Chapter Nine: We Wait

"Look at this!"

Harry and Draco jumped as the door slammed open to admit a furious Hermione, a crumpled piece of paper in her outstretched hand. They winced again as the door crashed shut behind her, exchanging mystified expressions of concern.

Draco was nearest and took the scrap, straightening it to read the message aloud.

Dear Miss Granger,

I regret to inform you that beyond the initial missing persons list I provided with you on Tuesday, there is no further information I can provide regarding the photographs of the two men you sent us.

Kind regards,

Anastas Konstantinov

Head of the Missing Persons Unit

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Bulgarian Ministry of Magic

"It took them four days to get that information. They gave me a missing persons list in a few hours, and it takes them four days to tell me they know nothing about those men," Hermione stormed incredulously, marching up and down in the space between their desks. "Not only that, but they can floo me the list but not this?! Don't they know they're holding up an investigation?! I could have spent my time on better things than trying to sort through the lists they gave me!"

"Calm down, Hermione," Harry soothed, having taken the letter Draco passed him to look at it himself. "There are a lot of people they have to check to know whether those men were from their country…although admittedly, using an owl instead of the Floo is pretty odd."

"That's not the point, Harry," Hermione insisted angrily, the bag of pies swinging agitatedly in her hand. "I checked the bloodwork the Squad did. Those men are Bulgarians. Their DNA matches with the area."

"What?" Harry looked gobsmacked.

Hermione halted and twisted her fingers anxiously now. "I didn't want to tell you until Anastas got back to me – I thought he'd have information on who they actually are." She sighed.

"They're hiding something."

Hermione nodded, agreeing with Malfoy. "The only question is what. Why would they hide something like this from us?"

"Shame?" Harry tried. "They haven't exactly distinguished themselves recently. There was the business with Grindlewald, and Durmstrang's always had a dodgy history, then the fiasco at the 1994 World Cup, and Karkaroff. If the men were Voldemort sympathisers they'd hardly want to own up to the fact that they haven't been able to stamp it out in their own country. It's not that uncommon for countries to disavow some people…although admittedly they could still tell us who the men were if they did. We're hardly in a position to judge given our track record with Dark wizards."

Hermione sighed, going over to her desk and falling into her chair. "So what now? The victims are Bulgarians whom their own Ministry won't admit to knowing, possibly Voldemort sympathisers, but they were murdered and branded? It doesn't add up. Unless they defected, but then why brand them? It doesn't make sense, Harry!" Hermione screwed her hands up into her hair, forgetting it was in a bun, accidentally dislodging the pins so it fell down in a half-restrained tangle around her shoulders.

Harry shook his head, and glanced nervously at Draco who nodded very slightly. "Malfoy and I were just talking about it…" he frowned. "I think we're going to have to let the next murder happen."

There was a brief silence.

"What?" Hermione hissed, sitting bolt upright once more, the wildness of her hair making her look both crazed and angry. "Can you hear what you're saying, Harry?!"

"I know, Hermione! I don't like it either but we don't have enough information, and we'll only get more from another murder. We need the evidence. I'm sorry but that's the way it is."

Hermione gazed blankly at the walls, shaking her head, the last of the pins falling out and her hair tumbling around her face in a bushy mane. "I've gone insane," she muttered, "this is a nightmare."

"It's not like we're going to just let it happen, Hermione," Harry argued, "we'll try to stop it, but when we've got so little information we're practically just waiting for it to happen. We've basically got the rest of today to try and figure things out, then Saturday to wait, and Sunday. There's really very little chance of us actually managing to stop it, let alone catch the murderer. There's next to no way they're going to return to a previous site, and we'll be lucky if they choose a spot close enough to where the Hit Wizard teams are stationed that their wards will pick up on any offensive magic being used. We're in the dark whether we like it or not."

"He's right, Granger," Draco added, watching her carefully for signs that she might explode or start hexing them. "We're working entirely with speculations at the moment. We don't even know if there will be a second group murder."

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head disbelievingly. "I know," she muttered. She pushed her hands through her hair, scraping it back from her face and flicking her wand so the scattered hairpins rose up, busily reaffixing themselves. "Fine. We wait. But I don't like this."

Harry pursed his lips. "I don't think any of us do."

They all glanced around at each other, expressions glum and grim.

"I'd better tell Kingsley," Harry muttered.

Hermione nodded mutely, glancing down at her half-finished lunch, her appetite and former serenity vanished. It was turning out to be an awful Friday.

oOo

Draco woke late on Saturday morning, relieved it was the weekend at last, despite the fact that he was dreading Sunday as much as Potter and Granger. They'd parted ways late the previous evening, all of them hoping desperately that something might come up to help stall the horrible decision they'd been forced to take.

