TW: mention of character death.

Chapter 10: Chekhov's Gun

"You know, green really isn't the most flattering color for you," Gilderoy commented with a sigh, frowning at her as she studied his chart. "I think a nice lilac would really bring out your eyes, don't you?"

"Gilderoy, as I've said," Hermione sighed, tapping her nails against the clipboard, "I really cannot dress any differently than this."

"It's just such a waste!" Gilderoy crowed, flailing as he gestured to her. "I realize in the past I've been unfairly dismissive of the" - he paused, treading hesitantly - "diminutive scale, shall we say, of your northern mountains - "

"Gilderoy, I don't understand why I have to keep saying this, but you really must stop talking about my breasts," Hermione reminded him firmly just as Padma opened the door, peeking her head inside.

"Dr Granger, if you have a moment?" she called, glancing over. "Oh, good afternoon, Gilderoy," she added, smiling, though she carefully crossed her arms over her chest and he, in a surprising twist, only nodded respectfully, toasting her with his half-eaten cup of strawberry jello.

"You need something, Dr Patil?" Hermione asked, replacing Gilderoy's chart at the foot of his bed and meeting Padma at the door. "What's up?"

"Can you check on one of my patients for me?" Padma asked, giving her a quiet, desperate look of pleading. "The smoker, you know, with the heart problems - "

"Right," Hermione said, recalling him and nodding. "Anything you want me to look for?"

"No, just checking in," Padma replied. "Parvati apparently is having some sort of crisis," she muttered unhappily by way of explanation, "and I just need to run out and take care of something - and I wouldn't ask," she sighed, which Hermione knew was almost certainly true, considering how much more she loved her job than anything else in her life, "but my sister's sort of a" - she paused, glancing up at Gilderoy and lowering her voice - "see you next Tuesday, if you know what I mean, so - "

"It's not a problem," Hermione said quickly. "I'm about done here, anyway, so I'll head down the hall now."

Padma sighed in obvious relief. "Thank you," she said, clasping her hands in gratitude. "Shouldn't be anything too important - "

"You're good," Hermione assured her. "I'm the best in my year, after all," she added, nudging her and smiling, and Padma made a face, sticking out her tongue before waving to Gilderoy and making a quick exit. Hermione followed shortly after, bidding Gilderoy farewell - "think about it, Dr Granger," he shouted, "a new color palette can do wonders for the complexion! Think of the beautiful now!" - and slipping out the door, heading swiftly down the hall.

Hermione entered the room and was surprised to find that Padma's patient was the only occupant; it was a small hospital, of course, and not excessively plagued by overcrowding, but it was still rare to come across a room that was not shared by at least one other bedmate. The man in the bed was certainly advanced in age; either in his fifties or sixties, though he looked considerably worse, the black ink that covered his skin seeming to have faded and yawned loosely as he'd aged, draping over him with time.

Ink, she thought, unwillingly let her eyes travel to his wrist and finding what she'd suspected; a snake and a skull. She shut the door gently behind her and wandered to his chart, trying not to stare.

"Scared?" he asked gruffly, as she made a point to avert her eyes. Nott, Theodore Sr, she read on the clipboard, and suddenly remembered the man in the pub who had been with Draco; a younger, more beguiling, and slenderer version of the man in the hospital bed before her. Theo Nott, she heard Harry say, upper echelon in the club as far as I can tell -

"No," she supplied unhelpfully, shaking off the sharpness of the realization. "I'm so sorry, Mr Nott, I was just a bit distracted - "

"Where's Dr Patil?" he asked gruffly, shifting in the bed. "Who're you?"

"I'm Dr Granger," Hermione offered, kicking herself for abandoning her bedside manner in the midst of her surprise. "Dr Patil asked if I wouldn't mind checking on you today, as she had a family emergency."

"She did, did she," Nott grunted, shaking his head. "Well, good for her, then. Some people's fucking family can't seem to make the trip any more than they have to," he added, muttering to himself.

