The Small Print
Supermassive Black Hole
Two Years Ago
The party was in full swing now, a blur of color and noise that made Theodore shrink back instinctively. I can't. He didn't know how to do this. He wasn't even sure he wanted to do this. Why was he here again?
"Theodore Nott," drawled a familiar voice.
"Greengrass." Theodore acknowledged Daphne reluctantly as she, evidently inebriated and garbed in some ridiculous costume, sidled up to him. "What are you supposed to be?"
She was mostly naked, except for patterned fabric twined strategically around her lithe curves. He noticed now that she'd also elongated her canines, giving her fangs.
"Basilisk. Duh."
She took a long, bracing swig of her drink. He scanned the throng for anyone who might've put her up to talking to him but no one seemed to notice they were there at all. "And you?"
"I'm not in costume," he said, observing her sway.
"Out of the way!"
Adrian Pucey slammed into them, knocking Daphne's drink out of her hand as he went, laughing, his face flushed and drunk, as Daphne's sister Astoria and a tall man with—his heart skipped a beat for a horrible instant at the sight—a poorly-wrought Voldemort mask—chased him. His stomach gave a swooping lurch as his gaze landed on Astoria.
Salazar—she was beautiful.
Dressed as Circe, with her long, glossy blonde hair curling her slim and notably bare shoulders, she was radiant. And he'd never seen her so animated before, though this made him uncomfortable and unsteady. She normally was so introverted…so withdrawn.
That was part of why he liked her so much.
"Ugh!" Daphne squealed after them, but she was grinning. "Nott, you're too uptight," she slurred when she looked back to him, swaying and nearly knocking into him. "Why not let loose once in a while?"
Theodore extricated himself from Daphne, and his mood plummeted further when Malfoy entered the party, dressed as Slytherin—how creative—and unknowingly overshadowed by Zabini, whose merman costume was so intricate and lifelike that even Theodore had to do a double-take. His smooth, impossibly dark skin was on display and every witch in the room was eying him up.
"Nice costume, Nott. Your most convincing one yet," Malfoy greeted, rendering it impossible for Theodore to simply ghost past him and escape.
"Malfoy! Zabini!" Astoria breathlessly joined them, her golden circlet askew, before he could supply a retort. He watched Malfoy and Zabini's eyes mimic his own and trail over her lovely form. He watched her ignore him, ignore Malfoy, ignore everyone except Zabini.
No. You don't get her too. Not on top of everything else.
The thought, brutal in its childish selfishness, seared his mind—even after the pain dissipated, its presence was not forgotten. "You're a merman," she deemed, looking over Zabini, "and you're…"
"I'm Salazar Slytherin! Why can't anyone figure it out?" Malfoy complained.
Pucey and the tall man with the Voldemort mask appeared now, out of breath and still laughing, now that they were finished terrorizing the other partygoers.
"Voldemort? Edgy," Zabini concluded, arching his brows at the tall man. He glanced at Pucey. "Ah, Pucey. A Quidditch player—just like last year…and the year before that. Groundbreaking."
The tall man slid his mask off, revealing thick blond hair, stubble, and a ruggedly handsome face. He grinned at them, and Theodore heard Zabini draw in a sharp breath. It was unusual for Zabini to let on that he was surprised about anything. "Even more edgy of you to show up at all, Amundsen," he added quietly. Astoria looked at the man—Amundsen—with vague interest, before turning back to Zabini.
"You two know each other?"
"Oh, I'm infamous," teased Amundsen, winking and elbowing Astoria. She seemed uncomfortable around him, and Theodore would have been cheering at her implicit rejection, if not for how eager she seemed to be to talk to Zabini. Malfoy's face seemed to mirror Theodore's thoughts, for he was glowering now at Amundsen, who seemed to present far less of a threat than Zabini. So we all want her and we all know we can't compete with Zabini. There was no clearer sign that the Hogwarts days had well and truly ended—Zabini wasn't taking a backseat to the attention like he had always done. Malfoy was no longer on top.
"If by infamous you mean currently one of the most hunted Dark wizards in Europe, then, yes," drawled Zabini casually.
"That's just my costume," Amundsen jested at Astoria's wide eyes. She took a step back and Theodore watched the shadow that passed over Amundsen's face.
Just then, Pansy sidled up to them, in nondescript green and silver medieval garb.
"And who are you supposed to be?" Pucey asked, looking at Pansy as she latched onto Malfoy, who reflexively began to step away before catching himself.
"Slytherin's wife!"
"If he had had one," interjected Zabini with a snort. Astoria laughed and Theodore watched her eyes catch Zabini's, for one private fleeting instant. "Such ambition, Parkinson, really, I'm impressed," Zabini added, recovering seamlessly from the moment with Astoria.
Was he allowed to go home yet?
"Nott's not even dressed up," Pansy pointed out, her eyes glimmering wickedly. She knew full well he hated having any attention brought on him.
"Yes, he is—he's…" Malfoy drifted off. "…Er, what are you, exactly?" He tried to stare down his nose at Theodore but he was two or three inches shorter and the effect was understandably lost.
"Not dressed up."
"Ha! Not! Like Nott! He's 'Nott, Dressed Up'! Get it?" Pucey guffawed, clapping. Zabini and Astoria arched their brows at him as Malfoy and Pansy laughed hysterically. Amundsen slipped back on his mask almost furtively, then, and Theodore wondered what the cause was, but he didn't have to wonder for very long.
