A/N: Hoping to be able to update once a week, though no guarantees on Chapter length. I am so glad to get reviews, so thank you to the people who sent nice words my way :) looking back at my old reviews, I can see people pointing out plot holes and stuff, which is fine, but it makes me want to justify them a bit lol.
It IS worrying that they let just anyone become an Auror trainee, but at this point most of the country believes they've won and they're safe from harm, so they aren't worried. The Auror department knows better, but they're running on skeleton staff so they don't have a choice. Not to mention the fact that it is canon - JKR says that anyone who participated in the Battle of Hogwarts and survived was allowed in! The only teeny tiny technicality is that Draco was fighting for the wrong side, but he was cleared of all charges, rightly or wrongly, and Harry trusts him, rightly or wrongly.
And Arpho, I totally ship H/D too, they are my OTP, and it breaks my heart to keep them apart! But I think that builds tension, and I definitely enjoy writing the tiny hints here and there. And I am trying to follow canon as much as I can, so we all know they don't end up together. Obviously I'm not following it 100%, because JKR would never trust Draco to be an Auror. But she left it blank for 19 years, and they didn't start having kids of their own for a few years yet, so that's where I come in.
Anyway, feel free to send me more questions if something seems amiss. With such a long gap between chapters, I am 100% guaranteed to mess up consistency somewhere. Anyway, onwards!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I've barely finished Weasley's untouched ice cream, also known as my victory ice cream, when the shop door bangs open with a clang and I flinch tremendously.
"Malfoy, what on Earth do you think you're playing at!?"
It's Potter. And I can't help throwing him a sheepish look. Even though I'm still proud of myself.
"Okay, it's not what you think—" I say, in my own defence, but Potter interrupts me with a glare.
"Malfoy, how about you skip the part detailing what it's not, and tell me what it is."
The git. Why does he always think he can tell me what to do?
"Weasley started it. He was following me." I say, in a sulky tone.
"So you thought it'd be a wonderful bloody idea to make him think that you and I were having an affair and that you wanted to dump me and jump his bones instead? To keep him off your trail?" He says madly, and part of me thinks he just doesn't understand my logic.
I stand up with as much dignity as I can muster, despite the serving girls all gathering around the ice cream machine and giggling about us.
"It got rid of him, didn't it?" I say, spreading my arms as if to show how much better it is without him here.
"And if it hadn't? Would you still be snogging him over your ice creams right now?" Potter spits out.
All of a sudden I feel those ice creams repeating on me. "No, I was perfectly in control, actually. I knew my plan would work. And what does it matter to you anyway?"
Honestly, I thought Potter would find this whole thing funny, since it was just a harmless prank, but he's gone off in an entirely different direction.
"It matters to me that Ron is… married. And you can't just profess your undying love to married people!" Potter splutters, after somewhat floundering. "Or straight people!"
"Come off it, Potter." I dismiss his obvious lie. "You're probably just jealous."
Potter bites his bottom lip in anger, probably to prevent himself from punching me. "You're probably just a bastard."
Wow, what a quip. I can't help but smirk. "Fine, I'll admit to that. I just can't have that ginger weasel following me around all day. I have important things to take care of."
I make to walk past Potter, whose anger seems to have deflated. "Ron said that too. You seemed suspicious, kept coming and going from the Leaky Cauldron? What's that about?"
I suddenly remember that Potter has that neat little Invisibility Cloak, and it's an expensive one at that. And much more effective than a Disillusionment Charm.
"Speaking of which, do you mind if I borrow your Invisibility Cloak?" I ask casually while we leave the shop together, as if I borrow valuable magical artifacts from people all the time.
Potter shoots me a panicked look. "How did you – ahem, what Cloak d'you mean?"
"Oh, I don't know." I say, casually sarcastic, walking up the street towards the Prophet building. "The one that covers up baby dragons, dirty mud-slinging Third-years, and Gryffindor spies in Slytherin train carriages."
"Oh yeah." Remarks Potter. "I don't suppose I hid it very well, did I?"