Hermione cleared her throat, carefully avoiding the statement. "Well," she said, treading delicately, "Mr Nott, have you been having any pr- "

"I don't suppose you can be convinced to let an old man have a smoke, can you?" Nott interrupted, punctuating the statement with an unsubtle, retching cough. "She's always on about me not wasting my life," he grumbled, "or some other pseudo-philosophical bullshit - "

"Well, she's not wrong," Hermione informed him, shaking her head. "Hospital rules. And even if that were not the case," she added pointedly, "I'm sure your family would not wish for you to chance another surgery like the one you just had, don't you think?"

"My son doesn't give two fucks whether I live or die," Nott scoffed. "And I know," he added through gritted teeth, "as the feeling's comfortably mutual."

Hermione grimaced, unsure how to proceed. "Well, in any case," she said, returning to the subject at hand, "have you been having any - "

She stopped as the door opened on her left, a man clad in an aged black leather jacket and a pair of dark jeans striding confidently through it. He, though certainly older himself, practically gleamed with health in comparison to Nott, his thick dark hair swept back in waves that were slightly peppered with grey but that otherwise showed little evidence of aging. Unlike Nott's expression of misery, this man bore a trace of certainty, of confidence so telling it could only be arrogance, and fell comfortably into the chair beside the hospital bed.

"Theodore," the man said grandly, his blue eyes sliding pointedly to Hermione as Nott grunted his acknowledgement of the man's entrance, sitting upright. "New doctor?" the man added nonchalantly.

"Temporarily," Nott muttered back, shifting to face him; there was a sense of respect there from Nott, Hermione noted, and something that wasn't quite reverence, but was certainly a telling form of yielding to the other man's presence. "Anyone come with you?"

"I've got Theo working on something," the man supplied neutrally, shrugging as he answered the implied question. "I sent him off with Draco to check on our new friend."

At the sound of Draco's name, Hermione promptly choked on what was presumably the toxicity of the breath she'd just taken, sputtering slightly as she coughed.

"My goodness," the man drawled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Do we have to treat you, too, Doctor?"

"Sorry," she said hastily, "just, um - something in my throat - "

"What's your name?" the man asked curiously, his eyes glinting as he looked at her, his head tilted in thought. "Nott, here," he added, reaching out to give Nott's shoulder a comfortingly possessive squeeze, "is a very close friend of mine, so I'm sure you understand that I want to be certain he has the best possible care."

"I'm Dr Granger," Hermione said, nodding to him. "Are you, um - " she hesitated, glancing between them. "Family?"

The man's teeth cut across his lip as he smiled. "In a sense," he agreed. "I'm Tom," he explained, coming to his feet to offer her his hand. "Tom Riddle."

Riddle, she thought, and frowned, hearing Harry's voice; I just think Riddle can do a lot more damage with Malfoy than without him -

"Something wrong?" Riddle asked, grinning knowingly.

"No, no - I'm so sorry," Hermione stammered haltingly, reaching forward to lightly grip his hand, giving it as professional a shake as she could muster given the clamor of her thoughts. "It's just been a long shift - but I promise, Mr Nott is in very good hands with Dr Patil," she supplied reassuringly, glancing down at the chart and skimming it, "and she's been charting his recovery very closely - "

"Has she?" Riddle asked, his smile becoming vaguely strained. "Well, wonderful, then," he said, recovering quickly. "I'm sure we'll see Nott back on his feet again soon, if that's the case."

"Fucking - good," Nott growled. "These hospital nazis are hellish. Fucking unbearable - " he paused, making a face as he glanced up at Hermione. "No offense," he muttered insincerely.

"None taken," she assured him, replacing his chart. "No new pain, then, Mr Nott? No problems Dr Patil should know about?"

"Had some chest pain last night," Nott said, shrugging. "Nurses took care of it."

"I'll be sure to let her know," Hermione said evenly. "And in the meantime, I'll let you two visit, and if there's nothing else - "

"You're sure you don't want to stay?" Riddle asked, resuming his seat and leaning back against the chair. "Take a load off, Doctor," he invited, his teeth flashing unsettlingly as he waited, smiling at her.

