Chapter Thirty-Seven: Over the Line
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The air hummed with music. A thumping, all consuming presence. It poured out of windows and open doorways, spilling into the night. Underscoring the laughter, intelligible shouts, and clinking of glass that rang through the air. The song sounded familiar. Harry was sure he'd heard it several times before. Beside him, Ella shifted slightly in time to the music, gazing up at the tall facade of the manor.
"Remember Tim's?" she asked with a slightly anxious laugh.
"Yeah."
His stomach was a bundle of nerves. A couple of witches pushed past them, slipping out the partially open doors and vanishing into the front garden. Ella drew Harry aside, out of their way. The music was louder now. He could make out distinct lyrics.
"Deja vu," she said, with false brightness.
"What happened at Tim's?" Ron piped up.
"Nothing," Harry said. "Don't worry about it."
Hermione joined them at the top of the stairs and peered through the doors. "Shall we go in?"
Harry hesitated, hovering on the threshold as a couple slipped out the doors and hurried past them. He thought he recognized Terry Strickland, an Obliviator on Three. "Is this a fundraiser or a wedding?" he asked dubiously, raising his voice over the blaring music
Hermione shrugged. "I've heard their benefits can get a bit, er… exciting."
"I'll say," Ron said enthusiastically. "Sounds like a madhouse in there. What's the matter, mate? Didn't we drop a bunch of galleons to get in?"
"Bunches," Ella confirmed. "Loads of 'em."
Ron shook his head. "To think, all that gold for that weasely little—"
"It's fine. It's for a good cause, isn't it?" Ella brushed at her dress, letting it swirl slightly as it caught the light. "Two, really. Good karma. It can make up for, you know… pulling an Ocean's Eleven."
She smiled weakly, guilt flashing across her face. Harry felt it too — the guilt.
"Yes, it gets us in the door," Hermione agreed. "Also, I ran into Astoria at the Leaky on Thursday and she invited me personally."
"Ran into her?" Ron chortled, following Hermione up the steps. "Stalked her, more like. How do you even know her anyway?"
"We used to work together when I was at the DMLE. Don't you remember?" Hermione pulled the doors open wider and stepped inside.
"No," Ron said, following her. "Of course not. Why on earth would I remember that?" He glanced back. "Would you remember that, Harry?"
Harry shrugged. Ella took his hand and pulled him along, adding, "Can't be helped," in a soft whisper.
No, he supposed it couldn't be helped. But as he followed her into the entrance hall, a wash of magical energy tingling down his arms, he wondered, for the umpteenth time, what sort of person would show up at a fundraiser to steal from the host. Even if that host was Draco bloody Malfoy.
The entrance hall was lavish. All tall ceilings and marble columns and sconces of solid gold every few feet. Tall windows along the front of the manor stretched from floor to ceiling, bathing the room in light, even as evening approached. And when Harry glanced up, he could see countless small lights twinkling high above, flitting here and there. Awaiting the night, when they would set the space aglow. People milled beneath them, standing in small groups or leaning against tall tables that were scattered strategically around the hall. Waiters slipped effortlessly through them, bearing loaded platters. Handing out goblets or crystal clear flutes. One appeared beside them, as if by magic, and Ron wasted no opportunity in accepting a plate piled with various delicacies.
"Oh, there's Astoria," Hermione said, after a cursory glance through the milling crowd. "Best to say hi. Let her know we're here."
Harry thought it maybe wasn't best at all, considering the purpose of their visit, but he followed Hermione as she wended through the chattering crowd, approaching a rather dainty witch in a flowing blue dress. She was standing at the center of the room beneath a floating, flower-wreathed banner that read: "Rare Malediction Charity Gala." Small red and purple flowers trailed from its edges, weaving together, forming intricate patterns.
"Oh, Hermione, you're here!" The witch Harry presumed to be Astoria smiled. She was beautiful, in that elegant way that Harry had come to expect from the upper echelon of wizarding society. Her dark hair sparkled with lights that seemed almost alive, piled in complicated-looking knots atop her head. Her skin was pale and flawless. She was thin, almost unbearably so. But her smile seemed genuine as she glanced between Hermione and Ella, momentarily tilting her head in confusion before realization etched across her features.
"Oh, you must be Ella. You work with my father."
"Well, 'for him' is probably more accurate," Ella said, smiling in greeting. "It's wonderful to finally meet you!"
