 who was
wearing what Draco mentally catalogued as "the little black robe" and a possessive simper.
"Anyway, Neville," Eustace said firmly "You must meet El. El, this is my cousin Neville. You know, that one."
Before Neville could respond to this gambit, Draco extended his hand to Elaine, and said cheerfully, "What an unusual
name. Are you named after the place or the unit of measurement?"
"I'm sorry?"
Elaine's brows pulled together in a frown of nervous incomprehension. Draco relented. "Doesn't matter. Feeble joke. Call
it a pre-emptive strike on the strange name topic."
Elaine caught at the last phrase as though it were a lifebelt thrown to her in shark-infested waters. "Yes, yours is rather
weird, isn't it?" she said earnestly. An unspoken flicker of amusement passed between Neville and Draco.
"Well, not by my family's standards," Draco said.
"Is that of weird, or of names?" Neville murmured gently.
"Does it matter?"
Elaine was clearly having difficulty following this. Something about her expression provoked a brief flash of nostalgia in
Draco.
"Golly, you remind me so much of someone I was at school with. Two someones, actually."
Neville made a small, urgent, cool it gesture with his hand. Fortunately, at this moment, Mrs. Longbottom reappeared on
the scene with one of Neville's elderly relatives. "There you are, Algie. Five sickles says you spot who Draco's grandfather was
within two minutes. What d'ya think?"
Great Uncle Algie peered at Draco for a few moments. "Surely not, Emily. Fancy Patrice deVries having a grown-up
grandson! I can hardly believe there's been enough time--"
"Knowing what I know about my grandfather, I'd be surprised if I were a singular phenomenon--"
Great Uncle Algie pattered on, regardless. "My late wife used to know Patrice quite well at one time--"
Draco's face became suddenly immobile.
"--before we married, of course. I think they were neighbours when she was still living in Norfolk."
Neville devoutly hoped none of his more shockable relatives had been able to lip-read Draco's sotto voce expression of
relief.
"I don't think we heard anything about what your grandfather did in Recent Events," Eustace said pointedly.
"That would be due to his being killed in 1968, I expect."
"Good God, yes! I'd forgotten all about that." Great Uncle Algie slapped his thigh. "It was old Sneckles Fortescue who did
it, wasn't it? Good old Sneckles -- he was one of my best mates in Hufflepuff -- he's still going strong, you know -- still at his place
down near Salcombe -- getting a bit deaf now, but still as healthy as ever. Still pottering on up the estuary in his Drascombe, and
always managing to get tide-bound till the pub's shut."
"Next time I get out my Ouija board I'll be certain to pass on the good news," Draco murmured.
"What did he do?" Neville enquired apprehensively. Draco shrugged.
"Hit grandfather with a stunning spell."
"But I thought you said he was killed? How do you kill someone with a stunning spell?"
"Oh, quite easily if they're taking a roundabout on two wheels at eighty at the time. Mrs. Fortescue managed to Apparate
out of the passenger seat, but my grandfather ploughed straight on into a bus."
Neville looked rather puzzled. "So why didn't this Fortescue character end up in Azkaban?"
Draco made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, the Minister for Magic at the time had his suspicions about why his gorgeous
Titian-haired wife had just presented him with an adorable blonde baby girl, and everyone on the bus was a Muggle, of course. So
after a bit of legal argy-bargy they brought it in as 'Reckless Use of a Wand in a Public Place' and fined him a thousand Galleons."
The tone was as light as ever, but Neville noticed that Draco's wand hand had tensed into a claw where it rested against
his side.
"Well, Algie," Mrs. Longbottom said briskly. "I don't think we can expect young Draco here to spend the whole evening
discussing how your friend killed his relative."
Eustace raised his eyebrows. "Really? I was thinking he might find it a refreshing change."
Possibly to everyone's relief, Betsey at this point announced: "Dinner is served".
The party was herded purposefully through to the dining room, over which sundry heavy oils of whiskered and top-hatted
Chattox and Longbottom ancestors presided with almost Forsytean gravitas and respectability.
Mrs. Longbottom firmly collared Draco and Eustace and deployed them on her left and right sides. Elaine she separated
from her beloved, to whose side she had been glued throughout the sherry phase of the festivities, and settled on Draco's other
side. Neville she banished with the flick of a finger to the position opposite her at the foot of the table, flanked by Great Aunts
Florence and Bertha. The rest of the family filled in the remaining spaces. Her eye passed over her kingdom, and she smiled.
"Well, isn't it grand to have a quiet evening when the whole family can get together as a family? Yes, Eustace, you may say
grace, but make it snappy. It may be vichyssoise, but I don't believe in letting even cold soup get colder."
Elaine appeared to have been racking her brains for suitable conversational topics during the soup course, during which
she had remained completely silent while those around her had carried on a desultory but reasonably friendly conversation
mainly about Quidditch.
As the lamb was served she said brightly to Draco: "I do feel jealous of you people who were able to go to Hogwarts. I really think I
missed out on that, with my parents emigrating to South Africa when I was two. I had an idyllic childhood, of course, but it isn't
the biggest magical community in the world. At least, not traditional magic. We always felt frightfully provincial when some-one
came out to visit us from Europe."
"Why did your parents emigrate?" Great-Uncle Algie enquired. Elaine looked rather serious.
"Well-- my mother was from a Muggle family, and she didn't feel quite comfortable about the difficulties that were
happening here at that time. So my parents felt it was best to go somewhere where we wouldn't be affected by any of that sort of
thing as we were growing up."
"So are you planning to whisk Eustace off to Jo'burg when you marry?"
Great Uncle Algie's voice was clearly audible at the far end of the table, and Draco fancied that not only Neville looked
hopefully up for the answer. Elaine shook her head. "No, as a matter of fact my parents are thinking of coming home themselves.
It's just not the same as it used to be; obviously the crime problem has got desperate, and service standards are just collapsing
everywhere. And anyway, after Recent Events the problems here are much less. Speaking of which, Draco, I've just thought! You
must have been in the same Hogwarts year as Harry Potter! That must have been a real privilege."
"Um. Up to a point."
Draco's tone was one of studied neutrality. Eustace's eyes glittered. "You weren't, of course, in the same House as each
other," he observed.
"Quite candidly, if either one of us saw the other coming in time we weren't usually in the same county."
"How interesting. And why might that have been?"
"Various reasons. Personally, I think the situation became irrevocable when Potter refused to believe that I genuinely am
allergic to Hippogriff saliva. He probably had a different view of things, though. I expect Neville could tell you. So, Elaine, when did
Eustace pop the question?"
Elaine giggled, and blushed. "A fortnight ago. It's all been an absolute whirlwind -- to think, two months ago we hadn't
even met! But of course, it feels as though I've known Eustace for absolutely ever!"
"I can see that one might," Draco observed, applying himself to the lamb.
There was comparative peace until Betsey arrived with bowls of strawberries. The sugar sifter had been transplanted to
the far side of the table in an effort to demonstrate why the Puddlemere Keeper had been so culpably out of his proper position
during the Cup semi-final of the just-concluded season. As Draco stretched out his left hand for it he noticed Eustace gazing
fixedly at his arm, where the sleeve of his robe had accidentally been rolled back to some six inches above his wrist. He caught
Eustace's eye, and, very deliberately, flicked the sleeve down so as to cover his arm and hand to the knuckle. Eustace gave a
small, satisfied "ha!" noise, and turned his gaze away.
Draco turned to Mrs. Longbottom. "I'm sorry, but I'm finding it incredibly close in here. Would you mind if I popped out
for some fresh air?"
She looked at him for a moment. "Yes, you do look a bit pale. No, go on. I wouldn't want you fainting on us."
He left his napkin on his chair, and was gone. At the other end of the table Neville looked up in sudden alarm and caught
his grandmother's eye. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. With an apologetic mutter to his great-aunts he followed
Draco.
He caught up with him on the stone steps, which led down from the veranda into the garden, where Draco was leaning against the
decorative green-painted iron-work and breathing hard. His expression was pitched somewhere between murderous rage and
seriously upset. Neville stretched out a tentative hand and rested it on Draco's arm.
"Go on," he said, "what was the camel's final straw?"
Draco gave a huff of laughter that had no amusement in it at all. "He was making it entirely clear to everyone around him
-- well, apart from Elaine, but then I don't suppose he had a large billboard and a choir of singing pixies handy - that he was
looking for the Dark Mark."
Neville looked baffled. "But that's totally ridiculous. Everyone knows--"
"Doesn't stop a fair number of people thinking they know better. You'd be surprised how often it happens. But usually
they have the decency to be a bit less obvious about it."
"Eustace doesn't have decency. He trumps it with Rectitude. Look, should I go in and talk to him? After all, whatever his
Views are, he can't pretend I haven't seen your arm often enough. Through to the bones, on at least one occasion. And I didn't
spot any marks on those, either."
Draco shook his head. "You're missing the point. If that had been the answer I'd have shoved my sleeve further up
instead of pulling it down."
He bit on his lower lip and gazed across at the Hill, trying to find the right words. "The Dark Mark was a bloody idiotic
idea, I've always thought," he said abruptly. "I mean, talk about giving Counsel for the Defence an uphill struggle if an Auror ever
pulled you in. Besides being quite unbelievably ugly. My father--"
He paused, swallowed, and visibly changed tack. "Never underestimate the damage done by stupid people in large groups.
I read that somewhere. Look, suppose I'd shoved my sleeve up so all the table could see it. Or suppose you go back in now and tell
Eustace there's nothing there. All he'll think is that the charm I'm using to conceal it must be really effective, or that you're so
besotted you'll say anything. None of it's going to convince him that there isn't anything there, because to be convinced he'd have
to admit he was wrong in the first place. And since nothing is more true for him than his own opinion, that just can't happen.
Being in the right is his Cause. I've seen-- a lot of people do a lot of rather unpleasant things. And basically, if they're doing them
from self-interest there's always a chance you can change their minds for them -- give them some other carrot to go for, or some
other stick to avoid. But when it comes to blind faith in the Cause -- then I could cut off my bloody arm and put on his dessert
plate in front of him, and he'd swear to the ends of the earth that it's a well known fact that the Mark vanishes when the link to
the body ceases."
His grey eyes burned with deep-set misery. Neville met his gaze steadily. "And the Lestranges?" he asked.
There was a pause. "What are you driving at?"
"I'm trying to understand what you mean. And I just asked you a question. You had to have been in You Know Who's HQ
that time when the Dementors turned Azkaban and let the prisoners out. Was your aunt in it for self interest, or for blind faith in
her Cause?"
Draco turned half away. The scent of the roses came up heavily from the garden. His voice was so low as to be barely
audible. "I think-- that there was very little-- difference-- between Mrs. Lestrange's expression as I saw it last and-- what I saw in
his face this evening. But please don't ask anything more."
Neville fumbled in the pockets of his robes. "Here. I expected we'd need this."
He lit the spliff and passed it across to Draco, whose eyes widened with improbable amusement. "Where on earth did you
get this from?"
"Oh, come off it. You might have got the lowest mark in Herbology in our year, but you ought to take some interest in
what's happening in your own greenhouses."
"Really?" Draco took a drag. " My father would have absolute kittens if he knew."
"What, after all he did--"
"Oh, the Dark Lord was dead against it. Personally, I don't think he fancied the risk of any of his followers saying 'Chill
out, man, you must be fucking joking' when he was trying to talk them into another self-sacrificial assault."
He turned, settled himself down on the steps, and looked out across the valley. "I'm sorry I stormed out. That little prick
just got to me."
Neville looked at him in momentary bewilderment, and then grinned. "Don't worry about it. Look here, your lot might
have been into stiff upper lips and poison the bugger later, but believe you me the Longbottom family motto is 'Say it with
crockery'. Honestly, your leaving dinner a bit early doesn't even rate a 1 on the Richter scale of family upset. If you want to draw
comparisons, I'm told my Uncle John once had a blazing row with my father one time over the dinner table, walked out of the
house, disguised himself as a Muggle, joined the British Antarctic Survey, and walked back in to dinner five years later by way of
Patagonia without another word."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"Oh, my grandmother said to him, 'I think you'll find your soup's cold' and he said, 'It'd've counted as warm where I've
been, mother,' and they never said anything else about it. Look, I'm sorry about Eustace. After all, your family might be more of a
public menace, but for sheer, grinding low-level unpleasantness mine can hold their own with the worst of them. Except for
Grandma. She does try, even if her methods are a bit nerve-shattering at times."
Draco shuddered, delicately, in the manner of a Burmese cat caught in an unexpected shower. "In the ranks of the
scariest people I've ever met, believe me your grandmother is well up in the top two." He looked across toward the Hill, over the
acres of dry-stone walled pasture that breathed late evening contentment in the golden glow of the setting sun, and gestured with
one hand. "How much of that lot is yours, by the way?"
Neville drew his brows together, momentarily. "Haven't the foggiest," he confessed. Even by the standards of Malfoy
nonchalance about landed property this clearly made an impression. He thought it wise to amplify.
"If it's anyone's, it's Grandma's. And I shouldn't imagine she'd be in any hurry to let anyone know how she's split her
investments between land and equities." A thought obviously struck him, and he smiled. "Do you realize, I think you're probably
the only person who I was at school with to whom it'd ever occur to ask? I suspect most of them hear 'Longbottom' and add
mentally 'Bring your own whippet'. I wouldn't hurry, by the way. There's a sort of unspoken family convention that if one of us
does find the rest of them too much, the least he can do is give the others time for a nice bit of uninterrupted character
assassination before walking back in."
He moved his arm so it circled Draco's shoulders completely. Draco leaned into his embrace. Neville tightened his grasp.
They sat back against the sun-warmed steps and watched the harvest moon begin to rise behind the Hill.
The bed was a narrow one, and at least 95% of it was occupied by Dudley. Melanie balanced herself perilously on the
minute shelf left to her, and tried to block out with the edge of the pillow the rhythmic snores that filled the room in an
approximate rendition of Mahler's Symphony of a Thousand, re-scored for pneumatic drills and bronchitic grampuses.
As major life events went, she concluded miserably, anti-climactic was the all too appropriate word.
"Well, if that's what it's all about, I'm surprised the human race got as far as the twentieth century," she muttered aloud,
and then looked down with sudden guilt at the figure on the bed. She need not have worried. Dudley snored on, regardless.
With uncharacteristic decision she gave up the unequal struggle for the bed and walked over to the window seat,
wrapping her shoulders in a discarded jumper.
The Nelcorp conference and training centre had been created by the conversion of the coach-houses and stabling, which
occupied the same relative position to the West wing of the Manor as the orangerie did to the East. The dark bulk of the main
house loomed just on the edge of the view framed by the window. The residential quarters of the training centre mainly overlooked
the lawns, which were bathed in moonlight at that hour, and ran seamlessly (or so it seemed by a trick of the eye, and the
strategic placing of a ha-ha) to the dark edging of the woodland which clustered and overhung the newly tarmacced track which
wound for a three quarters of a mile down the coombe towards the gate which gave onto the main road.
Melanie contemplated the view uneasily for some minutes, and looked at her watch. Twenty to two. She looked back at the
hump under the duvet, but the snoring continued unabated.
"After all, there is a moon. Bright as anything. And there can't be anyone in the grounds, with all those security gates and
things. And it probably isn't more than ten minutes walk once you get to the main road. More like five, really."
She bit her lip, and began very slowly to dress, taking frequent glances back towards the bed.
Once she was fully dressed she perched herself on the edge of the window seat again. "Perhaps if I count to fifty--"
She looked hopefully towards the hump on the bed. "Well, possibly to a hundred."
There was no change in Dudley's position. She looked at her watch again, and dragged herself reluctantly to her feet. "I
mean, when you get to University you'll have to get yourself home at all sorts of times. Parties and things. And that's in a city. It'd
be a good idea to get yourself used to it where you know there can't be any real danger."
She stretched out her hand to the doorknob, and then turned back irresolutely. "Perhaps if I just count another fifty--"
Nothing changed. She got up.
"It just shows Mum was right. Fine of you to moan about not getting to go backpacking. I mean, if you can't even manage
Wiltshire, you certainly wouldn't have enjoyed Thailand."
There was a quick, hot, prickle of self-pity under her eyelids. She clenched her hands into two fists and buried them deep
in her jeans pockets.
"Right. That's it, then." This, she said aloud. If she had hoped it might have made any difference, she was disappointed.
With a bitten off sigh, she padded nervously out into the corridor, half hopeful and half apprehensive that she would meet one of
the other trainees on her way out of the facility.
She reached the ground floor and, passing a row of training rooms whose daytime paraphernalia of whiteboards and
computer monitors looked curiously eerie and forsaken at that time of night, sidled out into the courtyard. The door clicked gently
shut behind her, and a small red light glowed, momentarily, as the electronic security lock engaged. No going back. She took a
lungful of cool, grass-scented air, and strode determinedly out into the Manor grounds.
Her long shadow kept pace with her as she crossed the lawns, following the track as it wound down past the ha-ha and
towards the coppices. Behind her the dark windows of the Manor gazed balefully at her retreating back. Twice she stopped
abruptly, and spun round, trying to surprise whatever it was that she felt was following her. The first time she saw nothing; the
second time she startled a huge owl which had been perched on the edge of the ha-ha, and which took off towards the Manor with
an indignant screech. Her nerves jangled at the noise as though she had been given an electric shock.
The track reached the edge of the woodland. Above her tree branches interlaced, and the thick summer foliage threw a
pattern of dancing black and silver chequers on the track in front of her.
At the very edge of her hearing there was a faint padding sound. She stopped. The padding stopped, perhaps half a beat
later. She started to move again, a little more quickly. The padding started up again; louder, and a little quicker.
Losing all control she broke into a ragged run, her breath coming in sobbing gasps. There was a small open space in the
midst of the trees ahead, where the moonlight shone full on the path. She pelted desperately towards the oasis of light, and the
sounds behind her gathered momentum.
At the very edge of the clearing a black shadow rose up, caught her bodily round her waist, and flung her off the path into
the undergrowth. As she hit the ground she felt as though gravity had suddenly quadrupled, pinning her to the earth. Movement
or speech were equally unthinkable.
Something rushed past where she had been on the path; was outlined in the moonlight as it paused, momentarily, to
throw back its head and raise its impossible jaws to howl, and then was gone.
"Can you move your legs and arms OK?" The worried Lancashire accent was recognisable. She had heard it little more
than twelve hours before. People who used phrases like "viable ecosystem" and fretted about unchecked rhododendron growth.
Entirely familiar and normal, huh!
Melanie pushed herself muzzily up to a sitting position, and pinched randomly at her limbs, which seemed intact, if
shaky.
"I'm sorry I startled you, but it was right behind you by the time I spotted you were on the path. There really wasn't time
for anything else. And at least there wasn't anything too unpleasant in that patch you landed in this time."
"Ha-- has it gone?"
"Mm. Well, I hope so. For the time being, at least. Is that necklace of yours silver?"
"Ye-- yes."
"Good."
She raised her hand automatically to touch her necklace for reassurance, and her stomach suddenly plummeted. Under
the shadow of the trees she could not see her hand before her face. Her companion, who must be only feet away, was completely
invisible -- and he could see her perfectly in the dark.
"Time for us to get out of here, I think," Neville added. There was a sudden explosion of white and green sparks, as though
he had let off a small firework. Melanie caught a glimpse of his face in the brief glow, before the sparks subsided and the darkness
rushed in again, much blacker than before.
Moments later there was a rush of air and a soft thud from somewhere in the darkness on the other side of the track.
"Melanie's with me. I met her on the path," Neville called out in a low tone, in which Melanie thought she detected a note
of warning. There was a low mutter, and another rush of air, and Draco stepped out onto the moonlit path where it crossed the
clearing, pushing back his hood from his head with gloved hands so that the moonlight blazed coldly back from his silver-blond
hair. Melanie suppressed a gasp. Draco was now bizarrely dressed in a loose black robe, which reached to the ankles of his boots,
and a black cloak. However, he moved with unconscious assurance in the cumbersome clothing, and had utterly lost the slightly
stagey air Melanie had sensed at their first meeting. His eyes glittered with concentration and he looked years older.
"Are you both OK? The line it was taking, I made sure it was going to go right through you."
"It nearly did," Neville said grimly, guiding Melanie by the elbow out of the undergrowth and into the patch of moonlight in
the clearing. He, too, was robed, cloaked, booted and gloved. "I had to Transfigure her into a rock to make sure it didn't pick up
her scent."
"My god! Melanie, have you counted all your arms and legs since?" There was a faint thread of amusement in Draco's
tone.
"Yes, well, it worked, didn't it? Which way did it go?"
Draco shrugged. "It broke towards the South Lodge. I'd say it was probably off the estate by now, but there'd be nothing to
stop it doubling back. And the thing I was watching lit out in the other direction like a bat out of hell before I could find out just
what it was. By the trajectory I'd have said broomstick, but I'd be surprised if you could get that sort of acceleration even out of
the Firebolt TT-"
"Draco! Time. Place. We'd better be getting back to the Manor in case it does double back; we can do the Top Twig reviews
when we're safely inside. Come on, Melanie."
Melanie set her jaw determinedly. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You-- you're some kind of Satanists, aren't you? Well,
I can tell you, if you want me as a sacrifice, you'll find you're a few hours too late."
Draco looked rather affronted. "Of course we aren't Satanists. The family's always been C of E -- not that we go, of course.
Well, OK, one of the ancestors did organise a chapter of the Hell Fire Club down here back in the 1770s, but I think that was just
for the kinky sex and the blackmail opportunities."
"Sounds like Great Aunt Bertha's explanation of why she joined the WI," Neville murmured. Melanie gave an impatient
shrug, and made as if to start walking down the track again.
"Well, anyway, whatever you are, there's no reason why I should trust you enough to come back to the Manor with you.
You could do anything once you got me back there. So I'll be going. I'm due back on duty at the guest house at quarter to seven,
anyway, to do breakfast."
Neville tightened her grip on her arm. "Melanie, you've got to believe us. Tonight, there is every chance you wouldn't reach
the main road alive."
"I'll take the risk." There was a tremor in her voice, and she clamped her jaws together to avoid betraying herself further.
"Look, she's putting all three of us in danger by keeping us here arguing about it. Why don't we just knock her out and
carry her back to the Manor?"
Melanie gave a quick yelp of fright and tried to twist herself out of Neville's grip, kicking ineffectually at his shins, and
kneeing (rather more effectually, judging by his sudden "oof" of pain) in the general direction of his groin.
"Draco -- that simply isn't helping." Neville's voice sounded as though it were coming through gritted teeth.
He caught her other shoulder, and swung her round to face him, gripping her upper arms and turning his hips to pin her
against a tree so as to block her further kicking efforts. "Calm down and let's try looking at this logically. We may be everything
you suspect we are. If so, then there are two of us, and one of you. Both of us are-- well, in your terms, think of it as armed-- and
we can see in the dark, whereas you can't. And finally, we're in the middle of a wood, and there's no one else within call. Can you
can honestly think of anything we could do to you back at the Manor that we couldn't just as easily do here?"
Melanie opened her mouth and then shut it again. Seeing that he was having some effect, Neville continued. "On the
other hand, you've got to accept that it's at least theoretically possible we're telling the truth. In that case, it's a no-brainer -- going
back to the Manor with us at least doesn't increase your risk. Trying to make your own way home does. Just think of it as playing
the odds."
"And the job?" Melanie said stubbornly. "Someone's got to be there to serve the grockles' breakfast."
Draco sighed. "Ordinarily, I'd offer to run you down in the car, but there's good reasons why neither of us ought to leave
the Manor grounds at least till moonset. However, while Malfoy hospitality may not be all it once was--"
"Thank goodness," Neville muttered, "or she would have reason to worry."
"--I do still have at least half a dozen spare bedrooms you could crash out in. Just do make sure you're off the premises
before Mrs. P. shows up in the morning. I can't face having to talk her out of giving notice for the third time this week."
"Why--?" Melanie was beginning to ask, when a slight change in the direction of the breeze blowing up the coombe
brought the faintest sound of howling towards them. It made up her mind for her. "OK. But believe me, you'd better give me some
good explanations once we're indoors."
They moved swiftly back up the track in single file. Melanie's nerves jangled at every rustle from the undergrowth, or
breaking branch, and the young men in front of and behind her seemed equally tense, but nothing came to challenge them.
Within a few minutes they were at a massive oak door to the rear of the Manor's East wing. Draco put one hand on it and it swung
open.
"Lumos," he said clearly, and the interior blazed with a warm yellow glow, from some unseen light source, illuminating a
huge stone flagged kitchen, with a big, farmhouse table and, incongruously to Melanie's eyes, an Aga taking up much of one
corner. He looked at Melanie, whose eyes appeared unnaturally large when reflected in the mirror that hung next to the door (in
which she was relieved to see both her companions were also reflected).
"Of course, it could always be--" he gestured with one hand, as though fishing for the right expression, "voice-activated
electronics, couldn't it?"
"It isn't." Her tone did not make it a question. He nodded.
"No. It isn't." He pulled out a wand from his belt, and sketched a complex pattern, which hung for a few seconds in fire
across the door that had swung shut behind them. "And before you ask, that isn't intended to keep you in. It's intended to keep
other things out."
"Like that thing I met?"
"Among other things, yes."
He pulled a bottle from a cupboard, sloshed two generous measures into a couple of tumblers, and gestured enquiringly
with the bottle to Neville, who had dropped his cloak onto a pile by the door and, moving somewhat gingerly, assumed a position
leaning against the Aga. Neville shook his head. Draco pushed one of the tumblers across towards Melanie, and took a hefty
swallow from his own. She sniffed suspiciously at the contents.
"Whisky. And that's all it is. I don't mix things with decent whisky. Don't bother telling me you don't like the taste,
because I'll just tell you to hold your nose and get it down your throat. You'll feel a lot better when you have."
Her hand, she noticed, was shaking where it held the tumbler, and her teeth chattering. She split a little with her first
swallow, but the second was easier. So was the third. She put the half-empty glass down on the table with sudden decision.
"Explanations. Now."
"Hm. This is going to be difficult."
Whisky, exhaustion and terror combined to produce an unwonted sense of assertiveness. Melanie set her teeth. "How,
difficult? Try giving that as difficult on a scale of one to ten, with assembling IKEA flat pack furniture as a five."
Draco and Neville exchanged baffled glances. She tried another tack. "Well? What was that thing? What did it want? And
why was it in the Manor grounds?"
Draco traced a pattern with one forefinger on the table in the spilled whisky. "In order: it was a werewolf, it wanted blood,
and it was here because whoever arranged for it to be here would rather that blood were mine."
It was the sheer ordinariness of his tone, coupled with the lunatic nature of the content, that threatened for a moment to
tip her into unconsciousness from sheer fright. The room whirled abruptly round, and dark clouds pressed in from the edges of
her vision.
"Draco, you're frightening her." Neville's arm was suddenly round her shoulders. "Ssh, it's OK. Nothing can get in here.
Promise. Gosh, you're cold. You'd better put this on."
Numbly, she allowed herself to have a cloak wrapped around her, and, blindly, she took another swallow from her glass.
Draco refilled it.
"What would you do if it did get in?" she asked dully. Draco looked at her.
"Speaking strictly for me, get out pronto through the other door screaming: 'Oh shit, oh shit, we're all going to die'. Not
having a thousand year old House tradition of courage to maintain, you understand. But Neville's right. It isn't going to happen.
Something did try to get into the Manor this evening, when we were both out. The defences were too good to let it pass, but there
were at least two intruders in the grounds when we went out to check, besides the werewolf. Both of those seem to have gone for
the time being, but we certainly can't risk being drawn out of the Manor again tonight."
Marvolo and Riddle, who had been curled in their baskets next to the Aga, chasing rabbits in their sleep and whimpering,
roused themselves up at the sound of voices and came padding over to her, licking at her hands and settling on her feet in two
heavy bundles of warmth and comfort. She buried her fingers gratefully in the soft fur of their necks and ears. "How do you know
it was a werewolf? I mean, couldn't it have been just an ordinary wolf?"
"A representative of the indigenous wolf packs of Wiltshire, no doubt?"
The mockery in Draco's tone caused her to flush.
"There's the beast of Bodmin--" she began defensively.
"Believe me, you don't want to know the story behind the beast of Bodmin. No, it was definitely a werewolf. We were
taught how to recognize them at school. By one, actually."
Melanie parked the implications of that one firmly under a lid that read: "Seriously Worrying Stuff. Do Not Investigate",
and assumed a tone of determined rationality. "So - why do you think someone would want to kill you?"
The other two looked at her for some moments in sheer surprise. Draco recovered first. "Oh, I know lots of people who
want to kill me. It's the ones who might actually be free and able to do it who are a bit harder to pin down."
Melanie swallowed. It seemed difficult to believe that someone not much older than herself could have multiple mortal
enemies -- but then Dudley had insisted that his cousin's school was for the seriously disturbed and dysfunctional, and the earlier
events of the evening had suggested to her that he hadn't known the half of it.
"I mean, it could be practically anybody. People out for revenge for what my father did to their families; people who think
I'll do something similar if they don't stop me first; people out for revenge for what my mother did to their families; even, at a
pinch, someone registering a protest at-- what do the Muggle magazines call it? Oh yes, our 'lifestyle choices'."
The back part of Melanie's brain suddenly caught up with the front part, and the combination exploded into speech. "You
think you might be being stalked by a homophobic werewolf?"
Her voice went up into an uncontrollable shriek. Draco shrugged. "Well, weirder things have happened."
Her brain analysed this sentence for perhaps two seconds. She threw her head back with sheer disbelief. "Weirder things
have happened? In what universe are we talking about here?"
Neville and Draco exchanged glances. "She's right, you know. That one would be a bit weird, even for us."
Draco filled their glasses again. "Anyway," he said, "I suppose I'd better go and make sure the last victim's entrails have
been tidied out of the bedroom I was planning to put you in."
Melanie shot him a I'm-Not-Falling-for-That-One glower from under her eyebrows, and he grinned at her unrepentantly
and vanished upstairs. Melanie looked faintly guilty, and half rose. "Perhaps I ought to go and help make the bed--"
Neville caught her arm and pushed her gently back into her seat. "Sit down," he advised firmly. "In the first place, I
imagine you make quite enough beds in your day job as it is. Secondly, if Mrs. P. hasn't left every bed in this place in a fit state for
the Minister for Magic to kip on without notice I'll be absolutely gobsmacked. Finally, all Draco'll be planning to do about anything
that isn't as it should be will be to point a wand at it and say: 'make it so', and even that much effort will probably have the
furniture fainting in surprise. Anyway, you still haven't told us why you were wandering about the Manor grounds at two in the
morning at all."
Melanie blushed. To cover her confusion she took another swallow of whisky and waved her hand vaguely. "Oh, Dudley
asked me up after supper to help him with some of the tricky bits of his assignment, and then he made me coffee -- and we had
some drinks -- and then it got later than I'd intended--"
The kitchen was warm from the heat of the Aga. Marvolo and Riddle went back to sleep on her feet. She was vaguely
conscious that she was babbling a little, before her head was on the kitchen table, and she was being gently shaken awake by
Neville.
"You'd be a lot better off in a bed. Come on, it's ready."
She moved stiffly to her feet. Marvolo and Riddle, yawning and whimpering in protest, got up too. She looked down at the
two dogs, then at the subtly alien appearance of the two young men who were lounging about the kitchen, and at the way the
shadows danced disconcertingly around the heavy oak timbers of the kitchen, leaving her with the uneasy sense that something
that was not, and never had been human was watching her from the crevices. A hollow pit of sheer naked terror opened in the
region of her midriff. She looked desperately at Draco. "Would you mind awfully if I kept the dogs with me?"
Draco opened his mouth to say something, and then visibly changed his mind. "OK. But don't let them climb on the bed.
And I warn you, if a werewolf does get in--"
"Which it won't," Neville prompted anxiously.
"Which, as I was about to say, it won't -- you have to understand they'll be about as much use as a chocolate frog in a cup
of cocoa. But faced with any other threat I admit they'll probably get it sufficiently baffled while they make up their minds whether
to shag it, eat it or slobber all over it for you to think up some sort of escape plan. Personally, I always recommend screaming very
loudly."
The Manor stairs were uneven and poorly lit, and the oil paintings on the staircase walls leered unpleasantly at her as she
walked nervously past them. At the first floor landing, Draco gestured at a door on his left hand.
"That's yours. Goodnight."
Her hand closed over the doorknob. She was conscious of his eyes looking straight at her, suddenly very bright, and with
an odd look in them.
"Funny, what was that he just said?" was her last coherent thought as her head hit the pillow and she went out like a
light.
Melanie woke because her shoulder was being firmly shaken.
"Whah-- wazzit?" she muttered thickly.
"Morning. Sorry, but you did say you had to be on duty for breakfast. I did try yelling from the passage, but it obviously
wasn't getting through. Oy, you two. Off! Off!"
Through the cautious millimetre that was all the "open" her eye-lids seemed to want to manage at this hour she could see
two spaniels being grabbed by the scruffs of their respective necks and swung heartlessly off her bed onto the floor. They turned at
the door to give a heart-rending unspoken commentary on the brutality of a harsh universe from deep reproachful eyes and slunk
off.
Melanie checked that her crumpled T-shirt was modestly covering her upper body, and pushed herself up on one elbow.
Waking up in strange beds with no clue as to how one had arrived there was one of the perils of which her mother had frequently
warned her, but she had a subtle sense that this particular scenario was infinitely more complicated than any her mother had
envisaged.
"Er... I'm sorry if this sounds a bit dense, but how did I get here?"
Neville leaned against the doorjamb. "Well... er... when you left the conference centre you bumped into us coming back
from this dinner party, and we invited you in for a night-cap and eventually you... er... fell asleep. So it seemed simplest to put
you up in one of the spare bedrooms--"
Melanie's hand went to her mouth. "Oh, golly, that is -- so -- embarrassing." She crimsoned. Neville watched her intently.
She paused, and suddenly the room jolted into focus around her. His eyebrows came together as he recognised the change in her
expression. "That isn't what happened at all, is it?" Her voice was high and accusing.
He shook his head. "Damn. I thought when Draco was casting that Memory Charm that it hadn't quite taken, but he was
absolutely positive it had."
Melanie gulped, skipped over the implications of "memory charm" and eyed Neville nervously. This morning he was
indistinguishable from any other student, in a pair of faded jeans and a decrepit rugby shirt bearing the crest of the Royal
Agricultural College at Cirencester, but she could -- now -- clearly remember how he had looked the previous night. Nothing he or
Draco had said or done then had any place on the spectrum which Melanie recognised as normal experience.
"I do remember -- there were various weird things happening -- we got attacked by something -- and you did something to
me so as to fend it off -- look, what are you people, anyway?"
Neville sighed. "Since you ask, we're wizards. But we'd be grateful if you didn't mention it to anyone. Especially not to your
boyfriend."
"Dudley? Why him, especially? "
"Because he'd be likely to believe you."
Melanie gave a nervous snort of disbelief. "It's obvious you've never met him. I don't know anyone who's less likely to
believe in the supernatural. I mean, he even scoffs about ley lines, and positive crystal energies--"
"That may be so, but as far as wizards and Dudley are concerned 'believe in' isn't really the word. Have you got any
cousins?"
Baffled by this bizarre twist in the conversation Melanie nodded, thinking of Kim and Lisa -- older, sophisticated,
unachievably more together somehow. No one dreamed of doubting Kim and Lisa's cool competence. No one would have dared to
tell them they couldn't manage BUNAC -- Kenya -- a detour back via like-minded friends in Goa -"And -- do you believe in them?"
"You don't believe in your family, they're just facts of life."
"Mm. Exactly."
The implications suddenly caught up with Melanie. "You mean-- Dudley's ghastly cousin is a wizard ? But he can't be--"
Neville nodded. "He's a bloody famous one. Has been all his life. And skip the ghastly bit-- he is by way of being a friend of
mine, after all. Even if we have sort of lost touch recently."
"But Draco said he couldn't stand him either--"
Neville looked resigned. "Well, you can't really expect Draco to be all that logical on the subject of Harry. Look, there's no
point in my going into all the background -- to begin with, if those grockles are ever going to get fed this morning, we haven't time
-- but the short version is that if it weren't for Harry the odds are Draco's father wouldn't be dead; Nelcorp Inc wouldn't be
occupying half the Manor; far from scraping by on their last few million Galleons the Malfoys would be billionaires; and Draco
would probably be the fourth most powerful man in the country. Of course, the downside is that we'd all be living under a very
unpleasant dictatorship and you'd be either dead or enslaved. But nevertheless, most of our world isn't exactly falling over itself to
believe that Draco did anything to stop that happening, you know. He's had a roughish year, and then last night went and
happened just when it looked as though things were calming down at last. So Harry's an obvious target if he wants to let off steam
about something."
Melanie tried to digest that.
"Anyway, the bathroom's next door. I'll see you down in the kitchen in ten minutes, OK?"
When she got down to the kitchen she found two mugs being pushed firmly across the table in her direction. One was
self-evidently black coffee, and the other contained a thin straw-coloured liquid that smelt rather like hay. She looked at it with
deep scepticism.
"Look, what's that? If you're a wizard, how do I know you aren't going to turn me into a toad or something"
"I could show you my school reports," Neville said cheerfully, swigging down his own coffee. "One look at those and you'd
be convinced that I'm the last person likely to turn you into a toad. No bets on what would happen if I tried, mind you. Though
look on the bright side: if by some stretch of the imagination I did manage it, you could rest assured that I am an absolute expert
on how you ought to be fed your maggots. But as a matter of fact it's only a hangover remedy."
"But I haven't got a--"
"That's probably something to do with you having had your last drink less than three hours ago. But I can assure you, as
someone who's probably put a lot more unlikely combinations of drinks down his throttle in his time than you have, that if you
don't drink it, by about ten o'clock this morning even being semi-turned into a toad by me will look like an infinitely preferable
alternative."
She sniffed at it again. "Look, I'm a vegetarian. You're sure this hasn't been tested on animals?"
"Not unless you count Draco's father," Neville said. "I'm told it's a traditional family remedy. You know, folk medicine.
Handed down for generations. Just the thing if you've put rather a lot of malt whisky on top of -- well, whatever it was you'd been
drinking earlier."
"Malibu. But how did you know I'd--"
Neville looked slightly as though he was trying to balance candour and tact, and finding it, like many before him, a
thankless task.
"Er... we inferred it," he muttered.
Melanie gave the mugs another sceptical glance, and then drained both of them in quick succession. She reached for her
shoulder bag.
"OK, I'm ready."
Neville lead the way to the back of the Manor, where a Land Rover apparently held together with baler twine was parked in
improbable companionship with a midnight blue Porsche 996 convertible bearing the plates "DM 666". Neville wandered vaguely
in the direction of the Land Rover, paused, turned decisively, pulled a wand from his belt and pointed it at the passenger-side door
of the Porsche, which swung smartly open.
"Hop in," he ordered. Melanie nervously lowered herself into the navy suede passenger seat, which went down a whole lot
further than she could have possibly imagined. From a height of some six inches above the ground she goggled up at Neville, who
was swinging himself into the driving seat.
"Will he mind?" Melanie enquired nervously. Neville grinned.
"Have to be awake to mind, wouldn't he? "
He eyed her, gave an Oh-What-the-Hell shrug, and pointed the wand at the ignition. The car shot backwards out of its
space; Neville swung the wheel, and with a knicker-elastic-twanging burst of acceleration the car took off down the driveway in a
shower of gravel chippings. Melanie gulped as Neville made a dramatic swerve almost completely onto the lawn in order to avoid a
badger which was apparently making its leisurely way home to its sett after a hard night digging things up, and sat firmly on her
hands.
"Mind you," Neville added conversationally as the speedometer climbed steadily and the engine began to emit the steady
pleased purr of something with which the world was going completely right, "if something were to go wrong, it might be as well to
pray we're both killed outright. He's only had it a fortnight, after all."
"Is this really a Porsche?" Melanie asked, giving a sideways glance at Neville's driving style which appeared to involve less
hand and foot contact with any form of controls than her own tentative and terrifying few driving lessons had suggested was
prudent, or even possible.
"Well. In the sense that it began life in a factory in Stuttgart, certainly." He braked sharply for the gates onto the main
road, murmured, "Aperio!" at them, and took the car through as soon as they allowed him space.
"On the other hand," he continued, "once it'd finished being souped-up by a bunch of mad Muggles in Warrington, and
then Draco'd had his people crawl all over it, I should imagine about the only original bits left would be the light-bulbs."
He overtook the village doctor at the start of the long winding descent into the village proper.
"Does the car... er... fly?"
"Oh, god, I hope not. I advised him against it, but as you might have spotted he doesn't always take my advice."
Neville swung with aplomb round the turn into the short drive which ran up to Gaia's Place, and managed to turn the
corner to the staff entrance near the kitchen garden without either accident or unexpected aeronautic adventures. Melanie
clambered out.
"Well, er..." She paused. Neville climbed out as well, folded his arms on the canopy, and leaned his chin on them.
"Well, all the best. I'm sorry about-- well, everything, really. But you will remember not to say anything? Please? The last
thing Draco needs is trouble with the Ministry -- especially not from that quarter."
She nodded, firmly. "OK. You can count on me. But what I don't understand is why you didn't simply re-do the memory
charm when you found it hadn't worked."
Neville raised his eyebrows. "For someone who was so suspicious about a hangover cure, you seem remarkably happy to
have the inside of your head rearranged. Personally, I can't stand the bloody things. They have all sorts of unforeseen side-effects,
and anyway, I don't care for them in principle."
She looked at him stubbornly. "What would have happened if it had worked?"
"Well, in theory, you should have forgotten everything after leaving the conference centre until waking up this morning."
"Oh." Her voice was flat. "That bit."
Neville eyed her narrowly. "Melanie?"
"Mm?"
"Look-- don't think I'm trying to interfere in your life, or anything, but if I'd spent an evening having sex with somebody
and then being attacked by a werewolf, and it was the sex part I wanted to Obliviate, I think on balance I'd change the somebody."
Her face flamed. "Oh god. Was it that obvious?"
Neville looked as though he was choosing his words very cautiously. "Well, I wouldn't say you said anything wildly explicit
or anything. But yes, it was fairly easy to get the general gist. But don't worry. We're both very discreet."
She looked at him. He looked back, ruefully. "Oh, well, I admit that might be pushing it a bit. OK, in fact, I admit it,
Draco's about as discreet as an indiscreet thing celebrating the festival of St Ignatius the Infamously Indiscreet. But you can
console yourself that the only person he knows who'd be at all interested, he isn't on speaking terms with. And at least I'm
reasonably discreet. Anyway, be seeing you."
He climbed back in the car, and started it. She put her hand on the staff door, and then turned. "Neville?"
"Hm?"
"Forget what I said about the memory charm. It was my fault, anyway."
"Have it your own way. But, as my grandmother's so fond of saying, it takes two to tango. Anyway, like I said. None of my
business. Bye."
The car shot away. Melanie put her key in the lock, and crept into the still sleeping guest-house.
~~~
The Daily Prophet's newest and youngest reporter assumed a position at the furthest end of the long table in the
conference room and quivered with anticipation. He had been in journalism all of a day and a half, and already he had been
summoned to a select story planning session designated under the cryptic but thrilling title "Operation Overlord". Life, he felt,
could hold few further glories for him. He glanced around the empty, wood-panelled room and sniffed the heady smell of great
events on the move.
It was a small, hand-picked group who finally gathered, some half hour after the time appointed for the start of the
conference. The first to arrive were two senior news reporters, to whom Colin had been introduced on yesterday's whistle-stop tour
of the office but whose names he had failed to catch, and been too embarrassed to ask for again. They wandered in, took one look
at him, and assumed seats at the opposite end of the table, continuing an uninterrupted comparison of the merits of the
respective Wasps and Cannons defence line-ups without any further acknowledgement to him.
The next to arrive was the staff photographer, Crispin Camilleri, who grinned cheerfully at the new recruit, and jerked his
thumb at a small laminated notice which was sitting on the table in front of Colin. "Shove me over that, would you?"
As Colin obeyed in some surprise he automatically looked down at it. A small, animated witch shook a warning forefinger
aggressively in his face to emphasise the printed instruction: "SMOKE-DETECTION CHARMS HAVE BEEN DEACTIVATED IN
MEETING ROOMS FOR THE COMFORT OF THE PROPHET'S GUESTS ONLY. INTERNAL MEETINGS REMAIN SUBJECT TO THE
PROPHET GROUP'S STRICT NO-SMOKING POLICY. THANK YOU."
"Thanks." With a negligent flick of his wand Camilleri Transfigured the notice into an ashtray, and lit up a Gauloise.
There was a sudden hush in the room as the final person arrived for the meeting. The two senior reporters shut up in mid
sentence. Colin tried to make himself invisible. Camilleri looked up at her, yawned, and blew a perfect smoke ring.
"Hi, Reet. Any chance of you letting us in on what this meeting's all about?"
Rita Skeeter smiled, took a quick scan round the room, and fixed her gaze on the newest recruit. "Creevey! Organise us
some coffee, will you?"
Colin leapt nervously to his feet. Rita, the two senior reporters and Camilleri watched him with apprehension, but at the
cost only of a broken cup and a minor upset involving the sugar bowl and a couple of saucers he managed to dish out coffee to
everyone, mostly in cups, and resumed his seat, breathing heavily. Rita's blue cardboard folder, intriguingly labelled "Overlord"
rested on the opposite side of the table, and he craned his neck in what he hoped was an unobtrusive attempt to ascertain more
about its contents.
Rita raised her head, looked at the doors and windows, lifted her wand and muttered "Dissimulate". The room darkened
momentarily.
'Well," she said. "I hope you appreciate that no hint of this is to be allowed to leak beyond the five of us until I say we're
ready to go to press. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that what I'm proposing to let you in on could be the biggest story
this century."
Colin gasped with sheer excitement. She looked at him with an icy glance. "Yes, Creevey?"
"You mean, bigger than Woodward and Bernstein, even?"
"Never heard of them," she said coldly. He sat back in his chair, looking slightly deflated. Camilleri winked at him. Rita
resumed. "Neil, give us a summary of your findings to date."
The senior reporter who favoured the Cannons looked up at the sound of his name, and waved one hand. A quill leapt to
attention, and began scrawling headings importantly across a flip chart that occupied an easel in one corner of the conference
room. Neil gestured expansively at the top heading.
Dark Instincts Emerging
"Acting on hints received from Rita's source within Malfoy Manor-- " he began. Colin bounced forward eagerly onto the
very edge of his chair.
"Ooh, who?"
Rita favoured him with a quelling glance. "Investigative journalism is a dangerous business, as you will no doubt find out,
Creevey. As a result, one safeguards one's source behind several layers of cut-outs, so that if legal -- or, as no doubt in this case,
illegal -- pressure is brought to bear on one to name one's informant, the paper may shelter behind a genuine lack of relevant
knowledge. For these purposes our mole will be referred to as "Gilt-edge", is that understood?"
He nodded, wordlessly. Camilleri lit another Gauloise from the butt of the first, blew another smoke ring and said, "You
mean it isn't you doing your famous bugging routine this time, Rita?"
There was a hint of a snigger from the two senior reporters. Rita stared them all down impassively. "Not with a minimum
of seven highly trained attack owls on the premises at any one time, no. Of course, if any of you would like to volunteer I would
not dream of standing in your way."
There was an awkward silence. She nodded towards Neil. "As you were saying -?"
"We investigated reports that Malfoy had been making heavy purchases of Muggle literature of various sorts. I insinuated
myself as casual labour onto a ground-cover clearance squad -- by the way, Rita, it gave me a brilliant idea for a shock/horror
feature on 'Dark Terrorism risks -- who knows who may be watching YOU?' -- the Minister of Magic's supposed to be having a
swimming pool put in next month. I could pull the same stunt -- get on the working gang -- plant some faked up Dark Magic
artifacts -- run an expose --"
"Raise it at the monthly features conference. Get on with it."
"--And got as far as the kitchen of Malfoy Manor under pretence of having to seek urgent first aid for a rash caused by
some of the plants we were being asked to dig up and burn. By the way, I reckon there must be half the Herbarium Maleficarium
growing in those woods -- or at least, there was until we had to yank them all up --"
"Digging up and burning Dark Magic plants isn't newsworthy. At least, not until we've found the crime that it's intended
to conceal the evidence of. Do hurry up with this, Neil; you don't seem to know the difference between a sound-bite and osmosis."
"At that point I had the good luck to spot Malfoy himself, who'd wandered into the kitchen to complain that the milk was
off, and who was actually carrying a Muggle book at the time. And, I got to spot the title before his housekeeper kicked me out and
told me to go and ask the squad supervisor for the first aid kit. And guess what it was?"
Camilleri looked as though he was about to start making suggestions when Neil dropped his voice and hissed
portentously: "It was The Lord of The Rings!!!"
Rita and the other news reporter looked suitably aghast, albeit in a pleased sort of way; Camilleri assumed an expression
of faint disappointment and Colin appeared honestly puzzled.
"Well, I can't see what's so peculiar about that," he said. They gazed at him. The other senior reporter spoke.
"Come on, Creevey, what would Draco Malfoy be reading Lord of the Rings for?"
Colin shrugged, helplessly. "The plot? The characterization? The fascination with a perfectly realized incredibly detailed
alternative world?" he hazarded hopefully. Neil looked at him with an expression of stunned disbelief.
"Creevey, this is Draco Malfoy we're talking about here!"
"As opposed to, say, bloody Martin Smith from Croydon?" Camilleri enquired gently, of no-one in particular. Nobody
responded to him. He shrugged, and pulled out another packet of Gauloises.
"It's obvious!" Neil said emphatically. "There's no other explanation possible. He identifies with Sauron!"
There was a stunned silence for some moments. Colin nervously cleared his throat.
"Er, Neil? Can I call you Neil? Look, I was at school with Draco Malfoy -- well, I was in the year below, and we weren't in the same
House, but I did know him, like, to speak to and so on."
"We know that," Rita said briskly. "That's why we invited you to be in on this story."
"Oh." Colin looked rather crestfallen.
"As well as realizing that you'd do a very good job as the junior person on the team, of course," Camilleri continued
smoothly, raising his hand to light another Gauloise and taking the opportunity, as the sleeve of his robe partially concealed his
face from Colin, to glare meaningfully at Rita.
"Ah -- oh yes, apart from that, of course. And your point is?"
"Well I-- I simply can't imagine him identifying with Sauron. I mean," Colin's voice became firmer and rather more
confident as his recollections of Draco as he had last seen him at school solidified, "I just can't imagine him living in a mess like
Mordor, for a start."
"You mean," Camilleri observed through lips which seemed to be tamping down a curl of irresistible amusement by an
effort of pure will, "That if Draco were Sauron he'd have taken damn good care to enslave a decent landscape gardener before
setting off on his plans for world domination?"
Colin nodded vigorously. "Exactly!"
"And here were we thinking that he had," murmured the other senior reporter, and both sniggered. Colin looked rather
put out.
"Look, I like Neville--" he began, before suddenly giving a quick intake of breath as a sharp and sudden pain hit his leg
just above the ankle bone. He looked surreptitiously under the table, and rolled up his robes to the knee, but could see no
apparent cause. Meanwhile, the conference rolled on around him.
"Well, I think that's a very important contribution from Neil. Especially since he also managed to confirm the rumours
about those dogs, at the same time. Simon, what have you got to add?"
"A recent pattern of highly suspicious and uncharacteristic interactions with Muggles. Obviously, most of my observations
have been forced to take place in the village and round about rather than on Malfoy ground itself -- by the way, Rita, could you
sort out with accounts that I'm still waiting for them to pay me my exes from Barton Cleeve? It does make quite a difference, you
know. But Gilt Edge's tip-off about the Schwartz girl has set off one or two trains of enquiry, which I'm hoping will bear fruit in the
next day or two. And Chris has secured a photo!"
With an air of considerable aplomb he spun the photograph onto the conference room table. The five looked at it critically.
Melanie, caught on the main street of the village, obviously in a harassed transition between one task, which had overrun, and
another for which she was already late, blinked unheedingly up at them and scurried out of the frame.
"Hm." Rita turned the photograph the other way round in the hope it would be more inspiring that way up. "I'm not sure I
can quite buy her as the star of a 'Love Rat Malfoy Stole My Girlfriend For Kinky Threesome Sobs Potter Cousin' exclusive, Simon.
And I got this nice warm glow when Gilt Edge tipped me off she'd spent the night at the Manor, too."
"First Muggle to do that in 200 years, must be," Simon said. "Well, and leave on her own two feet in the morning, anyway.
That has to mean something."
"After all," Camilleri added hopefully, "it's always possible he Seeks for both sides. There was Pansy Parkinson,
remember."
"Well, er..." Colin looked rather pink. "I'm not quite sure going out with Pansy Parkinson quite counts. They... er... didn't
call that girl the Slytherin broomstick for nothing."
Camilleri blew out a lungful of smoke meditatively. "Ah. I see. A sort of dreary sexual turnstile through which every man
must pass."
"I'll remind both of you that you are talking about the daughter of a very senior member of the Board of this newspaper
group," Rita said repressively. Camilleri nodded.
"Point taken. From now on, Colin, think of her only as St Pansy the Pious; Virgin, Saint and Martyr."
"But she's still alive--"
"I rather had some of Draco's Slytherin contemporaries in mind when I made the observation. Anyway, back to Ms
Schwartz. If she isn't a love triangle, what is she?"
"From my observations from my position in the ground-force crew," Neil said, somewhat huffily, "it strikes me he just quite
likes her because she gets on well with his dogs."
The other four looked at him. Rita recovered most quickly. "And what kind of relationship is, 'quite likes her because she
gets on well with his dogs'? Not exactly one known to journalism, is it? I can't see the public believing that one in a hurry. Even
young Creevey here, who's been with us less than forty-eight hours, knows that, I'll bet. Creevey: name for me the roles proper to
women in the popular press. Skip celebrities and It witches, we know all about them."
Thus unexpectedly called upon, Colin felt rather as though he had been asked to enunciate the forty-five principal uses of
Mandragora in a Potions class which had hitherto been concentrating exclusively on Debilitating Draughts. He took a deep breath.
"Er, femmes fatale, love cheats and general rabbit-boilers?" he hazarded. Rita nodded.
"Good. Go on."
"Well, obviously, given the first group -- betrayed but loyal wives. Helpless victims of horrific crimes, of course. And-- oh
yes, distraught mothers: 'I will never believe my son could have done this awful thing'. Oh, what next? Um... heartless career
witch--"
"Witches. That one's usually plural. You know: 'Recent research has shown that an ever increasing number of young
witches are facing a bleak future, as their demands for a Have It All Lifestyle, combining career, relationships and a dizzy social
whirl, leave many of them exhausted, lonely, unfulfilled and desperate to salvage their fading chances for family life, as the
biological clock ticks inexorably on past them.' But you're doing very well. Try sport--?"
"Oh, thanks, of course. Sport. 'We salute our plucky British sporting lasses for their gallant attempt. Diet tips of the British
team on pages 5 & 8 with a preview of the new super-slinky team robes on page 11.''"
"Good. But don't forget sporting lasses from other countries, who--?"
"Are herded into childhood-destroying training camps from an early age. Try to cheat their way to victory over Our Girls by
the use of illicit Potions and, er, Sex-Change Charms, of course. And... um... probably go in for strange sexual practices in their
locker-rooms, too." He crimsoned.
"Well, with the exception of battling but fragile grandmothers you seem to have covered the bases, Creevey. Nice effort."
Warmed by this praise, Colin looked down at Melanie's photograph again. Inspiration struck. "Could she, perhaps, be
plucky?"
Rita gave it a moment's thought. " 'Fraid not. The Prophet style guide strictly reserves "plucky" for kids under 13. And it
helps if they're missing an arm, or suffering from a terminal illness, too. But it isn't a bad attempt. No, as it is we'll have to wait
until Simon gets us some more details. We'll be bound to find out where to place her sooner or later. Now, any details about what
that Granger woman's connection with all this is?"
Simon and Neil shook their heads in a depressed way.
"She seems to be carrying some sort of personal cloaking talisman about with her. Gilt Edge hasn't been able to pick up
anything apart from some vague reference to '1.5% and expenses' and even that isn't a certainty. Otherwise, any conversation
she's had hasn't been audible. All we know is that she's had about three meetings with Malfoy -- none of them in the last two and
a half months -- and has met Potter's uncle once and some American Muggles, who've got some connection with his firm, once
again. None of it adds up. About the best theory we could come up with is that Malfoy's turned her, somehow, and has hired her
to take out Harry Potter--"
Colin opened his mouth again, but his intended comment was bitten off in an agonized gasp as the shooting pain he had
experienced before hit him again, this time right on his other anklebone.
Rita drummed on the table top with her long red-lacquered talons to get the attention of the whole meeting. "Well," she
said briskly, "you can see why I warned you all that this is big. And dangerous. And -- though I'm sure this is the last
consideration any of us have on our minds at this pivotal moment -- likely to make all our journalistic reputations, at least
provided this story is handled in the right way. The evidence all seems to point in one direction -- Draco Malfoy is setting himself
up to assume He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's mantle! The Ministry is spineless and weak. The glamour of his wretched mother has
effectively gagged the TV and radio stations -- none of them would dare even hint at such a story. Gentlemen, once again the
British Newspaper Press is the last bastion of freedom and independent thought. It is our sacred duty -- and that of the Daily
Prophet -- to prove it and use the power of the press to stop him before it happens!"
She paused, impressively. Colin's jaw dropped. "But-- but Miss Skeeter-- what about Neville, if that's so?"
Neil and Simon looked at him pityingly. Neil spoke first. "I'm sorry-- if he's a friend of yours. At this moment in time, to
look on the bright side, the most likely explanation is that he's a Mere Dupe and unaware of his lover's Sinister Plans. But we
haven't quite worked out where he fits into the overall story. We'll keep you posted, though."
Colin set his jaw. "Look, have you thought everything through carefully? I mean, couldn't there possibly be an alternative
explanation? I mean, all this seems to have a lot of supposition about it. Oh my god!"
The pain he had experienced twice before suddenly hit him simultaneously in both ankles, and he was unable to repress
an audible yelp of pain.
Rita Skeeter looked coldly at him. "Have you quite finished?"
He nodded, wordlessly.
"Good. Your job on this team is to follow orders, Creevey, not question either our tactics or our strategy. Understood?"
He nodded again. She swept impressively to her feet in order to leave, but wrecked the effect by allowing the heavy sleeve
of her robe to swing round as she did so and bring the ashtray, a half-empty chilly coffee cup and her blue folder crashing to the
ground. Colin dived into the wreckage in order to assist. He scooped together a bundle of scattered papers and handed them over
to her, catching sight, as he did so, of an upside down galley proof which had evidently slithered from the folder.
"Composito", he breathed, surreptitiously, and immediately the upside-down words were as legible as if they had been the
right way up in front of him. Could Malfoy Be Dark Lord's Secret Love-child? the headline ran. But before he could read more he
caught Rita's beady eye upon him.
"Thank you," she breathed through compressed lips and swept out, clutching the recovered folder to her. Neil and Simon
followed in her wake. Camilleri looked at Colin. "You joined us yesterday, didn't you?"
He nodded. After that morning, it felt like a lifetime.
"Anyone taken you down to the Cauldron for a celebration drink, yet?"
Colin shook his head. Somehow, speech seemed beyond him.
"Well, what are the Prophet's proud journalistic traditions coming to, I ask myself? Call this carrying the torch for the
British newspaper press? Come on. I'll stand you lunch."
They left the Prophet buildings, and stepped out into the bright sunshine of DiagonAlley. Although it was a hot day Colin
shivered, suddenly and inexplicably. Camilleri caught his elbow as he almost stepped off the kerb into the path of a Ministry
cavalcade, which was swinging past, hooting.
"Come on," he said. "You'll feel a lot better after a drink or four."
They made their silent way towards The Leaky Cauldron.
Camilleri led the way towards a corner seat, waved his wand around a couple of times, muttered "Sub rosa" and signalled
the inn-keeper over.
"A pint of Old Greenwinkles Extra for me, Tom, with a large Ogden's chaser, straight, and -- what'll you have, Colin?"
Colin indicated that cider would be fine, honestly.
"Pint of cider it is. Oh, and Tom?"
"Yes, Mr Camilleri?"
"Keep 'em coming. On my slate, please."
When the drinks were on the table in front of them Colin turned to Camilleri and said : "Mu-- may I ask you something,
Mr Camilleri?"
"Only if you call me Chris. Go on, neck some of that. What do you want to know?"
"I couldn't help reading something which slipped out of Miss Skeeter's folder -- look, could Draco Malfoy really be YouKnow-Who's illegitimate son?"
Camilleri looked faintly baffled for a minute, and then burst into a snort of hearty laughter. "Oh, god, yes, I'd forgotten
that one. Don't tell me Reet's still carrying it around on file."
Colin felt this reaction was not all it should be. Camilleri looked at him, took a quick swallow of his whisky, and said,
"That would be the story about You-Know-Who forcing Lucius Malfoy to let him turn up in Narcissa's bed, all Poly-juiced up, oh,
some time in 1979 I suppose it'd have to have been. The yarn's been going the rounds for a fair time."
"And? Could it be true?"
"Persistent little bugger, aren't you? Go well on a doorstep, you will. Yes, of course it could be true. Unfortunately, when
we looked at the story closely there wasn't a shred of evidence that it actually was true. So, for some unaccountable technical
reason, the Prophet's lawyers insisted we spike it. Reet was livid. Personally, I think it's a load of old cobblers. To begin with, once
you got into Narcissa deVries's bed you wouldn't want to limit yourself to an hour, would you? That'd put the kibosh on Poly-juice
to begin with."
He stared gloomily into his glass. Then he appeared to recollect himself. "Anyway, Colin, this is your second day in
journalism. Can I, as an older and infinitely more battle-scared -- no, make that bottle-scarred -- journalist than you, offer you
some advice if you want your career to last beyond the weekend? Don't, whatever mistakes you propose to make in the rest of your
career (and believe me, that includes spelling Voldemort's name wrong in a front page headline and chucking up last night's beer
all over the Minister for Magic's boots) ever suggest to the Prophet's star reporter that she's barking up the wrong tree when she's
onto a big story. And another thing: it wouldn't be the first time that Rita wrong-footed the lot of us by having a team doing
research on what they think the real story is, and then we'll find out she was actually ferreting down some other rabbit-hole
altogether. She may be a total bitch, but she is good, and if she thinks there's a story somewhere, then there probably is."
Overcome by this outburst Camilleri drained the contents of both his glasses, and summoned Tom over with refills.
"Anyway," Colin persisted, "wouldn't it be awful for Neville if that did turn out to be true? Imagine doing that with You
Know Who's-- ugh!"
He shuddered. "Mind you," he added, "I still don't really think Draco can possibly be going to take over as his successor. I
mean, think about it."
'Why couldn't he?" Camilleri enquired, his head on one side.
"Well--" Colin pondered for a minute, as if trying to get his thoughts in order. He gestured expansively with his glass,
looked at it with an air of faint surprise, and drained it. "In the first place, the words "piss-up" and "brewery" spring irresistibly to
mind. And, secondly, what about Neville? I mean, it's all very well what Neil said, but how thick would you have to be not to work
out that your... er... lover was planning a campaign for world domination from a house you were both actually living in?"
"Well, I thought Neville was supposed to be particularly stupid. Everything I've ever heard about what he did at school--"
"Oh, don't pay any attention to that crap." Colin waved his hand impatiently. Looking faintly impressed, Camilleri put
another pint of cider in it, and nodded.
"Carry on."
"My brother once said something really clever about Neville -- well -- Dennis is the clever one, you know. He wants to write
too, but novels, not journalism -- well, Neville waded in to help him in some fight with a couple of Slytherins who were having a go
at him because he was a Mudblood -- Dennis, I mean -- and while they were in the Infirmary for the next day or so they got
talking, and Dennis said that he reckoned Neville's real problem was that he wasn't born a Mudblood too."
"Yes?" Camilleri's complex gesture with the lit end of a Gauloise evidently translated to: "Another whisky: hold the bitter"
in Tom's code, and he hastened to oblige. Heartened by this unusual show of interest in his theories Colin continued.
"Oh, yes. I mean, when we started showing any sort of magical talent our parents thought it was just unbelievably cool.
But there's lots of things Neville can do really well -- I mean, ordinary Muggle things -- you have got Muggle ancestry, haven't you?
I thought I spotted at the meeting--"
"My mother," Camilleri muttered. "But don't spread that sort of thing around too much at the Prophet, either. And don't
say I said that. But look up the Board's record in Recent Events next time you're feeling interested in a little -- ah -- background
research on a story."
Colin's eyes widened. For a moment, Camilleri's expression became apologetic. He took another swig of whisky. "You were
saying?"
"My brother said that the big problem for Neville was that he was born to a pureblood family, who didn't pay a lot of
attention to anything except magic, and that every time they expected him to do something magical in a hurry he got flustered and
cocked it up, so he spent most of his childhood just being resigned to being the Family Disappointment."
"Well, if you are planning on being the Family Disappointment, having a boyfriend who's about to unleash a campaign as
the next Dark Lord-in-Waiting seems to me like doing the job in spades."
Colin's tone was utterly disbelieving. "Look, doesn't the Prophet ever actually do any research? I mean, I know I got
introduced to the Research Department--"
"Um, yes, I know, squashed in between Accounts and Back Numbers. I'm told they're planning put a sign saying "Beware
of the Leopard" on the door, to make sure even fewer members of the staff bother them than do already. Listen, son, there's one
great rule of journalism: "Research is great, provided you don't let it get in the way of the story". What about it?"
"You mean you don't know what Neville did in Recent Events?"
Camilleri shrugged. "Some sort of backroom job involving potions ingredients, wasn't it?"
"Mm. I suppose you could call it that. I researched it all out last summer, actually, because I thought the Prophet might be
a bit interested. You know: 'Hidden Stories of Recent Events', that sort of thing. But they sent it back to me."
Camilleri looked at him owlishly, and finished his pint. "Happens to the best of us. You should see the cropping the
Design Editor does on my best shots, daily. Make's you weep. But go on. S'intriguing."
Colin paused, and took a swallow of cider. Suddenly, it seemed important to tell it, and tell it right. It might only be to one
man in a dark smoky room, but he had the story and the duty that came with it.
"Well, of course, because the Death Eaters knew what Potions they were planning to use, they knew what countermeasures the allies would have to take. And they knew, as a result, what Potions ingredients would soon be in short supply. They
knew where they grew, and when the allied wizards and witches came in to take them the Death Eaters would be waiting."
He looked across at Camilleri, and spread his palms wide. "And you know how it is with plants for use in magical
applications: they have to be picked at the right phase of the moon, or with the dew on them, and sometimes even the most closely
related sub-species just won't do. Or they have to be plucked from the soil living, and transported roots and all. Well, it was just a
nightmare. People were dying in thousands, just because there weren't enough people on the allied side who could tell hemlock
from wild parsnip."
He paused, and took another swallow. Camilleri, whose hand had been moving towards his cigarettes, held it, frozen.
Colin resumed.
"Professor Sprout drafted in everyone she could who had the knowledge to bring back what was needed. It didn't even
matter if they were still at school yet, provided they were fifth year or above. Neville -- well, no doubt about him having the
Herbology knowledge, but they reckon he splinched himself fourteen times before he got his Apparation licence and they let him
go out on the raids."
Colin took a sip of cider. "Actually," he added, "it was more like thirty-two times. He talked Hermione into repairing him
the other times, because he was afraid the authorities would stop him trying. Once he'd got his licence he went the whole way
through the rest of Recent Events doing that job. As a matter of fact the Death Eaters actually captured him on one mission, and
I've never been able to find out how the allies sprung him from Azkaban that time. If anyone knows, they aren't saying. Anyway,
do you seriously believe someone with that record would either let his boyfriend drop that on us again, or simply not notice it was
happening?"
Camilleri shook his head. "I-- I w'dn't think so."
Magically, another round of drinks appeared on the table in front of them. Colin looked faintly appalled at his third pint,
but Camilleri waved at it expansively. "G'wn. Tr'dn of British Press, m'boy. Go 'head."
He drained his whisky and summoned another. He knocked that back in one. "Rules of life," he said emphatically, waving
his fingers into Colin's face. "Key -- rules'f LIFE! Rule 1; spell bloody names right. Rule 2: always put in their ages. Rule 3 -bugger it -- there is no rule 3. Rule 4 -- never fall in love with a woman who's out'f yr reach, boy. Rule 5 --"
He raised himself half out of his chair, waved his arms dramatically and then subsided back on the table, slumped his
head on his arms, and began snoring. Colin looked at him in some alarm. Tom tapped him on the shoulder.
"Not to worry, Mr Creevey. We'll look after him. And you needn't mention it back at the... er..."
"Oh, no, definitely not." Colin's hand went towards his wallet, but Tom shook his head.
"All on the slate. Be seeing you. Now, you don't want to be too late back on your second day--"
"Oh, no--" Colin scurried out of The Leaky Cauldron. Cautiously, Tom approached the figure prone on the table.
"Mr Camilleri, sir?"
"Has he gone?"
Chris did not move his head. Tom parted the blind at the window next to him, took one look and nodded. "Just going into
the Prophet building now."
