A/N
As I think is probably obvious, I don't actually own any of this ... much as I wish I did. There are some new characters that DO belong to me, and this plot does too, but that's it. This is my first attempt at a story in this vein, although some of you may have noticed me hanging around, quietly reviewing some of your efforts for a couple of months. This is dedicated to everyone I ever reviewed favourably ... you guys inspired me to start this, even though I have no idea where it's going to end up. Reviews would ... of course, be extremely welcome. I want constructive criticism, as well as hints and ideas about where the hell this story could go. By the way, because I don't like writing about the future, it would really help if you could assume either that the original books were set in the mid 1970's, or that it is now around 2020, and the world has not changed much. Also if any of you lovely reviewers would care to suggest a title for me, I would be eternally grateful. At the minute I'm using 'Redemption' because it sounds right for the parts I have written so far. I don't know much about the US rating system, so I'm assuming this is probably a PG-13 or a 12 in England for some minor swearing. Enough faffing about ... let's get on with the show!
Prologue. Endings & Beginnings.
Blackfriars Bridge, London, seven years ago.
Draco closed the car door, and casually slipped the keys into the pocket of his jeans. So doing, he shambled over to the parapet as nonchalantly as was possible in his condition. He put his hands, visibly shaking, to the cold railing that topped the concrete wall, and looked down. The water was a steely grey.
To those who passed him, Draco Malfoy cut a somewhat awkward figure. He was tall, well over six foot, very thin, and an old quidditch injury meant he shambled when he walked. Atop his head perched an untidy mop of silvery blond hair. His face was thin and gaunt and unshaven. He looked like a broken man, and he was.
The events of that fateful day swirled through Draco's mind as he stared down at the swirling, angry river water. Feelings of despair and complete, unquenchable sadness welled up in the pit of his stomach. There was no point in going on, he thought to himself. I could end it now, and there'd be nobody who'd care. Nobody at all; his so called family had deserted him, but the pain that that caused was nothing compared to the pain of his other loss, his first, one and only true love.
Despite his sadness, Draco couldn't help smiling slightly as he recollected how it had been. Their eyes had literally met across a crowded room, at some unremembered party. They had been captivated by one another; they'd done everything together; they'd backpacked around Europe; they'd swum with the dolphins in Jamaica; they'd shared long, romantic evenings and long, romantic dinners, dinners that he had prayed would never end.
Now she didn't want to know. Draco felt himself shaking as the camera of his memory turned to that very day. He had gone round to her place as soon as he'd been able ... but she hadn't wanted to know. In spite of the utter dejection that was washing through his body, a small voice told him to be reasonable ... of course she hadn't wanted to know. She was married now, after all, there was a husband in some high flying job, a kid too, a young boy who had clung to the hem of her dress as they spoke, and as he hadn't failed to notice, she was pregnant again.
But he would have thought the time they had spent together would have counted for something.
She hadn't even asked him in for coffee.
He gulped, blinking back the tears he could feel coming. His whole body was shaking, partly through fear and partly through the icy wind that was cutting right through him, chilling him to the bones.
He couldn't go on. He couldn't recover. There was no way, he thought, no other way than this. As he put his foot on the parapet, he seemed to become detached from reality, as if he wasn't really there, as if he was standing a few feet away, watching himself climb onto the rail, and squat there, still staring down at the angry Thames. It was like a dream. He took a deep breath. Perhaps this would cause her to think. If she couldn't love him in life, perhaps she could grieve for him in death.
He was brought back to his senses by the sound of voices and running footsteps behind him. Slowly, and unsteadily, for in truth he was mortally afraid of heights, he turned.
There were two people standing there. One a tall, bearded, burly man dressed for the cold in a deerstalker helmet and a woollen lumberjack's shirt, the other a teenage boy, about sixteen years old.
"Are you okay mate?" the man asked.
Draco put his foot down on the pavement again, his teeth were chattering, "Please," he gasped, "just leave me alone."
