Note: This story is completely pre-written and has 215k+ words in 40 chapters. As of March 28, 2023, I am posting one chapter per week. You can also follow this story on AO3 (archiveofourown dot org/works/38211202/).

This is a plotty mystery fic, where romance and sex play a role in the plot, but are not central. The main ships are Harry/OMC and Draco/OMC. There is a temporary Harry/Ginny and a background Ron/Hermione ship.

TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: implied drug abuse, strip-search

Chapter 1: Wandless

Splat! A white splotch of owl faeces landed an inch from Draco's shoe. He was standing halfway between a smashed window and the table where Kingsley Shacklebolt held court, and owls were pouring in and out in a steady stream, only interrupted by an occasional ministry official on a broomstick. Draco tried to edge out from under their air corridor.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!"

He'd got into someone's way again. Four wizards with a body of a dead centaur moved past him.

Where were they taking the bodies? Draco watched the grand cadaver disappear behind the door. Where was Aunt Bella? Where was—?

'He's dead,' Draco said to himself and fought the temptation to go and look just to be absolutely sure. 'He's dead,' Draco repeated silently, but felt nothing. 'He's dead, we're alive!' Now, that was a joke. The Malfoys, all three of them, were alive, but the difference from 'dead' was minimal. They were not part of this world any longer.

Draco looked around without moving, just as far as his eyeballs could turn. The world was flickering and buzzing. The spring breeze broke in through the shattered windows and blew away the stench of blood. Birds tweeted. The world was doing very well without him.

"Mr Malfoy!"

Really? Someone was calling his name. That probably meant that he still existed.

"Professor Slughorn, how can I help you?" replied Lucius.

Draco startled at the sound of his father's voice. He hadn't noticed that he had returned and was standing behind his back again.

"Hello, Mr Malfoy," replied Slughorn, "but I actually wanted to address Draco."

"Yes, Professor," Draco said, waking from his reverie.

"Draco, our colleague Firenze..." Slughorn gestured to a row of bodies that were still breathing. "His wounds are healing, but we hadn't noticed the fungus at first, and—" Slughorn's face twitched, he gave a long deep yawn, and blinked. "What was I saying?"

"The fungus? You hadn't noticed the fungus."

Slughorn rubbed his eyes and stared dumbly at Draco.

"Oh yes, the fungus! It's spreading. If I'm not mistaken, there should be half a bottle of Solanaserum in the dungeon. Must be standing right above the water gargoyle. Would you be so kind—" Slughorn yawned again and swayed slightly to the side. Draco made a move to support him, but Slughorn stayed upright. "—to bring it here. If it turns out to be empty, I'm sure you could brew some more. You produced a very nice sample last October. Oh yes, you did!"

Slughorn sat down on a bench, and blinked again.

"Wha— Oh yes. There aren't any fresh devil's figs leaves left, I'm afraid, but there are some frozen ones. In the cupboard. They should be good enough."

"Yes, Professor," Draco said, and forgot to look to his father for approval.

"And Draco," Slughorn said softly. Draco had to bow to hear properly what the potions master had to say. "In the bottom row, left of the door, behind a bottle of Moonseed Poison, there is a small silver flask. Could you please bring that too?"

"I know an apothecary in Teapa who can refill your stock of ingredients with the best and the rarest substances on the market. I could drop him a line." Draco heard his father say as he set off.

"I'm sure you could, Lucius," was Slughorn's less than enthusiastic reply, but the rest of the conversation sank in the noise of the hall.

Draco walked down to the potions classroom. This errand was more than welcome. It gave him a sense of purpose and an opportunity to be alone again. He quickly found the silver flask behind a triangular bottle filled with shiny liquid. The flask was slightly open and wet. Draco closed it tight and slipped it into his breast pocket. The bottle of Solanaserum, however, was filled to a quarter at best. Draco redrew the picture of Firenze's wounds in his mind. No way this would be enough.

He washed his hands, lit a burner, took a clean cauldron from a pile, and placed it above the flame. An abandoned copy of Advanced Potion-Making gaped at him with its oily pages. He checked the recipe, plunged his hand into the sack of frozen leaves of the giant devil's fig. The bite of frost on his fingers roused his nerves but faded before it reached his brain. He shoved a generous handful into the cauldron.

The ice turned slowly into water and water into vapour. He waited for the leaves to dry, and grabbed for his wand to set them on fire, but his hand closed on the fabric of his pocket.