"Good."
Camilleri pushed himself upright and ran his fingers through his mop of black hair. Tom beamed at him.
"Nice to see there's nothing wrong. You had me worried for a minute there, sir. Not like you to go all woozy over a
lunchtime beer or two. I mean, I can remember when the Wanderers toured the British Isles, and we had the entire squad in here
and only you and that young Chaser of theirs walked out of here on your feet--"
"Oh, lord, yes, I remember. He dragged me off into Muggle London and we finally passed out in some gutter in Soho at five
o'clock the next morning. Nice lad -- could have played for the Aussie national side, I always thought, given a year or two more.
And then to get killed in some stupid little skirmish in Recent Events -- before he'd even done anything --"
He paused. Tom polished a glass on the cloth he held in his hand.
"Ah, well, sir, thank goodness those times are over, eh?"
"I only hope. I really, really hope."
Camilleri pulled himself together with sudden decision. "Look, Tom? Can I borrow your fireplace and a pinch of Floo
powder?"
"Surely, but--"
"And if the office drop in, tell them I'm off doing the pictures for that 'Witch Gives Birth to Quads' story down in Kent."
"Yes sir."
Tom handed him a large Chinese-style jar, and paused for a second. "And if your friends call, sir?"
Camilleri looked at him irritably. "I'm a journalist, you idiot. We don't have friends. We just have stories."
He stepped into the flames.
Mrs. Longbottom looked steadily at him. "Maybe I do know where Narcissa deVries is. But I can tell you, you're the last
person I'd give the information to if I did."
"Second last, surely," Camilleri murmured. She looked at him, and suddenly smiled.
"I do like to see a bit of realism breaking out occasionally. By the accent you'll be a local lad, I take it, despite the Eytie
name?"
"Born in Osbaldeston. Though I was brought up in Whalley Range."
"Close enough. Cup of tea?"
"Thanks."
There was a pause while Betsey supplied them both with tea. Camilleri sucked it down gratefully, while Mrs. Longbottom
regarded him out of steady dark eyes.
"So? What do you have to see Narcissa about that's so very, very urgent?"
Camilleri looked round the living room. "Is this secure?"
"Aye."
"Well--" He licked his lips nervously. "I shouldn't be doing this, you know."
Mrs. Longbottom sniffed, sceptically. "Well, get on with it then, before you change your mind."
His eyes were hooded under his dark brows. There was an underlying pallor to his face, so his normal even olive tan lay
like an unhealthy scum on top of it.
"This would be the end for me, if this gets out. Look, Reet's on a story and something about it just smells all wrong.
Really, really -- wrong, somehow. I was worried anyway, and then something one of our junior reporters said just clinched it. And I
need to speak to Narcissa right away."
Mrs. Longbottom filled up the teacups again. "This story will be about young Draco, I take it."
Camilleri looked up at her in alarm. "So he is doing something to worry you?"
Mrs. Longbottom pursued her lips. "Well, he's obviously not eating properly, and it doesn't look as though he's getting
enough sleep, either -- I'll thank you not to look at me in that tone of voice, young man -- but I don't suppose that's the kind of
worried you had in mind. Oh, use your brains. It's obvious the story had to be about Draco, or you wouldn't be so anxious to get
hold of Narcissa. There'd be no point in breaking it to her that the Minister for Magic wears ladies' underwear in a fetching finemesh chain-mail, she wouldn't be interested."
Camilleri contemplated this for some seconds. "Is that true?" he asked. Mrs. Longbottom favoured him with a saurian
smile.
"That, as they say, young man, is for me to allege and you to verify. But I can tell you one thing for free: if you're about to
spoil your boss's big story, then you'd better have something up your sleeve to put in its place."
"Rita isn't my--"
"Come off it, young man -- if the Prophet decides it's got to get rid of one of you over this business, which will it choose?"
He sunk his face gloomily into the teacup, and declined to comment. Mrs. Longbottom got stiffly to her feet. "Look, this is
the best I can do for you," she said. "I really can't give you Narcissa's whereabouts just like that. If she took it the wrong way -well, I'm older and know more hexes, but she's younger and has got sharper reactions. But I'll send her an express owl this
minute, telling her what you've just told me, and asking her to get in touch with you directly. After all, it'll only waste a day, and
nothing much can happen in that time, at least not if you keep your eyes peeled."
After a moment's thought, Camilleri nodded. He rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Well, thanks," he said. "I don't
know if I'm being all sorts of idiot -- but thanks for helping me do it, anyway."
"You're welcome." She eyed him narrowly. "Just one question."
"Yes?"
"How do you propose to keep her in the style to which she's accustomed, if you do get lucky?"
He spun rapidly round. "How did you--?"
Mrs. Longbottom smiled again. "I recollect how you were looking at her when you were last here. It might've been three
quarters of a century ago, but young men used to look at me in that way once. A few of them, at least, on a Saturday night when
I'd gone to a bit of trouble with my hair. And now you're here, telling me you're about to risk your job, and give up the chance of
being in on an exclusive story -- I thought an exclusive was more or less a religion to you people? Don't try to fool me that you're
doing this on a pure point of principle."
Camilleri shook his head helplessly. "No. But what chance do I have? What can you offer to the woman who's got
everything?"
Mrs. Longbottom sniffed. "A good laugh'd be a reasonable start, I should think, in Narcissa's case. Oh, go on with you.
And the best of luck. Count on me for a bit of help if you need it. Heaven knows what sort of trouble she'd end up with if she was
left to her own devices. Getting off with some sponging playboy ne'er do well, I shouldn't wonder. I never thought I'd find myself
saying this about anyone, but her son's got far better taste in men than she has. And you can stop sniggering: I'm not saying that
just because Neville's family. Anyway, run along. I've got an urgent owl to send."
Camilleri turned, thought of saying something, changed his mind, and flung a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace.
Just before the flames engulfed him Mrs. Longbottom called out,
"Oh, and don't forget about the marabou feather trim. That's very important."
He grinned, and vanished.
Betsey appeared to clear away the tea-things. Mrs. Longbottom looked at her. "Have you got young Neville's room ready
for tomorrow?"
"I'se just finished, Madam."
"Good. Now, I wonder, should I tell him anything about this?"
She walked over to the window and looked out across to the Hill. The white clouds were scurrying fast across the sky,
casting small shadows that rushed over the summer fields, and then chased each other away. Through the open window she
could hear the distant sounds of a skylark singing. Mrs. Longbottom shook her head decisively.
"No," she said to herself. "It'll only worry him. And we don't know anything definite yet. Better wait and see what young
Narcissa manages to get out of that excessively devoted young man."
"Go to the pub? Which pub?"
Neville shrugged. "Your local, I thought. I mean, we could go to the pub in my village, but you know the Ministry's got a
campaign on against drinking and Flooing, and Apparation makes me feel pissed even if I'm not."
"Ah," Draco murmured, "my definition of a cheap date."
"And as I've got to be in Lancashire tomorrow and Thursday anyway, there's no reason to go up there tonight as well.
Plus, Betsey's related to the cellar-elves in practically all of the Fence, Read and Whalley pubs, so anything we did there would get
straight back to Grandma."
Draco looked hopeful. "Were you proposing to do anything particularly newsworthy?"
"Even missing the black from a straight pot is newsworthy by the time Grandma gets onto it," Neville muttered darkly.
"Ah, well, if it's pool you're after that definitely means the Muggle pub in the village. The Gibbeted Exciseman hasn't heard
of a game more recent than Shove Sickle, and anyway, I suspect the family's still barred, despite Recent Events. OK, I'm on. Grab
your coat: the slobbering furballs could do with some exercise, anyway."
Marvolo and Riddle looked up at Draco with single-minded adoration. He gestured imperatively towards the back door,
and they were there, instantly, all quiver and wag, before he unlatched it.
"God, sometimes they remind me so of father," Draco muttered as he and Neville strode out into the evening. A soft
summer drizzle had set in, silvering their clothes and the dogs' coats with a shimmering film like the blood of ghosts in the light of
the waning moon as they moved down the track through the blessedly unpopulated night-scented woodland. "If only the Dark
Lord had taken up breeding spaniels instead of trying for world domination. Imagine the trouble he'd have been spared."
The lounge bar of the Rose and Crown was brightly lit. Around the fruit machine a gaggle of the Nelcorp management
trainees, Dudley prominent among them, argued noisily over holds and nudges. Perched on the edge of a table just behind them,
Melanie held onto the remains of her warm half of cider with an air of pathetic festivity. Draco semi-waved as he and Neville came
in, and slipped Marvolo and Riddle's collars off. They bounded over to her and she fussed gratefully over them, as Neville and
Draco vanished into the public bar through the elaborate arch, which bore a florid inscription to the effect that the Rose & Crown
had been Humbly and Refpectfully Honoured to Welcome His Moft Efteemed and Martial Grace the Duke of Cumberland on the
14th July 1747 on the Occafion of the Building's Re-opening and Extenfion.
One of the bar staff appeared at Melanie's elbow with a bowl of water for the two dogs, which they snuffled at greedily.
Somehow, at the same time, a glass of white wine materialised on the table in front of her. Meanwhile, in the public bar, five
twenty pence pieces, which had been "on" the edge of the pool table, waiting for a turn, disappeared instantly. The Rose and
Crown might be the Muggle pub in the village, but it had been there for four hundred years, and news like the Malfoy family tends
to get around.
"So, then, why don't we go on back to the Manor and give our landlord a bit of a surprise, eh? Try letting off some of those
firecrackers on his side of the house, eh? Wake him up a bit, what do you think?"
'I don't think that's going to work, Dudley."
It was the sixth time Melanie had said it, and nothing surprised her more than when one of the trainees -- a plump,
prematurely balding twenty-two year old from St Andrew's called Jake -- said: "Why not? Enlighten us, oh beauteous one."
She bit her lip, gritted her teeth and muttered: "Because as a matter of fact your landlord isn't asleep back at the Manor.
He's next door in the public bar, playing pool. He has been for the last hour and a quarter. Oddly enough, for about the same
length of time his spaniels have been curled up under my chair."
Jake did a well-choreographed double take. Then, very, very slowly he looked under the table. He came up again, mugging
elaborately for the benefit of the other trainees.
"Fashion update, fashion update. That was not, after all, Melanie Schickelgruber's idiosyncratic take on the pony-skin
clog. No, sorry to mislead you out there, folks. Our favourite model is -- that is, really is -- wearing two dogs on her feet. Well, as
the old saying goes, takes two to know one. Hey -- only kidding, Melanie love. You look fantastic, sweetie."
Dudley had been cackling as hard as the others. Then, rather slowly, he said: "Why don't we go next door? At Sweetings
no-one ever beat me at pool. Why don't we show our landlord where he gets off?"
The trainees applauded noisily. Melanie said doubtfully, "Dudley? Is that really a good idea?"
Her feeble protest went unheard. The whole whooping mob piled enthusiastically under the arch. Melanie drifted
unwillingly in their wake, Riddle and Marvolo wuffling enthusiastically at her heels.
On the pool table things were getting tense.
Within the first five minutes Draco had realised that Neville was a considerably better pool player than he would ever be.
It did not take him many minutes longer to realise that this placed him in the same boat as approximately 98% of the inhabitants
of the counties of Wiltshire and Dorset. By halfway through the second game most of the village was thronging the public bar. As
in all rural pubs in areas with high rainfall and atrocious transport infrastructure the local pool standards were high, and this, for
the connoisseur, was a piece of pure artistry.
By the time the trainees arrived, a rare mistake in the fifth game had left Neville's only remaining stripe sitting un-pottably
behind the black. Three spots remained on the table.
Draco brushed blue chalk on the webbing between his thumb and
forefinger and circled the table with a predatory air.
Even Marvolo and Riddle curbed their natural exuberance, and flopped peacefully into the shadows under one of the
tables. Melanie unobtrusively nudged them back even further with her heel.
Dudley hissed in her ear: "So who's the other bloke? The one who can actually play?"
Melanie blushed crimson. 'He's... er... I think he's a school friend. Staying at the Manor..."
Jake looked at her. "I think he's a school friend," he mimicked suddenly, in a harsh, high-pitched voice. "Come on, Melly
dearest. Tell us what you know about the wicked Count. After all, you seem to have spent your off duty time getting very close to
him."
Dudley looked up at him in sudden alarm. "What're you getting at, eh?"
"Oh, I'm sure Melly's going to tell you. No secrets for a nice, sweet, girl like our Melly. Unless maybe she's let the wicked
Count get even closer than we all suspect."
Dudley's brows gathered together. Before the storm could break Melanie drew herself up to her full five foot four and said
with dignity, "If you are going to exercise your dirty mind, Jake Middleton, you should try to get your facts straight. If I were
planning to cheat on Dudley (which of course I never would) your landlord's the last person I'd choose. He's gay, for what it's
worth. That's his boyfriend he's playing pool with now."
"Well, what do you know?"
Neville considered the snooker he'd been left in from three different angles. Then, with infinite care and precision, he
curved the cue ball past the obstructing spot by a matter of millimetres. The final stripe rolled gently into the pocket. It was the
work of seconds to finish the game after that.
"So, I lose five-nil. How do you want to take your winnings?" Draco's eyes sparkled at him with wicked amusement.
Neville caught the look, and returned it. "We-ell, I could always insist on--"
"Excuse me." The flipped twenty pence piece landed squarely in the middle of the green baize. "They do play winner stays
on in this pub, don't they?"
"Yes, but I'm not bothered, if you'd rather--"
"No. That's fine. Just -- fine."
Dudley started to frame up the balls for the game. Melanie stood watching him, biting her lips and looking tense and
unhappy. On impulse, Draco tapped Dudley's arm. "Doubles? Neville and me against you and your girlfriend?"
Dudley looked momentarily undecided. Jake winked at him from his vantage point by the bar. "Play it as pairs if that's
what he wants."
Neville broke, putting a spot down. There was little else on: he tucked the cue ball safely against a cushion, and handed
his cue to Draco. Dudley made a performance of chalking his own cue, did something flashy, and edged one of the stripes into the
centre pocket. In quick succession he potted two more. Jake orchestrated the trainees in a round of mocking applause. Dudley
bowed, over-reached himself, and left the fourth stripe teetering on the edge of the top pocket.
Neville whispered briefly in Draco's ear. Draco nodded and hit the cue ball gently the whole length of the table to break up
the remaining spots and come safely to rest on the far side of them. Melanie advanced nervously to the table.
She looked at the position from a number of angles, and raised her eyes in a helpless appeal for assistance. Dudley moved
bossily over to the table.
"Here," he said. "Hit the cue-ball quite hard. Aim it at my finger." He put his finger on the cushion edge, marking where
she should hit to double back onto the stripe in the centre of the table.
One of the Nelcorp trainees leaned over to Jake. Draco, whose ears were acute, clearly heard him say, "At least that gives
her a two-inch target to aim at."
Melanie drew back the cue and self-evidently gave the cue ball all she had. It shot rapidly across the table; hit the cushion
just below Dudley's finger; doubled back to bounce off the cushion in front of her; hit the further cushion once more, and finally,
its momentum slowing at last, just brushed the stripe which Dudley had left poised. The perilously balanced ball teetered, and
with infinite slowness plopped over the edge and into the pocket.
"Oh," she said in a deeply surprised voice, nervously eyeing the cue ball where it had finally come to rest somewhere in
the middle of the table, a long way both from the cushions and from the nearest available stripe. She leant as far as she could over
the table to line up the shot, teetering on tiptoe on one precarious foot, and as she did so her left breast gently displaced one of
the remaining spots by about half an inch.
"Oops!" Melanie said. Dudley glared at her, and Jake muttered: "two shots." Neville turned round from an apparent rapt
contemplation of the Minor Counties cricket schedule that was hanging against the bar wall.
"I didn't see anything," he said. Jake snickered.
"No, I suppose noticing tits wouldn't be much in your line. Even such a fine pair as our Melly's. In the... er...
circumstances."
Draco, leaning against the bar, paled to dead white. His lips were compressed to bloodless lines, his nostrils were flared to
dark pits, and there were deep indentations showing either side of them. Ignoring him, Neville looked straight back at Jake. His
voice was completely uninflected.
"I said, I didn't see anything. Your shot, Melanie."
She bent over the table again, and this time tapped the cue ball with unexpected gentleness. It drifted with agonizing
slowness down the table, finally coming to rest just against the purple stripe in the very centre of the table. Neville considered the
position briefly, played the cue ball with micrometer accuracy away from the purple stripe, doubled a spot, and left it covering one
of the top pockets, neatly cutting off Dudley's two best chances of potting any of the three remaining stripes. Dudley chalked his
cue elaborately, strutted over to the table, and just missed potting a stripe into the bottom pocket. He swore, and stepped back to
let Draco play.
With the narrowest of edges, Draco put the only pottable spot cleanly and without fuss down into the same pocket,
knocking the stripe away up the table in the process. The cue ball cut back neatly into an ideal position for the next spot, which
he put down with equal efficiency into a centre pocket. He spun round, stalked to the other end of the table, put a lot of stun on
the cue ball and potted another spot, leaving the cue ball spinning on its axis in mid table.
Neville cast a speculative glance
towards the chair on which they had left their coats, but so far as he could tell Draco's wand was still where he had left it when
they came in, tucked into the concealed holster in his raincoat sleeve, and at the bottom of the pile.
Draco paced round the table, considered two alternative possibilities, lined up his shot, and hit the cue ball smartly at the
spot which lay nestled against the cushion at the far end of the table. With a sound which Neville felt was queasily reminiscent of
a club cracking a human skull, the cue ball hit cushion and spot simultaneously, bringing the spot back up the table and into the
pocket immediately in front of Draco. He considered the cue ball, tapped it gently, and allowed it to run back down the table,
gently deflecting the penultimate spot towards the top left pocket. It moved with dignity down the table, hesitated, and the rub of
the baize toppled it gently down into the pocket's embrace.
"Excuse me," Draco said, sliding sideways into a space between the group of management trainees leaning against the bar
and bending over the table, preparing to tap the final spot into the centre pocket, leaving him with a clear shot at the black.
Jake looked straight at Dudley, and grinned, meaningfully. Dudley caught the eyes of the other trainees, and, with a huge
wink, leaned over and, very deliberately, pinched Draco's left buttock, hard. Draco miscued, spectacularly. His cue tip must have
missed cutting the cloth by a hair's breadth. The remaining balls scattered at random, and the black went down. He straightened
up and spun round in a single blindingly fast movement, the cue brought to an attack position by pure reflex. Dudley recoiled, but
kept the sneer fixed on his face.
"What's the problem? I was told you appreciated that sort of thing. Oh, and it's our game, I see. "
Draco's gaze swept him coldly from feet to head and back again. There was dead silence in the bar. On the very edge of
Draco's peripheral vision he could sense that Neville had positioned himself quietly to cover his right side, a little behind him.
Behind Jake's grinning head Draco saw the barman make a tiny hand movement. In response, and unnoticed by the Nelcorp
trainees, three men who looked like the front row of the village rugby team moved with the slow-burning menace of dischuffed
hippopotami to cut off the available exits. The barman caught Draco's eye, and gave a small, significant nod. It was a village where
even to be born in the bed one's grandfather was conceived in could not always prevent one being classified as a transient and an
incomer. The Malfoys might be unpopular in the village, but six and a half hundred years of history confirmed that they were
unquestionably Local.
Jake and one of the other trainees detached themselves from their positions against the bar and moved to flank Dudley.
The two remaining trainees took off their jackets, and tried to look menacing in the background. Melanie looked helplessly across
the divide between the two groups.
"Look, can you all stop being such idiots? Dudley, just stop this right now."
"Get out of this, Melanie," Dudley snapped. "It's none of your business."
She moved back against the bar, her eyes wide, the dogs pressing against her legs. Dudley turned to face Draco again.
"Well?" Dudley persisted. "Isn't it true you take it up the arse?"
There was a collective sharp intake of breath. The villagers had long memories, and a vibrant tradition of oral history, and
most of them were quite aware that no Malfoy had been publicly insulted in that bar since 1746.
Draco looked him up and down slowly once more, and smiled sweetly. Several of the more perceptive customers of the
Rose and Crown faded rapidly out into the night.
"Why bother speculating?" he drawled. "I can assure you it's never going to be of any personal relevance to you."
Dudley blinked, bemusedly. Draco balanced himself lightly on the balls of his feet, and waited. Swapping Repartee With
the Hard of Thinking was a subject in which he was confident he could obtain an "A" grade NEWT with no prior revision at any
time. Although Jake's eyes flashed meaningfully, Dudley evidently decided to abandon any attempt to work out Draco's last
comment as a bad job, and returned to what he saw as the principal argument. His hands were the size of hams, he had twice
Draco's breadth and he overtopped him by at least six inches. And he had, in his day, been the Headmasters' Conference Boxing
Champion (Heavyweight Division). He advanced a yard closer. His face was within a foot of Draco's.
"Look, Malfoy," Dudley breathed. "Give me one reason -- just one -- why I shouldn't spread your pretty face across the floor of this
bar so thinly your boyfriend'll have to scrape it up with a shovel next time he wants a kiss."
Draco put his head on one side, and assumed an attitude of deep cogitation. On the very outer edge of his hearing -where sense meets thought -- he knew he could detect Neville saying: "Draco! No!" But there was a roar of sheer adrenaline like
the pounding sea in his ears and the mot juste had him in its embrace, and was carrying him helplessly onwards towards the
shore.
"Only one reason?" he drawled. His body relaxed, his lips curled with sheer amusement, his eyes widened, and his serene
gaze met Dudley's full on. "Well, if you insist on limiting me to one reason -- how about -- say -- for old times sake?"
He saw Dudley looking as baffled as expected, and paused for two beats before pressing home his advantage. "I mean -after all -- I was at school with your cousin Harry, you know."
For one perfect moment the scene was frozen, and then Dudley backed away from him so fast that he slammed his back
into the edge of the bar and knocked the wind out of himself completely. As he went purple and spluttered, and the Nelcorp
trainees pounded him uncomprehendingly on the back and arms, Draco moved forward to peer down at him in a concerned way,
and said: "Sorry you don't seem to be entirely well, at the moment. Anyway, as I understood it, your last remark was an invitation
to step outside. Whenever you're ready. Melanie, could I possibly ask you to keep the dogs with you in here? They get really
distressed at loud bangs and agonized screaming noises."
Dudley, half supine, looked up at him and screamed, "No! No! Get away from me, you unnatural pervert!"
He scrambled to his feet, and bolted from the bar, the baffled Nelcorp trainees following in his wake. Melanie, caught
again between two camps, paused, briefly and looked back at the two of them. Neville shook his head, firmly, waving a hand
towards a convenient door.
Reluctantly she drifted out into the night. Draco flopped into a convenient chair, breathing
heavily. Neville sat down opposite him, looked as though he was about to say something, and then shrugged, relapsing into
silence. The dogs collapsed at their feet. An improbably bewhiskered drinker who had maintained a resolute silence throughout
the whole episode got up, favoured the bar with a filthy look, and muttered, "I can't take sich nonsense" before taking himself off
into the night. Some of the locals began to forgather around the abandoned pool table. The barman drifted up with two large
whiskies and an apologetic expression.
"I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy," he said. "Blow-ins. No manners. Thanks for... er..."
Draco looked up at him. At the back of a deeply exhausted and defeated expression there remained a tiny flicker of
amusement. He dug into the pockets of his discarded raincoat, pulled out a ten-pound note, looked at it with some bemusement,
and pushed it across to the barman.
"Here," he said. "Have one on me. Drink to -- let's see -- not being the men our fathers were. That should do it."
~~~
Melanie signalled frantically through the security gates. The Malfoy housekeeper looked disapprovingly at her. "Mr
Malfoy's in bed. Come back later."
"I haven't got later. I had to swap doing the breakfast washing up shift for serving lunch instead. And this is urgent. Can't
you give him a message? Please?"
"More than my job's worth," Mrs. P. was beginning, when the security gate suddenly swung open in front of her. Melanie,
who had been leaning on it, sprawled forward onto the lawn. She scrambled to her feet to see the owner of the Manor emerging
from round the back. Melanie blinked. Draco was unshaven; his eyes were bloodshot; he had clearly dressed by the simple
expedient of grabbing whatever garments happened to be lying on his bedroom floor and throwing them at his body at random,
and, in general, he strongly resembled a vampire currently suffering the hangover from hell.
"Well?" he snapped.
"Draco, you look absolutely terrible," Melanie blurted out.
"Thanks. Well, nice to know I'm not giving out any misleading impressions, then. What're you doing here, anyway?"
"I had to come. Look, that thing you said last night -- well, it was a really, really bad idea."
He regarded her irritably. "I've realised that. And Neville's told me so as well. At some length, actually. So, as a matter of
fact, you don't have to."
She shook her head, anxiously. "No, you don't understand. This is really important. Look, can we go inside? I honestly
don't think it'd be a very clever plan for the Nelcorp trainees to see me talking to you."
He nodded. "Come on in. Have you had breakfast? I was just about to stare gloomily at a piece of toast myself."
"OK. If you've got eggs, or something. Or mushrooms. No meat."
He looked vague. "Well, you can get practically anything here. I think."
He led the way to the breakfast room. Mrs. P. had evidently not wasted the five minutes at her disposal. An array of silvercovered chafing dishes gleamed on the side-board, with small dancing will o'the wisps bobbing energetically about beneath them.
Melanie picked up a croissant and started to crumble it methodically in her fingers. She began talking rapidly at the same
time. "After we left the pub, they insisted on coming back to the staff quarters at the guest house. Oh, not all of them. Just
Dudley. And Jake. Oh, that man's such a-- such a-- such a slimeball. He was just wallowing in it. Any chance to cause trouble.
And I made them some coffee, and tried to calm them down a bit, but - well, Jake got Dudley talking. And I think-- I think he
probably said a lot more than he should've."
Draco had the heels of his hands pressed hard against his eyeballs. His elbows, completely unnoticed by him, were in a
dish of scrambled eggs.
"Go on," he said in a muffled way.
"Anyway-- look, you're not going to like this bit at all. I'm just warning you, OK? Well, then Jake talked Dudley into
telephoning his cousin."
That got a reaction. Draco sat bolt upright, and stared straight at her.
"Oh, shit," he breathed. There was a pause.
"Well, go on. What happened then?"
"A stand-up fight, it sounded like. But after a bit Dudley obviously got a word in edgeways."
"I can just about imagine what the word was," Draco commented gloomily. "I bet as soon as he used the M-word that got
Potter's undivided attention."
Melanie nodded. "I'm afraid it did, rather. So then they had this sort of three-way discussion, which went on forever (I
don't think Dudley's father's going to be at all pleased when he gets the mobile phone bill). And-- and this was the really weird
thing-- Dudley's cousin was obviously obsessing completely about what you said to me when you were trying to get Dudley to fight
you outside -- you know, about the dogs? And Dudley and Jake kept trying to remember it, and they kept getting it a bit wrong,
and arguing about it, so in the end Dudley's cousin must have insisted I come to the phone, and they shoved it in my hands, and I
thought at least it wouldn't make matters worse if I told him what you really had said. So I did. And then he went all quiet on the
other end of the phone, and then his voice sounded really, really shocked, and he muttered something about crucifixion -- is he
some sort of religious nut, by the way--?"
"No, that's Neville's cousin -- hang on a minute, he said what?"
Melanie looked nervously at Draco. "Well, that's what I heard, anyway."
Draco stared across the breakfast table at her in sheer disbelief.
"But he can't possibly think that I'd -- oh, bugger it, this is Potter we're talking about here, isn't it? Of course he would -look, Melanie, concentrate. This is important. What did you think I meant by what I said then?"
Her eyes were wide open, and puzzled. "Well, I thought you were exaggerating for dramatic effect, of course."
Draco exhaled, and flopped forwards, slightly, as though a string had been cut. "Well, thank god someone around here
seems to grasp the concept of irony. I was thinking it'd got itself re-classified as an extreme sport."
Melanie waved a hand, explanatorily.
"Well, it was just basic movie bad-guy dialogue, wasn't it? You know -- 'Take this wretch to the dungeons and hang him
by his toes until tomorrow. Maybe he will feel more inclined to co-operate then. And cancel Christmas.' 'Yeth, marthter'. That sort
of thing."
Draco seemed to have acquired a sudden inexplicable interest in the ceiling plaster-work. "Yes, well, perhaps we won't go
too far along that particular route. But you didn't think I meant it, did you?"
She shook her head, still feeling deeply puzzled. "No. It just sounded like that stupid sort of stuff boys say in front of each
other, to me. That's what I said to Dudley's cousin, too. But he obviously wasn't listening by that stage. Anyway, then he went all
concerned on me, and told me I was in really serious danger, but that I wasn't to worry, he'd make sure I was protected, and in
the meantime I had to be really careful, and steer well clear of you -- and Neville --"
"Neville! The slimy bastard! How the hell, how the hell can he think that Neville would-- He's fucking well supposed to be a
friend of his, for god's sake."
Words failed him. Melanie took another croissant, recommenced dismantling operations, and continued. "And I said that I
thought he was over-reacting a bit -- and he said I simply didn't have any concept of what I'd got myself involved in -- and then I-well, then I'm afraid I did something awful."
She blushed. Draco looked hopefully at her, and started to peel a banana. "Yes--?"
"I... er... called him a patronizing little git, and hung up. Wasn't it dreadful? I can't think what came over me."
The expression on Draco's face suggested that he had just seen a very, very faint glimmer of light at the end of an
exceptionally long tunnel.
"Sounds like an ordinary human reaction, to me. Look, can you do something for me? It's really important. And it won't
wait. I take it Muggles have some sort of legal parchment thing, you know, some way of recording evidence, for use in court,
later?"
Melanie nodded, in a baffled way. "Yes. They call them affidavits. They come up in Rumpole quite a bit."
"Well, can you do one of these affi-- things, as soon as you can. Set down exactly what I said, and what you thought I
meant -- oh, and all about the trainees picking the fight, as well. And could you leave it safely with some really, really respectable
Muggle? You know, someone like the Pope, or the Muggle prime minister--"
Melanie giggled nervously. "I'm not exactly on document-dropping off terms with Tony Blair, actually. But Caitlin would
probably do. She's my boss. She owns the guest house. And she's pretty cool. She knows heaps about dioxin residues, and Morris
dancing. And she's the secretary of the local chapter of the Sealed Knot."
"Well, whoever. But as soon as you leave here, please."
"But I'm hardly going to forget it all in five minutes, anyway--" Melanie suddenly stopped. Her tone changed.
"Oh. I see."
Draco looked at her and nodded. "You do, don't you?"
Her voice was subdued. "How bad is it?"
He winced. "Well, I don't think I've actually committed any crimes they can do me for. But -- well, the Cruciatus curse
carries a mandatory life sentence. It wouldn't be too good if Potter manages to convince anyone who actually matters that I
threatened to use it on Dudley."
Melanie bristled up. "But that's completely ridiculous. They must realise that."
Draco looked immeasurably cheered by her support. "Well, that's right, of course. Go round threatening to do something
that illegal with half the village standing by as witnesses? I mean, what sort of idiot do they take me for?"
This approach left Melanie feeling slightly hesitant, but she decided that the presentational problem, if it ever came to it,
would be Draco's barrister's rather than her own.
"Anyway," Draco added, "What happened then?"
"Dudley and me had a row," she confessed in a small voice. Draco looked at her.
"Golly. I hope either the staff quarters are really well sound-proofed, or that guest house is currently hosting a Banshee
and Boggart Spotters Convention."
"Anyway, then he phoned his father -- his father's on his way to see you now, by the way. He's supposed to get here by
lunchtime. And I'd better go and help Dudley pack. I think he's decided to resign. And he'll be leaving the village today."
Her normally rather small eyes were wide with woe, and there she knew was a betraying puffiness about the lids.
Draco made a rather exasperated gesture with his hand. "I really don't know what you see in that total loser."
"Look, I know he wasn't actually behaving very well yesterday." Her voice sounded defensive in her own ears. "But he's
been under a lot of stress -- the training course is, like, really intense, you know, and he's the youngest of the lot of them -- and I
think Jake's a terrible influence -- and anyway--"
She swept her hand around the room in an expansive gesture. A lobster, sitting in the middle of a beautifully composed
still life which occupied most of the wall opposite her, waved a claw back in a companionable manner. She gulped, slightly, but
pressed on regardless.
"You just don't understand how difficult poor Dudley's childhood was. I mean, he didn't really get quality time with his
parents, because his father was having to work just so hard to build up his business and give them all a decent lifestyle -- and,
obviously, they couldn't give him the attention and support he needed, just because they never knew what anti-social behaviour
his cousin would pull off next, and they had to concentrate on that -- no wonder he ended up with his history of eating disorders-"
Draco at this point appeared to be thinking of saying something, but Melanie continued relentlessly on, denying him the
opportunity,
"And you just think -- just because you've had this really privileged existence down here-- that everyone's had it as easy!"
Her tirade ran down like a church organ whose bellows have burst.
Draco glanced round the breakfast room as though seeing it for the first time. "Well, I suppose so. I mean, I probably did
have a pretty OK childhood, all things considered. Compared to lots of people, anyway. At least until my father tried to kill me,
that is."
Melanie thought she was probably looking as appalled as she felt. "Is that true?"
He shrugged. "Yes. But we don't actually have time to go into all that ancient history now. And anyway, in my experience,
people's childhoods don't really make all that much difference to whether they turn out to be nice people or not. I still think you
could do a lot better than Dursley."
She smiled shyly at him. "Well, even if I were single, what chance do any of the rest of us have, anyway? After all, you're
going out with the most fanciable man in this village."
To her surprise, this comment brought no answering lightening of Draco's expression. Instead, he rubbed his hands
across his face in a rather lost gesture, and muttered, "Well, I hope that's still true. I've got to say, as of seven o'clock this morning
it didn't seem all that likely to me."
Melanie looked at him, and wondered whether she dared put an arm round his shoulders. "It'll be all right--" she began
tentatively.
"And another thing," he interrupted, "the dogs have gone missing. I thought earlier on that they'd just curled up
somewhere quiet with their paws in their ears to block out the yelling, but they've had hours since then to reappear, and they just
haven't. I mean, here we are, not really eating breakfast, so there's all sorts of completely untouched sausages, and bacon, and
some weird rice stuff Mrs. P.'s suddenly decided to start producing every morning, that smells of curried fish -- from a springer
spaniel's point of view, this is sheer unadulterated heaven, and where are they? It just isn't natural."
Melanie pulled her brows together. "Perhaps they've gone out chasing rabbits--?"
"Those two? I imagine they'd call for an armed back-up squad of specially trained hit wizards if they came face to face with
a reasonably aggressive hamster. No, I'm going to get everyone I can scrape together out looking for them as soon as I've dealt with
Vernon Dursley. And can you keep your eyes peeled, too? I shouldn't imagine I'd be too welcome on Nelcorp land this morning,
but you can go there."
She nodded. Draco looked across at her. "Though, come to think of it, I am going to have to burgle the Nelcorp bit of the
Manor in about ten minutes. And you'll have to help me."
"But I don't know anything about burglary! And they've got state of the art electronic security and 24 hour video
surveillance, too!" Her voice was an excited shriek. She allowed her brain a moment's review of the previous sentence and added
defensively, "And it's morally wrong, as well."
Draco stretched, poured another cup of coffee, and said "Oh, I don't need help with the burglary bit. The bit I'll need you
for is showing me how to use the telephone I'm hoping to find when I get there."
Melanie looked at him in bafflement. "You mean, you really don't know how ?"
"No. Why should I? We've got more effective means of communication. And if Potter had any proper wizarding pride he
wouldn't have a telephone either, and I wouldn't be in this mess. Or at least he might have the basic common sense not to let his
appalling family have the number."
Melanie looked up. "Oh, I didn't mention all that part -- I thought you wouldn't un-- be really interested. Dudley didn't
have the number, and then directory enquiries said it was ex-directory--"
Her brows raised, questioningly. Draco nodded. "I do know that one. We have the same concept on the Floo network. And-?"
"Well, I was getting coffee refills, and when I came back in Jake had got onto the Internet on my pc -- I've got an old one to
do my pre-term course work on -- you know about the Internet--?"
'Well, I know what it is, I think. I've no idea how it works."
Melanie snorted. "Well, come to that I don't know how that lobster over there keeps managing to give me dirty winks, but I
know it is doing."
Draco's eyes tracked up and across in the direction of her gaze. "Mm, I'm afraid that painting has been a bit of a trial
recently. We used to keep it in the kitchen but Mrs. P. said she wasn't prepared to put up with its making obscene gestures at her
with its claws every time she cooked shellfish, and that it was it was her or it. Nasty decision. It's 17th Century Dutch, and quite
valuable, and she's been with the family since before I was born, and quite apart from knowing where all the -- er, yes, well, I
mean, quite apart from the loyalty we owe her, she makes a crème brulée to die for--"
And, in at least one memorable case, of.
Draco gulped, as a treacherous recollection intruded into his mind. He continued hastily on. "Anyway, we reached a
compromise. I had it moved in here, since I don't normally have shellfish for breakfast -- well, oysters have been known, but it
doesn't seem to feel sensitive about those, for some reason. But go on. Jake got onto the Internet and--?"
Melanie frowned. "I think he must have hacked into the BT records. Anyway, he got the number and they dialled it and
there they were."
Draco seemed happier than she had seen him all morning. "Well, that's got to be illegal. I can certainly mention that.
Every little helps. Well, come on."
Melanie looked hesitantly at him. "There's just one question. Draco -- who're you going to call?"
Draco widened his eyes in surprise. "I'm going to call Tom Patullo, of course. One thing I have learned in a misspent life is
that if you've seriously pissed off some senior guy in an organization, the only hope for you is to try to get someone even more
senior on your side, fast. And it's going to take some very difficult explaining, too. Come on."
"If we'd waited," Dudley whined, "Dad could have run me down to the village in the car, and I wouldn't have had to walk."
Melanie sighed. "I couldn't wait. I've got to get back to serve lunch. Anyway, I thought you'd have wanted a last chance to
have a talk. After all, if you're leaving the training program, I probably won't see you for ages. And it's a lovely day for a walk."
Dudley kicked a stone resentfully down the track in front of him, and said nothing. They were going down the path
through the coombe, and had almost reached the small glade where she had had her moonlight adventure. In the August
sunshine it looked sleepy, welcoming and harmless.
Suddenly, a faint, high-pitched whimpering sound made itself heard. Melanie came to a dead stop. Dudley failed to notice,
and cannoned straight into her.
"What is it?" Dudley's voice was sulky, with a faint edge of panic.
"I'm not sure. Ssh."
The whimpering sound came again, from somewhere just off the path. Melanie made up her mind. "Come on. I'm going to
check what it is."
Panic was beginning to dominate in Dudley's features. "You must be mad. It could be anything, round here."
"I think it's a dog. And it sounds as though it's in trouble. Look, are you coming with me, or do you want to wait here on
the path?"
An expression of indecision crossed Dudley's face. It took it some time. At length, he evidently reached the conclusion that
it was better to remain in company than to wait for whatever might be coming down the track next, or to proceed down the
coombe alone. He trailed reluctantly after Melanie into the undergrowth.
A short distance into the woodland the earth started to fall away abruptly into a steep sandy slope, perhaps twelve or
fourteen feet high, deeply grooved by channels cut by rainwater, and pockmarked with rabbit-holes. Melanie went cautiously to
the edge of the drop and leaned over.
"Oh!"
The whimpering got louder and more excited. Melanie wrapped her legs precariously round a small sapling, which creaked
warningly, and angled her body further out over the drop, groping frantically downwards.
"Dudley, hold onto my ankles, will you? There's some rusty old wire mesh fencing caught round a tree stump down here:
it looks as though someone's just tipped it over and dumped it. I think the dogs have got themselves tangled up in that. Hang on,
sweeties, I'm coming. It's all going to be all right. Try not to wriggle, poppets, you'll just make things worse."
Dudley crept closer to the edge, which began to crumble, ominously, under the pressure of his knees. He backed away,
hurriedly. "Are you completely bonkers? You do know whose dogs those are, don't you?"
Melanie twisted herself round in a manoeuvre which almost dislocated her neck, and stared disbelievingly at him. "Well of
course I do. You saw them in the pub last night."
"Then you don't want to even risk touching them. They probably aren't even real dogs. God knows what you'd turn into if
you let them scratch or bite you."
Melanie tried to think herself into an attitude of proper horror as she envisaged the perils of being turned into a werespaniel, but the phrase "blissfully uncomplicated lifestyle" kept intruding. She shook her head firmly, and snapped "Oh, don't be
an idiot. They're perfectly ordinary, sweet dogs. I've spent a night with them sleeping on my bed, so I should know."
And, her thoughts continued relentlessly as Dudley's face swelled and empurpled with the strain of Too Much Information
Overload, you have just convincingly demonstrated that not only can humans contract Foot-in-Mouth disease, they can pass it on to
each other, too.
"It isn't what you think," she added hurriedly, with a quick mental parenthesis of and for goodness sake don't ask what it
is, then, because I don't think you're going to be too much happier about that, either.
Dudley took a deep breath, and swelled up like a frog. Before he could utter, however, Melanie said rapidly, "Anyway, you
can't just leave the poor beasts to suffer, whoever owns them."
"Can't I? Just watch me. Those dogs are poison, Melanie, and as far as I'm concerned they can just stew."
Her eyes widened. She glared straight at him. Suddenly, she was projecting a hint of sabre-toothed tiger by her general
demeanour. "I simply don't believe I'm hearing this, Dudley Dursley. Well, if you aren't going to help me rescue them out of
ordinary human decency, then you might bear in mind that if your cousin's right (and I can't see, myself, why you're suddenly
behaving as though everything he has to say is the gospel truth, when you've kept on and on and on saying what an awful person
he is up to now) you're soon going to have to work out just what you're planning to do when Draco asks you how come his dogs
choked to death with you looking on and doing nothing about it."
Dudley obviously thought about this one for a bit. "Well," he muttered grudgingly, "now you come to mention it, I expect
my Aunt Marge would probably chop me out of her will if she found out I'd let a couple of dogs die, too. Though she always says,
she never really trusts a dog with floppy ears-- poncy little animals is what she calls them--"
Before this chain of reflection could lead him to shift back to his original attitude, Melanie seized the moment with
decisive generalship. "Will you hold onto my ankles? I reckon I can just about reach the nearest one if I have another eighteen
inches or so--"
Reluctantly, Dudley took her firmly by the ankles. Melanie gathered all her efforts. She stretched herself as far as possible
over the end of the sandy cliff, groping out for Marvolo's neck. She grasped a generous handful of scruff firmly with one hand and
lifted him slightly away from the all-embracing mesh. Even that small movement eased the pressure on his throat measurably. He
coughed, gratefully and damply, over her wrist.
"Don't worry, love," she muttered, holding him clear with a strained effort. "We'll have both of you free in a second or so."
She kicked, imperatively. Dudley shuffled a few inches closer to the edge, and leaned agonisingly forward. "Are you sure?"
She reached out her finger-tips for Riddle. "Come on, baby. It's all going to be all right now," she crooned. Riddle
scrabbled, twisted, and aimed for her hand. With a final strenuous effort, just as the cliff edge moved, dangerously, under her and
Dudley's combined weights, Melanie grabbed at Riddle's collar, caught it, and held on.
"I've got--!" she exclaimed triumphantly, as the cliff edge finally gave up the unequal struggle. Two humans and a brace of
spaniels were instantly precipitated in one tangled, helpless mass onto the mesh fencing. As they shot down the slope she grabbed
at the tree stump in a frantic bid to halt their slide. As she touched it the world whirled around, while from behind her midriff she
felt a powerful pulling sensation pluck her, Dudley and the dogs away from anything she had ever experienced before. The last
thing she was conscious of was Dudley's wailing voice.
"Oh, shit! I told you something like this would happen!"
The late afternoon sun lay golden over Whalley and a scattered string of little hamlets, which were strung out along the
valley below him as Neville began his descent down from one of the spurs of the Hill. He had seen more grouse than people that
day, and a possible hen harrier. A couple of obscure but useful moorland plants, which he thought might survive transplantation
to a chalky soil, were carefully tucked into his backpack. He had also achieved a much more tranquil frame of mind. On his
arrival that morning his grandmother had taken one look at him and delivered a no-nonsense prescription of, "At least 15 miles
across the moors, and don't come back until you've walked yourself into a bit of sense. When you've got to my age, you'll realise
that in the right can be a damn cold and lonely place to be. Get lost, and I don't want to see you till supper."
It was still an hour or so short of that, but Neville was forced to admit her recipe was working. He reached the outskirts of
the village of Wiswell and paused, indecisively. If he were to Apparate to the Manor now, he could drop the plants off at the
orangerie, set matters right with Draco, and still, probably, be back at his grandmother's in time for whatever discussion about
"family matters" she'd summoned him to Lancashire for. On the other hand -- he was hot, sticky and tired. His hands were
scratched and bleeding where the plants had put up a fight when he uprooted them. If he waited a bit -- went on home -- got
changed, had a bath, discussed whatever his grandmother was getting so agitated about -- then he'd have the whole rest of the
evening free to get back to the Manor and resolve matters there. Thoroughly. Unequivocally. Slowly. Which was, all things
considered, a much more cunning plan.
Close at hand the door of The Freemasons Arms stood invitingly open. It tipped the balance.
"Let 'un sweat," Neville thought with cheerful callousness, and grinned to himself.
Inside the landlord was leaning across the bar and reminiscing about his days in the RAF with the only other customer, a
middle-aged stranger in a suit who was probably visiting management from the aerospace factory a few miles further down the
valley. Neville had heard the current anecdote, which featured a Lancaster bomber, momentary inattention to landing, and "that
quarry, you know, the inconveniently placed one they used to have behind the run-way in Malta", on numerous previous
occasions, and knew it was winding down to its finale. He propped himself against a barstool and waited patiently for the punch
line.
This, as it happened, coincided with the end of the stranger's pint, and his consequent departure. The landlord grinned at
Neville.
"Nice to see you up here again. What can I get you? We've got a few interesting guest beers on today."
Neville looked at the beer pumps, and his lips quirked up whimsically. "Pint of Dark Assassin, I think."
Unfortunately, when the landlord began pouring it only a few inches of froth plopped tiredly out of the tap and into the
glass. He bent down behind the bar and lifted up the trap-door to the cellar, shouting down to someone below, "Oy, Thwaitesy!
Can you change the barrel on the Dark Assassin?"
He looked apologetically across at Neville. "It'll be about five minutes, I'm afraid. Do you want to have a pint of one of the
others instead?"
Neville shook his head. "No thanks, Jack. Give me a glass of water, and I'll wait for the beer."
"OK. Don't mind if I pop out for a couple of minutes, do you? I've got something to see to out the back."
The landlord vanished. The pub was wrapped in a heavy, late afternoon stupor. A bluebottle buzzed lazily against the
window of the bar. The only other sound was a faint knocking sound from the cellar, drifting up through the trap-door which the
landlord had forgotten to shut. Neville stretched his weary legs out and yawned. It would be so easy just to doze off here-"I really don't think you ought to be waiting for the Dark Assassin," a soft voice said from immediately behind his left ear.
"It's very deceptive, you know. It's much more powerful than you think, and it can get you into a lot of trouble."
Neville turned, very slowly. There was a man and a woman behind him, dressed, like himself, in Muggle walking clothes.
He had not heard them come in -- a tell tale glimpse of silvery grey cloth on the floor by the woman's shoulder bag told him why.
They had been there all along. More to the point, they had probably been with him all along. A prickle of fear ran along the back of
his neck. It did not betray itself in his voice, which he kept level, friendly, and unsuspicious.
"Oh, I think you're wrong there. I'm pretty familiar with it by now -- I don't think it's going to give me any nasty surprises."
The male half of the couple was, he guessed, about ten years older than himself, and sported a fair beard and an
expression of such gelatinous compassion that Neville felt faintly sick. He favoured Neville with a knowing little smile. "Trust me
on this one. Almost any alternative would be better for you."
"Really?" Neville raised his eyebrows. 'What were you planning to suggest?"
He gestured at the row of beer-pumps. "Milk of Amnesia, was it? Or possibly Ambush Ale?" His voice took on an edge he
had not meant it to betray.
The woman took a step forward. "You've guessed who we are?"
Neville shrugged. "No. But actually the more urgent question is why? And who sent you? And what are you planning to do
to me?"
His gaze dropped unobtrusively to his backpack. Not unobtrusively enough. The woman gave a small shake of her head.
"Seriously bad move. I really wouldn't recommend it. In fact, to avoid accidents--"
Her wand was suddenly in her hand. "Accio!"
She plucked the backpack one-handed out of the air as it swooped towards her. She opened it, abstracted Neville's wand,
and tucked it carefully inside her own bag, which she clasped firmly against her side, staying well out of Neville's reach. The
backpack itself she dropped to the floor and kicked under a table. Neville winced.
"And I wouldn't waste energy expecting your Muggle friend to re-appear," the man added. "He's very helpfully giving a
hand to our colleague, who seems to be suffering some car trouble in the lane. I believe he'll be quite some time. We thought we
needed some privacy -- some time to talk."
"I see. But perhaps I don't want to talk to you? It seems as though we don't have a great deal in common."
The man regarded Neville for a moment, and gently shook his head. "Not at the moment, perhaps. But I hope you'll start
sharing our viewpoint in the not too distant future. Anyway, perhaps on reflection we got off on slightly the wrong foot. My name's
Paul, and this is Gemma. Think of us as your friends. We're here to help you. You may not realise it at the moment, but we know
how much you need help, and it will be our privilege to bring it to you." He extended his hand. Neville pointedly avoided taking it.
"Neville! Neville! " Paul's voice was soothing. "I can just sense the waves of anger and resentment coming off you. Believe
me, we understand. We're going to be there for you, all the way. Think of it as a journey we're going on together."
"The only journey I'm proposing to go on," Neville said through gritted teeth, "is back home. Now. And you aren't invited."
He rose and strode decisively towards the door. As he had expected, Gemma moved into position to block his exit, pointing
her wand directly at him as she did so. Her blue, slightly bulging, eyes were big and earnest; her voice had the same gentle
cadence as Paul's. "I think you're making a bad mistake. Look, you just need to listen to us for a few minutes. That's all we're
asking you to do. I think when you've heard us out you'll see things in a different light."
Neville paused for a moment, and then nodded. He walked back to the bar, and sat down on the bar stool, resting his
back against the bar counter. Coincidentally, his broad shoulders now blocked both Paul and Gemma's view of the area behind
the bar. He said, clearly and a little louder than before, "Fine. Talk to me. But before you start I'd like to make one thing clear. You
used an invisibility cloak to corner me on my own. You've just taken my wand from me by force, and you drew your own when I
tried to leave. You've decoyed away anyone who might help me. In my book, if it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck then
it probably is a duck. Or some less pleasant species beginning with D, anyway."
Paul and Gemma exchanged puzzled glances. Paul spoke first. "Look, Neville, I know you must be feeling confused and
resentful right now--"
"I wonder what can have given you that idea?"
"--But we are here to help. Your friends are very worried about you."
Almost unconsciously, Neville's fingers began to fiddle nervously with the beer mats on the bar counter. With an effort, he
kept his voice level and continued to look Paul straight in the eye.
"Then I'm sure they'll be delighted when you pass on my message that I'm perfectly fine. Or, at least, that I will be when
you finally let me out of here."
Gemma began to waft her hand in a gentle gesture, to and fro across her face, as though slowly fanning herself. Don't
watch her fingertips. You must keep thinking straight.
Paul turned his full, soulful gaze on Neville, his voice softer than before, almost a singsong. "We can understand that you feel
trapped -- nowhere to turn to -- no apparent way out --"
Neville nodded. "Yep. My sentiments exactly."
He might as well not have spoken. Paul continued, in the same singsong voice. "You've got yourself into a bad situation -started dabbling in something which has got out of hand, something you thought you could control which is now controlling you.
No one's pointing the finger of blame at you. Hell, we all make mistakes. I've made plenty myself. And you -- with all those issues
and unresolved conflicts from your childhood -- no wonder you got yourself into this self-destructive, masochistic relationship
with Malfoy -- I can see how at first that might have seemed like a way of dealing with your inner pain."
This took a second to sink in, then Neville sat bolt upright. "Masochistic? You think I'm going out with Draco because I'm
a masochist? You must be completely off your trolley. No masochist would get anything out of a relationship with Draco. I mean,
you'd ask him to beat you and he'd just say: "shan't"."
Neville regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. He intercepted a quick, satisfied glance passing
between Paul and Gemma.
Oh, bugger. That's blown it. In the league of seriously stupid, ill-timed quips that one's got to be a championship contender.
Shows what intensive training from a master of the art can do for you, I suppose.
Paul put his head slightly on one side. "Well, that's a very interesting insight. I appreciate your sharing that one with us,
Neville. And in the light of that, you can see why we can understand that you may not find it easy to leave this relationship
without assistance -- that you might be genuinely frightened about what his reaction would be if you told him it was over."
That hit straight into the solar plexus. Neville knew his face must have twisted into a betraying spasm of emotion because
Paul and Gemma exchanged another Satisfied-Yet-Deeply-Caring glance.
Reaction? That blind look of shock -- like someone who's been cut with a really sharp knife, and can hardly believe the sight
of the blood welling up during that eerie initial moment of postponement of pain? Or that awful second of dawning familiarity in his
face, which -- if you hadn't at the relevant time been so far up yourself on a tidal wave of righteous indignation -- you might have had
the basic humanity to realise is what someone looks like when he knows -- but has just had it proved again -- that the safe refuges of
his life are destined always to be betrayed from within?
He looked across at Paul and Gemma, and his lips curled.
What, you think the worst thing I would be afraid of is that he might hex me, for god's sake?
Paul nodded, solemnly.
"We're making a lot of progress, even in this short chat, I feel. In fact, I think you may be starting to realize how much you
need the lifeline we're offering you."
Any line you offer me I shall take great pleasure in putting round your scrawny, pimpled neck. And pulling tight.
Neville looked blankly back at Paul. "I'm sorry? Could you explain that a bit more clearly, please? What -- lifeline?"
A note of quiet pride crept into Paul's voice. He steepled his hands over his chest, and leaned forward. "Your friends have
arranged for you to receive some intensive one-to-one counselling, at a residential centre we have, not far from here. Perhaps
you've heard of Gerard Averose-Dubarry, the pioneering research mediwizard?"
Gemma's eyes took on the look of one who has seen the Holy Grail in a vision. Her voice dropped reverentially. "It was
such a loss to psychowizardry when he was killed in Recent Events. Fortunately he'd kept a duplicate set of his notes, and they
escaped the blaze at the lab -- ever since, some of us have been trying to go on, to reconstruct his life's work, how he would have
wanted it to be. It's a sacred trust to us."
Unbidden, a memory flipped into Neville's mind. He knew, instantly, where it came from.
Those crisply defined edges and vivid colours, almost too real to be from the waking world, like the dreams you have when
your temperature is well past 100 degrees and rising. No wonder nothing outside those sharp little movies you had on permanent
re-run in your head ever came to be quite real, quite to matter. Here's where we came in -- and in -- and in again:
"Nothing to be done here, of course. In a hundred years, maybe, when we understand more of how the brain works, and what
happens to it when it's bent to breaking point by something like the Cruciatus curse -- then, perhaps, we might have a chance. Of
course, we'd have more opportunities if the Ministry would be a bit more flexible about its rules on experimentation -- after all, I
daresay those poor sods in Azkaban would welcome a couple of weeks leave of absence to help push back the bounds of scientific
knowledge."
The Great Man's entourage gives a small, sycophantic, ensemble titter. He winks, catches the eye of the prettiest girl, and
smiles, roguishly. Do I mean it or don't I? Come out with me this evening, and see if you can get me to tell.
There is an ink splodge from his quill on the pocket of his white robes. It is exactly the shape of Cuba. Eight year old eyes,
prematurely old, are able to notice these things. The Great Man and his disciples move en masse out into the corridor. Through
the open door, across the corridor, one can just see a tall, fair man come out of the office. Black robes; the entourage are
respectful but not worshipping. Important, but not a Healer, then. The Great Man greets him -- says something -- and they laugh.
Something so very familiar about the angle at which the dark-robed man holds his head as he laughs. Something there that
matters -- a lot -- if one could only remember properly.
Neville blinked. Gemma and Paul came back into focus. "Yes. I believe I do know who he was. And?"
"In fact, we've been able to take some of his theoretical work into actual practice, in treating witches and wizards who are
suffering from compulsive sociopathic behaviour patterns -- addictions of various sorts -- involvement with dangerous cults--"
"Mm. I see. I'm intrigued. Under which of the three headings do you classify loving Draco, as a matter of interest?"
Again, he was aware that he might as well not have spoken. Paul smiled sunnily at him. "You don't have to worry. The
technique is proven to be just as effective however it's applied. Anyway, are you ready?"
Neville tensed. He had known the moment was coming, but had hoped that before it did the mysterious car trouble would
have been cured, or a bunch of twitchers burst in from the Hill, eager for pints and to swap stories of corn-crake cries heard -perhaps -- on the wind.
"For what?" His voice was cool. This was, after all, it. In the back of his ears a song one of his Muggle friends used to play
him was banging away.
When they knock on your front door /How're you going to come?
With your hands on your head / Or on the trigger of your gun?
But that, of course, was not how he had ever been. They had disarmed him earlier without a fight. They did not think the
opposition he might put up was worth worrying about. They had not bothered to search for a second wand.
They were right, unfortunately. That wouldn't have been true of your father. Or your grandmother. Or Draco.
"Therapy, of course. After all, we're here to help you, " Paul said, his eyes baffled and faintly hurt.
Neville looked directly at him. "And suppose I say no? Suppose I say, I don't trust you? Suppose I say, I think you're trying
to kidnap me? Suppose I say: I'm not mad, I'm not vulnerable, and I'm not going?"
Gemma beamed at him reassuringly. "We were prepared for an initially hostile response. In fact, we've found this
experience a whole lot more positive than we feared. Of course, the whole counselling program depends on the patient being
willing to buy into it. This is all completely voluntary. Of course, if you object--"
She reached into the depths of her bag and pulled out a roll of parchment. "You might want to consider this."
It had the Ministry Seal hanging off it, the green sealing wax Manticore biting aggressively at the ribbon from which it was
suspended. Neville looked at it, his stomach churning acidly. "And that is--?"
Paul looked at him and smiled, compassionately. "As we said, your friends are very worried about you. If you come
voluntarily with us, then it will have an immeasurable effect. Everyone will know you couldn't possibly have been to blame for
subsequent events -- couldn't have known anything about it at all, you know. Was doing everything possible -- voluntarily -- to
put matters right. If, of course, you knew anything whatsoever. Which everyone doubts. And this parchment will be able to lie on
the shelf, a mere administrative detail. It was the best deal they could do for you, you know. Trust us."
Neville took a deep breath. His voice, when he spoke, was very low. They had to lean towards him to hear. "What. Is.
That?"
Gemma's voice was still indescribably soft, indescribably caring. "It's a compulsory committal order to St Mungo's. Your...
er... friends and family thought it was the best alternative if you weren't prepared to submit to voluntary counselling. Better than
Azkaban, by a long chalk, they thought."
There is a place whose horrors go beyond fear, beyond the memory of fear. You had thought Recent Events had tested you to
the bottom of raw, visceral terror. It seemed, after all, that you had been wrong. Inconceivable as it seems, you can go so much lower
than that, and still, somehow, remain conscious of where they have sent you. The island where dreams come true. Especially those
you have when you're running one hell of a temperature.
Neville's voice was a bare breath. Gemma and Paul were looking deeply into each other's eyes, enjoying the warm
satisfaction of a job well done, when he intruded his question into their perfect moment. They had to ask him to repeat it. "What
have you done to my grandmother?"
They stared at him, baffled. "Eh?"
It was obvious that his reaction had been unexpected. There was a pleasure in that, alone. It allowed him to make his
voice a little louder. "I said: what have you done to my grandmother?"
His voice had a low, dangerous purr. They would answer him, or kill him now. Probably, they would not kill him. If they
did, it might not matter. He amplified. "You said, friends and family. My grandmother would never have consented to any such
order if the Dark Lord and his fifteen best henchmen were standing over her casting Imperius as a team effort to make her do it.
So where is she? What have you done to her?"
Gemma looked at him, concern in every line of her face. "That is, like, such a classic example of your problems. I mean,
you just called You-Know-Who the Dark Lord and I don't think you even noticed you were doing it. Can you understand why your
friends are worried, now?"
"My so-called friends," Neville said distinctly, "Can sod off. Where is my grandmother?"
Paul's expression was worried. "I don't think you realize how bad things have been. I'm told your grandmother has been -well, the kindest way to put it is showing her age recently. Suffering from periods of confusion. Acting bizarrely. Refusing point
blank to see members of the family. Encouraging that obnoxious house-elf of hers to brush off visitors with blatantly untrue
messages. Showing signs of paranoia, even. Reporting intruders when there's no evidence that anyone's ever been there. That sort
of thing."
Neville set his teeth. "If Grandma thinks there have been intruders, then intruders there will have been. Evidence or no
evidence. Though I'm extremely surprised she's never mentioned anything about it to me."
Gemma gazed at him pityingly. "Are you, Neville? Can't you think of one really, really good reason why she might have
been afraid to do that?"
Momentarily, sheer blind rage choked Neville's ability to speak. Then, very slowly, and with infinite care and precision, he
said, "Oh. I. See. You think she suspects me and Draco of having something to do with it."
Gemma nodded, obviously pleased that her not-too-bright pupil had cottoned on at last. Neville shook his head decisively.
"I don't believe for an instant she does."
"Why not?" Gemma enquired, humouring him with an indulgent smile.
Because we've both still got our kneecaps.
He did not bother to speak the thought aloud. "Anyway, you still haven't told me where she is."
Paul patted him gently on the arm. "I realise this is going to come as a bit of a shock. Earlier today your cousin Eustace
came round to the house to discuss your future with her. Obviously her mental trouble must have come to a head. She seems to
have had some sort of brainstorm -- I know this is distressing for you -- and she just attacked him. Straight out of the blue!"
"Was he much injured?"
Gemma shook her head. Neville tried to keep the disappointment out of his expression.
"Fortunately, with the heightened alert status at the Ministry today, he had an official bodyguard with him. He managed to stun
her before she could really hurt Eustace. But they had to sedate her, and they're keeping her in the secure ward, of course, so
they can assess if she represents an on-going danger to herself or anyone else."
Do you idiots even know what danger is? Because from where I'm standing it looks like you've just jumped yourself right to
the head of the queue to be that someone else.
"I see," Neville said levelly. "Neat. Do give Eustace my congratulations when you next see him. He always wanted to be
head of the family. Pity he couldn't bear to wait another fifty years or so."
Paul's eyes assumed an expression of deep distress. He shook his head chidingly. "I suppose it's inevitable that you've
come to think of everyone's motives in that sort of way, living as you have been for the last year. But I can assure you, his only
interest in this has been his sincere concern for your welfare. He told me so himself."
Neville got to his feet and gestured, violently, in a single movement of raw anger. His forearm swept empty glasses, beer
mats and ash-trays in one confused mass from the bar counter to the floor on its other side. Without even pausing to check the
damage, he said passionately, "Bollocks! I know what the bastard's after. But he's made a big mistake. He might be able to take
me out, but Grandma can outplay him without even raising a sweat. I think anyone who might get dragged into this-- family
squabble-- ought to consider very, very carefully which Longbottom they're planning to back. And who is really in charge at our
house. Also -- you keep on talking about my friends doing this, and my friends doing the other. Has it occurred to you at all that
this is my life, and I'm entitled to have a say in how I run it? It's my decision who I go to bed with, and who I want to spend my life
with, and as a matter of fact I'm pretty damn happy with the choice I've made. I'd be happier still if I was back at the Manor with
Draco now. I don't see why I have to be bloody well answerable to some shadowy committee of self-appointed busy-bodies who
decide out of the blue that they "have my best interests at heart"."
Paul smiled at him. "Well, now you've got all that off your chest we'd better be going. No time like the present. Gemma, will
you let the landlord know that Neville's coming with us, and he doesn't want the Dark Assassin after all."
"I wouldn't put it like that," Neville hissed. "I can rarely have wanted anything more."
Paul patted his shoulder. "We'll soon sort you out. You'll start feeling much more positive about things in a while."
They left the pub together. He was conscious all the way down the lane of the wands they kept him covered with, and the
deeper threat of the parchment Gemma carried hidden in her bag.
Draco drained the last of the whisky in the tumbler, and looked listlessly into the flames. On this sultry summer night he
had enchanted the fire in the grate to give out only a soothing breeze, but it was still offering no solutions. He had lit it in hope
three hours ago, when the gathering dusk had driven him to call off the fruitless hunt for the dogs and retreat indoors, but
nothing had stirred on the hearth since then. The Manor gave off its usual nightly litany of creaks and ghostly moans, but he was,
tonight, the East wing's only living inhabitant.
The day had not improved since breakfast. The interview with Vernon Dursley had been short and unpleasant, and he
had insisted on conducting it from the passenger seat of his BMW, Petunia at the wheel, and with the engine running throughout.
"I mean," Draco thought in an injured way, "What bloody good did the preposterous git think that would do, if I were to
suddenly decide I hadn't given myself enough trouble already with that bloody family, and really made up my mind to curse him? "
At various periods later in the day various Nelcorp people had tried to get his attention by signalling with increasing
desperation through the security gates. He had taken a perverse pleasure in interpreting Tom Patullo's advice to "not make a
Godawful situation immeasurably worse by saying anything else out of turn until I can get there to deal with it" as a licence to
issue firm instructions that no Muggle was to be allowed across the boundary onto Malfoy land.
"Unless," he had added to Mrs. P., "they've found Marvolo and Riddle and come to bring them back."
Mrs. P. had then attempted to cheer him up by regaling him with all the awful stories her grandmother had told her,
about what Muggles had been proven to do to helpless domestic pets ("Seen it with her own eyes, she did, sir. It was frightful. She
could never face shepherd's pie again after that.") until his nerve had finally snapped and he'd given her the rest of the day off.
Things, after that, had simply deteriorated. By five o'clock he had almost been driven to take matters into his own hands
and Apparate to Lancashire, but his nerve, at the last minute, had failed. In the early part of the evening he had felt suddenly so
in need of a conversation with anyone at all that he had put his head in the fire and attempted to contact Hermione, only to be
confronted by her shocked, but determinedly polite and tolerant parents, who informed him that she had not yet flown in from a
cousin's wedding in Boston, and might they pass on a message when she was over her jet-lag? Half an hour later a determined
owl-tap on the window brought him instantly to his feet (fast, over a distance of two hundred and fifty miles, but they're breeding
them much speedier these days. One benefit of Recent Events, I suppose). Postcard from his mother, who appeared to have now
fetched up somewhere among the Dalmatian islands of Croatia. "Love to Neville. Who'd have thought any son of mine would be
settled down in happy domestic bliss before he was twenty?" Thanks so much, ma. Second owl-tap, two hours later (much more
plausible time estimate. Bigger owl, too. Much better speed over ground average). Invitation from a total imbecile to an Inaugural
Lecture in memory of his father in support of the Anti-Dilution Alliance, a well-meaning body who, while deploring the extremist
position taken by certain unconnected and largely unrepresentative persons in the past, nonetheless felt it incumbent on them to
draw to the attention of pureblood wizards everywhere the need to propagate only with their own kind, and the fundamental
importance of safeguarding unsullied wizarding bloodlines against rash and ill-considered mingling with Muggle and Mudblood
genes, a cross-fertilisation which was quite unproven experimentally, and was therefore highly likely to lead to all sorts of horrific
consequences if allowed to proceed unchecked.
"Only connect, you fuckwit, only connect," Draco muttered, and threw it in the fire.
The final straw came with the arrival of another owl, shortly before one in the morning. This one proved to be carrying an
anonymous Howler which had been so badly composed that when opened it gave vent to a full-volume tirade of alternate slurs and
lisps, occasionally rising to a feedback howl in moments of excitement, and without one word in seventeen being distinguishable.
It went on for twelve minutes without a pause. Once it had run its course, the owl that had brought it stretched its wings at Draco
in a move of ineffable contempt, ejected a pellet neatly into the whisky glass he had just refreshed, and took off out through the
window into the night.
"Oh, sod it," he muttered with sudden decision, and hurled his whisky tumbler into the flames. It shattered with a
satisfying crash. Without a backward glance he retreated from the room towards bed.
~~~
The half moon laid a track of dancing silver across the dark waters of the Adriatic. The island seemed to have been cut off
from time and space: it could hardly have changed in two thousand years. The warm night air was thick with the scent of lavender
and thyme; the cicadas clicked unmusically in the sparse but aromatic undergrowth which covered the thin soil below the
terrace's balustrade. Under the first trees of the small citrus grove in which the terrace ended Camilleri could see a reflected wisp
of escaped moonlight. He thrust his hands into his pockets in case their sudden shaking betrayed him, and strode forward.
"Do you come here often?"
Narcissa's cool, mocking tone arrested his progress before he was halfway to his objective. It was the mockery to which he
responded, as he retorted automatically. "As a matter of fact, I haven't even come here once. So far this evening."
