Around the bend
Everyday Workplace Lies.
Michael got home from work and took a sly blood-replenishing potion. He staggered up to the bathroom and carefully washed the blood out from his nose and checked his pupils.
Both of his pupils were the same size, so there was that.
Hayworth, down the hall had been carried out in a body bag last week.
'Patch', his supervisor had explained that Hayworth had just not… hardened up.
But then given him a search order for a specific person, which wasn't really his skillset.
'Officer: Bendy
Search Order.
Name 'Augustus Rookwood
Keying: Personal belongings (slippers)
Reason: Arrest Warrant, 1998 Coup.
Location: Unknown.
Notes: Rookwood was a Departmental employee. He is aware of our limitations.
'
Which had come with a pair of slippers in a brown paper bag with a DMLE evidence number. Michael had put both hands on the ball, and really looked. His mind wandered off, and the slight discomfort after a while meant he'd got to at least the Rhone.
Michael peered at his nose. It wasn't bleeding. They'd given him powder to stop the bleeding, but like a lot of things, it was bad for you in big doses… and the headache was from micro-strokes, so it was worse than useless.
"My Name is Michael Corner" he said to his reflection. Bravo! Can still talk properly, he thought to himself. No need to go see the Departmental medic in the morning for head-injury potion.
He went to his room, and took off his preternaturally ignorable robes, and put them in the wardrobe. And took off his shoes and socks, wiggled his toes and sat on his bed, to await his family. He worked the shortest hours of the entire family, and had the longest holidays. Everyone in his section worked short hours. Except for Hayworth. He had the rest of forever off.
And Cho Chang and he went from talking at the ministry cafe in the line for lunch to eating lunch.
A few weeks later, he idly let slip he had a spare ticket to a match on the weekend. His dad was busy with some unexpected storm forecasting.
Cho smiled prettily and agreed to come.
They watched Ballycastle beat Tutshill, and ate snacks. Cho stood near.
"That was fun" said Michael.
"I liked the defensive plays" said Cho. And went off on a fifteen-minute rant about quidditch. But her eyes lit up, and she talked fast, with her hands swooping around.
They ate lunch all week together.
The next weekend, he had tickets for him and Cho.
She graciously snuggled under his arm and smelt nice and he was significantly warmer.
After the match Cho said "Michael?"
"Yes"?
"Fancy going for a trip?"
"Huh?"
"We Apparate to some cool places."
She showed him nature in Scotland he'd never expected. And Five hops later she said "Fancy going to see a film?"
Michael saw the film, then went back to Cho's family's house to have a drink, And then saw a lot more of Cho than he expected the next day. All of her, actually.
And she was quite pleased with his efforts to please her.
They held hands at lunchtime sometimes. Or just smiled at one another.
Life was pretty good.
Work was weird, but the hours were short, and he probably wouldn't die.
Well, as long as you don't think about the cards you drew, he reminded himself.
-==0==-
Michael tried reading some 'Modern Charms' magazine, mum had left it on the couch, and was almost interested in the brick moulding charm, when an owl tapped on his window.
He looked up. It was a rental, with a little medallion from the Owl-Post office. Carrying a fancy letter.
Michael opened the window and let the tawny owl in, and cast a quick detect-curses on the letter. Which was magically inert.
The owl dropped it on his desk and wheeled, and left.
"Thanks" said Michael to an empty room.
It was addressed to 'Mr Michael Corner OM(3).' And from 'R. Greengrass.' And the only Greengrasses he knew were Daphne and her little sister called, as far as he knew: 'Don't ever talk to my little sister.'
Which had been an easy call, as Daphne was a sort-of-pretty girl in the choir, who had sent a lot of boys to the Infirmary for asking her out. Or talking to her little sister.
Michael opened the letter.
"Mr Michael Corner (and guest),
You are cordially invited to the wedding of our eldest daughter Daphne, and Harry James Potter-Black.
At the Ministry of Magic Atrium, Saturday -"
Michael stopped reading. This was Weasley twins product, probably. He'd wash his hands carefully. He was fairly sure Daphne Greengrass had never talked to Harry Potter. And Harry didn't have a hyphenated name. He'd seen the parchment come out of the Goblet of Fire from his seat at the top of Ravenclaw table. Dumbledore's arm had hung down, completely still for ages till Harry had started walking. Plenty of time to read two words 'Harry Potter.'