"No mate, sorry, I can't do that," the man said, taking a step forward, a gloved hand outstretched.
"Y-y-you can j-just, w-walk away. Just walk a-a-a-way," stuttered Draco.
"I'm not walking away mate," said the stranger, his voice was warm and kind. He proffered his hand again, "Just think about it mate. You don't really want to do this."
"You c-cannot b-believe how much I w-w-want to do this," he said.
"You must have family mate. Think about them," he took another step forward. The boy did the same, but was waved back.
"Don't much care to think about t-them," said Draco, "never m-much cared to, to think about me."
The other man spread his arms out wide, "You have a choice mate. You can come with me, we can talk this through, we can get you something warm to drink, we can sort this out."
"W-what good can, can you do?" he spluttered.
"I'm a counsellor mate, I do this all the time," he said, "my name's Bruce. D'ya want to talk about this?"
Draco shook his head. He had talked until he was blue in the face, but nobody had taken any notice of him then, and why was this man going to now. Hell he didn't even know the guy.
"You have a choice mate," Bruce repeated, his hand was still outstretched, "I know you don't want to do this to yourself, and I think you know that too? Am I right?"
Draco shook his head again. All he wished now, all he wanted was for this strange, rambling guy to just leave him alone, to be gone, to let him get on with ... doing what he knew he had to do.
"You can come with me, we can sort it out. I'm not going to let you do this," a note of desperation had crept into his voice.
Draco took a step closer to him, feeling in the pocket of his jeans for the reassuring bulk of his penknife. His face contorted into an ugly grimace, his eyes filled with sadness, such sadness, and such fear as Bruce had never before seen.
"Perhaps," said Draco, drawing the knife from his pocket, taking care to conceal it in the palm of his hand, "you didn't hear me properly the first time."
"Come on mate," Bruce was undeterred, "come on."
"I want you to back off," growled Draco, "and I want you to back off now. I want you to get back in your car, and I want you to drive away from here, and I want you to leave me in peace. I need to do this thing, and there's no way on earth I'm going to be stopped now."
"I'm not leaving you," his voice still resolute. Draco advanced another pace. A suspicion was growing in Bruce's mind that this guy was not the type to be trifled with. He turned to the boy, "Get back in the car," he hissed.
The boy didn't need telling twice, he scrambled back inside. Draco glowered all the more fiercely, "Now see," he began, "your kid has the right idea. He knows when a guy doesn't want to be troubled. He knows when somebody just wants to be left on his god damned own!"
Bruce took another step backwards. They were almost at the kerbside now. He put his hand out to steady himself on the roof of the car.
"Do you understand me?"
"Be reasonable mate!"
"I just went way, way beyond being reasonable with you," shouted Draco, "way, way beyond that," he flicked open the blade of his knife, and held it inches from Bruce's now terrified face.
"Okay mate, have it your way," said Bruce, gulping, "we're just gonna get right back in the car, and we're gonna keep going. Okay?"
He grabbed at the door handle, turned, as if to get back in the car, and then stumbled as his foot caught the kerbstone. He gave a strangled cry as he twisted round, and fell forwards into Draco's arms, and onto the blade of the knife. There was a sickening sound as it drove deep into his chest. Bruce gave a gasp, and fell to the ground, his eyes wide open, blood seeping out of the wound on his chest. Draco stared down at the bloodied body, then looked to the face of the boy, who was staring at him, wide eyed with horror. He looked to the corpse again, gave a start, and slowly toppled to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The Present Day, somewhere in southern England.
The guests' lounge at the Bull Hotel was filled with old, comfy and voluptuous armchairs. In the grate a roaring fire had been laid. The shelves that lined the walls were filled with antique effect leather bound books, which had in fact been ordered by the manager from the more upmarket kind of magazine.