Suddenly Pucey was beaming and letting out loud wolf-whistles. "Alright, everyone, you all have got to meet someone who would absolutely have been an excellent addition to Slytherin, back in school!"
He stepped aside to allow an infuriatingly handsome man with dark, jaw-length wavy hair into the circle. Definitely a Black, Theodore concluded, raking his gaze over the trademark features of the Black family: a rebellious dusting of freckles over the bridge of the nose; dark, clever eyes; dark, mussed, wavy hair; and a wicked grin. He was wearing the Bulgarian Quidditch team robes and had drawn on a unibrow in an unfortunately uncanny imitation of Viktor Krum. "He's an Auror for Germany's Ministry, but don't hold that against him. He's certainly from a Pureblood family—meet Alphard Black."
"We're relatives, then," Malfoy remarked swiftly, stepping forward to offer his hand. Alphard Black didn't make a move to shake it.
"Aren't we all? Incestuous bunch, us Purebloods," he snarked.
"How are you related to the Black family?" Theodore stabbed bravely, clearing his throat and feeling his face flush. Alphard smirked.
"By blood?" he mused with a quirk of his brow, but he had clearly dismissed Theodore before he'd even spoken. His eyes roved to Amundsen's Voldemort mask. He didn't seem as amused as the other partygoers by the mask. "Well, then—no holds barred, eh?"
"Zabini here said it was edgy." Amundsen's voice was significantly muffled behind the mask. So he's afraid that the German Aurors are hunting him too, then? Theodore wondered, glancing between Alphard Black and Amundsen. He'd thought Zabini was joking about the man being a Dark wizard, but now he realized he hadn't been. In the corner of his eye, Theodore saw Daphne join the fringe of their group wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the newcomer who was supposedly a Black.
"Who are your parents?" Malfoy pressed. Alphard glanced at him disinterestedly.
"I'll send over my extended family tree with my CV as soon as possible," he said, mock-seriously. Astoria and Zabini began to laugh openly as Malfoy's face flushed. "Say—I heard there was butterbeer-pong?" he said aside to Pucey, making it clear he'd already forgotten Malfoy.
"Oh, yeah—Flint bewitched the balls so they fly around on their own," Pucey said eagerly, pulling Alphard away. "I almost forgot you were Durmstrang's best Seeker—excellent."
"I like him," remarked Astoria, her eyes twinkling. Of course you do, thought Theodore venomously, hearing Daphne mutter her agreement behind him. Zabini was poorly hiding a grin behind his drink.
"That was well bad," he said wryly to Malfoy, who was still fuming. Pansy was patting his arm absently, but her brown gaze was heavy on Amundsen's mask.
Theodore extricated himself once more. On his way out of the party, he passed by Pucey and Black, who were engaged in what he assumed was Butterbeer-pong with a number of Theodore's former schoolmates. Flint, dressed all too appropriately as a troll, appeared to be losing sorely to Alphard Black.
"Hey, swot!" called Alphard to him. Their eyes met across the room. Alphard grinned, gesturing for him to come over. Reluctantly, Theodore approached him and Pucey. They were grinning broader now, most likely at his expense. Alphard slung an arm round Theodore's shoulders, pulling him in close, and steered him to face the group he'd just left.
Zabini and Astoria were already deep in conversation, standing so close you couldn't have fit parchment between them, and Pansy was doing a poor job of comforting Malfoy. Amundsen was already gone, and Daphne had followed Alphard and Pucey to the game. "If you want the girl," Alphard began in a low voice in his ear. Theodore could smell his cologne and it didn't help matters. Stuck up, full-of-himself git. "…Then you've got to actually speak once in a while."
"I don't know what you're talk—"
"The blonde. With the hair," Alphard murmured exasperatedly. Theodore felt his face grow hot. He knew from experience that it would start looking embarrassingly blotchy soon.
"I have no interest in her," he snapped, but his face was only growing warmer. He despised this idiot for interfering.
"So, all that drooling and gazing was for Voldemort then?" Alphard asked dubiously, snorting at him. "Well, no accounting for taste." He released him, and slapped him on the back, just a tad too hard. "Good luck, mate. I tried." He had already turned back to his games with Pucey and Flint before Theodore had recovered.
Theodore stared at Alphard's sinewed back. Even if his costume of Krum was supposed to be unflattering, he wore the Quidditch robes all too well. All the girls were looking at him. He was the center of attention.
Just once, he thought desperately, staring at Alphard with a powerful hunger, he would like to know what it was like—to be that man: the man the girls looked at, the man that every other man wanted to be. Just once, he wanted to walk into a room and have all eyes turn to him.
Just once.
"He's staring at you now, Black," Pucey was sniggering, glancing back at him. Black glanced over his shoulder and winked at Theodore cheekily.
"I'm definitely at least one step up from Voldemort," he reasoned with Pucey. "He's refining his tastes. Must by the hair."
"Fuck off," Theodore snapped, and he turned away. He pushed his way through the groups—he had never hated parties quite this much—and made it out the door into the silent, blessedly cool and empty hall. Seconds later, Alphard Black appeared.
"Sorry, for back there," he said breathlessly, but he was grinning as he lazily leaned against the door. The humidity of the party—too many bodies packed into too small a flat—had made the drawn-on unibrow melt off. And now Alphard Black was just a handsome bloke in a well-tailored Quidditch costume. "But come on—what's your plan?"
"I don't see how this is your business."
"Well, does anyone know?" Alphard tried again, still grinning. "I mean, it was obvious to me, but that was only because I bothered to look. Does she even know your name?"