Michael picked up the letter and concentrated, closing his eyes. His nose filled with the scent of a spicy perfume, and he felt, as much as saw a woman in dress robes signing the page. R. Greengrass.
He opened his eyes. The page was signed 'R. Greengrass.' Putatively Daphne's mother. And either the Weasley twins could jigger up the (quite possibly best) scryer in the Ministry of Magic, or…. Harry really was marrying Daphne Greengrass. He dropped the letter and decided to wait till tomorrow to see what happened. There's divination, and there's just seeing what happens. One is foolproof and doesn't give you strokes. And went to the bathroom and washed his hands in isopropyl alcohol, then soap. Because precautions. Having Esme come home covered in 'stuff' meant there was always isopropyl on the counter. There were better things at the office, to wash off worse things with. Because the - of - had entire rooms where they studied worse things.
The next morning, mum was heating the chrome toaster red-hot, as usual, when the Daily Prophet arrived. As ways of making toast it worked, even if the plug-cord had melted years ago.
The Daily Prophet was twice the normal thickness. Dad unrolled it.
"Says your friend Harry Potter's getting married" said Dad.
"To?" asked Mum, levitating toast out of the heat-stained chrome toaster. The cord had caught fire when he was eight, he remembered. Mum had never bothered using the electricity. Dad had just shrugged, cut it off and binned the cord.
"Daphne Greengrass. Whoever that is?" said Dad.
"Michael?" asked Mum, landing a piece of toast on his plate and dad's nearly at the same time. He looked over at mum, who was holding her wand and smiling in a bit of a smirk. She was bloody good at charms, he thought. Two things at once. Did she charm her hair, or was it naturally wavy and black, he wondered. Then realized that he had her hair, just he never grew it to waist-length. Mum lifted her eyebrow for emphasis.
"A girl in our year" said Michael.
"I Thought he was with that Winslet Girl?" asked Mum.
"Weasley" corrected Michael.
"As in, Director Weasley?" asked Mum.
"Um, I think that's Ginny's dad," agreed Michael.
"Ginny?" said Dad "The Ginny that wrote you letters?"
"Um yeah" said Michael, getting a knife into the marmalade.
"Michael?" asked Mum "Do you want bacon? I want facts." Michael sighed. Mum could be a bit obstinate.
"Harry's with Ginny Weasley. I'm sure of it" said Michael. Or was.
"And?" asked Mum.
"Um, he is marrying Daphne Greengrass" said Michael.
"Uh. You haven't read the paper yet" said Dad, who was folding and unfolding the paper, clearly chasing footnotes in the front page story.
"I got a wedding invitation yesterday" said Michael. "Ministry Atrium on a Saturday."
"Oh my god." gasped Mum dramatically, "You didn't tell us!"
"Mum. I wasn't sure it was real" said Michael. I could be wrong.
"You'll need new robes" said Mum.
"So, you're invited to the wedding" said Dad "You going to the reception?"
"I'm not sure I'm invited" said Michael.
A rasher of Bacon orbited the table "Michael, find out. For god's sake" said Mum, her wand moving in tiny circles.
Michael summoned the invite, and read it.
"Not charmed umsummonable" said Mum, frowning.
"No magic on it at all" said Michel offhandedly.
"Well… that means her poor mother hand-wrote them all. Well, I suppose … given security concerns these days, one might not want to get magical mail" said Mum.
Dad lowered the Daily Prophet "Dear, you work in M.A.C?"
"Yes dear" said Mum.
"You suppose?" said Dad. "Then he changed the topic "Says Greengrass has been engaged for over a year."
Michael's brain stalled. Over a year? Engaged since Sixth year? Snogging Ginny while engaged to Daphne Greengrass?
Michael accidentally bit his fork, and dropped everything in pain.
"Harry was dating Ginny while engaged to Daphne" said Michael, gingerly checking if he'd broken a tooth. There's brave and then there's just… bonkers. Two dangerous witches.
