It came as quite the surprise when he pushed her back against the wall,
hands pressing almost painfully into her shoulders. His breath came thinly,
low and seedy, as his knees knocked against hers and she blinked at him.
"Was there something wrong, Mister Malfoy?" She would not rise to meet him,
she could endure the anger, his punishment. Her hand was already creeping
towards her pocket, wherein she had stored her wand.
Instead of answering, he released one of her shoulders, and she began to step away from the wall, shaking her head, a 'tsk' forming on her tongue. It quickly became a pant as he grasped the wrist slipping towards her wand, drew it up and pressed it against the wall, pushing her back so she knocked against the wall.
She quickly realised that it was not anger painted on his face. It made her turn her own away, press her cheek against the cool stone. It made her close her eyes and draw in a deep, calming breath as his own swept across her cheek.
"Nothing," came his reply, the words slipping directly into her ear; the warmth spreading down her neck only a hint. She tilted her head back, away, ignored the knee pressing its way between her own, licked her lips. A small voice danced through her mind. How many years has it been, Ana? Being dead doesn't kill needs, does it? She gave the tiniest shake of her head in answer. We're both dead now. Only, I expect the only desire Sirius has is to be alive again. ... Who is this boy, anyway? A young man, wanting what he can't have, with his money, his pointed face, his cold, hard eyes. Do you have any intention of waging a battle this large again?
The argument itself died as something soft and smooth played across her chin.
She awoke slowly, drawn out of sleep by the slight movement across her chin and cheek, rubbed at it lazily. And realised it was not lips, but paper. Blinking the sleep away, she drew herself from her bed and stared blearily down at the articles, papers and photographs on her bed.
And she frowned down at the paper flapping in the slight breeze caused by her open window. It was not an article - the world was not aware... To the world, The Boy Who Lived was still alive, off away from the world, living his life quietly.
In her reporter's mind, Ana referred to him as The Boy Who Died. Still analytical to a fault, those were the first words that had come to her mind when she received the letter a little more then seven years ago. Voldemort had been destroyed, and along with him Harry Potter. Many who knew the prophecy had discerned that it was inevitable, but too many of them were close to the boy, loved him as if they were surrogate parents. Perhaps they all were. She had only met him in passing. She had only known him as the boy who would save them all from the Dark Lord, and that he had. That he had to die had been a great shock to those who knew him, but what had happened had happened.
She had not yet been an Auror a year when it occurred. She had not participated in the final pitched battle between good an evil, though she had been in her own. The Aurors had been set off throughout the British Isles to put down the resistance from the Death Eaters. She had been in Surrey with five others (and another four already dead) when the Death Eaters had screamed in unison, lifting their arms to the sky, pawing and scratching at them. All who had been present that day - in Surrey and elsewhere - had witnessed the slow and silent fading of the Dark Marks upon the arms, and all had known what had come to pass.
The world did not celebrate. There were too many pieces to pick up, too many lives to mend and put back together. The world mourned for the dead, consoled the living. Ana had not seen smiles for some time afterward, though those had been only grim in the beginning.
It had taken many years to put the world back together, but it had been done and lives had gone on. There was little more to do.
What became of Harry Potter and Voldemort she never knew. If there were remains to be dealt with, the world never heard a word of where they were placed, what was done with them.
Somehow, it was better that way. The world went on, knowing it was over, though no place had been left tainted by the final battle. The world did not know where it happened, did not want to know. It was over, and the world went back to their peace and solitude, knowing that this war was over, and knowing that another would begin in the future. That was the way the world worked.
She had gone back to work the early next day, sat down at her desk, put her head in her hands, and cried until the first person arrived. She cried for the boy, for Sirius, for the lives changed. For herself. It had been the first time she finally realised that she was dead, as dead as the rest of them... but she had been given a second chance. Life had not seen fit to give anyone else another chance. She grieved that morning for all lost chances.
She pulled herself off the bed and to her feet, leaving the things scattered across the bedspread, pulled open the drawer of her night stand and drew out the single quill sitting in the drawer.