She emerged fully from under the shadow of the trees.
"I ought to warn you," she said levelly, "that if your next comment is, 'there's a party in my trousers and you're invited' I'll
be Disapparating out of here so fast that the air molecules will probably weld together behind me."
Camilleri threw back his head and laughed. "No-one ever seriously used that line on you, did they?"
Her lips compressed into two thin lines. He was unsure whether they repressed amusement or disgust. "Unfortunately,
they did. To make matters worse, they did it in French. But, I'm sorry to say, without attempting the accent. However, I can tell
you that your opening comment just about squeezes in there among the ten worst chat up lines I've ever experienced."
"Really?" Camilleri looked interested. "You might drop me an owl with the other eight some day. You never know when
they might come in handy."
Narcissa gestured towards a small table on the terrace close by her, bearing a small array of glasses, bottles and a cocktail
shaker. "Martini?"
"Please."
She reached out her left hand to him with the drink. She wore no rings, Camilleri noted. In the moonlight the slender
curve of her elegant bare arm looked as bloodless and cold as alabaster. A light breeze sprang up from the sea, dancing the dust
and the twigs from the trees along the terrace in ghostly eddies. He shivered momentarily. He had not meant to say it, but the
unrelenting white marble of the terrace floor and balustrade reminded him too strongly of a mausoleum, and he found himself
uttering the question before he could stop it. "Did you kill your husband, Narcissa?"
Her voice betrayed no emotion, and little interest, apparently. "Well, not with a cocktail shaker, I can assure you."
Camilleri met her gaze, and held it. She shrugged her shoulders, allowing her sleeveless ivory robe to rearrange itself in a
different composition of classically sculpted folds around her. "When I took the decision I did I certainly had no illusions about
what it would mean for Lucius. If I succeeded, he would die. So yes: my deliberate act led directly to my husband's death. To that
extent, I killed him. Does it really matter whose hand actually did it? His, or Voldemort's, or some anonymous Auror's, or mine?"
His eyes remained fixed on Narcissa. She stood in the moonlight like the statue of an archaic deity, brought from the loot
of sacked palaces by some long dead Emperor to decorate his terrace.
"Well, it might to Draco," he said apologetically.
"True. It might."
She continued looking out at the sea, as her hands automatically poured herself a gin and tonic. He noticed that she spilt
a little of the tonic as she poured. Her hands were not as steady as the rest of her, either. Camilleri smiled, suddenly. "Do you
want a slice of lemon in that?"
She nodded. He reached a hand up into the tree branches above her head and plucked one. Then, he pulled a Swiss army
knife from his pocket and chopped the lemon into neat slices, finally spearing one on the point of the knife and dropping it into
Narcissa's drink. She raised one eyebrow in a quizzical arch.
"You know, every other wizard I know would have used his wand for that."
Camilleri looked Narcissa straight in the eye. "Well, I did, actually," he said, deadpan. "That's an orange tree."
With her snort of laughter the tension suddenly broke. Statues of goddesses never snigger. Camilleri moved next to her,
leaned negligently against the balustrade, and lit a Gauloise. A small cloud of fireflies fluttered up to see if they had company, and
then left in disgust.
"So," Narcissa said. "Why are you here? "
Camilleri took a long drag on his cigarette before answering. "I'm not at all sure," he said eventually. "But -- in case you're
worrying -- it isn't some cunning ploy to get an unguarded snap-shot of you, or something."
Narcissa smiled. Subtle serpent of old Nile. There was more like four hundred years of experience than forty behind her
smile.
"Oh, I know that. If there'd been any concealed photographic equipment on you it'd have self destructed by now. Unlike
my son, I do believe in taking sensible precautions against the Press. There are some very state of the art anti-surveillance charms
on this terrace. You must have made quite an impression on Emily Longbottom, by the way."
This abrupt change of direction, Camilleri guessed, was intended to befuddle him. He spared a second to breathe a brief
prayer of gratitude to whichever guardian presence had warned him, in a voice too strong to ignore, that carrying his habitual
breast pocket camera to this meeting would be outside the spirit, if not the letter, of the terms which Narcissa's owl had brought
to him earlier in the day. Then -- well, two can play at that game. He smiled blandly back at her.
"So, Narcissa, do you think Draco's gearing up to kick off a new round of Recent Events?"
Her long fingers tightened convulsively on the balustrade. "Oh, god, won't you bastards ever let up? No, of course I don't.
If that's all you wanted a pretext to ask, you can get out of here, now. Go on!" Her voice shook, and her eyes were bright with
unshed tears.
Camilleri did not move. "Why are you so sure?" he asked gently. She half turned, and looked up at him, as though trying
to read something from his face and voice. He apparently passed the test: she let out a shuddering breath and said: "Because he
lost so much the last time around. And because he'd lose everything else that matters to him if he tried anything of the sort. And
because -- I hope -- he's got more sense."
Camilleri nodded. Narcissa took a sip of her gin and tonic, took three deep breaths, and then added more calmly, "Plus, I
expect he's worked out by now that you can't combine a campaign for world domination with a three hour lie-in every morning."
Unbidden, Camilleri's thoughts strayed to what-ifs. What if You-Know-Who's mother had lived? Could he really have
embarked upon two devastating campaigns of terror against the whole wizarding world in the certain knowledge that while he might
have cowed everyone else, there remained One who might pop up and say: "Yes, I know the whole Army of the Dark Side is waiting
for your word to unleash Armageddon, but you can't do it in that robe. The seam's starting to split at the back. And when did you last
order your lackeys to clean those boots?"
"A very weighty argument, that last one," he said solemnly. "It'd fly for me. I'm not a morning person either. Unfortunately,
it's going to be Reet you'll have to convince. And, as she isn't, or, so far as I know, ever has had a mother (if you ask me, I reckon
she came out of an egg) I think she's going to discount your opinion fairly heavily. "
The surprise, he realized, was genuine. The beautiful brows knitted in puzzlement. "But-- she can't really think that Draco
would-- Oh, but that's ridiculous."
He lit another Gauloise. Some night bird began to call from within the olive grove that fell down the hillside below the
balustrade to the sea, two hundred feet below. "She's been working on the story for months. The Prophet's obviously given her
carte blanche to involve who she likes and take them off anything else she chooses. She keeps on hinting that it's going to be big - and make everyone's reputation. Limitless exes, too. No wonder most of the people she's involved so far thinks the sun shines
out of her-- eyes. She also claims to have some sort of mole within the Manor itself, though that could just be a bit of typical Reet
smoke and mirrors. And -- she really would kill me if she knew I was here now, so I hope those anti-surveillance charms are as
good as you claim they are."
Narcissa took three strides down the terrace, turned, and paced back. "It just doesn't make any sense at all," she
muttered. "Just on practicalities alone it's a total nonsense. If Draco had been planning anything of the sort, he wouldn't have
balked at murdering Hermione. If he'd killed her, that would have left him with only about four strategic murders before he could
step into an established power base and a winning position. Tough ones, of course, but still-- Why go to all that trouble to sacrifice
the power base and the position, nearly getting killed in the process, if he's then going to decide to go for it the hard way? Waste of
time, waste of money, waste of opportunity. Totally bloody idiotic."
Camilleri swallowed, hard, and tried not to let Narcissa notice that he had done so. He pictured putting this very logical
assessment to Neil and Simon, and shook his head at the thought, only to notice that Narcissa was doing so as well.
"No, that'd be a downright stupid plot. And I don't like that Skeeter cow, but I don't think she's stupid. If she thinks she's
on the track of a plot -- and if she isn't lying -- then it has to be some other plot. You did say smoke and mirrors, didn't you? The
question is, then, what's she really after?"
The moment had come. Camilleri licked his tongue over suddenly dry lips, took a deep breath and said, "I don't know, but
I'm very much afraid it might be -- you."
Narcissa spun on one heel, in a cloud of flying draperies. "Me?"
He nodded. "I've known her a very long time. And she isn't at all a nice person, but she is, basically, very professional. She
knows where the line is, and she hits it, dead on, 98% of the time. About the only time I can remember her coming a cropper was
with young Hermione, a few years ago. And she bounced back from that pretty effectively, too. But when I saw her in action with
you in October -- well, she was different. Her emotions were involved. It was all dead serious and dead personal. Fr'instance, when
we had that time-out, when I was talking her out of taking that line about... er... about your late husband -- she started necking
back antacid from a bottle in her handbag like it was going out of fashion. A pro like Reet shouldn't be so nervous about a basic
pants-down parlez-vous that her digestion goes back on her, for god's sake."
Narcissa's face froze. "It's always interesting to learn the technical expressions for things. I take it that 'pants-down parlezvous' will be Prophet jargon for 'Confronting the family of those you are about to crucify publicly, to discuss exactly where the nails
get hammered in hardest'? Do you ever think about your victims in the days and weeks afterwards? When the newspaper articles
have gone to line the bottoms of gerbil cages, and you're off after some newer quarry, your unspeakable readers are still sending in
Howlers by every post, and every chance acquaintance the poor so-and-sos have ever had calls up to disapprove, or express their
gushing, sticky-beaking sympathy, or offer their unparalleled advice as to exactly what they should have done to avoid it all--"
Her breath ran out. She took another swallow of her drink, and swung round to look determinedly away from him. Her
beautiful profile was stark against the moon-path on the dark sea.
His heart stopped, momentarily, and then started up again, very fast. He was breathing harder, too. "No. I don't get to see
that side, I admit. And I agree, maybe it isn't a very nice job. But then, nor was running a salon on behalf of You-Know-Who, if I
wanted to start being uncouth, and mentioning things that you'd rather gloss over, Narcissa. Look, I freely admit I thought it was
a total hoot when that picture hit my desk. It wasn't exactly as if it was anything all that serious -- about half the Prophet staff has
been spotted doing worse at the office party, for god's sake. And I did get a kick out of seeing a Malfoy land himself in it."
He paused, briefly, to light another cigarette. It took him a number of attempts. His hands were trembling unashamedly
now. "You see, I had a brother. A few years older than me. A-- a Squib, I suppose you'd say. He didn't mind much, I think. He
thought my magic was a total hoot. Meet my weird brother, and if he likes you he might show you his wand. That's how he used to
introduce me to girls at parties. He played in a rock band. Got on Top of the Pops once -- well, I don't suppose that means
anything to you. It meant a hell of a lot to me, I can tell you. He could only have been more famous in Whalley Range if the City
scouts had picked him up. And then one day--"
He spread his hands. "Nothing. He vanished. The Ministry wasn't interested. Could be anything, they said. Did I know all
about the dodgy Muggle circles he moved in? No? Then investigate those. Tell the Muggle police. Don't worry us with alarmist
reports; we have enough on our plates dealing with the Wizards who are vanishing daily. And we tried to believe he'd walk in next
day -- or the day after. Sometimes, I still think that. But -- when I was outside Flourish & Blotts, a few weeks later, just about to
buy my books for my sixth year, and Lucius Malfoy passed me in the street -- he recognized me. And he shouldn't have done. Oh,
I knew who he was, all right. I'd already planned to go into journalism and I was reading every publication, every edition, seeing
what they did right, what they did wrong. And he'd been Witch Weekly's most eligible bachelor a fortnight before. But there was no
reason why he should have recognized me. But, when he passed me, his eyes flickered. And then he tried to hide it. And ever since
then, I always thought I knew."
He paused, momentarily. The rigid line of Narcissa's backbone had started to droop, but her head still determinedly faced
seawards.
"Tell me, do you think any of us can ever win the post-war?" Her voice was muffled.
Camilleri carried on as though he had not heard her, though his voice softened. "Which is why -- if you did happen, by
some chance, to know whose hand actually did do it -- you might put a drink in it from me, perhaps. And from my brother."
Narcissa turned, and his arms were waiting for her. She buried herself against his shoulder making small, incoherent,
sobbing noises. His hand went up to her hair, and began to stroke it rhythmically. Her hands reached up to encircle his back and
waist, and pull him closer. They held each other for a long time. It was Narcissa who broke away first.
"So," she said, in a perfectly neutral voice, "what happens next?"
Camilleri tried to read her expression in the half-light. "We can separate -- or go on together. I would-- appreciate the
latter. Very much. But I can see in the circumstances that given my background -- given my job -- I've nothing to offer you -you've no reason to trust me--"
Narcissa gave a small, impatient shrug. "Much that matters. I've only been to bed with one man in my entire life whom I
actually trusted."
It was inevitable. He was a journalist, and the urge to ask intrusive questions at inopportune moments was stamped
through him like Blackpool went through rock. "And--?"
She turned to look out to sea again. "Oh, he married my best friend. On whom it turned out he was cheating when he
slept with me. To win a bet with his own friends, I understood later. I gave her a Memory Charm as an engagement present. God, I
miss her so much sometimes."
The sea, apparently, was not proposing to give up any ghosts that evening, because Narcissa, after another long stare at
it, turned round to face Camilleri, her voice determinedly light. "Well, I rejected your first line, and I've already seen your wand.
Any other offers or have you run out of imagination?"
Camilleri tried to match her tone. "The traditional expression at this stage of the evening, I think, is 'Your place or mine?'
Though 'Get your coat, love, you've pulled' has been known."
Narcissa wrinkled her nose. Even that gesture managed to convey the ultimate in chic.
"I know. I have heard that one before, as well."
"Ah. One of the missing eight, perchance?"
She shook her head. "Comes in at number 17, actually. Well, then, as I'm an old-fashioned girl who believes in tradition--"
Her eyebrows went up in an unmistakable invitation. Camilleri drew a deep breath, and sent his voice down into the
depths of his Gauloise-damaged lungs to seek out his huskiest register. "Your place or mine, milady?"
She smiled, and his insides turned to water. Her voice was very gentle. "Actually-- this is my place."
He looked up the hill above the terrace, at the baroque marble mass of the villa that tumbled down the slopes of the hill
towards the terrace. A summer palace for a Grand-Duke of the Austro-Hungarian empire, no doubt, in the sunlit days before the
First World War. "The-- the whole estate?"
She looked faintly apologetic. "The whole island. But it's a very small one, honestly."
He gathered up all his courage. "In that case, better be my place. After all, I'd like to play you some proper jazz this
evening, and I'm sure you can't have a decent hi-fi in that thing."
"And why not?" Her voice was amused, and playful. "Suppose I said I'd had Europe's best consultants, Wizard and
Muggle, with an unlimited budget searching for the world's best hi-fi to bring it here and install it to its ultimate capacity?"
His eyes danced, and lit an answering sparkle in Narcissa's. "They still wouldn't have brought to the job what I brought to
it when I selected my system."
"And that was?"
He paused for a heartbeat, and looked her full in the eyes. "Passion," he said simply.
The nightmare ran its inevitable course. His father turned, faced him at last, stared straight at him with the contempt that
had always been there, but always for others, always for others who deserved it. Never for him. He tried to rise, tried to speak, but
sank back to the quarry floor, dumb and immobilised. The pieces of his broken wand lay around him. His father regarded him for
one endless moment, and then turned on his heel and Disapparated in silence. But he had not been left alone. Never alone. The
quarry floor was thick with other corpses. The one nearest to him would have been a clean picked skeleton save for the few
mummified rags of flesh clinging to its ribs. With unspeakable horror he noticed it was holding out its bony hand to him. When he
froze in panic it caught him by the elbow instead.
"Probably don't remember me, do you? Diggory. Cedric Diggory. Splendid to have you with us at last. I've always said we
ought to have a lot more co-operation between Hufflepuffs and Slytherins. I've been trying to get together some interest in a
scratch Quidditch team to pass the time away, but frankly the chaps here have been a bit apathetic. Now we've got you on board
I'm sure we can change all that. And we've got the chance of an international standard Chaser as soon as he can track down his
leg bones."
Draco cried out and thrashed in the bed, clutching out frantically for comfort. But his outstretched arm crashed down
through empty air, landing on the cold smooth linen of the unoccupied side. He woke.
He was being grasped by the elbow. A small indistinct figure was shaking it violently, while her face flickered in and out of
view, too rapidly to follow.
"Wake up! Wake up! Master Neville is in trouble. Master Neville needs you!"
He dragged himself groggily to a sitting position, and rubbed his hands across his eyes.
The small urgent figure screamed in agony, and then flickered out for a full second, before reappearing, somehow smaller and less
definite than before. She screamed again, and bit, hard, at her own wrist to stifle the sound.
"What the--? Betsey? It is Betsey, isn't it?"
She nodded, violently, her mouth open in another inaudible scream.
"What is it? I'm awake, I think. What did you say about Neville? Where is he? What's happened?"
She shuddered from top to bottom, her long pointed ears quivering. In all the discreditable history of his family's dealings
with house-elves, he had never seen one as close as this to splinching. House-elves had magic in them like humans had blood; the
only thing that could really hurt them was their controlling family. Conflicts of loyalty could tear them apart. Literally.
"Bad men took him. Bad men took madam too. Bad Betsey. Not madam any more. Madwoman, more like! Disloyal to
master to call her madam. Betsey must be punished." Her entire appearance rippled and became insubstantial, then it solidified
again. The lines of sheer agony on her face testified to how hard it must be for her to hold her projection in his room. "Master
Neville asked for you. Not Master any more. Thwaitsey told me. Ask him. Thwaitsey knows where-- aargh!"
"Who's Thwaitsey? Where is he?" Draco asked urgently. She could surely stand only a few more minutes of this. She came
into focus again.
"Freemasons Arms. Wiswell. Not far from the house. Not master's house -- not never -- not-- no-- no-- nooooo--"
Her voice tailed off into a yelp of anguish.
Draco caught up his wand from the bedside table. Betsey shook her head at him so vigorously he feared it might fall off.
"Draco not to use his wand. The Ministry -- the Ministry know -- Not safe to use. But come. Come quickly."
As she flickered again he felt a stabbing pain hit him from behind both eyeballs. He gasped. He had felt it twice before
during Recent Events. It meant that the Manor was under siege. He focused his gaze with an effort on Betsey. She was becoming
fainter by the second.
"Freemason's Arms, Wiswell. Thwaitsey. Got it. If you can, tell Neville I'm on my way. But get out of here now. It isn't safe for you
to stay. Go and do what you have to do up in Lancashire. Don't let them -- I mean, keep your head down. And-- thanks. I'll make
sure the-- the family know what you did. The real family. My word on it."
She gave him a pale ghost of what would in other circumstances have been a cheeky grin, and flickered out. The
throbbing pain hit him again. It was much worse than he had experienced it before, but that was surely no surprise. The two
previous attempts to take the Manor had been beaten off, and in any case then he had only been the heir, not the owner.
Somebody else's problem. When the Manor finally fell during Recent Events he had been beyond feeling anything, but somehow he
suspected that the warning system would not have been operating on that occasion.
Without bothering to do more than throw on a dressing gown he sprinted for the muniments room, rummaging frantically
in a bureau drawer there for his personal seal. The number of people in the world who were able to read messages sealed with that
could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and still leave spares. He grabbed some parchment and scribbled hurriedly. Another
bureau drawer yielded up what looked like the Manor's total stash of Muggle money. He grimaced at it as he thrust it into his
dressing gown pocket with the sealed and completed notes.
He got to his feet, and paused. A movement from one of the portraits caught his eye. Great Uncle Roger had drawn his
rapier, and raised it to him in a gesture of salute. Draco bowed, formally, back to him. Their eyes met in perfect understanding.
The Manor might have to be abandoned by its owner, but he would not be without a family representative to oversee his interests
once the invaders were in possession. Draco turned and left the muniments room.
His next stop was the Owlery. There were five owls currently in there; he gave each of them the same sealed message. Situation
desperate. Use your imagination. Heading for Lancashire now. Neville's owl, the last of the five, was fidgety as he picked her up; her
feathers were dishevelled and it looked as though she was beginning a moult. She pecked violently at his fingers.
"I know, I know. I'm doing all I can. You can go and look for him after you've delivered that message, ok? But that has to
get through."
She looked searchingly at his face, and then took off through the hatchway with a screech.
The throbbing had temporarily retreated to manageable background pain, but he did not deceive himself that this meant
that the attack was lessening.
The defences would hold for some time, but the attackers must beat them down eventually; probably within an hour. Two,
at the outside. Even if the owls got through he could expect no reinforcements within that time period.
He redoubled back to his bedroom, dressed himself in the first Muggle clothes he could find, and then started rummaging
frantically in Neville's wardrobe for a duffle bag he knew he had seen there. A few moments search found it; he threw a change of
his own clothes and one of Neville's in it. Then he picked up his wand, regarding it with an uncertain expression.
Each wand channelled magical energy in a subtly unique way; a wand which could do great things in one wizard's hands
might be almost useless or backfire dangerously in the hands of another. That meant, of course, that each witch or wizard's wand
created a magical aura when used which was as distinctive as a fingerprint. Wand-makers were required, under the emergency
ordinances passed during Recent Events, and not yet repealed, to retain a "print" of the signature energies of any wand they
supplied or had back for repairs, so that Aurors could -- by use of sophisticated thaumatulurgical sensors -- be alerted to its use.
This had, not unnaturally, caused an uproar. Witches and wizards did not necessarily want their every magical action
open to scrutiny by the all-seeing eyes of the Ministry. Certain establishments, which existed to provide discreet services to a
discerning clientele, mentioned that the idea was inimical to their very existence. Furthermore, the wand makers loathed the rule,
since it risked their losing a lucrative section of trade to unscrupulous black market operators. The Ministry had been forced to
concede that only a special order, signed off by a Departmental Head or Deputy, based on a genuine belief that the wand
concerned had been or would be likely to be used to cast one of a defined class of proscribed enchantments, justified the
disclosure of a wand-print. Or, of course, other good and sufficient cause in the general wizarding interest.
Such as, for example, having a great deal too much fun in bed with a senior official's cousin.
The wand was little more than a year old, and, as he had got it from Ollivanders at the height of Recent Events, its print
would undoubtedly be on file. On Melanie's story alone the Ministry would have had no difficulty getting a disclosure order. Using
it would light up his whereabouts like a bonfire. And if his wand was compromised-- he grimaced. The same raft of emergency
powers also allowed the Ministry to freeze bank accounts and to require Gringotts to report attempts to access them. It was safe to
assume that he was cut off from his cash reserves for the foreseeable future.
Wonderful. You've somehow got to get yourself to Lancashire, to a place you've never heard of, to get vital information out of
someone you've never met. And you can't use either money or magic to do it.
The throbbing pain hit him again. The attackers must be getting very close. With sudden decision he thrust the wand into
the duffle bag along with a miscellaneous collection of other items from the bedside table, and considered his next move.
There are advantages to living in a house whose builder raised it on the smoking foundations of the building in which his
brother was deliberately burned alive. Ways of getting out in a hurry tend to have been considered from the planning stage
upwards.
The route he was planning to use existed for one purpose, and one purpose only: it was a last resort to get the owner of
the Manor out if in his judgment the Manor was on the point of falling to the enemy and could not be held. It was a way out, never
a way in, and its existence and how to get into it were a closely guarded secret, passed only from the owner to his direct heir. It
occurred to Draco, with faint surprise, and then renewed surprise that he had not thought of it before, that it was likely that the
secret would die with him.
But preferably not in the next half-hour.
The only problem was that the entry to the escape route now lay in the Nelcorp part of the Manor. And, whereas yesterday
two spells had enabled him to walk through any security the Nelcorp engineers had been able to put in place without any chance
of detection, without his wand that part of the Manor was now cut off from him.
Except, of course, via the roof. And the roof had been his own private playground and kingdom ever since he'd been old
enough to get a broomstick up there. Broomsticks were ruled out at the moment, of course, but-- there were other means of
getting onto the roof. He'd used them successfully in the past. Even if not for a few years.
He looked speculatively at the window.
The Jacobean casement consisted of three small, narrow openings, glazed with diamonded panes, divided by thin bands of
honey-coloured stone. He opened one of the windows to its fullest extent and considered the problem. He had undoubtedly been a
good bit smaller when he'd got out through it last. However, on the principle that where head and one arm went the rest should
follow, it certainly ought to be possible.
He leaned out with the duffle bag and looped the carrying straps round the nearby drain-pipe, leaving it dangling for later
collection. One less thing to worry about. Then, he reached out and up, groping for the familiar handholds on the edge of the lead
guttering above the window, noting with faintly gratified surprise that any problems which the increased breadth of shoulders he'd
gained since he was fourteen might cause him in getting out through the window, were more than compensated for by the
additional purchase he could get from the extra length of legs and arms. There was, admittedly, one awful moment when his knee
joint doubled, awkwardly, as he tried to force it though the window, and the spectre of being trapped indefinitely half in/half out
swam before his eyes, but he wrenched his leg through the window with an eye-watering effort, and hung, momentarily, from the
guttering by both hands, the full height of the building above the lawn. Then, he managed to hook one leg round the drainpipe
and swarm up the last few feet that took him over the parapet and in among the familiar warm lichened slate slopes of the roof.
Retrieving the duffle bag was the work of seconds. He set off across the foothills of the roof towards the false chimneystack,
concealed among a forest of real ones, which cloaked the entrance to his escape route.
The tiny flat, unobtrusively located deep beneath the Lauderdale Tower of London's Barbican, was a dynamic tribute to
the forces of chaos and human ingenuity combined. An ever-changing panorama of the world's most spectacular views -photographed specially for the purpose by the flat's owner -- moved enticingly and forever out of reach behind the glass of the false
window. At present (for it was early morning in London) the window gave onto the late night glitter of Lower Manhattan, viewed
across the soothing, sinister, dark mass of Central Park.
There was not one spare centimetre of floor space visible in the living room, where a sofa-bed (expanded for the occasion
to its fullest extent) jostled for position with an SME 20 record deck, some 4 or 5 assorted AudioResearch valve amps each with its
own place in a strict hierarchy of reproduction, racks of boxes containing the rarest of the rare in vinyl, a pair of ferocious
Avantgarde speakers, three wine racks (much depleted in the course of the previous evening), two ashtrays (full) and fourteen
cases of photographic equipment. Both kitchen and bathroom betrayed evidence that they each had a full second career
moonlighting as darkrooms. The miniscule bedroom might (under the detritus of clothes, magazines, spare bodies and lenses from
the Leica Vorlagensorceror range, miscellaneous photographic potions ingredients and assorted other items of varying age and
identifiability) possibly have concealed a bed, but it would certainly have taken an expedition on the scale which Lady Franklin
had mounted in search of her missing husband to have discovered it.
Camilleri roused himself cautiously, trying not to wake the sleeping woman by his side. His skull, however, came into
violent concussion with the overhang of the bookshelf behind the sofa-bed, which he had momentarily forgotten. He swore,
picturesquely but in an uncharacteristically subdued tone, and, despite his despairing grab, Catch 22, which had been on the very
edge of the bookshelf, slid inevitably off it and onto Narcissa's stomach. She woke, all at once and instantly aware of her
surroundings, rolled onto her side and smiled at him like a well-fed Siamese cat.
"Coffee?" he enquired hospitably. "Breakfast? There's some bacon, I think -- and, of course, ancient eggs."
Her incomparable violet eyes held an expression of sheer puzzlement. "Chinese food? For breakfast?"
Camilleri looked faintly guilty. "Er, no," he confessed. "I'm just totally crap at reading the sell-by dates on the boxes."
Narcissa considered this for a moment or two. "Well, possibly." She paused. The tip of one forefinger began to trail absentmindedly up Camilleri's leg towards his inner thigh. "If you really insist."
She leaned her head over his face, her hair hanging in a sheer pale curtain around them. His lips met hers; her tongue
teased its way into his mouth and began slow, exploratory circles. He reached up his own hand for the back of her neck. She
broke away, momentarily, brushed back her hair and looked down at him thoughtfully.
"Of course, I expect you're really, really frightfully hungry."
She moved one long leg up the bed to encircle his waist, and ran all the nails of her other hand slowly from his neck down
to the base of his spine. "On the other hand-- if you could bear to postpone breakfast a bit--"
She bent towards his mouth again. With a suffocated moan, Camilleri indicated that he thought he might, just possibly,
be able to bear it. This once.
It was quite some minutes later when a deeply embarrassed cough and an "Oh, Chris? Sorry if this catches you at a bad
time" from behind the record boxes indicated that Camilleri's office wished to communicate with him.
"Nevair ave I been treated comme si! C'est affreuse!" Narcissa exclaimed, loudly and melodramatically, and disappeared
promptly under the bedclothes. Camilleri checked she was completely concealed, grabbed his pants, slid into them, and moved a
couple of boxes to reveal a very small fireplace, out of which Neil's head, eyes prudently closed, was protruding.
"Yes?" Camilleri snapped. "It might have escaped your notice, but I had this morning booked off. It's in the book, and
everything."
Neil opened one eye cautiously. He coughed. "Er, Chris? I'm really really sorry, but I was expecting this to be your living
room."
"It is my living room. I wasn't aware I had to get the office's permission before I included 'bonking' under 'room, living; acts
appropriate for the use of'."
"Well, I'm sorry if I startled you and, er, your girlfriend--"
Neil paused, as though hoping for an introduction. Racking his brains frantically, Camilleri gestured nonchalantly
towards the bed with a sock. "Oh, you mean Clementine." There was a deeply affronted snort from under the duvet.
"Simone, imbécile! C'est le devoir premier d'un gentilhomme de se rappeler au matin le nom de sa petite amie de la nuit."
"Look, I don't suppose you could ask Simone to leave us alone for a moment or two? This one is pretty hot and pretty
sensitive."
"Stunning choice of words there," Camilleri muttered. The hump under the duvet wriggled, and he thought he detected a
stifled snort of laughter. He said loudly, "Oh, don't worry about her. To tell you the truth, I don't think she understands much
English."
Neil gave the hump another dubious look, and then shrugged. "OK. If you think it's all right. Well, you'd better get over
here right away. The Overlord story's breaking fast. Apparently he's kidnapped two Muggles now -- and guess who one of them
is?"
Camilleri's stomach did a total flip over. He dared not look at the bed. "What do you mean, kidnapped?"
Neil's eyes shone with pleasure and he gestured dramatically. "If he hasn't done something worse. It's Potter's cousin and
his girlfriend. They set out from the Manor to walk to the village yesterday just before lunch, and haven't been seen since.
Apparently Malfoy had some sort of a fight with him in the pub the night before last -- threatened to use Cruciatus on him and
everything. Rita's been doing her nut because her strictly unattributable Ministry source didn't tip her off about any of it till first
thing this morning, when the Aurors were already on their way down to Wiltshire to bring him in. She Apparated off in a right
state, saying she'd got a line on the two Muggles' whereabouts, and told me to get you back here pronto. Oh, and she'd had a late
report in from Gilt Edge -- it seems Malfoy and the boyfriend had a huge row early yesterday, and the boyfriend is supposed to
have gone off to Lancashire in a huff -- but the bottom line is that he hasn't been seen since, either. Current betting is that he
cottoned on to what was happening, and Malfoy's done him in as well before he could spill the beans to the Ministry."
Camilleri moved between the fireplace and the bed, in case Neil noticed the absolute rigidity which the hump under the
duvet had suddenly assumed.
"Right. OK. Neil, you get back and hold the fort; tell them I'll be along just as soon I'm dressed -- showered -- have sorted
things out here --"
Neil nodded, and vanished. Camilleri turned. Narcissa was already half out of the bed, her eyes wide and her skin whiter
than the sheets. As he opened his mouth she made a rapid "sshing" gesture.
"You probably just think I'm being a doting mother," she said, rapidly and distinctly, "but I don't believe for a moment
Draco's done any of that. And he certainly won't have harmed Neville in any way -- that bit's got to be nonsense."
Camilleri looked at her, his eyes deeply troubled. "Go on. I'm listening, which is more than most of our world would be by
now."
"Look, I'm not saying Draco isn't capable of committing a murder. Given sufficient provocation, I've found, most of us
would be surprised at what we're capable of -- and he is Lucius's son, after all. And if he really has split up with Neville -- well,
Neville's been pretty much a stabilising influence on him, and if that stability goes, god only knows what might happen. But I still
can't see him doing what he's been accused of. I mean, after all, he is his father's son. And Lucius, apart from anything else, was
bloody devious and had a strong sense of self-preservation. No way on this earth would Lucius ever have a public fight with a
close relative of his worst enemy, threaten him with an illegal curse in front of witnesses, and then kidnap him the day after. Let
alone having him vanish from Malfoy land, at a time when he was actually there, too. And I can't see Draco doing it, either. And
what's his motive supposed to be?"
He continued to look at her for a few moments, and then he came to a sudden decision. "I don't know if this is the right
thing or not, Narcissa, and I'm not saying I'm convinced. But I am prepared to keep an open mind. But you must be, too. After all,
this lot can't be happening by coincidence. If Draco didn't do it someone must be trying to frame him. And you've got to start
thinking about who that could be. Who else would dislike Dudley Dursley enough to have him kidnapped, just for the sake of
landing Draco in Azkaban?"
Their eyes met, for one appalled moment. Camilleri recovered first. "Well, apart from him, of course."
Narcissa nodded. "Quite. That would be something we'd never get the Ministry to swallow. But whoever's behind this isn't
simply trying to get Draco imprisoned. They're trying to get him killed. Not that it makes a lot of difference in the long run; Draco
wouldn't last a week in Azkaban. There are too many old friends of the family in there. But the Ministry can't afford for this to go
to trial. They must see how flimsy their evidence is -- and they know we can pay for the best legal representation there is. And the
Ministry won't relish the sort of things that might come out if they involve a Malfoy in a big, messy trial. Like the guest lists for
every dinner party and little soirée I've given for the last twenty years, fr'instance. No, Killed while Resisting Arrest is what the
Aurors will be after, all nice and tidy for them."
Her face was bleak. Camilleri put his hand on her arm. "Narcissa -- I've said I'll keep an open mind. We wouldn't be here if
I'd been wholly happy about the Prophet story in the first place, now would we? And-- and I'll keep you posted on how things go,
OK? But you've got to know -- I expect the office have called me in so I can be sent off to Dorset. To-- to get photographs if-- of
what happens."
She gave a short, mirthless laugh. "I see. Well, if the worst does happen, try to remember he strongly prefers his right
profile. He said after the last episode that he wouldn't be caught dead in the Prophet from the other angle again. But I'll be very
surprised if there's anything for you to see at the Manor. Lucius couldn't hold it with the skeleton staff we've got now. I shouldn't
think Draco will even try. Anyway, can you lend me some clothes?"
"Clothes?"
She gestured impatiently. "I'm going to look pretty conspicuous dashing around the place in a sleeveless white evening
robe. And I can hardly Floo back to the Manor to pick up a change, in the circs, which is what I was planning to do before it all
went pear-shaped. So can I borrow some clothes?"
After a brief excavation in the remoter reaches of his bedroom he came up with a reasonably clean black tee-shirt and set
of black combat trousers. Narcissa cinched them in about her waist with the white silk rope belt from her evening robes and he
raised his eyebrows in a half-amused, half exasperated grimace. "How do you do that?"
"What?" Her voice was remote, her eyes abstracted.
"Well, I know exactly what I paid for those, and where I got them, and you still manage to make them look as though a
team of designers spent weeks sculpting them individually to your body."
She shrugged, indifferently. With a pang, he realized that she was barely with him. His attempt to lighten her mood froze
on his lips: instead, he said "Where are you off to?"
"Knockturn Alley, first. Then Zurich."
"Why--?"
Narcissa looked him full in the face. "You know, my grandfather always said; never ask a question where there's no
practical good in knowing the answer, and having the information could be an embarrassment to you. But, if you insist: I'm going
to Knockturn Alley because I know some people there who have some things I need. And I'm going to Zurich because the Ministry
hasn't got the powers over offshore bank accounts that it has over Gringotts ones. And I mean to go there in person to ensure that
things stay that way. After all, they say money is the sinews of war, don't they?"
His stomach had been plummeting downwards ever since Neil had appeared; it took another lurch. "But we aren't at
war."
She turned to him. "No. And I'm sure the Ministry would hate to find that they've done anything to change that."
She kissed him coolly, almost impersonally, and stepped into the fireplace.
The room was window-less, and the heavy door had a judas hole in it. Every so often an eye would be framed in it, and
then vanish again. Mrs. Longbottom lay back on the bed and feigned sleep, surveying her surroundings from under the lids of her
eyes.
They had, of course, taken her wand. Her handbag was missing, and her clothes; she was now wearing a cumbersome
winceyette hospital nightgown, a little too big for her. Further, they had even stripped her of her jewellery; her locket, her heavy
gold wedding ring, the massive square cut ruby engagement ring which matched it, and the anomalous thin band of cheap gold,
worn finer still with age, set only with the dust from the diamond cutter's floor, which she had worn on her little finger ever since
age had thickened her knuckles so that it no longer fitted on any other. That ring had not been off her left hand for eighty-seven
years. They would pay for that sacrilege.
The room was sparsely and functionally furnished, and its designers had taken care to avoid any possibilities for attack or
escape presented by the imaginative use of furniture. The light came from a smooth panel in the ceiling; the bed was bolted to the
floor; the room's ventilation came from a six-inch diameter aperture in the top right hand corner, covered by a fine mesh grille.
She shook her head, still dazed from the potions they had dosed her with, and flexed the knuckles of her right hand,
which were skinned and bruised. Soft, intensely strong padded bands encircled wrists and ankles, attaching her to the bed. Above
her head, irritatingly only just within eyeshot, a medical chart advised: "Continue physical restraints until after consultant's
review. Full suicide precautions."
"Suicide! They think that's what they have to take precautions against! " she snorted, before realizing there was no-one to
hear her. They viewed her remotely through the judas hole: apparently they did not regard her comments on the situation in
which she found herself as worthy of note.
Emily Longbottom surveyed the room again, and sighed. She was going to have to get out of here the hard way. And she
was so very tired.
Draco reached the bottom of the flue and found himself in a small, brick lined room, eerily reminiscent of a huge breadoven.
And then the witch took the bad little children and baked them in her oven and ate them all up, all except the hair on top of
their heads. And then they all lived happily ever after.
Only the smallest shafts of light drifted down from above, and without his wand an exTenebris charm was out of the
question, but he had been taught to do this in the dark if necessary. His fingertips moved gently across the surface of the bricks,
feeling for the invisible patterns of indentations he knew were there -- here and, yes, here. The pressure in two locations
simultaneously moved the whole wall aside by half a metre. He slid through into the dark, earth-smelling tunnel, and it moved,
soundlessly, to close off the passage behind him.
There had been no noises yet which indicated that the Manor security had been breached, but the pain behind his eyes
was a constant throb, interspersed with intermittent flashes of agony which several times on the long climb downwards had forced
him to pause, and cling to the worn hand- and foot-holds, unable to go on, sweating clammily, until it eased.
Forty metres down the tunnel was an iron grille, closing off the narrow passage from floor to ceiling. He pulled his seal out
of his pocket, worked his hand and arm with care through the grille and round to its side, and engaged the seal's head in a small,
intricately carved plaque of granite, set in the wall to the left of the grille. As the seal engaged the grille swung open enough to let
him through. He slid past, disengaged the seal, and allowed the grille to close behind him. Then, he repeated the same manoeuvre
in reverse, finding a corresponding plaque in the low ceiling at the Manor side of the passage. His footsteps sounded hollow for a
few metres, but the ground continued reassuringly to exist beneath his feet.
His fingers brushed the walls as he moved swiftly on. There were signs in the wall for those who had been taught to read
them. At the point when they told him he must be exactly below the level of the ha-ha he turned to his left, and instead of
following the clear route forwards he found a pattern of holes in the wall at his side, which, when pressed in sequence swung that
whole section of the wall out and across the obvious route, and opened a branch tunnel, down which he scrambled for several
metres, before tapping imperatively on a wall at the side, which raised a hatch-way allowing him to scramble back into the main
tunnel again.
After that, the main problem was the stooping as the passage got lower and lower as it neared its exit. As he entered the
last hundred metres or so, for the first time in his life he felt a vague sense of gratitude that he had not achieved better than
average height.
Anyone much taller would be in agony by now. Neville, for example-He stopped that line of thought, quickly. Later. First get out of here.
The tunnel took a sharp bend, and then a second one. He burst, unexpectedly, into light. It was not bright; not brighter
than the candle in a lantern resting on the coffin on the night of a wake, but it was horribly wrong, horribly intrusive after the
dark of the tunnels. He threw his hand momentarily up to block it from his eyes, which were by now thoroughly attuned to
darkness.
But not before he had had an instant's glimpse of what was holding the lantern. A skeletal hand, bones the yellow of old
ivory, under the froth of silvery white lace cuffs of an eighteenth century wedding gown. And above the lantern, barely concealed
behind a Mechlin veil, the deep black sockets of the skull, and the grinning teeth.
Passsswordd
The voice came from nowhere, and from everywhere. It breathed no moisture, no sense of lips and throat in its tone. Its
owner's flesh had crumbled to dust over two hundred and twenty years before he was even thought of. Still the sound whispered
around him, thundering back down the passage.
Passsssword
Word-- word-- word-- the echoes mumbled.
Wonderful he thought acidly. Things you find out at the worst possible moment that your father never bothered to tell you.
Come to think of it, not really such a huge surprise, all things considered.
I did not let the last one pass. He looked like you, but he could not tell me the word. I did not let him pass.
Pass-- pass-- pass-He opened his eyes, blinking a little, and regarded the apparition. Identifying it -- her -- was easy. The Bride of the Manor.
As the owner of the place, he knew all the ghosts he could expect to see about the family home; was on reasonably good terms
with most of them, in fact. He had not expected to see the Bride. Not, that is, more than once in his life. And he had rather hoped
that that particular moment would have been postponed to at least a hundred years in the future.
Apparently not. At least she seems to be in the mood to be chatty. Not, of course, that there are any reports on whether
that's her usual style. Not that have survived, at any rate.
She had once had a name: Anne, or Elizabeth or Arabella. Something demure and appropriate, now lost in the by-ways of
history. And she had had a fortune -- she'd married into the Malfoys after all -- and, one assumed, more than her fair share of
good looks. In fact, for a Muggle, to catch the eye of the Manor's owner? She must have been a stunner and a half, doubtless a
round-faced, dimpled, exquisite, eighteenth century porcelain figurine, with knowing almond eyes and the merest blush of rose on
pearl white skin under piled up powdered hair. She had not, of course, survived long enough to have her portrait painted.
It had, Draco presumed, caused a huge family row when Devereux Malfoy (his name, unfairly, had survived) announced
he was proposing to marry a Muggle, but all the warring factions had duly turned up at the wedding feast, which, given the
atrocious state of the local roads and the heaviness of recent snowfalls, had soon turned into a three day free-for-all orgy, helped
on by pipes and hogsheads of reconciliatory Malfoy port. And when dancing and feasting palled, no-one could quite remember who
had suggested a game of hide and seek all over the Manor to pass the time. And the Bride had never been seen -- in the flesh -since.
Devereux, acting on sound Malfoy instincts, had immediately accused his brother and next heir -- the person who had
been most vocally against the mixed marriage -- of having spirited her away. As both of them died from wounds received in the
resulting duel, the truth of the accusation was never established, nor was the Bride's whereabouts, until some eighty years later -for even the best locking charm cannot be expected to hold forever -- when an unfortunate Malfoy housemaid opened a large chest
in a long disused bedroom, only to find within it a skeleton in a wedding dress.
Since when, legend said, the ghost of the Bride had appeared in the last moments of every owner of the Manor who died
on the premises to act as his escort to-- wherever.
And, as there's no indication she's made a habit of dropping in for social chit-chat in between times, I can only say this
doesn't look too good.
Tell me the password. You cannot keep me waiting forever.
Ever-- ever-- ever--.
He looked at her, and made up his mind. Two hundred and fifty years was a long time to keep on doing the same thing.
Perhaps even ghosts got bored. He would have been, by this time. And she must have been younger than him when she'd started.
He fished, briefly, in his duffel bag. Among the miscellaneous articles he had swept into it on departure he had, almost
absent-mindedly, included his hip-flask which -- bless you, Mrs. P. -- was encouragingly heavy, and gurgled in a full sort of way.
He unclipped two of the little metal cups, which were secured, cunningly, over the cap of the flask, and filled them, holding one of
them out politely to the skeleton's hand.
He had not expected she would be able to hold it, and indeed she did not, but somehow it suspended itself in the air
before her. If a skull could look puzzled, he fancied she was doing so.
He cleared his throat. If only his blasted ancestors had bothered to remember her name, for god's sake. Well, he'd have to
hope she'd take it in the spirit in which it was meant.
"Welcome to the family," he said formally. He raised his own cup to toast her. "To Nellie O'Mora, the fairest witch that ever was, or
ever will be."
He barely touched his lips with the drink, before putting it down. There was a pause, and he felt fear tingling along every
one of his nerve endings as the silence between them deepened through one long moment.
She nodded, slowly, and moved aside, with the elaborate grace of someone committing herself to the opening steps of an
intricate, immensely formal minuet. He did not look back as he moved past her and out into the sunlight, but as he passed her he
had a momentary sense of knowing almond eyes looking out at him from a dimpled, exquisite, pearl white face, and the brief scent
of Christmas roses.
The pipistrelle is the smallest and rarest British bat. Various learned papers have been written on its steep, near
catastrophic decline over the last twenty years. Most blame destruction of its traditional habitats.
Inside a photographic bag sitting under the desk of a journalist currently having one of the worst days of his professional
career, in a busy newspaper office in the centre of wizarding London, could never have been said to be one of those traditional
habitats. Nevertheless, when Camilleri reached down automatically for a brush to finish polishing a lens which had already
achieved a diamond bright, speckless clarity, a set of small sharp teeth fastened in his forefinger, followed by an almost inaudible
sequence of high-pitched squeaking, by which he felt an urgent, and none too charitable message was being intended.
With an elaborately accidental movement of his elbow he knocked a filter cap to the carpet, and bent casually down to
retrieve it, and suddenly found himself being stared at knowingly by a pair of tiny beady eyes.
Once sure it had attracted his attention, the bat folded its wings around itself with an air of determination. Camilleri
retrieved the filter cap, and re-emerged from under his desk making a sound of profound annoyance.
"Bugger! You aren't going to believe this," he said. "I've gone and left my macro zoom behind at the flat, and it's absolutely
essential for this sort of work. Simon, you couldn't possibly cover for me while I nip back and get it, could you? I'll only be ten
minutes, and now the Aurors seem to be drawing a blank at the Manor, it could be hours before I'm called on. And I absolutely
can't do without that lens."
Simon pursed his lips, and made a whistling sound through his teeth.
"You're pushing your luck, aren't you?" he observed. "What if Rita finds you not here for the second time this morning?"
There was a suppressed snigger from everyone within earshot. Apparently the story of why Camilleri had been missing the
first time had done the rounds, doubtless with advantages. He shrugged.
"Look, if I take my kit with me I can Apparate to wherever she wants me, from wherever I am, just as quickly as I can from
here. You only have to tell her I'm in the loo, and tip me off pdq that I'm needed. Anyway, I'll be killed just as quickly by Reet if I
turn up without the right gear."
Colin, who was within earshot, coughed nervously and went rather pink. "I'll let you know if anyone wants you, Mr
Camilleri," he said.
Camilleri finished gathering his things together, nonchalantly flipped the top over his camera bag and buckled it down
loosely, and stood up. "Thanks, kid," he said. "And for god's sake call me Chris."
He strode decisively for the exit, his bag slung over his shoulder.
Once in his flat, his first action was to drop the bag onto the sofa, and unbuckle it in order to release the imprisoned bat.
He had not, however, prepared himself for the unexpected presence in the room of a small and aggressive owl, which swooped
down out of nowhere, apparently bent on catching up on a number of missed meals. Only Camilleri's reflex and despairing tackle,
which brought the owl in a feathery and indignant bundle to the floor, saved the bat from becoming hors d'oeuvres. The owl
promptly took out its resentment on Camilleri's fingers, and a bloody and far from silent struggle ensued. Camilleri finally
triumphed, and turned round breathlessly, clutching the owl firmly at arm's length, to see Emily Longbottom putting the final
touches to tidying her hair.
"Thanks, lad. That was a very close shave, that. Good job you seem to have your wits about you."
She took a deep breath, and added reflectively: "I've haven't done that for forty years, and now I have done it, I can
remember why I left it so long. I don't suppose there's any chance of a cup of tea? You find yourself eating some very strange
things, as a bat, and I'd appreciate the chance to get the taste out of my mouth."
Camilleri paused, momentarily, and then vanished into the kitchen, returning a couple of minutes later with a steaming
mug.
"If you'll excuse my saying this, Mrs. Longbottom, it seems like the Animagi Register at the Ministry is about as useless as
a one-legged man at a backside kicking contest."
She nodded, thoughtfully. "Aye. Well, that's civil servants for you. Not a clue about how people really think. I mean it
takes a lot of hard work to learn the Animagus spells; it's bloody uncomfortable most of the time, and as you've just seen, it isn't
always that safe."
She peered round the room. "Speaking of which, what did you do with--?"
"I shut it in the kitchen. With a saucer of water and a couple of rashers of bacon."
Mrs. Longbottom nodded in a satisfied way. "Good. That's young Neville's owl. I recognized her at once. He'd be glad to
know she was being properly looked after. Though mind you, I expect he'd have been quite put out if she had managed to eat me."
Camilleri nodded, faintly, but declined to comment.
"Anyway, as I was saying; it's hard, it's risky, and it takes a long time becoming an Animagus. And practically all of the
reasons you'd do it would be made completely useless if you actually then trotted off and registered yourself. Take your boss, for
instance. Investigative journalism. Take me. Industrial espionage and general nosiness. To say nothing of all the unregistered
Animagi in Wales and New Zealand-- no need to ask yourself what they do it for--"
He couldn't help it. He interrupted. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Longbottom, you've lost me there. What do the Welsh and New
Zealanders do it for?"
She flashed him an exceedingly beady glance.
"Getting into Rugby internationals that they don't have tickets for," she snapped. "What did you think I meant?"
He spread his hands, helplessly.
"Anyway, we can't sit here all day. They'll be expecting you back at the office, or wherever. What's been happening? And
would that owl have brought a message, by any chance?"
Struck by the common sense of this, Camilleri ventured into the kitchen, prudently bringing the owl back together with
the remains of its meal this time. There was, indeed, a tiny roll of parchment tied to its leg with an elegant green silk tassel, but
once it was removed it proved impossible to open.
"I wouldn't waste your time," Mrs. Longbottom observed, after a few moments scrutiny. "It's clear it isn't intended for
either of us. Any particular reason why that owl might have been looking for young Narcissa here?"
"Well--" he paused. "Possibly. I mean, she was here. Earlier. But how do you know it's intended for Narcissa? I mean, why
would your grandson be writing to her?"
Mrs. Longbottom snorted. "I said, young man, that it was Neville's owl, not that he'd sent her. When I saw him -- this is
Thursday, isn't it? -- yesterday morning, then, he didn't have her with him. He'd left her back at the Manor. Besides, that isn't
how Neville does up his messages, and I doubt he could have sealed one in a way I couldn't open, either. No, unless I'm much
mistaken that's from young Draco, and it stands to reason it's intended for his mother. Can't have missed her by much, either.
That owl must have more brains than I thought she had."
Camilleri thought for a moment. "You say you saw Neville yesterday? When, exactly?"
Mrs. Longbottom creased her brow. "About half eight in the morning, I suppose it'd be. He Apparated up in a right state, I
can tell you. "
"But-- but it was definitely after he'd last been at the Manor?"
Mrs. Longbottom chuckled. "Aye. And there'd obviously been skin and feathers there that morning. I reckon Draco will
have just realised that with our Neville, it's not that the Longbottom temper skipped a generation, it just takes a good bit longer to
build up a decent head of steam than it did with his father, or his grandfather, god rest him."
Camilleri's tone was urgent. "But he was there? Because the word on the street was that he hadn't been seen since he
quarrelled with Draco."
Mrs. Longbottom's eyes narrowed. "And who might have been spreading that?"
"Reet claims she's got a source inside the Manor itself -- code named Gilt Edge, for what it's worth -- and that's where the
story started. But then the Ministry leak confirmed that the Aurors were also looking to question Draco in connection with
Neville's... um... disappearance-- as well as to do with the kidnapping of the two Muggles--"
Involuntarily, Camilleri recoiled. Mrs. Longbottom's face had turned into a mask of such contorted fury that he found
himself surreptitiously pinching his lower limbs in case the mere sight had petrified them where he stood.
"The Ministry," she hissed. "The Aurors! That used to be a respectable job for a man! Well, I can tell you, the Ministry's
gone too far this time. Gilt Edge, eh? And a frame's what it looks like, too. Young man, I can tell you that not only was Neville
quite healthy when I last saw him (apart from a fit of the Longbottom sulks, and I daresay he'd have walked those off in a few
hours or so) but that I told two Ministry employees as much yesterday afternoon. So what other lies are they spreading?"
Suddenly the tight, tense feeling, which had been in Camilleri's stomach since Neil's appearance that morning, started to
ease.
"They reckon Draco's kidnapped a couple of Muggles. Potter's cousin, and some girl he hangs about with."
Mrs. Longbottom looked grimly satisfied. "That the one who picked the fight with Draco in the pub night before last?"
Camilleri looked startled. "He picked the fight?"
Mrs. Longbottom nodded. "That's what Neville said. And before you say anything, young man, I can tell you Neville wasn't
giving Draco the benefit of any doubts yesterday morning. If he said this Dudley picked a fight, that's what he did. Mind you, he
got rather vague when I asked what the fight was all about, so I imagine this Dudley probably must have called one or the other of
them a nancy boy or something of the sort. If you could have got to the bar staff before the Aurors did, you'd have been able to
find out. Too late now, of course."
This aspect of the affair had not occurred to Camilleri before. He gave it some serious thought now.
"And Neville's vanished -- and Dudley and his girl-friend have vanished -- and you -- why are you wearing a nightgown, by
the way?"
Mrs. Longbottom gave him a thoughtful look. "I wondered when you were going to get round to asking. I woke up this
morning in St Mungo's. And I'd be very surprised if we don't find out that Neville's being held somewhere similar, too. Next time
you see Narcissa, you might ask her if she's got any idea how Draco's left his money. Not that she necessarily knows, mind you.
Not a family which spreads that sort of information around like marmalade, that one. And very sensible too."
Camilleri was getting increasingly baffled. "Draco's money?"
The expression on Mrs. Longbottom's face suggested that if his current obtuseness continued, she might resort to using a
pick-axe to drive the ideas into his skull. Her voice was very slow and very patient as she continued. "Well, if he didn't do any of
this, whoever's trying to set him up is almost certainly trying to murder him. And money's quite a reasonable motive for murdering
anyone who's got as much of it as young Draco does. Even after Recent Events. And if that is the motive, we start looking at who
benefits. And who their heirs might be. And how those heirs, in turn, have disposed of their property. And what might be one of
the inconvenient side effects of a declaration of insanity, young man?"
Camilleri swallowed, desperately. "Legal incompetence?" he hazarded. She favoured him with a sidelong smile.
"Quite. Which would prevent anyone currently at risk of dying intestate from making a valid will. You might think on that
one, if you get a few spare minutes. Well, young man, you've got to get back to the office, and I'd be grateful if you could lend me
your fireplace. I need to get hold of my solicitor, fast."
He looked at her in bafflement. "But-- if you've actually only just escaped from St Mungo's-- is it the best time to--?"
The smile widened. "Oh, I'm not touching my will. That was made eleven years ago, and I'm quite satisfied as to how I've
arranged things. But there's a few other things I need to see to in a hurry. And if you are going back down Diagon Alley, could you
drop into Ollivanders, and ask if he could pop round here for a private fitting as soon as he has a spare five minutes?"
He was being pushed out of the door of his own flat. He turned, and in protest muttered "But you still haven't said why
you don't think Draco kidnapped the Muggles. He still could've done, you know."
Mrs. Longbottom looked pityingly at him. "And what does Narcissa say about it?"
Camilleri looked mulish. "She says he didn't, of course."
"Well, in that case I suggest you listen to her. Because I can tell you, she takes an even dimmer view of her own family
than I do of mine. If that's possible. Do yourself a favour, young man. Next chance you get, tell her you're on her side, and are
proposing to back her to the hilt. And then do whatever she says."
He turned on the doorstep, and looked at Mrs. Longbottom with a rising hope. "And you really believe that backing
Narcissa is the right thing to do?"
Emily Longbottom nodded, with emphasis. "Aye."
He favoured her with a grin that lit up his whole body, and was suddenly gone. She regarded the shut front door of the
flat for a moment.
"And," she added grimly to herself, "quite apart from the rights and wrongs, if the Ministry have succeeded in killing
Draco, young man, I can certainly tell you that backing Narcissa will be a lot safer."
The air still had an early morning tang to it as Draco moved cautiously through the lych gate from the church yard, where
the tunnel had ended, appropriately enough, in an empty and cracked Malfoy sepulchre, the sunlight slanting in through the
damaged panels under the ironically smiling carved angel. With an indrawn breath he flattened himself almost to nothing under
the arch of the gate itself as he spotted a movement like the hem of a robe flapping outwards from the narrow passage which lead
to the back door of the Rose and Crown. He watched it for fully half a minute, but there was no further movement. He turned,
cautiously, and considered the long curve of the village street from the point of view of a hunted fox looking for cover.
The only possibility was a narrow and twisty lane which ran behind the church (widdershins, it would be, as if I didn't
have enough to worry about) and between backs of the shops and houses on the shaded side of the street and the gardens of the
houses which backed onto them, going up the hill.
He slipped into the lane and moved swiftly uphill, round the first bend, then the second, and the third-- oh, no, definitely
not my day-He whisked back round the third bend and flattened himself into the curve of the ten foot tall wall of the garden on the
right hand side of the lane, breathing heavily. By some fluke of luck the tall robed figure ahead of him, whom he had nearly run
into, had his back to him, and Draco's lightly shod feet had made little sound on the smooth tarmac. Although his blood thudding
in his ears seemed enough in itself to alert the Auror ahead, no one came back round the bend.
Still, time to find another bolt hole.
He turned, and moved delicately back down the lane towards the church. As he reached the nearest bend he peered
nervously round it before committing himself. His caution was not misplaced. The rotund robed figure who occupied most of the
lane behind him, fortunately, was engaged in staring intently back towards the church, as though he was expecting something to
swoop down on him from the belfry.
Bugger. Caught in the jaws of a pincer movement. The only advantage you have is that neither of the Aurors have spotted
you yet.
The lane at this point was only a yard and a half wide, and the tall walls either side of it bulged with age. Small plants
grew out of them -- stones were missing -- there were ample hand and foot holds, but once he reached the coping stones on top of
one or other of them he would be outlined against the sky for either Auror to take his best shot at him. He backed along the edge
of the right hand wall, feeling out for inspiration.
His hands touched the smooth weathered oak of a wooden door. It had a massive iron handle -- too much to hope it was
unlocked -- he was trying it desperately even as he thought it -- and the door was suddenly opened, from the inside. He fell
forward against the sudden absence of resistance. As he did so a strong hand caught his collar, and a deep, husky, woman's voice
said, "I think, Mr Malfoy, we need to talk. And I'm sure we'd both prefer it if your friends in the lane didn't interrupt us while we
do."
~~~
She was a tall, generously built, middle-aged woman, with severely cut, iron grey hair and shrewd dark eyes sparkling
under heavy brows amid a fine network of laughter lines. She shut the garden door and locked it with decision, then gestured to
Draco to precede her to the house.
Once inside, she unlocked a door marked "Private", and took him into a small sitting room, whose desk, PC, ledgers and
filing cabinet indicated that it also did duty as an office.
"Do you drink herbal tea?" she enquired abruptly. Draco nodded, bemusedly. She flicked a switch on an electric kettle,
which stood on a side table, and rummaged in a cupboard, pulling out a couple of garish packets and two cups.
"The name's Caitlin, by the way," she added. "I know who you are. And, though I've only been in this village for 12 years,
because of who I know and the circles I move in I've got a pretty good idea of what you are, too. And if I had had any lingering
doubts, a conversation I happened to overhear through my bedroom window last week would have removed them."
She nodded in the general direction of a bookshelf, which was piled high with assorted magazines. "You might find the top
one interesting."
It was a thin, home-published little pamphlet, entitled The New Age Enquirer, dated about two years ago, and with a
grainy black and white photograph of the Manor on the front, under the heading "Shock Discoveries in Wiltshire."
As Draco flicked through its pages with increasing bafflement, Caitlin evidently realised that he needed some help. "That's
a study carried out by a friend of mine who's interested in ley lines and energy flows. He carried out a series of observations
around the Manor-- trespassing on your land, I'm sorry to say."
Caitlin's tone did not imply her sorrow was genuine.
"His results were quite remarkable. Tell me, Mr Malfoy, what would you say if I told you that in psychic energy terms you
appear to be living in the approximate equivalent of a nuclear waste dump?"
And what's one of those when it's at home? Nothing good, evidently. He shrugged. "If I knew what one was, I'd have more
chance of saying something intelligent about it. But what I can say is that next time your friend wants something supernatural to
research, he might want to concentrate on bloody amazing strokes of inconceivable luck. Because if he was trespassing around
the Manor measuring negative energies two years ago, and he's still alive today, he's about as lucky as someone who falls from the
top of the Eiffel Tower, is caught by a naked Veela on a broomstick half way down and lands with one of his boots on a winning
lottery ticket."
Caitlin, who had had her back to him while concentrating on pouring the herbal tea into cups, turned and fixed him with
a direct gaze. "Ah. And so we come down to it, Mr Malfoy. Did Melanie run out of luck?"
She obviously thought that would mean something to him, but it left him completely nonplussed. "Melanie? What's
happened to her?"
Her shrewd eyes summed him up, and apparently concluded that his surprise was genuine. She passed him a cup.
"You didn't know that Melanie and that oaf you verbally demolished in the pub the other night haven't been seen since
yesterday? And that there's no evidence they ever left the Manor grounds?"
His eyes widened. "No. Well, that certainly explains the unhealthy interest the Ministry seems to be taking in me this
morning."
"Well, that and the rumour that you killed your boyfriend after a row."
The cup crashed to the floor. Draco pushed back his chair violently. "They said what?"
He was trembling all over. Quietly, Caitlin picked up the pieces of the shattered cup, ditched them into the waste-paper
basket, and pushed him back into his seat. She handed him the other cup. "Take this one. And calm down. I'm sorry I startled
you but I thought you ought to know everything you've been accused of. And, I may say, I'm pretty certain they don't believe that
last one themselves, but they're definitely saying it."
There was no reason to believe her, just because she claimed to know something. How could some weird Muggle have an
insight into the Ministry's workings, anyway?
"How come you know so much, anyway?" he demanded.
Her face was grim.
"That's quite a long story. And since I don't suppose you'll be going anywhere until we can work out a way of getting you
through that dragnet your -- Ministry, is it? -- seems to have placed round the village, you've got time to hear it. Don't worry, by
the way, about them coming here. They've already been."
"And you can remember it?"
Deliberately, he loaded his voice with arrant disbelief. Apparently unfazed, Caitlin smiled. "Ah, that. I was quite proud of
myself for thinking of that. When I was young and radical, we used to have workshops on what to do if the enemy caught you, and
tried brain-washing -- hypnosis -- psychological torture, whatever. And one of the bits I remembered was that if anyone was trying
any sort of mind control on you, the best way of beating it was to put your tongue between your back teeth and bite on it, quite
hard, while simultaneously picturing your enemy sitting on the loo with his trousers round his ankles. So when that Ministry
goon pulled out his wand, I thought it was worth a shot. And, much to my surprise, it actually worked: things went a bit woozy for
a minute, and then sharpened right back up again. Then, obviously, I acted as dumb and confused as possible, and they left. I
nipped upstairs so I could check from the attic window that they really had gone, and while I was doing that I saw you pop up in
the churchyard and start playing hide and seek with the perimeter guards. And I reckoned that I might actually get a few more
answers out of you than I had out of them. So here you are."
She looked at him in rather the way a mother Kneazle might regard one of her less promising kittens, who had finally
managed to bring in its first mouse. Draco sighed. "And what are you planning to do with any answers I give you? What do you
want to get out of it?"
Caitlin thought for a moment. "I want Melanie safe. I like that kid. Oh, I know on the one hand you could say she's only a
member of staff, and it's stupid of me to get so bothered about her, but I've been very lonely since the boys left home, and she's
been company for me."
She nodded, explanatorily, towards two framed photographs on the desk. In the nearer one a young man in uniform stood
in front of a darkly menacing shape which Draco assumed was some sort of Muggle aircraft; in the other a slightly taller and
skinnier young man, who was, oddly for a Muggle, wearing robes, was being presented with a parchment by a much older man,
also robed, in a sun-drenched open space in some country which went in for palm trees.
"I always hankered after a daughter. And she's a bright kid. Oh, she doesn't have enough common sense to find the right
way out of a paper bag, and that idiot mother of hers has spent so much time filling her up with a whole load of totally
nonsensical fears that by now she isn't able to spot the things that she damn well ought to be afraid of. To say nothing of her
attempt to make a silk purse out of that sow's ear of a boyfriend of hers."
"The whole hog, surely, in Dursley's case, not just the ear?" Draco murmured. Caitlin grinned at him.
"That face of yours does look a whole lot better when you smile, you know. Takes the edge off those 'Do As I Tell You Or Be
Shot At Dawn' features."
"I haven't exactly got a lot to smile about at the moment," Draco said. "In the last 24 hours I seem to have lost my lover,
my reputation, my home, my fortune and my dogs."
Caitlin put her head on one side and tapped the end of a pencil against her front teeth thoughtfully. "Well, at least some of
those must be in the 'temporarily mislaid' category, surely. And from what the Ministry goons were saying, the appropriate word
for your reputation at least in official circles seems to be 'reinforced', rather than 'lost'. Anyway, tell me about the dogs. No one
mentioned those were missing. And Melanie adored them. She'd be putty in the hands of anyone who threatened them, you know.
Her mother wouldn't let her have pets. Allergies, apparently." She sniffed, audibly.
Draco spread his hands. "The dogs went missing yesterday morning. I told Melanie when she came up to see me
yesterday. She said she'd keep an eye out for them, in case they'd got onto Nelcorp land. They shouldn't be able to cross the
barriers, but there've been problems with those all summer. Then she went off to help that Dursley object pack, and that was the
last I saw of her. That would have been at just after eleven."
Caitlin looked thoughtful.
"About right. She was due back here at 12:15. And one thing she is, is reliable. When she wasn't here at 12:30 I knew
something was wrong. Of course, it was nuts getting the meal served and washed up with one server short, so I didn't have time to
think about it until 2.30 or so, by which time I had her boyfriend's appalling parents on my hands, screaming blue murder, calling
poor Melanie the most insulting names, accusing her of having lured their precious son into a den of vice (as if she'd have
recognized one if it'd got up and caressed her round the ankle with the thong of a raw-hide whip) and apparently holding me
responsible him not being where they'd agreed to pick him up. Well, when Melanie still hadn't showed up by mid-afternoon, when
she was supposed to be picking gooseberries for that night's pudding, I was seriously worried. I came up to the Manor to see if you
knew anything, but that housekeeper of yours looked at me as though I boiled babies for a hobby, and refused to speak to me at
all -- whim of adamant, evidently --"
Draco nodded his head sympathetically if a trifle hypocritically at this news. "I know. Mrs. P. can be a bit of a trial, even
with us. I remember my mother once had to put the full body bind on her to stop her storming out of the kitchen to give the
Minister for Magic a piece of her mind in the middle of a formal banquet in his honour."
"Golly. What had he done?"
"Pontificated for 15 minutes solidly while she was waiting with the mushroom soufflés ready to serve."
Caitlin's eyes sparkled. "Oh, in your mother's place I'd have been tempted to let her rip. Mass catering is difficult enough
without the guests committing acts of gratuitous abuse on the food. Anyway, I came back and called the police, and didn't get any
more joy there. Have you any concept how difficult it is to get them to take any interest in the disappearance of an adult? They
verbally patted me on the head, and told me that teenage girls were very flighty, and had it occurred to me that she'd probably
gone off somewhere with her boyfriend, and would she thank me for interfering? And so we served supper short-handed again,
and eventually I went to bed -- of course, I didn't sleep to speak of -- and at about eight this morning I found three robed goons on
my doorstep. They more or less forced their way in, and started asking the most idiotic questions. Did I know that Melanie had
been associating with a dangerous Dark magician? What did I know about what hold you had over her? Had she any shown signs
of being in a zombie-like trance, as though her will was being externally controlled? I mean, I ask you, have they ever employed
any eighteen year olds? They all behave like zombies on occasion. How're you supposed to tell?"
"And what did you tell them? What do you know, come to that? Apart from having a dim view of the psychic energy round
the Manor, of course."
Caitlin poured herself another cup of herbal tea, and sat back in the depths of the armchair. "The first thing, young man,
is that what I know or don't know, and what I told them are two radically different things. To begin with, the leader of the
delegation started by asking to speak to the man of the house, which always gets my back up. Oh, the moment I spotted them I
smelled trouble. And I know a thing or two. You might not think it to look at me, but I've had an eventful past. The first time the
authorities beat me up was the CRS when I was out with the Sorbonne students in '68 -- I was standing next to Blair Peach on
that Anti-Nazi League demonstration twenty minutes before the SPG went in -- the monkeys were breaking up our camp at
Greenham gates as I was going into labour with Ricky, though of course he tends to gloss over exactly how he came to be born on
a US airbase, now he's become a hired killer--"
She paused for breath. Draco grasped firmly onto the only comprehensible statement he could disentangle out of this
recital. "I'm told the money's very good, and you can arrange the hours to fit around family life," he proffered hopefully. She shot
him a startled glance, and evidently decided to let it pass.
