Chapter Ten - Marlinspike
Harry walked through a dark corridor, breath stuttering in his chest as he tried to walk quietly, but for some reason his footsteps rang upon the stone, sounding like gongs in the cold darkness. His exhalations fogged the air even as he tried to stifle his breathing. He craned his neck looking over his shoulder, although he wasn't certain what he searched for.
He was terrified.
A long, drawn-out hiss came to his ears and he stopped walking to press himself against the stone. A beam of moonlight spilled upon the floor several feet away and Harry recoiled when a massive snake slithered into the light. Harry held his breath, lest the creature see him and attack. He knew without question that the snake was poisonous.
"How nice of you to join us," a sibilant voice said next to Harry and he yelped, nearly jumping out of his skin. Before he could flee, a bony hand clamped onto his wrist. "It is time to make a new potion, Harry Potter."
Harry tried to see the face of the person—thing—that held him, but a deep, hooded cloak covered their features. He looked away and discovered they now stood in a graveyard. A bubbling cauldron stood nearby, with steam rising from its surface. At the sight of it, Harry's forearm thrummed with pain. He jerked away and found that he couldn't move; he was bound to a cold headstone.
A rag was shoved into his mouth, stifling the scream before it could begin. A hooded figure approached with a silver dagger in its fist. Harry recoiled and then—
He jerked awake and thrashed, trying to escape the bonds that held him.
"Harry!"
The name, spoken in a hushed tone thick with worry, steadied him. He focussed and saw Malcolm's face, barely visible in the darkness. Malcolm's hands tightly gripped his arms. Bloody hell, he'd been dreaming. His breath rasped in and out, loud in the darkness.
"There was a... a graveyard. And a cauldron and a snake. I was bound to a headboard and... and..."
"Shhhh. Easy, now. You're safe. It was just a dream. It's okay, I've got you."
Harry clung to Malcolm, but his words were wrong. He'd had dreams before, nebulous visions of flying on a broom, conversations with people he should have recognised, and walks in places he might never have been, but this was different. This had felt like a memory. But how could it have been? Who had memories like that?
"Who am I?" he whispered.
"You're Harry. You're just Harry." Malcolm stroked his hair and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Harry took comfort in his nearness, in the feel and smell and security that he grown to depend upon.
"What if I've put you in danger?"
Malcolm snorted and Harry could picture his handsome face as clearly as if he were standing in bright light. "I've been in danger before."
"Malcolm—"
"Hush, now. Go back to sleep. We've a few hours yet until dawn. And no more horrid dreams, all right?"
Harry's heartbeat had resumed a more normal staccato and he sighed. He snuggled closer and allowed himself to return to the dark embrace of unconsciousness. Before he succumbed, he sent a thankful burst of appreciation to whatever god, goddess, or friendly spirit that had guided him to Malcolm's doorstep.
~*~
"Paris again?" Harry smiled when he recognised their surroundings. He would always have happy memories of Paris, thanks to Malcolm. Not that he had any unhappy memories to counter them.
"Yes, and the man we are going to meet is not necessarily trustworthy, so we shall both have to be very careful."
"Then why are we going to see him?"
"He has connections."
They walked for some distance, until Harry grew bored enough to whistle, and then Malcolm cut that short with an unamused glare. Finally they reached a shop labelled Fabuleux.
Harry stopped short. "It's a clothing shop."
"Which reminds me that you could use some new garments."
"What? My clothes are fine."
"You shouldn't really even be in Paris in those rags. Come on."
Harry pouted, but he followed Malcolm into the shop. It was dimly lit, with overhead lights highlighting bright pops of racked clothing. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floor and Harry suddenly felt as underdressed as Malcolm had suggested. The place smelled expensive.
A diminutive woman pattered towards them and spoke in French. Malcolm replied in the same language. If Harry had ever known how to speak it, he'd forgotten. It all sounded like musical gibberish to him, except that the dulcet tones tripping from Malcolm's tongue were like aural seduction. Harry coughed and busied himself looking at a selection of folded shirts. They all looked identical except for a slight variation in colours.
The woman walked away with her heels clicking loudly on the floor. Malcolm turned back to Harry. "Do you mind waiting out here while I talk to him? I want to be certain where his loyalty lies before exposing you."
"Where should his loyalty lie?"
Malcolm smiled. "With himself, as it always has. I want to ascertain that hasn't changed."