"Don't worry, no one believed me when I told them anyway. Those Cloaks are only meant to have a few months in them at best."
"Why do you need it anyway? Not planning to pilfer from the Auror department, by any chance?"
I put my hand over my chest, mock-offended, but decide on just telling him the truth. "As if. I was hoping to find out who was behind that whole thing actually, save you and old Shacklebolt the job."
"And save your own arse." Potter puts in, elbowing me in the side.
"A man does have the right to fight any false accusations made against his… person." I say in my most legal-sounding voice. It seems to actually convince Potter, because he stops short, sighs, and deftly pulls something out of the front of his robes. The honourable twat.
"Wow, and here I thought you'd just put on a stone or two." I say, genuinely surprised at Potter's true form. "Don't those Weasleys feed you?"
"Shut up, Malfoy." He says with the tone of a 3 year old sticking out their tongue. He pushes the material against me. It's cool and silvery, almost like holding water. Wow, this is expensive. Even my father probably couldn't afford this, and that's saying something.
After being absorbed in its beauty and flawlessness for a few moments, I snap back to myself. "Right, well, I'm off then."
"Oh no you're bloody well not." Says Potter. "I'm coming with you."
Okay, no. No. I'm not having Potter's clunkiness ruining my expert plans for espionage. And we won't both fit under this Cloak, will we? Plus I don't want him taking credit for my hard work, when I find out who's responsible for this. I figure out a genius plan to lose him.
I squint my eyes behind Potter, as if I can't quite make out what's there, and as his eyes flick to follow mine, I quickly wrap the cloak around myself and run away.
But alas, I am foiled when Potter spins back around, leans to his right, and grasps the back of my shirt collar with surprising reflexes. "Oh no you don't."
"But Potter," I whine, "it's my mission, I shouldn't have to share it."
"And it's my Cloak, so we'll both have to share. Plus, I doubt you even know what you're doing."
"I do. I was going to spy on the Prophet office, see if I could find out who the journalist is, or who the informant is." I say, feeling pride swelling in me at my own plan.
"You do know that's highly illegal, right?" Potter confirms.
"That's why we need to be highly invisible." I reply. Potter shrugs, apparently agreeing with me.
So Potter worms his way under the Cloak too, after actually making sure no one's roaming the streets, and we both have to duck a little to make sure our feet are covered.
I quickly learn to keep in step with Potter, or our bodies bump awkwardly together as we walk. I'm sure he's shared the Cloak with Weasley and Granger and female Weasley all the time, so he's probably used to it, but this whole close contact thing is really uncomfortable for me.
At the office, I go to open the main door, but Potter slaps my hand away with a hiss. "We can't just open it, or people will see it open by itself."
Oh, I hadn't considered that. "You've done this before." I comment approvingly.
So we wait. And wait. About twenty boring, Potter-breath smelling minutes go by. My back is aching from the stooping posture I've had to adopt, and my patience is in shreds. But I won't crack first.
"Oh, fuck it." Potter says, then yanks the door open and pushes us both through.
The entrance is deserted, which is what you'd expect on a Saturday, but people may still be in their offices doing overtime. I don't know anyone who works the standard Monday-Friday, 9-5 routine any more. It's become archaic.
The lobby is rather grand-looking, in a homey kind of way. Like a drawing room decorated by House Elves, with wood paneling and a deep red carpet, leading to a marble staircase.
"Wow, nice place." Potter whispers, and I roll my eyes.
By the staircase is a sign denoting which department is on which floor.
Advice Columnists/Obituaries – Ground floor
Opinion & Classifieds – 1st floor
Sports Commentary – 2nd floor
News – 3rd floor
Senior Management – Penthouse
We don't have to discuss it to silently agree to check out level 3, and if that doesn't yield anything, try the penthouse. This place is obviously one where you start at the bottom and work your way up.
Puffing under the warm Cloak after awkwardly clambering up two flights of stairs, and only being elbowed in the lung about seven times, we make it to the News department.
It's completely deserted.
I rip off the Cloak, taking a welcome breath of air. "Bloody hell, that was pointless."
