-A/N. I'm so happy you all are enjoying Chelsea's story. I have to say, she was an unexpected surprise – even for me. I made the three muggle-born characters and assigned them each personalities, never expecting them to become a major part of the plot. But everything just started tying together so beautifully and Chelsea became the spotlight. Even more than her activeness in the story, I was surprised by the relationship that developed between her and Margot. I don't know how the dynamic of Adam and Chelsea became Adam, Chelsea, and Mag, but they've created their own little Golden Trio and I love it.

…~oOo~…

Chapter Nineteen: In Which Draco Makes A Bold Move

Over and over Draco told himself that it was a bad idea, but lately that wasn't stopping him.

Draco was in a place of power, whether he'd asked for it or not, and when he was left out of important goings-on among the Death Eaters, he had a right to say something about it. And so, for the first time, Draco was the one to call a meeting with the unholy trinity themselves – Voldemort, Snow, and Lucius Malfoy.

They were all older, more powerful, higher-ranked, and darker wizards than Draco. He shuddered to be in a room with them on a normal occasion, never mind one where Draco had the audacity to summon them himself.

They did all arrive, though. They showed up at Draco's office at the appointed time, the Dark Lord appearing from thin air. None of the men said a word until all of them were seated. Every time Draco saw them together, all with their piercing gazes, he wanted to shake in his newly polished dragon's hide shoes. Well, the roots of his fear were more Voldemort and Snow. The respect for his father had died long ago, as did most of the fear when he realized Lucius was possible the most scared of them all.

Also, Lucius's new haircut thanks to Margot and Chelsea's little fireworks stunt was laughable.

"You better have a good reason," the Dark Lord said, his red eyes narrowed dangerously, "for summoning us."

"I do," Draco said confidently, his eyes swooping over the three men. "Does anyone care to tell me why I have been neglected to be told about a certain situation with some troublesome muggle-borns?"

"Ahhh," Snow said with understanding.

"So you've found out," Voldemort hissed. "That didn't take long."

"I don't enjoy being toyed with," Draco said through clenched teeth. "I want a reason. Now."

"You have quite the nerve, boy," Voldemort growled, leaning forward, his hands slipping towards his robes.

I'm dead, Draco thought. Why did I believe confrontation would work? It was a bold move, but too bold perhaps.

"Now, now," Snow said calmly. "The boy isn't wrong in his right to speak with us about happenings such as these."

"Still," Lucius said pointedly, his angry, piercing gaze locked on Draco, "one does expect a young man raised with better sense would have more respect for his superiors."

The corner of his mouth twitched in a barely-smirk while he waited for an explanation. One would also expect a man with such a huge ego to have enough vanity to just chop of all of his hair instead of trying to salvage what was left. I think Mum had that exactly haircut when I was eight or so.

"You have been…absent as of late, Draco," Snow said, his voice as smooth as melted butter. "Both mentally and physically. We suspected it was to do with the stress of a fairly new position and an upcoming wedding, but lately we've wondered if it may be…something else."

"So…you exclude me from raids to teach me a lesson like I'm an errant child?" Draco said darkly.

"You weren't needed," Voldemort said sharply. "You aren't needed. Remember that, Malfoy. You still report to Snow and I. Don't think your position as Undersecretary allows you to do as you please."

"Where have you been?" Lucius Malfoy demanded. "An answer about your whereabouts would ease our minds."

Draco's jaw clenched, but he kept his face cool and passive while he came up with an answer. "I have been in my office, at my flat, visiting Mother at the Manor, or with Astoria. Nowhere else."

"What about the night the girl Margot ran away?" Voldemort snapped. "Where were you then?"

"I went to the pub to unwind after a long day at work," Draco lied easily.

"Would you care to prove that?" Voldemort challenged, standing.

Draco shrugged, having confidence in his ability to shield important memories from the Dark Lord's prodding Legilimency. "I have nothing to hide."

…~oOo~…

The tunnels were wide and spacious. Hermione would almost call them cavernous. When she shouted out, her voice was pitched back to her in spades. The tunnels were strung together in no specific pattern, so with a piece of chalk Hermione marked the walls as she chose her path to explore. They never seemed to end. If rumors proved true, the underground network stretched all across Britain.

