All Our Yesterdays

All Our Yesterdays

Chapter 1 - The awake

The alarm-clock was ringing insistently. Of all the disadvantages of his work, that was the worst. Draco Malfoy hated to wake up early. He always associated it with mere mortals. A Malfoy didn't have to wake up early, because it wasn't necessary to work for him to live. A Malfoy could simply sleep. When he finally feels like getting up, the house elves would have everything ready - food, clothes, bath - and waiting. Unfortunately, for Draco Malfoy this wasn't the case.

Annoyed, he opened his eyes and sat in the bed, putting his feet on the floor. Immediately, the alarm-clock was silent. It was charmed to be quiet as soon as its owner was awoken and had their feet out of bed. If Draco came back to bed, however, the alarm clock would cry out again. Having had bad experiences with it in the past, Malfoy didn't take the risk. He just pushed off his blankets and left for the bathroom.

First, he turned on the shower, so that the water could get warm while he washed his face and brushed his teeth. Then, he took off his clothes automatically and got in the shower, letting the water wake him up. All his mornings were practically the same. He spent around fifteen minutes in the shower. When he finished, he dried himself well. He hated to leave of the bathroom still dripping all over the house. He rolled up the towel around his waist, shaved in front of the mirror and went back to the bedroom opening his wardrobe. The clothes he would use were already separated, impeccably. So, Draco took off the towel and put on his underwear, then he buttoned his grey long sleeve shirt. He put on his black pants, and finally, he put on a tie, which was a darker grey than his shirt, around his neck and made the knot with skillful hands. He was accustomed to that.

He folded the sleeves to the middle of his forearm and went back to the bathroom. He carefully combed his hair back. When it dried, it would inevitably fall in his face, but for the time being it was impeccable. After conferming everything was correct, Draco went back to the bedroom and caught his suit coat of the suit he was using and his black cloak. He didn't make his bed. Why would he do that? When he got back at night, everything would be ready.

Leaving the coat and the cloak hanging up in the small living room, he went to the kitchen and lit the stove. He took the frying-pan, poured a bit of oil in it and than, he broke two eggs and poured them in the pan. With a fork, he mixed the eggs and, putting the frying-pan on the stove, he bewitched it so that it would turn over its content by itself, not letting it stick. After doing it, he took some water from the fridge and put it to boil in a kettle. Draco took a look at his watch and opened the kitchen window. Exactly in that moment, a buff owl settled in the railing. Draco took the Daily Prophet copy from its paws and put some coins in the small bag it was carrying. Automatically, the owl flew away, leaving Malfoy alone in the kitchen again.

So, he sat down at the table beside the fridge and opened the newspaper. It was essential for him to keep himself aware of everything that happened in the wizarding world.

Taking a quick look at the main news, he couldn't hold back a tired sigh. There wasn't anything truly new there: the Gringotts' goblins were pressuring the Ministry to increase the profit taxes, a new sleeping potion was discovered in France and Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-Many-Times, would play in another Quiddich World Cup for England. This almost made Draco wish he were born in Ireland.

Discarding the sports section, Malfoy opened up the newspaper and prepared himself to read the news more deeply when suddenly he was interrupted by the phone's strident ring. He mentally cursed it. He hated that thing, and only used it out of necessity. That was another disadvantage of his work.

He stood up, extremely annoyed - he also couldn't stand to be interrupted during the morning reading of the newspaper - and went to the living room to take the call.

"Malfoy," he said, identifying himself, as soon as he had picked up the phone.

"Malfoy, I know it's you. I'm calling to your house, aren't I?" asked the familiar voice. "What other man could answer it?"

"What do you want?" he asked in a bad mood.

"Is this the way to treat your informant?"

"What do you want?" he repeated, ignoring the last comment.

"I've got something for you."

"What is it? I haven't seen anything interesting in the newspaper so far."

"But this news wasn't published by the Daily Prophet yet. Neither do the aurors know it."

"You're not gonna waste my time, are you?"

"It's about Ginny, Malfoy. Would I joke about that?" the other said in a serious tone. Draco took a few seconds before speaking again.

"We'll meet for lunch. Twelve o'clock, same place."