"No it wasn't." Potter hisses, to my left, under the cloak still. "Get back under here. Anyone could come along any minute!"
"And say what?" I snap back, dreading going back under that thing. "Just say it's official Auror business."
"We both know that's not how it works." Potter replies, but I'm already striding purposefully towards the desks, which are all lined up neatly, each with a typewriter and some tidy papers on them.
Obviously, the notes aren't going to be laid out on the desk next to a nice neat 'illegal Auror informant' sign, so I start pulling open drawers.
The first few desks yield nothing more than quills, paper binders, and inexplicably, a mug full of toenail clippings. It speaks a lot for my new-leaf-good-guy persona that I don't even incinerate the mug, and the bloody desk along with it.
None of the desks even identify who uses them, but personal effects – said mug, a few photo frames with smiling men, women and children in them, and a couple of kitten calendars are littered around.
It's not until I get to the other side of the room that the desks look more permanently owned. I suppose it makes sense – the lift heading towards the penthouse is over on this side. So the 'next-in-lines' probably situate themselves here for their own ego boost, and everyone else has to use whatever desk at the back is free.
Skeeter's desk sticks out like a sore thumb. Ostentatiously decorated with bright feathery-looking lamps, autographed photos of herself clinging to numerous so-called celebrities – including Potter himself, looking like he's biting back an illegal curse – and covered with notes and piles of parchment. Everything is labeled 'IMPORTANT' or 'CONFIDENTIAL'.
I can't help but be drawn to it. I know she's not the one writing the dry, factual articles, but I go over there anyway. I'd love to get revenge on Skeeter for everything she's done to me. I'd love to write a story about her lovelife. With Hippogriffs.
Her desk drawers are a complete jumble, full of snatches of paper, broken things, fake nails, and something labeled 'emergency perfume'.
"Potter, have you ever had a perfume emergency?" I ask with a smirk, holding up the bottle.
Then I realise I have no idea where Potter is. I call him again, trying to keep the concern out of my voice. "Potter?"
Crap. He's probably gone wandering off with the Cloak. Typical self-important prat.
Just then, I hear that ticking noise that makes my chest clench in panic. Unmistakably Skeeter, coming up the stairs.
Fuck. I look around in a panic, wondering where to hide. My eye falls on the world's tiniest supply cabinet, and it'll have to do. Four long strides and I'm there, and I wrench open the door and slam it behind myself just before I hear Skeeter flick the office door open.
"It'll only need to be three-hundred words, the whole thing is drivel anyway, so they won't be dedicating much space to it. We can title it 'Modifications' instead of errors, the legal implication is the same. Start with, 'With apologies, the Daily Prophet corrects the following statements…'…"
Skeeter is talking to her quill rapidly as she heads to her desk. I can see her through the crack in the supply cupboard where the hinges don't quite come together with the frame. She plonks herself ungracefully down at her desk, and continues rambling about such minor corrections as the Giant referred to in the 'Giant/Wizard/Muggle love triangle' article was actually just a rather tall Swedish woman, and the quote mistakenly attributed to Kingsley Shacklebolt in her piece about his impending death from lingering Dark curses was actually said by an anonymous source in a message sent by owl.
I can't help rolling my eyes in the darkness. What a bloody crackpot. I hope she's not planning to spend the rest of the day here.
After ten or so minutes finishing up her 'corrections', I breathe a sigh of relief when she tells her quill it can rest, because she has another appointment. Then I see her open her desk drawer and start rummaging around, and my heart sinks back to my feet.
She's looking for her emergency perfume.
Which is still in my hand.
After a bit more rummaging, Skeeter looks like she's getting more and more impatient. She looks around suspiciously at the other desks, as if they're hiding her solution to the epidemic of 3PM bodily odour. Or maybe she thinks their owners are the ones that are pilfering her perfume.
"Accio perfume!" She trills, with a sudden flick of her wand.
Oh no. The perfume wiggles its way out of my hand, and crashes through the cupboard door, smashing itself into shards of glass and exploding perfume everywhere. But the spritzer part stays in tact and flies obediently over to Skeeter.