It was three days before Christmas, and it was the hotel's busy time. The luxurious surroundings made the Bull popular with honeymooning couples, elderly people having an out of season holiday, and those who were heartily sick of the hectic Christmas break, and wanted their turkey cooked for them. In the lounge sat many people getting slowly drunk as the afternoon wore on, chatting animatedly, reading the papers, even having a quiet game of chess. Fine ports and brandies were being consumed, and the atmosphere was jovial.
In a quiet corner, unfettered by the others, one man sat on his own, a briefcase open on his lap, a glass of sherry resting on the table in front of him, a half spent Cuban cigar dangling from his lips. He was absorbed in some task, evidently one of some importance, for every so often he would take a biro, and make little notes on a pad.
He slid one of the plastic wallets out of the briefcase. It was full of ageing photos, taken in the late seventies. They showed two people, a young man with extravagant blond hair and a bristling moustache, and a bright eyed woman in a flowery dress. The man was wearing a leather jacket over a white shirt, and jeans so tight it was a miracle he ever got into them. They looked happy, and he knew from his own experience that they had been happy. The photo had been taken, he recalled, by a friendly American tourist, on top of the Eiffel Tower.
Draco smiled at the memory. Back then, it had been simpler, a better time. Her face was so pretty.
He slid the photo back into the wallet, and took out another. It showed a woman, the same woman, only about twenty years later, and with different hair, but still the same woman. She was standing on a beach, with a dramatic backdrop of vertical, rocky cliffs, wearing a bikini top and a sarong. There were two children, a boy and a girl standing either side of her, holding onto her hands. Their grinning visages left their parentage in no doubt. Dark, unruly hair was blowing in the breeze, they both wore glasses, and on their foreheads, if you stared closely enough, you could just make out the faintest ghost of a scar. They were dressed casually, in shorts and T-shirts, and smiling from ear to ear. The girl waved at Draco.
Now he took out a different photo. The same kids again. This time grinning from beneath bright red hard hats and enveloped in orange overalls, ensconced in kayaks, still waving. Now another, again, the same kids, this time a school photo, hair brushed back, ties slightly skew-whiff.
Satisfied, Draco returned the photos to the wallet, and replaced it in the briefcase. He picked up his sherry, and sipped it. Then he stubbed out the end of his cigar in an ashtray, and picked up his pad. It was all finally starting to come together. He drained the sherry glass.
A voice at his ear said, "Is this seat taken?" It was a pleasant voice, a woman, French. Draco looked up. She was very rotund, sandy brown curls framed a happy face with piggy eyes. She had squeezed herself into what must once have been a very elegant black gown. It was possible, thought Draco, that not so very long ago she had been very pretty indeed, though evidently she had gone to seed. She had the look, he thought, of a publican, a barmaid, or a dinner lady. She looked so familiar though ... Draco had the impression he had known her once, long ago. Draco had met so many people in his life and work however, that he found himself quite unable to place her.
"Go ahead," said Draco, curious as to exactly why a stranger had approached him under such strange circumstances, "go right ahead."
The woman smiled, and sat down in the armchair next to his. In her hand she held a glass of beer, "I wouldn't have asked otherwise," she said, "it's a bit crowded in here though."
"No, no, glad of the company," said Draco, tucking the folders back into his briefcase hurriedly.
"On business?" she asked, sipping her drink.
Draco nodded, "Kind of, kind of."
She smiled again, she smiled a lot, this woman, thought Draco.
"I'm meant to be meeting my husband here," she confided.
So she was married, thought Draco, how strange.
"What line of business are you in Mr ..."
"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
"Mr Malfoy? Your name seems ... familiar to me. But then I have met so many people in my lifetime. Tell me about your work."
"I suppose," Draco said, thinking on his feet, for although he was indeed in town on business, that business, should its nature be disclosed, could land him in trouble, "I suppose you could call me a private detective."
"A private detective eh? Caught any criminals lately?"
"A few," lied Draco, "they're, they're a bit thin on the ground round here."
