The Stained Glass Idyll

History is written by the winners, Draco thought, hiding in the bushes and staring at the Aurors raiding his home. Children will read about us in twenty years, and they'll believe that Voldemort was a tyrant. If we'd won, he'd be a hero and a liberator. All the filthy mudbloods who disagreed would have been exterminated and we would be remembered as the heralds of a new, golden age.

Instead, Draco Malfoy, son and heir of the Malfoy estate, was running for his life.

The events leading up to this moment--a macabre procession of folly and ruin--flashed through Draco's mind.

Four days ago, he'd helped his father torture and kill Remus Lupin. They'd known that this would draw Harry Potter--the Gryffindor wunderkind, Dumbledore's pet and the joy of Muggle lovers everywhere--out of his hole. They'd sent the werewolf's carcass to Harry by five separate owls. The plan was to get him angry, because temper was always a Gryffindor's worst enemy.

Two days ago, they'd received Harry's reply in the form of a challenge. Lucius Malfoy had gone to the stated place and Draco had gone with him.

Draco had watched his father fall under a barrage of attacks from the thirty-odd Aurors who were waiting for them. Draco had concealed himself, and then snuck away to tell Lord Voldemort.

I wonder how they'll justify that in the history books. That blatant foul play. They'll probably pass it off with some comment about how Death Eaters could never be trusted to be fair or how Potter was provoked beyond reason. The so-called good-guys always have an excuse.

One day ago, Harry, flushed from his success, had presented himself at the entrance to Voldemort's secret residence. How he knew where it was, Draco would never know. Voldemort had emerged, enraged at Potter's effrontery. Around him were gathered his inner circle, Draco having taken Lucius' rightful place.

What had ensued was a heated battle, the final outcome of which being that Harry Potter had done what was expected of him and killed Lord Voldemort. Draco's body had strained with the desire to rush forward and finish that sod Potter off while he was weak, but his mind had overruled his desire and as the Golden Boy's friends gathered around him, Draco knew he'd lost his chance. Instead of staying at the scene, he'd turned and run into the forest, making his way stealthily towards where his wand told him Malfoy Manor was.

This was the sight which had greeted him. Aurors in control of the mansion, dragging off his heritage and cataloguing it, the Daily Prophet announcing that Death Eaters were being hunted and persecuted across Britain. Of course, there were some things in the Manor that they would never be able to remove. In a distracted gesture, Draco's hand touched an object hanging on a chain under his shirt and he smiled slightly.

Draco knew he had to disappear. He'd bide his time, somewhere they'd never look for him. And when the time was right...

Maybe there'll even be a note about me. I hope so. I hope it says 'Harry Potter was tragically killed after the war ended by the formidable wizard Draco Malfoy, whose father Potter had murdered.'

That was his ultimate plan. He'd lost his first chance to snuff out that pesky little life, but he wouldn't waste his second one. He would vanish for now, somewhere no one would ever find him, and then, in two years or ten, he'd return.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold.

One day, he would kill Harry Potter.

Turning from the chaos, he began to walk quickly away, vanishing into the evening.

**********************************************************************

Date and time of arrest: 3rd February, 2003: 13:21

Location of Arrest: Knockturn Alley

Details of arrest:

Ginny Weasley tapped her quill on her desk and attempted, quite unsuccessfully, to stifle a large yawn.

"Not falling asleep on the job I hope, Gin?" an amused voice said, startling her.

She looked up to see the green eyes of Harry Potter, the Ministry's numero uno Auror, smiling down at her.

" 'Course not," she drawled, smoothing the thick wad of parchment that lay ominously in front of her. "How could I fall asleep when I have all these thrilling forms to fill out?"

Harry chuckled. "We all have to start somewhere," he reasoned, "And besides, paperwork is very important."

Ginny looked at him skeptically. She doubted that he had ever had to fill out an arrest form in his life. Such mundane tasks were not given to the likes of Harry Potter. "I guess you're right," she said with a sigh, "Still, it'd be nice to get some real action for once."

Harry leant against her desk casually, arms folded. "Well, I guess this is your lucky day. You see, the Ministry has dumped another missing war-criminal case on us, one that they've had lying around for almost two years already. Anyway to cut a long story short, I thought, and Kingsley agrees, that this would be a good first solo assignment for you. It should be interesting, and quite a coup, should you manage to carry it off."

Ginny looked up at him, eyes wide. "Are you serious? My own case? That's brilliant!" she squealed, jumping up to embrace him in an awkward hug.

Harry laughed again. "Woah, settle down. You haven't even heard what it is yet!"

Ginny grinned impishly up at him. "Oh, I don't care what it is. My very own assignment! I've been wanting this for ages. It's so exciting, I wouldn't care if I had to haul in a homicidal rapist," she paused, "I don't have to haul in a homicidal rapist do I?" she asked, only half-joking.

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, a strange glint in his eyes. "Uh, no, not exactly. Your Mum would have me tarred and feathered is she thought I'd sent you after a mentally unhinged rapist. No, I'm almost certain he hasn't raped anyone." Harry's eyes unfocused, as if his mind had suddenly taken leave of his body.

"Harry?" Ginny asked nervously.

"Wha-, oh sorry Gin, what was I saying? Your assignment, right. Well, I'll let Kingsley brief you, you're expected in his office in about ten minutes." He straightened up. "I think you'll enjoy this assignment Gin. Congratulations," he said warmly, before turning to leave.

Ginny stared blankly after him. "Uh, thanks," she said, to no one in particular. She shook her head in wonder, and set out for the office of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Director and Chief of the Department of Aurors. Impressive title for an equally impressive man, Ginny thought with a wry smile.

Ginny wound her way through the department's many corridors (which often changed and were perilous to anyone not familiar with them) until she arrived at the thick mahogany door of Kingsley's office. She raised her hand to knock on the door but before she had the chance, it swung magically open to reveal the man himself, leaning back in his leather chair, a smug smile on his dark, handsome face.

"Ginny, nice to see you. Come in, take a seat."

Ginny stepped into his large office. It was a spacious room, with a crowded book case on one side of the room, an enormous desk in the middle and every inch of every surface covered with stacks of parchment, quills, folders and various other items. She wondered how he could bear to work in such a chaotic environment, but Kingsley looked like he was in his element.

"So," he said after she had sat, "You've been doing well Ginny. I've been quite impressed with your progress. Starting out as an Auror, particularly for women, is a difficult thing, but you've handled yourself well. I was especially impressed by your work in the illegal breeding of Chimeras case. You did some exceptional work there."

Ginny couldn't help herself, she beamed.

