It was dark and stormy the night she came to see me. The ceiling fan turned sluggishly, but it didn't help disperse the hot, muggy air. The lights were on, but struggled to provide much illumination, and one was flickering and crackling, threatening to blow completely.
The dame who'd come to see me didn't appear to notice the weather, as although she wore a fur stole wrapped around her shoulders, she hadn't even broken a sweat. Instead, she sat there like a cool glass of water. Ice water.
She hadn't given her name, but I knew who she was – everyone did. Her eyes were crystalline blue, and her white-blonde hair was actually darkening with age, turning it what I believe they call dirty-blonde. Not that I'd ever dare say that to her, though…
"MIS-ter Weasley!"
Startled, Ron Weasley jumped, and blinked several times at his client before clearing his throat.
"Apologies, Mrs Malfoy," he managed to get out, as a fiery blush started spreading across his cheeks. "You were saying?"
Narcissa Malfoy stared at him with an expression that suggested she would have been frowning at him if she hadn't been concerned about wrinkles. "I was saying," she said, firmly, "that I have a… rather delicate problem that I require assistance with."
Unable to help himself, Ron's eyes darted downwards. She didn't look like she was pregnant, but some witches didn't – or, at least, that was what Hermione had sheepishly told him five hours after unexpectedly going into labour and producing a baby girl. Considering that they hadn't shared a bed for a year at that point, their already faltering romance had come to a crashing halt.
"Um, I'm not sure how you think I can help with that," Ron admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
Mrs Malfoy stared at him for a moment, then sighed and actually rolled her eyes at him. "Weasley, surely you can't be that thick," she said, in a voice that was abruptly a great deal lower than it had been.
Ron's mouth fell open, as what he had thought was the Malfoy matriarch reached up and tugged at the front of her hat, causing the entire front part of her hair to lift up off her head. "But… I… wha… you… Draco?!" he finally managed to splutter out.
Draco Malfoy pursed his lips in a scowl as he righted the hat and hair. "You may refer to me as either Malfoy, or Dracina," he said. "Now, if you've quite finished gawping, Weasley, I have an actual job for you."
"Job," Ron repeated, absently. "Job!" he realised, and shook his head, trying to shake his thoughts into some kind of sensible order again. "Right, yes. Er, what seems to be the problem?" he asked, tapping his wand on the parchment and quill lying on the desk in front of him. The quill obediently hopped upright and hovered over the parchment, ready to take down Draco—Draci—Malfoy's words.
With a look that suggested he thought he was in the wrong place, Malfoy bent down to retrieve the rather large handbag that he'd placed on the floor at his feet when he'd entered the office. Sticking his arm in it up to the shoulder, he rummaged about inside it for a moment. When he withdrew his arm, he was holding a medium-sized picture frame.
"This," he said, turning it to show Ron, "is Marcella Rosier. She works with me at the Laughing Fwooper. Or rather, she did, until she didn't show up last week."
Ron gingerly took the frame from Malfoy, half convinced that he was going to get his fingers hexed off. The picture was of a tall, very masculine-looking woman, with black curly hair falling down her back. She was looking back over her shoulder at him, caught mid-laugh.
"Why me?" he asked.
Malfoy blinked at him. "Why you… what?" he asked in return.
Ron placed the frame down on the desk, careful not to accidentally drop it. He still didn't trust Malfoy not to suddenly hex him if he mishandled it. "Why come to me for this?" he clarified. "Why not the Aurors?"
There was a long pause, as Malfoy blinked at him some more, although these were long, slow blinks. He was obviously stalling for time to come up with a good enough reason that he was ignoring all proper channels to find a missing person.
Eventually, however, Malfoy realised that Ron was not going to allow the question to slide, and he sighed, his posture abruptly slumping. "Because the Aurors won't do anything," he admitted. "Marcella isn't the only girl who's gone missing in the last several months, but all the Aurors that have been contacted just say that they've decided to give the life up, they've obviously gone back to their families. And nobody's ever been able to say otherwise. Marce is the only one who's from a family that's known."
