Disclaimer: The situations presented in this story are based on concepts and characters owned by J. K. Rowling and her publishers. I am not making any money off this story, nor will I ever.
Author's Notes: I changed the formatting, so that won't double space between paragraphs. That was just a tad annoying. Also, I'd like to pass on something that my Myth Lit teacher once said: "There are authors who sit down and write, and authors who agonize over every single word." I am of the latter type, so don't be surprised if every now and then you find that something about a chapter is different. This is very much a work in progress, but I hope you enjoy whatever I churn out!
"We men may say more, swear more, but indeed
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love." –Viola, Shakespeare's Twelfth Night
Chapter I: Penelope Unwillingby Jenni
After endless hours of confinement within the small enclosure, the air had become stale and humid from the condensation of his own breath. With every attempt to inhale, the captive felt his eyes roll up into the back of his head. It was an eternal struggle not to pass out, and it was only the combination of outrage and sheer determination that kept him conscious.
A sweat droplet ran a path from his forehead, and over his pale cheek. He stuck out his tongue as it fell onto his parched lips, and he tried to savor it. The salty flavor was at least something concrete onto which his strained senses could grasp hold until the door to his prison would swing open again.
He had never seen his captor's face, but he had heard him speak, and that was enough to recognize the sort of genteel voice that boasted a decent education, and a well-bred pattern of speech that resembled his own, yet it was harsher and harder, which indicated a greater age. As the stranger had shaved his head, he had felt soft hands that said indicated a gentleman's status when they raked across his scalp, and he knew that he had probably never done an ounce of dirty work before this. He knew these things because he made it a point to study his enemies in order to find their weaknesses. It had occurred to him more than once that an escape could be possible if only he was not so weak. Yet, all he could manage now was to live for his next clean breath of air. But someday he would escape, and he would be sure to mutilate whoever was holding him hostage. No one could keep Draco Malfoy against his will.
His lungs were beginning to burn, and he was now gasping for air. Soon he would pass out, never to wake again, and suddenly Draco wished he could see something. Anything but this immense blackness. He thought again of his plan to escape, and realized he should have tried it long ago. The bastard wasn't coming back. He had just left him to suffocate. But he would get out anyway. He would find some way.
His eyes closed, but Draco caught himself before he could fall asleep. He tried to think of his escape plan again, just to stay conscious. Then it occurred to him that he didn't want to think anymore about what was impossible. Death was stalking him–it was lying right beside him. For Draco there would never be freedom or the time to squander it.
In these last conscious moments he wanted only to think of her.
Hermione stood shoulder to shoulder with her friends, as they all examined the sign together. Ron's arms were crossed, and his eyes squinted in concentration. Harry was scratching his head with his wand.
"Looks straight to me." he said.
Ron shook his head. "Nah, there's something off about it. Maybe it's hanging too much to the left."
With a flick of his wrist Harry shifted the sign so it hung more deeply to the right. "Now it's definitely crooked." he sighed.
Suddenly, Hermione's face brightened, and she pointed her wand directly at the obstinate object. "Wait, I've got it." she said. "Signum corrigo!"
Immediately the sign corrected itself, and hung neatly and completely horizontal. The three admired the words it displayed so prominently: "Potter Co., Private Investigators."
Harry beamed with pride. Leave it to Hermione! "Well," he said. "It looks like we're finally in business."
Cheerfully, he stepped between his two friends and threw his arms around their backs, directing them inside the new office. It was a clean, two-story building with red brick, located on a prime piece of property smack dab in the middle of Diagon Alley. Harry had spent the remainder of his fortune, as well as the savings of both Ron and Hermione to purchase the lot, and the three had spent an entire spring preparing to set up their new business.
Private investigating, something that seemed like it might be at least a tiny bit profitable considering their combined resumes, had been a natural choice for the trio. The name had been more difficult, of course, but "Potter" was finalized as the best option since Harry's fame would no doubt attract a larger clientele.
Ron had protested that "Weasley" and "Granger" were by no means unknown, but in reality no one had truly minded the decision. After all, Harry had always been the unifying factor in their lives, so why not name the business for him?
Harry was now leading them into the back rooms, right up to the little kitchenette they had set up in case of late nights. It was filled with the smell of freshly set plaster, and wallpaper glue, but the newness of it all was comforting to all three of them. This was a time for new beginnings.
