Finding Elvis

Chapter 4 - Andrew Zabini

"It is Andrew Zabini you wanted, right? Not Blaise or Teresa?" asked the elderly clerk at the Ministry Second Voldemort War Records Room, emerging from the dimness of her shelves with a pile of folders and scrolls.

"Yeah, Andrew." Harry straightened up from where he'd been leaning on the counter.

"Charming family, the Zabinis," she muttered.

"Weren't they, though."

"I think that's everything you requested," she said, putting the documents on the counter. "Surveillance on Andrew Zabini while he was with the Death Eaters, his Veritaserum interrogations after he turned to our side - both times," she snorted cynically. "Files on his crime, and the Wizengamot transcript of his case."

"That's everything, yeah."

She patted her files absently with one hand as she recorded what Harry was about to borrow, possessive as all records clerks seemed to be with their dusty, musty scrolls. Harry reflected it was sometimes a good thing to be who he was; he doubted she would've handed over her precious parchments to just any Ministry employee without a great deal more than a vague 'need them for a committee' excuse.

"Andrew Zabini..." she murmured as she wrote. "Blaise was the one who got all the headlines, but you know a lot of people said it was Andrew who should've been Kissed. Hard to do it, though, what with all the deals he made, and what with him being acquitted of what little he was charged with. Of course that was before the backlash against the dealmakers and the inquiry into corruption with all of that..."

Harry smiled politely, hoping to discourage her and just leave with the scrolls. He gestured to her sign-out sheet, and she slowly brought it closer to him, still talking.

"I never thought it was a good idea, all that forgiveness and reconciliation. I know, I know, they had to do it, we certainly couldn't just kill everyone who ever sympathised with You-Know-Who, but it was a bad business. Making deals with devils, it was," she nodded, and finally placed the sign-out sheet before Harry. He smiled politely at her and signed it quickly, gathering up the scrolls and files and preparing to leave, then paused, thinking.

He'd get answers to some of the questions he had in the scrolls he'd just requested, but there might be blank spots. Blank spots that people like this might be able to fill for him. No sense wasting a good resource.

"Yeah, it was. Bad business." He leaned back against the counter, nodding sympathetically. "I always wondered why they made deals with some of them and not others," he confided, and the old woman beamed a surprised smile at him. Undoubtedly thrilled that anybody would express an interest in this stuff, or in her opinion of it. "Why the deals? Why was he acquitted?"

"I would've thought you'd know, Mr. Potter," she said, slightly shy of his fame, as a lot of people still seemed to be.

"Oh, no, I wasn't really involved in the decision making at the time; too young. They must've had their reasons..."

"Well with Andrew Zabini it all had to do with the information he gave us - when he was on our side, that is. Switched sides more often than my husband switched quills, and he was a scribe, my husband was." She blinked at Harry, her pointed hat bobbing in indignation. "I never understood how they could tell whether he was really on our side or not. And then to just forgive him for everything he did while he was on the other side - that wasn't right. What's the point, then, if people know that they can do whatever they please and as long as they go on the right side in the end, all is forgiven?"

Harry shrugged. "They had to have some incentive for switching sides."

"Hrmph." She seemed to have quickly forgotten what little awe she'd had for his fame, and only saw his relative youth. "How about just doing the right thing?"

"Don't think that would've worked, with most Death Eaters," Harry said. "With Zabini, though, did most people agree with the official decisions? Like the deals, the acquittal?"

"I wouldn't know about most people, dearie, but I know I didn't. You know all that happened was the witnesses in his case died. There was an awful lot of that going around at the time."

"Did they ever find out who killed them?"

"Didn't even find out for sure they'd been killed for sure. Just that they were dead."

"Any suspects?"

"Oh, many. Many, many. They're all in the files. Nobody they could pin it to. Andrew himself had a good alibi. They all did, when their witnesses died. Bad blood, that boy. Couldn't trust him as far as you could throw him. Couldn't trust any of that set."

"No, and he wasn't the only one accused of going back to the Death Eaters after coming over, either."

"No indeed. And he'd actually done it once before, too, so you could see he was capable of it. Him and his friends. There was the Northam boy, Clarence. And Ivan Venificus. And Lance and Gawain Moffa, and Sygmund McHarris. And Vincent Crabbe."

"Do you know if Pansy Parkinson was ever suspected of anything?"

"Didn't know her."

"I went to school with her and Vincent Crabbe. And Draco Malfoy."

"Oh, my, yes, young Malfoy. I always wondered about him, especially after he disappeared. You know there were those three Muggles who were supposed to be witnesses for that young Death Eater woman, what was her name... Bruna, Brunella? German? Something like that." She blinked. "Brunhilda."

"Brunhilda St. Germain, yeah, I'd forgotten all about her," Harry said, making a mental note to himself to get files on her as well.

"And then they were dead, and somebody said young Malfoy did it. You know how distinctive he was, both him and his father, hair almost white. Looked like angels, those two. Just goes to show appearances can be deceiving," she chuckled. "They were all a set, those children. Nasty business, the lot of them. Nasty business going on in Slytherin house, and Durmstrang. I hear Slytherin's one of the best houses, now. Still ambitious, still ruthless, but no more Dark Magicians coming from there." She shook her head. "Broke old Dumbledore's heart, I shouldn't wonder, that so many of those children took the wrong road. But it was all because of their families. What can you do, really, against breeding like that? You get started wrong in life, and it's very hard to get right again."

"I suppose so," Harry said.

"I've always wondered what became of them, those Death Eater's children who survived. Don't you? Everything they were raised to believe, it all came to nothing. You have to wonder how they lived with that. And what they're doing today. And if they still believe what their parents believed and are raising their children to take up the fight, or whether they ever saw the error of their ways. Don't you wonder?"

Harry tapped a scroll thoughtfully. "Yeah. I do."

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Not a bad start, thought Harry a few days later as he looked at the small stack of documents he'd gathered from various Ministry offices and Muggle police stations. Files on Andrew Zabini: his background, crimes, Ministry records. The three Muggle murders that Malfoy had been suspected of committing: when they'd happened, how, who was a suspect, as well as the sole witness statement. Files on Brunhilda St. Germain: her background, information on her during her time with the Death Eaters, and her crimes.