She laughed, a happy, lively laugh, "I don't think we have any between you and me," she exclaimed.
"I'm not really here to track down any criminals," said Draco, "I'm kind of, looking for someone."
"Anyone I know?" asked the woman.
"Might be," said Draco, "small town?"
"Oh sure, everybody knows everybody."
"That old cliché," Draco smiled.
"Oh no, in this case, it's true."
Draco thought to himself, how much harm could it do if I asked her? If she knows them, so much the better, if not, I've lost nothing. The germ of an idea was forming in the back of his scheming mind. He opened the briefcase, "Maybe," he began, "just maybe you can help me."
"I'll give it my best shot ... Draco."
Draco pulled out the folder he had been looking at, and handed her the photos of the kids. The woman gave a start of recognition.
"You know these children?"
"What have they done now?"
Was it possible she was their mother? To put it mildly, she was certainly not how Draco had envisaged her looking after all this time.
"They're yours?"
"Heavens no," exclaimed the woman, "they're friends of my son, Andy."
"Troublemakers?"
"Cheeky certainly," she said, "yes, I've known them almost all their lives. Where'd you get that photo."
"I'm a private detective ma'am, we don't reveal our sources."
"No, of course not. My name's Fleur by the way. You don't need to be so formal. You'll find us a fairly familiar bunch round here."
"Well Fleur By The Way, it's a pleasure to meet you. Tell me, do you know their mother?"
Fleur smiled, "What, old Hermione? Of course!"
"Could you tell me how to get in touch with her?"
Fleur smiled again, "No problem. They live up on the hill, the big house by the old tithe barn."
Draco had no idea what she was talking about. He raised his eyebrows slowly, as if asking her to elaborate.
Fleur nodded, "Okay, yeah, you go out to the main road, you turn left, and you head over the green, and out the other side of the village. The house is about three hundred yards on the left. It's got massive gateposts, you can't miss it."
Draco couldn't thank her enough, "You've been most helpful," he said.
"Do I get to hear what all this is about?" asked Fleur, "Do I take it you are ... one of us?"
Draco tapped his nose with his finger, "Discretion is my watchword Fleur. Maybe another time, when this matter is resolved."
"I can't wait," she said casting her glance over to the front desk, where a tall, lanky man with startling red hair was talking to the superior maitre'd, "that's Ron, my husband. I'd better go and join him."
Draco, who had given a start when he heard her husband's name, turned to look in his direction. He eyed the man with interest. He had thought Fleur looked familiar ... surely it wasn't possible. No, not a Weasley. He must be dreaming ... there were thousands of people called Ron in England, and more than one of them must be ginger. All the same, he thought, funny coincidence. He turned back to Fleur, and said, "Well, it was nice meeting you."
"You too Draco. See you around maybe?"
Draco nodded, "Maybe," he said.
She stood up, making her leather armchair creak as she did so, and adjusting her dress, waddled over to meet her husband.
Draco stared again at the photo in his hand. He hadn't expected to get lucky so early on. If the truth be told, he'd been using the detective line as a bluff, and had been surprised it had worked so well. He made a mental note to try it again, and lit another cigar. He had not been so contented in a long time. Things were looking up. He was nearly there.
A/N
So is it just coincidence, Ron Weasley and Fleur Delacour? Surely not? Whatever next? What is Draco really after, and what of the past? Who is the mysterious muggle Bruce, and is he really important, or just a red herring? Did Hermione marry who we really think she married? Can I be bothered to write Harry into this story? What's the time, and most importantly, could someone direct me to a filling station that still has some petrol left? These questions, and more, will be answered soon! By the by, all the characters so far except Bruce and his son belong to the brilliant JK, obviously, please note that I am receiving no big fat royalty cheques, and am skint anyway, so don't sue me ... please. Now all that's left for you to do, my friends, is to review. I really will value your input! Direct your eyes to the little box below!!!
