Within seconds of pouring the memory into the assigned pensieve, Harry disappears into its depths. A room constructs itself lightning-quick around him, the memory quickly taking form. Half-height walnut panelling, a rich leather chaise, solemn-faced portraits in gilded frames, a marble fireplace — a room in Malfoy Manor, Harry would wager.

Narcissa stands by the fireplace, the flames casting patterns of light and shadow over her face.

"You are unhappy," she says slowly.

Harry turns around. Malfoy is behind him, he realises, standing and facing away from his mother, seemingly studying a family portrait on the wall. He's neatly dressed, as ever, but he wears no robes or cloak. It gives him a strangely vulnerable look.

Malfoy doesn't reply to his mother. He keeps staring at the family portrait. It consists of a far younger Narcissa and Lucius, Harry sees, standing each side of their son. Malfoy looks about ten or eleven and when Malfoy speaks next, he confirms Harry's estimate.

"This portrait was painted the day before I left for Hogwarts."

"Did you hear me, Draco? I'm asking if you're happy," Narcissa says. Malfoy, once more, doesn't respond. He keeps staring at the portrait, eyes locked on his younger self. Lucius and Narcissa look proud, Harry thinks, and so much more complete. The toll of the war was high indeed.

Narcissa watches her son with a frown on her face. "Draco — "

"I heard you."

Narcissa raises a hand to her necklace. It's a habit she has, Harry thinks, when she's anxious or displeased.

"You're not wearing your wedding ring," Narcissa observes, and Harry glances at Malfoy's hand. Narcissa doesn't miss a thing, he thinks wryly.

"I never do," Malfoy says, not turning his gaze from the portrait.

Several expressions shift over Narcissa's face, difficult to observe in the flickering firelight. She drops her hand from the necklace and changes topics. "Well, seeing as you're so interested in portraits, you'll be sitting for your next one in a few months. I thought the conservatory would make a nice backdrop."

Malfoy nods. Narcissa presses on.

"And perhaps a quote, carved into the frame? You'll have to give it some careful thought. Your father selected a Seneca quote about power, if I recall correctly. Perhaps you'll choose something similar?"

"I've got something in mind," Malfoy says.

"Yes?" Narcissa tilts her head expectantly. "Tell me, I'll be sure to tell the framer."

"We cannot accept," Malfoy says, "what we do not choose."

Narcissa is silent.

Malfoy crosses the room in a short number of strides and leaves, his footsteps fading down the hallway, and the memory dissolves to nothing.

Harry's not sure what he should make of it.


The Wandsworth Warriors win the Margate match.

Ginny arrives at the apartment just after five o'clock in the evening. Harry is standing on the balcony, staring out over the Thames, watching the trains. The wards suddenly shimmer, wavering across his view, and the next moment Ginny has tumbled into the middle of the kitchen, a portkey clutched in one hand. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with victory. She kisses him before rushing away again; the team captain has organised a celebratory dinner for the team.

"I'll skip the drinks afterwards and just come home," Ginny promises as she changes into a set of casual robes.

"Don't be daft, go and have fun," Harry says, and Ginny smiles as she kisses him again in farewell, rushing out the door again. A moment later, there's a brief pop as she Disapparates.

Harry goes out onto the balcony again. The sun is setting over London, silhouetting the buildings starkly against the pale blue sky.

It's the last day of summer.

If he listens carefully, he's certain he can hear someone whistling again, sending the notes into the gentle August sky.

Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly...


Harry wakes early on Monday and leaves Ginny sleeping. She's used to his early starts.

Sometimes, he thinks, it's like there's only one of them living in the apartment.

The morning sunlight slants across the white walls. He puts the kettle on, gets a mug out of the cupboard, measures a spoonful of sugar. Every noise seems amplified in the quiet apartment. Every footstep echoes on the floorboards; he can hear every breath he takes.

Inhale, exhale.

The sliding door to the balcony is clean, all fingerprints Scourgified away. The glass is clear as air. The view beyond it could belong in any real estate magazine.

Maybe nobody's living here at all.


At the Ministry, he passes by the Auror offices, listening to them laugh and joke about some potions incident. Ron hasn't arrived yet, Harry thinks. It's a running joke that he always sleeps in.

The Investigative Division offices are far more quiet. Harry unlocks the door to his office and steps inside.

