Harry and Malfoy arrived at the Manor with a harsh crack, two other aurors right behind them as their portkey snapped them into location a few metres away.
"Couldn't you have gotten us any bloody closer to the door?" one auror grumbled.
"This is as close as the wards would let you get, Woodbloom. Can't you feel them?" Potter asked as he started the trek across the grass, following the quick path that Malfoy cut through the lawn.
"That's another weird Potter thing," the other auror, a taller, thicker man who looked as if he snapped trees in half for fun, muttered. "Most of us can't feel a ward unless we're right up upon it."
"Thank you, Brightmorn. I'll have you know that my weird-Potter-things have come in handy a time or two. Now you two had better get moving, before he leaves us behind."
The four of them moved through the grass, Woodbloom and Brightmorn grumbling and muttering to each other about the indignity of having to go on a 'bleeding welfare check for a death eater' while Harry thanked his lucky stars that Malfoy was moving ahead of them with a speed that ensured he was just out of earshot. Merlin help them if he overheard what they were saying about his mother.
With a harsh wave of his wand, Malfoy blew the doors open to the manor, and the three aurors followed him in—the two unfamiliar with the property taking a moment to gawk at the grand marble staircase, the baroque sky mural on the ceiling, the larges windows above beside the catwalk spilling light onto the tiled marble floor.
"You lot do nothing halfway, do you?" Harry asked, stepping forward to stand beside Malfoy.
"Take it up with Ferrand Malfoi, the Englishman with the French name who fancied himself an Italian," he said, gesturing with vagueness to a marble bust beside the curling baluster at the foot of the staircase. "If you're done engaging in your more voyeuristic tendencies, my mother's room is this way."
Malfoy had only managed a few steps, the heels of his leather shoes clicking on the tiles, when a throat cleared from above them. All four heads turned to the right, to find Lucius Malfoy leaning with an artfully feigned casualness against the railing on the third floor, looking down into the painted hall on them.
"Mister Potter," he spat, "might I ask why you have seen fit to intrude upon my home? I have done nothing to break the terms of my house arrest. You have no warrant to be in my home."
"I have an invitation, you see. Something about your wife being unreachable. Would you know anything about that, Lucius?"
"I have not given you leave to use my first name, nor have I given you leave to enter this home. Leave at once! I have done nothing to that damned woman, and she is wherever she decided to be. Of that, I am certain."
Harry reached into his robes and withdrew a sheet of parchment. "Well, fortunately for me, you're still considered the lord of this manor, even if it is in name only. You have no reason or authority to throw me out. I'll leave once I determine whether your wife is unharmed. Now if you'll excuse us—Draco, you were about to show us to her rooms?"
Malfoy was looking at him with a look akin to shock, as if he hadn't expected him to step in and insist on seeing this through—as if surprised he was taking this seriously. Draco Malfoy may have been his boyhood bully, but he was an auror, and if there was any sort of danger facing a citizen, he had an obligation to see it through. that couldn't be that much of a surprise to Malfoy, especially given his reputation for jumping in head first to save the day.
Malfoy seemed to shake off his disconcert, and continued toward the stairs, the sound of his shoes on the marble louder than before. Above them, he saw a flash of fabric as Lucius Malfoy pushed off of the balustrade and stalked off into the depths of the home.
"If you'll follow me, please," he said as he moved up the stairs with the practiced grace of someone who'd grown up surrounded by the almost palatial beauty of such a grand hall and no longer saw anything monumental about the space.
As they ascended the stairs and made their way through the sprawling hallways, the darker panelling and dark marble flooring gave way for skylights, pale wallpaper, and ornate molding. Only because of his familiarity with following Malfoy as he stalked through long hallways was he able to keep up. He thought to ask him to slow down for the sake of Woodbloom and Brightmorn, but upon remembering their whispered comments outside, thought better of it.
Malfoy abruptly stopped before a tall door, waiting a moment for the other two to catch up. However, even after the other two finally arrived, he made no moves to touch the brass handle.
"This is my mother's room."
Harry looked at him, waiting to see what else he had to say before they entered.
"I can't open the door, Potter. You'll have to work whatever auror magic you have to get it open."
Brightmorn took a confident step forward, rolling his eyes at the taciturn blond. "Whatever we find in there won't be more believable if we're the first ones to see it, you know," he started as he reached for the handle.
"Don't—" Malfoy started, before Brightmorn's fingers closed on the handle and a bright blue light enveloped him. When the light faded, Brightmorn had vanished and the faint smell of ozone lingered in the air. Woodbloom spun, wand at the ready, and pointed at Malfoy's throat.
"Where'd he go, you absolute—"
Harry reached out to push the wand tip down, and Malfoy raked a hand through his hair. "I told you I wasn't able to enter the room, and that Potter would have to be the one to get it open, with how he seems to play with wards. Your partner is back on the front steps again. I'll go get him. Potter, if you will?" he said, gesturing toward the handle before popping away.
