A/N: The big 3-0! I feel like it came quite quickly! As always, thank you guys so much for the kind reviews. Honestly, I nearly didn't write this fic at all because I was so intimidated by the idea and how I might do it justice, so it's been amazing so have such an overwhelmingly lovely response. I massively appreciate it!
The remains of Hermione's secretary's desk were cast in splintered pieces around the room. Upon entering the office and finding no sign of Serana, they'd proceeded to go through what they could of said desk - which turned out to be most of it, bar one drawer. No matter what spell they hit it with, it refused to budge. And then Draco had shown up, paler even than usual, and in the midst of a panic that seemed to have made him forget he was supposed to be huffed with them. Given the turn things had taken, Hermione was in no rush to remind him of it. Indeed, some small part of her was just relieved that he'd found out the news of his own accord and they'd been spared the task of breaking the news to him in person. While he was fairly composed, his fidgeting and unusual dishevelment offered all the hints she needed that that composure was maintained only by a hair's width.
When they informed him that their biggest and most likely suspect was somebody who had been in Hermione's employ for near enough an entire year, and that the desk drawer that wouldn't budge may contain a lead or two...well, it was difficult to tell whether his destruction of the desk was a display of temper or an effort to help, but at least it did help. If 'help' meant 'fill Hermione with even more dread and guilt by providing answers that were of no comfort at all'.
The drawer was filled with letters. Not unusual for a secretary - but why go to such great lengths to hide them from prying eyes?
"What are they?" Harry pressed as she flicked through them.
Most were heavy, thick envelopes which she could tell from weight alone had no less than six feet of parchment in each one. But Hermione was more preoccupied with the return addresses on each envelope.
"They're...all from fellow scholars. Remember when I told you that many didn't even bother getting back to me?" It was unclear which of the three men in the room she was addressing, but all of them nodded having heard her bemoan that very fact on some occasion or another "Well, it seems they did."
This couldn't have been all of them. She'd been sending out requests for either collaboration, input, or even just research results, for weeks and weeks. The ones in her hands only looked to be the ones that Serana had not yet gotten around to destroying. Keeping an eye on Marilyn must've had her preoccupied.
"But some of them did write back - expressing disinterest," Draco pointed out.
It seemed he'd listened to her ramblings about her research more than she'd originally thought.
"She could have easily read them before resealing them," she sighed, dropping the letters "Or even just guessed by the weight of each envelope whether they'd sent anything of any use."
It was also likely no accident that all of the letters that did find their way back to her desk were the ones from stuffy, older, well-to-do, pureblood academics who might easily have little interest in furthering her theories. If Serana was so invested in stifling this, it wasn't outside the realms of possibility that she knew those who were in line with her own line of thinking by name and reputation, if not personally.
"Her name? Her full name?" Draco pressed.
"Lennox. Serana Lennox."
"I don't recognise it," he replied quickly.
It shouldn't have surprised her that he knew so instantly - surnames were the sort of thing that would've been drummed into him since he understood what they were. Who to mix with, who not to mix with. It also didn't surprise her that he did not recognise it. If he had, he'd have likely recognised Serana on the day he'd stormed past her into Hermione's office.
She still clearly remembered the look of fright on her face as she'd rushed in after him, eyes wide and face pale. He'd been furious - Marilyn had been attacked that day. Perhaps she thought he knew she was behind it and had come to seek retribution.
"It could've been a fake name," Harry suggested "Luna said there were two of them. Do we have any guesses on the other? I don't suppose she has a sister."
"Fake name or not, if she was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight I'd know her on sight."
"She's a blood purist by the looks of things, surely you already know her either way," Ron pointed out "From some event, some meeting, something."
Surprisingly (to everybody in the room, apparently) it wasn't said like an insult - just genuine curiosity.
"My mother is very particular about her guest lists," Draco replied simply "Scarcity of invitations creates more demand. Usually they're limited to the main branches of the main families, unless she has some particular need to fill more seats."
"Then why do it, if she's not a major player?" Harry asked.
"The ones with less to their name - less status or influence - can often be the cruelest. More to prove," Draco replied frankly.