Harry opened the door of their small cooler, stuck his hand in expectantly, and pulled out a bottle of champagne.
Ron's grin grew wider. "'Mione, will you do the honors?"
Hermione pointed her wand at the small table top to the left of the cooler, and conjured three crystal champagne flutes. But as Harry was preparing to magically pop the cork, a knock at the door caught there attention. And suddenly, with an irony that Hermione would later remark upon, when they had all been ready to usher in a new era, the past came barging back into their lives.
"Hello?" came the muffled call, followed by a frantic rapping on the door. "Hello? Is this place open?"
Ron took the champagne bottle from Harry, making a wry gesture at the door. "Our first client. Guess this'll have to wait."
Eagerly, they all three shuffled to the door, but as soon as they arrived, Harry brushed Ron and Hermione aside. "Sit down somewhere. We don't want to overwhelm whoever it is."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, just open the door."
Obediently, he took a deep breath, flipped the latch on the door and swung it open.
"Yes, we're open. Welcome to Potter Investigations... Co...er, Potter Co..." At that moment Harry decided to save himself further embarrassment by shutting his mouth. But the woman who had arrived hadn't noticed his mistake. She was too busy unwrapping the dainty, black shawl which was draped fashionably over her head.
When she had finished, she stood facing three flabbergasted, young detectives.
Harry stood aghast before he sputtered, "What can we do to help you, Mrs. Malfoy?"
Narcissa Malfoy ignored the two men, and stared straight into Hermione's startled eyes. Her voice reached out to the other woman, as she stated breathlessly, "Draco is missing."
The hard summer rain pelted his back, and slid off his old rain coat. Must get back...I must get back... This was the mantra he repeated over and over again to give him strength as he limped back to the inn.
He hadn't meant to get so lost, but everything was different from how he remembered it, and on top of it all, he hadn't been able to break away from her presence. Now that the pain potion was wearing off, he was feeling the full shock of his wound whenever he put his weight on his leg. He supposed he should see a physician, but there was always the nagging threat of being discovered.
But surely he wouldn't be caught. Not here. Not as long as got back to the inn. There was more potion waiting for him there, but he couldn't go on like this. He needed to be treated soon, and he didn't know what to do. The attack had been so unexpected, not so much because he hadn't expected his victim to fight back, but because he hadn't foreseen that this would be how it would be conducted. Auror magic! What could he do? Did he dare risk meeting her?
As the pain shot through him again, he realized he had no choice. But he would explain things calmly; he was certain she would understand. Then one of her friends could treat him in secret.
He hobbled down the street, trying not to attract too much unwanted attention. The rain had helped to keep most people of the streets, but perhaps this made him even more conspicuous. It certainly was slowing him down.
Bloody weather, he cursed. Then, as if in retaliation for this bad thought, the man slipped on the wet cobblestones and fell flat on his face. "Oh God..." he moaned, forcing himself up onto his scraped hands and knees before he tried to stand.
Still, kneeling on the ground, he peered through the darkness. He could see nothing, for his silvery blonde hair had fallen into his eyes. With his hands he slicked it back haphazardly and squinted.
He wasn't far from the inn. Only a few paces away, but with all his wounds it seemed unreachable. I can still crawl, he thought, quickly dismissing the humiliation that would be caused by being seen crawling through the street.
He crawled all the way to the old inn, and then clawed at the door frame in order to get to his feet before he dragged himself inside. The innkeeper was not behind the desk due to the late hour, and there was no one who could help him up the steep flight of stairs, but he remembered the proprietor mentioning something about portkeys. "In case you're too drunk to go up steps, but still sober enough to read your name. They're right behind the desk."
He struggled a few more steps, examined the area behind the desk which was organized into slots with numbers and names written above them. His hand hovered over the 200's, until he recognized the slot labeled with his name in gold print: "Malfoy."
Hastily, his fingers searched the slot, and found what felt like a Muggle gum wrapper. And then, he felt himself falling and whirling about until he landed with a soft thud on the bed in his room.
More than anything he just wanted to close his eyes and rest, but he had to see about the boy. He struggled to the foot of the bed, where rested a large chest, enchanted so it would hold luggage that would normally be ten times its capacity. With great apprehension he pulled out his key, and opened the lock. The lid was thrown back to reveal Draco Malfoy.
