Surprised manifested itself in small needles pricking across her skin, but she held her wand steady. Somehow, after recent events, she'd known this moment would come, and even before that, despite the evidence to the contrary. They stared at each other for a seemingly endless period of time. His pale hair gleamed just as she remembered, though his features were sharper. She wasn't sure it was fear she felt, though she should. It was masked beneath the layers of disbelief, uncertainty and other things she fought hard to ignore.

"You aren't supposed to be alive."

He shrugged in a casual way that belied the tension in his face, his posture. Despite being held at wand point, his own still rested at his side, held by what seemed the lightest of grips.

"And yet here I am," he said softly. The voice was just as she remembered. It had haunted her days these last years. "You never really believe that though, did you?"

The smart response was familiar, but not the tiredness, the broken spirit that seemed to radiate from him. He was a stranger to her. The one puzzle she never had the chance to solve, though she had tried.

"Why are you here, at my house? Where have you been all this time and," she paused, "what makes you think I won't immediately turn you in?" She gripped her wand tighter still.

His head dropped, and his gaze appeared clouded, before he looked up at her again. "I have nowhere else to go."

Her brow furrowed, her breath rattling in her chest, which felt like the most endless of caverns. "Why… why did you do it? Narcissa… she—"

His head shook, and his expression was of hollow disbelief. "Do you really believe that? My own mother?" When she didn't respond, he continued speaking, his voice low and bitter. "It was in the paper. I saw…" He swallowed. "I came straight to London as soon as I heard. Look, I know how it seems, me being here after… everything. But I need your help. Whoever did this, they were looking for me too. The last thing I heard from her was that she was worried; she told me to be careful."

It was probably the most words he'd ever spoken to her that didn't involve a veiled threat or insult. The realisation was disconcerting. Not least of all because he was asking for her help, something she never could have fathomed.

"She never reported any concerns to the Ministry," Hermione finally said. Then again, she probably wouldn't have regardless of what was happening, not when she was protecting the secret of her son's whereabouts. "A witness saw you in Wiltshire the night it happened."

A ghost of something passed across his features. "Still keeping tabs?"

"No. I… I'm working on the case."

He murmured something she couldn't grasp and tilted his head as he watched her, the intensity of his gaze too much.

She shook her head. "You haven't told me what you were doing there, if indeed it wasn't you who murdered her. And if that is the case, despite all the evidence that suggests otherwise, then who did?"

"I wasn't there. I haven't been home in five years. I have no idea who it was, or how they got in. But I have to find out. I have to know."

Her arm ached from holding her wand aloft, her grip causing a burn to creep up its length. "I have no reason to trust you, to believe a word you're saying. For all I know, you're here to kill me too."

He smiled crookedly, but it was a sad sort of smile. "I had the chance once. We both did." He raked an agitated hand through his hair and stepped closer to her. His gaze pierced right through her carefully constructed walls, a torrid reminder of his ability to shake her to her core.

Despite his continued presence in the darkest corners of her mind, and her persisting belief that he was still alive – still real and somewhere in the world – the physical reality of him stopped every pulsing part of her. Somehow, over time, she had created a different vision of him – one comprised of gentler moments, forgetting what she had endured at his hands, and everything he represented. She didn't know who he was – who he had ever been, in truth – and certainly not the man he had become in the last five years. For all she knew, he was capable of anything.

She saw him, saw the fractures in his very soul, as she held his gaze. Despite this she could not possibly trust him.

"You looked for me. Relentlessly." She wondered how he could possibly know such a thing. The possibility of him being there, watching her, sent shivers across her skin, but she could not afford to invest meaning in any of it. It terrified her in an entirely new way, the fact that his gaze could open up the hidden parts of her just as it had all those years ago.

He was silent for a beat before he spoke again, a very slight crack evident in his voice. That was what shook her most, beyond everything else – for Draco Malfoy as she had known him was nothing if not composed, cold. "My mother, Granger… someone killed my mother."

She drew in a heady breath and swallowed. "Why would you trust me with this, if it's all true? Why would you come to me?"

His gaze held hers and he opened his mouth to say something, but then paused and looked away. "Whatever about the past, the things that happened… I know you're tenacious when it comes to finding the truth. I'm choosing to trust in that and the fact that you will do the right thing here."

She opened her mouth to interrupt when he cut her off. "I know there will be… consequences to coming here, to you, but I'll deal with that. This is more important than anything else."