No owls had arrived for him in the night however, and they had all agreed not to contact each other unless they came across a serious development, so he knew that neither Potter nor Granger had made any headway either. He didn't doubt that Granger had probably stayed up till the wee hours, reading her eyes bloodshot in an attempt to find anything that might help. If Potter had any sense he would have stunned his friend and levitated her into her bed before she worked herself into a skeleton.

He'd promised his mother that he would come over to the Manor after lunch to take them to the Victoria and Albert Museum and then to see Tosca in the evening. His mother was currently torn between it, Dido and Aeneas, and Madame Butterfly as to which were her favourite. The outing was an attempt to show Lucius that Muggles were capable of sophistication and art after he'd disparaged the class about the workings of electricity, and although Draco did not hold high hopes for his mother's success, he was a necessary pawn in her schemes. Without his presence, neither she nor his father could leave the boundary of the grounds. Which meant that he was probably going to enjoy himself even less than his father today.

He took his time about getting ready, having a leisurely brunch and checking in with the reports from his businesses to ensure all was well with them, delaying his arrival at the Manor for as long as was possible without encroaching on his mother's plans for the day. He knew his father would not take kindly to being forced to see Muggle things in a Muggle building filled with Muggles and then to listen to what he'd probably call cat's screeching written and performed by talentless Muggles.

Personally, Draco had nothing against opera. In fact, he actually quite enjoyed it, although his grasp on Italian wasn't really sufficient enough to render complete translations of what was being sung about. He'd learnt French and Latin, and that had been all there was time for before he went to Hogwarts. They had been the most important, in any case. His mother was different – fluent in French and Latin, but also Italian, German, and Greek. She had the knack of easily acquiring new languages, something neither he nor his father had ever been very gifted at. Which would probably be another thing for his father to grumble about.


When he finally arrived at the Manor, however, Draco realised that he'd made a mistake. The thing his father was going to hate most about the entire ordeal was wearing Muggle clothes.

"I want my robes, dammit!" Lucius snarled.

Draco had followed a nervous house elf to his parents' suite, the creature scurrying away as quickly as possible, clearly sensing her master was in a kicking mood, and Draco entered alone.

Lucius was sneering at his own reflection in a full-length silver mirror. As far as Draco could see he wasn't really wearing anything too different from his normal clothes; it was all just pared back. Eliminating robes and a cloak were a given, and his mother was holding a rather smart black coat by the bed, ready to wrestle her husband into it. Lucius had lost weight in prison, and Narcissa had taken it upon herself to ensure he wasn't taken away by a breeze. The coat was thick, and seemed to be wool, with a faint grey check running in slender lines through the fabric.

Draco eyed his father. The suit was certainly less ornate, cut from what seemed to be black wool, with silk facing on the lapels. A very dark green paisley waistcoat was beneath the blazer, and there was not a scrap of velvet or a line of fur trimming to be seen anywhere, but it was Muggle enough to fit in, and wizarding enough to be worn under robes. It really wasn't that bad.

"Lucius," Narcissa said warningly, "it's a very nice suit. It's made by very well-known Muggle tailors. Now put on your coat."

Lucius scowled at her, the thought that the reputation of the Muggle tailors was irrelevant clearly going through his mind. "It's hideous."

"It's better than what the prisoners in Azkaban wear," Draco commented.

Lucius caught sight of his son standing behind him the doorway in the mirror and scowled at him. "Since when did you know what the prisoners of Azkaban wear?" he snarled. "I don't recall you visiting during my incarceration at the hands of your dear Ministry."

Draco's mouth tightened. "I had my education to finish and then the family name to resurrect – or don't you remember your part in blackening it?" he replied coldly.

Lucius's eyes bulged at the impertinence of the remark, but Narcissa interceded before he could speak.

"That's enough!" she eyed each of them sternly. "I want both of you to apologise. This instant."

The Malfoy men glared at her, then one another, and then the room in general.

"I'm waiting," Narcissa's tone was sharp. Even without a wand she could still make life hell for both of them.

"Sorry, Father," Draco said coolly.

Narcissa turned expectantly on her husband. He shot her an indignant look, but as her glare intensified, bowed to her will.

"Apologies, Draco," he ground out.

"Good." Narcissa picked Lucius's coat up again, thrusting his arms through the sleeves before he could protest and buttoning it firmly up at the front and winding a green scarf around his neck, tucking the ends inside his blazer. "Right, we're ready. Draco?"


