The Price of Paradise

The Price of Paradise

By Magdala Marr

Chapter One - Midnight Sun

The music came from a fashionable string ensemble that played only at the very best Madrid parties. The women's gowns were expensive, and treasured jewels had been taken from vaults and places of safekeeping to grace their throats, fingers, and wrists. The low murmur of talking and the clinking of wineglasses intermingled with the sound of a melancholy violin.

Most of magical Spain's wealthy and powerful were gathered there at the Ritz-Carlton that Saturday night for the party Minister Ramon Martinez was giving in honor of his British counterpart, Percy Weasley and his wife, who were in Madrid for negotiations with the Spanish government.

Habib Ibrahimi moved through the crowd of European elite carrying a tray of champagne, whiskey, and soft drinks. He avoided anyone that tried to stop him and made his way to the small group of people standing a little apart. He came to elegant Penelope Weasley and stopped, offering the tray. At her side stood her husband Percy. Habib had seen photographs of the minister, and he glanced up quickly to provide a firsthand image of the most powerful wizard on the other side of the Channel. His black eyes flickered over the minister's face. Pale, freckled, blue-eyed, with flaming hair that stood up wildly in every which direction. He was a tall, thin man, immaculately dressed in a Parisian suit. He was talking to the Spanish minister.

"How long do you and your charming wife intend to stay in Madrid?" Ramon Martinez was asking, his thickly accented voice rolling the R's.

Percy Weasley shrugged. "Penelope and I will be here for several weeks, I suppose. Until we have finished our negotiations."

"And the hija? Your little girl? Helen, her name is, no?" The Spaniard was short and heavyset, with a loud, booming laugh that accompanied every sentence he spoke.

"Still in London," said Percy, smiling as he always did at the mention of his daughter. "My sister is watching over her."

Habib gave a little bow to the two ministers and withdrew a few paces. He passed a tall, sleekly blonde woman and a dark-haired Englishman, both in Auror's robes, and stopped at a word from them. He didn't look up, instead stared fixedly at the man's black Italian shoes. The woman's long, slender white fingers lifted a glass of champagne from the tray. He heard the man say something in a low, teasing tone, and the woman answered with an amused laugh.

Habib went on, his head down, not looking up. He knew Arabella Figg and Sirius Black only too well. Every witch and wizard in West Europe knew them. Habib was a brave man, and loyal, but he hoped to never see the two heads of Britain's Auror College any closer.

***

A single English gentleman occupied the hotel room in Paris's exclusive L'Hotel George Cinq. He was tall, golden blonde, well-dressed, and very good looking. The little maid that cleaned his room was secretly in love with him. He had come three nights ago, and he was quiet and unobtrusive. The hotel had nothing to fault with him; he paid his bills and spent all his time in his room. His passport had identified him as John Smith, a student, and he was accepted as such.

The same Saturday night that the British minister was enjoying his party in Madrid, the young student was entertaining a guest, a slight, wiry, middle-aged Syrian that worked at his country's embassy in Spain.

"She should be here any moment," the English student was saying.

The Syrian shrugged, unconcerned, and continued smoking his cigar. The younger man tried not to gag. He hated the smell of cigar smoke. Discreetly, he pushed open the window.

Just as he had taken a great big gulp of fresh air, a light knock sounded at the door. The Englishman strode back across the room and swung it open, admitting a slim, beautiful Frenchwoman of two and twenty. She was dressed in a pale blue gown the color of her eyes, and her pale hair was bound in elaborate knots on the crown of her head. She was very beautiful, like moonlight and water and stardust.

"Finally, Delacour," said the young man irritably, slamming the door shut behind him. He was apparently unaffected by her dazzling beauty. "What took you so long?"

"So impatient, mon ami!" chided the woman, moving to give him a quick, sisterly hug. Seeing the Syrian, she nodded politely. "Bonjour."

"Bonjour, Mlle Delacour." The Syrian rose to his feet and executed a courtly Eastern bow.

"Did Habib Ibrahimi contact you yet, Draco?" asked the girl.