Of course. He had no wand.

His own wand had been taken away from him by Potter during Easter holidays, and apparently, he had just finished off the Dark Lord with it. His mother's wand, which he had been using since, had perished in the Fiendfyre just a few hours ago, along with Crabbe, the poor idiot. And his father's wand, well, there was no such thing. He hadn't even dared to look for a replacement, after the Dark Lord had taken it.

So Draco had to do it the Muggle way. He carefully took one leaf with a pair of tweezers, let it catch fire at the purple flame underneath, and dropped it quickly back into the cauldron. The rest of the leaves went up in flames, and in a few seconds there was nothing left but bluish ashes. He poured unicorn milk over the thin residue, and added another handful of frozen leaves. Five drops of melaleuca oil. Now, stir and wait.

The heat of the flame was spreading slowly from the burner and pushing away the cold and musty air of the classroom. The smoke and the camphoraceous odour of the oil filled Draco's nostrils. The smell and the temperature, and the puffs of the heating liquid in the silence of the dungeon reminded him of something. Some Potions class very long ago, probably. He heard Professor Snape's voice in his mind: 'Hold your spoon slanted at eighty five degrees when you stir.' He corrected the angle, and felt a lump form in his throat. He thought he was about to vomit, but instead of vomit, an avalanche of tears came out of his eyes. He could not tell why he was weeping. Whatever caused this unexpected downfall was hidden somewhere far far away in one of the countless compartments of his soul.

A big tear dropped onto the edge of the cauldron and almost slid inside. Draco was just in time to wipe it away before it ruined the potion. He started drying his face frantically with his sleeve, but only managed to smear the soot that covered his clothes all over his face. His sleeve was soaked, tears were pushing on, but he could not stop them.

"Draco!" a voice sounded above his head.

Oh no, Myrtle. What was she doing here, he wondered, but did not ask.

"What is it? You shouldn't cry. I'm here with you and we'll sort it out," said the ghost and gave him what would have been a hug if she had had arms.

'Please, go away!' Draco thought, but wasn't able to say anything. He couldn't stop sobbing.

"What a weird night it was! Everyone fighting, and screaming, and dying. But not a single new ghost! I had hoped for some more company. But, no luck for Myrtle!" she sighed, made a circle around the table and hung in the column of warm air above the cauldron. "And those who were not dead, they were all weeping and moaning, and I didn't feel special any more."

'They were also celebrating. They won,' Draco wanted to say but didn't. Some other part of his mind was telling him he should rather say 'Myrtle, you will always be special,' but no word escaped his lips.

"Okay, if you don't want to talk I'd better check on Peeves. He had the time of his life last night," Myrtle said with a sigh. "Take care!" And she went through the ceiling.

This bizarre conversation had brought Draco back to his senses and, oddly enough, even helped contain the flood. He probably should have said something. Like 'thank you'. But silence was the only language he could speak at the moment.

In the meantime, Solanaserum was almost boiling. Draco gave it one last twist with the spoon and extinguished the fire. He washed his hands and face again, ladled the potion into a big empty glass jar he found among the class supplies, covered it with a lid, and walked back upstairs barely avoiding to burn his hands at the rapidly heating glass.

"I couldn't cool it without a wand, Professor," Draco said, depositing the jar on the table in front of Slughorn.

Slughorn waved his wand, but his hands were shaking, and the spell produced nothing but a lonely snow flake that melted before it even reached the hot jar.

"Did you find the silver flask?"

Draco produced the flask out of his pocket, and Slughorn took a sip.

"Ah, thank you. That's better." His hands stopped shaking, and his next cooling spell hit like a gust of wind at a mountain top.

What the—! Draco stared at the silver flask.

"This is the Draught of Quetzalcoatl, or Q for short," Slughorn said with a conspiratorial look. "Not for the underaged and to be taken with great care by old sacks like me, but can give you back your vigour after a sleepless night." He lowered his voice. "If you take care of Firenze, you may take a sip when I look away."

Whatever had made Slughorn soften up towards him so suddenly?

'What are the risks?' Draco was about to ask, but Slughorn was already deep in discussion with someone else, and Draco grabbed the opportunity.

The mysterious and apparently not entirely harmless liquid tasted like absolutely nothing, not even water, but Draco's mind cleared instantly and his lungs filled with air which seemed not only refreshing but also nutritious. How long had it been since he'd last been in control? The world around him was soft and bendable, and he was strong enough to live through another day.

