[A/N] (Disclaimers in Chapter 1) "Recognition" May 22nd, 2016. Hello! I was able to finish this chapter on my plane ride home from training this week. I'm still knee deep in new job training so I won't promise any sort of posting schedule, but I want this story to get moving! Reviews and follows are much appreciated, I love you all.

Playlist: We Don't Have to Dance - Andy Black | Dig - Incubus

-Recognitionem-

Favors cost more after you are convicted war criminal.

Draco glared at the owl bringing the paperwork from the office of records at Gringotts, accusing it of the exorbitantly higher rates to purchase information. He needed to go to the bank in person.

Theo's mention of his flat recognizing the intruder unsettled him enough to queue outside of the bank the next morning. A Malfoy. Queueing.

His year in Azkaban, not only potentially ruining his immune system for the rest of his wretched life, slowed the speed at which he was addressed in institutions like the Ministry or Gringotts. He still moved freely and had every semblance of his former power, but he truly needed to work for it most days, something he was not prepared for. The Malfoys were a long-established name. There were decades behind it, decades of influence and automatic respect. Gaining it back would be Draco's career, while his father and mother rebuilt the fortunes through investments and elfwine. Thoughts like that caused forehead wrinkles.

As he smoked a cigarette on the steps of Gringotts, waiting for the inquiry office to open, he scowled at the early risers of Diagon Alley meandering smells of ground coffee beans twining with fresh baked goods set his stomach growling fiercely. Breakfast could wait, for now, but his reward for good behavior at Gringotts was a warm cheese danish, and a fresh-ground pound of coffee to make a carafe at home. Good behavior was increasingly difficult, these days.

"Master Malfoy?"

Draco extinguished the cigarette smoothly, reaching his other hand over to shake the one outstretched by the Curse Breaker meeting him that day.

"William," he greeted warmly. "Chuffed."

A deep belly laugh rolled up Bill Weasley's throat. "Tosser. I've lain out breakfast tea in my office-"

"Actually, if you have the time," interrupted Draco, "this is more of an onsite concern."

"The manor?" Layers of trepidation colored the older man's voice, his mouth slowly descending to a moue of concern.

Draco laid a hand on his mentor's arm, steadying him. "No, my flat. The manor has nothing to do with this."

"Not that it wouldn't be a welcome distraction to say hello to your mother," Bill said, buttoning up his cloak. "I'm not sure if your father ever wants to see me again."

Strolling down the street together, Draco clapped him on the shoulder once, his hand lingering on the taller man's bicep for reassurance. "Father appreciates all you've done to help us, specifically me, but has never enjoyed feeling indebted. In his own way, he'll come around."

"For some reason, I doubt that."

The pair stopped at the bottom door to Draco's building, the entrance hidden from the main alley street. A few waves of his wand, a charmed skeleton key, and they were walking up the stairs to his home. Even more security measures barred their path before the sweet aroma of a warm fire and leather met their noses.

Bill's eyes narrowed slightly at the show of protection, including a pricked thumb resting against the door jamb, worried at the level of paranoia. He remained silent, choosing instead to follow his apprentice like a shadow: closely and quietly.

In the last year training Draco, as well as a knack for reading people honed through "oldest brother" status, Bill learned several things about the man only a few months younger than Ron. He took his coffee nearly black and drank enough of it to give a hippogryff a heart attack. His flat was always tidy, and Bill'd never seen a house elf within it. He could cook as well as his mother (though he'd never breathe a word to her), and could brew just as well.

But, Draco never stood nervously, arms crossed defensively, with uncombed hair, and eyes darting about as if he was searching for a mouse he'd watched scurry across the floor not a moment before.

"Draco, why did you bring me here. You're on sabbatical from the apprenticeship but I can tell you've been practicing." Bill inhaled deeply. "And your flat reeks of Finites and curses."

