Hermione sat at the small, round table in her kitchen, tea growing cold in front of her while Harry gesticulated madly, biscuit in his hand dropping crumbs that Crookshanks was all too willing to catch from the floor below him.
"You should've seen it, it was absolutely unbelievable. You remember how he used to put on this front like nothing could get to him? He was absolutely wrecked at the thought of something having happened to her. I mean, he was shaking, wringing his hands, might've shed a tear or two."
She sighed, trying not to roll her eyes at her oldest friend. If Ron had the emotional range of a teaspoon, Harry might only have the range cup. Enough that he could get by, but not enough to stop him from shoving his foot in his mouth with alarming regularity. "Of course he was, Harry. She's his mum. It would take a special sort to be unaffected by a letter like that. I mean, think about how much you miss your mum—and you don't even have any powerful memories of her. You can hardly blame him."
Harry nodded and took a bite of what remained of the biscuit. He seemed about to speak again, before remembering whose home he was in, and took a much appreciated moment to chew and swallow before continuing. "He doesn't think she's dead."
Hermione looked back at him, surprised. "You found a suicide note, poison, and she left her wand behind. A pureblooded witch like Narcissa Malfoy would never leave her wand behind if she'd just left."
Harry nodded furiously. "That's exactly why he's doubtful. He says she never would've left without her wand, no matter what. And that her body wasn't in the bathroom with everything else makes him think she wasn't actually dead. He can't think of any enemies of hers save for his father, but you would have to admit that she's not exactly well liked."
Hermione shook her head. "Belladonna is fast acting, but I don't think it's that fast. If she took it, she'd have a bit of time to leave, but not much. I'd have to look into it, but I think that her vision would have failed her. She would've been disoriented, and unable to speak before she would've collapsed. I can't imagine a half blind woman unable to vocalize a destination would've been able to make it very far from the manor without someone noticing."
Harry nodded, and took a sip of his tea, frowning into the cup when he realized it had gone cold while he recounted the morning's events and shoveled Hermione's biscuits into his mouth.
"I know. But he's not ready to let her go. And if there is even a slight chance that she's out there, I don't want to be responsible for refusing him. But you know how 'by the book' the DMLE wants us to be now. And on paper, this is relatively open and shut. The manor's property lines stretch far from the house—I have a couple of junior aurors headed out there tomorrow to search for a body. But if there's even a chance that she could be somewhere else, she'd be requiring medical attention, yes?"
Hermione thought back to what she knew of deadly nightshade, and was coming up short of knowledge about it save for its use as a Flying Ointment to produce out-of-body effects while they executed witches during the witch hunts. She would need to research.
"Did you tell him I'd help?"
Harry shook his head. "Yes, but no. I told him I'd talk to you, that he'd have to put aside any lingering issues with you and treat you with respect if he expected you to go out of your way to help him. He assured me that there would not be any issues on that front, and he confirmed his willingness to pay."
She sighed, gathering her hair up on the crown of her head and collecting their cold cups to dump in the sink. This was Draco Malfoy, perennial pain in her arse since childhood. But if there were even the slightest odds that his mother was alive, she didn't think she could sit back and allow his questions to go unanswered. Turning off the tap, she set the mugs on the drying rack with a soft clink, turning to lean on the counter to look at Harry. He looked tired, but somehow invigorated by the excitement of something interesting and new.
"I'd be looking into it myself, Hermione. You know that. But I can't risk making it seem like the aurors aren't playing by the rules. It's taken me years to clean up their reputation after the war. If he's going to get help, it has to come from the outside. And you have to admit—you love a mystery, don't you?"
Hermione looked at him, reading the earnestness in his expression. Merlin, she hoped she wouldn't regret this.
"Fine. Tell him I'm willing to meet with him. But at the first sign of regression into a prat, I'm leaving."
With a wide smile, Harry leapt up to hug her. "If he makes you regret your help, I'll make him regret asking for it. Owl me a copy of your schedule and I'll arrange something with him. Do you want me there?"
Having Harry there might serve as a useful buffer between her and the blond prat, especially given that it seemed as if the two of them had managed to have a series of civil discussions throughout the day. Besides, hadn't Malfoy come directly to him to request help? But she didn't want to look as if she were running to The Chosen One to keep her safe from the big, bad, reformed death eater. Besides, she'd managed Malfoy well enough for the years that they'd been at school together. If he felt like getting shirty with her, she'd reintroduce him to her right fist.
"No, I'm sure you're beyond busy at the Ministry. I'll send for you if I need reinforcements, but otherwise I think I'll do my best to keep this as far from your command as possible. After all, if you can't look into it yourself, it wouldn't seem aboveboard to have you involved in an external investigation."