And files on Malfoy himself. Information on his activities as a Death Eater. Scrolls detailing his voluntary surrender to the Aurors and request to come under their protection. His own Veritaserum interrogation, post-defection. Files on the information he'd provided the Ministry. All the files that Harry had told himself he didn't have time to gather, back when he was only curious about him and didn't have any proof that Malfoy had come into contact with the Death Eaters after leaving Parkinson's home. It hadn't taken nearly as long as Harry had thought it would, to gather information on him.

And one last parchment, with his notes on all the information he'd obtained from all the various clerks he'd dealt with. Remarkable people, clerks. Most of the time you just got information from them and went on your way. But when you thought about it, their memory, their perceptiveness, their ability to link things together, and their enthusiasm when somebody showed an interest in their chosen field, were all really rather astonishing.

Harry looked at the parchment in front of him, which he'd used to clear his thoughts, writing down what he knew and what he didn't know of Malfoy's past so far.

Facts

xx Enmagio: March 18

xx released from St. Mungo's: March 22

xx Parkinson's home: March 22-April 12 (approx)

xx AZ acquitted: July 31

xx 'proof' of DE activity post-enmagio => 1 witness to murders of 3 Muggle witnesses for Brunhilda St. Germain

Theory

xx if at AZ's home after Parkinson's, maybe didn't really leave the DE

xx maybe didn't lose magic (doubtful), or only lost it temporarily

xx killed 3 Muggles as part of deal with DE? to get back into the DE?

Questions

xx when at AZ's home?

xx when did Muggle murders occur?

xx how were Muggles killed (magical/non-magical)?

xx what does the witness statement say?

xx any contact with R.St-G, any time before/during/after war?

xx why kill 3 Muggles if not part of DE?

xx why suspected, if didn't do it?

xx why is this even any of my business?

xx why don't I turn this over to Aurors?

xx why am I doing this and avoiding reading the report from the Veela committee?

Harry put his quill down and sighed. Why? Because the report was dry as powdered newt's eyes, that's why.

Because it's dry as powdered- he started to write onto the parchment, then snorted at himself and scratched it out.

Enough was enough. This might be intriguing and, in its own bizarre way, rather entertaining, but he was not being paid to research Draco Malfoy's mysterious past. He firmly put away his extra-curricular paperwork and reached for the Veela scrolls with a sigh of resignation.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow after the day's conference events were over, he'd start in on the scrolls and try to fill in the blanks.

8888888888

"The famous Harry Potter," Andrew Zabini said heartily, standing as Harry was ushered into his study. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Harry tried not show surprise at the sight before him. Andrew Zabini had not aged well at all since his last official Ministry photograph had been taken. Granted, it had been fifteen years, but while those years had given Harry a few silver hairs and lines on his face that no longer faded, Andrew Zabini most closely resembled a dishevelled and squashed beanbag chair: pudgy and lumpy in face and body, with an air of dissolution about him. In short, a sharp contrast from the portly but powerful-looking young man in the old photographs.

"I'm tracking down information about Draco Malfoy," Harry began after the minimum of social niceties, seating himself without waiting for an invitation and waving off Zabini's offer of a drink.

"Draco? Whyever for?"

"We're closing up some files at the Ministry, came across some contradictory evidence about him. His file says he was last seen at the home of Pansy Parkinson, but a witness statement from another former Death Eater's file claims he was seen in your presence after you were acquitted, which was a few months after he left Parkinson's home." There. That was sufficiently vague. And he'd kept his tone matter-of-fact and slightly bored. "We're trying to clear it up so we can put all the files that are still technically open into storage."

"And why is the great Harry Potter investigating this?" Zabini asked, refilling a small goblet on his desk from a crystal decanter.

Harry smiled briefly. "Perk of the office; I can skive off and do menial work when it suits me. Last month I handled all the Potions administration for the Department of Muggle Relations. Good distraction during the off-season for Quidditch."

Zabini laughed. "Slumming, are you? Tracking down the final days of your old school nemesis? Getting a little posthumous glee of revenge?"

"I suppose so," Harry said. "So, do you know why the discrepancy?"

"Who was the witness?"

Harry shrugged. "Still classified, god only knows why. So, was he?"

"Staying with me?"

"I don't believe I asked about staying with you, only about whether he was seen in your presence, but all right, I'll bite. Was he staying with you?"

Zabini's face got a rather curious expression on it, as though he couldn't decide whether to take Harry's casual attitude at face value or be on his guard. Seeming to decide the former, he smiled and leaned back in his seat. "Yes, actually, Draco did stay with me after he left Pansy's home."

"Funny. Nobody else seemed to know that, other than the one witness."

"I didn't put announcements in the Prophet."

"Why was he here?"

"I picked him up about two months after he'd left Pansy's home. A very difficult time in his life. I brought him home to take care of him."

"Why?"

"Why did I pick him up?"

"Seems odd, don't you think? He'd just about killed your brother not long before-"

"And I'd just about killed my brother a few months before that, Harry. And Blaise had nearly killed me twice. Once was even before the war. We weren't close."

"So you didn't feel the need to avenge your brother. It still doesn't explain why you felt the need to take care of the man responsible for his capture."

Zabini shrugged. "You find the last Malfoy in need of rescuing, and it's like discovering an ancient Quidditch 'blooder'. You don't know if it'll be an archaeological treasure that you can sell off to the highest bidding museum or just an old piece of skin with straw inside it. Guess which one Draco was," Zabini said contemptuously.

"I'm not following you," Harry said flatly, and Zabini rolled his eyes.

"I thought he might prove useful, Harry. His family and money were gone, but there were a lot of people who would've been happy to follow him, if he'd chosen to lead them. It's always good to have the gratitude of people in power."

"Who would've followed his lead? He had nothing by that point; not even magic."

"That's only because he didn't have anybody pushing for image enhancement for him. He still had his name. You know very well that if he'd cared to, he could've had the world at his feet as a bloody Hero of the War."

"I don't know about that. Plenty of people were still suspicious of him."

Zabini smiled, an oily, unpleasant smile. "That added to his naughty-boy appeal. It also added to his potential value. We didn't know yet, at the time, that Voldemort's forces were completely vanquished. If Draco had wanted to, he could've emerged as a leader for the other side."

