The Affairs of Wizards

9. Blood and Money

Twenty minutes after Neville called them the Manor was swarming with Aurors. The grounds were bright with flaming torches conjured by the new arrivals to give them light while they searched for evidence. From the main office we could hear the members of the Auror patrols calling out every time they came across something of importance.

Ron Weasley, who had been, as he put it, "The lucky bastard who was on emergency call-out tonight," had taken a brief look at the crime scene and shot a one-word question straight at Neville and Malfoy.

"Well?"

Malfoy's face was a rigid mask. "If you are asking what I think you are asking, Weasley, the answer is yes, you are right, as far as I can tell. I wasn't exactly in any state to notice the finer details at the time." Neville simply nodded his acquiescence.

Oh God. Call me stupid but I hadn't realised. Voldemort had forced his son to watch while he killed Lucius Malfoy and drained the body of blood. Ten years on some twisted individual had chosen to recreate the scene of Lucius' death here at the very place where it had occurred. No wonder Neville had been so concerned about Malfoy.

We had returned to the main office, where Elaine had chivvied the house-elves into bringing us coffee and sandwiches but none of us felt like eating. We found ourselves places round the main table. Elaine and I sat on one side, while Neville and Tracey sat on the other, hands clasped. Neville kept sneaking surreptitious looks at Malfoy, who sat at one end, staring at his reflection in the table's polished surface, nervously twisting the heavy Malfoy signet round and round on his finger.

Ron helped himself to a coffee, and sat down at the other end of the table. "I need to ask you some questions."

"Go ahead," Malfoy replied. "Let's get it over with."

"Who else would have the knowledge needed to recreate this - " Ron stopped, obviously at a loss for a suitably neutral phrase for the horror we had all just witnessed, and finally settled for, "Scenario?"

"You know as well as I do, Weasley," Malfoy replied, stiffly. "My mad Aunt Bellatrix, her husband, Pettigrew, Longbottom, Potter, Dumbledore and yourself. Bellatrix is still safely in Azkaban, I hope. Lestrange, Pettigrew and Dumbledore are dead. I certainly don't think it's Longbottom, and even I'm not paranoid enough to suspect you or Potter."

Bellatrix Lestrange was Malfoy's aunt? This was news to me.

"You're absolutely sure there was no-one else present?"

"No-one that I saw."

"There was one other person," Neville broke in, "but you wouldn't have seen them, as they were behind you." Ron turned towards him with a questioning look, and he went on, "Bellatrix had Draco in a full body bind. There was another Death Eater standing behind him with a knife, ready to -" He left the final words unspoken but we all knew what he meant. "Harry tried to Stun the bastard but he got away. I don't know who it was, as he was masked and robed. Couldn't even tell if it was male or female."

"So," Ron said thoughtfully, "we have a Mr or Mrs A N Other, present at Lucius' death. We presume this person manages to get out of the Manor before Dumbledore and I arrive, and somehow survives the War. Ten years later he or she decides to recreate Lucius' murder using this poor sod Treadwell who has no connection with the original crime -"

"You can't be sure of that," I interrupted. I recounted the conversation I'd heard between Pansy and Treadwell. Ron produced a Quick Quotes Quill from a pocket of his robe, and set it to scribbling notes as I talked.

"So," Neville summed up when I had finished, "Adrian was either our saboteur, or in league with our saboteur, who may or may not also be our suspect." In answer to Malfoy's silent motion of protest, he retorted, "We can't keep this under wraps any more, Draco. A man is dead."

"There is no need to remind me of that, Longbottom," Malfoy said quietly. Between them he and Neville gave Ron a quick resume of the saboteur's actions, including the mysterious notes. Ron turned to me.

"Was that writing at the scene a quote from the same play?" I nodded. Ron went over his notes. "If Treadwell was the saboteur, then who was the "she" he and Parkinson kept referring to? And another thing - what's Parkinson's role in all of this?"