"So in light of your outstanding record, I have decided that you are ready for your first individual project." Kingsley paused, gave her an appraising look, then sighed. "You already know don't you?"

Ginny nodded, grinning sheepishly.

"That bloody Potter," Kingsley said jokingly, "Can't keep his mouth shut. Well, I'll spare you the rest of my speech; let's just get straight into it." He waved his wand, which had been resting on the table beside him, and a folder containing a several sheets of parchment appeared in front of him.

"As you probably know, after the war, the Ministry of Magic formed a special branch of wizards to deal with the remaining Death Eaters. They were quite successful, though many of the Death Eaters were so broken by this point that they came with us willingly. The branch has all but disbanded now, despite several wanted Death Eaters still being at large, and that's where we come in. The Ministry feels obligated to still make some effort to find these wizards, some of whom have been missing for two years now, and you have the job of locating one of them." He opened the dog-eared file. "This Death Eater disappeared right after Voldemort fell. There hasn't been a single sighting of him since then, and the Ministry would have presumed him dead and given up the investigation had he not been such a influential member of the Dark Force."

Ginny felt a strange numbing sensation form in the bottom of her stomach. She had a bad feeling she might know the wizard Kingsley was talking about.

"This Death Eater was believed to be a part of Voldemort's innermost circle, and the Ministry are nervous about letting his disappearance go unchecked." He pushed the file in Ginny's direction. "The wizard in question is, of course, Draco Malfoy."

Ginny's heart skipped a beat as she stared down at the fierce, scowling and impossibly handsome face in the picture in front of her. "Draco Malfoy?" she said weakly.

"Yes. I believe you were at school with him. He was in Harry's year wasn't he?"

Ginny nodded silently, her voice seemingly stuck in the back of her throat.

Kingsley gave her a hard look. "You will be able to deal with this case won't you Ginny? I gave it to you especially since you have prior knowledge of Malfoy. There aren't any problems are there?"

Ginny looked down, catching another glance of the dangerous face of Malfoy glaring up at her, and feeling more than a bit light-headed, she took a deep breath. She forced her eyes to meet Kingsley's. "No, there are no problems," she said, struggling to keep her voice from shaking, "I'll take this assignment."

Kingsley's face broke into a relived grin. "Excellent. Well, take that folder, it contains some basic information on Malfoy." Ginny took the folder and rose to leave. "Make sure you check in with the office every few days by owl, floo or in person."

Ginny nodded and she turned to walk out the door.

"Oh and Ginny?" She turned to face him. "Good luck."

She smiled. "Thanks." I'll need it.

* * * * * * * * *

In spite of himself, Draco liked St Petersburg in the winter. As he huddled down in his expensive fur-lined overcoat, and felt the snowflakes melt gently on his cheeks, he almost felt lighter.

Frowning, he brushed them irritably off. He didn't want to feel light.

Draco was sitting on the edge of the Anichkov Bridge, staring at the Palace. He did this often--the Palace with its antiquated decadence fascinated him. Every day he woke up, showered and had a cup or three of coffee. Then he went for a rambling walk which from time to time ended here. Sometimes he smoked his first or second cigarette of the day.

He sat here and he brooded. He replayed his father's death, but the memory had grown vague, like a video gone snowy with overuse. The Draco Malfoy his father had known would never have been aware of what a video was, but when one lived among Muggles and immersed oneself in their culture, one had to cling to the small compensations. One such compensation was TV. Another was hard drugs.

Wizards had no use for drugs, as they had spells and potions. For Draco, however, no magic could match the dangerous exhilaration of that mundane little pill as it settled in his stomach and began its work. Then the hallucinations and the euphoria carried him away.

Draco knew that every day he ingested a lethal cocktail of substances. He justified it as part of 'The Plan'--his ultimate plot to have revenge on the Boy Who Lived While Others Died. It was an amorphous entity, his plan. One day soon, Draco would come up with the key to penetrating the security surrounding Potter. He would break through and the last thing Harry Potter would see would be Draco's face and a green flash of light.

Of course, Draco was not fool enough to think he could escape after this. Within seconds, alerted by Draco's use of magic, the Ministry would swarm to the site like flies to dung. He would be thrown into Azkaban, but little would the Ministry know that his dependence on the drugs had reached the extent that without advanced medical help, the kind provided by Muggles, the withdrawal would almost certainly kill him. Then he could join his father in the afterlife with pride.

Draco stood up, extinguishing his cigarette and flicking the butt into the Fontanka River. He stood up and ambled off, ignoring the annoyed looks he got from passers-by. His mind was lingering on an encounter he had had earlier in the week. He would have to move on soon, if he didn't want to get found.

He had realised this because someone had found him. A couple of people he had known at school, in fact. They had been a grade above him--Ellivia Gray and Aidan Blackstone.

He had been wandering around the Nevsky Prospekt when someone had yelled his name from the other side of the street. He swung around, dropping into a crouch, ready to run.

"Draco!"

His eyes had eventually located the person yelling his name. He hadn't immediately recognised the two figures hurrying towards him; both were swathed from head to toe in warm clothing. Then Ellivia had pulled off her muffler and he had recognised the coppery brown hair and black-green eyes.

"Ellivia." It had almost been a hiss.

Of course, knowing that it was Ellivia Gray he spoke to, he realised who the other figure must be. Ellivia was never seen without her best friend and protector, Aidan Blackstone. This knowledge had been verified when Aidan removed his beanie revealing sandy blonde hair which complemented his midnight-blue eyes. Draco and Aidan were actually second cousins, but very little love was lost between the two branches of the family, and they didn't hold any filial respect for each other at all.

Draco had never fully trusted these two, for all they had both been Slytherins. Ellivia had been known as the White Sheep, for although she was in Slytherin, she was nice to everyone no matter what their house was or the stigma attached to them. Draco was a firm believer in the old adage: Everyone craves power--it's those who hide it whom you need to fear. Of course, as a Malfoy, he feared no one, but he mistrusted Ellivia. There had to be a reason she was put into Slytherin. As for Aidan, he was the Hogwarts Whore, and everyone knew he danced to Ellivia's tune.

She had hugged him, exclaiming that they had all been so worried and why hadn't he contacted them? Calmly, he explained that he was in hiding because he didn't want the Ministry to know he was alive.

Ellivia nodded solemnly.

"We won't tell, Draco," she said seriously. "Will we, Aidan?"

Aidan shook his head.

"Anyway," Ellivia continued. "Will you come and have coffee with us, Draco? Delightful stuff, coffee. Nothing in else the world quite equals it."

Draco conceded that this was very true. Although he hadn't really wanted to talk to Ellivia and Aidan for any longer, he had found himself bustled into the nearest coffee shop before he knew it.