Unlike the pristine apartment, his office is a comfortable clutter of mismatched furniture and piles of paperwork. There's the battered desk with his chair behind it; in the corner of the office are two comfortable chairs and a low table with an inviting bowl of sweets. It's been deliberately designed to be as soothing as possible, as the designated corner for interviewing (often distraught) relatives.

The walls are lined with colourful pictures: bright crayon drawings sent in by families grateful for news of long-lost spouses and parents, and a framed picture of the Chudley Cannons on one wall (a joke gift from Ron). Harry, aware that many friends and family of missing people will sit in the office and look around it, has made a concerted effort to hide anything upsetting. Unlike the Auror offices — often with enlarged mugshots on the walls or mind-maps that track motives and suspects — Harry is far more discreet with his file information. It was one of the first thing Holdsworth taught him about being in the Investigative Division.

In keeping with these principles, Malfoy's case isn't visible. The file is locked in Harry's desk drawer; the pensieve is locked in the cabinet behind his desk.

The pensieve.

He unlocks the cabinet and stares into the silvery depths of the pensieve, frowning.

He watches the memory with Narcissa again, looking for the most insignificant detail. The way Malfoy pauses before speaking, the way he stares at the family portrait in the same way Harry stares at photographs of his parents and thinks it's the closest he'll ever get to them.

But everything feels so cryptic. Everything Malfoy says seems to have a thousand different meanings, depending on how Harry chooses to interpret the tone his voice or slightest tilt of his head or the faintest pause before he speaks. We can't accept what we do not choose could refer to Malfoy feeling resentful of the way his family naturally led him to the Dark Arts, or the way Voldemort forced his hand, or it could have nothing to do with the war at all. Maybe it's his marriage, Harry thinks critically. Maybe Astoria wanted a divorce, and Malfoy didn't, but either way he'd end up having to concede. It would explain the absence of Malfoy's wedding ring.

But then, Malfoy said he never wore the wedding ring, and what was that supposed to mean? He simply doesn't like jewellery, or perhaps found the ring too bothersome — always losing it or something — or some deeper meaning Harry's failed to grasp?

Everything seems to lead in circles.

Circles.

Well, he's got one concrete bit of information. Caught in an unusually capricious mood, Harry smiles wryly and reaches for the file, drawing up a fresh page and writing Likes circles. He pauses, then adds In Inceptum Finis Est. He uses a sticking charm to attach the photograph of Malfoy to the page. He looks at it for a long time, waiting for a scowl or rude gesture, but Malfoy just gazes at some point past Harry, clearly locked in deep thought.

"Where are you?" Harry mutters, staring at the photograph. "Are you even alive?"

Malfoy moves at last, touching a hand absently to the silver clasp on his cloak, before his hand falls to his side again and he resumes gazing at nothing.

Harry sighs.


He walks slowly up the meandering path to Astoria's door. He'd received an owl around lunchtime, just after he finished reviewing the file notes again. The letter had requested he visit and Harry had jumped at the chance to acquire something new, wasting no time in Disapparating to Astoria's home.

The first signs of autumn are beginning to chill the lingering touch of summer. The soil is damp with early rain and, as Astoria greets Harry and takes him to the kitchen, he sees the little reminders of autumn: a small woodpile by the hearth, a vase of marigolds — the last of a late summer bloom — on the table. The kitchen hearth burns a gentle fire, consisting mostly of glowing coals. The weather is still too warm to justify a roaring blaze.

"You spoke to Narcissa," Astoria says as she makes him a cup of tea. She hadn't seemed surprised to see him so soon after sending the owl.

Harry takes a seat at the table, moving a bag of seed sachets and a set of gardening shears from the chair.

"She told you that?" He frowns, wondering if it matters if the two regularly keep each other updated.

"Yes. I received a letter from her."

Astoria sets the cup of tea in front of Harry, then moves to sit opposite him. "You must have made quite an impression. Narcissa seems to trust you, and she does not trust readily."

"She told me herself that she has little choice. This could be her last chance to find her son."

Astoria regards him for a long moment. He'd expected her to be formally dressed today, as she had perhaps expected his visit this time, but apparently not. Her hair is brushed into a neat bun but there the effort ends. She wears a comfortable set of robes, designed for lounging on a sofa with a good book rather than impressing guests at dinner parties, and wears no jewellery that Harry can see besides her engagement and wedding rings.

