It is a part of special prudence never to do anything because one has an inclination to do it; but because it is one's duty, or is reasonable.

Matthew Arnold, Notebooks (1868)

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A/N: Thanks to all readers and reviewers, especially: DG Fan and David Fishwick.

September 25, 1888

Ministry of Magic, London

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Above Whitehall, it was an era when childhood was cherished—and babies lay dead in the streets of the slums, and the poor stepped over their bodies.

It was an era when more churches were built than ever before, and more religious charities founded- and one of every sixty houses in London was a brothel, and the output of pornography has never been exceeded.

It was an era of sacred womanhood- and ten percent of all the women in London were driven to prostitution at some point.

It was the age of the first wave of feminism—and no married woman could legally own property, or had any rights over her own children.

It was an age of reform- and five-year-old children were lowered into coal mines at dawn to labor in pitch blackness and mud until they were hauled up in buckets twelve hours later.

It was an era when the concept of public health was born, yet wallpaper was laden with arsenic, and bath buns colored with lead. When public sanitation was invented, and the average family lived above their own cesspool.

It was a time of staggering wealth and wretched poverty. The rich lived in priceless marble mansions in the West End, rode prancing pureblood horses in Hyde Park, and wore hand tailored silks and glittering jewels. And the poor lived twelve in a cramped room in the East End, letting out the dirty floor space to lodgers for a few extra pennies, whole families lying in one rickety bed under a single blanket because every piece of clothing had been pawned for bread, dead children remaining in that one room for days as their mothers and fathers scraped together the shillings to bury them.

Paradoxes abounded. The class system might seem as stratified as ever, but Karl Marx had published two books of Das Capital, and socialists rioted in Trafalgar Square. The sun might never set on the British Empire, but on the day when our story begins, Mohandas Gandhi had just arrived at the University of London to study law. Women were judged as worthless if they didn't marry and stay at home, but there were more jobs and professions open to female workers than ever before, and they fought for the vote in the first wave of feminism.

In short, it was an age of contrasts. The brightest ideals, the bleakest realities; the most tender kindnesses, the most vicious cruelties, progress and regress all mixed together, ethics and morals as muddled as a pea-soup fog. Above all, it was an age of change, especially as it drew near its end. Change was in the coal dust-laden air.

Or at least, such was the case in Muggle Victorian London.

Because beneath Whitehall, inside the Ministry of Magic, everything was as it had always been and as it would always be, forever and ever, amen to Ashterah. Both upstairs and down, the year was 1888. But below, it could just have easily have been 1788, 1588, or more or less any year from the Stone Age to the present. The wizarding world changed seldom, and with great reluctance.

The Ministry of Magic was still commonly referred to as "the new location." Even though the Druids had sacrificed on the banks of the Thames and the Wizards' Council had used exactly the same location since 1701, a few walls had been painted, the corridors refurbished, and the desks spruced up. Certain Muggle touches of the era always seemed to have a way of making their way down here, too. That was enough to warrant the title.

The Right Honorable Draco Malfoy, third son of House Malfoy, sat at a desk in an office at the back of the cluttered collection of cubicles that served as Auror Headquarters on the second floor of the Ministry. Not quite an Auror, not quite a visitor; a specialist, perhaps, but nobody really seemed to be sure of what Draco Malfoy was, or which part he played. Himself least of all.

The Malfoys had their own permanent space in the department because of some sort of feudal right of possession over the land on which the original wizarding council was built. An office had been opened and cleaned, and Draco now worked in it. Gloomy and dark, it nonetheless suited him rather well. He had enough space for his own files and a tiny potions and poisons lab, complete with testing equipment.

The hour had just struck seven, and nearly everyone else had already gone home hours before. Ministry employees did not work the twelve-hour days of Muggle clerks and men of business. There had been many details to clear away in the latest poisoning case which Draco had just finished, however, and he was nothing if not thorough. He stayed until he had completed the case to his own satisfaction, trying not to think about the generations of Malfoys who were doubtless turning in their graves at the thought of one of their own doing work. It wasn't actual work, of course, he always assured himself, but rather an intense hobby, like the studies of a gentleman scientist.

At any rate, it was the fault of his great-uncle Abraxas for sending him to the Ministry in the first place. But at the memory of his great-uncle, Draco had thoughts he did not wish to entertain. He rose from the desk for a stretch and a bit of a walk.