Moving to the wall beside the window, she tapped the tip to her lower lip, considering. When she had chosen a place between the scrawled phrases "We all remember." and "Who is to say what we know?", she pressed the quill to the white wall and wrote, "I miss living life." It shimmered a moment in the morning sun, then sunk into the wall, fading from black to a red that had obviously once been vibrant.
Placing the quill on the windowsill, Ana lifted her hand, turned it over, stared at the line seared into her palm. Carefully, she dabbed at a spot of blood with the sleeve of her robe, swept up the quill, and turned away from the window.
The dream stayed with her, but she thought little of it. She could not think on it, or it would compromise her day and her case. And by the sound of the letter that had been found, there would be little personal time on the horizon.
"Since when have I had personal time?" She muttered as she gathered up the papers and photographs and began slipping them back into the picture frame.
"Personal time?" Echoed a voice from across the room.
She frowned at the voice, but continued putting the frame back together. When she had placed it back on the wall, she turned and looked hard at the man in her doorway. There was more then a little worry in her eyes. "I haven't seen you in almost ten years."
The man merely shrugged. His hair had gone completely grey, his face lined far beyond his years. His hands were stuffed tightly into the pockets of the long coat he wore.
"What's happened?"
She tried not to sound hopeful, and succeeded, but there was a tingle there, in the pit of her stomach. What for, she was not sure, but as she stepped towards him, she placed a hand over her chest.
"We've heard news of the letter found at the Malfoy Mansion yesterday."
She blinked. "We?" It took a moment for her to settle, though her hand twitched, attempting to ball itself up over her chest. "There's still a 'we'? I left the Order the day I died, Remus. This is business for the Ministry. Voldemort is long dead, and the Order shouldn't exist anymore. This has nothing to do with Death Eaters."
He raised an eyebrow as he draped a hand across the back of the single kitchen chair. "Doesn't it? Purity, killing people involved with the Malfoys, when they did not want involvement? 'We are Legion'?"
She shook her head, moved to hang the picture back on the bent nail. She did not want to think that they were back. "They can't be, Remus. We would know, there would be signs."
"This isn't a sign?"
"This is murder." She said it simply, turned to look at him with her hands on her hips. "Lucius Malfoy probably got word of his wife being coddled and his son watched and called in a favour. It would be just like him to sent the Ministry into a mad dash to find some group of nonexistent killers."
"Just like him," the man said quietly, removing his other hand from his pocket, gripping the chair with both. "You've never met the man, Anara. Perhaps that is something you should do."
She sneered at him. "I've an interview set up for two o'clock today, Remus. I will be visiting Narcissa tonight at St Mungo's, and will be spending the rest of the day interviewing the young Malfoy while he sits in a cell in the basement of the Ministry. I think I've got enough covered for today."
She caught the worry tightening his eyes, his hands clenching and unclenching around the chair. "None of us have heard from you since before the Prophet incident. Even Dumbledore hasn't seen you since then. Some of the Aurors don't even remember you. Do you have any idea how different you look?"
She bit her lip, sent a look into the mirror that sat off-center on her wall. "I know how I look. I look old, and I look tired." She paused, lifted her head. "Don't expect some crack about how I look good for a person who's dead, Remus. I lost my sense of humour along with a great deal of flesh and bone." Again, she waited another beat while she looked at him. "They regrew or repaired eighty-seven bones, Remus. Regrew the thirty-four percent of the skin I lost in the fire. One of my shoulders gets so stiff some mornings that I can't move it for hours. Sometimes I still smell burnt hair and skin. They left so many scars on me that I can barely look at myself, some days. My face might look alright to you, but I can barely smile. That happens when a curse shatters your jaw."
She wasn't done, lifted a finger after he next breath. "Two. That's how many teeth they didn't have to regrow. Seven of my fingers were broken, three so badly that they had to remove what was left and start all over. They did the same with my right leg and left wrist. There's so little left of me that is... me... that I don't dare call myself alive anymore. I lived, but Sirius, Sahra, and Harry Potter all died. So many other people died. So someone decided I got the chance to live, and Dumbledore gave me Sahra's name, her life. I stole away the life of my best friend, because she died. Ana died. If both Ana and Sahra are dead, then so am I."