As I think is probably obvious, I don't actually own any of this ... much as I wish I did. There are some new characters that DO belong to me, and this plot does too, but that's it. This is my first attempt at a story in this vein, although some of you may have noticed me hanging around, quietly reviewing some of your efforts for a couple of months. This is dedicated to everyone I ever reviewed favourably ... you guys inspired me to start this, even though I have no idea where it's going to end up. Reviews would ... of course, be extremely welcome. I want constructive criticism, as well as hints and ideas about where the hell this story could go. By the way, because I don't like writing about the future, it would really help if you could assume either that the original books were set in the mid 1970's, or that it is now around 2020, and the world has not changed much. Also if any of you lovely reviewers would care to suggest a title for me, I would be eternally grateful. At the minute I'm using 'Redemption' because it sounds right for the parts I have written so far. I don't know much about the US rating system, so I'm assuming this is probably a PG-13 or a 12 in England for some minor swearing. Enough faffing about ... let's get on with the show!
Prologue. Endings & Beginnings.
Blackfriars Bridge, London, seven years ago.
Draco closed the car door, and casually slipped the keys into the pocket of his jeans. So doing, he shambled over to the parapet as nonchalantly as was possible in his condition. He put his hands, visibly shaking, to the cold railing that topped the concrete wall, and looked down. The water was a steely grey.
To those who passed him, Draco Malfoy cut a somewhat awkward figure. He was tall, well over six foot, very thin, and an old quidditch injury meant he shambled when he walked. Atop his head perched an untidy mop of silvery blond hair. His face was thin and gaunt and unshaven. He looked like a broken man, and he was.
The events of that fateful day swirled through Draco's mind as he stared down at the swirling, angry river water. Feelings of despair and complete, unquenchable sadness welled up in the pit of his stomach. There was no point in going on, he thought to himself. I could end it now, and there'd be nobody who'd care. Nobody at all; his so called family had deserted him, but the pain that that caused was nothing compared to the pain of his other loss, his first, one and only true love.
Despite his sadness, Draco couldn't help smiling slightly as he recollected how it had been. Their eyes had literally met across a crowded room, at some unremembered party. They had been captivated by one another; they'd done everything together; they'd backpacked around Europe; they'd swum with the dolphins in Jamaica; they'd shared long, romantic evenings and long, romantic dinners, dinners that he had prayed would never end.
Now she didn't want to know. Draco felt himself shaking as the camera of his memory turned to that very day. He had gone round to her place as soon as he'd been able ... but she hadn't wanted to know. In spite of the utter dejection that was washing through his body, a small voice told him to be reasonable ... of course she hadn't wanted to know. She was married now, after all, there was a husband in some high flying job, a kid too, a young boy who had clung to the hem of her dress as they spoke, and as he hadn't failed to notice, she was pregnant again.
But he would have thought the time they had spent together would have counted for something.
She hadn't even asked him in for coffee.
He gulped, blinking back the tears he could feel coming. His whole body was shaking, partly through fear and partly through the icy wind that was cutting right through him, chilling him to the bones.
He couldn't go on. He couldn't recover. There was no way, he thought, no other way than this. As he put his foot on the parapet, he seemed to become detached from reality, as if he wasn't really there, as if he was standing a few feet away, watching himself climb onto the rail, and squat there, still staring down at the angry Thames. It was like a dream. He took a deep breath. Perhaps this would cause her to think. If she couldn't love him in life, perhaps she could grieve for him in death.
He was brought back to his senses by the sound of voices and running footsteps behind him. Slowly, and unsteadily, for in truth he was mortally afraid of heights, he turned.
There were two people standing there. One a tall, bearded, burly man dressed for the cold in a deerstalker helmet and a woollen lumberjack's shirt, the other a teenage boy, about sixteen years old.
"Are you okay mate?" the man asked.
Draco put his foot down on the pavement again, his teeth were chattering, "Please," he gasped, "just leave me alone."