"Did it ever occur to you how incredibly insulting this is?"
Alphard opened his mouth to say something, but the door opened, revealing Daphne.
"Come on, Black—it's your turn!" she called petulantly. Alphard shot one last look at him, then hastened back inside, to much cheering from those inside. Not five minutes in and already Alphard had bonded better with his schoolmates than Theodore had in nearly twenty years.
And now Theodore was alone again in the silence.
Theodore stood there in the hall, the party a dull din trapped on the other side of the door—or rather, as always, he was merely trapped outside and looking in on a world that had excluded him from the start.
He walked along the hall numbly. Does she even know your name? How humiliating. There was a window at the end of the hall by the stairs, and he leaned against the wall, staring out the window, ensconced in darkness, lost in his own humiliation.
The door to the party opened and shut; briefly the dull din became a roar that was soon quieted again. And then—
"Do you have any idea of how close you were just now?"
"I had a mask. Salazar, you're uptight."
"Alphard Black is Germany's top Auror, and the word is that our Ministry is more or less poaching him. Shacklebolt was overheard saying he'd slice off his wand arm if it would get him Black. Have you not heard his record?! He's on Potter's level." Malfoy sounded on the verge of hysteria. "Are you trying to land yourself in Azkaban?"
"Ah, right." Amundsen's voice became cool, sharp as a diamond. "I forgot your daddy died there."
Theodore watched from the shadows in fascination. In any other circumstance, Malfoy would have retaliated, but he seemed more or less paralyzed. Interesting. There was not just a small amount of satisfaction to be drawn from seeing Malfoy so powerless.
"I've—we've—worked far too hard to fuck everything up now over a Halloween party, for Merlin's sake," he insisted.
"No one at that party would turn me in."
"Except yourself, apparently!"
Theodore's acute sense of self-preservation was kicking in now—a bit later than usual, but it kicked in nonetheless—and he nonverbally cast a Disillusionment charm over himself. He couldn't believe neither man was being more careful. He was barely hidden.
"You're even stupider than I thought if you think a bloody pretty-boy like that brat could be the end of me." Amundsen's voice was low, fast, scathing. Theodore watched him slash his wand through the air and pin Malfoy violently to the wall. The blond man smirked as he watched Malfoy struggling against invisible binds. "It'll take more than some stuck-up jock to take me down. He probably knows more about bloody hair styling than he does about being an Auror."
Privately, Theodore agreed, mostly out of vehement dislike for Alphard Black. So, all that drooling and gazing was for Voldemort, then? Black's words echoed once more, prompting a torrent of hatred and resentment.
And then it happened and Theodore forgot entirely about Alphard Black, at least momentarily.
Amundsen must have cast a spell to silence Malfoy, but Theodore never heard it. All he heard was that word—that horrible word that had haunted his dreams ever since his childhood.
"Crucio."
Malfoy mutely strained and writhed, to no avail. Amundsen watched calmly from behind his Voldemort mask.
Theodore watched in horror and amazement. He couldn't tear his gaze from the sight. Spittle gathered at the corners of Malfoy's mouth; sweat plastered his fine blond hair to his pale skin; he trembled and shook so violently he looked like he might break his neck.
When at last Amundsen released Malfoy and Malfoy, shaking and pale, crumpled to the floor in a sweaty, trembling heap, Amundsen turned towards where Theodore sat, and sauntered along the hall.
"Don't think I've forgotten about you—what was your name again? Not that anyone cares, of course. Nott, was it?"
Theodore held his breath.
"Finite incantatem," said Amundsen lazily, with a bored swipe of his wand. He could feel the Disillusionment charm melting away as Amundsen loomed over him now, the rubbery Voldemort mask even more eerie in the faint moonlight streaming in through the window. "Well, you look just like someone who will do anything to save his own arse."
Present
"Pansy?"
Hermione swiped her Disillusionment charm away as she entered the parlor to see Pansy standing in front of the mantle, crying. Pansy coughed and choked on her sobs as she saw Hermione.
"M—Hermione Granger," Pansy corrected hastily, sputtering and flushing. Hermione arched her brows at her. Seriously? After all this time, you still almost called me Mudblood? She wasn't mad so much as amazed.
"What are you doing here? This Manor is restricted to Ministry officials," Hermione said, stepping forward and into the parlor. Pansy rolled her eyes.
"This was going to be my home in less than a week," she snapped. She turned away and let out another choking sob. "And I can't stop thinking about him," she sobbed, blowing her nose violently into a handkerchief. Hermione inwardly groaned.
She didn't have time for this.
"Right, well, until we've closed the investigation, we can't risk you tampering with evidence," she said crisply. "I'm—" she tried, but she couldn't manage to wrench out I'm very sorry, so she continued on briskly, "—well, unfortunately, you're going to have to leave. Now."
She escorted a surly Pansy out the front door and back into the snow. "Was anyone here with you?"
Pansy wordlessly shook her head before blowing her nose again and continuing to sob.
Hermione waited until Pansy had gone, and then turned back to Malfoy Manor. She checked her watch—already she'd lost valuable time. Within fifteen minutes she'd have to be back at Grimmauld Place.
What if they were just being paranoid about Ginny? She wondered as she re-entered the Manor. And why had Pansy really been there, crying and staring at the mantle? It was easy to dismiss Pansy as unimportant—the girl could hardly Transfigure a matchbox so she was unlikely to be capable of running with the likes of Amundsen or Zabini—but she'd seen enough in her time to know that dismissing the people you looked down on was always your downfall in the end.