"So, cuz," said Aidan, leaning over. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

Draco shrugged and looked at his mug.

"Oooh..." Aidan rolled his eyes. "You've been flogging yourself for failing Lucius, castigating yourself for failing You-Know-Who, and blaming yourself for the fact that Potter still lives, breathes and has all his fingers."

"Shut up, Aidan; don't antagonise him," Ellivia was reproachful.

Draco had scowled at Aidan. "And what are you doing here, cuz?"

Aidan shrugged. "Shopping. I owe Ellivia a present from her birthday."

"Which was over a month ago," Ellivia added, rolling her eyes. "I was thinking about making him buy me a nice apartment around here somewhere."

Aidan winced, causing Draco to smirk. "That sounds lovely, Ellivia."

Out of curiosity, which he intended to firmly suppress later, Draco asked, "What is happening in England?"

Ellivia frowned. "Well, Death Eaters are still being hunted outrageously. They've brought just about all the ones with Dark Marks in--after all, everyone knew who those were, even after the marks vanished-- and some of the uninitiated underlings. They're harder to find, of course.

"They haven't brought you in, though, I see."

"I never had a Dark Mark, did I?"

"Yet while I was there, you were Lord Voldemort's left hand."

"I don't know where you got that idea," Ellivia said primly. "Aidan and I stayed out of the War. It was none of our business." Ellivia made a little face, followed by a smile.

"Pumpkin, we should be going," Aidan said warningly.

Ellivia sighed. "You're right," she said. "Well, Draco, it's nice to know you're still alive. Take care. No doubt we'll meet again eventually."

Draco stood, kissed Ellivia politely on the cheek, then shook Aidan's hand. Outside the coffee shop they went in different directions.

Recalling himself to the present, Draco brushed more snowflakes off his face. He was still troubled by his meeting with those remnants of his former life, and more so by the thought that other, less benign characters might find him here too.

At that moment, Draco saw--as if conjured by the thought--a very familiar head in the crowd. At first he tried to deny it, but the sombre auburn hair, burning chestnut-brown eyes, pallid skin and overly luscious red lips made denial impossible. Tybalt Mephisto, a bully and formed low-level flunky of Lord Voldemort's, was coming towards him. Heart pounding, Draco swung into the nearest doorway and ducked out of sight. He had no doubt that Tybalt, if had seen him, would take the information straight to the Ministry of Magic, especially if it could buy him lenience and a pardon to return to England.

Whether or not Tybalt had seen him, he had to leave St Petersburg. Three old acquaintances in two weeks presented dangerous odds.

After about five minutes, he snuck out of the door and made his way to his hotel. There, he called the airline and booked a seat on the next available flight out of Russia. He only hoped it would be soon enough.

Hailing a taxi, he looked for the last time with slight regret at inner-city St Petersburg.

It's just as well, he thought, feeling melancholy. I was getting too attached to this city anyway.

* * * * * * * * *

Ginny dragged herself up the stairs to the entrance of her townhouse and pushed the door open. She walked through the living room, ignoring the small stack of post that was lying on the coffee table and, dropping her leather bag to the floor, collapsed in her favourite chair. Pushing her shoes off her long-suffering feet, she sank into the comfortably worn fabric.

Ginny loved this time of day--late afternoon, just before twilight. It was one of the few times during the day when she got a moment to herself. Her flat mates, Colin Creevey and Orla Quirke, got home at varying times during the evening, due to their chosen careers. Orla was the manager of a small nightclub in one of the few Wizarding districts of London, while Colin was a photographer/journalist for the Daily Prophet.

Ginny's moment of relaxation was interrupted when she heard the door slam and footsteps on the wooden floor of the entranceway. It wasn't the stiletto-heeled shoes of Orla she heard, which meant it could only be one person. Sure enough, in the doorway of the living room appeared a pair of expensive leather loafers, the preferred footwear of her best friend Colin.

"Ginny honey," he said, surveying her exhausted form. "You look buggered."

Ginny smiled at the very sight of him, impeccable as always in well-fitting black slacks and a deep blue shirt, a similar shade to his eyes. His brown hair was styled so that a thin wisp of it fell invitingly over his face. He pushed said strand back from his forehead before walking over and seating himself in the chair next to hers.

"Rough day?"

Ginny sighed, more deeply than she had intended to. "Rough isn't really the right word. I had a...challenging day."

Colin raised an eyebrow. "Challenging? In what way?"

"Well, I got a new assignment today," she said, smoothing her hair behind her ear. "My first unaccompanied case."

Colin's face lit up. "Why Ginny, that's fabulous!"

She nodded. "Yes, yes," she said, cutting short his congratulations, "That was my initial reaction as well. Then I found out what my assignment actually is." She reached down to her bag beside her, pulled out the beige folder and handed it to Colin. She watched him as he flipped through it, surprise and then realisation dawning on his face. He took his time, flipping through all the pages, and when he was done, he looked up at Ginny, his face full of concern. "Oh Gin, what are you going to do?"

Ginny took the folder back and carefully placed it on the table next to her. "There's nothing much I can do, Colin. This is what it's like to be an Auror, I guess. You get cases that you don't want to deal with, that touch on a nerve, but you have to go through with them or else you'll never improve. I have to at least try to do this."

"But, Malfoy, he's such a terrible person, he's done such awful things ... it's very dangerous, isn't it?"

Ginny looked away briefly, attempting to ignore that now-familiar sinking feeling that appeared in the bottom of her stomach every time Malfoy was mentioned. "Well, my job is not to apprehend him, rather it's just to track him down, so in theory I may not even come into contact with him."

Theory, she added mentally, is often very different from practice.

Colin nodded. "That's true, and I suppose there is one good thing about all of this," he said, his eyes resting on the picture of Malfoy that lay open on the table.

Ginny followed his eyes. "Oh? And what's that?"

"Well, Malfoy, he's dead gorgeous, isn't he?"

Ginny let out a shocked laugh. "Colin!" she cried, hurling a throw pillow at him. "He's a murderer, a torturer of furry animals and small children."

"Who has a really good arse," Colin added.

Ginny snorted. "You can't even see his arse in that picture."

Colin leant back in his chair, a knowing look on his face. "Trust me, Gin, Draco Malfoy has a great arse."

"Well, I suppose I'll find out first-hand, should I manage to find him. I'll take a picture for you if you'd like," she joked.

Colin grinned. "Excellent."