The day felt interminable. Ordinarily Draco quite enjoyed the museum, it was fascinating to see the things Muggles had come up with in an attempt to get around not having magic, and some of the items were quite bizarre. With his parents in tow however, he had to remain within three meters of his father, and ten of his mother or else a warning at the Ministry would go off and Aurors would descend to arrest any escape attempt.

He had proximity charms on two platinum rings, one on each hand for each of them, to ensure they didn't accidentally trip the warning, in which case he'd have to explain why the Aurors had to needlessly break the Statute of Secrecy. The number of memory charms that would be necessary for a place as crowded as the museum didn't bear thinking about. The one for his father was set with an emerald, the one for his mother with onyx. It felt a little odd wearing jewellery, but it was better than the alternative, especially when one of them needed the bathroom.

The resultant need to tail them meant he couldn't go where he wished when he wished, and often ended up standing near them, bored and waiting while his mother went to great pains to ensure his father absorbed the information on the small plaques by each item or exhibit. He could tell that his father was silently judging all the Muggles around him, but refraining from making comments because, whatever his opinion of them might be, he did not believe them to be deaf. Draco amused himself with the idea of his father getting involved in a Muggle brawl as he had in second year with Mr Weasley in Flourish and Blotts. That particular scenario got him through nearly three galleries.

Despite dressing in Muggle clothing, his parents still looked a little too well dressed for simply visiting a museum, but it would do well for the opera later. Malfoys prided themselves on always being attired not only correctly, but fashionably, and even though they were Muggle clothes that his father wouldn't be seen dead in, they had to be the very best Muggle clothes that his father wouldn't be seen dead in.

His mother was in a thick green dress that was so dark it was almost black, whilst Draco, in a grey shawl collar cardigan and darker grey suit was by far the most casual of the party. Muggle women kept glancing at him, sometimes with bemused curiosity, other times with a very distinct 'come hither' glint in their eyes, but Draco wasn't interested. He might not despise them or consider them lesser beings, but that didn't mean he was about to take up with one. Quite apart from anything else, they'd have absolutely nothing in common, and it was quite boring enough listening to the inane prattle of witches about things he understood, without adding cross-cultural confusion into the mix.

Narcissa had asked for Draco's help in organising where they ate, and he'd booked them a table at the Savoy for afternoon tea, and then dinner at the Langham before the opera. It was another opportunity to showcase Muggles and their abilities, his mother had said, so he'd chosen places that he deemed to be fairly expensive in their currency.

Between dining, they walked around London, Narcissa taking her husband to see Buckingham Palace and St Paul's Cathedral, trying to instil in him a sense of appreciation for the sheer amount of manual labour involved for Muggles to create such buildings. Draco knew it had all been lost on his father, however, who deeply resented having to travel everywhere by foot, having refused to set foot on public transport, and unwilling to entrust his life to that of a Muggle taxi driver. Draco rather disliked having to forgo apparition too, but they were visiting parts of London that were simply too busy for a quiet corner to be found for some discrete labour-saving magic.

It was with no small sense of relief that Draco was able to relax into the darkness of the plush chairs at the opera in the evening. The day was nearly over. After the opera, he could finally take his parents back home, and then spend the rest of the night nursing a decanter of Firewhiskey to obliterate the entire experience.

As the orchestra struck up the entre act, Draco allowed a sigh.


They were partway into the third act, Cavaradossi pouring his soul into E lucevan le stele, when a fourth presence entered their private box, and Draco felt a spell drift over his shoulder seconds before a slender hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder.

He whipped around, reaching for his wand, and found himself face to face with a wide-eyed Granger, their noses nearly bumping as he whipped around. She looked rattled as she crouched by his shoulder, her pupils massive in the darkness, and her fingers bit into his shoulder.

"Granger? What–?"

"It's happened – the second murder. Malfoy, we've got to go!" Her voice was hoarse with something more than discretion, despite the fact that the Muffliato charm meant no one beyond the box would hear her, and he felt a little chill enter his heart.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" Narcissa enquired coolly, having turned in her seat at Draco's voice, now regarding the woman crouched by the back of her son's chair with an imperious gaze.

Hermione snatched her hand from Draco's shoulder as though burned, straightening, but it didn't show in her expression. "Mrs Malfoy, you need to return home," Hermione replied with as much politeness as she could muster under Narcissa's haughty gaze. "We need Draco on the case."