"Okay. See you later," the other said and rung off the phone, without waiting for an answer. Draco put the phone back on the base and took a few instants to digest what he just heard before going back to the kitchen.

The kettle was whistling. He hadn't realized that.

"Shit!" he cried, running when he saw the water was bubbling over. He turned off the flame and, holding a cloth, tried to pick up the kettle. Momentarily he forgot that the frying-pan was still there and bumped it with his right hand.

"Shit!" he said again because of the pain. He took the frying-pan with his burnt hand and threw both things in the sink.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" he repeated kicking the cupboard one, two, three times. He threw the cloth he was holding against the wall with anger. "This life sucks," he said, finally, puffed, staring at his hands, tired. One of them was burnt, the other still carried the wedding ring. Draco was feeling particularly lost that day. More than usual.

He passed the left hand through his hair, nervous, uncombing it. The burning persisted so he turned on the water to wash it, then he muttered a spell to heal it. It was seven o'clock. He still had some time before leaving, but he lost all interest in his food and in the news. So, he shut off the stove, it was still lighted, unfolded his shirt sleeves, put on his coat, and cloak, and apparated to work, muttering that the day was already a disaster.

* * *

When Draco arrived, the floor was still empty. The building where Draco worked was an annex of the Ministry of Magic Building, where all the central offices of the wizarding police were situated. Like the muggle police, the wizarding police had many different departments. Malfoy started to work with them two years after his graduation from Hogwarts. His first intention was to become an auror, but he ended up changing his mind. The aurors investigated only crimes involving the dark arts and were considered the elite of the force. Tired, Draco walked among the empty desks until he reached his small room, separated from the others by glass partitions, so that he could see everything that happened around him at all times.

Sitting down at his desk, Malfoy looked through the glass at the wall at the other side of the office for a long time. The wall was covered by the many photographs hung on it - photos of happy, smiling people, waving. Those were photos of the people who they had rescued. Draco was the head of the Missing Persons Department. Most of the time, they made quick work of the cases: a lost child in Diagon Alley, somebody that, for some reason, was delayed coming home, an adolescent who ran away. Simple cases. There were others, more complicated, of course: abductions, kidnappings, charms that didn't work out, wizards who had lost themselves in other dimensions, potions to shrink, time traveling, deaths. Each safe and sound person added a photo in the wall. The unsolved cases, however, were accumulating in the archives and shelves. Working there, you learned fast to be happy with what you could do an! d move on when there was simply nothing left to do. Draco encouraged his investigators not to get stuck on passed cases, to forget the people they couldn't find. He himself, however, wasn't very good at following his own advice. And the biggest proof of that was the fact that he was still there and hadn't taken the admissions test to become an auror. People thought it was because the Ministry wouldn't accept a Malfoy in a position of investigating crimes connected to the dark arts, and Draco never said they were wrong. Just ignored the comments and moved on.

The work of those wizards was little valued, of course. The aurors were the stars and all others, most of the times, were forgotten. Usually, people only stopped to think how hard it is to find someone when this someone really has disappeared. Most often, it wasn't even possible to use localizer charms. For them to work, it was necessary that the missing person was carrying some kind of amulet, working as a kind of signal buoy to the charm. It's not possible to simply find a person using just a wand and a map. The investigators didn't count on methods much different than the ones used by the muggle police, and if you consider that they had no computers with a fingerprint and DNA data base, you could really say that they were at a disadvantage in some aspects.That was another thing Draco hated about his work: the fact that many times a simple muggle could find someone faster than they could. That, and; of course, the fact that they were probably the department that most o! ften had to exchange information with the muggle police. After all, a missing person can easily be in either one of both worlds. For this reason, Draco had to wear muggle clothes, to carry a credential of the muggle government, to use a phone and; the worst part, to talk and live with muggles. He hated, but still did his job, and did it well.

A year and a half ago he assumed the head of the department and, since then, they had a success level above sixty five percent. He felt proud of it. Very proud, but he couldn't avoid thinking of how ironic the situation was.

"Sir." He heard his secretary calling from the door. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize how much time had passed. His secretary had arrived and some other investigators throughout the room.

"Yes, Anne," he answered.

"I'd like to remind you of the meeting at nine o'clock..." she started.