"Likewise," Astoria agreed. "He speaks so highly of you. So then, you must be Harry Potter," she added, turning to Harry. She laughed suddenly, an almost delighted giggle. "Oh, Draco must not know you're here."
"Should I leave?" Harry asked uncomfortably, inwardly considering any number of things that would be preferable to crashing Draco Malfoy's charity fundraiser.
"Oh no," Astoria insisted, reaching out to grasp his hand with her cool fingers. "Please don't. It's such an important cause, you must stay. Besides, it's been years since Hogwarts. I would really quite love it if you and Draco could put the past aside. Become friends, perhaps."
"Fat chance," Ron whispered, but very quietly.
Harry privately agreed, but nodded politely.
Astoria smiled. "Have you tried the oysters? We have a seafood bar, just there, next to the silent auction. Do check it out. And there's dancing in the ballroom. The Weird Sisters are playing. Bit of a throwback."
"Oh, I love the Sisters!" Ella grinned widely. "I was sure I heard This Is The Night earlier!"
"Oh yes, they just played that," Astoria agreed. "My favorite."
"Mine too."
"Please," Astoria said, gesturing. "Have a dance for me! It's so wonderful to have you all here. We'll be sitting down in the banquet hall at half past seven, but explore until then."
They stepped away toward the ballroom, which thrummed enticingly just off the entrance hall, purple light spilling out across the threshold. Ella grasped Harry's hand and pulled him along, squeezing his fingers. The ballroom was dark, its large windows blacked out, and the purple light suffused everything. If the entrance hall housed the elegant fundraiser, then this was the raging party.
"I hope you lot haven't forgotten why we're here," Ron said, pausing to stuff an entire seared scallop into his mouth. "We have a fancy goblet to track down."
"Come on. One dance!" Ella said brightly. "We can't just get here and… you know..."
"One dance," Harry agreed, because she was right, but mainly because she was smiling in that genuine way he missed. And despite how much he wanted to be done with this stupid plan and get out of this lavish, swanky manor where the shiny lights and plates of food didn't quite cover up the horrors that had happened here, he needed to see that smile. Needed to pretend, for a moment, that the world wasn't crumbling.
Weird Sisters struck up a slow number, guitar chords twining pleasantly, and Harry grasped Ella's hand and led her onto the dance floor. It was filled with couples. He wrapped his arms around Ella and she leaned her head against his shoulder. Easily. Like it belonged there.
They twirled.
He let the world blur. Let the faces around them vanish. Just the music, and Ella in his arms. Warm breath on his neck. Her hand searching for his.
He spun her, letting her stretch to the end of his reach before pulling her back, and she laughed wildly, her long hair whirling in the semi-darkness. Purple shadows on her face. Her smile brighter than the lights.
[An illusion,] the cold voice whispered in his head. [You are deluding yourself, Harry Potter. You are wasting time.]
He wanted to say it wasn't wasted. No time with Ella ever was. But goosebumps had broken out across his skin at Riddle's intrusion. He shivered, the moment shattering. The magic of the ballroom falling away. And every glance around the room revealed only memories. Not his, not really, but he had seen them just the same. The gatherings here. The torture. The deaths. Voldemort had taken refuge here; had lived within these walls. Had planned, and hurt.
The last notes of music faded and he stepped back, his gaze meeting Ella's. "It's time."
She nodded, her expression serious. There was no disappointment there; she knew what they had come for.
"Go on," she said. "We shouldn't all slip out together. I'll mingle for a bit, then try upstairs. I'll take Hermione."
"Be careful, all right?"
"Always," she said, with a whisper of a grin.
He kissed her cheek and stepped away. The Weird Sisters had started playing a faster song, and the dance floor was quickly filling up. He stepped around a gaggle of witches, slipped between a couple that was hurrying in the other direction, and found himself at the edge of the worn parquet that marked the dance floor. Small candle-lit tables lined its perimeter, and further back was a rather impressive array of food. Food everywhere. He couldn't imagine how anyone could still be hungry when the banquet came. Considering how many galleons the event was likely to cost, he reckoned the Malfoys could have just donated the lump sum to their charity rather than bother with the entire affair.
[So ignorant, Harry.] The amusement was thick in Riddle's voice. [Do you really believe this is simply about raising money? Malfoy is putting on a show. Curating a following. It is one thing to pay a bag of galleons. Quite another to influence others to do so.]