"All right."
Malcolm disappeared into the back and the woman reappeared. She began to straighten garments on a display near him and he wondered if she thought he might steal something. His wan smile disappeared when he remembered he might be a murderer. Perhaps he was a thief, as well.
She moved closer and spoke to him in French, but he gave her a grimace and shook his head. She sighed heavily.
"Vould you like to look at zom trouzairs?" She looked at his jeans and wrinkled her nose. "Moggle items. So unattracteev."
Harry glanced down at his jeans, which had definitely seen better days, but they were well-worn and comfortable. His gaze slid to the doorway where Malcolm had disappeared, remembering his disparaging words.
"Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to try on something," he admitted. He couldn't pay for it now, of course, having no idea the state of his finances. He didn't even know where he lived. But perhaps he could have them set something aside and return for it once his memory recuperated.
She beamed and clapped her hands. "Right zees way. I 'ave just zee items."
Five minutes later, Harry's arms were piled high with garments and he was being shoved into a dressing room. For a tiny woman, she was quite pushy.
He hung up most of the clothing on the provided hooks and then tried on the trousers he liked best. Even the dressing room was dimly lit and Harry turned one way and then the other trying to determine how they looked.
"Vell?" the woman called from the other side of the curtain.
Harry sighed and walked out. She gave a low whistle and then waved her wand at a set of mirrors nearby. Lights sprang up around them and Harry walked over to view himself in the reflective glow. The trousers looked quite nice, hugging him in ways that his jeans hadn't. They were a deep, rich blue, so dark as to look almost black.
"Zees shirt and tunic." The woman handed him two more items and crossed her arms. "No need to hide. I 'ave zeen a man before."
Ignoring his need for modesty, Harry shrugged out of his t-shirt and put on the white silk shirt. It hugged him more tightly than the trousers and seemed to outline every muscle he possessed. His nipples were plainly visible.
"Merde," she breathed. Before Harry could pull the second skin off, she pushed the tunic over his head. Paired with the tight shirt, he had to admit it looked quite nice. The tunic was chocolate brown with edges embroidered in a repeating pattern of white thread. It possessed a high collar that opened to reveal the hollow of Harry's throat, and continued in a V to just below his breastbone, exposing the white shirt beneath.
The hem stopped just below his waistband and he turned to get a look at his backside, impressed.
"Merlin, you are keeping that. Francesca, you are a genius. Put that entire outfit on my tab." Malcolm's voice was appreciative and Harry met his eyes in the mirror.
"I can't let you buy this for me."
"You can and you will."
"I am zorry, monsieur, but I do not know your name."
Malcolm blinked at her and then nodded. "Right. Blaise, however, does. I will let him know. Come, Harry, Blaise would like to see you in order to decide for himself whether or not I have gone mad."
Harry tried to detour to the changing room to retrieve his jeans, but Malcolm grabbed his wrist and sent a flippant, "Francesca, please have Harry's old clothing burned."
"Vith plea-zair," she said as Malcolm dragged him away.
"Honestly, they were not that bad."
"They were that bad. You look delectable, Harry. In fact, keep a close eye on Blaise. He is rather indiscriminately bisexual and seems to believe it is his sworn duty to sleep with everyone that breathes."
Harry frowned. "Did he ever sleep with you?" Malcolm gave him an enigmatic look and Harry tugged at his forehead and looked away. "Sorry. That was too personal and none of my business."
Malcolm halted just before the door that led to the back. His grip on Harry's wrist relaxed and then slid down to take his hand. "Harry. I would like it to be your business. But first we need information so that we can put this ridiculousness behind us and clear your name." Malcolm took a breath and closed his eyes. He seemed tormented and Harry stepped closer, squeezing his hand.
"Malcolm—"
"Harry. There is something I need to tell you. I probably should have told you before, but I always thought there would be a better time. You see, I am—"
The door jerked open to reveal a long hallway and a man who smirked at Malcolm for only a moment before turning his gaze to Harry. He studied him for long seconds and then dropped his stare to their joined hands. An eyebrow cocked at Malcolm and then he turned and beckoned imperiously.
"This way. Unless you prefer to whisper outside of my door for a while longer."