Harry realized his disgust was showing on his face and decided to leave it there. He'd met enough people like Zabini in the course of the war; friendliness was treated with suspicion and contempt, hostility with a certain grudging respect. "Leader for 'the other side'? And you would've been happy to follow him there too, right?"

"War time, Harry." Harry decided he really didn't like hearing Andrew Zabini say his first name. "You had to be prepared to go with the flow, as the youngsters say."

"I don't think youngsters have been using that particular expression for a few decades, but I get your point." Harry glanced around Zabini's study disinterestedly. "So. How did you find him?"

"Would you believe, almost totally by accident. There was a small beach house near Dover, where the younger set from the pureblood families used to go. No magic wards or locators, so our parents couldn't track us down, and we'd do all the things they didn't want us doing. Drinking absinthe," he cocked his goblet at Harry, "listening to Muggle music, dallying with Veelas, that kind of thing. Nobody had used it for a while, as far as I knew. I went there - well, let's just say I had inappropriate company, I came in, and there he was." Zabini snorted, amused. "Bloody mess. He'd just injected himself with something - injected, can you imagine that? Pushing a bloody needle into your arm without even a pain-block spell? Barbaric. He was holding his arm up, leaning back against the wall, feeling it kick in. High as a Snitch, and drunk to boot. Looked like he hadn't shaved in a while, either. Although he'd had a shower that day, apparently, thank god."

"He'd been out of Pansy's home for-"

"About two months, he said, although he couldn't even tell that accurately. Told me he'd ended up at a Muggle homeless shelter - a homeless shelter, can you believe that, a Malfoy? Poor Lucius and Narcissa would've had the vapours. He'd stumbled across it because he was hungry. Hadn't et in days, apparently. They took him in and gave him food and a shower. And somehow he'd got into this drug thing, though I've no clue what he did to pay for them. Probably exchanged all sorts of 'favours' for them, the Malfoys were never terribly squeamish about-"

"What did he think of your generosity?"

"Not much. Malfoys were never the most grateful sort either. Besides, he passed out not long after I got him home."

"What did he say when he woke up?"

"Not much. Just demanded I let him out again, because he needed more of that Muggle rubbish." Zabini wrinkled his nose. "I told him I couldn't allow him to hurt himself - acted very concerned for his welfare, which I don't think he believed for a second, unfortunately. Happily, there wasn't much he could do once I decided to keep him. It wasn't as though he could just walk past the wards I'd put around my place."

"Wouldn't he have gone into withdrawal?"

"Oh, my, yes. Fascinating to watch, if you had a strong stomach. He'd gotten himself quite - what's the word, 'hanged'?"

"Hooked."

"Hooked! Yes, that was it. He was rather uncomfortable. Shaking and throwing up and cursing me in language that would've made his dear mother weep, demanding I let him go."

"And you didn't?"

"Good heavens, no. Just let him sweat it out. Told him I was trying to track down an antidote - he told me he didn't want one, imagine that - and that they were very hard to find."

"Really? I would've thought they'd be common enough."

"They were. A friend of mine kept them on hand, as a matter of fact. I just wanted to see what happened, how far down he'd go, how grateful he'd be to me once he came back up."

"And was he?"

"Bloody hell, no. Finally stopped throwing up, but didn't let up on the cursing, not one whit. Demanded to be let out." Zabini took a slow sip of his absinthe. "I eventually convinced him to accept my hospitality. But it took a while. I think he was angriest over being so helpless."

"I can imagine."

"I've heard of the rivalry between the two of you, you know," Zabini smirked. "I'm sure it would've made up for everything he ever did to you, to see just how far down he went while he was here." Zabini laughed, a sound that grated like a quill scratching on glass. Harry nodded politely and Zabini shook his head. "You've no idea how hard it was to maintain an air of... kindness, I suppose you'd call it, when all I really wanted was to make him see just how dependent he was on my goodwill. After all, I didn't want to annoy him so much he'd feel resentful. Luckily, he was too blind drunk most of the time to be able to figure things out. I kept him nicely supplied with alcohol. Figured it was the least I could do for an old friend."

"How long did he stay?" Harry asked.

"Not that long. A few weeks at most."

"He was here when your trial ended, wasn't he?"

"He left soon after that. I realized I wasn't going to get anything out of him. Besides, you know, I was starting a new life, free of the shadow of suspicion. Having a former Death Eater in my home... well. He was an utter mess, and he didn't want to be here. I let him go, and good riddance."

"I see." Harry cocked his head to the side. "So he didn't come to you. And he didn't really choose to stay."

"No, but he would hardly have been at the Dover house if he was in hiding from people in our circles, would he? That was part of why I took him in; I didn't know which side he was on, and I thought he might be useful to either side. He hadn't exactly made a clean break from the Death Eaters."

"Despite the fact that he'd got your brother captured and lost his magic in the process?"

"You read the papers, didn't you, Harry? Plenty of people thought it was all an act."

"Did you?"

"I wasn't sure. The Malfoys were rather good at subterfuge."

"His drug addiction and the fact that he couldn't walk out of here didn't convince you that he'd lost his magical powers?"

"Well, yes, I suppose it did, mostly. But as for being permanently disabled... well, I imagined that perhaps he'd agreed to be un-magicked for a short while, and was having difficulty waiting it out. Or perhaps Blaise wasn't supposed to have been captured. Or who knows what?"

"Did you ask Blaise?"

"He wasn't speaking to me. I never fully believed it was for real until Blaise was Kissed, months later. Until then, I thought there was still the possibility it could've all been faked. There could've been a counter-curse."

"There wasn't."

"No, there wasn't," Zabini said, an odd expression of smug amusement on his face. "I once met the witch who invented that curse, did you know? Most creative woman. I always wished I could've gotten to know her."

"What happened to her?"

"Death by Dementor's Kiss."

"A lot of people thought you deserved to be Kissed as well. A lot of people weren't terribly keen about all the deals you made."

"Ah yes," Zabini smiled, unconcerned. "I had a legion of ardent fans."

"A lot of people also found it rather convenient that the only crime you were charged with had witnesses who died."