He finally looked at her then, and she wanted to ask what he had been about to say before he changed his mind. She never would though; it would cost her dearly.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. It was too much, all of it. She needed, more than anything, a moment to think. She chose her words carefully when she spoke. "I'll admit I find it… unlikely… that you would do that to your own mother. The evidence, however, would suggest otherwise."

"A touch convenient, wouldn't you say?" The corner of his mouth turned up in bitter irony. "Look, I realise that on the face of it, it looks bad, but why would I show up here of all places – proving I'm alive and risking everything – if I was guilty."

It was the one thing she couldn't reconcile. Her grip on her wand loosened slightly, and his gaze honed in on the movement. She clenched it harder.

"You're scared," he said finally, a strange note lingering in his voice. "You weren't always."

Her expression was defiant but she said nothing by way of response.

He pushed his shoulders back, straightening his posture. Her gaze avidly tracked each movement, though she hated herself for it. "Just think about what I've said." He reached inside the pocket of his robe and flicked a coin in her direction. "Contact me if you change your mind."

She glanced down at the heavy coin. It was a galleon, no doubt imbued with the Protean Charm. Her stomach twisted at the realisation that he was still making use of her innovations from fifth year. She glanced up to say something, and realised he was gone. The air rushed from her lungs. She felt depleted and horribly confused.

He was right – she was scared, though not for the reasons he undoubtedly imagined. The last time she allowed herself to become entangled in his web it wrought havoc on her world, and the shape of life – of herself in it – had never quite fit back in the same way since. Even the prospect of opening the door and allowing him back in was more than she thought she could handle.

And yet, despite logic and everything within her head that told her otherwise, she somehow believed him – about his mother at the very least. The man before her was not quite whom she remembered, as though time, weariness and desperation had eroded the smooth polish that he'd worn like a cloak.

She couldn't sleep that night; she tossed and turned in her bed, her thoughts impossible to unravel. She felt a war broiling within her, for she feared that, in this case, there was no perfect course of action.


When she awoke the next morning, still exhausted from the events of the previous day, and her inability to sleep, she felt a shift in her resolve. She was conflicted on too many levels. On the one hand, she knew she shouldn't have let him walk away the previous evening, had berated herself endlessly for even entertaining what he'd said. By rights he ought to be made to answer for his crimes, for being a Death Eater at the very least. Even if he never did kill anyone, and that was an extraordinary if. The fact was that if his participation had been restricted to the activities during his school year, then his punishment would likely be limited as he was only young at the time.

Yet, she felt quite certain that he would never voluntarily hand himself in. This was a man who had staged his own death and lived on the run – presumably – for five years. It was a bridge she would have to cross, if indeed she decided to hear him out. The only real conclusion she had come to was that, despite the evidence, she did believe him. It made no sense for someone like Malfoy to intentionally target and murder pureblood witches and wizards, let alone his own mother. The evidence pointing to him was circumstantial at best and in her heart she'd never thought him capable of it. Perhaps that was naiveté, but the belief rang true in every fibre of her being.

The Ministry had no leads to go on, nothing except the possibility he presented. But there would have to be conditions. The primary thing that continued to weigh on her was the woman from Wiltshire and her statement. Though he denied being there, it really meant little in the scheme of things. She decided that he would have to agree to being questioned under Veritaserum, to which he would undoubtedly object. It was either that or no deal. Assurances meant nothing.

After tossing the thoughts around her mind, she finally picked up the galleon and contacted him. Her fingers tingled at the thought of once more engaging in secret meetings with him, and wonder at how she could be back in this place once more. She attempted to go about her business that morning, before finally giving up and choosing to stare at the coin on the table. There was little point in pretending that anything else could occupy her thoughts. It was folly, of course, thinking about him had never done her any good.

Just when her agitation had reached its peak, and she felt sure she would summon Harry and admit everything, she felt a quiver of magic and noticed the faint red glow that signalled her wards had once more been breached. She hurried into the small hallway.

Even though she was prepared to see him this time, it was impossible to reconcile the reality of the man before her. He stood tall, his slender fingers caressing his wand, held lightly by his side once more. Some of the tension around his eyes had eased, and she saw the faintest trace of the hauteur she recalled so vividly from their youth.

"Could you please just use the knocker?" she said, exasperation disguising her discomfort.

"I think you'll understand if I don't want to be seen outside your house in the daylight. That would raise difficult questions for both of us right now."

