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.
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.
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