A/N – I am trying something different here. Hopefully this can become a simple, relatively straightforward D/G romance, with no High Clan, no politics or intrigue (or not much) and no relation at all to _any_ of my other fics. My beta tells me that this will certainly be an interesting experiment, so we’ll see.


Disclaimer – I don’t own Harry Potter. Don’t sue me.




Misunderstandings




He had never actually told her that he loved her.


When she remembered that time, so long ago, that was the thing that really stood out in her memory – despite the warmth she had felt so certain he felt towards her, despite the way he seemed to relax so utterly in her presence, lose himself in her arms, he had never, not even once, said those three little words to her.


Perhaps she should be grateful that he hadn’t lied about that, as well.


Because it had all been lies, in the end. She should have remembered that he was the Prince of Slytherin, that lies and deception were his stock in trade. He had fooled so many for so long that she should not have been surprised to find that he had been lying to her, too – but she had been. She had been devastated.


She’d thought he’d changed, but he hadn’t, not in any real way. She’d thought he’d moved out of the darkness, had given it all up when he’d finally rejected Voldemort and joined the Order – he’d forsaken his father’s path, but he had not moved out of the darkness, had not rejected his Slytherin heritage.


Because he was a Malfoy, and it meant more than just a last name. It had certainly meant more to him in the end than she had, than her love had.


Every year, on the same day – the anniversary of the day that Voldemort was finally defeated – Ginny Weasley retreated to her small flat, locked the door, and wallowed in her misery, not coming out until the next day, red eyed and haggard. Her family and friends, after the first few years, stopped trying to persuade her out of it and had eventually came to regard it as one of her eccentricities – even after ten years, she still refused to join in the celebrations or participate in any way in what had become a public holiday.


She had never explained why she did this, had no intention at all of explaining herself. It had hurt too much, at the time, and now it was just embarrassing. To think that she had made a fool of herself over Draco Malfoy, of all people; that she had thought that she could change him…


She had thought herself in love with him, and he with her, when all he had wanted was an entry into the Order. She had thought him tamed, that he had dropped all his nastier Slytherin characteristics, when all he had done was hide them so that he could be more acceptable to Dumbledore and Moody and all the others. She had thought that somehow, because he was on their side, he was different to the Slytherins who had become Death Eaters – the only difference between him and them had been his allegiances and the focus of his motives.


He had been just as cruel and vicious as they, really. He had used her, had deceived her, and had walked away from her when she had objected to his deceptions, to his callousness…


Turned his back and walked away, without one backward glance or any indication of regret. She had shouted after him, cursing him, swearing at him, but he had taken no notice, as if she had been beneath his notice, beneath even his contempt.


Somehow, that had hurt more than anything else he had done to her. At least he had never spoken the ultimate lie – she could be grateful for that, at least.


**************************************


No, he had never spoken those words to her, to the one woman who haunted both his dreams and his conscience in the depths of the night, and he regretted it bitterly. If only he had taken the chance, had had the courage to give so much of himself…


But at the time, it had seemed as though he had nothing left to give, nothing left to offer that was not wholly given over to the single-minded quest to destroy Voldemort and his father. His obsession had been his whole focus, his whole world. Yes, he had approached Ginny Weasley, convinced her that he was repentant and a worthy candidate for the Order of the Phoenix. Yes, he had lied and concealed the lies in his heart, concealed his hatred and his prejudices, hidden the cruelty that was so much a part of him.


But the peace that Ron Weasley’s red haired sister had given him had been genuine, and so had his regard for her. What had been a lie had not been his feelings but his true nature. He had misrepresented himself, and did not regret it – he would do it again, and again, and again if it meant gaining the chance to bring down the Dark Lord.


And, he supposed, that was what she had not understood. She had thought that because he misrepresented himself, he had misrepresented his feelings – that had been clear enough, among all the anger she had aimed at his back when he had walked off. It had been more than clear that such dishonesty – both genuine and imagined – had put him beyond the pale in her mind – certainly it had, if she were shouting at him – and so he had not bothered to turn back.


His purpose had been accomplished anyway, and there had been no further need for the Order or any of its adherents – unless she had indicated otherwise. In the absence of any such sign, he had walked away, cursing the necessity that had led to her disappointment. And he had never looked back, because looking back was the worst kind of weakness…

Standard Disclaimer applies. Don't sue.




Chapter 2




The morning after her annual orgy of self-pity and pathetic whining, Ginny Weasley sobered herself up, did her best to disguise the circles under her eyes, and went back to work as if she had not spent the previous day trying to drink herself into oblivion. After ten years, she had found out that releasing the memories for just one day a year would allow her to vent, in some strange way, all the tension, stress and pent-up emotional crises of her life so she could continue on for another year. It was not a perfect system, by any means, but it was crudely effective, and allowed her to retain the illusion that she was strong, in control, and completely over he-who-shall-not-be-named.


Because she was thirty-four years old, and thirty-four year old, highly successful professional women were not still hung up about men who had ditched them ten years ago.


Ten years ago, at the grand age of twenty-four, she had thought that she was invulnerable. The war had been dragging into its tenth year by then, and Ginny had been an auror for six years, following in Ron and Harry’s footsteps. She had seen, and done, unspeakable things, and there had not been any remnants of her innocence left – or so she had thought. Certainly, she had been innocent enough to fall for he-who-shall-not-be-named, to believe that there could ever be a happily ever after – again, remnants of her mother’s indoctrination of her childhood self.


Well.


Needless to say, she had given up on dreams of ever after; had given up on men altogether. The one person she had ever found who could match her in every way had turned out to be a liar and a fraud, and all the others she had come into contact with since could not even hold a candle to…him.


So, she thought, it was better not to even try. Ginny Weasley, strong, sure and capable, did not need a man in her life, was not looking for a man in her life. And that was the way she liked it.


****************************************


The boss was in a rare taking, today. It always happened around this time of the year, on the anniversary of that day, the day that Higgins did his best to forget, because if one hint of the real reason Mr. Malfoy took himself off and got blind drunk on the same day every year ever got out, Higgins knew who would catch the blame. Having known Mr. Malfoy for almost twenty years, he had no desire to find himself in his boss’ black books – the gods only knew what he’d picked up from his father, the most dangerous of You-Know-Who’s generals…


However, this latest visit was doing nothing for the boss’ temper. A visit from smug, antagonistic Aurors first thing in the morning was never good for business – especially in this line of business, where discretion was everything, and a reputation for keeping silent was of the utmost necessity. The search warrant they had waved so triumphantly in Mr. Malfoy’s face had been the last straw.


In the rare times when the boss got into one of his moods, it was best to simply nod and say Yes, Mr. Malfoy, sir. Of course, it was very hard to tell when, exactly, he was in a mood, because the boss was so hard to read – that famed Slytherin impassivity was disconcerting, sometimes. But there were clues enough, if you knew what to look for: his movements became increasingly deliberate, his cut-glass accent sharpened and became dangerously precise, and out would come the razor tongue, vicious words spoken in a terrifyingly soft, gentle, tone.


“Gentlemen,” he had purred, “please, do come in…”


It had spoken something for their intelligence that they checked, hearing those words, and their eyes became a little wary. But they had continued on with their business, nevertheless –


Someone, somewhere, had accused Draco Malfoy of conducting illegal – perhaps even Dark – dealings in the back rooms of his clubs.


The most notorious of those Slytherin scions who, having lost everything in the war, had turned their hands to…other matters, Mr. Malfoy had built up an empire on the fringes of Diagon Alley and wizarding society, was now the legitimate owner of a chain of very successful nightclubs, and was rumoured to have significant involvement in other, darker, more illegitimate matters. Whatever the rumours, the truth was that despite his record of service with the Order of the Phoenix, his reputation was still very dubious – he was a Malfoy, after all – and he was regarded with suspicion by the highest officials in the Ministry, especially in the Auror Corps he had once, briefly, belonged to.


Being Draco Malfoy, and possessing more than his share of pride, arrogance and stubbornness, he had done nothing to assuage those suspicions or to disprove his reputation. That was not his way. Higgins knew that everything that went on in his clubs – specifically in those aforementioned back rooms – was closely monitored and even more closely regulated, even if it did skate a little close to the borderline of the law, but Higgins was unusually close in his master’s confidence…


He would like to know, though, just where the Aurors had even heard of Mr. Malfoy’s back rooms.


******************************************


“Good morning, Ginny,” came the disgustingly cheerful tones of her partner, Neville Longbottom. Never a morning person, she only scowled at him and stalked straight past, not bothering to return the greeting. His voice, more serious now, followed her into her office. “Moody wants to see us, right now. He’s in the conference room.”


She poked her head back out, curious now. “Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you fidgeting, Neville?”


He cleared his throat uncomfortably, because he knew her quite well. “It’s about…him.”


Automatically she bristled, but he held up his hands, declaiming any responsibility for the news. “We got an anonymous tip implying there was something strange going on at Shadowlands, which is –“


“His main nightclub,” she interrupted impatiently. “I know.”


“Yes, well, Evans and Weeks jumped on it, of course.” Gary Evans and Sam Weeks were two very young, very enthusiastic hotheads less than three years out of Hogwarts, with House rivalry still very much a part of their thinking. They had not suffered through the war, where most naïve, hotheaded Gryffindors learned the hard way that not all the Death Eaters had been Slytherins, and not all Slytherins Death Eaters…


They had not known Blaise Zabini, or Millicent Bulstrode, who had both rejected their families to turn towards Dumbledore, they had not known Percy, who had gone the other way. And they had not known…him. Most especially, they had not known him. They knew of him, though, or so they thought – although Ginny rather thought that they must have been listening to Ron and Harry at their absolute worst.


“What have they done now?” she sighed.


Neville’s scowl was surprisingly fierce, given his face was usually innocent, cheerful and optimistic. “What haven’t they done?” he retorted. “They go off half-cocked, banging on the front door at seven o’clock in the morning, waving a search warrant in Malfoy’s face and charging through the nightclub like elephants in a tea parlour. They conduct their search with a complete want of subtlety and care – destroying valuable property in the process – and to top it all off, they find absolutely nothing.”


She winced. That was the only thing that could not be forgiven – had they found something, anything, most of their other misdeeds could be in some way mitigated. As it was… “What was his reaction?” she asked, with carefully feigned disinterest. Because she was sure there had been a reaction of some sort.


Neville’s scowl slipped into a wry, rueful half smile. He too had known him, although not to the same extent as Ginny had. “He’s playing this for as much as he can get. As soon as he saw Weeks and Evans out the door – with exquisite politeness, mind you – he sicced his lawyers onto us, the most vicious, bloodthirsty pack of wolves I have ever had the pleasure of dealing with in my life…”


“What are the charges?”


“Oh, obtaining entry with deceptive intent, misrepresentation and fraud, wilful destruction of property, assault –“


“Assault?” she repeated incredulously.


“Yes. Apparently Weeks put his hand on Malfoy’s arm, and Malfoy felt himself threatened…” He raised an eyebrow as Ginny snorted. “It’s all there, in black and white. Did you know,” he continued, intrigued, “there used to be a law that made it a crime to lay a hand – violent or not – on the Head of an ancient House?”


She scowled at him balefully, and would have said something more, but Moody stuck his head into the room and demanded to know what the bloody hell was taking them so long. Jumping up guiltily, they followed him out, down the hallway and into the conference room.


***********************************


Seated at the desk in his office, Draco tapped his long, white fingers on the polished wooden surface, eyes narrowed in thought. It had been amusing, in an entirely petty way, to send those two arrogant young cubs back to Moody with their tails between their legs and his lawyers snapping at their heels, but stirring up trouble, though highly entertaining, would not do anything to resolve the real issue – someone had tipped the Aurors off.


Someone was trying to cause trouble for him.


And Draco did not take kindly to others meddling in his own affairs…


**********************************

Chapter 3




Besides herself, Neville and Moody, there were three other Aurors in the room – Nymphadora Tonks, with plain dark hair and dark eyes today, her brother Ron, scowling and belligerent, as he always was when Malf- he was mentioned, and a sleek, dark haired man she did not know.


Moody performed the introductions, naming the dark haired stranger as Jaryd Carlisle, of the Unspeakables. Ginny recognised the surname (Carlisle, one of the older wizarding families, producing mixed Ravenclaws and Slytherins, known for their quiet, subtle machinations)... In her association with he-who-shall-not-be-named, she had learned much of the older houses of the wizarding world. It had not always been romance they had shared.


Nodding to them all, she took her seat at the table, and Carlisle – surprisingly – began the meeting. “You all know what happened this morning,” he said as the others nodded. “But despite that, we – that is, myself and Mr. Moody – believe that there was real truth in that tip, that there is, indeed, something happening at Shadowlands. However,” his voice became very grim, “Evans and Weeks have made it rather more difficult to investigate it, with their reckless bumbling…”


Those words did not bode well for the two offenders.


“So we will have to go slowly, this time, make sure we cover all the bases, so we don’t get another visit from Malfoy’s lawyers. First things first – in front of you all, you’ll find Malfoy’s file. Have a look at it, and then tell me what you think.”


His file. The sum total of an individual’s life, the bare facts rendered in stark black and white, summarised and reduced to concise notes covering some ten sheets of paper. All the decisions and emotions, the rationalisations and the justifications, the doubts and regrets and hesitations, all the shades of grey that coloured the void between the stark facts and the rich, complex, tangled reality had been left out, and all that was left was -


Malfoy, Caius Draconis. Born at Malfoy Manor on the tenth of March 1980, eldest and only child of Caius Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Celeste Malfoy nee Black.


Attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 1991 – 1997, Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy.


No mention was made of the terrifying reputation he had enjoyed at Hogwarts, of the constant feuding with Harry and Ron, of the iron control he had held over his fellow Slytherins, of the gradual change of heart he had gone through after his father had been imprisoned…


Joined the Order of the Phoenix 1996.


It did not say why he had joined, why he had been allowed to join, or the price he had paid for entry into the Order. It did not mention the terrible conflict of interest, the soul searching, the calculations and the irrational, emotional instincts that had gone into such a choice – or the sheer courage it had taken him to make such a step.


Entered Auror Academy January 1998. Graduated July 1998.


Auror training usually took three years. In those days they had been rushing the recruits through as fast as they possibly could, sending them as quickly as they could to the front lines, most of them little more than children…


Awarded Order of Merlin, Second Class, 2000, for courage and sacrifice under fire.


They had been granting medals left and right, that year, hoping desperately to raise morale – he had laughed, she remembered, laughed with skewed, bitter amusement when the notice came informing him of the singular honour. It had been the day after Death Eaters had devastated his family estates, razing the crops and the villages, sowing the fields with salt, leaving nothing – absolutely nothing – left alive that had once sheltered or been sheltered by the Malfoy.


Stripped of all rank, orders and privilege and dishonourably discharged from the Corps, first of November 2005, after being found guilty of murdering a prisoner in violation of the Ministry’s direct order, and of the Geneva Convention.


The day after the very last battle. The day after he had walked away from her, after she had learned of his deceptions and his manipulations, and after Dumbledore and Moody had learned of his treachery: after he had helped his father find escape in the only way left to a condemned prisoner…


They had called him traitor, because he had cared more for his family, for his revenge, than he had for the Order of the Phoenix, or the grand cause of the Resistance Against Voldemort. Because his first priority had been the elimination of the enemies of his House, rather than the elimination of Death Eaters in general. And because he had stepped far, far over the already lax line of acceptable behaviour in doing so…


So be it, he had said, before he turned and walked away. I have nothing to be ashamed of.


******************************************


Years ago, on the shady, disreputable edges of the central London shopping district, the Black family had owned a crumbling, dilapidated townhouse, half destroyed in the Great Fire and never rebuilt, abandoned for a newer, more amenable abode at a newer, more fashionable address. Nevertheless, it had remained in the family, and had eventually been passed down to Draco, the last heir to House Black, who had not appreciated it at the time.


After the war, after his own estates had been destroyed, his accounts and investments confiscated, and everything taken away except this, he had revised his opinion of it. In dire financial straits, desperate and determined to create something – anything – that would generate money, it had been his last and only throw of the dice.


He had transformed it into Shadowlands.


Draco understood the minds of his generation perhaps better than most; they were a generation brought up in the innocence of the end of the first Rising, only to find themselves, at the most impressionable age, at the centre of the second, even more horrifying Resurrection. For ten long years, the war had dragged on, and they had gone from Hogwarts straight into the fight, until they knew nothing else but war, lived on fear, hatred, nerves and adrenaline, and had no dreams other than a final end to the fighting. After the war was no more than a dream, so much so that when it was finally over, they had not known what to do, how to cope.


In a society desperate to forget the horrors of the war, no matter which side they had fought for, desperate for any sort of illusion that would make the devastation and sudden emptiness of a peacetime Britain better and easier to bear, Draco had created a house of dreams, of shadows, and of fantasies. He offered oblivion, whether sexual, chemical, alcoholic, magical – it mattered not, so long as it brought surcease. Shadowlands was a nightclub, it was true – but it was so much more, and in so many ways…anything a patron could possibly want, it had; anything they wished it to be, it became.


Sex and illusion – these were the fundamental strengths of Malfoy magic.


And in return for these fantasies, at the very first generated by Draco himself, exhausting himself night after night spinning webs of illusion, of fantasies for those first patrons, and later created, sustained and powered by many-layered spells and enchantments that did the same thing, the patrons were prepared to pay – cold, hard galleons, as many as they could afford, willing to pay anything for one more experience, one more dream, one more thrill…


*****************************************


Another file, unopened as of yet, lay on Draco Malfoy’s desk. He hadn’t touched it since Higgins handed it to him – was, in truth, a little afraid to touch it, lest it should in some way awaken memories better left alone. He wasn’t exactly sure how this would be accomplished, true, but even so…


He laughed a little roughly.


He was a master of fantasy and illusion. He could create visions so real that those caught within them could actually come to harm as their minds convinced themselves of its reality. Using any medium – words, magic, music, and even art – he could convince people that black was white, up was down and that Slytherins were good, brave, honourable and extremely trustworthy.


And yet every time he had anything at all to do with Ginny Weasley, his vaunted powers and skills disappeared. That was the one and only reason that he had never, at any time, ever spun a fantasy of his own for himself. He knew that it would be of her, and that, driven by the unsettled, volatile emotions she invoked in him, it would turn dangerous…


Because he might begin to believe it, might want to believe it.


****************************************


“Exactly what kind of shady dealings are we trying to discover, Mr. Carlisle?” Neville looked concerned as he flicked again through the file. “Surely you don’t think he’s a neo-Death Eater.” Even so long after the war, there were some who still refused to believe Voldemort was really, truly dead.


“No,” replied Carlisle. “No, he lost too much to the Death Eaters. This has nothing at all to do with any kind of Death Eater activity, or so our analysts believe. But it’s – as you say, Mr. Longbottom – shady enough on its own.” He flipped to the first page of the report, to where a recent photograph of Malfoy had been stapled to the corner.


Neville copied the movement, spared a moment to look down at what his childhood nemesis had become. Despite his sneering, ferret faced adolescence, he had been quite stunning in his twenties, Neville remembered – pale, icy, perfection of face and feature and form. Complete maturity had hardened the delicate edges, any last lingering traces of boyhood completely vanished – now, one could not call him beautiful, it was too…soft.


Neville far preferred to call him feral. Fey. Untouchable. He was slightly unreal, as if he were not entirely in or of this world; Neville remembered the look in his eyes as he had, head high, uttered those words that would forever be his main impression of Draco Malfoy.


So be it. I have nothing to be ashamed of.


A remembered shudder crawled down his spine, raising the hair on the back of his neck.


“Have you ever been to Shadowlands, Mr. Longbottom?” Carlisle’s clipped, aristocratic accent intruded into his thoughts. Startled, he shook his head. No, he had never been to Shadowlands. He had never, ever wanted to see Draco Malfoy again, after those last words.


Tonks cleared her throat. “I have,” she said abruptly. “Once.”


“What was it like?” Ginny asked, curious despite herself, despite her avowed hatred for anything to do with him. Or perhaps because of it.


“It was…” Tonks tilted her head, thinking, “intoxicating. There was…there was too much.”


“Too much what?” Ron asked, puzzled.


Her mouth twisted. “Too much temptation.”


There was a small beat of silence, and then Moody spoke. “Why don’t you make your point, Carlisle?”


Carlisle hesitated. “The shadows, the fantasies the patrons experience – we believe that they’re dangerous. Addictive. That patrons hooked on the fantasy life will do anything – and I mean anything – to have just one more dream…”


“You mean like muggle drugs?” Ginny asked. “Like opium? What did they call opium addicts?”


Tonks’ face was serious. “Lotus eaters, they called them. And those who sold it to them were called dream traders. Is that what you mean, Mr. Carlisle?”


He nodded. “In a way, yes. But these addicts – they’re not just poor, ordinary people off the street. Some of them are important witches and wizards, with positions and connections in high places…”


“Oh.” Neville frowned. “Oh, dear. That’s not good.”


“No,” said Moody. “It’s not. And that’s why you’re going to find out exactly what’s going on, and you’re going to put a stop to it.”


Ginny blinked. “We are, sir?”


Carlisle’s face was impassive, his eyes hooded and far too calculating as he watched her. “I understand you and Mr. Malfoy were…lovers, at some point, Weasley?”