Draco blinked at her use of his first name. But then it would seem somewhat odd and a little rude to refer to him by his surname before his parents.

"And on whose authority do you act? Barging in on our evening, and into our private box?" enquired Lucius nastily, siding instantly with his wife. He might not have elected to come to the opera, but he'd be damned if some chit of a Mudblood girl was going to tell him what to do. "Have you put traces on us that we haven't been informed of? Because if so, it is a gross infringement of our liberties, and I shall be having words with my legal representatives."

Draco frowned at his father's rudeness, but Hermione beat him to reply.

"The Authority of the Ministry of Magic, Mr Malfoy," she answered coldly. "Like it or not, your son's presence is required. That means you must return home; unless you wish to break the laws governing your parole and your wife's house arrest, which would tie us all up with Aurors for an unnecessary amount of time, and result in your being returned to Azkaban – perhaps accompanied by your wife."

Lucius looked like he'd been force-fed an entire orchard of lemons. His glare intensified, but he made no reply, his wife's pale hand suddenly tight around his.

"And no, for your information, the Ministry has not put illegal traces on any of you. I went to collect Draco from his home, and Dilly told me where you were," Hermione added sanctimoniously.

"Dilly?" Lucius loaded all the excess disgust he felt for the situation into two syllables.

"My house elf," Draco answered his father's question, surprised that Granger had discovered his house elf's name given her evident urgency. But then she touted the creatures' rights; it fitted her M.O. that she would treat them like humans.

There was a frosty silence as Draco stood, his parents glaring at him as he deliberately sided with the dirty blooded witch they hadn't known he was working with. His father was clearly contemplating exacting retribution on the unwitting house elf that had disclosed their whereabouts, and it made Draco glad his parents couldn't floo to his home without him to escort them. He wouldn't say he exactly cleaved to Granger's cause, but he had never seen the need to treat the creatures as cruelly as his father had, and even his mother considered them mere serfs. Dilly ran his house perfectly to his wishes; there was no question of his father being allowed time to reprimand her.

"Come Mother, Father." He beckoned.

His parents remained in their seats.

Hermione sighed. "Need I inform you that I have considerable influence over the ruling made by the Re-education Course?" she enquired curtly. "I was instrumental in its design and introduction."

All three Malfoys blinked – their only concession to their surprise. Draco hadn't had the faintest clue of Granger's involvement with the program, although retrospectively it made sense. It was that ridiculous Gryffindor instinct again.

Narcissa stood smoothly, her expression as proud as ever, gazing down her nose at Hermione. "Draco, you may take us home," she said calmly, the words coming out as though she had made the decision herself, rather than been all but ordered to do so by Hermione. "I am growing tired of this spectacle."

Hermione stood, arms crossed, as the Malfoys filed past, catching the faint flicker of an apologetic glance that Draco shot her as he followed his parents out into the corridor.

"Malfoy," she hissed.

He turned at the door.

"I'll be waiting at your house to take you."

He nodded and she vanished.


Fifteen minutes later Draco materialised in a roar of green flames, stepping onto his hearthrug.

Hermione met his gaze, shooting up from her place on the leather settee before the fire, her own serious and very faintly frightened.

It always felt strange, barging into other peoples' homes without their invitation, but it was part of the job when working on a team, and she had forced herself to take in every detail of Malfoy's palatial apartment while she waited in order to calm her fear. The furnishings were an odd mixture of modern and antique that gelled surprisingly well, but there were too many shadows cast by the flickering fire light for her current state of mind to be happy with, and she had grown to abhor the silence, broken only by the ticking of the mantle clock before Malfoy had arrived.

Draco regarded her a moment, lit now by the firelight. She was wearing casual Muggle clothes, but the cloak she'd thrown on over them was the wrong way round, the fastenings twisted. She looked disturbed, her eyes not yet wild, but certainly fearful, and it made his stomach drop even lower.

"Where's your nearest apparition point?"

"The front step."

She nodded then followed him to the front door, the pair of them shuffling on the wide step before they reluctantly took hands, disappearing as Hermione turned on the spot.


Ta daaaa! I did it!

So why are the Bulgarian Ministry being so unhelpful? And what's going to come of their decision to wait for the next murder to happen? #suspense
I love writing Lucius and Narcissa. I've probably said it before, but that family dynamic, and them as a couple, absolute fascinate me. There's so much to work with! And there's much more of that to look forward to (more than just Lucius being a pain).
And yes, ending on another sort of cliff hanger. ^^

I hope you enjoyed it! 3

Please do review and/or favourite :) Tell me what you like or don't like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)

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