"Unfortunately, I have a few of my own patients to attend to," Hermione lied, "but thank you for the offer, Mr Riddle - "

"So formal," Riddle commented, feigning disappointment. "Call me Tom, at least. We're all family here," he added, gesturing around the room, and Nott rolled his eyes.

"People keep throwing that word around like it means something," he scoffed, and Hermione, feeling trapped by oddness from every angle, quickly pointed herself at the door, intent on disappearing through it.

"Well, thank you, Mr Rid- I mean, Tom," she said quickly, "and Mr Nott, please don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything - "

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, waving a hand at her as Riddle glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes never leaving hers as she slipped out of the door.

"Oh good, more guns," Theo said, shaking his head. "I was just thinking to myself that what my life was missing was the constant stress of imminent death - "

"Look, see a therapist for that shit," the painfully attractive blonde who was apparently named Fleur - something far too delicate for Draco to process being her actual name - informed him brusquely, the slightest trace of a French accent curling itself around her speech. "I just do the books."

"What does Griphook want us to do with this?" Draco asked, staring at the case full of ammunition.

She shrugged indifferently. "Out of my payroll," she said, flicking her wrist in disinterest before leaning back, glaring at them. "Seriously," she added, lifting one brow, "stop fucking asking questions."

"Don't you two have a boss for that?" the other man contributed obnoxiously, loudly permitting a box of something heavy to fall on the desk between them and then leaning over, making a point to place himself between the two of them and Fleur. "Seems like he should keep you a little more informed."

"Stay out of it, Viktor," Fleur muttered, shoving the box aside. "And quit pissing all over my area, okay?" she added pointedly, making a face. "I told you, we're done - "

"Come on, Fleur," Viktor groaned, nudging her. "It was one time, babe - "

"Oddly, one time is a sufficient frequency for a great number of things," Fleur retorted, crossing one slender leg over the other in an altogether beguiling huff. "Vaccinations, condoms, infidelity - "

"Well, this sounds lovely," Theo said, smirking at her. "Do tell."

"Nothing to tell," Fleur said instantly, gesturing to Viktor. "Look at him," she added, making a face. "I should have known."

"Okay, hold on," Viktor interrupted, his heavy brow furrowing in apparent discontent. "The thing is," he opened grandly, glancing appealingly between Draco and Theo, "when Griphook brought Fleur to Gringotts, I selflessly took her in - "

"Forged my papers, he means," she clarified, and Theo's smirk twitched into a smile of amusement.

" - when she was an immigrant with nothing - "

"I'm from Paris," Fleur said flatly. "I went to Oxford."

" - and I basically taught her English," Viktor continued. "Though, in fairness, she taught me French." He paused at that, grinning smugly. "If you know what I mean."

"We do," Draco said curtly, his expression souring as Theo's face contorted in equal displeasure.

"And then," Fleur supplied matter-of-factly, removing her reading glasses to run the edge of the arm over her lip, "just as he and my pussy were finally speaking the same language, I caught him fucking my roommate" - she paused, holding up a hand as Viktor tried to interject and cutting him off with an admirably effective muted glare of disgust - "so now, here we are," she concluded, gesturing around the room and sitting back in her chair.

There was a beat of awkward silence, and then -

"Good to know," Theo remarked drily. "Sounds like a healthy work environment," he added, grinning at her.

Fleur narrowed her glance at him, tilting her head. "You're kind of fucked up, aren't you?" she asked, scrutinizing him with an oddly intrigued curiosity. "I'm sensing you don't really know when to shut up."

"Oh, I don't," Theo agreed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on her desk. "But I'll tell you one thing," he assured her quietly, his gaze flicking over her as Draco fought not to roll his eyes, "I assure you, I can speak whatever language you want."

"I bet you can," she murmured in agreement, a slow smile creeping over her lips as Viktor cleared his throat loudly, drawing their attention back to him.

