Bam, update within a week! (Alright, almost within a week.) I am proud of myself.

No worries guys, everything will become clear as the story develops. And the magic in this story is not quite the same as that in canon, as this chapter will (hopefully) explain. And of course, every story needs a few turns for the worse. What's a happy ending worth if it isn't preceded by disaster?

I hope you all like this new chapter.

Disclaimer: nothing new here.

Chapter 9

The thing with doing something bad is that you can always rationalize it into something good. As an outsider, it is easy to judge someone who has done something that you perceive as wrong. You don't know them; you don't know their troubles and their thoughts, nor the events in the past that drove them to this point. Sometimes people simply have no other options. That's how good people can do things that seem evil and out of character. Because if you think about it, and carefully weigh your options, you will sometimes discover that doing the bad thing is the only right thing to do. And that's all there is to it.

These were George's thoughts as he walked through Knockturn alley. He was wearing a black robe with a hood to obscure his face and hair. He knew he looked like he belonged here, but he still felt uncomfortable and out of place. This was a place for those who were mentally or physically broken, poor, shunned or otherwise disappointed by society; people who had lost their scruples or had never possessed them in the first place. George did not fit into any of these categories, not really.

Knockturn alley was a very long and narrow alley, with many turns and slanted walls that seemed to bend towards the pavement, so there was a constant shadow over the street. No sunlight ever reached the muddy street stones of Knockturn alley – that's what made so very suited for shady businesses and attracted all kinds of obscures figures.

Today, George posed as one of those figures, and despite the dark scenery and his leering discomfort, he felt oddly enlightened. Because what he was about to do, wasn't bad. It was the merely the only seasonable option left, and therefore the right one.

And what was 'bad', really, other than an abstract, ambiguous term without real meaning? Some people would say that the pranks he and Fred had pulled in Hogwarts were bad. Or that murder was always bad, even when it was rightful vengeance. George could not agree with that. If Fred's murderer would appear before him now, he would kill them without hesitation. He knew he would be able to do it. Perhaps he would even Crucio them. His hate was that strong. Did that make him a bad person? No, George didn't think so.

What he was about to do now didn't make him a bad person either. Just a desperate one.

The man was standing in a place where the shadows were particularly dark; in the doorpost of an abandoned shop. The doors and windows were boarded up, and the shop sign was cracked and made unreadable with dark green paint. The same paint was used to write down obscenities on the boarding.

George approached the man. He was of average height and had an ordinary face with pepper-and-salt coloured hair and brown eyes. George did not doubt that the man was either polyjuiced or wearing a recognize-me-not glamour, the latter more likely than the first. Glamours generally did not work on people who knew you well, but they would prevent strangers and distant acquaintances from recognizing your face (unless they knew about the charm, of course). If they looked at you, they would see a boring, unremarkable face that they wouldn't be able to pinpoint afterwards. It was quite advanced magic.

"I'm the guy," George said to him, keeping his voice steady and quiet.

The man's eyes scanned the street. He was searching for Aurors and other priers, and George couldn't help but glance around cautiously himself. There were only a handful of people in sight, and they were all minding their own business. It was a ground rule in Knockturn: you mind your own business and never ever talk to Aurors.

To make sure they were not being spied on, the man cast Homenum Revelio, and then a Muffliato.

"Alright, this is it," the man said as he pulled a small tin can from his robe pocket. The wrapper told George that the can contained billywig sting slime, an ingredient that was used in many potions. But George knew for a fact that wasn't what was really inside the can, just as there hadn't been cough syrup in the flasks of Docter Cabble's Cough Syrup.

"How do you suspect me to sell that?" George said. "I own a joke shop, not a potions ingredient store."

"You don't put it on the shelves," the man said, slow yet somewhat impatient, as if he was talking to an annoying child. "We don't want people to buy it thinking it's sting slime. You hide the stash somewhere in the back of the shop. Sell it only to those who are specifically asking for it. One can is one dose; eight galleons. Nobody can know what you're doing. They can't even suspect it. So find a way to make the deal outside the public eye. If you need to change the wrapper of the can in order to do so, no problem. Be as creative as you see fit. Whatever you do, just make sure you don't get caught. The boss might bail you out if you proof useful and trustworthy, but if you cock it up you're on your own. And do not, under any circumstances, make a deal with the Aurors. Not even when you're facing a penalty. Because if you do, we will get to you, and your family. Is that clear?"