"I know. I didn't forget it. Is that all?" Malfoy asked dryly. Anne already was too accustomed to him to be offended.

"Yes. Here's your mail," she said, putting some envelopes on the desk. "Excuse me, Sir," she concluded, leaving the room.

As soon as she closed the door, Draco took the letters, taking a quick look at the return addresses. Most of them had no importance at all: advertisings, letters of gratitude, memoranda. All of them went to the drawer, theatrically to be read later. He knew, however, it would never happen.

Only two were left: the first one had the calm and perfect calligraphy of his mother. It wasn't the first letter he received from her. Actually, Narcissa had the annoying habit of writing frequently. He could have put it along with the pile that would never be opened, but, somehow, he didn't think it was enough. Without hesitating and opening the letter at least to have an idea of what it said, Draco placed it on the ash tray of rock he had on his desk, and; with his wand, conjured a small flame that consumed the envelope.

Finally, only one letter remained. It had the seal of the Ministry of Magic of the United States. Draco kept in touch with them and received regular information from their Missing Persons Department. For a few moments, he held the envelope between his fingers. He knew it was foolish, that it made no sense, that it was a useless torture, but he couldn't avoid it. He knew its content before opening it, and still he couldn't simply ignore it, like the others.

With a final sigh, he tore the paper and opened the letter quickly, passing his eyes over the so familiar words - "I'm sorry to inform... we were not able to locate... we'll keep trying and... " He was tired of that. He threw the letter in the ash tray together with the one from his mother (which had practically turned to ashes) and removed a folder from the inferior lower drawer of the desk. He had work to do. He couldn't afford to waste time with bullshit. The meeting would start in half an hour and he wanted to review one more time the plans he should discuss with his investigators.

Focusing on the real and concrete problems he had to face, Draco managed to forget all the rest. He had work to do, and that's what mattered.

* * *

"You're late," the other said as soon as he sat at the table of the small muggle restaurant. "I was about to call the Missing Persons Department!" he completed. Ironic. He knew Draco was rarely late.

"Very funny," Malfoy answered, in a bad mood. He really hated to be late, but he didn't have an option. The meeting at the department was longer than he expected. They were in the end of July. So, Diagon Alley was full of parents and kids buying the school materials for Hogwarts. The worst time for the department was Christmas. With so many people in the streets, there were always cases of kids who got separated from their parents, and there was always someone ready to take advantage of the situation. Last year, a boy who would start his first year, disappeared. The boy had gone lost, and when last seen, he was dangerously close to Knockturn Alley. They still hadn't found him, and Draco hated cases like that. That's why he proposed a special operation for this year, to avoid things like that, and his investigators had spent the entire morning, discussing the plans.

"I see your mood is radiating this morning, isn't it, Malfoy?"

"Could we get straight to the point?" he asked, giving the other a deadly look. It was bad enough to be late, but having to walk along Diagonal Alley, and then the muggle streets, and seeing all those people smiling and couples holding hands and happy kids with their parents. It was more than enough to drive Draco crazy.

"All right, look," he said, giving him a newspaper cut where the headline was "Ministry of Scotland" over a black and white static photo of a tree that seemed to been struck by something.

"But what the hell...?"

"Read. Just read it, okay, Malfoy?" the other said seriously. Draco looked back to the news and started to read, just stopping to order lunch from the waitress. "So?" the other asked when he finally rose his head from the paper.

"Where did you get this?"

"It's from a muggle newspaper. You should really stop reading only the Daily Prophet."

"Why the hell should I be interested in what happens with these idiot mug..."

"Shhh! Could you please not speak so loud?"

"Could you please go bother someone else?"

"Honestly, Malfoy, I don't know why I still help you."

"Come on, Creevey. You know exactly why you help me," Draco answered, serious. The other didn't say anything. Just faced him, more calm. He knew he was right.

"Fine. Now you tell me you didn't find it interesting?"

"If everything happened as described, and if it wasn't the invention of some nut muggle," muttered Malfoy, "yes, it's very interesting and definitely there's magic involved. But I don't know why it should be interesting to me. You should have brought it right to the aurors, right? Or get it published in the Daily Prophet."

"Now it's my turn to say: come on, Malfoy. You know exactly why I showed you this before anybody else!"