Harry grinned again and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You're a good woman, Hermione Granger."
"Keep that in mind if I have to hex him into next week, Harry."
-—-—-—
Part of her, admittedly a large part, was grateful that Harry had arranged for them to meet in a muggle coffee shop in London for their first meeting. She'd be foolish if she thought she'd be able to get out of this without a trip to the Manor, but she was grateful that she wouldn't be forced to face all of her demons at once.
Harry had owled both her and Malfoy on a seemingly duplicated missive, instructing them to meet at half-past eleven. Despite planning to leave early, she'd nearly been late by her personal standards. She'd spent what felt like—and possibly could have been—hours standing before her wardrobe, searching for something acceptable to wear. There were too many competing considerations to consider for the decision to come easily, despite her not being one to waste precious energy on her external appearance.
She'd settled on a long, burnt umber colored pinafore dress. The linen would be both practical and casual, while just dressy enough to make her feel as if she were, in fact, dressing to meet a client. She slipped on a white button down before sliding the dress over her head, careful not to ruin the effort she'd put into taming her hair into something approaching presentable.
The outfit was typical enough that she wouldn't stand out much in the muggle cafe that Harry had picked for them, and wouldn't leave her feeling as if a flashing neon sign proclaimed the muggle status of clothing if they made it as far as wizarding society that morning.
After her battle with her clothes and an unfortunate incident involving her lacing her oxfords onto the wrong feet in her rush, she still made it to the cafe nearly fifteen minutes before Malfoy was slated to arrive. She'd wanted a full thirty minutes to calm down and ensure that they had secured a table away from prying eyes, but she was fortunate in that the morning rush had cleared out and people weren't yet arriving for tea. She found a seat at a round bistro table toward the back of the cafe and sat facing the door, waiting for his arrival.
Hermione had only seen Malfoy in passing since the end of the war. Based on the drivel in the Prophet, she knew he didn't reside at the Manor anymore, choosing instead to live somewhere in Knightsbridge. You could take the boy out of the posh palatial estate, but apparently you could never take the posh out of the boy. Of course, he could ferret out some of the most expensive real estate in London.
Besides that, she wasn't sure what he'd been up to since his freedom. She knew he and his mother were on probation, regularly submitted to wand and home inspections, but she didn't know if he'd eschewed the expectations of his status and find work, or if he spent his days lazing around and rubbing elbows with the rest of the upper-crust.
She'd seen pictures of him and Theodore Nott out at various functions, vapid looking women under their arms, but wasn't sure if he was actually dating anyone seriously enough to imply his intention to don the mantle of lord of the manor. Was he even allowed to do so, with Lucius still living? The terms of his house arrest may have reduced the senior Malfoy to little more than a squib, but there was still quite a lot of stock and formality placed on his title as Lord Malfoy.
It was during this speculation that she nearly missed him walking in. Part of her was expecting the same severe appearance that he'd had during their final years at Hogwarts—black from head to toe, save for the shock of slicked back, ash-blond hair.
Which was why she was surprised at the figure he cut as he weaved his way through the bistro tables toward her. He was wearing a pair of pale pleated trousers, potentially corduroy based on the way the light hit him. A soft white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, cuffs open and rolled back, and a soft brown cable knit sleeveless sweater. His hair seemed thicker than she remembered it, tousled and pushed back from his face, but certainly not slicked back into oily submission. It was an outfit that seemed far too casual for him—more fitting for the likes of Remus Lupin than for the buttoned up, anxious Malfoy heir.
He placed a leather satchel on the chair across from her, not yet sitting. "Good morning, Granger. I don't know that I can have this conversation with you without a cup of something caffeinated. Do you need anything from the counter?"
In shock, she shook her head dazedly before reaching for her wallet. "You'll need—"
He lightly held a hand out, stopping her. "No, I won't. I'll be back."
She watched him walk away, sliding back between the tables in the seating area to sidle up to the counter, ordering rapidly in a way that made her certain this wasn't his first time in a muggle cafe. Potentially not even his first time in this one. As he talked, gesturing with one hand toward the pastry case, she watched him slide his hand into the front pocket of his trousers.
Merlin, if he confunded the barista to avoid having to pay—
But no. He pulled out a soft-looking leather wallet, clearly well worn, and eased out a £20 note to cover the tab.
He walked back over to the table, sliding into the seat across from her. As he rooted around in the bag he'd brought with him, a waitress walked over, dropping a latte and a chocolate croissant in front of him and a cappuccino and a slice of the carrot cake she'd been planning to take home after their meeting in front of her.