* * * * * * * * *

Draco rested his head against the window of the plane. It had just landed and all the passengers were eagerly competing to disembark and get out into the airport terminal. The old lady next to him, who had chattered to Draco all the way from St. Petersburg in that oblivious, careless way of some old ladies, leaned over and patted his arm.

"Dearie, we're at the terminal."

Draco gritted his teeth and nodded, trying to ignore her.

The poor deluded woman seemed to think they were kindred spirits after he had spoken, making a token effort at politeness, to tell her that he just wanted to be left alone. She had recognised his accent and exulted for a full half-hour over the joy of hearing an English accent after so many years of speaking Russian or hearing Russian-accented English. Draco derived no such enjoyment from her Cockney waffling. In fact, he was actually insulted, in a disinterested sort of way, that she dared to assume that she, a common woman and he, an aristocrat of the highest order--even disregarding the wizarding blood--could be connected in any way.

He had been amazed that she could even afford to fly first-class until she had revealed that the trip had been a gift from her daughter and son-in-law to honour her seventieth birthday. He had smiled politely.

After that he had tuned his headphones into the jazz station on the aeroplane radio. Draco liked jazz music--that, and classical. He liked the raw emotion, especially when it was dark, that flowed through the pieces without their being so contrived and marketed as 'popular' music.

The plane cleared, taking the irritating old woman with it, and when it was at last completely empty, he pulled his carry-on back from the overhead compartment and exited.

He had been in such a hurry to leave St. Petersburg that he didn't even know what airport this was, though he was reasonably sure he was in an Asian country. He went up to the desk and asked the attendant what for next flight on which he could book one first-class ticket.

Draco swiftly identified his location from the desk clerk, who wore a cute sailor-girl uniform and whose English was spoken with an easily recognisable accent. A quick glance at the flight monitors confirmed his guess. He was in Japan. Tokyo, to be more precise, in the foyer of Narita International Airport.

He picked the first flight the clerk offered him, with some vague curiosity.

Brisbane, Australia. He had never heard of it, which was encouraging, because it meant it was likely that nobody else had either. His fake British passport would probably be more suitable in Australia than his Russian one, so he produced it when the woman prompted him.

Soon he was on a plane again. It was a long flight, and he was again burdened with an overly chatty neighbor, but he was comforted by the hope that it would be the last.

However, upon reaching Brisbane Airport, he decided that Australia would be unsuitable. It was a pretty preemptory decision, mainly spurred by the fact that a place in a magazine on the plane had taken his fancy.

He went up to the desk.

"If I wanted to go to... Vanuatu, how would I go about it?" he demanded of the attendant.

* * * * * * * * *

Ginny awoke the next morning to the soft pitter-patter of rain on her tiled roof. Rolling over onto her side, she watched as droplets of water splashed gently onto the windowpane and slid smoothly down the glass at varying speeds.

Ginny always felt sorry for the droplets that got left behind, the ones that were stuck laboring along the surface while the others rolled down with impressive speed. She sighed and snuggled under her thick blanket. The rain was oddly unseasonable for January, although it sometimes seemed to rain endlessly in London at other times of the year.

As she lay in bed, letting herself sink into the mattress, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted into her room, delighting her senses and igniting an internal battle: coffee versus bed. In the end, the temptation of the aromatic coffee won out and Ginny pushed back her covers, slipped into her blue slippers and her old flannelette dressing gown and padded down the stairs to the kitchen. On one of the stools by the breakfast bar sat Orla Quirke, coffee in hand, reading the paper. Ginny yawned loudly, causing Orla to look up from her paper and smile, her eyes clouded with weariness.

"Morning Gin. How ya going?" she said, voice hoarse and strained.

"I'm fine," Ginny replied, taking in Orla's rumpled black mini dress and disheveled blonde hair, "but you look wrecked. When did you get home last night?"

Orla drained the last of her coffee and looked at the clock that hung above the oven. "Oh, about half an hour ago. The club was crazy last night; I mean it always is this time of year, what with the tourists and all, but last night was ridiculous."

Ginny nodded sympathetically while edging towards the pot of coffee that sat alluringly near the sink. "But if you only got home a half hour ago, why are you having coffee? Don't you need to get some sleep? Because you look like you could sleep for a week."

"It's decaf." Orla shrugged, buttering herself some toast.

Ginny's hand, which had been reaching for the pot, froze. "It's what?"

Orla looked up and laughed at the absolute horror on Ginny's face. "The good decaf, you know, in the silver packet?"

Ginny looked at her skeptically. "The Moroccan stuff? Freshly ground?"

Orla nodded, her mouth full of toast. "Of course," she said after swallowing. "I wouldn't dare brew anything else. I know what you and Colin are like."

Ginny sniffed the coffee suspiciously.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Ginny, just drink it! There's nothing wrong with it."

Ginny gave her roommate a quick grin, poured herself a large mugful and shuffled over to join her. Once settled in her chair, she took a sip of her drink, taking longer than necessary to swallow and consider the taste.

Orla was watching her, half amused, half frustrated. "Well?"

Ginny placed her mug on the bench with great care. "Not bad," she said, "as far as decaf goes."

Orla threw the crust of her toast at her. "You are such a pain in the arse," she said with a laugh.

Ginny picked up the crust and threw it right back. "Yeah, but you love me anyway."

"Mmm, though you do give me cause to wonder sometimes," Orla mused.

Ginny smiled into her coffee; it was actually pretty good, despite the lack of caffeine. "Are you working tonight?" she asked.

Orla nodded. "I start at four this afternoon."

"Four? But you'll barely get any sleep. They can't make you do that, can they?"

"No they can't. But tonight is different. There's a function at the club, one that I've helped organize, so I want to be there for it."

"A function, eh?" Ginny said, raising an eyebrow. "What type of function?"

"A twenty-first." Orla stood up and took her mug to the sink.

"Anyone I know?"

Orla leaned against the sink, facing Ginny. She looked to Ginny like she was going to fall asleep right there and then. "Grace McDonald. You may have known her sister Natalie. She was in my year, but in Gryffindor."

"Yeah, I'm not sure I remember Grace, but then I may have seen her around and just assumed she was Natalie."

Orla yawned. "I think that's what a lot of people did."

Ginny looked at her friend closely. "Go to bed, Orla, you need to get some sleep," she said maternally.

"I won't argue with you there," Orla said, rubbing her eyes and turning towards the stairs. " 'Night."

"You mean 'Morning," Ginny said with a smile.

"Ah, yeah, whatever," Orla mumbled sleepily before disappearing up the stairs.