"I didn't see any evidence..." Draco stopped when the waitress came with their lunch. "... that indicates it has got something to do with her," he completed after the woman left.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Of course not!"

"Pay attention to the details! The stupid tree came from nowhere a little less than eleven years ago. Less than eleven years, Malfoy! It was a little before..."

"I know it very well! You don't have to spell it out for me!"

"And the triangle? Did you read the part regarding the triangle?"

"It's a shit of a triangle, Creevey! A shit of a triangle! Do you want me to pursue all the damned geometry professors now?"

"All I'm saying, Malfoy, is that it's a very big coincidence," the other answered with a tired sigh. And after a pause, "Look, the muggle police still couldn't identify the woman: not through fingerprints, nor DNA, nor through their missing persons' files."

"You're not trying to say..."

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to say: that maybe there's a reason for her not being in their files, that's because she's in our files!"

"You don't think this woman is..." Draco started, suddenly with no humor at all, "that she is..."

"I considered the possibility, Malfoy. I considered, but..."

"This is ridiculous." Draco threw the napkin at the table, preparing to leave. He didn't want to hear anymore.

"Could you please stop being such a spoiled child for a few seconds and simply listen, you wretch! She was my friend too, do you think it's easy for me?"

"Yes, Creevey, she was your friend. She wasn't your wife, so don't tell me to take it easy, okay?" Draco asked, his eyes sparking.

"It's not her, Malfoy," Colin said quickly, before the other roused to leave. "It's not her."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. A contact of mine in the muggle police gave me this," and he gave the other a folder. The folder had just one sheet. "They did a reconstruction of her face in the computer."

"I don't remember this face."

"She disappeared eleven years ago, Malfoy..."

"And I was already working at the department, wasn't I? I would remember of a case like this, Creevey. It was a big waste of time," Draco completed, standing up.

"You won't even investigate it? Check the files? Well then, I think I can publish it..."

"No," Malfoy answered, surrendering. "I'll send someone to look for something in the old cases. Satisfied? he completed, leaving on the table the money to pay his part of the bill. "Don't publish anything yet." And he left the restaurant, leaving his food practically untouched. He was hungry, but; after what he heard, he lost all his interest in eating.

He went back right to the office, holding tight the folder with the woman's picture and the newspaper cclipping. He tried not to admit it, but the story was intriguing him, especially the part about the triangle. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing, that it was just a triangle, but there was something deep inside his mind that didn't let him believe it.

As soon as he got back to the department, he looked for Anne. She was already sitting at her desk, dealing with some papers.

"I need you to look for something in the files for me," he said, without wasting time.

"What?" she asked, looking at him.

"This woman," he answered, giving her the folder. "I want you to look in the files if there's any case involving her.Look in the cases from eleven and twelve years ago. Whatever you have to do this afternoon, it doesn't matter, okay, Anne? Documents, reports, memoranda can wait until tomorrow. This can't."

"Alright, Mr. Malfoy," she answered, taking the folder and standing up while the other opened the door of his office and went in.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Draco checked the clock constantly, trying to imagine why Anne was taking an eternity, but he ended up convincing himself that there must have been more archives from that period than he at first thought. Finally; however, around six p.m., when he was preparing himself to go after her, Anne showed up in his office.

"Finally!" he said when he saw her.

"I'm sorry Mr. Malfoy, but it wasn't as easy as it seemed," she answered, putting on the desk the folder he had given her.

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted while putting on his cloak to leave. "Just give me the file."

"That's the problem. I didn't find any."

"There isn't a file?" he asked, somehow relieved by it.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean 'you don't know', Anne? It's simple, the file exists, or it doesn't!"

"I didn't find one, but that doesn't mean that one doesn't exist." And after a pause, "I found out that six files from the period that you mentioned are missing."

"Missing?"

"Yes, missing. These are the numbers." She gave him a paper with some numbers written. Looking at the list, Draco recognized one of them immediately.

"File 15782 is not missing. It's in my apartment," he said, serious. "And what about the others? Nobody took them?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. It's not allowed to withdraw cases..."

"I know, Anne, I know," he interrupter her again, giving her a warning look.

"Maybe they're stored in the central library."

"And why the hell would they be there? Missing persons files stay down here."