"No mate, sorry, I can't do that," the man said, taking a step forward, a gloved hand outstretched.
"Y-y-you can j-just, w-walk away. Just walk a-a-a-way," stuttered Draco.
"I'm not walking away mate," said the stranger, his voice was warm and kind. He proffered his hand again, "Just think about it mate. You don't really want to do this."
"You c-cannot b-believe how much I w-w-want to do this," he said.
"You must have family mate. Think about them," he took another step forward. The boy did the same, but was waved back.
"Don't much care to think about t-them," said Draco, "never m-much cared to, to think about me."
The other man spread his arms out wide, "You have a choice mate. You can come with me, we can talk this through, we can get you something warm to drink, we can sort this out."
"W-what good can, can you do?" he spluttered.
"I'm a counsellor mate, I do this all the time," he said, "my name's Bruce. D'ya want to talk about this?"
Draco shook his head. He had talked until he was blue in the face, but nobody had taken any notice of him then, and why was this man going to now. Hell he didn't even know the guy.
"You have a choice mate," Bruce repeated, his hand was still outstretched, "I know you don't want to do this to yourself, and I think you know that too? Am I right?"
Draco shook his head again. All he wished now, all he wanted was for this strange, rambling guy to just leave him alone, to be gone, to let him get on with ... doing what he knew he had to do.
"You can come with me, we can sort it out. I'm not going to let you do this," a note of desperation had crept into his voice.
Draco took a step closer to him, feeling in the pocket of his jeans for the reassuring bulk of his penknife. His face contorted into an ugly grimace, his eyes filled with sadness, such sadness, and such fear as Bruce had never before seen.
"Perhaps," said Draco, drawing the knife from his pocket, taking care to conceal it in the palm of his hand, "you didn't hear me properly the first time."
"Come on mate," Bruce was undeterred, "come on."
"I want you to back off," growled Draco, "and I want you to back off now. I want you to get back in your car, and I want you to drive away from here, and I want you to leave me in peace. I need to do this thing, and there's no way on earth I'm going to be stopped now."
"I'm not leaving you," his voice still resolute. Draco advanced another pace. A suspicion was growing in Bruce's mind that this guy was not the type to be trifled with. He turned to the boy, "Get back in the car," he hissed.
The boy didn't need telling twice, he scrambled back inside. Draco glowered all the more fiercely, "Now see," he began, "your kid has the right idea. He knows when a guy doesn't want to be troubled. He knows when somebody just wants to be left on his god damned own!"
Bruce took another step backwards. They were almost at the kerbside now. He put his hand out to steady himself on the roof of the car.
"Do you understand me?"
"Be reasonable mate!"
"I just went way, way beyond being reasonable with you," shouted Draco, "way, way beyond that," he flicked open the blade of his knife, and held it inches from Bruce's now terrified face.
"Okay mate, have it your way," said Bruce, gulping, "we're just gonna get right back in the car, and we're gonna keep going. Okay?"
He grabbed at the door handle, turned, as if to get back in the car, and then stumbled as his foot caught the kerbstone. He gave a strangled cry as he twisted round, and fell forwards into Draco's arms, and onto the blade of the knife. There was a sickening sound as it drove deep into his chest. Bruce gave a gasp, and fell to the ground, his eyes wide open, blood seeping out of the wound on his chest. Draco stared down at the bloodied body, then looked to the face of the boy, who was staring at him, wide eyed with horror. He looked to the corpse again, gave a start, and slowly toppled to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The Present Day, somewhere in southern England.
The guests' lounge at the Bull Hotel was filled with old, comfy and voluptuous armchairs. In the grate a roaring fire had been laid. The shelves that lined the walls were filled with antique effect leather bound books, which had in fact been ordered by the manager from the more upmarket kind of magazine.