He was going to say something, she knew he was, but she didn't want to hear it. So she moved to the kitchen table and swept up her folders. "They're expecting me at the Ministry. I want to get some time in with young Mister Malfoy before I go visit his father."
He was speaking when she swept up a handful of Floo Powder from the jar on the hearth, but she ignored it. Sprinkling a touch in, she requested the Atrium, and stepped into the fire. The last she saw of the man, he was stuffing his hands back into his pockets and sending a look in her direction as he turned towards the door.
It was thankfully still early, and the Atrium was nearly empty as she trudged towards the elevators. She caught one to herself, and rode down in silence.
Her cubicle sat at the end of the first row, just beside one of the magical windows. This morning, the sun was slowly rising, casting the large open room in a pinkish light. She set her things down on her tidy desk, lifted her memos and notes, and flicked through them without sitting. Three were from various people at the Ministry accosting her about locking a Malfoy in the basement. She dropped those straight into her wastebasket, along with the others, which were just normal notes and reminders.
On her way down the many floors to the basement, she listened in on the early-morning conversation between Ministry workers as they chatted about their evening, how the wife and children were. She was alone when she got off the elevator on the tenth level. It was a long walk along the corridors to the small rooms used for holding people.
All were empty, save for the one holding Draco Malfoy. Ana waved to the guard outside the door and he opened it, allowing her to step inside. When the door banged shut with a hollow, metallic sound, Draco lifted his head from where he was lounging on the small bed provided. "Well. Good morning, Miss Nigels."
"Good morning," she replied, seating herself on the only chair in the small room, which sat directly across from the bed. The man still laid there, hands beneath his head, one foot balanced atop the other as he looked at her. After adjusting her robes, she swept out her wand. "Tea? I'm not sure if they'll have fed you yet."
There was a low sound that escaped from his nose. She instantly stiffened, eyes narrowing. "I've eaten. But I will accept the tea, thank you." With that, he quickly sat up, folding his hands across his lap as he leaned forward attentively.
"Of course they fed you," she muttered, but still, she conjured up two cups of tea, and he swept his own from the air, took a contemplative sip.
"Mint," he said, considering. "It suits you. Crisp, cool, but with a hint of sweet. It symbolises virtue. Humble virtue. Also," he dipped his head towards her, smirked, "it symbolises passion and sexuality."
She sniffed in return, took a sip almost in defiance. Her dream crept back into her mind, caused her back to stiffen even more so. As she bent down to set the teacup on the floor - as there was no table - she very nearly slopped the tea when he touched her hair. She stood instantly, staring down at him with a look she could only muster when she was furious.
He spread his hands, looking as innocent as he could. "I apologise. It was in my tea."
She frowned, lifted a strand and very nearly shook her head. It was wet, and when she bought it to her nose, noted it did smell like it had been resting in a cup of mint tea. With a disgusted sigh, she sank back into the chair. "Would you like another cup, Mister Malfoy?"
He shook his head. "No, this is quite alright. I doubt I will find any hairs in my cup as yours is so long."
She barely suppressed another sniff. Her hair had been something she was proud of, in her younger years. She had cared for it, washed it, made sure that it did not hang as limply as others did. She had been left with a short, fuzzy cap of hair after she had burned down the Daily Prophet, and it had taken these near ten years just to grow it all back. Absently, she twirled her fingers around it, until she realised the man was sitting, watching her muse over old thoughts while she was supposed to be interviewing him.
"You didn't sleep well, did you?"
It was such an odd question coming from him, that it caught her off guard and she nodded. Then decided that as she had already answered, she would continue. "You don't look as though you had a comfortable night either, Mister Malfoy. I suggest we start this discussion then, so we can let you go back home."
"Let me go back home?" It was his turn to blink, and he leaned forward to set his own cup down. Ana had forgotten about hers. "You don't think I did this, then?"
This was not going well, she decided. Not well at all. "No," she said, resigned, "I don't think you did it. You're too smart a man to kill someone in your own house. However, it will probably be a few days before we can rule you out as a suspect."