"Don't talk with your fingers in your mouth, Michael" said mum.
"It's an arranged marriage. He would have been having one last fling" said Dad.
"Arranged marriage?" asked Michael.
"You know – the pureblood shit" said Dad.
"Gerald, nobody does that any more." said Mum "It's in … bad novels, but there hasn't been a serious arranged marriage in a century."
"Um" said Dad "Oh yeh. Footnote Arranged marriages – last seen in England in eighteen ten."
Michael read the (actually real) invite and had to make a difficult decision.
He could take one of Harry's exes to Harry's wedding, but Harry was marrying Daphne Greengrass, and Michael liked his bits attached. So he didn't tell Cho.
Mum did, however give him the bacon.
-==0==-
Michael sat down in bench seat in the Ministry atrium, one of a dozen or more, then left of that, an aisle with a red carpet, then another dozen bench seats. Up the front, there was a little altar, a wizened old wizard with wispy hair, and towering over him, Neville Longbottom in a very dark red robe with a collar that hugged his neck. Neville didn't seem to be carrying a bloody big sword. Chatter filled the atrium. Michael wasn't close enough to check Neville for a sword, and didn't fancy his chances if he was.
The other side of the aisle had, well pureblood looking people. His side, Harry's side had people he recognised. All the DA members still alive, for starters, his Hogwarts Professors, Hagrid, and every Weasley – except Ginny. Her long, flame red hair would have stood out. Its absence stood out more.
There was a row of silver-blonde-haired witches next to the Weaselys, one leaning on a Weasley as tall as Ron, but with a ponytail. There was a wizard in a dark robe with greying black hair next to one of the silver haired witches, and beside him, a smaller one, maybe a teen, who was loudly sobbing.
The other side, one back from the front, had an entire row of elderly witches. Greengrass's aunts and great aunts and such, Michael assumed.
There was a clonk from the back of the rows, and Michael, and everyone else turned, in a susurration of fabric.
Dennis Creevy, in a grey suit and a tall grey top hat, was setting up a really large magical camera on a tripod. Oh. There would have to be a photographer, he realized.
Dennis put up a second tripod and atop it, a flash-powder rail that he filled from a metal can.
Michael winced. That would be bright.
From across the Atrium, a door opened, and a salmon pink dress, with an elegant brown haired middle-aged witch in it, exited and walked all the way to the front, bypassing the aisle, and stopped in the front row, near the aisle. By the way she talked to the row behind, Michael assumed they knew one another well. And… that could be the brides's mum. Michael had not seen Mrs Greengrass, but Daphne looked a bit like her. Though her mum had um. Curves. Michael swallowed. Daphne's Mum could pass for forty. Not that he'd… but cor.
There was a commotion from one of the fireplaces, and someone stepped through one of the dozen security checkpoints. A tall wizard, black haired, in black robes absolutely covered in silver embroidery. The bloke was nearly late, and looked like a serious old-school pureblood, including glasses with octagonal lenses. It was the cheekbones, thought Michael, normal people don't look like someone hollowed out their cheeks. The bloke started walking across the atrium, like he owned it. Once he got closer Michael could make out a faint darkness to his cheeks and chin. Almost like he was standing in a shadow. He just ignored the aisle, and walked over to the front of the seating, and, oddly, stopped next to Neville. Who said something. The wizard nodded. And just stood there, then turned slowly to look down the aisle. And the light glinted through his glasses, and Michael could see a hint of bottle-green. He blinked. Harry Potter's hair was… tame. For once. And… he was dressed in really posh robes, and standing looking like… he was waiting for a bus, only stiffly formally.
Michael couldn't help staring, Potter looked… he should look anxious or excited or fidget… but he was just… standing there, looking…. Like he killed dark lords before teatime, realized Michael. And he technically had, thought Michael, swallowing. With a disarming charm.