"No," said Draco shortly, beginning to pace. "But he should have phoned an hour ago."

The girl shrugged, unconcerned, and sat down on the bed. "Maybe the party went on past midnight. They've got plenty to celebrate."

Draco stopped by the window and looked out. The Eiffel Tower was a black shadow against the starry midnight sky. "They won't be celebrating long."

The Sytrian grimaced. "The other plan appealed to me more."

"An attempt on Percy Weasley's life would have been useless," said the girl, irritably. "It would just have brought Figg and Black's Aurors swarming all over West Europe. It was a stupid idea, mon ami, and rightly vetoed by the Chief."

The Syrian shrugged; he didn't seem to mind the correction. "I'm not complaining about the plan," he said. "It's very well worked out."

"In this way," said the girl, "we'll come out of it without shedding blood."

"Would you kill in this particular case?" asked the Syrian.

"If there was no other way, I suppose so," said Draco carelessly. The girl looked at him uneasily.

"Well, it won't arise," she said crisply. "I'm in charge of this operation, and I said there'll be no killing and no need to kill."

Before the others could answer the phone by the bedside rang. Draco went to get it. There was absolute silence in the room as he listened to whatever the man on the other end was saying. After two or three minutes, he simply said "Yes," and then hung up.

"What did Habib Ibrahimi have to say?" asked the girl with interest.

"He's sorry that he's so late. He hadn't finished his work. They're all in Madrid, including the wife, and he got close enough to hear that they plan to stay in Spain for some time. That's good. It will make it easier for us all. And he was very frightened because Figg and Black were also there."

Immediately, the girl was on the alert. "Did he draw attention to himself?"

"If he did," said Draco, calmly, "the only thing he knows about us is this telephone number."

"Get him out of Madrid tomorrow," ordered the girl. "It's safer."

"I'll see to it," said the Syrian, with a look she didn't like.

The girl nodded. "Very well," she said. Then she turned to Draco. "Contact Resnais and be sure he's in London day after tomorrow," said the girl. "Eaton Square. We have to have Helen Weasley back here in France by nightfall Monday."

The Syrian nodded. "Very well, Mlle. Delacour. Monday morning." With a last courtly bow, he Apparated out.

Draco Malfoy and the girl were left alone in the room. "You have to be more careful," said Draco quietly. "We can't let the Syrian suspect us. Our job is to uncover the Chief, and we have to do it at all costs. We're already so close."

"I know," said the girl. She went to stand by the window, looking out into the glittering lights of the city below. "I know."

***

At the Syrian Embassy in Madrid Sunday morning, the Syrian was writing a report to the Chief. The commando unit of his cell was ready to go on its mission. Mlle. Delacour had seen to all the details. The house in Nice was prepared, with the girl's sister already in attendance. The plan was perfected. He added a personal commendation of Draco Malfoy, whom he described as dedicated and reliable. The girl needed no comment. She and her sister were known for their quick thinking, decisiveness, and extensive knowledge of codes, poisons, and curses.

The girl had told him to get the little waiter, Habib Ibrahimi, out of Madrid. There was no reason in the world to suppose that either Arabella Figg or Sirius Black had noticed him among the crowd, or that he could ever be connected with what was to come. But the Syrian never took chances. Which was why he was just a series of aliases to the International Wizard Federation, a faceless shadow with a deadly record of terrorism. The Syrian had to find Habib Ibrahimi and make sure that the million-to-one chance didn't happen.

***

Arabella Figg tried not to be sick. The smell of blood was in the air, making her feel as though she had stepped into a slaughterhouse. There were mangled limbs and organs lying messily all over the floor, and she carefully lifted her Auror's robes to avoid stepping on them.

The only thing that remained whole was the head. The rest of the body had been entirely mutilated. But she recognized the face. It was the waiter who had served her at Ramon Martinez's reception for the British Minister of Magic the night before. The same waiter she had seen hovering around Percy and Penelope Weasley.

It was not a coincidence. Arabella knew that.