"I didn't. I wanted them exposed for the liars they were."

"Really."

"Yes, really."

"A lot of that was going around at the time, wasn't it? Witnesses mysteriously dying or disappearing. That's what Malfoy was accused of doing. Killing three Muggles who were going to testify against Brunhilda St. Germain. Right around the time that he was staying with you. Would you know anything about that?"

"No, of course not. I believe at the time he was also spotted playing Seeker for some Quidditch team and romancing Princess Madeleine of Sweden. He was a busy lad."

"The Muggles were killed somewhere around July 25th. Do you remember what you were doing then?"

"Fifteen years ago, around July 25th. Why, yes, I believe that on the 24th I had a breakfast of sausage and eggs, ate a lovely sole steak for lunch, accompanied my mother to get her nails done at 3:14 in the afternoon-"

"I take that as a no," Harry said calmly.

"Sorry, no."

"Do you know if Malfoy knew Brunhilda St. Germain?"

"No idea."

"Did you?"

"Beyond having been introduced at a few social functions? No."

"Well." Harry stood up, having had enough of Zabini's grating manner and confident smirk for now. It reminded him just a little too much of - of Malfoy, actually, back when they were at Hogwarts together. "Thanks for your help. It's been... illuminating. No, I'll show myself out, thanks."

"Do come again, Harry."

"Yes, I probably will," Harry said pleasantly.

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Harry wearily smoothed out the records he'd pored over for four hours. Not a thorough job by any means; rather rushed and unmethodical. But he hadn't moved in hours, it was past two in the morning, he had a full day ahead, and it was probably time to pack it in for now.

He stretched his back, muscles protesting and joints popping, trying to remember the last time he'd stayed up far into the night, unaware of the passage of time as he buried himself in a problem. Brain completely tuned into the work, absorbing every detail, tying together random facts from different sources. The mixture of interest, adrenaline, and purpose honing his mental processes into hyper-efficiency.

Not since the war, or soon after, probably. This never happened any more.

It would have been nice to have somebody else here as well, as he'd had during the war. Emma, perhaps, or Celsus, passing bits of information like choice morsels of food, looking up whatever he couldn't remember on his own. Another brain in tandem with his own. But Emma and Celsus had never worked with him far into the night. By the time he'd met them, they were all in positions high enough and dignified enough that working into the night wasn't customary. And there was no real urgency to their work either. Veelas and werewolves would not die depending on whether they were or were not registered as Magical Beasts.

As for the people with whom he had experienced this kind of late-night all-out mental effort - well. Never mind. They were almost all dead or gone or a little of both.

Harry leaned back in his chair, a picture in his mind of Neville Longbottom and Terry Boot crowing over their dawn-hour discovery of an antidote to the latest Death Eater poison, so vivid he could almost touch them.

"Brilliant!!"

Or Hermione, eyes glowing tiredly as she slammed her hand onto a Pepper-up potion-stained table.

"It's Bellatrix! She's the one behind this one. I know she is. Look, it all fits-"

"Hermione, every time you say 'it all fits' I get very nervous," Ron had said, so many times it had become a running joke/catchphrase among them.

Ron's blue eyes alight as he jabbed at a map, Hermione leaning over his shoulder, frowning in sleep-deprived concentration.

"Yes! Surrey, it's got to be!"

"Ron, come on, we looked there-"

"Yeah, but I'm sure! Let's go-"

"Not without back-up-"

"We've got no time for back-up - all right, fine, you wait, I'm going. No, I'll be fine, don't worry-"

Harry stood up, banishing that last memory with only a slight shudder, and his eyes fell upon his moribund gossip weed.

Well, make do with what you have on hand, he thought.

"Look, Weed," Harry began, and stopped in alarm both at the sound of his own voice and at the sight of the weed whipping around to face him. "Er... as far as I can tell, the Muggle murders happened around July 25. Can't really tell for sure-"

The weed was trembling, Harry couldn't tell whether in delight or puzzlement. But he suddenly felt extraordinarily silly. Was he actually confiding in a house plant?

That was not on. He opened up a scroll, set a recording spell onto it, and started speaking out loud, sparing an amused glance at the weed as it rocked happily to the sound of his voice.

"Investigation into the events surrounding Draco Malfoy's disappearance at the end of the war," he began. "As far as I can tell, the Muggle murders happened on or about July 25. The date is impossible to pin down, because the bodies were not found until mid-August. The date is a guess based on Muggle Missing Persons and police autopsy records, Ministry documents, and a witness statement. Malfoy was with Pansy Parkinson until approximately April 12, then at Andrew Zabini's house from approximately mid-June until the end of July or beginning of August. Which means that he was most probably with Zabini when the murders occurred. The murders secured the acquittal of Brunhilda St. Germain, who'd been accused of using the Cruciatus and Avada Kedavra curses on a fellow Death Eater who was suspected of having defected."

Harry smoothed out a scroll with one of the St. Germain case Muggle witness statements, glancing over a portion of it.

------------------

Witness: I saw her, she was there. She was wearing something weird on her head, she was holding a stick and she pointed it at this fellow and he started to shake and scream.

Auror: What happened next?

Witness: He was sort of having a seizure and his voice was going hoarse, I don't know what she was doing to him but it was horrible. And, and she said abracadabra and then he stiffened up and then he was dead.

Auror: How do you know?

Witness: He just stopped moving. She kicked his body. It was horrible.

Auror: What did you do?

Witness: We ran away.

------------------

"The Muggle teenagers had been in the supposedly deserted alley where St. Germain committed the murder, and had seen her. They'd run, and the Ministry, detecting the Dark Magic used by St. Germain, had chased them and caught them. They were eyewitnesses."

Harry gazed at the three young faces on the police records. Clare Johnson, June 14, 1989 - July 2005. Diane Johnson, May 20, 1987 - July 2005. Luke Suresh, May 2, 1987 - July 2005.

"The three were found dead in a car accident before St. Germain's Wizengamot appearance. The death was ruled accidental by the Muggle police. There was no reason for the collision; it looked like Suresh, the driver, had gone off the edge of a small ditch. The only odd fact was that the bodies had various bruises that had been caused before their death. The police assumed that the three had been up to something that had resulted in those bruises, even though their friends had claimed they'd been driving home from the library."