She had just drawn out a quill and a notepad when there was a knock on the door. It sounded oddly distant through the thick metal. The guard slid the door open and the head of her Department was looking between her and Draco with a crease between his eyes. "We've just received Miss Ashbury's journal, Sahra. You should look it over before you go to Azkaban."
She could have hit the man for his stupidity. Draco had his eyebrows raised, and he was looking between them with interest and scrutiny. Ana carefully smoothed the paper she had crumpled in her first. "I'll come up when I'm finished. Sir."
The man frowned at her. He had obviously charmed himself some backbone, or had been the recipient of a talking-to by the Minister and was planning on taking it out on her. Either way, she was going to spend as much time down in the dungeon and not with the man, if she could manage. She did not have to be at Azkaban until two o'clock, and by a quick check of her watch, it was only ten past nine.
"I believe Miss Nigels should get herself some breakfast, sir. She can peruse the journal, then come back and interview me." Both of them turned to peer at Draco, and he lifted his teacup in a salute before taking another sip and leaning back on the bed. "I'd like to enjoy my morning tea before I have to answer some questions. She could also use a nap. I won't be ready for her until noon, I expect."
The two turned to stare at each other, the man shaking his head in amused disbelief, and Ana feeling the red rise up past her neck to flush her cheeks. She did not bother to uncrumple her paper this time, instead she stood and stomped hard on the quill she had let slip through her fingers. Sending a hard look at Draco, and brushing by the Head with a look of utter disgust on her face, she began making her way back towards the elevators.
"Really, Miss Nigels," the man hurried up beside her, smoothing the front of his robes.
"Really?" she snorted in return, tossing the empty notepad behind her as she strode quickly down the hall. "Really yourself, Whitney. Walking in on an interview to divulge information concerning the case when a suspect is present!"
"Come on now, Sahra," the man started, a pleading sound rising in his voice, "you can't believe Mister Malfoy did this. I mean, a Malfoy committing murder..."
She stopped right there, in the middle of the hall, struck dumb by the man. Her throat dried, fingers fell loose around the wand in her pocket. She stopped her eyes from rolling around in her head only after she took a few moments to recover. Then, her voice was as thin and dangerous as cold steel. "Mister Whitney... You can't... you're not...?"
He shrugged.
"Oh dear." That was all she could manage. She could not bring herself to find any other words. She swallowed a very large lump in her throat and continued down the hallway at a near run, leaving the man far behind her.
Upstairs, she very nearly slammed into someone as she escaped the elevator. The person grabbed her to keep her from tripping, and Ana blinked up at Arthur Weasley. She very nearly screamed.
"Miss Nigels!" The man started, worry creasing his face. "You look as if someone just walked over your grave! Is something the matter?"
Still nearly frantic, Ana gripped his hands, pulled him down the corridor a ways, peered about, and leaned forward. "Arthur!"
He blinked at her. "Yes?"
She gave a sharp shake of her head. "Arthur, tell the Order, tell Remus... Whitney was either a Death Eater or was funded by one! He may still be!"
Looking quite utterly perplexed, he blinked again. "Order? Remus? I've no idea what you're talking about, dear... perhaps you need to sit down."
"Arthur!" She very nearly slapped him, but instead gripped his shoulders and shook him hard. "Look at me. Look hard. Sahra Nigels died ten years ago, in Tokyo." She had completely confused him, she knew. "I don't understand," he said quietly.
Behind her, the elevator dinged open and Whitney stepped out. Ana swallowed and shook him again. "Just tell Remus what I said, Arthur. He'll explain. Stay away from Whitney. Please."
"A-alright," the man managed before she pushed him away and hurried back to her cubicle.
Melissa's journal was sitting on her desk, but she ignored it as she paced the small space between it and the window. Whitney passed by on the way to his office, and Ana sent him a dangerous look. The man had the audacity to look nonplussed, and she growled loudly, causing the Auror next to her to lean out of his cubicle and blink at her. "Case got you frustrated, Sahra?"