The flask returned to its place on the table. Slughorn offered another sip to Madam Pomfrey, who prudently refused. She was explaining something to three colleagues from St Mungo's and was about to step down from her shift.

Draco took place at Firenze's side and examined his flank. The six long cuts had stopped bleeding, but were turning black and shrivelling at the edges. Firenze was unconscious. Draco started to spread the potion carefully over the cuts and the blackened portions of skin. He was better at making the concoctions than at applying them, but seeing the results was always so satisfying. The skin stopped shrivelling, but there were still four cuts to go.

"Draco, we must go home," said his father's voice behind his back.

"Wait." The third and the biggest wound was now getting treatment. It would take some time before the substance pulled into the Centaur's blood and stopped the infection, but it seemed to be well on its way. Firenze sighed.

"I've tried to talk to some old friends. Shacklebolt's people have other priorities right now. Which is good. But I wouldn't count on them having forgotten about us."

The Great Hall buzzed in Draco's ears and the salt of his dried tears was burning on his cheeks.

"I have to finish this. I've promised Professor Slughorn," he said after finishing the fourth cut.

"He is just trying to keep you busy so we stay put until they decide what to do with us."

It was the fifth slash now. Draco continued spreading the potion, which seemed like a more meaningful thing to do than talking to his father.

"Draco!" His father pulled violently at his shoulder. The jar in Draco's hands shook and a blot of potion burst into bloom on the stone floor. "I need to show you something before they arrest us. We're leaving now!"

"Fine!" Draco snarled in a whisper. He looked around quickly and addressed a witch in St Mungo's uniform. He pointed out the Solanaserum, the witch noticed the smears of spilt potion on the floor and didn't ask questions.

"Of course, dear. Go and rest. Thank you." There was so much gratitude in her 'Thank you', one could think it was Draco who had just won the whole battle.

"Thank you," Draco said and followed his father out of the hall.

"Delegate!" They were out of earshot of the healers now. "Very good, Draco! Delegate! You have learned something from me after all."

Draco did not answer. Did his father mean to praise him or himself? Draco kept walking and concentrated on attracting as little attention as possible.

Outside the Great Hall they saw his mother, standing and peering from a distance at— Oh, that's where they took the bodies.

"Here's Draco. We can leave now, darling. Come," Father said, taking her hand.

"We can't." She hesitated, but he was gently pulling her to follow. "We can't leave Bella. We should take her."

"I'm sorry, darling."

"They'll feed her to the hippogriffs."

"I'm sure they will do no such thing," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders, and navigated through the countercurrent of new arrivals streaming towards the Great Hall. "Besides, we are not leaving her entirely." He pulled a wand out of his sleeve. "A present for you, darling. From your sister. It will probably work best for you."

Mother flinched, but accepted the macabre gift. Now they had at least one wand between the three of them.

Father pulled and pushed them past the grand staircase into the Entrance Hall and down to the dungeons. They passed the potions classroom and walked through the dull torch-lit corridors that led to the Slytherin common room, but passed it, turning right into the north-west corridor. Draco had a suspicion of where his father was taking them, and was not disappointed. They were standing finally in front of a heavy wooden door, which was locked.

"Can you open it, Narcissa?"

"Alohomora." The lock clicked. "Bella's wand. It works," she said flatly.

It was Slytherin's storage room, half-filled with Quidditch equipment and uniforms. Slytherin had always been protective of its possessions, and ever since Draco's father had provided the team with brand new Nimbus 2001's, the common Hogwarts broomshed had fallen entirely out of use among their housemates. Not a bad decision, given that the Quidditch pitch had been burnt down, including the shed, while Slytherin's brooms were safe and intact downstairs.

"Take a broomstick," Father commanded.

This was so weird. The man that stood before Draco was not the father he used to worship. It was a dishevelled man with a cut across his lip—a small part of this soft, bendable world.

"These are Slytherin's broomsticks!" Draco said, and didn't quite believe he did.

"Which I paid for!" His father took one of the Nimbus 2001s and gave one to his mother, "I don't like your tone, Draco. Have you taken something?"

"Stop bullying him!" Mother said with a menacing drop in her voice. "After all he's been through because of you!" Her eyes burned in a way Draco had never seen before.

"All right, all right. Let's not talk about the past. Let's concentrate on the future." Father grabbed the door handle.

