Rating:
R
House:
Schnoogle
Ships:
Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Characters:
Draco Malfoy Harry Potter
Genres:
Mystery Slash
Era:
Harry and Classmates Post-Hogwarts
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Stats:
Published: 06/18/2002
Updated: 07/31/2005
Words: 60,498
Chapters: 11
Hits: 76,193

Malfoy, P.I.

Nancy

Story Summary:
"I'm Draco Malfoy, private investigator. I've seen a lot--I mean a lot, and I'm like sweet seventeen a lot. I thought I'd seen it all, until a pair of green eyes stepped into my office." A noir AU set in L.A. where passion and magic collide. Slashy and sexy.

Chapter 01

Posted:
06/18/2002
Hits:
19,413
Author's Note:
The character of Malfoy, PI was inspired by Al's "Snitch!". This work would not be possible without the invaluable assistance and encouragement of my betas, Morgan and Erica. Aja and Jen supported me, encouraged me, and kept me from taking this too seriously.

Los Angeles. City of angels. Except that most of the angels are walking around with the clap. Yes, L.A. has some pretty good-looking women--most of whom will be happy to spend time with you if you've got the dough--but otherwise, it's a harsh place to exist. Harsh, that is, if you live on the side of town that I live on. All the streets are dark, all the motels are cheap, and almost all of the stories are sad on the cheating side of town.

Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Draco Malfoy, private detective. You think your beloved is screwing around on you and you want proof? Your dog Fluffy gone missing? Has grandmother hooked up with a swinging stud who is slowly convincing her to spend the family fortune? I'm the one you call. It isn't a glamorous life, but it pays the bills. Most of the time. It's a seedy world out there, and I'm an expert on life's soft underbelly.

You know how they say that when you least expect something, it'll happen to you? That's what happened to me. I'm a smart guy. I know who takes money under the table. I know who cheats the government. I know which cops are dirty, and I know which hookers will give you a freebie now and then. But love? Love doesn't happen to guys like me. I have a good memory.

Memories. Everyone says that memories are your friend.

Everyone also says they won't come in your mouth.

I prided myself on knowing that. I knew how to play the game. I knew the rules. I was still alive.

But, alone in my office, I am haunted. Not by anything quite as dramatic as a raven. When I close my eyes, I see a pair of green eyes.

I'm digressing here. I suppose this little tale of the city will make more sense if I start at the beginning.

*****

It all started on a sultry afternoon. The kind that makes women take to bed with a fit of the vapors, the kind that makes dogs crawl under the house, and the kind that makes my hair do whatever it wants, despite my best efforts. And I hate having messy hair. I was not in a good mood.

I was sitting in my office, knocking back a glass of whiskey. It may not make my problems go away, but it does keep the shadows at bay. Made me forget about the fact that it was damn hot out there. Made me forget about a man with sandy hair, laughing blue eyes, and biceps that would make you believe in a higher power.

I heard the front door open and someone step in. I had my office door open, since my secretary, Jennifer, who has saved my ass numerous times, was out to lunch. She was the type of dame who aroused in men the feelings necessary for the propagation of the species.

"I'm in here," I called.

And then he walked into my office. I wasn't prepared for what I saw. Tall, but lean--not thin, but lean, like a prime cut of beef--messy black hair, and deep green eyes. I'd never seen that shade of green--much deeper than emerald--and wondered if he wore contacts.

"Looking for trade?" I asked.

The man blushed slightly and I raised a set of mental eyebrows. Quite tasty, if I do say so myself. And I know tasty.

"Er, no, I was looking for Mr. Malfoy."

"And you've found him." I motioned for him to sit down and offered him a hit from the bottle, which he refused.

"And you are...?"

"Oh!" This guy was jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Well, hello, Harry Potter. What can I do for you?"

Those green eyes looked at me and saw all the way through to my soul.

"I'm in trouble. I need your help."

I narrowed my eyes, remembering what I'd read in the papers. Harry Potter, a very successful financial consultant, had been arrested on murder charges. He'd made bail easy. He had bucks. Word on the street was that he'd murdered his lover out of jealousy. Same old story. I threw him a bone.

"Murder. Some say you didn't do it."

He blinked at me and nodded. "Yes. I'm being charged with capital murder."