After her friend's departure, Ginny ate a leisurely breakfast before carefully perusing the Daily Prophet. She read a piece on the upcoming Quidditch final, which her brother Ron would not stop talking about, between Puddlemere United and the Chudley Cannons, and a cute little story by Colin on the new Wizarding Bachelor of the Year, Justin Finch-Fletchley. Justin had edged out the obvious reigning champion, Harry Potter, by a nose. I thought he was gay, Ginny mused, glancing down at the beaming face of the young politician. In fact, I'm sure he and Colin...oh well, I suppose what the public doesn't know can't hurt them.

She put her dishes in the sink and decided it was high time that she got dressed. One of the definite plusses of having her own case was the flexible working hours, but if she wasn't careful Ginny knew she could waste a whole day pottering around the house, which is not something she could afford to do, especially since she had an appointment to see the Special-Tasks Auror who had previously been in charge of the Malfoy case.

She tiptoed up the stairs to her bedroom, mindful of her sleeping housemates, and pulled out of her cupboard her favourite pair of jeans and a knitted, blue jumper. Pulling her unruly red hair into a ponytail at the base of her neck, she grabbed her leather bag and the matching blue scarf and gloves that her mother had knitted for her two Christmases ago. After giving her room a once-over, making sure that everything was relatively tidy, she made her way back down the stairs, trying unsuccessfully to muffle the sound of her three-inch heeled boots on the wooden floor.

She walked to the entrance hall window and peeked out the curtains to take in the stormy sky. She looked from the ominous grey clouds and rain, which had gotten steadily worse since she had woken up, to her trusty old Firebolt that sat in the corner, begging to be ridden. It would be ludicrous to go flying in this weather--suicidal even. She gave her broom one last longing look before closing her eyes and Apparating to the Auror office in Oxford.

Ginny hitched the strap of her bag up onto her shoulder and knocked lightly on the glass door of the office of Ernest Wilberforce.

"Come in," a voice rasped.

Ginny walked in, quietly shutting the door behind her, and surveyed the office. It was small, about a quarter of the size of Kingsley's, and rather messy. The walls were bare, except for a picture of a woman and two young boys, presumably the Wilberforce family. In the center of the room, behind a cluttered desk, made out of cheap pine, the kind that all the less important Ministry officials were commissioned with, sat a middle-aged man with greying hair and a weathered face.

"Mr. Wilberforce?" Ginny asked politely, moving closer to the desk.

The man stood up. "Yes that's right. You must be Miss Weasley. Please take a seat."

"Thanks," she replied, seating herself and placing her bag on the floor next to her.

"So," Mr. Wilberforce said, folding his arms across his chest, "you're the lucky Auror who gets to take up the Malfoy case?"

"Yes that's right," Ginny said, slightly put off by his cynical tone.

"I'm glad to be rid of it," he said matter-of-factly.

"Oh? Why is that?"

He leaned forward, placing his hands on his desk. "I take it you haven't been an Auror for very long, Miss Weasley."

Ginny nodded. "I joined the force a bit over two years ago."

"Well, I've been an Auror for over thirty years, I've survived both the Voldemort wars and their aftermaths--which in many ways, is the hardest time for Aurors. In my time I have had several cases that have reached complete dead ends, where there were no leads and where no new information ever turned up. Cases that are so bloody frustrating, my hair goes grey just thinking about them. This is one of those cases. I'll be glad to wash my hands of it and get on with some work that may actually be able to produce results."

Ginny raised her eyebrows, taken aback. This was not what she wanted to hear. "Do you mean to say that I have been sent on some kind of wild goose chase?" she asked, a note of indignation clear in her voice.

Wilberforce opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, looking at her closely. "It is not my place to say Miss Weasley. I will say this though." He crossed his arms across his chest. "No one knows if Malfoy is dead--personally I think he is. If he is alive, he is hidden by a practically impenetrable anti-tracking charm. He disappeared without a trace, as many of Voldemort's followers did after he was defeated, most of who have since been confirmed dead. I personally don't think you have a chance in hell of finding him, but I will help you in anyway I can."

Ginny leaned back in her chair, processing this information. "Okay," she said after a moment's silence, "what can you give me?"

Wilberforce smiled at the defiant look on her face. He opened the filling cabinet behind him and pulled out a thick folder and a small wooden box. He placed the file on the desk.

"This is for you," he said, nodding at the folder, "It contains everything you ever wanted to know about Malfoy and some things you didn't. A lot of the stuff is basic, though you may find some of it useful."

Ginny took the folder and flipped through it. He was right, it was comprehensive. There was a copy of the scroll on which Malfoy's birth was recorded, a copy of his Hogwart's record--it turned out Malfoy was a decent student--as well as medical and criminal records, both of which were fairly lengthy, and his Apparation license.

"What's this?" she asked, holding out a page full of numbers.

"His bank records," Wilberforce replied, taking the page from her. "This column here is the account number, this is the account balance and last date of withdrawal."

Ginny looked at the sheet in his hands. There was one lone number, in the left hand corner of the page. "What about that?" she said, pointing to the number.

Wilberforce shrugged. "Probably some account-related business, a password or something. Bank records are never much help. Most wizards have a private stash of money separate from the banks anyway. The Malfoys never did have a problem with money. Nevertheless all his Wizarding bank accounts--and there are quite a few--have been tagged, and you'll be informed if he uses any of them."

Ginny nodded slowly, but didn't dismiss the mystery number straight away. There was something about it that looked vaguely familiar in the odd pattern of numbers; she sensed she had seen something like it before. She took the page from Wilberforce and stuffed the folder in her bag, before turning her attention to the small box sitting on the table.

"And this is?" she asked, her curiosity roused once more.

Wilberforce picked the box up and flicked the lid open. "A Portkey."

Ginny raised her eyebrows. "This Portkey wouldn't happen to take me directly to Malfoy, would it?" she asked hopefully.

Wilberforce shook his head. "Nope, but it'll take you to his former residence."

"Oh?"

Wilberforce took a flat piece of metal, a bit smaller than a Galleon, and walked over to Ginny's side of the desk. "Malfoy Manor, of course."

* * * * * * * * *

This new place was good, a change from St. Petersburg, Draco thought staring out the window of his five-star bungalow into the pouring rain. In his traveling he had taken two planes, a train and a ferry, so he doubted they would ever find him here among the Muggle tourists whom he itched to kill with every breath.

He was painfully aware of the unkempt state of his person. He hadn't stopped moving for the last thirty-six hours and he was in dire need of a wash. He located the shower and turned the taps on while he dragged the damp, soiled clothes off his body. Stepping under the hot, running water was cathartic and Draco almost expired with relief as he located some soap and set about washing all the stress and grime off his skin.

