Disclaimer: As per usual, I own nothing, J.K. Rowling is obviously superior. Carry on.

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Chapter 4 - Questions

Needing to feel in control in such a volatile situation, Hermione had done her research. Godshill, it turned out, was a small parish village in the center of the Isle of Wight with a population numbering at around 1,500.

Malfoy's house had been situated on a hill, with sweeping plains on one side and a natural woodland forest on the other. Hermione assumed it was either in the remotest corner of Godshill or Malfoy had applied some very strong repellant and disillusionment spells.

Hermione grudgingly admitted that it was a fantastic location to work in for a secret investigation, and she felt a pang of irritation that Malfoy had chosen the small village to live in. It was small, isolated away from Muggles, distant enough from the rest of Wizarding England, but not far enough to feel closed off.

She had taken to carrying around a thick notebook she had purchased at Flourish and Blott's, new with leather binding. In this book Hermione began to scribble notes and thoughts that pertained to the flaying murder.

She hadn't owned the new journal for more than an hour when she'd already filled six pages, all full of the current facts they held. She included the notes on the evidence, her thoughts and questions she should ask the next time she saw Harry or Malfoy.

A knock sounded at her door and Hermione raised her head, smiling brightly when she saw Harry.

"Got a moment, 'Mione?"

"Sure, I was just working on Malfoy's case," she gestured to her journal.

"I noticed that you haven't been to the case room in Godshill yet," Harry began carefully, taking a seat at her desk.

She nodded stiffly, frowning at her scribbles in the journal. "I know. I've been… busy." Busy avoiding you both, she thought inwardly.

"Hermione, I think you need to cut him some slack," he said gently.

"Why? The Ferret doesn't deserve it."

"Just put yourself in his shoes," Harry insisted. "His dad's dying, he found out one of his close mates during school dies like that and he's got to shoulder the responsibility for it."

"Why are you so sympathetic towards him, Harry?" She stared at her best friend, unsure where these emotions were coming from. "You, of all people, he hurt you the most."

Harry gazed at her for a long moment. "I hope your dislike of him isn't on my account," he murmured after a moment.

She scoffed. "Harry, just because he happens to be a prominent, respected member of society now won't erase years of bullying and wrongdoings. I've told you before; I may forgive, but I'll never forget."

Harry remained silent during her tirade. After the war, he had shared her viewpoint exactly, but over time the burden of keeping grudges tired him out. Harry, already carrying so much baggage from the past, was more than glad to be released of the hate he had once held so close to his chest.

Looking to the future, Harry had let it go. It saddened him to realise that his best mates were still caught up in childhood rivalries. He hadn't even told Ron about meeting with Malfoy, let alone working on a secret case with him. If Harry knew Ron, which he did, he was sure that Ron would flip and attempt to sabotage or even attempt to maim the blond ex-Slytherin.

"I blame him directly for Dumbledore's death," Hermione whispered bitterly.

Harry winced at the mention of their former Headmaster and he reached across Hermione's desk to grasp her hands in his. "Dumbledore would have gone either way, 'Mione. The curse from the Ring gave him less than a year, remember?"

"Yes, I do remember, Harry. It's not so easy to forget."

"I know," Harry said quietly. "I like to think that Dumbledore did what he did because… well… maybe he saw something in Malfoy that was worth saving."

"That still doesn't excuse him!" Hermione pulled her hands away, a fierce look of hate on her face.

Harry was saddened at her vehement response. "We've… reached an understanding."

"Is it an understanding that I won't understand, or something? Why can't you tell me?"

"It's just..." he murmured.

Hermione caught the distant look in his eye and realised he had drifted into his memories again. "Harry?"

"Snape," he said finally, snapping back into the present.

"Snape?"

"We share Severus, 'Mione."

"How so?"

Harry was silent again, and Hermione got the distinct feeling that he didn't want to tell her the reason. "That first meeting I had with him... Draco admitted to me that Snape was more of a father to him than Lucius ever was."

