The Mystery Wife

Draco absolutely sodding hated his disguise. And he hated being out in public in it. Particularly this much public, the hundreds if not thousands of laughing, cheering, celebrating witches and wizards currently thronging Diagon Alley.

His newly long black hair wasn't so bad, or might not have been if Sn...Sevanna had let him comb it. As it was, he was as scruffy as Harry Bloody Potter.

Worse, because he was also sporting a beard, and it itched like mad.

The dark brown eyes were awful, just the color of Granger's, but they weren't the worst of it. That particular honor was reserved for his clothing. Muggle. A pair of ripped jeans and Snape's old 'The Who' t-shirt. Nothing Draco would have been caught dead in, of his own accord. He tugged the shirt down, trying to tuck it into the waistband of the jeans, at least.

He looked like a vagabond.

A pair of drunk girls around his age made eyes at him and giggled as they staggered past him.

"There, you see?" Sevanna drawled, tucking her arm a little more firmly in his as they made their way through the madding throng in the direction of Gringotts. "You're a hit amongst the Lavender Brown set. Now stop fussing."

"And if I had ever wanted to attract Lavender Brown, that would be a comfort," Draco snarked back. There was a limited amount of venom he could manage to instill in it, though. That last gesture of hers had read as blush-causing possessiveness to the stupid, hopeful and hormone-soaked corners of his mind. "Also a sign of early senility or severe head injury."

Sevanna snorted soft amusement at him and steered the two of them around a cluster of loud, drunk partygoers.

Diagon Alley was, as predicted, the current site of the largest party in the Wizarding world. The streets were packed with people, young and old, drinking, dancing, laughing, buying, flirting, snogging in not-so-private alleys and doorways.

It was rather depressing, really, being surrounded by other people who were having a brilliant time.

"Smile," Sevanna murmured in his ear, startling him out of his thoughts. "We're at a party. One in which it would not do to stand out."

Her own smile was brilliant, and she laughed easily, as if she'd just told him a joke or suggested something deliciously outré.

"So if I danced you down the street to Gringotts, this would be acceptable behaviour, would it?" Draco inquired in a sarcastic undertone, bending his head to hers with an impish grin, as if whispering something scandalously flirtatious in reply.

"It would be in keeping with the occasion," she drawled softly, her answering smile as full of unspoken promise as a Venetian courtesan's. "First Rule of Spying: when surrounded by idiots, it does not do to appear too intelligent. Or as the Muggles say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do."

Draco was more inclined to tell the Romans to sod themselves. He wasn't feeling much like celebrating a victory that had killed one of his oldest friends, seen the banishment of Slytherin House from Hogwarts, and left his family hiding in their ancestral home awaiting possible arrest.

But, the hormone-driven corner of his mind suggested slyly, when was he ever again going to get an excuse to dance with the woman walking next to him?

That decided it. Before he really knew what he was doing, he'd turned, caught up Sevanna's free hand, and sent them both whirling down the street towards Gringotts.

He'd planned on a Viennese waltz, this being the most spectacularly celebratory dance he personally knew...but he realized when he tried to pass the lead to her that Sn--Sevanna didn't know how to dance.

She was compensating beautifully, but it was as an extremely graceful novice.

It boggled the mind. Someone who moved, both as a man and a woman, like a prowling bloody leopard simply had to know how to dance.

Apparently not.

Draco pulled her a little closer, getting a tighter grip on that surprisingly slender waist, and turned it into a polka. Much easier. They spun and bounced giddily down the street, Draco whipping them deftly around groups of partying wizards and witches, drawing the occasional appreciative laugh or cheer in their wake.

Sevanna laughed and went along, and it might have been real, and it might have been another act in a long life of them, and for the moment, Draco decided not to care. It was getting them to Gringotts faster than walking would have, and they were cutting a swath through the crowds in a way that wouldn't identify them as disguised Death Eaters.

Inexperienced she might have been, but she learned quickly, and she'd always had a dancer's grace. Draco couldn't help wondering why it was that Snape had never learned to dance, in the exalted circles they'd both once moved in. Dancing was de rigueur at pureblood society functions, and Snape had always been an ambitious social climber. Perhaps there had simply been no opportunity. No way to admit he didn't know how, no way to find someone to teach him, and he'd dodged that particular hex by avoiding dancing altogether.

They arrived on the neat, proper gray marble front steps of Gringotts not a minute into the dance, breathless and, though Sevanna would never have admitted it, glowing.

"Good job," she nodded crisply in approval, straightening her truly horrific flowered Muggle dress.

"You, too," Draco laughed admiringly. "You're very graceful. Admittedly, a polka doesn't show that off to its best advantage...but then, neither does that dress." He held out his arm teasingly. "Shall we get you the means to rectify at least that, milady?"

Sevanna's lips twitched. "That embarrassed to be seen with me, are you?" she drawled. Rather than taking the arm he'd offered, she made a show of straightening his hideous Muggle t-shirt.