She met his eyes, her own blank. “I am sure Mr. Malfoy has had many lovers, Mr. Carlisle.”


They stared at each other for a while, neither willing to give ground, and then Moody cleared his throat roughly. “What we mean, Weasley, is that you were close to him before. You know him. So get close to him again, without alerting him to what’s going on.”


“I should think he already knows he’s under investigation,” she said, a last ditch effort.


“I didn’t say go in as yourself, Weasley, or even as an Auror. I’m telling you to go in undercover, see what you can discover from pillow talk, or anything else he might possibly let slip.”


She stared at him in appalled silence, unwilling to believe what she had just heard. Then she shoved her chair back, stood up, and marched out of the room.


**************************************

Chapter 4




Later that night, tired and grumpy, Ginny let herself back into her flat. Stripping her cloak off and letting it fall to the floor, she slumped down onto the couch and let her head fall back, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, trying to get herself back under control.


Damn.


Damn, damn, damn…


She hadn’t thought that his file would upset her so much. There had been more – much more – than the basic facts; the Ministry had been keeping an eye on him ever since he had been kicked out of the Order, and his file was fat, detailed, and – perhaps the most frustrating thing of all – completely clean.


On the surface, that was.


Underneath, there were hints. Questions. Rumours.


Suspicions that were all but certainties, but for the lack of concrete evidence.


He was crooked – they all knew it. But there was only one problem – the challenge: prove it. And how did Moody plan to gain this proof? Why, by sending Ginny undercover to seduce the one man who would certainly be able to identify her, no matter what guise she took…


They had been lovers for four years. No matter how much they’d changed in the intervening ten years, there was still no way she could fool him, especially not if – as Moody suggested – she tried for pillow talk. Some things could not be forgotten, and some things could not be faked. As she had shouted at Neville – poor Neville, always caught in the middle – that afternoon after she had stormed out of the building, there had to be another way.


*****************************************


The music was pounding, surging as rhythmically and as inevitably as the tide, as a heartbeat; Draco let the vibrations run through him, gave into the chemically enhanced illusion that the thrumming was some kind of magic, and that it connected him in some way to all the others out there on the dance floor – witches and wizards of all types – who also shared in the power…


He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, opened his arms wide and gave himself to the music and the growing light like a sacrifice offering himself up to his God –


And let go.


He would crash. It was inevitable – he always crashed, and hated himself in the morning. But in freefalling, he came the closest he had been in a very, very long time to complete and utter rapture…


***************************************


It had meant something, once, to be a Malfoy.


She remembered the quiet bitterness in his voice, when he had first talked to her of his world – or what had once been his world. The scars were old, by now, but the wounds still ran deep, influencing him in ways impossible to describe. And it was not just him: somehow it seemed that the whole world was scarred, that there was nothing and no one that Voldemort and the endless war had not touched and corrupted in some way.


When they destroyed his estates and his people, they struck at the very touchstone of his identity, stripping away the security of tradition, of belief and faith, replacing it with knowledge of fallibility and of mortality; and when they destroyed his identity, they destroyed his purpose.


Who are the Malfoy without their land, without their people? What is a Lord who has nothing to protect?


Nothing. Absolutely nothing.


But who was he, if not Caius Draconis Malfoy? If he had nothing, if he was nothing, then he had absolutely nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Oh, yes, Ginny could understand it, how he could justify his actions, whatever they may be. In a way, she could even sympathise…


*******************************************


Working back late at the Ministry building, Jared Carlisle stared down, once more, at the proud, confident face of the man he had sworn to destroy. A fairly recent photograph – taken only last year – it returned his gaze sardonically, not sneering as earlier pictures would have done.


It was hard to believe that this man had ever been one of Dumbledore’s most trusted lieutenants. For all his compassion and humanity, the Headmaster had a definite preference for golden, gallant Gryffindors, brave and loyal and daring, and Draco Malfoy was not – most decidedly not – of this ilk. He was too independent, too opportunistic… And yet he had been one of the central members of the Order of the Phoenix during the Second Rising, playing a vital role in bringing Voldemort down once and for all –


And then, once he had fulfilled his purpose, he severed all his ties to Dumbledore and the Order and went his own way.


Shadowlands.


Jared swore silently, rubbing the bridge of his nose. That thrice-cursed hellhole should never have been allowed to come into being. So much innocence had already been destroyed by Voldemort’s reign of terror; Malfoy’s illusions preyed on the barely-healed wounds, on the instinctive desire for oblivion, for other, better dreams than reality could ever provide…


Too many lost themselves in that oblivion, in those dreams.


Slowly, carefully, he took out another photograph – an older one, this time – of his sister Ellen, a young girl, laughing and joyous in the sunlight. Later on the innocence of youth had been stripped away and the laughter had died out of her eyes, only to be replaced by a darker, more febrile glitter – the deceptive light of the brittle, fragile dreams and illusions that she had become addicted to, at Shadowlands. And then, when the illusion was so much more real than stark, unforgiving reality, she had chosen her dreams, leaving him with nothing but bitterness and a futile anger that had threatened to destroy him, before he turned it towards revenge...

Please note: Burke and Kelly were inspired by an overdose of Jack Higgins, specifically his Sean Dillon books.




Chapter 5




Ginny and Neville spent the next day poring over the documentation Carlisle had provided them, all the files, surveillance reports and transcripts of recorded conversations that the Auror Corps had gathered in the course of their investigation of Shadowlands. Ginny – under specific orders from Moody – spent her time studying the employee files, becoming familiar with the people whom she would meet when – when, not if – she went in undercover.


Right now, the files illustrated one of the major contradictions inherent in Draco Malfoy, something that she’d always found difficult to understand – he had an incredible gift for attracting loyalty. He may be a sardonic, arrogant bastard – indeed, he most often was – but somehow, he managed to attract and draw a certain type of people into his orbit, who would, despite all notions of pragmatic common sense, follow him wherever he chose to lead...


Like Blaise Zabini, who should have known better, but who – despite their unofficial rivalry, despite the future he might have had with the woman he might have loved – had, in a most unSlytherin act, thrown himself in front of a curse meant for Malfoy.


Like Horace Higgins, his right hand and major-domo, who had been with Malfoy for years, since before his father’s incarceration. A half-blood and a squib, normally he would never have gotten anywhere near the Malfoy Heir, but Lucius – always alert to shifts in the wind – had bailed the bankrupt and almost alcoholic ex-soldier out of prison and had watched the friendship with his son form with quiet satisfaction. A big, burly Cockney bruiser, Higgins had a heart like soft goo, and doted on his self-appointed charge like a mother hen.


And then there were Jim Burke and Patrick Kelly, the two cold-eyed Irishmen who acted as doormen, bouncers and occasional muscle. They had come to England six years ago from Belfast – in quite a hurry, apparently – and after finding temporary employment with Malfoy had decided, for reasons of their own, to stay on permanently. The Gods only knew what had inspired that unlikely alliance…


But for some strange reason, the fundamental tenets of his identity, the characteristics that constituted the basis of who and what he was – so rarely revealed – drew and held loyalty from men – and women too, no doubt – who were disillusioned with the normal, conventional notions of honour and ‘good’. Because deep down, beneath all his elusive, elaborate masks and defences, Draco Malfoy possessed an ironclad – albeit unconventional – sense of honour…


~()~


She’d always been fascinated by his hands, so smooth, white and elegant, and so unlike her brothers’ hands, which were large, freckled and unapologetically calloused. And yet, she discovered, they were just as strong, the latent power tensile and largely hidden, until she had seen him strangle a man with the same expertise as he employed when he made love to her.

For the first time, she was a little afraid of him, then; she had discovered that strength was not always obvious, that Draco, not nearly as bulky as her brothers, was just as capable of physical damage…

She had been very young, then.

The Aurors had an Honour Code, but Draco, son – and Lord – of an ancient Clan, had one fundamental Law engraved on his very soul:

Protect your own.

And by then, he had already considered her as his; he would no more have harmed her than he would have harmed any of the people on his estates, or any of his family. She had revelled in the security of his love, occasionally chafed at the restraints of his protection, but had always – always – trusted in the strength of his odd sense of honour.

That certainty had been shattered on the day he murdered his father.


**************


Sensing her distraction, Neville looked over at his partner, a worried frown creasing his forehead. He was no longer the chubby, baby-faced boy he had been at school – years of stress and worry aged him, just as it had everybody else – but one remnant of his past self had remained: his admiration of Ginny Weasley, tempered as it was by a healthy respect for her brother, and the knowledge that she had fixed her heart on Malfoy.


He was enough of a realist to know that she would never see him as anything more than a friend and trusted partner, so if the only safe way to express his feelings for her was through worry and concern and what she called nagging, then so be it. Lately, he had begun to worry about her in earnest, especially after Moody had all but ordered her to undertake this investigation at Shadowlands. Neville didn’t know what Draco Malfoy thought he was doing in those back rooms of his – and quite frankly, he didn’t particularly care, as Malfoy was not the type to play grand games of villainy – but he did know that Ginny was the very last person who should be sent in to find out.


Oh, logic – cold, emotionless logic – said that she was perfect, but Neville had never put much stock in logic when dealing with the High Clan.


“So,” said Neville, very casually, “are you really going to do this?”


She looked up from the file she was examining. “Listen to this, Neville – Jim Burke, born in Belfast 1960, parents killed in the…” she raised a brow, “…troubles in ’69…”


He ignored her efforts to distract him. “Are you actually thinking of going through with it.”


She continued on. “Went to live with his uncle, who no doubt introduced him to the Cause…”


Neville put a hand on the file she was holding, pushed it back against the desk. “Ginny.”


She sighed, and turned to look him in the eye. “Orders are orders. The great man has spoken.”


“Right.” Neville fixed her with a no-nonsense look, and she glared at him, all pretence at casual detachment gone. “It won’t work, Neville. Do you honestly think he won’t recognise me, no matter what disguise I wear? Then what?”


He raised a brow, stroked his chin. “I admit, it would be a little suspicious…”


“He’ll kill me and toss me into the river,” she scowled. “Just because he was on our side doesn’t mean he’s not every bit as bad as his father was…”


“Surely not.” Neville was genuinely shocked. Draco Malfoy was capable of many things, but he would never, ever harm Ginny. However, even if he didn’t kill her, the whole plan would be blown. “So what are you suggesting? You can’t go in, but there’s no one else who knows him as well as you do. Perhaps you could supervise, maybe train some other female operative?”


“No, there’s not enough time, he’s too complex. It’ll have to be me…” Ginny didn’t want to admit that the thought of watching some other operative seduce him – or try to, because Malfoy was notoriously elusive – stirred some unpleasant feelings.


“How? You’ve just said you can’t go in undercover. Surely you’re not thinking of walking in there as yourself.”


She shrugged, drummed her fingers on the desk, and then suddenly she grinned – the trademark Weasley grin that Neville had seen too many times on too many of her brothers: reckless, extravagant, and utterly mad. “How about this?” She lowered her voice, and with a sense of foreboding, Neville listened as she outlined her plan.


*********************************


Nightclubs are dramatically different places during the day, and Shadowlands was no different. The magic and mystery of the place was both created and sustained by darkness and shadows, by the thrill of the unknown and the unexplored – at just after one o’clock in the afternoon, it was simply empty, quiet and still in the drowsing summer heat.


Draco sat behind the bar, a half-full glass of whisky close at hand, and went through the accounts with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. The smoke from his cigarette curled above his head, and Higgins noted that there were a number of others crushed out and still smouldering in the ashtray.


“Those things’ll kill you one day,” he said, disapprovingly.


His employer – his charge – looked up from his books with a surprisingly warm smile, full of charm and wry, ironic amusement. “Better things have tried and failed,” he replied. “And I have enough enemies that these,” he lifted the cigarette, “will probably be quite irrelevant, in the end.”


Even so, Higgins scowled.


“And speaking of enemies,” Draco continued, “what else have you found out about Moody and his investigation?”


Apart from the fact that Ginevra Weasley was an Auror in Moody’s department, and the devious bastard was more than probably going to set her – and everything she knew – against them? That little piece of information hadn’t gone down well at all, Higgins had discovered the next morning, when he had had to dissuade Draco from ending it all then and there. He hadn’t known Malfoy to be capable of such melodrama. Of course, he’d downed a bottle of Ogden’s and had been higher than a kite at the time…


Happily, he seemed to be fully recovered now.


“That’s just it, sir,” he said. “It’s not Moody’s investigation.”


Draco put his quill down and gave Higgins his full attention. “Oh?”


“I sent Kelly around to see what he could see, as you said, and he found out that while the investigation is carried out by Moody’s department, it was instigated by a bloke named Carlisle. Apparently he’s high up in the Unspeakables, and quite publicly determined to put us out of business…”


“Carlisle…” Draco mused. “That name sounds familiar. What do we know about him?”


A soft, dangerous voice broke in. “Jared Carlisle, one of the more dangerous members of the Department of Mysteries…” The Department of Mysteries was the arm of the Ministry empowered to use any and all means to root out and destroy internal subversion and other nasty, dirty matters the government would rather not know about. The Unspeakables were – according to rumour and urban legend – the most dangerous tools at the Department’s disposal. “He had a grand time of it in Belfast, stamping out Catholic and Loyalist terrorists alike, and then he was summoned back to England immediately after the Resurrection, where he greatly distinguished himself…”


Patrick Kelly, black haired with flat, empty grey-green eyes, had an unmistakable accent and, to those who could recognise these things, the unmistakable mark of a conscienceless, amoral killer. Too many years fighting and killing for a hopeless cause had all but destroyed any care he might have had for his own life, but for reasons of their own he and his colleague Jim Burke had decided to take an interest in Draco’s.


“Of course he wasn’t decorated, because of the nature of his work,” Kelly continued, “but it did bring him to the attention of some very important people. He’s got influence, Malfoy,” he said warningly. “By God he’s got influence, and he hates you with an absolute passion.”


Draco sighed. “Why?” And then he stopped. “No, wait. There was a girl, wasn’t there…”


“Oh yes. His sister, Ellen.”


Abruptly he stopped, because it was more than apparent that Draco remembered. “Oh, Gods,” he said thickly, “her.” Yes, Draco remembered Ellen Carlisle, a beautiful girl-woman he had been too busy to help, too concerned with consolidating his security, building up his clientele. In those days, he had needed every dreamer he could get his hooks into, and he hadn’t particularly cared about any psychological hurts inflicted or inflamed in the process. By the time he’d realised she was dangerously addicted, that she’d lost all hold on reality, it was too late.


So, the beautiful girl had a dangerous brother, one patient enough to wait all this time to come after him, canny enough to know his weaknesses, and ruthless enough to employ them… And, by all reports, quite good enough at what he did that his chances of success were bloody high.


He laughed, a little roughly, and then tossed back the rest of his drink in one go, an ironic little toast to the upcoming struggle, yet another fight in what seemed to be an eternal challenge to prove himself, to establish himself, to build himself up, and then to keep what he had built. Well, he had done it before, and he could do it again.


“To the forthcoming weeks, gentlemen. They should prove to be exceedingly interesting…”


And then he got up and left.


As they watched him go, concern in their eyes, Higgins and Kelly exchanged silent, promising glances.

CHAPTER 6




If it was absolutely necessary that she go undercover at a nightclub, Ginny knew that she would have to look the part. And that, unfortunately, meant a visit back to the Burrow, to go through some of the old clothes that she had left there when she’d moved out, just before the true height of the War.


When she’d been younger, she’d actually liked dressing up, although she’d never really had many good clothes, not compared to some of the other girls she knew. But, with her mother’s help, she’d made do – transfiguration was good for more than turning random hedgehogs into pincushions. Rifling through her old closet, in her old room – still almost exactly as it had been when she’d left – she was conscious of a sharp pang of nostalgia, for the girl she’d once been, for the dreams she’d long ago given up to become an Auror…


Here, a little faded, was the dress she’d worn to the Yule Ball in her fifth year, when Seamus had escorted her and Blaise Zabini and Malfoy had spiked the punch. That night, Seamus managed to evade Ron’s eagle eye and they found a little hidden alcove where they had experimented with a little necking… Unfortunately, there had been a Slytherin-Gryffindor punch-up and Colin Creevey had been sent flying into the curtain that hid them from the rest of the room, tearing it down and exposing them for all to see.


Ron had been furious, his face ridiculously scarlet from the alcohol, and had stormed forward to beat Seamus to a pulp; Malfoy, watching the ensuing chaos with delight, had laughed until tears came into his eyes.


Here, still vibrant as ever, were the red and gold Quidditch robes she’d worn in her sixth year, when she’d once again played Seeker in Harry’s absence. That had been the first time she’d really encountered Draco on a broom; she hadn’t before noticed how good he was. Usually he was so outshone by Harry…


She’d still beaten him, of course. Later on, he’d said that Quidditch – probably one of the only things he’d ever really cared about at school – had been the one thing that he’d never been able to dominate with his Name or his money. It had driven him crazy.


And here… A small, wistful smile curved her lips, and suddenly she was no longer a hard, self-reliant Auror, but a lovely girl. Here was a rich, thick, extremely well cut dark green cloak. When the Death Eaters had first attacked Hogwarts, she and Malfoy had both been out on the grounds and they’d not been able to reach the castle in time. For nearly six hours they had been holed up, unable to use magic, in a small thicket just behind Hagrid’s hut, in absolutely freezing weather; Malfoy had shared his cloak – perhaps the first gentlemanly thing she’d ever known him do – and they’d…well, they’d tried their best to ignore each other, while they huddled together for warmth.


Afterwards, of course, he’d refused to take it back, claiming it had been contaminated by her Weasley touch, but the beginnings to a very unlikely relationship had already been established. Once, she had treasured that cloak…


There was a knock on the door, and she took her hand off the soft, smooth fabric, almost reluctant to part contact with it. When her mother came in, she let it fall to the bed where it made a vivid, exotic contrast to the frilly, cream-coloured coverlet.


“Are you sure you’ve got everything, dear?” Molly Weasley looked anxiously at her daughter, her baby – no matter that she was now past thirty.


And, because she was past thirty, Ginny restrained the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, Mum, I’ve got everything.” She made a show of checking her bag – wand, spare wand, keys, ID, money, lipstick – just for the sake of it. It had been a long while since she’d gone out clubbing –


In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out at night for recreational purposes, not on Auror business. She’d gone straight from school into the Auror Corps, and after the war ended she’d felt too old, too drained for such innocent, terribly innocent pastimes…


But that, she’d heard, was the very appeal of Shadowlands. It didn’t cater to painfully young, naïve barely-old-enough-to-drink children. It was a club for veterans, for those who could remember the terror of near death, and the terrible joy in surviving it.


And, by all the Gods, the torrent of adrenaline that followed it…


Ginny remembered that all too well.


She made a conscious effort to smile at her mother, to pretend that all was well, but the smile never reached her sombre eyes. With a quick kiss on the cheek, Ginny tossed her cloak over shoulder and made her way to the front door, clothes she hadn’t worn in years tucked under her arm, leaving Molly standing in her daughter’s old room, remembering.


Almost unconsciously, she, too, lay a hand on the expensive cloak, so out of place in their conventional household. Oh yes, she remembered…


*************************


At eleven o’clock that night, she apparated into a side street not far from the Leaky Cauldron, giving an old drunk muggle beggar the shock of his life. Hastily obliviating him, she looked around guiltily, just imagining what Malfoy would have said had he seen – she had gotten out of the habit of stealthy apparition, since the end of the War.


Holding her dark cloak tightly around her, she made her way into the Cauldron, slipping through the common room without drawing attention to herself – right now she was in no mood to stop and talk to anyone. Gaining entry to the brick wall concealing the entrance to Diagon Alley, she tapped out the correct sequence with her wand and let herself onto the thoroughfare, once more slipping into the Saturday night crowd.


Here she relaxed a bit more, letting go the tight grip on her cloak to reveal her all-purpose dark green dress – a little daring, perhaps, to go with her destination, but still acceptable in all but the most conservative venues, sending a message she knew Malfoy was more than astute enough to understand.


Whatever else she had thought of Draco Malfoy, she had never accused him of being stupid.


Ginny had never been to Shadowlands, but if she hadn’t already known where it was located she would have had no difficulty in finding her way there tonight; all she had to do was follow the crowd. It seemed that everyone was on their way to the wizarding nightclub district, on the western side of Diagon Alley, where the biggest, most popular clubs were located – The Adrenaline, The Cocoa Tree, The Grey Kneazle.


And Shadowlands.


There was a ridiculously long line of witches and wizards eagerly awaiting entrance into the unassuming, three storey red brick townhouse. Uninterested in waiting in line, and perhaps a little curious to see if she still had any standing with Malfoy’s people, she ignored the queue and went straight to the two doormen at the entrance, shaking back the hood of her cloak to reveal her face and, more importantly, her red hair.


There was a momentary hesitation, and then the doorman on the left ducked his head and went inside, no doubt to confer with someone in authority. She hoped it would be Higgins, who had been one of the few who had actually approved of her relationship with Draco – but no, the man who came out to check on her was the lean, dark haired man she recognised as Patrick Kelly.


She was very sure that he recognised her, too, and was aware of her purpose in coming here – suddenly, she was glad that she had not gone along with Moody’s original stipulation. Had she tried to enter the club in disguise, she would have been found out almost immediately, and the very fact that she had tried to deceive him would have been all the evidence Malfoy needed to confirm her complete and utter guilt…


So she would try the forward, direct approach.