Wedding rings.

"Narcissa allowed access to a memory."

Astoria's eyebrows jump upwards. "Which one?"

Harry shakes his head. He doesn't know if Narcissa would want Astoria to know. "It doesn't matter. But in it, Malfoy mentioned he never wears his wedding ring."

Astoria glances down, towards her cup of tea. People look downwards when they're upset, Holdsworth once told Harry, or trying to hide emotion. But it's difficult to read Astoria's face, although she twists her lips slightly as if considering something.

"Narcissa was very pleased with my marriage to Draco. She dearly wanted a grandchild. And she liked me. My family is wealthy, of good status and pureblood, but sufficiently distanced from Voldemort. We never got involved with that sort."

"Until you married a Death Eater," Harry feels obliged to point out. Astoria gives him a sharp look.

"Narcissa and Draco were both acquitted. The past doesn't matter to my parents, anyway. They just wanted to see me happy, and they adored Draco. During our courtship, he became my closest friend."

Harry smiles to hide his disbelief, but Astoria seems to catch it anyway and her face tightens. "You don't believe me."

"Malfoy doesn't have friends, he has allies. Trust me, I — "

" — know him?" Astoria shakes her head. "Like the officer first on the case. He thought he knew Draco too. 'Oh, I know the Malfoys,' he said. 'We'll find whatever overpriced villa your husband is holidaying at and drag him back home.' Like Draco was a spoiled child — "

"I'm nothing like that," Harry interrupts, annoyed. "I'm doing my best to find Malfoy."

Astoria grabs her wand; Harry instinctively ducks, reaching for his own wand, and feels slightly embarrassed when Astoria presses her wand to her own head and slowly draws out a silver wisp of memory, holding it in place before she spots a vial full of seeds on the table. She empties the vial carelessly, then refills it with memory. "There you go," she says. "More memories for your collection. I must ask you to not show anyone else."

Harry nods curtly, accepting the vial. "Thank you for the tea," he says tersely. "And the memory."

"When you watch it," Astoria says, "let me know."

Harry nods, feeling strangely apprehensive.


When he's back at his office, Harry pours the memory into the pensieve and wonders whether he should leave it until tomorrow. It's nearing five o'clock now, and he should be going home soon. But the temptation proves too much, and he enters the pensieve.

And he's not sure what he'd been expecting, but this isn't it.

He's hit first with a sense of motion, like flying but not quite, and he feels nauseous for a moment before the rest of the scene rolls over him like a tide. He's sitting in the back seat of a car.

"This is terrifying. You're going to kill me."

He looks ahead. Astoria. She's sitting in the front passenger seat, eyes wide. Malfoy is driving. Harry never imagined Malfoy like this. He's dressed in his usual style — neat and formal clothes — but he's not wearing robes, nor a cloak. His hands are resting lightly on the steering wheel, warm sunlight slanting across his wrists.

"I assure you," Malfoy says, a faint trace of amusement in his voice, "I passed the test."

"It self-steers though, doesn't it? Draco, tell me you're not steering."

Malfoy lifts his hands from the wheel and the car begins to coast to the right; Astoria cries out. Harry laughs before he realises what he's doing.

"Don't do that!" Astoria says as Malfoy takes the wheel again. "Merlin, how do the Muggles do this? It's — watch out for that car!"

"You mean the one on the opposite side of the road?" Malfoy says dryly.

"Did you see how close it was?" Astoria twists around in her seat, watching the car recede into the distance.

"It's supposed to be close, Astoria. This is a country road, not a four-lane motorway."

"You're insane." Astoria glances at Malfoy. "Why are you doing this, anyway? We could buy a car with automatic driving spells, Draco. It's not like we don't have the money for it. My father could find us a very nice Bentley, all the latest self-driving and space-squeezing charms on it."

"What's the point in that?" Malfoy says, and there's a strange edge to his voice that Harry's never heard before. "Sitting in a box, only going where someone else takes you."

"Watch out for that car in front of us, if they go any slower you'll hit them," Astoria says, still sounding thoroughly unnerved. Malfoy's eyes flick up to the rear-vision mirror and for a moment, his eyes seem to meet Harry's. Then he switches the indicator on and overtakes the car, his eyes back on the road.