"I don't know, sir. All I know is that they're not here."

"Fine, Anne. You can go," Draco said, finally. It wasn't her fault, after all. The moment she left, Malfoy left the room, but instead of apparating home, he went upstairs, towards the central library. It contained most of the police files. Just the aurors's - involving confidential stuff most of the time, and the missing persons' files - not knowing when they might be necessary - didn't stay there.

Intrigued, Draco stopped at the balcony and rang the bell. He removed case 15782 from the list while waiting to talk to the old witch who was responsible for the files. When she came, covered by dust and with a pair of glasses hung around her neck, he asked, as politely as he could be, for her to find the folders for the cases on the list. Then, he waited for a few minutes. Many more "a few minutes." It should be easy to find the files. Wizards may not use computers, but these files were organized in a simple manner. The witch; however, took more that thirty minutes to come back, and when she did, Draco knew only by her confused expression that she didn't have what he was looking for.

"These files aren't here, Mr. Malfoy," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," she answered, offended. "They're missing persons cases, aren't they? Shouldn't they be over in your department?"

"They should, but they're not."

"It's not my fault if you can't keep your own archives organized. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other things to do."

Malfoy felt his blood rush to his head. He could feel the rude response on the tip of his tongue, but at the last minute, he managed to control himself. He couldn't simply insult that woman, since there was a good chance he'd needing her help in the future. Swallowing, so, all the insults he was about to spit out, Draco turned around and left. He was angry, yes, but; above all, he was curious. The story Creevey told him was weird and, no matter how hard he tried not to believe it, the other could still be right.

Malfoy would like to be sure the file simply didn't exist, but now it wasn't possible. And worse: case folders rarely disappeared in the wizarding world. They were bewitched not to disappear. The only reason why he managed to take case folder 15782 from the department was that he took it before being bewhitched, ten years ago. And now, all of a sudden, he discovered five files missing. Five. And the key to solving all the mysteries of his life could be in one of them.

Tired, Draco decided to go home. He apparated to his living room and dropped the woman's picture, together with the newspaper clippings he was still holding, on the table. He hung his cloak and suit coat on the chair and folded up his shirt sleeves. He was hungry. In the kitchen, he found the same mess he had left that morning. Draco looked at the stove and at the sink and couldn't find the energy to cleanup the mess. He left everything as it was, came back out to the living room and threw a hand of floo powder in the fireplace.

"Good evening, Fredo," he said, seeing the familiar face of the Italian wizard in the other side.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Malfoy. The usual?" he asked.

"Yes, the usual," Draco answered, feeling pathetic. He ordered food so frequently in that restaurant that he was well known there.

A little later, the Italian man came back with the meal and gave it to Draco through the fireplace, while Draco gave the man the money.

Leaving his dinner on the coffee table, Malfoy took the covers into the kitchen. He then sat down on the sofa and started to eat. He was starving and tired. He took a quick look at the papers on the table. The day had been very frustrating, and he knew he probably wouldn't sleep well. He would stay awake, imagining, thinking. Sleeping had brought him little pleasure lately. Principally if he dreamed about her he then had to face the tough reality that she wasn't there, sleeping beside him.

Too tired even to fight the inevitable, Draco finished eating and went to the bedroom. Took off his tie, started unbuttoning his shirt and caught sight on one of the upper shelves of the closet, the folder for the case 15782. He hadn't seen those papers for awhile. He thought it was a good sign, that he was able to leaving it all behind, but now, after everything that had happened that day, he knew it wasn't true. He was not even a little bit better than he had been one, two, five or ten years ago. He was as lost as he had been before.

He came back to the living room and, sitting again in the sofa, he opened the file on the small coffee table. Everything was still there, exactly how he remembered it: the missing person form filled with his own writting, the reports from the responsible investigators, photos of the place, a photo of her... the photo he had given so that she could be identified. She was so pretty in that photo. Draco still remembered that day as if it just happened: he had taken her on a picnic at the park in London. In muggle London. He wasn't very happy about it, but he knew it would make her happy. And he wanted to make her happy. It was everything he wished and, in the end, it ended up being all his fault.