“Good evening, Mr. Kelly,” she said, steadily meeting his flat, grey-green gaze, noting that the amusement that played around his mouth never quite reached his eyes.


“Miss Weasley,” he murmured, inclining his head – his manners flawless, as Malfoy insisted of all his employees. “Or is it Officer, tonight?” There was a wealth of derision underneath his impassive tone; she remembered that he had no love at all for British authority of any kind. Understandable, considering who he had once been, what he had once done…


Nevertheless, she refused to be fazed, either by what sketchy details she had been able to glean from his file, or by the flat menace she read in his body language and in his eyes. So he did not want her here, or anywhere near his precious employer? Well, neither did she want to be here, or anywhere at all near Malfoy.


She drew herself up, lifted her chin. “I am here in an official capacity, yes,” she answered, her voice clipped and chill. “I would like to see Mr. Malfoy.”


Cynical, sardonic amusement danced briefly in his eyes. “Certainly, Miss Weasley. We’ve been expecting you.” And he turned and unclipped the rope for her, letting her go first and then following her inside to the club.


**********************************


Draco looked up at the knock on the door. He had been expecting it, of course, but still a slight thrill of excitement shot through him; his reaction to Ginny’s presence had always been visceral, tangled up with his gut instincts in a way that had nothing at all to do with his rational mind.


Higgins, lounging against one of the walls, went to open the door and let them in, before going out himself; as he turned he gave Draco a long, significant look. Irritated, Draco narrowed his eyes at the man who had been with him for nearly twenty years. They had gone over all this before – he didn’t need his various employees taking such an avid interest in his life or his business. He could take care of himself.


After Higgins had gone, Patrick Kelly – another bloody busybody who had nothing better to do than to interfere with Draco’s life – walked through the door, followed by Miss Ginevra Weasley, Auror. She was not in uniform, but he could still see her badge, nevertheless.


And because she was – metaphorically – in uniform, and because he was too shaken by his reaction to her and the memories she invoked, he didn’t stand up, a discourtesy that would have drawn a severely displeased his mother, once. As it was, it took more effort than he liked to think to remain impassive and raise an eyebrow.


“Miss Weasley,” he said, drawling, falling back on a mockery of formality – his normal reaction to situations where he wasn’t sure of himself. He didn’t look at Kelly. “To what do I owe this honour?”


She gave him a very flat look. “I think you know why I’m here, Malfoy,” she said dryly. And then, quite casually, she disposed herself in one of the chairs in front of his desk and crossed her legs. Her long green silk dress was slit at the side, and so parted to reveal a spectacularly distracting view – he wondered if she had known that would happen? He wouldn’t put it past her – which he did his best to ignore.


He was far too old to be distracted like that. Of course he was.


Kelly cleared his throat discreetly, and Draco tore his gaze away. “I have an idea, yes,” he said, parrying for time. He had not been expecting her to come out with it so directly.


“You’re under investigation,” she said, her voice curt and precise, as it was when delivering a report. “I’m sure you know it. And I’m sure you know that I was supposed to be sent in here, undercover.”


Once more – involuntarily, this time – Draco’s eyebrow rose. This was frank indeed.


She continued. “But I thought it would be best for all concerned – considering our history – if we didn’t try to play such games. So I’m here to ask if you’re willing to cooperate.”


Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and gazed at her in fascination. “Cooperate in my own investigation?” he repeated neutrally. “No doubt you have your reasons…” He knew that that tone and manner infuriated her, and so watched in pleasure as her lips tightened and she breathed a little more deeply. Evidently she had gained self-control since he saw her last.


“I don’t believe you’re guilty,” she said flatly, bluntly. And then, as his brows rose and he prepared to make a comment, she added with rather more vehemence than he believed she had originally intended, “I’ll believe many things of you, Malfoy, but not that you’re trafficking drugs through your club, or that you’re secretly holding Death Eater meetings in your basement. Unfortunately, Moody doesn’t know you as well as I do – if you cooperate with me, we can clear this mess up much sooner than if you turn Slytherin and lie and obstruct me at every turn.”


She saw it – actually saw the temptation flash through his eyes – before he controlled the one impulsive urge he had never quite managed to quell. His quick, often unruly tongue had landed him in trouble too often to count, but happily – for both of them, she thought – he managed to rein it in. And if the laughter was all too plain in his eyes, then at least he was keeping it to himself.


Instead, he stared at her for a good ten seconds, laughter slowly being replaced by speculation and calculation, and then he smiled. An ordinary smile. A pleasant, businesslike, impersonal smile such as he might give to any number of acquaintances and business partners. “Lies and obstruction of justice? But my dear Ginny, it will be my pleasure to cooperate with you…”


**********************************


She headed out of the office, walking as quickly as she could in the dress and in the crowd. Somehow, although he had promised to be as helpful and cooperative as he could, she couldn’t shake the impression that she had come out second best in that encounter…


**********************************


Neville watched her go, escorted – shepherded? – by the Irishman through the crowd towards the door. She looked like she was tense, but he didn’t think that it was because she was wary of Kelly; rather that she was still worked up over her confrontation with Malfoy. He would have to ask her about it later, when he got back to Auror Headquarters tomorrow morning.


But as for now… He turned his attention back to the job at hand, mixing and drawing drinks with all the panache of the Muggle barmen in that old movie, Cocktail. There was a very pretty blonde witch watching him admiringly, and he sent her a flirtatious wink, revelling in the new freedom granted by his new Polyjuice disguise. She simpered and battered her lashes, telegraphing a signal so unmistakable even he could pick up on it.


Yes, there was something to be said for working undercover…


***********************************

Chapter 7




Leaning against the glass window in his office, Draco watched Ginny’s progress towards Diagon Alley, her slinky green dress in no way impeding her forthright stride. She had always walked like that, he remembered – purposefully, confidently, and with absolutely no nonsense – there was none of the smooth, gliding grace seen in the girls of Slytherin and his own class to be found in Ginny Weasley. It had attracted him as much as it had irritated him. She was so different from every other woman he had ever known, and so he did not understand her, as he would have understood a less honest, more ambitious one. Perhaps that was why it had all gone wrong – misunderstandings from beginning to end, because they were both so very different…


The only things they had shared had been their pure blood, their hatred of Voldemort, and a mutual desire that neither of them had known how to handle. It had not been a good basis for a relationship.


Behind him, there was a discreet, slightly embarrassed cough; without turning he knew he would find Higgins there, respectful and yet slightly apologetic. Good old Higgins, constantly faithful and utterly reliable, and always so impassively, damnably discreet…


“What the devil do you want?” he snapped, irrationally irritated by the older man’s loyalty.


Higgins had been in his employ for too long to take offence. “If you will excuse me, sir, I wanted to know if there was to be any…er…trouble...”


Draco vented a short, bitter laugh. “Trouble?” He looked out of the window again, but the tall figure in the green dress had already disappeared into the crowd. “Of course there’s going to be trouble, Higgins. And most of it is going to come from her.”


Again, the discreet, disclaiming cough. “From Miss Weasley, sir? She is going to investigate us herself?”


“Oh no, we are going to cooperate in our own investigation.” Draco raised a brow. “For our own good, you understand…” He turned to face the other man’s impassive countenance, perhaps hoping to surprise a reaction, but Higgins only bowed, and murmured, “Of course, sir…”


Draco’s lips quirked into a twisted, rueful smile. “Of course you do. Talk to Kelly and Burke – between you three you’ll know what needs to be done. I don’t want Carlisle to see or suspect anything other than what we choose to show.”


Higgins bowed again, and headed out through the door. Just before he closed it and left, Draco stopped him. “Why did you stay with me, Higgins? After my father’s…death?”


The big man paused and turned to look back. His face was battered and lined with the marks of hard, dangerous living, but his eyes were warm, although a little embarrassed at such a direct, emotional question. “To look after you, sir. Because, although you look after everyone you consider yours, no one looks after you…”


**************************************


The next morning, as he made his way through the corridors of the Auror Headquarters, Neville was conscious of the bright, irrepressible smile he could not keep off his face, and of the extra spring in his step – and of the dark looks his good humour was garnering from his colleagues.


He couldn’t help it. Last night had been…


“Snap yourself out of it, Longbottom,” Moody growled fiercely, rudely interrupting fond memories of…Melissa? Larissa? “If you could possibly focus your mind on business, we might be able to begin.”


Coming back to mundane, humdrum reality where he was once again plain, uninteresting Neville Longbottom, he sighed a little wistfully. But then, with hard earned practicality, he turned his attention to the morning’s meeting, and his own report.


“…Rather than sending in an operative already known to the subject, Weasley and I decided it would be better if I were to be the inside man, and Weasley would pretend to cooperate openly, so as to distract attention from me. I had some small experience at making and drawing drinks – my grandmother – you remember her, sir? – used to run a bed-and-breakfast in the countryside, with a small bar…”


Jaryd Carlisle, with his smooth, sleek manner – he could be disconcertingly like Malfoy, on occasion – looked over at him and raised a brow. “Indeed, Mr. Longbottom, I didn’t know that… Am I to assume that you, and not Miss Weasley, have gone in undercover as a bartender?”


Ginny nodded. “We’re using a long-lasting, greater strength version of Polyjuice – it lasts for up to six hours – and we’ve borrowed Harry Fane’s identity, now that he’s come off that Spanish job.”


Moody nodded thoughtfully, thinking it over. Harry Fane – tall, dark, with vivid, perfect features and melting dark eyes – was often employed in the Mediterranean countries where the colouring and charm he had inherited from his mother could be of the most use. Recently, he had been involved in a nasty, prolonged mess in Spain, and after its successful conclusion he had applied for a long, uninterrupted holiday.


Due to Shadowlands’ stringent policy when it came to floor staff – good-looking witches and wizards only – Neville had been driven to ask Fane a rather unorthodox favour. After he and Ginny had explained the situation, the extraordinarily good-looking man had been all too willing to lend his physical appearance to Neville, thinking it a very good joke. A few faked references later, a few strings pulled to cover all the bases, an interview with Malfoy’s minder Higgins, and Neville had found himself a position as a bartender in the most popular club in wizarding London.


“Do they accept you?” Ron asked. “Has anyone taken an…interest in you?”


Neville avoided Ginny’s eye. Coughing deprecatingly, he looked down to the file of papers in front of him, fiddling with them, aligning them precisely in a neat, organised pile. When he felt he could control himself, he said, “No, no one’s paid me any untoward attention yet, Weasley, but I’ve only been there one night. Malfoy’s security is extremely tight. It’s only natural that newcomers – especially in situations like this – are scrutinised very closely.”


“So tell us what you did learn.” Carlisle brought the meeting back on point. “First impressions, for now; we’ll get into the details later, when you’ve been there longer.”


“First impressions…” Neville tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Shadowlands is a very, very slick operation – everything smooth, practiced, from the very smallest things to the main shadow spells that maintain the Illusions. Malfoy sets the spells, but once they’re set they’re self-sustaining, constantly powered by the emotional output of all the patrons, which is, of course, originally inspired by the Illusions…”


“A constant feedback loop,” Tonks said, almost admiringly. “There aren’t many wizards who can do that.”


Moody grunted. “Skill or no, it’s bloody parasitic. But we all know how the magic works – we’ve gone over that again and again. Tell me about the security – you said it was tight?”


Neville nodded. “That’s right. Patrick Kelly’s in charge –“


“Kelly,” Moody interrupted, rapping the question out. “The Irishman. What do you know about him?”


Carlisle laughed, soundlessly bitter. “What does everybody know about him? He’s frigging IRA –“


“No,” Neville said sharply. “No he’s not. Not anymore.” Ron shot him a curious look, and Neville cursed his vehement response. “That is, regardless of his past, there are no indications that he answers to anyone but Malfoy now.”


“Yes,” Carlisle said, still extremely sardonic. “And that’s what we’re all very interested in – exactly why Patrick Kelly – a cold-blooded, amoral killer if ever I saw one – would choose to throw in his lot with Draco Malfoy, and why Malfoy accepted him.”


Ron blinked. “You think Malfoy’s planning something? Something dangerous?”


“My dear Mr. Weasley,” Carlisle answered blightingly, “I don’t know what is going on. I believed Mr. Longbottom would find out for me, instead of returning with a farrago of groundless emotional responses.”


Ginny intervened before the meeting could deteriorate any further. “Perhaps, Neville, you could tell us about the security.”


Neville threw her a grateful glance, reached into his pile of papers and drew out a roughly sketched floor plan of the club. “From what I’ve been able to see – and I haven’t been allowed to see much – security seems to consist of a mixture of human guards, magical wards and muggle electronics. Because we’re dealing with Malfoy, I’d assume that it’s very, very thorough, but the strange thing is that the back rooms are not, as we’d all assumed, the most heavily guarded…”


************************************************


Carlisle caught up with Ginny as she went back to her office. “Weasley,” he said coldly, his face rigid, “what the hell did you think you were doing?” When he was truly enraged he flushed – a delicate pallor staining his normally white skin – and his smooth, languid manner became extremely stiff, as if he needed to keep a stranglehold on his temper. In this, he was quite different to Malfoy, who always paled with fury, iced over, and tended to become even more feline than ever. Ginny, who had been exposed more than once to the full force of Malfoy’s arctic displeasure, was not seriously troubled by Carlisle’s poorly controlled ire.


In fact, it put her back up.


“I was thinking of the operation, Mr. Carlisle,” she said quietly, trying to rein in her own temper. “I knew that Malfoy would recognise me, no matter what disguise I wore.”


“You thought?” he asked, his raised voice rather more intense than she thought the situation warranted. Why was he so upset? “You thought! It is not your place to think…”


Her nostrils flared. “You seem to have more concern for your plan than you do for the investigation.” Something flickered in his eyes. Her instincts pricking, she followed up on her observations. “Why? Why are you so intent on catching Malfoy, when there must be so many other, more immediate threats out there? And why are you so concerned about Patrick Kelly, and why he chose to serve Malfoy? What is all this really about, Carlisle?”


Of course, she knew that she would get no answer. He was an Unspeakable, and he didn’t need to explain himself to a mere Auror. Although, if she were stubborn enough, and willing to risk the trouble that might come down on her head from it, she could go through formal channels with her queries and doubts, but that was not at all advisable…


He refused to answer her, but inclined his head with frigid courtesy and walked off swiftly. But Ginny didn’t make the mistake of thinking she had won the encounter, and she was determined that she would not underestimate him because of this one lapse. Ever since she had first come into real contact with Slytherins, when she’d been (sixteen? seventeen?) she’d equated strength, power and intelligence with self-control, but that was only one mode of behaviour; it would not do to think Carlisle less than deadly because he raised his voice, or did not act as she thought he ought.


“ –nny? Ginny!” She jumped, and was bought back to herself by the sound of Tonks’ voice, coming from just behind her. The older woman grinned as she finally gained her attention, and then jerked her head towards Carlisle’s rapidly disappearing figure. “What’s going on there?”


Ginny scowled, and dug her hands into her pockets. “He’s upset that I took it upon myself to change the plan without informing him.”


Tonks looked indignant – more so than the usual indignation of Aurors who had been trampled over by Unspeakables. “Why on Earth not? You couldn’t have told him in time. I thought that you did the only thing you could, in the circumstances.”


Ginny gave a small, rueful laugh. “Thanks a lot, Tonks. However, it’s not your opinions that matter… In fact,” she said thoughtfully, “I rather thought that he seemed more upset than the situation warranted…” she trailed off quietly, chewing her lip. Tonks gave her a puzzled look, but she would say nothing more.


Tonks knew how to take a hint. Determined to take Ginny’s mind off her troubles, she laughed and said, “Oh, enough of Carlisle. Let’s talk about my cousin Malfoy. You know, I always hated him when he was young…” She ignored Ginny’s glare, returning it with a laughing, mischievous smile. “How did it go last night? What was his reaction to seeing you after all this time? Tell me all.”


Girl talk with Tonks? Well, she didn’t want to talk about Carlisle anymore, true enough, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted to talk about Malfoy either. She hadn’t talked about him for ten years, ever since the disastrous break-up; and before then there had been far too many other things to do than to whisper scandalous secrets to her girlfriends. Most of them hadn’t approved of him anyway.


But…


She laughed, looked left, then right, and pulled Tonks into her empty office and shut the door. “You know the dress I was wearing?” Her smile turned distinctly wicked as Tonks nodded, grinning. “Well, he nearly swallowed his tongue when I sat down and crossed my legs…”


*********************************************


“Well, Mr. Higgins?” Kelly asked, idly tapping his fingers on the bar. “You’ve been very discreet all night – how are we to react to the Weasley woman’s…unconventional…proposal?”


Jim Burke, a short, stocky, cheerful man, was not smiling now as he watched the two very different men fence lightly. When Burke and Kelly had first decided to throw in their lot with Draco Malfoy, there had been some definite tension as Higgins and Kelly had circled each other warily, establishing or reinforcing their relative positions. Since then, they had learned to work together quite effectively, but some rivalry still remained – most of which was expressed in the form of verbal sparring and the occasional dark look.


But Higgins’ reaction to Kelly’s latest idle remark seemed, to Burke, to be quite disproportionate. He stiffened, his fists clenched dangerously, and he spoke with such quiet fury that Burke gave silent thanks that the man was a squib. “Do not refer to her like that.”


Kelly raised a brow.


“Miss Weasley is a proper lady,” Higgins said loftily, having regained some of his composure. “The fact that she is currently investigating us is irrelevant; you will treat her with respect and courtesy at all times.”


This time Kelly’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but the idle tap, tap, tapping never ceased, and he evinced nothing but polite interest. “Why? Because she was once Malfoy’s?”


“Because she still is his,” Higgins corrected, “although neither of them know it. And because he would tear you apart if you even think of harming her.”


Kelly looked briefly amused at the thought of Draco Malfoy – ex-Auror, son of a dangerous Death Eater – tearing him apart, but said nothing, apparently acknowledging the spirit, if not the letter of the point. There was more than one shade of meaning to the possession implied by “Malfoy’s” – and he was very aware of it, having accepted the shelter of just such a possession himself…


But he hadn’t thought rough, crusty Higgins a closet romantic.


Having made that one point very clear, Higgins went on to lay out the instructions he had received the night before, and to take suggestions on their efficient implementation. Cooperation – to a point. Total disclosure of all relevant information – again, to a point.


And no matter what the circumstances, no harm – absolutely no harm – was to come to Miss Weasley…



*******************************************

Chapter 8




On the day after he graduated from Hogwarts, Draco volunteered to join the Auror Corps. Normally, they would not take anyone under the age of eighteen, but those times had not been normal, not by any means. Dumbledore’s recommendations and his own history with the Order of the Phoenix – although there were not many who knew of that – had served to dispel, or at least quash, much of the stigma of his surname and his parentage –


Once upon a time, there had been no stigma attached to the Malfoy name; but that had been a long, long time ago…


And he had been allowed to enter into the Academy and learn what he would need to fight a war that had no definite front line, no easily identified opponents, and no rules or mercy of any kind. And then, a mere six months later, barely eighteen years old, he had been sent out to fight.


Looking back now, he was amazed that he had survived beyond the first week.


*********************************************


“Do you know the worst thing about it?” Ginny asked, slurring her words a little and squinting as she tried to focus. She didn’t wait for her audience’s reply, but went on anyway. “The worst thing,” she said, nodding sagely, “was that he was hated by both sides. The Aurors hated him because Lucius was a Death Eater, and the Death Eaters hated him because Lucius spilled everything he knew before escaping and returning to the fold, and poor Draco was stuck in the middle…”


“Poor Draco?” Tonks squinted at her incredulously. “Ginny, he was an unrepentant, prejudiced git. What the hell did you ever see in him?” She paused, perhaps belatedly remembering her manners. “If you don’t mind my asking, that is…” Unfortunately the wide, drunken grin plastered over her mobile, expressive face belied any attempt at humility.


Honestly, Ginny thought the other woman took far too much delight in abusing her younger cousin. Especially after consumption of excessive amounts of alcohol.


But…


“Well,” she said rather dryly, because although there was truth in Tonks’ words, it was not the whole truth, nor even part of it, “it certainly wasn’t his winning personality and open, inquiring mind...”


*********************************************


(1999)


It was Ginny’s first assignment in the ‘real world’ outside the Academy; she had graduated only a week ago and had been assigned to work under Alastor Moody himself, in an active combat unit that had a reputation for high successes – and high mortality rates. They were all of them ridiculously young – the eldest in the squad was twenty-three, and she herself, at eighteen, had been the youngest. At that time, Malfoy had been with the unit for nine months, and had been wounded three times – the longest anyone had lasted, they said, was two years.


Her father had not been pleased to hear where she had been transferred, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him that she had actually volunteered for this posting. She had wanted to make a difference, and the best place for that – so she had thought, then – had been in one of the six active units that took the brunt of the worst of the action.


Gods, she couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid.


Outgoing, good-natured, and a Weasley, she had had no troubles in fitting in, but had been puzzled by the distance the rest of the team – especially the ‘veterans’ – had kept from each other; not a deliberate unfriendliness, but a slight sense of reserve. It had actually been Malfoy, the most reserved and aloof of the lot, who had enlightened her.