"I don't think anyone I know has a Muggle driving licence," Astoria says. "And now I understand why." She laughs, but Malfoy doesn't. He glances at the rear-vision mirror again, and once more he seems to be looking at Harry. Not at you, Harry reminds himself. Through you.

"I wanted to be the first in my family to do something," Malfoy says. "For once."

Harry's eyes fall to Malfoy's wrist. He can see the faint curve of the serpent's tail, the beginning of the Dark Mark. The tail seems to ripple as Malfoy turns a bend in the road, flexing his wrist as he steers.

Fields of wheat wash up on each side of the road like a tide of gold. It's high summer, Harry thinks, staring into the cloudless blue sky. For a moment, he wonders where Malfoy's driving. Maybe he's going nowhere. Maybe one day, he just got into his car and drove and drove and never stopped.

He closes his eyes. The sun feels so heavy with warmth, he can almost believe this moment is real. But as Malfoy slows down for another corner, the memory dissolves like a handful of sand tossed into the sky.


A new scene forms, and for a moment Harry is disoriented. Then he remembers Astoria said she gave him memories, plural.

The high summer sun has long set, it seems. He's standing on the crumbling stone steps of a small chapel. There's a brisk wind stirring dead leaves along the gravestones. Overhead, the sky is bruised with unshed rain. Someone is standing at a grave, setting a small handful of wilting bluebells upon it, but Harry doesn't recognise them.

He turns and nearly jumps. Astoria stands just behind him, her face pale. Her robes — black and plain — billow and snap in the wind like the sails of a storm-tossed boat.

The chapel door opens. Malfoy steps out and closes it behind him.

"Astoria."

Astoria's mouth looks like a bruised petal, Harry thinks. She shakes her head. "I can't go back in there. I can't stand it. My father would hate it, all the people in black and Mother sitting there with that horrible blank look on her face — "

"You have to deliver the eulogy," Malfoy says. Astoria looks at him, a strange mix of desperation and disbelief on her face.

"I can't. Will you do it? For me?"

"No."

"I can't — "

"You told me last night, Astoria, that you wanted to be the one standing there delivering your father's eulogy." Malfoy's expression hasn't changed a bit, Harry thinks. He's standing there looking intently at Astoria.

"Can't you do it for me?" Astoria turns away from him, her mouth trembling. "Merlin, I can't cry. If I cry now, I won't be able to go back in."

"Then don't cry," Malfoy says flatly.

Astoria looks at him then, and anger seems to overtake her grief. "You don't even care, do you?" She steps to the door, resting her hand on the wrought-iron handle. "Sometimes I wonder why I married someone so selfish and unkind."

She opens the door and enters the chapel and, with that, the memory dissolves.


The next memory is bright, filled with sun again. The tepid sunlight of autumn, streaming through a large window. A bedroom, Harry thinks, turning from the window. There's a dresser, and a wardrobe, and a bed of course. The style of the room reminds him of Astoria's country home and he wonders if that's the location.

Astoria is sitting on the edge of the bed. She's holding something in her hand.

A wedding ring, Harry realises. As he steps closer, he realises she's crying. Did she have a fight with Malfoy? He waits restlessly for Malfoy to step through the door and say something acerbic.

Nothing seems to happen, however.

He gives up waiting for Malfoy and restlessly paces the room. There's a collection of items on the dresser — a seashell, an acorn, a photograph of a sunset over a field — and a small calendar. Harry glances at it, then looks again.

25 October 2003.

Just over a month since Malfoy went missing. He turns to gaze at Astoria. She's still sitting on the edge of the bed, her wedding ring in one hand, crying silently. He feels slightly uncomfortable with the memory and wonders why Astoria gave him such a personal scene. Then she speaks, and for a moment Harry thinks she's speaking to him. But she seems to be addressing nothing more than air.

"I never told you," she says, her voice low and hoarse. "I never said how grateful I was, that day you made me go and say my father's eulogy."

And then the memory dissolves again and Harry finds himself standing alone in his office.


He paces his office, mind racing. The memories rush through his head like water.

What's the point in that? Sitting in a box, only going where someone else takes you...

I wanted to be the first in my family to do something, for once...

"You wouldn't believe the stunt Creechurch pulled this morning!"