"I'm embarrassed to be seen with that dress," Draco retorted, still in a teasingly snarky tone. Let her wonder if it was part of the act or not. "Flowers might work, but not those. Dark red roses, yes. Asphodel, very possibly. Big overblown pink cabbage roses with violets, sorry, no."

"The dual misfortunes of poverty and execrable taste," Sevanna shrugged indifferently. Before they went in to the bank, she made a small production of leaning in to whisper flirtatiously in his ear. "You'll need a new identity. The goblins won't give you away, but you'll need a name to give them, something to give them plausible deniability when you empty Draco Malfoy's bank vault and close out his account."

She wound her arms sinuously around his waist, and her breath was warm, and she smelled of soap and spices. Draco suppressed a shiver and tried hard to think of Filch having it off with the giant squid.

"Szarkany," Draco whispered back. "It's Hungarian. But that's as far as I've got, frankly. I don't know about a first name."

"I would recommend something close enough to your own name that you'll unconsciously respond to it," she murmured softly, trailing her fingers along the back of his neck and into his hair. "In my case, Sevanna will shorten to Sev, and my brother always called me that. Your name should be something that resonates with you, something that will make you turn around when someone calls it."

Right at the moment, that faint trace of perfume was resonating with him just fine. Draco shook his head a little to clear it, and forced himself to focus. Something that sounded like Draco...something he'd have to live with, probably forever...

"Draven?" he murmured. "Is it too close to my real name? It's the furthest thing I can think of that would still turn my head."

Well, that wasn't true. He could think of something much closer that was turning his head nicely, just at the moment.

"Draven Szarkany," Sevanna said quietly, rolling the name on her tongue to test it. "What do you think? Does it sound like a name you can live with?"

"It sounds nicely Eastern European," Draco replied. One corner of his mouth was twitching slightly over the secret joke contained in that name, the fact that it meant both 'dragon' and 'magpie.' "I have the hair for Eastern European, now. I like it."

"I must confess I do as well. It suits you. Shall we?" she asked, taking his arm and leading him into the bank before he could blush or stammer or do anything else to give himself away.

The foyer of Gringotts was sober and subdued, a rather welcome respite from the revelry outside. It was cool gray stone and polished hardwood counters and desks and goblins who looked more sour than usual. And lines to Spain, unfortunately, now that Gringotts was open for business again.

The two of them went to stand on the least hopeless-looking line, and Draco tried not to fidget too much. His beard itched, his Muggle trainers and t-shirt were too small, he looked like an arse, he felt like an arse, and surely no Malfoy had ever worn anything so completely, irredeemably awful. His cavedwelling ancestors had worn more tasteful furs.

Not wanting to think about his looks for once, Draco glanced around for something else to occupy him. There were still signs of the hasty reconstruction in the wake of the Gryffindor Interior Decorating Squad's last visit. Bits of scaffolding still lined the recently rebuilt walls, and the east corridor was still entirely closed off, heavily Warded and dark, and guarded by trolls for that extra bit of overkill.

Sna...Sevanna was right, the goblins were looking distinctly more sour than usual. And that was rather a stretch. By the time Drac...Draven and Sevanna got to the counter, Draven wasn't at all sure he wanted to ask the goblins for the time of day, much less his money. They'd actually sent the last customer away in tears.

"And what is your business at Gringotts?" the goblin Teller snapped at them.

"I am here to exercise the terms of my late cousin's will," Sevanna said smoothly. She handed over a parchment from her bag, and the goblin unrolled and perused it. His eyes flicked back up to hers after a moment with a little more interest.

"Grisham!" he snapped. "Mind the desk. Madam, sir, please come with me."

The relative and sudden solicitousness, after the last half hour or so of rudeness masquerading as brusque efficiency, worried Draco more than a continuation of hostilities. He followed, with a last desperate look around the foyer, in which he'd made careful note of all the potential exits.

They fetched up in one of the plush back offices, one of the ones that clearly hadn't been damaged or destroyed by Potter's recent sashay into bank robbery. The walls were dark oak, elaborately carved, as was the desk, and the chairs were wine red leather and extraordinarily comfortable. The room bespoke opulence, greed, a hard lust for quality, all the things that had been bred into Draco from birth, and all the things Sevanna had scrambled for thanks to her own. The two of them lounged in their chairs, assuming, did they know it, nearly identical expressions of indolent indifference.

"My name is Griphook," the goblin began as he took his own tall leather seat behind the desk. "Would you care for tea or coffee before we begin?"

"Nothing, thank you," Sevanna said before Draco could register a vote. Griphook nodded.

"I had heard of the death of Headmaster Snape, of course," he murmured. "I had hoped my sources were wrong."

His small black eyes were sharp as they studied Sevanna's face. The latter was, naturally, expressionless.

"Few if any will mourn the murderer of Albus Dumbledore," Sevanna replied neutrally. "But I thank you for your sympathies."

"I wish him well, wherever he rests," Griphook nodded. "And in the meantime, I see he has left you a half share of his estate, with the remainder to pass to his brother Richard."