Malfoy looked up. "Earlier today, Phillippe Devereux, one of our most influential investors, contacted me to tell me that he had received some information about incidents of sabotage that had taken place which caused him "some concern". He had access to details that could only have come from someone in the know - like Treadwell. The whole business had Parkinson's grubby little paws all over it. My guess is that Treadwell recruited her to do his dirty work for him."

"And her motive?"

Malfoy smiled grimly. "Revenge. Parkinson has long cherished hopes of becoming the next Madam Malfoy. Lately it may just have begun to dawn on her that there is no chance of that happening."

"Even Parkinson couldn't have failed to get the message after you told her at Samhain you wouldn't marry her if she was the last woman on earth," Tracey commented.

"Thank you for sharing that with us, Davis," Malfoy snapped. "I really would rather keep my private life private, if you don't mind."

"I'm afraid there's very little chance of that, Malfoy old mate, " Tracey retorted. "If you don't want to end up as dead as Treadwell you've got to give Weasley the information he needs to help you."

"No offence, Malfoy, but I'm actually surprised it isn't you hanging from that rope out there," Ron added, bluntly. "If this is the Death Eaters trying to get you, why kill Treadwell instead?"

Malfoy's face wore a bitter expression. "Well, thank you for that reassuring contribution to the discussion, Weasley."

"Malfoy, I may not actually like you much," Ron shot back, "but I will do my level best to make sure you are protected from whoever did this while we nail the bastard."

"Your level best?" Malfoy sneered. "This from someone who has tried and failed to catch up with dear cousin Ariadne for the last two years. I'd better make sure my Will is up to date."

"Enough!" Neville snapped. "Draco, that was uncalled for."

For a moment I thought Malfoy would retaliate but his shoulders sagged, and he suddenly looked very tired indeed. "Sorry Weasley. It's been a long night."

"Apology accepted," Ron replied, briskly. He turned to one of the members of his squad, who had been standing by the door, waiting for orders. "Carstairs, get back to HQ and get them to send a squad to bring Pansy Parkinson in for questioning, then contact Goyle and get everything they've got on Adrian Treadwell. I don't care if you have to get Goyle himself out of bed, just do it. Long night, did you say, Malfoy? Yeah, and for some of us it just got a whole lot longer."

***

The next few days were a nightmare. The potions lab was out of bounds, as the Aurors were still going over the crime scene. Rememdium, as predicted, was beginning to walk off the shelves as people discovered it actually worked but we were going to struggle to fulfil any further orders if we didn't get the lab back up and running quickly.

The product might be selling like hot cakes but staff morale was at rock bottom. Treadwell's death touched off a string of rumours, each one wilder than the last. People were beginning to eye each other suspiciously, wondering which one of their colleagues was a murderer. The Goyle staff were in a state of confusion, and Seamus Finnigan, Goyle's Area Manager for the South East, who had taken direct charge of the site had a battle on his hands keeping them up to scratch.

Malfoy stalked through all this like a sleepwalker, looking more haggard and growing shorter tempered as each day passed. The papers had now got hold of the story and the Wizarding World's finest doorsteppers were on the case. Scum like these were undeterred by the prospect of a good hexing but this didn't stop Malfoy from trying. Neville was kept busy smoothing things over and trying to sell the company line to the unbelieving gentlemen of the press. I could see he was worried about Malfoy, but the latter stubbornly refused to talk to him and Neville had obviously decided not to press it.

To top it all, an owl arrived from a group of investors headed by Phillippe Devereux, Agnes' father, the wizard who'd broached the subject of the sabotage with Malfoy. This group had called an emergency Board Meeting to discuss the issue, and it was clear their object was to ease Malfoy out of the day to day running of the company in the grounds that he represented a security risk. Malfoy merely shrugged. Nothing, it seemed, could bring him out of his fuge state, even the threat of being deprived of a role which meant so much to him.