Feeling unsettled, Hermione sent a Patronus to Whelkes, asking him to keep an eye on Pansy Parkinson. She sent another one to Ron, asking him to let her know if Ginny reappeared or if Harry awoke.
Pansy had been standing in front of the mantle, where Malfoy's body had been found. Hermione went to the parlor now and stood where Pansy had stood, and peered around. There was nothing that caught her attention, though.
Why had Malfoy been pushed into the fireplace, anyway? And why had Pansy been staring at it?
Hermione paced, considering the facts.
So they knew Amundsen had been here, and they knew Harry had been here—that linked Amundsen to Malfoy, but how? And was Zabini's death even related? It seemed like it had to be. …But everything was all tangled together and she couldn't find the start of the thread. Why had Harry come here? And why had he come alone? Why had Alphard known Harry would be found in the woods? Why had the anastasis appeared on Harry's forehead?
...What if Amundsen hadn't been the one to put it there?
And had Malfoy really been the one to rape Astoria?
For some reason she was beginning to feel like it hadn't been him.
Hermione peered around corners in the parlor, looking for nothing in particular, her mind working rapidly. Where was Ginny? When had she disappeared?
She checked her watch once more—she had less than ten minutes left, now, and still had got no word from Alphard, which probably meant Ginny wasn't at Grimmauld Place. Feeling increasingly off-balance, Hermione Apparated to Grimmauld Place.
Alphard stood before Grimmauld Place. He knew he should have felt something more, standing here on its stoop, but nothing seemed to come. The resounding emptiness within him was almost worse. All that had to matter, he told himself, was that he find Ginny Weasley. In his worst moments he had learned, very long ago, to simply ignore his own emotions and focus on the task before him. He would have to do that now. Step one: go inside.
He drew in a deep breath and knocked on the door, first. No response. Glancing round furtively, he nonverbally cast a few spells and the door clicked open. Potter would have a number of security spells in place, and sure enough, he watched his own spells disable them in the front hall.
It was easy—after all, he had done this before.
"Hello?" he called, shutting the door behind himself. He was met with silence. He nonverbally cast hominem revelio, but it seemed no one was here.
He made his way through the house, peering around in interest. Potter and Ginny Weasley had evidently worked hard to make the house look less like a shrine to the Dark arts, but there was a darkness surrounding this place that would not be erased. Last time he had come here, Sirius Black's bedroom had remained intact, and he wondered... Forgetting about his mission, he found himself hastening up the stairs.
It was all gone—the room was mostly empty, save for a number of boxes stacked against the wall, and some very old Muggle posters of girls in bikinis, stuck permanently to the wall, their retro faces faded.
He had to tear himself away from the boxes, and remind himself of the task at hand. Finding Potter's fiancee was a time-sensitive task, and if she really had gone missing, every minute was precious in terms of finding her alive and safe.
There were no signs of distress in the house, though. He was certain that Ginny Weasley hadn't returned here. Alphard checked his watch and noted that he was due to reconvene with Granger soon.
Objectively, he reflected as he returned to the first floor, they were flailing. They had no conclusive leads, people were going missing or dying left and right, and though they had some vague idea that Amundsen might be connected to Malfoy in some way, there was no real basis for that, other than the anastasis being found on Potter's forehead. But what if that hadn't been Amundsen? There was something off about it. It didn't seem Amundsen's style, and the message that it was sending was unclear.
He heard the front door swing open; he was in the kitchen now, still looking for any signs of a break-in.
"Alphard?"
Alphard poked his head into the front hall; indeed, Granger was there, snow dusting her slim shoulders and melting in her wild, wind-whipped hair. "Pansy Parkinson was at Malfoy Manor—she was crying," she said immediately, moving forward with the authority of someone who had spent quite a lot of time here. "She didn't seem to be doing anything though. I sent a Patronus to Whelkes to let him know he ought to keep an eye on her."
"Weird." Alphard looked around demonstratively with an exasperated wave of his hands. "There's nothing here—there's no way she returned here recently."
They stood there in the hall in silence, both lost. "Basically, we're fucked," Alphard added, raking his hands through his hair. Granger exhaled.
"We have nothing," she agreed. "Let's go back to the Ministry and look at Zabini's letters and mobile. I told Ron to let us know if they found Ginny or if Harry woke up. I don't know where else Ginny could possibly be and we can have the junior Aurors searching."
Alphard nodded mutely; he was eager to get out of this house. He brushed past Granger and exited. Now it was dark, and snowing more heavily.
"Just a few days 'til Christmas," came Granger's voice. He heard her setting up a number of alert spells and security spells, and then she joined him in the small square. "They're supposed to be getting married on Christmas Eve."
Alphard said nothing; Hermione wondered desperately what he was thinking as she watched him glance back at Grimmauld Place, a mixture of regret and shame evident in his eyes. She took his hand and led him to the alleyway; they turned on the spot.
Ginny awoke in pain; it was dark and the air smelled musty. She held her breath and held still, waiting for some cue as to where she was, but there was only silence, save for the howling of the wind and snow outside. A thick rope bound her wrists behind her back, and her ankles together. She was gagged, and her jaw ached from the pressure. She was lying on a floor thick with grime and grit, and slightly damp. It was cold here—it was most likely an abandoned building.
She strained her memory, but she could not determine what had occurred between leaving St Mungo's and waking up here, now. Harry had described the mental fog that Obliviate always left in its wake; she now could say she had experienced it firsthand. It was sickening, and not unlike waking up from having woken up after becoming blackout drunk.