Then something happened to break the spell, people started chatting excitedly, and Harry Potter – because it HAD to be Harry Potter, Neville wouldn't let someone else stand THERE, ran a finger round the high collar on his neck, and his right leg started to jiggle in a way that Michael just knew, in his bones, was Harry Potter, leader of the DA. He's seen Harry awkwardly talking in front of groups. Well, awkward till he got going, and started gesturing… and then you were carried away by his enthusiasm and honesty. And you got an E in O.W.L. Defence. And 'The Man Who Conquered' was waiting for his bride to turn up. Michael imagined for a second Daphne Greengrass arriving, in something equally alien. A floral dress, with wild-flowers in her hair, skipping towards Harry Potter with a beautific smile on her face, her long blond hair billowing. He couldn't help snorting in amusement.
Terry elbowed him "He looks stuffed and mounted."
"Didn't recognize him" admitted Michael.
"I believe," said Tony, "that as part of the human sacrifice, they already put a broom up his arse. It'll be used to roast him on later, before Greengrass eats the human sacrifice."
"Imagine getting eaten by Daphne Greengrass," whispered Terry.
"It'd be a frisson" admitted Tony. "Still – try not to think about Harry's new wife like that. We've seen him angry. And looking like this… those stupid stories about him being the next dark lord…."
A bit later, music started. Michael craned to look at the other end of the carpet.
Stepping onto the carpet was… a woman in a tight white wedding dress shaped like an hourglass, with a long train and a veil, accompanied by a tall, devilish-looking wizard in a silvery robe. The bride took a step and Michael blinked. She was quite a decent height, but that step had her hips rolling to one side like… like something. Many swaying model-like steps later she was a lot closer. There was a pale witch under the veil, with pale hair. Michael had heard 'hourglass figure' as a description when the Duke of York married Fergie – but Greengrass in comparison had no skin showing. The dress had layers – and there were probably technical words for that, But the distinct impression he got was that firstly: Daphne Greengrass's dress was very expensive. And secondly, that Daphne Greengrass at least today, looked like some sort of model. His pants agreed.
And there were three bridesmaids behind her, all holding the lace train up, one tall one in the middle and two on the corners of the train, and looking… weren't bridesmaid's dresses supposed to make girls look ugly? They all looked good enough to eat. Where did dresses like that come from? The Yule ball would have been way better with nicer dresses, he decided. Also, all three had him wondering about chatting them up at the reception.
"I'm gonna wank to that" said Terry quietly.
"I'm getting a copy of the photo" said Tony.
"Potter," said Michael, trying to keep it nice, "Is one lucky son of a witch. There are bridesmaids, gentlemen. And Neville's with Hannah."
When Greengrass and her father? got level with the benches, Dennis's flash went off, and Michael saw green spots for a bit.
Dennis's flash went off again as Greengrass got to the altar.
Halfway through the service, Greengrass pulled her veil upwards and back.
Michael stared. He'd seen Daphne Greengrass before, but this… being was like a painting of Daphne Greengrass, painted by someone who wanted her to look perfect. Her nose was still long, but her lips glistened slightly. Her eyes, though were bright, brilliant blue. And showed no sigh of an Imperious curse, he thought to himself virtuously.
Vows started .Harry's middle name was James. Huh. His dad's name. The ring she pushed onto Harry's finger was a grey silver.
Then a black blob on a massive silver ring went onto Greengrass's finger – and she wasn't Greengrass anymore. And her middle name was –
Michael felt everyone in the room holding their breath. Nobody laughed. Queenie? No wonder she had a violent temper.
When Harry kissed her, Dennis took one more photo, and Michael's could only see green spots. He closed his eyes and green after-image of light at the point of their kiss was like a starburst. If he remembered, he should ask Dennis how he did that. Probably the light reflecting off Greengrass's lip gloss. Mrs Black's lip gloss, he reminded himself.
Harry took Greengrass's arm, and they walked down the aisle as the music played. Only Greengrass – Harry's wife didn't walk – she swayed. Michael stared, and wished there was no train on the dress, so he could check out her arse. Respectfully and discreetly.
-==0==-
His invite had said "Reception at Margaret's of Diagon Alley." Mum had said it was a very posh restaurant, and that dad had taken her there once for a wedding anniversary.
But there were three hours in the middle to wait. So he went home.
Mum wanted a blow-by blow; The Wizarding wireless had some excitable interviewer doing a post-commentary.
Then the wizarding wireless got a letter, with actual details from the family.