He felt the tears filling his eyes and supported his head on the sofa, looking up to avoid them. He hated to cry. "Malfoys don't cry," he repeated in a low voice while a silent tear drained out the corner of his eye. He was tired. Tired of all this. Tired of living every minute unhappy with the painful knowledge that she wasn't there and, worse, knowing it was all his fault.

Angrily drying the tear and scolding himself for letting things reach that point, Malfoy stood up and put the documents in the folder again. He was about to go back to the bedroom and put it back in its place when he was, for the second time that day, interrupted by the strident ring of the phone.

"But what a shit!" He thought it was Creevey again to annoy him. "What do you want now?" he asked furiously when he answered it. All he wanted was to release his frustration on someone.

"The question, Mr. Malfoy, is not what I want. It's what you want," a calm, controlled and unknown voice answered at the other end. Draco froze. Somehow, he knew what it was about.

"Who are you?" he asked in an urgent and distrustful voice.

"This is exactly what you have to find out, isn't it? You can't wait for me to give you all the answers, just like that," the voice said, undisturbed.

"You listen to me..." Draco started, furious. He wasn't at all in the mood for jokes.

"Would you take some advise, Mr. Malfoy?" The man in the other side interrupted him. "Don't get angry so easily. It won't get you anywhere."

"Who are you?" Draco repeated, trying to control himself. "What do you want from me?"

"From you? Nothing. I just heard that you showed some interest in finding some files..."

"What do you know about those files?"

"Everything," the voice answered with a dry laugh. "Everything, Mr. Malfoy, everything."

"Do you have the files?"

"You still don't get it, do you?"

"Get what? How can I get anything when I'm talking in a shit of a phone with some fucking lunatic who didn't hasn't even told me his name?"

"Do you kiss your mother with this mouth?"

"I don't have a mother."

"We both know that's not true."

"Could we please get back to the subject here? My mother has nothing to do with the story."

"And do you even know what the story is?"

"What kind of lunatic are you?"

"The kind that is always right. And I've already said: my name is exactly what you have to find out. Believe me, I was waiting for it to happen. Sooner or later, you would have to show some interest for the right files..."

"For the right files?"

"Yes. I have to say, however: I was ready to give up on you, but finally, seems like the day has come."

"What day?"

"The day when all your worst nightmares come true."

"What do you know about my damned nightmares, you wretched son of a bitch?" Draco was furious. At the other end, the voice answered again with a dry laugh.

"More than you think, Mr. Malfoy... More than you think..."

"You bas..."

"Please, could we keep this conversation at a civilized level?"

"No, we fucking can't! I want to know who you are, and I want to know it now!"

"So, Mr. Malfoy, I must disappoint you. In life, we do not always get what we want. But actually, you must know that already, right? Yes, I'm sure you have full and painful awareness of that..."

"Ah, you..."

"Believe me, you wouldn't want to insult me."

"Ah, yes? And why not? You're at the other end of this shit of a phone! Insulting you is basically the only thing I can do!"

"Yes, I agree, but I might want to strike back and you won't like what I have to say..."

"Why don't you try it?"

"Maybe some other day, Mr. Malfoy. Now I have to go. It was a pleasure." And, without waiting for an answer, the man simply hung up the phone.

Draco remain still for a few moments, astonished, scared with what just happened. When he finally recovered a little, he put the phone back in the base and looked from a distance at the picture of the woman found in the tree. He took the news clipping and read it again. His mind was in a flurry. Who was that woman? What happened to her? And, principally, what did she have to do with Ginny? Whoever the man on the phone was, he knew. Knew and just called Malfoy to provoke him, to play. Draco was helpless to the game, because he didn't know the available rules or the cards. He shouldn't let himself get involved, surrender to the temptation. Looking again at the file on the small table, however, he realized that, in one way or another, he was already involved. There was no way to escape, nowhere to run. He was buried in the story up to his neck and the only thing he co! uld do was to try to solve the mystery. It's simply not possible to avoid the inevitable.

That night, Draco Malfoy laid down on his bed with his head full of doubts. He couldn't sleep. Actually, he couldn't close his eyes. He didn't know what was happening, didn't know what was about to happen. His only certainty was that, the following day, he would take the first port key he could to Scotland. In one

way or another, he wouldn't rest until he found the truth.