He was wandering out of the bathroom after his shower, when his attention was captured by his reflection. Once he had checked his appearance every time he passed a mirror. These days he didn't have time for such frivolity, and rarely noticed.

Today he stopped and turned, facing the mirror full-on. His damp blond hair clung messily to his scalp and he had a towel wrapped carelessly low around his hips.

His hair, he noted absently, was getting long again, caressing his chin at the front and his shoulders at the back. He'd have to get it cut soon, or else tie it back in a ponytail.

He wondered if women still found him attractive. They had in his school days, he remembered. Even after that, he had thought--as he studied his face in the mirrors at Malfoy Manor--that the war and maturity had given his pointed features a certain sharp strength, and his mouth a determined slant.

Now he looked at himself, taking in the slightly slanted grey eyes, the aristocratic nose and the generous lower lip. He hated this face. It was soft and weak. It was the face of a boy, or a woman. Not one of a man.

His gaze moved to his chest. He noticed distractedly the myriad scars gathered over his years at home, the war and what came after. He noted the barely defined pectorals, fading into a prominently visible ribcage and slender hips. It was a weak body, one to match the face. One which couldn't do the simplest task, but instead promised disappointment.

Draco's perfect effeminate lip curled in revulsion.

* * * * * * * * *

Although the rain had subsided, the clouds overhead were as dark and threatening as ever. The wind had picked up and was whipping Ginny's hair around her face. She pulled her coat tight, and looked up at the house that stood before them. Ginny supposed it was a house, as served the same purpose as one, but she had never seen a building that looked less like an ordinary house. It was the size of a small castle, made entirely of dark stone, with sinister statues and towers sticking oddly out of the structure. She guessed that it was centuries old, but there was no way of telling, for although the architecture and design of the place seemed almost medieval, the grounds and the building itself were in perfect condition. The lawn was immaculate, and the rows of vines and trees that ran along the side of the estate looked as if they were pruned regularly. Ginny turned her head and gasped. Behind her, stretching for as far as she could see was miles and miles of green countryside, the type described in picture books. Rolling hills and green paddocks, thick forests simply begging to be explored, it was astoundingly beautiful. She breathed in the crisp, fragrant air and instantly fell in love. In years to come she would remember her first trip to Malfoy Manor and savor the awakening her senses experienced at that very moment.

"Where are we?" Ginny asked, still gazing in awe at the vastness of the land.

Wilberforce, who was wearing a large grey trench coat and a little tweed hat, put the Portkey safely in his pocket before replying. "Near Wolverhampton. Not too many miles from the Welsh border. Beautiful isn't it?"

Ginny nodded. Beautiful really didn't cover it. It was breathtaking. To think such gorgeous surroundings could foster such wretched human beings. A shiver went down her spine as she turned back to the Manor.

"You ready then?" Wilberforce asked.

Ginny shoved her hands into her coat pockets and nodded. "Lead the way."

"That's the main dinning room," Wilberforce said, pointing to a large doorway that opened into a room that was about the size of Ginny's entire apartment. The inside of the Manor was as spectacular as the outside, if not more so. The walls were high and adorned with expensive looking paintings and portraits. The ceiling was finished with an elaborate plaster cornice and in several of the rooms hung an enormous silver chandelier. There were vases in the house that Ginny had no doubt cost more than a year's worth of her salary.

"I tell you," she said, as they passed a display cabinet holding what looked like an antique sword, "I'd have hated to live here when I was growing up. I'd be constantly afraid I was going to break something."

Which was never a problem at the Burrow, as more often than not, everything was already broken.

"Yeah, and for some reason, I don't think Lucius would have been very understanding about it if you had," Wilberforce replied.

"No, not at all," she said, thinking of the few encounters she had had with that thoroughly unpleasant man. Unpleasant? Try down right evil.

They had reached a large circular room that had several corridors running off it, and a spiral staircase in the center. It was a bizarrely shaped room, not at all practical, but then in a house like this, Ginny reasoned, practicality wasn't a high priority. Wilberforce went to straight to the staircase.

"After he graduated from school, Malfoy Junior moved from his second floor room, and set up camp in the dungeons," he explained as he began descending the stone staircase.

Ginny followed, taking in the deep gunmetal grey of the stone walls that made the area both beautiful and imposing. "I suppose after being in Slytherin, dungeons were the only thing that felt like home," she remarked.

"Hell," Wilberforce muttered, "I wouldn't mind living in a dungeon either if it looked like this."

The space in front of them was not at all like Ginny expected. Unlike the damp, dark environment of the Hogwarts' dungeons, these were surprisingly well lit with many candles and tastefully decorated with mahogany furniture and high-backed cushioned chairs. It was the most comfortable looking area of the house Ginny had seen yet, and she could understand why someone would want to live here. It was somehow less showy, less ostentatious than the rest of the house. There was a simplicity in the angles and colours of the room that made Ginny relax a little.

""It is kind of nice down here," Ginny admitted, going over to a large tapestry that hung on the wall opposite the fireplace. It was the first tapestry she had seen in the Manor so far. The Malfoy's seemed more like portrait people; tapestries didn't seem grand or expensive enough for their tastes, too quaint perhaps. But the one that hung on the far right wall of the dungeon was lovely and somehow vaguely familiar. She looked closer and it struck her.
Of course, 'The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black', it's the same as the one that used to hang on the wall of Sirius' house.
As far as Ginny knew, Harry had had that tapestry destroyed after he had moved into the house, which Sirius had left to him. It was interesting to see that another one, almost an exact replica in fact, existed.
"That's from Draco's mother's side of the family, as you can see by the Black family crest the on the left hand corner. No doubt it was a family heirloom that Lucius wasn't too fond of and banished to the dungeons," Wilberforce explained, coming up behind her.
Ginny nodded. It was odd seeing something she had always associated with Sirius in the Malfoy's house, it made her feel strangely uncomfortable
"So," she said, eager to change the subject, "What's that?" she asked, pointing to a small wooden trapdoor that was set in the far wall.

"Ah," Wilberforce said with a little smile, "That harmless little door is the entrance to the Malfoy safe, in which lies a large portion of the Malfoy fortune."

Ginny raised her eyebrows. "Oh? How did you get in there? Surely it's protected."

Wilberforce let out a snort. "Protected? Honey, you have no idea. It took fifteen of the best curse breakers, six Aurors and two weeks to get past the hexes, curses and other nasty stuff that guarded that damn vault. And we still haven't been able to remove the money from the Manor. That goes for most of the stuff here, the magic's just too powerful."

"I can imagine," Ginny said. There was no doubting that a family like the Malfoy's would have pretty tight security around their fortune.

"Do you want to see it?"