"Did you do it?" Might as well cut to the chase. I needed to know if I was wasting my time. I studied his reaction. He paled, but his eyes never left mine. He must have been desperate, but on him it looked good.

"No. I don't know who did. But it wasn't me."

"Why do the police think it was you, then?"

He ran a hand through his hair and I noticed a curious scar on his forehead. It was shaped like a lightning bolt. I wondered how on earth he'd gotten a scar like that. "I

¼ don't know. I don't know what evidence they have against me. I've hired a lawyer, but he hasn't done much."

"The district attorney is supposed to share all evidence with the defense, you know."

"I know that. But I want to see if I can't do my part, too."

I leaned back and lit a cigarette. Yeah, they're bad for me. So sue me. I'll likely die young anyway. Show me a man without vices and I'll show you a man lying in his grave. "You want me to dig around. Find out what they've got against you."

He nodded. "Something like that."

"Look, Mr. Potter, there are hundreds of high-priced big name private investigators in Los Angeles. Why'd you come to me? You don't belong on this side of town."

"I asked around. Your name came up a few times. I thought I'd come to see if I might avail myself of your services." He leaned back in the battered wooden chair, utterly at ease in a suit that must have cost six hundred, easy. Italian loafers, too.

"Yeah? Who'd you talk to?"

"Gary McCoy, for one."

I sat back, thinking. Gary McCoy was a bounty hunter I'd helped from time to time. And, from time to time, he'd returned the favor. Unusual, I'd found. Many have come to me for help. I'd long ago realized that the favor would not be returned and that I was on my own when I needed help. Learned to quit asking for it. Gary, however, was different. He'd helped me out of a jam more than once. He operated mostly within the law. Mostly. Didn't matter to me. The morality of others has never been my business. Guys who question the motivations of others usually end up at the wrong end of a gun. If Gary had taken time to talk to Potter, there must be something there. And besides, I needed the money. I made a decision.

I stood up and extended my hand. "You want me, Mr. Potter, you got me. I'll do my best."

He smiled and everything stopped for just a moment. It was one of those clear, still moments that, looking back, serves as a mile marker in a life outstanding in its ordinariness. Like when the streetlights hit the wet pavement just right, and you no longer see the junkies and homeless people around you.

"I know you will, Mr. Malfoy. I

¼ trust you." We shook. His hand in mine was cool. Our eyes met.

Something flickered in those green eyes. I couldn't tell what it was. It looked a bit like regret. I know what regret looks like.

Sitting back down, we eyed each other for a moment. I broke the silence. "Everything you tell me is confidential." My standard statement, designed to put the client at ease and encourage them to tell me the truth. They never do, of course.

"Right."

"Tell me what you know so far. That'll give me an idea as to where to start."

Green Eyes looked down. I heard the front office door open and, from the click of high heels, knew that Jennifer was back from lunch. She stuck her head in my office and waved to let me know she was back, raising her eyebrows at Potter's back and winking. I gave her a look and she shut the door.

"Well," he began, "Mike and I were

¼ friends a long time ago. We went our separate ways. Haven't seen or talked to him in, oh, fifteen years, I'd say."

"Word on the street is that you were a bit more than friends." Although boffing your friends is not unheard of. But again, I wanted to see his reaction.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. We were lovers. Does that bother you?" He looked me right in the eye as he said that.

I shrugged. "None of my business. I'm not here to pass judgment, you know. Just find out the facts. Don't feel that you have to hold anything back for fear of offending me. Trust me, I've heard it all." And, up until the day I met him, I honestly thought I had.

Green Eyes hesitated, but then went on. "I read about his death in the paper. It was buried way back in the city section. Mike had fallen on hard times, it seems. He had become a, um, male prostitute. If I'd known I would have helped him. All he had to do was ask." Potter's voice softened. "Instead, he was--he was tortured, raped, and murdered. I went to his funeral, though. There were only four of us there, and I didn't know the other three. Then, next thing I know, a policeman is sniffing around asking questions about me at my office. He asked me a few questions, but I didn't know anything about Mike's death and I told him so. Then, a few days ago, some cops came to the office again, waving a warrant, and arrested me. I made bail and got out. And here I am."

I got up and paced. I think best when I'm moving. "Okay. Who was the cop that came around asking you questions the first time?"