"Stop that, were-man," Draco said, relaxing his posture a bit, as he moved into the kitchen to serve his guest. "It's a forced sabbatical, the crup-fuckers at Gringotts will never comprehend what I can and cannot handle."

"Oh, does that go for the Healers, too? They don't know anything either, eh? What did they have to say about it?"

Bill nodded in thanks when Draco handed him a mug of coffee and set a plate on the table in front of him; more like dropped it in front of him, but his tone of voice was not the most understanding at first. He sat before continuing, noting Draco's sudden deafness, and attempted to soften his tone. "Hermione knows how important this is to you, she can't pull any strings?"

Soft, rueful laughter rumbled underneath the clatter of a second mug. "That goody-goody? No."

It was Bill's turn to laugh. "Hermione causes more trouble and breaks more rules than Ron, and he works at the shop making pranks-in-a-can."

"True enough," Draco replied. "But I can't ask her to do that. Not this time."

Bill allowed Draco a silent breakfast, watching the younger man without comment, and wondered what was making him so agitated, and willing to bare his concerns so swiftly. Typically, it took several glasses of liquor, before he became so maudlin.

After placing his used plate and mug in the sink, Draco watched Bill as he pulled out a well-loved leather case. His mentor's eyes often glazed over when the bag unrolled to reveal his tools, but they were sharp, a gold flecked blue, as he carefully selected a solid silver wand-shaped instrument. A brief glance at the charts on his parlor wall noted the proximity of the full moon was likely affecting the redhead's actions.

"What have you performed so far?" The bright silver wand waved over the door frame between the kitchen and parlor, Bill's movements steady and purposeful.

Draco's eyes didn't leave the tip of the instrument, hoping it could extract more glowing ward trails. "I checked the established wards made by the landowner, the ones I made when purchasing the flat, and the basics left over from construction. I caught some ward-glow but it was already showing signs of age, and I'd been away since St. Patrick's Day. Whoever broke in was in and out very quickly, as if they knew where everything was, and were in here twice. And, before you ask, it was not a signature that has entered this flat since I bought it."

Draco respected Bill's intelligence, and watched the tension of his shoulders and crease of his brow as he mentally charted Draco's actions, including the moment he realized what he wasn't saying.

"Not since you bought it?" Bill asked, his question more of a statement as he barreled on, "So the foundation of the building, those wards, knew this person. Was anything missing when you returned?"

Draco relayed every detail he could recall following his return to his home after hospitalization. The reason for his extended absence was, blessedly, not a topic Bill wanted to explore.

Taking the pocketwatch out of his jacket, he handed the wispy, dim, ward-glow to Bill. Treating it like glass, Bill held it in his palm, watching it fade into nothingness within minutes. Another sweep of the flat afterwards, and Bill returned to the sitting room with the floor to ceiling windows, and walked over to his apprentice, a hand outstretched towards the younger man's shoulder.

"You did very well," he said, a proud smile lighting up his face for a moment and stretching the scar that ran from across his right eye and over his nose and lips. "I need to pull up those records you requested showing who owned this building before, but I have a hunch."

Draco regarded him with guarded eyes. "You have more than a hunch or you wouldn't say anything."

"I only know the most recent occupants," Bill started, his face falling. The scar returned to a jagged line rather than a lightning bolt over his features. "And I hesitate to draw conclusions."

"Draw them!" hissed Draco, his gloved hand clenching and unclenching next to him as he resisted grasping his wand. The stress of the past few days was itching under his skin and he was due for another dose of Pepper-up any minute.

"No," Bill replied, a sharp and commanding edge to his tone, using his years as an eldest sibling to attempt to cow Draco into submission. "I don't want to read a Prophet article about you attacking someone over a speculation."

"I can tell when you're lying, Bill. Your Occlumency is atrocious."

Draco bared his teeth in an angry sneer, shoving his hand into his pocket to extract a single cigarette from a silver case. He lit it and took a long drag before speaking again.

"Where the fuck is Charlie?"