“I’ve been here for nine months, Weasley, and in that time about half of the people I came in with have died, some of them horribly. It doesn’t pay to get too close to people who are just going to die anyway…” And then he had made a disparaging comment on her family, before walking away, leaving her bristling and defensive, trying to think of something she could have said in return.


At first, she hadn’t believed him. She’d made friends among her fellow rookies, some of them quite close friendships, and then – just as Malfoy had predicted – some of them had died, leaving her with a tearing sense of disillusion and grief, and a determination for revenge that had quite killed something inside of her, something she’d never known she’d had until she’d lost it.


And still the war went on, day after day, attack after attack, without any care or regard for her feelings, and Ginny learned the price of survival, of sanity in the madness that had become her life.


“How do you cope with it?” she had asked him once, exhausted and filthy and covered in blood, not caring that this was Draco Malfoy whom her family had always hated, who had always hated her family – all she knew was that he had been through this and survived, and that he could tell her the secret that would make the pain go away, that would numb her to the horrors of her everyday life.


They were seated on the cold, stone floor of their barracks, their backs against the old brick walls. Malfoy, just as filthy, exhausted and blood-spattered as she, had only laughed – the short, bitter laugh that was no laugh at all. “You block it out, Weasley. All the screams, all the deaths, all the terrible sights and sounds – eventually they all fade into the background, and it all becomes numb.” He turned his head to look at her, his silver eyes dull. “Of course, it’ll all come out in your dreams eventually…”


By then, Malfoy had become one of the veterans of the group: the younger ones – and she was getting jaded, to think of the newer recruits as ‘young’ – looking up at him, telling tales of his exploits, drawing comfort from his still-famed arrogance, his nonchalance and his apparent invulnerability. He was Draco Malfoy. And as long as he had been by their side, with his Slytherin cunning and his knowledge of the Death Eaters, a little bit of his luck rubbed off on them, too.


Unfortunately, as his reputation grew, so too did the hatred of his opponents, who seemed to take it personally that Lucius Malfoy’s renegade son would defy them so successfully. He became a target, began to draw trouble and death like a lodestone – but it had always been his companions, his teammates, who had paid the price – not him, never him…


And his superiors, always watching him closely for any sign of treason and disloyalty, saw the situation and thought it best to take him away from the front line fighting, reasoning – perhaps even logically – that his presence would only bring more and more danger down upon the unit. And besides, they could keep a closer eye on him in London, and maybe even find another use for his wide range of talent and unique perspective in the administration of the war effort, rather than in the field.


The news had not come as a shock to Ginny, whose father kept her regularly updated, and so she had not been surprised to see him heading out of the barracks one morning, with his battered duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his ragged, shoulder length blonde hair caught back by a piece of string. It had surprised her to find she felt a small pang at the thought of no longer hearing his arrogant, supremely confident voice reassuring them all before a mission – usually with a derisory remark – or of talking casually and impersonally to him – as much as he ever talked, which was not much at all – of the nightmares they both vehemently denied, and the numbness that helped them to survive.


“So,” she said, carefully casual, “you’re going to London.”


He dumped the bag on the ground and shrugged, stretching his back – he’d had to dive for cover the night before, and had landed badly. “Yes.”


She made a small, neutral sound in the back of her throat. “Well.” What else could she say? “It won’t be the same without you.”


He smiled, then, a little – a small, wry quirk of the right side of his mouth – and nodded, not offering her any blighting sarcasm. An honour. And then there’d been an impatient call from outside, and he’d picked up the duffel bag, looked back at her one last time – “Stay alive, Weasley” – before walking out the door, and out of her life.


They’d known each other for nearly seven years, and yet it had only been in the last six months that she’d come to know anything about his real self…


She’d wondered, then, if either of them would live to see the other again.


It hadn’t seemed likely.


**********************************************


The reaction to his presence in London had been mixed, to say the least. If Draco had had any doubt before that they didn’t trust him, by the time he’d been left to wait a full twenty minutes in the antechamber to the Minister’s office he’d lost every single one of them. Really, was it his fault that his father had become a Death Eater at the age of seventeen, a full four years before his own birth? Was it his fault that his father had returned to Voldemort once it was clear his resurrection was inevitable and any who didn’t return to the fold would be hunted down and executed? And, finally, was it his fault that his father had fed the Ministry faulty information in order to gain more comfortable environs than Azkaban, from which he’d promptly escaped?


“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” Fudge had said, seemingly surprised. There’d been no warmth in his voice, not even the pretence of it – only the haughty look down his nose at the man whose ancestry stretched further than this peasant’s could ever dream of. “Officer Shacklebolt told me that you would be arriving soon.”


Draco, in his turn, had said nothing.


“Yes, well,” the Minister cleared his throat, “you are to report to him on the fourth level, as soon as possible. No doubt he will assign you a task suitable to your,” he raised a supercilious brow, “many skills…”


Still, Draco stood impassively and said nothing. But this time, Fudge turned his attention back to his paperwork, waved a languid, dismissive hand, and said, “You may go.”


Luckily, he had forgotten all about Draco and was absorbed in the paperwork – had he looked up at that moment, and seen the look in Draco’s eyes…


But the hot, feral temper was firmly brought under control, and he quickly turned on his heel and exited the office, anything he might have said or done swallowed by his self-control and common sense.


The Headquarters of the Auror Corps dominated the entire fourth floor of the Ministry Building. Draco had only been here once or twice before, so he wasn’t too familiar with the layout, but he had developed a certain detached indifference since he had first seen death – in combat, that is – and there was very little that could faze him now. Not even the crowds of serious, bustling dark-robed Aurors and clerks filling most of the rooms with their noise, their purposefulness.


There were so many of them! And they were so…unwary. They let others approach them from behind, without flinching, they let strangers touch them without reacting, and they walked in front of open windows and through potential ambush zones without a qualm…


He balked, stopping in the doorway, spooked; the strangeness of it all hitting him at once. He had been living at such a high state of awareness for so long…


“Hey, you!” A hand came down on his shoulder, and he flinched instinctively, reaching for his wand, spinning, dropping to the ground, all his killing reflexes coming to the fore –


And only just stopped himself from killing a young, freckled, red haired man with wide, suspicious blue eyes. His wand pressed firmly against Ron Weasley’s throat, he smiled grimly. “Your timing is impeccable as always, Weasley. Now piss off.” A little reluctantly he replaced the wand in the little sheath strapped to his left forearm and turned his back to enter the now quiet, staring room.


Behind him he heard sputtering, indignant curses. “Don’t walk away from me, Malfoy, dammit… What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were out with the ASUs.” There was an unspoken question, a demand, in his voice; he couldn’t hide it.


Draco sighed, turned back – he had had enough experience of Ron Weasley to know when to give in. “I was recalled yesterday. The last I heard, your sister was alive. And as for safe and well…” he raised a brow, shrugged. But then, uncharacteristically, he went on and said something quite odd. “You should not have let her join the ASUs, Weasley.”


For once, they were in perfect agreement, however much it killed Ron Weasley to admit it. “I know that,” he muttered sourly, “but do you think she’d listen?” And then, rather awkwardly, he seemed to realize the situation and pull himself up, muttering some insults under his breath, pushing past Draco to stride into the – once more bustling and mobile – crowd and disappear. Draco was left to make his own way across the room, sliding through the crowd, most of who seemed to melt out of his way – none of them daring to catch his eye – and searching for Kingsley Shacklebolt, who would tell him why he had been so summarily pulled away from his station and what he was to do now.


He could not see himself, or the picture he presented. His long dark blue robes were ragged and tattered at the edges, his hair uncut, pulled back for convenience, he was pale – from staying out on patrol all night and sleeping all day – and his eyes were terrifying; lightless, seemingly colourless now, and always moving, always searching, always calculating. He himself seemed to radiate a dangerous, feral sense of awareness, of constant wariness that was quite disconcerting to those who had never seen real action – and even to some of those who had.


He could not see himself, but he could see their expressions, hear their whispers as he went past.


…My God, who the hell is that? Are you sure he’s safe?


…Just came from an active service unit… They say he’s been there for more than a year…


…ASUs? They’re all killers, every single one of them…


…Malfoy… …You know, old Lucius’ son…


…You’re not serious? He can’t be that old, then?


…Not even twenty. Look at him…


…His eyes…he's feral. And they say they're all like that...



***************************************************


Yes indeed, he’d been feral. And they’d been afraid of him, all those administrative aides and clerks, afraid of the raw, unshielded killing potential he had – the evidence that he had crossed over that divide that kept humans from killing each other indiscriminately, and done it quite deliberately, and could quite easily do it again.


Well, he had been very young. Since then, he’d learned to disguise that emptiness, the terrible knowledge that came with coldly, deliberately killing another human being, but he’d never quite managed to banish it. All he’d done was learn to fill it with something else – sex, drugs, drink – and to get on with his life, blocking it out, reducing it to background noise…


And to take Dreamless Sleep every night, to ensure that the nightmares could never find him.

Chapter 9




The next night, Neville – alias Harry Fane – was at the bar mixing drinks, keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity in the club, when a drawling, accented voice spoke from behind him.


“You’re quite good at this, Mr. Fane.” The voice was Irish, but not the soft Irish of the Republic; this was the hard, unmistakable sound of the Belfast streets.


Neville hesitated, and then turned around to face Patrick Kelly, whose flat grey-green eyes were uncomfortably acute. Did he suspect anything? Had Neville given himself away somehow?


Somehow, he managed to dredge up a smile and an innocently inquiring look. “Shouldn’t I be? It’s what I do…”


Kelly smiled faintly. “Get me a whisky, will you?” As Neville poured him a glass of Old Ogden’s, he drew up a bar stool and sat down, his elbows on the bar, and watched him with frankly measuring eyes. “Yes, you’re very good. Why did you apply for this job?”


Neville set the drink down in front of him, took up a towel and wiped up a small spill, buffing the bar back to its usual shine. “Because I needed the money.” He chanced a quizzical smile. “Isn’t that the usual reason?”


“With that face?” Kelly raised a brow, deliberately provoking. “With that body, and with that charm? There are other, easier ways to earn money…”


Neville stiffened, as Harry Fane – extraordinarily good looking, but with firm principles – would have. “No,” he hissed, shedding the harmless, easy-going charade. “Never.”


But Kelly simply watched him, eyes flat and unreadable, until he seemed to come to some sort of a decision. “So,” he said finally. “You are not for sale.” He took a slow, thoughtful sip. “But that does not mean that you can’t be bought by other means.”


He knew men like Kelly, knew something of how their minds worked, and what they related to. He had no need to feign indignation, let it colour his voice and his manner. “While I work here, I will be loyal to this club, its employer and my fellow employees.” Eyes challenging, he deliberately touched his fingers to his heart. “I will not be bought, not by money, and nor by anything else.


Those flat, unnerving eyes stared impassively at him for a while longer, and then the other man bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. “As you say,” he said quietly. “Be sure that you keep your word, Mr. Fane. You do not want to face the consequences if you don’t.” And then he left, just as silently as he had first appeared.


Neville did not stare after him. He knew better than that.


***************************************************


On the other side of the room, the subject of his loyalty was a discussion point for Kelly and Higgins, two reluctant allies who had been forced to work constructively together far too often for their mutual liking. “Well, Mr. Higgins, what do you think? Is he a threat? My gut says that he is, but there’s absolutely nothing to back it up…”


Higgins shrugged, watching the bartender intently. “He does not seem to be a dangerous man,” he said slowly. “But there is something about him…” He turned to Kelly. “You trust your instincts?”


“Absolutely.” Kelly laughed soundlessly. “And right now they’re screaming at me. In the course of a very misspent youth, I’ve learned never to ignore them…”


Higgins ignored this reference to the Irishman’s past. He himself had spent much of that same time on the opposite side, chasing Kelly and others like him all over Ulster, and he did not appreciate being reminded of it. Of course, that was why Kelly did it – but whatever the other man’s faults, he was a very useful man to have around in a bad situation, and his loyalty to Malfoy was unquestionable.


“Do they tell you anything useful, then? Facts, figures, or perhaps some specific information?” The sarcasm was heavy, but Kelly only grinned.


“No, just a general warning that something is off.”


Higgins snorted. “Lovely.” Sighing, he pushed himself off the wall, turned towards the discreet door that would lead to the staircase to the main office, where he would make his report to Malfoy. “There’s something off about this whole bloody situation, let alone Fane.” He looked back at Kelly. “Watch him. I want to know everything there is to know about him – and bring it to me tomorrow, not to Mr. Malfoy. Miss Weasley is coming to investigate tomorrow, and he’ll be too distracted.”


Higgins’ face was an interesting mixture of respect and dissatisfaction and worry, all warring for supremacy in the current situation. But that did not in any way lessen his authority, and so Kelly nodded respectfully. “And if he should turn out to be a copper?”


The older man met his eyes squarely. “We’ll want to talk to him, first. After that I’m sure you’ll be able to find a discreet solution, Kelly. After all, that was always your forte, wasn’t it?” he asked with gentle malice. And with that, he turned on his heel and was soon swallowed up by the crowd. The Irishman stood there for a moment, watching the space where he had been, before he expelled a short, sharp breath that was not quite a laugh, and then moved off himself.


********************************************


At the tail end of the night, when most of the people had gone on, leaving only the staff to clean up the dregs of the illusion, Neville saw the flash of Draco Malfoy’s white hair out of the corner of his eye. He was leading two men wearing all-enveloping cloaks out of the back of the club and towards the fire exit – as he watched, straining his eyes for details, Neville saw his head come up, like a wild animal scenting danger, and swing around in the instinctive movement of a trained operative.


He had forgotten, somehow, that Malfoy himself was a dangerous man – Kelly, Burke and Higgins were not the only ones around whom he would have to take care.


Ducking his head before that gaze reached him he went back to his work, careful to affect the smooth, casual air of a man with nothing to hide, but he could not quite quell the rising excitement, the shivering anticipation that always affected him when a case showed signs of movement.


Finally, an indication – even a small one – that the tip-off had not been a mistake… There was something going on after all.


*************************************************


Draco shut the fire exit door behind them, leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath.


Godsdamn them – how much more will they demand of me?

How long must I continue this ridiculous charade…


***************************************************


At the end of the war, when he had been left adrift, with no purpose, no reputation, and no Ginny, he had first met them, a group of closet supporters of Voldemort who had never made the commitment of receiving the Dark Mark – their support being entirely financial – and so had escaped even the most thorough Ministry sweeps and investigations.


He had been wary at first, remembering the hatred he’d earned on his quest for vengeance – had actually never lost that wariness, even now – but they had reassured him that their involvement with the Dark Lord had been nothing more than business. However, now that He was gone, there was nowhere – no handy Death Eater charitable fronts, no businesses – through which they could, shall we say, convert bad money into good.


He had told them that his heart bled for them – but what could it possibly have to do with him?


“Ah, you see, Mr. Malfoy – you need a great injection of cash, do you not, to bring your fascinating idea for a nightclub into reality? And we have cash and to spare, but with no place to filter it through…”


“However, there is a little something – only a small service, really – that we would like you to do for us in return…”


His father had been a cold-blooded murderer who had committed some of the most horrific acts of the Rising. But, ever the aristocrat, he would have recoiled from the merest suggestion of this sort.


His father was dead. He had killed him himself.


And there was nothing else left.


“What kind of service?”


“Oh, not right now, Mr. Malfoy. We will not ask it of you now. But, perhaps, at some time in the future…?”


From that unholy bargain had come Shadowlands, and for near enough to nine years, it had been good. He had not heard from them again, but he had occasionally fed some of their money into his club, considering it a small enough price to pay. And then, nearly a year ago, he had received a visit from them, and the news that the time had come to fulfill his bargain. A small service, really, not much to ask – completely within his capabilities, technically legal, and naturally, it would bring no harm to him or his club.


“Please, Mr. Malfoy – it is only business, after all. We have kept our part of the bargain, and if you keep yours, all will be well…”


Of course it had been a mistake to agree to the initial bargain. But he had had no other choice – no other choice that he would freely accept. And it had been unwise to accede to their demands for this ‘small service’, but…


He was persona non grata with the Aurors and the Ministry. He could not go to them with a fantastic tale that incriminated him as much as it did them. He would have to rely on himself and his own ruthlessness. He had chosen to repudiate his past and his upbringing, turning away from his father and all that Lucius had represented, but he had been raised in the darkest, most exclusive circles of the shadows…


And he had been a very, very good student.


***************************************************


Neville slid stealthily into the main private room at the back of the club, his wand at the ready, magically enhanced hearing straining for the sound of footsteps that would indicate Malfoy’s return. It was the first time that he had ever been inside this room, and he looked about him curiously, but it looked just like the private rooms of any other nightclub in Diagon Alley – low, shadowed lights, luxurious decor, soft plush furniture placed in strategic positions, soundproof padding on the walls, to ensure complete privacy…


There were four used glasses placed on the table, indicating that at least four people had been in the room –


Four? He had only seen three leave…


And when he picked one of the glasses up and sniffed it cautiously, tasting it, casting a quick revealing spell, found that it was only muggle alcohol – no drugs, no potions, no other hidden ingredients. Two of the others were the same, but the third… the third was spiked.


Where had the other person gone?


Who were the cloaked secret guests?


What was Malfoy doing in here?


And…


He froze as he turned his head and saw a shadow from the corner of his eye. Cursing himself for a fool, he brought his wand up as quickly as he could – he was a trained Auror, surely he could handle himself – but the other was fast, extraordinarily fast. He got off one shot – Stupefy! – but the other twisted, and the spell missed, and then it was too late to try again –


And then it all went black.


**************************************************


Kelly smiled grimly, looking down at the man he had just knocked out. He’d gone after him to see just what fascinated the other man so about the back rooms, and had seen the familiar stealthy movements and recognized them. The grip on the wand, the balanced stance, the practiced turn-and-fire – it all shouted Auror.


So it seemed that his instincts had been right; Ginny Weasley had been sent in to distract them, while this agent was sent in undercover to investigate right under their noses.


Well, well, well…


Neither Higgins nor Malfoy were not going to like this, not at all: Higgins because it confirmed all the suspicions he had not wanted to harbour, and Malfoy, because it meant that his Ginny had betrayed him…


Perhaps it was best not to spring this on them right now.


Slinging the unconscious Auror over his shoulder, he headed towards the cold, damp cellars. He would leave him tied up in there for the night, just to let Malfoy get some sleep – and then they would all have a little talk with Mr. Harry Fane.

Chapter 10




Neville awoke slowly, the pounding in his head warning him to be cautious of any sudden movements – but it was not just a hangover, was it? There was something else he should remember, wasn’t there…?


“Open your eyes, Mr. Fane, we know you’re awake.”


Damn it all, why did he always have to get the intelligent villains? That muggle fellow, Bond, always faced megalomaniacal madmen intent on world destruction or domination – brilliant in theory, but hopelessly impractical – but of course, Neville faced a very sane, very experienced man who knew much more about power and influence, and who was nothing if not terrifyingly pragmatic.


A man, moreover, who had always intimidated him as a boy, and had continued to do so even into adulthood.


Someone out there was laughing at him.


A short, sharp slap bought his eyes flying open, dispelling any inclination to amusement.


Draco Malfoy looked down at him – was standing over him, because he was currently tied hand and foot to a chair against the wall – with a calm, patient expression. For a moment Neville panicked, sure that his disguise had run its course and he was regressing back to his normal self, but there was no recognition in Malfoy’s eyes – only that terrifying patience – and so he breathed a sigh of relief.


Naturally those sharp eyes caught it, and narrowed. “In your position, Mr. Fane, I would not find this situation reassuring. Perhaps you could tell us what you find so comforting?”


Neville ignored the sarcasm. Us?


Patrick Kelly stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. “He’s an Auror,” he accused. “Words don’t intimidate them.”


Neville flinched. How did they know? Did someone betray me? Has Malfoy still got contacts inside the Corps? Both of his tormentors noticed it, and suddenly their focus sharpened, their eyes narrowed in speculation. Merlin’s Balls…


Now, he was afraid, as he hadn’t been before. They’d made him. They would trace his presence back to Ginny’s investigation – after she had sworn there were no hidden tricks in her open assessment of the situation. Even given her past association with Malfoy, she could be in serious danger…


This interrogation was no longer a joke.


Nevertheless…


“What do you suggest, then, Mr. Kelly?” Malfoy’s drawl was insufferably blasé. He eased himself down into a chair, crossed his legs, and began to examine his nails. “Tell me what intimidates brave, bold Aurors.”


The Irishman shrugged. “That depends on what action the particular Auror has seen, where they’ve served – who they’ve fought…”


A raised brow. “Well, Mr. Fane?”


Neville scowled. He was terrified, and they were playing mind games with him? “Fuck you, Malfoy,” he scowled. He worked some saliva into his mouth, looked his childhood menace straight in the eye, and spat in his face. There was a moment of enormous satisfaction, and then –


Kelly backhanded him so hard his head jerked back and hit the stone wall with a sickening crack, and blood flew from his split lip in a spray of scarlet pearl drops.


When he could see again past the blinding pain and the flashes of coloured light, Draco was calmly wiping his face with an immaculate linen handkerchief. “If you are quite finished,” he said gently, “I would like you to answer some questions for me. I think you know very well what they are…”


He had learned the price of open insolence. Instead, sullenly, he turned his face to the side and refused to answer.