I knew how he felt. The yawning chasm inside me was lurking there, ready to open up whenever I was alone. The flat was a prison filled with reminders of Blaise - from the living room fireplace, which had made it easier for him to keep in touch, to the pictures on the walls that we'd selected at Camden Lock, to the bed where we'd spent our first night together. Blaise had made a couple of attempts to talk to me but had given up when I put the Floo permanently on the Wizarding equivalent of the answer machine. I was an automaton, getting through the day's tasks and retreating home in the evenings to cry my eyes out. What made me even more miserable was realising that deep down inside I had known there was something not quite right. There had been an invisible barrier between us at times which I'd put down to being from different worlds. Now I knew it was because Blaise had been tied to another woman. Every memory was tainted with suspicion. How many of those sudden absences or cancelled dates were because he had to spend time with Agnes?

The Aurors were struggling. Pansy Parkinson had returned home that night, packed a bag and departed for an unknown destination according to her house-elf. The creature didn't know where she was and didn't know when she might be expected back. The Magical Law Enforcement people had put out an all-countries alert but so far, nothing. On the plus side, Goyle had been falling over themselves to give Ron and his team everything they could on Treadwell. I got the feeling that Goyle, after half a lifetime acting as Malfoy's bodyguard, was mortified to have failed him when it really counted and would do everything he could to redeem himself and his company. In the meantime they also had the thankless task of checking out 150-plus party guests, any one of whom could have committed the murder. They couldn't even automatically exclude the Muggle ones, as it was possible one of them could have been a wizard disguised with Polyjuice, a potion that changed the appearance.

In the circumstances, it was quite a relief when Ron Weasley arrived one morning to tell us they'd made some progress.

***

I arrived back at the main office from the canteen in company with Neville. I'd spotted him in the corner, trying to comfort a tearful Jocasta Wellbeloved who was saying, "I was only trying to tell him how sorry I was -" Neville looked up gratefully as I approached, and after we'd mopped up Jocasta and sent her on her way, he turned to me.

"Thanks. Dealing with Draco in one of these moods is bad enough. Dealing with the emotional debris he leaves in his wake is worse."

"How is he?"

"Not good. I've seen this before. He bottles it all up for weeks, then - wham!! I just wish he'd talk to someone."

"I'm sure he will. Just give him time."

Neville sighed. "I suppose so." We had reached the office door and he turned to face me, his hand still on the handle. "What about you?"

"I'll live."

"If you want to talk about it -"

"Neville, I think you've got quite enough on your hands with Malfoy right now," I told him firmly. "I can cope."

Neville smiled. "I'm sure you can, Vanessa." He opened the door. Malfoy, who was sitting at the central table with Ron Weasley, looked up as we entered.

"Ah, Longbottom, Miss Granger. Weasley here informs me that not only can we now have our potions lab back, they've have found out something very interesting about Adrian Treadwell."

Ron handed Neville a piece of parchment. "It seems your Site Manager had Death Eater connections. Death Eater connections which he did not mention on his Goyle application form."

Neville scanned the parchment then handed it to me. "His brother? How did that get past Goyle's people?"

"Half brother. Pomona Treadwell, or Pomona Lascelles as she was then, was married young to a D.E. who was killed in the first war. After her first husband's death Pomona married Treadwell's father, and they kept the D.E. connection very quiet. By her first marriage she had one son, Corin, who followed in Daddy's footsteps and joined the D.E.'s after a row with his stepfather. He was killed in the second war."

"What I can't understand, Weasley," Malfoy said, thoughtfully, "is why they tried to hide it. After all, if simply having Death Eater relatives is enough to damn anyone, you, I, and even Goyle would be out of a job."

Ron had a brother in the Death Eaters? The true meaning of the word "estrangement" that Hermione had used when referring to Percy Weasley suddenly struck home. No wonder Ron felt family unity was so important. Hard on the heels of that came the realisation of the irony implicit in Malfoy's statement. Come Friday he might just be out of a job, due to his D.E. connections.

"You, Goyle and I didn't have any choice, Malfoy," Ron replied. "Join the D.E. Mop-Up Squad and you'll find out there's a lot of people out there hiding D.E relatives in the closet. The second thing is this." He handed Malfoy a second parchment. "We managed to persuade Gringotts to give us access to their records on Treadwell's vault. In the last six months he's made some fairly hefty deposits of gold."