They were teenagers. They had probably been up to no good, and their friends had lied to protect them. Next case.

"The Ministry had been informed otherwise. They had heard from Mrs. Hera Triumvra, whose home was close to a quarry used by wizard youth, that the three had been tortured by Death Eaters before being killed and put into their car. The Ministry tended to believe Mrs. Triumvra's statement, but there was no other evidence linking the murders to anybody who could be charged."

Triumvra: They made it look like an accident for the Muggle Aurors, but I knew better. The Muggles were at the edge of the quarry, and then they were hanging upside down, and they were terrified, I saw them. And somebody was laughing.

Auror: Who was laughing?

Triumvra: I couldn't tell how many Death Eaters were there, I was too far away, I think there were at least two but there may have been only one. But I saw him, white-haired boy. I'd know him anywhere. I knew his family. Draco Malfoy.

Auror: But he had disappeared-

Triumvra: I know what I saw. He was there. Laughing. Torturing those people, and laughing about it.

Auror: Torturing them magically?

Triumvra: Yes.

Auror: But he'd been found to have no magic whatsoever by that point.

Triumvra: I know what I saw. I never really believed that anyway. Besides like I said there could've been somebody else there, somebody helping him. Maybe his helper did the magic part and he did the actual killing.

"I've been unable to find any connection between Brunhilda St. Germain and Draco Malfoy. No record of them being in the same Death Eater cells, which usually worked separately so that their secrecy wouldn't be compromised. St. Germain was three years younger than Malfoy. She did not attend Hogwarts or Durmstrang, but for unspecified reasons received private tutoring, possibly training in the Dark Arts

"The closest documented link I've been able to find between them is that St. Germain once received musical tutoring from Clara Mason, who attended Hogwarts two years after Narcissa Malfoy, also in Slytherin House. This means very little."

Harry stood up, noting the salmon-pink tinge of dawn outside his window wondering if he should try to get a couple of hours of sleep or just use Pepper-up in the morning.

"I've also been unable to find any documented link between Andrew Zabini and Brunhilda St. Germain," he continued. "Beyond the fact that their families co-owned a piece of land in France, along with about sixteen other families, which there is no evidence that either one ever visited, the only other link is that they were both acquitted because their witnesses died."

He took out another file as the recording charm continued to scratch out his thoughts.

"Andrew Zabini's crime, that of having used a Cruciatus curse while supposedly working for the Order of the Phoenix, had only two witnesses, who both died on June 1. The list of suspects was fairly extensive." He scanned past the names, decided to read them out loud. "Andrew Zabini. Kurt Newtower. Ethelbert Finke. Ivan Venificus. Julietta Burner. Gregory Goyle. Gawain Moffa. Amie Tomey. Zelma Muncie. Sygmund McHarris.

"The alibis are extensive and detailed, and they all appear to check out on first glance." Or second or third or fifteenth, especially at two in the morning. "I've found no links between any of the suspects and Brunhilda St. Germain, beyond very tenuous ones. Again, this means absolutely nothing. Beyond the fact that I've been doing this for far too long and should probably get some sleep."

He gathered up the scrolls and gave the gossip weed an affectionate glance. The little thing was bobbing happily and actually glowing, a very pleasant butter-yellow colour. Maybe he should start dictating his papers more often.

His gaze fell upon the alibi statements for all the people he hadn't known on the Zabini list, as well as the background checks on them. He gathered up the pile of scrolls Newtower, Tomey and Venificus, noting that Venificus' file showed he'd also committed a crime where the witness had died. Rather unfortunate time to be a witness to anything, it seemed.

Venificus, he thought idly, as he stared at his scroll without much interest. Attended Durmstrang with Andrew Zabini, from 1996 - 1999.

He frowned. 1996 - 1999. Wasn't Durmstrang a six-year school?

Yes. Venificus had received home instruction before that, for reasons unspecified.

Hm. Interesting. And among his known tutors was one who had also taught St. Germain.

Which meant nothing, really. Any more than St. Germain receiving instruction from a music teacher who knew Narcissa Malfoy. It wasn't that big a world; as Sirius had once said, the old pureblood families were all interconnected.

But maybe if he ran with this... what if Venificus and St. Germain had known each other? Well enough to commit crimes for one another? Venificus and Zabini certainly knew one another, so that might make a link between Zabini and St. Germain. So... maybe St. Germain killed Venificus' witness, Venificus killed Zabini's, and Zabini killed St. Germain's. And maybe Malfoy had nothing to do with the whole mess, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Well, that was certainly grasping at some very, very flimsy straws. Upon further examination of Venificus' alibi, it was possible that it could've been less than airtight, but...

But what else did he have?

Of the four of them, Brunhilda St. Germain and Ivan Venificus were both dead. St. Germain had died a few years ago and Venificus had died in battle during the war. But Malfoy and Zabini were still alive.

"Finite incantatum," Harry muttered absently, and put away his files. It was almost three in the morning. He had to work to do tomorrow. Or rather, later today. And his mind was in no state to decide right now whether to throw in the towel or keep worrying away at mysteries that had lain unsolved for fifteen years.

8888888888

"Yes, well, I'm always glad to come by," a large man was saying heartily as Harry walked into The Book Cellar, and over his shoulder Harry could see Malfoy and three other sales clerks gathered before him, identical expressions of polite patience on all four faces. Malfoy glanced at the door and smiled briefly at Harry before dutifully turning his attention back.

"Always glad," the large man repeated. "You're doing a superb job here. And once you incorporate the new filing system, it'll be a breeze."

"I'm sure," a female clerk said.

"That's the spirit. Well, I'd best be off."

"Company dinner, yes."

"You know how it is. At least they've picked a healthy eatery. I'm watching my weight."

"Yes, I was going to mention that, you're looking very healthy," she said, and Harry wondered if the man heard what he heard clearly in her voice: that she was buttering up a man she considered almost too stupid to live.

"I've dropped thirty five pounds so far."

"You don't say, that's marvellous."

He put his hand on the door. "Well, you know, I heard that a man's penis grows an inch for every ten pounds he loses. So I'm just going to keep dieting until I turn into a giant dick." He grinned at their polite chuckles and went out the door. There was a brief silence.

