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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 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…
**********************************
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