The headquarters looked the same as always—the cubicles, the dark wood-paneled walls, the pictures of known Dark wizards, maps, clippings from the Daily Prophet—and then, some from other papers he did not recognize. He walked out into the larger room, peering at the clippings pinned to a board, and saw that they were from Muggle papers. The Sunderland Echo, the Pall Mall Gazette, the Daily News. His eyes skimmed over the headlines, and his frown deepened. Attempted Murder At Bow. The Horrible Outrage in Whitechapel: The authorities of the London Hospital yesterday morning informed the East Middlesex coroner of the death in that institution of Emma E. Smith, aged 45, a widow, lately living in George-street, Spitalfields. Murder in Whitechapel, Martha Tabram Unfortunate Victim. Tragedy in Whitechapel: Polly Nichols Stabbed in 39 Places. The East End Horror Grows: Annie Chapman Butchered. Draco shook his head and stopped reading, although there were many more clippings. Dreadful stories, to be sure, and he pitied the poor women who had been this unknown murderer's victims, but it all seemed to be a purely Muggle matter. He really could not imagine why any records related to these crimes should be pinned to a board in the Headquarters. Still, it was no business of his.

He had business of his own, now, or rather, the end of one.

He toyed with the letter in the pocket of his robes, the one that he had not put away from him since receiving it a week earlier. The letter from his great-uncle Abraxas.

Slowly, Draco walked back into his own little office and to the opposite wall, looked out the window, and saw the magical view, adjusted for wizards, of course. Which meant that there was precious little to be seen. For a fleeting moment, he almost wished that he could see the streets of Muggle London, that other world from which his own was walled off. The magical windows most decidedly did not work in that manner, however. He might have lifted the veil with a spell… But then he would need to admit that he actually wished to see what the wizard world was walled off from. And such a heretical thought could not be admitted by the Right Honorable Draco Malfoy, third son of House Malfoy, and suddenly its unexpected, unlooked-for, frankly unwanted heir.

The parchment seemed to be burning a hole in his pocket. The one that promised changes he was not so sure he wanted to undergo.

No. He had suspected that they would come about for a long time. He must live up to his responsibilities. Duty was all. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the same scents of wood and smoke and decaying paper, reminding him that the wizarding world would surely always be the same as it had been and was now. Everything was the same. And that was good. It must be good.

But he couldn't help thinking that it was all a bit… stale.

As he leaned against the window, faint voices and footsteps began to drift to his ears.

He knew those voices without turning round. Dennis and Colin Creevey, who both worked in the department. The eagerness in their voices, especially the younger of the two, the rumbustiousness in their scampering footsteps, all impossible to mistake. Few irritations which the world had to offer, thought Draco, could be quite as tedious as the excessive enthusiasm of the Creevey brothers.

"There are either three or four as of right now," Dennis was saying in his piping voice. "But they're not quite sure. I mean, how could you ever really be sure? What do you think, Colly?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Colin Creevey.

"Oh, come on, Colly; do be a good sport—"

"Dennis, I think that we really might just as well talk about something else."

At least the elder Creevey was being a tad more circumspect than usual, whatever it was that the two were discussing. Draco saw their vague smudged outlines reflected in the window now as the pair rounded a corner and drew nearer.

"But it's so interesting! I've been following all the Muggle papers," Dennis persisted.

"Yes, I'm sure you have."

"Come on. Just a clue—"

"No," Colin said firmly. His footsteps paused. "Oh—bother. I've forgotten it. Hold up a moment, all right?" Colin's footsteps walked away, and the other, lighter pattered forward, pausing at the door to Draco's office.

Draco sighed and turned round, seeing Dennis Creevey's eager face sharpen into focus, all frazzled blond hair and horsy teeth.

"I say, Malfoy, have you heard the latest?" he asked in annoyingly chipper tones, leaning against the doorframe as if ready to bolt forward at any second.

For a horrible second, Draco was sure that the younger Creevey was referring to the news that occupied his own mind, to the information contained in the letter from Abraxas Malfoy. It was impossible that either Creevey could know. He himself had told no-one. But his great-uncle wasn't really capable of discretion, and Draco had received the letter a full week earlier. The gods alone knew what Abraxas Malfoy might have let slip, or to whom. The wizarding world in London was insular and closed; therefore, it was filled with gossip, and the juiciest pieces thereof made the rounds with lightning speed.

Does the entire department know? For that matter, does the entire Ministry know? Has every witch and wizard in London heard about it by now? Draco could feel himself growing panicky, and he took a long, deep breath before replying to Dennis.