"Aside from you," Ron pointed out.
"Yes, aside from me," Malfoy hissed at him. "Which is how I know that Marce hasn't gone back to her family at all. But the Aurors won't believe me. So—" He gestured around the small, cramped office that was the best Ron had been able to afford. "—here I am. Hoping you'll be able to find her."
Ron idly rapped his fingers on the desk, glancing down at the photo. Malfoy straightened himself up again, stiffening his spine and squaring his shoulders. Slowly, casually, he crossed his legs. The desk prevented Ron from seeing much of them, but from what he remembered seeing when Malfoy had walked into his office, the dame sure had some gam legs.
"Alright," he said, hurriedly, barely managing not to wince at his own thought. "I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best."
"Perhaps you should try to do more than your best," Malfoy suggested.
Ron scowled at him. "Look, do you want my help or not?" he demanded, aggressively pushing the picture back across the desk towards Malfoy.
"…Yes. I apologise," said Malfoy, his tone as stiff as his posture. He uncrossed his legs and began to stand up. "You'll contact me if you have any news?"
"Actually, I'll need to question the other girls from the Laughing Fwooper, so I'll need you to get me in there," Ron informed him.
Malfoy froze for a moment. "Fine," he bit out, finally straightening to his full height. He slid Marcella's picture towards himself with two fingers to make it easier to pick up and placed it carefully in the handbag that he'd just slung over his arm. "Tomorrow night, eight o'clock sharp. Don't be late, Weasley!"
"Of course not, Malfoy," Ron assured him, and if his gaze happened to fall on a certain part of Malfoy's anatomy as he departed through the door, well… Malfoy's heels did ensure it was at eye level.
"Oh. You arrived, then."
Ron gave Malfoy a half-hearted glare at the decidedly lacklustre greeting. "Do you actually want my help or not?" he demanded. "I'm sure you can always find another private detective if you object to me that much."
"I was just… surprised," said Malfoy, awkwardly. He was dressed as himself, but looked surprisingly uncomfortable. Ron couldn't decide whether that was because Malfoy was dressed as Draco, or if it was because he might be spotted talking to Ron. After all, everyone knew that Malfoys and Weasleys went together like oil and water.
"Well, lead the way then," Ron prodded him. Malfoy appeared to brace himself before pushing open the door to the Laughing Fwooper. Ron obediently followed as Malfoy sauntered between the currently empty tables, heading for a smaller, less-obvious door at the back of the room.
"Sorry, mate, we're still closed," a voice called out, and Ron looked at his left to see a goblin standing on top of what was apparently the bar. The goblin was scowling, but since that was their default expression when it came to dealing with wizards, then it was mild enough that Ron didn't need to worry he was about to lose his head.
Yet.
"It's alright, Gold Snifter," Malfoy tossed over his shoulder. "He's with me."
"He taking over the spot?" asked Gold Snifter. Ron frowned at him. What spot?
Malfoy made an odd choking noise. "No. He's come to speak to the other girls about Marcella," he got out, finally.
"Hmph!" the goblin grunted. "Long as he doesn't distract any of 'em."
"He won't," promised Malfoy, and beckoned Ron to hurry up.
Ron was careful not to speed up too much in front of the goblin but stumbled when he reached the door and Malfoy unexpectedly shoved him through it. "Oi!" he protested, recovering his balance as Malfoy closed the door. "What was that for?"
"Because Gold Snifter was about to start measuring you for a pair of stilettos," Malfoy said, briskly, dusting his hands off. "Come on." And he set off down the passageway, leaving Ron spluttering behind him.
Quite a lot of hours later, Ron was sat slumped in a chair, his feet up on a table, and watching Malfoy carefully wipe off the garishly overdone makeup he'd been wearing. He'd spoken to almost all of the other 'girls' who were there, but nobody had seen anything regarding Marcella or the other missing women.
Or, at least, nothing they were willing to admit to.
Ron supposed he could understand it to a point. Most of them were Muggleborns, or Squibs, and they had no great love for purebloods who looked down on them for whatever reason. Marcella and Dracina were tolerated; not accepted.