"Can't we apparate straight away?" Draco said. "The defences seem to be broken."

"They've already managed to reinstall that one. I've seen some try to flee." Whatever happened to those 'some'? "If we don't hurry up they might close it for broomsticks too."

The urgency in his father's voice reawakened Draco's anxiety. Until that moment he had been going with the flow and his mind had refused to grasp the implications of all that had happened. That had probably saved him from going insane in the last few hours. But now he was beginning to wonder what was going to happen next, to his family, to his father, and to himself. And he did not have a good feeling about it.

He picked one of the old Cleansweeps. The broom had seen better days. A sharp splinter pierced Draco's left palm as he grabbed the handle. He clutched his hand in pain, but there was no time to take care of it. They left the storage room and continued along the passage which ended in a narrow staircase leading up and a door opening onto a lawn next to the Quidditch Pitch, or what was left of it after the fire. Once outside, they kicked off the ground and headed towards Hogsmeade.

The rising sun had already stolen parts of the smoking Quidditch Pitch from the shadow of the castle. The beams of light pushing through the smoke looked so real and tangible, that it seemed strange to Draco that he had always thought that light was transparent and basically invisible. It was going to be a warm, beautiful day. What a strange day to take flight! Or should he have been grateful that they did not have to flee in snow and hail?

They safely left the Hogwarts grounds, passed Hogsmeade village, and once they reached the shadow of the west slope of a stony ridge, well out of sight of the settlement, Lucius made a sign to land and dived down. Narcissa and Draco followed.

"It's your call, Narcissa," Lucius dropped his broomstick, it almost slid down the slope but caught between a rowan tree and a pointy rock sticking out of the mossy blanket.

Narcissa pulled out her new wand and the men clung tight to her arms on both sides. They were sucked through the larger part of Scotland and England, compacted to a short and painfully narrow well and were standing a second later in a familiar country lane, next to a tall hedge. The hedge bent towards a heavy iron gate. Wrought-iron figures of dragons on both sides of the gate lowered their heads in a bow as the Malfoys floated through noiselessly, like ghosts.

A rat that had been sitting in the middle of the gravel drive shot through the yew, startled by the sudden arrival of the lords of the house and caused audible unrest among the peacocks.

"Rats, Narcissa! How is it possible that this problem is still not solved?"

The front door flung open for them, as they walked up the stairs, but Lucius suddenly stopped before entering.

"Go inside. I need to talk to Draco here."

"What about?" Mother looked back at him over her shoulder.

"It is better for you not to know."

Mother stopped dead just behind the threshold and turned around, pointing her wand at Father.

"You are not getting our son into something dangerous again!"

But Father snatched the wand out of her hand. Before she could blink, he froze her into a block of ice and let the door close between them.

"Hm! Works reasonably well for me, too," he said, examining the wand.

"This is how you do it. First give presents, then take them back when it suits you?"

The words came out so easily. Draco waited to be punished, but it didn't happen. Slughorn's power potion was working wonders.

"Just borrowed it. It won't be long, if we don't waste time arguing. Come." Father walked towards the fountain, which was purring sweetly and sparkling in the morning sun. It had an octagonal sandstone basin, with reptiles carved on four of the eight sides facing the cardinal points. Father took a seat on its south edge and invited Draco to join him.

"They will come for us, sooner or later," he said calmly. "Don't panic. Our cause is not lost. While you were healing centaurs— no no no, I am not blaming you! Anything you do that makes you look like an altruistic idiot that welcomes everyone and everything to the feast of life is exactly right at this moment. You played it very well. But in the meantime, I was pulling all the strings I could. There aren't many left, I'm sorry to say. But we will make the best of what we have, won't we?"

Draco didn't answer. His palm ached. The splinter screamed for his attention with growing rage.

"Now listen. They will send me back to Azkaban, there is not much to be done about that. But you will get a trial. You didn't kill anyone. You were forced to—"

He had, in fact. He had killed. Those three mudbloods. And he had been of age by then. It was funny that his father did not remember it.

"—and you were underage. Play your cards well. Follow Knox's advice, he knows his way around Law Enforcement and owes our family double what he has in his vault in Gringotts. I expect he will get you out one way or another."

Draco wished he could believe it. With Knox's help, maybe he could get away with a few years. Maybe not a life sentence. That was a nice thing to hope for.

"But when you are out, then you will get me out, too."