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small day planner. Flipping through the pages, he came to the one he wanted. "O'Sullivan. He was an older guy. Seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. I got the impression that I'd offended him somehow."

"Yeah, I know him. He's a big turd in a little bowl, all right." George O'Sullivan had been written up on more counts of police brutality than anyone in the history of the LAPD. He had an axe to grind and everyone who crossed his path paid for it. His superiors turned a blind eye to his more amusing antics. He wasn't long for retirement. I, for one, wouldn't miss him. No way that I know of to say goodbye to guys like him.

"Do you have an alibi for the night of the murder?"

Regret flashed in his eyes. I know what regret looks like. He looked down at his hands. "I left the office and went home. I stayed in that night, and went to bed early."

"Is there anyone to corroborate your story?"

"Well, my neighbors might have seen my light on. And they would have seen my car in the garage. I understand that the police have already talked to all of them."

"Anyone you know of that would set you up for something like this?"

"You mean, frame me for murder?" He looked genuinely shocked that anyone on this earth would ever even entertain the idea of making someone a fall guy. What a ride he was going to be in for, if he was telling me the truth. And somehow, I knew he was. After a while in this business, you get instincts. They'll save you a lot of time and trouble if you listen to them. Save you from the big sleep.

"Yes. Anyone got a grudge against you? Bitter ex-wife? Old business partner? Jilted lover?"

"No. Honestly, Mr. Malfoy, I just don't understand all this. I do know that the last time I saw Mike LaMorte alive was June 11, 2001."

"You're certainly up on your dates."

He flushed. It looked good on him. Idly, I wondered if he'd take his jacket off, as it was hot in the office. He didn't. Not that first time. "That date was rather

¼ well, we didn't part on good terms, shall we say."

"Right. I won't ask about that unless I need to, okay?"

He nodded, looking very young all of a sudden. I threw him another bone.

"I can't guarantee anything, Mr. Potter. But I have a lot of connections. I'll do my best."

I had no idea why I said that. But I felt the need, somehow, to erase the lines of worry off his face.

He nodded, smiled again, and I felt something lurch inside me.

"Right. Okay, Jennifer will discuss my rates with you and the billing procedure. I charge an hourly fee, plus expenses. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what I've found out so far. She'll get your phone numbers and take care of some paperwork." I stood up to indicate that our little get-to-know-you session was over. He stood, too, and I was surprised to find that we were almost exactly the same height.

And for some reason, I liked that.

******

After Potter left, I left the office too. Jennifer was working on her manicure, and flashed dimples as I passed her desk, murmuring, "Goodbye, Draco", in a tone that meant she was between boyfriends. I grinned to myself. Might be time to have her take a little private dictation when I got back to the office.

Outside, the heat seared into me as I climbed into my beat-up Volvo. It had been maroon when I bought it, but time and sun had faded it into a sort of dried-blood color. Fifteen years old. Almost a classic. I never had to worry about it being stolen, anyway.

I mused about my newest client as I drove over to Gary McCoy's. I wanted to find out his impressions of Harry Potter. Gary didn't talk to just anybody. Guys like us, we're suspicious by nature. We're smart. We're still alive. Harry, however, seemed to be the trusting sort. And I had a feeling that was about to change.

Gary was leaning over a tiny little Fiat when I pulled up. He had the hood up, and looked to be replacing the alternator. Gary was also a pretty decent shade tree mechanic and had fixed up the Volvo a few times for me. No embarrassing questions. Looking at the Volvo, I couldn't even tell where he'd patched up a few bullet holes from a case that went bad on me a few years ago. I'd learned to listen for the winds of change since then. Some cases go south on you fast. The trick is to get out while you can.

He was a tall man, with a weathered face. He had dark hair and dark eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing. He claimed to be part Navajo, and his hooked nose and swarthy complexion added credence to his claims.

"Hey, Malfoy. What brings you out here?" Gary asked, wiping his hands on a towel. He nodded toward the Volvo. "Car acting up again? You really need to get a new one. How many miles you got on that thing again?"

"175,000. Harry Potter came to see me today. Said you referred him to me." Might as well get to the point.

"Yeah, I did. He's an okay guy."

"How do you know him?"

"He's a regular at Callahan's."

