The Things We Did For Love
Two years ago, he'd left a home of peace and happiness. Now, he returned to one of blood and death.
His gun holstered on the left side of his waist, he stepped out of the fireplace, the green flames catching the knife sheathed at his right. Eyes flashing, he paused only for Francesca to follow, and then began making his way to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. People made way for him as if they were afraid – but then, he did look rather intimidating with his dark sunglasses and spiked brown hair – and he could not help but scoff.
Most of these people had lived through a war. He and his girlfriend were decidedly not the most terrifying things to traipse through the atrium. Then again, he wore his badge proudly upon his belt, and it did give most people pause, no matter where he went in the world.
"I'd almost forgotten what this place looked like," said Francesca, her blond hair falling in a sleek wave past her shoulders. Her skirt was long and black, the hem drifting upon the floor, but the slit running up the side revealed her high boots and leggings, which in turn drew attention to the knife strapped to her calf. Her blouse was red, the sleeves loose and flowing whilst the bodice clung to her, and she too hid her eyes behind a pair of sunglasses.
Perhaps, he reasoned, as they waved aside the security wizard at the front desk, it would have been better for them to dress in more civilian looking attire. Then again, despite their recent months spent in deep cover, they had grown far too accustomed to this style than to the usual slacks and shirts.
The elevator was full when they reached it, but by the time they'd reached the DMLE, it was empty. Apparently, everyone else who had been in it had realised they had urgent business on other floors. As much as he'd like to smack the lot of them and inform them, politely, that people like them only slept safe and sound at night because of people like him, he didn't see the point.
The Guardians were used to being treated with wary avoidance by the general public. Their motto was a simple one – Whatever it takes – and they lived by it. Whether it was breaking a drug ring or recovering a high profile hostage, they didn't play by the same rules as other law enforcement agencies, be it the Aurors, the Order, or even the ludicrous Ghost Division.
"You'd think they'd have stepped up their security, considering the recent killings," he said, as he walked past the offices and cubicles, heading right for the heart of the department. Her door was just as he remembered it, wood and polished bronze, with her name engraved into a golden plaque.
"We could just, you know, stop by their house instead of starting of here," replied Francesca. "As tough as you think you are, the victims are all members of your family."
"Fran, we were undercover for six months. If it wasn't my family, I'd not have come home at all." It was the truth – they'd jeopardized a huge operation that had been years in the making to come here, but as she had said, this was family.
Weasleys did not turn from their family – unless they were Percy, but then again, he'd never liked that particular uncle.
He knocked on the door, knowing that Hermione would never let him hear the end of it. Well, at least she wouldn't stop hounding him for being rude and impolite when he visited home, and those visits were few and far between.
It was the nature of his work. He couldn't just grab a Portkey whenever the need arose like Uncle Charlie in Romania or Aunt Gabrielle in France – his job was one that kept him busy for weeks at a time.
He wouldn't give it up for the world.
"Come in," said a cool, collected voice, and he nodded in approval before pushing open the door. Trust Hermione to keep a clear head in the midst of such strife – it was imperative to not go to pieces when there was turmoil. Doing so would only get you killed faster.
"Mother," he said, wearing his smirk like armour as he traipsed in, followed closely by Francesca. His girlfriend's eyes never stopped flitting this way and that, analysing the surrounding for any and all danger.
"Hugo." Just like that, he was brought to a halt as his mother veritably hurled herself at him, grasping him in her vicelike arms. He shifted, uncomfortable, because this just wasn't something he was accustomed to. Once, maybe, but the training he'd undergone had knocked that sentimental nonsense right out of him, and rightly so.
"You should have called. I'd have called your father up here if I'd known you were coming."
"I'll see him when I get home," replied Hugo, delicately prying his mother off him. "I don't really need a fuss. This is Francesca, by the way. We're dating."
"How are you doing, Madam Granger-Weasley?" asked Francesca, giving him an admonishing look. It was almost like she expected some big song and dance as she was introduced to his mother. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he found it endearing.
Though, at the back of his mind, he wondered how many assignments it would take to make her lose her cheer and become like him, and by extension, every other Guardian to walk through Haven.