Under different circumstances, Hermione would've expected him to answer solely in sarcastic comments and thinly veiled insults. But now it seemed that he was content to answer any question they had as quickly and honestly as he could. A sign of just how badly he wanted Marilyn found, and found soon. And she thought she'd never see the day when she felt sympathy for him.
"A blood purist with something to prove. Because that's never ended badly before," Harry said grimly.
The statement hung in the air for a few moments before Hermione broke the silence.
"Surely she gave an address when she got the job?" Draco asked.
"A fake one. The house she listed doesn't exist," Hermione replied, before quickly continuing on so he mightn't have a chance to scold her for not realising that at the time "This necklace, the one you gave Marilyn - when did it break?"
"An hour ago at the most," Draco raked a hand through his hair.
"And that's all it tells you? That she's in danger? Not...not where she is or…?"
She was careful to keep her tone as gentle as she could. If he thought she was criticising him or saying he should've done something differently, it would help nobody at all.
"I expected them to attack her at home. That there'd be little more to it than apparating there and fending them off," he waved his hand in a way that was more of a flail than anything else.
"Did you take any other measures in case you found yourself needing to know where she was? Anything to track her?"
The almost non-existent shake of his head told her two things - that he didn't, and that he was less than pleased to admit it. He offered no explanation, but Hermione suspected there wasn't much of one to offer anyway, not one that he'd be happy telling them anyway. In her own mind, she had a feeling a more personal reason was at play. There was a fine line between concerned suitor and creepy stalker, and it seemed Draco wasn't too eager to leap over it. But there were more pressing matters at play, and whatever his reasoning may have been, it didn't change the answer and the consequences of that answer.
"Do you have anything left of yours?" She ventured "Your necklace?"
Ron and Harry shared a look that suggested they knew she'd had an idea. She ignored it, too busy hoping that it would work to even get excited about it.
"Not much, but…" digging a hand into his coat pocket, he produced what remained.
He was right - there wasn't much. The entirety of the bottom half of the phial was gone, all that remained were a few smaller shards scattered across his palm. The upper section, however - the part attached to the chain of the necklace - was almost completely whole. Hermione squinted at it, carefully lifting it from Draco's hand by the chain. The phial was fairly small, barely any bigger than her thumb, and the inside of the class was coated in a light blue film, residue of whatever if had once contained that had now dried in.
"What was inside of it?"
"My own concoction, based on an old remedy meant to soothe headaches. It has a strong cooling effect - it's how I knew I'd feel it once it was broken."
"And you brewed it yourself?" Hermione asked, barely able to conceal the excitement in her tone now "All in the same batch?"
"...Yes," Draco looked suspicious - like it was the closest he could get to hope without risking embarrassment or disappointment both.
"It's not certain to work," she started cautiously, gesturing to the broken phial with her free hand "I've never tried it with so few resources to work with. But if it was made in the same batch, and you only used that batch for this, I may be able to track where the other half is."
"How locally?" Harry asked.
"At best, twenty square miles. At worst...maybe a hundred."
Any hope that had lit up Draco's face was gone, but rather than replaced with anger as she'd expected, sorrow took its place. And fear. But both only for a second, less than a second even, and then the mask was back.
"And if it says York? What, we knock on every door in the area?"
"How many fanatical blood purists do you know that live in the middle of big Muggle cities? I'd say odds are this gives us the vague area of some grand estate, and with any luck you'll know who lives in the area. She has to be working with somebody. That's how they ambushed Luna - one kept her busy in a fight, and the other grabbed Marilyn. I'd venture that somebody has a big name. Somebody with just as much blood in this as Serana does, if not more."
Rushing to one of the many cabinets in her office, she rifled through a handful of glass bottles before finding the one she was looking for, a square bottle of midnight blue with a glass stopper. Once she had that, she took up a test tube and a rack from a different shelf of the same cabinet, holding all three in an awkward grip as she brought them to her desk with an air of determination they'd only previously seen on her face during exam season.
"Go into the top drawer of that filing cabinet over there," she gestured to the one "In the fifth folder back there's a map of the UK. Fetch it over."
It wasn't clear who exactly she was talking to, she figured it didn't really matter so long as one of them listened, but it was Draco who executed the order, apparently unkeen on the idea of staying still and simply watching. While he did that, Hermione poured a generous helping of the bottle's contents into the test tube. It was almost entirely colourless, save for a very faint blue tinge.