"I'd say he's done it," Malfoy said dryly, and the other sales clerks burst out into genuine laughter, griping to each other as they dispersed back to their areas.

"Isn't he awful?"

"How does his wife put up with him? It's unbelievable."

"And she's such a nice person, too."

"I'm going on break, Ted," Malfoy said. "I need some air after that little visitation."

"Yeah, go ahead, I'll cover."

Malfoy was still scowling slightly as he and Harry sat down at the café next door. "Another favourite customer?" Harry asked, stalling, with no better idea of how to bring up the topic of the Muggle murders than he'd had at three last night.

"No, he's from administration. The store was bought by a corporation about a year ago. It's been nothing but one long string of 'innovations' since then. Happily, they don't affect us much - Marcy smiles and nods in all the right places, then tells us to just keep doing what's always worked before."

"Yeah, it's hard to deal with superiors who don't know what the rank and file really do."

"Speaking from experience?"

"I told you I work for the Ministry," Harry said off-handedly, wondering when the last time he'd really talked to any of his underlings. And how many of them held him in the same high esteem as Malfoy and his colleagues held the man who'd just left.

"Ah. Yes. Enough said." Malfoy leaned back in his seat. "Every time we get a visit from that idiot I think I picked the wrong life to quit smoking."

"You smoked?"

"Filthy habit, that. Also one of the hardest to kick. Then again, it helps to have a new non-smoker in the house; Jilly nagged until I finally gave it up last year."

"Did she used to smoke too?"

"She used to do a lot of things. It's how we met, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"At a rehabilitation clinic. Jilly has... her own sordid past."

"And you started dating at the clinic?"

"Not openly, no. We weren't supposed to date anybody, so of course we took that very seriously for three whole... er, minutes." Harry laughed. "No, it was dead serious," Malfoy grinned, "We really, really weren't supposed to. Had to sneak around or risk being tossed out."

"Why?"

"Well, you know, we were at a clinic, so we were emotionally fragile, and er, settling into a new social matrix, and er, nurturing our inner children and striving to build new personal constructs for - oh sod it, I forget the rest. You'd think I'd remember all that tripe, I went through it enough times."

"More than once?"

"Christ, yes, seven times, each time I was convicted and then a couple of times on my own, outside. I was the Neville Longbottom of drug rehabilitation, it was so depressing."

Harry started laughing at Malfoy's rueful expression. He tried, and utterly failed, to imagine Draco Malfoy at a rehabilitation clinic, doing anything other than making fun of it.

And yet he'd gone back on his own. "Why did you keep going back?"

"Had to, didn't I?"

"I mean, when you weren't in - er-"

"Prison?" Malfoy smirked at Harry's awkward avoidance of the word. "Clinic was still a damn sight better than the alternative," he said grimly. "I saw what people looked like after a lifetime on this stuff. It was quite sobering, pun intended. Looked like living death."

"I can imagine. How did you get started?"

"Well I'd been drinking like a fish at Pansy's house, numbing myself, I suppose. Ended up at a Muggle homeless shelter, lots of addicts all around. Got involved in a lot of stuff I shouldn't've. I don't really remember most of what happened between leaving Pansy's and being arrested the first time, frankly. It's all a little blurred. Which is good, I suppose; it all seems to have been rather dismal. At the time, though, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered other than getting the next fix. Addicts are so single minded."

"And Jilly?"

"Like I said, she has her own sordid history. Not for me to tell it, though."

"Does she know all of yours?"

"Yeah, it all came up at the clinic."

"No, I don't mean prison. I meant your life before. Before joining the Muggle world."

"Yeah, she knows about my family and - oh, you mean does she know I used to be a wizard? No, of course not."

"You've been with her ten years, and she doesn't know that?" Harry asked sceptically.

"She knows everything important."

"That seems fairly important. How could you hide it?"

"Potter, I really can't do magic any more," he said, amused. "It's not like I'll suddenly accidentally change a yapping dog into a chair and have to explain it to her."

"No, but why would you hide it from her?"

"It wouldn't make any sense to her. Think like a Muggle for half a second. 'Dear, I used to fly on a broomstick and transfigure birds into crystal vases and make snakes leap out of a wand. No, I can't show you any of it; you'll just have to trust me.' She's a sensible girl; she'd have me committed in a heartbeat."

"You don't think she'd believe-"

"No, I don't. Besides, I told you, it has nothing to do with me any more."

"But-"

"But nothing." Malfoy's voice put an effective end to the topic, and he checked his watch. "Jason?" he raised his voice, and the man behind the counter looked over at them. "Another cappucino?" He glanced back at Harry. "Did you want anything else?"

"Yeah, I'll get another one too," Harry said, and Jason nodded. "I could've used one of these this morning," Harry noted. "The conference coffee's not up to the required strength."

"Dull day?"

"I've mentioned I work for the Ministry," Harry repeated wryly.

"Say no more."

"Actually, speaking of the Ministry, I wanted to ask you-" he broke off as his coffee arrived.

"Sport helps a lot, for me," Malfoy said. "That stupid oaf is coming by tomorrow to do some training and thank god it's Wednesday and I've got football after work. I'll pretend he's the football, kick it to within an inch of its life."

"I should do that," Harry joked. "Except I doubt anybody would appreciate me mauling a Snitch." He suddenly felt incredibly awkward - Malfoy hadn't seemed to want to discuss Quidditch - but Malfoy hadn't heard what Harry had said, he was standing up with a mildly alarmed expression.

"Jilly?" he said, and Harry turned around. A tall, relatively attractive woman was walking in wearily: long curly brown hair, a round, tired-looking, freckled face, and a loose-fitting waitressing uniform. She waved at Malfoy, motioning him to sit back down.

"Sorry, love, yes, yes, I'm fine." She leaned over to kiss his cheek, "Mind if I join you?" she asked Harry, and he waved his hand in a By all means gesture.

"Oh - Jilly, this is Potter - Harry Potter; Potter, my girlfriend Jilly," Malfoy said quickly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, the boss just let me out early, and I'm fine, for heaven's sake," she said, a little annoyed. "Also, we've got a guest again."