She shifted, testing how tight the rope was.
"Don't bother. It's too tight," came a voice that made her memory itch. She knew that voice—where had she heard it before?
And then she heard it—a soft, muffled crying sound. It was a little girl, perhaps in the next room. Ginny's blood boiled. She heard her captor let out a disgusted sigh, and nearby the floorboards creaked as he rose to his feet. "Not again," he muttered under his breath. She listened as his footsteps disappeared into another room and the door shut.
Immediately, she frantically began twisting and writhing. Like hell would she give up without a fight.
When Hermione and Alphard reached the Ministry, they split up the letters parted ways. Hermione guessed that Alphard wanted some space—and her hypothesis from earlier haunted her again. Watching Alphard's tall, lean form as he returned to his own office, absently raking a hand through his hair as he walked, she was transported to staying in Grimmauld Place more than a decade ago, watching Sirius pace the halls like a caged tiger.
It had happened, earlier, too, when she had returned to Grimmauld Place to reconvene with Alphard. He'd been standing in the hall, and she had truly mistaken him, for one horrible moment, as Sirius' ghost.
Shaking her head and unsure of what to do with the certainty of her conclusion, Hermione returned to her office and began sifting through the stack of letters between Astoria and Zabini.
Blaise-
I can't believe I'm actually writing a love letter, because that's more or less what this is, isn't it? It's really not 'me' at all! But since we can't see each other regularly, this will have to do.
I keep thinking of how you looked at Adrian's Halloween party and grinning to myself. Everyone was so jealous of you. And of course, I appreciated the view...
Remember the odd bloke in the you-know-who mask? Daph said he actually asked her out to dinner at the end of the night! They've a date this weekend but I think she's not very happy about it. She really liked Adrian's friend, the one from Durmstrang who totally shamed Malfoy when he said they were related. Remember him? That was hilarious! I liked him a lot. But he looked so much like Malfoy's Aunt Bella! It gave me the shivers. Daph thought he was gorgeous but apparently he barely noticed her. I saw him harassing Nott. I feel bad for thinking it but it was kind of funny…Nott's always so awkward and stiff.
I miss you every day. I feel like my life has become interruptions between the times I get to actually be with you. Work is torture. I know you're only one floor away and it drives me mad. Malfoy won't let up. He comes by my desk every hour it seems and I can't get him to leave. He really thinks he's got a chance—even when he's been engaged to Pansy! I can't tell if she knows or cares how unfaithful he is.
Can we meet this weekend? I need to see you...
Love,
Astoria
Hermione's stomach gave a lurch—so Alphard had been at this party? Astoria had to be referring to him. Harassing Nott…how kind, Alphard, she thought with a roll of her eyes.
And it seemed odd that there was someone wearing a Voldemort mask—even in that crowd it would have to have been extremely offensive. Who had it been? That was a tight-knit group, so it had to have been someone she knew... And then there was the evidence that Malfoy had been starting to harass Astoria.
Hermione circled the part about Malfoy and glanced at the mobile, but it still hadn't powered on yet. It might have been broken—which reminded her of Tracey's extra mobile, which lay broken, stashed in a drawer in her office. They still hadn't established what that had been for.
It was like there was an itch in her mind—she was missing something here, something hidden in plain sight.
Hermione went to Alphard's office. The Auror division was just as empty as the rest of the Ministry; most people were out on their Christmas holiday already, she supposed. Alphard's light was on. Inside, he had Transfigured his chair into a sofa and was lounging on it, one arm folded behind his head, legs crossed, as he scanned the letters. When she stood in the doorway, he peered over the parchment at her. She noticed his shirt riding up slightly; exposing his belt and a sliver of flat, lean abdomen.
"Anything?" he prompted, sitting up slightly.
"You were at a Halloween party at Adrian Pucey's flat two years ago?" she asked, pointing to the letter. She went and sat on the edge of the sofa, near his boots. He set aside the letters, and shifted backwards to allow her more room.
"Oh, that—I forgot," he said slowly, frowning as he recalled. Then he was grinning, apparently remembering the party.
"Did you meet anyone in a Voldemort mask?" she pressed.
"Yes, actually. Never got his name, though," said Alphard, looking thoughtful. "Astoria wrote about that?"
"That, and apparently he asked Daphne Greengrass for a date, and she was sad because she'd been more interested in you." Hermione paused, scanning the letter. "Oh, and at some point you insulted Malfoy in front of everyone?"
"I made many friends that night," Alphard recalled dryly. "Nott was there, not in costume of course, creeping around..." he trailed off, then gasped. "That's right. I teased him about fancying Astoria and he got mad and stormed out."
"Nott fancied Astoria?" Hermione blurted out in surprise. Alphard snorted, staring into space as he remembered.
"Oh, yeah, it was a bloody shame. He never said a word, just stared at her like some sort of idiot, and the whole time, she was just looking at Zabini. The bloke in the Voldemort mask seemed really into her, though. I wonder who that was."
"Sounds like you were really understanding of Nott," said Hermione. "It's no wonder the two of you hate each other so much."
Alphard groaned.
"Granger, I don't get why you're so bloody defensive of him."
"Maybe because I understand him!" she exploded.
Alphard balked.
"You understand him," he repeated dubiously. "Granger, you have literally nothing in common with him, except your occupation."
Hermione bristled.
"I've got plenty in common with him." She hesitated, afraid to speak, but plowed on, avoiding Alphard's gaze. "Always on the sidelines—only important when you're needed."