All the hope went down the drain with a loud glug.

"You? Out of Azkaban?!" Had Father gone insane? "How?"

"This is why I brought you here." Father shifted a little. "Under the stone we are sitting on— Don't look! Just listen. Under this stone something is hidden. I don't know what it is, I don't know what it does, and I don't want to know, because they will rummage in my thoughts and memories like in a pile of dirty underwear. But I do know that that object has always been in our family, and that it has been used before to get a Malfoy out of Azkaban."

"I didn't know a Malfoy had been to Azkaban before you."

"We never talk about such things, but no, I'm not the first. Besides, when that Malfoy escaped, they did not notice a thing, otherwise you would have heard about it. So no, not Black, not Crouch, it was a Malfoy who was the first to escape that place, but no one knows that, because, I believe, that Malfoy was more successful than the other two."

"Why are you telling me this? Won't they rummage in my memories like in a pile of dirty underwear?"

"They will. But, first, you are a better Occlumens than I am. And second, you don't know that much yet. Set the thing out of your mind for now. Don't try to find out anything before your trial. And then, when everything settles a little, and they clap each other's backs for what a great job they did with us, then find it, figure out how it works, and get me out."

"And in the unlikely event that I succeed, what then? We'll be just criminals on the run. At least, you will. I don't believe they will 'not notice', when you start showing up at the Ministry again, and invite guests."

"Oh, then, we'll go somewhere far away. We'll keep quiet for a while till everyone forgets. We have enough money to go anywhere we like. That part, of course, needs to be carefully prepared, too."

"Mother won't want to go."

"Narcissa will change her mind. Otherwise we'll go without her. You're a big boy now, you don't need to hide behind your mother's skirts."

Was the power potion wearing off already? Draco tried hard, but was the first to lower his eyes.

"Father, please. I want to stay out of all this."

"You can't, my boy. You are already in. If you want to give up now, go ahead, but don't be surprised if Knox's advice turns out not quite as helpful as you've hoped. You want our money and connections to work for you? Then do your part. You owe this to me and your mother as the Malfoy heir."

This was one of those fights Draco always lost. He knew it when he saw one.

"Fine, I'll try," he said, and hated it.

"Good, Draco. I believe in you."

They walked back to the front door. It opened for them as they approached, revealing the frozen Narcissa who stood where they had left her. But Lucius stopped again at the threshold.

"What is it again? Unfreeze Mother now, or she will catch a cold!"

"Wait. One last thing." His father pointed the wand at his own skull. "Don't remind me about the place we've just visited. It's safer the less one knows these days." He closed his eyes and whispered, "Obliviate!" And a tiny flash of green light shot between the wand and his temple.

Draco snatched the wand from him, undid the freezing spell, and gave the wand back to his mother. All soaked in icy water, she shot a hateful look at Father, but marched inside without saying a word. Two house-elves appeared, snapped their fingers to dry the puddle on the floor, and disappeared again before Lucius could finish his insulting comment on their work ethic. Under the contemptuous looks of the portraits hanging along the walls, Draco and Lucius walked through the entrance hall and entered the drawing room.

The long table at which Death Eaters used to hold their meetings was gone, but the usual furniture of the room was still stacked in a pile against the wall. The low tables and the armchairs, the sofas, and the plants, had not returned to their places. The room seemed undecided about its purpose.

The only landmark still in its old place was the large marble mantelpiece with the gilded mirror above it. As there was nothing else to walk up to, they drifted towards it, as if attracted by a magnet.

The two faces in the mirror were a sorry sight. Draco hadn't quite managed to wash away the soot. A dark grey line stretched from his nose to his right ear. He tried to rub it away but the soot had dried and stuck to the skin. His eyes were red and puffy. "You weren't such a crybaby when you were three months old," his father used to say every time he caught him crying. Today he didn't care to comment. In fact, he was red around the eyes himself. The stubble started to cover the ugly scab on his chin. When had Father last shaved? When would he get the next chance to shave anyway?

All of a sudden, it was so clear.

"Father, it makes no sense! If you go to Azkaban and I get you out, and we have to flee and hide after that, then we could just as well flee and hide now, before they get us, and skip all this unnecessary and risky exercise."

"If we flee now we admit our guilt."

"Yes, but we are guilty! You are a convicted criminal, sentenced for life, or had you forgotten? Are you sure they won't do the same thing to you as they did to another renowned Azkaban escapee? Just in case you have forgotten that, too, Barty Crouch was kissed by a Dementor. Overdone your Obliviatus a little, have you?"