It was three days before Christmas, and it was the hotel's busy time. The luxurious surroundings made the Bull popular with honeymooning couples, elderly people having an out of season holiday, and those who were heartily sick of the hectic Christmas break, and wanted their turkey cooked for them. In the lounge sat many people getting slowly drunk as the afternoon wore on, chatting animatedly, reading the papers, even having a quiet game of chess. Fine ports and brandies were being consumed, and the atmosphere was jovial.
In a quiet corner, unfettered by the others, one man sat on his own, a briefcase open on his lap, a glass of sherry resting on the table in front of him, a half spent Cuban cigar dangling from his lips. He was absorbed in some task, evidently one of some importance, for every so often he would take a biro, and make little notes on a pad.
He slid one of the plastic wallets out of the briefcase. It was full of ageing photos, taken in the late seventies. They showed two people, a young man with extravagant blond hair and a bristling moustache, and a bright eyed woman in a flowery dress. The man was wearing a leather jacket over a white shirt, and jeans so tight it was a miracle he ever got into them. They looked happy, and he knew from his own experience that they had been happy. The photo had been taken, he recalled, by a friendly American tourist, on top of the Eiffel Tower.
Draco smiled at the memory. Back then, it had been simpler, a better time. Her face was so pretty.
He slid the photo back into the wallet, and took out another. It showed a woman, the same woman, only about twenty years later, and with different hair, but still the same woman. She was standing on a beach, with a dramatic backdrop of vertical, rocky cliffs, wearing a bikini top and a sarong. There were two children, a boy and a girl standing either side of her, holding onto her hands. Their grinning visages left their parentage in no doubt. Dark, unruly hair was blowing in the breeze, they both wore glasses, and on their foreheads, if you stared closely enough, you could just make out the faintest ghost of a scar. They were dressed casually, in shorts and T-shirts, and smiling from ear to ear. The girl waved at Draco.
Now he took out a different photo. The same kids again. This time grinning from beneath bright red hard hats and enveloped in orange overalls, ensconced in kayaks, still waving. Now another, again, the same kids, this time a school photo, hair brushed back, ties slightly skew-whiff.
Satisfied, Draco returned the photos to the wallet, and replaced it in the briefcase. He picked up his sherry, and sipped it. Then he stubbed out the end of his cigar in an ashtray, and picked up his pad. It was all finally starting to come together. He drained the sherry glass.
A voice at his ear said, "Is this seat taken?" It was a pleasant voice, a woman, French. Draco looked up. She was very rotund, sandy brown curls framed a happy face with piggy eyes. She had squeezed herself into what must once have been a very elegant black gown. It was possible, thought Draco, that not so very long ago she had been very pretty indeed, though evidently she had gone to seed. She had the look, he thought, of a publican, a barmaid, or a dinner lady. She looked so familiar though ... Draco had the impression he had known her once, long ago. Draco had met so many people in his life and work however, that he found himself quite unable to place her.
"Go ahead," said Draco, curious as to exactly why a stranger had approached him under such strange circumstances, "go right ahead."
The woman smiled, and sat down in the armchair next to his. In her hand she held a glass of beer, "I wouldn't have asked otherwise," she said, "it's a bit crowded in here though."
"No, no, glad of the company," said Draco, tucking the folders back into his briefcase hurriedly.
"On business?" she asked, sipping her drink.
Draco nodded, "Kind of, kind of."
She smiled again, she smiled a lot, this woman, thought Draco.
"I'm meant to be meeting my husband here," she confided.
So she was married, thought Draco, how strange.
"What line of business are you in Mr ..."
"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
"Mr Malfoy? Your name seems ... familiar to me. But then I have met so many people in my lifetime. Tell me about your work."
"I suppose," Draco said, thinking on his feet, for although he was indeed in town on business, that business, should its nature be disclosed, could land him in trouble, "I suppose you could call me a private detective."
"A private detective eh? Caught any criminals lately?"
"A few," lied Draco, "they're, they're a bit thin on the ground round here."