Kelly grasped his chin and forced his face around, squatted down so that they were both eye to eye with each other, and spoke in a very low voice. “Answer the man’s questions, boyo.” In his other hand, he held his wand with negligent, threatening ease, tapped it significantly against a very sensitive part of Neville’s anatomy, sending shivers down his spine. “It’ll go worse for you if you don’t…”


Neville breathed hoarsely, trying to meet Kelly’s eyes steadily without blinking. But when he spoke, it was not to Kelly, but to his master behind him. “Why don’t you just use the curse and be done with it? Isn’t that your preferred method?”


There was a short, sharp silence, and then, “Ah,” Malfoy said quietly. “Now that is interesting…”


**************************************************


Why don’t you just use the curse and be done with it?


Draco registered the impact of that particular verbal blow, but didn’t give any indication of it. It seemed their false Mr. Fane knew very well of what he spoke, and what it would mean to him – to Draco Malfoy, who had killed his own father in such a fashion – and what a grievous mistake it was to reveal such intimate and in-depth knowledge of his affairs.


There were very, very few people who knew the true details his father’s death.


Rather than explaining things, their prisoner had only inspired more questions. But Draco was not entirely sure, now, that he wanted those questions answered…


************************************************


It was seven a. m., and Ginny was beginning to worry. Neville had not yet reported in, and while it was entirely possible that he could have picked up another Larissa, or Clarissa, and simply lost track of time, she did not believe it.


Something was wrong. She could feel it.


He had been found out.


************************************************


Patrick Kelly was glad that he was not the poor fool of an Auror currently enjoying the full focus of Malfoy’s attentions. A brave, bold Auror – wasn’t that what Malfoy had said? There had been real venom in his words, true anger – the man had been an Auror himself, once upon a time. He had fought for ten brutal, disheartening years against the most bloodthirsty Dark Wizard Britain had ever seen. He had spent far too long in an Active Service Unit, fighting the dirty, vicious fight that the newspapers never saw, and that most of the lily-white politicians preferred not to acknowledge.


And then, when it was all over, when there was no more need for the extreme pragmatism of the war-time Aurors, when ruthless killers were liabilities rather than vital assets, he had been cast off. Had his father’s cold-blooded execution occurred during the war, rather than at its very end, it would have been overlooked, covered up –


“Mr. Kelly,” Malfoy ordered tersely, “go and see what Higgins has found out about Harry Fane, Auror.”


Kelly nodded, acknowledging the order. They had already done a rigorous security check on Harry Fane, ordinary citizen, but evidently the Auror Corps had established a very thorough false identity for their plant, because he and Higgins had been well and truly taken in. As soon as they had – as tactfully as they could – informed Malfoy that their bartender was a plant, he had ordered another check, this time of the Auror Corps’ records.


He met Higgins in the other man’s office, saw him frowning down at a thick dossier, entitled ‘Fane, Henry Olivier’. He raised a brow. “I wouldn’t have pinned our Mr. Fane as a Frenchman.”


Higgins shook his head, removed the old-fashioned half moon spectacles he used for reading. “No, nor I. But that’s not the only thing that’s out about him…”


“Oh?”


“Special Agent Fane has been in Spain for the last six months, pretending to be a sympathetic Basque wizard – he came back the day before our Mr. Fane applied for the job. There’s no way this operations could have been prepared this quickly – and certainly no way he could have shed all his Spanish mannerisms so quickly either, unless he’s a phenomenal undercover agent, in which case we would not have caught him.”


“Go on,” Kelly said, intrigued. “What are you suggesting?”


“That our Mr. Fane is not this man,” he tapped the dossier, “at all, but someone else using his identity.”


“Or his appearance…”


Higgins looked at Kelly, drinking in the implications of that thought.


*******************************

“Ginny, you can’t go,” Tonks argued. “If he has Neville, then he knows all about you. It’s too dangerous.”


Ginny pulled on a pair of soft, black leather gloves and faced the older woman resolutely. “I sent him in there. If I hadn’t convinced him to take the role, if I hadn’t flaunted the investigation under Malfoy’s nose, he wouldn’t have been found out. I can’t just leave him in Malfoy’s hands – we all know what’ll happen…”


As so many, many people had told her too many times before, Draco Malfoy was an aristocratic Slytherin. There were no discernable differences between him and those of his classmates who had chosen the Dark Lord; all that separated them was restraint and a very, very thin change of intentions. The Death Eaters were amoral, ruthless and sadistic? So was Draco. The Death Eaters reveled in destruction and degradation, in fire and blood and murder? Well, and some part of Draco did too – some deep, dark place in his soul that he preferred not to explore.


He had a dark side. And there were times when he let it run free…


“I have to save him,” she said again.


Tonks sighed. “Then at least take someone else with you. Don’t go in alone.”


But Ginny’s mind was made up. “No. If I take anyone else in, they will become a target too.” She stopped, turned to Tonks, who knew more than most about the details of her relationship with Malfoy. “He won’t hurt me – no matter how angry he is, he won’t ever turn against me. I honestly believe that, Tonks.”


Tonks’ expression stated clearly that she thought Ginny was mad. But in the face of such utter conviction, she could only give in and hope that Ginny’s faith in Draco Malfoy was justified.


Because if it wasn’t…


*******************************


Polyjuice.


He’d thought they had impenetrable safeguards against the bloody stuff and all other similar potions – random drug tests, strict monitoring of all liquids brought onto the premises, surveillance spells in the restrooms – but in a club where illusion and oblivion was the raison d’etre, it was impossible to completely eradicate any and all consciousness – and physique – altering substances.


His own spells, spinning sex and illusions as it did, were some of the most potent narcotics in wizarding England – but the Malfoy magic had been around much, much longer than any of the Ministry’s laws.


But Polyjuice in a false employee was not just the sign of a person seeking to hide and correct physical defects. It was a sign of a profound deception…


“Perhaps, Mr. Fane,” he said slowly and deliberately, “you would like to tell me the truth? What is your name?”


There was no response.


Once more, he said it. “Tell me your real name…”


Again, nothing but stubborn silence.


He sighed, and began to roll up the sleeves of his robes. “Very well, Mr. Fane. We’ll do this the hard way.”


For the first time, the false Harry Fane’s eyes widened, and he saw fear darken their depths.


It took a further half an hour and the application of a number of quite brutal curses before the impostor was willing to speak. And then, his voice hoarse and broken from screaming, he whispered two words that honestly shocked Draco Malfoy for the first time in a very, very long while.


“Neville… Long…bottom…”


Suddenly a number of puzzling things became quite clear. A number of nagging questions were resolved – and a very unpalatable conclusion seemed to be the only answer, as much as he wanted to deny it.


Ginny had deceived him.


************************************************


It was only just past eight in the morning, and the entry hall was deserted. Ginny shivered as she registered the oppressive silence, the air of tension – it all pricked at her highly developed survival instincts, the subconscious forebodings that had saved her life several times over. There was a firm, crisp tread of footsteps coming towards her, and she turned to see Higgins coming to greet her.


She had, after all, had an appointment.


But it seemed that Higgins – whom she had always thought of as an old, burly teddy bear – was suddenly very serious, very grave. There was something very wrong here, no matter that she had come fully expecting it.


The old, battered man looked at her with strange, unfriendly eyes. “He knows,” he said, almost accusing her. “He knows what you’ve done.”


She could not meet his gaze.


“I’ll tell him you’re here,” Higgins said quietly. “You’d best be careful.”


******************************************


It was surprising how much it hurt. Ten years on, and this kind of betrayal still stung, when he knew damn well he should be immune – in fact, he should have expected it. Her first loyalty had always been to the Ministry, not to him.


Higgins knocked on the door, ignoring the slumped figure tied to the chair. “Ms Weasley’s here,” he said woodenly, extremely discreet. “She wants to speak to you.”


Draco looked up blankly, not quite comprehending – Ginny? Here? Now? – but Kelly cleared his throat, and he snapped back to reality.


Ginny. Here. Now. She always did have the most spectacularly bad timing…


He washed his hands, dried them, let his sleeves down again, and brushed past Higgins on the way out.


**********************************************


As soon as she saw him stalking towards her, she knew that she had made a mistake.


She knew all the signs of Draco Malfoy in a temper – and all the varying degrees of it – and knew further that she had not just picked a bad time, but that this time the temper was aimed directly at her.


But, being Ginny Weasley, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stood her ground. “We need to talk, Malfoy.”


He ignored her, walked straight up to her, invading her personal space, and grabbed her by the arm, his grip tight, almost bruising. “You lied to me,” he breathed, as if he could not quite believe it. “You stood there, looked me in the eye, and you lied to me.”


Unfortunately, that probably meant that he had found her out – and the small flicker of apprehension sparked her temper. “Oh please, Draco, don’t be naïve. It doesn’t become you. Everybody lies.”


“No,” he said, still eerily calm. “Not everybody. Lie to your boss, lie to your friends, even lie to your family, if you feel you must, but don’t ever, ever lie to me.”


“Why should you be the one person who matters? What gives you that right? You lied to me, ten years ago –“


“I have never lied to you,” he snapped. “Not once, since you became the most important –“ and he cut himself off, denying her any signs of vulnerability that she could attack – would attack, in her current temper, in his. And it was temper – here was the vitriol of ten years of misunderstandings between them, rising to the surface after years of slow simmering. They argued in quiet, normal tones that were all the more vicious for their civility.


Slytherin aristocrats did not shout. There were times when she thought it would have been better if they did.


“The most important what, Draco? More important than your vengeance against your father and all your other enemies? More important than the honour of your precious House? You used me so that you could get close enough to kill your father – he was always the most important thing in your life, not me. You killed him and then you walked away…”


“No,” he snarled, frustrated. “I killed him so we could have a new beginning.”


“You put him down like the rabid dog he was to clear the Malfoy name.” Draco went white, his head jerking back as if she had struck him. “Did you lie to him then, and speak of mercy? You say your father never lied to you –“


“Enough,” he breathed. “Stop.”


“No, it’s not enough. It will never be enough until -”

“Stop!” he warned, before he did something quite unforgivable.


She stopped.

Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don’t sue me.




Chapter 11 - A Long Awaited Conversation




Draco had always had serious trouble verbalizing his emotions. His father and Professor Snape – the only true role models he’d ever had – were profoundly uncomfortable with messy, emotional scenes. Despite Snape’s occasional venture into melodrama when faced by childhood ghosts, Draco’s mentors were undemonstrative, intellectual, and rather passionless – their second lives as Death Eaters had only served to divorce them even further from the mainstream wizarding world.


His mother’s influence had been negligible – her personality had not been strong enough to provide a counterbalance to Lucius’ dominance – and so Draco had never truly learned what it was to express himself freely until he’d begun his relationship with Ginny Weasley.


In so many ways, Ginny had been the only one who had ever been able to challenge Lucius’ influence over him. And that was why it had been so devastating when she’d so unequivocally rejected him: he’d turned himself inside out to please her, and in the end she’d still turned away.


Should he have refused to grant his father freedom from the ultimate indignity of the Kiss? In his eyes, death was infinitely preferable to soulless vegetation – but Ginny hadn’t thought so. She had preferred that the Ministry and the masses were granted their chance to view Lucius Malfoy’s titillating, humiliating end…


He may have loved her, but by the gods there were limits.



**********************************



After the violence of his last, sharp warning, Ginny watched in dismay as he turned away, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and visibly composed himself. It was quite an amazing sight, really, as he brought himself back under control – the tense, vibrating muscles slackened and relaxed, the lines of his face smoothed, his whole demeanour returned to polite interest – and she had to admire the real skill inherent in such dissemblance.


Never mind that it drove her mad when he employed it to escape her questions. In a way, it was flattering to know she could drive him this far – but not when he used it against her.


Finally, he turned back to her. “Is this an official visit, Auror Weasley?” His voice was once again calm, cool, and insufferably collected.


“Indeed it is, Mr. Malfoy. As you may recall, I made an appointment a few days ago, so that you could cooperate with me in the Ministerial investigation into your nightclub.”


They were so proper, so stiffly formal – they had to be, lest they destroy each other.


He nodded, no doubt reassured now that she was playing along with him. “Very well, then. Ask your questions.” He walked around the other side of the bar, poured himself a drink, and cocked an eyebrow at her in question.


She shook her head. It was barely eight in the morning, and he was drinking already. It was not a good sign – and nor was the cigarette.


Well, and so was she in a terrible mood. “What have you done to Fane?”


She saw it then, saw the calculation, the assessment. In the end, he decided to tell the truth. Perhaps, for all of his fragile composure, he was not in the mood for petty games. “You shouldn’t have sent him in, Weasley. Kelly made him almost straight away.”


Ginny grimaced, but hid her relief as best she could. “He would.” And, to distract his too perceptive mind, and because she was genuinely curious, she asked, “How did he come to work for you, Malfoy?”


He watched her with flat, searching eyes. “My father had…dealings…in Northern Ireland in the 70s. I don’t know the details, but apparently he saved a young, hotheaded Kelly from the Aurors, and Kelly felt he owed a life debt. Why it took him twenty years and more to transfer it to me I don’t know, but he showed up one day and announced himself.” Slowly, almost unselfconsciously he grinned. “Truth to tell, he’s a very useful man to have around…”


“I’m not going there, Malfoy,” she interjected, amused despite herself. “I know who and what he was – and probably still is. But you haven’t answered my question – what have you done to Fane?”


“Not much,” he answered dryly, perhaps a little cruelly. “But we did have to persuade him to cooperate with us.” He waited a beat. “Don’t worry, Longbottom’s not permanently damaged…”


Involuntarily, she sucked in a breath, and then cursed herself for it. She had misread him. She’d been so sure she could see the calculations in his eyes…


“Yes,” he said, with feline cruelty, in conversational tones. Any pretence of pleasantness had vanished, leaving the terrible reality of his controlled anger behind. “Do tell me, did he uncover any titillating tidbits for you, Ginny? Did he find any evidence that I wouldn’t have given you myself, had you only asked?”


She tried to refute the flood of accusation, but he rode straight over her. “Was it worth sending him in, knowing he might be found out and questioned?”


“Now just a moment, Malfoy, don’t dump the blame on me –“


“You are responsible, Auror, for the actions and fates of everyone under your supervision. It was your choice to send him in, and yours to come to me openly, and yours to spin this whole ridiculous web of lies –“


“It was not my choice,” she flared, but again he cut her off, his voice like a knife driving his icy anger home.


“You, and you alone, knew just how to get to me – you, and you alone could ever have disarmed me enough to lower my guard for even a moment. You knew that, and still you continued –“


“It was not my choice!” she shouted, leaning over the bar, pushing her face into his, and sweeping the glass off the bar with a vicious sweep of her arm.


He flinched. He actually flinched.


“Merlin’s Beard, Malfoy, you know I had no choice but to take this assignment. I may have had some choice over the course of the operation, but I have to work within a fixed set of parameters, and Moody and Carlisle were damned certain of what they wanted. You’re damned lucky it wasn’t me undercover, trying to deduce evidence from pillow talk.”


She flung the last sentence at him as a challenge, and finished with her breath heaving and her eyes flashing, and with him watching her with perfect, utter impassivity.


The silence stretched, hummed. “Are you quite finished?” he asked icily.


Feeling a little foolish, she nodded, retreated from his personal space, smoothing her robes unnecessarily.


He watched her for a while longer, his eyes quite unreadable. And then, “Moody and Carlisle?” he said conversationally.


Once more, she nodded. “Carlisle seemed almost unreasonably determined to bring you down.” She caught the mocking sneer as it crossed his face. “Perhaps you’d know why?”


He shrugged. “Carlisle had a beloved younger sister who got hooked on my illusions. She killed herself.” She winced, but his composed, unemotional voice continued on. “I would think it probable he’s using this investigation as a personal tool of revenge. But his hatred alone does not justify a full in-depth investigation of my activities – there must be other, larger fish out there.”


Ginny hesitated, wondering whether she should share classified information with him or not. He was the enemy in this investigation – but he was also her old partner, and she had once trusted him with her life and with everything she had ever valued. “They think,” she began, swallowing, “that you’re using your illusions to ensnare key government personnel, either to begin your own revolution or to aid in another attempt at one.”


She waited for the betraying knowledge to flash through his eyes, for the telltale flicker of guilt – and so was completely and utterly stunned when he blinked, and then threw his head back and laughed until tears came to the corners of his eyes.



***************************************



Higgins turned away from the open door, turned to face Kelly, who was leaning back in the chair, his legs up on the table. “Well,” he said, “what do you think of that?”


Kelly laughed softly, his hard green eyes half-lidded. “So quickly, they turn from arguing to working together. It’s like they’re banding together against an outside threat.”


“They are. It was always that way with them – they’d fight each other, but only let someone else enter the picture against them…” he shrugged. “When those two work together, there’s nothing on this earth that can stop them.”


“How long do you think the new mood of happy cooperation will last once she remembers the poor bastard in the cellar?”


Higgins’ satisfied expression dissolved into a wince.



****************************************



A/N – I am trying not to take the well-travelled path, here, so a wary reconciliation – at least until she remembers about Neville. (Poor Neville always gets the short stick).

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I truly appreciate it.

A/N – This chapter features Tonks’ POV. Honestly, it can’t be easy, being caught between the Blacks, the Malfoy, and the muggles. Also starring Half-Naked!Neville, for all you closet fan girls. You know you want it.


Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don’t sue.




Chapter 12




“You’ve heard the news, Tonks?” It was the first time Draco had ever addressed her without a disdainful sneer – but no doubt he was too upset to be so concerned about such petty slurs.


“Yes,” she said cautiously. “Life in Azkaban.” She couldn’t bring herself to commiserate – she wasn’t capable of that sort of hypocrisy.


For a moment, it seemed as though he were uncertain, indecisive – even lost. But…surely not. His composure reasserted itself, and the familiar sneer returned. “He was a fool. To be captured by fools and Potter’s little friends – he deserved everything he got.”


“Don’t you even care? Just a little?”


He was in complete control of himself and his reactions now. “No. Why should I?”


And then, as if it were a promise to more than just himself: “I’ll never make the same mistake…”


**************************


That had been twenty years ago. Since then, he had made good on his promise – in a wild, occasionally perilous, always controversial life, he had succeeded in avoiding Azkaban and his father’s mistakes. He had proven himself to be a brilliant, trustworthy and – before his unfortunate disgrace – honourable asset to the fight against Voldemort, and his relationship with Ginny Weasley had bade fair to binding him irrevocably to the Weasleys and the side of the light.


But then it had all ended, and any chance of gaining control over Draco Malfoy had vanished.


Despite his exemplary behaviour during the war, Tonks had never quite shared Ginny’s faith in Draco. She had known him too long to think he was any better than the rest of his Slytherin peers – especially now, when he was under attack – and so when Ginny did not return within the hour of her visit to Shadowlands, Tonks raised the alarm.


Surely it was only common sense.


*****************************


“You just let her go?” Ron Weasley exclaimed incredulously, voicing the thoughts of most of the gathered team. “Without any backup, and without even informing us? What the hell were you thinking?”


Tonks scowled. “She was sure that she could persuade him to listen to her. I tried to talk her out of it, but she pulled rank on me.” She thought it best not to mention Ginny’s certainty that Draco would never hurt her – there were some things elder brothers neither needed nor wanted to hear.


Ron looked like a volcano about to explode, but Carlisle seemed to be inordinately pleased. There was an air of secret satisfaction about him, as if some long cherished ambition had finally come to fruition – and Tonks found that she mistrusted that look, and all of its possible implications.


“Well,” Carlisle said softly, “he has shown himself to be hostile. Clearly, there is no more to be said – we must move before it is too late.”


Moody spoke for the first time. “And what, precisely, do you mean by ‘move’, Carlisle? What are your priorities?”


There was a short, fraught silence.


“Naturally,” the Unspeakable said gravely, “I am not insensitive to the danger of Miss Weasley’s position. But I have the greatest faith in her ability to handle anything Malfoy may throw at her: in the past, she has proven herself an extremely capable Auror…”


Ron turned an alarming shade of purple.


“I think that we must be realistic here. We cannot take the chance that Malfoy will escape this investigation and survive to spread his fatal illusions elsewhere, on other, unsuspecting victims.”


His face was shining, evangelical, caught up in his words and in his purpose. Tonks noted that he said nothing of brainwashing and revolution: around the table, she could see that others had also caught the same point, and were watching their superior officer curiously.


Malfoy had been one of them, once.


Whatever else he had done in the time since, whatever else he had become, this much was true: once, he had been an Auror; once, he had stood and fought shoulder to shoulder with them against the darkness…


Once, they would never have believed Carlisle’s and Moody’s accusations.


“Are you saying that catching Malfoy is more important than my sister’s life, Carlisle?” Ron demanded.


“But Mr. Weasley, your sister has spent many years in the field, and her past interactions with the subject will give her an extra edge. Besides, I don’t believe that Mr. Malfoy would be so foolish as to actually kill her.” An appeasing tone, a wise, saintly smile, and an evasive, contradictory answer. “We will use the extra time she has granted us to make our trap absolutely foolproof…”


Tonks wondered when it had become established that they were, indeed, going to make a move on Shadowlands.