"Anyway," Viktor announced, his gaze darting between them, "if you two are done here - "

"We are," Draco assured him, grabbing Theo's collar and pulling him away from where he and Fleur had leaned towards each other across the desk. "You two," he added, nudging Theo in the ribs and jutting his chin out at Fleur, "can sort this out after business hours."

"Or not," Viktor suggested sulkily, but Fleur cleared her throat delicately, coming to her feet.

"Like I said earlier, Griphook's instructions were to set these aside for you," she said, all business again as she straightened her skirt, moving the box Viktor had placed on her desk and kicking the case of AKs towards them. "Where you take them after that is your boss's prerogative."

"Washing your hands of us, are you?" Theo asked, shaking his head in false lamentation. "Tragic."

"You," she said simply, falling back into her chair and propping her stilettoed feet up on the desk, "can pick me up tomorrow night. Eight o'clock." She daintily crossed one ankle over the other, watching his response. "Wine and dine me," she instructed briskly, "and don't skimp. I may work for a criminal, but I'm still a lady."

"I don't doubt it," Theo assured her, his smirk broadening, and while Draco was in the midst of shaking his head at the utter unlikelihood of Theo's appeal he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, prompting him to shift the case of ammunition under his arm and dig it out. He picked it up, glancing at the screen in time to see Daphne's name before bringing it to his ear, frowning.

"Hello?" he asked, and was met with instant hysteria.

"Draco," she gasped, clearly hyperventilating, "you have to - you have to come here - "

"Daph," he said, the concern in his voice prompting Theo to glance up worriedly from his inane wooing of Fleur, "Daph, where are you?"

"Astoria," Daphne sobbed, "Draco - she's - you have to come here - "

"What's wrong?" Draco demanded, suddenly feeling his heart race. "Daphne, talk to me - what happened?"

A low, wretched sob escaped her, the anguish evident even through the phone.

"Draco," she said, choking on his name, "Astoria's been shot."

The box fell out from under his arm, crashing to the ground as Viktor and Fleur both leapt up, staring at him in disbelief.

"I'll be right there," he said, forcing a swallow. "Get her to the hospital, Theo and I will be right there with you, Daph - "

"Draco," Theo said urgently, promptly abandoning his seduction and stepping over to him. "What's going on?"

"Draco, I can't," Daphne sobbed over the phone, her voice muffled as she spoke into it. "I can't - "

"Why not?" Draco asked, dread bubbling up in his lungs. "Daphne, it'll be okay, just call - "

"Draco," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "She's dead."

The phone slipped from his hands.

"Headed home?" Dean asked, pulling on his shoes and stuffing his hospital pair back in his locker as she nodded her confirmation. "Long day," he added, sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Can't wait to get home."

"You and Seamus doing anything tonight?" she asked, reaching in for her coat.

"Sea's at the bar tonight, unfortunately," Dean said, grimacing. "I'll have to drink if I want to see him, and let's be honest" - he shrugged, rolling a knot out of his shoulders - "that's not happening after the shift we just had."

"Fair enough," she agreed, checking her phone. Nothing from Draco, she noticed, and frowned; that was unusual. He'd gotten into the habit of texting her when she'd gotten off work, and vice versa.

Of course, he was busy today, she thought morosely, remembering Riddle's visit to the hospital.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, catching the faltering of her smile. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," she exhaled, shaking her head. "Just - got distracted. Thinking about a patient," she explained, and he nodded slowly, not fully convinced but clearly also not equipped with the energy to argue.

"Any thoughts in particular?" he asked, and she hesitated, biting her lip.

"Dean," she ventured slowly, "can I ask you something that might be personal?"

He shrugged, inviting it. "Shoot," he offered, and she took a breath.

"Can you tell me about the Death Eaters?" she asked, and he nodded slowly as the question registered, considering his answer.