"Were you standing over him with your wand drawn?" she joked.

Seeing Harry's disapproving expression, Hermione floundered for a response. "I – I was just saying that it must have been hard for the prat to admit that."

"I've forgiven him, Hermione." Harry gazed at her, and Hermione found it hard to meet his eye. "A long time ago. It took awhile, but I realised he was never a villain in the grand scheme of things."

Hermione frowned at that. She hadn't seen Malfoy in such… stark lighting either, but she certainly didn't categorise Malfoy as being innocent.

She stared at her best friend, feeling uncomfortable and wholly unsettled by his words and the expression on his face.

"He was as much a victim as we were," Harry said, his voice so quiet that Hermione almost didn't hear him.

Hermione struggled to wrap her head around that foreign idea. She was silent for a long time before she let out a long sigh. "This is all very philosophical of you, Harry."

"I know," he said softly.

"What you've just told me, it's not the kind of thing that someone can just absorb and accept."

"I know," he repeated.

"So, you're going to have to excuse me if I continue to be an insolent bitch to that bastard." Hermione jutted her chin out in defiance to her best friend who chuckled in return.

"I wasn't expecting much more than just you listening to me, to be honest."

"Besides, I quite enjoy being snarky to him." Hermione smiled softly. "I honestly can't do it to Ron, half the time he doesn't know when I've insulted him and when he does realise, it's far too late."

Harry stood to leave. "So, I'll… see you at Godshill?"

Hermione couldn't deny the hopeful look on his face and she smiled nervously. "I'll be there tonight."

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"Where's Harry?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her question. "Last time I checked, this was my house, not Potter's."

Hermione flushed slightly at that, momentarily berating herself. She had reluctantly Apparated to Godshill ten minutes before seven, expecting to see Harry in the case room.

Hermione had taken a moment to study the room Malfoy had built for them.

It was large, spacious and rectangular with whitewashed walls and plenty of lighting. On one side of the room was a long, heavy oak table with several chairs. On the other side of the room was a large fireplace, a comfortable navy couch, a wide timber coffee table and several dark green armchairs.

She had brought all her notes, and was full of questions for Harry. What she got, however, was Malfoy lounging languidly in an armchair by the fire in the large room.

Huffing, she avoided Malfoy's piercing gaze and seated herself at the long table and began to spread her notes out.

Hermione wished Harry were here. She was far more comfortable speaking to a trusted friend rather than someone she'd rather see at the bottom of a river, preferably with a large rock tied to their ankles.

"What are you doing?" she asked abruptly when she realised Malfoy had gotten up and he'd walked to the far wall to stare at the empty space.

Malfoy promptly ignored her and continued to stare intently at the blank wall. Finally, after a long moment's pause, he drew his wand and waved.

Marcus Flint's name appeared on the wall in black ink, directly in the middle, followed by Malfoy's name appearing on the top right. Spidery lines connected them and the connection was labelled "Discovered By".

Hermione watched in morbid fascination as Malfoy continued to fill the wall.

Flint's basic profile was filled out in smaller writing under his name. Another spidery arrow flew out from Flint's name and listed the situation and facts surrounding the discovery of his remains. A magical copy of the killer's note appeared on the top left of the board, and several spidery lines flowed from it, connecting to Flint's and Malfoy's text bubbles.

Malfoy finished the writing, ending with a bold flourished question mark above Flint's name. He pulled up an armchair to face the wall where he sat and summoned a glass of ice and Firewhiskey. Malfoy remained silent and continued to ignore her.

Hermione was, she hated to admit, slightly impressed. She'd seen the same style of case boards in Muggle homicide television shows and she was surprised that Malfoy had thought to do one up for their investigation also.

Breathing deeply and stowing her irritation and pride, Hermione slowly put her quill down.

"Malfoy," she began, hesitating when his blond head turned toward her slowly. "I have some questions about the murder."