Whatever Malcolm meant to say, the moment had obviously passed. He gave Harry a tight smile and released his hand to stride after Blaise. Harry studied the man as they traversed the hallway. He was lithe, just a bit shorter than Harry, and had an interesting walk that was almost a sashay. Harry dragged his eyes away from Blaise's swaying arse lest Malcolm think he was interested. Because he most certainly wasn't.
"Interesting artwork," Harry croaked almost desperately as they passed a framed painting of what appeared to be pink and black smears.
Malcolm scoffed. "What Blaise knows about art could fit in a moth's footprint. He was probably shagging the artist and got the paintings in exchange for a blowjob."
"I heard that." Blaise's singsong carried back and then he opened the door at the end of the hall and held it for them.
Harry entered the room and found a cosy looking office with an enormous black desk and one bank of windows looking directly out on the Eiffel Tower. Before Harry could comment, Blaise walked around the desk and sat down in a large leather chair.
"So. Harry Potter. What brings you to Paris?"
"Knock it off, Blaise," Malcolm said and dropped into one of the comfortable-looking chairs that faced the desk. Harry took the other.
"'Knock it off,' he says. You bring Potter here, to my shop, in broad daylight and tell me to knock it off. I should hex you both and send Potter straight to the Ministry."
"You won't."
Despite his words, Malcolm sounded worried. Harry touched the long pocket on the tunic he wore, glad he'd tucked his wand into it as soon as Francesca had pulled it into place, although he preferred it to be in his hand.
"Why shouldn't I? What's in it for me?"
"For one thing, Potter would owe you a favour."
Harry nearly rolled his eyes. Why would that matter? He was no one. Blaise, however, sat forward and stared at him intently, as though attempting to peer into the future and determine what Harry could do for him.
"Blaise, just tell us what's going on."
"Have you completely lost your facilities, Draco? Surely you haven't been taken in by this ludicrous amnesia business?"
"Blaise."
"Honestly. Pretending to be some lunatic hermit living on the coast of Spain was fine whilst you were simply brooding and feeling sorry for yourself, but to continue it to the detriment of your very existence—"
Malcolm shot to his feet and towered over Blaise, who simply looked up at him without moving. "Blaise, shut it."
Blaise shrugged. "It's your funeral, darling. But I'm not giving up one iota of information for less than fifty thousand Galleons."
"Done."
Harry wanted to jump to his feet and escape. There were too many things happening that he didn't understand, and Malcolm was taking on too much for Harry's sake. And something about Blaise was giving Harry a pounding headache and things that he'd said were ringing in Harry's ears like a church bell.
"Stop!" Harry cried sharply.
Both pairs of eyes turned to him.
"Malcolm. You can't. I won't let you take on such a debt for me."
"Malcolm," Blaise repeated. "Bloody hell, tell him the truth."
"For Salazar's sake, Blaise—"
"No, not for his sake, for mine. I'll be damned if I subscribe to this endeavour and then have Potter bail the moment you reveal yourself. I could lose everything I've built here. If Potter doesn't remember you, as you say he doesn't, then it won't matter anyway, will it? I want proof that Potter won't turn me over to one side or the other because you coerced him 'under duress' by pretending to be his lover and not some former Death Ea—"
"Fine!" Malcolm yelled and then took a deep breath and spoke more quietly. "Fine. We'll do it your way."
Blaise leaned back in his chair. "It's better this way. You'll see. Everything out in the open or you can find another source. Do you know how much they would pay me right now for Potter's whereabouts?"
"Obviously I do not," Malcolm growled.
Harry had produced his wand and held it tightly in his hand, ready to snatch Malcolm and Disapparate at a moment's notice. He was dying to ask questions, but already he felt on uneven footing with Blaise, who obviously knew precisely who he was and what he was on the run from.
Malcolm sank down into his chair and then faced Harry. His features were stiff and resolute. "Harry. There is something you need to know. Blaise is right about that. I was trying to tell you before he forced me into it." He shot a glare at Blaise. "But please understand that nothing has changed between us. I need you to trust me."
Blaise snorted at that and Harry, confused, nodded.
"In about ten minutes, you're going to learn that I am not who you think I am." Malcolm reached out and took Harry's hands, holding one tightly and gripping the other around Harry's wand, holding loosely so as not to impede any spells Harry might want to cast. Harry noticed the difference, and appreciated it, even though he was thoroughly confused. "You see, I've been drinking Polyjuice since I met you."