"All things considered, I'm holding up alright. Though, the fact that it takes a string of murders to get my son to visit is somewhat unsettling." Then, straightening, she looked Francesca in the eyes, and Hugo fought the urge to snigger. It was rather obvious that his mother was sizing up his girlfriend. Before he could speak, though, Hermione had turned back to him.
"Your sister's fine, by the way. Victoire had her healed in a thrice, and she should be discharged from St. Mungo's by noon." She stopped, even though he could tell there was so much more she wanted to say, so much more she wanted to share with him, to ask about him.
Hugo nodded, wordlessly thanking her for her restraint. It was awkward for him to speak to her openly, to speak to anyone outside of Haven, really. They hadn't seen the things he'd seen, done the things he'd done, and of course, something in him always told him to shut up whenever he tried to open up.
"Your secrets build walls that keep you alone, and it is in that solitude that both you and the people you love are safe." His mentor had told him, and the message had been ingrained into him since he'd joined the Guardians. It rankled, sometimes, especially when he visited and saw his family sharing such strong bonds.
It was the bed he'd made, though, and he was comfortable laying down in it, if only for the surety that by doing what he did, he kept them safe from the things that went bump in the night.
.o0o.
Hermione breathed a weary sigh as she left her office. Breath stained with the slight scent of alcohol, she paused only to pull her hair into a ponytail before taking off for her cottage in Godric's Hollow. Rose would be waiting there, with a pair of Aurors ensuring her safety, and she would go about her questioning of her daughter in comfort. There was no way in hell that she'd even consider bringing Rose into the Ministry after the accident, and she just hoped that whichever Aurors were on duty wouldn't notice she'd been drinking.
It wasn't her fault her son had decided to grace them with his presence after such a long time. Bloody hell, she hadn't seen Hugo since the Christmas before last, and he'd been a lot warmer back then. She cursed under her breath. The International Magical Security Council that had been founded in the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat had been all well and good, but the creation of the Guardians had been something she had lobbied against with everything she had.
To see her only son wear their badge . . . to effectively lose him to their cold clutches. It stung at her, as it had when he'd first announced his desire to join them, and she could tell just by looking at him that he'd changed.
Shaking thoughts of her wayward son and his new girlfriend aside as she passed an empty office, she paused and closed her eyes. Leaning against the doorframe and reading the plaque on the door, she sent her prayers to the two Aurors who had taken a temporary leave of absence following the most recent murder. Terry and Padma Boot were two of her best, and whilst they'd never been particularly close to her while at Hogwarts, they'd come a long way since. Now, she could safely name them both as people she trusted with her life, and indeed, she had done just that over the years.
Steadying herself, she moved on, lost in her thoughts until she reached the Apparition point. The suffocating darkness enveloped her, yanking at her navel, and she grimaced when the heels of her pumps made contact with solid ground. She'd never really enjoyed that particular mode of transport, but she had to admit that what it lacked in comfort it made up for in speed.
Hugo was sitting on her front porch with a cigarette between his lips, tendrils of smoke snaking their way out his nose. He inclined his head by way of greeting and offered her little more, and she ignored the pang in her chest as she walked past him. She didn't want this for her family. Rose, never home, always out with this boy or that, and Hugo, missing for months at a time. When she looked at the two of them, she remembered the squalling babies she'd once held in her arms – and couldn't recognise the adults they'd become.
Perhaps, it was because they'd grown so adept at hiding themselves away and keeping their secrets close to their hearts. She couldn't fault them there – they'd grown up with her as a mother, and by that logic, had learned from the best.
(But for one single choice, this family may not even have been hers at all, and she'd even now be preparing for the funeral of her son.)
Hermione shook her head. What was it about the recent days that had her questioning her life? Everything was falling apart and the shards were striking her from every direction – honestly, it was becoming hard to so much as stand under the onslaught. She couldn't buckle, not now. She had to be strong for Rose, for Ron, and for everyone else who relied on her.
"Rose," she said, as she entered the living room and gave her daughter a wan smile. The girl was huddled beneath a blanket on the nearest couch, a mug of soup clutched in her hands, her eyes focused on the television. Some silly reality fashion show, Hermione noted, as Rose looked up and sighed.