"Somewhat," she replied and thumped down into her chair and flipped open the journal. It was long winded, and after reading the first few entries, she skipped forward to the date she had been assigned to the Malfoy Mansion.
Instead of answering, he released one of her shoulders, and she began to step away from the wall, shaking her head, a 'tsk' forming on her tongue. It quickly became a pant as he grasped the wrist slipping towards her wand, drew it up and pressed it against the wall, pushing her back so she knocked against the wall.
She quickly realised that it was not anger painted on his face. It made her turn her own away, press her cheek against the cool stone. It made her close her eyes and draw in a deep, calming breath as his own swept across her cheek.
"Nothing," came his reply, the words slipping directly into her ear; the warmth spreading down her neck only a hint. She tilted her head back, away, ignored the knee pressing its way between her own, licked her lips. A small voice danced through her mind. How many years has it been, Ana? Being dead doesn't kill needs, does it? She gave the tiniest shake of her head in answer. We're both dead now. Only, I expect the only desire Sirius has is to be alive again. ... Who is this boy, anyway? A young man, wanting what he can't have, with his money, his pointed face, his cold, hard eyes. Do you have any intention of waging a battle this large again?
The argument itself died as something soft and smooth played across her chin.
She awoke slowly, drawn out of sleep by the slight movement across her chin and cheek, rubbed at it lazily. And realised it was not lips, but paper. Blinking the sleep away, she drew herself from her bed and stared blearily down at the articles, papers and photographs on her bed.
And she frowned down at the paper flapping in the slight breeze caused by her open window. It was not an article - the world was not aware... To the world, The Boy Who Lived was still alive, off away from the world, living his life quietly.
In her reporter's mind, Ana referred to him as The Boy Who Died. Still analytical to a fault, those were the first words that had come to her mind when she received the letter a little more then seven years ago. Voldemort had been destroyed, and along with him Harry Potter. Many who knew the prophecy had discerned that it was inevitable, but too many of them were close to the boy, loved him as if they were surrogate parents. Perhaps they all were. She had only met him in passing. She had only known him as the boy who would save them all from the Dark Lord, and that he had. That he had to die had been a great shock to those who knew him, but what had happened had happened.
She had not yet been an Auror a year when it occurred. She had not participated in the final pitched battle between good an evil, though she had been in her own. The Aurors had been set off throughout the British Isles to put down the resistance from the Death Eaters. She had been in Surrey with five others (and another four already dead) when the Death Eaters had screamed in unison, lifting their arms to the sky, pawing and scratching at them. All who had been present that day - in Surrey and elsewhere - had witnessed the slow and silent fading of the Dark Marks upon the arms, and all had known what had come to pass.
The world did not celebrate. There were too many pieces to pick up, too many lives to mend and put back together. The world mourned for the dead, consoled the living. Ana had not seen smiles for some time afterward, though those had been only grim in the beginning.
It had taken many years to put the world back together, but it had been done and lives had gone on. There was little more to do.
What became of Harry Potter and Voldemort she never knew. If there were remains to be dealt with, the world never heard a word of where they were placed, what was done with them.
Somehow, it was better that way. The world went on, knowing it was over, though no place had been left tainted by the final battle. The world did not know where it happened, did not want to know. It was over, and the world went back to their peace and solitude, knowing that this war was over, and knowing that another would begin in the future. That was the way the world worked.
She had gone back to work the early next day, sat down at her desk, put her head in her hands, and cried until the first person arrived. She cried for the boy, for Sirius, for the lives changed. For herself. It had been the first time she finally realised that she was dead, as dead as the rest of them... but she had been given a second chance. Life had not seen fit to give anyone else another chance. She grieved that morning for all lost chances.
She pulled herself off the bed and to her feet, leaving the things scattered across the bedspread, pulled open the drawer of her night stand and drew out the single quill sitting in the drawer.
Moving to the wall beside the window, she tapped the tip to her lower lip, considering. When she had chosen a place between the scrawled phrases "We all remember." and "Who is to say what we know?", she pressed the quill to the white wall and wrote, "I miss living life." It shimmered a moment in the morning sun, then sunk into the wall, fading from black to a red that had obviously once been vibrant.