"Indeed. I mean to close out his account, transferring those shares as directed by Severus' will. I have the names and account numbers you'll require for a direct transfer to Richard Snape's bank account here," she said coolly, handing along another parchment.

"And your own, madam?"

"To be transferred to the account at the bottom of the page."

"Paris. I do hear it's lovely, this time of year."

"So I've heard. This will, of course, be handled with all the customary discretion?"

"Of course. And the boy?"

"Clearing out the account attached to his key. Go on, Draven," she nodded. Draco handed the goblin the key to his private vault, and the goblin took it and studied it.

"Vault three," he murmured, obviously knowing precisely whose it was. Those shrewd dark eyes took the boy in at a glance, from the top of his tousled black head to his scuffed Muggle trainers. He paused for a moment, and then said casually, "Vaults one and two have likewise been closed out by their owners. Those vaults are being held in trust for them, should they ever decide to take them up again. Your own will be, as well."

It was a considerable act of kindness, particularly from a goblin. Draco's parents were alive, well, and in control of their own fortunes. The Ministry hadn't gotten to them yet.

"My thanks, for the consideration," he replied with a grateful nod, allowing his aristocratic drawl to come fully to the surface, which was more than he'd dared do since he'd left home. The voice clashed wildly with his appearance-- it was like trying to hide a diamond in the ash bin. "Should the local...climate...improve, I'm sure the owners will be glad to return to them."

"Indeed," Griphook said with a grim twist of thin lips. "These are dangerous times. The Ministry is in full upheaval, and a common thief is the hero of the day. He destroyed an entire wing of Gringotts, made off with a priceless goblin-wrought artifact, and then succeeded in...reappropriating another."

"Ah," Sevanna murmured, a smile playing about her lips. "That."

"Yes, that," the goblin said sourly. "And I'll thank you to stop smiling."

"You'll be joining me in it soon enough, I think," she drawled, pulling a small package out of her purse and unwrapping it.

Draco recognized it instantly, for the sheer number of times he'd seen it in the Headmaster's office. The sword of Godric Gryffindor, the one Neville Longbottom had pulled out of the Sorting Hat and used to lop off Nagini's pointy head.

He bit down hard on the words that wanted to spill out. Whatever story Sevanna wanted to make up about why she had that in her possession was surely not going to be helped by his gleefully shouting, My GOD, you stole it back from Potter and his stupid bloody gang of Gryffindors?!

The equally gleeful and admiring smirk, however, would not be stopped. It took full and blazing possession of his face, making even those mud-brown Granger eyes glow. He could have kissed her.

Well, that wasn't any sort of news. But he would have cheerfully kissed her right now if she looked like Horace Slughorn. Even wearing the fez.

She couldn't entirely keep the triumph out of her own eyes, for all that she tried.

"How...how did you manage...we thought this was surely..." Griphook sputtered, at a loss for words.

"You know I cannot tell you how I managed it," she shrugged as she Engorged the sword to its true size. "Let it suffice that I did, and that I return it to its rightful owners now. I would like to consider Hogwarts' debt of honour to the goblins paid in this."

"Hogwarts kept this for a long time," Griphook muttered, his eyes calculating.

"Yes," she agreed, not bothering to argue the point. "Yes, it did."

"What is the honour of Hogwarts to you, particularly?"

"My cousin was its last Headmaster. His name will never be entirely exonerated. He will always be Dumbledore's killer, first and foremost. I would like someone to remember him for one decent act. In truth, I could not have returned the sword to you without his efforts."

"He himself kept the sword from us, for a time."

"And now it is returned to you, because he wanted it so. You'll have to forgive him; he was a very difficult man." Her smile was cynical, almost fey.

Griphook barked a dry and rusty laugh at that. "So he was, so he was. A piss-and-vinegar, sour old bastard. I always liked him better for it. Very well, we shall consider the Headmaster's accounts well settled, and those of Hogwarts. I'll see to these transfers immediately. Young master Szarkany," he said to Draco, pronouncing the name quite perfectly, "how would you prefer to handle the closing of your own account? A bank draft in the full amount, to allow you to open a new account anywhere you wish? Or would you rather transfer it to an existing account somewhere else?"

"I have no existing account elsewhere," Draco said dryly. "Free time has been rather hard to come by, of late, and the change in my plans for summer holiday was rather sudden. A bank draft, if you please."

Griphook nodded, and the draft was written, signed, countersigned and stamped in a matter of minutes. "Be very careful with this, young master. Everything you possess is now functionally on that piece of paper. Lose it, and you will be very sorry indeed."

Draco turned the unwritten side dark brown with a simple spell, then wrapped it around the handle of his wand, temporarily binding it there.

"If someone manages to steal it from me like this, I imagine I'll have bigger worries," he murmured rather bleakly, his eyes still lowered, studying the wand in his hands and remembering his dream of that morning. "Some losses are more disastrous than others. But thank you."

Griphook nodded and saw them out.