"Arabella? Are you all right?" Sirius's voice was concerned, though he looked rather green himself. Arabella managed to give her partner a weak smile. "I'm fine."

Even after more than eighteen years as an Auror, she still couldn't get used to the sight of dead people - specifically, dead people that had died from being blown into teeny bits. That the head and only the head had remained intact didn't help very much.

"What's the man's name?" she demanded of one of her Junior Aurors, carefully averting her eyes from the sight. She felt something squish under her foot. Lord, was that a kidney? Her stomach heaved. She was glad that she had skipped breakfast that morning.

"Habib Ibrahimi, ma'am."

"Nationality? Occupation?"

"Egyptian, ma'am; he was a waiter at the Madrid Ritz-Carlton."

"When did this take place?"

"This morning, ma'am, at about eleven. Four hours ago."

"Search the rooms," she ordered crisply. They nodded and scattered.

Once they were out of sight, Sirius placed his arm around Arabella's waist and carefully escorted her outside, where she proceeded to be suddenly and very violently sick in the shrubbery. Sirius turned his head discreetly. After cleaning herself with her wand, Arabella turned to face Sirius. Out here in the bright afternoon sunlight, with the smell of clean, fresh air and the little blue Madrid casa looking so innocent and peaceful, it was hard to imagine the violent horrors that had occurred inside.

"What do we know about this case so far?" asked Sirius. He was nearing forty-five now, but he was good looking in a clean, refined way. Arabella found herself thinking wistfully that in spite of the lines around his eyes, he looked very like the boy she had danced with at James and Lily's wedding.

"Only that we have strong reason to believe that whatever happened, it was connected to the Midnight Suns." She was a good looking woman herself, tall and slender, with aquiline features, ivory white skin, and eyes the color of porcelain, with soft silver-gold hair to match.

Sirius blinked, looking blank. "Good lord."

Arabella looked grim, but before she could speak, one of the Junior Aurors came out again, looking as though he were about to lose his breakfast. He breathed the sweet summer morning air in gratefully, taking in huge, deep gulps.

"Miss Figg, ma'am," he said, holding up a slip of paper for her to see. "I found this. I thought it might have been of interest to you."

***

It had been a damned long day. The kind that made Harry want to turn in his license and weapon and get a nine-to-five job with insurance benefits and a fat pension plan at the end of the line. All he wanted to do was go home and climb into his bathtub and have a nice, long soak.

Luckily, Hermione and Ron, his partners at GWP Investigations, were of the same mind. The three of them were like that. They thought alike, felt alike, and acted alike. They made a good team. After the Second Voldemort War, they had originally taken nice, tame office jobs - Hermione as an assistant at a research laboratory, Ron at his twin brothers' joke shop, and Harry at Gringotts. They had roomed together even then, and after a year of that kind of life, had confessed to each other that they were very, very bored.

It had been Ron that had come up with the idea of starting an investigation firm. Hermione had said wistfully one day, "I miss the old excitement - the mystery - the adventure."

And Ron had asked, "Why not do it again?"

And so GWP Investigations had been established. They had gambled everything on it - all their hard-earned salaries and savings - and they had won. Their business was flourishing beautifully, and they were once more happy.

While Hermione filed away papers from the day's work, Ron and Harry cleaned up the office. But just as they were putting on their coats and preparing to leave, someone Apparated into the GWP office.

Harry tried to suppress a groan, and cursed under his breath, all thoughts of a good soak vanishing.

"Hello, Sirius," he said gloomily. "Arabella." Arabella nodded crisply, while Sirius, apparently unaware of his melancholy tone, gave his godson a hug. "Harry. Good to see you." Hermione and Ron came through the doorway at the sound of the voices, looking surprised.

"Why, Arabella!" exclaimed Hermione, at the same time Ron asked, "Sirius?"