"Oh, no, she hasn't," Malfoy said, an irate look on his face. "You're joking."

"No, she wants us to take the little dear tonight, she's got a deadline tomorrow, she's coming over right now as a matter of fact-"

"Your sister is going to have to figure out what to do in a few months, she can't always-"

"Uncle DAVE!" A small boy of about four ran into the café and launched himself at Malfoy. Malfoy picked him up automatically, smiling at him and looking up as another woman with a remarkable resemblance to Jilly hurried in.

"Oh Jilly, Dave, so glad you're here, I'm ever so sorry, you know I wouldn't do this to you but this deadline-" and she rattled off about a dozen pieces of information and excuses and a phone number and was gone in a flash with a quick hug for the little boy, who was happily digging into Malfoy's shirt pocket and finding a stash of sweets.

Malfoy heaved a deep sigh. "Potter. Meet my nephew Alexander." The small boy spared a quick glance at Harry before diving back into Malfoy's pockets. "You've got to talk to her," he said to Jilly, absently ruffling his nephew's hair. "You need to rest. She can't keep doing this to you."

"I'm all right. I swear I don't know who's more annoying here. Her, for treating me just the same as before, or you, for thinking I'm going to fall apart any moment. I swear you are a walking compendium of every single nervous expectant father cliché in the world." She smiled at him slightly, taking the sting out of her words, then rubbed her face, scrubbing off her frown and giving Alexander a smile as she pulled him off of Malfoy. "We'll be on our way, then. Nice meeting you, Harry," she smiled at him, and got up to go, with another whispered "I'll be fine," and a kiss for Malfoy.

"I'll be home soon as I can, right?" he called out as she left.

"She's... you two are having a baby?" Harry said slowly, unprepared for the wide grin that spread over Malfoy's face, erasing his annoyance at Jilly's sister.

"Yeah. In four months. Our first."

"Wow." Harry sat, stupidly unable to think of what to say. "Er... congratulations."

"Thanks," Malfoy said, standing up and gesturing to Jason that he was leaving his payment on the table.

"What's it like?" Harry asked curiously, standing and paying for his own coffee.

"It's amazing. It's bloody terrifying, actually, but in a good way. We're looking forward to it. Now if we can just get rid of Jilly's sister's need to saddle us with her kids every other day, we'll be all right. Although our niece has already promised endless free babysitting for us, so it won't be totally one-sided." He patted his pockets, tucking in a stray sweet that Alexander had missed. "Well. Must go. I'll have to see if Marcy'll let me out early tonight. Oh-" he paused with his hand on the door, "You said you needed to ask me something?"

Harry waved him off. "Some other time. It wasn't that important."

"Right, then." He headed out, leaving Harry brooding as the door closed behind him.

8888888888

Harry tucked his invisibility cloak around himself more firmly, wishing the cloak wasn't quite so efficient at holding in warmth. He gazed unseeingly at the players on the field as they battled in the muggy heat, the Taff Valley Tornadoes against Malfoy's team, the Caerphilly Cannons. The score was 2 to 1 for Taff.

He'd gone to The Book Cellar and had been told that Malfoy was playing football two blocks away and would be done in about half an hour. Not sure what the hell he'd do once Malfoy was done, he'd decided to observe the football game unseen. That way, if the game finished and he still had no idea what to say to Malfoy, he could just go home without confronting him at all.

And he didn't. Have any idea what to say, that is. About Andrew Zabini, Malfoy himself... or anything, really.

He'd known what to say to Zabini this morning, oddly enough. Zabini had been easy.

"If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to think that perhaps there was more going on than simple coincidences," he'd said to Zabini, after he'd briefly described what he'd uncovered during his investigation.

"It's a good thing you know better," Zabini had smirked.

"Because of course, you wanted your name cleared, and were very upset that your two witnesses died."

"I was."

"Rubbish," Harry had said pleasantly.

"Beg pardon?"

"Rubbish. You all worked together to get rid of one another's witnesses. Venificus got yours, St. Germain got his, and you got hers. And the only reason the Ministry didn't put it together at the time was that they had too much else going on, and the three of you weren't considered important enough to pursue with due diligence. Especially when there was another suspect for St. Germain's witnesses, and he was very conveniently missing and unable to clear his name."

And Zabini hadn't so much as blinked, but calmly pointed out that he'd been accused of many things in his lifetime and that Harry's 'proof' was flimsy at best and ridiculous at worst. And that unfortunately, Brunhilda St. Germain, Ivan Venificus, and Draco Malfoy were all dead, so Harry's speculations would have to remain exactly that - speculations.

Harry idly observed the players on the field, trying to remember the rules of football and evaluate how each team was doing, apart from the scores. It seemed that most of the players on Malfoy's team were hopelessly outclassed when it came to individual technique, but the Taffs didn't have as good a grasp on teamwork. The frequency with which they passed the ball amongst themselves was far lower than the frequency of passing among the Caerphilly players. They should probably work on that, because Caerphilly was holding its own and had a chance of winning the game.

Zabini hadn't even bothered to really refute any of what Harry had speculated on. He'd merely said "I paid for my mistakes, Harry. We all got on with our lives, moved on and left the unpleasantness behind us."

"Not everybody was so lucky."

"Casualties of war, Harry."

"Stop calling me by my first name, Andrew," Harry had said mildly, and Zabini's smile had remained easy, but his eyes tightened a little.

"No, indeed, Mr. Potter. Excuse my presumption." He'd clasped his hands before him in an attitude of respectful deference with just enough irony in it to radiate contempt. "As I was saying, I paid for my mistakes."

"You had some property confiscated and were detained for two months. Somehow that doesn't seem quite adequate, for all that you did."

"That property was my ancestral home," Zabini's voice had taken on a bitter edge. "Which the Ministry appropriated out of greed."

"Because they didn't have much property of their own left after your people finished blasting them to bits."

"Casualties of war. I was declared innocent of all charges and given immunity on everything else."

Which was absolutely true, Harry reflected glumly as the Taffs battled to defend their goal.

Funny thing, he mused; although the ball was spending most of its time in the Taff half, Caerphilly couldn't seem to break through Taff's defence. But when the ball came to the Caerphilly side, their own defence was practically useless.