Having found what he was looking for, Draco didn't bother shutting the filing cabinet drawer once he was done, instead striding towards Hermione's desk and smoothing it out over the free space. Then he stepped back, watching her every move intently, just like Harry and Ron. The only difference, perhaps, was that while Ron and Harry seemed interested in the process, Draco's entire being screamed impatience for the results. His shoulders tense and jaw clenched, he kept his arms tightly folded in front of him as if to stop them from fidgeting.
Lifting the fragmented remains of the phial Draco had produced, Hermione used her wand to scrape off the residue left on the biggest fragment. It was thick and sticky, and came off with ease. Once she was satisfied with the amount she'd gathered, she carefully lowered it, along with her wand, into the test tube and stirred slowly, as much as the small width of the tube would allow - clockwise, nine times. With each stir, the mixture seemed to go a deeper shade of blue. At first it was like it was simply taking on the colour of what had been stirred into it, but after the fourth or fifth it became more brilliant, more vivid, until by the end it was positively neon - almost glowing. When she was finished, she withdrew her wand, now free of any residue.
Hermione's chest was gripped with nerves as she dropped her wand down onto the desk and lifted up the test tube. There were other avenues to explore if this didn't work. There had to be. But whatever they were, discovering them and then actually going through with them would all take precious time that they very likely did not have. No doubt Draco would set about to destroying the rest of the furniture in the office.
The room was utterly silent, nobody daring even to breathe, as she tilted the test tube and carefully poured its contents onto the map. It pooled on the page for a moment, before being enveloped by it without a trace. The silence pushed on. Hermione fought the urge to swear, already wondering if she should have chosen a map of the world instead. After all, there was nothing to say they'd stayed within the country after kidnapping her. Apparting to France, or the USA, or Australia, was just as easy as apparating within the UK. The trouble was, a world map offered a much less localised result - they might be able to narrow it down to a section of a country at most, but not a city. It had been a risk, but a calculated one.
...and it paid off. After a delayed beat, that same fluorescent blue colour returned, in the form of a very neat little square, in the area of Wolverhampton. It remained fixed there, glowing steadily, as though proud of itself for how it had helped. She couldn't help it, she breathed an audible sigh of relief. The result she most dreaded - beyond no result at all - was London. Any and every blood purist family determined to climb the social ladder would have some sort of residence in or around London. It wouldn't help them narrow down the list at all. Wolverhampton, however...that was a wildcard.
Judging by the frown on Draco's face, he thought the same.
"I don't suppose any of your old school pals are based there?" Ron spoke up, sounding downright civil.
"None that immediately come to mind," Draco grimaced.
"We have to take this to the Ministry. Officially speaking. They'll have lists of any and every magical residence in Wolverhampton, we can have teams combing each and every one," Harry scratched the back of his head, already clearly making a mental list of what needed to be done.
"No," Draco said quickly.
They all looked at him in surprise. It was the first sign he'd shown of not being willing to do anything and everything it might take. Hermione felt a pang of disappointment spread throughout her insides - directed at herself as much as it was at him. She'd been so busy marvelling at the change in him, hide it as he tried to, that she appeared to have overestimated it. Of course he would draw the line at having people discover the truth of things.
"We need official resources," Hermione chimed in with Harry.
"The Ministry aren't the only ones with an encyclopaedic knowledge when it concerns the business of pureblood families," Draco disagreed, shaking his head "I'll go to my mother, conduct a...subtle investigation as to which families are based in Wolverhampton. She'll know. She may even know who this Serana is, if I show her the photograph from her employee file. If she asks why I'm curious, I'll just...I'll make something up."
Hermione knew the unimpressed look she was unable to keep from her face was being mirrored by her husband, and by their best friend, and that all three of those looks were being levelled at the blond.
"This way it keeps it out of the papers," he insisted "They can only confuse things."
And out of the knowledge of those from his circles.
"Draco…" Harry said slowly and heavily "This needs to go to the Ministry. We've kept it unofficial for as long as we could, but now a Muggle has been kidnapped by a…"
"A lunatic with an agenda," Ron provided.