George swallowed. His heart was beating fast. He could turn back now, it wasn't too late yet.

"Yes," he answered. He could do this. He wouldn't mess up, and nobody would find out. He'd have an extra source of income, hopefully enough to keep the store, and always have plenty of elixir within his reach.

The threats towards his family made George a little anxious, but it wasn't as if he hadn't been expecting this. It was no more than logical that the Organization would precautions like these to insure that their sellers would keep their mouths shut, even under pressure. He would've done the same thing, if he'd been in their position. Shady business call for shady strategies. And it wasn't as if George had a lot of information to betray to the Aurors. He had no clue as to who the boss was, and up till now he'd only been a buyer.

The man nodded. "Good. You get fifteen percent, as was the deal. If you want some product for yourself, you pay for it just like any other buyer, but with a twenty-five percent discount." He handed George a piece of parchment. "Here is the location of the product. Every two weeks there will be a new stash and a piece of parchment with the next location. Leave the gold, take the product and the parchment, and that's all. You won't see me again, unless you make trouble. If you want to reach me, you know how to do it. But I'd rather you didn't. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes."

George was feeling oddly excited now, though he also felt guilty. If his family knew what he was doing… No. They would never find out. George would make sure of that.

But what would Fred have said? a treacherous voice whispered in his mind.

George quickly shut the voice up. He did not want to think about what Fred would have said or thought, because all of this wouldn't have happened if Fred were still here. His death was what had turned everything to shit.

Ron and Harry are Aurors…

George worried his lower lip with his teeth. With Aurors in his circle of close friends and family, he'd have to be extra careful. They were on this case like fairies on honey; places like Knockturn alley were searched regularly now. That's why the Organization had changed the way they conducted their business. After Afflexia Lexcide was banned from the shops, the Organization had started selling it on the streets. This abandoned shop in Knockturn alley had been one of the selling points. But thanks to the prying Aurors (and the DIS before them), it was getting too risky. As a result, the Organization had started crimping people like George to sell the product. The Aurors were looking for suspicious cloaked figures in dark alleys, not lawful, respected citizens like George. And Ron and Harry would never even think of suspecting George.

"So the deal is done then?" George asked. "Do I have to sign a contract?"

The man grinned. "You just did. It's a verbal contract; consider it signed. Good luck lad." The man raised the corners of him mouth in what George thought was a supposed to be smile, but looked more like a cross between a smirk and a grimace, before he turned around and disapparated.

George let out the breath he had been holding. It was done then. He was now a dealer in very addictive and highly illegal calming elixir.

You can say what you want about my life, but it isn't boring.

Charlie opened the door of his apartment, smelling of sweat and dragon-induced smoke. He pushed the door close with his foot whilst pulling off his shirt and made his way to the kitchen. He threw his shirt on a nearby chair, retrieved a cold beer from the fridge and plopped down on the brown leather couch that was the center of his spacious living room. The house was neater than it usually was; he had actually cleaned up before his date with Draco yesterday. Not that he was an extreme slob, he liked a clean and organized living space, but normally the floor wasn't this shiny, the piles of books and magazines not this orderly, and the kitchen counter far from spotless. Also there were more often than not clothes scattered here and there on chairs and sofas, and used cups and mugs on the shelves and tables. It looked much better now though, and Charlie vouched to improve his household-spells and clean up more often.

Charlie used his wand to open the windows. It was hot outside today, and when one was working with dragons, the air around you tented to get even hotter. Charlie's skin was covered with a think film of sweat. He craved a cold shower but felt too lazy to move. Then the floo blazed green, and Charlie was forced to get up so he could open the floo for the visitor. With a sigh, he walked to the simple, homely brick fireplace and tapped against it with his wand. Barely a second later, his sort-of-but-not-quite-yet boyfriend emerged from the fire.

A smile instantly appeared on Charlie's face.

"Drake," he said as he put his forgotten beer down on the mantelpiece. "What a pleasant surprise… or… not?" he asked when he saw the look on his lover's face.