He inclined his head, indicating she continue.

"If you live in Godshill, why was the trunk sent to Malfoy Manor?"

"Not many people know I no longer live at the Manor," he answered after a brief pause. "I have been in Godshill for three months only, prior to that I was still at Wiltshire."

"Why?"

"I'm twenty-two, Granger. It's not a strange occurrence for someone to move out of the family home."

"What I meant," she blushed, frowning. "Was why would you move out when there's space in Wiltshire? I'm assuming Narcissa would have wanted you nearby considering… er. Considering Lucius' … situation."

"That's none of your business," he suddenly hissed, eyes glinting sharply. "Next question."

Hermione's upper lip curled in derision before she checked her notebook. "When was the last time you saw Flint?"

"Six months ago. Society party at the Parkinson's household."

"Pansy Parkinson?" Hermione asked, unsure as to why she was surprised. Of course Malfoy would keep in contact with his cronies from school.

Malfoy didn't answer, just cocked his eyebrow at her arrogantly and continued to sip on his drink.

There was a sharp crack just outside the door to the investigation room and Harry appeared a moment later, shrugging off his coat.

"Sorry I'm late, we got held up with a raid for Dark items," the green-eyed man apologised, pausing when he could feel the tension vibrating in the room.

Coughing delicately, Harry set his briefcase down and looked between Hermione and Malfoy. He noted the narrowed eyes of the blond businessman and the furious tilt of Hermione's jaw and he sighed, cursing that he hadn't been there to mediate from the beginning.

"Okay, lets get to speculating," Harry said without preamble. "Suspects. Who's most likely the culprit?"

"It's the wife of course," Hermione stated, as if it were obvious. "Or the girlfriend, fiancé, significant other – whichever."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "This isn't some trashy romance novel, Granger. There could be any number of reasons for motive. Personally, I think it's a business rival, a woman couldn't do this."

"Don't underestimate women, Malfoy," Hermione hissed in anger. "Statistically, people always turn to men as being the culprit because not a lot of people can see a woman being responsible."

Harry was silent, knowing that Hermione's mind had flitted to Bellatrix.

"But I can assure you that women, just like men, are more than capable of killing someone." Hermione's eyes were narrowed to slits and an ugly sneer was on her lips. If you push me, I will kill you, was what her cold look implied.

Malfoy returned her look with a bored expression. "Like I said, this isn't a romance novel, Granger. I enlisted you for an analytical point of view, not Witch Weekly garbage."

"I'll have someone look into Flint's business dealings," Harry piped up, defusing the tension once more. "There may have been a rift with any one of his associates."

"I still say it was the wife," Hermione sniffed stubbornly. "Statistically, crimes of passion are the murders that happen most in Britain. In civil Muggle courts in America they call it 'temporary insanity' and a lot of people use it as a defence."

"You should have been sorted into Ravenclaw with the way you regurgitate statistics," Malfoy hissed. "But it's apparent that the Sorting Hat mistook your stupidity for bravery and stuck you in the house where that idiocy would be nurtured."

Harry didn't miss the sudden flare of anger in Hermione's eyes and the twitch of her hand towards her forearm where he knew she kept her wand. "Well," he interrupted quickly, uncertainly, looking between them just in case another fight broke out. "Bully for us, because Flint wasn't married, engaged or seeing anyone."

"Told you so." The blond smirked infuriatingly at Hermione.

"Merlin, what are you? Twelve?" she huffed.

Harry cleared his throat. "From the people we interviewed, we have reasonable belief that he frequented…" Harry looked uncomfortable. "Er… Wicked Witches."

"A store?" Hermione asked blankly.

"An escort service," Malfoy choked back a laugh.

"Oh." Hermione blushed hotly to the tips of her ears. "You seem quite familiar with the establishment, Malfoy," she accused.

He shrugged, picking at an invisible bit of fluff on his arm.