Draco's eyes were wide open, but they were glazed over with death. What was left of his hair stuck to his forehead like wet straw, and his hands were clenched in his robes.
Rigor mortis had set in.
The man who had opened the chest looked in horror on the sight. His breathing had become shallow from the shock and the smell. "No..." he whispered to himself. "Damn you. I needed you alive."
He collapsed over the bed, burying his face in the covers, and beat the bed with the fist of his unwounded arm as he let out a great scream of frustration. It was several minutes before he could compose himself. He sat up and shut the trunk.
"It doesn't matter." he said out loud with new purpose. "I've come this far. It doesn't matter anymore."
Ron had fetched a glass of water for Narcissa, whose voice was becoming hoarse from excitement and too much talking. She was also wagging her hand in front of her face, fanning herself in an attempt to keep cool. Hermione had not yet charmed the office to maintain a comfortable temperature, and the summer heat made a small room almost impossible for three people to breathe easily.
Harry was seated on top of his desk, conducting an informal interview, while Hermione sat in a chair by the door with her head bent low and her eyes focused upon the floor. The pad of paper she held in her hand was completely blank except for a few squiggles she had scrawled lazily in the margins. She was not disinterested, merely distracted by the myriad of emotions flooding through her as Draco's mother described in detail the most recent activities of her son: how he had started a business after the war with his Auror's salary. How he had used his meager profits to pay for his father's funeral. How he had been attempting to pay off Lucius' many debts before he disappeared. No, far from being bored, Hermione felt desperate for this information. She had not know how much she had wanted to know about Draco until this moment.
"The last time I saw him," continued Narcissa, "he was headed here to make a withdrawal from the bank."
Harry nodded. "And how long ago was that?"
"Two months." she answered. "He said he would be home in three nights...apparently he had other affairs to put in order." With that her eyes turned pointedly toward the chair on which Hermione rested, but the object of her gaze sat with her face downcast, and failed to notice the gesture.
"What affairs were those?" asked Harry, scribbling down her answers in a notebook.
"I believe it was something about a girl."
Hermione's head shot up, but Narcissa missed the expression of confusion and frustrated hope that flushed over her cheeks, for at that same moment Ron had stepped in holding a glass of water.
"Here's your water." he handed it to her with a smile. "I couldn't find any from the bottle, so you'll have to drink it flat."
"Thank you." she said after taking a sip. She wetted her lips and cleared her throat.
"Did he actually say it was...'about a girl'?" piped Hermione from the doorway. Her voice was small and thin, a detail which did not escape Harry's watchfulness. Both he and Ron shifted their glances from Narcissa to Hermione and back again. Unconsciously, Ron's hand went to Hermione's shoulder to support her. Either that or to stop her from asking. She wasn't quite sure, but she knew she didn't care.
But all Narcissa could say was, "He didn't exactly tell me, no."
Hermione's heart beat slowed to normal. "Oh." was all she could muster.
Harry coughed, bringing the questioning back on track. "Mrs. Malfoy, why didn't you say something before now if your son has been missing two months?"
"Oh, but I did." she protested. "I informed the Ministry at once, but they haven't been able to find out anything. Of course, they did find the room he had been staying in at the Leaky Cauldron, but that's been vacated for weeks. The truth is that the Ministry is useless. Draco always used to say so..."
"So you came to us." Ron finished for her in a sympathetic voice, which despite its personableness was all business.
Narcissa paused to wipe at her eyes. "I remembered hearing him complain all through his schooling about how you three were always investigating mysteries and running around where you didn't belong. But you always got the problem solved, no matter what you had to do to solve it. That's the type of team I want looking for my son." Her jaw began to shake, signaling the end of her ability to maintain her composure. Before she broke down completely, however, she turned to face Hermione. "...And...and Ms. Granger," she sniffed. "He never said so, but I know he came back for you!"
Then she lost herself in tears, leaving Harry utterly at a loss. Ron stepped forward awkwardly and handed her his handkerchief, then patted her gently on her back, exchanging a panicked glance at Harry. "What do I do?" he mouthed.
Harry shrugged in return, and looked helplessly toward Hermione, but she was no help. She seemed quite as discomposed as Narcissa, although perhaps more quietly so. Her hands were pressed over her mouth, and her eyes were wet as she excused herself from Harry's office with a brisk apology and swept out the door.