He wasn't wrong, which irked her, but she let it slide and told him to join her in the kitchen. The sight of him standing in her small and cosy kitchen was disturbing. It felt wrong, wholly at odds with all of their previous interactions. She could see that he too felt equally out of sorts, as he stood somewhat awkwardly by her kitchen bench,

"Can you just sit down," she said finally, taking a seat herself. He acquiesced and she realised that was probably the first and last time he would actually do so.

They looked at each other across the table, and his eyes darted to her wand, which was placed to her right, rather than held aloft and aimed at his throat. He seemed to read a sort of concession in that, and she supposed he wasn't entirely incorrect.

"So, I take it you've given some thought to what I said yesterday," he finally commented, interrupting the stark and overwhelming silence.

She pushed back her shoulders and looked at him directly, summoning all composure. This was, after all, business. "I have… and I have decided that I will help you, if I can. Only because there are things we don't understand and perhaps you can help shed some light on them. For us, the Ministry, that is."

He nodded slowly. "I see."

"I have a few stipulations though." A strange sort of smile quirked upon his lips for the briefest of seconds.

"Naturally," he said, as he gestured for her to continue.

She took a deep breath. "Firstly, you have to agree to my questioning you under Veritaserum. I think you will understand why that is necessary given the circumstances. Your word is not good enough… for obvious reasons." She pushed a piece of parchment across the table to him. "It's a list of the questions I will ask."

His gaze scanned the list and if he felt uncomfortable with any of the questions there, it didn't show. His expression still neutral, he raised his eyes to hers. "And secondly?"

She watched him briefly, taking in the pale gleam of his hair, the lean lines of his face. "Secondly, you have to agree to turn yourself in after this is… resolved."

His jaw clenched and a shadow flickered in his gaze, but he said nothing, merely nodding his head once.

"I rather thought you'd argue the latter point," she admitted, curious as to why he hadn't.

"Perhaps it's time," he said simply. She wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, or to the general politeness of the conversation.

"Very well," she said, steering the conversation back on track. She pulled a small vial from a dark wooden box that sat by her wand. It contained the Veritaserum potion, something she kept on hand just in case. Given the time and difficulty involved in brewing the potion, she was fortunate indeed that she did.

She reached out to hand the vial to him, and tried to control her response to the mere brush of his fingers to hers as he took it. It would not do to dwell on the last time he had touched her. He held her gaze as he tipped back the potion and swallowed. As some of the tension eased from his shoulders, she reached across to bring the parchment before her.

She cleared her voice. "Is your name Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes."

She asked a few more introductory questions, as was procedure when interviewing someone under Veritaserum, before turning to the more pertinent subjects.

"Have you been home to Wiltshire since the night of your disappearance and presumed death?"

"No, I have not been home since before the night he – the Dark Lord – died."

"Did you kill your mother?"

There wasn't a twitch, or any visible signs that he was trying to fight the potion's pull – fruitless though they would have been. But the bleak expression that lingered on his features at her words was one that would stay with her.

"No." She felt the sweet warmth of relief flood her body, absurd though it was. Part of her, the logical part, unravelled at the statement. The truth was, she couldn't bear to think that the boy to whom she had once been so drawn was capable of such an act. It was vindication, if nothing else.

"Where have you been for the past five years?"

He paused this time, a war within written clearly across his features. "Hiding. I moved across Europe – Romania, Hungary, and the Netherlands. Never one place for too long."

"Were you in contact with your mother, Narcissa, during this time?"

"Yes. We communicated via owl but only rarely. The last message she sent me was only a week before it happened. She was worried, though she did not provide details in case the letter was intercepted."

"And have you been back to England at all before now?"

"I—yes, on occasion, but not for some time. There were things of a… personal nature I had to see to."

Her heart skipped and her palms became sweaty. She blinked and nodded before continuing. "And have you had any contact with previous acquaintances, other than Narcissa, in that time?"

"No."

"How did you… what happened on that night leading to your disappearance?" Her voice felt thready as she asked the question, the one that had burned within her for five years. It didn't necessarily pertain to the case, but she simply had to know.

"After I saw you… after Weasley hexed me, I was unconscious for a time. My mother found me and managed to get me beyond the anti-Apparition wards. It was just a concussion, so I was fine after a day or two. She told me the Dark Lord would lose and that I should remain in hiding. I only found out about my father's imprisonment after the trials."

She thought she understood now. Narcissa – whatever else about her – loved her son unconditionally, enough to risk everything to ensure his survival. It shouldn't have been surprising, but somehow she had always perceived the family as incapable of love in the tangible sense.