Harry nearly shook Malcolm off and shot to his feet. He stared, pulse skyrocketing as his instincts screamed, Danger! Danger! but he got hold of them and forced himself not to move. This was Malcolm, who had risked his life for him. The man had accompanied him to Gringotts and taken him to safety when they were in danger. Malcolm believed in him and soothed him after nightmares. Malcolm was...
Malcolm was the man Harry had fallen in love with.
"Polyjuice," Harry repeated woodenly. His hands were sweaty and slick in Malcolm's grip. "Why?"
Malcolm scooted closer, until their knees pressed together tightly. Harry fought the urge to flee. What if Malcolm looked nothing like he did now? What if he were... Oh Merlin, what if he were hideous and unattractive? Harry cringed at the thought that he could be so shallow, but the seed had taken root and Harry was petrified that he'd fallen for Malcolm only because of the pretty package.
I am a bad person, Harry thought. Perhaps I am also a murderer and deserve to go to...to that prison...place.
Trying to recall the name of the prison thankfully occupied him for several minutes—he could picture the damned thing, perched on an island of rock in the middle of the sea—why the fuck could he not recall the name? Alaban? Alchemy? Something that began with a bloody A.
"My name is Draco Malfoy."
The statement thoroughly distracted Harry from thinking about the prison. Oddly, the name brought up even more images than the prison. Harry remembered... fire.
And water. And then fire again, fire everywhere. Tears in a bathroom and a slash of deadly magic.
"Sectumsempra," Harry murmured.
"Oh Salazar." Malcolm's grip was like a vice. Harry wanted to pull away. He wanted to hold on and not let go. Malcolm closed his eyes and sat motionless.
Harry fought a growing headache and tried to remember. White-blond hair, a perpetual sneer, a glare from a broom as they raced side-by-side through the sky. A death-pale face that stared at him in a room filled with tension. Shouted, glass-sharp words. "Is that Harry Potter?" "I don't know!"
The memories were coming faster now, as if he'd cracked a cauldron and unleashed an unstoppable spill. As Malcolm's features slowly melted away, becoming pointier and paler, each recollection felt like a bludgeon. Harry saw Malfoy sneering at a hippogriff, sitting at a long table dressed in green and silver, shoving past him on the way to a long staircase, fists clenched and face contorted in a train car, standing with two bigger boys in a room about to erupt into flames...
Harry pulled his hands away with a sharp cry. Oh god. Oh god, oh god. Hermione. And Ron. How could he have forgotten them? The pain was nearly unbearable. He retreated, pushing the memories away as he shoved the chair across the room and staggered to his feet, fighting them in order to regain some sense of self. He was drowning in who he used to be.
"Get him a drink! Firewhiskey!" The voice was Malcolm's, and yet not. It was harsher and colder. Draco Malfoy's voice. Harry felt hysterical laughter threatening to bubble up from his chest.
"Draco Malfoy hates me," he whispered.
Fingers grasped his shoulders, squeezed tightly, and then shook him gently. "No, Harry. No, I don't. Not anymore, and I haven't for a long time."
"Here, Potter. Steady on." A glass brushed his hand and he took it. He drained the contents in one gulp and then fell into a coughing fit as his windpipe burned and tried to pull oxygen through the fumes.
"Blaise, give us a minute alone." Malcolm's—no, Malfoy's—voice sharpened. "Damn it, you forced this, now give me a bloody minute!"
Blaise sighed. "Fine. I'll go make certain Francesca hasn't gone out for cappuccino again and left the front unattended. Be right back."
When the door closed, Draco's grip tightened and Harry noted that he'd never let go. "Harry, listen to me. I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but everything we've been through in the past few days, well, it wasn't some act. The body might not have been mine, but everything else was. Everything else was. Do you understand?"
Harry lifted his eyes and finally looked at the man he'd awakened tangled around just that morning, who'd soothed his demons and kissed his lips and smoothed the hair back from his face. The one who had made him feel safe. And wanted.
"How can I trust you? I don't know what to believe. I don't even know who I am."
Draco nodded and removed his hands from Harry's shoulders. "I understand. Do you want me to take you to someone else? To one of your old friends? They'll probably be more help than I've been."
He looked away as he spoke and Harry noticed that he was actually handsomer than Malcolm. His hair was paler, softer-looking, and his features more delicate. His lashes were golden and ridiculously long. Harry wondered if kissing him would taste any different, and forced the thought away.