Harry whips around, startled from his thoughts. Ron has just walked through the door, looking slightly tattered.

"She used this amazing hex to catch McGregor, it was brilliant, but it was nowhere near safe! Williamson's given her a right telling-off...oh, didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"No, I was just viewing some memories," Harry says, turning and locking the cabinet. Ron looks at him with sudden interest.

"Hermione said you were working Malfoy's case. Is that true?"

Harry nods.

"Well," Ron says doubtfully, "doesn't that create a conflict of interest, really?"

"I can be professional, you know," Harry says defensively, and Ron shrugs.

"All right, calm down. You're working late — it's past six, you know. Saw your light on and figured you'd be here. Seem to practically live in the office these days." Ron frowns. "Everything all right with you and Ginny?"

"Course it is, why wouldn't it be? This case has gotten interesting, that's all."

Ron's eyebrows shoot upwards. "You've got new leads? Blimey, Harry. Malfoy's been gone, what, three or four years now?"

"No new leads," Harry admits. "But...I don't know. It's hard to explain."

"Tell you what, if you found Malfoy after all this time, I reckon Williamson'll give you any assignment you want! We'll be going on fieldwork together before you know it." Ron grins. "Never thought I'd say it, but you need any help finding Malfoy — just ask, I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Ron."

They leave the office together, Harry feeling a little more clear-headed.

He'll need to visit Narcissa Malfoy, however.

He wants to know what happened to Draco's car.


Although he writes an owl on Tuesday, he doesn't get a response until Thursday, when Narcissa Malfoy sends an owl. It's short and succinct: she will receive him at the manor, two o'clock sharp on Friday. Harry can't help but feel slight resentment that Narcissa feels perfectly welcome to turn up at his apartment at any time, but he's expected to practically make appointments to visit her.

Nevertheless, he arrives at the manor at the expected time. It's still protected by wards, he finds, and he has to walk up the rather long driveway. He's half-expecting a house-elf or servant to greet him at the door, but it's Narcissa herself.

"Do come in," she says.

Harry wonders how she can possibly live in the manor, filled with nightmare-inducing memories. It's exactly how he remembers it: the cold stone floors, the rows of disapproving portraits glaring at him. They pass the drawing room; the doors are firmly locked, Harry notices, and judging by the layer of dust on the handles, the room has been abandoned for a long time.

He expects to be taken to a sitting room or reception hall, but Narcissa leads him straight up the stairs, into the family quarters, and to a narrow door. She unlocks it with a tap of her wand and opens the door, the smell of dust and disuse rising from the room like a wave. Harry glances at Narcissa, then walks in.

It's a bedroom. There's a bed in the corner, with hunter-green covers, although its hard to tell from the layer of dust over it. A bedside table, a dresser, and a neat stack of boxes in the corner. Harry turns to look at Narcissa, but she sees the question in his face without him uttering a word.

"Draco's possessions," she says.

"This was his room?"

Narcissa nods, just once. "Until he purchased a home in East Devon."

"The same house Astoria lives in now?" Harry says, frowning.

"No."

"What happened to Draco's home, then?"

Narcissa lifts a hand to the necklace around her neck. The sapphire pendant again, Harry sees.

"It was solely in Draco's name. I sold it on his behalf."

Harry frowns. His first instinct is to wonder why Narcissa sold her son's home, but then he imagines what he would do if it had been someone close to him who went missing. Could he bear to let the empty house sit there for years, slowly decaying?

"These are his things," Narcissa says, tilting her head towards the boxes stacked in the corner. It's a very small pile, Harry thinks critically. Is it really the contents of a whole house?

"And what happened to the furniture? His car?"

"The furniture was sold with the house." Narcissa hesitates. "There's a set of stables on the manor grounds, when there used to be horses and carriages kept here. The stables were converted to a storage area for the gardener's equipment. Draco's car is kept there too."

"You didn't sell it?"

Narcissa glances away, a hand still resting on the sapphire pendant. "You can look at it, if you think it will help. It's one of Draco's most prized possessions."

Harry studies Narcissa for a moment. "You didn't approve of it."

"I preferred not to encourage Draco's interest in the Muggle vehicle, no." Narcissa turns away. "You may peruse the boxes at leisure. I hope you find something of use in the investigation."

She leaves.

Harry turns his attention to the boxes and opens the first one.