Daphne Black's dress was from some 'Madam Desha' in Paris. The Bridesmaid's dresses were also from Madam Desha. An elderly witch started talking about how Desha was a rather difficult designer to work with, and that the dresses were not just couture, but art.
"They were" volunteered Michael. "And Daphnes' makeup was amazing. Her face looked like a painting of her."
"Flattering then?"
"Stunning" said Michael "But the dress photos will be… a revelation."
"Was it low cut?" asked Mum.
"Um. All the way to the floor?" said Michael.
"The neckline?"
"Oh it didn't have one" said Michael. "You couldn't um… see her skin at all."
"Oh my." said Mum "That sounds very chaste."
Michael froze and tried not to blush.
"Not chaste" said dad, looking at Michael and smiling faintly.
"The Bridesmaids – and there were three looked amazing" said Michael. They'd had nice visible cleavage.
Eventually, the Wireless mentioned that the bridesmaids were Lily Moon, Tracey Davis and Astoria Greengrass, the brides younger sister. And that they wore Vermillion. That was her name then. Astoria. Huh. Pretty name. She was quite tall. Took after her dad, Michael supposed.
"Not green?" asked Mum.
"Not much green on show," said Michael. Dad winked at him.
After another hour of the wireless talking about a wedding Michael had been at. ( Harry had been described as 'Devastatingly Handsome', but Michael thought 'Aloof, and might blast you to pieces for getting in his way' was more descriptive. There was, he conceded, possible devastation, and he did look fairly handsome.)
Michael floo'ed over to Margarets in time and got to wait for twenty minutes before the bar opened.
And the drinks were free. Lots of Weasleys, and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, who was apparently an Auror now; he was not in uniform but they both stood by the wall with their wands out, not drinking.
Michael gathered his courage and went over.
"Granger, Weasley" he said.
"Corner" said Weasley. "You got an invite?"
"All the DA did, I think" said Michael. Hermione Granger nodded. Her hair was tamed by something, and she was wearing a dress and low heels. She looked, thought Michael uncomfortably, like a frump next to the French dresses. Decent looking witch but… the dress was a bit naff.
"Harry's looking… um" said Michael.
"It's an old Black family pattern" said Hermione Granger, who knew everything, obviously.
"He looks like a proper pureblood git," said Weasley bluntly. "He dumped my sister."
"Wasn't he engaged to um, his wife when he dated your sister?" asked Michael.
"Nah, the year after, I'm sure" said Weasley.
"So... you didn't bring a date" said Hermione.
"There are three bridesmaids" said Michael as smoothly as he could. Granger's lip twitched. She would therefore not ask about Cho.
"Why isn't Ron best man?" asked Michael.
"Ron's job is to make sure... certain people don't show up" said Granger "And in the event we're attacked, do Auror things." People like Cho.
"What's really going on?" asked Michael.
"Sorry. Harry's private business" said Ron Weasley. "Let's say Mrs Malfoy's implicated, and she and Draco are in Azkaban as a result."
"Ron!" said Hermione loudly.
"A plot?" asked Michael. I'm so glad I didn't bring Cho. Harry could have me biffed in Azkaban.
"Lets not tell Michael everything that we promised Harry we wouldn't tell everyone" said Hermione.
"It's messed up, and Harry's being … Harry about it." said Weasley. He sighed, and shook his head.
"Think I've got a chance?" asked Michael, for form's sake. Cho was great, and did some quite um, kinky things in bed.
"With my sister?" asked Ron. "Not a snowballs. You don't love quidditch. She's signing with the Harpies."
"What already?"
"Yup" said Ron Weasley nodding. "She's bloody good. Better than Harry."
"Oh Ron," said Hermione "Has Ginny ever done any of the stuff Harry did on the pitch?"
"No and she'd better not. She's my little sister. I don't want her falling and breaking her spine."
"Spine?" asked Michael.
"The time with the Dementors." explained Weasley. "Dumbledore slowed Harry and softened the ground, but still a day of Skelegrow."
"How is he alive?" asked Michael incredulously, and Granger and Weasley shared a look. A confused, slightly worried look that had Michael wondering if dad's story wasn't made up. Dad's worryingly paranoid story. The one where the guy he was at the wedding reception of, made the Dark Lord look like a petulant kindergartener.