They all shook hands and while Ron led them to the sitting room, Hermione brought them all cups of tea. She was looking frazzled herself. Her hair was starting to frizz. Harry suppressed a smile, feeling some of his weariness slip away as he studied her. Hermione did not pay a lot of attention to her looks. Her hair was in a messy bun that over the course of the day had slid from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck, and locks of escaped tendrils curled around her face. She was dressed in slacks and a blouse, but she had left the top few buttons of her collar undone. Her nails were short, neat, and unpolished, and she wore flats instead of the fashionable spiky heels that had always made Harry nervous. Her face was entirely unpainted, and she didn't use expensive perfumes, either. She just smelled clean, like water and soap. She was beautiful, but her beauty went beyond the regularity of her features. It was in the light and love of her smile, the intelligence of her eyes, the joy and enthusiasm she put into everything she did.

"Can we help you?" Ron was asking, politely, sitting down on the sofa opposite the two Aurors.

"Yes," said Arabella, in her calm, professional way. "We have a case we need your help on."

Harry leaned on the back of Sirius's chair, nodding along with the others as they waited for her to go on. Arabella was a beautiful woman; open minded and keenly intelligent. Since her appointment alongside Sirius Black as head of the Auror's College, she had perfected a system of espionage and counter-terrorism in England that won accolades from even the International Wizards Federation. After GWP's establishment, she had tried to get Harry, Ron, and Hermione to work for her, but they had flatly refused, preferring the freedom of being self-employed. However, they had told her that should the need arise, they would help her solve criminal cases.

She seldom failed to make good on their word. They were quick, efficient, and neat about it, she said; they worked better than many of the Aurors on her detective force.

"There was a murder in Madrid this morning," she began. "Where, as you well may know, I have been in with Sirius, looking after Percy and Penelope Weasley. I have every reason to believe this killing has to do with the Midnight Suns. You are all aware of that organization?"

Mutely, they shook their heads. Arabella nodded. "Well, it has been pretty well suppressed by the Wizards' Union. To put it simply, since the years of my appointment after the war, Sirius and I have been continually conscious of some power behind the crimes that are being committed all over the world. There is some deep organizing power that forever stands in the way of law and throws its shield over the malefactor. Again and again in cases of the most varying sorts we have felt the presence of this force. It's a wondrously organized network, involving drug lords, smugglers, professional thieves, and assassins. They call themselves the Midnight Suns. We do not know what the International Wizard Federation are doing about it, or if the IWF is even aware of it. Since it's a matter outside the power of the British Auror College, I have decided to bring the case to you."

"What, specifically, are you asking us to do?" asked Harry, smothering a yawn of utter fatigue.

"Unveil the Midnight Suns," said Sirius, seriously. "Unravel their tapestry of crime."

"We knew you were the only ones capable of it," added Arabella. "If you can bring down Voldemort" - Harry saw Ron wince at the name - "I'm sure you can uncover the Midnight Suns."

"We'll do our best," said Hermione, immediately, Summoning a notebook and quill to her. Harry smiled at her enthusiasm. "Let's start off with the Madrid murder this morning. Tell us all you know."

"The victim was a man by the name of Habib Ibrahimi. He's an Egyptian, and a waiter at the Madrid Ritz-Carlton. In fact, he served us champagne at the Minister's party for Percy. I noticed him hovering near Percy and Penelope all evening."

Hermione nodded, scribbling furiously. "Did you discover anything of interest in his house?"

"Yes," said Sirius. "In the pocket of his waiter's uniform, they found this."

He handed her a slip of paper about two inches long, torn from a larger piece. It looked to be from the top of a newspaper. There were nine figures written on it in pencil. They were faint and the paper was very crumpled.

"That was all?" asked Harry, taking it from Hermione and examining it closely.

"Yes. I also talked to the personnel manager at the Ritz, but all he could say about him was that he did his work and that was all."

Hermione took the slip of paper back from Harry and went to sit down at her desk. Her two best friends looked at each other and grinned. Hermione had gotten 'the look,' as they called it, which meant that she knew something. Harry motioned for Arabella and Sirius to be quiet.