***************************


Neville woke to find himself flat on his back, lying between cool cotton sheets that smelled faintly of sandalwood and other exotic spices. Not being as familiar with Draco Malfoy’s aftershave as his partner Ginny, he did not immediately make the connection – and for this, perhaps, he could be forgiven. It was not until he turned his head to see two familiar, serpent shaped silver cufflinks on the bedside table that he realized he was actually lying in Malfoy’s bed – and that the clock showed half past ten in the morning.


Ginny had been due for an appointment at nine.


Horrified, he jerked upright, cursing his weakness in giving in so easily to Malfoy’s torture. He swung his feet out of the bed, and realized for the first time that he was wearing nothing but a shirt – a white silk shirt, hand-tailored, and worth more than he made in a month – and his own socks.


What the hell was going on?


“Ah, you’re awake.” A rough, Cockney voice came from the doorway. “How do you feel?”


Neville looked blankly at Higgins. The last time he had seen this man he had been screaming in agony and begging to confess all that he knew.


“I feel,” he began angrily, and then stopped. “I feel…fine.” He looked up in incomprehension. “I don’t feel anything; no aches, no pain…”


“Ah.” Higgins nodded. “That’s good. I was hoping there would be no ill effects.”


“But…how? I could have sworn there would be no way to heal…”


Higgins laughed ruefully. “Ah, well. Mr. Malfoy is a master of illusion, you know. Not all the dreams spun at Shadowlands are harmless fantasies… The only real physical damage we had to fix was your broken nose; the rest was all in your own mind.”


All in his own mind? But it had been so real.

Not all the dreams spun at Shadowlands are harmless fantasies.


He gasped. “What happened to Ginny?” Had he jeopardized everything with his confessions? Malfoy would know, now, that she had lied to him – that she had been lying to him from the beginning. Would she be all right? “If you’ve hurt her…” He clenched his fists helplessly and tried to stand up, not caring that he was half naked.


“No, no,” Higgins said soothingly. “Nothing’s happened to Miss Weasley. In fact, she’s the one who’s concerned for you – that’s why I’m here, to bring you to see her. She won’t be satisfied until she sees that you’ve come to no harm.”


Neville snorted, scowling darkly, and Higgins grinned. “Yes. Well. Come on then,” he walked into the room and grabbed Neville’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Get dressed, and we’ll go satisfy Miss Weasley’s demands. Then we can all start planning.”


“Planning?” Neville repeated, accepting the pair of slacks – casual black silk, once again, and no doubt shockingly expensive – that Higgins handed him and pulling them on. He remembered Kelly stripping him of his clothes sometime during the night before. That had not been illusion. “Planning for what?”


“Why, the Auror raid. We all know it’s coming. That bloody bastard Carlisle will stop at nothing to kill Mr. Malfoy – and unfortunately, he now has the perfect excuse.”


“But that’s… Me?” he said, thinking it through. “And Ginny? But how would he know?” He slipped into a pair of Malfoy’s black leather loafers.


Higgins was silent a moment, pawing through the sets of thick, luxurious robes that hung in the closet. He pulled one out, held it out to Neville – severe, stark, and elegant dark grey, no doubt they were devastating with Malfoy’s slender, pale blonde colouring. On Neville’s solid frame, and with his mousy brown hair, they would only look like someone else’s clothes.


He sighed, but put them on. They were better than nothing.


“Miss Weasley says that she told Mr. Malfoy’s cousin where she was going, and for what purpose. She says that Auror Tonks would have raised the alarm by now.”


“But I still don’t believe that they’ll attack Shadowlands – we haven’t a shred of evidence that there’s anything smoky even going on here. They can’t get a warrant for a raid if there’s no evidence.”


“Ah,” Higgins said, nodding sagely, “Aurors can’t conduct a raid if there’s no evidence. But it’s very different for Unspeakables… Have you finished putting on those robes? Need anything else? No? Right, let’s go then…”


And he ushered Neville, protesting, out of the room, ignoring all of his sputtering arguments on the way.


********************************


“Neville!” Ginny said, rising from her seat and hurrying over to greet him. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”


He glanced sidelong at Draco, who was watching him with heavy-lidded, amused eyes. For an endless moment, he felt a rush of primal, instinctive fear as he remembered those eyes watching him writhe… but he fended Ginny off with an unconvincing smile and assurances that he was unharmed.


“Draco said that you were unharmed,” she said laughing. “I didn’t believe him – but here you are…” She turned back to smile ruefully at Malfoy, an apologetic smile that she had ever distrusted him in such a way. This time it was Neville who watched Malfoy ironically – he wondered how long that rueful, furtive delight in Ginny’s eyes would last if Neville were to tell the truth.


“And now,” Ginny continued, “let’s get down to business.”


**********************************

A/N – Chapter 13 here, dragged out of me with much blood, sweat and cursing. I had a serious case of writer’s block.



Thanks to all who have reviewed.



Disclaimer – I don’t own any of the canon characters or concepts. I’m making no profit from this. Don’t sue. Euan Abercrombie is a canon character. He was sorted into Gryffindor in OotP.




Chapter 13




Just after one, the impromptu council of war broke for lunch, and Ginny headed to the shop down the road to fetch some food. Higgins, catching Draco’s nod, followed after her, leaving Neville alone with him in the conference room, as no doubt he had intended it all along. Something about the assumption of such easy authority irked Neville. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Malfoy?” he demanded.


Draco sat slouched in his chair, hands shoved insolently into the pockets of his robe. He regarded Neville’s show of spirit with interest. “You know, if you’d shown this much backbone at Hogwarts, Longbottom, you’d have fared much better.”


“You mean you’d have stopped bullying me?” Neville sneered. “That’s right; you always went for the weak and the vulnerable, didn’t you? You never bothered anyone who could fight back.”


Draco nodded, smiling congenially. “Exactly. If you’d shown the smallest sign of backbone, I might have left you alone.”


Neville turned on him, hardly believing what he had just heard. “You made my life a living hell,” he breathed incredulously.


“You allowed me to,” Draco retorted.


There was an odd, half-beat of silence. Neville reached out and grabbed the back of a chair, glad of its support –


“Don’t twist it ‘round, you bastard!” he shouted, incensed and unsteady and quite thoroughly shaken. “Hogwarts, last night; you can’t just whitewash it like that.”


“Whitewash what?” Ginny repeated cheerfully, carrying in a brown paper shopping bag. “What happened last night?”


Draco turned to Neville and raised an ironic brow. Neville wondered if he would ever have the courage to call Malfoy’s bluff.


“Oh,” he said, “nothing too important.” He’d always been a miserable liar.


Unfortunately for them both, Ginny was no fool. She may not have questioned Draco’s word that he had not harmed Neville earlier this morning, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t had her own doubts –


She had no illusions about her former lover.


“Draco?” she asked pointedly, no longer cheerful, no longer Ginny but Ginevra, the Auror.


Neville saw Draco recognize the shift, saw the crooked irony of his smile. “Are you sure you want to know, Ginny?”


As much as he wanted to see him groveling and forced to swallow his smug amusement, Neville could see disaster straight ahead, in the form of Ginny’s stubbornness and Draco’s pride. “Really, Ginny,” he intervened hastily, “it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”


Ginny eyed him incredulously. “Why are you protecting him? You can’t tell me that nothing happened here last night.”


Neville winced. “Ginny…” he said pleadingly. He avoided Draco’s gaze; the irony was too pointed, and the other man’s eyes would convey it all too clearly.


She turned her focus towards Draco, gave him a very long, very sober look. Neville didn’t see the way he responded to it, but he must have known better than to make light of her anger at a time like this.


They had been lovers for four years.


“Very well,” she said flatly. “Later. For now, we have Carlisle to worry about…”




*****************




It was dark now, the sun setting on the wild celebrations that eclipsed even the ecstatic extravagance that followed Voldemort’s first defeat in 1981. Ginny wandered away from the noise and the slightly hysterical laughter, seeking cool air, sanity, and Draco.


He’d been troubled when Moody and his handpicked team had dragged Lucius Malfoy in, filthy and bleeding, thoroughly bruised in a way that owed nothing to self-defense or the Auror Code, and everything to the infamous words that none of them had needed to worry about during the war –


Auror brutality. The hardliners scoffed and jeered at the term, deeming it left wing, bleeding heart liberalism; accountability had fallen by the wayside as the war escalated, and the Aurors and Unspeakables were granted more and more powers. Both sides committed acts that would be unforgivable in a saner world, by a public less terrified, or less vengeful.


Voldemort’s hatred and malice had poisoned their whole society. It had been more than forty years since he had begun to spread his doctrine, more than thirty since he had begun to act on it; it would take generations to heal, for the divisions and distrust to ease. But now that Voldemort was dead, they could begin. She and Draco, one of the most unlikely matches in a society known for its eccentricity, had already made a start at overcoming prejudice and hatred.


She heard Draco’s voice, and automatically walked towards it. The chaos of the first flush of celebrations had kept them apart, when they hadn’t had any time alone for almost three months. She missed him, missed his intelligence, his warmth, and his body…


“Are you afraid, Draco? Is that why you hesitate? Do not tell me that I have raised a coward…”


“Don’t bait me, Father. After all that I’ve done, for the Order, for us –“


“If you have worked so hard for House Malfoy, Draco, then why do you deny me this? You know what they will do to me.”


“I know that you deserve it.”


“Spare me the Gryffindor morality. The difference between good and evil is knife-blade thin, and entirely a matter of perspective; none of us, no matter what side we’re on, can claim lily-white hands.”


Lucius Malfoy’s voice was smooth, urbane and utterly reasonable. However, it did not seem to affect his son.


“Yet you dirtied yours deliberately, and wallowed in it. Don’t try to distract me with philosophy; you knew the penalty when you committed the crime. Why should you be treated any differently from every other Death Eater?”


“Because I am your father.”


There had been a long, long moment of silence, and then Draco spoke, as coolly and calmly as if he were discussing the weather, and if he had not just had a shattering confrontation with a father he had loved despite all his sins.


“Aveda Kedavra.”


There was a thunderous, ear-popping implosion of sound, a flash of green light, and the heavy, dull thump of a dead body hitting the ground. Ginny ran forward, panicked, to find Draco, wand extended, staring blankly at his father’s body slumped at his feet.


They stared at each other, unspeaking, for a very long time.


Then the Aurors came.




*****************************




Ron stood beside Tonks on the street outside Shadowlands. They were part of a larger task force of Aurors under Carlisle’s leadership, specifically formed for this one purpose – to bring down and destroy Draco Malfoy. Most of the Aurors on the team bore grudges against Malfoy – whether because he had actually harmed them, or because he was an aristocrat, or a pureblood, or a Slytherin, or a renegade Auror – and had been personally recruited for the job. He, himself, was a case in point; everyone knew that he’d hated the man for decades, and no one would be surprised if he took advantage of any opportunity offered to him to do Malfoy harm.


Normally, he would have jumped at it. However, there was the small matter of his sister. Despite what Carlisle and Tonks said about Draco’s ruthlessness – and he could well believe it – he could not bring himself to believe that Malfoy would ever hurt Ginny. He was perfectly willing to think the worst of him, but his imagination stuck on this one, single point.


Therefore, he could only wonder at Carlisle’s insistence that there was no other choice but to attack, and the Unspeakable’s willingness to sacrifice Ginny when she had been his main justification for this invasion. Ginny, and Neville, and the very thin, as yet unproven claim that Malfoy was laundering money, or holding Death Eater meetings, or else brainwashing important Ministers in preparation for another attempted revolution.


Ron was not a subtle man, but nor was he a stupid one. There were too many assumptions, too many generalizations, and not enough solid evidence. They had arrived at this point far too precipitously, swept away by Carlisle’s overwhelming determination and insistence on immediate, pre-emptive action.


“What the hell are we doing here, Tonks?” he asked quietly, watching Carlisle out of the corner of his eye as the older man strode up and down, possessed of a manic energy now that his goal was finally in sight.


“Carlisle’s bidding,” she answered dryly.


He grunted.


“And what is Carlisle doing here? Seems less like justice and more like revenge, to me.”


Suddenly, Tonks smiled, a genuine, unexpectedly warm smile. “You’re a good man, Ron Weasley.”


He was spared the need to reply by the timely arrival of the Ministry’s elite team of anti-terrorist special active service Aurors. They were dressed in treated black leather armour, each of them carrying two or three killing wands, authorized to kill on sight and take no prisoners – unless it be for interrogation. Once, Malfoy had been one of them, one of the most dangerous of them all, and what they thought about this business was anyone’s guess.


The squad leader listened for a while to Carlisle’s orders, saluted, and waved to his troops, ordering them into formation. He pulled out a black mask – disturbingly like the white Death Eater equivalents – but instead of drawing it on, effectively hiding his humanity, he came to stand by Ron and Tonks.


“You’re Tonks, aren’t you?” he asked without preamble. “Malfoy’s cousin.”


She eyed him warily. “For my sins, yes. Why?”


He held out his hand. “Euan Abercrombie. I served under him for three years, before the end.”


She did not take his hand. “Then that should make you all the more eager to bring him down, shouldn’t it? Wipe out the blot on your spotless record?”


There was nothing secretive or guarded about Euan Abercrombie’s face. He winced, and looked uncomfortable, actually looking over his shoulder to see if Carlisle was listening. “Yes. Right. The thing is, I just don’t believe that he would ever harm Ms Weasley.” He looked to Ron, nodded in acknowledgment. “For the last six months, after McCartney died, I was Malfoy’s second in command. He used to talk about her sometimes…” He trailed off, fidgeting awkwardly, and Ron wondered what Malfoy had seen in him to justify the promotion to his right hand position.


“Then why are you here?” he asked harshly. “Did you think you could stop Carlisle on your own?”


“No. But I won’t be on my own, will I? My men are loyal, and positioned at key strategic points. I only need to give the signal.” He looked at both of them, eyes straight and intent despite the remaining undercurrents of nervousness. Here it was, the steel that Malfoy demanded in every one of his followers since he’d ditched Crabbe and Goyle. Abercrombie was a hopeless conspirator, his face was hopelessly expressive, but when faced with direct, practical action there was no one more confident and assured.


“And what will persuade you to give the signal?” Tonks asked, not denying the implication that they were, indeed, willing to see Carlisle’s operation foiled.


“Reassurance that I’m doing the right thing. That the man I once knew hasn’t changed beyond all recognition.”


Tonks laughed harshly, and would have replied, but at that moment Carlisle applied the Sonorous charm to his voice and called out in a deep, booming voice, “Malfoy! Can you hear me?”




********************




The doors and all the windows but one were boarded up and reinforced with spells, and Kelly, Higgins, Longbottom and Ginny were at their posts and ready, leaving Draco himself to answer Carlisle and go through with this farce of a negotiation.


“I can hear you, Carlisle,” he shouted, his own voice amplified even though he doubted his ability to talk his way out of this situation. He merely wanted his words to be heard and witnessed.


“Let me speak to Ms. Weasley and Mr. Longbottom, Malfoy. At least let me know they’re alive and well; their families are worried about them.”


Draco sighed. He had known it would come to this. “Mr. Longbottom and Ms Weasley are here of their own free will. This is not a hostage situation, Carlisle.”


“Let me speak to them, then, so they can tell me so themselves.” Carlisle’s voice was rich, smooth and reasonable, and any attempts to thwart him would only be seen as shrill and petty. However, Draco was no stranger to such tactics, and only his father had ever been able to manipulate him in that way.


The difference between good and evil is knife-blade thin, and entirely a matter of perspective…


He had believed that, once. He believed it still. However, to those who had never balanced on that knife-blade, who had never fought for their lives and the lives of others in one of the darkest, dirtiest wars in wizarding history, Carlisle’s oratory would be all too persuasive.


Ginny’s face was flushed and angry. He knew that she hated being used; Carlisle had set her up in more ways than one. Neville merely looked dismayed, as if the full import of the situation had just dawned upon him. Draco looked at them, questioning; but Ginny shook her head.


“He will twist everything we say. Nothing will stop him storming this place; he only waits for the right cause and opportunity.”


Neville nodded. “Carlisle will claim that you coerced us into supporting you, or that we’re under Imperius.”


Draco shrugged. “At least say it once, in public, that you’re here of your own free will. It will be on record then, no matter how he twists it afterwards.”


Ginny’s expression was supremely skeptical, but she stood up and went to the window. Her hair was immediately recognized and there was a flurry of interest in the street below. She leaned out, careful not to create a target of herself so she could not be magically snatched from the building, and shouted out, “Carlisle, you bastard, why are you setting us up like this? You’ve been after Malfoy from the beginning; is there anything you won’t do to get him?”


On the other side of the room, Kelly laughed. “There’s a girl, Ms Weasley. Go straight for the throat.”


However, Carlisle did not look at all phased. His face assumed a sorrowful, nobly resigned look, and he called out to Draco now, not Ginny, “Is this what you have come to, Malfoy? Using an innocent woman as your unwilling puppet? After all that you’ve done to her in the past? You have truly fallen far from what you once were…”


Draco’s mouth tightened. Ginny looked at him and raised her brows; her expression said it all.




********************




“Carlisle, you bastard, why are you setting us up like this? You’ve been after Malfoy from the beginning; is there anything you won’t do to get him?”


Tonks laughed. “That sounds like Ginny. You know Carlisle came down hard on her for changing his first brilliant plan? I’m not surprised the bastard’s using her like this.”


Euan Abercrombie looked at her. “You think he is using her? Carlisle, I mean?”


“I know he is.” She shrugged. “I’ve seen his type before – they fixate on one Death Eater, one target, and won’t stop until they bring them down. Moody used to be like that with old Lucius. If Draco hadn’t killed him, Moody would have.”


Ron frowned. “Carlisle’s nowhere near as crazy as Moody.”


“No, he’s crazy in another way, a much less obvious one. Listen,” she said, lowering her voice and drawing closer to them both, “after he pulled this operation ready-made out of thin air and suppositions, I had a quick look at some of his sealed files. I’m no stranger to things that Dumbledore wouldn’t approve of, but some of the things the Ministry have so secretly hushed up for him…!”


“He gets the job done,” Abercrombie said heavily. “Ten years ago, that’s all that would have mattered. But these days…? The war is over.”


They heard Carlisle’s reply to Ginny’s attack. “…After all that you’ve done to her in the past? You have truly fallen far from what you once were…”


Abercrombie all but vibrated with fury. “What he once was? What does that spying, creeping bastard know about what Malfoy once was? I don’t remember him out there on the front line. All he did was lurk in the shadows, trolling for crumbs that he hoped would lead to arrests!”


Tonks coughed, but it was an accurate – if extremely simplistic – description of Carlisle’s duties. She wondered at what Malfoy had done to so secure this man’s loyalty. Then they stopped talking to listen to Draco’s next sally.


“What do you want, Carlisle?”


“What do I want?” came the reply. There was a disturbing note of triumph in Carlisle’s voice now, and he was having trouble holding onto the serious hostage-negotiator characterization. “I would like to see Ms. Weasley and Mr. Longbottom walk free of your evil influence. I would like to see your operations shut down once and for all. I would like to see you pay for your crimes, as you should have done ten years ago! I will see you pay, Malfoy; one way or another, you will pay for everything that you have done.”


Ron shifted uncomfortably. Even for him, Carlisle had sounded far too strident. “He’s gone mad,” he said under his breath. “There’s no way he can back down now.”




********************




After that outburst, there was no way either of them could back down. Draco knew it, and only put a seal on it with his next words. “I am not responsible for your sister’s death, Carlisle.”


Down in the streets below them, the listening crowd fell unnaturally silent as Carlisle stiffened and his face whitened. Here it was, exposed for all to see: the terribly private hatred and grief that had been festering inside the Unspeakable for years. Draco’s words stripped him of all protection, laid his soul bare and terribly vulnerable.


They had, all of them, reached the point of no return.


Hatred came to Carlisle’s rescue.


“Liar!” he shouted, abandoning all pretence. “You seek to turn me from my purpose but I will not be distracted!” He waved his hands at the Aurors surrounding Shadowlands, their wands at the ready. “Your time ends here and now. Attack him!”


The Aurors moved forward.




*********************




Euan Abercrombie gazed for a long time at Carlisle’s all-too-expressive face, and then up at the redbrick façade of Shadowlands, and the window from where Malfoy had spoken.


“Is it true?” he asked absently. “Is Carlisle doing this for his own sake?”


Tonks shrugged. “I don’t know.” She paused, and then spoke again. “Would it matter?”


The three of them stood in an isolated little circle of their own, a still spot in the river of Aurors moving forwards, preparing to storm the building and rescue Ginny Weasley and, of course, Longbottom. Euan wondered when it had become certain that Auror Weasley was an unwilling hostage – he wondered how Carlisle had managed to convince everyone who had ever seen those two together that Malfoy would harm her.


He remembered Commander Malfoy, the grim, sardonic leader who had taken him in hand when he’d first joined the active service units. He had never truly smiled, except for the very rare times when he saw his lover; no one, watching them, could ever believe that they were anything but happy together.


Tonks said that Auror Weasley had gone to Shadowlands without backup because she believed that Malfoy would never hurt her. Abercrombie, too, was willing to believe it…


“No,” he said roughly. “No, it wouldn’t matter at all.”