"I guess it's time for me to be interrogated, isn't it?" Rose's smile was tight, and she took a sip of soup as Hermione took a seat on the armchair beside her. "Hugo sent the Aurors away," added Rose, "They were apparently doing a shitty job of protecting the place."
"He's just looking out for you," replied Hermione, masking her annoyance. As much as she respected her son's abilities, he had no right to dismiss the people who answered to her. Guardian or not, she would have to have a serious talk with him soon.
"It's for the best, really," said Rose. "I'll be going back to my place tonight, and I don't want them with me."
"Rose, you were nearly killed last night. You need protection."
"I'm not going to live in fear," retorted Rose, jerking her head up and wincing. "If I let myself be coddled by Aurors every minute of every day, then the bastard wins. I'll not let that happen."
Hermione rubbed her temples. Merlin, she was getting a headache. This was ludicrous, but when she opened her mouth to protest, Rose spoke over her,
"He caught me by surprise last time. I'm on my guard now."
Hermione sighed in defeat, before her mind picked up on that tiny, insignificant detail. "He?" she asked, folding her arms. "Is the killer a male?"
"I think so," answered Rose. "It all happened so fast. I had just stopped by our offices in Diagon to sort out as much of the paperwork in Scorpius' office as I could for when Mister Malfoy wants to look over it all, and I decided to stop by the Leaky for a drink before going home. They jumped me as I was passing Wheezes."
"Did you see or hear Parvati?"
"I heard a woman. It must have been her – at that time I just assumed that it was my imagination. As it turns out, getting stabbed hurts a lot more than waxing my . . . well, you get the picture."
The questioning went on, and with every passing moment, Hermione felt herself getting closer to capturing and killing the bastard picking off her friends and family, one by one.
.o0o.
As he turned away from the fireplace, he breathed a sigh of relief. The embers still burned a pale green, signalling the great blaze that had roared within the grate not a moment before, but he chose not to focus on it. It had been his decision to send them away, after all, and the fact that his penthouse was now empty meant nothing.
The women in his family had a discomforting way of following their beloveds to war and dying because of it, and he refused to have Victoire share the fate of his mother and grandmother before him. Hope Lupin had been a brave woman, by all accounts, but she was a Muggle – following his grandfather, Lyall, into a battle with the Death Eaters during the First War armed only with a shotgun had been suicide. His mother, Tonks, had followed his father to the Battle of Hogwarts, and because of it, he had basically been born an orphan.
Now, though, there was his unborn son to think about, as well as her, and with a killer prowling the magical world, he would not put them in jeopardy. They would be safe in France with his wife's aunt, Gabrielle, he reasoned.
Teddy could do what needed to be done without worrying about their safety, and it was exactly what he needed to steel himself for the coming days. He was not an expert duellist like his Godfather – indeed, Teddy had never even gone through the rigorous training regimen of the Aurors – but that did not mean he was easy prey. People liked to think that as a musician, he was all voice and good looks, but he had a spine of steel and could hold his own in a physical confrontation with all but the best of them.
As far as he could tell, every murder so far had been physical, rather than magical, and it would give him the edge.
Frowning, he stepped into the fireplace and Floo'd to Wizarding Wireless, biting his lip to keep the ill-feeling at bay. The interview had been scheduled months ago and couldn't be cancelled, but he needed to keep it short so as to reach Malfoy Manor in time. His cousin's body had finally been released, and the funeral was this evening. He had been asked to be one of pallbearers, and he'd accepted the honour, despite not wanting to be so close to the body.
After all, he'd seen enough of Scorpius when he'd fallen out the piñata he'd strung from that tree. He blinked, shaking his head. There was no way he could have known . . . no way he could have prevented it. Harry had told him as much, for Scorpius had already been dead when he'd been stuffed into that piñata, as the autopsy had revealed.
Shaking aside his thoughts, he headed for reception. Promptly, he was led up to the studio, and he swallowed. What he was about to do could well be the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but it made sense. Harry and Ginny would be furious, not to mention his grandmother, but he was a grown man, and he wanted to stop these killings.
How better to trap a hunter than to twist the narrative? Make the predator the prey and flush it into the open, and this entire debacle would be solved. Besides, it was not in his nature to stand by and let the people he loved drop like flies when there was something he could do about it.