She looked up when Alphard said nothing. He was arching his brows at her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Alphard simply stared at her, his jaw slack.
"That is the biggest load of bollocks I've ever heard," he said plainly. "Granger, Nott is a watcher. You're a doer. And always on the sidelines? You're one of the biggest celebrities in our world. Please—don't give me that crap."
"No! I mean, with the people we fancy," she corrected desperately, feeling her face grow hot. "I don't know what it feels like to—to—to be wanted, or…" she trailed off and looked down. "Never mind. Forget I spoke."
"I will, for your sake," snarked Alphard. He was shaking his head disgustedly as he nabbed the letter from her and scanned it. "Merlin—sidelines, what a load of—"
"It's how I've always felt," she interrupted in a high voice. She met Alphard's eyes once more. "I'm sorry," she said genuinely. "It's just…" she sighed. "People only talk to me when they need me. Not when they want me."
She bit her lip before continuing. But it felt good to let it out. "I want to know what it's like to be wanted. I want to know what it's like to be someone like you, or Ginny. I think Nott wants that too. Just—just to know what it's like. To be someone's first choice."
How did he do that with his eyes? It wasn't Legilimency but she felt like he was x-raying her mind.
"I think," he began in a low voice, "you already do know."
She opened her mouth, and then closed it. She was afraid to travel any further down this path—afraid of what interpretations she might have made that were wrong. Alphard's gaze was heavy but warm. Too warm. Her mouth was dry as goosebumps prickled along her skin and her heart gave a series of shudders, like she had missed a step on the way up the stairs, that delightful but terrifying swooping lurch. What if…
…What if…
"Oh, anyway," she blustered suddenly, snatching at the letters and changing the tone hastily.
She was grateful to have the letters to read through—the distraction from the intensity of their conversation was a blessing. She heard Alphard scoff and then slouch back again, in a more relaxed pose.
Blaise—
Daph stood that man up! I'm relieved, since you said he was a Dark wizard, but I wasn't sure if you were joking…? Anyway, there's a get-together tomorrow night at Pansy's place. Are you going? Please say yes. I need to see you.
"Hm. Odd." Hermione jabbed Alphard and pointed to the letter. She tried to hide how her fingers were still shaking from the adrenaline of having spoken such a deep, dark feeling. Alphard sat up again and leaned in close—too close—and scanned it, seemingly unaffected from their moment before, arching his brows. She felt like a punctured balloon. 'What if' indeed, she thought wryly, trying to see the humor in her own wishful thinking.
"We've got to talk to Daph," Alphard concluded, tossing aside his own stack of letters. Hermione hung back.
"You do it," she reasoned. Alphard stood over her, looking bemused. "You need her cooperation, Alphard, and you're less likely to get it if I'm there."
She thinks I'm going to fall for you.
Alphard's words from earlier stacked up like bricks between them.
"Well, fine. Just keep me updated. You can stay here if you want," he said finally, looking away and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.
Hermione watched him go, feeling her heart begin to race. She pawed through the rest of the letters, but they were suddenly shockingly mundane, with only mentions of Malfoy's absurd advances. She's definitely censoring herself, Hermione reasoned, flipping through them. But why?
And what about Zabini's mobile?
…What about Zabini's mobile?
She locked Alphard's office and hastened to the Muggle Studies division where the mobile had been charging, and indeed, the mobile was powered on now. Breathless with excitement, she snatched it up and sprinted back to her own office, hunting for a signal. She was able to get one in the hall outside of her office, and she flipped open the mobile and scanned the call history.
It was to the same number, over and over again, at increasingly odd times of night, for various amounts of time.
The most recent call had been last week. Zabini had missed it, because by this point, he had been dead.
Her stomach dropped. With shaking hands, Hermione recklessly dialed the number, and held the mobile up to her ear, listening to the dial tone, drawing in shaky breaths, her hands clammy and grappling at the mobile clumsily.
And then there was a tinny ringing coming from inside her office.
Hermione almost dropped the mobile as she stared in utter shock at her closed office door. She could hear the dial tone from the mobile in her hand as she listened to the ringing coming from her office. Without looking at the mobile, she shut it, effectively hanging up.
The ringing stopped.
Alphard returned to his flat, but Daphne was gone. With a heaviness that betrayed just how tired he really was, Alphard Apparated to Daphne and Astoria's flat.
He could hear someone inside; he was certain it was Daphne. He knocked on the door.
"Daph?" he called, leaning against the doorframe. The door clicked and opened, revealing Astoria. "O-oh—"
"—Black—" Astoria stammered. "I wasn't—"
Her face was blotchy and red, and her hair was a mess as though she'd not brushed it in days. That's right, Alphard recalled now, as their eyes met, she quit her job recently.
"I know this is unexpected. I'm looking for Daphne—she round?" Alphard said lightly, straightening up. His eyes instinctively followed the barest hints of her slender form underneath the baggy robes she was wearing. Even like this, she was truly stunning.
And yet…he felt no attraction to her, and though logically he knew a girl this beautiful would always garner significant attention, he didn't feel that same fascination himself. She was beautiful the way a celebrity was beautiful: remote and lacking that hidden character, those signs of wit and cleverness that he seemed to have a weakness for. Like Daphne, he reminded himself firmly, though she had not been the first example of such a woman to come to mind just now.
"She's not," said Astoria, fidgeting with her robe and looking down, almost shamefacedly. Alphard sighed and raked his hands through his hair. An idea struck him.