Creevey couldn't possibly know. His face would hold a different expression if he did, or his voice would hold a subtly different tone, not simply his normal manic enthusiasm, but something more knowing, a mixture of sympathy and faint envy. Something, at least. And the younger man showed none of this. He clearly knew nothing. Draco let out the breath he had been holding.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," he said lightly.

"I mean, about him," said Dennis. "The latest updates, you know!"

"I'm afraid that I am not fortunate enough to know to whom you are referring." He was starting to suspect that he had more of an idea that he would have liked to have had.

"Oh, you know. The Whitechapel killer!"

I was right, thought Draco.

At that moment, a hand appeared at the edge of the doorframe, its forefinger crooking backwards. Dennis gave a disappointed sigh and thankfully disappeared.

"Really, Dennis; I've got to speak to Malfoy alone."

"But—"

"Off with you now. We'll talk later."

Draco had never believed that he'd be particularly happy to see Colin Creevey, but in comparison with his brother, he was quite restrained that day. But why on earth would he need, or want, to speak with me alone? We've scarcely exchanged a dozen words in the past three months, if that many.

He stepped through the doorway and into the office, and Draco winced at what he saw.

Colin Creevey was a popinjay, which would be all right if his tastes of clothing consistently tended in the wizarding direction. Today, however, they most decidedly did not. Draco surveyed the other man head to toe in a way that he knew left Creevey particularly flustered. At the moment, he didn't much care.

"Creevey, why on earth have you come to the Ministry dressed in such a manner?"

Colin flushed slightly as Draco's eyes went over each detail of the objectionable outfit.

He was dressed like a Muggle in the height of a casual middle-class fashion of the day. A dark sack coat with a slim fit and a seamed waist, twill waistcoat and gold watch chain showing beneath, a plain white shirt, detachable white high stand collar and cuffs, tweed trousers, a four in hand tie, and in his other hand, a Homburg hat of stiff felt.

More and more wizards were dressing this way, including many who ought to know better, and Draco had to deal with them. Another unpleasant necessity when working at the Ministry. His own robes were the same that the Malfoys had worn when his great-uncle was a boy and mad King George sat upon the Muggle throne. And, he had no doubt, they were the same as the ones that would be worn a hundred years hence. Wizarding fashions did not change quickly, or often.

"You know, Malfoy, I'm going out to work with Muggles and can't wear robes," said Colin.

Draco raised one eyebrow. "A rather large part of our primary purpose is supposed to be concealment from the knowledge of Muggles."

"Well, yes, but this is quite important. And we're using the best Concealment spells, 'proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle' sort, you know."

"In which case are you involved?" asked Draco.

"We're investigating the mysterious deaths of a number of aspidistras."

"Aspidistras," Draco said dubiously. "If I'm not much mistaken, which I rarely am, you're referring to a plant."

"Yes, but the aspidistra can't be killed," said Colin eagerly, clearly ready to sink his teeth into the problem. "That's why it's so popular in London homes. It survives gas fumes, coal dust—"

"That's all quite interesting, but—" Draco tried to interrupt.

"Sulfuric acid in the air, lack of oxygen from gaslighting—"

"Fascinating, I'm sure, but I don't see why we should be involved in—"

"Arsenic seeping out of the wallpaper, lead paint in children's toys, which the infants generally chew on—"

Draco brought his hand down on the desk. "Creevey, if there is a point, I beg you to reach it!"

"Sorry. I'm not really supposed to discuss it with anybody just yet." Colin looked down and blushed slightly.

The most effective method of broadcasting news, thought Draco, would undoubtedly be to impart it to Colin Creevey and then swear him to secrecy.

"But, er, Muggles are so fascinating, don't you think?" Colin was asking now.

"No," said Draco, quite sure that he was telling the truth. "At any rate, why on earth would the Ministry be involved with such Muggle trivia?"

"I think… I think that sometimes it's our duty," said Colin earnestly. "We've got a responsibility to reach outside of the wizarding world when Muggles really need our help. It's a duty that I believe we can't shirk."

Duty. The letter in his pocket. The responsibility thrust on him that he ought to welcome, but had a terrible, traitorous desire to reject.

Because Colin had reminded him of all of it, Draco said what he knew he should not.

"Muggle murders are tedious," he snapped. "Those of aspidistras and otherwise."

Colin's round brown eyes widened.