Part of him was hurt and angry at Malcolm—Draco's—betrayal. Another part could not help but wonder why Draco had helped him at all. Had he been in on the murders? Was it his job to keep an eye on Harry, or worse, to bring him to one side or the other?
Harry bit his lip until his teeth threatened to puncture through. Then Draco's words penetrated. "Hey! You know who I am. You've always known." It was accusatory.
Draco nodded, attention fixed on the scenery out the window. "I know who you are. At first I thought you were faking in some bizarre ploy to bring me back to England, although I couldn't understand why. And by the time I figured out you really couldn't remember... It was too late. You might have left in a panic and I did not want that to happen."
"Why not?"
"Because you needed me! For the first time ever. Salazar, it might have been the first time anyone had ever needed me, at least for anything that actually meant something. It was... It was nice."
Harry's heart twisted. Draco sounded sincere, and wounded. Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He needed help and he had no idea if his old friends were still allies. Everything was muddled. Although he recalled odd scenes of Ron and Hermione, he could not remember anything current. The alleged murder scenario was not even vaguely accessible.
"Why do I think of fire when I look at you?"
Draco blanched, his fair skin turning ashy-pale. Harry regretted asking. "You pulled me out of a burning room once. Saved my life. Thanks for that, by the way. I should have told you that quite a lot sooner. Thank you, I mean. I guess I thought running away would be easier."
"I..." Harry had no idea what to say to that. He could remember fire, and heat, and arms around his waist threatening to squeeze him in half. "I doubt you ran away because of me."
Draco gave him a glance and a wry grin, so familiar that it gave Harry another wrench. "Well, you could be right. But it was at least partly because of you."
"I'll accept that." Harry smiled and for a moment wondered if it really had been Draco beneath the Malcolm facade. A ray of hope flared, but he shoved it aside. He couldn't afford sentimentality if he wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery that surrounded him. "I think we should carry on with whatever you had planned. You know, get the information from Blaise, since he seems to know what's going on."
Draco's eyes lifted to meet his directly. They were striking in a completely different way than Malcolm's had been. "You do?"
Harry nodded. "Yes, but you have to know that things have changed."
"No more snogging?" Draco asked and his lips twitched into a pout while his eyes looked like huge, sad pools. Harry tore his eyes away and pushed aside the need to lean closer and discover just what the differences were between kissing Draco and kissing Malcolm.
It wasn't some act, he'd said. Harry only wished he could be sure of that.
"No more snogging," he said firmly.
To his surprise, Draco's pout turned into a sultry-looking smirk. Harry thought he might have to flee the room to escape the sudden barrage of sex appeal. "All right," Draco replied, leaning closer, and then he added, "For now."
The door opened and Blaise breezed back into the room. "Are we done with the tears and apologies? If so, I would like to get down to business. Are my terms acceptable?"
"Fifty thousand Galleons?" Draco asked. "Quite."
"Mal—Draco, it's too much."
"It's fine, Harry." Draco reached over and squeezed his hand absently before retaking his seat. "Now, tell us what you know, Blaise."
"You know what he's accused of, I assume?" Blaise said and glanced Harry's way.
"Yes. We've read the newspaper reports."
Blaise pulled out his wand and Summoned a file folder from a nearby cabinet. "Here is the official Auror report. It looks bad for Potter, mostly because there were no witnesses left alive, except for Potter's witless Auror partner, and he was Obliviated."
"Surely they can't believe that Harry committed murder?"
Blaise shrugged. "Many people don't believe it, but Potter's disappearance looks bad. There is a large betting pool in London based on when he will turn up, with odds on his guilt or innocence. There are also conspiracy theories stating he's been kidnapped or Imperiused." Blaise chuckled. "I'll bet none of them listed amnesia as a viable option."
"So Harry is a suspect mainly because he disappeared. We don't know why he did that, or how he turned up in the Mediterranean, so it's possible he was kidnapped and escaped."
"It's no concern of mine whether you're innocent or went on a killing spree, Potter. But I know that there were others involved. Namely, William Salisbury and his cohorts."
"The Weights and Measures guy?"
"Yes. The Head of Budgeting and Forecasting. Obviously, he got tired of his menial role and wants something more."
"But why?"
Blaise looked at him as though he were a bit simple. "Potter, I realise as the Saviour of the World that it's difficult to grasp that other people aspire to be something more, but it does happen to those of us not born under a lucky star."