"I'm pissed off, distract me," Draco said and he kissed Charlie roughly.

Charlie kissed him back. Dammit, he'd missed Draco, even though he'd seen him very thoroughly yesterday. He felt like he was getting addicted.

All thoughts of showering were abandoned, and instead Charlie's mind focused on other, more dirty activities.

Then a nagging curiously started tugging at his thoughts. What had gotten Draco this riled up?

He put his hands on Draco's shoulders and gently pushed him away. "Wait – wait," he managed. "Slow down, what's going on?"

Draco sighed irritably and moved away from Charlie. "Stupid Aurors, that's going on! Somebody's spreading an illegal, addictive calming potion and they suspect me! I haven't done anyhting wrong, and yet I get bloody Potter breathing down my neck."

"Errr…" Charlie hoped Draco was speaking metaphorically.

Draco started pacing up and down the room, strongly reminding Charlie of a caged dragon.

"Wait, if you didn't do anything, why do they suspect you?"

"I don't know!" Draco threw his hand up in the air. "Probably because I was a Death Eater, and thus evil with a capital E in their book!"

"Okay just… calm down," Charlie said. "If you're innocent you have nothing to fear, right? It'll be alright."

"It won't be alright! You haven't seen Potter's face; he wants to nail my ass to the wall! And then there's the fucking weasel… how he got to be an Auror is a fucking mystery to me!"

"Hey, that's still my little brother you're talking about. He's a fine Auror, and Harry too," Charlie said, instinctively defensive.

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. "Yeah right. They just got in because they're famous. I was in the same year as Weasley; I know how small his brain is."

"I think I know my brother a bit better than you do. He worked really fucking hard to get through the Auror Academy, he's not stupid."

Draco stood still, his eyes narrowing. "Whose side are you on?"

"What side? Since when are there sides? I'm on nobody's side!"

"There are always sides," Draco hissed. "And you've got to be on one of them."

"That's fucking bullshit."

Charlie was starting to get angry. It felt as if somebody had lit a fire beneath his skin, slowly sending his temper to boiling temperatures.

"No, not knowing which side you're on – that's bullshit. My father says…" Draco faltered mid-sentence, suddenly looking vaguely sick.

Charlie could guess what he'd been about to say, and couldn't hold back a disbelieving laugh.

"What about your father, huh? Don't try to sell me his twisted ideas; we all know where those lead to."

"Don't you dare talk about my father!" Draco shouted, his face flushed.

"Why? I happen to know you used to talk about him all the time!"

Draco stepped forwards, and hit him – really hit him, fist in the face, and surprisingly hard too.

The blow had come as such a surprise to Charlie that he actually staggered back a few steps. A dull pain was throbbing in his jaw and he tasted blood in mouth.

"Ow, bloody hell…" he groaned as he massaged his painful jaw. He stared at Draco, who looked as shell-shocked as Charlie felt, and Charlie was torn between hitting him back and kissing him.

"Just… fuck you. Fuck you Charlie. Nevermind," Draco said, his voice unsteady and his face pale, before he turned around and disappeared through the floo.

Charlie licked his split, bleeding lip and stared at the empty floo. The flames died away and the apartment was suddenly very silent.

He grabbed his beer, which was thankfully still cold, and sank down on the couch to re-collect his thoughts.

What the hell just happened?

When Draco got home, he immediately went to his bedroom and lay down on his bed, curdled around his pillow like he used to do as a child when he was upset.

It didn't take him long to cool down. His anger ebbed away like a tide, laying bare his thoughts.

This was not my fault.

He'd once promised himself he would never make a mistake again, and he hadn't. There was nothing he'd done wrong, so there was nothing to feel guilty about.

This was not my fault and I don't feel guilty.

I don't, I really don't.

No guilt-feeling whatsoever.

…

"Dammit!" Draco groaned and punched the mattress. He did feel guilty, and that meant he had done something wrong. Once again, he'd failed. He'd vowed he'd never make a mistake again, and had failed to live up to that promise.

I failed. Of course I did. I always do.

Draco wasn't sure what he regretted most: sort of consciously starting a fight with Charlie, hitting him, or insulting his family.