It was brilliant. Even Draco thought these tunnels had been sealed or collapsed, which meant all the other inner-circle purebloods thought the same. It was the perfect hiding place.

"I know what you're thinking."

Hermione almost had a heart attack. She spun on her heels to find the source of the voice about twenty paces behind her. She had been so caught up in her planning and her awe of the tunnels that she hadn't heard the slap of the cane or the scrape of feet behind her.

Ron leaned heavily on his walking stick and looked at Hermione with a deep frown. The lines of his forehead were far too deep for a man his age and his eyes too haunted. He was shaking his head slowly, making his way closer to her slowly.

"What am I thinking?" Hermione challenged.

"Put everyone underground," he said knowingly. "Hide them away. Bury them before they can be buried." He shook his head some more. "No. It can't happen."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Hasn't our history with tunnels taught you anything?" Ron asked firmly. He swung his cane pointedly. "Putting aside my leg or Kreacher's death, when have tunnels done us any good, eh? The bloody Chamber of Secrets should've clued you in. Dark wizards have tried getting around the Ministry with great big holes in the ground for centuries and none of them have had great results."

"Ron," Hermione said gently, "there are always risks –"

"Yeah, yeah," Ron grunted with a roll of his eyes. "Risks you're willing to take, but what about the rest of us, 'Mione? What if the rest of us don't want to be put under ground before it's our time?"

"There's so much potential here," Hermione said, widening her arms, looking up at the high ceilings. "Travel would be easier, networking –"

"Yes, that's all well and good," Ron cut in. "Networking, travel, those are advantages we could use. But we cannot live down here."

After a heavy pause, Hermione said softly, but her voice carried through the air like wind, "Ron… I know you're afraid. Since the collapse you haven't been the same. But there are precautions we can take this time. Charms, wards, supports." Hermione could see being down there was making him nervous. The tapping of his walking stick against his foot was a giveaway, as was the shifting of his eyes. She was shocked he had actually come down, but after passing him at Grimmauld Place before her descent, she should have figured.

"Why isn't it hard to breathe?" he asked, almost absently.

"They're well ventilated," Hermione said. "There are vents and runes for air at regular intervals. Grindelwald knew what he was doing."

"There aren't any rats, either," Ron made note of. "Or roaches. Or any living things."

"These have been sealed for a long time. Everything that was trapped in here has since died."

Ron pulled a face and asked, "What does your boyfriend think?"

"Draco thinks I'm as crazy as you think I am," Hermione admitted.

He snorted and one corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "The men in your life might be onto something, 'Mione."

"But he's still going to support my proposition at the next meeting," Hermione told him. "Will you?"

"You want the bloke who was crippled by a tunnel collapse to support colonizing in a network of tunnels?" he said in disbelief. "You're joking. No way. Get Harry to join your cause, not me."

"There was a time when you, Harry, and me…we were always united, us against the world… we'd always have one another's backs," Hermione persisted.

Ron scowled. "Don't play the nostalgia card on me, Hermione. Harry was dead for three years, you ran off with the snake, and I'll never fly again. Fuck, I'll never run again. Everything has changed and nothing will be the same as it was. Your little cause to literally put us underground won't pull us together. For some reason, Harry's got some twisted devotion to you since you brought him back from the dead, so you'll have him on your side – but not me. Never me. Not on this, at least. Now, I'm getting the fuck out of here." He turned around and started his long trek back to Grimmauld, following Hermione's chalk marks.

After mapping out a small piece of the maze of tunnels, Hermione emerged in the Grimmauld Place cellar. She brushed off the light coating of grime on her hands and looked around the room. There wasn't much in the cellar. A few empty barrels, an old wardrobe, and a wine rack with a few dusty bottles. She chose one of the red wines, blew off the dust, and smiled to herself when she thought about Draco's snobbish taste for wine.

When she was young and he'd scrunch up his nose in distaste at things "lower class" it did nothing but make her angry, but now… it was weirdly adorable, like a worked-up puppy dog. She took all of his bluster and arrogance with a grain of salt, now, because she knew that a lot of it was an act, most of it habit, and very little of it real. She wasn't foolish enough to think he was a nice man – no. Draco Malfoy wasn't nice. But he wasn't bad, either. And for some reason, she loved him.