"So," Hermione continued, eager to get away from the uncomfortable turn of conversation. "Flint was a single, unattached man who frequently used escorts to… indulge himself." Try as she might, she couldn't stop the blush that appeared when she said it.

"Basically." Harry grinned. "I got Willoughby and Jones down to Wicked Witches this afternoon to check it out."

"Willoughby and Jones?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

"Don't worry, they both signed Obliviation clauses. They were due for them just as I was leaving and I have their reports here," Harry indicated to a short stack of parchments on the table.

"Give us the short story," Malfoy growled in reply.

"Well, short story is that Flint liked them young and in their teens. After some, er, I'll call it 'friendly prodding'; the proprietor for Wicked Witches gave up Flint's customer history. He never saw a single escort more than once, and all their uh… activities were kept on the premises."

"So," Hermione deduced. "He had a new escort every time. That's not enough to form any kind of relationship where the girls would be able to gain access to his home."

"Who knows? Maybe Flint was one for pillow talk." Draco stared directly at Hermione, inwardly laughing when she began to blush again.

"That and Flint may have been nabbed anywhere, not just his home," Harry interjected.

"Right. Er… What has the Flint family been told? About his…" What could Hermione say? 'Death' was too soft a word to describe what had happened. 'Disappearance' gave the illusion that Flint could still be saved.

She swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat, the sickening images of parchment-like skin flashing behind her eyelids.

"They haven't been informed."

Hermione was aghast. "Why not?" she demanded. "No one deserves that. Aren't they looking for him? He's been gone for almost a week!"

Malfoy gazed at her witheringly. "They haven't been informed because Flint has no remaining family members. His father perished in the war and Ursula died shortly after that. No extended family."

Hermione flushed angrily, sure that he had been baiting her the whole time. She opened her mouth to fire off a snide remark when she caught a warning look from Harry. She closed her mouth slowly and remained silent, eyes tight with anger.

Glaring at Malfoy, Hermione stood and flourished her wand against the wall that the blond had been facing earlier with the armchair. Black writing appeared in dot-points under Flint's name, adding the information that Harry had brought.

Harry, seeing the wall for the first time, raised his eyebrows.

They speculated for a while longer before Harry had to leave to get back to Ginny.

Not wanting to be left alone with Malfoy, Hermione rushed out a half-arsed excuse that sounded false to her own ears and left shortly after.

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The following week, Draco met with several old friends whom he hadn't seen in some time. Part of him still remained unnerved at seeing Flint's skin packed into the trunk and he felt the tiniest beginnings of fear gripping the base of his spine.

He had seen Pansy just a few days earlier, but hadn't hung around for long. He could never deal with Parkinson; she was a simpering, coquettish witch who frequently got on Draco's nerves. Nothing had changed since Hogwarts.

He had stayed at the café in Hogsmeade with her only long enough to see if she was okay before he feigned a meeting to attend and quickly fled.

Draco had Portkeyed to Paris on this particular day. It was rare for him to look forward to anything, but today he was almost anxious to see his old housemate.

"Zabini," Draco greeted the dark skinned wizard who approached him, a rare smile gracing his fair features.

"Draco! It's been months since I've seen you, how goes it?"

"I've been well. Have you been in England?"

"Nah, I've been in France for the past six months – Bordeaux, Marseille and Nice. Women and wine, and all that." The Slytherin's smooth dark features were pulled into a smirk and he exchanged a knowing glance with Draco.

Together, they were seated in an out-of-the-way expensive Muggle café in a busy Parisian street, two blocks from the prestigious Champs-Élysées.

"Have you seen any of the old House at all?" Blaise asked, shrugging out of his expensive looking suit jacket.

"Not particularly," Draco replied once their hot beverages had arrived. "I see Goyle and Parkinson every few months."

"Ah, the parents still endorsing society parties, I see." Blaise grinned at his friend. "I've got to say mate, I'm not envious at all."

