30. Scapegoat

I'm still uncertain about why I stayed with Henry during those last few weeks. But I'm fairly certain he stayed with me because I was a suitable research partner. He could get partners in more amorous crimes elsewhere, and easily. He didn't even make a decent attempt at hiding his affairs.

Not that I noticed, at first. I was as obsessed with the Potter case and redeeming Draco as Henry was hungry for the scientific advances Malfoy had made in seeking to resurrect his lover. We were a good team, even if we rarely if ever offered each other any direct support. Our obsessions intersected, as did our living space. The chill crept upon me slowly.

With paparazzi and reporters hunting me (the mad Malfoy-fancier) and the pay-cuts that had hit every level of the Quibbler, I relied on the protection and financial support of Henry more than ever. I couldn't leave him. I couldn't decide to sleep on the couch. And I couldn't stand the sight of his girlfriends as they came to call.

The paparazzi loved those little visits. Long, shapely legs, big breasts; it made for excellent pictures and yet another reason why I had snapped. I had been betrayed by my man. I was transferring my shunned affections onto an idealised dead gay man, one who could never betray me, a safe (if rather stiff) bet. The tabloids had a field day.

And as always, the envelope was pushed to push the putrid paper into the paying hands of The People. Dark hints of my presence in the vicinity of the peculiar crimes permitted began appearing in print, giving credence to the speculations of The People. Had I not been in the Prophet office the very same day it was torched? (I had, giving my former editor a number of pieces of my mind.) Had I not been exposed as a fraud by the very reporters who were now dead? (That rather depended on your favoured Truth, but in essence, they were correct. I could do little to quench the rumours.)

The final straw was when Henry made a joke about maybe putting me on display in the attic and charge the paparazzi an entrance fee. He did it for the amusement of his latest female catch. And right in front of me.

The following morning, there was blood splattered on Henry's silk sheets. Most of it had been spread around when I, in a daze, had picked up his still moist heart. All I was able to think was how ordinary it looked, how healthy it had been, how the dishonesty and darkness had made no mark on it. How similar it was to Potter's. An amoral machine.

'Alas,' said I to the modern, moist Yorick in my hand as the Aurors burst in. The paparazzi had heard my early morning scream. But I was silent then. In retrospect, I should have seemed more upset.

I only really missed Henry when I found I couldn't afford a decent lawyer. Not that it would have made much difference. My insisting that Malfoy was to blame endeared me to no one. Those who would turn Potter into a martyr and a saint were overjoyed that my articles could now be conclusively labelled the ravings of a madwoman, and Malfoy's journals a piece of fanatic fiction.

Still, I had some reliable counsel on my side. Something that made even my worst detractors doubt. Two judges died of sudden heart-failure trying to pronounce a death sentence (dementing was no longer politically correct, after all).

I was to be shipped off to Azkaban. And with the state of the prison, it was thought to be as good as a death sentence.

My cold counsel did not agree.