"Blaise, stop being an arse. We all know how 'lucky' that star turned out to be, so give the envy a rest and tell us where to find this Salisbury character and how deeply he's involved."
"When did you turn into Potter's biggest fan, Draco? Is he that good in the sack?"
Harry's fist clenched, but Draco's wand was in his hand and he leaned over the desk. The wand tip quivered before Blaise's throat, but to his credit Blaise never even flinched. He raised a perfect brow. Draco's taut body relaxed and he lowered the wand. "Bloody hell, I sometimes forget how fucking annoying you are. Can you stop being a prick and give us some useful information?"
Draco sank back into his chair as Blaise shrugged. "I think the Spanish heat must have cooked your brain. You're no fun anymore. But fine. Salisbury has arranged a meeting near Kilkenny, Ireland, next Tuesday. Rumour has it they plan to discuss Phase Two of their plan."
"Which is?"
"The Ministry, of course. Salisbury wants to be Minister. He is rather low on the food chain—or at least he was until most of the upper echelon was killed—and now if the Minister dies he will be quite a lot closer. All of the speech-making and press releases he's engaged in recently might make that an even larger possibility. For someone who spent most of his life plunking around with weights and measures, he has suddenly become quite motivated."
"Is he the ringleader?" Draco asked.
"Who knows? He certainly has the most to gain. Most of the others had seconds that have already moved into the chief positions, but only a few of them have been linked—by me—to Salisbury and his machinations. Strangely, the Magical Creatures Equality Bill seems to have been the catalyst for all of this nonsense."
"I read about that in Spain. Pansy blathered on about it when she visited. They are calling for equal rights for Magical Creatures, yes? Werewolves and vampires and their ilk?"
"And house-elves. That's the big one. Anyone still opposed to freeing their little home-slaves is opposed to the bill in a big way."
"Salisbury is Muggle-born."
"And yet he opposes the bill. Curious, isn't it? He doesn't even have house-elves."
"What is his reason for opposing it, then?"
"'Wizarding tradition' and the 'potential for rebellion' and the 'infrastructure falling to pieces.' That sort of thing. The purebloods are eating it up and calling for Shacklebolt to resign so that Salisbury can take up the reins. It's a bit mad, really. Some people might even excuse the murders if it can get Shacklebolt out and Salisbury in. Shacklebolt is pushing for the Wizengamot to ratify the bill, of course. He's a bloody bleeding heart."
Draco shook his head. "There is no way that bill will fail. Too many people are pro-Shacklebolt and anti-Dark Lord for it to meet defeat. Especially with Granger and her house-elf rights lobbying. I heard about that all the way in bloody Spain, although mainly due to Pansy and my mother ranting about it."
"And quite rightly!" Blaise huffed. "Honestly, if it passes we'll have to free the buggers and pay them. It boggles the mind. And with that said, it's understandable that Salisbury's group found it necessary to kill off the opposition. Publicly, however, the effort seems to have backfired. Public support for the bill is stronger than ever due to the sympathy aspect, but Salisbury has been spewing plenty of platitudes and holding vigils for the dead, as well as calling for justice for the victims. He's become quite the public speaker."
"Curious, considering he seemed perfectly happy to work in accounting for the rest of his days when I met him. Dull man."
"No longer. He seems to have found some motivation. Power, perhaps?"
"Could be. Is Mrs Salisbury still around?"
"If she is, I haven't seen her. Salisbury never divorced, if that's what you're asking, but he seems to be guarding his private life closely, a wise move if he is involved in this whole murder scheme, which seems likely. Best to keep the wife and kiddies out of danger when dealing with thieves and murderers."
"He has children?" Harry asked, appalled. For some reason it was easier to think of a murderer as an evil figure living alone, bitter and miserable. He supposed that was a silly idea.
"A daughter, from what I recall. Not quite old enough for Hogwarts."
"How did you find out about this meeting?" Draco asked.
"The more people involved, the easier it is for information to dribble through the cracks, dearest. Two of the blokes on your list happen to be on my payroll. They haven't spilled enough to give me sufficient ammunition to use against them, but both of them mentioned the meeting to me as an insurance policy. Neither of them wants to be played for a fool should the deal go sour, and they want to ascertain that Salisbury takes the fall and not them."