"The Death Eaters are a local bike gang," he explained tentatively, "though that doesn't really cover it. They have a lot of investments in Diagon; they own property and businesses and shit." He paused, shrugging. "Stuff like that," he added, though he looked as though the 'stuff' in question was less 'property taxes' than 'general deviance.'

"And?" Hermione asked, prompting him as he hesitated. "What else is there?"

Dean squirmed, battling his better judgment.

"Look," he sighed eventually, "I try to be fair. Ron's one of my best friends, and I pretty much stayed out of the way when it came to his issues with the young guys like Malfoy and Nott - but," he said, leaning into the word, "they definitely do have a fair amount of criminality going on, especially since Dumbledore died. That was the old president," he explained, and Hermione nodded. "He wasn't much of a pre-emptive strike kind of person, and he was real embedded in Diagon. Helped out a ton of people; probably more good than bad," he added optimistically, "though I can't say for certain."

She could tell something wasn't being said, so she waited, watching Dean struggle for a minute.

"Ron's dad is a county prosecutor," Dean said tangentially, and Hermione nodded, leaning against her locker. "And, uh - he had a Death Eater on trial once about twelve years ago. Rosier, I think," he added, and shook his head, "not that that matters."

Hermione, who had heard Draco reference an incident between Ron's father and his own a number of times by the point, prepared herself for the worst. "And?"

"Ron found Arthur all fucked up one night," Dean said, "beaten and bloody. He wouldn't say who did it, but we sort of all knew," he supplied warily, his grimace tightening. "We pretty much knew it had to have been Lucius Malfoy pressuring him to drop the charges against Rosier."

"What did he do after that?" Hermione asked breathlessly, thinking of the scars on Draco's knuckles and feeling her innards twist, unwillingly wondering how much he was like his father.

"Arthur? He stayed on the case," Dean said simply. "That's the kind of man he is. He refused to drop the charges - even though I assume he was threatened, because he also refused to file a police report for his own beating. In the end, the state's witness fucked off," Dean said regretfully, "and so the case was eventually dropped, but Ron always had a feeling it had been them, and then there was a whole - " he shook his head, cutting himself off and shrugging. "Point is, Ron's got a lot of reason to take issue with them, especially Malfoy. That's the blond one," he clarified, and a piece of her wanted to laugh at the thought that she would need clarification. "The one who came into Rosmerta's last time we were out with Padma."

"Got it," Hermione said quietly, realizing why Draco had not wanted to tell her about what had happened between his father and Ron's. "Wow."

"Pretty much," Dean said, nodding his agreement. "The Death Eaters have been around Diagon forever and like I said, they do a lot of good for folks around here, but you don't want to cross them." He grimaced. "Especially not now."

"The new president?" Hermione asked. "Is that why?"

Dean shrugged, looking a little queasy. "Again, I don't know much about it," he said, with more caution than Dean typically used in conversation. "But Riddle was always sort of a problem, or so the rumors seemed to go. He was a little more ruthless than Dumbledore, and little . . . less liked," he determined. "People weren't thrilled with him as a successor. Sea's boss, for example, wasn't thrilled," he said pointedly. "Considering Riddle's penchant for establishing ironclad authority, that transition was just - "

"Messy?" Hermione guessed, and Dean made a face.

"Something like that," he confirmed with a somewhat uncomfortable nod. "Anyway, is this about Padma's patient?" he prompted, frowning a little as he looked at her. "Were you uncomfortable treating him? I know Padma doesn't give a shit," he remarked flippantly, "but she sees everyone as a slab of meat for her to stitch back up as far as I can tell, so - "

"No, it's not that," Hermione said, laughing a little at the accuracy of the assertion. "I was just a little curious, I guess."

"Ron says Harry's been having to babysit the Death Eaters recently," Dean said, the side of his lip twitching in disapproval. "Seems a little off to me that a group of people known for violence would need much protecting, but - "

"You think they're all like that?" Hermione asked. "Like that Malfoy guy," she said, carefully neutral as she brought him up. "Do you think he's as violent as his father?"