"Anyway you get to recognize the smell of the Establishment in full blown panic-and-cover-up mode after a while. And as
for their leader -- I haven't seen a man look more out of his depth since that Russian harpooner I tipped into the Sea of Okhotsk."
Draco's voice was casual. "What did the senior Ministry man look like?"
Caitlin snorted. "I think he's what Jane Austen would have called 'a heavy young man'. I suggest you try picturing the
bastard offspring of the Reverend Mr Collins and a dromedary. Oh, and he was sporting a very recent black eye. Over the course of
our interview I managed to develop a deep admiration for the other person in the world who clearly estimated that gentleman in
exactly the same way as I did."
There was a pause while Draco ran rapidly through a list of possible candidates in his head. "I think I should be able to
get you an introduction. If I ever get out of this mess, that is."
"Anyway, for what it's worth: I got the impression that this Ministry don't have a clue what's really happened to Melanie
and that oaf Dudley. Some journalist apparently claims she's got a lead on their whereabouts -- would 'You Know Who's
Underground research station' mean anything to you? But the Ministry men didn't look to me like they were exactly panting to
mount a rescue expedition."
He felt suddenly nauseated, and suspected his face had probably turned a betraying shade of green. It was an effort to
keep his voice level. "No, I can see they mightn't be. Even this long after Recent Events, either of the possible locations she might
mean by that wouldn't be-- exactly salubrious. And really quite hard to find if you weren't... um... in the know. And... er... even
harder to leave. Intact, anyway."
Caitlin looked grim. "Tell me, what do you think about Melanie's chances?"
Do you really want me to tell you? His voice sounded uncharacteristically diffident in his own ears as he said, "Would you
rather have meaningless but vaguely reassuring platitudes, or my honest unvarnished opinion?"
Caitlin looked at him steadily. "Honesty is always something I appreciate," she breathed.
Draco swallowed. "Well, then, I think her only chance of not currently being in mortal peril is if whoever's kidnapped her
has killed her already."
Caitlin's face betrayed a brief spasm of pain. "Perhaps," she muttered, "there might be a half-way house between honesty
and tact, after all. Then, if you're right, what might stop whoever's got her from killing her now, if he or she hasn't already?"
Draco considered this for a moment. There was, after all, only one possible reason he could think of. "The possibility that
I might have an alibi for the murder," he confessed, honestly.
"Mm. That would figure. Well, then, so far as I could work out, the Ministry would definitely rather deal with two corpses
and you being bang to rights for their murder, than try to retrieve two intact human beings and work out who else might be to
blame."
"I see." There was a cold feeling at the pit of Draco's stomach. "And Neville?"
Caitlin looked across at him. Her voice softened, inexplicably. "In his case, I'd say that the Ministry official I was talking to
definitely knew where he was, and, if you ask me, he'd probably put him there. The story about you having done anything to him
was strictly for the polloi, so far as he was concerned. I, of course, was the polloi."
She paused for a moment, and then went on. "I hope nothing serious has happened to him -- he strikes me as a nice boy.
Got his head screwed on the right way."
That came as a surprise. "I didn't know you'd met."
"We haven't. I mentioned a fascinating conversation I happened to overhear, a week or so ago, didn't I? Well, to recap -can I offer you a biscuit? -- one night I got a bit bothered because Melanie wasn't in at locking up time. Oh, that's not a big deal -she joined us at Easter, and by the May Day Bank Holiday I was quite sure she could be trusted with a key to the back door, so I
gave her one. And she's not abused the privilege. But-- well, she hadn't come in. And she'd mentioned going up to see that prat
after she'd finished serving the supper--"
"I can't imagine what she sees in him," Draco said. Caitlin's eyes glittered. Her voice dripped pure acid.
"Well, don't look to me for an explanation unless you really want a thesis on Sexual Politics and Body Fascism in the Late
20th Century. But I can see what he sees in her. And I'd be surprised if I really had to spell out to a reasonably clued up young
man of the world just what that might be, given he's an unprincipled oaf with all the social graces and savoir faire of a warthog on
a bad hair day, and she's a besotted and inexperienced girl with a desperate inferiority complex--"
"Oh, that," Draco muttered.
"--But, quite apart from that, it's only his father's string pulling which got him on that programme in the first place, since
it should be strictly graduate, and he'd not have stuck it this long if she hadn't been writing the best part of his assignments for
him. Anyway, that's not important right now. She wasn't back by well after one -- I'm a late night person and I'd things to see to in
the office -- and it bothered me."
"Why didn't you just draw the obvious conclusion?" Draco enquired.
She skewered him with a glance. "It certainly crossed my mind. Tell me, in my place, given I see her as a sort of daughter,
would you think the obvious conclusion would actually reassure me?"
Draco was silent. Caitlin continued. "Well, as you can imagine, I didn't sleep too well. And round about six-thirty the next
morning I heard a car pull up outside. I got a quiet look at it from behind my bedroom curtains, and I was damn sure it wasn't
anything to do with that idiot Dursley: to begin with, if he could afford a car like that he wouldn't be going out with Melanie. And
then I spotted the number plate, and that gave me quite a shock, given that she'd last been seen heading up to the Manor. I'd
gone with the general view in the village that the less contact with your family, the healthier, up to then. Anyway, Melanie and a
young man I didn't recognise got out and started talking. And as my bedroom window was open I heard every word. It didn't take
me long to work out he had to be your boyfriend -- don't look so surprised, gossip's a major league sport in these parts -- and I've
got to say what he said impressed me. Anyone who tries to talk Melanie out of her delusions about that cretin gets good marks in
my book. It's also how I ended up with a good idea of what to expect when that Ministry thug pulled out his wand. So it's probably
thanks to him I'm able to tell you about it."
She paused for breath. "Well, Melanie didn't mention anything about where she'd been, and very little about you two,
apart from talking about the dogs; most unusual, because normally waterfalls aren't in it when she starts to chatter. Anyway, the
next time I saw either of you was during that extraordinary exhibition in the pub the other night."
Her casual comment came as a considerable shock. "You were there? I didn't spot you."
Her face wore a look of grim amusement. "Nor did any of the trainees. I've discovered as I've got older that having grey hair
is nearly as effective as a cap of invisibility in allowing one to pass unnoticed."
"Cloak," Draco murmured.
"Eh?"
"Cloak of invisibility, not cap. All a cap would do would make you look headless. Admittedly, given that most of the family
trees in this village resemble monkey puzzles, two heads probably would go unnoticed, but complete decapitation would certainly
raise comment even in the Rose and Crown."
Caitlin's eyes gleamed. "Thanks for that correction. Anyway, the Ministry men seemed very interested to hear I'd been
there, though why they bothered, since they didn't want to hear my opinion--"
"Which was?" He made his tone studiedly casual.
"That if you'd turned up dead or missing the next morning, I'd be the first to suspect pig-features, since you'd demolished
him completely in front of all his little cronies, but I couldn't see any reason why you'd have killed him. At least, not until after
you'd given him a good long time to smart about it all."
He remained silent. Caitlin ran her fingers briskly through her hair and said: "Well, this isn't getting us anywhere. You
clearly have some idea where Melanie might be. In that case, I'm prepared to back my hunch that you're the best bet to get her out
of it. Heaven knows, no one else seems even prepared to try. And I suppose that had better include shit-for-brains, too, since she's
just the type to ruin the rest of her life with guilt, if she gets out and he doesn't."
Draco gulped. "Why me? I mean, I'm not exactly anyone's first choice to do the heroic thing; I'm not known for my
altruism and no-one with a grain of sense would mistake me for a nice person."
Caitlin snorted. "Melanie does altruism, and look what that's landed her. Nor am I interested in heroics. And, Mr Malfoy,
I'm certainly not looking to hire a nice person."
"Hire?" One eyebrow went up practically to his hairline. She nodded, vigorously.
"Yes, Mr Malfoy. I'm offering you a job. And I can tell you that the advert for that job, if I'd placed one, would have read:
'Wanted: one devious bastard who knows all the tricks and isn't going to cock up at the crucial moment because of any ill-timed
scruples about using them.' Oh, and one other thing. 'Must have overwhelming personal interest in assuring satisfactory outcome
of the assignment.'"
Draco's eyes widened. "Oh. I see. Well, I suppose that makes me your man, then. But on one condition. I've got a prior
claim on my time. I have got to get to Lancashire, to a pub called the Freemasons Arms, which is in some place called Wiswell I've
never heard of. There's someone there who's supposed to know where Neville is. I'm seriously worried about what's happened to
him. Look -- the leader of those Ministry types you bumped into is Neville's cousin. You think he's responsible for Neville's
disappearance -- well, so do I. He's gone way out on a limb with this operation already. If he screws up, his career's over. But if he
succeeds -- then he's one step away from some serious wedge. And in my experience, people don't get nicer when the stakes are
that high."
Caitlin gazed at him levelly. "Speaking as a life-long protester against the abuses of global capitalism, I can say I'm with
you all the way on that one. Yes, I can see that would be a priority for you. One minor point, though: why bother to mention that
to me at all? You must realize I can hardly monitor what you're up to. Why not just accept my terms, and then go off on your own
devices? "
He chose his words with extreme care. "Because I can persuade you to commit yourself even further once I've created the
illusion of laying all my cards on the table?"
Caitlin laughed out loud at that. "All Cretans are liars. Do you play bridge, Mr Malfoy?"
And what's that got to do with the price of butter? He opened his eyes, blinked and said,
"Yes, as a matter of fact. One of the important elements in the education of a well-brought up young man, my mother always said.
Probably the same game you're used to, though a number of the conventions we use wouldn't be familiar to you."
Her smile broadened. "Good. Then it would be my pleasure to invite you and your mother to a bridge evening once this -unpleasantness -- has been satisfactorily resolved. I'll be interested to see your skill at bluffing in a proper forum. And I've seen
your mother about the village a few times over the years I've been here, and I'd be fascinated for a chance to hear how life looks
from her viewpoint. Never having been a jaw-dropping beauty myself, you understand."
He surveyed her for a moment. Her eyes laughed back at him: despite her words, she was not a woman who was insecure
about her looks, this one. Or anything else, probably. He grinned, lazily. "Well, I'd be surprised if the ones who got past the point
of shaking in fundamental inhuman terror had had any actual complaints," he drawled.
Caitlin, momentarily, looked almost disconcerted. "Golly. She has brought you up well."
"Mm. Maybe." He wrinkled his brows. "What I can remember about what she said about beauty, however, went something
like 'Always remember that beauty's a currency. But you have to grow up before you realise that it isn't one that's accepted in the
very best establishments without something harder to back it.'"
She clearly thought about that one a bit. "All I can say to that is that either your mother made her living thinking up
inspirational slogans for the sort of posters you see on the back of the bathroom door in the houses of people you don't like, or
that she'd had quite a lot of gin when she came out with that one."
This time Draco's laugh was uninhibited. It felt most peculiar. His eyes met Caitlin's, which brimmed with a challenge.
She paused, momentarily, then enquired sweetly, "Unless, of course, those sort of posters are one of the mundane irksomenesses
which people like yourself are spared?"
He shook his head ruefully. Would they were.
"Au contraire, I'm sorry to say. They make little encouraging gestures at you in our world. I mean, I suppose Mu-- you
people just get the slogan, presumably printed across a view of dolphins in a clear blue sea, or the like--?"
"Or sunset over a remote lake, set among pine forests--"
"Or a granite pinnacle, with a lone climber hanging off it?"
Caitlin nodded in an almost mesmerized way.
"Um. Well, ours then look you straight in the eye, and recite you at least a chapter from some cheesy self-help book, which
in most cases you could have worked out from the slogan, actually. The Crabbes -- I mean, some people I used to visit in the
school holidays -- were big into them. And I'd never learn. I'd make some sarky remark about the latest one at breakfast, and I'd
wonder why I was getting offended looks at supper the next day."
And I'll bet Eustace is planning to paper his new residence with them. If he isn't stopped.
Caitlin grinned. "Anyway, aren't you interested in the financial terms of my offer at all?"
That was a strange one. Draco thought about it for a bit. "In principle, I suppose. It's rather a difficult one for me. No-one
having considered me employable in the past, you understand."
Caitlin looked at him. "Well, the traditional deal would be: 'fifty dollars a day, and expenses.' But I'm afraid inflation,
exchange rates and cost of living have taken quite a bite out of the dollar since that was the going rate."
Draco smiled. "Actually, the chances of me being around to collect the time/cost element -- I take it I do have to invoice in
arrears after the event? Yes, I rather thought so -- are so slender that I'll take the traditional deal. I need all the favourable omens
I can scrape together. But on the other hand you'll have to advance me a lot for expenses. Neville's in Lancashire, and -- if that
bitch of a reporter is actually right -- Melanie will either be somewhere on the Lancashire/Yorkshire/Cumbria border, or in the
County of Laois and Offaly and I know which one I'd rather tackle first. So I'm planning to spring Neville, if I can, and then we'll
check the first location, and fall back on the second if we draw a blank there. It doubles her chances if there are two of us,
anyway."
Caitlin nodded. "OK. I'll make sure you've got plenty for railway tickets and so forth. And I'll look this Freemasons' Arms
up in the Good Pub guide for you before you go, so you've got more of a chance of finding it. And then bloody well buy yourself a
decent map, first chance you get. Even if you were the type who's willing to ask for directions (and I'll lay odds you aren't) it really
wouldn't be sensible of you to risk getting lost today. Now, I've got the germ of an idea about how to get you out of the village, but I
need to run the concept past some of our late breakfasters. And come to think of it, in the meantime, can I get you something?
We're having a Mexican week, so it isn't your average breakfast food, but I got the recipe for some wonderful vegetarian burritos at
the Sidmouth Folk Festival, when I was last there with the West Wiltshire Border Morris Team."
He was, undoubtedly, starving -- no breakfast, too much exercise and excitement that morning and virtually no food the
day before had left him almost shaking from the effects of low blood sugar, and who knew what he would get to eat later. But-"OK," he said at length. " Do your worst. But-- will you take my advice about something?"
"Um?"
"Look-- in the circumstances you ought to assume that I do know a bit about meddling with strange arcane forces and
summoning raw, evil energies from beyond the boundaries of thought and space?"
She nodded, hesitantly.
"In that case, do yourself a favour and lay off the Morris Dancing, OK?"
She looked at him, wide-eyed, but vanished without commenting through an unmarked door, which he presumed led to
the rest of the guest-house. He waited, flicking idly through the magazines until she reappeared, briefly, to hand him a tray of food
and vanish again. It looked bizarre, and tasted delectable. Perhaps half an hour later she returned with a full carrier bag and an
air of deep satisfaction.
"Sorted. The kids are leaving in an hour or two, and they'll give you a lift in the van as far as Oxford. You ought to be able
to pick up a train going north from there. And you're less likely to be conspicuous on Oxford station than most of the other places
I thought of. Milton Keynes, for example. But I ought to warn you the kids are on their way to Cropredy -- you know, the folk
festival, and I suppose it'd be too much to hope that you know anything about Fairport Convention?"
Draco shook his head, dumbly.
"Much as I thought. In that case, you'd better fall back on having only heard Liege and Lief: they'll assume if that's so that
you're a deeply conservative individual with appalling reactionary views, but at least they'll accept you're part of the human race
after all."
"But I haven't heard--"
"I'll play it to you while I'm dying your hair."
"While you're doing what?"
If she had suddenly Transfigured herself into a Swedish Short Snout bearing a warrant for his arrest Draco could scarcely
have felt more appalled.
Caitlin favoured him with an expression of overwhelming patience and restraint. "I believe I mentioned to you having
spotted you bob up in the churchyard. Which is a couple of hundred yards from Gaia's Place, if not slightly more. Now, given I've
probably seen you five times in my life, if that, how come I recognized you at that distance?"
While he was still too startled to put up any active resistance, she pulled a bottle from the carrier bag and advanced
menacingly on him. He cast a quick glance over the label, and gave a protesting squeak.
"No. Definitely not. It's against my religion to henna. Red is right out."
Caitlin looked rather disappointed. "But with that skin and those eyes, it'd be a natural. I mean inherently you obviously
are a red-head."
He shuddered, a little over-elaborately. It was, for the moment, almost a relief to turn his mind to these comparative
trivialities, rather than worry about the journey ahead. He allowed an icy edge to creep into his voice, and arranged his features in
a pattern of grim opposition.
"Inherently I am, without assistance I might add, a platinum blond. And I have particular personal objections to going
ginger. Think of something else, if you have to dye it at all. And I warn you, the colour, whatever you choose, had better come out
completely with no side effects once this is over, or I'll sue."
Caitlin bared her teeth amiably. "I'm sure your mother will be able to assist if things get sticky."
A sudden reflection betrayed him into a broad grin. He nodded. "I expect so too, come to think of it. When she was at
school, she went green and purple in alternate stripes, once, and I think it took seven and a half minutes from a standing start at
the other end of the Great Hall for McGonagall to get it back to base-line blonde. Plus 25 points from Slytherin. Mind you, she
could probably have got away with 10 points if it hadn't been for the bin liner and the safety pins. If someone hadn't taken a photo
I'd have never believed it."
"Um. I'm not sure I can quite believe it even so. What was her excuse?"
"1976. And 15 Galleons that said she'd never dare to."
Caitlin peered into the depths of the carrier bag and considered various possibilities. "How about jet black? No-one will
believe it's natural, of course, but they'll all assume you started off from non-descript mouse. Given a few strategic bits of skull
shaped silver jewellery and a henna tattoo in a suitable location, and you'll have a nice Goth personality all ready to step into."
Draco's jaws and throat worked convulsively for a moment. When he was able to speak, he breathed, "Honestly, I don't
think a disguise which combines my features and any sort of tattoo would help the situation. Seriously. Trust me on this one."
Caitlin looked at him, almost as though she were about to press the relative alternative merits of pierced eyebrows or,
perhaps, a Mohican, and then relented. "OK. Let's compromise: chestnut hair, no jewellery, no tattoos. But you'll have to ditch
those clothes. Fortunately, you're about Ricky's build and he's left some jeans and T-shirts and so on here. I expect we'll have you
looking completely unremarkable before we've finished."
He snorted. "Not exactly my main aim and object in life, that, up to now. But I suppose it has its uses."
Caitlin continued as if she had not heard him. "I've told the kids you've had a bit of a run-in with local law enforcement
over some... um... recreational herb-growing. They're massively sympathetic about it all. That'll explain why you're keeping your
head down in the back of the van until you're well clear of the locality, and also give you a cover story if you happened to start
getting all twitchy and panicking."
Draco composed his face into a carved mask of icy hauteur. "I can assure you, compared to what I went through in Recent
Events, I'd be flabbergasted if there's anything out there that's able to get me even marginally twitchy or panicking." Then, a
thought struck him, and he felt the set lines of his jaw relax momentarily. "Though, mind you, if the Ministry got to our
greenhouses before Mrs. P. did, then that recreational herbology story will start sounding all too horribly plausible."
Caitlin's expression was profoundly shocked. "I think, as a responsible employer of domestic staff, I ought to point out
that 'covering up the boss's felonies' is hardly in any employee's job description."
Really? Why ever not? His puzzlement betrayed itself in his voice. "Oh, it is in ours. At least, unless my mother's had the
standard Malfoy employment contracts amended without bothering to mention it to me. But, as a matter of fact, strictly speaking
in our world growing the stuff isn't illegal. Provided you can show it's for a genuine Potions application, that is. The only problem
is, the only two Potions applications I can think of offhand are for conditions that are so desperately embarrassing that, all other
things being equal, I'd rather admit outright it was for smoking, and stand the rap. Anyway, is there anything else I ought to know
about what you've been telling these characters about me?"
"There is just one other thing, yes." She assumed an attitude of robust common sense. "I mean, you obviously can't
wander about under that name, can you?"
His mouth opened in silent protest, but Caitlin continued relentlessly on. "I've told them you're called David Molloy. You're
bound to have forgotten you've still got some monogrammed personal property or other on you, so I had to stick with the same
initials. Mind you, you've got to remember that they'll be guaranteed to nickname you 'Moose' and think they're being hysterically
funny and original. Just take it in your stride, will you? I could explain why, but it'd take more background than we've got time
for, and you'd only demand to know who murdered the chauffeur."
"I most certainly wouldn't," Draco muttered. "Just so long as he's not one of the corpses that's being laid at my door, I
don't give a monkey's who stiffed him."
Caitlin smiled, and flicked on the stereo in the corner of the room.
"Anyway," she said firmly, "keep your ears open. I expect there'll be a short test later."
When, about an hour and a quarter later, Draco emerged onto the gravel drive at the front of the guest house he was
disconcerted to encounter a shocking pink VW van, the words "Eclipse or Bust" painted on one side, its roof surmounted by a
fibre-glass pterodactyl with a home made sign swinging from its beak ordering peremptorily: "End Third World Debt Before The
End of The Millennium". He turned protestingly to look at Caitlin, but she was busy beaming at and saying farewells to a motley
assortment of young people who were piling out of the front door of Gaia's Place bearing piles of multi-ethnic luggage of varying
degrees of crepitude. The foremost of the group bounded forwards towards Draco, with an enthusiastic expression on his face
which reminded Draco, momentarily, of his lost dogs.
"Hi," the newcomer said, beaming. "I'm Roj. And you must be David! Meet the gang." He gestured expansively round.
"That's Mark. He's the other one with a licence to drive this thing. Jenna -- she's the one taking a photo at the moment. She's
keeping our trip journal up to date on the web. And this is Sebastian. Lazy bastard, but brilliant at keeping the kitty straight.
Father's a partner at KPMG, you know. Seb! Wake up and say hi to David! Oh, and this is Imran. He navigates. Bump of locality
like no tomorrow. We'd still be somewhere near Truro if it wasn't for him. And last, but by no means least, Siouxsie."
He gestured towards a tiny, fragile figure with a mass of red-brown curls, whose severely cropped silver Lycra top revealed
at one extremity three navel rings, and at the other a small blue tattooed dolphin apparently caught in the act of diving for cover
from just under her collar bone towards the shallow protection of her cleavage.
"Delighted to meet you," Draco murmured, extending a hand. She ignored it, pulled out a rolling machine, rolled a
cigarette, lit it, gestured emphatically towards him with the lit end, and said in a strong Irish accent,
"Now don't youse be getting any fucking funny ideas, ok?"
Draco's tone was unchanged. "I'd be the very last person to do that, I can assure you."
She blew smoke out through her nostrils, and glared at him. "I suppose youse is lounging there thinking I'm the chief
cook and bottle washer, is that it?"
Draco shrugged. "No. Not nearly scary enough to be the chief cook. In my experience. Sorry."
Her look of bare-teethed fury was, at the same time, indefinably hurt. Roj coughed, hastily. "Siouxsie's our mechanic, and
the only reason we stay on the road at all. Anyway, we'd better be going or we'll miss the best camping places. Look out now,
everyone aboard!"
He whistled, thinly. Grudgingly, the party retrieved the gear spread about the lawn and clambered into the van. Caitlin,
suddenly mindful of issues beyond her immediate responsibilities as the host saying farewell, scrambled to the window of the van.
It was already beginning to be in motion. She signalled frantically at Draco, who leaned out through the window as she galloped
after the van.
"Look -- I forgot to mention -- if you get into any trouble of the sort I can help you with-- just ring."
"Ring?"
"Yes-- I mean, telephone-- try the guest-house line -- or if they can't get me on that --"
She was being left behind as the van gathered pace. She pulled together all the strength of her lungs and shouted after
him: "If you can't get me on the guest-house line, call my private one. I'm in the book -- ask Directory enquiries -- the name's
NAISMITH--"
She was left standing on the drive. The van lumbered out onto the main road.
"Well," Roj said decisively, "time we put some music on. You guys know the score. No Fairport till we cross the Oxfordshire
border. I vote we ask our guest to choose. David, what do you think of the Grateful Dead?"
Draco, suddenly aware he was being addressed, turned a puzzled glance on the driver. "In my experience they're very few
and far between," he said firmly, and burrowed deep under the sleeping bags and rucksacks as the van swept down through the
village street.
"Anyway, be seeing you, Moose! Best of luck! And don't forget our RPG evening on the 16th of next month!"
The van lurched off down the street in the vague direction of Woodstock, leaving Draco standing under a plane tree
shaking his head slowly from side to side in an effort to dispel an acute sense of disorientation for which the last twenty minutes'
lurch through the greater arcana of the Oxford one-way system (the planners of which, in Draco's private opinion, could have
given the Dark Lord tips on the optimum way of spreading mass confusion and terror) was not wholly responsible.
The next job was to find the railway station. He had a sense that they had swung by it at least twice since they entered the
city, but Imran had insisted that the van could get even closer, with a bit more effort. Then they had lost track of it altogether.
Faced with yet another whistle stop tour of Iffley, Cowley, Botley, Hinksey and, for all he knew, Osney and Binsey as well, he had
insisted that they decanted him on the first reasonably central street they came to.
The surrounding architecture was comfortingly Gothic; the honey-coloured buildings slept in the generous noon of high
summer. He shouldered his duffle and considered his next move with care. Obviously, he needed to find the station as soon as
possible, but he was deeply reluctant simply to buttonhole a passing Muggle to ask directions. He paused, irresolutely, and then
caught sight of a swinging pub sign, displaying a remarkably cheerful infant being dangled casually from the talons of a large bird
of prey. He trotted briskly towards it. The barman would be bound to know the quickest way of getting to the station, and god only
knew, after a morning like this one, he deserved a drink.
The pub, however, was unexpectedly crowded. A mob at least four deep pressed against the bar, all apparently screaming
at once in some language Draco had never heard. He looked despairingly across, trying to gauge how long it was likely to take to
get served.
"You'll be lucky," a deeply cynical voice said in his ear. He turned to see a man with glasses and a ponytail.
"That lot," the man said, gesturing bitterly in the direction of the scrum at the bar with the tail end of his pint, "are the
Lord of the Rings Appreciation Society, and quite apart from the fact that they don't appear to have a mind between them to make
up, they've been insisting on ordering all their drinks in Quenya. And as the barman doesn't happen to know the difference
between the elvish for 'Eight Pints of Pedigree and a packet of cheesy wotsits' and the weather forecast for Bicester and all points
east it's been taking a fair time."
Draco was on the point of asking his new acquaintance if he happened to know the way to the station when a movement
in the corner caught his eye. He was suddenly aware of a dark and piercing glance being directed towards him.
"Well, in that case I'd better find somewhere else," he muttered hurriedly. "I've got a train to catch."
He bolted quickly back out onto the street, and walked briskly, fighting the urge to run, north up the street. He took the
first left turning he came to, and then the next.
"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure," a voice purred silkily in his ear. "You seem to have had some very varied
experiences since we met last."
Draco stopped and turned round. Professor Snape was leaning negligently against the railings of the building to the left of
the street, his hand resting casually against the seam of his trousers. Draco dropped his duffle bag at his feet, and, slowly and
deliberately, spread his hands wide, at waist height, in front of him. Snape nodded.
"At least you also seem to have acquired a grain of sense along the way. More than some of the dunderheads I have to put
up with daily, anyway."
His eyes fell on the duffle bag, and he coughed, irritably. "Pick it up, boy, pick it up. I think we've established that I've got
the drop on you, as I'm told the Muggle films so quaintly put it. Anyway, all that using your wand would do is substitute someone
who definitely wants to kill you for someone who isn't quite sure."
Draco raised one eyebrow. "You aren't sure? In our circles, that must make you pretty well unique this morning."
Snape made the sound usually written as "tsk".
"Your unusually well developed ego may have prevented your noticing it before, but the assumption that the world would
be a finer place without you has been pretty widely held for quite some time. After all, you can't make a hobby out of deliberately
making the lives of those around you a misery, and then expect people to love you for it. Trust me on that one."
He paused for breath. Draco did not plan on interrupting: time wasted on ranting, which might have been spent hexing,
was, in his view, an infinitely profitable trade.
"Take me, for example. You spent the best part of seven years relentlessly exploiting your inside knowledge that I was -- in
all the circumstances -- unlikely to unleash on you the retribution you so richly -- and frequently -- deserved. You think I didn't
even notice? If it wasn't for the fact that you were the only one in that group who had even a marginal feeling for my subject, I
wouldn't even pause for breath before turning you in."
Snape gestured eloquently with one long-fingered hand: his eyes glittered menacingly. "Think about it. If I were to hand
you over to the Ministry I'd step straight into an Order of Merlin and be able to buy myself a complete new kitchen and bathroom
with the reward. Which, I can tell you, would almost certainly spread far more joy and happiness than you've ever accounted for in
your entire miserable lifetime."
"So that's what it comes down to? Betrayed for the sake of a whirlpool bath and a set of Corian worktops?"
The contempt was naked in his voice. There was a moment's silence. A muscle in Snape's cheek began to flicker. "Given
the talent the Ministry pulled out of retirement when the current crop of half-baked kids came away empty handed from the
Manor, if I did hand you over it'd bloody well count as saving your life, not betraying you. At least I'd turn you in intact and still
breathing. They'll have demanded permission to play by all the old rules, I can guarantee you."
Draco acknowledged the point with a slightly lifted chin. "Nevertheless, if you can fight your understandable urge to
redecorate, I'd prefer to take my chances. Though I suppose whatever you decide I should be grateful you rated my Potions skill as
worth sparing my life for."
Snape gritted his teeth. "I forgot," he said abruptly. "There were a couple of other reasons why I prefer not to kill you. The
first is that, on the off-chance there is an afterlife, I'd hate to do anything that would please Lucius so much."
He paused, took a deep breath, and looked straight at Draco. "The second, of course, is that you're doing our people such
a big favour by keeping that cretin Longbottom out of the gene pool."
There was an infinitely prolonged split second. Then-- "Expelliarmus!"
Draco's wand lay on the pavement with a thin curl of green smoke still drifting gently up from it.
Snape was breathing slightly more heavily than before. "Now that was seriously stupid. Even if it was--" he flicked back
his cuff momentarily to gaze at his wrist, "about three-tenths of a second faster than I'd expected."
He gestured with his wand. "Obfuscate!"
The green smoke vanished.
Snape looked at Draco. "I wouldn't use your wand again unless you're sure there's a reliable wizard with a clean
untracked wand ready to tidy up after you. That is, not unless you really do have a burning desire to end up dead for a crime you
didn't do."
Draco's skin felt clammy. His voice was husky. "So you do think I didn't do it?"
Snape half-turned away. "Don't be an idiot, boy. I know you didn't do it."
Draco's voice was very low. "Why?"
Snape turned back towards him. "Well, in the first place, during Recent Events I once spent a whole interminable day
observing Potter's cousin. Funnily enough, I was tasked with making a report on whether kidnapping him would tempt Potter to
do something ill-thought out and heroic."
Draco raised his eyebrows sardonically. "Really? A report? Who to?"
Snape barely acknowledged the nuance. "I made two reports, as it turned out," he announced blandly. "Fortunately,
though I had to adjust them for presentation purposes, I was able to reuse a significant portion of the underlying research. Both of
them concluded that the idea was a rotten one. The... er... slightly franker one followed on to observe that the subject would have
whined like buggery, been unbelievably expensive to feed during any time he was kept in incarceration, and that there was a high
likelihood that Potter would regard his cousin's evaporation as though several birthdays had simultaneously come early, which
was hardly the object of the exercise."
Snape pointed his wand at an inconveniently placed tangle of bicycles. They leapt sideways, allowing him to shift into a
slightly more comfortable position against the railings. "It would certainly have been how I'd have felt in Potter's place. Twentyfour hours in his cousin's company were unspeakable. Multiply that by seventeen and a half years and the relief of getting rid of
him would be practically unimaginable. And as you'd encountered Dudley for long enough to draw that conclusion on your own
account, I really couldn't credit your doing anything which would give Potter that amount of pleasure. Then there was something
so familiarly self-righteous about the allegation that you'd threatened Dursley with Cruciatus, too. A thin substratum of hearsay
and speculation relentlessly stretched to support the most unflattering conclusion."
Draco nodded. "That's about right. What I actually did to Dursley was to invite him outside so I could beat the shit out of
him."
There was an underlying purr of ironic amusement in Snape's voice. "In that case, knowing you, you must have either
been absolutely sure he wasn't going to take you up on your offer or you had some serious muscle backing you up."
Draco could feel his cheekbones heating as he flushed at the taunt, but he managed to keep his voice commendably
unembarrassed. "Both, actually."
"I begin to see why no one asked me to prepare reports on whether you could be provoked into doing something ill-timed
and heroic. Which reminds me: what brings you to Oxford?"
"I'm trying to catch a train."
Snape looked startled. "A Muggle train? Have you ever travelled by one before?"
Draco's lip curled. "Take a wild guess, will you?"
"Hm. I once had to travel halfway across the country by Muggle train. Some of the things some of us had to do for the
Cause during Recent Events weren't pleasant, you know. Are you quite sure I can't interest you in being quietly handed over the
Ministry for questioning instead?"
Draco shook his head. Snape sighed. "Ah, well. I'm not proposing to ask where you're going, because if the Aurors are
playing by the old rules I daresay they'll be handing out Veritaserum like pumpkin juice shortly. But I'll point you towards the
station and lend you the benefit of a cloaking spell while you get there."
This unexpected generosity was disconcerting after Snape's earlier hostility. Not a day to look a gift-horse in the mouth,
though. And if he did want to turn you in, he's had plenty of chances already.
"Thanks."
Snape snorted. "Don't bother thanking me, boy. I'm keen to get you out of my vicinity as soon as possible. Your
unexpected appearance has already comprehensively wrecked my plans for a quiet afternoon in the Shadowy Stacks of the
Bodleian with the second volume of Aristotle's Poetics, so I'd rather see the back of you before you can do any more damage."
They commenced walking down the road. After a few minutes they paused at a busy junction, the station clearly visible
ahead.
"Well, I'll leave you here," Snape said abruptly. "One word of advice: don't get into any duels. You're quick, but anyone
you'll be likely to come up against will have been fighting for their lives for the best part of twenty years, or longer. What's more,
they won't have any doubts about what they want to achieve from the second they draw their wand. Oh, and they won't make the
mistake of losing their tempers. No matter what you might say to provoke them."
He swung away into the crowds before Draco could say anything. Draco stood looking after him for a moment, then
shouldered his duffle and made his way over towards the station.
"Change at Preston." It was, by now, almost a mantra. Draco had been rather pleased with himself for the way he had
coped at the Oxford booking office (although the booking clerk had muttered audibly to himself, "It's a crime, you know, what the
relentless pressure towards individualism does to them"). Muggle trains had gone through the stages of being baffling but
interesting; baffling but tedious; and then just plain baffling, at which point they had been held up for 45 minutes by what the
ticket inspector loudly insisted over the tannoy was a sheep lodged in the high tension cables, and by no stretch of the
imagination whatsoever a problem attributable to any failing on the part of Virgin Rail. Draco had taken advantage of the delay to
investigate the buffet car, and had retreated with a strong sense of regret that he had not taken Caitlin up on her offer to pack a
lunch for him.
Most of the rest of the time he had used the paperback which he had found in his duffle bag as a barrier to ward off any
ill-judged conversational attempts on the part of his fellow travellers, and watched them covertly out of the sides of his eyes.
There were so many of them -- and all so different -- and how did they cope, after all, lacking any understanding of all the ways
magic soothed and intrigued, effected and entertained? His own inability to use his wand was a nagging ache: a vague area of lowlevel discomfort on the fringe of his consciousness. His moment of idiocy in drawing his wand on Snape, he suspected, had owed
more than a little to his need to soothe that ache. Which had, of course, met and combined with the un-nameable terror that had
built in his guts over the course of the morning, and with the incandescent fury Snape's quip had unleashed from some place
within him he did not know he possessed. Still, he's right. Not a mistake you can afford to repeat.
He slid a bewildered glance over to the Muggle of about his own age -- or perhaps a year or two older -- in the next seat.
He was excitably exhaling through clenched teeth and swearing sotto voce as with convulsive spasms of two fingers he shot down
geometrical shape after menacing geometrical shape on the screen of the -- lap top? Yes, that was the word -- on the table in front
of him. And they called this living? How could they possibly bear it?
Caitlin, he supposed, got through life on sheer vitality and a determination never to recognize any cause as hopeless, and
Melanie probably floated by on a current of unquenchable if barely explicable optimism -- but all these others? What made them
continue to get up in the morning?
His father, of course, had an easy answer. Muggles are too stupid too realize what the world's about. They scrape by with
their pathetic machines, and think that's all there is. That is why they will always be cattle created for the service of the stronger
race.
It had sounded like an unarguable truth to him, once. Now-- the train windows bowed inwards, and his ears popped as
another express rushed past in the opposite direction. As they rattled through a station at which the train had plainly no intention
of stopping he glimpsed behind it some incomprehensible Muggle building; a massive complex of entwined pipes and vessels,
smoke stacks belching white smoke, and occasional flares of fire: the retorts, alembics and crucibles of a giant's Potions bench
swollen yet vaster by an uncontrollable Engorgement charm, and all buzzing with demonic energy harnessed for some
unguessable purpose. He felt suddenly very alone in the crowded carriage.
It was an enormous relief when the voice over the tannoy (the owner of which, he suspected, was surfing forward on an
unstoppable wave of bravado having got away with the sheep story without the Muggles rising up en masse and beating the truth
out of him by main force) announced, "Preston! Preston next stop! And mind you've got all yer traps!"
Draco tumbled out onto the odd-smelling platform. With an unaccustomed sense of competence about this Muggle
environment he glanced knowingly up at the orange shrouded grey screens above his head. The train for Leeds via Nelson -Platform 7 -- 10 minutes -- easy enough to manage, in forty five minutes he would be in Whalley. Which was less than a mile from
the Freemason's Arms -- so he was less than an hour from finding out, then-He gulped, and started up the ramp leading to the bridge between the platforms.
A horribly familiar glimpse of features in the crowd sweeping down the ramp from one of the other platforms caused his
heart to stop -- what is it with my luck today? Can't I have just one break, somehow? -- has he seen me or hasn't he? -- instinctively,
Draco turned away, ducking back towards the platform from which he had come -- any platform -- anywhere, anywhere but here At that moment a small, dirty, two-section Diesel Motor Unit came sliding into the bay on platform 3. Acting on the blind
instinct of "any port in a storm" Draco leaped for its door, almost before it had stopped moving. Once safely on board he crouched
down into cover and peered out through the murky windows. Seamus Finnegan was still standing on Platform 4, surrounded by a
gaggle of older people who from their congruence of features had to be family, looking vaguely up at the information screens -why can't the thick Irish git learn to Apparate like the rest of us? -- when with multifarious arthritic wheezes and creaks the DMU -thank god! -- pulled out of the station. Draco's last memory of Preston was of Finnegan's expression -- "did I just spot someone I
know from somewhere?" glimpsed through the deeply begrimed carriage window. His heart thudding desperately, Draco was able
to take in little for several minutes.
When he collected himself he was aware that the ticket collector was moving gradually down the carriage. With an air of
studied casualness Draco got up, swinging his bag behind his back, drifted off to the passage which linked the two carriages, and
leant out through the open window in defiance of the notice which told him not to, so as to smell the blessedly fresh country smell
from the fields either side of the track. To the right of the train he could see the dark bulk of the Hill -- well over in the distance,
from an odd angle, and receding rapidly behind them, but nevertheless present. It was his one fixed point in a changing world,
and the sight of it steadied him. You're going north, and a little west of where you should be. Nothing to worry about at all. Easy to
solve. If only this isn't the non-stop to Glasgow, that is.
And, of course, provided you don't get run in for travelling without a ticket first.
Draco had only the haziest idea of what the penalties were likely to be. On the basis of the rest of the morning, his
assumptions were not optimistic. Fortunately, the ticket collector had been arrested in his progress down the carriage by someone
with some deeply complex query, which apparently required much pulling of notebooks and timetables out of pockets, hissing
through clenched teeth, and waving of arms. Only when the problem seemed on the point of being resolved did Draco draw
delicately back, and prudently retreat into the loo as the ticket collector began his advance down the carriage again.
The sense of the train decelerating to a stop prompted him to move from his cover. The train had pulled up at a stonebuilt station festooned with improbable crenellations and battlements. The station name was obscured behind a scatter of mail
trucks. Doesn't matter. Time to get out, I think. The ticket collector, fortunately, had his back turned. Draco swung open the heavy
door and dropped, lightly, down to the platform. He thought he heard someone call out behind him, but did not look back, moving
swiftly but without running through the confused mob of people who were leaving, boarding or greeting the train, and out into a
broad sunlit car park. Get well away from the station, then you can find out where you've fetched up.
Without any particular
object in view he turned right, crossing a bridge over the railway line and began to climb up a steepish hill lined with imposing
Georgian town houses in a cool grey stone.
The road took a sharp, steep turn, and swung round to cross a sun-dappled, tree-shaded, cobbled square, which formed
the forecourt for the massive stone gatehouse of an imposing -- and impressively intact -- castle. He choked, suddenly, and came
to a complete stop. The edges of his vision pressed in upon him as the grainy grey clouds of impending unconsciousness
threatened to overwhelm him; his nostrils were full of the exhalation of fresh blood that seemed to beat up at him in waves from
the cobbled approach in front of him. There was no need for him now to find out where he was. He knew.
Memory carried him back 15 months and more ago. Time had not, it seemed, softened one iota of the scene; it was in
front of him in every detail. The harsh, high pitched tones of the Dark Lord carried effortlessly to every corner of the great ballroom
of the Manor, turned for this occasion into an auditorium and filled to overflowing with the cream of the Dark Lord's supporters.
With an almost negligent gesture with his wand the Dark Lord had conjured on the podium a three-dimensional image from
smoke, which writhed and grew, and became more solid even as they watched. It crystallized into a precise replica in miniature of
a massive stone gatehouse. Behind it the main bulk of the Castle loomed. The Death Eaters leaned forward, the ballroom wrapped
in absolute silence but for their shallow, tense breathing.
"Look on it." The Dark Lord's voice was resonant, the power in his voice building as he spoke with an almost physical
force. "I would show you all of them. All of the places where the Muggles imprisoned and killed our people in the past. They have
forgotten or turned them into tales to amuse themselves with. We will make them remember. We will make them remember on
those very stones what they did to our people. They will remember in pain; they will remember in iron; they will remember in fire.
No Muggle will ever be able to forget us again. And we will have our revenge!"
Suddenly everyone in the ballroom was standing, chanting, punching the air. Waves of passionate dedication flowed back
from the audience to the podium like a living, many-headed monster. Draco, standing near the back, saw even his father was on
his feet, chanting, swaying, arms around the nearest two of the platform party, his accustomed dignity and reserve cast to the four
winds. Nothing can stop us now. The air fizzed green, blue and silver with magical energy.
As his eyes searched frantically for a rock of sanity in the entranced crowd he caught sight of the other silver-blonde head
in the room: his mother, poised as ever, standing against the folding screens which divided the ballroom from the banqueting hall,
ready to give the signal to the armies of servitors to fling wide the doors and start serving drinks. It was her utter stillness that
had arrested his eye; as his gaze fell on her she raised her head, looking across the tops of the howling, chanting, hysterical mob,
and looked straight at him. For a long private instant they stood amid the chaos, sharing an unspoken thought.
And he still thinks he can control this?
"Hey, are you all right?"
For one bizarre moment he thought that Irene Patullo had joined the mob of his acquaintances who seemed to be
following him across England. Then he realized that the American accent was slightly harsher; older -- creakier; perhaps, just
perhaps, a degree less cultured. Kind, though. He had not realized before how much kindness there was floating about the place.
Not evenly spread, though. Gathered in hidden pockets like that oil stuff the Muggles were so keen on. Something one had to drill
for, often. Perhaps if you drilled too enthusiastically you risked destroying yourself by the sheer pressure of kindness that came
blasting back up at you. Perhaps, on the other hand, it was high time he got both his brain and his vocal cords off auto-pilot, and
landed himself back on Planet Coherent.
Draco opened his eyes with a struggle. He was sitting on a low wall at the edge of the grass space in front of the Castle.
Two elderly women were peering down at him in a concerned way.
"We were sure you were about to faint. You just came to a dead stop, and then sank down on that wall, here. Are you
okay? Drink this."
A paper cup containing a drink which looked most peculiar -- dark brown, fizzy, and indefinably medicinal in smell -- was
pushed in front of him. He took a swallow, and sneezed.
"Thanks. I-- I think I'm ok. It was just-- it was just this place. It just hit me. I'm fine now, honestly."
They favoured him with expressions of deep interest. "Well, isn't that just amazing? I wouldn't be surprised if you were
picking up on the atmosphere of the Castle. Nancy and I were just saying, with all the blood that's been shed round here, anyone
who's at all sensitive to atmosphere would be practically bound to detect unquiet spirits on this ground."
Draco gave this a moment's thought. He had never bothered with sensing ghosts; they either wandered up and chatted to
him, or he ignored them. Doubtless the Castle had a fairly large contingent. Red Caps, too, very probably. Better not to mention it.
He made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat.
"We're on a coach tour," the woman called Nancy added conversationally. "Famous literary and historical sites. Only the
others are going over the Castle at the moment, and the guide didn't think we'd be able to manage the steps. With Ruth's hip
replacement barely settled, and all. But at least we were able to get round to the other side of the Castle, and take photographs of
the Witches Tower."
"Well Tower." He had not meant the automatic correction to come out so sharply.
Ruth looked at him. "Is that so? They told us it was called the Witches Tower. You know, after the Lancashire Witches -we're on the Witches Trail today. Tomorrow it's the Lake Poets and the Border Reivers. We've been to Pendle, and Read, and
Newchurch, and Barley, and the coach finishes up here. Oh, it's a terrible story. Those poor women. They were imprisoned there-"
"In 1612. Yes, I know." His voice was tight, clipped. Clearly they realized it was not a good subject, even if they had no
understanding why. They were looking at him with puzzled eyes. He floundered on. "I'm-- well, actually, I'm descended from one of
them. Well, technically, I suppose, from two of them, as they were mother and daughter--"
Ack. Definitely too much information for safety. And I'd better just hope that they haven't been given enough context to work
out that that means I've just confessed to being descended from the chief prosecution witness, too. Still, if my mother could keep the
Dark Lord from making that particular connection for however many years, I suppose I can manage with a couple of Muggles for five
minutes.
Because, of course -- strange, how insight finally catches up with you, long after it might have been some bloody use -- for
all the Dark Lord's proclaiming his intention to avenge the wrongs of witches and wizards at the hands of brutal, ignorant, longdead Muggles, the whole history had been much more complicated than the crudely painted child's picture book he set out before
his followers. The ruthless internal divisions and struggles for power within the wizarding world over the centuries had seen to
that. During all the various upsurges of Muggle oppression of witches and wizards the only times the Muggle authorities had ever
actually managed to kill anyone other than their own by all their zealotry was when they had active connivance from the wizarding
community. Oh, the motives for collaboration varied: weeding out Squibs and other black sheep; struggles for inheritances; the
hope of Royal patronage -- sometimes, desperate denial and self-loathing, an effort to integrate into Muggle marriages and Muggle
families by bringing a blood sacrifice to seal the pact. Dirty stories, all of them. Not many dirtier than that of his many-times great
grandmother. They had made up a ballad about that one. Neville, once, had told him even the Muggles still remembered it: that
he'd heard someone singing it in a Lancashire pub on a folk night.
By the time she was nine / She'd committed a grave crime / For her family from the gallows swung dead.
He looked across at the grim pile of the Castle. Somewhere inside that mass of stone, 313 years ago almost to the day,
Jennet Device had stood in a courtroom and sworn away the lives of her mother, sister and brother. Her grandmother -imprisoned on her testimony and dead in gaol -- had been already a rotting corpse buried somewhere about the prison precincts.
No wonder the blood-guilt reflected back at him from the stones.
The two women looked undeniably impressed.
"Really? Well, that explains it, of course." Ruth turned confirmatorily to Nancy. "We could tell -- it just looked as though
something invisible had hit you, right there, and stopped you dead in your tracks."
He had, as a matter of fact, seen people being hit by something invisible, and strongly doubted whether the simile was an
accurate one. But he did not propose to debate the point. The sooner I'm out of here, the better. He got to his feet.
"Anyway, I've got to be going. Thanks. Bye."
They waved vaguely at him; he could sense that the brevity of their encounter only added to his fascination in their eyes.
He nodded a brisk farewell, and started walking. He did not look back, but he could feel the Castle's baleful surveillance between
his shoulder blades all the time he was walking down the hill on which it stood.
Once again, his feet took a route without him giving them conscious direction. However, when he came onto a busy Tjunction with a bookshop on one corner he remembered Caitlin's instructions, and went in to consider maps. A thought struck
him. He was, after all, rather less than 20 miles from Wiswell. Neville was always going on about the pleasures of walking longer
distances than that, when Draco was teasing him about his reluctance to use broomsticks. It would be quite easy -- the assistant
at the bookshop was happy to give him directions -- to buy one of those gadgets the Muggles used instead of a Point Me charm.
The map showed gloriously open, virtually uninhabited country between here and his objective. Even if Finnegan had alerted the
Aurors it would be like a needle in a haystack looking for him in that. He'd have daylight virtually all the way -- it was the height
of summer. And he'd had enough of Muggles and their machines to last him for quite a bit. No, walking was obviously the safest
thing for it. And the sooner he started, the better.
He was, of course, from the South, and his family, although unquestionably landed gentry and far from opposed to blood
sports in principle, had never taken much notice of the significant dates of the Muggle sporting calendar, as enshrined in The
Field and Country Life. Neville, brought up in the shadow of Pendle Hill, could have enlightened him, had he been there. Caitlin
could have pointed out that the map is not the territory. Draco, however, distracted by his troubles, his shaken imagination
fancying legions of Aurors positioned on every bus or train route in the whole of the county, desperate to shake the blood sodden
dust of Lancaster from his feet, took out his new bought map and compass and plotted a long straight course across the barren,
unpopulated, wastes which lay between him and his objective.
Then, as innocent as any babe unborn, he set his feet towards Dolphinholme and the south-east, and no kind soul
plucked him by the sleeve, or informed him that if one proposes to take a twenty mile hike across some of the finest grouse moors
in the whole of the fair North Country, the 12th of August is not the best day to choose for the journey.
Camilleri had had an agitating afternoon, but he had started to feel generally happier about life as the day wore on with
still no summons from Rita or news that Draco had been captured. To his surprise (not to mention amusement) St Mungo's
appeared to be maintaining the stiffest of possible fronts, and no hint of the news that a patient had evaporated from inside one of
their secure wards had been allowed to leak out. By half past eight that evening Neil, who had been holding down the news desk
with an increasing air of stress which gradually flooded in past the breakwater of his self-importance, gave all the Overlord team
conditional permission to go home, on the strict understanding that they were to hold themselves in readiness to return at any
hour of the day or night should the situation change.
Camilleri reached the flat some ten minutes before Narcissa Apparated in, her arms laden with elegant carrier bags
bearing the names of some of the most illustrious outlets in the whole wizarding world.
"Shopping?" Camilleri enquired sceptically. "At a time like this?"
Narcissa bestowed a sparkling smile on him. Her marble remoteness of the morning had dissolved into fizzing energy: he
expected to see St Elmo's fire leap from finger end to finger end. Mischief radiated off her, and he felt that to embrace her would be
rather like stroking a half-grown tiger cub.
"I can always make time for shopping. At least for essentials."
She dropped the bags onto the sofa bed and swept her eyes around, her gaze taking in the view through the false window
(the glittering lights of Hong Kong Island reflected in the harbour, shot from the penthouse bar of the Peninsula Hotel on Kowloon
side), Camilleri's hastily repacked photographic equipment, the strategic pile of laundry dumped so as to conveniently obscure the
fireplace, and, finally, Neville's owl, which had been roosting on the bookshelf, its head tucked under its wing. Camilleri followed
the direction of her gaze.
"Oh, yes," he muttered. "Forgot to mention that. You've had an owl."
She raised a brow. "Another one?" She moved in the direction of his gesture, picked up the small cylinder of parchment,
slit it open without difficulty, and pursed her lips slightly while reading it.
"Hm. The same as the others. A little more information would be nice. But at least that's a reasonably easy instruction to
follow."
She dropped it into the ashtray and set fire to it with a word. The letters showed a darker shade of grey for a moment,
then collapsed to ash. Narcissa pulled out a small pad of parchment and scribbled, quickly, looping the completed message round
the small owl's leg. It pecked sleepily at her.
"Shoo!" Narcissa said firmly. "In terms of long term strategy that's the best I can come up with. Just get on with it, OK?"
The owl made a resentful clicking noise with its beak, and took off through the fireplace. Narcissa turned round to
Camilleri. "Anyway," she said "I need your help. I'll be putting together an alibi for Draco this evening, and I'm going to need a bit
of assistance."
Camilleri's voice was urgent. "What's he doing? Where is he?"
Narcissa looked blankly at him. "How on earth would I know? I have a vague idea where he's heading, but that's about it.
I'm only planning on giving the Powers that Be a general steer in the opposite direction."
Camilleri took a deep breath. "But how do you know he needs an alibi, then?"
Narcissa's gaze became even more baffled. "Well, I expect it'll come in useful, even if he's got one already, don't you think?"
Belatedly, Camilleri realized that in Narcissa's family alibis were, apparently, to be treated as the equivalent of socks:
provided they fitted one could never, really, ever be given too many of them. He nodded, firmly.
"Oh-- er, yes. Of course. What do I have to do?"
She smiled, slowly. "Well, in the first place, I need to borrow the bathroom. Then-- look, I'll explain the rest while I'm
soaking."
"God, that's bloody disconcerting," Camilleri moaned. "How do you do that?"
Narcissa grinned wickedly at him. "Hair and makeup, mostly. A good bit of strapping. Some excruciatingly uncomfortable
Muggle gadgets called contact lenses. And then, perhaps, the smallest snifter of illusion to complete the overall effect. But don't
worry. I've not done anything drastic. All original bits still present and correct. Not even Polyjuiced."
"Oh? And how do you plan to maintain your cover if anyone makes a pass at you, if that's so?"
"I'm planning on no one getting close enough to make the attempt."
"In that outfit? Down Canal Street? Lord, give me strength."
"Yes, dear. Noted. Anyway, give me fifteen minutes to make an initial impression and then get in there and take your
photograph. Make sure you get the club's name prominently in the background. And, Chris--?"
"Yes?"
"Don't let them have the negative until you've negotiated freelance rates for it. Bearing in mind it has to be in the Prophet's
hands by midnight to meet their print deadline, that is."
"I've got a really bad feeling about this one," Camilleri muttered, but he began to put his kit together nonetheless. Narcissa
smiled dazzlingly at him.
"I knew I could count on you."
The bouncer was quite sure that the apparition in front of him ought, on any sensible interpretation of the club's dress
code, be excluded. Admittedly, while the guidelines were explicit on the subject of trainers, jeans and leg warmers, they had an
inexplicable gap when it came to stuffed vultures. However, on general principles, surely-"I'm not planning to stay long," Emily Longbottom said reasonably. "I only need to have a quick word with my grandson's
young man. He's blond, and he can't have arrived very long ago."
The bouncer could recognize trouble when he saw it coming. In fact, it was part of his job description. "Look, I realize it
may have been difficult for you to adjust to, but times have changed. It's not the sort of thing you can exactly talk people out of,
however you may feel about it. And anyway, here's neither the time nor the place--"
"Oh, I'm not out to cause trouble. At least, not between those two. In fact, I'd be a lot happier if I knew Neville was safely
with Draco. No, I need some information. And I need it fast. So, young man--"
Inexplicably, impossibly, the bouncer felt all 6'4" of his hard, steroid-enhanced body being pushed back against the acidetched glass behind him. The door began to yield to the almost irresistible pressure. The bouncer tried his final shot.
"Look; even if I did let you in: how would you recognize him? It's not exactly floodlit in there, and, after all, I've let a few
hundred people in this evening, and about a quarter of them were blond. It's a total zoo; you'd never spot the man you're after."
"Rubbish," Emily Longbottom said decisively. "I'll flatly guarantee you'd have noticed him when he arrived -- unless, of
course you've been ridiculously spoilt all your life."
The bouncer's jaw dropped.
"You wouldn't - you couldn't possibly be referring to the Ziggy Stardust reincarnation in the leather hot-pants and the
thigh length spike heeled boots, would you?"
Mrs. Longbottom gave a satisfied nod. "That sounds about right. I don't know anything about this Ziggy Stardust person,
but the rest makes sense. Go on, then. Take me to him."
She found who she was looking for in the chill-out room, lounging against the bar with a bottle of Grolsch negligently
dangling along one leather-bound sweat-beaded muscle-toned flank.
"Eh, I'm glad to find you," Emily Longbottom said. "From the description, I weren't sure if it was you doing something
clever, or young Draco up to something remarkably stupid."
Narcissa looked narrowly up and down the room before answering. "Have you used your wand recently?"
"No-- not really. Well. Maybe a bit at the door. Though most of that was force of personality, I suppose. Why?"
By way of answer, Narcissa pulled a slender supple piece of dark mahogany out of the top of her right boot, and passed it
to her. "Take this one. I... er... managed to find a cache of Ollivanders' Untraceable Interchangeables that the Death Eaters don't
seem to have declared to the Ministry during decommissioning."
Mrs. Longbottom favoured her with the narrowest of beady stares, one she had perfected by practice on her family for at
least eight decades. "Well, I'll go to our house. And that little bugger swore blind he was only making them for Us."
Narcissa looked imperturbably straight back at her. "Oh well, you know what they say. Being a double agent means never
having to worry about whether you've got top of the range equipment."
"And does young Draco know his wand's compromised?"
Narcissa shrugged. The impact of her bare shoulders moving, as the random lights flashed off them in the darkened
corners of the club, had to be seen to be believed. She knitted her flawless brows together, muttered "Such a waste, all this
domesticity" and flashed sultry, sidelong glances into all four corners of the room.
"Keep your mind on things," Emily Longbottom advised firmly. Narcissa turned back to the matter at hand with a visible
effort.
"Yes, I should think so. On the grounds he hasn't used it for the last twelve hours."
Mrs. Longbottom raised her eyebrows. "And how come you're so certain?"
"Well--" Narcissa paused. "The Ministry has a strictly unattributable one way leak into the Prophet. And, it seems, the
Prophet now has a strictly unattributable one-way leak into me."
Mrs. Longbottom relaxed slightly.
"Good. I'm glad Draco's got that much sense. And where are you really supposed to be? I mean, of course, you, you: as
opposed to you, him. The newspapers will be bound to be asking."
Narcissa pouted, elegantly. "Me?"
"Yes, you. By the way, could you possibly take it for granted for the time being that Muggles having coronaries in your
immediate vicinity are part of the general background, rather than specifically rubbing it in?"
Narcissa grinned, and stopped caressing the top of the beer bottle absently with her index finger. "Oh, me? I'm in rehab."
"Rehab?"
"Yes. You know L'Aiglon Retreat?"
Narcissa paused for the merest breath. Everyone knew L'Aiglon Retreat, that place in the Alps near Lausanne to which the
Beautiful People went, when simply being beautiful was not enough to ensure they would be taken in anywhere else. Mrs.
Longbottom nodded. "Aye--"
"Well, two days ago someone took a frightful blurry photo of me as I was driven in through the back gate. And after an
hour or so soul-searching, poor love, he offered it to the Necromantischer Zeitung. Who had the most fearful ethical scruples. And
then the clinic had a big set to about patient confidentiality, as well, and so on--"
"And?"
Narcissa pouted again. "I rather think that the Directeur is about to issue an official statement deploring Press intrusion,
but admitting that I may -- just possibly -- have been taken in suffering from complete mental exhaustion in the last few days, and
that no word of-- Draco's problems has -- or will -- be allowed to intrude on the completeness of my recovery. I rather think the
total isolation from the outside world phase must last for at least ten days to be effective."
Mrs. Longbottom looked at her. "Very nice. But how come this photo was taken two days ago when so far as I'm aware the
story didn't break till this morning?"
Narcissa continued to regard her steadily.
"It's amazing how good an alibi you can construct with an illicit Time-Turner, unlimited financial resources, and
practically no moral scruples," she said gently. Mrs. Longbottom gave a deep sigh of profound satisfaction.
"Good. So what are you planning as your next move?"
Narcissa surveyed her surroundings again, yawned, and stretched. "In about five minutes," she said "I intend to be
photographed here doing something which will make an unmistakeable impression. That will establish my -- I mean, his -presence in Manchester at this time. I'm then going to head for Soho, thus comprehensively proving that I have left the NorthWest, and then I'll re-emphasise that point by going on to Brighton. I propose to carry out a similar programme in both locations.
Assuming I've managed to pick up a sufficiently dedicated team of Aurors on my tail by that time, I, and the entire following pack
will breakfast in Amsterdam. I will then lay a false trail in the general direction of Romania, ditch the disguise, and I suggest we
re-group tomorrow afternoon. With a bit of luck. Send messages through Chris; he's co-ordinating the whole strategy."
As a six-foot tall drag queen on stilts roller-bladed past, Mrs. Longbottom looked up and said helpfully, "The tab of your
zip's out at the back, love." The drag queen flashed her a dazzling smile, tucked it in, and continued through the club without
breaking his glide. Mrs. Longbottom shook her head reflectively.
"Eh. Some folks." She looked at Narcissa. "Well, all I can say is if you're planning to make an unmistakable impression it's
going to take a bit of effort. Doesn't look as though they impress easily round these parts. And it'll take a bit of living down, too."
Narcissa's lips set in a narrow, determined line. "Living it down is Draco's problem. My job ends as soon as I've ensured
he's lived long enough to need to."
Draco, at this point, would have given serious consideration to opting out of the living business altogether if only it put an
end to the agony in his feet. He had discovered by painful experiment that neither he nor his shoes were naturally well-adapted to
a twenty mile hike across rough country, and his original view that Neville's predilection for taking long country walks for the fun
of it was a bizarre kink had been substantially reinforced. He had decided to avoid the roads until it became quite dark: those two
unexpected encounters with people who knew him had rattled his nerves badly. Up on the high moors, until dusk sent the
shooting parties home, he had had the rattle of gunfire as the ever present counterpoint to his journey, and been forced to make
several detours to avoid game-keepers, beaters and their charges. It struck him, the second time a hail of pellets whistled past his
head into the heather, that given all the variants on sudden and violent death he had been dodging since he woke up that
morning that it would be the height of irony if his end actually came at the hands of an inbred Muggle aristocrat too stupid to
distinguish between him and a grouse.
He limped into Wiswell shortly before last orders at the Freemason's Arms and considered his options. After revolving a
variety of improbable schemes he concluded that keeping it simple was infinitely the best strategy. He shouldered his way through
the crowded bar, cast a glance over the pumps, caught the landlord's eye, and ordered a pint of Nemesis. As he collected his
change he said casually,
"I was hoping I could have a word with Thwaitsey -- is he around?"
The landlord's jaw dropped. "Er... you know Thwaitsey?"
Draco shook his head. "But I was told he might have some news about a friend of mine."
The landlord leaned over the bar, and dropped his voice. "But-- you do know about-- well-- er, I mean--"
He paused, put both his hands up to the sides of his head, and flapped them in energetic circles, looking hopefully across
at Draco to see if he was getting the message. He wasn't.
"The orchestral conducting? The helicopters? The rotary ear-wax removing devices?" Draco hazarded.
The landlord shook his head, leaned further and even more confidentially over the bar, and hissed, "No-- you do know
about Thwaitsey-- that he's... er..." He paused, and flapped his hands around his head again. The other drinkers charitably
appeared to assume it was a sudden attack of tinnitus, and after a moment or two sending puzzled glances in their direction
returned to their drinks. Something about the landlord's pleading expression struck a chord in Draco's memory.
"I'm not going to be desperately surprised by the big pointy ears, if that's what you're getting at," he said helpfully. The
landlord suddenly relaxed.
"Ah! So you do know what he is. Then I suppose that'll make you... er... you know." He nodded, significantly.
"Probably," Draco said cautiously. The landlord dropped his voice.
"Then you wouldn't happen to know Neville Longbottom, would you?"
Draco jumped. "Why do you ask?"
The landlord looked at him, bent down behind the bar, and pulled out a back pack. "He left this in here yesterday
afternoon. That was a strange how d'you do; he walked in, ordered a pint of Dark Assassin and then vanished before I could pour
it, without even saying goodbye, and left his back pack and his wallet behind, too. I've been trying to get them back to him. I asked
Thwaitsey to take them up to the house, but he got into a right state and started jabbering at me and trying to jam his head into
the old cider-press. To tell you the truth, I didn't have any idea what he was squeaking about. I gathered the old lady's away, and
there's some sort of family argy-bargy going on, but I didn't want to poke my nose in further where it might not be wanted. I mean,
don't get me wrong. I've known Neville a long time, and I've got a lot of respect for the old lady, and they don't come any better or
more willing than Thwaitsey. He came with the pub, and I've never had a better cellar man. Wish I could get him to wear a
brewery T-shirt, though. But in these parts, when it turns out to be something to do with you people's business, we'd rather we
didn't hear owt and then we don't have to say nowt, as the saying goes."
"Oh." Draco thought for a moment. "You're probably wise. Actually, it was Neville I wanted to ask Thwaitsey about, as it
happens."
The landlord eyed him shrewdly. "I wondered if it might be. Look: you wait here until locking up time. Then, leave with the
rest of the customers; hang about for ten minutes or so until we've got everything sorted here, and then come back. I'll make sure
the trap door they drop the barrels through round the side of the pub's left unlocked for you. Thwaitsey'll be in the cellar waiting
for you."
He turned to serve one of the other customers. Draco took his pint and wandered over to a seat near the window. The
pleasure of simply sitting down was overwhelming. Every muscle he knew he possessed ached, as well as several other groups
that seemed to have invented themselves purely for the pleasure of joining in the overall chorus of pain. Considered frankly, as a
one-man rescue expedition, he had to say he was not currently the ideal choice. He was aware from his readings of early twentieth
century Muggle novels that any run-of-the-mill hero would have brushed off his experiences of the day as a mere stroll in the
park: they could foil dastardly Hunnish plots single handed after a day spent tearing themselves free from multiple bonds in
underground torture chambers, knocking-out thuggish Teutonic henchmen, stealing cars which after hair-raising chases they
drove off the road into ditches, crossing ice-bound escarpments by seven hour routes that were considered too difficult for most
people to attempt even in summer: all he could conclude was that people then must have had different sorts of bodies. And, for
that matter, brains. He yawned. He sincerely hoped that what he had to do next would not require too much sharp-wittedness.
He was almost glad that his brains were not working at their quickest when, half an hour later, he found himself sitting
on the edge of the outdoor trap peering down into silent blackness. At best what was in the cellar below was an unknown houseelf -- and he had no illusions about the reputation he and his family enjoyed in house-elf circles. In normal circumstances a
wizard would have no doubts about his ability to cow any house-elf into submission -- but these circumstances were hardly
normal. He would be unable to use his wand, and though house-elf respect for wizards in principle ought to keep him safe, there
was no guarantee of it. Especially since a house-elf presenting the Ministry with evidence of his elimination (both ears, perhaps?)
would presumably come in for a suitably scaled down version of the reward Snape had been talking about, to say nothing of
kudos to an unparalleled degree among his own people. On the other hand, what serious alternative did he have?
"Oh, sod it," he muttered irritably to himself, and launched himself into the unknown.
He landed lightly on the balls of his feet, suppressing a gasp of pain as he caught at least two of his recent blisters in the
process. There was an eerie moment of complete -- but somehow populated -- silence in the cellar. He was certainly not alone.
Furthermore, if his instincts served him right, there was not merely one other being in there with him.
"Thwaitsey?"
There was an apologetic cough. "Draco Malfoy? Is you being Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes, I is-- I mean, I am. Are you Thwaitsey?"
A small gleam of light appeared at the far end of the cellar, and there was a bang from above his head as the trapdoor
closed itself. Draco hoped his quickly stifled gasp of apprehension had not been audible. The light brightened, and a small figure
wearing a costume that appeared to be constructed from the towels used to mop up bar spills made its way over to him and
goggled up at him.
"Draco Malfoy is taking a very long time to get here," he said reproachfully.
"Yes, well, I've had a very difficult day. And for god's sake use one of my names, not the whole handle. Either 'Draco' or
'Malfoy' I'm prepared to put up with, but 'Draco Malfoy' sounds like Mrs. P. telling me off for nicking her currants when I was
about six."
Thwaitsey giggled, rather nervously. "I is having something to give you," he said mysteriously, and fumbled in a pouch,
ingeniously made, apparently, from woven crisp packets. He handed two battered looking beer mats over to Draco. Draco turned
them over in his hand. Each of the mats had had the printing scratched completely off on one side, leaving an exposed square of
bare cardboard. There were faint rust brown stains on each one.