The middle Taff defence player gave a mighty kick and the ball soared all the way to the Caerphilly side, and Malfoy and his fellow midfields practically flew back to their own goal to shore up their weak defence.

Malfoy seemed pretty good at this, Harry observed. Very fast, very capable. And the other Caerphilly players listened to him. If Harry closed his eyes and imagined the game taking place in the air, and ignored the foreign terminology, Malfoy's shouted instructions to his team-mates sounded a lot like instructions during a Quidditch game.

"Follow in - watch your player!"

"You're clear!"

"Behind you!"

Zabini was right. There was very little Harry could do to him, regardless of what had happened to three Muggle youths that night fifteen years ago.

"This started as a simple investigation into a discrepancy in Draco Malfoy's file," Harry had told him. "It could very easily turn into a much more thorough and unpleasant investigation into discrepancies in your own file. You were only given immunity provided you helped the Ministry in all of its investigations. Tell me what happened that night."

Zabini had pursed his lips, obviously weighing his options.

"Right, then." Harry had let out his breath in annoyance and got up. "We'll come back and do all of this under Veritaserum-" he started towards the door.

"You have to understand..." Zabini had begun, and Harry had paused. "The war was effectively almost over, but things were still fairly uncertain and those of us who had made... unwise agreements were forced to carry them out. I... I didn't really have a choice."

Harry had sat back down. "Why was Malfoy there? Had he made an agreement with St. Germain too?"

"He was bored. Forced idleness and disability didn't agree with him, I'm afraid."

"You brought him along to amuse him? Or to have somebody to take the blame if things went sour?"

Zabini had leaned back and smiled. "A little of both."

Harry watched Malfoy as the game neared Caerphilly's goal again. Wishing he hadn't assured Zabini that he'd verify everything Zabini said with Veritaserum if he needed to. Because that meant that, in all likelihood, everything Zabini had told him about that night was true. Maybe not the whole truth; Zabini had undoubtedly left out some important facts and highlighted others. But it still didn't look good for Malfoy. It looked bloody horrible, in fact.

Ah, finally. A whistle blew and the players stopped moving, the Taffs grinning in triumph and the Caerphilly players merely trying to catch their breath. As far as Harry could remember, they'd ended 2 to 3 for Taff. Not bad at all, for a team whose members weren't terribly fast or skilled, against a vastly superior team.

Harry ducked behind the stands and took off his invisibility cloak, then walked onto the small football field as the two teams went through a hand-shaking ritual, then started taking nets down, passing around water bottles, gathering up their things to go. Most of them, Malfoy included, had taken their team shirts off, and Harry noted with surprise that Malfoy had more tattoos than just the Dark Mark and its surrounding designs. Interesting.

As Harry approached, Malfoy was apparently trying to teach a red-haired Caerphilly forward how take the ball away from another player. Harry stopped and watched the two battle for control, Malfoy effortlessly passing the ball from one foot to the other and behind and past the redhead, using his body to block the redhead as he tried fruitlessly to take the ball.

How many times had he and Malfoy fought over the Snitch at Hogwarts? Three times in six years, they'd fought for supremacy in the sky, wheeling around each other, chasing, dodging, very similar to this.

And Malfoy had been damned good at it. Although, good as he was, Malfoy had often cheated by grabbing Harry's broom or deliberately trying to knock him off of it. Having only a vague recollection of the rules of football, Harry guessed that not everything Malfoy was doing right now was strictly according to the rules either. And, judging from the amused snickers from a few of the other players and the somewhat exasperated exclamations from the redhead, he was right.

"Come on, mate, that's not on," he protested, "you can't just - look, no ref will let that one go by-"

"Ah, but if the ref doesn't see it, you've still not got the ball, right?" Malfoy returned, laughing and a little out of breath. "Come on, you can do this. You've seen all my moves; take advantage of that. Anticipate one of them."

Finally the redhead gave up, backing off and putting up his hands in surrender, and the other players called out jeers and cheers. Harry resumed walking across the field as Malfoy sank to the ground, taking off his shin pads and flexing one knee with a grimace of pain, but seemingly otherwise in good spirits.

"Nice goal in the second half, old man," another player smirked, clapping Malfoy on the back. "Sure you didn't break a hip getting it in?"

Malfoy tossed a shin pad at his head and the younger man ducked and laughed. "Sod off, brat," he said good-naturedly. "You try playing midfield at age thirty-eight, we'll see who's the old man then."

Harry squinted as he approached, finally seeing the details of Malfoy's other tattoos: a black dragon and a white narcissus on his right bicep, and a green and silver serpent coiling from his back up to his left shoulder blade, its small face looking towards Malfoy's face from his left shoulder. He noted also a rather ugly scar running down the length of one rib. Most probably not from the war; Malfoy would've used magical means to rid himself of any scars as they happened.

He cleared his throat as the players started to leave the field.

"Potter," Malfoy said, a little surprised.

"Hi," Harry said. "I, er, I need to ask you about something. Do you have a while?" He was struck by how simultaneously Malfoy-like he looked without his glasses, and un-Malfoy-like in Muggle clothing and football cleats.

"All right, yeah," Malfoy glanced at him quizzically as he pulled on a t-shirt. "Jilly's working late tonight, all I've got on my agenda's looking for a crib on the IKEA catalogue."

"There's a pub across the street-"

"I don't drink, but the café's just two blocks away. We can probably make it there before it starts to rain." Malfoy glanced up at the darkening sky, putting on his glasses and stuffing his football equipment into a backpack.

"So did the game help?" Harry asked.

"What?"

"With the, er, administrator from hell."

Malfoy chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't need it. I got all the satisfaction I wanted from making his day about as miserable as he made mine. I think I projected an IQ of about 50 during training," he smirked, and Harry laughed. "Good thing Marcy knows I've half a brain, because otherwise instead of offering me a pay raise as soon as he left, she would've fired me on the spot. Which would really not be the most opportune thing to have happen right now."

"No, I suppose not." Harry chewed on his lip, his mind instinctively shoving away any further thought of the curly-haired young woman he'd met the night before, five months pregnant with Malfoy's child.

Oh, Celsus, Harry thought. Why did I ever listen to you and get involved in this.