"No honour amongst thieves." Harry dredged the platitude from somewhere in his memory.
"No reward without risk," Blaise countered. "But a wise man doesn't risk without insurance."
"And that's where you come in."
Blaise grinned at Draco. "Information is my business. Well, that and providing quality clothing to those in need." He nodded at Harry's garments. "Are you paying for those, Draco, or shall I owl Potter's account?"
"Don't be stupid, you know they'll have a lock on his Gringotts vault. You'll have the Aurors here in five minutes flat."
"I'll just put it on your tab, then."
"You do that. Harry, I think we should be going now."
"Feel free to drop by anytime, Potter. My spring line will be here in a few weeks and we have some pieces that will have Draco panting after you like—-"
"That's more than enough, Blaise, thank you." Draco shot him a pained look as he stood. Harry rose, more than happy to escape Blaise's irritating presence. He had been helpful, but Harry couldn't help but feel uneasy. He suspected Blaise knew much more than he had let on.
Blaise rose and accompanied them to the door. "I'll see you out. Lovely to see you again, Draco. Enjoy your time in Paris, won't you?"
"I'm sure I will, Blaise. By the way—Obliviate!"
Harry gasped as Blaise stiffened and his handsome features went slack.
"What are you doing?"
"We can't trust him. He was stupid to trust me—obviously he thought my self-imposed isolation, and possibly coming here with you—has made me soft. He always was too arrogant for his own good. Blaise, we were never here. You have been feeling ill all day, probably due to something you ate, and you fell asleep in your chair. You should probably go home and rest."
Blaise nodded and walked back to sit in his chair. Draco spelled the file back into the drawer from whence Blaise had Summoned it, and then cleaned the glass and returned it to the cabinet.
"When we walk out of here, you will rest your head on your desk for approximately fifteen minutes. You won't remember seeing us today at all. Understood?"
"Yes." Blaise's voice was wooden and dreamy.
"Excellent. Out you go, Harry."
Harry opened the door and walked quickly down the long hallway. He stopped short when the door closed behind Draco. "Merlin, what about Francesca?"
"I'll have to Obliviate her, too. It's a pity, but necessary. Blaise would have sold us out in a heartbeat, or at least let them know that I am with you. He probably wouldn't have mentioned that we know about the meeting, but he would have no qualms about letting the Aurors learn about me. They would be hammering on Mother's door within minutes. I would prefer to avoid that."
Harry heard that and felt a small flash of relief. He had thought Draco didn't want to be associated with him and the trouble he was currently in, but to learn that Draco merely wanted to protect his mother… Bloody hell, he didn't know what to think. His jumbled memories of Draco Malfoy were far from pleasant, and conflicted horribly with his recent memories of Malcolm.
Francesca stared at them when they exited the door. "Draco?" she asked in obvious surprise, taking in Draco's altered appearance.
"Sorry about this, Francesca. Obliviate!"
Draco pulled the same routine on her, although speaking in French, which Harry found interesting. Would it work as well if he'd spoken in English? Were there nuances in the instruction process that could be missed? Despite his curiosity, he couldn't help but feel it was wrong to muddle with people's memories, especially when he knew first-hand how terrifying it was to lose them.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, although when he thought of the spell itself, Harry suddenly knew that he could have cast it himself, if needed. It was a difficult hex, but he had apparently been trained to use it. I'm an Auror, he recalled from the newspaper articles. Or I was.
"Oh, during that lovely period when the Dark Lord lived in my house. He was always having us practice curses on one another. Unforgiveables, usually, since he was particularly fond of the Cruciatus, but also lesser hexes such as Obliviate and Confringo and Deletrius. There is nothing like setting someone on fire and then healing them and removing their memory of it. Fun times." His tone was flat and Harry felt a sharp stab of sympathy. Bloody hell, some Dark Lord had lived in Draco's house?
Thinking of a Dark Lord gave Harry a sudden, terrifying image of the snakelike face from his not-dream, so he shoved it away forcibly. That was a memory he knew he didn't want to relive.
With the less-than-ethical deeds completed, they departed Blaise's shop and returned by a circuitous route to the inn they had previously occupied. Harry was full of questions but most of them had no answers, so he declined supper, took a long shower, and went to bed.
Draco stayed awake, sitting on the stool and reading through the papers again. The silence was awkward before Harry fell asleep, but he didn't quite know how to fix it.
~TBC~