"How did you-?"
He carefully pulled a parchment from his bag and slid it across the table to her, placing the bag back on the floor beside his feet. "Everyone noticed how excited you got when carrot cake was on the menu at Hogwarts. And a cappuccino seemed like a safe bet. Thank you for meeting with me."
Reeling from the knowledge that he'd noticed the rare occasions she'd chosen to indulge in dessert in the Great Hall, she nodded. "Thank you for the coffee and cake. I can't promise you I'll be able to find her, you know that, right?"
He nodded, taking a careful sip of his latte and leaning back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his other knee in feigned indifference. "But you can promise that you'll look, yes? I don't expect a miracle, but I do expect this to be taken seriously. This doesn't feel right to me, and I want to know that you'll actually help me look."
"I can promise that I'll look for her until we both agree that there's nothing to find, or until she's found. My work isn't a lark for me, and even you deserve someone to look into this seriously."
He quirked an eyebrow at her and she felt chastised before he even spoke. "'Even I' deserve that? Well, thank you for agreeing to help then."
She frowned and tried to resist the urge to wring her hands like a scolded child. "That's not what I meant, and I think you know that. I meant that despite all the... everything... between us, I will not sit by and force you to stand idle if you believe that your mother is missing. I haven't forgotten what she did for you—for us all. If something's happened to her, she deserves justice."
Malfoy seemed to melt into his seat with that, an ice she hadn't noticed seeming to thaw. "Thank you. She's a lot of things, but she isn't as bad as the rest of us were. It just doesn't feel right, that she would do something so... cowardly."
Hermione held herself back from reaching across the table to touch his hand where it rested beside his cup. "Malfoy, if she took her own life, that kind of thinking will not help you heal. I know it may seem that way, feeling as if she left you behind, but it wouldn't have been a decision that she made lightly or if she felt as if there were other options available to her. It isn't productive to view it that way. It wouldn't have been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I don't think it would do her service to call her a coward for it. Not when she's already proven herself to be braver than many other people."
"So that's it?" he asked, looking up at her through his fringe. "You think she's committed suicide?"
Hermione shook her head. "Do I think she's taken her own life? I don't know yet. My mother used to tell me to 'hope for the best, but prepare for the worst'. I won't go into this with my mind made up either way, and I'll look for her the way I would search for a missing or hiding person. But it would only be detrimental to you in the long run if we don't discuss that it could be a possibility."
Malfoy let out a deep sigh and nodded, sliding the parchment he'd pulled from his bag further toward her. "Potter made a copy of the note she left behind."
Hermione pulled the paper toward her, eyes quickly raking over the handwritten text.
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.
'Didn't have it in her to go with grace'? 'Cannot live this life any longer'? Doesn't bode well, but she didn't say to live any longer, nor did she specify what she meant by 'go with grace'. Go where?
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.
Hermione was aware of the whispers, the rumor mill at work once again, that Narcissa had become a veritable ghost since they remanded Lucius to the manor and chained him to its wards. No one had seen hide nor hair of her in person, but she was known to keep up correspondence with some of the other society witches. In fact, she was quite sure that she'd heard Neville say something about a letter to the editor that she'd submitted to the herbology pages of the Prophet.
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.
She can't live out her days trapped her... doesn't that necessarily mean that she had no intention of continuing living at all?
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.
Although... losing a personal battle doesn't bode well. One rarely speaks of battles lost when they feel the urge to carry on.
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.
The actions she's about to take... the anguish he will feel. As she read, part of Hermione understood why Harry felt obligated to obey his orders and rule it as suicide. But something about the phrasing didn't sit right with her. By the time that someone was committed to taking their own life, they were usually rather forthcoming about that fact. Especially if they had reached the point where they were drafting letters to be read by their loved ones.
While part of her wanted to agree with Harry and close the book, the larger part of her felt as if there was something more. These read like the words of a desperate and deeply apologetic woman. But not, necessarily, one who was prepared to die.
It looked as if there might be something to Malfoy's theories, after all.
"I'm in," she said, gently placing the parchment back on the table. It may not have been the original, but she didn't have it in her to drop in to the table with any measure of callousness.
Malfoy smiled at her, wide and almost unsettling. "When do you want to go to the Manor?"
She pulled her slice of cake towards her and picked up the fork resting on the edge of the plate, taking a sip of her cappuccino before looking at him over the rim of the cup. "Give me fifteen minutes with this cake."
Malfoy chuckled and placed the letter back in his bag before ripping a corner off the edge of his croissant. "You forget we went to school together for six years. I'll give you five minutes with that cake, and I reckon you'll have time to finish your coffee as well."