Not that it hadn't been true, what he'd said about the weasel. That Gryffindor prick really had the intelligence of a flubbworm, and he was getting treated differently because of his hero-status. But… he was also an Auror, and that meant that he had to possess some qualities Draco wasn't aware of. He must have grown at least half a brain since Hogwards, and the fact alone that he survived during the war meant that he had some definite skills. He'd helped defeat Voldemort. Sure, he probably hadn't done much more than tag along while Potter and Granger did the actual work, but he'd still been there. He'd helped. He'd survived.

So maybe, just very, very maybe, Draco had been wrong about Ronald Weasley. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as Draco wanted him to be. Maybe he actually was a decent Auror.

Draco buried his face in the pillow and sighed into the soft, crisp fabric. He wished he had a time-turner, so could he go back in time and prevent this whole mess from happening.

I should apologize to Charlie.

Unfortunately, he really, really did not like apologizing. It was just… not something he did. His pride did not allow it. The last time he'd apologized was at his trial, when he'd expressed his remorse for everything he'd done during the war with tears in his eyes and true fear and regret in his heart. It had been a horrible and humiliating experience he never wished to repeat.

And Charlie insulted my family as well, Draco thought stubbornly. The things he said about my father…

Draco tried to recall Charlie's exact words, and realized the other man hadn't really insulted Lucius. He'd just said that his ideas were twisted, and that wasn't as much an insult as it was a truth. Many of Lucius' ideas and believes had been warped, and that hurt because Draco knew in his heart that not everything his father had taught him was wrong. Lucius had been an intelligent man who knew much about the world, especially the world of power-plays and business. Without his father's lessons, Draco would have never been able to successfully lead the family company. But for every wise word that had left his father's mouth there had been five lies, and it were those lies and misconceptions that had led to Lucius' downfall – and almost to Draco's as well.

Which of his father's ideas he should hold onto and which he should reject still wasn't entirely clear to Draco. Every time he thought he knew exactly what to believe and how to make his way in life, something happened to alter his perspective and make him doubt himself all over again.

When he was young, the exact opposite used to be true. As a kid, Draco used to blindly repeat what his father told him, believing every word to be the ultimate and rightful truth. He wanted to be just like him, and did not make a secret of it.

It embarrassed him now, to know how he'd once been and how he'd acted. That was why he'd reacted the way he had when Charlie reminded him of this particular characteristic of his younger self. Draco didn't like having his flaws pointed out to him, because it meant he had to stare them in the eye and fix them.

Sometimes it was hard to be an adult.

Draco sat up and stared at the quidditch players on the posters on the wall. He knew he was too old for quidditch posters, but he'd never found the courage to remove them. It was one of the last – perhaps the last – remnants of his youth. Looking at them made him sad and happy at same time.

He pressed a hand against his forehead and realized his headache was gone. It seemed the fight with Charlie had helped clear his head, odd as it may seem. He felt positively horrible; guilty, distressed, frustrated and utterly stupid, but his thoughts weren't sluggish anymore and his headache gone without a trace. His memories were also clear: he remembered every detail of his meeting with D'Ancelet, the letter he'd written to his accountant, and how he had fallen asleep on the couch.

He also remembered the feeling he'd had when he woke up. It had been strange… like a hangover or an upcoming flu but not quite the same…

Draco briefly wondered if somebody had messed with his mind, but dismissed the idea pretty quickly. Beside his mother and Marianne, the only person who could've been responsible for such a thing was D'Ancelet, and that was just plain ridiculous. There was a reason people weren't getting imperio'd and fake memory-charmed left and right. If D'Ancelet had used magic to make Draco sign a contract or something like that, it was inevitable that Draco would find out sooner or later, and then D'Ancelet could go explain himself to the Aurors. Mind-altering charms always left traces. The mind healers at St. Mungo's could tell with relative certainty whether somebody had been under the influence of Imperio or not, and obliviation and fake memory implants scarred the brain for eternity. It was hard to tell the difference though, and if several mind-altering charms were used in combination, they would form one scar.

Of course he could be under the influence of Imperio right now, but Draco was familiar enough with the curse to know that wasn't the case. Draco knew his own mind well, and had spent many hours training Imperio and occlumency with his aunt Bellatrix and the house-elves. She had cast Imperio on him multiple times, to make him acquainted with the feeling.