"More light," Draco snapped, peremptorily, and then, recollecting himself, "er, I meant, please."
Thwaitsey clicked his fingers. The cellar was suddenly flooded with brilliant illumination. Draco bent over the two beer
mats again, and the rust brown stains resolved themselves into letters: "HELP" on one mat and "I.L.Y." on the other. He turned
that one over for more clues. The printing was intact on the other side. Another guest beer, it seemed. Draig Aur. He caught his
breath, sharply.
"Did Neville leave these?" he demanded. Thwaitsey nodded. It was more of a whole body shudder.
"He is dropping them through the trap-door. He is knowing I is in the cellar, and is talking cleverly so bad people who is
taking him away is not realising. I is guessing he means them for you. I is following so I knows where they is taking him--"
Thwaitsey's voice tailed off into a tremulous squeak. He was pressing himself back against the beer barrels, cowering in
fear. Belatedly, Draco realized he had sprung to his feet and was towering over the terrified house-elf. He backed off, slightly,
making quick, would-be soothing gestures with his hands.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just-- I'm worried."
"We's all worried," said another voice miserably. Draco peered round the corner of the row of barrels, to see Betsey, her
face blotched and runnelled with tears, crouching behind a silvery figure in leather kilt and armour, who was lying prone on the
cellar floor, snoring heavily through his massive and heavily arched nose.
"Oh, hello," Draco murmured awkwardly. "I... er... thanks again for this morning. Er... who's your sleepy friend?"
Betsey looked at the ghost with immense disdain. "He is being no friend of mine. He is being Octavius Cambrensis Vulgo.
He is often coming here from the camp at Ribchester."
"Mm. Well, I shouldn't imagine being dead will save him, if his centurion catches up with him in that condition. Especially
if he's supposed to be in training. Ah... what are you doing here? I mean, is it safe for you?"
By way of answer Betsey emerged fully out from behind the stricken Roman. With a superhuman effort Draco suppressed
a reflexive snigger. She shuffled miserably over towards him, dressed in a pink baby-doll nightie, which trailed behind her on the
ground as she walked. It had a motif of two white bunny rabbits holding hands against the background of a red satin heart
emblazoned across the chest, just above the words "Sweet Dreams" picked out in diamante studs.
"Good Grief! You don't mean that plonker Eustace actually gave you clothes?"
She nodded, shamefacedly. Draco crouched down so he was looking her almost straight in the eyes. "The stupid,
ungrateful git. Has he no sense at all? What was his excuse, then?"
Betsey's voice was very small. "I think he may have been overhearing me call Miss Elaine a 'bossy little madam with no
more brains than a dead slug'," she confessed. Draco gave a quick yelp of laughter.
"Good for you. Has that half-witted bimbo moved into the house, then?"
Betsey looked shocked. "Oh. No. Mr Eustace is not having any of that sort of thing, at all. Not until they are married, he is
saying."
Draco gave the baby-doll nightie a thoughtful stare. "That one of hers?"
Betsey nodded.
"Hm, well, you can see his point, then. Put off the moment for as long as possible, in his place, I would. And I bet they'll
be shipping in Nerve-Stiffening Potion by the tanker-load for the wedding night, too. Thwaitsey?"
The other house-elf crept nervously closer. "Yes?"
"Can you find one of those brewery T-shirts your boss was mentioning for Betsey? I mean, don't get me wrong here. I'm
not giving her clothes. To begin with, I don't have any legal right to give her clothes or not, and to go on with the clothes I'm not
proposing to give to her don't belong to me. Got that?"
Thwaitsey nodded, hesitantly.
"Good." Draco hoped what he was saying was making sense to somebody. He did not necessarily feel he was that
somebody. "Well, since Betsey has been given clothes by Eustace, she doesn't have to worry about being loyal to him any more -not, I think, by the way, she ever had to be, but that's another argument. But I think as she's got clothes anyway, she'd be a lot
more comfortable in something a bit more -- practical -- than what she's wearing. Because now she's a free agent, she can help me
rescue Neville, can't you, Betsey?"
Betsey nodded, energetically.
"Good. Well, if you get that sorted, Thaitsey, Betsey and me can get straight off after Neville. How far is it? And can we not
walk to get there?"
Betsey looked up at him, goggle-eyed.
"You is being a lot later than I is expecting," she said. Draco frowned, irritably. "I know that. I've had god knows how
many Aurors on my tail today; getting out of the Manor was no picnic, to begin with, and when I couldn't change trains at Preston,
I had to go on to Lancaster, and then I've walked all the way from there, with imbeciles shooting at me--"
His voice ran down. A day like this is more than anyone ought to be asked to put up with. Draco wrapped his arms round
his knees and sat down on the floor, the better to express his sulky resentment at his lukewarm welcome. Betsey nervously patted
him on the shoulder.
"I is not blaming you. You is here now. But-- it is being harder to rescue Master Neville now. The house they is keeping him in, is
defended more at night. Thwaitsey is checking, when he is trying to see if he could be getting him out himself. Now, there is being
two wizards and one witch in the house, and all doors locked and alarms on. During the day, is just two people. If we go in the
morning, I could be drawing one of them outside, and you could be taking their wand. It is being by far Master Neville's best
chance."
Draco paused. "But, that leaves him in there all night. They could be doing anything to him."
There was a sudden silence, broken only by the sounds of ghostly Roman snores. Both the two house-elves were suddenly
looking anywhere but at him. Draco straightened himself up rapidly, and gasped as his now stiffening muscles protested at the
movement.
"You do know what they're doing to him. Look, enough of this nonsense. Tell me where he is, and if you don't want to do
anything to stop it, I will."
Betsey hissed at him in sheer distress. "Is not right. I is knowing him since he was born, and I is not wanting him to
suffer any more, either. But-- you is his only hope. You must be getting it right. You is not able to rescue him tonight, and if you
try, you is making matter much worse for him. You must be being sensible and resting here till morning. "
Part of his mind acknowledged her point, even as he shook his head in emphatic rejection. "There isn't time for that. We
have to be going now."
He turned on one blistered foot. Betsey's ears drooped, and she made a nervous movement with her hands.
"I is really, really sorry about this," she muttered. Arrested by something in the tone of her voice, Draco turned back
towards her.
"Wha--"
He slumped forwards. Shaking with guilt and reaction, Betsey moved his limbs into a more comfortable position, tucked
the duffle bag under his head by way of pillow, and pulled a blanket over him, before bolting into a far corner of the cellar where
she cowered, whimpering, with her hands over her ears.
"Oh! Oh! Oh! I is hoping he is not being too angry when he is waking up," she squeaked apprehensively. Thwaitsey patted
her on the shoulder.
"You is doing it for the best," he said comfortingly, and then stole another nervous glance at Draco's sleeping form. "And
anyway, youse done it now. Better be letting him have a good night's rest before he finds out. He is likely to be feeling better about
it in the morning. I is only hoping."
The lights suddenly went out. The only sound in the cellar was the sound of the regular breathing from the two sleepers.
~~~
When Draco awoke he found a steaming mug of coffee, a bowl of hot water and a towel at his elbow. There was also a
small pot of some salve of which the dominant ingredients seemed to be -- he sniffed it -- arnica and eucalyptus, with an
undercurrent of something spicier and more exotic. He presumed it was intended for the relief of his feet, which were now putting
up an acid chorus of resentment at the previous day's maltreatment. He recognised a peace offering when he saw it, but snorted,
audibly, in a deliberately unconvinced way. You don't get round me that easily, oh no.
The morning sunlight slanted into the cellar through gaps in the trap door. The legionary had departed together with the
ghost of his hangover to face eighteen hundred years worth of justified indignation from his centurion. There was a speaking
emptiness about the cellar; a palpable air of waiting to see how he took things. Perhaps peace offering was pitching matters too
low. Perhaps, the silence enquired of him, propitiatory sacrifice was what he was looking for? He took his time about washing, and
then paused.
"Oh, come out of there," he said loudly and irritably. "I can hardly tear you limb from limb before you've told me where to
find Neville, now, can I?"
A small and subdued figure now dressed in a T-shirt advocating the merits of Moorhouses' Black Cat Ale emerged from
behind the further row of barrels. He regarded her severely.
"I warn you," he said levelly, "I'm giving serious thought to what I ought to do to you. And your chances of getting off with
a whole skin after your performance last night will be greatly enhanced if we manage to rescue Neville within the hour. So what
have you got to suggest, then?"
Betsey looked miserably at him. "I is really really sorry," she mumbled. "But I is meaning it for the best. And Thwaitsey
and me, wese been thinking. And wese got a plan."
Meditatively, Draco began rubbing the salve into his feet, trying to repress an appreciative sigh as it identified each
separate muscle, bone, tendon, nerve and sinew, mounted little relief expeditions to find the knots and strains in each of them,
and then despatched individualised packages of warmth and comfort to the disaster zones.
Ruthlessly refusing to allow the tidal wave of pleasurable relaxation sweeping up from his toes to provoke him into
forgiveness, Draco made his voice icily non-committal. "Go on. I'm listening."
Betsey eyed him nervously. Evidently she was trying to work out how far he was likely to push his resentment at her
cavalier treatment of him last night.
God, that stuff's amazing. Worst thing father ever did, getting rid of the Malfoy house-elf. Whatever provocation he said he'd
had. One would never have thought these feet had done twenty miles -- a lot more, probably, counting all those detours -- yesterday.
It was really rather impressive, come to think about it. For a first effort. Without the right gear. Neville will be pretty startled when I
tell him. And perhaps Betsey did have a point. Much easier to break into somewhere in daylight. Rested. When they aren't likely to
be expecting you.
Draco set himself resolutely against the treacherous urging of his feet to take a merciful stance. Despite everything, it was
not as if he had any intention of surrendering the moral high ground any time soon.
Wonder if that stuff works on backs, too? And if it's a family recipe, why the hell hasn't Neville mentioned it before now?
His mind spun away down by-ways of irrelevant speculation. Evidently Betsey read some softening in his face, because
her whole body suddenly became less tense, and she gestured excitably. "They is holding Master Neville in a big house up the
valley not far away. We is going there now. And on the way I is telling you about how I is planning for you to rescue him."
Draco would have to say that, as cunning plans went, he wasn't getting the subtleties of this one. Betsey almost leapt up
and down on the spot in frustration at the evident blankness of his response.
"Pixies? Even if we could find some, what on earth use are pixies going to be?"
Betsey flailed her arms impatiently. "Not pixies. PIGSIES." In a final effort to communicate, she dropped to hands and
knees and made loud snuffling and oinking noises, looking up at Draco in the hope that the Knut, by now, might have dropped.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Pigs? How the fuck are you planning to use pigs to break into a house, which, I might remind you, is defended by three
people with magical powers, for god's sake?"
She pulled him further into the shade of the little copse, from which they could see the imposing gateway of the house in
which Neville was being held. A discreet slate plaque set in the wall to one side of the main gate announced "Oakenclough Grange
Research Facility. PRIVATE." Round the lawn and gardens there was a dry-stone wall. Oakenclough Grange was not as big as the
Longbottom house, or even Gaia's Place, but it was a substantial, elegant building of local stone, in its own grounds; perhaps once
it had been the cherished retirement dream of some Muggle mill owner with less money than some, admittedly, but more taste
than the average. A cedar of Lebanon spread a patch of tranquil shade on the lawn in front of the house's serene, patrician façade.
"Is only two people. One of the wizards is already leaving, earlier. He is having other patients to see. Thwaitsey is
watching. Now is being our chance."
She gestured at the field next to the house. "They'se free range pigsies. If you is encouraging them to free range into the
house's gardens, one of the other two is having to come out to deal with them. Then you is able to be taking their wand."
"Me?" Draco's jaw dropped. "Why do you think I'm the right person to bring off this idiotic idea? Just-- I mean, just how
do you think I'm going to encourage a mob of pigs to assault that place in the first place? I mean, what do you take me for?"
He gestured, wildly, with one thumb, even though in the back of his mind some fragment of his over-active imagination
was already composing his motivational address to the troops.
Look, guys -- I'm not trying to bullshit you here -- it's gonna be a meat-grinder out there. And anyone who hesitates when the
chips are down -- well, he's just gonna be hamburger -He blinked. Betsey glared at him.
"But you must be knowing about pigsies. Master Neville is telling Madam that your father is breeding the finest herd of
pigsies in the whole of Dorset and Wiltshire."
Draco looked at her. "And, if you knew anything about my father, you'd know that all that meant was that he paid the
best expert he could find to buy him a bunch of prize winning Old Spots whose pedigrees went back nearly as long as the family.
He then dumped them in some custom designed pigsties somewhere out on the estate with a hand-picked head pig man and a
deputy pig man, and, for all I know, a full singing and dancing chorus of assistant pig men, all given orders to make sure they
were coddled, and cleaned, and polished down to the last trotter, in case my father took it in his head to show them off to visitors.
He never had anything else to do with them until they'd been treacle cured."
Not too different, come to think of it, from his approach to fatherhood. Though at least the pigs got killed humanely. "A
stressed pig is a tasteless pig" after all.
Betsey's eyes were assuming a touch of manic determination, which Draco recollected, queasily, from last night. She took
a deep breath, which made her small body puff up to twice its normal size. "Pigsies."
There was no possibility of retreat. Betsey was quite emphatic about that. With considerable reluctance, Draco cast one
backward glance at her, shuddered elaborately for the benefit of his self-image, and then, in the teeth of her grim air of
determination, shinned over the dry-stone wall, which divided the farm field from the road.
The large white sows in the field began to look up at him from the serious business of snuffling about and rolling in the
mud. He gulped, dry mouthed, and made hopeful shooing movements in their general direction.
"Er, look, you lot... er... I mean..."
The whole idea was completely dotty. It couldn't possibly work. He coughed again, nervously, in the general direction of
the snuffling hordes. "It'd just be handy if you could-- like-- well-- I mean... er... oy, just take a hike, will you! Over there -- in that
direction -- yes, that'd be good--"
Ahead of him he could hear an excited cacophony of high-pitched grunts and squeals; Betsey, he supposed, practising her
farmyard impressions to dramatically successful effect. Suddenly he had to leap aside to avoid being trampled as the pigs started
heading en masse for the dry-stone wall, which formed the boundary of Oakenclough Grange. Bugger it. This is really not supposed
to happen. Its actually working.
The piggy multitude thundered on. The fragile wall toppled before their relentless advance. They were into enemy territory,
and the narrow bridge-head established by their initial strike broadened into the sustained development of a front across the
whole of the lawns as reinforcements poured through the gap. Reconnaissance parties were already making their way round
towards the back of the house, perhaps forming the vanguard for search and destroy missions against vulnerable vegetable
patches and fruit-bushes. An extensive defoliation programme, presumably intended to remove patches of cover under which any
guerrilla resistance could re-group and counter-attack, was already in progress at the front of the building.
Well, in the light of the unexpected success of Phase 1, perhaps I'd better ensure I'm properly positioned for Phase 2.
Gemma waved her wand absent-mindedly at the kettle, and it burst, instantly, into cheerful whistling. She made herself a
full pot of coffee, poured a mug-full and savoured each mouthful. The sunlight slanted into the pine-panelled kitchen. Celestina
Warbeck's bright, up-beat tones echoed out of the radio in the corner of the kitchen, and she cocked half an ear, awaiting the
morning news bulletin. The Daily Prophet had arrived by owl fifteen minutes ago, but Paul had snaffled it, along with his own
coffee, on his last break, and taken it back into the therapy room with him before she had had a chance even to skim the
headlines. From long experience she did not expect to get a glance at the newspaper for another couple of hours at least. Gemma
smiled, indulgently, into the depths of her coffee mug. Bless him. As team leader, Paul always bore the emotional brunt of a
deprogramming, and, as the last thirty-six hours had demonstrated, this one had turned out unexpectedly demanding. He
deserved his little treats and privileges. The facility could hardly operate without him, after all.
What the heck--?
A high-pitched, intense squealing burst from the garden outside. By force of habit Gemma cast a quick, bothered glance
towards the therapy room, even though she knew that nothing could penetrate the soundproofing charms on it until Paul chose to
emerge. The door, as she had expected, remained solidly shut.
And he's just begun this morning's session. And Julian's half way to Madrid by now. So that just leaves you. Ah, the joys of
being the junior member of the team.
She moved to the window, and gave a deep sigh of exasperation. As she expected. It had happened before, though not on
this scale -- what is it with that idiot Muggle farmer and his wall? Why can't they use mortar in these parts like sensible human
beings? -- and the damage on that occasion had left the lawns a torn-up morass minutes before a group of American psychowizards were due to arrive for a guided tour of the facility. She bit her lip as she remembered Paul's well-chosen words to her
about that particular disaster. Well, I certainly can't let that happen again.
She snatched up her wand and bolted for the garden. Pigs were everywhere: rooting, munching, generally causing havoc.
The herbaceous borders already resembled a well bedded-in water-buffalo wallow. She stood in the midst of it all, almost weeping
in sheer frustration. Where do I bloody well start?
"Can I give you a hand?"
Gemma looked up in surprise. The offer had come from a young man who was leaning over the wall surveying the general
scene of piggy chaos with an expression which appeared to mingle amusement and concern. Gemma suppressed an exasperated
hiss.
Wonderful. As if I didn't have enough to deal with, I've now got to handle some blasted Muggle who wants to be helpful, for
crying out loud. Well, that rules out using my wand, at least until I've got rid of him.
"Well, it's very good of you, but I don't think--"
"I was brought up in the country. My father bred pedigree pigs," the young man said helpfully. His eyes quirked up into a
smile. "And, if you don't mind my saying so, that's a lot more than a one woman job. In fact, I'd say that looks like a pretty fair
general average."
She took a slightly closer look at him.
Well, he is remarkably good looking. For a Muggle. I wonder if he lives locally? Not one of the local yokels, by the sound of
him, anyway. In fact, rather classy. That's a very sexy voice. And, after all, since he is volunteering-"Thanks. I'd really appreciate it." She gave him her most winning smile. "Well, do you want to hop over the wall, then?
Don't worry about damaging it, I think the pigs have done quite enough to it that you couldn't possibly make it any worse."
And if he does know something about pigs, perhaps he can contain the problem at the front of the house, while I can start
picking them off with my wand at the back. And if he does spot anything odd, there's always Obliviate. I wonder if it'd be quite
ethical if I just modified his memories a bit, rather than blotting them out altogether?
"Right, then," she said brightly, once he had joined her on the driveway of the house. "Perhaps if you try shooing them off
the front lawn, I'll see what I can do about the ones that have got round the back."
He nodded -- momentarily, she thought she caught a faint glimpse of something inexplicable in the depths of his grey
eyes. Then he smiled. "OK. That suits me."
She turned away from him to make her way round the back of the house, and was suddenly arrested in her tracks,
acutely conscious that the point of something was digging into the soft skin of her neck, just over her carotid artery. A low voice
purred in her ear. "Your wand, please."
Not a Muggle, after all, it seems. She trembled, from head to foot, with a mixture of fear and fury. While her mind was still
wrapping itself round the half-formed thought, "Why bother asking? Why not just use Expelliarmus?" one firm hand had reached
round in front of her, locating and removing her wand from the sleeve up which she had concealed it when she first noticed him.
The low, conversational purr continued.
"Thank you. Now take me into the house. No tricks."
She bit her lip. She was a professional, with a job to do, and he was obviously an interloper. No scientist. It was her duty
to resist. She stopped moving and set her teeth. "And suppose I refuse? Suppose I scream for help?"
Her attacker paused for the length of two heartbeats. Then, thoughtfully, with no more emotion than if she had been
asking whether he thought it might rain later, he murmured, "I don't suppose you've ever seen someone whose vocal cords have
been Transfigured into molten lead?"
She shook her head, wordlessly. The voice continued, gentle and deadly.
"Then it would be a shame for you to see it for the first time in a mirror. You'd miss all the finer details."
She gulped. The convulsive movement pulsed her neck momentarily against the point of the wand resting against it. He
obviously felt the miniscule change in pressure through the wand.
"Good. I'm glad to see we understand each other. Inside. Now."
Once they were in the kitchen he turned to face her. "Now, suppose you tell me where you've got Neville. And what you're
doing to him. And, in your own best interests, I recommend not lying to me."
The voice was still a low, feral, purr. No limits echoed in its every syllable. The wand -- her own wand, she noticed with
slight surprise -- remained pointed straight at her as he asked the question. She was surprised at her own surprise; her
perceptions seemed to have been shut away behind a thick sheet of plate glass. Everything around her was slightly blurred; her
limbs worked in slow motion. The only things she could focus on were his eyes: funny, they never told me ice could burn.
Amazingly, she found she could still speak: Paul, she thought, would be proud of her after all.
"We're treating him. He's in good hands, now."
He raised one eyebrow. "Not an answer. Specifics."
Her anger boiled to the surface. "We're trying to repair the damage you've caused. Oh, yes, I've worked out now who you
are. That little threat you just came out with convinced me who you had to be. But you aren't going to win. Whatever you might
think, violence isn't the answer. Whatever Dark magic you used to get Neville into the state he was in when we rescued him, trust
us. We'll be able to repair it. Scientifically."
"Science?" Ten planets could not contain the contempt he managed to load into a single word.
"Yes, science. Healing science -- something I shouldn't imagine you take the slightest interest in. And I daresay you've
never heard of Dr Averose-Dubarry, who founded our facility."
He raised both eyebrows this time. "Uncle Gerard? Of course I have. He gave me my first proper broom, as a matter of
fact. Ninth-birthday present. Junior Nimbus, custom turbo-charmed."
That was definitely not in the script. Gemma, furious with herself, felt her face betray her surprise.
"You-- you're making it up. He can't really have been your uncle, to begin with. His name's wrong."
She felt its inadequacy as a retort, even as she said it. He shrugged. "Courtesy title. Old friend of the family. One of my
godfathers, actually, I think. Who cares? But tell me. What has my dear, late, Uncle Gerard and his... experiments... got to do with
this... ah... facility?"
He dragged out the last word until it was almost a hiss. Her nerve almost broke as she heard it. She could remember
Julian and Paul discussing the problem, less than a week ago at supper, when they had first been given the assignment and had
been planning their strategy. It had seemed pleasingly academic, then. Is he, or isn't he? And does it make a difference to what we
do? Julian, who prided himself on his ability to strengthen his clinical technique by a careful admixture of input from Muggle
scientific traditions, had declared roundly, "You're spouting rampant Lamarckism. A blonde and a brunette don't produce a blond
baby, however much Polyjuice the father's had and however powerful a Dark magician he might be. And that's that." Whereas
Paul, more cautious, had urged restraint: Muggle genetics, he had pointed out, was only a theory, to be weighed judiciously in the
balance against other, more established, theories with a greater weight of magical experiment behind them. Perhaps also, he
suggested delicately, Julian had not been studying Muggle science long enough to pronounce definitively on the issue at hand: his
own inexpert view would have come to the opposite conclusion.
Staring into Draco's eyes, seeing her own wand levelled point-first at her throat, Gemma knew intuitively which theory she
espoused.
"Tell me." The hissing note deepened. She chose her words carefully: after all, they might well be her last.
"Dr Averose-Dubarry was a great man."
Draco looked at her disbelievingly. "Uncle Gerard was a great windbag. With a nasty set of talents. In some quite specific
areas. The Imperius curse, for example."
His eye swept her insolently from head to toe, and back again. "He used to keep his hand in at Imperius by practising on
his prettier research witches. You wouldn't know anything about that bit, I expect."
Gemma flushed, hotly. "That can't be true! That's got to be just -- malicious gossip. Small minds always try to get at
people with real vision... and... and charisma. You can't possibly have any real evidence of anything of the sort--"
Draco's expression was deeply sardonic. "Well, I agree I only know about it by word of mouth. I don't think Uncle Gerard
was into boys. Even if he had been, he wouldn't have risked pissing off his major research funder that badly. I mean, my father
might have had his quirks, but he'd have been pretty well bound to object to that one, don't you think?"
Gemma held on, hard, to one single thought.
Lies. He lies for his own purposes. And of course he does it well. He was bred of lies, after all.
Draco's voice went reflective. "Mind you, it was Uncle Gerard's own mouth I heard it from. Surprising how invisible you
can make yourself, once you've worked out that the grown-ups always produce the really interesting stuff if they think you're
working too hard at your Arithmancy homework to hear them."
Gemma did not deign to comment. Snail slime slithered over the tombstone of a genius. A colossus. One of the innovative
pioneers of psycho-wizardry.
She set her eyes on a point in the middle distance. She was a scientist. One had to put up with the sneers of the
unenlightened, superstitious masses. They would understand what you had done for their sake in the end.
"I'm sure you're interested in exactly what Uncle Gerard's principal research project was," Draco added conversationally.
With a supreme effort Gemma stopped her facial muscles moving by one iota. Draco continued anyway.
"The problem that bugged my father is that Imperius requires much too much of the attention of a seriously talented
wizard. Custom-designed, you see. Inefficient. Not susceptible to mass-production. And, because you're forcing it on them, if the
subjects resist it strongly enough, they can always cast it off in the end. If only you could persuade them to do it to themselves,
father always used to say. And that, of course, is what he was backing Uncle Gerard to bring off."
That calumny could not be allowed to go unanswered. She spluttered, indignantly. "Rubbish! Dr Dubarry was interested
in helping people free themselves from addictions and compulsions of all sorts -- he developed his therapies to enable people to
unlock the strength of their inner self--"
Draco's voice was hard. "Inner self delusions, more like. 'Batter them back to the bare rock; and then, when they have
nothing else to take as model, let them build themselves up again freely and joyfully in the image I choose for them.' I assure you, my
father always insisted on value for money. And I know exactly what he was paying for when he backed Uncle Gerard. So... you
should think about this if you believe in your therapy."
His voice was the whisper of granite against granite. She could not stop herself leaning forward to hear better.
"If you have succeeded -- in any way -- in harming Neville by those filthy methods -- bear this in mind."
He paused. "During Recent Events, I saw people die because they couldn't take Cruciatus any longer."
Although he was not tall he seemed to tower over her, his hands on her shoulders, forcing her back against the kitchen
wall. She was no longer capable of saying anything. His eyes were wide and pitiless: his voice barely audible even at six inches
range. As he hissed out the words his spit flecked her face.
"Perhaps you should start praying now for the death they got."
Abruptly, he released her. Suddenly she could breathe, even start to take in her surroundings again. "Anyway, I've
gathered enough. So, he's in there, isn't he?"
Draco nodded towards the door of the therapy room. Gemma fought the inadequacy of her response.
"How the-- I never said--"
"You kept sliding glances at it whenever I mentioned Neville. After that, you looked everywhere but there."
She was barely capable of acknowledging this. She was already sliding into unconsciousness when the Stupefy spell hit
her as a blessed release.
The therapy room was windowless, its walls a neutral shade between not-quite grey and not-quite magnolia. The light
came from a fluorescent panel in the ceiling and beat pitilessly down on the only furniture: a heavy oak desk with a tooled leather
top, behind which Paul sat in an imposing swivel chair upholstered in designer-aged brown leather, and a couch, covered in some
non-descript cloth, arranged to face the desk. The height of the couch, Neville had worked out during the first few minutes of the
first therapy session, had been precisely calculated to establish the appropriate power relationship between the man behind the
desk and the man on the couch. Any lower, and the patient-- subject-- victim-- risked dropping out of view altogether.
Furthermore, the dynamic between chair and couch would change utterly if the couch were effectively nothing more than
cushioning on the floor. You do not stretch out at ease on the carpet to receive correction for your errors, and be threatened and
cajoled back into the paths of right thinking.
The therapy room had come last on the tour of the facility, which Paul and Gemma had insisted on when he first arrived.
Then, they had shown the house off to him with chirpy enthusiasm not unmixed with pride. He was nagged by a sense that they
were expecting him to be more impressed by its scale. Surely, their every gesture seemed to say, surely you must see now that we
are right. See how impressively we are equipped.
In fact as he moved from room to room in the haze generated by their bright, up-beat chatter he grew increasingly
alienated. There was no room here for complexities, for shades of emotion. Every corner of the spotless building was brightly,
almost garishly, painted. Every stone seemed to have been sent on a positive thinking course. The décor scorned subtlety. The
walls of the once elegant dining room which overlooked the lawns had been covered in faux-naif murals; the sunlit studybedrooms on the first floor were a riot of primary colours and boldly patterned, peasant-weave rugs. He maintained a remote,
monosyllabic politeness throughout the tour, his mind endlessly calculating. Was there anyone in the cellar of that pub? Did they
hear me? Did they realize what it all meant? And, above everything, how long will it take him to get here?
Finally, almost apologetically, they had mentioned that before he graduated to his room on the first floor, and to the gentle
regime of self-analysis, introspective exercises and group discussions prescribed for intermediate candidates on the programme -and what a pity that there were, at present, no such candidates in the facility to speak from their own experience of how far they
had progressed -- there was a necessary, if hopefully short, mandatory period during which more direct measures would be
applied.
Paul had eyed him owlishly, as they sat at the pine table in the kitchen with mugs of coffee -- decaffeinated, Neville noted,
with a quirk of wry humour, which he was careful not to betray in any way.
"Habit," Paul had said profoundly. "It's impossible to over-estimate the destructive effect of habit. The mind digs cart
tracks for itself. However much you may wish to change, habit will still drive you back along the old, well-worn grooves. That's
where we've found Dr Dubarry's teaching so valuable. We always start our counselling programme with a structured period of
intensive one-to-one therapy -- it may be longer, it may be shorter -- that entirely depends on the subject. What we're aiming for,
however, is to facilitate your breaking down those ruts, flattening out that cart-track, realizing that there's a whole vast savannah
across which you can travel, not just those narrow, destructive paths you can't move yourself off at present. Once you've accepted
that, we can start to give you maps across that open country, free you to take new journeys, ones you aren't capable of even
imagining at the moment. Neville, I know you aren't able to appreciate this at the moment, but trust me. You're on the edge of
something big. Something really exciting."
Paul had swallowed the last of his coffee with an air of decision. "Come. No time like the present."
Neville, suddenly dazed -- did they put a mind-numbing potion in that coffee? -- had stumbled to his feet as Paul gestured
commandingly with his wand.
"Aperio!"
The door to the therapy room swung suddenly open. Dizzy as he was, Neville had not been able to repress a sudden shiver
as he passed through it. Paul had smiled understandingly at him.
"Don't worry. I'm sure in your case this stage will hardly take any time at all. And afterwards-- you simply cannot conceive
what happiness and relief you'll experience. You won't be able to believe how you could possibly have tried to resist getting
treatment. Trust me."
It had not, actually, turned out like that at all.
Paul had explained the theory to him in the first session. "How you need to see this phase, Neville, is as essential ground
clearance. We're trying to help you cultivate new growth, but your conditioned emotional responses and negative thinking patterns
are taking up all the oxygen and sunlight which it needs to be able to come through. Think of this as just a simple pruning
process, not something that's going to harm you or of which you should be nervous in any way."
Well, he's obviously taken the trouble to tailor his opening metaphor especially for you, a forthright inner voice commented,
sounding rather like Professor Sprout. But there's a man who clearly wasn't concentrating at all in Herbology classes. And he's
plainly never been on the wrong end of the backchat you get from a Cursing Camellia when you start cutting back the deadwood. Or
had to hold down a Venomous Tentacula to trim off the little suckers.
Neville had assumed an expression of dumb incomprehension, and started to plan a complete overhaul and replanting of
the Manor's neglected water-gardens in his head while Paul's voice droned on. Then, he became aware of the background noise. It
hummed and throbbed -- almost too low for hearing -- pitched somewhere between a whine and a hum. There were very slight
variants in its speed and tone. The variants occurred on a regular pattern -- or did they? It was hard not to start listening for them
and trying to work out the sequence. Once one started down that route it was impossible to stop. Neville's vision of the watergardens as they could be with sufficient time and attention devoted to them dissolved under the noise's pitiless intrusion. Fixing
his attention on the speaker seemed the only way to obtain partial relief from its ubiquity. Paul was looking reverential; it was
clear he was quoting the words of the Great Man himself.
"Dr Dubarry's own diary describes the very moment he made his tremendous breakthrough. He heard a mediwitch on a
busy ward in St Mungo's complain one day "All this noise -- you simply can't hear yourself think!" It was then, as he records:
'I knew intuitively what had been wrong with my earlier experiments. I had thought the answer to detaching subjects from
their established bad habits of thought lay in solitude -- in isolation -- in darkness. As though a lightning flash was illuminating my
mind, I realized in an instant that this almost inevitably reinforced within the subject the old mental pathways. After all, what other
road were they being offered? What was needed was a means of putting up roadblocks on the established mental routes. And that
mediwitch's exclamation of irritation had shown me exactly how to put them there! But I could develop that insight still further. If
noise, why not light? If light, why not smell? If smell, why not taste? If taste, why not temperature?' "
Paul gestured proudly round the therapy room.
"This is the place, Neville, in which you'll begin the transition between the person you were, and the person we're here to
help you become. This therapy room is based, as closely as we could manage, on the plans drawn up in Dr Dubarry's own notes
for an ideal facility -- though, of course, he never lived to see it built. Another act of criminal waste to lay at the door of He Who
Must Not Be Named and his hangers-on, of course. Hangers on like your friend Malfoy, that is."
Then, Paul had picked up his wand, pointed it at himself and muttered "Strepitum lucemque deliqua". He added, for
Neville's benefit: "We found that it was hard for the counsellor to facilitate these one-to-one sessions if he -- or she, of course -was too close to what the subject was experiencing at the same time. It produced too great a confusion about their respective
roles. In extreme cases it even provoked an unhealthy degree of emotional identity between the counsellor and the subject. We lost
a couple of very promising psycho-wizards that way: they just felt that they couldn't maintain the right level of emotional
detachment to allow them to continue. All very sad. So we put in a lot of effort and developed these filtering spells, so that I, as
your therapist, can distance myself from the stimuli you'll be experiencing, to enable me more effectively to act as your guide and
mentor. You should realise how dedicated the team are to this therapy. All these spells were developed experimentally just for this
purpose, and the team voluntarily tested them out on themselves. And I can tell you that was quite scary, the first time I did it."
His gentle smile did not quite hide a glow of quiet pride. He coughed, sat back in the leather chair, put his feet up on the
desk and looked Neville straight in the eye. "Anyway, we'd better start. No time like the present."
After that, things had become quite bad.
Neville had not left the therapy room since. A small, door-less alcove provided a toilet and a small washbasin, though the
tap ran cold water only. Such sleep breaks he was allowed he took on the couch. There were no coverings. The light stayed on
throughout. So did the noise. He suspected that he was being monitored to check if he actually managed to drop into true sleep,
and that they made a point of waking him to start a new session whenever he did so.
Food was presented at curiously irregular intervals, which certainly bore no resemblance to whether he felt hungry.
Hunger would perhaps have offered some guide to the passage of time in that clock-less, windowless room. It was always the
same; a white substance with roughly the texture of cottage cheese, and no taste whatsoever. The counselling team assured him
that it was good for him, that however long he stayed in the therapy room he would suffer no ill effects from the monotonous diet.
And then they would add, pointedly, that rest and a more varied menu were within his own control: he only had to start showing
some progress.
There were three of them, and they took the role of counsellor in shifts. He was only left alone for brief intervals,
erratically spaced. Typically, the duty counsellor would leave the therapy room in mid sentence; his or her replacement would
start the next session half way through a new sentence on a different topic. The abrupt shifts of subject were accompanied by
equally abrupt shifts of tone and emotion: gentle cajolery and encouragement could change, almost within the same word, to
towering anger and frustration. He learned to watch their eyes covertly as they spoke to him: Paul rarely, Julian and Gemma more
frequently, telegraphed an upcoming mood swing by tiny eye-flickers. It became important for Neville to anticipate them. The little
internal sense of victory he felt when he did so successfully gave him impetus to keep fighting, to give no ground that was not
wrested from beneath his feet. No pasaran. The victories became harder to win as the effects of sleep deprivation piled up. He
started to see things out of the tail of his eye, things that were not there when he turned his head round.
During one rare moment when they had left him alone he found himself asking Snape, who for some reason had appeared
in the swivel chair, why he had hated him so much at Hogwarts. Snape curled his lip.
"That way you had of looking like a rabbit in front of a stoat, boy, just before you started gibbering randomly at me. Would
showing a bit of backbone have been beyond your capabilities? And, in between the panicked flurries of verbal diarrhoea, that
dull, blank, uncomprehending stare. Have you any idea what looking down at that, day in, day out, does to a teacher? I could
have forgiven your blowing things up. Pupils with genuine talent blow things up. And anyway, why do you suppose I put you
between Potter and that Granger know-it-all in the first place? Damage containment, boy. But was it unreasonable of me to expect
you to demonstrate a spark of intelligent life?"
The phantom Snape metamorphosed abruptly into a large purple guinea pig, which sat on the desk and said (still, oddly
enough, in remarkably Snape-like tones), "There couldn't have been anyone in that cellar, you know. Rescue isn't coming. What's
the point in hanging on? Why don't you just give up-- do what they say?"
His lips moved.
Because it isn't the family style. And I can't be the family failure forever. So sod off.
The guinea pig wrinkled its nose in disdain, and vanished. The door swung open and Julian entered to commence the
next session. He smiled brightly at Neville.
"--and relationships with other family members too, of course, don't you think?" Julian's eyebrows went up questioningly
as he looked across at Neville for a response.
Right. Verbal diarrhoea interspersed with periods of total dumb idiocy. That should get him going nicely.
He began to ham up his Lancashire accent, to a point which his grandmother would have certainly ticked him off for, if
he'd tried it in her hearing. It wrong-footed them; they half-suspected that they might be being sent up, but it seemed each time
they looked down at the dull-eyed, slow spoken patient on the couch their doubts about whether he was capable of it resurfaced.
It undoubtedly irritated them, though. If I can get them to hit me, how many points do I score for my side? With Gemma, who, he
suspected, was the weakest link of the trio, he started to experiment with a stutter, and then with bizarre sentence constructions,
idiosyncratic pronunciations, foreign phrases, and random quotations from Muggle literature. Her response to the latter convinced
him she knew even less about the Muggle world than Draco did. He increased their frequency and obscurity, blessing his
adolescent enthusiasms for Dylan Thomas and T.S Eliot. She struggled to understand him through three sessions, evidently
panicking in case she was failing to pick up early signs of the elusive break-through. The next session after that, she and Paul
came in together. Unusually, they both came round to his side of the desk. Paul's face was grim, Gemma's anxious. His voice,
however, was set in a tone of gentle rebuke.
"Gemma's been telling me that the damage that Malfoy's done to you has been more insidious than we'd hoped; that the
slippery, devious habits of mind he's managed to instil in you are surfacing even as we're trying to pull you out of that whole
morass. We've been having a long talk about you, Neville, and we've decided that the situation justifies a step we very rarely take."
His hand slipped inside the pocket of his robes. Even in the stark light in the therapy room the liquid in the tiny phial
flashed diamond sparkles as Paul raised it high.
"You're being evasive, Gemma tells me. That's not wholly a bad sign, you know, Neville. It shows that we're getting close to
the heart of your problems. The reactionary part of your brain -- the part that's still clinging on to those negative habits of thought
-- senses we're closing in for the victory. Naturally it's putting up its best defence. But we aren't going to let that happen. We care
for you too much for that. It's time we gave you -- the real you -- a bit of help in coming to terms with just how Malfoy has
managed to corrupt you, and what we can do to cure you. Gemma!"
Before he could react Gemma was behind him, catching his nose and lower jaw and forcing them open -- like giving
Marvolo and Riddle worming potion, a stray part of his brain thought cynically -- while Paul swiftly tipped the contents of the phial
to the back of his throat. Gemma brought his jaws together smartly. Involuntarily he gasped, and swallowed.
That was the first time they questioned him under Veritaserum. It was not, however, the last.
He continued to fight on, with increasing despair but undiminished doggedness. The results from the Veritaserum
sessions disappointed them, he could tell. No wonder, you imbeciles. What advantage is it to you to be told the exact truth, if you
have no conception at all of the right question to ask?
They started to look for alternatives. That was when they almost broke him. Some deep instinct of self-preservation welled
up in the nick of time. After that, the hallucinations became more frequent, and he started encouraging them to come in.
Things were not going well in the current therapy session. He could sense Paul's frustration, like a visible fog drifting
across the room. He shivered. Very definitely not a good sign. The things in the corners of the room were getting bolder, too. They
were all around him, except in the straight line of his direct gaze. The purple guinea pig had popped in for a visit, and was sitting
on the desk between him and Paul. It chirruped encouragingly at him, and gave him a curious wave of one paw, almost a salute,
which he decoded, somehow, as its equivalent of thumbs up sign. Then it vanished.
Paul's fingers had begun to drum on the desk. He looked down at them, frowned, and clasped them round his cooling
coffee mug.
"You know what Malfoy's doing now, Neville? I mean, if your stubborn attitude's out of some perverted sense of loyalty to
him, I think you ought to know."
He tapped briskly on the newspaper in front of him. Neville had not managed yet to work out whether Paul's habit of
always having a book or newspaper on the desk before him during the sessions was intended merely to convey casual disrespect -"you have to listen to me, but I listen or not as I choose " -- or was a more subtle attempt at bribery. "There is a world out there still.
And you have to do so little -- so very little -- to earn it for yourself."
" Er... what? What's that about Draco?"
It took little deliberate effort, now, to assume a dead, flat tone. Weariness pressed down with a physical force all around
him. Paul smiled at him, compassionately.
"Well, I'm afraid it doesn't look as if he's wasting any time worrying about what's happened to you. He wasn't too far away
from here last night, coincidentally -- Manchester, it seems -- but he's gone back down South again. Partying the night away,
wherever he is. And definitely leaving anyone who might be interested in no doubt that he sees himself as entirely available."
Despair hit like a hammer blow. There was no one in that cellar. No one passed on my message. And so he must think,
because he's not heard a word from me, that I've still got a strop on. And if he's got himself in the papers, it sounds as though he's
decided to do something idiotic, just to show me how little it bothers him. And no one's going to come for me. Ever.
For the first time he dropped his head into his hands. Above him Paul's voice had assumed a note of barely concealed
triumph. "Well, I think that shows you why we've been devoting all this effort to save you from your delusions, Neville. And I think
now it would be valuable if you shared your thoughts about this development with me, so we can analyse them together."
Paul's voice became momentarily slightly muffled. Neville had no doubt why. He was bending down to pick something up
from behind the desk. Neville knew exactly what it was. He suppressed an anguished gasp with an effort.
NO!! Not that. Not about this! He abruptly reached the point of no return. This has to end. He no longer cared how. It might
be possible to wrest Paul's wand from him. He wouldn't be expecting a physical attack. Or perhaps he could force Paul to kill him.
One way or another, he did have the means to end this. He had thought of himself as helpless for too long.
Very cautiously, without any betraying head movement, he opened his eyes. With sudden incredulous elation he saw
through the lattice of his fingers that a wand had just appeared out of nowhere, and was lying on the floor within easy reach.
Paul was still bent behind the desk, fiddling with something.
"Now, Neville," he began, his voice sounding strained with the effort of stooping. "Let's try this the easy way first. What
would you say your dominant thought was at this moment in time?"
"Oh, that's easy," Neville breathed fervently. "Wish fulfilment."
Paul straightened up in sudden response to the new note in Neville's voice. Over endless hours of therapy, Neville had
gauged the relative distance and position between the couch and the person in the chair to the nearest millimetre. There was no
possibility that he would miss. The stunning spell took Paul directly between the eyes, and he keeled over backwards before he
had the chance to utter a syllable.
Neville dropped his head into his hands and shook with reaction for at least half a minute before a half-suppressed noise
caught his attention. He looked up. The door had suddenly swung wide open. A blessed shaft of sunlight was streaming straight
into the therapy room. Draco was leaning against the doorjamb.
"Hi, gorgeous," Draco said.
Draco contemplated Gemma's unconscious body, and satisfied himself that, even if the stunning spell wore off earlier
than he planned (and of course, with a borrowed wand you could never really know) the cords with which he had tied her to a
kitchen chair would hold her safely immobile. Betsey Apparated into the kitchen, looking anxious. Draco put a finger on his lips,
and gestured at the door behind which Neville was being held.
"Get those pigs rounded up and off the premises before we're awash with Muggles trying to collect them," he hissed at her.
"I'm going in to get Neville out. Check in fifteen minutes -- if it's all going ok, then stay on guard out here in case the third one
comes back or anyone else shows up unexpectedly. Got that?"
She nodded, her eyes wide.
"And-- Betsey--"
"Yes?"
"It was a good plan. Sorry I took a bit of convincing."
She grinned, and vanished. Draco turned his attention to the door. Gemma had not made any attempt to attract attention
through it. That was interesting. She might have been too scared to try or she might have known that any attempt to call for help
would not be heard. Soundproofing charms? Very probably. He repressed a shiver. He had seen too much to like the idea of a
facility where the interrogation room had been carefully soundproofed by an interrogator who then locked himself inside. Better
take no risks. He picked up Gemma's wand again.
"Silentium universum."
Celestina Warbeck died in mid-squawk. The pig noises from the garden were cut off as though by a guillotine. Wrapped in
an envelope of pure silence Draco moved cautiously to the door. Rapidly, he marked out a small, rough oblong with the wand at
about knee height on its wood.
"Perfora !" he breathed gently.
The wood wavered momentarily, became like smoke, and then the hole appeared. He knelt down to it.
"--entirely available," the soft, unctuous voice drifted out. He took an instant dislike to its owner, of whom he could see
nothing. Neville, apart from one bare foot, was also outside his line of sight. He could, however, hear him make a sudden, quickly
bitten off noise, which sounded like pain.
The owner of the voice had obviously heard it too. The note of indecent triumph made Draco clench his teeth.
"Well, I think that shows you why we've been devoting all this effort to save you from your delusions, Neville. And I think
now it would be valuable if you shared your thoughts about this development with me, so we can analyse them together."
Noiselessly, Draco got to his feet. He put his hand on the door handle so that there was no danger of the door springing
open. He pointed the wand at the lock.
Recent Events had taught him two ways of opening doors soundlessly: one, while he was a Death Eater in training, and
the other after he had joined the allies. With a slight perverse sense of defiance, he used the method he had learned first. With a
very slight "click" the door unlocked itself, and the handle moved slightly under his grasp.
Not yet.
Draco leant down again, and put his eye to the hole. The owner of the voice was bending down -- Draco caught a glimpse
of fair hair and the back of a sunburned neck.
Thank goodness. He's got his back to me. And I bet he can't see Neville from that angle, either.
He looked at the wand in his hand with momentary doubt. The back of that head was remarkably tempting.
No. Not the right thing at all.
He muttered the banishing charm almost inaudibly. The wand vanished through the hole in the door.
The unctuous voice purred again.
"Now, Neville. Let's try this the easy way first. What would you say your dominant thought was at this moment in time?"
Well, I'd lay odds that it includes a slow and painful death for you. Preceded by several months of disfiguring and
excruciatingly embarrassing skin diseases, I shouldn't be surprised. Wonder what he's going to say?
"Oh, that's easy. Wish fulfilment." The voice was alight with sudden hope.
Thank god. He's got it. My cue, I think-Draco turned the handle. A fair-bearded man was lying supine on the carpet behind a heavy oak desk. Neville, wearing a
pair of green hospital pyjamas slightly too small for him, sat on the edge of a low couch with his head in his hands. Something
about his attitude of despair provoked Draco to a quick intake of breath.
What have the fuckers been doing to him?
Neville looked up. Draco made his voice light.
"Hi, gorgeous."
Neville's eyes swept over him in a lost, rootless way, and his stomach turned over within him.
"Draco?" The voice was dull, barely present.
"Hm?"
"What the hell have you done to your hair?"
A muscle at the corner of his mouth, which Draco had not realized he was holding tense, suddenly relaxed. He came
further into the room, and bent down by the unconscious man, feeling for his wand. It felt subtly greasy in his hand as he picked
it up, and he dropped it fastidiously on the desk.
"Long story. I gather you don't care for the colour?"
Neville shrugged, indifferently, and resumed looking at his hands as though he had not seen them before. Draco abruptly
discarded all the more exuberant -- not to mention sophisticated -- versions of this reunion he had rehearsed in his head over the
last two days.
Not down to bare rock, no. But clinging on to the tiniest ledge, so he can't tell where his fingers and toes end and the rock
begins. Let alone which way to move so he can safely find solid ground.
They had been caught like that in Recent Events, once. He had been guarding Neville's back against the expected Death
Eater assault, when Neville had been tasked with collecting quantities of some obscure rock plant, which was needed for some
urgent healing potion or another. The boiling peat brown water of a Scottish salmon river rushed through a gorge between smooth
rock sides twelve or so feet below them. He'd been yelling to Neville for god's sake, to get on and pick the bloody things, before they
had half the Dark Lord's forces breathing down their necks, when he'd realized that Neville was hearing nothing, that he was
looking with transfixed horror down into the raging waters, and was unable to go forward or back.
Memory carried Draco on. His voice remained light, conversational. "I can't say I like that light much. And what's that
bloody noise?"
He picked up Gemma's wand, which Neville had allowed to drop to the carpet, and pointed it negligently at the light
fitting, which exploded in a mass of shards. The noise suddenly stopped, too. Its absence was an intense, almost physical, relief.
And I've only just entered the room. How long has that been going on?
He moved to sit on the couch next to Neville, sliding his hands inside the open front of the pyjama jacket and round
Neville's back. Every muscle had been braced for so long in patterns of resistance that they stood out in ridges, and had forgotten
how to relax. Draco felt with his thumbs for the line of Neville's spine and pressed down hard along it, rubbing each vertebra in
turn and then massaging outwards with his upper palms and the base of his fingers in slow, firm, careful circles. It's me,
remember? You don't have to fight them on your own any more. Neville turned, burying his face against Draco's collarbone. The
smell of terror, and despair and sheer exhaustion came off him.
Draco kept talking, still in the same conversational, unhurried drawl, as his hands continued to move in rhythmic
patterns up and down Neville's back.
"Anyway, while you're making personal remarks about my hair, can I get a word in about these pyjamas? Considering it's
the first time I've ever seen you in the things, you might have gone for a sexier style."
Neville's voice was muffled. "When they gave me these, they made it clear to me that graduating back to proper clothes
would be a reward I had to earn -- quite specifically."
Draco's tone was unchanged. His hands kept moving. "What it is to have principles. I can't think of much I wouldn't have
done -- or at least promised -- in order to get out of those pyjamas."
"Wouldn't you?" Neville's voice was still listless. "What they wanted -- specifically -- was for me to confirm that I agreed
with them that you were a shallow, selfish, reckless, scruple-free egomaniac who didn't care three Sickles that our relationship
had driven a complete wedge between me and all my old friends."
"Really? I'm surprised that you had any trouble at all with that one. It sounds like a pretty accurate paraphrase of your
last speech to me on Wednesday morning."
Draco's voice came out with a sharper edge than he had intended, but his hands never stopped in their rhythmic
movements. Neville pushed himself up from the couch, so that he could look Draco in the eye. So close, the etched lines of
distress on his face were magnified to an unbearable degree. His eyes were bloodshot and staring. His voice was hopeless, lost,
beyond hurt.
"Perhaps when I realized who I seemed to be sharing my views with I changed my mind."
Draco pulled him into a hard embrace. "It's okay, sweetheart," he muttered into his hair. "I got your beer mat. S'ok."
Neville gave a convulsive shudder in the circle of his arms. "It's not ok. Not at all. Do you realize what a risk you took
giving me the wand instead of taking Paul out yourself?"
"Mm? What risk? I know you can stun people. Saw it in Recent Events, remember?"
"That's not what I meant."
Neville began to shiver. Draco, unobtrusively, picked Gemma's wand off the couch, and muttered "Calefacio". The
surrounding temperature warmed up to something which orchids might have found oppressive, but which had little discernable
effect on Neville's shivers.
"Do you know just how close I came to killing him instead?"
Draco put his head on one side, considering this, still holding him tightly. "Unless you've been taking lessons in Avada
Kedavra that you haven't been telling me about, I shouldn't think you came that close," he said reasonably. "It takes a lot more
practice than it looks, you know. Although, I grant you, a sufficiently large dose of and I really mean it might make up for quite a
lot of raw edges in your technique."
Neville's voice was very low. "And suppose I had brought it off?"
Draco's voice was still reasonable. "Well, admittedly I could do without the complication of a corpse on my hands this
morning. But we'd have done something about it. Transfigured the body to a few kilos of sand and dropped them off at the nearest
beach, say. Cast priori incantatem twice in quick succession with the wand, so that no one could work out what it'd been used for
before. And I expect we'd have been able to frame that indescribably earnest woman in the kitchen for his disappearance. I
imagine, from the little I'd heard from him, that anyone who'd been working with him any length of time would have a cast-iron
motive for doing him in. So, you see -- not really a problem. Even if you'd done it. Which you didn't."
Neville made a sound which was somewhere between a giggle, a sob, and a hiccup, and was infinitely heart-rending
however one tried to classify it. "God, it really is you."
Draco clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Some people take a lot of convincing, I must say."
"Well, I've been hallucinating a bit. Quite a lot, actually. I think."
"Well, I think I can show you the difference. Did any of your hallucinations try this?"
Suddenly, calm, gentle, relaxed, controlled seemed to be so many empty words. Words for idiots. Words for statues.
Without knowing how he'd got there, his lips were pressing hard against Neville's mouth, his tongue forcing his lips apart, his
hands rough, panicked and everywhere, his entire body pressed into service to say "Look, I'm here. I've come so far for you. I want
you. I've missed you so much. I want you. I need you. I don't know who I am without you." Their bodies were entangled on the couch
-- finally close enough after too long a time -- surely there could be no more room for misunderstanding-Neville's palms were both suddenly flat against his chest, pushing him away. "Don't."
The sound was one of infinite pain. Shocked, he fell backwards off the couch, hit the floor, rolled, and came to a wary
stop.
"It isn't you. Please, don't think it's you."
Neville's head was back in his hands. The pain came clearly through the dull, indifferent edge to his voice this time.
"It's just that -- that's too much. Right now. I-- the only way to describe it is that I can't see in colour, right now. I want to
-- but I can't. And trying to scares me so much. But it isn't you. Please. Believe me. It isn't you."
Draco approached, hesitantly. He picked up Gemma's wand from the carpet where it had fallen. "I think you'd do better
with some fresh air. And daylight. Is that wall load-bearing, do you think?"
Without waiting for an answer he blasted it apart in a blinding white cloud of disintegrating plasterboard, opening a wide,
irregular hole through to the sun-lit dining room with its floor length windows giving onto the garden. There was a pause while the
dust settled.
Neville smiled, wanly.
"God, it's wonderful to see trees again. I was forgetting what they looked like. But could you do something for me?"
"Anything. Ask away."
"Can you fix my eyes? Paul lost his rag a bit earlier when I started dozing off and he's enchanted them so I can't shut
them. You've no idea how uncomfortable it is."
The shocked gasp Draco was about to utter was strangled unborn by an effort of sheer will. He doesn't have the strength to
deal with righteous indignation at the moment. The valiant attempt at matter-of-factness in Neville's tone told him more than he
wanted to know about what had been going on. He sat down on the couch, caught Neville's chin in his hand, tipped his head back
and looked carefully into his bloodshot eyes.
"Mm. I see. Why didn't you say, earlier? They must be giving you gip. But I don't like using a borrowed wand to cast a
spell that directly affects your body--"
Neville looked puzzled. "I'll take the risk. That one seems to be working pretty well for you. But why aren't you using your
own?"
"Ah." He chose his words carefully. "I'm afraid the Ministry's tracking mine. I... er, well... did I not mention I'm on the run?
Hence the hair. Hence not getting here till now. I'm really sorry I couldn't spring you yesterday, but getting here was an absolute
nightmare. I had to come by Muggle train--"
"Hm. I suppose I should know by now that phrases like 'It's ok' acquire a very idiosyncratic meaning by the time you've
finished with them. But on the run? What have you done?" He must have caught a hurt look on Draco's face, because he added,
hurriedly, "Allegedly."
Draco put an arm round his shoulders. "Oh, nothing serious. They want me for kidnapping. And suspected murder."
"Murder? Who are you supposed to have killed? Not Eustace, by any chance?"
The determined lightness in his tone was heartbreaking. Draco tried to imitate it. "Now, wait for your birthday. Don't spoil
the surprise."
Neville gave a half-choked giggle. "No, honestly. Who are you supposed to have killed?"
"Well, you, for one. Melanie, and Potter's cousin for two others. Probably half the country, by now, for all I know. I haven't
seen the Daily Prophet today. But don't worry about it. It's all under control. Well, mostly. Let's see about those eyes, first."
Draco paused, and then muttered "Libera palpebras". Neville blinked, once, then repeatedly, trying not to gasp with pain
as the lids scraped over the dry surface of his eyeballs. He shut his eyes tightly and turned his head so he could press his face
into Draco's shoulder. His voice was muffled.
"God, that's good. It's amazing how much you come to appreciate darkness when you can't have it."
And darkness, at least, seems to be something I can be trusted to deliver.
It was an effort to keep his tone calm and practical, and to avoid letting the bitter edge come through. "Anyway, let's get
you into some proper clothes, and we can get out of here. And you'd better take that Paul object's wand, if you can bear to pick it
up -- we can probably find yours with a bit of effort, but I expect the Ministry's got it logged, as well. So you'd be better off using
his, if you can stand it. But we've got a lot to do, so we'd better get going."
Neville looked up, suddenly, an expression of horrified recollection on his face. "We can't just go. There's a parchment I've
got to find. They said -- they showed me a Ministry order. If I didn't come with them voluntarily they were going to -- to have me
committed to St Mungo's. We've got to find that and burn it--"
He was struggling frantically now, clawing at Draco in his efforts to get away from the couch and start searching. Draco
held on firmly.
"Hey, calm down. Of course we'll find it. But you aren't thinking straight. The Ministry may be a bunch of timeserving old
farts, but one of the things they are good at, is files. If that's a genuine Ministry order -- and I don't suppose you were in any fit
state to check it through when they produced it -- no, I thought not -- then they'll have copies on file. Burning it won't do any
good. No, we'll find it, and then I'll get Betsey to take it down to our lawyers: get them on the job of getting it cancelled or
rescinded or whatever's needed. They'll be able to do a much better job on that side of the problem than we can."
"Betsey?"
"Yes. She's around somewhere. She's been an absolute star. That tosser Eustace gave her clothes yesterday, and if she
thinks that she's got a sporting chance of getting him sacked for abuse of his position I should imagine it'll make her day. But
don't worry. We'll sort it."
Neville's voice was coming from some cold, dead place outside all hope; a place where all doors were shut against one, and
where the wind cut one to the bone. "If you don't -- Draco, will you promise me something?"
The tone was a warning. Tone and expression together chilled Draco to the bone. "Mm?" he enquired cautiously.
"If they do try to put it into effect -- if there's no other way -- in that case Over my dead body is not a figure of speech. Do
you understand what I'm saying?"
Draco drew his brows together. "I sincerely hope not."
Neville shrugged, impatiently. "I'm saying I'd rather be dead than in St Mungo's. Or back here. And, from what you were
saying, it's obvious you do know how to perform Avada Kevadra."
"'Fraid so. Sort of thing my father thought was an essential skill for his son and heir. Though in case you're wondering, I
haven't actually wiped out anything more sentient than the odd pheasant with it. And even that took six months practice. But
Mrs. P. appreciated them."
"I see. Sort of 'Become a Death Eater and say farewell to game pie lead pellet misery.'"
Draco eyed him nervously. "Have you been saying that sort of thing to them?"
He nodded in the direction of the still unconscious Paul. Neville shrugged, indifferently. "Probably. Like I said, I've been
hallucinating a fair bit."
With sudden decision Draco got to his feet. "Then we'd better make sure we find your clinical notes and get rid of them,
too. Can't have comments like that flapping around out of context."
"Well, and will you? Promise, I mean?"
He bit his lip. Neville's eyes were wide and the naked pleading in them was horrifying. With sudden decision, he nodded.
"My word on it. If there's no alternative, I won't let them take you. Over your dead body it is."
Of course, I don't intend to let it come to that. Or -- if it does -- it'll be over an awful lot of other people's dead bodies first.
He did not bother to speak the thought aloud. Neville exhaled with relief, got to his feet himself, and, collecting Paul's
wand as he passed the desk, preceded Draco out through the door of the therapy room. As Draco turned to follow him he was
struck by a sudden thought. Unseen by Neville, he dropped to the carpet next to Paul and cut off a lock of Paul's hair, concealing
it in a pocket of his jeans. Then he followed Neville from the room.
The search of the facility was easier than they had feared. Neville's wand and clothes (neatly cleaned and pressed) were set
out on the bed in the first of the first floor rooms they came to: ready, they presumed, for his expected graduation from the
therapy room. Finding the records was even easier; they found the most imposing door on the ground floor and discovered, as they
expected, that it belonged to the facility's research director, and that the clinical records of the unfortunates who had passed
through there were arranged in alphabetical order in filing cabinets which it was the work of moments to break into.
"Lousy security," Draco observed. Neville smiled, a little grimly.
"Why should they worry? After all, these are all the records of volunteers. They're probably out there now in our world with
happy smiles on their faces, saying how much they owe to this programme and recommending it to all their friends' families."
Draco cast him another sidelong glance. He was obviously trying hard, but he teetered in an uneasy balance between the
dull hopelessness that had scared Draco so much earlier, and bursts of wholly uncharacteristic cynicism.
"Keep the patient list, anyway," he advised. "We can send it back down south with Betsey. Nothing like having evidence of
what these bastards have been up to. And who they've been doing it to."
Neville nodded. "And you never know: there might be something that still can be done for them."
They cast a final glance around the office. "Got everything you need?" Draco enquired.
Neville looked down at the parchment with the Ministry seal and at the patient list. He nodded.
"Sure? It's your last chance."
"It's ok. Do it."
Draco paused, and then raised Gemma's wand. "Incendio!"
The blaze was swift and all consuming. They stood in the passage and watched through the open door as the towering
blue flames licked outwards towards them and then ebbed, dwindling back in upon themselves, shrinking and fizzling to nothing
in the centre of the room. Only the elegant framework of the room was left, stark bones under a superficial coating of soot: all the
furniture, papers, carpets and curtains had been taken by the fire.
Betsey, in accordance with instructions, had arranged the still unconscious bodies of Gemma and Paul, tied securely to
chairs, in the remains of the therapy room. Neville paused on the threshold.
"Do we have to come back in here?"
Draco reached for his hand. "Not if you don't want to. But I think you'll feel better about it later if you take the
opportunity now you've got it to face them from the other side of that desk, when it's you holding the wand. Especially since this
time you'll have the support of your very own, dedicated, evil henchman."
Neville raised his eyebrows. "You?"
"Who else? After all, you can't say I'm not qualified for the job. In fact, evil henching is something I was practically
conceived for."
There was a thread of almost genuine amusement in Neville's quick snort of laughter. "Well, who am I to stand between
you and your destiny? Come on. Let's do it."
Paul and Gemma lolled in their chairs. Draco raised his eyebrows enquiringly. Neville, white to the lips, nodded.
"Enervate!"
They came sluggishly to life in front of them. Their expressions of dawning horror as they realised who was confronting
them were, Draco reckoned, well worth the price of admission. He perched himself nonchalantly on the edge of the desk (he had
ceded the swivel chair to Neville without argument) and smiled sunnily down at them.
"Neville's been telling me about the questions you've been asking him. You do seem to be rather interested in me, I must
say. He wanted me to ask you if there's anything I can do to satisfy your curiosity, since I'm here?"
Paul blinked, then turned to Gemma. "How the hell did he get in here?"
Draco interrupted before Gemma could get beyond an opening stammer.
"Oh, she invited me in. To help with a pig infestation in your garden. And look!" He gestured expansively through the
ragged hole in the wall of the therapy room towards the dining room windows, and the hippopotamus wallow that had once been a
lawn. "How's that for service? No pigs!"
Paul gritted his teeth with an effort. "I also notice, no wall. No garden. You'll pay for this vandalism, you barbarian."
Draco put his head on one side. "Well, it's not as if I can't afford it. Out of petty cash, actually. But I'd be very surprised if
I did end up paying, you know. I mean, what're you planning to do? Sue me?"
"When the Ministry get through with you there won't be anything left of you to need suing," Paul hissed.
"Optimistic, aren't you? Look, no pigs; also no Aurors. You obviously haven't been keeping up with the news."
Paul smiled, suddenly and nastily. "Oh, I have. I really have. I suggest you show your boyfriend the photograph on the
front page of that newspaper you're sitting on, and try to explain what you were doing last night when Neville might have expected
you to show up here."
Draco raised his eyebrows, and glanced down at the Daily Prophet on the desk. His lips twisted convulsively, but by dint of
a considerable effort he managed to avoid any exclamation escaping them. He paused, and took a deep breath. "I have no
explanation of any sort for that photograph," he finally muttered, in a studiedly neutral way, pushing it across the desk to Neville.
"I certainly had no idea it'd been taken. And -- I find it very disturbing that it could have been."
Paul's eyes glittered in triumph. Neville looked at the photograph in a bemused way, then across at Draco, and then back
down at the photograph. He looked up at Draco.
"You find it deeply disturbing? Any idea how it makes me feel?"
There was an indescribable note in his voice. With an almost overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude, Draco recognised
it as deeply suppressed hilarity.
"I hardly like to speculate," he murmured. Their eyes met, briefly, but in perfect understanding.
Paul obviously sensed that his flung hand-grenade had failed to detonate, but had no idea why. He shook his head from
side to side, sadly. "If we could only have kept you with us a bit longer, Neville," he muttered sadly. "We might have succeeded in
getting to the bottom of how he's doing this to you. But it's all obviously deeper and Darker than we suspected at first."
"What is?" Draco enquired. Gemma, who had obviously been screwing up her courage to speak since she had regained
consciousness, hissed: "He means the relationship between you two. We've had no success in working out what it's all about."
"Really?" Draco put his head on one side. "Good sex and bad jokes. Where's the complication?"
Unobtrusively his hand stole behind him, to brush over Neville's fingertips as they were resting on the desk. He felt a
slight answering pressure back.
Gemma inhaled sharply. "And I suppose you're about to claim that threat you made to me earlier was just -- a bad joke?"
"No." His tone was absolutely matter of fact. "I meant every word of it. And, believe me, it's something I'd do without
hesitation or regret. But, for present purposes, only if I'm asked. What happens to you now is Neville's choice. This bit is up to
him. I'm -- think of me purely as his executive arm. I recommend you throw yourselves on his mercy."
He smiled again, knowing it would not touch his eyes, and was rewarded by seeing her flinch.
Paul's lips curled. "And you expect us to believe that? That you're volunteering to act as number two to a--"
"Careful." The warning purr was unmistakeable. Paul shrugged.
"Have it your own way. But you'll excuse me if I say that I don't believe in this desire to take second place. Not in your
father's son."
"Eh?" His brows creased in puzzlement, Draco turned to Neville. "I'd say that being a side-kick was something my father
had rather got down to a fine art, wouldn't you agree?"
Neville's lips compressed in a grin that had nothing to do with amusement. "Your parentage is one of the things they're
obsessed with. If you'd any idea how many times they've mentioned it--"
Draco's eyes widened. "Oh, golly. This isn't that Polyjuice nonsense again, is it?"
Neville nodded. Gemma, gathering her courage, muttered defiantly: "Well, I see you know about it."
Draco's tone was studiedly indifferent. "Of course I do. You didn't suppose no one would have had the nerve to mention it
to me before, do you? Personally, whenever I meet someone who believes it I have serious doubts whether they've ever had sex.
And I know for a fact they've never met my mother."
Gemma flushed. "What's your mother got to do with it?"
He shrugged, elaborately. "Well, that confirms the sex part, anyway. If you really can't see what my mother would have
had to have to do with it, it's hardly my place to enlighten you."
Gemma was almost apoplectic with fury. "That's a very personal remark!" she snapped.
"Well, from what I can gather you've spent most of the last thirty six hours enquiring into my sex-life. It doesn't strike me
you've got any leeway on the personal remark front."
"That's different! It was for therapeutic purposes -- to try to get to the bottom of Neville's perverted masochistic obsession
with you--"
"I rest my case," Draco said pointedly. "Anyway, for your information, knowing my mother, I can't imagine either the Dark
Lord or my father taking the risk."
Paul's face was suffused with disbelief. "Taking the risk? The most powerful Dark wizard since Salazar Slytherin and his
most trusted lieutenant being scared of a blonde clothes horse without three OWLS to rub together?"
"Well, I'll remind you which one of the trio still happens to be alive," Draco snapped. He looked at Neville. "You've had two
days of these bozos and you still don't want me to kill them?"
Neville shook his head. "I want to stay better than that. I've made my mind up. But-- there is one thing."
He bent down by the side of the desk, and picked up something from the carpet, putting it onto the leather top. It was an
elegantly crafted silver bowl, with a swirling silver liquid in it. Neville's hands were shaking slightly as he put it down. Draco
looked from it to Paul and back. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"It's a Pensieve, yes." Neville's voice was unutterably weary.