The presenter, Cho Dursley, gestured him in with a smile on her face as she spoke into her microphone. He leaned across to shake her hand before taking a seat across from her and putting on his headset, wincing slightly at her over the top introduction.
"Today, we are joined in studio by none other than Teddy Lupin, who's newest single, The Wolves Will Come Again, continues to dominate the charts, beating out the Weird Sisters for most consecutive weeks at number one of the Magical Top One-Hundred."
"Brilliant being here again, Cho, how's the family?"
"Oh, the usual. Dudley's on another diet and the kids are mutinying at their new curfews. What about you? Care to quash the rumours that Victoire is expecting triplets?"
"I am old enough to have babysat several of the Potters and Weasleys when I was a teenager and they were still in diapers," he replied, grinning. "Trust me that if there was any truth in that, I would be in catatonic shock just imagining the horror I'd be going through in a few months."
Cho laughed. "That's saying something, isn't it? Let's set that aside for the moment and talk about your cancelled concerts. You've got fans up in arms across Britain because of it, so what would you like to say to them right now?"
"Well, as flattered as I am that they'd risk their lives to come see me, I have to remind them that there is a serial killer on the loose, and this is for their own safety. My team is working closely with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and hopefully, I'll be able to see all your beautiful faces soon enough."
"Speaking of the recent killings, what is your viewpoint on them?"
Teddy swallowed. It was time to put his plan into motion. A sliver of regret worked its way into him, but he discarded it. This was bigger than he was and without significant risk, there would be more significant reward.
Victoire was going to kill him when she got back.
"I think it's war, but we're not facing an army. This is an army of one, and they're taking the cowards approach. I know who you are, coward, come out in the open and face me."
Cho spluttered, her face red. Her eyes wide, she somehow managed to choke out a question, "I'm sorry, but did you just say you know who the killer is?"
"Oh, I know who the killer is," lied Teddy, his mind made up. "I'll be going to the Aurors with this information in exactly thirty-six hours – that is, unless you want to come turn yourself over to me before then. Who knows, maybe you'll get a lighter sentence. Anyway, I'll be waiting on the top floor of the Malfoy Holdings Recording Studios at sunset tomorrow."
.o0o.
"Honestly, are you mental?"
James sniggered as he sipped his coffee – Irish, of course – because of the irony. It was so refreshing to not have the question directed at him for once that he almost didn't feel sorry for Teddy being on the firing line. Seriously, though, it was his own fault. After that stunt on the radio, coming to Grimmauld to face down the wrath of Ginny Potter was absolutely insane.
For his part, he was only here for Lily. His sister needed him, which was another nice turn of pace, especially since they were about to head to the funeral of Scorpius Malfoy. The fact that he was getting a show out of the deal, with his mother hurling hexes across the kitchen while his godbrother ducked and weaved, was more than he could hope for.
Bloody hell, it was good to be considered the sane one in the room for once.
"This is going to flush out the threat, Ginny," bellowed Teddy, deflecting a saucepan with a cutting board. "It's not smart to just wait for the next killing for evidence."
"So, putting yourself in danger is the best thing you could come up with?"
"Don't be such a scaredy-cat. I'm doi –"
Teddy was cut off by her screech, so loud that even James looked up with a raised eyebrow. He'd been on the receiving end of his mother's tirades many times, but he'd never seen her like this. Had Teddy been within her reach, James was certain that his mother would have slapped the other man at this point.
"I was dodging killing curses before you were born, boy! Forgive me for not wanting the boy I raised for half his life to end up as dead as my brothers."
Teddy flinched but maintained his glare, but before Ginny could say anything else, he was gone, storming from the room. The dull crack of Apparition echoed through the home once he past the boundaries, and James found himself raising his eyebrows at his mother as she leaned against the counter, her chest heaving.
"Don't start, James," she said, her eyes closed.
"I'm not saying anything," he replied. "But if I were to comment, I'd just say that it really isn't your call. Teddy's a grown man. He can do what he wants, and you screaming at him only pushes him away when he probably needs us the most."