Immediately, Draco was ashamed. Such speech, such behavior was beneath him. He ought to have remembered that Dennis and Colin Creevey had begun the conversation, such as it was, by referring to the brutal murders of a number of Muggles.

It was not the other man's fault, the letter, the shifting expectations in his life. And perhaps most of all, Draco's own vague sense of shame for successfully contributing to the solution of several criminal cases involving various poisons. He would have been happier to be an utter failure at this job at the Ministry in which he was stuck, but he was not. To be less than happy about success, however modest, was a painful feeling, like biting into one of those Muggle sausages that undoubtedly included dead rats.

"Sorry," said Draco in a clipped voice.

The other man still looked dejected.

'I say, Creevey; really, I do apologize," said Draco in slightly gentler tones.

"It's perfectly all right," said Colin. "I've got a letter for you, Malfoy." He held out the rolled parchment.

"Thank you," said Draco, taking the parchment. "Is there anything else?"

"No. Well, I'd better get on with the assignment, then," Creevey said awkwardly. "My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away, and all that."

Draco sighed inwardly. In his private opinion, Creevey had been out of school more than long enough to have ceased to use such schoolboy phrases.

As Creevey made his exit, Draco he reached for the parchment, wondering what on earth could possibly be happening now. Probably some unbearably tedious memorandum about the permitted length of dinner breaks, or something. But no; that wasn't likely. Personal letter or memorandum delivery was unusual anywhere in the Ministry. All correspondence was normally carried by owl. The only exception would be if the sender did not wish a record of the exchange to exist in the owl post system. Although when either Creevey is involved, one might as well hire a signboard man to stand in Trafalgar Square…

His eyes widened slightly when he saw the distinctive watermark belonging to the Minister for Magic. Draco had had very little to do with Faris Spavin in the past few months, which was exactly as he preferred.

With a strange feeling that he could not place as either dread, apprehension, or excitement, he unrolled the parchment and began to read.

My dear Malfoy,

He grimaced. It was a particular affectation on the part of Minister Faris Spavin to address all Ministry officials and employees, whoever they might be, by surname only. More democratic, or some such rot.

I am aware that you are currently engaged in the Bleak house-elf poisoning case, but I must request your presence in my office immediately upon the receipt of this letter. Your assistance is urgently required on a new case of utmost importance. Please note that this is an extremely delicate matter, owing to the persons and situations involved. While we are rarely called upon to coordinate with Muggle institutions, it appears is such is now the case. I will further clarify the details upon our meeting.

I remain, sir, yr obedient servant,

Minister Faris Spavin

Draco let the parchment drop. Muggle institutions!

He stalked down the corridor, a mixture of emotions whirling in his mind, none of which he could unentangle. He decided to concentrate on the sheer insult of being expected to work with Muggles in any context.

As if it weren't already bad enough to be forced to report to work here in the first place, and then to gain entrance by a set of the new underground public toilets. There were rumors that the entrances would soon be connected with the Floo network; Draco had little hope that it would happen anytime soon. Oh, no; all of that wasn't nearly insulting enough. He was going to be forced to have something to do with Muggles. His pale face had grown dark as a thunderstorm by the time he had reached the elevator.

"Fifth floor," he snapped to the service-elf, who cast him a put-upon look.

"Yo' must wait, Master Malfoy, for awl passengers to arrive," the elf said in a flat voice.

"What other passenger could there possibly be?" asked Draco, reaching for the button to the fifth floor. The elf shooed him away, a shiny brass badge on his neat mulberry-colored uniform winking in the light as he did so. Percival Praiseworthy, the incised gothic letters read.

"Ai'll perform that duty, Master Malfoy," the elf intoned. Every wrinkle on his face turned down into an even deeper frown.

Draco supposed that he ought to keep in mind how jealous these service-elves were of their privileges. There were rumours that their duties would eventually be replaced by either mechanical works or spells, and the elves constantly threatened to break out in revolt as a response. Only the month before, a group of elves on the sixth floor had kept all the windows in the building permanently showing fields of molten lava for three entire days after the heating systems were fixed without their input by using Calorum spells.

Footsteps pattered down the corridor towards the elevator. Draco devoutly hoped that Colin Creevey was not about to come round the corner. And he did not, but the sight of the second passenger made Draco wish that he had.

Miss Ginevra Weasley was hurrying breathlessly through the doors, which the elf Praiseworthy tapped shut behind her.

"Fifth floor, please, Praiseworthy," she said, and the elf smiled, which Draco would not have thought possible, given his face.