Harry sighed, returning his full attention to his new client. "There there, Mrs. Malfoy." he tried. "I think we have enough information for now, but we'll definitely need more. Could you give us a way to contact you in the future?"
She sniffled in a dignified manner, dabbing at her nose with Ron's handkerchief. Then, as if realizing this wasn't enough, she covered her nose and blew as if she was a hurricane. Narcissa handed it back to a disgruntled Ron with a muffled "Thank you," and Ron chucked it into the waste paper basket when she wasn't looking.
"Here's my...a...address," she hiccoughed a little, and the quill with which she had been writing down her address jumped, leaving a little trail of ink. "J...just apparate here, and one of my house elves will find me."
"Is that Derbyshire or Devon?" asked Harry, surveying the unreadable directions.
"Derby..." Narcissa sniffed, and then promptly broke into a wail. "Draco never liked D...Devon. I don't know why! Maybe it was because of his grandparents...he didn't like them either..."
Behind the now inconsolable Mrs. Malfoy, Harry saw Ron pantomiming being beheaded. "I haven't got another handkerchief!" he mouthed, then pantomimed what appeared to be a man savagely beating Mrs. Malfoy. He gestured wildly at Narcissa, mouthing something Harry didn't understand, and then it looked as if Ron was blowing his nose into the air.
Rolling his eyes, Harry took out his own precious handkerchief and handed it to Narcissa. He got off the desk and patted her on the back, and while she plastered herself all over his arm, Harry pointed to the upstairs level, whispering to Ron. "Go see about Hermione."
Before Ron had found her, Hermione had been resting quietly by the window, her hands neatly folded in her lap, a pose that belied a calmness she did not feel. She had been thinking about the birds outside, the people walking on the street, and anything else that would keep her thoughts from wandering to Draco. He had been gone two years, and in those two years so many things had happened, but Hermione's heart had remained constant. Most of the time she tried to deny this, but just the memory of Draco's smile or even a snide remark brought him back to her mind as fresh as the day he had disappeared from her life. Hermione remembered that piece of Muggle literature, The Odyssey, where the hero's wife had waited for twenty years to hear word of her husband. Well, Hermione had already lost patience with her lover. After all, he hadn't been far away and suffering. Instead he had been one county over, with nothing but thin air to block their reunion. The moment Hermione had learned this she had resolved to put Draco Malfoy out of her mind forever...
But once Ron found her those memories came flooding back to her, all with his simple, "Are you all right?"
He was standing in the doorway when he spoke, with his hand resting on the frame. Hermione knew this only because she knew his habits, for she was not facing him as she asked, "Did Harry send you up?"
"Yeah, and also Mrs. Malfoy was becoming hysterical, so I thought I'd better escape."
She smiled despite herself. "You can't escape from every client."
He walked fully into the room, and shut the door. They were in Hermione's private office, and the only room in the whole building that had been completely furnished and cleaned. "Neither can you," he offered, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to think of something to talk about. He found the task rather difficult. He didn't want to broach the one subject that he knew was on her mind, but he found it would be crass to speak of anything else. And so he dared to bring it up:
"Of course, I never liked Draco Malfoy," he began, as if they'd been casually talking about him for hours, "...but since we have to find him and all, I'm willing to let bygones be bygones."Hermione scoffed in a manner so exaggerated that Ron could tell it was insincere. "You're so noble." Then she shifted her chair to face him. She set her right hand on the desk and began to play with a letter opener in the shape of a sword. He watched her play with it awhile as she contemplated the futility of silence. "I loved him." she said to no one in particular.
"I know," he answered. That wasn't exactly true. He hadn't been present during their brief affair, or at least he hadn't known about it or noticed it. All he knew was that when he had come back from his mission, he had found Hermione different. Somber and tired by turn and hopeful and determined the next. Only after the war did he see her crumple. With each passing day she seemed to sink deeper into a depression from which she had only recently emerged. Harry eventually told him that she had fallen in love with Malfoy during the war. Ron inferred on his own that Malfoy had not come back. Or he hadn't come back for Hermione at any rate.
Ron was busy trying to remember if he was angry at Malfoy or not. Before the war he would have been incensed that any man should treat his friend this way; to have promised so much only to completely forget her. To not even give her a single word concerning his whereabouts. But Ron understood soldiers; he had been one. Being a soldier did funny things to people...