"Hm. I see. Thought-stripping." His eye fell on Paul, who, for the first time, flinched. "Do you know how many Death
Eaters ended up in Azkaban for thought-stripping alone?"
Despite everything, Paul's voice was still strong, unswerving in the depths of its conviction. "It isn't like that in our facility.
We don't like using these methods, but when we come up against a blockage that's clearly been implanted using Dark methods -then we'll use every tool in our power to help that person. And when the Veritaserum wasn't working, I authorised the therapeutic
use of the Penseive."
"Veritaserum as well? How very illegal. And how very... Uncle Gerard."
Paul continued doggedly on, an evangelical light in his eyes. "It was in Neville's own best interests. Therapeutically. And it
isn't illegal with the patient's consent."
Draco's tone was low, mocking. "And had you got it?"
Paul ignored the mockery. "We would have done. It was only a matter of time. And the value of the method to the therapy
justified our anticipating our eventual compliance with the rules. I think you'd find it salutary. Go ahead. Dip in. I can assure you,
you'll be very surprised."
There was a half-broken gasp from behind him. Draco shook his head, his eyes on Paul all the time, apparently
mesmerised by him. "I rather think not. Levo!"
The silver bowl rose, unsteadily, into the air. Draco, still, somehow, keeping eye contact with Paul while he did it, guided
its course through the hole in the wall and out through the floor length dining room windows, increasing its velocity as it moved
until finally it crashed, hard, into the branches of the cedar of Lebanon. The silver liquid vanished into the August-baked earth at
its roots.
At that, Paul finally lost his temper. "You-- unutterable hooligan! Do you realise the value of the records you've just
destroyed? I was going to write a paper--"
"Silentio!"
Everyone in the room recoiled at the sheer volume of the shout, including Draco. Neville got to his feet behind the desk,
and put Paul's wand, which he had used to cast the Dumbing Hex on him, back into his belt. He turned to Draco. "Thanks."
Draco reached out a hand and gripped his arm. "No problem. I've got enough trouble with the things in my own head I
don't want to face in the cold light of day to want to go nosing about in yours. Anyway, are you sure I can't persuade you to
change your mind? Just a bit of Cruciatus on these two?"
Gemma was dead white. "You couldn't do that. It's-- it's illegal."
Draco's lips curled back from his teeth in what he certainly intended to be a truly disconcerting grin. It was clear from
their expressions that he had succeeded. "Not with the subject's prior consent, I understand."
"But we wouldn't consent--"
"You would by the time I'd finished casting the Imperius curse on you first. In writing, if I wanted. In fact, in bloody
Japanese calligraphy -- if I happened so to choose. And anyway, it'd be for therapeutic purposes, which I understand justifies a
little bending of the strict letter of the rules--"
"Therapeutic purposes? Cruciatus?" Gemma's voice was high and indignant. Draco nodded.
"Yup. I should imagine seeing you two writhing in agony on the floor would make Neville feel a great deal better."
"Don't tempt me," Neville muttered. "No, just Obliviate them and knock them out again, and we'll get going."
"Okay." Draco eyed them firmly. "Right, stick your tongues out. And start counting backwards in threes in your head from
7194. Got that? Good. Obliviate. Stupefy!"
They lolled back into unconsciousness. Neville looked at him. "What was all that 'stick your tongue out' business?"
Draco shrugged. "Oh, just something some Muggle taught me about anti-Obliviate techniques. Anyway, where next? To
get the Ministry off my back, I'm pretty well bound to see if we can find Melanie and that disgusting lard-arse Dudley, but I
wouldn't mind getting some breakfast first if you know anywhere safe round here. I haven't eaten since yesterday, and that was
Muggle railway food. Honestly, I think I've worked out now what Snape's doing with the potions ingredients which his students
chop up too incompetently to use. I bet he's making an absolute fortune selling them for railway sandwich fillings. Oh, and I
bumped into him in Oxford, by the way. He sent his love--"
"That's nice," Neville said absently, and then, in a tone of utmost horror and disbelief,
"He what?"
Draco grinned. "Just checking."
Neville snorted. "I may have been hallucinating but it never got that peculiar. Anyway, as far as breakfast goes, the best
bet would be Martin. He's my oldest friend in these parts."
"Martin?" Draco's voice was politely neutral. "I don't think you've mentioned him."
Neville looked slightly defensive. "Well, don't take this the wrong way, but he's a Muggle. And you can get a bit twitchy
about Muggles, you know--"
"I'm coming round to them." A sudden thought struck him, and he smiled. "You aren't going to believe this, but I'm
actually employed by one. At this very moment."
Neville's jaw dropped. "I can see we've got a lot of catching up to do. Well, you might as well know most of my friends up
here are Muggles, actually. Given that most of the witches and wizards in these parts are relatives, you understand. In fact, I don't
mind taking the outside chance that your father was You Know Who provided you're prepared to overlook the absolute certainty
that Eustace is my cousin."
"Deal." They shook hands, solemnly. Then Draco added "Given your Great-Aunt Enid appeared to know my grandfather,
there's a horrible possibility that he's actually my cousin, anyway. Ugh! Don't let's think about him. Anyway?"
"Oh, Martin? Well, quite apart from me wanting to avoid the relatives, the family thought I was going to be a Squib, for
ages. So they thought they'd better be prepared. So I was sent to a Muggle primary school, and did various sorts of Muggle things
like Cubs, and hiking clubs, and guitar lessons and such. Anything to get me out of the house, really. And after I went to
Hogwarts I carried on doing them in school holidays. I met Martin through that sort of thing. He runs the local cave rescue team."
Draco raised his eyebrows. "You aren't going to tell me pot-holing was one of the things you were doing in your holidays?"
"What, me, go in for a sport where you can simultaneously be drowned, trapped and fall to your death? With that head for
heights I conspicuously don't have?" Neville looked sceptically at him. He shook his head. "No. But I used to play as ringer on
their pool team. And drive the van for the rescues when I was home, as soon as I'd learned how. I got some Aging Potion off Fred
and George in our fourth year, and Hermione showed me how to forge a Muggle birth certificate, so I've had a Muggle driving
licence since I was fifteen. It used to free up a man to go underground. And I got quite decent at guiding them remotely with
locating spells. It was quite good practice for Recent Events. You only have to go to the pub a few times with people who've got the
spattered brains of people they haven't quite rescued on their cagoules for you to get quite a different sense of priorities. Anyway,
Martin's house is the sort of place where, when I have to go there, he has to take me in. So I suggest we get weaving."
Draco nodded. Betsey had left the duffle, together with Neville's gear, which she'd retrieved via Thwaitsey, in a neat heap
in the corner of the kitchen. There was, really, very little left to do. He gestured at Neville.
"See you outside. I'll just check the ropes on those two in the interrogation room." He heard the door close, and then he
ducked quickly inside. Paul and Gemma were still lying unconscious, tied side by side in chairs. He bent quickly by Gemma's side.
It was the work of seconds to ensure that a lock of her hair joined that of Paul's that he already had in his jeans' pocket. He joined
Neville in the garden.
Neville's friend Martin turned out to have round, gold-rimmed glasses of the type made famous by the late John Lennon, a
seriously receding hairline, which he apparently compensated for by wearing the remains of his greying hair at shoulder length,
and a general air of amiable puzzlement. Neville turning up on his doorstep at half-past eight in the morning with no prior notice
he took firmly in his stride. He promptly invited Neville and Draco in, and asked hospitably whether they had breakfasted and, if
not, what might he get them? They were seated in a comfortable pair of collapsed armchairs either side of his fireplace, drinking
coffee and fending a couple of inquisitive cats off a plateful of drop scones he had plonked in the fender in front of them, before he
allowed either of them to get a word of explanation in edgeways.
"I think it's only fair to warn you," Neville said reflectively round a mouthful of drop scone, "I'm currently by way of being
an escaped lunatic."
Martin shrugged. "Why should I worry? I run a pot-holing club, for Christ's sake. All my friends who aren't dead are
certifiable." He looked at Draco. "And... er... are you also--?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Martin," Neville said, realizing that in his panic he had skipped the niceties of introduction. "This is my
friend--"
"David Molloy," Draco said firmly, extending a hand. "You can call me Moose, but frankly, I'd prefer it if you didn't."
He shot a hurried don't worry you aren't hallucinating and I'll explain later glance at a startled Neville over the top of his
coffee cup, and went on rather rapidly.
"No, as a matter of fact I'm just plain old fashioned on the run. But between the things I've been framed for, the things I've
been accused of to bolster my cover story, and the things I've actually done but for perfectly justifiable reasons I'm currently
completely confused as to why."
Martin blinked. "Bummer," he said, with vague but evidently heartfelt sympathy. He shook his head thoughtfully, and
then turned back to Neville.
"You know, Neville," he said with the air of one coming out with a great philosophical truth, "You do know the weirdest
people."
Palpable affront steamed off Draco. Neville said defensively, "Oh, don't worry about him. He's just afflicted with a rather
unfortunate sense of humour -- as are the rest of us, actually."
Martin turned to Draco looking shocked, and deeply apologetic. "Oh, please don't think I was getting at you. After all, I've
only just met you. No, Neville. I mean, you may have thought I looked a tad surprised when you showed up, but I hadn't seen you
for months, and as I'd had this really strange guy with a wooden leg who claimed to have worked with your father turning up on
my doorstep asking after you not thirty minutes ago--"
Neville assumed a suddenly stuffed expression; Draco guessed he probably looked no less appalled himself, but recovered
quicker. In a rather choked voice he said, "This guy-- he wouldn't happen to have had a glass eye, would he?"
Martin beamed. "Oh, you do know him, then?"
Neville's mouth was just framing a response when a voice spoke from the entrance to the living room. "Hold it right there,
laddies."
Alastor Moody appeared to occupy the whole doorway, his eyes flashing sinister energy at them from two different
directions.
"Expelliarmus!" he muttered, and the two wands which Draco and Neville had drawn seconds too late spiraled neatly
through the air into his hands. He tucked them into his belt, and turned to Draco. "And the spare you've got down your sock,
laddie," he growled. Reluctantly, Draco relinquished Gemma's wand, and Moody added it to his collection. Martin, meanwhile, was
standing there open mouthed. Moody glanced briefly at him.
"You seem to have some funny friends for a Muggle, son" he hissed. "I think you'll find life much pleasanter in the kitchen.
Imperio! Scram!"
Moving like a sleepwalker Martin drifted off through the other door. Moody turned his head over his shoulder towards
him. "And feed those cats while you're at it. I can't abide the little beasts clambering all over me when I'm conducting an
interrogation."
As the stench of tinned cat food made itself felt through the open kitchen door the two cats dived headlong in pursuit,
tails quivering. Moody turned to Draco, looking at him rather as one of them might have looked at a trapped mouse.
"Hm. So you claim you can't remember which crimes you've committed, and which were merely part of your cover story,
eh? Well, as I understand your father was famous for saying in his day, nothing like Cruciatus for sharpening up someone's
memory. Believe me, son, this will be my pleasure."
He raised his wand. Draco braced himself for the impact of inconceivable pain. There was a quick, loud, almost incoherent
gabble of Latin behind him and in an eye-blink Mad-Eye had vanished, utterly.
Only, it seemed, he had been replaced by-By-By-By a rubber duck, sitting bemusedly on the hearthrug surrounded by four dropped wands.
Draco turned round, very slowly. Behind him Neville was standing, Paul's wand in his hand, a touch of berserker glitter in
his eyes, gibbering incredulously to himself. Draco took two strides towards him, grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and gave
him a solid shake. "Awesome! Do you realize what you just did?"
Brought to his senses, Neville peered somewhat nervously over Draco's shoulder. His face changed. "Oh, my god. I turned
Mad-Eye Moody into a rubber duck. I mean, I turned Mad-Eye Moody into a rubber duck. I actually turned--"
"I think I got the message," Draco interrupted ruthlessly. He turned round. "And so did he. Wow. Just-- wow."
Neville sank down onto the sofa in an attitude of deep depression. "I don't think you really understand," he said earnestly.
"I just turned an old colleague of my father's into-- into a bathroom accessory."
"Well, excuse me if this sounds like heartless gloating, but from where I'm standing you just managed to take out the
most famous Auror of the twentieth century. Single-handed. With a borrowed wand. Before breakfast. Which, while this might not
be the most tasteful compliment you're ever going to get, would certainly have impressed the hell out of every single one of the old
colleagues of my father. You might even have got a favourable review from his boss."
Draco could sense from Neville's expression that this line of argument was being somewhat counter-productive. He
changed tack, sat down next to Neville on the sofa, and put his arm round his shoulders. "Looked at from another point of view,
he did deserve it. After all, he'd just cast Imperius on your oldest friend, he was about to use Cruciatus on your lover, you were
the last person left in the room -- supposing he was going for the Grand Slam, eh?"
Neville brightened perceptibly. "Well, there is that." He set his jaw. "And he underestimated me. He didn't even bother to
check if I'd got a second wand, for goodness' sake."
Draco nodded. "Mm. Exactly."
Neville cast a sidelong glance at the hearthrug. The duck eyed him beadily back. There was a hint of a wail in Neville's
voice, as he said: "But what are we going to do with him?"
Draco assumed a pensive expression. "Well, speaking strictly for me, I rather thought of bouncing him off the walls a few
times."
Neville was evidently thinking about this. There was a moment's silence. "Draco! That'd be completely unfair, incredibly
childish and really, really illogical."
Draco nodded, happily. "I know. But it would also give me this deep and ineffable sense of total fulfilment."
However, when Martin, looking faintly shell shocked, re-emerged from the kitchen, he found Neville carefully putting a
paper label round the neck of the duck which read: "Please look after this duck. To be called for. Do not harm this duck.
IMPORTANT." Draco was leaning against the mantelpiece trying to project an air of disappointment.
"Anyway," Martin said with the determined air of someone who is hell-bent on ignoring anything unsatisfactory in his
immediate world-picture until his perceptions chose to rearrange themselves on more explicable lines. "Is there anything else I can
do for you? Don't take this the wrong way, but you are both looking a tad on the bedraggled side. There's oodles of hot water if you
want baths, and I can find you some towels--"
Draco could see that Neville was expecting to have to fight him tooth and nail for first go at the bathroom. And that's not
surprising. He must be desperate to wash the stink of that place off him. Slightly self-consciously -- anything to get a reaction
beyond that dead, listless gaze he drops back to whenever he stops concentrating -- Draco assumed his most nonchalant drawl. "I'll
love a bath, but do you mind if I use your phone, first?"
It worked; Neville evidently decided that witnessing him using a Muggle telephone was worth postponing ablutions for. He
goggled with open incredulity while Draco brought off a minor (but triumphant) victory against the dark forces of directory
enquiries with only minimal technical support from Martin and got through to Caitlin with surprising ease. Draco's covert,
sidelong glance to see how Neville was taking this caught him listening with ears agog. Draco concluded the initial phase of
enthusiastic greetings with "Look, if the Ministry aren't still hanging around can you get hold of Mrs. P. somehow -- yes, I know,
but tell her I told you to ask for the recipe for the crême brulée she served on 14th February 1995 -- no, of course she won't give it
to you, but she'll know it had to be me who was asking -- and then ask her to get hold of my mother if she can find her and tell
her to get on up to Lancashire pronto -- to find Betsey and ask her for directions -- and to say it's seriously urgent if she ever
wants to see her little lad again -- oh, and tell her to tell ma I liked the shorts -- so did Neville, I think -- oh, and make sure she
knows about the first of the options that journalist mentioned -- say we're on our way there, just as soon as we've had baths -yes, it bloody well is worth taking the time out for-- ok, well, noted-- thanks -- yes, will do -- yes, they all looked fine when I left
them -- and the pterodactyl was still on the roof, yes -- no, I don't give much for its long-term chances, either -- yes, well, bye--"
He hung up. Neville looked at him. "Did I gather you were calling for back-up?" he enquired. Draco shook his head
vigorously.
"Nope. What I was doing was calling for fore-up. If there's a choice between me, or an expert with prior knowledge of the
territory, twenty years more experience and considerably greater natural abilities than me to lead this expedition, then who am I
to insist on doing it just because the other candidate happens to be my mother, and I might have some feeble hang-ups about how
it might look to the rest of the world? You know, prats like your friend Potter might call it cowardice, but I prefer to think of it as
the ruthless application of logic to the practical business of survival."
The ends of Neville's mouth quirked in what Draco hoped was the ghost of a smile. "You mean, like spotting that when
confronted by a bloodsucking caped nutter in a dark wood Away is the sensible direction to run?"
Draco nodded vigorously. "Exactly. Anyway, what was that about baths?"
He was beginning an excessively casual slope in the general direction of the bathroom when Neville caught him pointedly
by the elbow. "Oy. My go first, I think."
Draco paused, as though about to argue the point, and then made something of a pantomime of changing his mind. He
nodded. "OK. I suppose I can handle it for once."
His hand brushed firmly over Neville's arm in a quick, reassuring, stroking movement. Martin turned to Neville helpfully
as he was about to vanish through the door to the stairs. "Aren't you forgetting your duck?"
Neville had the air of someone who could easily have said rather more than he did. "I - I think I'll just leave it," he choked,
and fled in the general direction of the bathroom.
Martin caught Draco's eye. "Is he all right?"
Draco paused. His tone was defiantly upbeat. "I hope so. I think so. Definitely. More or less, anyway."
Martin continued to regard him steadily. Draco's gaze shifted, defensively.
Why press on with the fake optimism when neither of us is actually buying it?
"Um - well, perhaps a bit less than more, actually."
Martin nodded. "He's been coming here since he was about ten, after one sort of family or school upset or another. And
I've always admired him for being a resilient so and so. He's always been able to put whatever it is behind him after a few minutes
or so chatting, and then go out and face it again. This is the worst I've ever seen him."
"Me, too. And I don't know what to do about it."
Martin raised his eyebrows. "I'd say from a fairly brief glance you were coping. And, heaven knows, I know a bit about
that. And the reverse. And I owe Neville."
He nodded across at a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Despite the static convention of Muggle photography the
girl pictured sparkled out of it. She was dressed in climbing gear, which assaulted the camera lens in a riot of fuchsias and pinks;
the sun blazed off the expanse of sparkling snow and rock behind her. But her mirrored sun visor had been pushed up into her
brown tangle of hair to allow her to laugh straight into the eye of the camera. Despite the competition, her eyes were the brightest
things in the picture. The lines of Martin's mouth softened as he looked at her.
"Beth. My late wife. Even when the pain was at its worst, towards the end of her illness, Neville could always make her
laugh. I don't know what I'd have done without him coming here."
Draco heard an unaccustomed awkwardness in his own voice. "What happened? When?"
"Cancer. Just over two years ago."
Martin turned away, and reached up blindly to the mantelpiece to straighten the photograph. As he did so the cuff of his
shirt fell back, revealing a silvery scar, which started at the wrist and ran up the arm, vanishing under the sleeve. Draco had little
doubt that there was a matching one on the other wrist.
"Perhaps you'd better go and check that Neville's okay," Martin said without turning round. Draco paused, but said
nothing before vanishing from the room.
~~~
The entry-phone buzzer had a high, grating persistence, which cut ruthlessly through the soft downy clouds of sleep.
"Go 'way," Hermione muttered, turning under the duvet and putting a pillow over her head. Undaunted, the buzzer
shrilled on. Blearily, she pushed herself up on one elbow, dislodging Crookshanks (who meowed reproachfully at her) and peered
at the alarm clock by the side of the bed. Half past eight. A.M. This is so not fair.
Dawn had caught the incoming transatlantic flight as it crossed the coast of Western Ireland: a landmark which the
stewardesses had, bizarrely, chosen to celebrate by offering a pre-packaged, chilled, cream tea to those passengers who had not
taken the precaution of burrowing for protection beneath their BA blankets as the rattle of the trolley approached. The plane had
touched down at Heathrow at five; the usual mix ups with luggage and passport control had accounted for another hour, and it
was only a bit of discreetly managed Apparation that had got Hermione into bed for half past six.
And that's the last time I try Apparating after an all night flight. If nearly splinching hurts that much, doing the job properly
must be agony. Supper in Boston, breakfast over Cork, legs in West Acton.
The buzzer continued to wreak its aural destruction. Reluctantly, Hermione reached out for her dressing gown, and
padded sleepily towards the handset on the wall by the front door. "Yes?"
"Oh, you are in, darling. I was beginning to get worried." Her mother's voice had the perky cheerfulness of someone who
had undoubtedly enjoyed a good eight hours' sleep. All of it in the same time zone.
Repressing a snarl, Hermione pressed the release lock on the door. Her mother, bearing bulging Waitrose carrier bags in
each arm, beamed cheerfully at her from the threshold. "Not up yet? You know, the only way to beat jet lag is to get onto the time
scheme of the place you're in, instantly, and stick to it absolutely ruthlessly. I brought you some bread and breakfast stuff, by the
way. I thought you wouldn't have had time to shop yet."
"You thought right, seeing that I only got in two hours ago."
Her mother looked at her in a puzzled way. "I thought it was yesterday evening you were due in?"
Hermione nodded. "It was. But they'd overbooked the flight, so they offered us vouchers and a bounce to club class if any
of us volunteered to take the later one. And it gave me another few hours to catch up with the cousins, and I've always wanted to
fly club, so--"
She shrugged. Her mother, who had appropriated a chair in the corner of the kitchen, eyed her brightly and said: "Good
idea. And how are the cousins? And how did the wedding go?"
Repressing a yawn, Hermione moved over towards the cupboard and pulled out a vacuum-sealed bag of coffee and a
cafetière. It was obvious from her mother's attitude that she was settled in for the long haul, and that resistance was futile. "Oh,
fine. It was-- different."
Absently she pointed her wand at the kettle, which boiled, instantly. An unidentifiable expression twisted the edges of her
mother's mouth, and was gone before she could be sure it had even been there at all.
"Rebecca's dress was just amazing. And the bridesmaids' dresses. Wild silk. Her own designs. All in classical Greek styles.
You know: just sheer falls of silk to the floor. Breathtakingly simple: jaw-droppingly difficult to look good in. In fact, one of the
bridesmaids told me that Rebecca had offered all of them free liposuction as a bridesmaid's present, so there wouldn't be any
danger of VPLs showing in the wedding photos."
The eyes of mother and daughter met, and danced with amusement.
"I think she was joking," Hermione added. She thought for a moment. "Probably."
Her mother took a reflective sip of coffee. "Hm. Well, I take it Rebecca hasn't changed then?"
"Not unless you count getting more so as changing."
Hermione's mother pursued her lips. 'Well, that's a bit difficult to imagine, too. I'd have thought even Plato would have
found the concept of a more Rebecca-like Rebecca a bit of a philosophical conundrum."
Hermione frothed the milk for her own coffee with the tip of her wand, and scattered hot chocolate on top of the froth.
"Well, she's been promoted: she's now a senior analyst at JP Morgan. And Mark's expecting to be offered tenure at MIT this year.
Oh, and I took lots of photographs. I'll get them developed later today. I expect the best will be the ones where they released
hundreds of doves at the end of the ceremony, and all the women guests suddenly got the same Awful Thought at the same
moment, and they all started frantically putting their hands over their hats. Not that they were in any danger. Rebecca's not going
to let any damn pigeons misbehave at her wedding."
Besides, even if Rebecca didn't put a Guarantee of Good Pigeon Behaviour on her wedding list at Saks Fifth Avenue, that's
no reason why she shouldn't get one as a present. Unofficially.
"Well, dear, you will bear in mind that your father and I will be expected to send extra sets of the photos to all the family
who couldn't make it? I mean you will make sure that they don't-- ah-- wriggle, won't you?"
Hermione grinned. "I'll get them done at Boots, promise."
"Thanks." Her mother looked momentarily wistful. "Now when you were a child that was something we rather expected
you'd have ended up doing -- academia, I mean, not that you wouldn't have been very good in the City, too."
Impulsively, Hermione patted her on the arm. "Sorry-" she began.
Her mother eyed her and said briskly: "Don't be. You have to make the most of your talents. Whatever they are. And we're
both very proud of you." She sighed. "It would be nice, though, if your people did have universities. I'm at my wits' end trying to
deflect those polite but-oh-so-pitying enquiries from Piers and Diane about why you aren't going into any form of higher
education."
"Tell them I got into a bad crowd at school, and that I've dropped out to run a bar on Santorini," Hermione suggested. Her
mother glared amiably at her.
"Certainly not! Piers and Diane can think up those sorts of explanations without any encouragement from me, thank you
very much. Besides, it's not fair. All your friends at school were very nice. Which reminds me, one of them called you on
Wednesday night when we were cat-sitting. I do wish, by the way, dear, you could persuade them to use the phone occasionally. I
mean, it gave your father the shock of his life, suddenly to have a talking head turn up in the fireplace in the middle of The X Files.
And it can't be healthy. I'm sure you end up inhaling an awful lot of ash--"
Hermione deflected this sidelight with an impatient hand wave. "Well? Who was it?"
Here, her mother looked faintly guilty. "Ah. Well, as I said, your father positively jumped. And I'm afraid he knocked his
glass of wine over onto poor Crookshanks, who leaped away and managed to upset the rest of the bottle in the process. And in the
excitement of making sure it didn't stain the rug, I'm afraid we didn't quite catch the young man's name. It wasn't anyone we'd
met before, though. I'd have remembered. Very well spoken. Beautiful manners -- even when your father suddenly decided to see
the funny side and started addressing me as Scully and declaring dramatically that the truth was in here. Though I'm not sure
your friend quite got the joke."
She giggled, fondly.
Hermione looked thoughtful. "Was he blond?"
Her mother grinned. "And how, as they used to say in my youth."
"Goodness. I wonder what Draco wanted. I hope nothing's gone wrong about the dogs."
"Dogs?"
"You know those two spaniels I was looking after for a bit, whose owner had died?"
Her mother looked severe. "If you mean the thieving hounds who broke into my kitchen and scoffed all the canapés for the
Victim Support Cheese and Wine--"
Hermione nodded hurriedly. "Yes. Them. Well, Draco gave them a home--"
"He must be a very long suffering and good natured young man. Though come to think of it, he did look rather out of
sorts. I thought it was Richard's antics, but if those creatures had just damaged something expensive of his that would explain it.
Wonder what it was?"
Hermione shuddered. "Could be anything, in that house. Ming vases, probably. Did he look like someone who'd just had a
priceless piece of Chinese ceramics eaten by a dog?"
Her mother put her head on one side. "Honestly, dear, how big a comparison group do you expect me to have in my
database? So what is this -- Draco, did you say? -- doing now you've all left school?"
"Nothing. I mean, he doesn't have to. His father died last year and that left him very well off. So he just lives on the family
estate in Wiltshire." She paused, and looked at her mother. "With his boyfriend," she added pointedly. Her mother started to
gather her things together.
"Ah. What a pity. Anyway, I can't sit here gabbing all day. Half of North London seems to have scheduled today for its once
in a decade trip to the dentist. Honestly, with some of these mouths it works out more like archaeology than dentistry. I'll let
myself out. Oh, and I brought your post over. So clever, the way the owls know not to leave it at an unoccupied flat as a hint for
burglars. And they seem happy enough about delivering it, though you do wonder--"
Still chattering cheerfully, she manoeuvred herself out of the flat. Hermione turned to the pile of post that her mother had
left on the table, topped by today's edition of the Daily Prophet. Her eye fell idly on the lead story, and she suddenly froze,
snatched it up, and read it closely, all the way through, twice.
"Oh my god!"
Without a thought for the perils of ash inhaling and the fact that she was still only wearing her dressing gown she headed
determinedly for the fireplace in the living room.
"Harry, just what has been going on?"
She brandished the newspaper at him emphatically. Once she had found him in, she had glared firmly at him from the
hearth, told him to wait five minutes, and Floo-d ruthlessly over as soon as she had dressed, pausing only to telephone her father
briefly at the clinic.
She noted that the phone was off the hook, the curtains were drawn and that the door was triple bolted, and deduced,
accurately, that he was currently avoiding his relatives. He eyed her warily.
"How much do you know?"
Hermione snorted. "Very little -- I've just read the story in this morning's Prophet. They seem to want to believe Draco's
setting himself up as You Know Who's replacement. Has everyone decided to go totally mad just because I decide to take a couple
of weeks off to go to the States?"
Harry looked at her, evidently decided that she was not going to be fended off lightly, and started clearing a heap of unironed washing off the more presentable of the two kitchen chairs. He shrugged. "Well, Malfoy certainly seems to have done."
Hermione gave a disapproving hiss through her front teeth. "Well, that seems to be about the only plausible explanation
for what he's supposed to have done. If any of that garbage in the Prophet is true. Which I, personally, doubt."
Prudently, she did not allow him a word in edgeways before she continued. "The words logic and plausibility, yet alone the
concept of 'And what could possibly be in it for him?' don't seem to have crossed the minds of the reporters at the Prophet."
She took a deep breath. "I mean, according to their story he's supposed to have kidnapped your cousin and his girlfriend - and there's five words I never thought I'd be using in the same sentence -- sometime on Wednesday afternoon. He then, if you
believe the newspaper, and completely contrary to any notions of common sense or self-preservation, sits about at the Manor all
the rest of Wednesday apparently waiting for someone to notice. Disappointed, evidently, he only gets out of the place a jump
ahead of the Aurors on Thursday morning. Despite having gone out of his way to make life difficult for himself, he manages to
avoid being detected all day Thursday, unless an unconfirmed sighting on Preston station really was him. In order to celebrate not
having been caught, presumably, he then decides to go cruising the gay bars of Manchester, Brighton and London, apparently
bumping into random wizard photographers at every turn, who keep the Prophet tactfully supplied with close-ups of the tour but
never once get round to informing the Ministry about it until he's moved on to the next city. Would you like to remind me just how
many times during Recent Events you can remember You Know Who taking a few hours off to go clubbing? I mean, is this
supposed to be an insane mad plan or merely an incredibly stupid one?"
Harry had evidently decided to concentrate on the weakest point in this very logical attack. "There's no evidence at all
Malfoy was in the Manor on Wednesday night."
Hermione set her jaw pugnaciously. "There is, you know. He tried to call me."
Harry blenched. "He what?"
"He tried to call me on Wednesday evening. And, what's more, he left a message with my parents for me to call him back.
When convenient after my flight got in. Which they told him was due at 6.30 yesterday evening. Which leads me to believe he was
expecting to be at the Manor all yesterday evening. Which would be a bit optimistic if he'd spent Wednesday afternoon dabbling in
a little light kidnapping, don't you think?"
Despite himself, Harry grinned. "I don't think you could call snatching Dudley light kidnapping. By any stretch of the
imagination. And if you want to know what could be in it for Malfoy, the earfuls I've been getting from Uncle Vernon and Aunt
Petunia ever since it happened would make it almost worthwhile. Knowing him."
"Only if he's got your place bugged so he can actually hear them," Hermione snapped nastily, and was rewarded by seeing
him pale.
"Do you think he has?" Harry asked uneasily. She shook her head.
"I shouldn't think so for a moment. In the first place, I make sure the firm keeps it swept. Secondly, if you had been doing
anything interesting here he wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation of letting you know he knew about it by now, and, if
you haven't, then he'd have got bored and given up listening. Plus, he does have a life of his own, you know. Which reminds me,
what do you know about what's happened to Neville? The Prophet obviously wanted to say something its lawyers wouldn't let it -so they just hinted in that slimy sort of way they have -- you know, that Something Awful had happened, and they might be able
to fill in the gory details if you buy tomorrow's edition. Do you know what's happened to him?"
Harry shook his head vigorously. "Nope. I was hoping to hear from his cousin, that they had managed to rescue him in
time, but I haven't heard a thing. Not even a note. Just an owl bringing my cloak back--"
Hermione sat herself firmly down on the kitchen chair and assumed an inquisitorial air. "I think," she said firmly, "that
you should begin from the beginning. With everything you know. And who's been doing what. And who Neville's cousin is and
where your cloak comes into it. And who "they" are. And what they were proposing to rescue Neville from. And if you were
planning to make any toast while we're talking--"
Harry resigned himself to the inevitable. He gestured towards the toaster with his wand. Two currant teacakes obediently
hopped into it, and it started to glow encouragingly.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "The first I heard about it was when Dudley rang me up on Tuesday night--"
"You mean you actually let Dudley have your number?" Hermione enquired in stunned disbelief. Harry shook his head.
"No-- that is a bit odd, now you come to mention it. It's not as if I was in the book. Anyway, he called me to say Malfoy'd
threatened him with Cruciatus after a row in a pub over a pool game--"
She waved her hand in a cool down gesture. "Honestly, Harry, you'd make a rotten witness. Let's leave why Draco was
playing pool with Dudley on one side for now -- though I've got to say I find the idea mind-boggling in itself. But your cousin
wouldn't have a clue what Cruciatus was. He couldn't possibly have said that. What did he really say?"
Defensively, Harry retrieved the teacakes from the toaster and began to butter them. He gestured thoughtfully with the
butter knife. "Well, as nearly as possible in his own words, he said: 'One of your insane perverted school-friends just tried to kill
me. Did you put the evil little creep up to it, you git-faced bastard?' Only it went on an awful lot longer than that, of course. And
there was a lot more snarling involved."
"Hm. Not entirely specific, then, was it? I mean, Dudley's claimed before now that you've tried to kill him. And that Ron
has. And Hagrid. And, for that matter, Fred and George very nearly brought it off. I'm glad I talked them into to dropping Ton
Tongue Toffee from their range before someone actually did panic and choke, by the way. Imagine the lawsuits."
Harry nodded. "I did think of that. I'm not as stupid as you imagine, honestly. That's why I insisted on speaking directly to
whatsername -- Melanie -- goodness, she must be a complete gargoyle, don't you think? Can you imagine who else'd go out with-?" He evidently caught sight of Hermione's expression, and prudently allowed words to fail him.
"You were saying?" she said coldly.
"Melanie said Draco asked her to keep an eye on his dogs while he took Dudley outside to fight him, because loud bangs
and agonized screaming noises upset them."
Hermione felt the edges of her lips begin to quirk up, and tamped them down ruthlessly. "Harry, how many times have
you seen Cruciatus used?"
His face was grim. "Too many." She nodded.
"Me too. And off-hand, how many of those times involved loud bangs? To your recollection?"
He looked rather baffled. "Well, none of them, of course. Cruciatus doesn't. Plenty of screaming, though."
Her voice took on a note of triumph. "And you think Draco doesn't know that?"
Harry obviously felt she was manoeuvring him into an unfair position. He frowned. "Of course he knows it. With a family
like his, he probably learned how to do Cruciatus before he could walk. He'd just be banking on Dudley not knowing it."
Hermione gave an exasperated snort. "And Neville? Wasn't he there? Or are you seriously suggesting Draco would assume
that Neville wouldn't know exactly how Cruciatus works? Or that he wouldn't object to its being used in front of him?"
"Oh, I don't know. Yes, he must have been there, from something Dudley said. But who knows what he thinks about
anything these days?"
She could feel the anger beginning to build up in her. Cool it. What you're feeling is lack of sleep, mainly. Or premenstrual
tension. Or low blood sugar. Or, for that matter, just a plain old fashioned perfectly rational urge to kill the imbecile now.
Through gritted teeth she said, "I used to think you were friends."
Harry looked hurt. "Well, you don't think I'd have lent my cloak if I hadn't thought that -- despite everything -- he's still a
friend, and needed help."
"Yes, what did you-- No, we'll come onto that in a minute. So what happened next?"
He looked thoughtful and started making coffee. "I told her I'd get some help and she had to be careful, and then -- I think
they must have lost the signal. She got cut off. And, of course, as I didn't have the number, I couldn't call them back."
His eyes looked faintly shifty. Hermione considered pressing the point, and then decided to leave it. She thought she
detected a faint air of relief as Harry poured the coffee into mugs and pushed one of them over to her.
"So?"
"Well, naturally, I couldn't get hold of anyone that night -- it must have been about one in the morning by the time they'd
finished. But I managed to catch Arthur Weasley first thing next day before he'd left the Burrow, and he said that there'd been all
sorts of rumours flying around the Ministry for months -- not his department, actually, but naturally he gets to hear things -- and
this only confirmed some of the stories they were investigating. And then he called me back about half an hour later, and said,
could I get up to the Ministry as fast as possible, because there was someone I had to meet. And that's where I met Neville's
cousin Eustace."
"And?"
She was rather pleased with the perfect absence of inflexion in her tone. "Well, he's been very worried too, naturally."
She exhaled, very slowly. "Why, precisely, naturally?"
Harry looked irritated. "Oh, stop going all Guardian reader on me. I am not prejudiced, whatever you might think. Though
I don't mind saying, it did come as a shock. I was down at the Burrow last October when the Prophet arrived on the breakfast
table, and when I saw That Photograph I was so flabbergasted I inhaled a mouthful of toast. If Ron hadn't had the sense to
Summon the crumbs out of my windpipe goodness only knows what might have happened."
Hermione giggled. "What a sell that would have been for You Know Who. The best part of twenty years dedicated to doing
you in, and a slice of Mrs. Weasley's homemade granary cob succeeds where he and all his Death Eaters' best efforts failed. Bit
embarrassing for the Prophet, too. Shock Exclusive: Boy Who Lived Killed By Shock Exclusive."
"Thank you," Harry said with dignity. "I had all those jokes at the time. Actually."
She nodded. "Mm. I can see that. But--?"
He flushed, resentfully. "No, well since as a matter of fact until then I didn't even know Neville was gay it's no wonder it
came as a surprise to me."
"Really?" She raised her eyebrows. "I've known since we were fourteen."
He looked rather put out. "You did? How?"
Hermione shrugged. "Well, he told me, of course. How else d'you expect me to know?"
Truth to tell, he looked faintly relieved, but rallied gamely. "Well, I suppose I didn't expect you to have found out after
you'd flung yourself onto him in a paroxysm of pulsating passion, as Witch Weekly calls it--"
She shook her head. "No. That was Lavender. With Draco. As a matter of fact."
Secretly to her relief, Harry did not expect her to give further and better particulars of the truth of this asseveration. He
pursed his lips in a disgusted way but evidently decided not to press the point.
"Anyway, Neville's cousin said -- and it did sort of make sense, you know -- that Neville had been badly traumatised by
Recent Events, and basically that's how he'd got mixed up with Malfoy in the first place. And that they reckoned he was thinking
better of it, but that he'd be too petrified to break free without help, and that Malfoy was exploiting that sense of dependency. And
that they'd come across this clinic, who specialized in treating similar cases, and they were hoping to persuade Neville to volunteer
for therapy. But that events had now started to move so fast that they were afraid that before he plucked up courage to tell Malfoy
that that's what he was doing, that Malfoy would have done something which the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would
have to pull him in for, and obviously they didn't want Neville mixed up in that. Because even if they did manage to get him off
any charges on the grounds he didn't know anything, the mud was bound to stick, and Eustace said he couldn't face the thought
of poor Neville spending the rest of his life with all of our world thinking he'd been implicated in Dark activities and that he'd only
got off because he had family at the Ministry who'd pulled strings to manage it. So I said of course I'd do anything I could to help."
"Oh, of course."
He could hardly fail to notice the ironic bite to her voice. He looked at her defensively. "Well?"
She shrugged. "This was the first time you'd met this... Eustace... wasn't it? Now, I know it was Arthur Weasley
introduced him to you, and I agree Ron's dad doesn't have a mean bone in his body, but then, you wouldn't actually put him down
as favourite in the Common Sense Champion Hurdles, either, now would you? I don't suppose it occurred to you to call Neville
and ask whether any of this taradiddle had a grain of truth in it?"
Harry flushed. "Well, of course I thought of calling Neville, but I-- well, it was a bit awkward, out of the blue, especially as I
hadn't spoken to him for a few weeks--"
"--Months," Hermione muttered. Harry ignored her.
"--And, anyway, I'd have had to call him at the Manor--"
Hermione gestured passionately with the remains of her teacake. "Oh, of course. Better to get mixed up in some
Longbottom family scheme to shunt Neville into a loony bin because they don't like his boyfriend than risk having to exchange a
civil sentence with Draco. Who, incidentally, really was traumatized by Recent Events."
"Bollocks!" Harry snorted derisively. "To begin with, he hardly did anything in Recent Events. Well, he might have got a bit
injured, but even a fractured skull isn't anything special, not with the right treatment spells. He always did make a massive
amount of fuss about the slightest little thing that happened to him. Remember school? And I expect his mother really hammed
up that potions stuff about his father, so her book would sell. Anyway, like I said, this was all going to be voluntary -- if Neville
didn't want to go, then he wouldn't. So what's wrong with that? And I never thought I'd hear you say "loony bin". Not politically
correct at all."
She compressed her lips, tightly. "Well, you know my views on the standards of medi-witchcraft. The physical stuff is fine,
but anything psychological is just back in the 19th century so far as I can tell. The early nineteenth century. I mean, what sort of
therapy was this supposed to be, anyway?"
Harry looked baffled. Hermione waved a hand. "Gestalt? Esalen? Primal Scream? Neuro-linguistic programming?"
He continued to look at her as though she were talking Cantonese. She sighed, with a degree more emphasis than the
circumstances perhaps warranted, and dropped the issue. "Anyway, what happened then?"
"Well, Eustace asked if there was somewhere we could meet, privately, to work out what to do next, because he didn't
want to risk our being spotted together by Malfoy. Or someone working for him. Well, I'd been planning to go for a swim anyway at
that new health-club they've just opened on the corner of Diagon Alley -- Gee Whizz -- they'd sent me a month's complimentary
trial membership, and I hadn't got round to using it. So I said, why not there?"
Hermione snorted. "You'd have looked a right idiot if it turned out they'd sent one to Draco as well, and you'd bumped into
him in the locker-room."
Harry blenched, visibly, but continued doggedly on. "And Eustace said: perfect, but could I bring my cloak? Because if
Malfoy was around when the therapists turned up to talk to Neville, he might need to use it to get away from the Manor without
him suspecting. So I got it out of my vault at Gringotts and met Eustace and the therapist -- Paul -- after my swim. And he
seemed quite okay -- friendly, you know -- and said he hoped that Neville would realise soon what he owed me--"
"It sounds horribly plausible," Hermione muttered. Harry, who had been visibly keeping his temper under control up until
then, finally snapped.
"Look, Hermione, what are you getting at? You've been interrogating me in that irritatingly superior way you have
sometimes, as though I was supposed to have done something different. This is Neville's family we're talking about here. And
they're obviously worried sick--"
"Remind me to remind you of that next time your Aunt Petunia asks me to give her a magical hand in whisking you off
somewhere I don't know, with someone I've never met before, to do something unspecified to you under the general heading of
"therapy". Honestly, Harry, you of all people--"
He looked extremely hurt. "That's complete nonsense and you know it. You'd know if it was Aunt Petunia there was
definitely something sinister going on. Neville's got a nice family--"
Hermione's jaw dropped. "Am I hearing this right? One of Neville's uncles once dropped him out of a bedroom window
because he had a straight choice between holding him or an Eccles cake. Guess which he opted for? Are we talking Mr Caring
here, or what?"
"I expect that was an accident. And there obviously is something deeply sinister going on with Draco. I mean, after all, the
Ministry clearly have been keeping an eye on the Manor for months, which must prove something--"
Her voice was deeply sardonic. "Tell me, would that be the Ministry that banged Sirius up in Azkaban for thirteen years
without trial, or a different Ministry?"
"That's all changed. They had a big clear out after Recent Events. Look, stop having a go. You've absolutely no reason to
suspect everything wasn't completely above board--"
There was a deep expression of hurt in the depths of his green eyes. She looked at him for a moment, and then nodded,
reluctantly. "Okay. I accept that. I'm sorry. I'm just worried sick about Neville. But, Harry, do you mind doing something for me?"
He smiled, gratefully. "Sure. Fire away."
"Do priori incantatem on your wand. Now. Back to-- oh, the spell you cast just before you called Arthur Weasley on
Wednesday morning. Please. Just for me."
Her fingers were tense on the handle of her own wand, and her eyes swept his face.
Baffled, he pulled out his wand, looked at it a moment, and nodded. "Okay."
He muttered the words of the spell, and a pleasing aroma of toasting bread spread through the kitchen. Hermione
propped her chin up on her hand, rested her elbows on the table, and watched as the spells unrolled, until the smell of toast came
round again. Then she nodded. Harry muttered "finite incantatem" and the parade stopped. He was looking very white. "How did
you know?"
She shrugged. "Obvious logical step. Go back to what I said earlier. What could possibly be in it for him? You've got a lot
more reason to kidnap Dudley and frame Draco for it than he has for doing anything. And -- lo and behold -- it turns out this
wand created a Portkey. Some time yesterday morning. Just before Dudley and Melanie were kidnapped, want to bet?"
His voice had a tremble in it. "But-- you can't believe I'd--"
Hermione patted his arm, quickly. "No. I don't. And anyway, if you had done it you'd have realized I knew when I asked
you to do priori incantatem. No. Looks like you're in the frame as well as Draco. Well, I don't suppose you go swimming with your
wand, do you?"
His eyes widened. "Not usually. That was when they got to it, you think?"
She shrugged. "Must have been. And they conned you into lending your Invisibility Cloak -- what's the betting someone's
going to remember having spotted that at some significant point or other? Harry, the minute the Aurors kill Draco, whoever's
behind all this will start pointing out that this whole plot has your magical fingerprints all over it. You're in a lot of danger. And
you don't have much time. It must be something close to a miracle that they haven't caught him already."
She started scribbling hurriedly on a piece of paper she pulled from the depths of her handbag. "Have you got a
passport?"
"Yes but--"
"My cousins have a summer cottage up in Maine. The whole mob is piling up there to relax now the wedding's over. They
invited me, but I said I'd got things to do back here. There's heaps of room, though, and nothing of a magical community for miles.
Great seafood. Whale watching. They'd be delighted to put you up, if you head over there and lie low till this is all sorted. I'll call
them when you're on your way to the airport."
"Airport? Why not--"
She hissed, impatiently. "Haven't you worked out by now that this is being run through the Ministry, somehow? You don't
want to be using your wand around here any more than you can help. I'll put the ticket on my credit card; you can pay me back
whenever. I'll send you an owl telling you where to pick it up. And phone the cousins. And then I'll try and rescue Dudley and
thingamajig. If they can be pulled out of this alive, then the whole plot fails. It's the only way to keep you safe. But-- look-- here's
the address. Go. Now. Before Draco gets himself killed, and they come after you."
At this moment there was a thunderous banging at the door. Both of them looked at each other in an appalled way. Then,
a stentorian shout blasted through at them. "Boy! I know you're in there, boy! Stop snivelling in there, you miserable coward, and
come out and look me and your Aunt in the face."
They took one appalled glance at each other, and then almost tripped over themselves in the haste of their dive towards
the fireplace.
"She what?" Colin just didn't seem to be getting this one at all. The office junior looked deeply irritated.
"She said, she was sorry she was going to have to cancel lunch, but could you have a quick coffee now? In Diagon Alley.
Anyway, she's your problem. I'm only the messenger boy round here." He left, with a suspicion of a flounce. Colin looked baffled.
"But I didn't--"
Camilleri leant across the desk. "Look, kid, I don't know if you did or you didn't. But if you take my advice, if there's some
woman down in reception who thinks you were supposed to be having lunch, I suggest you go down and bluff the whole thing out.
It's bound to be less traumatic than either confessing you've forgotten all about it, or telling her she's invented the whole thing.
Even if she did. And it's certainly better than leaving her to make a scene in front of the receptionists, if she's pissed off about
something. Trust me. If the whole Prophet distribution network were taken over by hostile Goblins tomorrow, those lasses would
still get the news circulated on time, without even smudging their mascara. In their coffee breaks. Honestly. You do not want to
give them any gossip fodder. Ever. Anyway, what's she like? I mean, are you actually trying to dodge her, or are you on for it? Or
are you afraid she's going to break the news that she thinks she was slurring her words a bit last time she pronounced the
Contraceptus charm, and now she's three weeks late?"
Colin looked rather terrified. "It certainly can't be anything like that." He gulped. "Well, it's Hermione. You know, from
school."
"Oh." Camilleri thought for a moment. Then he coughed. "Colin, sometimes I wonder if you're really cut out for this job."
Colin looked stricken. Camilleri got to his feet, took Colin's arm in a firm grip, and strolled with elaborate casualness out
of earshot of the people working at the desks in the centre of the room. "Son, what's the biggest thing you're working on at the
moment?"
Colin raised his eyebrows. "Overlord. Of course. Why--"
"And who's the key person in Overlord whom nobody -- not Neil, not Simon, not Reet -- has managed to get a squeak out
of yet?"
A great awakening light dawned over Colin's features. "Oh. I see."
"Yes." Camilleri hissed through his teeth. "Son, a really key interviewee is sitting in reception demanding you speak to her.
And with a patently false excuse, at that."
His hand came down on Colin's shoulders in a friendly, but firm slap. "Go on, son. Go get yourself a scoop. And don't
forget to make a proper exes claim. And remember -- it is a truth universally acknowledged that the interviewee in a really
important story always holds out till the third helping of Beluga before spilling the beans."
He watched Colin head excitably towards the staircase, and then looked cautiously around. Neil and Simon were having a
long, three-way argument with the Prophet Group's lawyer, presumably about the topic that they had been arguing about most of
yesterday, with equal lack of result. Neither of them was looking in his direction. Very, very casually Camilleri shouldered his
camera bag, and sloped unobtrusively towards the staircase.
The umbrella cast a welcome shade over the table outside Florian Fortescue's ice cream parlour. Colin's expression was
one of deep puzzlement.
"Where does Gee Whizz come into it? It's a gym. I've been a member since it opened. They did discount rates as part of the
Prophet trainee package. What could it possibly have to do with any of this?"
Hermione's voice was brisk. "That's exactly what I'm counting on you to find out. Keep it very close to your chest, though.
This is your story, and I'm not planning for you to spread it around the whole office. All I can say is that you need to check who
was in there between -- say about 9.00 am and about 10.30am yesterday morning. Get a list, and then start cross-referring it
against the other things we know. The person you're looking for -- our suspect, X -- though, of course, he or she may have used
an agent -- is someone who's obviously got a grudge against both Harry and Draco."
Colin blinked. "Golly," he said thoughtfully. "Narrows the field a bit, doesn't it? If you could also manage to establish that
X had been a massive pal of both Professor Snape and Sirius Black, I reckon we'd have got him sussed. Or her. Or, I suppose, it.
Though I expect someone would have noticed a Dementor in a locker room--"
Hermione admitted the justice of this one. "Of course, it could be two somebodies working in collusion," she added
thoughtfully. "Not telling each other everything. You might want to chat up whoever's in charge of handing out trial memberships
at Gee Whizz, too. Find out who decided to send Harry a complimentary membership a few days ago. And identify out who's
behind Gee Whizz, financially. Oh, and you need to check out a Ministry official. First name, Eustace. Surname, probably
Longbottom, but he might be from the other side of the family. Neville's cousin, anyway. Cross-refer for any connections between
him and anyone the first search turns up. And anything else you can find -- record in Recent Events, that sort of thing. Oh, and
see if anyone knows what old Mrs. Longbottom's up to -- no one seems to have heard from her in days, and with Neville missing,
that's peculiar in itself. I mean, I'd have expected her to be sending a Howler to the Prophet every two hours by now."
Colin waved a hand and a Quickquill scribbled on the spiral bound parchment tablet that was lying on the white metal
table absorbing spills from their rapidly melting Knickerbockers Glory.
Mrs. Longbottom: query barking?
"Anything else?" he enquired. "Just in case I have five minutes left before lunch after completing those little projects. I'd
hate to waste any time."
Hermione regarded him severely. "Colin, I'm offering you an opportunity here. I thought you were interested in becoming a
real investigative reporter."
He looked hurt. "Of course. It's what I've always wanted to do. Ever since I was little and I used to conduct hard-hitting
interviews with our cat. And Dennis's teddy bear."
"Right. Then I suggest you start doing some real investigation. Of a genuine, important, potentially lethal story. Or do you
really want to spend the whole of your career wallowing in a lot of fake moral outrage about somebody unexpected snogging
somebody else unexpected? Or researching stories about whether the Spanish Quidditch team's Seeker has used breastenhancement charms or whether she owes it all to diet and exercise?"
Mesmerised, Colin sat back in his chair and shook his head, slowly. Hermione smiled. "Good. I knew I could count on
you. Now, why don't you pay the bill -- and make sure you get a receipt for your expenses, though quite frankly I don't think even
the Prophet's accounts department are going to fall for a story that they put caviar in the sundaes around here. And then I suggest
you get cracking. You've got a lot to do."
He nodded, and scurried inside to pay. She finished the last teaspoon of raspberry syrup, and stretched out luxuriously in
the sunshine -- after all, I have only had two hours sleep. Perhaps five minutes power-napping is just what's needed here.
A shadow fell across the table, and a wisp of cigarette smoke assaulted her nostrils. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
"Hello, Ms Granger. Chris Camilleri. Prophet photographer. Young Colin forgot to mention that I'd be along to take some
photographs of you. If you don't object, of course."
Six foot two of Anglo-Italian hunk flashed a glorious smile at her, and slid into the seat opposite with cat-like grace,
snapping his fingers negligently for the waiter. "Champagne sorbet, twice. And hold the sorbet."
Against her will, shock was overcome by amusement, and she smiled back. "We can't drink champagne this early in the
morning. And this is an ice-cream parlour. I'm not even sure they sell it."
His smile rippled at her. She noticed that there was a slight touch of grey on his temples, and a deep network of laughter
lines around his eyes, belying the youthful appearance that had struck her at first glance. "Oh, come on, Ms Granger, what was
breakfast on expenses invented for? And Florrie will find some. We go back a long way. Even if I do come from a town where it'd be
wands at dawn for a Fortescue to be seen drinking with a Camilleri."
Her eyes narrowed. "Recent Events?"
He shrugged. "No. Recent Events was politics. This is ice cream. That's business. Some people think ice cream's a matter
of life and death, but I can tell you, it's much more important than that. Anyway-- I... er... noticed you seemed to be giving young
Colin a lot of good advice--"
Involuntarily, her glance fell on her mobile phone, which rested on the table, shut. His eyes flickered, and she cursed
herself internally.
"Well, since that's what I've been giving to him ever since he joined, it looked like a fair inference from where I was
standing. Judging by your expressions. Not that I could hear any of it. Of course."
She acknowledged the point with a shrug. A bottle of Moet and two glasses arrived: she looked at them, and then,
unexpectedly, giggled. "Okay. You win. After all--" She sneaked a quick glance at her watch. "It's still the wee small hours as far as
my body clock's concerned. And that's quite a respectable time to be drinking champagne. Especially after a wedding."
He nodded, popped the cork with one experienced twist of a strong brown hand, and raised the smoking bottle over the
two glasses. His eyebrows lifted enquiringly. "Will't sup with me?"
Her eyes widened in surprise. She smiled, and nodded. "Aye, if I be alive, and thy mind hold, and thy champagne be worth
the drinking."
The glasses clinked. Camilleri grinned slyly at her. "So, Ms Granger, what did you think of the langoustines at Barton
Cleeve?"
"Actually, I had the lamb--"
Her voice tailed off. He smiled lazily. "Good memory. From nearly six months ago."
She snorted. "Whenever I eat three cutlets which seem to be retailing at the price of a small Welsh hill farm it tends to be
rather memorable."
"Really?" Camilleri took a swallow of champagne. "I thought the guest menus at Barton Cleeve didn't have prices on."
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "You are good. But watch!"
She flipped up the lid on her mobile phone and pushed it across to Camilleri. "Point it to that wizard on the next table.
The executive-type in pinstriped robes working on his parchments. And then look at the little screen thing."
Camilleri did as she said. His eyes widened. "That's very nice. And believe me, I know a good bit about magical optics.
Every word distinct. And the... er... pictures, also. And I take it this acts as a sound muffler as well?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes. I'm in research for a small start-up who recognized the need for some properly designed gadgets
of this nature. For Aurors, and such. We're still trying to get a toehold with the Ministry here, but we've had a lot of interest from
abroad. Mainly in Eastern Europe, so far. And we closed our first real order last month. And on the non-Governmental side, we
can see a really big demand for personal cloaking talismans -- and that one works as a genuine Muggle phone, too. Anyway, why
are you interested in what I ate at Barton Cleeve? Or are you principally interested in who I ate it with?"
His tone was friendly and non-committal. "Because I'm a friend of the family?"
"And whose family would that be?"
Camilleri smiled. "You do well to be so cagey. Even with your anti-eavesdropping device switched on. Perhaps I should say
-- the family of the man whose menu did have the prices on?"
Hermione surveyed him narrowly. "Oh. In that case, I hope you might be taking a more independent line than the rest of
your paper?"
He nodded, wordlessly. "Then I trust you enjoyed Manchester?"
His grin widened. "You mistake me. That photograph was taken by a freelance friend of mine. Though I admit, given my...
er... connections -- he did ask me to negotiate the deal with the Prophet."
"Right."
Her voice was calm, businesslike. "Then, given your apparent... connections... I'm asking you for help. I have my own
reasons for finding out who's behind the kidnapping of Dudley and--"
She snapped her fingers, in momentary irritation at an uncharacteristic memory lapse.
"Melanie," Camilleri supplied helpfully. His eyes were watchful. "And is the offer of help to be mutual?"
She nodded. "Yes. I want to find out who's behind all this, and get them nailed. To make sure they're no further threat to
any friend of mine."
"Good." He smiled. "And given the hole the Prophet's been digging for itself to date, and since I still have some value for my
job I'd not object if Colin then presents the results as his own personal scoop. At least the kid's got a nose for the right things, and
the brains may follow with practice. Oh, and in answer to your last remark to him--"
Her face froze with surprise. Camilleri continued as if he had not noticed it. "She has. Ask any photographer who was at
the last Spain/Italy friendly. She brought off a classic Wronski Feint, and if they'd been natural they'd have moved differently
when she dived."
"I thought you claimed you hadn't heard anything?" Her voice was rigid with shock, anger, and just a hint of respect. He
grinned.
"Oh, I didn't. But I recommend when you put the mark II version of that gadget into beta testing you get them to check if
it's proof against someone who's learned a low Muggle trick like lip reading."
Perhaps fortunately, at this moment the phone rang. Hermione flinched as a very familiar -- and very annoyed -American voice demanded to speak to Ms Granger at once. "Speaking. Oh hello, Mr Patullo. What a surprise--"
She held the phone a little away from her ear as he responded vehemently to this gambit, and then resumed, miserably
conscious that she was beginning to babble nervously. "Really? Good heavens. We must practically have bumped into each other
at Heathrow -- yes, from Boston. Coming in from my cousin's wedding. And how was your flight?"
Tom Patullo moved brusquely past the pleasantries and on to the real meat of his call. Her jaw dropped slightly as she
took in what he was saying.
"Draco called you? I mean, using a telephone? When? Why?"
Tom Patullo, it seemed, had been waiting for some time to get a lot off his chest. He began to expound at length. This may
have been a blunder: it gave her a chance to gather her scattered wits together. Eventually Hermione coughed, apologetically, in
an effort to stem the tirade.
Camilleri gestured at her, and she nodded, raising her glass so it obscured her lips as she spoke. "Ah. Yes. Well, I am
sorry about that -- no, truly. Especially when we found out how nice you both were -- and how is Mrs. Patullo? Is she with you?"
Tom indicated that he was not in the mood for small talk. He made it clear that he regarded her behaviour as inexcusable,
and that he felt both he and Irene were owed an apology. She blushed, and her voice took on a defensive edge.
"Well, yes, I can see that from your point of view. But of course I take marriage seriously. I really do. I'd never have
pretended to be married to Draco -- but, well, an engagement's different. And we did let you know it wasn't happening as soon as
we possibly could."
Tom took advantage of her pause for breath to put forward a number of cogent arguments against her position. Forcefully.
Hermione shook her head, firmly, at the mobile phone. "No-- I do quite agree, I don't like being wrong-footed either. But
look, would it actually have helped if we'd been upfront with you?"
Well, not exactly.
In such circumstances, Tom made clear, he would undoubtedly not have touched the Manor with a barge-pole.
"Hm, yes, I see. Yes, that was what we were afraid of, actually."
She took a deep breath and rallied all her forces for a last desperate defence of her position. "But it has been such a
massive success, otherwise. Rebecca-- she's my cousin, she's in financial analysis -- JP Morgan, Boston -- says that Nelcorp's
European strategy has put it way out in front of the pack. Honestly. She says everyone's scrabbling to catch up. She reckoned noone in the sector could even have spelt "ERDF funding" before you showed them the way to go. She was really, really impressed
when I told her I'd met you. And believe me, impressing Rebecca isn't easy. In fact, most of the family would say, not possible. Not
without a ten tonne weight from an 80 metre height, anyway. And all her colleagues I spoke to at the wedding seemed to think
that Nelcorp's position was all down to your foresight. Things like seeing that the Manor was absolutely right for your European
R&D centre. The Board really would be idiots to kick up a fuss, especially since it'd just blow up in their own faces. I mean they
must have share options, and things--"
He interrupted her to intimate that some of his Board might well have principles as well as share options, which he had to
allow they were entitled to have taken into account.
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Do you actually have to tell them? I mean, I understand the concept of fiduciary duty all
right, but would forgetting to tell the Board that your European landlord's a gay wizard actually breach it? Even in Virginia? I
mean-- I'd be very surprised if it were grounds for invalidating the lease -- in fact, when I say "very surprised" I mean it was
something I insisted Draco's lawyers got checked, especially. So since you're stuck with the Manor anyway, and the conversion
work is going so well--"
He did not, it appeared, share her optimism. In a few well-chosen phrases he pointed out to her precisely why this might
be so.
Ack. What a mess. And what a menace that man is.
"Oh dear, is he being a problem?"
Yes, evidently. It was not a difficult task for him to convince her of exactly how big a problem Vernon Dursley could be
when he applied what passed for his mind to the job in hand.
Hermione's voice took on a note of indignation as she responded. "Well, that's not fair, not at all. No, I can see exactly why
you'd be upset about that. What a good job Draco warned you in time so you could cut off his access to the Board intranet -- and
route all his calls through your personal staff -- golly, what a hypocrite! And after all, if he's blaming you for not having spotted
Draco was a wizard, where does he stand in all this? You only met Draco once, and I had several meetings with Vernon Dursley,
and I'm one of his nephew's oldest friends. If he'd been anything of a guardian to Harry he ought at least to have recognized my
name -- to say nothing of Draco's--"
Tom interrupted to ask how Vernon Dursley's nephew was relevant to the problem at hand.
Her voice was high with disbelief. "What do you mean, how does his nephew come into it? You mean Vernon Dursley
didn't even tell you that his nephew's a wizard too? A nephew he brought up -- well, if you can call it bringing up -- from when he
was a baby?"
This found its mark. Tom Patullo's voice grew noticeably warmer and he was prepared to admit that this did, indeed, put a
rather different complexion on events. And, certainly, on Vernon Dursley's ability to blackmail him in relation to the rest of the
Board. Hermione could feel her fingers begin to un-tense around the stem of the champagne flute.
Tom Patullo, once his initial annoyance had dissipated, seemed disposed to adopt Hermione as his native guide in the
strange territory in which he now found himself. She relaxed further under the warm sense of being useful.
"Oh, yes, of course. Whatever I can do. What do you need?"
Patullo's answer left her in no doubts about his requirements. A good wizard law firm. Fast. "Oh, yes, I can certainly
manage that one. Well, what sort of lawyer?"
The best available firm, evidently. Preferably with a commitment to its clients' interests which makes a tigress's attitude to
her cubs look like a pose of studied indifference. And expense no object.
She nodded, oblivious to the fact that he could not see her. "Oh, I see. Well, if that's what you want to do I certainly think
the Malfoy family solicitors are who you need. And yes: they most certainly can kick ass. Only they'd probably pronounce it "arse".
Or, more likely, get a minion to pronounce it for them. Ellenborough Jeffries Rich. Okay, I'll make sure one of their senior partners
meets you as soon as possible. How're you planning to get down to Dorset?"
Chartering a helicopter? Golly. What must it be like to be that rich?
She made a conscious effort to keep her voice from sounding impressed. "Oh, I see. Right, then, I'll see you at the
Westland Heliport in Battersea in-- call it forty minutes. Oh-- and Mr Patullo -- don't talk to anyone until we meet you. I think
things have got a whole lot more complicated than when you spoke to Draco. I'll explain when we meet."
He accepted this. Much to her relief, his voice had slipped back to the gentle, friendly rumble she remembered from their
earlier meeting. It seemed she was on her way to being forgiven. He had, however, one last job for her. She could feel her face
creasing with bafflement. "You want me to speak to who? Draco's PA? Oh, I see. I was wondering how he'd managed to get through
to you. But I didn't know he had a -- what's she called?"
Oh. Oh. How remarkably interesting. I bet whoever's behind this plot wouldn't have expected that little wrinkle.
She was careful not to allow a hint of this private judgment into her voice. "I see. And you spoke to her the day before
yesterday? When, about?"
Tom suggested, gently, that this was something of a sore point. Six am was, he indicated, not exactly reasonable business
hours.
Oops.
"Oh, I am sorry -- but I expect they got confused about Eastern Standard Time. Oh, poor you. Anyway, see you soon. Bye."
She flipped the phone shut. She stared up at Camilleri, who had taken the opportunity while she was speaking to light a
Gauloise. She coughed, pointedly, and glared at him. After about five seconds of this treatment he stubbed it out.
"Well, well, well. Talk about the plot thickening. Look, are you serious about being on Draco's side, or are you just after a
story?"
Camilleri blinked. "I'm not sure about being on Draco's side -- I mean, I still haven't seen any reason to trust him any
further than I could spit a medium sized capybara. But I'm certainly interested in not getting on Narcissa's wrong side. And, if we
are supposed to be helping each other, I might say that you've got a lot more chance of persuading one of the senior partners at
Ellenborough Jeffries Rich to act for a Muggle -- no matter how influential he is -- if they're assured by Narcissa deVries that he's
come to them on her personal recommendation and she's relying on them to do exactly what he says."
"And you can arrange that?"
"Just give me five minutes. Oh, and you'd better warn anyone going into the Manor that there's supposed to be a Prophet
mole somewhere about the premises. Name of Gilt Edge. The place has been leaking like a sieve for months. You might want to
take a few of your gadgets down with you."
She nodded. "OK. Thanks for that tip and-- well, one good turn deserves another. That was Tom Patullo. And nobody else
must know until he's in the country until he's had a chance to speak to that lawyer. But you might tell Narcissa, if you're
speaking."
"Tom Patullo?"
"He's the CEO of the Company Draco sold half the Manor to. And, incidentally, he's Vernon Dursley's boss. But that isn't
the most interesting thing about him. Apparently, Draco phoned him on Wednesday at 6.00am Eastern Standard Time -- which
would make it what, about 11 am here? God, no wonder I feel knackered. Anyway, Draco told him that Vernon Dursley was out to
make huge quantities of trouble for Draco and Nelcorp about some argument Draco had had in a pub with Dudley. And he told
him precisely why. And what ammunition he'd got. Now, Draco doesn't have a phone himself. Can you see him going out to a
public box, even if he'd heard such things existed?"
Camilleri, evidently taking the question as rhetorical, gestured to her to continue. He leaned forward intently as she did
so.
"My guess is he'll have used a telephone in the Muggle part of the Manor, and there'll be Muggle records of the call being
made. All of which Tom Patullo will be in a position to trace. Provided the Ministry leaves his memory alone long enough for him to
do it. And here's where it gets interesting. Draco obviously needed help in putting the call through. Well, I've seen him try to use
this phone. It isn't exactly something he feels comfortable with. Well, Tom naturally assumed that the girl who connected him to
Draco was Draco's PA."
Camilleri frowned. His hand strayed automatically towards his cigarette packet. "So? If you haven't seen him in months,
he could always have hired one."
Hermione's smile curled back over her lips. "Bit of a coincidence she happens to be called Melanie, then, isn't it?" she
enquired sweetly. Camilleri's eyes went calculating.
"Could she have been under Imperius, do you think? No, that just doesn't make any sense at all. And why the hell would
anyone call an independent witness to say he'd just had a violent row with one person he was about to kidnap, and use the other
one to help him place the call?"
"Totally demented mad plan, not even a severely stupid one? Or-- someone else's plan, with random facts they haven't
betted on? I suggest if you're pursuing any independent researches -- or if you happen to get a chance to give Colin a steer in his
investigations -- you might suggest that he should try looking at the facts on the assumption that no one could possibly be that
thick."
Camilleri nodded. "I most certainly will. And I suggest you get yourself going. You've got yourself a busy morning. Look,
would you mind giving me your mobile number?"
She scribbled something quickly on a slip of parchment and handed it to him. He nodded. "Thanks. Keep it switched on,
and charged. That's one thing the Ministry won't be on the lookout for. And once you've seen how the land lies at the Manor, I
suggest you should make yourself ready to travel."
"Travel? Where?"
Camilleri shrugged. "How would I know? I'm only awaiting orders. One tip: wherever it is, it almost certainly isn't
Amsterdam. Or Manchester. Or, for that matter, Brighton. Anyway, you've lots to do. Places to go, people to sue. I suggest you get
going. But keep checking for my call."
Hermione nodded, and rose. He had already vanished by the time she reached the corner of Diagon Alley and turned her
head to look for him.
