Blind Man's Bluff
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
III:
Though the thieving magpie
is but a myth,
the girl with crow's hair
knows nothing of it.
Malfoy Manor
Lady Malfoy watched him with a thin veil of concern, her voice dripping with saccharine sentiment.
"Is there anything else we can do? You've experienced a trauma."
Tom resisted a snort. "No, thank you, ma'am. A warm bed is all I really require."
Her eyes lit up. "I think you shall stay with us, then, in the guest room. Perhaps spending a night here will . . . ah . . . hone your detective skills." It sounded a bit like she read too many detective novels, but Tom wouldn't say no to a gift horse.
With footsteps lighter than a mouse, the butler stepped into the lounge with a bundle of ice chips, bound with a handkerchief. Harry passed the bundle to Tom, their fingers grazing. Verdant green eyes met blue, and Tom suddenly, was speaking without forethought. "It would be beneficial to see where Miss Tonks stayed. I'm not implying I spend the night rooming with the maids, but I should stay in the servant's quarters, at least. I'd like to speak with Harry some more."
The butler hid his reaction valiantly, but Harry couldn't help his heartbeat picking up. "I can prepare a bed," he offered quietly, spinning on his heel.
"Excellent," Lady Malfoy brushed back her long, white hair. Tom's gaze fixated on the silvery strands. She began to stand. "If there is nothing else - "
"Have you read today's Daily Prophet, Lady Malfoy?"
At the tone of his voice, the woman froze, the bottom of her dress swaying. Above them, the glass chandelier creaked ominously. The lounge was one of the bigger rooms, with several cushioned couches and a limestone fireplace. Crown-molding on the peach-colored walls depicted harps and baby angels, a romantic aura that did not meld with the sudden tension.
"I don't understand how Lucius can endorse it. I . . . I typically avoid reading that rag."
"The rest of London does not return that sentiment," from the inside of his snow-drenched coat, Tom removed a newspaper. "Thankfully for your reputation, Rita Skeeter has described your husband as 'charitable, good-hearted and trusting.'" The woman began to relax, and Tom bit back a smirk. "It was, however, revealed that your sister Andromeda and her husband were struck down by tuberculosis some years ago."
She raised a pale, well-manicured hand to cover her mouth. Tom continued without pause. "And while Remus Lupin was under your employment, he hired their daughter, Nymphadora . . . your own niece."
Icy-blue eyes pinched shut. "I didn't know," she whispered, insistent.
"Didn't know what? That your sister was dead? That you were paying her only daughter a pauper's pittance, and bidding her to scrub your toilets?"
"No," she shook her head. "I didn't even know she had a daughter. I haven't thought of Andy in years, not since she was disowned for bedding that - that stable boy. Mother and father told me that she ran away with him, and I was too young to question it."
"And how long ago was that?"
"About - About nineteen years ago." The lady covered her face in realization, releasing a soft sob. "Andy was pregnant, wasn't she? Oh, goodness." Her shock, Tom noted, was genuine. Unwinding the handkerchief from his ice bundle, mostly melted, he handed it to her. She dabbed delicately at her makeup. "If I'd known Nymphadora was family, I would've protected her," she said earnestly. "I would've provided for her, and she wouldn't have fallen for the butler."
"Do you believe Remus killed her?"
Narcissa clenched the handkerchief, nails biting into her palm. "I . . . I trusted Remus. He was diligent and loyal, and I know he cared for the younger staff like a father would. Lucius fired him, against my better judgement, and we've regretted it ever since. Harry makes a fine replacement," she assured him. "But he's just a boy, younger than Draco. I don't know him well, and I don't know what poor Harry and Nymphadora went through before us, before the auction, but I thought they were at least safe here. Now, I can't even trust my own instincts," she scowled. "I want to trust that Remus would never have hurt her. But he's failed us before. And we failed him. I . . . I failed her."