Placing the quill on the windowsill, Ana lifted her hand, turned it over, stared at the line seared into her palm. Carefully, she dabbed at a spot of blood with the sleeve of her robe, swept up the quill, and turned away from the window.
The dream stayed with her, but she thought little of it. She could not think on it, or it would compromise her day and her case. And by the sound of the letter that had been found, there would be little personal time on the horizon.
"Since when have I had personal time?" She muttered as she gathered up the papers and photographs and began slipping them back into the picture frame.
"Personal time?" Echoed a voice from across the room.
She frowned at the voice, but continued putting the frame back together. When she had placed it back on the wall, she turned and looked hard at the man in her doorway. There was more then a little worry in her eyes. "I haven't seen you in almost ten years."
The man merely shrugged. His hair had gone completely grey, his face lined far beyond his years. His hands were stuffed tightly into the pockets of the long coat he wore.
"What's happened?"
She tried not to sound hopeful, and succeeded, but there was a tingle there, in the pit of her stomach. What for, she was not sure, but as she stepped towards him, she placed a hand over her chest.
"We've heard news of the letter found at the Malfoy Mansion yesterday."
She blinked. "We?" It took a moment for her to settle, though her hand twitched, attempting to ball itself up over her chest. "There's still a 'we'? I left the Order the day I died, Remus. This is business for the Ministry. Voldemort is long dead, and the Order shouldn't exist anymore. This has nothing to do with Death Eaters."
He raised an eyebrow as he draped a hand across the back of the single kitchen chair. "Doesn't it? Purity, killing people involved with the Malfoys, when they did not want involvement? 'We are Legion'?"
She shook her head, moved to hang the picture back on the bent nail. She did not want to think that they were back. "They can't be, Remus. We would know, there would be signs."
"This isn't a sign?"
"This is murder." She said it simply, turned to look at him with her hands on her hips. "Lucius Malfoy probably got word of his wife being coddled and his son watched and called in a favour. It would be just like him to sent the Ministry into a mad dash to find some group of nonexistent killers."
"Just like him," the man said quietly, removing his other hand from his pocket, gripping the chair with both. "You've never met the man, Anara. Perhaps that is something you should do."
She sneered at him. "I've an interview set up for two o'clock today, Remus. I will be visiting Narcissa tonight at St Mungo's, and will be spending the rest of the day interviewing the young Malfoy while he sits in a cell in the basement of the Ministry. I think I've got enough covered for today."
She caught the worry tightening his eyes, his hands clenching and unclenching around the chair. "None of us have heard from you since before the Prophet incident. Even Dumbledore hasn't seen you since then. Some of the Aurors don't even remember you. Do you have any idea how different you look?"
She bit her lip, sent a look into the mirror that sat off-center on her wall. "I know how I look. I look old, and I look tired." She paused, lifted her head. "Don't expect some crack about how I look good for a person who's dead, Remus. I lost my sense of humour along with a great deal of flesh and bone." Again, she waited another beat while she looked at him. "They regrew or repaired eighty-seven bones, Remus. Regrew the thirty-four percent of the skin I lost in the fire. One of my shoulders gets so stiff some mornings that I can't move it for hours. Sometimes I still smell burnt hair and skin. They left so many scars on me that I can barely look at myself, some days. My face might look alright to you, but I can barely smile. That happens when a curse shatters your jaw."
She wasn't done, lifted a finger after he next breath. "Two. That's how many teeth they didn't have to regrow. Seven of my fingers were broken, three so badly that they had to remove what was left and start all over. They did the same with my right leg and left wrist. There's so little left of me that is... me... that I don't dare call myself alive anymore. I lived, but Sirius, Sahra, and Harry Potter all died. So many other people died. So someone decided I got the chance to live, and Dumbledore gave me Sahra's name, her life. I stole away the life of my best friend, because she died. Ana died. If both Ana and Sahra are dead, then so am I."