"I don't care. You said 'underground'."
Martin's normally mild expression bore an air of grim determination. He put one square-tipped finger on a blue-inked line
that ran across the caving map spread across his kitchen table. "You told me that there are people trapped underground in an
unexplored cavern complex located somewhere slightly south of the Wretched Rabbit. That makes it a cave rescue matter, and
that means it's my department, so I'm going with you."
"I didn't say: 'trapped'." Draco's voice was hoarse with exasperation. "I said: 'held hostage'. By some people who are bloody
dangerous and mightily pissed off, so far as I can tell. And, I might add, who are almost certainly sitting on a magical arsenal big
enough to turn the surrounding three counties into a great, big, glowing hole in the dark."
"Populated only by six legged phosphorescent wombats," Neville added dreamily. He had been perched on the edge of the
kitchen table, swinging his legs, and taking no part in the raging argument. Now both arguers glared at him in unison. Martin
managed to get his word in first.
"The Pendle and Craven Cave Rescue Service aren't going to leave someone stuck underground just because some -topsider -- thinks it might be dangerous."
Draco's fist came down on the kitchen table. "You Muggle half-wit! Doesn't Lord Voldemort's Top Secret underground
research centre mean anything to you?"
"Well, no, actually," Martin said reasonably.
Draco exhaled. "Look, we're talking about a location that even my father would have made his excuses to avoid. People
used to go in there and not be seen again for decades! And that was just the research staff. They say that the head of the facility
came out for a weekend break when the Dark Lord rose again, and he hadn't even noticed he'd been away."
Martin shrugged again. "Well, that's theoretical scientists for you. We've got a number in the club. We had the biggest
meteorological expert in Europe up here the other week, and he nearly got caught between Wilf Taylor's Passage and Eureka
Junction because he hadn't worked out that going down Lancaster Hole six hours after the biggest downpour we'd had all summer
wasn't entirely the most intelligent plan he could come up with."
Draco looked at Neville. "Look, you know what the risks are. Aren't you going to back me up?"
"No."
In the slightly stunned silence which followed Neville slid himself off the edge of the table, and stood up, decisively. "In the
first place, I've heard people try to talk Martin out of attempting cave rescues before. They always lose. In the second place, you
made the tactical error of telling him that this particular rescue would take place in an underground complex no one outside a
very limited number of people had ever had access to before, the depths of which were completely unplumbed, and which
presented hazards undreamt of in any ordinary caver's wildest fantasies."
"That isn't the attraction, honestly," Martin said, although his faintly demented grin belied his words.
"Finally," Neville said, reaching up towards some keys, which hung on a hook behind the back door, "I don't know how
you feel about it, but I'm not going to try Apparating with a borrowed wand, especially given the amount of sleep I've had over the
last thirty-six hours. And since I don't expect Martin's going to lend us the van without him in it, that doesn't give us a lot of
choice. Unless you want to add another 25 miles on foot to your efforts yesterday. Coming?"
He was out through the back door before either of them could do more than glare at each other for form's sake, and then
follow in his wake.
Draco did not recover his powers of speech until they were well past Gisburn and halfway to Long Preston. "Aren't you
going a bit fast?" he enquired, as the van overtook a sales rep in a Guards red Mazda MX5 on a blind bend.
"No," Neville hissed through gritted teeth. Martin looked up at Draco from the heap of ropes, caribiners and spare helmets
upon which the g-forces had flung him and smiled, sunnily. "Oh, I wouldn't worry," he said cheerfully. "He's only ever put us in
the ditch once. And that was the artic's fault, really."
"How reassuring," Draco said acidly, as the van lurched perilously close to the dry-stone wall on one side of the road, and
then, equally perilously, back again towards the crown of the road.
"Anyway, I've been thinking," Neville said, with the air of one coming to a deeply considered conclusion, and waving one
hand vaguely in the air to emphasise it. Both Draco and Martin followed the line described by his negligently waving fingertips
with a fascination bordering on horror. A tractor towing a full slurry tanker behind it swung emphatically into the centre of the
road as it rounded the approaching bend from the opposite direction. Both the passengers drew in their breath simultaneously.
Neville took full control of the wheel, dived in past and behind the tanker's tail with a few centimetres to spare, and resumed his
thoughtful hand movement. "Martin, these are the Easegill caverns. Or as near as dammit. Which means it's the Ingleton and
Kirby Lonsdale boys' problem, and not Pendle's after all."
"Oh." Martin made an unsuccessful attempt to look guilty. "Should I call them up? They could meet us in the car-park of
the Goat Gap Inn--"
"You're suggesting we go to a pub? Now?" Draco enquired. Neville and Martin looked at him in deep puzzlement.
"Well, it's traditional. I mean, you think anyone would go down into a black hole in the earth in limestone country with a
flash flood rising by the minute and a high likelihood of finding someone's smashed skull at the bottom of the shaft if they were
completely sober?"
Draco sighed. "Look, I think you two are both total nutters. And I mean that purely literally, not in the Related-To-GreatGrandfather's-First-Wife sense."
"Oh, my grandmother was a Nutter," Martin said cheerfully. Draco looked at him.
"You do surprise me. Oh my god. Sheep! Sheep! Neville, watch it, there's a sheep--!"
Indeed, the panicked animal was doing its best to outrun the van, trotting manically down the dead centre of the road.
There was no possibility of passing it on either side. Neville seized Paul's wand from the dashboard.
"Levo!" he snarled. A fine example of the Swaledale breeding ewe whisked unexpectedly up off the road, from inches in
front of the van's radiator, and floated gently down (Draco caught a horrified glimpse in the rear view mirror) into the laps of a
party of twitchers who had their telescopes and binoculars out in a lay-by by the side of the road. They gazed in appalled disbelief
at the van.
"Oh my god," Draco moaned. "And to think I'm the one who's having trouble with the Ministry."
He put his head in his hands. The van swung rapidly onwards through Ribblesdale.
The thick dark red liquid drips slowly from the end of the funnel along the shallow line of the tube, each slow-forced
bubble running into its languorously moving fellows until they gather and pause on the tube's edge over the long drop. There,
imprisoned by surface tension, they wait, poised in exquisite uncertainty, until one final bubble adds its minute mass to the
others, and the whole succumbs to gravity's relentless urging, and tips, full-bodied, over the edge and down through the widemouthed hole in the dank limestone floor to-- who knows where?
Each drop that falls contains approximately half a teaspoonful of my heart's blood. I have measured out my life in coffee
spoons.
Every two drops, then, adds up to 5 millilitres. There are 568 millilitres in a pint. That equals two hundred and twenty
eight drops. One drop every six seconds. One pint, therefore, every 22 minutes and 43 seconds. There are between eight and
twelve pints of blood in the average human body.
I have been here two full days. Twice a day, for a full hour each time, I have watched immobile as my blood runs down the
tube, always at the same rate.
They have taken ten pints of my blood since they brought me here. Why am I still alive? And for what am I kept alive?
How long in this disintegration can the mind remain? My heart lies buried like a corpse. Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I gaze,
I see here only the black ruins of my life, where I have spent so many years, and ruined and wrecked myself.
~~~
The pub car-park, scarcely unreasonably given the hour of the day and the time of the year, which had driven the
ramblers off the moors and up on to the high fells, was almost deserted. As the van pulled up, and the three of them got out, a
solid black-robed figure emerged from behind the rough-hewn slate walls of the pub and regarded them steadily, arms akimbo.
"Ah, hello, Mrs. Longbottom," Martin said cheerfully but with a hint of underlying terror in his voice. Her gaze swept from
him to the van and back again.
"I hope you've replaced brake pads from when you lent that thing to Neville last," she observed trenchantly. Martin
shuddered.
"My god, you mean it was supposed to have brakes?" Draco muttered. Emily Longbottom looked at him and grimaced,
amiably.
"Think yourself lucky, young man. His grandfather, god rest him, now he was a driver. I'll not forget in a hurry that
holiday we spent riding thermals over the Dolomites on a Tinderblast Tandem Tourer. It was the year Harold MacMillan said
"You've never had it so good". Don't reckon he'd have said it if he'd just spent a fortnight on the back of that broom, mind you."
Draco seemed momentarily at a loss for words. She gave him an appraising look. "Anyway, I can't say I greatly care for
what you've done to your hair. Gives you a bit of a look of a red setter, to my mind. Daft dogs."
Draco opened his mouth to respond to this, but was forestalled. "Grandma," Neville said, "what are you doing here?"
She sniffed. "Waiting for you. From what Betsey told me, I was expecting you half an hour ago. Though I might have
guaranteed you'd wait till a bit closer to opening time, I suppose."
Mrs. Longbottom looked pointedly at the still-bolted pub doors. "By the way," she added, looking shrewdly at Draco, "your
mother will be meeting us at the Research Facility. Shortly, I daresay. I sent Betsey on to her after she'd finished telling me her
story. Fine doings!" She snorted. "Giving her clothes indeed. Little whippersnapper! I've had Altham & Bromley on the case since I
got out of St Mungo's. Oh, and they've been looking at that so-called order, too. Betsey told me about that. Load of nonsense!
They'll never make that one stick! Our Neville's as sane as I am. Though I will say it was thoughtful of you to get your chaps on
the job as well, I'll not deny it. Good firm, that one of yours. For Londoners, I mean. Eh, but it's a pity you aren't a lass: but then,
we don't get everything we'd like in this life, now, do we?"
"Thank you for your good wishes," Draco breathed expressively.
Neville swallowed, impatiently. "Well, shouldn't we be getting on?"
At this point there came a mighty sound of creaking and unbolting. Martin looked across the expanse of tarmac towards
the pub doors, and extended his arm, bent in a gentlemanlike manner.
"Mrs. Longbottom?" he enquired politely, "may I treat you to a port-and-lemon?"
Emily Longbottom swept an expressive gaze along the valley and all the hollow hills within her purview and sovereignty.
"Well," she said, "perhaps maybe you can. At that."
Draco and Neville exchanged glances.
"Grandma--" Neville began protestingly. His grandmother Looked at him.
"Well?" she enquired. "I can assure you that this isn't an expedition I'm planning to conduct under-strength. We certainly
need to wait long enough to be sure Draco's mother's going to be with us. In fact, I don't mind telling you, I'm not entirely happy
about going in there just with young Narcissa--"
"Yes, but--" Draco interjected.
Neville's grandmother looked at him, and said, "Well, obviously we'll make allowances. But--"
Her expression said it all. Draco gritted his teeth.
"Well, I suppose then we'll have to wait for my mother to get here. And I'm sure, before I go down some black hole in the
hill with god knows what of the Dark Lord's left over artillery at the bottom of it, a double whisky will be most welcome. Or three.
But don't think I think you're right about that, or ever have been. Ever. Or-- ever."
His cold grey glare blazed straight into hers. Momentarily, she was disconcerted: she fell back half a step. He smiled,
chillily. "Cheers."
The pub was dark: the blinds were down and there was a morning-after smell of stale cigarette smoke in the air. The bar
maid seemed half asleep, dozing over a copy of the Sun. Martin looked around and marched decisively towards the bar.
They had scarcely begun on their drinks when the door of the pub opened, letting in a thin shaft of sunlight. Both Neville
and Draco tensed, involuntarily, and reached for their wands as another robed figure made its appearance, silhouetted against the
light.
"Hello?" a hesitant, but reassuringly familiar voice said.
At the sound of Hermione's voice both Draco and Neville relaxed, their hands simultaneously moving away from wand
grips in a studiedly casual, Who-me?-never-worried-for-a-moment way. Draco caught Neville's eye and tried a hopeful grin:
Neville's expression remained bleakly unchanged. Draco bit his lip.
"Over here!" he called out, waving towards her. She nodded and made her way over. "And before you say anything we're
waiting for my mother," he added rapidly. "What can I get you? And how did you know where to find us?"
"House-elf," Hermione said cryptically. "Half of cider. Please."
He nodded, and vanished towards the bar. Martin beamed at her cheerfully. "I don't think we've met. Martin. Pendle and
Craven Cave Rescue. I expect you... er... know everyone else."
His eyes went questioningly to her robes. Answering the thought rather than the words, she said, "I did wonder, when
Betsey told me I should dress traditionally."
She cast a nervous glance at Mrs. Longbottom.
Mrs. Longbottom snorted. "Oh, what with all the real witches and wizards in these parts-- to say nothing of all those overexcitable Muggles who dress up and clog Barley main street every Hallowe'en, and the students from the University, I don't
suppose anyone would bat an eyelid s'what you decided to wear. But believe you me, where we're planning to go, traditional is
definitely best."
She got up and walked decisively over to the door, apparently to check something outside. Neville had drifted over to the
pool table, and was hitting the cue ball in apparently random patterns around the table. Martin smiled nervously at Hermione,
muttered something about the van, and vanished into the car park.
At this point Draco returned bearing her drink. He flopped onto the chair beside her, and she gave him a faintly
bewildered glance. "Don't take this the wrong way, Draco, but what is your hair doing that extraordinary colour?"
He sighed, exaggeratedly. "It's hair dye, Granger. It's something Muggles use. I'm surprised you need to ask. I'd have
expected you to know all about it."
She refused to rise to the bait.
"Anyway," she said brightly, "leaving that aside, I've got news for you. I've just got here from Wiltshire. I Apparated straight
up from the Manor."
"And?" Draco demanded. "How much of a home has the Ministry left me with?"
Hermione put her head on one side thoughtfully. "I wouldn't get too worried. Mrs. P. and your Great Uncle Roger have
been doing a fantastic job between them, and now your lawyers are on the case, too."
She noted the faintest possible slackening of tension in the clutch of his long fingers around his glass, but he simply
nodded. "Go on. I'm listening."
She leaned forwards. Her face was still glowing, and she could feel the adrenaline still surging around her system. Careful.
Don't waste that. I expect you'll be needing it later.
"Well, if you'll believe it the Ministry actually tried to stop our helicopter landing anywhere on the Manor grounds. Two
guys in robes absolutely galloped out to meet us as soon as we touched down in front of the house. They expected it to be all
Muggles on board, of course, and they certainly hadn't reckoned on there being an Ellenborough Jeffries Rich partner there. They
came on with wands out, spouting some guff about the place all being sealed up as a crime scene, and were obviously just itching
for a chance to Obliviate us and send us on our way. Anyway, I whipped out my wand, and they just froze--"
Draco grinned, but made no move which might check the pace of this breathless narrative.
"Which gave Tom's lawyer a chance to introduce himself, which he did, and then naturally he asked first thing to see what
evidence there was to suggest that a crime had even been committed. Well, their paperwork was all about you and only referred to
the Manor as "the suspect's residence". So then Tom's lawyer got really snooty with them and pointed out that we were on Nelcorp
land, and not in your residence at all, and their paperwork gave them no rights even to set foot on the Nelcorp side, and that so
far as he could see they'd just attempted to draw their wands on him to prevent him representing the best interests of his client,
contrary to some statute or other, and said he'd be recommending that Tom sue them for trespass and abuse of process and
unlawful entry and about forty other things and to ask for additional statutory damages into the bargain. Anyway, before he'd
finished they'd got intimidated and backed off to your side of the Manor."
She drew another breath, and continued. "Well, we'd barely touched down, when Mrs. P. came marching across to the
security gates and just looked at me -- you know, the way she can -- and said, 'I'm here to bring Mr Malfoy's compliments, and to
ask you on his behalf when is that thrice demmed black-arsed pettifogger going to bestir himself to drive off this canting mob of
lick-spittle Tyburn-visaged turnip-beetles from his great-nephew's land?' And Tom's lawyer didn't bat an eyelid, and said, 'Oh, I
suppose those would be Malfoy ancestral instructions, wouldn't they? My compliments to whichever Mr Malfoy that might be, and
please could you tell him that I am currently engaged in a meeting with another client, but that I will certainly inform the Malfoy
client partner of his request for our services at the earliest opportunity'."
"So what happened then?"
"It really was amazing," she reported. "Tom had evidently got his temper up -- he really does not like being pushed around
by bureaucrats, you can tell -- and he told his lawyer, fine, take as long as he wanted to get hold of someone to represent your
interests because he was damned if he wanted to face you later and say he'd stood by and done nothing to stop a pack of
government weasels crawl all over your house when you weren't around to watch out for yourself, even if you did have the
business morals of a Nevada whorehouse keeper-- oops, sorry--"
"I'm sure he intended it as a compliment," Draco said imperturbably. Hermione grinned.
"Well, I think he did, because he then added that anyway, if the son was anything like the father, murdering Dudley was
more in the nature of public garbage disposal than a crime, even if you'd done it, which he reckoned you wouldn't have done.
Anyway, I think Tom did get a bit alarmed when his lawyer said we'd have to get into your part of the Manor so he could use the
fireplace, and I was wondering how we were going to talk our way past the Ministry men who definitely would have grounds for
keeping us out of there, when Mrs. P. said that you and Narcissa had always trusted her to decide who could be let in when you
were away, and that she was inviting us in, and if we could wait ten minutes there wouldn't be any trouble with the Ministry. So
we trooped through a few minutes later and guess what?"
Draco waved a hand to encourage her to continue: evidently he felt ill advised speculation at this moment would be bad
policy.
"Well, we walked through the kitchen and there were three Ministry types out cold with their heads on the table around a
half-eaten Schwartzwalder Torte which looked absolutely scrummy--"
Draco hummed a musical phrase cheerfully. "Ah. Draught of Living Death, I expect. Undetectable flavour in chocolate." He
caught Hermione's eye on him and added, hurriedly, "As I recall Professor Snape telling us in Potions classes."
Hermione gave him the full benefit of her best steely glance. "Do you? I don't. And we did have Potions classes together,
remember."
"Ah? Then it must have been in background reading round the subject in the holidays. You know. And?"
Hermione sniffed, but Draco's face remained immobile under her gaze. She sighed. "Well, Mrs. P. herded us up to the
muniments room, where your Great Uncle Roger was doing his nut, and as soon as he saw Tom's lawyer he just hissed at him: 'A
traitor! That demmed jackeen shellfish has undone us all!' Anyway, when he could be calmed down a bit (Tom Patullo was
wonderful with him, by the way, even though he would keep trying to find out if your Great-Uncle had ever met Jefferson, and it
was obvious he didn't know, even though he did say a bit doubtfully that he thought a demmed Colonial with an amazingly fine
black-eyed demi-rep in tow who had borrowed 20 guineas off him in Paris in 1785 might have had some such name or other) he
told us that that still life in the breakfast room is a fake."
That rocked Draco forward in his chair. "What!"
Hermione nodded. "Yes. Goodness only knows where the original's gone. But that lobster's Gilt-Edge all right. It has been
all along."
She could see Draco rapidly calculating what, if anything, he might have said to anyone in the breakfast room over recent
months. Before he could agitate himself too badly she continued: "Anyway, once Tom's lawyer had got hold of the idea that
picture-napping and bugging had been happening big style in the Manor he got really excited, and called up someone who
obviously was the senior partner at Ellenborough Jeffries Rich and they had a massive confab on the hearth in the muniments
room, and the next thing I knew was that there were about three other lawyers in the room all looking unbelievably grim, and they
insisted on calling up the Deputy Under-Secretary at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on the spot and positively
demanding to know whether the warrant for your arrest had been based on the lobster's evidence or not. And the stupid man lost
his nerve -- actually, I'm not entirely sure I blame him, because your Great Uncle was pointing his rapier up his nostrils, and Tom
Patullo kept yelling 'Black Knights! Go! Go!' at unexpected moments -- anyway, he lost his nerve and said, 'Yes, of course, what
the hell else did they think they'd based it on?' And then the short tubby lawyer at the back revealed he'd been Pensieving himself
during the whole conversation and could reproduce every word, and would do if need be. So then your lawyers told the Deputy
Under-Secretary that they'd be applying to get the warrant set aside as based on inadmissible evidence and that once the criminal
proceedings were dismissed -- which they were sure they would be -- they reckoned there was going to be no answer to your
counter-suit against the Ministry for abuse of process, and that the damages would be enormous."
She paused for breath again. "Anyway, that was all building nicely when I realised someone was tapping me on the arm,
and I looked down and there was this House-elf I'd never met before telling me I had to get on a set of robes and come here now.
So I did."
Draco exhaled gently. "I see. Well, thanks for letting me know. Anyway, I think we're being called."
Indeed, Mrs. Longbottom was standing at the pub door, beckoning frantically. Draco shrugged, apologetically. "Sorry you
don't get to finish your drink. But I think that means ma's arrived and we're in for it."
They rose to their feet and headed for the door together.
The front entrance to Lord Voldemort's erstwhile research facility was a somewhat unimpressive fissure in the side of a
limestone cliff. Narcissa was awaiting the rest of the rescue mission in the shade of a clump of rowan trees a few hundred metres
away.
"Hello, darling," she greeted Draco. "I'm glad to see you managed to find Neville." She turned towards him. "Hello, Neville.
It's nice to see you looking so-- present."
Her brows knitted in puzzled concern as she took in his grey pallor and haunted eyes. Draco's eyes flashed her a warning.
Without missing a beat Narcissa favoured Draco with a cool, appraising glance, raised an eyebrow, and murmured, "And speaking
of looks, darling--"
"I think your hair suits you short," Draco interjected hurriedly. She grinned appreciatively, and dropped a bundle at his
feet.
"I've brought robes for both of you from the Manor. You'd better hurry up and get them on. Oh, and Draco, I picked up
one of your brooms for you from the broom shed -- it's one of the Nimbuses; I hope that's all right. From the state of the others, it
looked like the Ministry men had been playing dodgems on the Firebolts."
Draco said something pithy and heartfelt. His mother looked at him blandly. "Yes, I thought you might feel that way about
it. I... er... mentioned it to one of the lawyers who were hanging around the place. I thought they ought to get it into your damages
claim at the earliest opportunity. You know, I've never seen a member of that firm actually cry before, but when I told him they'd
actually managed to score 5 millimetre deep gouges all the way down the handle of a limited edition Firebolt Carrera Super-Turbo
I thought I was going to be drowned in the flood. Anyway, when I managed to get him mopped up, he told me to tell you that in his
personal and professional opinion Cruciatus was too good for them, and you should rest assured that he wouldn't have a
moment's peace until he'd nailed them to the floor. With rusty nails. Unless you thought screws would be more painful. Anyway,
once we've solved this one you should send him an owl with your full instructions."
She left him to reflect on this, and continued with the rest of her briefing. "Glad to see you managed to find some spare
robes, Hermione. I take it I only missed you at the Manor by a few minutes. Oh, and Draco, do you have any idea of who that
Muggle woman was, whom I found sitting in the kitchen surrounded by unconscious Ministry men, looking as though butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth, and swapping the most extraordinary sounding recipes with Mrs. P? I didn't want to interfere, but I
have to confess I'm certainly curious."
Without waiting for an answer, she pulled a roll of parchment from inside her robes. "Anyway, these are the latest plans I
could lay my hands on in a hurry. They won't be completely up-to-date, because there were certainly some Allied attempts to put
this place beyond operational use immediately after Recent Events--" She looked hopefully at Neville and Draco. Draco looked
regretful.
"Not our department, sorry. Dispensing did not have any dealings with Decommissioning. Hermione?"
Hermione shook her head. "Nor me neither. They stuck me doing necro-cryptography during the mopping up phase."
Mrs. Longbottom snorted. "Well, we had some bloody useless Ministry types up here allegedly on decommissioning just
after Recent Events, and I wouldn't have thought they'd have made any more impression on yon works than a stick of boiled
spaghetti on a rhinoceros's backside. They looked as if they'd have run a mile rather than even get this close to it. No, Narcissa,
love, I reckon those plans will probably be about right."
Narcissa bit her lip. "Well, that gives us some pros and some definite cons. Look, as you can see, there are three possible
entrances. That over there is the main one."
At this point Martin, who had been looking increasingly baffled and agitated, interrupted. "Look, er... I'm sorry... ah..."
"Call me Narcissa," she said, and smiled, dazzlingly. He blinked.
"Er, yes, well, Narcissa. My club has been over here plenty of times, and I can tell you all you find if you get beyond that
fissure will be a heap of fallen rocks. And any of the other entrances into the system that's rumoured to be under that fell, that
anyone's tried, either end in sumps too quickly to be of any interest, or are just too narrow to be practicable. It's a dangerous area,
too. We've lost one or two people around here, over the last couple of years--"
"You do surprise me," Draco observed. "Well, whatever else the Allied side managed to defuse, it looks as though the
Muggle repelling charms are still there in full force."
Narcissa nodded. "Yes. Well, the route in through the top of the limestone pavement up there, that's the one I'm sending
you, Mrs. Longbottom, and er--?"
She looked hopefully at Martin. He beamed at her. "Oh, I am sorry. Martin. Pendle and Craven Cave Rescue. I'm a friend
of Neville's."
"Ah? Cave rescue. How interesting. And have you rescued many caves in your time?"
He blinked again. She continued remorselessly on before he had time to get his ideas together. "Well, I take it you've got
all sorts of ropes and things, and those rather intriguingly shaped clanky metal bits in that van? Good. You'll need them. You'll be
going in through the top way. It's a bit narrow to ease your way in, I'm afraid, but then it widens out nicely just above the ravine.
Just before the cavern which contains the first of the... er... difficult bits. You'll be going in there with Draco -- that's why I
brought the broomstick, you see -- and... er... Mrs. Longbottom -- I thought that route would make the best use of your natural
talents, if you don't object."
Whether Mrs. Longbottom might have objected or not was never, in fact, revealed. She was seized by a sudden fit of
coughing, and Narcissa continued rapidly on with the deployment of her troops.
"Well, as stated, that in front of us is the main entrance. Neville and I will be going in through that."
Neville's faint squawk of protest, and his grandmother's rather more audible sceptical snort were both almost lost in
Narcissa's rapidly on-going exposition. "That, Hermione, leaves you a rather nasty place to tackle, I'm afraid. Effectively, it's
coming in from the left side of the hill, and just below the top: that is, here."
Her finger rested on the parchment just over a crabbed manuscript scribble: "Tradesmen's Entrance". Draco gave a
disapproving "huff".
"What sort of plonker goes and builds a Tradesmen's Entrance into a top secret facility?"
Narcissa looked blandly back at him. "One who was using your father as a consultant, evidently. Look at this, if you don't
believe me."
Her finger moved to point out "Wlk-in Humi'dr, disus'd." Draco shook his head, disgustedly. Having gained her point,
Narcissa continued. "As you can see, it isn't entirely straightforward, and I'm afraid you need to assume that the defences will all
be in working order, and you'll have to be on your guard the whole way. But I'm sure that you and Chris will be more than equal
to the challenge."
Draco gave his mother a speaking glance. "Chris? And who the hell might Chris be, when he's at home?"
"Me," said a deep voice just behind Draco's neck. He jumped, and spun on the spot. Chris grinned at him and extended a
hand. "Chris Camilleri. Prophet photographer."
Draco looked at the hand rather as he might have regarded an over-amorous cobra.
"Prophet Photographer? Did you by any chance take That--"
"NO." Chris's voice was, perhaps, a little over-emphatic. Plainly realizing this was a mistake, he attempted to amplify. "In
that photographer's place, I'd have used a polarizing filter to cut down the glare -- and, of course, shown your right profile instead.
I certainly agree with you about that."
Draco took the opportunity to glare at his mother. She smiled tightly back at him. Chris continued obliviously. "And then,
of course, I'd have thought of something to lose those trunks."
"Such as, for example, waiting five minutes?"
Neville's voice was both unexpected, and almost wholly uninterested. It took Chris a minute to get the point.
Unfortunately, Emily Longbottom got it at precisely the same moment. Her voice was high with horror.
"Neville Longbottom! You can't possibly mean that things with That Photograph were nearly even worse?"
Draco sounded almost unnaturally cheerful. "Well, only if you look at it from the standpoint of embarrassment rather
than aesthetics," he said. Mrs. Longbottom glared at him.
"And if you look at it from the standpoint of morality, young man?"
He smiled frostily back at her. "Oh, I leave that sort of thing to people like Neville's cousin Eustace. Not my area of
expertise at all, wouldn't you agree?"
Before open warfare could break out, Chris looked speculatively at Draco, and added "Photographically speaking, of
course, I'm not sure about your current hair colour--"
Before he had a chance to go further, Draco flipped from one pocket of his robes a beer mat, which he had evidently
purloined from the pub. "I. Died. It. DM" was written in neat capitals on one side. Chris grinned.
Narcissa said firmly: "Anyway, I don't know what you two have been using for wands so far, but if you've got your own
with you, you should use them. That's not a place where you should take risks with a borrowed one. And the thaumatulurgical
shielding on that place is strong enough to make any traces they might give off quite undetectable. Remember, all of you, by the
way, you should be able to Apparate within the facility, but not into it, so don't try it until you're absolutely sure you're into the
inner sanctum. Now, I suggest you three get yourself to the top of the cliff; and, Hermione, you might as well go with them; it's
only a short walk down from the top to where you and Chris need to get into the hill; wait until me and Neville have got ourselves
into position, and then you two groups need to get yourselves to your respective stations as fast as possible."
Her expression made argument unquestionable, even for Emily Longbottom. They heard, and obeyed.
Hermione caught hold of Draco's sleeve. Up on the warm limestone pavement the August sun bathed them in a gentle
glow, and the moorland birds sang on the soft breeze. Little oak trees sprung to knee high around them from crevices in the
barren rock. From far south of them there came a faint ragged echo reminiscent of artillery fire.
"What is wrong with Neville? He just looks -- awful. I asked him, and he just shrugged and said it wasn't anything, and he
didn't want to talk about it."
Draco looked at her. For a moment his eyes assumed a reptilian hauteur that she had not seen in them since schooldays.
It chilled her to the bone. "Well, in that case, why should I discuss it with you?" he enquired. She spread her hands in a rather
desperate gesture.
"It isn't nosiness. I'm worried. I'd like to help, if I can, but how can I help if I don't know what I'm doing?"
"Nice to know someone's got the brains to realise that." There was a slight crack in the hard mask of his expression. She
had a vague sense of something lost and helpless peeking out through it. She sank down onto a convenient edge of the limestone
pavement.
"Sit down," she ordered him briskly, patting the rock next to her with a commanding hand. He looked at her for a
moment, and then obeyed.
"Good. Look, Draco, why don't you stop pretending this has to be a one-man show any more? It isn't you playing a lone
hand against the Establishment. You've got a team with you this time. Support. Friends. People on your side. Why don't you try to
use them, rather than keep trying to struggle on alone?"
"Friends? I hadn't--" He paused, gulped, and resumed. "I'd assumed-- I thought-- that it was Neville who you saw as your
friend. Actually."
She smiled at him. "No. Both of you. Honestly."
"Oh." His voice had a note of genuine surprise in it. He rubbed his hands over his face, and yawned. "Sorry. And I'm the
one who actually had a decent night's sleep. Even if it was in the cellar of a pub in the company of a drunk, dead Roman
legionary. Who snored."
Hermione fixed him with a firm glare. "Stop trying to distract me," she ordered him. "Tell me about Neville."
There was a suspicion of relaxation about the lines of his mouth. "You want to watch that, you know," he said.
"Hm?"
Draco shrugged. "Plenty of people find it overwhelmingly attractive, having their thinking done for them. I... er... I've
noticed it quite a lot, in my life. If you go around being gratuitously decisive you could wake up one morning and discover yourself
at the head of an army."
She sighed, pointedly. "Well, it's obvious you won't be in it."
Draco's lips curved into an unmistakable smile this time. "Sorry," he said. "I've acquired this sort of allergy to having my
thinking done for me."
Hermione snorted. "Luckily for me. In all the circumstances, I don't believe it would be reasonable for me to start
complaining, don't you think?"
That caught him unawares. His face flamed, suddenly and unexpectedly. Hermione pressed home her advantage
unhesitatingly. "Tell me about Neville. Please."
Draco gave her a searching look. Evidently he accepted her sincerity, because he nodded. "OK. Well, I'm sorry to say he
fell into the hands of an objectionable bunch of bastards who seem to have got hold of a copy of the Dark Lord's Big Book of
Psychological Torture, and a nice quiet country house to practice in, and decided to set themselves up as an Institute. They
snatched him on Wednesday afternoon and I didn't manage to get to him until first thing this morning."
Under the determinedly light and flippant tone she could hear depths of guilt and pain which racked her. Unbidden, her
hand went to her mouth. "Oh my god," she breathed. "What did they--?"
Draco shook his head with decision. "Well, I'm not proposing to go into details. In the first place I don't know them all, and
in the second it isn't for me to say. If Neville ever wants to tell you, then that's his affair. But you should assume that I do know
what I'm talking about if I say I reckon it was about as bad as these things get. I-- I'm not sure it would have been Neville I'd have
found there if I'd been half a day later. And he's nowhere near all the way out yet."
She noted that his long fingers were systematically shredding the flowers from a small clump of heather that grew from a
crevice close to him. It gave the lie to his steady, coldly impersonal, tone. "From the odd remark he has made I get the impression
he thinks a 'proper Gryffindor' -- whatever kind of animal that's supposed to be -- would have done more to fight back. And
obviously I'm not the one who can convince him differently about that one. If you can do any better, then good luck."
She looked nervously at him. "What were they like -- the ones who were holding him?"
He thought for a moment. "Well, as you've probably guessed, I saw rather more of the Dark Lord during Recent Events
than most people. And I can tell you, as if you didn't know already, that meeting him was seriously scary. It wasn't so much
knowing that he could blast you into oblivion with one finger movement without a second thought, and was quite likely to do it
just because his coffee wasn't to his liking, or you coughed at the wrong moment. It wasn't even knowing that everyone around
him was so on edge that if he so much as looked at you as though he didn't care for you much you'd find yourself covered by at
least four wands all ready to do Avada Kedavra on you next second in the hope of buying themselves a bit of goodwill. No-- the
really scary thing about him was that sense that every breath you took in his presence you took by his permission. And that he
knew it. And you could see him, watching people, wondering what it would be interesting to get them to do next, just so they
continued to enjoy the benefit of that permission."
He paused, and rubbed his hands over his face, again. "That's the state those guys were looking for with their victims, I
think. Though they'd have called it something different, I daresay. But the thing that really struck me--"
Hermione leaned forward intently. Draco's brow was creased in a puzzled frown, as though he was still trying to work
things out, and then put them into words. "The thing that really struck me was that, all the time I was around to hear it, the Dark
Lord when he killed people, or tortured them, or got other people to do either, always did it because it amused him. Or they'd
annoyed him. Or they'd got in the way of his plans for world domination."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "In the whole of Recent Events I never, once, heard the Dark Lord tell any of his victims
that he was doing it for their own good. I had ten minutes with those bozos in that clinic, and it left me feeling like I needed a
bath. So-- if you do get a chance to have a word with Neville, you might try asking him what a proper Gryffindor is supposed to do,
when trapped for thirty-six hours -- without a wand -- by three people who compare with the Dark Lord -- seriously unfavourably
-- in terms of honesty and lack of hypocrisy."
He took another deep breath. "Perhaps your friend Potter might be able to offer some suggestions, too. If he can bring
himself to condescend to speak to Neville, which he doesn't seem able to at present."
Hermione devoutly hoped she had been able to stifle her sharp intake of breath in time. "And-- ah-- does Neville have any
idea what was behind it?"
Draco nodded. "Oh, yes. He's got this moronic cousin in the Ministry, who thinks that he'd be a better custodian of the
Longbottom loot whenever Mrs. Longbottom pops her clogs than a moral degenerate -- his words, I assure you -- like Neville.
Looks like dear Eustace decided to up the stakes a bit. And I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't at the back of my particular bunch
of problems, too -- I mean, the timing can't be coincidence, wouldn't you think? So, as soon as I've solved things here, I'm going
after Cousin Eustace and--"
"You aren't going to be doing anything to Eustace, young man."
Mrs. Longbottom's voice came from immediately behind them. Her approach had been so silent, and her care to avoid her
shadow falling over them so absolute, that Hermione jumped.
And I wonder how much of that conversation she's been overhearing?
Mrs. Longbottom favoured Draco, who glared resentfully at her, with a crocodile smile. She continued serenely. "At least,
you aren't going to be doing anything to him until I've had a chance to speak to him. I need to know whether he was working alone
or whether there was any other member of the family involved. I've always had my doubts about Algie, ever since that meringue
incident. And in any event, it's my place as Head of the Family to give Eustace a thorough talking to before anyone else gets in
there. But I've no objection to handing the re-- to your having a quiet word with Eustace and any of his co-conspirators after I've
finished with them. I can see that there might be other things it's certainly your place to-- discuss."
Draco's eyes glittered, and his lips curved up in an answering smile. Hermione gulped as a sudden pang of nausea
afflicted her.
"Anyway," Mrs. Longbottom said in a business-like way, "I came to tell you that young Narcissa says she and Neville are in
position. You and I and that young Martin should be on our way. And I expect that photographer will be here in a couple of
seconds -- he was just taking what he called a couple of 'atmospheric shots'. So, young lady, you two ought to be able to get to
your places on time, too. Good luck!"
She fixed Draco with a beady stare and they vanished towards the other end of the limestone pavement.
"Sorry to land you with the short straw," Neville muttered as he and Narcissa sidled in through the fissure and into a
rough-hewn, narrow rock passage. As they passed beyond the fragmented sunlight of the opening few metres, and into the pitchblackness beyond, both of them muttered ex Tenebris charms. Under the effects of the charm everything around them became
clearly visible, but as though illuminated by corpse-light.
Narcissa raised her eyebrows with infinite -- and heartbreakingly familiar -- expressiveness. "Hm?"
Why ask me to spell it out?
He plunged on. "You know. Having to put up with me because Grandma won't."
Her flawless Jersey-cream brow wrinkled with an endearingly puppyish air of puzzlement. "What a strange way of looking
at life. I mean, it would be equally true to say I put Draco with your grandmother because I didn't think it was fair to inflict him on
Chris at such an early stage in their acquaintance. Or because your grandmother is going to be unspeakably bossy with a young
witch, even worse than she is with a blood relative I shouldn't wonder. Or I could make some comment about water and ducks'
backs to explain why Draco is undoubtedly the right person to cope with her in her current mood."
Neville could hear his tone was dead flat, but it seemed too much effort to change it. "You're being very nice about it."
Narcissa eyed him narrowly; she was apparently thinking about saying something, and then changed her mind. "Well,"
she said briskly, "I've had my fair share of dealings with obstreperous elderly witches in my time. You should have seen what I got
landed with as a mother-in-law when I first married into the Malfoys."
Momentarily, Neville could almost feel himself becoming interested. 'You know, Draco's never mentioned his
grandmother."
Narcissa's expression suddenly became infinitely disdainful. There was a level on which that expression was too
immediate, too precious. Too familiar. "That's because she died shortly after he was born."
She paused for a moment, and then added: "While carrying out a job for the Dark Lord which-- ah-- did not go entirely as
she had planned."
Something about her choice of phrase caught his attention: the unbidden interested note in his voice deepened. He
screwed his courage up, and coughed.
"And did it go the way Lord Voldemort had planned?"
There was a sudden rumble deep within the stone passages around them and a small shower of rocks clattered down
abruptly from the ceiling of the passage, missing them by centimetres. Narcissa pursed her lips.
"Not exactly the sort of time or place to start breaking with tradition, you know, Neville, dear. Walls, as they say, have
ears. And even round here, one or two of them might still be alive. If you do have the need to mention... er, this laboratory's late
Chairman... again, I really recommend you should use the same form I do. And, if you hear any suspicious noises while you're
doing it, I'd suggest throwing in one or two gratuitously cheesy honorifics, too. Something like 'Master of mages, Ruler of the
Serpent' should do nicely. Personally, I always preferred: 'O destroyer of the malignant hippo', but, since you never actually met
Madam Malfoy, you're unlikely to manage the note of deep and unfakeable sincerity I could bring off whenever I used that
particular one."
There was a place very deep within him where laughter still existed, it seemed. It would have been so comforting to give it
expression, but it still seemed to be locked firmly down. No access. Instead, he said coldly, "And? You were saying?"
Narcissa looked momentarily distressed, but hid it rapidly. Her voice was level as she responded. "I was saying that you
don't have to apologise to me for anything. I chose you for this bit, not got stuck with you. As a matter of fact, if you looked at the
plans closely enough, you would have seen that this route goes directly through what used to be the main research staff quarters.
As this was never used as any sort of detention centre it doesn't have much by way of dungeons, and the most likely place where
they'll have put the hostages will be in the staff accommodation."
She swallowed, and passed her tongue over her lips. "And-- I'm sure you'll have worked out for yourself that there's a nonzero possibility that we could find them alive but-- not exactly intact."
He had not worked it out. Fool. You of all people. A dizzying kaleidoscope of horrific images spiralled through his brain. He
was conscious of Narcissa watching him with concern. Her voice, however, remained cool. "And, as you can appreciate, I didn't
fancy having to cope with that while simultaneously having to cope with Draco failing to cope."
His lips curled grimly as he pictured it. Involuntarily, he shuddered. Narcissa put a slender hand on his arm.
"Look, just because I'm not the most interventionist parent in the history of motherhood doesn't mean I haven't noticed
that you've been practically holding Draco together with your bare hands most of the time since Recent Events."
His voice was low. "That's hardly something I mind doing."
Narcissa smiled. "No, thank god. Oh, and as far as getting stuck with people goes, I have it on good authority that the
reason the allied commanders decided to pair Draco with you in Recent Events was that they had to do something with him, and
you were about the only person they could think of who they could actually rely on not to frag him. And I don't supposed it ever
occurred to him to apologise to you."
Reluctantly, painfully, but unstoppably, Neville's lips quirked into a smile at last. "Well, perhaps in his own fashion," he
murmured. There was a glint of answering amusement -- tinged, perhaps, with relief? -- in Narcissa's eyes. Then they rounded a
corner in the passage, and both, simultaneously, drew in their breaths sharply.
Blocking the way forward was a company of samurai warriors with drawn swords. Only, under their helmets -- there was
nothing, save for burning holes where the eyes ought to be.
Narcissa drew her wand.
"Oh, damn," she said conversationally, "Looks like some of the defences are still up and running."
The sound of the swords scything through the air as the warriors advanced was the only noise they made. They brought
the cold chill of the grave and a heavy stench of decay with them.
"What they never seem to bother to tell you in Defence Against the Dark Arts," Narcissa continued, "Is that these set-ups
are almost always some minor tweak on a very small number of basic situations. Inretio!"
A huge weighted fishing net dropped from nowhere over the warriors, who, hopelessly entangled in its folds, began
striking randomly out, tripping over each other, catching their swords and armour on each other, and becoming ever more
inextricably entangled. Narcissa regarded her handiwork thoughtfully for a moment, and then added "Evanescite!"
The entangled warriors melted away like snow on a griddle. She wiped her hands together with an air of satisfaction.
Muttering something which Neville could only partially hear, but which seemed to be a long riff extemporized on the theme of
"Master of the enduring cliché. Lord of the melodramatically nonsensical. Sovereign of the stupendously over-elaborate set piece."
Narcissa continued her advance down the rock passage, wand still out. Neville followed in her wake.
Martin's gasp of sheer delight when he realised that the crack in the limestone pavement, scarcely bigger than a fox-hole,
through which entry to the facility could be achieved debouched onto a nine inches wide ledge without standing headroom at the
top of a sheer cliff only confirmed Draco's private opinion that the man was several sandwiches and a wicker basket short of a
picnic. He immediately started immensely complicated preparations with vast quantities of gaudy Spectra ropes, muttering
excitably to himself. Draco and Mrs. Longbottom exchanged a glance.
"Well," Mrs. Longbottom said, "strikes me the best thing to do is for me to go down first on the broom, and then Banish it
back up to you when he's safely down. That way, I can cover us against anything coming out of the facility; you can guard our
rear, and if he does slip or anything one or other of us might be able to break his fall, somehow." She gave Martin another dubious
look. He was now chirruping cheerfully to himself, and humming little snatches of song. "Funny: I always knew he was a bit
peculiar -- all that lot from the Caving Club are -- but I never realised he was that daft. I'll have something to say to young Neville
about his insisting on bringing him along."
Before Draco could respond to this, Emily Longbottom had seized the Nimbus and launched herself over the cliff edge with
an agility that belied her years. A split second later there was a thunderclap, and the cliff was lit from top to bottom by a blaze as
of floodlights. There was a roar of sound, and suddenly the air was full of flying boulders, hailing themselves furiously upon her in
a frenzied attack from all directions. Emily gave vent to a bloodthirsty battle cry, and put the broom into a steep dive, pulling out
of it inches above the rocky floor at the base of the cliff, and swinging round and back up through the rock shower with the face of
an avenging fury, lashing out at her stony assailants with hands, feet, and wand. Draco, aiming blasts of magical energy from his
uncertain perch on the ledge, fired into the thick of them, splitting many to powder in mid air.
"Watch out!" he yelled, as one of the biggest managed by a deceptive side slip to elude his fire, and powered down on
Emily Longbottom from behind. She rolled, desperately, dangling below her broom from one hand and her crossed elastic-sided
ankle boots with the air of a manic grizzled tree-sloth. Then, with one frantic wrist movement, she blew the boulder out of the sky
with her wand at point-blank range.
That seemed to draw the teeth of the rock-storm. As suddenly as it had blown up it subsided. The light died away; the
pool cast by Martin's helmet-mounted cave lantern became a small island in a dark sea again. Draco, his eyes frantically trying to
regain their magical night vision again after their bedazzlement, found himself blinking across a couple of feet of empty space at
Mrs. Longbottom, who was hovering opposite the ledge on the broom, scraped and bruised, and with the glittering light of battle in
her eyes.
"You know, you'd have made a pretty impressive Beater," he said. She snorted.
"What do you mean, would have made? I'll have you know, young man, that I played Beater on the team that won the
House Quidditch Cup five years running. The team whose Keeper kept a clean sheet for over half their games and which didn't
lose a match during its last two seasons together. I don't suppose you've ever experienced anything like it."
Draco shook his head, fascinated. "Nope. Our team never even came close."
She smiled. "Well, they tell me it's still the Hogwarts record. They used to have the photograph of our team, the last game
we all played together, over the mantelpiece in the common room. Unless they've gone and got rid of it out of some asinine notion
of interior decoration, I daresay you'll have seen it often enough."
Draco's lips parted in surprise. "Good heavens." He looked at her narrowly. "Emily Chattox. Well, well, well. I must say,
it'd never have occurred to me that that was you."
Mrs. Longbottom's grin got wider and more saurian. "No. Well, I'll admit eight-five years does make a bit of a difference."
"So does chopping off about four feet of hair, and not having two black eyes and a bloody nose," Draco breathed
appreciatively. "That must have been quite some game."
"It was. We'd just handed the Gryffindors the stuffing of a life-time, and I didn't think life could get any better." She
paused, reflectively. "Maybe I was right." She drew a deep and decisive breath. "Anyway, I can't sit here chatting all day. In the
circumstances, I think perhaps we'd better hurry up and get in there sooner rather than later."
Draco nodded. Martin, he could see out of the corner of his eye, had finished his preparations and was about to lower
himself over the edge. "OK. See you at the bottom."
The green fog curled, ominously, round the bend of the narrow stone passage way. Hermione looked back behind them,
but the curtain of flame that had sprung up to cut off their retreat before they had gone twenty yards down through the
Tradesmen's entrance was still blazing. It was all too obvious that the only way to go was forwards.
Chris looked grimly at her. "Get behind me," he ordered.
Hermione could feel her face set, mulishly. "Don't order me about--"
"Do it," he snapped. "It's only wide enough for one of us to go at once, anyway."
"But--"
"I'm not doing it because you're a witch and I'm a wizard. Or because I'm old enough to be your father," he added rapidly.
"I'm doing it because if whatever it is it gets me, you've more chance of thinking up something to get us both out of it than vice
versa."
"That just sounds like rationalising your instincts to me--"
"Anyway," he interrupted, his teeth flashing in the sudden ghost of a grin, "if one of us does have to inhale that muck, my
lungs are probably past praying for, anyway."
He caught her by the shoulders and thrust her behind him while she was still thinking about that one. He advanced
boldly, wand out, into the green fog.
"Aargh!"
The shriek made her jump five metres back. Chris clutched passionately at his face. "Oh my god, my eyes, my eyes. Oh
god, ex Tenebris, ex Tenebris -- Oh god, it isn't working. Oh, fuck, Hermione, that stuff blinds you -- I won't be able to take
photographs -- ever again--"
He reeled back against her, hard. The smell of the fog was caught in his hair and on his robes: Hermione could smell its
acrid scent. Something familiar; something she'd read-"No, Chris," she yelled, grabbing him by the shoulders, and shaking hard. "This thing isn't affecting your eyes. Not your
eyes. It's in your mind-- think Room 101--"
Then the green fog rolled over her too, and she lost contact with him. The only sound audible was a terrified whimper. She
realised it was her own voice.
"Hermione?"
She looked vaguely around. The light was cold and greenish, slightly misty. There was no one else there, except the man
who had spoken. He was crouching back against the wall, clutching the bag, which swung from his shoulders, close against his
chest.
"Who?" she asked dully.
"Hermione? Talk to me."
Her hand went to her lips. "Is that-- is that me?"
A hand reached out, groping for hers. It occurred to her, dully, that the man could not see her. She stretched out her own hand
and touched his. It grasped hers, firmly. His other hand brushed quickly over her features, orienting him as to where she was
standing, which way she was facing.
"Hermione: don't you know your name?"
One should, of course, know one's own name. And words for things -- things should have names. It was wrong for things not
to have names. I always know things' names. She shook her head, dumbly, then a deeply buried bit of her brain told her that that
was foolish. The man could not see her. She spoke, hesitantly.
"I-- can't remember. Anything."
On that recognition the fear came. She crouched back against the wall and sobbed, a huge raw sound coming up out of
the depths of her heart and lungs. The man came close to her and put an arm round her shoulders.
"Hermione. I know who you are. We have to go on. You'll have to show me the way, though. You said 'Room 101' didn't
you?"
"Did I? When? What does that mean?"
Had there ever been a place before this nightmare? She chewed on her knuckles. His hand passed over her face again,
gently. Can I trust him? Was it him who did this to me?
He seemed to understand what she was thinking. "It means that what happened to you is your worst fear. Amnesia for
you. Blindness for me. It was very clever of you to work it out so quickly. Well-- remembered."
His voice twisted as if in pain. She nodded sadly. "I can't remember anything."
"No. But you can tell me what you see. And I can remember for you. Trust me: I'll tell you what it means."
He took her hand and ran it over his face. "Chris," he said earnestly to her. "I'm Chris. And you're Hermione. Look, we
need to go on. What's in front of us? I can feel the sides of the passage, and then it suddenly widens out. What's after that?"
She peered forward. "Things come to a stop."
She looked at him, and pressed down lightly on his shoulder, pushing him gently to his knees. Then, she guided his
hands forward. She could see him grope out, cautiously, until his gently questing fingers reached the jagged edge in front of them.
Once she was aware he had felt all along it for as far as he could reach in either direction, she took his hand forward into the
space over the abyss, and wiggled it around it the air, in the hope this would give him the right idea. On an inspiration, she also
picked up a small loose piece of the stuff they were crawling on, and wrapped his fingers around it. He felt it, recognising it, and
then, carefully, she unwrapped his fingers, deliberately letting it fall. It bounced off the raw rock sides below them, but its ultimate
landing was too far below them to be audible. He breathed in, raggedly. She continued, nervously.
"That's what it's like, mostly. But-- there's-- there's a thing. Across-- across?-- it. But it's got-- no things that you can feel,
either side."
He exhaled, gently. His voice was very patient. "Tell me about the thing."
How to say anything about anything when the words have gone?
She looked at him, and then said: "Stay there a moment."
She crawled along the rock edge, and came back to him, her hands held a cautious distance apart. "Feel". She guided him
to feel the gap between her hands, spacing it out on his arm when she thought he wasn't getting it.
"That much. That's the thing's--" she hesitated. "That's the thing's apartness. You know--"
She put both hands either side of his waist. "That way round. Not--"
She touched his head and feet quickly, in succession. He nodded to show he'd understood. "And that way? How big is the
thing that way?"
She hummed, doubtfully. She ran her hand down from his head to his foot, and then did it again. "That much. Or
perhaps a bit more."
"And what's it made of?"
That was easy. She pulled his hand down gently and touched it to the floor of the passage.
"That."
"Good. A rock bridge, then. Over a crevasse."
Rock. Bridge. Crevasse. She drank in vocabulary like a thirsty wanderer in the desert.
"Yes."
"Hermione, take us across the bridge. Please."
She guided him carefully to it, making him kneel down again. "There."
His fingers reached out, feeling either side of the bridge. "Yes."
"Follow me."
She gave him her hand and stepped onto the narrow band of rock. Below them-- it was not a good idea to look below. His
posture was half crouching, one hand in continuous contact with the edge of the bridge, the other gripped tightly around hers, his
feet shuffling rapidly forwards behind hers. It seemed a very long time until they were on the other side.
They had not taken two steps off the bridge before her vision suddenly cleared. Hermione spun on the spot, looking back
across the crevasse to the green murk, which still lingered on the farther side. Her knees shook under her: she was not sure
whether it was with postponed terror, or inconceivable relief. Besides her Chris coughed, and blinked, looking up at her from the
rock onto which he had sunk.
"Hermione?"
"Yes?"
He grinned at her, shakily. "I don't give a flying fuck what you say about it, but I'm bloody well going to have a cigarette.
Now."
He pulled out the Gauloises before she could respond, and lit one with a trembling hand. Hermione looked back across
the bridge again, and shuddered profoundly.
"Chris?" she said in a small voice.
"Hm?"
"Is it... er... true that nicotine calms the nerves?"
He looked up at her with a deeply shocked expression on his face.
"Hermione!"
She made a face at him. "Well, it's not as if I was planning to make a habit of it. And you'd better not tell anyone, either.
But in the circumstances--"
Silently he lit another Gauloise and passed it to her. She inhaled, inexpertly, and coughed. She could see him laughing up
at her through the haze of smoke and her watering eyes. She grinned shyly back. And then started spluttering helplessly again.
~~~
Intended as guidance for the wise, not the obedience of fools: Northern Caves
For the first time Melanie's thoughts became muddled, swirled in patterns, refused to stabilise even when she tried to fix
them, fiercely, upon the metronymic regularity of the drips from the end of the pipe to the hole in the floor. That had never failed
her before. Her vision became blurred. The temperature, too -- someone must be doing things to the central heating. It swung,
bizarrely, from tropical to arctic and back again. She ought to get up and stop them doing it. It must be so hard on the dogs, poor
things, in their furry coats. Someone should tell the person in charge of the central heating that it was distressing the dogs.
"The hare, in spite of fur, was very cold." she muttered.
"What?"
She cowered back against the bed at the sound of another voice, even though it was not one of those she recognised as
belonging to her captors. Its owner appeared within her field of vision, and bent over her. A woman: sculptured cheek-bones
making her face an artist's dream of planes and angles. Short pale blond hair forming a fitting frame for the sheer elegance of her
features: long white robes falling in classic folds to the floor.
An angel.
Well, I told them I couldn't go on losing that much blood indefinitely.
There was a perverse sense of satisfaction about the thought: as though the suspension of natural laws on her behalf had
been troubling her for too long, and the resumption of the proper order brought her mind into much-needed balance.
The angel bent down out of her direct line of sight, apparently looking at something at the side of the bed. Whatever she
spotted there was evidently not to the angel's liking: in a beautifully modulated voice she gave expression to a startling torrent of
language, which caused Melanie to raise her eyebrows. Heaven's standards on such matters, it seemed, were significantly laxer
than her mother's.
"You'd better take the blood drain out now," the angel reported across her body to someone unseen. "They've been putting
the potion into her other arm. And they've either been remarkably stingy with it or they've been drawing one hell of a lot of blood
out of her."
"Eleven and a half pints since Wednesday lunchtime," Melanie said helpfully. Clearly angels had to fill in forms like
everyone else, and it was up to her to co-operate with the admission formalities so far as lay in her power. And then, because she
valued accuracy and presumed that angels must do, also -- otherwise, why all that fuss about the pinheads? -- she added, "That's
a bit approximate, I'm afraid. I think I slightly lost count just now."
Immensely long fingers rested for a moment on her wrist, as though feeling for a pulse, which seemed odd.
"I'm not surprised. Now, don't try and sit up for a bit, you'll only faint."
Melanie struggled to raise her head a little, and the angel-woman put one palm on her forehead and pushed her firmly
back down on the bed. "Faint? I-- I assumed I was dead."
"Well, don't sound so disappointed," the angel-woman said. "It makes your rescuers feel all unwanted."
"Narcissa!"
There was a warm, deep, furry, blissfully familiar Lancashire accent coming from behind her head. It continued: "She's
only a bit confused. Don't hassle her."
"Neville?" She pushed herself successfully up on one elbow, that time, and then gasped as her vision clouded rapidly over.
She felt strong arms round her shoulders, and dissolved into a fit of hiccupping sobs against his chest.
"I'm s-sorry to be s-so girly," she spluttered pathetically, noting with concern that even Marvolo and Riddle in their most
dribblesome moments would have been hard put to make such a mess of the front of his robes in such a short time. He pulled a
handkerchief from one pocket and mopped her up firmly.
"You aren't being girly. Howl all you want to. Have a good scream if it makes you feel better. Have several. Throw objects
violently at the ceiling. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. You're perfectly entitled. If it makes you feel better, just do it."
"What remarkably sensible advice," the angel-woman said from somewhere besides the bed. "I should take it on board, if I
were you."
There was an unexplained edge to her voice. Neville, clearly, had heard her and was deliberately not responding: his arms
around Melanie's shoulders were suddenly tense. The angel-woman came into view again, and shrugged.
"Anyway, I could do you a Cheering Charm if it might help. It won't make you any less light-headed, but, with any luck, it
should at least make you feel that you got that way due to tobogganing nude down the Cresta Run while licking Dom Perignon off
the chest of the Irish Seeker."
Melanie momentarily floundered in bewilderment before she understood. Her remaining blood rushed, hotly, up into her
cheeks, and the woman -- definitely no angel -- grinned impishly down at her confusion. Realisation hit her in a flood.
"You-- you're Draco's mother, aren't you?"
Both her rescuers exchanged quick grins. The tense atmosphere she had detected suddenly relaxed.
"I would hate to ask you to explain the thought processes that got you to that conclusion at that precise moment," the
blonde woman drawled. "You're perfectly right, of course. Narcissa deVries. At your service."
At this point there was a sudden sound of howling and scraping at the door. Both her rescuers spun round, wands
instantly out.
"Oh, not another one," Neville hissed. "The defences to this place are really getting on my nerves. What with rotting
samurai and fake cave trolls--"
"To say nothing of those rather bizarre pig shaped things with trunks, that you niftily dropped the Sneezing Hex on,"
Narcissa added. Neville nodded.
"All I can think about those things is the staff here must have designed them after watching illicit Muggle sci-fi videos
while doing some seriously strange potions."
The scraping sound had now been amplified with snuffling.
Narcissa looked dubiously at the door. "I do hope it isn't a Tebo. I've never been good at Tebos."
They both regarded the door intently, knuckles white on wand grips.
"Er, Neville?" Melanie said hesitantly. "I expect it's one of the dogs. They... ah... were kidnapped when we were -- actually,
I think they were used to bait the trap -- and I've been trying to look after them. They both rushed out when the... kidnappers...
opened the door to bring me here -- no wonder, poor things, with no one taking them for runs at all -- and that does sound like a
dog. Honestly."
Somewhat shamefacedly, Neville and Narcissa exchanged glances and then, very cautiously, Neville opened the door.
Marvolo bounded in, realised with delight that several of his family pets were gathered there, and leapt up to greet them, barking
ecstatically.
"Wonderful," Narcissa sighed. "So much for the idea of a surgical strike with pinpoint security. And we brought the dog,
too."
"Speaking of surgery," Melanie said, suddenly realising that the clouds were beginning to lift from her vision and that she
was, indeed, feeling a good deal better, "Why aren't I dead? I should be drained of blood, by now."
Narcissa patted her arm reassuringly. "Whoever's doing this has been putting a potion into you -- actually, we're letting
the rest of the dose filter into you now, so don't move your left arm too energetically until it's finished -- to speed up the body's
ability to replace blood loss by about five-fold." Narcissa looked disapprovingly at Melanie's right arm. "Which means, if your
numbers are right, that they've still left you quite seriously anaemic. Don't... um... panic too much if you've got less blood around
than you might otherwise expect for the next few weeks. And do make sure you eat properly -- have they been feeding you, by the
way?"
Melanie shuddered involuntarily. Food was not a happy memory of the last two days.
"Well-- there's been food. Steak. Liver. Black puddings. That sort of thing. Not... er... anything I actually eat. And I simply couldn't
make them understand that I'm a vegetarian--"
Narcissa raised an eyebrow. "No. Well, you don't actually get wizarding vegetarians. It'd be too complicated, what with--"
Her eyes dropped down to Melanie's left side, and she seemed momentarily distracted.
"--One thing and another," she concluded. "You know, I think that stuff's just about finished going into you. Well, promise
me you'll eat sensibly for the next few days, won't you? Vegetarian or not. Plenty of iron. Make sure you eat your spinach -- god,
and there's something I haven't heard myself saying for about ten years or so --"
The deeply worried expression, which Melanie had begun to notice on Neville's face, lightened suddenly. "I can't believe
you ever got Draco to eat vegetables," he said.
Narcissa's answering smile lit her eyes. "Ah, well, one of the unsung benefits of bringing up a kid in a Death Eater
household is that the threat "Do as I say, or I'll tell your father and he'll make you," does have some real authority."
He snorted with sudden, inexplicable, laughter. Melanie decided that there was no point in asking for an explanation: not,
at any rate, with so many other things in pressing need of elucidation. "But what did they want all that blood for?" she demanded.
"I mean, it wasn't just me, it's been Dudley, too--"
Try as she might, her voice shook a little as she said his name. She caught Neville's concerned glance and set her lips
firmly together to stop them trembling.
"Er... who are they?" he asked. She shook her head.
"I'd never seen either of them before. And they wore masks, most of the time. Only they were getting much more careless,
today, about that--"
She shuddered. She had read enough thrillers to know that it was not a good sign when the kidnappers allowed you to see
their faces.
"But old, young, male, female?"
"Two women. One a good bit older than the other, I'd say. And the older one-- she talks to herself."
Narcissa looked at her in a baffled way. "You mean, muttering? But that could be spell casting, you know."
Melanie shook her head. "No. They've got very different voices. The older one's a Londoner, I think. The young one -- she
sounds a bit Sloaney. But I've heard them through the door here -- and outside the place where they've been holding us -- and the
older one has long conversations with herself. Answering herself, and everything. It's seriously creepy." She shuddered, and
changed the subject to one, which if not less gruesome, was at least closer at hand. "You know, that blood collection can't be for
medical purposes -- I mean, look how unhygienically they've been collecting the stuff--"
She turned to gesture towards the hole in the floor and drew in her breath with a sudden half-amused, half horrified gasp.
At the sound Neville spun on his heel, and with two strides crossed the room to drag Marvolo firmly by his scruff away from his
fascinated exploration of the vicinity.
Neville's expression as he looked down at her was truly appalled. "Melanie, I do apologise for our ghastly dog. I mean, I
know he had a disturbed puppy-hood, but that just doesn't excuse--"
He gestured apologetically at Marvolo's exuberantly blood-drenched muzzle and paws. Unconcerned by official
disapproval, the spaniel sat down on the floor, and began licking the gore off, thoroughly and appreciatively. Neville batted at him
rather ineffectually with his hands. Melanie gave a weak, faintly hysterical giggle.
"Oh, leave him alone. I'm sure he's making better use of my blood than they are. Whatever they're doing with it. Golly, do
you suppose they're keeping vampires in the cellar?"
"Possible. But I doubt it. " Neville set his lips in a narrow line. "Well, on the whole, I'd still rather not explain to the
Ministry what one of the Manor dogs is doing up to its eyebrows in human blood, if it's all the same to you. Not this week, at any
rate. Stop it, you awful creature. I'm sure you haven't starved for two days because you had scruples about eating black
puddings."
"Well, not the ones he got to first, anyway," Melanie murmured.
"Engineering," Narcissa said crisply and unexpectedly. Both of them looked at her. Marvolo took the opportunity while
Neville was distracted to sidle unobtrusively back to the blood-hole.
"Eh?"
"In occult engineering, blood is--" she snapped her fingers "--the approximate equivalent of lubricating oil."
"But it'd clot, and seize the works--" Melanie began. Narcissa looked at her.
"I didn't say it was an exact replacement," she said patiently. "Just that it fulfils the same function. Anyway, you enchant
it not to clot. And... er... in really Dark engineering you can use it to kick-start certain sorts of processes. Well, actually, that's true
in most occult engineering--"
Neville gave her an intensely sceptical look. "Then what's the difference between Dark and legit applications?"
She blushed. "Well, whether it's the engineer's own blood or-- someone else's, actually. Although... ah... even in very
respectable occult engineering workshops the apprentices have always been traditionally seen as something of a grey area. But
certainly what's been going on here is about as Dark as it gets. Especially since I expect they were banking on topping their
collection up with an extra six pints or so from each of you by using the Iugulare Curse when they finally decided to kill you."
Suddenly the reek of blood from the corner became oppressive. Melanie choked, suddenly, and almost threw up. Neville
looked reproachfully across at Narcissa. "I do wish, sometimes, pureblood witches and wizards could work out that there are some
Muggles who've had the benefit of a classical education," he snapped. "And it is her blood you're talking about."
"Yes." Narcissa looked puzzled. "And that's another thing. I can see why they -- whoever they are -- might be interested in
Dudley's blood. Given his connections. But I can't see -- sorry, this isn't intended as an insult, Melanie -- why they'd be so
interested in yours. Unless you've got magical ancestry you haven't been telling us about? Or at least, that they think you have?"
"No." Melanie was quite definite about that.
"No strange family members no-one talks about any more?" Neville prompted.
Melanie shrugged. "Well, all families have those, don't they? And-- as a matter of fact, I don't actually remember my father
at all."
Both Neville and Narcissa looked hopeful, and then appeared to have mentally decided to substitute "Tactfully Interested"
for "Hopeful" at the same moment. She suppressed a giggle at their contorted expressions. She shook her head.
"Sorry to disappoint you," she said. "My mother told me he ran off with the barmaid from the Dog and Duck when I was
about one. I really don't think there was any magic involved. And believe me, if she'd thought there had been any sort of funny
business, I'm sure my mother would have mentioned it."
Narcissa assumed a thoughtful expression. "Well, that looks bad, then."
"Hm?"
"I really do not like the idea of these characters going around collecting random samples of blood in huge quantities. It-somehow doesn't suggest that precision engineering is what they have in mind. We'd better get moving."
Reluctantly Melanie swung herself off the bed and to the floor. Her legs were weak, but she could stand, just. Neville
looked at her with concern and offered her an arm.
"Sure you can manage?"
She gritted her teeth. "I've got to, haven't I? I'm not having my blood used for black magic without so much as trying to
stop them."
Neville patted her shoulder. There was something unreadable in his expression. "Good girl. You have got guts, you know."
She cast an eye around the room, and wrinkled her nose. "Even if they do look as though they're mostly littering the floor
at the moment."
"That's what I mean. That's-- impressive-- after two days in... um... effectively the condemned cell. Believe me."
His smile was too evidently a self-conscious effort to warm her. It failed: she shivered suddenly.
Ah, yes. The condemned cell. If you have to be there, always try to be the condemned man. There are, believe me, much
worse things to be.
Such as, say, for instance, the whore d'oeuvres before the hearty breakfast.
She moved onwards into the facility with a set expression, which acknowledged nothing and conceded nothing.
"Alohomora," Hermione muttered. The door stayed obstinately shut.
"Stands to reason, I suppose, that they've put some added security on it, " Chris sighed. "The way that charm's been overused, it practically stopped being worth locking doors at all during Recent Events. We'd better go for something more drastic.
Stand back."
He raised his own wand.
"Vasto."
The door crumbled into dust before him. At the far end of the room the prisoner turned round as they entered, and dived
to the floor in an apparent attempt to hide under the bed.
"Er, Dudley?"
Hermione addressed his protruding backside as the only part visible. He gibbered something inaudible. She sighed, and
spoke slowly and clearly.
"Dudley, don't be afraid. We're here to rescue you. I'm a friend of Harry's."
His eyes blinking suspiciously, he emerged slowly and looked at them both.
"About bloody time," Dudley snarled. "I suppose Harry told you there was no need to hurry. He would."
Chris fell back half a pace. Hermione took in the general scene of disorder in what she suspected would, in the palmy
days of the research facility's prosperity, have once been a decent, if Spartan, studio flat for a senior research director, and started
unobtrusively performing a few housekeeping charms.
"You've no idea the awful things they've been doing to me," Dudley ranted on. "And I've been practically starved, too. And
you obviously just decided to take your time about getting here."
Camilleri unslung his camera bag. "If you could just keep that look of defiant desperation," he said briskly "Our readers
will like it. Yes, curl your lip just a bit more. Perfect."
Dudley glared at him. "What readers?"