She laughed, a happy, lively laugh, "I don't think we have any between you and me," she exclaimed.
"I'm not really here to track down any criminals," said Draco, "I'm kind of, looking for someone."
"Anyone I know?" asked the woman.
"Might be," said Draco, "small town?"
"Oh sure, everybody knows everybody."
"That old cliché," Draco smiled.
"Oh no, in this case, it's true."
Draco thought to himself, how much harm could it do if I asked her? If she knows them, so much the better, if not, I've lost nothing. The germ of an idea was forming in the back of his scheming mind. He opened the briefcase, "Maybe," he began, "just maybe you can help me."
"I'll give it my best shot ... Draco."
Draco pulled out the folder he had been looking at, and handed her the photos of the kids. The woman gave a start of recognition.
"You know these children?"
"What have they done now?"
Was it possible she was their mother? To put it mildly, she was certainly not how Draco had envisaged her looking after all this time.
"They're yours?"
"Heavens no," exclaimed the woman, "they're friends of my son, Andy."
"Troublemakers?"
"Cheeky certainly," she said, "yes, I've known them almost all their lives. Where'd you get that photo."
"I'm a private detective ma'am, we don't reveal our sources."
"No, of course not. My name's Fleur by the way. You don't need to be so formal. You'll find us a fairly familiar bunch round here."
"Well Fleur By The Way, it's a pleasure to meet you. Tell me, do you know their mother?"
Fleur smiled, "What, old Hermione? Of course!"
"Could you tell me how to get in touch with her?"
Fleur smiled again, "No problem. They live up on the hill, the big house by the old tithe barn."
Draco had no idea what she was talking about. He raised his eyebrows slowly, as if asking her to elaborate.
Fleur nodded, "Okay, yeah, you go out to the main road, you turn left, and you head over the green, and out the other side of the village. The house is about three hundred yards on the left. It's got massive gateposts, you can't miss it."
Draco couldn't thank her enough, "You've been most helpful," he said.
"Do I get to hear what all this is about?" asked Fleur, "Do I take it you are ... one of us?"
Draco tapped his nose with his finger, "Discretion is my watchword Fleur. Maybe another time, when this matter is resolved."
"I can't wait," she said casting her glance over to the front desk, where a tall, lanky man with startling red hair was talking to the superior maitre'd, "that's Ron, my husband. I'd better go and join him."
Draco, who had given a start when he heard her husband's name, turned to look in his direction. He eyed the man with interest. He had thought Fleur looked familiar ... surely it wasn't possible. No, not a Weasley. He must be dreaming ... there were thousands of people called Ron in England, and more than one of them must be ginger. All the same, he thought, funny coincidence. He turned back to Fleur, and said, "Well, it was nice meeting you."
"You too Draco. See you around maybe?"
Draco nodded, "Maybe," he said.
She stood up, making her leather armchair creak as she did so, and adjusting her dress, waddled over to meet her husband.
Draco stared again at the photo in his hand. He hadn't expected to get lucky so early on. If the truth be told, he'd been using the detective line as a bluff, and had been surprised it had worked so well. He made a mental note to try it again, and lit another cigar. He had not been so contented in a long time. Things were looking up. He was nearly there.
A/N
So is it just coincidence, Ron Weasley and Fleur Delacour? Surely not? Whatever next? What is Draco really after, and what of the past? Who is the mysterious muggle Bruce, and is he really important, or just a red herring? Did Hermione marry who we really think she married? Can I be bothered to write Harry into this story? What's the time, and most importantly, could someone direct me to a filling station that still has some petrol left? These questions, and more, will be answered soon! By the by, all the characters so far except Bruce and his son belong to the brilliant JK, obviously, please note that I am receiving no big fat royalty cheques, and am skint anyway, so don't sue me ... please. Now all that's left for you to do, my friends, is to review. I really will value your input! Direct your eyes to the little box below!!!