Harry ignored him. There was a door on the other side of the ballroom. He walked casually toward one of the buffet tables and collected a skewer of grilled shrimp. He wasn't really hungry, but he bit off a piece as he edged around the table. Nodded to Linderina Crane and her plus one. Stepped past a collection of loosely scattered chairs. And stopped beside the closed door. His hand wrapped around the handle and twisted.
Locked.
"Alohomora," he breathed.
There was a click, barely discernible above the roar of the music. Child's play. Too easy. He took one final glance around, scanning the blazing dance floor and surrounding tables. No one had a glance to spare for his dark and empty corner save for Ron, who was watching him from beside the nearest buffet. Ron gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and he pushed the door and slipped inside in one fluid motion.
The door opened into a windowless stone corridor. It was dimly lit. Empty portraits lined the walls, their occupants likely drawn to the gala. Peeking through the frames of their neighbors in the entrance hall. He breathed in relief, stepping quickly down the hall. Empty. He couldn't be that lucky… could he?
[It is irrelevant how lucky you imagine you are. You won't find it this way,] Riddle whispered lazily. [Do you have any inkling of the sheer size of this manor?]
Harry didn't answer. His silence was irrelevant; his mind was an open book. Riddle laughed. [Oh, you do? Because once upon a time a traitor showed you her memories? Memories can be deceiving, Harry.]
[I thought we had an agreement] Harry said shortly. [If you're not going to help, then shut the hell up already.]
Riddle scoffed. [Help. You want me to help you track down and destroy a piece of my own soul. That is a counterintuitive venture.]
[We have an agreement,] Harry repeated. [I told you. I won't do it until you're the only piece left. Have you changed your mind, then?]
Riddle laughed bitterly. [An agreement. When you have done nothing yet to uphold your end.]
[I will!] Harry snapped, his frustration rising. [There hasn't been time.] And it was perfectly true. It had been only a week since Robert burst into the hospital room in St. Mungo's. A week, since they'd learned of the cup's possible location. And then there was the gift of the gala. Astoria Malfoy's annual fundraiser in support of rare blood maledictions, planned for just the following weekend. A stroke of luck. They couldn't hope for a better reason to enter the manor. Couldn't afford another Saul Croaker Disaster. And between securing last minute tickets and seeing Ella through the rest of her treatments, he'd barely had a moment to think, let alone to research how Riddle and Voldemort could merge. And even then, there was still the matter of the missing tiara. Not a whisper of its location. Certainly no help from Riddle on the matter.
[What's the rush? I'm stuck with you anyway, aren't I?]
[Irregardless, I cannot help you. You have refused my help, Harry Potter. You are too weak to accept it.]
[I'm not doing that.] He could do without the sort of help Riddle was willing to offer.
He had reached a door along the left wall of the empty corridor. Softly, he pushed against it. It opened into a small room. Dark leather couches. Low wooden end tables. A liquor cabinet. Harry slipped inside, his eyes raking the walls. A portrait hung above the fireplace, its white haired occupant dozing loudly. A sitting room of sorts. Perhaps Draco Malfoy's drinking room. It didn't seem the sort of place where one might store a fancy goblet. His Accio turned up nothing. He withdrew, pulling the door closed behind him. The next room was a washroom. He moved on after a quick glance.
[You will be searching for hours like this,] Riddle pressed. [You will be found before you find anything. Foolish. You need only find Draco Malfoy. Find him. Reach into his mind, and you will have the goblet.]
[No!] Harry hissed. [I'm not invading anyone's mind. Not even Malfoy's.]
Riddle smirked in the darkness behind his eyes. [Not even to kill me, Harry?]
He withdrew into the empty void of his mind, laughing softly, the sound an ominous echo. Harry moved on, his uneasiness building.
The next door was on the right and opened into a suite. Large windows faced the front of the mansion, and fading light spilled across shining light parquet floors and plush white carpeting. A grand piano stood beside the windows. Paintings of beautiful landscapes lined the walls. Beautiful chandeliers cascaded from the twenty-foot ceiling.
He stepped silently inside, searching. Drifting through the room. Examining glass-fronted cabinets and display shelves along the walls. Casting softly-whispered Accios. There was a sitting room off the piano room. More sofas, soft-white this time. Rugs. A large, marble fireplace. No goblets.