Tilting his head, Tom considered the woman before him. For a frigid-seeming, sheltered woman, she was uncharacteristically in-touch with her own emotions. "You couldn't have known," he consoled her quietly. "She didn't want you to know. Nymphadora dyed her hair black and hid behind her servile status; I doubt she would've accepted your help, even if you did know."
She gave a watery smile. "Stubborn, just like my sister." Narcissa shook her head. "I wish I'd known Nymphadora."
"You did. And in the end, she was loyal to your family. She was loyal to the people who took her in, who gave her a roof over her head and a purpose in life. You didn't fail her." Tom lifted a hand to cover his chin, where a dark bruise was forming.
"For you, my lady, I promise to find her killer. Even if it kills me."
"I met Remus Lupin today." Tom watched Harry fix the bed-sheets. The servant was clearly tired, his movements unsure, his hair falling out of it's ribbon in dark curls. The butler's quarters were in the basement, right beside the kitchen. The hallway outside was narrow and dark, illuminated only by Harry's gas lantern. "The Malfoy's previous butler."
The light flickered as Harry laid out a wool blanket, his features pale and sharp, eyes nearly glasz. Harry showed no visible reaction to the mention of the former butler.
"I'm aware you knew him quite well," Tom pressed on.
Haltingly, Harry nodded. "I wish you had met him a few years ago," he whispered. "He was . . . like a father to me."
"He hit you," Tom felt the need to point out. "That is what he told me."
"Lightly," Harry corrected. "And he was particularly frustrated that evening. I was in his way."
"He was drunk, and a fool to take it out on you."
Harry's features contorted. He tossed down a pillow. "He wasn't a fool! He was the smartest, kindest man I knew. And I've been hit far worse." Tom arched a perfect brow and slowly began to shed his clothes, revealing a toned chest and strong arms. Harry swallowed tightly, tearing his eyes away. "My outburst was uncalled for. I apologize," he changed the subject. "I placed your valise in the bathroom."
"No, do continue." Shirtless, Tom entered the small restroom, the tile perfectly clean, but the mirror cracked. A small comb was placed beside the sink, black hairlets tangled in the teeth. Tom pinched a curl and placed it carefully between the pages of his notebook. "How long have you been employed here?" he asked, briskly removing his stockings and undergarments. Over his head, he threw on his nightgown.
"Since I was thirteen," Harry's soft voice traveled. "Before then, I lived with my Aunt's family. She was . . . like Lady Narcissa in stature, but had quite the backhand," Harry admitted. "I won't even mention my Uncle and his belt." He shook his head. "Yes, the Malfoys have been good to me, but I'm leaving when I turn eighteen in July. Then . . . I can be free."
"Free?" Tom echoed, fixing his hair in the mirror. The gel had long since worn away, leaving a brown curl to fall across his forehead.
Harry sighed. "I've begun to fear this place. I doubt I'll sleep a wink tonight. Dora died here - and I can't help but wonder if I'll be next."
His bare feet padding on the hardwood, Tom reentered the quarters. Harry was perched at the end of his bed, cradling the candle in his small, pale hands. A second cot had been set up for Tom, the warmest blanket and the fluffiest pillow provided for him. All Harry had was a thin fleece blanket.
Tom felt his heart seize. Harry continued talking. Somehow, the darkness of the night seemed to awaken him; he talked, as though fearing the silence. "Dora used to tell me that knights in shining armor didn't exist" he laughed. "The only person I can rely on, in the end, is myself. But she believed so fully in Remus, was certain their love was true, even though he was a bitter alcoholic and she was barely more than a child, herself." His voice tapered off. "I suppose that's what love does. Makes hypocrites and fools of us all. She couldn't even save herself in the end."
"Do you believe you can be saved?" Tom asked, sitting beside Harry on the weak bed-springs.
Harry's jaw was set, trembling ever-so slightly. "Well. Depends on your definition of 'saved'. I'll complete my contact here, and find a job. Perhaps I'll receive an inheritance. Or I'll join the British Army. That's how my father died. He was a soldier, my mother a nurse. There was . . . dissension amongst the ranks, I was told. He died trying to protect my mother, who was pregnant with me." How quaint. A hero. "She died in child birth, of a broken heart, they say." He grimaced.