Michael went and got a drink. A butterbeer in a very tall glass. He'd tried to work with a hangover once. Never again.
The Bridesmaids arrived, then Neville, who casually wandered over to Hannah. The way Hannah's face lit up, Michael wondered if they might not get married at some later date.
He started moving towards bridesmaids.
Astoria Greengrass, at a much closer distance proved to be tall and dark-haired and pretty. But she had a quietness about her that seemed at odds with her very expressive eyes.
"I'm engaged" said Astoria Greengrass.
"Oh. .who to?"
"Draco," she whispered.
Michael smiled politely and woodenly. Harry Potter's brother-in-law… Draco Malfoy. Wow talk about terrible luck. He moved on to someone less married.
Lily Moon frowned at him.
"Hello Davis" said Michael to Tracey. He stood closer to her, and sipped butterbeer.
"Are you hitting on me?" asked Tracey.
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Sure can."
"I'm currently dating Cho. Didn't bring her, need to hide." said Michael.
Tracey winked and smiled, "Gotta go sit at the top table." Michael relaxed. Tracey was all right as long as you thought of her as a bloke who was a girl, who liked blokes. And was rather determined not to be either a Lawyer like her dad, or a Healer like her mum. For all that she sometimes made runic sequences that made your want to point and say "That's fucking amazing." Except by then Tracey would be chewing gum, and reading Marvin Miggs comics.
Mrs Greengrass and Mr Greengrass arrived stepping out the floo together. They sat at the top table too. Leaving just one pair of chairs left.
Everyone watched the fireplace, and it finally flared green. Out stepped Daphne and Harry, in unison, and Harry held her arm as she walked up to the top table. And Michael stared. He realized he'd never seen Daphne Greengrass wearing anything that wasn't baggy. Until today. And the way she and Harry moved together. They HAD to be shagging. And the massive train was off the dress, so the hem moved behind her, dragging on the floor as she tottered along. Harry was holding her up, he realised. Her blonde hair was almost all up, and her neck exposed.
Oh my god he thought. She was pretty all along. Not like a part-veela. – there was one here with the tallest, pony-tailed Weasley. The silver-haired woman looked inhumanly gorgeous. Mrs Daphne Black, on the other hand looked human, but… corsets, thought Michael, were definitely making a comeback. She wouldn't be able to eat. Michael caught a glimpse of a heel under the dress as she stepped. An improbably tall heel. A heel, he was sure he'd only ever seen in a skin magazine. Daphne Black was wearing stripper heels, and that had all the blood rushing away from his brain. His hands shook as he ate. It probably wasn't Cruciatus curse related. Ruddy hell.
Neville gave a speech after the meal. He was much better at public speaking than he'd been. Michael had followed Neville's lead all year, and could imagine Neville once again going to fight, and could imagine going along too. And if that meant having to fight to the death, well... it would doubtless be for a good cause. And whoever it was would get hell from the D.A.
Harry stood up to give his speech, and dumped what he'd written and was… just Harry. And he intentionally pissed off Daphne Black, who suddenly just looked like a very made-up Daphne Greengrass in an absurdly tight dress. Harry sat down and leaned back in his chair and looked… smug. He had his reasons, thought Michael.
Mr Greengrass gave a fairly funny speech, and then it was time for the dance. The band started playing something quick, and Harry once again helped his wife get up, and walk – sway to the dance floor. And Harry Potter really could dance, (and if it was by using quidditch techniques, well whatever worked, Michael supposed) but the way they danced together, Harry knew where she'd be, and she knew where he'd be, and Harry held her, and they danced. Slowly it dawned on Michael, that like a spell-chain, Harry had practised and practised till he was good at this. And they didn't smile at one another, there were no little shared moments… this was just a well practised dance.
Daphne's dance with her father was strange. She was even colder to her father than with Harry. Harry's dance with her mother was like watching a rewound film. Harry did the exact same thing, and that was all it was. Just a dance.
Michael went home a little disillusioned.
Cho dumped him when it got back to her that he'd not brought her to Harry's wedding.