Five more rooms, and nothing. He was nearly at the end of the corridor. Still hadn't run into anyone. He hoped the others were having better luck. Perhaps Ron, Hermione, or Ella had found the goblet already. But he suspected not. It was a feeling, nagging, probably spurred on by Riddle, that the entire thing was foolish. That Draco wouldn't simply leave the goblet on display. That it was surely guarded. Safely hidden away.
[Of course it is] Riddle spoke up out of his void. [Do you imagine Draco Malfoy is so foolish to simply leave it lying around? A relic that once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff herself! But if you were to use Legilimency. To probe into his mind...]
[I'm not probing into Malfoy's mind!] Harry snapped. But the uneasiness was building. Riddle was right. He'd never find the goblet by simply nosing around. He could feel it in his soul.
He eased the next door open softly. Carefully. A stuttering creak. He froze.
Draco Malfoy stared at him from behind a table, a vaguely surprised look on his face. Harry cursed inwardly.
"Potter." Malfoy lowered the glass he was holding, and it made a dull thud against the wooden grain of the table. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Sorry," Harry muttered, glancing around the room. "I.. I came with Ella. For the gala."
It was a trophy room. Shelves lined the walls. He saw awards. Medals hanging. A display of swords. Jeweled golden cups, shimmering in the light. His stomach clenched.
"The gala." Malfoy laughed coldly, stepping around the table. He stumbled very slightly, and Harry noticed a sheen behind his eyes. "Are you lost, Potter? Who the hell said you could wander around my manor?"
"Erm," Harry said, still glancing recklessly around the room. His eyes trailing the displays. Not that one. Not that one either. "I was… the bathroom."
"Down the hall, to your left." Draco stepped closer. "In the bloody ballroom. Where you should be."
He stumbled, reaching out to grab the back of a chair. He was inches away now. The smell of firewhisky overpowering.
"Why are you sneaking around my house, Potter?"
[He's drunk, you fool,] Riddle breathed in his ear. [He won't be able to stop you. Won't even realize what you've done.]
"Er—" Harry stepped back, wringing his brain for something useful. "Astoria. She'd like us to make up." It sounded even stupider aloud.
Malfoy's face twisted oddly. "Get out."
Harry hesitated. There was a display of goblets on the far wall. So close. There might not be another chance. He had to… had to do something.
[Do it, Harry Potter,] Riddle hissed. [Do it now.]
"Malfoy, listen, it's—"
"ARE YOU DEAF?" Malfoy roared. "I SAID GET OUT, POTTER!"
He took an angry step and stumbled, falling forward. Instinctively, Harry grabbed him, pulling him up by the arms, until Malfoy's eyes were an inch from his own. Grey. Dark. Empty tunnels. He tried to pull away. But they were growing somehow larger. The space around him darkening. All black.
And then he was falling, tilting forward, and Malfoy was standing. Back behind the table where he'd begun. He was pouring firewhisky into a glass. His attention on the bottle, heavy in its fullness. His eyes sharp and trembling.
As Harry gaped, the air seemed to shimmer, to shift. The room and all its walls and displays brightened to nothing. And Malfoy was sitting now, Astoria beside him. The room was white. Stark. A man across from them. Dark hair. Lime green robes. A Healer.
"It's not good news, I'm afraid." His voice was grim. "The blood curse is spreading. You must stop this, Astoria. You cannot carry a child. If you keep trying to force a pregnancy, it will significantly shorten your lifespan."
Astoria dropped her face into her hands. Began to cry.
"I don't want to give up," she whispered. "Not yet. Please. I'm not ready."
Beside her, Malfoy's hands were trembling.
The room shifted again. Just blurred and re-arranged. A hospital bed. Pale light filtering in through the giant window. Astoria clutching at Malfoy's chest.
There was… blood on sheets.
What was this?
Harry stumbled back, reeling.
It was wrong. Invasive. His chest clenched painfully.
The room swirled.
"Astoria, please…" Malfoy's voice was echoing. "I can't bear to lose you to this. I don't care if…"
Astoria was sobbing.
So loud. His head was pounding with the sound.
He willed his feet to move, but they wouldn't were rock solid, chained to the earth. Some awful dream.
"No..." Harry whispered. No, this was wrong. How could he have? "No, I can't… do this…"
With an enormous force of will, he pulled back. Blackness swirled again. He was nauseated. Dizzy. His mind rattled with the echoes of what he'd heard. He stumbled back and Malfoy collapsed to the floor.