Once he had seen Malfoy at the Ministry when he had gone to have lunch with some secretary. He hadn't told anyone about it, especially not Hermione, who would have gotten upset; but he remembered that Malfoy had not run in the other direction. Instead, Malfoy had stopped in the hallway and said, "Good Day." And he had delayed him from his date for ten minutes while Ron watched him stutter and try to carry on a good conversation. There had been something in Malfoy's eyes that caused Ron to forgive him, even to pity him. It was strange for him to feel so reticent towards a man who had once raised such violence within him. It was strange for him to think first rather than to feel anger.
But the war had broken Draco Malfoy. Ron had known it as he knew his own name.
Hermione brought him back to the present by slamming the brass letter opener down on the desk. Ron did not reproach her for her anger, although he was unnerved by it. She was always the level-headed one. "It just seems too ironic that he was coming to find me, and then conveniently disappeared. That's always the way things turned out, right?"
Aware that the room had gone cold, Ron began to feel even more uncomfortable, especially when he noticed Hermione grinding the letter opener into her desk pad. "'Mione..." he tried to stop her.
"Why didn't he come back before? And now...Ron, what if he's dead?" As her voice began to quiver, Ron looked at her helplessly.
"I haven't got a handkerchief." he reminded her, but he drew near and wrapped his arms around her. "Please don't cry. Just try to think of this as a job, that's all. Your Draco is all in the past."
"No, not anymore..."
Ron snorted. "And don't listen to that rubbish from Narcissa Malfoy, are you? Maybe he was coming back for you, but she doesn't really know. She's just an ex-high society dame trying to play matchmaker."
"Who is also Draco's mother." she protested. "She might know or maybe he talked about me or said he missed me or something."
"Honestly, Hermione! Do you want to get over this or not?"
"I do." she answered. "But..."
"Don't get yourself worked up again." said Ron. Then he brightened. "Why don't you go home? You can test out our new floo connection." He saw the jar of floo power sitting on the desk, and pushed it toward her like he would a cookie jar.
"Don't think about him anymore." he instructed her. "He may not have been a Death Eater, but he was still a pretty bad boyfriend, if he even stuck around long enough to be that..."
"Ron, you're not helping."
"All right, maybe a bath will." he said. "A nice long, hot bath and some good food. Harry and I could come over later, or maybe just me..." He noticed her look. "or maybe just Harry..."
Hermione took the jar from him. "Ok. But I'd really just like to be alone tonight. I need to think things over before we start working on this."
Ron flashed her a debonair smile before he bent over to give her a brotherly peck on her cheek "Sure. I suppose I owe Lisa a date."
"Laura." she corrected.
He shrugged. "Whatever. See you in the morning."
Hermione had never liked floo powder, which is a fact that reasserted itself in her mind the second she was unceremoniously dumped in the fireplace of her apartment.
"What a day." she mumbled to herself, as she brushed the soot off her rear, and deposited her purse on the floor. She took a step towards her couch, only to stumble over an aging Crookshanks, who was too tired in his old age to even meow in protest.
"Oh, I'm sorry, baby." she cooed, bending over to pick up her pet. "Today's been a frightful mess." she told him, sitting on the couch and stroking his fur. "Do you remember Draco? Well, I try not to."
Crookshanks' only response was to look at the kitchen, which was separated from the sitting room only by a small doorway.
"Are you hungry?" asked Hermione. "Of course you are. You want food. You don't want to think about that conceited, lying, arrogant..."
Suddenly, a pot fell to the floor with a resounding crash that was followed by a low and muffled curse.
Hermione jumped and Crookshanks hissed. She rushed back to her purse to grab her wand without setting the cat down. "Hello?" she cried, clutching Crookshanks in one arm and her wand in the other. "Show yourself before I make you appear!" she ordered.
A few quiet footsteps came from the kitchen, one more drawn out than the other as if the stranger was dragging his foot. An arm appeared through the door, then a leg and a shoulder, and then everything until at last the intruder was standing squarely in front of Hermione.
She gasped, and dropped her wand, bringing her hand to her gaping mouth. Crookshanks struggled in her tightening grip, but she was too numb to feel it.
"Draco!"