His father looked confused for a second. Bellatrix's wand in his hand had apparently done a somewhat inaccurate job.

"We are not prepared. We'd need money, we can't go to Gringotts now," Father said.

"Let's fall back on our Muggle assets. It will take time before they get a grip on those, and we will be in New York by then."

"And we'll need wands."

"We won't need wands as Muggles."

"What are you talking about?" Narcissa, all dry and dressed, had just entered the drawing room.

"We're planning a little trip," Father said to her reflection in the mirror. "No need to pack. But that rat, I'd rather not—"

"Father, who cares about rats! Let's leave now!"

But it was too late. They heard a cracking sound outside, followed by footsteps of a couple of dozen feet. A few moments later a group of aurors rushed through the door behind them.

"Expelliarmus!" and Narcissa's wand flew through the air. Draco and Lucius were standing where they were, facing the mirror and holding their empty hands up. Except for Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office himself, no familiar faces appeared in the reflection of the scene behind them.

"Your wands, Mr Malfoy and Mr Malfoy!" commanded Robards.

"We are wandless!" replied Draco.

"Incarcerous!" And their hands got fixed to the mantelpiece before them with invisible ropes, or belts rather, judging by the sharp edges that now cut into Draco's skin. The pain in his left palm soared.

"Revelio!"

Draco could just make out an unfamiliar pattern waved by one of the wands in the mirror, when to his shock, both he and his father were instantaneously stripped of all their clothes.

"We are wandless, for god's sake!" Draco shouted but got no reply. He could only hear voices behind his back:

"Senior, cloak, cleared. Senior, tunic, cleared. Junior, jacket, cleared. Senior, trousers, cleared. Junior, shirt, cleared," and so on.

"Not to worry, Draco," Father said softly, "it is routine."

The portraits on the walls around them were less cool about it though. They were shaking their heads, burying their faces in their lace handkerchiefs, Lucius the first was suffering a fit of nausea, and some of the frames were simply abandoned by their pale inhabitants, one leaving a sign 'No relation' hanging on a golden chain.

Suddenly, a tall witch with short ginger hair, lean and bouncy like a gazelle, came forward, a camera in her hands.

"What the—!" Draco breathed out in horror, and even Lucius gave a start.

"Don't worry, Mr Malfoy. It's just for your left arm," said the photographer's reflection to Draco. "Southill. Department of Mysteries. Temporarily on the orders of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. The pictures will be used for investigation only and will not be subject to any publicity."

The dark mark on Draco's left arm was fading quickly, turning into a scar not unlike the one on Harry Potter's forehead. The snake was now barely visible, but it was still visible, and they obviously did not want to miss the chance of keeping this detail for the record. The photographer witch made a couple of attempts to take a shot over his shoulder, but could not get a good angle.

"If you don't want me to capture too much of the rest, I will release your left arm, Mr Malfoy, and you will stretch it out palm up. Any unexpected move, and I'll use that mirror to its full capacity. A perfect poster for my bedroom. Is that a deal?"

"Yes," Draco hissed through his teeth, and the invisible belts holding his left wrist came off. He held his arm out for the picture. The wall on his left hand side flashed three times.

"And that's for good behaviour," said the witch. The splinter in Draco's palm disappeared, and the throbbing pain ceased. Before he could say 'thank you', his wrist was fixed to the mantelpiece back in the same position as before.

"All cleared. No wands, no dark artefacts, no magical creatures," said a cheerful voice somewhere behind Draco's back, and then added under his breath: "Traces of Quetzalcoatl in junior's breast pocket."

"Merlin's beard!" replied another hushed, but amused voice.

"Reverte!" and the Malfoys had their clothes back on.

Their hands were released again, and they could finally face their arresters. All the wands were pointing at them.

"Mr Draco Malfoy," said Robards, "You are arrested on the suspicion of membership in a criminal organisation known as 'The Death Eaters', triple attempted murder, and the use of an Unforgivable Curse on an unsuspecting witch."

Then, with a sigh, he turned to Lucius:

"Lucius, you-know-why."

Finally, he addressed Narcissa:

"Mrs Malfoy, your wand will be returned to you presently, as soon as Mr and Mr Malfoy have left the premises."

"Take them away."

And they escorted both male Malfoys out of their ancestral home.