His mother's mouth opened and closed like a fish, and she seemed to deflate. Sinking into a nearby chair, she buried her face in her hands. The room grew silent, save for the sizzling of the onions as they burned in the pan, and he shook his head. His mother never had understood that she couldn't dictate their lives. Sure, what Teddy had done was stupid, but that didn't mean it wasn't his choice.
As a person who'd never had any choice about his own situation, he felt for Teddy. The man was trying to do something brave, to get this killer out in the open before another body turned up, and his mother just didn't understand. It was always the same – they knew best, screw the rest, and just shut up and take it.
"Do you ever feel like that?" asked his mother after the silence had become deafening. "That we were taking away your choices?"
James rose from his chair, setting down the empty cup. He didn't want to talk about it – there was nothing to talk about, not now after all the years in which the damage had been done. You couldn't fix a gaping wound with a band-aid, no matter how hard you tried.
"I'd better go check on Lily," he said, not meeting his mother's eyes. In his pockets, the vials clinked, and he turned away. Avoidance – he'd learned the art of it over the years, and it was one of the few things that helped whenever his condition was brought up.
They couldn't berate him if he wasn't there, could they?
"Isn't this what you always do?" she said, her tone bitter. "Run rather than let us help?"
The words stung at him, and as he reached the kitchen door he looked over his shoulder. She was sitting at the table, her expression defeated, her eyes rimmed in red, but he didn't feel sorry for her. Not this time – he was done blaming himself for their lives being hard. He'd never asked to be this way, and it wasn't his fault that the years of knowing he was the only one he could depend on had turned him cold.
It was theirs. Whether it was Uncle Percy looking at him as though he'd stepped in something unpleasant or Aunt Audrey screeching about him not caring about his health, or Aunt Fleur trying to keep him away from her children for fear of his episodes. It had been Uncle Ron never understanding that this wasn't his fault and his father shipping him from shrink to shrink to fix him, never realising that he wasn't broken.
It was the world that looked down on him, the world and his parent's fame. Had they been normal people, he doubted that the entire wizarding populace would know about his disorder. There wouldn't be furtive looks as he walked into a store or loud whispers about what a nutcase he was. His episodes wouldn't be so highly publicized, and he wouldn't be laughed out the door of every job interview he'd been to.
These were the bitter, monochromatic colours he'd been asked to paint his life with, and yet everyone expected him to create a rainbow. What was it they said? A lifetime spent in silence, afraid to say something wrong? That was his life, every morning and every night, forcing him to walk with his shoulders hunched and his hood up. Why show his face? So one more idiot could get in his face about him being a danger to society?
He realised, then, that he was tired of bottling it up. He was tired of shouldering the weight that shouldn't even be on his shoulders.
"You asked me if I felt like you took away my choices?" he said. "All the time." With that he turned and left, clenching his fist as he heard his mother's sob.
(Because, the sad truth is they've never been helping him – only setting their own minds at ease by blaming it all on him, the boy who'd play at being a knight.)
.o0o.
"It is a terrible thing for a mother to bury her son," said Molly, clasping her gnarled hands upon Astoria's shoulders. "Know that my prayers are with you."
"As mine are with you and your family," replied Astoria, her lower lip trembling. "George was a true friend of me and my family."
The elderly woman nodded and drew herself up to her full height. Letting out a rattling breath, she leaned upon her walking stick and made her way to the third row, her shawl fluttering around her in the chill breeze. Astoria stared after her, wondering if she would look like that now that she too had lost a child. Already, she knew that she wore her sorrow like a veil, and she doubted if ever she would be able to let go of it.
In the distance rose the Manor, her home since she had married Draco, and if she didn't know any better, she would say that the house itself was in mourning. The white walls seemed a little greyer, the windows murkier, the gardens wreathed in shadow. She felt weak in the knees, her world swimming around her, but she steadied herself.
She could not give herself to grief. Her son had hated it when she cried – she needed to remain collected and give him the dignified funeral he deserved.
"Perhaps you should sit, Madam Malfoy," said a voice, and she focused, looking up. Before her stood Hermione Granger-Weasley, and she could see the concern in the other woman's eyes. Still, she did not respond, merely nodding, her throat so constricted she could not form words. Hermione seemed to understand, taking her hand for a moment before making her way to her seat.