A shiver ran down his spine. No, he definitely wasn't being controlled by Imperio right now, and he couldn't imagine that D'Ancelet would mess with his mind. The man was smarter than that. Nevertheless, Draco realized he should be more careful in the future. There were ways to protect oneself against mind-altering charms. Draco knew his father had always taken the necessary precautions when he met with one of his business associates. Of course, Lucius had moved in far more dangerous circles than Draco. That was why Draco had never bothered with these sorts of things before. But now, he was regretting that carelessness. He should protect himself better, just to be safe.

He should also apologize to Charlie. Surely the other man would forgive him, right?

A sudden feeling of uncertainty came over him. What if Charlie wouldn't accept his apologies? What if he didn't want to see him again?

Draco felt a cold knot in his stomach at the thought.

It wouldn't be that disastrous, he told himself. It would be awkward, yes, and unfortunate, because Charlie is ridiculously fit, but it's not like I need him or something.

It was a comforting thought. Draco decided to hold onto it.

Yes, I'm making too big a deal of this. Charlie's not the only guy in the world. I'll survive without him.

A Slytherin always survives.

But he'd rather do it with Charlie than without.

"I have to frank with you Potter," Embrey said soberly as they walked through ministry hallways. "That wasn't your best call."

"I know," Harry said mournfully. "I'm sorry. I fucked up."

Harry felt like an idiot. His behavior had been unprofessional and completely out of line. It was just… when he looked at Malfoy, it was like looking at a window in time. The snarky git always brought out his childish, competitive side – a remnant of their old rivalry. It was frustrating. Harry didn't even really believe that Malfoy was behind this. It was too out of character. After everything that happened, Malfoy would be lying low. He wouldn't do something like this, knowing that the ministry would immediately look in his direction.

Embrey glanced at him with a sympathetic look in his eyes. "I wouldn't say that. It wasn't that bad. Whether Malfoy knows more about this than he let on or not, he wouldn't have slipped. He's too careful for that. Let's just hope the others have found something that can help us. We need some solid evidence, otherwise we won't be getting anywhere with this case."

"Thanks," Harry said and smiled. "I won't make a mistake like this again, I promise."

Harry and Embrey entered the Auror office, in good time for the briefing.

"So, what are your thoughts on Barrin?" Embrey asked as they made their way to their desks.

Harry's brows furrowed. "He's paranoid, probably hiding something."

Hugh Barrin was the man they'd talked to before Malfoy. He'd been far less accommodating than the former prince of Slytherin and had refused to let them through the floo. Embrey had been forced to talk to the man through the fire, while Harry stayed behind.

They really should invent group floo calls, Harry thought. If muggle telephones can do it, surely magic can pull it off as well.

Perhaps he should talk Hermoine about it later.

"Yeah, he was hiding something," Embrey said pensively. "I think we caught him at a bad time. He was sweating and his eyes kept darting to the door. But somehow I doubt he has something to do with the Lexcide. He'd didn't come off as the brightest chocoball in the box, if you know what I mean."

"Maybe he's involved, but not one of the top dogs."

"It's possible," Embrey agreed.

Head Auror Leafe strode out of her private office with a scowl on her face. All conversation ceased immediately.

"Why is it so light in here?" Leafe barked, and she spelled the lamination half close, reducing the (magical) sunlight that had been streaming freely through the windows to a few thin bars.

Rumour had it Head Auror Leafe was a Hufflepuff. Harry found it hard to believe though. Someone who looked as much like a blood-thirsty panther as Leafe couldn't possibly be a Hufflepuff.

"Alright, let me hear what you've got," Leafe said. "It better be good, because the minister is getting impatient. I've been pestered by flying memos all day."

One by one, the Aurors gave detailed reports of their findings. Harry listened with interest, while taking mental notes of everything that seemed important.

As the briefing progressed, Harry's mood got grimmer. The frown on Embrey's face and the thin line of the Head Auror's mouth reflected that sentiment.

"It's a dead end," Warrant-Auror Kelly said in conclusion of his report. "White was a social hermit and a routine person. He had no enemies, and his neighbors haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary. No witnesses, no clues, nothing."