"A guy like Potter hangs out at Callahan's bar?"

"Yeah. Underneath the fancy clothes and the education, he's a decent guy. He got into a bind. He asked me if I knew anyone who could help him. I sent him to you." Gary shrugged and, opening a cooler on the ground beside the car, offered me a beer. I took it.

"You think he did it?"

Gary gave this question all the consideration of a college freshman tackling Moby Dick. Finally he shook his head. "Nope. He didn't do it. I'm in the people business too, you know. I can spot a liar at twenty paces. He's getting a raw deal. I say he was framed. The brass aren't even looking at any other suspects. Never did. Word on the street has it the evidence pointing to Potter is overwhelming."

I sipped my beer, thinking over Gary's little speech. "Why would someone frame him then?"

Gary, opening his own beer, looked thoughtful again. "Maybe they figure that if they can get him locked away, he'll be out of their hair."

Gary always had been too smart for his own good.

******

My next stop was Callahan's bar. There's a bar like Callahan's in every city. Dark interior, the requisite faded barflies blowing their monthly Social Security check on gin, a grim-faced bartender who never meets his customer's eyes, and a few hookers taking advantage of the darkness and the bartender's inattention to score a few tricks. I walked in and ordered a vodka martini the way I like them: dirty, straight up, no olive. Then I sat at the bar, watching people and making faces at the cheap vodka that had been poured from a Stoli bottle.

The bar was quiet. A television was mounted up in the corner, with the sound turned off, tuned to CNN. No one was watching. Who cares about the Middle East when you aren't even sure where you'll be living next month? Potter was rich. What was he doing in a joint like this? I lit a cigarette and pondered his plight.

The door opened and I saw that it had started raining outside. A man came in, wearing a black trenchcoat. He slid on to a stool two down from me, and I couldn't help but notice how the black trenchcoat set off his dark hair. He glanced at me and blue eyes raked me briefly before he looked away. Taking his coat off, he laid it on the stool next to him. He was dressed casually, in a blue oxford shirt and jeans. I heard him order a gin and tonic in a rich baritone.

And he had a British accent. Inwardly, I moaned. I'm a sucker for foreign accents. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He moved with the easy grace of the natural athlete, and was one of those people that seems at ease in any situation. He sipped his drink, appearing to be marking time.

When the bartender came my way for a refill, I pulled out my business card. The bartender took it reluctantly and studied it in the manner of a man that doesn't do much thinking.

"I'm Draco Malfoy. I've been hired by Harry Potter and was wondering if you could tell me anything about him."

He shrugged, face blank from years of practice, rattling off the information. "Comes in here regular. Always orders the same thing. Rum and Coke. Lots of ice. Never bugs nobody, nobody bugs him. Pays for his drinks up front. Never has asked me to run a tab. Keeps to himself. Never has more than two drinks. Doesn't cause no problems."

And that was all I was going to get out of him. I tossed back my drink, and glanced at the British guy one more time. Our eyes met and once again he raked me with those blue eyes. I left quickly and headed home.

******

On the way home, I drove past Potter's house. People's residences can tell you a lot about them. Potter lived up in the hills, above the smog and the dirty streets. I parked across the street from his house and studied it. A short driveway led to a garage. A room above the garage had a window that looked out into the street. I could just see, at right angles to the garage, steps leading up to the entryway. A hedge obscured the rest of the house. A black Audi was parked on the left side of the garage, though there was room for two cars. I looked at my watch. 6:30. My stomach reminded me that it was dinnertime, but for some reason, I wanted to watch Potter's house for a while.

A light came on in the window above the garage. The plantation blinds were open, so I hunched down in my seat and pulled out a pair of binoculars. I could see Potter sitting down at a computer. The light came from a lamp on the computer desk. He was in profile, and I could see that he must indeed have been wearing contacts earlier, for he now had on a pair of glasses and a red t-shirt. He turned on the computer, and waited, head in hands. I couldn't make out what was on the screen too well; it appeared to be some sort of spreadsheet. Potter put his head down on the desk and stayed that way for a long time, ignoring the computer. I watched him for a while, then drove home.

I turned on the radio as I wound my way down the hill. The announcer let us all know that storms were on the way.

I had no idea they'd be of the personal variety.

******