Her last question, the most important, hovered on her tongue as silence reigned. He watched her intently, knowing the words over which she was tripping. Finally she spoke, and her voice was clear and strong. "Have you ever killed someone, whether through the Avada Kedavra curse, or other means?"

He leaned forward, palms resting flat on the table, and held her gaze with a fierceness that made her dizzy. It felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving them suspended on an alternate continuum. "No."

The word rang in her ears, and the relief of before bloomed within, more fervent this time. Despite the tumultuous nature of her thoughts, she simply nodded once and reached within the small box to fish out the antidote.

Moments later, he sat up straighter, relieved of the effects of the potion. "Satisfied?" he asked.

"On the most important points, yes. But that doesn't shed any light on how we are to solve this case. Perhaps it would have been easier if you were guilty."

His expression flickered at her use of the word 'we', before he sighed at her latter comment. "Perhaps," he said simply. "It's your turn for honesty now, though we'll dispense with the need for potions. What does the Ministry know so far?"

She filled him in on the details of the spree to date, noting the way his eyes widened and his lips twitched at the description of the murders. When she told him what the woman in Wiltshire had seen, he sat back in his chair, shock evident in the line of his shoulders, despite his neutral expression.

"Do you have any idea who it could have been, since we've determined it wasn't you – or Lucius, for that matter?"

He shook his head and looked at her directly. "I have no idea. I would have said Polyjuice was involved, but that doesn't account for them bypassing the wards on the estate."

"Speaking of which, how do they work exactly? Harry mentioned that the Ministry only gained entrance because the house elves – reluctantly, I might add – let them in."

"It's true that people can't just enter the gates at will. There are a serious of wards – infinitely more effective than your own, by the way – and layers of blood magic involved in protecting the estate. Without permission, only those who are Malfoy by blood and marriage can gain entrance."

She narrowed her eyes at his comment about her wards, but brushed it off, focusing on the very clear issue to hand. "That's as we expected. But if Narcissa never had guests, and it wasn't you or Lucius, who else is there? Cousins or—"

"Not on the Malfoy side. And while my mother is an exception, her family don't have any exemption." He looked at her, his palms turned up. "I have to get into the Manor."

She shook her head furiously. "Don't be absurd! It'll be under surveillance for a few days at least. Besides, there's no point. The Ministry already have a full report and—"

"And it's entirely useless. The house elves wouldn't tell them anything. They do, however, answer to me. We both know that irrespective of the other victims and how they fall into this, my family is at the centre of it."

She stared at him, before finally nodding in agreement. "Fine, we'll work something out, but I'll need a couple of days."

"Also," he said, and there was something in his voice that caused a tingle to dance down the length of her spine. "I want to see your research. All of it."

"What? No, that's Ministry restric—"

"We both know you have your own notes on the side… you were always eager when it came to projects. And besides, I think we can agree we're already beyond the point of worrying over Ministry guidelines." He gestured to himself, a supposedly dead fugitive, sitting at her kitchen table.

He had a point. She felt tremulous as she nodded, and walked on legs that felt like stilts toward her study. They entered the room and it felt too small to share with him, as though his presence filled in all the negative space, making it impossible to breathe. She watched him as he stared at the enormous note board, detailing her obsessive search for him, and for answers. His eyes tracked over notes, maps and clippings and landed on the photo of him, pinned at the centre.

She felt light-headed and strangely exposed. He swallowed visibly and wrenched his gaze away and toward hers. He was far too close for comfort.

"That's why." His voice was rough. Like sandpaper over silk, it caught at the fabric of her. "You wanted to know why I chose to trust you. This is why," he gestured toward the board, his eyes not moving from hers for a second.

She looked away, the intensity too much. "I don't believe in leaving mysteries unsolved," she said with an attempt at a careless shrug.

"The Ministry had no problem with it," he replied.

She couldn't tell him that in her bones she'd always believed he was alive, that she had been so sure she felt his presence in the quiet moments in her house. She couldn't tell him that it had been impossible for her to reconcile the possibility that he might not have been, despite her very best attempts to the contrary. Telling him such things would be more of an admission than she could manage, and one that would expose parts of her that weren't his to see.

She glanced up at him then, and somehow he seemed larger, closer than before. His eyes burnt a trail across her features, as though searching for signs of how she'd changed. She coughed and stepped back then, and whatever film had formed around them seemed to dissolve.

"Contact me when with a time to visit the Manor," he said, a cold veneer lacing his words. She simply nodded and watched the empty space after he left.