"Marvellous," Head Auror Leafe said grimly. "What about the finances?" She looked around. "Sunnerman and Weasley… where the hell are Sunnerman and Weasley?"

"We're here!" Ron said as he half-fell into the office, Sunnerman on his heels. Ron was panting and his face was pink. His blue eyes were gleaming and he was obviously fighting down a grin. Even Sunnerman's usually stoic face betrayed hints of excitement.

"We've got something!" Ron said triumphantly.

"Several somethings," Sunnerman corrected him.

Head Auror Leafe quirked an eyebrow. "Let's hear it then."

"This morning, Malfoy transferred five thousandth galleons to a vault in Kyrgyzstan. The vault belongs to a manufacturer of self-walking shoes that is owned by the Malfoy Company. The suspicious thing is that until the first wizarding war, regular transfers of gold were made to the vault. During the war however, the transfers stopped. After the war ended, the transfers started again, until the second war began. The transfer that was made today is the first since the beginning of the second war. So that's weird, right? Why would you only transfer galleons to a company all the way in bloody Kyrgyzstan when there's no war? And why would you all of the sudden transfer five thousandth galleons?"

"Does Malfoy own more companies abroad?" Leafe asked.

"A few," Sunnerman answered. "Most companies Malfoy owns or invests in are British. Beside that there are a few in Italy, France, Germany, Norway and Denmark. Outside of Europe there is the shoe factory in Kyrzyzstan, a robe factory in China and a massage center in Saudi-Arabia. It seems unlikely that the shoe factory produces Lexcide, but it could be that the factory is a passing station for Lexcide-gold. We have already owled the Kyrgyzstan bank, but we haven't gotten a reply yet."

Leafe scanned the rolls of parchment Sunnerman had given to her. "If your theory is right, the factory in Kyrgyzstan is not the only link in the chain. Unfortunately, foreign wizarding banks, as well as their governments, are rarely, if ever, cooperative with our investigations, especially when we have little evidence to back our suspicions up."

Ron snorted. "We've noticed that. One of our persons of interest is a Frenchman, and most of his gold is in French vaults. We owled the French Goblins, but they refuse to send us anything."

"I'll contact the French ministry," the Head Auror said. "I might be able to persuade them to assist us. Anything more?"

"Yes," Sunnerman said. "We've discovered that Barrin pays regular visits to the muggle world. Every month, he exchanges galleons to muggle pounds. What's interesting is that this gold comes from his personal vault, not the family vault he shares with his wife. It doesn't seem to be related to the Lexcide, but we thought it was worth mentioning anyway."

"He's visiting muggle prostitutes behind his wifey's back!" Auror Vergo joked, and the other Aurors snickered in response.

"Whatever desirability the muggle world holds for mister Barrin, get to the bottom of it," Leafe said dryly. "The minister wants every stone turned or we'll all going to get sacked. Empty threats, of course, but the Lexcide is costing the ministry bags of gold, and I fear for our budget. So if you want to keep your Christmas bonuses and have champagne and cake on the department's annual New Year's party instead of tap water and dry biscuits, I suggest you all get to work."

There was a collective gasp for breath. The Christmas bonuses and New Year's party were in danger; things just got serious.

Harry felt more determined than ever to make this case the first real success in his Auror-career. In the light of Ron and Sunnerman's findings, it seemed that Malfoy was the key to this success. Ron certainly believed so. Still, Harry could not shake off the feeling that Malfoy was not the bad guy this time. There definitely was something fishy was going on with Malfoy, but Harry couldn't believe Malfoy was the actual brain behind the Lexcide business. For a sneaky Slytherin, Malfoy actually was a fairly predictable idvidual. An illegal trade in addictive potions was completely out of line with everything Harry knew about the git. But then, he couldn't know that for certain, could he? Malfoy could've changed.

Either way, those five thousanth galleons are suspicious to say the least. Let's hope the Kyrgyzstan bank is willing to help.

Harry realized he didn't even know where Kyrgyzstan was, and immediately felt dishearted.

Not all potion factories have been searched though, he thought hopefully. Perhaps the answer lays there.

They still hadn't found the location where the Lexcide was currently being manufactured, nor had they found out where the manufacturers got the ingredients. If they had, the case would be as good as closed...

- TBC -

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