She'd be seeing him tonight. She missed him whenever he wasn't there. Of course, she understood. Since the very beginning of her feelings she knew it wouldn't be easy. Loving a spy was never destined to be simple.

…~oOo~…

Draco had something of a history with Borgin & Burkes, both the shop and the owners. Mr. Borgin was a slimy sort with very specific talents that were useful to a select few. The first siege of Hogwarts, the infiltration via Vanishing Cabinet, was largely possible because of Mr. Borgin. And when Draco was charged with killing Dumbledore, it had been one of his first stops, because the owners were discreet, the many of the objects were cursed, and mostly untraceable.

Though, when shopping at Borgin & Burkes, one should be prepared to receive more than one bargained for. He'd learned that when Katie Bell had touched that awful opal necklace before she got it to Dumbledore. It was never his intent to hurt Katie, only use her as a messenger, but dealings with Dark Magic rarely went according to plan.

Unfortunately, though, because of Draco's less-than-civil treatment of Mr. Borgin during the repair of the Vanishing Cabinet, Draco hadn't returned since. So he wasn't particularly looking forward to bartering with the man this evening.

Draco pushed open the door to the shop and walked in, unsurprised to find it empty except for Mr. Borgin behind the counter, hunched over reading the Prophet. The older, oily man looked up and scowled when he saw his customer and slid his reading glasses off so they hung around his neck on a leather necklace.

"It's been a long while since I've seen you walk through that door, Mr. Malfoy," the man half-growled, folding the copy of the Prophet. "Congratulations are in order, I reckon." He gestured to the article with a picture of Draco and Astoria leaving a flower shop. Draco grimaced. The Prophet was supposed to be a newspaper, not a publicity magazine.

"Thank you," Draco said stiffly. He walked up to the counter, pretending to scan over the jewels in the case. Truly, he had no interest in ant jewelry the shop offered. "I'm looking for a very specific…collector's piece."

"A bauble for your little lady, perhaps?" Borgin said mockingly.

"Not quite," Draco answered. "If I was looking for a 'bauble', I'd have stopped at the jeweler's. Rumor has it you have a certain dagger in your care. A very special dagger accompanied by a handkerchief. It's made of glass and the cloth has rather unique embroidery, the mark of a certain fallen Dark Wizard."

By the pursed frown Borgin gave him, Draco knew that the man knew exactly the dagger he spoke of. So it wasn't just a forgotten relic sitting about the shop. Borgin fancied himself as something of a collector and liked to display some of his favorite pieces even though he had no intention of selling them.

Hermione very much believed the dagger from Chelsea's vision in Borgin & Burkes to be important, saying that she believed it to be a gift from young Grindelwald himself to the shop owner in exchange for having an entrance to his tunnels hidden in the loo. Draco had told her that if it was a gift from Grindelwald, it wasn't anything they wanted around, but talking her out of things recently was nearly impossible. She had this fascination with Grindelwald, between the tunnels, Chelsea's visions, and his pocketwatch.

But he wouldn't say no to her. That was too hard for him to do.

"I'm afraid I dunno what you're talkin' about," Borgin said, his mouth screwed to the side unpleasantly. "Now, out with ya. I don't like you Ministry fellas hangin' around my shop. Scares away my patrons."

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about," Draco sneered, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. The man smelt like mothballs and peppery cologne. It was enough to make Draco gag. He needed to push on, though, with the questioning. His curiosity was piqued. What other Ministry officials had come to visit? "You'll either sell me Grindelwald's dagger, or I will commandeer it as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. After all, that particular symbol is forbidden under new Ministry law. By having it in your possession, you could be tried for treason. You could lose your business, Mr. Borgin, if you do not hand me the dagger with a smile on your ugly mug in the next sixty seconds. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

With a piercing glare, Mr. Borgin walked out from behind his counter wordlessly and walked to a shelf towards the back. He came back a moment later, a bundle of cloth in his hands.

"It was a gift to my father from Grindelwald himself," Mr. Borgin said, putting it down on the counter between them. He unfolded the cloth carefully to reveal the weapon. It was gorgeous. Shining and clear, a perfect glass piece. Mr. Borgin looked at Draco darkly as he began putting the blade in a rectangle wood box with cushioning inside. "I remember when you were nothin' more than a snot-nosed brat hangin' on his daddy's coattails. Back when you were scared of your own shadow. I always figured you'd grow up to be something like ol' Lucius, but what you've become… is a helluva lot worse." He pushed the dagger forward. "Take it. And don't come back."