"She's right, you know," murmured Daphne who was standing beside her. "Go, people will understand if you're not here to greet them."
"No. I can do this . . . for Scor," she managed, swallowing. She blinked away the tears, and then she saw the coffin and was lost. Had her sister not been standing beside her to catch her, she would have fallen. It rose into view above the nearby hill, the casket sealed as she had wished it – her son had been a beautiful boy, and she did not want people's last memories of him to be of a slashed face – and held aloft by six people. Five men and a woman: Albus, her son's best friend and her son-in-law, along with the boys who'd grown up with him, Delphin Zabini and Xavier Avery. On the other side stood Katherine Avery, her sister's daughter and the token girl of Scor's inner circle of friends, followed by Teddy Lupin and . . . Blaise?
"Where's Father?" asked Cassiopeia, coming up beside her and wrapping an arm around her. Her little girl – not so little anymore, she realised – was shaking almost as much as she was, but yet did not need support to remain standing. It was strange, her having to rely on her daughter for support when it had always been the other way around.
"He went to Scorpius' office today to try and see if there was something the Aurors missed," said Theo Nott, holding onto Daphne's hand. "I'd have expected him to be back by now."
Cassiopeia gasped and clenched her fist. "I'm going to find Harry – tell him to send a few Aurors to check. There's no way in hell that Dad would miss the funeral because of a hunch."
Astoria nodded, numb, as she was coaxed into the front row. Then, the coffin was before her, held aloft by series of levitation charms above the freshly dug grave, with the shrouded headstone behind. To the left rose the graves of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, to the right the ground where she would one day be laid to rest. The tears spilled, then, when the reality crashed into her.
Here she was, her hair not grey, and her son was about to be placed into the ground. It was such a sharp knife, the curse of a short life, but it cut more than the deceased, choosing instead to repeatedly stab those left behind. She could see it in her daughter, in Lily, in Daphne, in Albus, Xavier, Delphin, Katherine, Blaise . . . in everyone who had been touched by the light that was her son.
Now it felt like there was a hole where her heart had been, one that would never be filled. It would remain, a gaping, raw-edged void, and she would wear these scars for the rest of her life.
Draco, where are you? Please, I need you.
Then, she ignored the world and focused solely on the funeral, wiping her eyes every few minutes into her lacy black handkerchief. When, eventually, the coffin was lowered into the ground, covered in white roses and golden lilies, she let out a choked cry.
Taking a deep breath and ignoring the comforting arm upon her back, she got to her feet as the earth filled in the ground before being covered in a marble plinth, etched with a silhouette of her son. She did not look at it. The sight of him hurt too much.
Instead, she lifted the shroud upon her son's headstone – and screamed.
Written in red – God, please let that not be blood – were the words: Rest in Peace, Draco Malfoy.
She screamed, dropping to her knees, unable to breath. Around her, the sound of chaos filled the air – Hermione screaming almost as loudly as her, Harry barking orders at the Aurors, Pansy trying to explain what was happening to the people in the back row. She saw Cassiopeia faint, Albus rushing to her side, and then hands were on her shoulders, shaking her.
"Tori," said Daphne. "Tori, breathe."
(Take care when it is revenge you seek, for it be not one but two graves you dig.)
The rest of the evening was a blur. Harry was asking her questions, most of which she was incapable of answering, and the Aurors were scouring the country. Her heart thumped in her chest when Daphne tried getting her to come home with her – as if she would leave the Manor at such a time. By nightfall, there was still no sign of him, and she feared for the worst.
Somehow, she didn't hurt. No, her heart had already been broken, and this just stung the pieces.
So, she let herself be led to her bedroom when the clock struck nine. When the light switched on, however, her entire world faded to black as she fell into her sister's arms.
There, on the side of the bed that was her husband's lay her son. His lips had stretched back, revealing his gums, his skin tinged blue, his eyes sunken in his sockets. The smell was sour – decomposition having set in – and when she caught a glimpse of the ruin that had been his body, she realised where her husband was.
(He screamed, his throat raw, his voice hoarse, and pounded his bloody fists against the solid wood, even as the air grew thin. As it turned out, though, six feet of earth was quite effective in muffling sound.)