Dean reached up, curling his palm around his mouth as he considered it. "He did sort of beat the shit out of Ron," he said hesitantly, "though we were younger then, and it was Ron who started that fight - "

"Seems unwise," Hermione murmured, though she didn't quite relish the thought of knowing Draco had been so ruthless, regardless of who had initiated the fight.

" - but in general, I think I'd lean towards no," Dean finished, still looking faintly uncertain about his position on the matter. "I always thought Malfoy felt bad about what happened to Ron's father, but then when he - "

Dean cut off, shaking his head. "I think Draco Malfoy is a lot of things," he determined unhelpfully. "Smart, definitely. Could have been really successful if he'd gotten out. I assume, of course, that he thinks he's successful now, given that he's probably pretty high up in the club," Dean said, seeming to try to be fair to him, "and he's really fucking loyal. So's Nott," he added quickly. "It's just that their loyalties are hard fought and rarely won, and generally unsavory."

"Sounds" - like someone I don't know at all - "interesting," Hermione finished, fighting a grimace. "Thanks for telling me all that."

"Yes, you're very welcome for the history lesson," Dean assured her, patting the top of her head. "Now you know all the things, Dr Granger."

"I certainly do," she muttered, and glanced down at her phone, knowing the moment she saw the still-blank screen that what she'd just said was, unfortunately, a lie.

Draco stormed into the Manor, bursting in through the double doors of the board room.

"It was fucking Greyback," he half shouted, slamming his palms down on the table as Lucius and Slughorn leapt back in alarm. Riddle, though, only glanced up slowly at his entrance, resolutely unfazed.

"I'm afraid you'll have to start from the beginning, Draco," Tom remarked slowly, and Draco dug his fingernails into his palm, gritting his teeth in a mix of anguish and fury.

"Astoria Greengrass was shot and killed this morning," Draco said, feeling a strain in his chest at the words. "Once in the head," he choked out, "and then once in the shoulder," he said emphatically, feeling his volume rise again. "The fucking shoulder, Tom - "

"And you think it was Greyback?" Tom prompted, tilting his head. "Why?"

"The shot!" Draco growled again, yanking his sleeve up to point to the scar that had been Greyback's parting gift to him. "The shoulder?" he demanded. "That wasn't a kill shot and you know it - it was a message for me, Tom," he spat, "Greyback's fucking coming after me - "

"Now, now," Slughorn cut in nervously, "this seems a bit like you're jumping to conclusions - "

"Am I?" Draco shouted, his hair falling into his eyes as he rounded on the police chief. "It was your fucking deputy who told me to expect something," he ranted, "that it was suspicious that we hadn't heard from him - "

"When did Harry say that?" Slughorn asked, looking dazed before turning apologetically to Tom. "I'm sure he didn't mean it like that, per se - "

"Mm," Tom agreed, drumming his fingers against the table as he eyed Draco from afar. "Did you alert the authorities?"

"I'm fucking alerting them right now," Draco said emphatically, gesturing to Slughorn. "Slughorn, there's a fucking dead body, surely we can build some kind of fucking case - "

"We certainly cannot," Lucius interjected, frowning at him. "Draco, use your head - we cannot take this to the police, you would only put the club at risk for investigation - "

"ARE YOU JOKING?" Draco roared back, glaring at his father in disbelief. "The fucking head of the Diagon Police is sitting right fucking there - "

"Draco, you know I can't do anything with this," Slughorn said in a low voice. "If I do any investigating into this girl's death, it will only lead back to the Death Eaters - "

"This girl?" Draco echoed furiously. "This girl is a Greengrass," he said, slamming a fist down on the table. "Her father died for the club and now - "

He choked on a breath, remembering his last glimpse of her - at the horrifyingly vacant eyes of the girl he'd once loved - and hesitated, sucking in a labored breath. "And now - "

"I wonder, Draco," Tom mused softly, watching him with an eerie blend of curiosity and a subtle, cruel amusement, "would she have been in any danger if you had not been indulging in your recreational pursuits?"