It was a long ten minutes before Malfoy returned, seemingly content to force Brightmorn to walk back through the maze of hallways, although he was clearly capable of apparition within the walls of the house. Probably for the best, as Harry made use of the moment without Malfoy's tense energy lurking over his shoulder to play with the spell work on the threshold. He was finishing dismantling the spell as Malfoy and a thoroughly chastened Brightmorn reappeared, which fortunately stopped Windbloom's incessant pacing up and down the hallway.
With a soft click, the door canted open, revealing a large chamber. Immediately before them lay an ostentatious fireplace, the mantle of which was covered in crystal ornaments and small portraits. Towering portraits lined the walls, none of them moving. In such an aggressively traditional wizarding home, the sight of so many frozen portraits was both unnerving and unusual.
Above the fireplace hung a large mirror, and just barely in the corner of the mirror could he make out the door to a bedroom, within which stood a large four-poster bed—curtains drawn back and sheets made up.
Malfoy gestured toward the room, and the aurors entered first, while Windbloom kept a skeptical eye on the Malfoy heir.
As he had said back at the Ministry, the room appeared untouched and nothing seemed out of the ordinary—or at least what Harry guessed was considered ordinary in a home such as this one. There was no broken glass, no signs of a struggle, no half drunk glass full of a mysterious potion that hinted at poison. A quick finger in the ashes of the fireplace confirmed they were cold, the windows drawn up tight, and the vases of flowers scattered around the room wilted with decay.
"Do you see anything unusual here, Malfoy?" Harry asked as he continued to circle the plush settees in front of the fireplace carefully, looking for anything amiss.
"Not that I can see," Malfoy said, walking tentatively through the room. "I have very few memories of this room, however. She hasn't welcomed me in much since I was a very young boy—certainly not often since the Dark Lord's fall. But there's nothing here that appears out of the ordinary to me."
Harry was just kneeling down to look under the settees when a voice called from towards the bedroom, where Windbloom and Brightmorn had gone. "Sir, you're going to want to come back here."
Malfoy's head snapped up, and he took a small step towards the bedroom before Harry could grab his shoulder. "Just... wait a second. Let me go back there first. I'll call you back if it's clear for you to come in."
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment, something close to anguish in his eyes, before he nodded, stepping back to lean against the wall near the door. With one last look at Malfoy, Harry felt a pang of sympathy for the man before he followed the voice into the bedroom.
Windbloom and Brightmorn weren't in the bedroom, but were in the attached bathroom. A long row of cabinets sat below the windows, the tops of which were lined with neatly arranged bottles of cosmetics. Atop one, sat a sheath of parchment, a bottle of ink and a handsomely wrought glass pen. A quick swipe of his finger over the nub of the pen confirmed that the ink had dried. The letter had been written quite some time earlier.
Dearest Draco,
I am sorry, my son. I'm sure that this is both difficult and unbelievable for you. And I truly regret that I did not have it in me to go with grace. But I can not live this life any longer.
When I was but a girl, and I was told that one day I would be mistress of this estate, I thought it would be a dream come true. That dream quickly morphed from one nightmare into another, and just when it appeared as if my situation would be improving, the fetters closed upon me once again.
I cannot live out the rest of my days trapped here, living in quiet and abject misery with your father. I am certain that you know I have not been happy here, but I am not certain that I ever have been.
You were the only thing that ever made this prison feel like a home, but you are a fully grown wizard who deserves better than to be chained to the legacy that this land holds. You were my home, and now that you have grown and moved on, I have nothing left to defend in this battle that I fear I have already lost.
I would seek here to defend myself, the actions that I am about to take—but there is no adequate defense for the anguish that I am sure this is going to put you through. You are my son, and I love you with every fiber of my sorry soul. But I cannot continue to suffer at the hand of one Malfoy man for the sake of another.
Continue to do better than what you were taught to do and never forget that you are the master of your own fate. Do not allow my decision to leave this life to tether you to living a lie.
I will always love you terribly, both in this life and in my next.
Yours until my last breath,
Your devoted mother,
Narcissa Black Malfoy
Harry swallowed deeply and sat the letter back down on the vanity. A few flicks of his wand confirmed it. Narcissa had written the letter herself, as the flicks of his wand did nothing to change the formation of the text upon the page. It appeared to have been written deliberately—no hesitation marks, and no shakiness in the confident penmanship. The handwriting didn't change despite the myriad of spells he shot at it. No attempt then to alter the handwriting to make it look like the work of another.
With a heavy sigh, he picked the letter back up and turned to walk from the room, to take it to Malfoy, to explain, when something lying on the edge of the bathtub caught his eye. Ten inches of dark elm wood, silver accents glinting in the early afternoon light that careened through the tall windows.
Narcissa Malfoy's wand.
And there, just beside it, a small bottle with a deep purple residue. Harry carefully picked up the bottle, easing off the stopper and wafting the contents toward his face.
Belladonna.