She picked up the telephone - 'felly-tone,' as Ron still accidentally called it sometimes. The only one in the whole office was at her desk, because she was the only one who ever communicated or needed to communicate with the Muggle world. She dialed the figures with swift, decisive strokes. They could hear the ringing on the other side. After awhile, she set it down again.

She stared at the numbers on the slip of paper for awhile longer, then turned on her computer. It was a clever mix of Muggle and wizarding ingenuity. After a few minutes of clicking on the mouse, she swung around and faced them triumphantly.

"The number can be traced to room 516 at the George V in Paris." At the blank look from the other four, she added helpfully, "It's a five star hotel there." She snapped her fingers at her two best friends. "Tomorrow," she said to Ron and Harry. "We go to Madrid tomorrow morning and begin a full investigation."

She gave Arabella and Sirius a dazzling smile. Hermione was at her prime doing this type of work. "You can count on us. We'll take the job."

"Thanks for consulting us," muttered Ron, sulkily, but there was a gleam in his eyes that belied his pettish tone. He was excited, too, Harry could see. Harry himself was beginning to catch the air of anticipation.

"C'mon, let's go home and get some sleep," said Hermione, stretching and yawning. "We'll have work to do tomorrow."

***

"The stupid fool!" hissed the girl. She followed her exclamation with a series of creative expletives. Draco was impressed.

It was Monday, and they were sitting in a car that Draco had hired from a car rental firm at Victoria, parked at a meter just past Percy Weasley's mansion at Eaton Square. It was a brilliant morning, and the gardens in the square were bright with flowers.

"What did the Syrian do this time?" he asked, curious as what had caused his usually calm and composed partner to lose her not inconsiderable French temper.

"He killed Habib Ibrahimi. He wasn't supposed to, the damned" - she used an expressive European term. "Now the Ministry is on our tail. Figg and Black suspect something. They've sent GWP after us."

"Not Potter and Co.?"

The girl nodded grimly.

Draco paled visibly. "Dammit, why does the Ministry always have to get in our way?" he demanded, of no one in particular.

"There's nothing you can do but obey orders," said the girl, tightly. "If the Syrian had simply gotten Ibrahimi out of Madrid, as ordered, this wouldn't have happened. The Ministry wouldn't have gotten involved. I wish the damned bastard were in some other cell. At least it's Resnais, not that stupide lout, with us on this mission"

Draco patted her shoulder. "Calm down, Delacour. Your sister is in Nice, waiting for us. We've got an operation to carry out. We can't screw it up. We sure as hell don't want to end up killing anyone."

The girl nodded. "At least both Percy Weasley and his wife are safely in Spain. It'll be easier to get the little girl. I feel awful, trying to kidnap a child of three, but it can't be helped, I suppose. We have to play along until we can expose the Chief."

Draco nodded but didn't speak. They sat in silence for ten more minutes. The clock struck ten. Draco saw Resnais, the third man in the operation, walk around the corner. "Are you ready?" he asked. The girl nodded, looking unhappy. "Cheer up. At least we're the ones kidnapping the kid, not some of the real fanatics in our cell."

It seemed as if the butler had been waiting by the front door for them to ring. The girl had hardly stepped back from pressing the bell when the door opened.

"Is Mrs. Weasley in?" The girl smiled and stepped forward. She had a natural authority with servants, having been brought up with them. The butler gave way and they walked into the hall.

"I'm afraid not, madam. But Miss Weasley is here, if you should like to speak to her."

The girl gave Draco a nervous look. He frowned, and her features smoothed out again. "Miss Weasley?" she repeated.

"You must mean Ginny," said Draco, smoothly interrupting. He hoped devoutly that it was Ginny. It might have been Jenny, but the die had been cast and it was too late for him to back out now.

"Yes. If you'll wait in the drawing room, please, I'll call Miss Weasley. I think she's upstairs in the nursery."

The nursery! Another quick exchange of glances. "Oh, then, we'll go on up," said the girl. "I haven't seen little Helen for so long - I'm sure she's grown." She gave a dazzling smile to the butler. "Ginny and I were very dear friends in school. My dear - what a lot of stairs! No wonder Penelope keeps her figure."