Silence fell between them as the implication floated down above their heads.

Draco drew back, gaping at him. "I," he said hesitantly, but found he couldn't argue; he'd been followed after all, he might have lead them there - Granger, he thought instantly, his heart pounding and ripping him to shreds, it could have been Hermione - "I - I don't think I can - "

"Surely," Lucius broached carefully, "this is not Draco's fault." Draco, stunned, glanced at his father, his mouth still ajar as guilt beat itself relentlessly against his chest, his heart thrusting against the shaking confines of his ribs. "However," Lucius continued, "perhaps we might consider a retaliation for Miss Greengrass' death? Something," he added, "to prove to Greyback that the Death Eaters will not tolerate the bloodshed of our own?'

For a moment, a flicker of rage flashed in Tom's face at the uninvited suggestion and then, as quickly as it had appeared, it faded, blending into the icy blue of his gaze.

"If this is, as Draco suspects, the work of Fenrir Greyback," Tom ventured coolly, "then I am the eventual target, and this will eventually fall to me. Angering Greyback now without any concrete evidence of his involvement would be - " he paused, trailing off. "Unwise," he concluded, pursing his lips in displeasure at the thought.

"So that's it, then?" Draco demanded hoarsely, scarcely able to breathe. "It's unwise, and so we do nothing?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, looking wearied and annoyed. "Have Avery or Mulciber take care of it," he suggested to Lucius. "Have them go to - " he paused, glancing at Draco. "Miss Greengrass's home?"

"Her apartment," Draco confirmed grimly, shuddering as he thought of the scene; of the familiar living room and the blood soaked into the carpet, of Daphne's fingers clenched around the narrow limbs of her younger sister's body. "Yes."

"Interesting," Tom ruled, curling a hand around his chin, and Draco stared at him, wondering how such a thing could be ruled as interesting. "Weren't you there recently, Draco?" Tom prompted, eyeing him.

Draco, taken aback, forced a heavy swallow. "Daphne's in town," he tried to explain, his voice emerging in a weak and rasping croak. "Astoria had a party - "

"Well," Tom said brightly, "perhaps your concern is premature then." Tom smiled reassuringly, the words accomplishing the same effect as a patronizing pat on the head. "After all, the girl was not known for her choice of company, as I'm sure you'd agree."

At that, Slughorn cast his eyes down, and Lucius shifted in his seat.

"Are you saying this is her fault, then?" Draco asked, loosely curling a fist as he stammered in disbelief. "Or," he added furiously, "do you still think it's mine?"

Tom paused, smiling slightly at the inadvisible recklessness of Draco's ire; the same warning smile he often gave Theo.

"I wouldn't presume to know," Tom murmured, steepling his fingers at his lips. "Would I, Draco?"

Draco bit back an angry retort - have you fucking considered, he thought furiously, that this is your fucking fault, Riddle? - and promptly turned on his heel, resolving to do something, anything, to treat Astoria's death with the gravity it merited.

Riddle could blame him all he wanted. He was going to do something about it, and as unpleasant as the course of action would be - and it would almost certainly be the depths of unpleasantness - he would have to take the risk.

"Take Daphne to my house," Draco said gruffly, striding into the Manor's front room and shoving his keys at Theo. "I have to run an errand and then I'll meet you there."

"Where are you going?" Theo asked helplessly, torn between concern for a half-catatonic Daphne and his natural impulse to side with Draco.

Draco gritted his teeth. "I'm going to find Potter," he said, and felt an instant blow of misery.

a/n: I know, I know, not enough Dramione in this chapter, but I had to get some plot in. If you miss Dramione in the interim, I am writing a new (very) smutty one shot to be posted in Draught of Living Death, so check for that tomorrow/today (my birthday!) depending on your time zone. This chapter is for Green Eyed Lana Lee!

PS - regarding Chekhov's Gun: "Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there." - Anton Chekhov

Edit: for those who don't know . . . C U Next Tuesday.