"Mind if I come in and wait? I really need to talk to her," he insisted, considering pushing his way into the flat as though she'd already accepted, and then deciding against it, recalling what Daphne had said about her sister's current state.
"A-actually…" Astoria stumbled over her words—a stark contrast from the lovely, confident, if a bit uninspiring, girl that he'd met at the Halloween party. "Um, she's out, and she'll be for a while. Maybe you could owl her tomorrow."
And she slammed the door in his face.
Hermione exploded into her office and ripped through the drawers until she located Tracey's mobile, but it remained in pieces and unable to power on, though it had been ringing seconds earlier.
It's a spell, she realized. With a gasp, she took the two mobiles, and sprinted down the hall to the Magical Artifact testing room. Locked inside, she set the two mobiles inside the testing box, closed it, and placed her wand in the opening, and, brow furrowed, uttered a few extremely powerful spells, stripping the mobiles of any magic on them. It was tough, because Zabini's magic was strong.
But hers was stronger.
The façade of the broken mobile wore off—it was in perfectly good shape. It looked like it had even had an enchantment on it to make it impervious to breakage.
So Zabini had been in contact with Tracey.
But why? Hermione left the testing room and paced the halls frantically, hands fisted in her hair, her breathing quick and shallow. Zabini had been in contact with Tracey. And Zabini had been supposedly doing Malfoy and Pansy's pre-nuptial contract, but Nott had a separate, unofficial one.
Wait. When had Zabini acquired the mobile? When had the mobile contact started?
Hermione returned to her office and tore through the office, looking for the mobile bill that she'd taken from Zabini's office. The bill didn't tell her how long the contract had existed, so she made a few choice calls to the service provider.
Mobile pressed between her ear and shoulder, Hermione snatched a spare scrap of parchment and scribbled down the date. November 10th. From two years ago.
She dropped her quill.
So sometime around when Zabini and Astoria had begun seeing each other, Zabini had got in contact with Tracey somehow, and, according to the account, purchased two mobiles and a family plan.
Hermione stared into space with growing horror and elation. It was an odd mix that left her stomach unsettled and her heart racing.
She had to talk to Nott.
It was a sodden mix of rain and snow that night; Alphard put his mind to hunting down Ginny Weasley, while at the same time, her status was upgraded to 'missing' officially. Alphard couldn't bring himself to return to the Ministry. Granger was there. He didn't want to see her.
So instead, almost surprised at his own sudden change in direction, he Apparated to the Hog's Head and disguised himself as a foreign Wizard with the quick addition of some facial hair and heavy scarring on half his face. He had no intention of drinking—it was just the perfect place to pick up information, he told himself. It was like taking Felix Felicis—somehow he just had a feeling he ought to go to the Hog's Head. It was not dissimilar to the sixth sense with which he had known to approach the woods outside of Malfoy Manor, when looking for Potter.
He entered the grimy pub and sat at the bar with the hood of his cloak pulled over his head, intent on gathering as much intel as possible. His mind kept wandering back to Granger, however, and her confession earlier that day.
I want to know what it's like to be wanted. Her words were burned into his brain.
It explained quite a bit, and upon reflection, he was ashamed at himself for even being surprised by it. It explained her feelings for Potter, certainly. Potter needed her continually, as did Weasley. It was the only way she knew how to accept love, he reckoned. And when they didn't need her…she was forgotten, back to being their bushy-haired bookworm friend—a secondary priority at best.
The door opened; Alphard glanced at the entrance and saw two familiar figures enter.
Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson.
From the safety of his cloak, his dark eyes followed them as they made their way to a grubby table in the corner. A lanky figure followed closely behind them, and Alphard fought the urge to mop his face with his hands.
Whelkes stood out like a sore thumb. He'd evidently prepared himself before entering, because he'd removed his glasses and had Transfigured his robes so that now he looked more like a member of the Weird Sisters than a frequenter of the Hog's Head. Only, he wore his disguise with such profound and obvious discomfort that he looked like he was in costume on Halloween. All eyes followed him with interest as he stumbled up to the bar—evidently he was suffering for having removed his glasses—and clumsily ordered a glass of water.
"Whelkes," Alphard hissed under his breath. The younger Auror looked around eagerly and Alphard further slumped forward in exasperation. "Over here," he muttered gruffly. Whelkes' hazel eyes finally landed on him with interest and confusion.
"How did you know?" Whelkes asked as he sat down next to Alphard.
"How the hell did you even pass the disguises module?" Alphard snarked, mopping his face. Whelkes reddened.
"It wasn't my strongest point," he admitted, bristling at the implied criticism. "What are you doing here?"
"Same thing you are, I reckon. Granger told you to follow her?"
"Yup. She—"
Alphard swiftly kicked Whelkes in the shin under the bar.
"Tell me later, you idiot," he grumbled. "I need to get closer but you've ruined everything. Everyone in the bloody place is looking at you and there's no way Nott won't recognize you." Even if I can't stand the bloke, it's not like he's actually stupid, Alphard thought unhappily.
"I'm going to send a Patronus to Granger," said Whelkes now. "She'll be able to do it," he added. As Alphard watched Whelkes slide off the stool and slap a few Knuts on the bar, it hit him quite suddenly.
Whelkes fancied Granger.
He had to bury his face in his otherwise untouched firewhiskey to hide his laughter. Well, looks like you really are someone's first choice after all, Granger…
But there was no time for that now. Alphard wondered if he'd be able to catch any of Parkinson and Nott's conversation. Their heads were bowed together, deep in discussion. Alphard angled his stool slightly, pretending to be eying Parkinson up.