He was going to say something, she knew he was, but she didn't want to hear it. So she moved to the kitchen table and swept up her folders. "They're expecting me at the Ministry. I want to get some time in with young Mister Malfoy before I go visit his father."
He was speaking when she swept up a handful of Floo Powder from the jar on the hearth, but she ignored it. Sprinkling a touch in, she requested the Atrium, and stepped into the fire. The last she saw of the man, he was stuffing his hands back into his pockets and sending a look in her direction as he turned towards the door.
It was thankfully still early, and the Atrium was nearly empty as she trudged towards the elevators. She caught one to herself, and rode down in silence.
Her cubicle sat at the end of the first row, just beside one of the magical windows. This morning, the sun was slowly rising, casting the large open room in a pinkish light. She set her things down on her tidy desk, lifted her memos and notes, and flicked through them without sitting. Three were from various people at the Ministry accosting her about locking a Malfoy in the basement. She dropped those straight into her wastebasket, along with the others, which were just normal notes and reminders.
On her way down the many floors to the basement, she listened in on the early-morning conversation between Ministry workers as they chatted about their evening, how the wife and children were. She was alone when she got off the elevator on the tenth level. It was a long walk along the corridors to the small rooms used for holding people.
All were empty, save for the one holding Draco Malfoy. Ana waved to the guard outside the door and he opened it, allowing her to step inside. When the door banged shut with a hollow, metallic sound, Draco lifted his head from where he was lounging on the small bed provided. "Well. Good morning, Miss Nigels."
"Good morning," she replied, seating herself on the only chair in the small room, which sat directly across from the bed. The man still laid there, hands beneath his head, one foot balanced atop the other as he looked at her. After adjusting her robes, she swept out her wand. "Tea? I'm not sure if they'll have fed you yet."
There was a low sound that escaped from his nose. She instantly stiffened, eyes narrowing. "I've eaten. But I will accept the tea, thank you." With that, he quickly sat up, folding his hands across his lap as he leaned forward attentively.
"Of course they fed you," she muttered, but still, she conjured up two cups of tea, and he swept his own from the air, took a contemplative sip.
"Mint," he said, considering. "It suits you. Crisp, cool, but with a hint of sweet. It symbolises virtue. Humble virtue. Also," he dipped his head towards her, smirked, "it symbolises passion and sexuality."
She sniffed in return, took a sip almost in defiance. Her dream crept back into her mind, caused her back to stiffen even more so. As she bent down to set the teacup on the floor - as there was no table - she very nearly slopped the tea when he touched her hair. She stood instantly, staring down at him with a look she could only muster when she was furious.
He spread his hands, looking as innocent as he could. "I apologise. It was in my tea."
She frowned, lifted a strand and very nearly shook her head. It was wet, and when she bought it to her nose, noted it did smell like it had been resting in a cup of mint tea. With a disgusted sigh, she sank back into the chair. "Would you like another cup, Mister Malfoy?"
He shook his head. "No, this is quite alright. I doubt I will find any hairs in my cup as yours is so long."
She barely suppressed another sniff. Her hair had been something she was proud of, in her younger years. She had cared for it, washed it, made sure that it did not hang as limply as others did. She had been left with a short, fuzzy cap of hair after she had burned down the Daily Prophet, and it had taken these near ten years just to grow it all back. Absently, she twirled her fingers around it, until she realised the man was sitting, watching her muse over old thoughts while she was supposed to be interviewing him.
"You didn't sleep well, did you?"
It was such an odd question coming from him, that it caught her off guard and she nodded. Then decided that as she had already answered, she would continue. "You don't look as though you had a comfortable night either, Mister Malfoy. I suggest we start this discussion then, so we can let you go back home."
"Let me go back home?" It was his turn to blink, and he leaned forward to set his own cup down. Ana had forgotten about hers. "You don't think I did this, then?"
This was not going well, she decided. Not well at all. "No," she said, resigned, "I don't think you did it. You're too smart a man to kill someone in your own house. However, it will probably be a few days before we can rule you out as a suspect."