Harry nodded in agreement "We don't just need the Ministry resources behind this, we need the Ministry's power. Now, if you really insist we could fudge the details to some extent - how we know about this, her connection to you, but there's every chance that...well, telling the truth is a matter of life and death. What if somebody knows something, but deems it irrelevant based on whatever lie we have to tell? Or just the absence of the true details? We could miss something, and we can't really afford to miss anything."
Ordinarily Draco was pale, and while he hadn't looked quite well when he'd first arrived, now he looked positively deathly. His face was such a stark shade of white that he looked like a corpse, and his leather gloves creaked as he clenched his fists tightly at his sides.
The choice he had before him was a simple one. Was his reputation worth Marilyn's life?
"Give me...give me an hour. To speak to my mother, see what she knows, get some things ready."
"We don't have an hour," Harry said, the twist of his lips betraying his impatience.
Hermione knew him well. To Harry, the decision would have been an easy one.
"Marilyn doesn't have an hour. We could consider ourselves damn well lucky if she even has half of that."
Draco could look at none of them in the eye, staring instead at the shattered remains of Serana's deck as he bit down on the inside of his cheek, shaking his head against whatever thoughts warred inside his mind.
"What if the whole truth doesn't make a difference in what people know?" He asked finally, looking at all three of them in turn.
It was a veiled attempt at asking for reassurance - encouragement to do the wrong thing. Hermione couldn't help but think to herself wryly that he'd chosen the entirely wrong crowd for any hope of such encouragement.
"What if it does, though?" She asked softly "Is that a chance you're willing to take?"
They could tell the truth whether he agreed to it or not. But it would only serve to muddy the waters. If they shared all of the details of the matter, even if only within the privacy of the Ministry, it would get out. The Prophet had sources. Sources too well paid to ever fully stamp out. And so while they combed for information and hoped that the truth of the matter would help matters, Draco could just as easily be out there denouncing them as liars. Declaring that this whole thing was a sham, conjured up to sully his good name. That sort of outcome could harm their investigation just as easily, if not more easily, than holding back information that may turn out to be of use.
"It'll take us fifteen minutes to brief the appropriate people and get the ball rolling," Harry said "That could be more than enough time to go to your mother and see what she knows before she hears of this and potentially becomes...less than forthcoming."
Hermione pressed her lips together, looking down at her desk where the blue square still glowed on the map. Her own opinions on the Malfoy family aside, she couldn't help but feel some shred of sympathy towards somebody essentially being told "go and enjoy what could very well be the last ten convivial minutes you'll ever have with your mother". But Harry continued.
"Whatever you choose, it's your decision, but do you really want yet another incident to look back on and wish you'd done the right thing? Will your pureblood chums be of any comfort when you're dipping out of their social events to leave flowers at her grave? We're running out of time as it is, we can't afford to stand here and debate this."
Hermione couldn't help but speak up. Not only to voice her opinion, but to make it clear that they all knew that in asking for the right thing from him, they were asking for a very costly thing indeed.
"There will be a time," she quoted quietly "When we must choose between what is easy, and what is right."
A blanket of sombreness laid heavily across the room at the words which had once been Dumbledore's...and they hit none more so than Draco. He hid it well, but something overcame his eyes and his entire posture gave away the fact that he was hanging onto his collected demeanour by a shred as thin as a unicorn tail hair.
Shaking his head once again, he took a deep breath in, closing his eyes. He lost the war against his bid not to fidget, for his shoe tapped out a quick, anxious rhythm on the floor right up until he exhaled the breath he'd just taken in. That looked to be the extent of the time he gave himself to think (to Hermione's great relief), for then he opened his eyes again, schooling his features into a look of stern blankness.
"Do what you have to do. Tell them everything. I'll go and speak to my mother."
And with that, he turned and strode from the room. They waited to her the crack of his disapparating before anybody uttered a word.
"That can't have been easy," Hermione said quietly.
"Let's hope it's worth it," Harry replied.
That was the rub, wasn't it? To the great surprise of everybody in the room, Draco Malfoy had just effectively smashed his good name (or what his sort considered to be a good name, at least) into pieces too small to ever be glued back together. And there was no guarantee it would even pay off.
If it did, this was by no means the end of their troubles - especially not for Draco, nor Marilyn. If it didn't? Well, if it didn't then they could have just made an enemy of Draco Malfoy all over again.