[Did you do that?] Harry gasped furiously. Closing his eyes on the swirling trophy room. [Did you force me to—?]
[Oh no.] Beside him, Riddle's eyes glittered in the dark. [You did that, Harry Potter. A very poor attempt. You lost control.]
[No, I… I didn't…]
He couldn't have…
[You were pathetic.] Riddle's voice was flat. [You've spent years pushing Slytherin's power away, and now you are too weak to wield it. You are unworthy of the gift that you have stolen.]
Harry's hands were trembling. How could he have done it? He felt sick with himself. Disgusted.
There was a low moan, a rustling of robes, and Malfoy climbed slowly to his feet. His hair had come uncoiffed, loose strands hanging across his face. His eyes were narrowed. Sharper than before.
"Did you just…"
"No." Harry shook his head. Took a step back.
"Were you in my mind, Potter?"
Harry had backed against the wall. He considered running, edging out of the room, but shame had rooted him to the spot. Guilt heavy in his gut.
"I'm sorry," he said genuinely. "I… didn't mean to. I'm sorry, Malfoy."
Malfoy stared at him, seemingly furious. Then something flickered in his eyes, and the fury faded. He simply looked exhausted. "I guess you know then." He turned back to the table. Picked up his drink. Downed it. "Poor Draco Malfoy. Childless. Soon to be wifeless. Getting his comeuppance." He laughed softly, then picked up the bottle of firewhisky and poured himself another. "Can't even get through a fundraiser without drinking himself into a stupor. Are you happy, Potter? Is that what you wanted?"
"No," Harry said honestly.
"A blood curse," Malfoy said, still facing away. "Ironic, isn't it? She's running all over the place, holding fundraisers and galas, trying to save everyone. And here she is. Dying."
Harry couldn't think of a single thing to say. Couldn't even seem to open his mouth.
"Can't even have the one thing she wants." Malfoy's voice cracked. "They say, the Healers, that she might not make it through a pregnancy. But Merlin knows, she's strong enough. I'd do anything to make it happen for her. Anything. But she…"
His hands clenched tightly around the bottle of firewhisky. Any harder, and Harry thought it might shatter.
"It's not your fault." Harry wasn't sure where the words had come from. But they hung between them. A bridge of sorts.
Malfoy let out a wry laugh. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is, does it? Mine. Yours. The bloody universe." He raised his hands in a mocking salutation. "Not going to save her if I offer myself instead. And me, Potter? Oh, I'd deserve it. But Astoria, she's pure. Innocent." His words twisted bitterly. "But sure, universe. Go on. Take her. Bang her around and take her and leave this sorry sod behind."
He turned around, still clutching the bottle. "Well, what do you say, Potter? Fancy a drink?"
Harry didn't quite trust himself to speak. He nodded silently.
"Here." Malfoy poured half the bottle into a glass and shoved it at Harry, who grabbed it, some of the firewhisky sloping over the sides. "Go on, drink with me. The savior of the wizarding world, Senior Auror and all that, and his washed-out childhood bully with the dying wife. Perfect pair, if you ask me."
Harry took a sip, the firewhisky sliding smoothly down his throat. His lips tingled with the afterburn. He lowered the glass, watching Malfoy in the sudden silence.
"How long does she have?" he asked softly.
Malfoy shrugged, his expression miserable. "Not long enough. Less… if Merlin gives her a child. But it's what she wants. She deserves that. What would you do, Potter? Huh? If it was Ella."
"I… I dunno."
"Oh, go on," Malfoy said, taking a shaky step toward him. "Your wife is ready and willing to throw her life away, to trade it for someone else's. Could you support her?"
Merlin…
He thought of Ella. Of her easy smile. Of the heaviness that had settled in her eyes ever since they'd found Dumbledore in the hills. His heart clenched.
"You still have time," he said abruptly. "With Astoria. You're sitting here, counting down the minutes, and she's still right there."
"She doesn't need me." Malfoy turned away. Faced the far wall again. "I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid, Potter. She deserves better than a coward." He lowered his glass. "I won't go in there. Embarrass her."
"I don't reckon you'd embarrass her." Harry took a tentative step forward. His heart was breaking. But it was Ella's face that filled his mind. "She'd want to see you. She'd understand."