"See it? As in the fortune?" Ginny asked.

Wilberforce nodded.

Do I really want to have the mountains of gold and riches that lie behind that door rubbed in my face?

"Ah, no, I think I'll be alright," Ginny replied.

Wilberforce shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, moving over to one of the high backed chairs, "It's pretty bloody impressive though, I'd never seen anything like it."

"I'll bet," she said, moving over to the chair next to him, but not having the nerve to sit down.

"Millions of Galleons worth of stuff I'd say, unbelievable really. Wall to wall gold, there isn't an inch of space to fit anything else in," he gushed.

"Mmm," Ginny murmured again, "Well, the Malfoys had to live the life of luxury, didn't they?"

"But of course," Wilberforce said, heavily placing his feet on the expensive-looking chest that lay before them, "And such a life does not come cheaply."

"No," Ginny said thoughtfully, "It certainly doesn't."

* * * * * * * * *

Draco took in the scene in front of him. Three thugs had stepped out of the shadows and were eyeing him menacingly. He knew they were spoiling for a fight, possibly more. He also knew that he stood no chance of winning by himself--a skinny weak man against two overly muscled ruffians and their rat-faced leader. Calmly he lit a cigarette and took a drag, then he dropped it on the ground where it lay smoldering. There were people like this everywhere, he reflected. He'd gotten in his share of fights in St Petersburg too, and by luck--whether good or bad--had managed to survive them with only his collection of scars to show for it.

The leader--Rat-face--flushed angrily at Draco's nonchalance, unaware that Draco was mentally withdrawing as he always did when running away was not an option. Draco knew he deserved the pain he was about to be dealt and it would continue to be his due until he avenged his father's death and that of Lord Voldemort.

"What do you want?" he asked in a dead voice.

Rat-face, taking umbrage at this disinterested question, smiled meanly.

"Just a little fun," he replied.

Draco realised from the stranger's accent that he was not a local. In fact, Rat-face was most likely an American.

Figured.

At his cue, his two followers moved towards Draco who tensed, anticipating the pain. Number One held him, while the other punched him hard in the chest. Straight away, Draco felt a crack and then a searing pain that told him that one of his ribs was fractured. On the tail of the pain came a pleasure brought on by the belief that every time he suffered, a little bit of his debt for his cowardice was repaid. He smiled.

Rat-face's eyes narrowed. Number One, holding Draco's arms behind his back, squeezed his elbows together until Draco thought his shoulder would dislocate. He screamed and Number One released his arms and let him drop to the ground where he curled in fetal position. Number Two kicked him savagely in the stomach.

A rain of punches and kicks assailed him, but he rode them, watching Rat-face's countenance become redder and redder. Finally Rat-face called off his cronies and strode towards where Draco knelt. He watched Draco struggle to his feet. When they were eye to eye, Rat-face swung back his arm and punched Draco hard on the cheekbone. Draco swayed but remained standing, staring expressionlessly at his abuser.

Voices echoed at the end of the alleyway.

Rat-face's mouth screwed up and he glared poisonously at Draco with fury and frustration etched onto his features. Draco knew there was much more Rat-face would have liked to do to him. The beating had just been 'foreplay'.

Finally, as the owners of the voices came around the corner, Rat-face smiled sickly.

"Good-bye, pretty boy." He said, producing a knife out of his jacket. Like quicksilver, he plunged the knife into Draco's abdomen and yanked it out. Then he and his cronies ran away.

Draco was drowning, but it was a delicious drowning. When he crumpled, the impact of his shoulder on the ground caused a light show to illuminate the haze clouding his brain.

He was dimly aware of screams, then vague humanoid shapes. Later he noticed a white ceiling and a man in which bending over to take his temperature. He floated in the darkness until he was returned, unwillingly, to his body.

A nurse was leaning over. She smiled when he opened his eyes and blinked them hazily a few times.

"What's your name dear?" she asked kindly.

"Dra--" Draco began, then remembered himself and fell silent.

He wasn't Draco Malfoy in the eyes of the world.

* * * * * * * * *

"So the Malfoy place was amazing then?" Colin asked as he brought the glasses of pumpkin juice and the plate of scones out onto the patio. The patio at the back of their townhouse was a place where the three housemates often spent time together. It was a small area and the blue paint was chipping of the most of the railings, but it looked out on their small herb garden and was a lovely place to relax.

"Oh yeah," Ginny said, reaching for a scone, "It was unbelievable, like a castle, only more interesting. It was like a work of art."

"What do you mean?" Orla said, before placing some fresh-picked oregano

on the cane table.

Ginny thought back to the angular arches and towers of the mansion, jutting out across the dark sky. "It seemed to--well, this sounds quite ridiculous really--but at times, it seemed to almost have its own personality. Imagine this enormous, sinister-looking castle in the middle of gorgeous countryside. It looked so out of place, yet at the same time it seemed to command the space. There seemed to be this immense power in the very architecture of the building; it was disturbing, but beautiful at the same time."

Colin smiled. "That's very poetic, Gin, but what I want to know is if you found any dirty secrets on Malfoy, like a stash of naughty magazines under his bed or something."

"No, Colin," Ginny laughed. "Unfortunately there were no naughty magazines or other dirty secrets to be found. Malfoy lived a life of exceeding wealth and comfort, which we already knew anyway. Though I must admit, I was quite overwhelmed by the very scale of their riches."

Orla, who had just gotten up from her nap and was having a brief drink before heading back to the club, sipped thoughtfully at her juice. "If Malfoy's not dead, I wonder how he's coping without his satin sheets and caviar," she mused.

Ginny sat up straight in her chair. "You know, that's exactly what I've been thinking and the more I saw of Malfoy Manor, the more it reinforced this idea in my head. Wherever Malfoy is, I can't see him ever roughing it. He must be getting money from somewhere." Ginny pulled her knees up to her chest in a thinking position. "He hasn't accessed his Wizarding bank accounts for over two years, and he couldn't have taken much from the Malfoy safe because Wilberforce told me that it was filled to the brim with gold. It's weird, it's like he's actually disappeared off the face of the planet. I mean he's not exactly inconspicuous; everyone in the Wizarding world would instantly be able to recognize him."

Colin leaned forward. "Maybe that's it, maybe he's not in the Wizarding world anymore," he said, a note of excitement in his voice.

Orla snorted. "Oh, and where would he be then Colin? Living among Muggles? Draco Malfoy? You can't be serious, he couldn't survive--he hates Muggles more than anything in the world."

"Desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures," Ginny said. "I think Malfoy would rather live with Muggles than have to live in substandard conditions. He really is that pretentious. Comfort and luxury are everything to the Malfoys."