"Did you get anything?" Malfoy asked, straightening up from the table he'd been leaning over. He had, Ron noticed, reapplied his 'Narcissa' style of makeup, which was a lot more natural than the stuff the women here had been wearing on stage.
"Not really," Ron had to admit. "How long is it since the, er, girl before Marcella went missing?"
Malfoy frowned. "Several weeks, I think," he replied. He picked up the handbag that he'd had in Ron's office and slung it over his shoulder. "Are you coming?" he asked.
Ron blinked at him. "You're not getting changed?" he wondered.
"Why would I?" Malfoy glanced down at himself.
"No reason," said Ron, hastily, and busied himself with standing up. He'd thought Malfoy would be changing back into his 'Draco' outfit, as that was how he'd arrived, but Malfoy had been willing to venture out to his office in witch's robes; obviously he wasn't averse to being seen out and about in them.
"So what now?" Malfoy asked as he led the way to the back entrance of the place. "Will you be going to visit Marcella's family?"
Ron winced, then had to hastily school his face into something neutral when Malfoy turned his head to look at him. "Um, I don't think I'm likely to get anything out of the Rosiers," he pointed out. Except a hex or two, he added mentally. The Rosiers had been enthusiastic followers of the Dark Lord, after all, and the Weasleys… weren't.
"Oh." Malfoy frowned again as he pushed the door open and stepped outside. "I'd forgotten—Ack!" His words were interrupted as something swooped past the open door and scooped him up.
Ron blinked at the open, empty doorway for a moment before his brain caught up and he scrambled outside, hoping whoever that was – someone on a broom? – hadn't managed to get too far away yet.
They hadn't.
The kidnapper was hovering on a broom at roof-height just a couple of buildings away. It looked as though they were trying to put something over Malfoy's head, or at least his face, but Malfoy wasn't making it easy for them, and was squirming enough that Ron drew his wand as he ran towards them, preparing to cast a hasty Cushioning Charm.
"Let go of me, you filthy fucking Mudblood! Don't you know you don't treat ladies like this?" Malfoy bellowed, in the most unladylike tone he'd ever heard.
Ron reached their position just in time to see Malfoy rear back and punch the would-be kidnapper squarely in the nose. The man squawked in outrage and clapped both hands over his face. Unfortunately, this caused him to lose control of the broom, which wobbled before abruptly plunging towards the ground.
It absolutely galled Ron to admit it, but Malfoy had always been a good flier, and even now he kept his head enough that he gained control of the broom enough so that he coasted to a gentle halt with his feet just touching the ground.
The kidnapper, however, wasn't so lucky, and tumbled off the broom to land with a bone-breaking thump at Ron's feet. Ron hastily pointed his wand at the man, but he didn't appear to be ready to go anywhere any time soon.
"Where did you learn to punch someone like that?" he asked Malfoy, who was climbing off the broom and dusting his skirt back into place.
"Granger, actually," said Malfoy, and Ron gaped at him. Malfoy's mouth twisted in something that wasn't quite a smirk. "My father wasn't too pleased to hear that a Mud— Muggleborn got the better of me," he added. "I had private tutors giving me lessons for the next three years." He glanced down, and not-so-delicately toed the kidnapper in the ribs. The man groaned but didn't stir.
"Well, at least your, uh, friends should stop going missing now," said Ron. He gave Malfoy a sideways glance. "Any chance you could cast a Patronus to summon an Auror?" he suggested.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him. "He's not going anywhere," he pointed out. "And you're a detective, aren't you? You do it."
Ron sighed but obediently did so. "I think I could do with a drink," he murmured as the silvery Jack Russell scampered off out of sight.
"I think I'll join you," the dame replied, in a soft Southern drawl that went down the spine like molasses. She turned to leave, the light from the nearby street lamps gliding over her figure. "You can make mine a whiskey," she added over her shoulder as she disappeared into the caressing shadows of the doorway to the nearest bar.
Hot damn! I thought. That's my kinda gal!