She had just drawn out a quill and a notepad when there was a knock on the door. It sounded oddly distant through the thick metal. The guard slid the door open and the head of her Department was looking between her and Draco with a crease between his eyes. "We've just received Miss Ashbury's journal, Sahra. You should look it over before you go to Azkaban."
She could have hit the man for his stupidity. Draco had his eyebrows raised, and he was looking between them with interest and scrutiny. Ana carefully smoothed the paper she had crumpled in her first. "I'll come up when I'm finished. Sir."
The man frowned at her. He had obviously charmed himself some backbone, or had been the recipient of a talking-to by the Minister and was planning on taking it out on her. Either way, she was going to spend as much time down in the dungeon and not with the man, if she could manage. She did not have to be at Azkaban until two o'clock, and by a quick check of her watch, it was only ten past nine.
"I believe Miss Nigels should get herself some breakfast, sir. She can peruse the journal, then come back and interview me." Both of them turned to peer at Draco, and he lifted his teacup in a salute before taking another sip and leaning back on the bed. "I'd like to enjoy my morning tea before I have to answer some questions. She could also use a nap. I won't be ready for her until noon, I expect."
The two turned to stare at each other, the man shaking his head in amused disbelief, and Ana feeling the red rise up past her neck to flush her cheeks. She did not bother to uncrumple her paper this time, instead she stood and stomped hard on the quill she had let slip through her fingers. Sending a hard look at Draco, and brushing by the Head with a look of utter disgust on her face, she began making her way back towards the elevators.
"Really, Miss Nigels," the man hurried up beside her, smoothing the front of his robes.
"Really?" she snorted in return, tossing the empty notepad behind her as she strode quickly down the hall. "Really yourself, Whitney. Walking in on an interview to divulge information concerning the case when a suspect is present!"
"Come on now, Sahra," the man started, a pleading sound rising in his voice, "you can't believe Mister Malfoy did this. I mean, a Malfoy committing murder..."
She stopped right there, in the middle of the hall, struck dumb by the man. Her throat dried, fingers fell loose around the wand in her pocket. She stopped her eyes from rolling around in her head only after she took a few moments to recover. Then, her voice was as thin and dangerous as cold steel. "Mister Whitney... You can't... you're not...?"
He shrugged.
"Oh dear." That was all she could manage. She could not bring herself to find any other words. She swallowed a very large lump in her throat and continued down the hallway at a near run, leaving the man far behind her.
Upstairs, she very nearly slammed into someone as she escaped the elevator. The person grabbed her to keep her from tripping, and Ana blinked up at Arthur Weasley. She very nearly screamed.
"Miss Nigels!" The man started, worry creasing his face. "You look as if someone just walked over your grave! Is something the matter?"
Still nearly frantic, Ana gripped his hands, pulled him down the corridor a ways, peered about, and leaned forward. "Arthur!"
He blinked at her. "Yes?"
She gave a sharp shake of her head. "Arthur, tell the Order, tell Remus... Whitney was either a Death Eater or was funded by one! He may still be!"
Looking quite utterly perplexed, he blinked again. "Order? Remus? I've no idea what you're talking about, dear... perhaps you need to sit down."
"Arthur!" She very nearly slapped him, but instead gripped his shoulders and shook him hard. "Look at me. Look hard. Sahra Nigels died ten years ago, in Tokyo." She had completely confused him, she knew. "I don't understand," he said quietly.
Behind her, the elevator dinged open and Whitney stepped out. Ana swallowed and shook him again. "Just tell Remus what I said, Arthur. He'll explain. Stay away from Whitney. Please."
"A-alright," the man managed before she pushed him away and hurried back to her cubicle.
Melissa's journal was sitting on her desk, but she ignored it as she paced the small space between it and the window. Whitney passed by on the way to his office, and Ana sent him a dangerous look. The man had the audacity to look nonplussed, and she growled loudly, causing the Auror next to her to lean out of his cubicle and blink at her. "Case got you frustrated, Sahra?"
"Somewhat," she replied and thumped down into her chair and flipped open the journal. It was long winded, and after reading the first few entries, she skipped forward to the date she had been assigned to the Malfoy Mansion.