"Malfoy the Muggle," Orla said, shaking her head. "Now there is something I'd like to see."

Colin flicked a strand of hair from his eyes. "The thing is, Gin, even if he is hiding out in the Muggle world, chances of finding him without some kind of lead are pretty slim. There are so many more places to hide out there."

Ginny nodded. "You're right, of course, but I think I may have a lead." She reached behind her to where she had dumped her bag and pulled out the folder Wilberforce had given her.

"Colin, you have a Muggle bank account, don't you?" she asked, pulling out the sheet of paper with Malfoy's bank details on it.

"Yes, two, in fact."

Ginny handed him the sheet of paper. "You see that number in the left-hand corner? Does that look at all like the number for your accounts?"

Colin looked at it, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "You know what? I think it just might."

"Really?" Ginny said excitedly--she hadn't really expected her half-formed idea to be successful. "Are you sure?"

"Well, the Wizarding bank account numbers are a lot shorter than this number, as there are a lot less of them. My account number is quite like this." Colin grabbed the last scone off the plate. "Don't you have a cousin who's an accountant or something? Wouldn't they be able to help?"

Ginny stared at him. Why didn't I think of that? "Of course! You're a genius Colin."

Colin shrugged modestly. "I try."

Ginny jumped out of her seat and ran inside to the Muggle telephone that Colin used to keep in touch with his family. She got out her address book and found the phone number of Alfred J. Houndsworth, Ginny's second cousin and only Muggle relative. She had only met him a few times, but the Weasleys tried to keep regular contact with him, if only to have a link to the Muggle world, for, as nice as he was, the old chap was more than a bit dull. She looked at the number in the book and then at the numbers on the phone pad.

"Ah, Colin," she called out sheepishly. She still wasn't quite used to these Muggle devices. "I just have to type this number in and I'll be able to hear the other person, that's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, Gin, and remember not to speak too loudly," he called from the backyard.

"Here goes then," she mumbled, clumsily typing in the numbers. There was the odd ringing noise that she remembered from the other few times she had used it and then--

"Good afternoon, Anderson's Accounting, Alfred Houndsworth speaking."

"Oh, ah, yes, hello Alfred, it's um, it's Ginny Weasley here," Ginny stuttered.

"Ginny Weasley?" he repeated. "Oh! You're one of Arthur Weasley's lot, aren't you?"

"Yes, that's right, the youngest and only girl."

"Of course, of course, I remember now. Well, if this isn't a surprise! What can I, er, do for you, Ginny?"

Ginny twisted the phone cord around her fingers. "I was hoping you could tell me something about Muggle, I mean, ah, your bank accounts."

"My bank accounts?"

"Well, not yours specifically, but--well, the thing is, I have an account number, or at least I think it's an account number, it may not be, I mean for all I know it could just be some random number--but anyway on the slight chance that it may be an account number, I was hoping you'd know how to help. Maybe you'd know how to find out what bank it's from."

"Ok," Alfred said and Ginny could hear some rapid tapping in the background. "Tell me what you've got."

She would look back on her conversation with Alfred J. Houndsworth later and admire his efficiency. Muggle accountants must have a lot of power and be really well respected people in the community, Ginny mused. He had managed to locate an account matching the number in Switzerland, and had promised to call back when he found out details of ownership and last withdrawal. Ginny felt a tingle of anticipation settle in the pit of her stomach and warned herself to not get her hopes up. This could easily fall through; who knows if he even owns this account, and why would he still use it if he thought the Ministry might be able to trace him through it? Even while those spurts of logic were jostling around in her mind, Ginny couldn't shake the feeling that she was onto something. The truth was that no one had even considered that Malfoy would venture into the Muggle world, as it went against everything he and his family stood for.

But what if he had? It would explain his virtual disappearance from the Wizarding world and his mysterious source of funds. And, if he hadn't been using magic, then locator spells wouldn't have been able to trace him. Ginny was weighing up these possibilities when the phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Ah, hello?" she said tentatively into the receiver.

"Ginny?" Alfred replied.

"Yes, it's Ginny. Is that Alfred?"

"It is. Now listen Ginny, I've found some rather interesting information about this account. You were in luck; my old friend Enid, whom I knew from University, still works at Credit Suisse and was able to look it up for me. I had to use a bit of cunning--told her I was checking out the legitimacy of a prospective client. Oh, it was all quite exciting," Alfred said breathlessly.

"I'm sure it was, now about the account," Ginny prompted.

"Oh yes. Well the account it is owned by a Floyd Maroca, residence United Kingdom. Does this help at all?"

Ginny considered this. Obviously he's not going to use his real name, but could this be him? "Uh, how do you spell that, Alfred?" she asked, reaching for a pad of paper and the pen that lay near the phone.

"F-l-o-y-d M-a-r-o-c-a"

Ginny jotted this down. "Ok, and when and where was the last withdrawal?"

"December the 27th, nine o'clock, from an automatic teller in St. Petersburg. Oh, but sometimes the information in the database can take up to two weeks to update."

"Right. Well thanks for the info Alfred, I really owe you one," she said as she replaced the cap of the pen.

"You're welcome, Ginny. Do you think it will be of any use?"

"I really hope so. Thanks, you've been a great help."

"It was no problem, say hello to your parents for me," Alfred said kindly.

"Will do. Thanks again, Alfred," Ginny said before hanging the receiver back on its cradle.

"Well?" Colin, who had come up behind her, said impatiently.

Ginny looked at the scrap of paper in her hand. "Floyd Maroca," she said with a laugh, "What kind of a name is that?"

"Can I have a look?" Colin said, reaching for the paper. He stared intently at it for a second, and then grabbed the pen that was sitting on the table and scribbled something next to the name. "Oh my God," he breathed.

"What?" Ginny asked, looking over his shoulder.

"I think," Colin said excitedly, "I think Malfoy may have done a Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Huh?" Ginny said blankly.

"Here," Colin said pointing at the paper. "Rearrange 'Floyd Maroca' and what do you get?"

Ginny looked at the name and then at Colin. " 'Draco Malfoy'," she whispered. "You get Draco Malfoy!" She laughed and threw her arms around a startled Colin. "This is unbelievable." She looked at the paper once more and shook her head. "Remind me again why I'm the Auror?"

Colin shrugged, grinning widely. "What can I say? I have my moments."

"Mate, I owe you one... well more than one, really."

"We'll work out a repayment plan later," he said throwing his arm around her shoulder. "Now though, you have to work out what you're going to do."

"What I'm going to do?" she echoed. "Why, it looks like I'm going to go to Russia."