Chapter 8

The woman behind the reception desk at St. Mungo's is floating files into slots on the wall when Ron approaches her.

"Hello there," she says in a voice that carries the perfect amount of concern and cheer for someone working with sick people.

"Hello," Ron says. He's tired and worried after spending the better part of the day tracking down Harry, and stewing in his suspicion. When he'd finally found him, Harry had almost convinced Ron that Robards was just a paranoid old man who's own marriage was torn apart by constant distrust. Almost. Ron didn't tell Harry that he planned to come to the hospital. That he needed to hear it from the Healer's lips. That he didn't completely trust his future wife.

"I need to speak with Healer Patil, please," he says to the receptionist.


Hermione is on the sofa combing Crookshanks' fur when she hears the knock at the door. "It's open," she calls.

Ginny Weasley enters carrying two bottles of wine. "One's for me and one's for you," she says.

Hermione smiles. "Oh, thank Merlin!"


It's half past nine when I finally get home from work. My flat is a mess and I smell like bird shit and all I want to do is take a shower and crawl into bed. Rachel floo-d in sick, so I had to work a double-shift. She's such a lazy cow. It's the third sick-day she's taken this month. And of course Chase lets her get away with it because she wears low-cut tops and kisses his arse.

I'm so caught up in my mental-tantrum that I don't notice the sound of crackling fire until I'm standing in the doorway to my study staring into the eyes of a scowling middle-aged wizard. I go for my wand but he raises both hands in surrender and says, "There's no need for that. I've just come to talk."


"I'm sorry Mr. Weasley, but that's all I can tell you," Healer Patil says. "You are not Miss Granger's husband yet and that information is protected under patient privacy."

Ron's face is bright red from frustration. "All I need to know, Healer, is that she actually has memory loss. I don't need details," he says.

Healer Patil narrows her eyes. "Does Miss Granger know you're here?"

Ron is pacing the office. He hadn't expected this to be so difficult. "I don't see how that is relevant."

"Right," Patil says. She stands from her desk and walks over to the door. "Mr. Weasley, if there is something about Miss Granger's condition that she hasn't told you, then I'm going to assume it's because she doesn't want you to know. As her Healer, I am obligated to respect her wishes." She opens the door and steps to the side in an obvious gesture. "Please excuse me," she says, "I have patients waiting for me."

"Fine," Ron says, crossing straight to the doorway. "Thank you for your time Healer," he says. He's now more convinced than ever that Hermione has something to hide.


Ginny lifts up the bottle to the light and says, "I think there's enough for one more glass each." The pair have finished off the two bottles of wine Ginny brought and are nearly done with a third from Hermione's pantry.

"Harry's just so damn noble," Ginny says.

Hermione nods in agreement, "Yes, Ron too." The girls are seated at Hermione's kitchen table playing cards. "I tried to get him into bed the other night and you can guess how well that went over," she says.

"Ew, Hermione! I don't want to hear about that," Ginny says, but she's smiling. "What we need are a couple of bad-boys. Men that will throw us up against the wall when we get home and ravage us without a thought of protecting our virtue," she says.

"Hear, hear," Hermione says lifting her glass for a toast.


"How did you get in here?" I ask. The man has seated himself behind my desk and is pouring himself a glass of gin from my decanter. His dark mustache is shaped perfectly to match his sleek brown hair and his blue eyes stand out under his tanned skin. I'm guessing he's fifty pounds heavier than me, though it's hard to tell with the layered wool cloaks he's wearing.

"Your father gave me the password," he says. He pulls a second glass from the shelf and offers me a drink.

"My father?" I say. I take the glass from him not because I want a drink, but because I don't want him touching my things. "Who are you?"

The man sneers. "Right, how rude of me," he says. "I thought you would recognize your future father-in-law."

I almost choke on my gin. "Sorry?"

"It's a little late for apologies," he says, "seeing as how you've ruined the plans I had for my daughter's future."

And then it clicks into place. "Mr. Greengrass," I say. I should have recognized him from the pictures at Daphne's house. But he works in Spain and never attended many Hogwarts functions. I've never actually met him.

He nods and deepens his scowl. "I know all about what happened between you and Astoria on her hen night and unfortunately, so does her fiancé." He pauses and I'm not sure if he's waiting for me to say something, but everything that comes to my mind sounds ridiculous. "Mr. Rickett has pulled his request for her hand. And I don't blame him."

To me, I don't see the big deal. "So Astoria can finish school and marry when she's older. What's the problem?" The tone of my voice is disrespectful and he bristles in response.

"The problem, Mr. Malfoy, is that everyone will know the reason she was rejected is because she couldn't keep her legs together. Her reputation will be ruined." His hand is clenching tight around his glass and I almost expect it to shatter.

"So you want me to marry her?" I say. I remember holding Astoria in my arms on the dance floor, telling her not to get married. The liquor and lighting had made her look so much like Granger that I'd lost control of my words. My stomach twists. I feel sick for bringing this on myself. "Forgive me, Mr. Greengrass," I say thickly, "but what makes you think I would agree to this?"

A dry laugh escapes his lips. "Well, I wasn't sure how best to convince you, be it physical violence or a threat on your family, but now I'm thinking a decade in Azkaban would suit you rather nicely." His eyes are boring into mine, searching for a reaction.

I'm determined not to reward him. I scoff. "I've served my sentence. In the eyes of the Wizengamont, I'm just more paperwork. I was a product of poor parenting, scared-straight by the dementors of Azkaban, convicted more on public outcry than judicial principle." I say it so confidently that I almost believe it myself.

Mr. Greengrass laughs again. It's unsettling. "You are mistaken," he says. "In the eyes of the Wizengamont, you're a bigoted Death Eater who slipped through the cracks without the punishment he deserved. You're a ticking time-bomb just one curse away from proving them right about you and getting sent back to prison where you belong."

I steady my breathing. He's probably right. "Well that may be, but they can't send my back out of dislike alone. And I have done nothing to grant them reason."

He's pouring himself another drink, finishing off the last of it. "Of course you have," he says. "You raped my daughter."

His words are like a sucker punch, knocking the air out of me. "Excuse me?" I say. My head is spinning now and I know exactly what he is going to say next.

"That's right, Draco. Rape. And Astoria is prepared to back up that claim. She's such a good little girl; does what her daddy tells her."

He grins unpleasantly. He has me and he knows it. I nod slowly. No one would doubt the word of sweet Astoria Greengrass. Especially against the word of a convicted Death Eater. I pull up my sleeve to reveal the fading dark mark. "Are you sure a man like me is what you want for your daughter?"

He eyes the tattoo, but remains unaffected. "I'm sure you learned your lesson. Besides, I've heard that you've been given your inheritance and I'm confident your wealth will outlast this Dark-Lord-bad-blood."

I can hardly speak. My mouth is dry and my stomach is in a tight knot. Everything always comes down to money. It's the only thing left I can think of that might dissuade him. "Then surely we can come to some sort of monetary agreement," I say.

His smile is sickening. He says, "How very much like your father you are. But, no. I've got my own money. What I want is my daughter to be provided for. I just thank Merlin you're a Pureblood. If you were a Mudblood I may have had to dispose of you. No I think this arrangement will work out much better."