Trusting in a man he had once known, ten years ago, he gave the signal. His men were loyal – to him and to the memory of Malfoy – and stationed in key positions…




******************************




A/N – OK, no more foreplay. Next chapter is the showdown at Shadowlands – Malfoy vs. Carlisle. I hope that it won’t take me another four months.

A/N – Here we go. The climactic chapter, the great action-packed showdown, never mind that I absolutely hate writing action sequences. They seem to gain a life of their own.



I have also noticed a major plot inconsistency: in the flashback in the last chapter, Draco uses the Killing Curse to kill his father, but in Ch 10, I’ve stated that he slit Lucius’ throat. Because I’m very fond of the flashback sequence, I’ll go back and alter chapter 10.



Disclaimer – I don’t own Harry Potter or any of the canon characters and concepts. Don’t sue; I swear I’ll give ‘em back.




Chapter 14 - Madness




The Aurors moved in.


Draco had a last moment to regret his hasty comment about Carlisle’s sister – he’d known it would bite hard – before he closed the shutters, shielded them, and threw himself, clattering, down the stairs. Higgins met him on the ground floor, looking more and more like the grizzled old veteran he truly was, rather than the kindly old grandfather he appeared to be.


“Now you’ve done it,” the old man said in some satisfaction. “There must be at least fifty of them out there – a good number of them black-clads.”


“Yes,” Draco answered dryly, “I do know what the ASUs are capable of. I used to lead them, once.”


“And we’ll need every bit of your expertise,” said Kelly, coming down the stairs with Longbottom, and moving to check the windows once more. The attack would come through the doors and windows, first, and they would retreat upstairs when the Aurors broke through their defenses.


Behind them came Ginny, her hair caught back and strictly braided, as it was when she went into action. She was every bit as beautiful now, at thirty-four, as she had been ten years ago at twenty-four, and despite himself Draco felt a rush of the old, primal attraction. It was dangerous, he knew, but he welcomed it as he had always done in the old days.


Just as poets had muses, so too did Aurors have motives for killing, and reasons to come back alive. Ginny had always been his inspiration – every time he fought, he had done so determined to survive so that he could come back to her. Despite all the years of mistrust and misunderstandings, nothing had ever changed…


He would still do everything he possibly could to keep her safe.


“Draco,” she said seriously, interrupting his reverie, “did you see who was leading the ASUs out there?”


He turned his attention back to the present. “No. I was only interested in Carlisle – the rest are dangerous, but ultimately only tools.”


“It was Abercrombie.”


Draco took a moment to place the name.


“The more fool he, then, for following Carlisle.” Despite his tone, he was secretly disappointed that the capable, hopelessly honest Abercrombie had ended up doing Carlisle’s bidding. He’d thought better of the man than that.


“Euan Abercrombie?” Kelly asked, interested. “I’ve heard of him. A good man, and a dangerous one. He trained under you, of course, so he would be.”


Draco grunted in less than gracious acknowledgment.


“No, Malfoy,” Longbottom said, an Auror now, and not a frightened, confused victim. “Just before you closed the shutters, I saw him give a signal. It may be that he’s not completely Carlisle’s man…”


“You saved his life, at Oxford,” Ginny reminded him. “He’d remember.”


Draco remembered almost embarrassing gratitude, and a reckless vow of Wizard’s Debt. “And it may be that he’s simply telling his men to get ready. We can’t base our whole strategy on the off chance that he might come over to our side.”


The shuddering impact of an explosive spell on the front door reinforced his point. Higgins, Kelly and Longbottom sprang to their posts, just in time before a barrage of similar curses impacted against the vulnerable points of the old building, and any chance of further discussion was lost.




****




Carlisle watched the progress of the attack with a deep, boundless satisfaction. At last, his sister would have justice – too long had he watched Malfoy enchant and ensorcel wizarding society with his illusions, weaving his web just as his father had, but with far more subtlety. Today he, Jaryd Carlisle, would put an end to Draco Malfoy for good, and if he was truly dealing with Death Eaters, or laundering money, or even holding the misguided, traitorous Ginny Weasley hostage, then so much the better.


He smiled, as he saw a flash of brilliant white light illuminate the whole front of the redbrick Shadowlands, as he felt the deep shuddering of the earth as the spell tried to take effect. There were ancient wards still in force around the house – remnants of the House of Black – and newer, even more powerful ones created by Malfoy himself. It would not be easy to bring this house of sin down, but Carlisle was willing to get his hands dirty, to see that the correct outcome eventually prevailed.


“Sir!” a young cadet called, running up to him, skidding to a halt, and performing a sloppy salute. “Moody wants to see you, sir; he wants to know…er…” he coughed, “he wants to know what the hell you think you’re doing. Sir.”


Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody wanted to know what he thought he was doing. Mad-Eye Moody, who had once stripped a Death Eater prisoner naked and hung him upside down by his ankles, waving a burning torch under his head; who had had an extraordinary number of ‘accidental deaths in custody’ before the prisoners could get to trial, and who had pushed for the Kiss for a young fifteen year old boy.


“Tell him,” he said to the wide-eyed cadet, “that he knows exactly what I’m doing. And tell him that if he hurries, he can be in on it too.”


The boy saluted again, turned on his heel and ran.


“Do you think that’s wise, sir?” asked Fraser, the head of the Auror contingent.


“Wise?” He shook his head. “Not really. But there’s nothing he can do to prevent us anyway.”


There was a huge cracking sound, and one of the windows on the ground floor shattered, glass spraying everywhere. Navy clad Aurors poured in through the gap, only to meet with a barrage of curses from inside. Whatever else anyone said about Draco Malfoy and his motley band of allies and companions, they were excellent fighters.


“Sir!” Another shout, from a squad leader this time. “We’ve made a breach. Alpha squad is going in!”


He nodded in gracious acknowledgment, prepared to watch as the Aurors poured in and overwhelmed the defenders. But just as he smiled, there was another blinding flash of light, and a deep, shocking rumble – but it was no spell of theirs, this time. The flash of curses and spells continued, but this time it was interspersed with screaming, horrifying, thin screaming, and he knew something had gone terribly wrong.


There was a brief, shocked pause, and then four men – only four – struggled out of the billowing smoke and debris, limping, their robes tattered and covered in dust and blood. He went down to them, his heart hammering, and the formerly confident leader of Alpha squad turned to him with white, terrified eyes. “They booby-trapped it,” he said, rivulets of blood running down his dust-covered face. “The floor blew on us…” His voice trailed off, and Carlisle gripped his chin, shaking him –


But he choked, blood welling from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes faded and glazed over, and he slowly went limp in Carlisle’s arms.


The leader of the reserve squad, standing silently behind him, whistled softly and swore under his breath. “Malfoy,” he breathed. “Jesus God, you’re asking us to corner Malfoy, of all men–”


Carlisle whirled and gripped the man’s robes in his fist. “Are you afraid of him, man? You still outnumber him ten to one! Rush them, there’re only five – they can’t possibly have too many tricks of that sort!”


The man hesitated, and he tightened his grip, almost hauling him up off the ground. “I don’t care how you do it, burn the bloody building down around them if you have to, but get them out of there! Do you hear me?”


The dead squad leader’s eyes watched him, questioned him, and accused him.


“Sir,” the man still protested, fainter now, “this is the Diagon Alley shopping precinct; we are limited in our options–”


In the face of Carlisle’s vicious, snarled answer, the Auror lost any further inclination to argue. He only nodded frantically, turning to hasten back to the fight.


Diagon Alley could be rebuilt. They would never get a better chance to bring Malfoy – liar, manipulator, butcher – to the justice he so richly deserved.




*****************




At first, it was easy enough. They had strong wards and shields and the building was relatively easy to defend; in fact, it was a much better situation than she had expected, given some of their past engagements. Ginny still remembered in excruciating detail the time they had hunted a Death Eater kill squad inside a muggle shopping centre on Christmas Eve…


This, on the other hand, was a simple matter of defense and shielding, the only problem being the extremely high number of opponents, and their numbering only five – with, of course, the nebulous chance of help from Abercrombie. Slytherin to the bone, Draco had put his finger on it – they could not afford to rely on long-ago promises made in the heat of the moment. If Abercrombie did support them, then it might bring the moment of surprise that they needed, but if the Scotsman held back then they would not be left hanging.


Draco had become the youngest and most effective commander of the war – despite his name, despite his father’s actions – because he had an uncanny reputation for cold-blooded, ruthless logic in the chaos of battle. He knew what needed to be done, and he did not hesitate to do it – despite the cost, despite the moral and ethical qualms. Ginny, alone of his contemporaries, had known what it had cost him – she’d been able to comfort him, once.


She’d been able to rein him in, once.


This gift for dispassionate analysis and the ultimate knowledge that he was, despite everything, loyal, was why the Ministry had not pressed for the ultimate penalty for his patricide, but had graciously allowed him a dishonourable discharge instead. He was too dangerous to push too far, and too potentially useful to eliminate.


At least he had been, before Carlisle persuaded them he was a threat. It was too late to go back now; matters had progressed too far for diplomacy and compromise.


“They’ve broken through!” called Higgins, retreating, blood running from a cut on his forehead. He was breathing heavily, but his eyes were steady as he watched Draco. “And there are definitely some black-clads in the fighting. I don’t think your boy’s going to come through.”


Draco swore.


There were navy-robed Aurors pressing in through the breach in the windows, now, and Kelly and Neville began to retreat, fighting their way to the stairs to reach herself, Draco and Higgins. They exchanged a barrage of curses and hexes, managing to hold the incoming tide for a while, but there were too many of them – they fell back, and Draco, his eyes cool and flat, activated one of their pre-prepared booby traps.


The floor erupted in a blinding, deafening explosion, and the navy robes disappeared in the smoke and rubble. There was a moment of shocked silence, while the five of them – no longer prepared to stop at anything – began firing into the smoke. Then, as their eyes and ears began to recover, they could hear the sporadic screaming and groaning, and see the red, mangled ruin of what had once been flesh and bone…


It was too late for all of them, now.




************




His eyes narrowed against the smoke, his ears blocked to the piteous groaning and whimpering from the poor fools who’d thought they could take Shadowlands so easily, Euan Abercrombie remembered Oxford.


It had been his first real mission with the ASUs: a routine hunt for the ringleaders of the Death Eater recruiting groups operating at the university. However, things had begun to go very wrong, very quickly, beginning with a firefight in one of the great buildings, witnessed by centuries old architecture and shocked, disbelieving students scrambling to get out of the way. He had been cut off, pinned down behind a carved pillar with enemies on all sides and no way to escape, and Malfoy had sent the rest of the team on to pursue the true prizes –


But had stayed himself, stayed to help him out of a situation that would certainly have led to his death or capture.


“Mad,” he’d said, panting heavily and trying hard not to panic. “You should have gone on, sir.”


Draco Malfoy, the legendary black-clad commander, had looked at him and smiled grimly, eyes hard and constantly watchful. “I need you, Abercrombie. No one else knows how to retrieve the files from the computers.”


Pureblooded, he’d pronounced the strange word carefully, but Abercrombie knew Malfoy had personally picked him out of obscurity for this mission, muggleborn though he was, based on his very secret expertise. Three grinding years in the Ministry’s muggle technology research and development labs had not prepared him for the terrifying whirl of life on the front line – he’d panicked, his very first time facing enemy fire, and now he was pinned down with the very man he’d been trying so hard to impress.


He’d summoned up a mad, horribly stretched grin. “I’ll need to get to the computers first, sir.”


“That’s why I’m here,” Malfoy had said, amused. “Next time, though, you can fight your way through them yourself–”


He’d stood up, then, and launched a devastating flurry of curses, dragging Abercrombie with him from pillar to pillar, cursing at his ineptitude and swearing that he’d make a black-clad out of him if it killed him…


They’d gotten to the computers eventually, and he’d done what he knew best, extracting the relevant information – and then they had battled their way out, and on the way he had killed his first man.


Malfoy had supported him as he’d thrown up, retching piteously, shivering uncontrollably and almost crying from delayed shock and enormous relief. It had been then, in one of the truest moments of revelation in his life, that he’d sworn Wizard’s Debt – he’d not known, at the time, that Malfoy had seen it all so many, many times before.


Nevertheless, despite his commander’s cynicism, he had held his oath sacred. Years had passed since then, the war had ended and Malfoy had been disgraced, but Euan Abercrombie still remembered the day he had left his life as a computer geek behind, and had become an Auror…


“Are you sure about this?” Tonks asked. “He may not understand.”


“I’m sure. He’s ice blooded in battle – he’ll recognize us, and know we’re on his side.”


Ron Weasley, his eyes disbelieving, was still staring at the redbrick nightclub, where so many men were needlessly fighting and dying. “He’s killing them. He deliberately set that trap –” He shook his head. “I never believed it when they said he was mad, that he’d do anything if he was pushed…”


“Carlisle’s lost all sense of rationality, Weasley.”


“But Malfoy’s the one doing the killing.”


He shook his head. “And Carlisle provided the provocation. –I know. But he’s got his Ginny in there with him.”


Weasley’s eyes met his, slid away. “I thought I’d seen the end of the war.”


Abercrombie laughed. “So did we all.” He straightened, looked about him, and gathered his squad of elite veterans – many of whom had served with Malfoy – with a glance. “Well?”


“They’re holding,” said Adams, who had only just managed to escape the trap himself. “They’ll probably last another six hours or so, with Malfoy’s bag of tricks, but there’s no way they’ll be able to kill them all.”


He grunted. “No gaps in the defenses?”


“None at all. As far as it’s possible to hold that place with five defenders, they’ve got every possible option covered.”


That caught Tonks’ attention. “Five?”


“Malfoy himself, Weasley, Longbottom, the old man and the Irishman –”


“There should be six,” she said sharply. “Malfoy had three security chiefs. Where’s the other one?”


There was a sudden silence, broken by another wave of attacking Aurors. This time they came more circumspectly, but were still repelled. “Six hours, you say?” he asked.


“Probably. They can’t hold them off forever.”


“Right.” He turned to the rest of his men. “So? Are you with me?”


There was a general chorus of agreement and support.




*******




Two Aurors padded cautiously up the service corridor to the second floor, eyes constantly searching the shadowed corners for attackers, ears straining for any hint of sound, wands out and ready for anything. They were tense, almost vibrating with tension – the deep, absolute silence was doing more to unnerve them than any number of magical aids. Watching them, his eyes narrowed and predatory, Kelly’s lips stretched into a feral grin.


He cut his eyes to the left, where Longbottom waited, their backs against the wall, waiting for the Aurors to come. Two fingers were held up – two men coming – and then all five fingers spread, one folding down, four, then three, then two, then one, and then none –


They whirled, fired into the corridor, cut the Aurors down, and vanished into the shadows again.




******




Other than the well-guarded, narrow service corridor, there was only one way to reach the second floor; up a sweeping modern staircase, all glass and steel and metal, arching over the floor of the nightclub. Lit with wizard light, crowded with fashionably dressed, partying witches and wizards, it had been worthy of the ‘coolest’ and ‘hippest’ muggle clubs – or so Draco’s architect had informed him. He had certainly paid enough for it, having no real interest in muggle clubs – ‘hip’ or not – himself.


At the moment it was blacked out, as the whole club was blacked out, and it was crowded not with clubbing, paying guests, but with bodies and determined, maddened Aurors. He, Ginny and Higgins had spread out – himself at the head of the stairs, Ginny to the right and Higgins to the left – and were doing their ruthless best to pin them down. But these were men who had forced their way in through the still dangerous wards on the doors and windows, who had fought over every bit of the ground floor and had dragged themselves over the bodies of their dead comrades, and who were not going to be thwarted now, not when they had seen so many die –


Nor did he intend to surrender, not now, and most definitely not to Carlisle.




******




Tonks was the first to see the Aurors skulking about the walls. She tapped Abercrombie on the shoulder, drawing his attention to it; he frowned, and swore under his breath.


“Smoking them out. Damn it all –” he jerked his head at Adams, and four men peeled off to take out the fire squad. But there were more of them, and their job already done – they could see the smoke rising, now, pale grey in the clear midday light. It had yet to take hold, but the attackers inside were gradually falling back, perhaps delaying long enough to convince the defenders that they were being driven back, and to distract them from the danger outside.




******




“Smoke,” Fraser said. “It seems they took your suggestion to heart.”


Carlisle stared grimly at the rising wisps of grey. “Now we’ll see how tricky the bastard is.”


The fire smell rose on the wind, and the air started to shimmer in the heat.


“He’ll have no choice, soon; he’ll have to come out. And that’s when he’ll be at his most dangerous –”


“We’ll send in the ASUs. Front line veterans, ruthless killers…” Carlisle trailed off, frowning. “Where is Abercrombie?”


Fraser’s head whipped around. “You called in Abercrombie for this?”


Carlisle hesitated. “Why? What do you know?”


Fraser’s face was pale, now, almost waxen, and he seemed to sink in on himself. Carlisle grabbed his arm, shook him. “What do you know?” he repeated, shouting it –


A sudden, synchronized volley of wand fire interrupted him, and he turned around to see the line of Aurors surrounding the nightclub waver and hesitate, some of them falling, and quick flashes of black uniforms as the ASUs – those fierce, ruthless veterans – disappeared, then reappeared to strike again, and again, and again…


Caught with enemies both in front and behind, the Aurors went into the smouldering building for shelter, preferring to face five ragged enemies rather than twenty black-clads, and as he watched, Carlisle had the sudden, sinking feeling that things were all too quickly spinning out of his control.




***********




“The fire’s spreading,” Neville said, risking a peak out of the shuttered windows. Nursing a badly burnt forearm – a narrow escape from a particularly nasty curse – he didn’t need to see Malfoy’s blank, almost crazed eyes to know the man was very close to the edge. They were all close to the edge. “But there’s something strange going on outside – someone’s attacking the Aurors.”


He saw Ginny brighten. “Abercrombie?” she asked.


He watched a bit longer, as the sudden barrage of shots came from the surrounding buildings, as their unknown allies flitted quickly from cover to cover, vantage point to vantage point. They were, indeed, wearing black uniforms –


“Yes,” he answered, almost giddy with relief. “The ASUs…”


There was a brief moment of hilarity, of almost hysterical relief, but then there was a sudden renewal of shouting and noise from downstairs. Higgins tilted his head, listening. “But they’re driving them inside. They’re all coming in, now–”


Malfoy breathed out slowly, lowered his head onto his knees, and laughed, running his bloody hands almost savagely through his hair. “Oh, Abercrombie…” When he looked up again, his eyes were no longer almost crazed.


“Not all the dreams spun at Shadowlands,” he said very deliberately, standing up slowly, drawing strength from some unknown source of madness, “are harmless fantasies.”


He looked down at Ginny, and smiled a terrible, terrible smile. “I’d hoped that we would have time enough to clear up our misunderstandings, Ginny –” he reached out, drew her to her feet, pressed her wand into her hand, “but, between the fire and the Aurors, it seems our time and choices have run out.” He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and kissed her once, chastely, on her brow – and turned away.


She looked at him, then, her heart in her eyes. “Draco –” she said hastily, impulsively. He turned back, his eyes distant and focused on an inner landscape she could not see, and she lost her courage. Whatever she might have said was gone. “Where is Burke?”


He smiled. “Why, I sent him to find Moody, of course. For what it’s worth.”




*************************




They heard the screams as they pushed the last of them into the building. They’d been hearing screams all morning, of course, but this time the screams weren’t agonized, or enraged – this time, the screams were terrified.


Absolute, blind, primal terror.


It was chaos on the lower floor and on the staircase as the pushing, rushing crowd of Aurors fell to their knees, clutching their heads, some of them tearing at their eyes as if they could stop the visions – the illusions, the shadows – by blinding themselves. Tonks shouted in alarm, flung up a shield as if it could possibly defend her from Malfoy’s illusions, shouted out, magically enhanced, as loud as she could, “Malfoy! Malfoy, it’s Tonks! We’ve come to help!”


There was no visible response, but neither did any illusions descend on them and drive them mad – and then there was movement at the top of the stairs, and she saw him. He was limping, his hair was disheveled and his robes torn and bloody, but his eyes…


All around them, the Aurors who had survived the first wave, the subsequent probing attacks, and their own ambush were writhing on the ground screaming, but Draco Malfoy descended the stairs with as much grace and elegance as if he were making an entrance to the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, burned so long ago.


“Cousin,” he said, charming and urbane. “Weasley, and Abercrombie. How good of you to come – and just in time, too. –Does this fulfill your debt, Euan?”


Abercrombie looked around him and swallowed.


“You’ve gone completely mad,” Ron said angrily.


But Draco shook his head. “No. No, not I – they pushed me, so I pushed back. They attacked me and I attacked them; they threatened Ginny, and so I will destroy them all.”


“And then what?”


“Afterwards? An official Ministry apology – you’ll let me go, perhaps, knowing what I am capable of, and life will go on as it always has? No. I have, as you say, gone mad. But Ginny will survive, and Carlisle will die; you see, I have descended to Carlisle’s level, to commit so much murder in one woman’s name. I begin to understand him now…”


There was a scuff, a footstep on the stairs behind him and he whirled, battle-ready reflexes at the fore, but he hesitated, shocked –


Ginny Stupefied him, her face white, and her wand hand shaking. He collapsed, fell to the ground, limp, and instantly the screaming ceased as the illusions shattered and dissolved.