Draco's upper lip curled in disdain. "Mother's still trying to push 'eligible witches' in my direction during those, it sickens me every time."

Blaise chuckled. "I heard Nott's taken an extended leave to Hawaii."

"Two months, last I heard," Draco shrugged, disinterested.

"What about birds, Draco? How's the skirt chasing in England?"

Draco smiled wryly at that. "Ignore Witch Weekly if you will, that rag's always been trash."

"Come now," Blaise admonished. "Don't tell me that fling with Adrianna LeFay wasn't true?"

"I wouldn't go near that slag," Draco spat. "I deal with enough parasites at work without sleeping with one."

Laughing, Blaise clapped a hand on his old friend's back. The playful glint, however, disappeared slowly from Blaise's eyes as he appraised his old housemate. "Now, as much as I'd like to think that this is a pleasant social call, I'm wondering why you're here."

Draco was torn. Blaise, of all his mates from school, was probably the person he related to most even though their contact over the years had been spotty at best. He would go so far to say that Blaise could almost pass for a 'best friend', but he had never been one for labels.

"I just... I just needed to know if you were okay." Alive, was what Draco actually meant, and he cringed.

Blaise's eyebrows shot to his hairline at that. What was this? Malfoy admitting he cared about someone else? Blaise could have laughed out loud in shock. Instead, he pinned a severe look to Draco.

"What aren't you telling me?" Blaise's intelligent brown eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Draco rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the slightly raised flesh of scars from the past. "Just… Check in with me every so often, yeah?"

Blaise pushed back from the table, frowning. "Something's happened."

"Yeah," Draco stated curtly.

"But you won't tell me."

"No."

Blaise was quiet once more, the teasing light in his eyes had completely gone, and was replaced with a cold, calculating stare. "Is… is my life in danger, Draco?"

"No." Draco winced at the blatant half-lie. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Draco Malfoy, I don't like these half-arsed revelations. Explain."

Draco didn't miss the fumbling of Zabini's hand under the table, felt the tip of a wand rest lightly on his knee. He coolly gazed at Blaise, unperturbed.

"Now."

"Flint's dead. Merlin's sake, put your wand away," he said irritably and scowled until the pressure let up from his knee. Draco spent the next half hour explaining the situation to Blaise who neither interrupted nor showed any outward emotion. When he was done, Blaise leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed in thought.

"I understand," he said quietly. "What… what can I do to help?"

Draco was surprised at the offer. "Nothing," he said automatically. "I didn't tell you this to rope you in, Blaise."

"I know. But…" Zabini shrugged, pushing away his cold cup of coffee. "You sound as if you don't think it'll stay at one fatality. You're expecting the killer to strike again."

Staring off into the distance, Draco's lips thinned. He had glanced at the case wall last night, his usual glass of Firewhiskey in hand. He knew that with just the evidence they had, this case would quickly become cold. There wasn't enough leads, not enough information.

Sad as it was to think of it, Draco knew that if the killer didn't strike again, they would reach a dead end.

It sickened him to realise that someone else needed to die in order for them to move forward with their progress.

Swallowing thickly, he met Zabini's fierce stare. "I'm betting on it."

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A/N: Godshill is a real location in the Isle of Wight; I looked up imagery of it and found it a lovely place. At first I was going to stick Draco's house somewhere in Norfolk or Cornwall, but the Isle of Wight seemed perfect. It's isolated, it's special, and it screamed "Draco" to me when I was researching.

Also, I apologise if there are spelling or grammar mistakes; I'm writing without the aide of a Beta Reader. :(

Edit: I had actually posted up Chapter 5 around 8 hours after I posted Chapter 4. I decided to take it down because I think I got a little too enthusiastic with the idea of writing my own story, and the plot progression kind of leapt across chasms with no explanation. Thus, a revised Chapter 5 will be released in the next few days. Hopefully.