Tom battled a similar scowl, forcing is expression into one of understanding. "My own father was a Lord - with a lesser title than Malfoy's, but he was just as arrogant. I never really knew him," he admitted. "But he abandoned my mother when she was pregnant, and I was left at an orphanage for eighteen years, until I 'saved myself'," he quoted with a smirk. After a moment, the smile fell. "It was . . . a rather lonely existence."
"What made you become a detective?" Harry sat up, green eyes curious. He teased. "Was it Sherlock Holmes?"
The older boy laughed. "Not quite. My father was a detective, and - even though he's dead - I wanted to show him that I was worthy. That I could be successful, and better at his job than he ever was. I don't scare easily, and while I'm not proficient at comforting the distraught . . . it just feels right, somehow."
Harry watched him, envious of the contentment on Tom's usually stony features. In the dim light, Tom appeared younger, softer, more approachable. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "I . . . I want to tell you somethi - "
A shower of dust fell with a long creak of floorboards above them.
"Who would be awake at this time?" Tom coughed, staring upwards. The soft patter of tentative footfalls could be heard, almost ghost-like in the night. "I suppose you weren't lying about being able to hear footsteps."
"I . . . I only hear them every so often," Harry admitted. "The house is usually very quiet. Perhaps one of the girls has had a nightmare."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "Or the murderer is striking again," he hissed. "You are a very poor houseman, you realize? You could have very well heard the murderer last night, but you dismissed the theory as soon as Missus McGonagall mentioned it."
Harry flinched.
"Who are you protecting?" Tom violently grabbed the lantern from him, a droplet of hot wax stinging Harry's skin. "Well?" he insisted, the direct candlelight making him simultaneously more handsome and more intimidating than ever. Harry, spellbound, was unable to speak.
"Fine. If you won't tell me, I will find out myself." Throwing the blanket around his shoulders, Tom left Harry in the dark.
The butler shivered to himself, and waited no more than a minute, utterly terrified, before following after in a hurry.
The servants quarters never seemed so large, so fathomless during the day. But Harry knew the house like the back of his hand, and followed the walls to a set of stairs. "Mister Riddle," he whispered, lifting a hand to the banister. "Tom, please." He crept up the steps, his heavy breathing near deafening in the silence.
A flash of white, and his eyes darted towards the east wing, near Lucius' office and the dining hall.
"T - Tom?" he murmured, heart beating a heavy tattoo against his rib cage. He felt he was in a nightmare, surrounded by darkness and the ghost of a dead girl.
A figure stood, back pressed against a wall, hand clenched to her chest. She was shrouded in darkness, but Harry thought he recognized the feminine shape and dark hair.
"D - Dora?" Harry asked, unable to believe his eyes. The ethereal being gasped, and disappeared behind a wall in a flutter of black hair and white skirts. "Dora!" He made to chase after her, but found himself tripping over the carpet. He landed with a thud, gasping out in shock and grief. Harry was crying, the tears dribbling onto his hands. "I'm sorry," he croaked. "I'm so sorry."
"Harry?" Tom's smooth voice rang through the wing. "I'm in Lucius' office. I - I found something."
Trembling from head to toe, Harry wiped his cheeks and followed the wall until his fingers touched fabric. Pushing aside the curtain, he was bathed in light. The fireplace was slowly burning, embers crackling red and gold. Tom was on his hands and knees, jabbing the coals with a poker. The lantern was discarded beside him. His face was grim.
"I s - saw her," Harry whispered, jerking forward. "I saw Nymphadora."
Tom peered up at Harry, registering his tear-stained cheeks and disheveled bedclothes. "Did you?" he said idly, removing the iron-hot poker from the fire. "It seems the dead were quite busy tonight."
Dangling from the iron rod's tip was a silver ring, warped and melted from the heat.
Nymphadora's engagement ring.
To be continued . . .