Camilleri took a few shots before answering. "Daily Prophet. Britain's largest circulation wizarding newspaper. Now, this
isn't usually my department, but as I don't have anyone else to do it for me, I'll just have to manage solo. What would you say kept
you going during your ordeal?"
Dudley folded his arms. "I'm not telling you anything which'll be read by those perverts and weirdos. I want to get out of
here, and I want to go now. So there."
"'My one ambition is to be reunited with my family,'" Chris translated rapidly, pulling out a small parchment block and
scribbling on it. Hermione giggled, earning herself another black look from Dudley.
"Chris!" she protested weakly. "Don't you think we'd better try and find Melanie, to say nothing of whoever did the
kidnapping, before sitting down to get the exclusive interviews?"
Chris looked at her in a faintly baffled way. "Hermione, has it ever occurred to you to reassess your priorities? This is an
historic event. Here I am -- a journalist -- and I'm actually making news."
"As opposed, say, to making it up, as you usually do?"
His expression was so unexpectedly hurt that she patted him on the arm, and said relentingly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean
that personally. It's just-- well, I haven't had the pleasantest time at the hands of one or two of your colleagues, you know. It's left
me a bit sensitive about the Prophet."
His sudden grin was understanding. "I take it you mean our Rita?"
She nodded. Dudley seemed to be cogitating; his mouth hung open momentarily, and he rotated the end of his little finger
in his left ear. Then he said slowly: "Funny, that's not a name you hear much these days. I expect people have realised how
common it sounds. But that's what she's called, too."
Both of them turned to look at him. Chris, true to his training, got the question out first. "Who's she?"
Dudley looked surprised. "One of those hags who've been holding me prisoner, of course. The younger one called her Rita
accidentally this morning, and I thought she was going to be turned into a frog right in front of me. You people are all mad.
Something ought to be done. If I had my way, you should be stamped out."
He maundered on, unstoppable and unheard. Meanwhile, Chris and Hermione were looking at each other in sheer horror.
Hermione gave that horror voice. "Rita? Here?"
"She has had remarkable strokes of luck getting breaks on this story," Chris muttered to himself, his face ashy. "Uncanny,
I thought so at the time."
Hermione, scarcely less pale, gazed back at him. "Making news, not making it up?"
As one, they turned towards the door. Then Chris, recollecting something, turned back. "Come with us," he ordered
Dudley. "It isn't safe for you to be wandering around alone. In fact, the way things are going, I don't think it's safe for me to be
wandering around alone. By the way, if anything leaps out and start firing hexes at us, the safest place for you to stand will be
between me, and whatever it is. I know it sounds counter-intuitive, but that's magic for you."
Dudley was still whining unstoppably in the rear of the party as they left the flat and advanced into the bowels of the
facility.
At the bottom of the cliff the cave system opened out into a boulder-strewn space which formed the antechamber to a vast
cavern, reached through an archway the size of a cathedral door, which was crammed with stalactites and stalagmites of all sizes,
columns of limestone twisted into fantastic shapes and rippling sheets of multi-coloured frozen rock. Even the water dripping from
the ceiling gave out pure musical notes as the drips landed on the exquisite limestone sculptures below. Martin sighed
appreciatively.
"Wow," he breathed appreciatively, "the boys from the Club will never believe their eyes when I bring them here."
Draco deliberately and slowly swept him with a look of sheer disbelief.
"As I think I recall telling you till I was blue in the face, this is a back way in to the Dark Lord's top secret underground
research facility. It should be regarded as strictly a once in a lifetime experience, even in the lifetimes of very unfortunate people. It
is not -- repeat not -- a suitable location for any sort of caving club jaunt whatsoever."
"But just look at those stalactites!"
Gesturing enthusiastically, Martin stepped under the arch into the second cavern. The stalactite which hurled itself out of
nowhere like a javelin missed impaling him by inches, and shattered into millions of tiny spars on the rock floor behind him. He
leapt back into the antechamber. Draco felt he deserved a medal for not allowing the words "I told you so" to pass his lips. Mrs.
Longbottom gave a knowing snort. Martin stared in appalled disbelief through the archway.
"Using a stalactite as a weapon? Did this Dark Lord guy have any idea -- any idea at all -- how many hundreds of years it
takes to form one of that size? Hooligan! Vandal! Philistine!"
Draco exhaled. "Yes. As I told you. Seriously evil guy. Not eco-friendly at all. Didn't care one iota how much mess he made
of the environment if it advanced his plans for world domination. Got that, right? Good."
"Well, that is a bit of a facer and no mistake," Mrs. Longbottom observed, looking across into the second cavern. "I mean,
you can see how the passage continues on, but getting past them stalagmites will be a bugger if they all start doing that at us.
Now, Draco, Neville tells me you used to be quite a useful Seeker. D'you reckon if you get on your broom and zigzag like a bat out
of hell across that cavern you can work out how to stop them doing that, from the other side, if you do manage to get through? "
Draco opened his mouth, but Martin got in quicker. "Mrs. Longbottom!" He protested, "that's completely unthinkable."
"You can say that again," Draco said. "I might be a bit unclear about my long-term life ambitions, but I can assure you
"pincushion" has never been one of them."
"And think of the wanton destruction of a unique underground environment that would result from any attempt to do
that," Martin added earnestly. "It would be wholly unjustifiable, even if by some freak chance he survived."
Draco glared at him. Martin chuntered obliviously on. "There must be a way round; give me a few minutes."
Draco and Mrs. Longbottom exchanged glances. Without heeding them, Martin started scouting hopefully around the
antechamber, tapping, listening to and even, Draco thought, sniffing its limestone walls. In a very few minutes they heard his
whoop of triumph. He gestured enthusiastically at an unobtrusive opening at least 70 centimetres high by 60 centimetres wide,
which was about two and a half metres above them in the rock wall nearest the archway.
"I wouldn't be at all surprised if that wasn't the start of a perfectly plausible alternative route through. And, of course, as
the passage will have been unexplored before we go through it, I might even get it named after me in the next edition of Northern
Caves when I've written the note for this one up. Think of that."
"Hm. Of course, if it turns into a cul-de-sac that's too narrow to back out of, then they can always call it Daft Git's End,
instead," Draco murmured, gesturing politely in an "After-You" sort of way at the rock face. Mrs. Longbottom rolled up her sleeves
and favoured Martin with a look of steely determination.
"I don't think it's sensible you risking getting yourself stuck in that hole, just for the sake of two lines in some book only
some silly-looking nutters will ever read. And even if you are right about it being a route through, you certainly don't know what
else there might be in that tunnel, that you aren't equipped to deal with."
"Too true," Draco observed. "Believe me, the Dark Lord was not the kind of guy who'd leave a crucial back route into his
facility guarded only by an incompetent Acromantula with a hidden agenda."
Mrs. Longbottom drew a deep breath. "Well, then, I suggest you both leave this one to an expert."
Before Martin could protest, Mrs. Longbottom had vanished and been replaced by a miniscule bat, which fluttered
determinedly up to the hole and through it. Martin turned to Draco. "Golly. And to think I've actually been calling Neville's
grandmother a mad old bat for years. Not... er... to her face, of course. Can you do that, too?"
Draco shook his head. "No. Furthermore, I have absolutely no inclination to learn how. And what's more, I didn't know
she could, either. Mind you, I agree with you. Best evidence I've seen in years that their animal forms do reflect Animagi's basic
personality traits."
He looked thoughtfully up at the hole through which she had vanished.
There followed a tense wait, which felt far longer than, in truth, it was. Draco had talked Martin for the third time out of
climbing up to the hole ("Just to have a bit of a preliminary exploration") by the time a weary bat fluttered out of it, and changed
back into a dishevelled Emily Longbottom.
"Well?" Draco demanded. She nodded. He spotted a gleam of savage triumph in her eyes.
"Nothing untoward in that tunnel. At least, not now. It's a bit narrow when you first go in, and there's a couple of steep
bits, but nothing that's any worse than a bit of a scramble for a couple of young energetic lads. I suggest you get weaving."
Without waiting for an answer, she turned herself back into a bat, and vanished again.
The tunnel, despite Mrs. Longbottom's assurances, was narrow and tortuous: partly blocked by loose boulders, and crossed by
numerous icy watercourses, least two of which filled the chamber to within half a metre of the roof. Draco scrambled along,
hampered by his robes, cursing fluently under his breath, and assumed from Martin's ecstatic squeaks and exclamations ahead of
him, that its twists and turns, pitches and claustrophobically tight squeezes presented something uniquely perilous even in his
extensive experience of subterranean danger and discomfort. They came at last, however, though not unscathed, out into a small
rock chamber where it was just possible to stand upright, and where Mrs. Longbottom was waiting for them. She gestured
towards a low opening in one corner.
"That's the last leg. Not a lot to it. But I thought I'd better wait for you here. You should know there are some funny noises
coming out of that hole, that weren't there when I came through the first time."
Draco raised his eyebrows, and dropped to his knees on the rock floor, listening through the aperture. There was,
certainly, a strange gasping or panting noise, occasionally muffled and occasionally amplified by quirks of acoustics in the rock
passage through which it was being funnelled.
"It sounds like--" he said doubtfully, but before he could finish his sentence Riddle shot out of the tunnel, both ears
flopping madly behind him with the speed of his passing, and leapt bodily into Draco's arms. A long pink tongue shot out and
started giving him a thorough, messy, and unscheduled face wash.
Draco stood up violently, still clasping Riddle in his arms, and narrowly missed bashing his head on the low rock roof.
"Look at this! The unspeakable bastards actually had the nerve to kidnap my dogs as well," he declared passionately.
"Anything could have happened to them in a place like this. And god only knows where the other one is, or what state he's in. Now
that's just wrong. I'm going to find who's responsible, and make them pay for this."
He strode determinedly towards the exit tunnel. Mrs. Longbottom coughed, dryly. "You've no call to go marding that dog.
Last time I looked it had four perfectly good paws of its own."
He glared at her across Riddle's forehead. She glared back. Impasse. Her gaze dropped (though hardly, surely, in an
acknowledgement of defeat) and fixed itself instead on the dog. Riddle gave Draco's face a final lick, and then wriggled demurely
out of his arms and down onto the floor. The spaniel gave Emily Longbottom a single backwards glance, and then padded ahead of
them -- with a suspicion of a slink in his walk -- into the passage. She smiled, a deeply satisfied smile. Draco grimaced back.
"After you," he breathed. Mrs. Longbottom ducked her head, and followed Riddle through into the main body of the
facility.
The rock passage came out in the side wall of a passage within the facility, where the walls were of dressed masonry
rather than raw rock. Narcissa, Neville and Melanie, who was holding Marvolo firmly by the collar, waited as the three pot-holers
(to say nothing of Riddle) extricated themselves laboriously past the remains of the metal grille, which had once, apparently, shut
the tunnel entrance from the rest of the facility.
"Hello, darling," Narcissa greeted her son rather breathlessly. "Mrs. Longbottom told me you were on your way." She gave
him a faintly doubtful look. "Hm. Those robes don't seem to have stood up to your journey any too well."
Draco gave his mother a speaking glance, and indicated Martin. "Yes. Well, when you decided we were going to play this
one in traditional gear, I don't suppose you banked on my being dragged through every crevice in this bloody hillside at the heels
of someone who only has to spot an unfeasibly small and constricted opening to be off down it, like a demented... um... a
demented..."
He circled his hand in the air as though hoping to pluck a suitable metaphor from it.
"Ferret?" Melanie hazarded helpfully. The reaction she got was extraordinary. Both Draco and Narcissa braced themselves
back against the wall, looking rather as though they'd been stuffed. Neville said gently, "Ah, Melanie? It's a bit of a quirk, I know,
but in this family we don't... er... tend to use the "F" word."
This comment struck her as completely baffling. She began: "But I--"
Draco interrupted. "Anyway, like a demented animal that goes down holes a lot but isn't any sort of member of the weasel
family at all whatsoever. Anyway, it doesn't matter. What the hell's happened to Marvolo? He's all over blood. If those bastards
have--"
"Actually," Melanie said diffidently, "it's mine. The blood, I mean."
He shot her a deeply worried look. "I'm sure he didn't mean--"
Melanie shook her head vigorously. "No... er... he didn't do anything. It... um... got spilt, and he... er... got into it. By
accident."
It was apparent for his expression that Draco was entirely familiar with the sort of accidents his dogs could bring off given
half a chance. He gave her another intensely sceptical look, and obviously decided to change the subject. "Anyway, what do we do
next?"
Mrs. Longbottom snorted. "Well, we were coming to that. It seems clear from what Narcissa's been telling me that these
people have been collecting enough blood to set off something very big and very nasty. Luckily, they're probably banking on
collecting another 12 pints or so from Melanie here and this Dudley in the final push, so odds are whatever they've built isn't
ready to set off yet."
Narcissa unrolled her parchment again.
"Our betting is that the Whateveritis will be in the room immediately under where we found Melanie linked up to the blood
drain and replenishment system. That is, here."
One long nail, the varnish not even chipped, tapped the parchment briskly in the appropriate place. "That would be the
most elegant engineering solution, because you would have a straight gravity-driven drop, allowing the blood to go straight to the - thing -- in real time. As it was collected. We've also considered here--" The nail indicated another, larger space on the upper area.
"That appears to have been the facility's major test bed and demonstration area, when it was... er... in regular use. However, we've
ruled it out. For one thing, it's a much less convenient place to get the blood to. Getting it from where it was collected would need
a thaumatulurgical pumping system of considerable complexity, and quite a lot of spell-power to avoid congealment issues in the
bends. If they had been building the device there the obvious place to put the hostages for blood collection would have been here."
The nail clicked down, again, on a different location on the plan. Without warning, the tiny sound assumed a sudden,
horrific significance. The air became unnaturally hot and oppressive around her. Melanie gulped, and hoped none of the others
had spotted the sudden betrayal of weakness. Then, she became suddenly aware of an intense grey glance from across the circle
grouped around the parchment.
Some hopes.
"I think you'd be better off out of earshot of this lot," Draco said firmly, moving over to catch her elbow and ease her away
from the group. He half-walked, half-carried her briskly round a couple of bends of the corridor, ignoring her half-hearted squeaks
of protest, and pushed her gently down to a sitting position against the wall. He flopped down onto the floor next to her. The dogs
bounded up cheerfully and licked her hands. The chill air breathing through the corridor began to revive her a little.
"Thanks." She blinked back tears. "I'm sorry to be such a nuisance."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Nuisance? Far from it. Cast iron excuse to get myself out of a situation that was rapidly
becoming untenable, more like. Furthermore, though ma knows me too well to be fooled, it had the added bonus of giving Neville's
grandmother the wholly spurious impression that I have the instincts of a gentleman."
"You can say that again," a voice from above their heads observed. "I've just copped a short, but perfectly formed ticking
off for not spotting that Melanie was looking unwell and doing something about it myself."
Melanie looked up. There was an odd, twisted expression about Neville's lips, which was shaped like a smile while, at the
same time, having almost nothing in common with one.
"But that's simply not fair--" she began hotly. Neville shrugged.
"Who said anything about fair? We're talking families, here." He paused for a moment, and then slid down to sit on the
floor next to Draco. "Here: this dropped out of your duffle onto the van floor, and I'd been meaning to give it you back. Melanie
looks like she could use a drink. As you probably gathered, she's had a difficult couple of days."
Draco stretched out his hand for the proffered hip flask and poured whisky into three of the little cups. He pushed two
towards Neville and Melanie. He looked at Neville and raised an eyebrow. "Ah? Then you're both making me feel indecently healthy
and inordinately lucky."
Their eyes met. Draco's rough and soaking scramble through the tunnels had left his hair in tangles around his face.
Neville stretched out a hand and brushed it gently back from his forehead. "Couldn't have us both down at the same time, could
we? Who'd organize the rescue?"
Melanie looked up, suddenly. "I'm awfully sorry, you know. I wasn't even thinking straight. What are you two doing on the
rescue party at all? I mean, Dudley's been saying how the Ministry were bound to send a party in strength to collect him, given his
important wizarding relations -- well, I mean, that's what he's been saying in the intervals of screaming that he's going to die
horribly, and that it's all my fault for insisting on rescuing the dogs--"
"Huh?" Draco was not getting this sequence of events at all. Melanie spread her hands, explanatorily.
"The dogs were stuck on a little sort of sandy ledge thing, on a cliff in the Manor grounds -- and when I tried to free them - Dudley was holding onto my ankles to stop me falling down the cliff -- we all just sort of whirled away, and landed here. And
we've been waiting to be rescued ever since. But I didn't think you got on with the Ministry--"
Draco stretched out his booted feet and topped up the cups from the hip flask, which, from its weight as he hefted it,
looked still to be about half full. "Mrs. P., thou art worth thy weight in rubies," he breathed. Then he looked at Melanie.
"Understatement of the year, that. Ministry men have been chasing me across England, trying to kill me since early Thursday
morning. And if it hadn't been for your -- I mean, our -- boss Caitlin, they'd have succeeded."
Melanie felt her brow wrinkle. "What did she--?"
Draco's expression had a very faint air of smugness about it. "She spotted that I was the right man to organise this rescue
mission. For the first time in my life, someone actually decided I was employable. So-- you can tell your boyfriend--"
Involuntarily her insides twisted within her. She concealed a shiver.
"That he can wait for the Ministry guys to get here if he likes, but if he wants to get out now, he'd better realize that as far
as this rescue team's concerned, he's just a free bonus offer. I'm actually hired to get you out. If it wasn't for the hassle with the
Ministry he's causing me, none of us would have stirred a finger to help him."
She couldn't help it. She dissolved into tears again, her head dropping down onto her knees. The other two seemed,
sensibly, to have decided to let her get it out of her system. She could, dimly, hear them talking above her head.
"It's all very well my mother and your grandmother going on about 'elegant engineering solutions'. Until they know who's
doing this, they don't know if they're engineers at all, let along elegant ones. But my bet is that ma's wrong. I don't think this is an
elegant plot at all. In fact, I think it's a bloody stupid, ludicrously over-complicated plot. Just look at all the fancy, unnecessary
bits that have been put into it. Getting a fake picture into the Manor. Smuggling a Portkey onto the Manor grounds. Manipulating
bloody Eustace into making his bid for the Longbottom money this year rather than next year, or ten years from now. Doing
whatever it was they thought they were up to with that werewolf. Whoever's behind this plot couldn't have made it more Gothic if
they'd published it in three volumes and sold it with a free set of turrets and crenallations thrown in."
"Um, I see. And, that means?" Neville sounded interested, ready to be convinced. Draco's tone changed, subtly, apparently
gaining in confidence as he realised his argument was falling on receptive ears.
"If you ask me, whatever they're building has got to be in the big showcase room, not in some small bit of the lab that they
only chose so they didn't have to send the blood too far. That isn't the way these people think. No-- it's going to be splashy, and
messy and-- and BIG!"
"How very smartly worked out, Mr Malfoy."
The hard, brittle voice from the bend of the corridor surprised all three of them. Their glances shot up. Rita Skeeter leaned
against the wall, her wand out, her eyes glittering behind her glasses. Draco's hand stole towards the wand in his own belt. She
shook her head; her eyes widened with amusement.
"How sweet. But it won't help you, you know. I have -- support -- deployed around this facility. Support which none of you
incompetents have found yet -- and aren't going to find it in time. So, suppose you stun me. Suppose you kill me, for that matter.
I'm prepared to risk my life in the cause of Truth. All that will happen when the Ministry arrive is that the scene will be neatly set,
and they will, of course, have no doubts whatsoever about the right conclusions to draw. All my notes are written up. My last and
greatest story: my last and greatest piece of investigative journalism. I shall have the sort of immortality Lord Voldemort only
dreamed of."
There was an impressive rumble, rather like an earthquake, from deep within the hillside. Neville murmured something
which Melanie couldn't quite catch; the only word she could distinguish appeared to be "hippo", which scarcely seemed plausible.
Rita paused, irritably. "You are supposed to say 'You're insane: you'll never get away with this!' at that point, you know."
Draco bowed. "Consider it said. Whatever. Go on."
Her smile became more fixed, more deranged. "It was my tip-off that alerted the Ministry to your implication in three
suspected murders. And here are two of the corpses already, all right and tight."
Neville looked at her, and raised his eyebrows. His voice was flat, with the merest trace of something fugitive -- perhaps
mockery -- in it.
"Wreathed is the bull for the sacrifice; and the slayer too stands ready," he murmured.
Her eyes glittered coldly. Without troubling to respond to him, her glance passed over Neville and Melanie and returned to fix
itself, insolently, on Draco.
"Killing the third one will be easy. No-- correction: killing the third one will be a pleasure."
Her mad grin widened. Her gaze flickered back to Melanie. "And I expect, Ms Schwartz, you'd be -- interested -- to know
how I'm planning to use your blood. Since you were so co-operative in letting us take so much of it."
Some lingering sense of absurdity bubbled up from deep within her. She stared disbelievingly back at Rita.
Golly. I'd never have betted anyone would ever have cast me as a Bond girl, even if it is only for the death scene. Shame
about the script, though.
"Coq au Vin?" she enquired indifferently. There was a three-fold gasp. Rita's full attention snapped onto her. Draco,
Melanie could see out of the corner of her eye, was using the distraction to sidle his fingers very unobtrusively towards his wand.
Neville, his hands too much in Rita's line of sight to try anything of the sort, was beginning to subtly shift his own position on the
floor so as to blanket her view of Draco if she dropped her attention from Melanie.
"Funny girl," Rita snapped. "Well, try laughing at this. When I and my -- back-up team -- found our way into this facility
we found a little parcel that You Know Who never got to deliver. It seems it was just a little bit delayed in beta testing. However, it
must have been all ready for him to launch in anger just as our heroic Mr Potter put an end to his career. But-- when the Ministry
finally gets here as a result of my tip off, they'll find the Doomsday Device has been brought back on line using the blood of the
three victims. And you, Mr Malfoy, will be at the controls. Thanks to me, they'll be just in time to avert you bringing off a major
disaster. I can't see either your mother or his grandmother talking the Ministry out of killing you on the spot after that one, can
you? Especially once I-- we've-- Obliviated them."
Melanie's strained ears caught a sound from behind Rita. Footsteps, moving towards them fast. And from the opposite
direction to the group they had left huddled over the parchment.
Oh god. Please let them be in time.
Rita's head went up. Her eye had caught Draco's move towards his wand, but she already had hers out, and spoke first.
"Exspira!"
With one agonized gasp all of Neville's breath was forcibly driven from his body. He sank down, purple faced and choking.
Draco spun, and caught him before he hit the ground. Rita gave one, final, intensely satisfied smile, and Disapparated. The noise
of on-coming footsteps was suddenly loud in Melanie's ears
As Camilleri and Hermione rounded the corner of the passage they heard the distinctive 'pop!' of Disapparation. Neville lay
motionless on the floor, grey faced and not apparently breathing.
"No-o!"
Draco crouched over him, grabbing frantically at his neck, trying to feel for a pulse, and, from his expression, not finding
one. Hermione, alarmed, dived across the passage. "Draco?"
He spun upwards, his lips curled back from his gums, white showing all round his irises. "See you. There's somewhere I
have to be."
He was gone.
Melanie wound one end of a lock of hair frantically around her finger end.
"Aren't you going to do something?"
"Like what?" Hermione was loosening Neville's robes at the neck.
"To stop Draco killing someone."
"Killing someone? Who?"
Melanie gritted her teeth. "Right this moment, I shouldn't imagine he's too fussed."
She turned on her heel and pelted down the passage. The dogs chased enthusiastically in her wake.
Chris looked at Hermione. "Did you see that? Only a Muggle could be stupid enough to run towards a Dark wizard in that
sort of state."
Hermione looked desperately up at Chris. "For god's sake get me some help. I don't think I can manage on my own."
Camilleri looked down, nodded, and Disapparated. Hermione tossed her wand to one side, and started CPR. There was a
rush of air, and Mrs. Longbottom was suddenly beside her, wand out. Her face was unreadable.
"Stand back," she said grimly.
She put the end of her wand directly against Neville's breastbone, closed her eyes, and concentrated. There was an
intense flash of violet light, and Mrs. Longbottom staggered back, grey faced and sweating. Neville did not move. His grandmother
inhaled, sharply, repositioned her wand and looked across at Hermione.
"I'll need to lean on your shoulder. Got your wand? Hold it parallel with mine, and don't flinch."
Her bony fingers clawed down onto Hermione's collarbone. Hermione braced herself. Mrs. Longbottom paused, gripped
harder, pointed her wand, and spoke. The violet light danced between the two wands, and down into Neville's body. The recoil
shuddered up Hermione's wrist, but she held steady with an enormous effort.
"Aargh!"
A yell of pure pain broke from Neville's lips as he inhaled. His eyes opened.
"Where's Draco?" he gasped.
Mrs. Longbottom gathered her breath. Her hair was hanging lankly about her face, and she looked forty years older, but
she was still every inch the head of the family. "We'll look after young Draco. You're in no fit state to worry about him. We've got to
get you out of here, back to the house, and put you to bed."
Neville struggled up into a sitting position. "Hermione?"
"He's gone after -- whoever did that."
Neville brushed a hand across his forehead. "Rita Skeeter. I know -- where she was going -- main demonstration room of
the lab -- I've got to get after him -- give me my wand--"
Hermione, her eyes on his grandmother, nudged it towards him from where it had fallen.
Mrs. Longbottom folded her arms. "You aren't going anywhere, young man. I'm not proposing to let you kill yourself after
we've gone to all that effort to bring you round."
Neville pulled himself to his feet, swaying. "Grandma," he said. "It's not that I'm not grateful but-- fuck off."
He Disapparated. His grandmother looked after him, open-mouthed. Then, it appeared, she realised she was not alone.
She looked at Hermione. "Eh," said Mrs. Longbottom. "They do say folk get to favour their pets, don't they?"
Rita's eyes glittered. Her body was completely immobilized by the ropes Draco had cast around her, but her head was up.
Behind her, sitting on a podium in the central demonstration room of the facility, the Doomsday Device flickered to itself, and
made a sinister humming noise. The stench of blood hung heavy in its vicinity.
"So this is where you pull out your wand and use Avada Kedavra, I suppose."
"Why?" Draco breathed. "What's the attraction for me in using a spell that's notorious for being quick and painless?"
Her eyes betrayed a sudden doubt. Behind him there was the sound of a door being gently pushed open. Unheeding, he
raised his wand.
"Go on, boys. Good dogs. Fetch! Fetch! Rabbits!"
Marvolo leapt and took the wand neatly from Draco's fingers as it swished down, took his prey into a corner and began
worrying at it enthusiastically. Riddle bounded ecstatically around his owner's legs, leaping up to lick at his hands as Draco tried
to retrieve his wand from Marvolo.
"Drop that, you fucking cloth eared fur-ball! Drop that now, you horrible hound, or you're earmuffs! Look, I mean this!
Behave yourselves now, or I'll-- I'll cut your tails off behind your ears!"
Melanie knelt on the floor, waving her arms frantically. "Good dog! Fetch! Fetch! Bring it to Melanie, there's a good boy."
Riddle squirmed between Draco's legs, managed to entwine himself firmly in the remains of Draco's robes, and brought
him to the ground. Marvolo bounded to within two yards of Melanie and growled playfully at her as she reached for the wand,
defending it between his forepaws.
Draco twisted full length, stretched and grabbed Marvolo around his middle. One hand closed over the wand. Melanie's
grab was inches too short. Marvolo wriggled, and gripped down tighter on his treasure. Draco pulled himself laboriously to his feet
and swung the dog and wand together round to face Rita.
"Eat death, you revolting harpy. May you lie un-mourned and unburied, and may the corbies reject your bones--"
"Draco," a voice said plaintively and rather muzzily from the doorway behind him, "why are you apparently trying to cast
an Unspeakable Curse with a springer spaniel?"
Draco spun, dropped Marvolo (who yelped indignantly), and enfolded Neville in his arms. Over Draco's left shoulder Neville
spotted Rita wriggling her fingers free of the ropes and inching towards her wand which was lying a few feet from her. His own
wand, however, was already out.
"Stupefy!"
The sheer power in the stunning spell slammed her back five yards into the wall. She slid down and lay motionless to one
side of the Doomsday Device.
Draco breathed out, shakily. "My god! You're getting good at that one."
Neville looked down into his face. There was a touch of reckless enthusiasm about his eyes, which warmed Draco's heart.
"I'm having a very bad day. Plus, how often do I ever get to be the decisive competent one? Oof! You don't have to squeeze
me quite that hard, you know. I reckon I've got at least four broken ribs on each side."
Draco half turned to look at Rita's unconscious body. "Bitch!"
"No, be fair. I reckon Hermione and my grandmother probably did for my ribs between them. Believe me, their notion of
first aid doesn't take any prisoners. I feel quite unbelievably awful."
"Funny; so do I."
They slid exhaustedly and in a tangled heap down the wall opposite Rita. Melanie grinned shyly at them as she continued
in her attempt to persuade Marvolo to drop the wand. Marvolo evidently regarded her efforts as a further challenge, and resisted
enthusiastically. Draco raised one eyebrow and smiled.
"Leave it. The teeth marks are going to be difficult enough to explain to Ollivander's support and maintenance department
as it is. So, Melanie, what fur?"
She looked at him in a puzzled way. "What for what?"
"Not what for, what fur? I intend to buy you a fur coat at the earliest opportunity. Least I can do."
Melanie blushed, comprehensively. "Come off it, Draco, you know I'm a vegetarian."
He shrugged. "OK, then, Schwartz; choose your vegetable and I'll get someone peeling."
She giggled. "You know I didn't stop you from killing Rita for that."
"Oh, the fur coat isn't for saving my backside from Azkaban. You get the undying gratitude of the house of Malfoy for
that."
"Oh, god," Neville muttered. "If you've got any sense, Melanie, you'll opt for the dead animals while the going's good."
Draco waved a hand airily. "No, the fur coat's a bribe. To buy your silence. After all, I still haven't absolutely ruled out evil
overlord as a career goal, and while I know from close personal experience that there are a lot of embarrassing faux pas which you
can talk your supporters into overlooking providing you use sufficient determination and charisma, I honestly think that having it
widely known that my Dark designs had been foiled by a brace of long eared mutts with half a brain cell between them would be
what the management consultants call a Career Limiting Error."
Melanie coughed, nervously.
"Speaking of evil overlords, ought I to mention that something on this gadget just flicked on?"
That got the undivided attention of both of them. "What?"
"Well-- it looks like a digital readout. Do you people have those?"
Draco shook his head. "Not noticeably, no. What's it say?
Melanie braved the gore-soaked area round the room to examine it and report back.
"It reads 1800 -- no, 1799 -- no--"
There was a moment's pause. Neville coughed. "She did say this project was one of You-Know-Who's, didn't she?"
Draco nodded. "Mm. And there's one thing I can tell you for certain about the Dark Lord. As he used to be practically a
friend of the family. So to speak."
"What?"
"If he was responsible for calling something a Doomsday Device, he wasn't the kind of guy to name it in a fit of postmodernist self-referential irony. Melanie?"
"Yes?"
"Find us an occult engineer. Fast."
She looked despairingly at him. "But I don't know where to look."
Neville drew a deep breath. "Try Grandma."
"Why? Is she likely to know one?"
"She is one. At least, she's the best we're likely to get in the next... um... 30 minutes."
Draco looked at his watch. "Twenty-nine and a half. I suggest you hurry."
"Find my mother? Why?"
Mrs. Longbottom looked at Draco.
"Because, young man, in the days when, if Stalin wanted to build power stations in the Ukraine he brought engineers over
from Lancashire to do it, Charlie Device was the best damn engineer in the whole of the County Palatine. Wizard or Muggle. And
Charlie Device was paying your mother for consultancy before she was eight years old."
"But-- that was just a game--"
Mrs. Longbottom smiled grimly. "Not if you were the competition, and monitoring the security on that plant, it wasn't.
Anyone whose engineering instincts Charlie Device respected as much as he respected his granddaughter's is the best we could
hope to have available, given we can't have him. I'd get Charlie Device himself on the job if it wasn't that Necromancy takes a hell
of a lot longer than we've got, and some of the ingredients aren't readily to hand."
Neville's voice was profoundly shocked. "Plus, it's officially one of the four Inexcusable Dark Arts and is formally banned in
every magic-using country which is a member of the International Confederation."
"Well, except Albania," Draco pointed out reasonably. Neville drew in his breath with a hiss.
"We aren't in Albania," he said through gritted teeth. Draco shrugged.
"We easily might be in 26 minutes. Who knows how widespread the fallout from the explosion's going to be? Anyway, as
your grandmother says we don't have time to try Necromancy, so the question of legality doesn't arise. Ma it'll have to be, then."
Narcissa stood on the threshold of the room and stared across at the machine, which now had added a piercing and
erratic "beep!" to its previous repertoire of hums and buzzes.
"Oh, fuck," she said simply. "The idiot actually built it. And even Lucius told him and told him not to."
Everyone in the room -- who now included Camilleri, Hermione, and a resentful Dudley -- looked across at her.
Draco cleared his throat. "You... er... know what that thing is?"
She nodded, grimly. "It's a Mark Three Thaumatulurgical Capacitor."
There was a baffled and universal silence. She shook her elegant blonde head irritably. "Oh, stop looking so-- limited. I
mean, it's a device designed to absorb and enhance all the magical energies in its vicinity until at a pre-set moment it feeds them
violently back into the atmosphere. Those energies, in turn, trigger an unstoppable series of chain-reactions as the power
generated by the discharge process absorbs fresh thaumatulurgical energies across an annular wave front spreading outward
from the central discharge point."
They looked at her open-mouthed. "I don't understand," Dudley whined.
Melanie, who had, at his entrance, moved herself to the further side of the room, unobtrusively putting Neville and Draco
between her and him, looked across at him for the first time since he had arrived, and muttered, "Imbecile."
"Bit harsh, surely, in the specific circumstances?" Camilleri murmured. "Er, Narcissa, could you give us a translation into
English, from Engineering? I think the subs are going to have trouble getting their heads round what you've just said. To say
nothing of the punters. No journalist ever lost out by underestimating the intelligence of the readers. Ask her." He nodded towards
the bound captive in the corner.
Melanie turned to him. "She means," she said tightly, "That it's effectively a magical nuclear reactor. And it's just about to
go critical."
Dudley made a dive for the doorway. Camilleri fielded him effectively by the scruff of his neck and thrust him back into
the room. "Don't behave like an idiot," he said firmly. "If you can help it. How far do you reckon you can run in 24 minutes,
anyway? Er, Narcissa-- what's your best guess at the maximum diameter of the affected area if that thing does go off?"
Narcissa had already ripped the more cumbersome bits of her white robes off and was inching herself underneath the lowslung base of the Doomsday Device. Her voice was abstracted and somewhat muffled. "Hm? Oh, theoretically, unless it hits a zone
at least 10 miles wide where there are no detectable magical energies at all, the initial reaction shouldn't start running out of
impetus for at least 250 miles or so. If it get strongly reinforced within that radius -- and I'll remind you exactly where Hogwarts
and Diagon Alley happen to be in relation to here -- that will almost certainly set off secondary epicentral discharges with
practically the same initial energy levels as the first."
Camilleri gulped. "Looks like I'd better try to get my copy through to the Vlatislava office of the Prophet, then."
Mrs. Longbottom's voice was urgent. "And can you actually defuse it, Narcissa, love?"
Narcissa stuck her head out from under the Device. Her face was masked with congealing blood and sump oil, and her
hair was also matted with them. Camilleri leaned towards her with his camera, and the flash went.
"Nice to know you've got faith in my abilities," she murmured to him. "Personally, I wouldn't bank on you getting that shot
developed. Thank god, in some ways, given what I must look like."
His expression was odd. "Well, I trust you," he said. "And-- you should know I'm proposing to tell the subs to caption it
'The Loveliest Witch in Britain In Her Finest Hour' whenever they do print it."
She snorted. "Well, you'd have more chance getting it into print if this total abortion -- I ask you, devising a wipe-out,
mutually assured destruction device when you're sitting at the top of a heap of rapidly splintering backstabbing incompetents
without the remotest conception of 'Fail To Safe', would you call that bright? -- wasn't a complete botch up of Muggle and Wizard
concepts, thrown together on no guiding principle that I can divine. And given where we are, I wouldn't bank on the designer of
the Muggle part of this garbage still being around to tell us what he was up to when he designed it."
She looked despairingly at the Device. "In fact, knowing the Dark Lord, its designer is probably currently forming part of
the central processing unit."
She paused for a moment, and then twisted her body in a remarkably eel like manner. "Melanie?"
"Ye-es?" Melanie gulped as, in approaching the Doomsday Device, she skidded on a large patch of blood. Idiot. It's yours.
You can't be repelled by something that's part of you. Unbidden, another part of her brain responded: Oh, yes? Like your taste in
men, huh, then?
"You seem to have your head screwed on. Know anything about Muggle engineering?"
She gulped again. "Well, that was what I'd planned on knowing after leaving Cambridge." She looked nervously at the
Doomsday Device, which had now started to vibrate alarmingly. "Not before arriving."
The vibration had evidently also caught Narcissa's attention. "Mm. Well, if you want there to be an after, you might give
me a hint as to how to get the front of this bloody control panel off. I can't even start defusing the thing until I've done that. Accio."
She snapped her fingers and a Phillips screwdriver appeared from mid air and fell into her hand. Melanie flopped to the
ground and wormed her way under the Device next to Narcissa. "That bit's simple."
She took the screwdriver from Narcissa and deployed it rapidly. "But that's not-- could it be some magical equivalent to a
screw with a left hand thread, perhaps?"
Narcissa seized back the screwdriver and gave it a close view. "Brilliant. Oh, good girl. Reverse Spottiswoode," she
explained parenthetically, for Emily Longbottom's benefit. The cover was flung randomly out from under the Device into the main
part of the room.
"Now, what do you think of these wires? All the same colour, of course: they would be. Hermione, love, could you have a
scout around and see if there's a manual somewhere?"
Hermione's squeak of triumph as she located the relevant object neatly stowed in a pocket built into the back of the Device turned
into a growl of frustration, as the letters danced up off the page before her eyes, forming little quadrille lines and elegant, changing
patterns.
"It's encoded," she reported to the two under the Device. "I think I can get somewhere with it -- it's not unlike some I've
seen before -- but you'd better not wait until I have. Illustro, Illustro."
Martin, who had strolled up to the podium with a generally benign air of wanting to help, blinked. "Goodness," he said
slowly. "Think of someone twisted enough to deliberately make their technical manual incomprehensible, rather than just allowing
it to happen naturally."
Narcissa stuck her head out again. "Emily, I don't think you can get under here unless you were to Transform, but I'd
appreciate your views on this wiring, too."
Mrs. Longbottom nodded, knelt down, and then in her bat shape flitted under the Device.
Draco drew a deep breath. "I've just had an idea. But I'll need to go to London to see if it works. And I'll need help."
He looked across the room. Neville began to struggle to his feet. A remarkably speedy bat zoomed out from under the
Device, transforming itself back into Neville's grandmother almost before dropping out of mid-air.
"Our Neville isn't Apparating anywhere--" she was beginning, before realizing the sound was coming in stereo.
"You aren't Apparating anywhere in that state," Draco finished firmly. Neville glared at him, and he smiled ruthlessly
back. "Not risking your life for the third bloody time this morning." His glance lighted on Camilleri. "Come on. You'll do. I'll explain
as we're getting out of here."
They pelted out towards the front exit.
Martin leant over the Device in an interested manner. "Er, ought you to know that there's a large red button on the front
of this, that says 'Emergency Stop'? It ought to be worth a try, don't you think?"
His finger was already wandering towards it when a chorus of four determined female voices told him, explosively, to
"Keep Off". He leapt back, startled but still determinedly polite.
Narcissa half scrambled out from under the Device. "Sorry," she said, twisting so as to look up at him. "But nothing I
know about the personality of this gadget's commissioner suggests that there is any likelihood that the result of pressing that
button will have any correlation at all with what it's advertised as doing."
She scrambled back underneath again.
Martin thought about that one for a bit. "But that isn't safe," he said with mild but profound indignation. "That-- that's
actively misleading."
The Device Defusing team were too preoccupied to respond to his justifiable complaints. He looked at them, sighed, and
pulled out a Palm 3 from an inside waterproof pocket in his jacket and clenched the stylus thoughtfully between his teeth for a
moment. Then, he began writing.
"The approach begins with an exhilarating traverse down a steeply pitched 20 metres of descent. Care needs to be taken on
this section to avoid loose debris falling from above, which in this part of the route represents an unusually serious problem. At the
base of the descent, avoid the apparently direct route onwards, which presents unexpected hazards (although remarkably fine and
unusual rock formations can be glimpsed through the rock archway into the adjoining cavern). The route continues via a particularly
challenging--"
The creative spirit whirled him away from his surroundings. Lost in thought, he tapped on, regardless of the excitement
around him.
The unconscious prisoner writhed in her bonds and began to come round. Neville eyed her, wondering whether he should
stun her again, but then shrugged and compromised by collecting her wand from the floor to add to the collection he was building
up in his belt, and then let nature take its course. Rita opened her eyes and glared across at him.
"You may have had your petty triumph, but you don't have long to enjoy it," she snarled. "Nothing can stop that machine
now. The wizard world in Western Europe has less than twenty minutes to exist. The Dark Lord triumphs at last!"
He looked at her.
"So what do you get out of this plot, then?" he enquired. "I mean, we're all sitting in this room together. When it blows,
you go with it. You won't even get to file your copy. No undying fame. Not even your expenses paid."
Rita's lips curled back in a snarl of triumph. "I had my reasons. Oh, believe me, I had my reasons."
Unexpectedly, he heard at that moment the sound of pelting footsteps from the passageway outside.
God, Draco's been quick. I wonder if-Neville's jaw dropped as he took in the sight of the new arrival. His squeak of surprise obviously got through even Martin's
trance-like state, since he glanced up from whatever he was doing, and looked as stupefied as Neville felt.
"Merciful heaven!" Martin breathed. "There's two of them!"
Indeed, the woman who had just rushed into the room was an exact double of the woman who was lying bound next to
the Doomsday Device.
Almost without conscious thought, Neville pointed his own wand at her and breathed, "Expelliarmus!" It shocked him
when the woman he could only think of as Agitated Rita appeared not even to notice her wand flying backwards out of her hand
as she rushed madly on into the room. She skidded to a halt next to the woman he mentally dubbed Bound Rita, and screeched,
"You were only supposed to switch the bleeding display on!"
Bound Rita looked her straight in the eyes.
"Well, Rita, dear, perhaps your grasp of the Imperius curse isn't what you flattered yourself it was. I-- had other plans.
This is one firework which certainly isn't going to be a damp Squib."
Neville felt that the sarcastic spin which she put on the last word, accompanied by a finished sneer in his direction, was a
trifle uncalled for, especially since to his recollection they had never met before he had blasted her halfway across a room with a
Stunning spell.
And where is Draco when you're stuck for a blistering comeback at short notice?
Narcissa crawled out from under the Device, dusted down her hands, and fixed Agitated Rita with a steely glare. "I see. So
this was merely intended to be an empty melodramatic gesture, was it? And I suppose it didn't occur to you to have a complete set
of defusing instructions on hand in case someone like your psychotic little friend with the Polyjuice makeover decided to take the
game a few stages further once you'd obligingly loaded the missile for her?"
Her eye passed pitilessly over Agitated Rita, who looked defiantly back at her. "And how do you know she's the Polyjuiced
one?"
Narcissa barely missed a beat. "Only someone who had really spent forty eight years developing a finished absence of style
could have selected those shoes. Someone who was merely faking it would have been unable to hit that precise line between the
merely tacky and the deeply dowdy."
She looked at Agitated Rita again. "I'll take that as a no, then," she added, and made as if to crawl back under the Device.
Bound Rita coughed, pointedly.
"It's about the end of the hour," she purred gently. "Recognise someone you know, Mrs. Malfoy?"
Narcissa spun on the spot. Neville watched, as over one prolonged instant Bound Rita's features flowed, melted like Dali
clocks, and re-formed into-"Pansy Parkinson!" he gasped. She swept him with a disparaging glance.
"Always interesting to see what one's exs decide to make do with afterwards," she purred. Sheer blind fury boiled
momentarily behind his eyes. Words failed him. They did not, however, fail Narcissa.
"And putting your exs utterly off your entire sex must be quite an achievement, too, don't you think?" She put her head on
one side. "Or -- perhaps not, if you happen to have a natural talent for -- being off-putting."
Pansy smiled. Her voice was syrup and strychnine. "Really, Mrs. Malfoy? I certainly didn't put Lucius Malfoy off. Far from
it, in fact. I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Malfoy, but since we're about to die I ought to put my conscience at ease. I have to
confess to you that I screwed your husband. Repeatedly."
Narcissa regarded her for one long moment, and then smiled suddenly, and with a complete absence of affectation.
"Sweetie, everyone screwed Lucius."
With that she dived back under the Doomsday Device, muttering: "Any progress on tracing those relays, you lot?"
Pansy's face crumpled, and she suddenly looked much younger, about five or six, in fact, and on the point of bursting into
tears. Her voice had a raw edge of defiance. "And he said it was much better than with you!"
Narcissa twisted her head halfway out from underneath the Device to look at her again. "Really? I'm surprised he could
remember back far enough to set up a decent baseline."
Someone else under the Device had clearly done something to attract her attention, because she twisted her neck to look
back at it's underside thoughtfully. "Oh, yes, Emily-- I really think you have got something there. Now, suppose we--"
She vanished again. Pansy managed to wriggle a foot sufficiently clear of the entangling ropes to be able to stamp it. "You
don't understand."
"Understand what?" a cheerful voice said from the doorway. "Good heavens, Pansy!"
Draco manoeuvred the front edge of a heavy picture carefully into the room. Camilleri brought up the rear, muttering to
himself: "I've not known him five minutes and we've just robbed the National Portrait Gallery. The National Portrait Gallery! I
mean, couldn't he start small? The Tiffany glass from the Accrington City Gallery, perhaps. One or two of those ghastly Pre-Raphs
from the Whitworth, if the mood took him. No one would miss those. They've got hundreds, all indifferent. But the National
Portrait Gallery!"
"Shut up," Draco said firmly. "To begin with, it isn't theft. This is one of our family portraits, on loan. I've just-temporarily brought it back to its owner. My mother. You know, the blonde one who's currently trying to demonstrate that human
blood is the new black. Anyway, Pansy, how did you come to get swapped with Rita? And what are you doing there in those ropes?
Or shouldn't I ask?"
Pansy's lips curled. "I've been telling your mother all about me sleeping with your father, actually."
Draco raised one eyebrow. "Goodness, did you really? That would explain his uncharacteristic chirpiness that fortnight
you stayed with us."
Narcissa wriggled her way out from under the Doomsday Device again. "Really, Draco darling, whatever the
circumstances, chirpy has never been the appropriate word to use to describe your father."
Camilleri looked at Neville. Neville looked back. "Is it just me," Chris demanded plaintively. "Or have you spotted that
those two seems to conduct life as though it were Greek tragedy re-scripted by Monty Python?"
Before Neville could hazard a response, Draco intervened. "Hi, ma. Look who we've brought you."
At a gesture, he and Camilleri propped the portrait up on one edge. It uttered a loud snort of indignation, at which they
looked down, looked embarrassed, and rapidly turned it the right way up. Narcissa gave an exclamation in which Neville thought
he detected profound relief. "Grandfather!"
Charlie Device peered out of the portrait at her. "Young Draco tells me you've got an engineering problem. Well, naturally
I'll do what I can. But I must say, Narcissa, next time you decide to loan me out to an exhibition, do make sure there are some
other wizard portraits in it. I'd have gone out of my mind with boredom if it hadn't unexpectedly turned out that the portrait of
some Muggle polymer chemist called Mercer five along had been painted by a young wizard who was hiding out incognito in the
Factory because he had a crush on Edie Sedgewick."
"Sorry, Grandad," Narcissa said in a rather small voice. He looked at her, and relented. "Thaumatulurgical Capacitator,
is it? We'd looked at a few ways of doing that. None of them got beyond the prototype stage, but I reckon I've got as good a grasp of
the theory as anyone in country. Push me under that machine, lass, and I'll take a dekko for you."
The portrait was passed carefully under the Device. Narcissa ran her filthy fingers through her no less filthy hair, and
took the opportunity for a quick stretch. While her enemy was in view, Pansy drew a deep breath, and launched her next salvo.
"It's all very well you pretending to be all nonchalant about it. But I loved Lucius." Her voice broke, and she sobbed. "I-- I
got involved with Rita's plan because of him. I thought-- I thought I could revenge your murder of him, you bitch, even though I
could never bring him back to life."
She looked up and looked around the room, her eyes fixing on the Doomsday Device. "He'd have wanted me to do it."
Narcissa's face was pale and set. "Oh, I agree with you. Unlike you, apparently, it's not something I'd have considered one
of his more endearing characteristics."
Pansy babbled on obliviously. "As soon as I realised the power that thing had, I knew I had to set it off. I faked the figures
so Rita would think it needed much more blood than it really did. And I took a few pints more from those Muggles than I put on
the records, too. There weren't going to be any risks of it running out of fuel. And then when Rita put me under Imperius earlier--"
"Yes," Draco interrupted. "Where did the bit about Imperius come in?"
"S'obvious." No one had expected Neville to speak, and they all turned to look at him. He flushed to find himself the centre
of attention, but ploughed boldly on. "Look-- Rita's plan was to frame you for the murders and rush in to stop the Device at the
crucial moment so she got her story. As her only accomplice, Pansy would have been a constant danger to her alive. Do you think
she'd have resisted the blackmail opportunities?"
Draco shook his head. "Of course not. She's always been that type. Why do you suppose I was always so careful to--" He
caught sight of his mother's interested eye on him, and trailed to a stop. "Well, anyway, tell you later. If we get a later."
Neville continued. "Rita put her under Imperius to provoke you into killing her. If that had worked, as well as the other
three corpses, the Ministry would have found Pansy's dead body in the control room here. I expect that would have looked well in
the headline, wouldn't it, Rita? Ex-Lover Sacrifices Self To Save World?"
Pansy snarled. "Yes. It didn't take me too long to work that out, either. But once I knew the Device was running and
couldn't be stopped, I didn't care whether I died then or half an hour later. It'd all be over, and I'd be reunited with Lucius."
Draco and his mother exchanged a look which said, eloquently, that neither of them thought either the company or the
probable climate for such a reunion would be their own preference. It was a mistake, because Pansy spotted it. She turned
savagely on Narcissa. "Stop looking so smug. He promised me -- just before you killed him, you bitch -- that he was planning to
divorce you, and marry me."
Narcissa's voice was still dead level. "Well, subject to warranties and satisfactory financial due diligence, surely?"
Pansy gathered all her energy, and spat at Narcissa, hitting her squarely on the cheek. She raised what was left of her
sleeve mechanically to wipe it away, her eyes fixed on Pansy. The Device clicked and whirred on un-heeded by her.
"Warranties!" Pansy hissed. "Yes-- certainly. I could have given him other children, for one thing. Ones who would be
prepared to serve the Dark Lord properly."
Narcissa's lips were a compressed tight line. "I see that Lucius wasn't just -- impoliticly garrulous -- in the marital bed,
then."
Draco stepped forward, and put his hand out towards his mother's arm. "I didn't-- You never--"
Narcissa looked at him. "What conceivable good could it possibly have done you to know? Just-- remember that you can't
dodge all the hexes all of the time. However good you are." Her lips quirked in what was, improbably, a smile. "Don't look so
stricken about it. Even with the best midwitches money could buy it came down to nine months worth of vomiting and swollen
ankles, followed by fourteen hours of sheer agony, followed by a magical duel in the birthing room when I assure you I was not
playing on the top of my form. How much of an idiot would I have had to be to go through all that again, even if I had been able
to?"
Neville caught Narcissa's eye. His lips moved, almost in a whisper. "Not entirely as planned, I take it?"
Her eyes widened in understanding -- and, improbably, appreciation. She gave him a small nod.
"Eh, I'm sorry to break this up just when it's getting interesting," Mrs. Longbottom said from behind them. "But Charlie
reckons he's found wire to the cut-off relays."
"And?" Narcissa turned. "There has to be an and, or you'd have cut it by now. Time's running out."
Mrs. Longbottom nodded. "The problem is, that young Melanie reckons it's linked into a dead man switch. You can't cut
that one -- and get through to the final disconnection sequence -- without a weight coming down and completing something she
calls an accelerated detonation circuit."
"Mm." She gave it some thought. "Can we counter-weight it?"
Mrs. Longbottom nodded. "That would work."
Draco pulled out his wand. "How big does this counterweight have to be?"
Mrs. Longbottom gestured generously with her arms. "Anything over 250 pounds would probably do. Heavier the better,
though. Goes on the top of the Device, just to the left there."
"Guide it into position for me, please." Draco spun on his booted heel. Neville caught sight of the reckless mischief in his
eye an instant before he cast the spell.
"Draco, you can't--"
"Watch me." He looked at Dudley, who was slumped in the furthest possible corner, muttering incomprehensibly to
himself. "Petrificatus Totalis. Levo! "
A howl of sheer outrage rent the air as he briskly swung the frozen Dudley across the room and suspended him in the air
above the Doomsday Device. Mrs. Longbottom nodded. "Just there, lad. Drop him down."
Dudley landed squarely on the machine, and yelped. Mrs. Longbottom eyed Draco approvingly. "Eh, that was a bit of
smart thinking." She looked across at Dudley, and nodded. "Eh. From each according to his abilities, as Eugene was so fond of
saying."
"Eugene?" Neville gazed at his grandmother. "Who's Eugene?"
She drew herself up to her full height, and looked at him in a tight-lipped way. "He's someone who's been dead for
seventy-five years, young man, and that's all you need to know."
It was unlikely, after all, that he would have had the nerve to pursue the subject, but at this moment there was a shout of
pure triumph. Melanie, Hermione, and a portrait which by now looked in serious need of restoration, crawled or were dragged
from under the Doomsday Device. The small red lights on top of it went out. The humming stopped. The digital readout came to a
pause, frozen forever at 106.
The defusing team hugged everyone in sight, including the dogs.
"We did it!"
Draco strolled nonchalantly over towards the Device. "And with a minute and three quarters to go, too," he observed. "We
needn't have sweated all that hard to get back from the National Portrait Gallery, Chris. Practically time to have stopped off for a
drink."
The eyes of everyone in the room were on him, and all were glaring. It was, however, Hermione who found her voice first.
"I don't think so."
She pushed the open manual under his nose. The characters wavered on the page, as though being read through heat
haze, but were legible enough.
"Um," he said. "You did say this was a Mark 3, didn't you?" Narcissa nodded.
"Then I think it's only fair to tell all of you that Mark 3s appear to have been designed to detonate at 93."
The silence which followed might have gone on for some time, had Hermione's phone not, unexpectedly, rung. Martin
looked at her. "That's amazing. Fancy getting a signal down here."
She ignored him. She listened for a few seconds and then said: "Yes. I'll tell them."
She looked up. "We need to get to the front entrance. Now. That was Tom Patullo, Draco. He and your lawyers are on their
way up from the Manor. They've got a couple of senior Ministry guys on board -- I think your lawyers have convinced them that
the Ministry will be in even more trouble if they try to Apparate up ahead of them, and that you won't speak to them without your
lawyers present anyway. But we'd better have this place secured, prisoners on hand, hostages present and correct, immobilized
device ready for inspection, everything ship-shape for you to convince the Ministry that you're innocent of all charges and nothing
can be held over you."
Neville was aware he had suddenly paled. "Oh my god. That duck!"
He exchanged a frantic glance with Draco. Draco nodded, decisively. "We'd better Apparate down to Martin's place to
collect it. Martin... er... can we borrow the keys to your cottage?"
Martin nodded slowly. "But-- do you really think senior civil servants are going to be bothered with a rubber duck? At a
time like this?"
Neville spoke from between gritted teeth. "They're going to bother about this duck all right." He cast a hunted glance
around the room. "It's-- well, it's no ordinary duck. In fact -- actually, you may as well know this now, Grandma -- it's Mad Eye
Moody."
"What?!"
He nodded, miserably. His grandmother looked at Draco. "And is this true? Did you really turn Mad Eye Moody into a
rubber duck?"
"Certainly not." Draco's denial was prompt and emphatic. There was an easing of tension in the room. He smiled, sunnily
and comprehensively.
"It was Neville," he added. Mrs. Longbottom turned on her heel and gave her grandson a Look which spoke volumes.
Neville shuddered, involuntarily. Her eye dropped to his belt.
"And what might those be?" she enquired portentously.
"Wands," he said. She coughed, irritably.
"I can see that. But it hasn't escaped my notice that there are five of them. Would you care to explain? Everything?"
Neville looked down at the collection in his belt. "Um... this one's mine, of course."
"Yes. I can recognise that one. And the others?"
"Well-- that one's Paul's. You know, the therapist who was holding me prisoner in the clinic Eustace put me in. I... ah...
got that one when I stunned him. And... um... this one's Pansy's -- only I thought it was Rita's at the time, you know. That was
another Stunning spell. Oh, and this one really is Rita's. I did Expelliarmus when she arrived a few minutes ago, but I think you
were under the Device at the time. And, then, this one's... er... Mad-eye's. He... ah... dropped it in the course of that duck
business."
"I see." She looked closely at him. "That would be this morning's collection, I take it?"
He nodded again. Unmistakeably, the obsidian glare in her beady black eyes softened. Her lips curved into a grin. "Eh, it's
a shame your father can't hear about Mad-Eye. That'd give him a good laugh, that would."
"But-- they were colleagues-- Aurors in the same team--"
"Aye. Nearly drove Frank to distraction. They shared an office. What with old Mad-Eye bending the rules in every which
way, and then leaving Frank to sort out the paperwork and calm the bureaucrats down, and all his other little habits, such as
chaining his mug to the radiator so the washing up witches in the canteen couldn't pull a switch with it, your father often used to
come home and tell me he'd been this close to turning him into something himself."
Mrs. Longbottom held up thumb and forefinger, about two millimetres apart.
"Don't think he ever thought of rubber ducks, though. Now, you bring me that duck, and let me deal with the rest. I can
guarantee he won't be bringing any complaints to the Ministry after I've had a word or two with young Alastor. Not unless he
wants to find himself the laughing stock of every surviving Auror who's ever passed through the Ministry."
Neville exhaled. His grandmother gave him another beady glance. "Aye. Not a bad morning's work that, all things
considered. You're coming on. You might make a half-way decent wizard by the time you're fifty."
Neville thought of a lot of things to say, and then was suddenly aware of Draco's eye on him, sparkling with indignation,
and clearly dying to be allowed to let rip. He shook his head, gently. She's had a lot to put up with. Is the last word such a hard
thing to give her?
"We'd better be going," he said instead. Without looking behind him he left the facility.
The Muggle helicopter had scarcely touched down on the field closest to the cliff when Tom Patullo was out of it, his hands
over his head and running to greet them.
"It's great to see you again, Malfoy," was his first and most unexpected words. "Even if you do look as though you've
disguised yourself as an Episcopalian minister and then been through a live fire combat exercise."
"Ack?"
Faced with enthusiasm from such a quarter even Draco's ability to think up an appropriate response went into emergency
shut down. Tom Patullo looked at him and grinned. "Aw, yes, I'll have a few things to say to you about your notions of business
ethics when we get a moment. But not now. This time, I owe you. You've got no idea what I've just been told by my PA back at
head office."
Draco indicated, somewhat weakly, that even if his performance in Divination had been at least three times as good as it
had actually been, this would still have been a true statement. Patullo's grin got wider.
"No. Well, I had her phone through the news that you'd got his son safely out as soon as Miss Granger told me -- good
grief, is that him? If he'd been mine I'd have been tempted to leave him in there -- and my PA called not five minutes ago to say
she'd just got a fax."
"A fox?" Draco visualized a small red-brown animal with a parchment tied to its leg. "Well, it could work, I suppose. Be
risky in the hunting season."
Patullo looked at him. "No-- a fax is-- oh, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that Vernon Dursley's done it! He's
resigned! Surrendered his share options! Given the Company attorneys a free run to argue he's repudiated his service contract.
Told me "he couldn't reconcile with his conscience continuing to work with a company whose ethical standards were low enough
to consider keeping on the Manor as their European centre." He's too yellow to work for Nelcorp while you're their landlord, is
what -- and, thank all the stars -- he's now Somebody Else's Problem! Thanks mainly to you, you slimy devious unethical
bastard."
He clapped his hand firmly on Draco's shoulder. "Now, find us a pub. I want to buy you a drink."
Draco exhaled with sheer relief. Neville exchanged a grin with him. Then Neville coughed. "Magical or Muggle?"
"Um?" Tom looked baffled
"The pub -- Magical or Muggle."
Tom looked round. He surveyed the motley, bedraggled team of rescuers. He raised his eyebrows at the unexplained
presence -- in an elderly lady's careful grasp -- of a rubber duck. He thought for a moment, and then smiled.
"You chose. Whichever. Closest."
"Ah, in that case," Neville said firmly "I know exactly where we have to go."
He made his way decisively towards the van.
~~~
The sun was slanting in through a crack in the curtains when Harry finally awoke. He could hear a hum of lively
conversation and the bang of cooking pans through the thin wood partition which divided the kitchen from the bedroom he was
sharing with two of Hermione's cousins. The other two beds were already abandoned -- Dan and Steve, presumably, were forming
part of the mob in the kitchen, if they had not already headed down to the shore to play with the Hobie cat. He stretched and
grinned.
Well, they didn't get to bed as late as I did last night.
He put out a hesitant hand towards the bedside table, closing his fingers around his glasses. There was a half finished
letter lying under them. It had been lying there for a week now. He felt a brief pang of guilt as he spotted it.
I really ought to finish writing to Hermione.
In fact, he thought ruefully, I really ought to tell her that I should be getting back to England. After all, I haven't heard any
news in three weeks. And even up here, something as important as that would have been bound to make a bit of a noise. Obviously
it must have all been a great big flap about nothing. There probably wasn't any conspiracy at all. It's Hermione's job: it makes her
paranoid -- no, make that overprotective. I ought to write and tell her I 'm coming home.
The letter stared accusingly back at him. He looked at it, and then dropped a pile of books on top of it.
Just not today. Perhaps tomorrow. Or at the end of the week.
He stretched again, and grinned.
After all, it isn't as if there weren't a few compensations for being here.
In a moment of sudden decisiveness he strode to the window and flung back the curtains---And found himself staring straight into a forest of long lenses, telescopes, binoculars and even, he thought with one
wild, frantic corner of his mind, something that looked hideously like a radio outside-broadcast van.
His yell of shock and outrage brought Dan running in from the kitchen. Harry gestured with a shaking hand towards the
window
"What the hell--?"
He closed the curtains with a shudder.
Dan grinned. "Oh, I forgot. You and Bethany got back too late to hear about yesterday evening's excitement -- though I
will say, Bethany did actually manage to get up for breakfast which is more than you managed -- honestly, Harry, has anyone ever
broken it to you that that 'Honey we've run out of gas' line was well past retirement age before Doris Day became a virgin?"
Harry looked slightly red, but not entirely displeased. "Nothing wrong with following in an ancient tradition," he
murmured airily. "Anyway-- what the hell are all those people doing on the lawn?"
Dan's grin got wider. "Come to get a glance at our local celebrity, what else?"
"Ack?" Harry gulped. Hermione, I'm going to kill you for this. The whole point of my coming here was to be incognito.
Dan continued obliviously on.
"Yes, she showed up yesterday afternoon, when you and Bethany were off on your -- little sightseeing tour -- well, the guy
from the Audobon Society reckons she's a she, and I guess he ought to know, wouldn't you think? She's been perched on the
eaves ever since then, and the news seems to have gotten round like wildfire. Some of the guys I spoke to this morning had driven
all through the night to get here. I said I reckoned they must be nuts, but they said it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be
in on the first ever sighting of a Scops on North American soil, and they'd have gone twice the distance if they'd had to."
Harry shook his head from side to side, very slowly, in the hope it might clear his brain
"Dan?" he enquired desperately. "Would you just mind spelling out to me, in words of one syllable, just who she is?"
It was not, as a matter of fact, Dan who replied.
"You'll never guess what's just happened," an excited voice called through the panelling. "That cute little owl that's there's
all the excitement about has just flown in through the kitchen window. It's sitting on the top of the stove now. And its got some
ribbon sort of tangled round its leg, poor thing. Come here and try and help!"
Harry and Dan stumbled through into the kitchen. The owl looked up from a bit of intense under-wing preening, and
uttered a series of high pitched "pew" sounds, before gathering herself up into a feathery bullet and launching herself straight at
him.
He suppressed a squeak of pain as her claws dug into his shoulder, spotting in the nick of time that Bethany was
regarding him with a deeply impressed look in her soft brown eyes.
St Harry of Assisi, patron saint of owls everywhere.
Definitely some compensations for being here.
He grinned, and extended a cautious finger to tickle the little owl under her chin, clucking soothingly at her. His other
hand reached out to the gold and red ribbons round her left leg, which neatly concealed the slip of parchment he had been
expecting to find under them. As he released the ribbons he palmed the whole thing unobtrusively into his dressing gown pocket
for later examination. The owl favoured him with a searching look; pecked his finger once, rather hard, uttered a piercing shriek
and shot off through the open window again, making, so far as he could tell, an arrow-straight line for the coast. Outside, there
was a confused sound of shouts, vehicles revving, and other indications of the imminent departure of the encamped mob.
"Well, now that's sorted I'd better go and get dressed," he murmured modestly, acutely aware of Bethany's admiring glance
on him as he made his way back to the bedroom.
Some minutes later, however, he was still sitting in his dressing gown on the edge of the bed, staring down at the
parchment message in dumb incomprehension. Isolated phrases whirled up and attacked his eyes at random:
"High-handed and impertinent interference in my private affairs -- affording comfort, succour and assistance to my mortal
enemies -- engaging in lethal conspiracies directed at those I love -- entitled to demand satisfaction in the traditional Wizarding
manner -- send my friends to wait on your friends at their earliest convenience -- nominate a suitable neutral ground in a territory not
yet signatory to the International Conventions on Magical Duelling -- your choice of the appropriate protocol--"
But each time he tried to read it his eye kept being drawn back, inevitably, to the neat, crabbed, impossible signature at
the bottom. He gulped. There was a slight sound like the popping of a cork in his immediate vicinity. His shocked eyes glanced
up.
"Well, laddie," a familiar voice growled, "You've really gone and done it now. I've been tracking that owl for a week, ever
since one of the lads at the Ministry tipped me the wink about just what Eustace Longbottom did say when they finally managed
to patch him up enough to formally question him. Thank your stars that the Muggles spotted it and lit up your whereabouts like
a beacon for me. I daresay if I hadn't got to you before young Neville's Second did, you'd have been just as likely to nominate
some wet-behind-the-ears amateur like young Weasley or his father (god help us) to act as Second for you, and then there'd have
been no hope."
Harry's brain was going into overdrive, and his lungs kept making unscheduled gulping movements. About the only
words he managed to get out in a high-pitched squeak were: "Neville's Second?"
"Yes, laddie, as if he wasn't going to be enough of a problem to handle on his own in his current mood. Good job you've
got me here to back you up, is all I can say. I've seen Frank with a strop on, and he'd've never been able--"
Moody's eyes flashed, and he started muttering to himself.
Harry gawped.
"Surely Malfoy's Neville's second? Isn't all this really just a put-up job of his? And I can take Malfoy with one hand tied
behind--"
"Possibly, but you aren't going to get the opportunity in this precise instance," a cool amused voice from the other side of
the room said. His eye tracked up, and across: evidently the slight sound of the new arrival Apparating into the room had been
drowned in his general horror. His jaw dropped.
Narcissa stretched out lazily on Dan's bed, beginning to make micro-repairs to her makeup in a leisurely manner. "Neville
thought -- quite sensibly -- that it would only worry Draco if he knew about this before it was all over. So Emily and I tossed for
the job."
Mad-Eye Moody twisted his mouth in a sour grimace. "I'd have thought Emily Longbottom would be old enough and ugly
enough to realise you'd have to have been using a double-headed coin."
Narcissa's smile got wider. "Come on, Alastor, do give us a bit of credit. We were both using double-headed coins. It was
just that I got my Convertere charm in a split-second ahead of hers."
Mad-Eye Moody snorted. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: women like you don't know better as you get older, you
just know more."
Narcissa smiled beatifically.
Harry dropped his head on his hands. It seemed that things could get no worse.
He was wrong.
There was the sudden sound of the doorknob turning, and a cheerful voice saying:
"Harry, the pancakes are ready. I made up a fresh batch-- and-- just who the hell are you and what are you doing in Harry's
bedroom?"
He looked up to see Bethany looking across from Narcissa to him with a wide, accusing stare. Narcissa, obligingly,
sprawled across Dan's bed in an even more abandoned manner. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bethany got her word in
edgeways first.
"Harry, you utter bastard! And she's old enough to be your mother, too!"
Her hand came across his face in a wide, open handed slap before he could dodge. His eyes still screwed up with the pain
of the impact, he heard the door slam. On the edge of his hearing there was a faint, high sound of mocking laughter. He thought
it might be the fates.