The butler had a feeling that they should have been shown into the drawing room, but he didn't see how he could have prevented the lady when she was so determined and seemed to know Miss Weasley so well. He decided there was nothing to worry about and went downstairs to the basement.

Upstairs in the nursery, Ginny Weasley was playing with her little niece Helen. Ginny adored children. She worked as freelance writer, and her job entitled going wherever she pleased. With her brother and sister-in-law in Spain, she had been invited to stay at their home and help watch over the little girl, Helen, who was not yet three.

She was sitting in the nursery rocking chair, holding the baby in her arms and feeling strangely content. The child's head was heavy against her shoulder; the nape of her neck was white and soft and smelled of soap and powder. She held the little girl against her, thinking, this is the way it feels. How can something so small fill your arms? The door of the day nursery was open, and as she rocked she heard the voices.

"It's at the top of the house." A man speaking, with a decided English accent, talking very low. "We'll just take the kid and walk out."

Ginny sat very still. Take the kid . . . Panic rushed up in her, blind and horrified. Take Helen . . . there was no time for reason, panic won. She stood, the baby still in her arms, and ran into the night nursery. Her instinct was to put the child somewhere safe, to interpose solid wood between her and whomever was there to take her. She put her niece in the bed.

The girl began to wail, sensing terror in her aunt.

"Helen . . . darling, stay there. Stay quietly there, like a good girl. I'll be back in a minute. Here, take Teddy . . ."

There was a key in the outside door. She had never noticed it before. She shut the door and locked it, standing back to pronounce an anti-Alohomora spell that would require the use of the key.

When she turned around, Draco and the girl were in the room. She didn't say anything, or even cry out. She stood flattened against the door behind which she had locked the child. Draco raised his wand and pointed it at her. He spoke very quietly. The girl had shut the door behind them. They were enclosed in the pink and white room with all the fluffy toys standing at attention.

"Ginny? Don't make any noise, please. Just stay still and listen. They you won't get hurt."

"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice came out as a whisper. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at them. "Who are you? What do you want? My God - no - not - not Malfoy?"

"Long time no see, Ginny." He nodded politely.

This was a nightmare. It had to be.

"Get away from the door," said the girl quietly. She looked vaguely familiar to Ginny as well, though she couldn't place her at all.

"No," said Ginny, and suddenly she heard herself loud and clear. "No. You're not going to get my niece."

Draco Malfoy took a step towards her, but she felt nothing but panic for Helen. The nursery windows were wide open, protected by iron bars painted white so that the little girl couldn't climb up and fall out. The key bit into her palm.

She moved so quickly that neither of them realized what she had down. The key flew through the window and vanished into the rose bushes below.

Draco took her by the shoulder and pulled her away from the door, taking her wand from her and throwing it out the window after the key. His hold was surprisingly gentle. She gave a wild cry and started to struggle. The girl wrenched at the nursery door, taping it with her wand and whispering half-frantically, "Alohomora! Alohomora!"

"It's not going to work," said Draco impatiently. "She locked the damned thing with a lockerius charm."

"Should I blast down the door?"

"No. They'll be sure to hear us downstairs."

"Then change of plans." The girl was swift, decisive. "We'll take her instead of the child."

Draco nodded approvingly. Then he spoke to Ginny, holding her tightly around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides. "Listen, Miss Weasley. It's quite likely your niece is on the other side of that door listening to us trying to get in. If you, in any way, try to alert the household, my friend will have to start shooting curses through the door. Do you understand?"

Ginny nodded, her eyes large and frightened in her pale face. He released her. She stared at him, and then the girl, aiming her wand at the nursery door. The Delacour girl winced inwardly. They would never hurt the child, but how could Ginny know that? They had to play on her fear if the operation was to succeed.

There was a sound from the other side of the nursery door.

"Aunty! Aunty!"

Ginny gave a cry of fear and anguish that only they could hear. Draco remained expressionless.