He could just barely make out Parkinson's lips forming Granger. His heart shuddered. Fuck.
That couldn't be good.
Whelkes, in a surprising stroke of wisdom, didn't return. Alphard continued to watch Parkinson, but Nott had guided her to keep her back more to the bar. Over her shoulder, Alphard met Nott's eyes. He didn't flinch, merely held his gaze, and glanced demonstratively at Parkinson's arse and held up his firewhiskey in a mock-salute. Nott's mouth twisted in a disgusted grimace before his gaze jerked back to Pansy.
In his periphery he saw the door swing open, bringing in a gust of flurries, and an enormous Hag beetled inside. Alphard masked his smirk with his glass. Hello, Granger, he thought, wondering when Granger had gotten hold of Hag hairs. It seemed plausible she'd have them just lying around in her black hole of an office, just in case…
"Even scarred, you still have all the women looking at you," wheezed Granger through her balaclava when she finally reached Alphard.
"Not Parkinson," Alphard murmured regretfully. Granger heaved herself onto the bar stool, her back to Parkinson and Nott. Like a pro, he thought with no small measure of pride.
"I have so much to tell you," Granger breathed, her words barely detectable over the ruckus of the pub. It was late now, and things were getting rowdy. "Zabini was in contact. With Tracey."
Alphard almost dropped his glass. He steeled himself and downed his firewhiskey. Any more nursing of it and he'd draw attention to himself. "He bought the mobile for her and she tried to call him, the day he died."
"Whelkes fancies you," he blurted out, surprised at himself. He felt the heat of the firewhiskey hit his throat, scald all the way down, then pool like molten gold in the pit of his belly. He heard Granger snort.
"Because Ginny's married and therefore unattainable. But never mind that—I think…" she dropped her voice even lower, forcing Alphard to lean in close, "…I think that Amundsen was the man in the Voldemort mask."
"What makes you—"
"—And," Granger continued, "I think I know who murdered Zabini. And who murdered Malfoy. And I think that might lead us to Erica."
His head was spinning, and not just from the sudden influx of firewhiskey.
"How—"
"But I've got zero hard evidence. Alphard, we've got to get evidence for this." She glanced over her shoulder, back at Nott and Parkinson. "Let's go to Nott manor. We just need to make sure Nott doesn't come home for a while," she continued.
"You think Nott—"
"No. But I think he'll have clues," Granger said. "I just need time to search, and—"
"I've got an idea. You go," Alphard murmured.
"Thanks."
Hermione left, though already her form was shrinking under the heavy worn robes, back to her real form. Alphard watched her go, feeling off-balance even more than before.
"Barkeep," he called, pretending to be utterly drunk. "Round of firewhiskey for the lovely bloke and lady over there. On me," he slurred, wobbling in his seat, gesturing wildly.
He watched the barkeep bemusedly pour two glasses of firewhiskey and take them to a baffled Nott and Parkinson. Alphard slid off the stool and approached them now. Over the heads of the other patrons, his gaze met Nott's once more.
There was no note of recognition in Nott's grey eyes. He had no idea of who he was looking at, at all. Alphard had to mask a catlike smirk of superiority.
"Drinks on me for the lovely couple," said Alphard, modulating his voice to a slur as he sidled up to Nott and Parkinson. He fell into the third chair at the table and grinned roguishly at Pansy.
"We're not a couple," sputtered Nott, his face flushing.
"Maybe not yet, but after a few rounds of these, you will be," he said cheekily with a wink. Pansy snorted as Nott's face grew increasingly blotchy.
"I'm having one. It's been a shit few weeks," Pansy said defensively to Nott, before taking one of the firewhiskeys and downing it. She slammed the empty glass back down on the table, looking exhilarated. After a moment, she grimaced—the firewhiskey was starting to burn. "Ooh," she rasped, shuddering.
"Can't handle it?" Alphard sympathized.
"Shouldn't handle it," interjected Nott. "Parkinson, we haven't got time-"
"Shut it, Nott," said Pansy loudly. She glanced at Alphard. "Of course I can handle it. Another round on you, then?" she asked haughtily, lifting her chin a bit. Alphard smirked and motioned to the bartender without looking away from Pansy.
"So it's this bloke then, that can't handle it," he confirmed, after he and Pansy had got fresh firewhiskeys. Nott worked his jaw furiously.
"I don't need to prove anything to you. I don't even know who you are," he said stiffly. In his irritation he looked even more rabbity. Alphard scoffed.
"Looks to me like you've got something to prove to nearly everybody," he snarked. He heard Pansy laugh as he levelly met Nott's gaze.
"Fine," he said acidly, before taking hold of the untouched firewhiskey. "If you insist on being such a pain about it," he continued, lifting the glass in a mock-salute to imitate Alphard's from earlier, "I will drink. But I'll have you know that I drink quite a bit of firewhiskey, and I am more capable of holding my liquor than a shorter man like yourself."
Alphard quirked a brow at Nott as he watched him down the amber liquid with expert swiftness. He recalled watching Nott and Granger drink together at the Leaky Cauldron, and at the time he'd merely assumed that Nott was, like most men like him, incapable of holding his liquor and drunk off one glass.
Nott set the empty glass down with nary a grimace, and Alphard felt a flicker of misgiving, as though he might've, perhaps, underestimated Nott.
"Round two, then?" Alphard prompted. This time, Nott was the one to motion over the bartender. He glanced at Alphard.
"If you're up for it," he said coolly.