"Don't pretend to know my marriage," Draco said coldly, turning back around. "I don't need your empty words. Perfect Harry Potter with his perfect wife, the love story of the age. You've no idea what—"
"Oh stop it," Harry said shortly, sudden anger flaring. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Just be there for her."
Malfoy gaped, his fingers slipping from the glass. His face twisted. "How dare you! You! You're—"
"I'm not pretending. I know, all right?" Harry's hands shook, his fingernails digging into his palms. "You're not the only one who's suffering, Malfoy."
"Don't compare your trouble in paradise to my wife dying." Malfoy spat, fury blazing in his eyes.
Harry opened his mouth then closed it again abruptly, the sudden flood of emotions nearly overwhelming. He had no idea. No idea. It would be a relief to unload on Malfoy. To take every hurt and every injustice he was carrying and throw it at his feet. It took every bit of effort to turn away. To unclench his hands.
"It's not a contest."
There was no benefit to comparing their pain. He knew that. If he lost Ella or sacrificed himself to stop Voldemort, it wouldn't make Astoria dying any less awful. What right did he have to tell someone how to grieve?
"Because you don't know—" Malfoy began.
"I know death." He looked up. Met Malfoy's eyes. Fought to control his voice. "Loss. Lived with it my whole life. I get it, all right? Your anger. All of it."
Malfoy considered that, falling silent.
"It's crap," Harry added softly. "It sucks."
Malfoy said nothing, his lips twisting into a bitter grimace. The silence stretched. Unnatural for this room which had just been so full of anger. He ought to say something. But he wasn't good at this. This was Ella's territory. Or Hermione's. Even Robert's.
Still, he ought to…
"A wise man once told me that it doesn't do to dwell on dreams," he said finally. "And forget to live."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Harry smiled wryly. "I reckon you'll sort it out, when you've had a little less firewhisky." He turned and stepped toward the door. Paused. "It's not fair. I'm sorry."
"Life's unfair, and shite happens, eh?" Malfoy said bitterly. "And everything hurts. That the gist of it, Potter?"
"Yeah." Harry nodded. "Hurts more than you reckon you can stand. And yet here we are."
"Here we are." Malfoy sounded odd in his agreement, almost curious. "And why are you here, Potter?"
Harry paused, halfway out the door. He turned. Met Malfoy's eyes. Considered him.
"What if I told you that I needed your help?"
"I don't know what the great Harry Potter could possibly need from me."
They stood there in silence, watching each other. Both of them, Harry realized, waging a bitter war with death. There was no way to win. Not really. Death was indiscriminate. Heartless. It would take them all in the end. All they could do was keep walking until that day finally came. Reclaim the moments that remained, and let them shine bright enough to drown out that creeping darkness.
"Mysteries," Harry said finally. "You could help with that."
"I had nothing to do with that." Malfoy staggered slightly, placed a hand against a wall. Frowned.
"I know." Or, at least, he hoped. "But there's a way you can help. Whatever wrong you reckon you've done. Help me now. Undo it."
"What are you talking about?" Malfoy stared, seemingly more unsure than angry now.
"I need something," Harry pressed, stepping back toward Malfoy. "Six years ago, you visited Bellatrix Lestrange's vault and removed certain items. Is that true?"
Malfoy blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "What's it to you, Potter?"
"One of those items has a connection to Rookwood." Harry stepped closer. Just inches between them now. He hesitated, his eyes boring into Malfoy's. If he was involved in this mess… If he was lying… But for the first time since he'd stepped foot into the manor, this finally felt right. "A golden goblet. We need it."
"Helga Hufflepuff's goblet." Malfoy appraised him. "What about it?"
Harry nodded. The confusion in Malfoy's eyes seemed genuine. It was a good reaction. The best he could have hoped for. "I wish I could explain it. But if you help us, it might stop Rookwood. It could prevent a disaster. Do you want that?"
"Stop Rookwood." Malfoy laughed suddenly, his whole body shaking with mirth. "Harry Potter, the Chosen One. Saving the bloody wizarding world all over again. And all he needs is a piece of gold? From little old me?"
"That's right." Harry stood still, waiting. Hoping. Somewhere in the distance, a clock began to chime. He counted eight strikes reverberating through the manor. Malfoy was still laughing.
"Well, Potter, you're in the wrong place. You want the goblet? Have it. But it'll cost you."
Harry stared at him blankly.
"Silent auction starts at ten thousand galleons." Malfoy smirked with genuine amusement. "Better hurry. It's banquet time."