Draco took the box, tucked it under his arm and started towards to door, forcing down his anger. Before he left, he turned and asked one more question. "What Ministry officials have been crawling around the Alley?"

"None other the Minister himself, under this humble shop's roof not long ago. And just the other day, there were some whispers of a sighting him down by the Spiny Serpent. Rented a room, apparently, for little more than three hours. Could just be rumors, though."

Considering that for only a moment, Draco left, with no plans of going back.

Walking down Knockturn Alley was just as dreary as it'd always been. It was teaming with the dregs of wizarding society, a sanctuary for the sloppy, outcast, and rejected. One kept a tight grip on one's wallet while in Knockturn Alley, as well as on one's wand.

So you can imagine Draco's surprise when he caught sight of a woman with her cloak pulled low over her face, clacking along in fancy heeled shoes and holding a very expensive-looking handbag with a jeweled clasp. As a matter of fact, that handbag was extremely familiar to Draco. The jeweled clasp, the deep blue material, the gold embroidery. It brought Draco back to meetings for work, networking with people in power, a certain prim, snooty French accent.

What was Hilde Beauregard, member of the International Confederation of Wizards and Margot's mother, doing in Knockturn Alley? And, of all places to be walking into, why the Spiny Serpent, a notoriously disgusting pub loaded with bad company and drunken men with wandering hands. It was not the place for a clean, French lady.

So, naturally, Draco followed her. He pinched the ratty cloak off of a sleeping homeless person and swung it around his head with a few quick glamours to mask his recognizable face. He swept into the pub a few seconds behind Miss Beauregard. She went to the barman and innkeeper and they spoke for a moment before she walked towards the staircase. Keeping to the dim edges of the smoky room, Draco edged his way to the stairs and began to climb, until he found Hilde entering a room close to the top. He froze, watching and holding still until she shut the door behind her, catching only the glimpse of a figure before it fully closed.

So he did the only rational thing he could think of. He went back downstairs to bribe the innkeeper. Draco slapped a few particularly shiny galleons on the bar between them and demanded the name of the person who had paid for the room. If it was Hilde, he was out of luck, but if he was lucky…

The innkeeper looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping before pocketing the galleons, leaning forward and whispering, "A bloke named Noel Beauregard. Said he was meetin' his wife. Didn't believe him, meself, but then that lady came in. Looked familiar, she did, like she's been in the papers or somefink."

…

"Margot's father is dead," Hermione told him, her lips pursed in thought.

"That's what I thought," Draco said. "Or, at least, that's what Margot believes. We only know as much as Margot does about her father, which isn't much. As far as she knows, he died when she was young, but she has no true memory of him, only what her mother has told her. It's entirely possible Margot just isn't aware that her father is alive."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose as she absorbed this possibility. "I hate to sound cold or cynical, but…does it matter?"

"I think it does," Draco admitted, rolling the glass paperweight of Hermione's desk in his hands. "I don't know what, but Snow has plans for Margot, and if her father is alive, it could change things. Hilde doesn't have the power to get Margot back, but what if she and her husband have been collaborating or…" he sighed, his thought process trailing off. "Why does this feel so important?"

"Because whether you'll admit it or not, you care about Margot," Hermione said knowingly. "And Hilde Beauregard has always been something of an enigma. She was willing to join Snow's cause when her daughter was taken, but never seemed eager to pursue getting Margot back. You're right, there must be something there, but there isn't much we can do about it now."

"That isn't true," Draco said, standing from the desk he'd been perched on and buttoning his jacket as he always did when he stood. "What's the use in having contacts when you can't use them every now and then? I'll look into this Noel Beauregard."

With a small smirk at the sheer determination on his face, Hermione thought, What do normal couples talk about on their nights together? She began packing away all of her work things on her desk and said, "Are you going to bring this up tonight at the meeting?"

"Probably not," Draco said. "Madame Beauregard isn't exactly a threat, not for now at least."

Hermione nodded, trusting Draco's judgment. She wasn't thrilled with the concept of keeping information from the Order, but she'd done it before and she'd do it again if it was necessary.

…~oOo~…

~ So Long And Thanks For All The Fish ~