Michael didn't quite know how to think about that. But he didn't have to listen to quidditch tactics again. He had also seen three girls from Hogwarts in French dresses who weren't married to Harry Potter-Black, and were all single. And there was no hurry. Or there was, because he'd drawn Death, but if that was how it was going to go, there was no point worrying… if he did, his sister would dose him with the weird potions again.
-==0==-
The next year, Michael hid his job from his friends, and worked hard in the graduate program at the - of - . Harry Potter had become a recluse. Daphne Black appeared in Diagon Alley sometimes, and started a fashion trend with French hats. Corsets were definitely back.
He went to very organised activities with friends like quidditch matches, pub quiz nights, and … got the distinct feeling everyone was looking out for everyone else. They didn't want another Oliver happening.
He was reading the Prophet one day before work. And on page four it said that Draco Malfoy had died in Azkaban.
Michael read the article again. It was strange. He knew Malfoy. And now, Malfoy was dead. Not that he didn't know people who'd died in the war. He knew loads of people who'd died in the war. But Malfoy had not been sentenced to death, just… died. Not like Oliver and his tree swing… just died in Azkaban.
Strangely, a few months later, there was a 'Draco Malfoy memorial infirmary' built in Azkaban. Funded by Mrs Malfoy, according to the Daily Prophet. And that made Michael's head hurt, because she was in Azkaban too.
Mum and Esme continued to have copies of Witch Weekly, or Teen Witch Weekly, which every other issue, seemed to have pictures of Mrs Black, or Astoria Malfoy on the front cover. Or both. Michael did not perve the pictures, but Daphne Black had (by the way Esme complained, and huffed as she went out on the weekends in a robe cinched tight,) indeed brought back the corset. Daphne looked grown-up, and like she was, (well she was, really) some pureblood wife. She didn't smile though. But she looked like she'd give Mrs Zabini a run for her money at being terrifying and beautiful.
-==0==-
After a long time of nothing weird happened to Michael except for working in the - of -, Michael got a letter by owl-post. Carried by a Snowy owl.
And the only person with a Snowy owl he knew was Harry Potter. The owl dropped the letter on his table, and flew in a circle, shitting on his bed and leaving. Michael vanished the owl poo. Post owls didn't usually do that.
The address was written on the letter in spidery letters. "Michael Corner" The writing inside was the same terrible hand,
'Michael,
As a favour, could you please have a single date with my sister-in-law, Mrs Astoria Malfoy?
She gets very bored, and you're clever and nice.
DA forever.
Harry Potter.
Well Harry Black too.
P.S. Beware the owl'
Michael pinched himself. The most famous person in the country wanted him, Michael Corner to take his sister-in-law out for a date?
Why me? Michael re-read the letter. 'Clever and nice.'
She was quite good-looking, slipped into his brain. And hadn't actually married Malfoy in person or anything.
He wrote a letter, to Mrs Astoria Malfoy, omitting why. He felt that might not help his, or Harry's goal. Whatever it was.
-==0==-
He got a letter on an eagle owl, written in a very elegant hand.
'You're only doing this because Harry told you to.
A.M.
A Fine Brew in Diagon Alley, Saturday at eleven.'
Michael held the letter and concentrated, his eyes closed. . Suddenly he could smell Lyang-Lyang and cinnamon, and see a long-fingered woman's hand violently scribbling a short note. The vision ended.
He blinked. The Greengrass women had a lot of aura, if it stuck to letters this well. Large personalities. He wondered what a letter from Mrs Black would be like. Probably cold.
He fished out the letter from Harry, closed his eyes and concentrated. A faint scent he could not place, but that reminded him of broomsticks – and a man's hand, scratching out a letter. A feeling of tiredness.
Michael looked at the letter from Harry; it was quite like Harry, but the impression of Harry he got from the letter was… that he wanted a favour.
And his imagination supplied a sudden sitcom-like vision of Harry in a singlet, Daphne in a house-coat, with her hair in curlers, and Astoria barging in the door of their flat to canned laughter.
But they live somewhere posh, and everyone except Harry and Michael in this entire scenario was posh. What do you do on a date with a posh widow?
-==0==-