***************




When Jim Burke, Alastor Moody, and the rest of the Auror Corps arrived some time later, it was to find a scene of shocking devastation reminiscent of the worst days of the war. Hastily dousing the fire and rounding up the rest of the Aurors, he marched up to Jaryd Carlisle who had gone so horribly wrong, and placed him under arrest. But, entering cautiously into Shadowlands, he saw the carnage and the destruction and the horrifying evidence of a man pushed too far, driven beyond the limits of his own sanity –


He did not find Draco Malfoy.




***************

Chapter 15 - Interlude




“Are you sure you’re getting enough sleep?” Tonks asked, watching Ginny in some concern. “You look wretched.”


The redheaded woman scowled. “Thanks a lot.”


“Seriously. Ever since–”


“Don’t–” Ginny held up a hand. “Don’t say it.”


There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Tonks conceded defeat.


It had been two long weeks since the extraordinary events at Shadowlands. They had almost finished clearing the rubble and destruction away, and the last of the dead Aurors had received honourable funerals. Ginny and Neville, Tonks and Ron and Abercrombie and his black-clads had escaped with nothing more than an unofficial reprimand and a terrifyingly thorough interrogation. However, Carlisle, the main instigator, had been immediately imprisoned on some trumped up petty charge, and Ginny, who had benefited the most from such summary justice, was nevertheless hard-put not to deplore it.


Tonks knew that the Ministry’s justice could just have easily have been applied to Draco, had it been he who was caught instead of Carlisle. As long as someone was found guilty of tearing up Diagon Alley and put away for life, the public would be satisfied. Carlisle, with his shadowy, distinctly grey record and his hard-line, uncomfortable methods was just as good a scapegoat as Draco Malfoy, the fallen Auror.


Tonks wondered just how much Ginny knew about Draco’s timely disappearance. Somehow, between Ginny’s Stupefying him and Moody’s appearance on the scene, the unconscious Draco and his three henchmen had vanished while no one else was watching – at least, while no one interested in detaining them had been watching. Ginny had claimed that she’d turned her back on him, believing him safely unconscious, and that when she’d gone back to check on him he was gone.


Tonks believed that she’d turned her back, certainly. She remembered the devastated look on her face as she’d come down the stairs, her wand out and ready to stop the man she loved from going completely over the edge. She remembered the mixture of fear, anguish and determined resolve – and the look of absolute shock on Draco’s face as he turned to face his assailant.


Ginny could swear all she liked on a whole stack of sacred artifacts; she still loved Malfoy, even now, even after seeing him at his absolute worst. And like all Weasleys, she was fierce in the defense of her loved ones…


Happily, they had finally uncovered the answer to the mystery of Shadowlands’ back rooms. Far from such lurid imaginings as facilitating in the rise of a new Dark Lord, or in plotting to take over the world/destroy England’s economy/overthrow the Ministry, Draco had been engaged in money laundering for the illegal narcotics suppliers on Knockturn Alley.


Not, of course, that the Knockturn Alley mafia weren’t dangerous in and of themselves, but even so…


A Malfoy, reduced to laundering money for a petty crime cartel.


Killing for them, as Longbottom had discovered, just before Kelly had discovered him.


Had he truly fallen that far from what he once was?




****************




“Do you remember,” he had asked, “when we believed we could make it work? A Malfoy and a Weasley, together – I think we had more courage, then, than we’ve ever shown since… ”


Ginny remembered.


“I loved you, Draco. We fought so hard, just for the chance to have a future – why did you ruin it?”


Why, oh why, had he thrown away everything they’d fought so hard to achieve?


“Why did I ruin it?” Draco, still stunned and groggy from the aftermath of her spell, had tipped back his head and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. “I was not the one who walked away. But you’re right: all the hotheaded, stubborn defiance, the grim determination to hang onto our love – we lost it somewhere, didn’t we? When there was nothing left to fight…”


“Is that what Shadowlands was? A purpose?”


“A distraction. A challenge. It did not make up for what we lost.” He turned to her then, all masks stripped away, all defenses lowered, and she could see the strain, the terrible, empty weariness –


“Truth, Ginevra – have you ever found anything to replace what we once had? Has there been anything, or anyone else, to fill the empty spaces in your life?”


She looked at him for a long, long time then, remembering what he had once been, what they had once been together. They’d been so young, and so full of belief…


Why did you accept money from the cartel?


But she knew that if she asked that, she would destroy the mood, lose him forever.


“No,” she said finally. “Without you, there was nothing truly worthwhile…”


He smiled, his eyes vague and unfocused, his body limp and heavy. He was exhausted, she knew, completely wrung out – but she had one last thing to say to him before she left.


“This time you have to leave, Draco. I can’t protect you any more, and you used up your status as a hero long ago. Leave, and don’t come back. There is nothing for you here.”


She was halfway across the room to the door, before she caught the echo of his last, slurred words.


“I know.”




********************




A/N – I’ve just finished watching ‘The Way we Were’. I may have been a little influenced… But don’t worry! This is not the end. I just put this interlude in because I needed to come down off the action high.

Thank you for all your feedback.

A/N – Sorry about the wait, it took me a while to figure out where I was going to go with this chapter.


Disclaimer – I don’t own HP, characters or concepts. Don’t sue me.



CHAPTER 16




The anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat came around again. But this time, Ginny was not locked in her apartment, drinking herself into oblivion, as had been the case in the previous ten years. No, this time she was halfway around the world, putting an end to a ghost she should have exorcised years ago. With one last trip, one last meeting, she was going to put Draco Malfoy out of her life, once and for all.


Why someone else couldn’t do it, she would never know. But Fudge – Fudge! – had been adamant that this mission was hers, and no one else’s –


“He’s built himself a new club,” Moody said, “just as successful as the old one, although with no ties to any underworld figures, this time. Just go and make it clear that if he stays away from England, we don’t care what he does overseas…”


“What the hell is this, sir? He’s not bloody stupid; he already knows not to come back. Why send an Auror all the way out there just to give him an unnecessary message?”


“Don’t ask me, Weasley – I’m just following orders. This came down from the very top, from our esteemed Minister himself.”


“Fudge?” Ginny had been incredulous.


Moody nodded. “Fudge.”


Tonks, who had come with her because she had a hankering to catch an assignment to a sunny, tropical beach, pushed her ridiculous, rhinestone encrusted sunglasses further up onto her nose. “Ah, Ginny, this is the life,” she said languidly, stretching her arms out and laughing. “Sun, sea, and, if I’m lucky, some outrageous sex…”


“That’s not how it goes,” Ginny said dryly. “Besides, I’ve heard that sand gets everywhere.”


Tonks gave her an offended look. “You’re too practical,
Ginny. No wonder you never meet any interesting men.”


“I don’t want to meet any interesting men. I’ve had enough interesting men to last me a lifetime.”


“Really? The only one I can call to mind,” Tonks said, gently teasing, “is my esteemed cousin. And that ended more than ten years ago. Ginny, darling, you can’t keep carrying a torch for him –”


“I’m not!” she yelped. And then she saw Tonks’ expression, the ironic understanding in her eyes. She sighed heavily, and shoved her hands into her pockets. “There’s… There’ve been other men, of course,” she began slowly. “But none who could… Anyway, that’s all at an end. I’ll deliver this message, and then it will be over. He’ll be out of my life forever.”


Tonks grinned. “Right. You remember that, Ginny darling. Because we’re now about to beard him in his den, so to speak, and if you’re serious about ending it forever, you’d best control any impulses to throw yourself, swooning, upon his manly bosom –”


Ginny made a very rude hand gesture. Tonks laughed, and they pushed their way into the Safehaven, the hottest new club on the beach.



**********



Kelly saw them the instant they stepped through the doors.


“You again,” he said, heading them off and herding them into a small security office. “I thought you’d given him his marching orders.”


Ginny looked at him in clear dislike. “Well, I’m not entirely happy to be here myself, Kelly. If it wasn’t for Fudge…”


Kelly blinked. “Fudge?” He stared at her a while longer, and then he started to smile, that damned cocky, insolent Irish smile. “That’s right, he managed to get himself back into office again, didn’t he? Merlin only knows how.”


“Some fool gave him a huge amount of money,” Tonks agreed, and then she stopped. Looked at Kelly, who looked back at her and grinned.


“What?” Ginny asked. But neither Kelly nor Tonks answered.


There was a knock at the door, and a moment later Higgins came in, nodding when he saw Ginny and Tonks. “So you’re here,” he said in satisfaction. “You took your sweet time about it.”


Ginny frowned. They’d been expecting her and Tonks to come? But how could they possibly have known… “What the hell is going on?” she demanded, getting up out of her chair.


“No, no, Ginny, don’t worry,” Tonks said, fluttering her hands reassuringly. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just sit here a while and I’ll go with these nice gentlemen,” she grinned and batted her eyes at Kelly and Higgins, “and we’ll…clear things up.”


“Tonks!” Ginny shouted, but the other woman only laughed, before she and the two men slipped outside. There was a distinct click, and the door locked behind them.


Ginny swore.



*****************



Draco heard his cousin’s unmistakable, laughing tones as soon as he entered his club. She was talking to Burke, Kelly and Higgins, her vivid face so eerily like his mother’s laughing as she recounted some tale, or told a joke –


Whatever it was, she wasn’t supposed to be here.


“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he asked, ungraciously.


She laughed at him. “You should know, Malfoy, you arranged for us to be here. Or was it some other fool who gave Fudge ten thousand galleons for his campaign chest? You know, I’ve heard of men doing stupid things for love, but reelecting Fudge –”


He glared at her. “I asked why you were here, Nymphadora.”


“Merlin, you sound just like your father. No, no, don’t lose your temper with me, Malfoy; you’ll need all your control to convince Ginny that she shouldn’t banish you from her life forever. I don’t think you’ll get another chance at it.”


“I know I won’t get another chance,” he admitted, sighing. He nodded to the door to the small security office. “Is she in there?”


Kelly nodded. “We locked her in, and she’s spitting mad. You should hear the language she’s been using –”


Draco swore. All four of them grinned at him, wishing him luck as he shrugged out of his cloak and cautiously opened the door, prepared to duck any flying objects.



**************



“Malfoy!” she shouted as he came in through the door, his wand at the ready – did he honestly think she would toss something at his head?


She was thirty-four years old. She was far too old for such emotional, irrational behaviour.


She punched him, as hard as she could, in the solar plexus. He seemed to fold in on himself, collapsing gracefully, his eyes gaping as he gasped for breath. And she knew, without a doubt, that he had let her do it – ten years ago, his reflexes had been phenomenal, and the fight at Shadowlands had shown her that he had lost none of his skill. He’d have seen the intention in her eyes, seen the blow coming, and yet he hadn’t moved, or blocked her –


She considered hitting him again, but knew there would be no satisfaction in it. Not when he was allowing her to strike him. Sighing, muttering under her breath, she sat down on the floor against the wall and watched him as he dragged himself back upright.


“What’s this all about, Malfoy?” she asked quietly. “I thought we’d said all we needed to say.”


He looked at her, his carefully arranged hair in chaotic disarray. He did not appear to be suffering any ill effects from her punch. “So did I. But it wasn’t enough. You know it’ll never be enough, Ginny. You shouldn’t have taken the Shadowlands case.”


“There wasn’t much choice in it.”


“You could have walked away. You did an excellent job of avoiding me the previous ten years. But that was all it took – you walked back into my life in that damned green dress, and it was as if nothing had ever changed…”


“Everything’s changed, Malfoy. The whole world’s changed, and there’s nothing left in it for us –”


“Bullshit. My father wasn’t everything, the Aurors aren’t everything, and nor are my clubs. You know that – you chose to make them into huge issues, Ginny. You chose to put them between us – I would not have let anything stand in my way.”


“Then why did you walk away?” She shouted, her voice ragged, her breath hitching in her chest.


“Because you told me to,” he said simply. “And if you ask me to walk away again, I will – but Ginny, think. I love you. I’ve loved you ever since we were both on the front lines, and you asked me how I coped –”


Her eyes went very wide, and very dark. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, no, no, no, no…” Never, ever before, had he said the words –


“Don’t do this, Draco. Don’t make me do this again…”


He spoke straight over her objections. “Don’t tell me that there’s nothing left, that we can’t make it work again, no matter the obstacles or the circumstances – if you love me, then nothing can truly stand in our way…”


She wiped angry tears away, glaring at him furiously for upsetting her hard-earned equilibrium. “You killed your father,” she said in a very small, very vulnerable voice.


“I know. And I’d do it again, if faced with the same choice. Yes, I’m a Malfoy, and a Slytherin. You’ve always known that, and you’ve always accepted it, even at the worst of the Dark Times. You told me that it didn’t make me, or our love, any less…”


He crept closer, took hold of her hand and brought it to his chest, pressing it over his heart. She could feel his heartbeat. The first time after they’d made love, she’d lain against him, listening to his heart, terrified because she’d known that the strong, sure rhythm could be silenced so easily by an enemy attack…


“Do you remember?” he asked, looking deep into her eyes. “You accepted me then, because we knew how vulnerable, how fragile our love was. Why are you afraid now?”


Thump-thump.


Thump-thump.


Thump-thump.


She felt his strength, his deep, dark and shadowed strength, ruthless and often cruelly cunning; he was not a determined, altruistic hero like Harry, or as simple and uncomplicated as Ron, who fought for his friends and family and loved ones. He was a man who would stop at nothing to protect what was his. He had killed his father to save him from the Kiss, and would do it again –


She’d seen him tired, dispirited, terrified, and raging; she’d seen him laughing, relieved and joyful, and full of love. She knew him, in all his moods, his quirks, and his flaws.


She knew exactly what he was, and she loved him anyway…


Reaching out, she gathered up her courage and tried to believe, once again, that they could have a happy ending.



********************



A/N – Ok, this is the last chapter before an epilogue. Thank you to all my reviewers, your comments are greatly appreciated.

A/N – Thank you to all of the people who have read and supported this story since it first began two years ago.


Disclaimer – I don’t own HP. I don’t own Draco. Don’t sue.



Epilogue



Once, there was a man who walked/was sent away.


Once, there was a woman who did not/could not call him back.


Once, there was a ten thousand galleon bribe that made all things possible…



************



A politician is a man who understands that nothing is unthinkable, or unforgivable: nothing, except openly saying so.



************



It had started out as an ordinary day. Cornelius Fudge, in the naively optimistic belief that the press had no idea of his more unsavoury dealings, had left for work unaware of the storm about to break over his head.


However, he was quickly disillusioned.


“Minister Fudge!” the protestors and journalists converged upon him as soon as he stepped out of his car, thrusting magical recording devices in his face and shouting out question after question. “Is it true?”


“Is it true that you’ve authorized the recall of Draco Malfoy?”


“One of the opposition’s backbenchers has accused you of receiving ten thousand galleons from Mr. Malfoy during your election campaign…”


“Is there any connection between the receipt of the money and Mr. Malfoy’s recall?”


His press secretary, young Perry Wetherby – a very eager, very useful young man – shouted out to the ravening crowd, trying to calm them down. “No comment! The Minister will not be making a statement now on the Ministry steps, ladies and gentlemen! Wait your turn!”


“Wait until you’ve written him an empty, pretty speech, Weasley!” one journalist shouted, and was immediately joined by others, hissing and booing and demanding an immediate statement. Happily, just as it looked set to turn nasty, a squad of Aurors came in response to Wetherby’s summons, pushing the crowd back and flanking him as they hurried him up into the doors of the Ministry building.


When they finally reached the sanctum of his inner office, he staggered around behind his desk and collapsed into his chair with a sigh of relief. Then, as he tried ineffectually to calm down, patting the breast pocket of his robes for his heart potion, he noticed something quite strange – the Aurors had closed the doors behind them.


Moody leaned against the door, his arms crossed forbiddingly, but whether it was to keep others out or to keep Fudge himself in, he couldn’t tell.


“Really, Alastor,” he said, laughing nervously, voice shaking a little. “There’s no need to be quite so zealous…”


“So is it true?” That was Moody’s second in command, young Longbottom. “Minister?” he sneered.


“Well, really, I say, this is quite, quite outrageous,” he sputtered, desperately casting his mind about for a way out.


“No. I think it’s a very reasonable question, Fudge,” Moody growled, sauntering forwards to lean threateningly over the desk, deliberately looming over him. “Did you take Malfoy’s money?”


Eye to eye with Moody’s rolling, flashing optical enhancement, Fudge leaned back in his seat and swallowed. “There’s nothing wrong with…” he began, trailing off, wilting before Moody’s best, most withering glare. “Valid campaign contribution,” he managed to get out. “Highly respected pureblood family. Perfectly innocuous.”


Longbottom snorted. “Right. This is Malfoy we’re talking about now, Minister. Draco Malfoy, who killed his father, and who only a year ago killed thirty Aurors –”


Fudge mumbled something under his breath about misunderstandings, water under the bridge, and youthful indiscretions. “Anyway,” he said dolefully, as if he fully entered into Moody’s feelings on the matter, “it’s far too late now.” Somewhere, somehow, there had been a leak and the press had found out, and they would roast him alive.


“You’ve already recalled him?”


“Yesterday,” he mourned, mopping his brow. “It was specified in our agreement…”


Moody and Longbottom swore. For a moment – a very swift moment – Fudge thought he saw a flicker of laughter in the younger man’s eyes, but of course that couldn’t be right. Moody, still growling, yanked open the door and stormed out, his second in command following him, slamming the door on the way out.


Fudge slumped down, completely defeated, in his chair, trying to calm his desperately palpitating heart.



**************



Neville followed Moody out of the Minister’s room in silence, waiting until they’d got to the cafeteria in the Auror Department before speaking.


“So,” he said finally, “do you think it was Malfoy who tipped off the press?”


“No doubt.” Moody grinned fiercely. “He hates Fudge with a passion. And he always was a cunning bastard.”


“But Ginny seems happy enough with him.” Tonks’ last report had been amazingly informative. Neville still couldn’t quite believe that fierce Ginny Weasley had finally given in enough to offer her old lover a second chance. For so long, she’d refused to even utter or listen to his name –


“As long as she stays that way.”


“I don’t think he’ll allow anything to ruin it for him this time around.” Frowning, Neville remembered the grim determination on Malfoy’s face as he sacrificed everything to protect Ginny. “After all the trouble he went through to get her back…”


“He’s a Malfoy, isn’t he? Convoluted plans come naturally.” However, even Moody, it seemed, was capable of admiring brilliance, as long as it wasn’t aimed at genocide or overthrowing the government. Perhaps a very minor – miniscule – part of the grizzled old Auror was still a little romantic, even now, and he thought fondly on the man who would do so much for love.


Hah.


“If he fucks up this time,” Moody said with exquisite simplicity, “I’ll kill him myself.”



****************



Six months later



Once, long, untold centuries ago, a powerful wizard carved an estate out of the wilderness and claimed it for himself and all his descendents, even unto the end of time.


Eighteen years ago, give or take, the Death Eaters had razed Malfoy Manor and everything upon it to the ground. The Ministry had completed the job, stripping the estate of the last of its remaining assets, destroying a fortune and a legacy built up over more than a thousand years.


Draco had not been back since the very first burning, when he’d been eighteen years old. Then, the fresh destruction had been shocking in its deliberate thoroughness, and in his mind it remained that way, forever ruined, blackened and smoking –


Now, saplings and creeping ivy had reclaimed the tumbled, broken stones of Malfoy Manor, and new shoots and green grass grew thick on the salted fields and covered the heaped graves. There were ghosts and echoes on the wind, memories of those who had gone before – but this time, he did not flee from them.


This time, he would be worthy of the burden of their trust and expectations…


“So,” his wife murmured into his ear, “this is the famous Malfoy estate.” Her arms slipped around him and she hugged him, resting her chin on his shoulder. It robbed her words of any malicious overtones –


“Yes,” he said simply. “For what it’s worth.”


“Is this why you accepted the cartel’s money?”


He shrugged, and she felt his muscles tense and lock. “There didn’t seem to be a good reason not to.”


“Fool.”


He snorted. “Thanks very much, Gin.” But his hands came to rest, covering hers, squeezing them slightly. “I can tell you I won’t be making that mistake again.”


“You won’t be able to buy yourself a pardon next time.”


“My dear Ginevra,” he said, almost amused by her fierce certainty. “Don’t you know that enough money and at least the pretence of contrition can buy anything? The Malfoy have been buying themselves out of trouble and back into respectability for centuries. As long as there are greedy, gullible fools willing to swallow our promises…”


She growled, low and deep in her throat. “There will not be a next time, Draco Malfoy; I will personally make sure of it. There will be no more misunderstandings, no more politics, and no more games –”


He smiled. She could feel him smile.


“We will be far too busy,” she stated as firmly as she could.


In the distance Kelly and Burke stood huddled together, combing their fingers through the soil and dirt, getting a feel for the land and its capabilities, after near two decades of neglect. Higgins was prowling around the ruined manor, jotting down notes and stroking his chin meditatively.


Her arms firmly embracing him, as though she thought she could restrain him, his fierce Auror-wife was busily thinking of ways to keep him on the straight and narrow. He wondered what ruthless, devious plots and plans she had in mind –


All she had to do was smile at him, tell him that she loved him, and he would do anything she asked. And he would kill himself before he admitted it.


Yes, there would be work enough for them all.


“Yes, dear,” he said meekly.


*****************



FIN



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