"Don't . . . please . . . for God's sake don't," whispered Ginny desperately.

"We don't want to hurt her," said Draco, truthfully. "Or you. You've got to come with me, Miss Weasley. You've got to do exactly as I tell you or my friend will fire through that door."

Ginny swayed. "No, no, no! I'll come with you. I'll come with you. I'll do anything - "

Draco caught Ginny around the waist as he spoke. "We're going to walk out of here. We're going downstairs and into the street. My friend will wait here for exactly three minutes, and if there is no disturbance, she'll follow us. No harm will come to your niece, just so long as you cooperate. Are you ready?"

She pulled away from him. The moment of panic had passed. She felt numb and cold with terror. "You won't," she begged. "Please, you won't do it."

The girl's eyes were cold and dispassionate. Ginny lifted her chin.

Draco guided her out to the landing, gave her a push when she hesitated and turned back. She went downstairs ahead of him.

On the first landing, she met the Weasley's housekeeper, Mrs. Anthony, coming up. The old woman stood back for her, and Ginny passed without a word.

The butler was in the basement, engaged at the area door by Resnais, who was asking for directions to an address in Eaton place. He kept the older man talking for several minutes. There was nobody in the hall. Draco moved beside her and opened the front door.

Ginny stopped. "Please," she whispered. "Please call her down. I beg of you . . ."

He opened the door, and they stepped out into the sunshine. Delacour would not hurt the child, Draco knew, though of course Ginny didn't.

Resnais was coming up the area steps. Draco took her by the arm.

"Just keep calm," he said. "Nothing will happen to the child so long as you do what I tell you. Over here." There was a muggle car parked on the opposite side of the road. Draco opened the back door and told her to get in. Resnais, a tall, handsome, dark-haired Frenchman, came around the other side and got into the driver's seat. Draco sat watching the front door of the Weasleys' house. It opened and the girl came out. She went over to the car.

Draco spoke to her in French. "Everything all right?"

"Yes," she said. "The child was crying. I shut the nursery door. Nobody will hear from downstairs."

"Good," he said. "Contact the Chief. We'll meet in Nice."

The girl nodded and vanished with a small *pop.*

Resnais put the car into gear and it moved off. "Sit still," said Draco. Ginny obeyed. There was nothing she could do.

Draco was thinking. The child was locked in her nursery. Her aunt, watched by the housekeeper, had gone out. Something had to be done, but he wasn't sure what. The servants had to be reassured that the locked door was an accident, and the only person who could do that was Ginny Weasley herself. They shouldn't delay for long.

He handed Ginny a pen and paper, and said dispassionately to the frightened girl, "Nobody must know you've been taken. I want to impress this on you. My friend stayed behind. The safety of your child depends on it. And your own safety."

"I don't care what happens to me," Ginny said, tears spilling down her face. "I don't care what you do to me. Just leave Helen alone."

"Write to them. Make up some story that will satisfy the staff. Tell them the locked door was an accident. Tell them you're going to be away for a while. Don't try anything, because I'll read it before we send it."

Ginny took the pen with trembling fingers. Mrs. Anthony, she wrote, before her hand started to shake so badly that she could no longer hold the pen correctly. Draco gave an impatient sigh and took out his wand. He muttered a quick spell and said, "Dictate the letter."

"Urgent business called me home for a few days," she said, her voice quivering. "Some spells went off in the nursery and accidentally locked Helen inside. Just get a locksmith right away. If any of my brothers ask for me, I'm away for a few days. I'll call you again soon. There's nothing to worry about and I'll see you soon. Thank you. Love, Ginny."

The pen finished with a flourish, and dropped down. It had imitated her writing beautifully.

Draco nodded, taking the note and folding it. He opened the window, whistled long and low, and an owl reminiscent of Pigwidgeon flew in. "You know where to take it," he told the owl, and hooting, it flew away. When it had gone, Ginny began to sob helplessly. Draco felt vaguely uncomfortable.

"Drive steady," he told Resnais. "We don't want to be stopped for speeding."