Her arm is out to catch it, and she locks her eyes to me, drenched, stinky, and cowering inside a cupboard. A nasty, gleeful smirk spreads across her lipsticked face.
"Mr. Malfoy, long time no see." Skeeter says, falsely polite.
I just stare moodily at her, and wonder how I'm going to get myself out of this one. I try to step out of the cupboard with all my wits – and dignity – about me.
Not needing a response, Skeeter continues. "Now, what would an ex-Death-Eater-turned-Auror be doing illegally spying at a nationally-respected newspaper office? Rooting around in my desk, no less."
"You can mind your own bloody business." I can't help but snap.
"Oh but this is my business, Malfoy. Let me guess, your good friend Mr. Potter must be nearby, am I correct? Homenum revelio!"
We wait a second. Nothing happens. Potter might have gone up to the Penthouse without me, but I didn't see the lift doors open. He might simply have ditched me and gone back to the pub for all I know.
"Hm. So you're acting alone. What were you looking for? My next story? Dirt on me, to discredit me? Because honestly, Malfoy, you could have easily discredited my story, by simply not acting so helplessly smitten with the Potter boy. I was quite embarrassed for you, really. Falling all over yourself like that."
Rage is boiling within me as she speaks, but I clamp my mouth shut and don't let myself reply.
"Well, if you aren't even going to engage in polite conversation with your old friend, I suppose I should owl the Auror department right away…" Skeeter says softly, but with a dangerously threatening tone.
"No!" I yelp involuntarily. "What… what do you want?"
"Hah, there's nothing I want from the likes of you, little boy." She patronises, leaning back onto her desk a little and admiring her own fingernails. "I just like to see you squirm."
"Well, before you rat me out, think about it…" I say, warningly. "How will it look in the papers if I'm kicked out of the Aurors? Your story will be finished."
Skeeter seems to consider this, and consider other angles her story could take. "You're right. The public loves the redeemed-Death-Eater angle. They'd hate to see what a disgrace you really are."
"Exactly." I say. Maybe I will get to keep my job after all.
"But, my silence has a price." Skeeter adds after a thoughtful pause, picking her quill back up from her desk.
"Uh, a price?" I say dumbly.
"Yes, dear. Unless you want me to tell the Auror department that you've been using illegal surveillance on respected members of the general public, you'll have to do exactly as I say." Skeeter seems to actually be enjoying herself. I knew she was twisted.
I cock my eyebrow. "I thought you didn't need anything from the likes of me?"
"Okay, I admit it. You're well placed in the Auror department to get me what I need, the fact that I have a little Malfoy doing my bidding is just icing on the cake." Skeeter says happily, and picks up a piece of parchment and begins writing.
"Now," she continues, "there's an informant in your department, reporting to bloody Mulligan. That fat idiot thinks he'll get promoted before me, he's certain his informant is onto something big. Huge. You have to find out who is informing him, and what the story is. If I can scoop it out from under his fat nose, his career will be destroyed."
I realise my mouth was hanging open, and I snap it shut. Hah! Skeeter wants me to do exactly what I was going to do anyway. But I can't let her know that.
"You want me to spy on my own department?" I say, as if in shock. "I don't know, Skeeter. Can't you just do your little bug thing and find out?"
A cloud passes over Skeeter's face. "I'm spellbound to my human form, thanks to you."
"Well, I suppose I could keep an eye out… I'm actually very good at spying, but you were just far too clever for me this time." I decide to butter her up, in hopes that she won't make any more crazy demands of me.
"I know." She says briskly, but a pink tinge has coloured her cheeks a little. "I expect an owl within the week."
After that, she walks over to me, grabs me by the shoulder, and leads me downstairs and back out of the building. She waits for me to Apparate away before she goes anywhere, so I can't sneak back inside.
I arrive back at the gates of the Manor, frustrated about Potter but realising I've done a pretty good job. Of course, I won't actually give Skeeter any of my information, but as long as she thinks I'm playing along, she might be useful in helping me find out who the informant is, and then I can take that info straight to Shacklebolt.