Harry sighed again, not knowing how exactly to break the information. In his hand, he held the wand, the letter, and a mostly empty vial of a moderately fast acting poison.
He exited the bedroom, finding Malfoy sprawled on the settee before the cold fireplace. Malfoy had his forearm draped over his eyes, the scarred remnants of the brand visible where he'd pushed up his sleeve. At the sound of footsteps, he sat up, swiping at his face, and tugging the sleeves back down to cover the skin above his wrists.
Draco Malfoy may have been many things, but Harry was confident that 'murderer' wasn't on the list.
First, Harry handed him the letter, watching as Malfoy snatched the paper from him. His hands shook as he read the page once, twice, flipping the parchment over as if it held some other secret that had yet to be revealed to him.
"Is that her handwriting?" Harry asked, part of him already knowing the answer.
"Yes, but... this sounds like a... like she... she wouldn't, couldn't... she would never—"
Harry set the vial down on the table between them with a muted clink that made Malfoy flinch.
"Do you recognize this?"
Mirroring the actions that Harry had taken in the bathroom, Malfoy eased the stopper from the bottle and lightly sniffed it, eyes widening. "But—"
"Is this your mother's wand?" he asked, carefully placing the wand on the table, taking care to release it gently.
Malfoy let out a gut wrenching sob, something deep within him seeming to tear away and emerge through his throat. "No! She didn't! She wouldn't have!"
"Mal—Draco. We have your mother's wand, a vial of historically fast acting, effective poison, and what appears to be a suicide note. I understand you don't want to think—"
"Damn and blast, Potter!" he shouted, leaping to his feet and grabbing a crystal candlestick from the table, sending it into the fireplace in an explosion of glass and noise. "It's not about what I want to think! She wouldn't leave me!"
"Draco, everything points towards—"
"No! I don't care what everything points towards! Deadly nightshade is supposed to be fast acting! If she took the entire vial, then where is she? Shouldn't her... body... still be here?"
Harry sighed, raking his hands through his hair and taking a careful step towards Malfoy. He gently rested one hand on Malfoy's elbow, catching his attention and forcing him to look at him.
"Her wand is still here. If she took that much nightshade, there's no way that she would've gotten far. I think we need to be looking for her bo—"
"No! Why aren't you listening to me?"
"Draco, I know it's hard," Harry said, gently steering him back to sit on the couch. "I still miss my mother desperately and I never got to know her. But I'm not going to be able to launch an investigation into her whereabouts when we have a letter by her own hand that makes it seem as if she's taken her own life. I'm going to have to close this as a suicide, and while I can put a couple of junior aurors on helping you locate her body and putting her to rest, I can't launch a full investigation into her as a missing person. I'm sorry, Draco."
"But she... she couldn't have..."
"I know it seems that way. And unfortunately, there may never be a straightforward answer for you. But you said so yourself, she says so in this letter... she wasn't happy. She loved you, but you can't ask her to spend the rest of her life suffering. Her last act was to tell you she loved you. You were on her mind at the end. If we didn't have this letter—if we didn't have compelling evidence she wrote it herself—I'd be able to do more here. But it's protocol, my hands are tied."
"So that's it? I give up?" he asked, the sound of tears thick in his throat. Merlin, Harry hated this part of the job. Hermione had explained to him once about the five stages of grief that muggle psychologists had named. Malfoy seemed to oscillate between the first two: denial and anger.
"Hermione!"
Malfoy looked up, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected another third of the so-called Golden Trio to have apparated soundlessly into his mother's bedchambers.
"What? She—"
"No, that's it," Harry said, leaning forward to grab Malfoy's shoulders. He could feel the other man lightly shaking in his grasp, and hoped that this would work.
"Protocol says that I officially have to close this as a suicide. But Hermione is a private researcher. She's done investigative work in the past. if you truly believe that she wouldn't have done this to herself—if you fully believe that your mother is still alive, and you're willing to put past any of your prejudices to treat her fairly—I can talk to Hermione to see if she can take you on as a client. If your mother is actually alive, Hermione would be your best shot at finding her, especially if she doesn't want to be found."
"I don't have any," Malfoy replied, leaning back onto the settee fully, swiping at his eyes as he relaxed infinitesimally.
"Sorry?"
"Prejudices. I don't have any. I'd have to be foolish at this point to give any credence to what a half-blooded megalomaniac claimed while destroying the lives of nearly every pureblood I know while the only muggleborn I would have considered myself acquainted with easily trounced all of my academic efforts. Do you think she would help me?"
"For a price, Malfoy, anyone would do almost anything. I'll talk to her tonight."
A/N Hi! I hate to be the author begging for comments, but I'd really like to know what you think of this story! It's my first time having things (even some of it) pre-written before I start posting, it's the most plot-heavy thing I've ever written, and it's the only thing I've ever written that wasn't either just a shameless fluff piece or an excuse to write smut. This one has a s-t-o-r-y, baby.