Malfoy passed the parchment to Neville. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Blackmail and bribery?" Ron confirmed. "Yes. I'm pretty certain now Treadwell was responsible for the disruption. He certainly appears to have had the motive. What bothers me is this - there have been eight incidents so far -"

"Nine," I interrupted. Neville gave me a reproachful look, and I told him, sternly, "Who was it said that this can't be kept under wraps any more?" I related the incident at the Quidditch match, and my conviction that the attacker had been after Neville. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Stupid, stupid Gryffindor. How many times do I have to tell you that if it looks like a Death Eater and acts like a Death Eater it is a bloody Death Eater! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wasn't sure," Neville protested, "and I didn't want you clucking round me like a mother hen."

Malfoy muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "Well look who's talking."

Ron, who had been taking notes, interrupted briskly, "Have a go at each other afterwards, you two. So - there have been nine incidents. Seven of those are probably Treadwell acting alone. The attack on Neville at the Quidditch match - take it he knew you were going, Neville?" Neville nodded. Ron continued, "So, it's easy enough for him to hire some low-life to create a diversion and attack Neville. That leaves the letter planted at Neville's flat. Treadwell couldn't have done it himself, I'm sure of that. That's because he was at a meeting at Goyle HQ for the whole day, I have at least six witnesses, and it was definitely him, as Goyle take standard precautions against Polyjuiced substitutions. So, who planted that letter for him, and, what is more worrying, how did they get in?"

At that moment the fire in the fireplace flared up and turned green, indicating incoming traffic. The Aurors had fixed up a secure Floo connection so that they could come and go without Malfoy having to be around all the time to take down the protection charms. The flames resolved themselves into a shape, and a woman in her mid-thirties with the most amazing purple hair I'd ever seen in my life stepped out of it, and nearly fell over her own feet.

"Well, hello cousin Dora," Malfoy drawled, with the closest thing to a genuine smile on his face I'd seen since the night of the murder. "What brings you here?"

"That's Tonks to you, annoying brat," the woman retorted with a grin. "Ron mate, here you are. Summary of all known D.E. activity over the whole of the South West in the past eight months. Don't say I never do anything for you." She handed Ron a fat roll of parchment.

"Do I ever say that, boss?" Ron asked with mock hurt. "Thanks. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way back. I need a few words with Neville here first."

"I'll wait for you then," the woman who called herself Tonks replied. She nodded to me and Elaine, and then spotted the coffee pot. "That coffee? Great. Haven't had my fix yet this morning." She moved over to help herself, and Malfoy drifted across to join her. Elaine called me over to go through the week's sales figures but my attention was half on what she was saying and half on the conversation between the two by the coffee pot.

"Since when is Weasley's boss running menial errands for him? Nothing better to do with your time these days?" Malfoy's tone was teasing.

"Since Weasley's boss's cousin stopped answering his Floo," Tonks replied sternly. "For Merlin's sake, Draco, call my bloody mother will you?"

"Tell Aunt Andromeda I'm not about to fall to pieces just because -"

" - Some sick bastard chooses to stage a recreation of the worst experience of your entire life? She's worried. Call her. And don't look at me like that. Why shouldn't she be?"

"I am tired of her, and you and Longbottom fussing over me," Malfoy snapped. "In case she hasn't noticed I am old enough to take care of myself."

"You always were a selfish little bastard. Hasn't it occurred to you that you and I are all she has left of her whole family? Mum lost both her sisters and her favourite cousin in the sodding war. Call her."

Malfoy's tone softened. "Yes, alright."

"Tonight. Promise?"

"Promise. You're a hard woman, cousin Dora."

"Call me that again and you'll find out just how hard."

"Ready, boss?" Ron called from across the room, and the two of them prepared to depart. Before Ron stepped into the fire he turned to Neville and Malfoy.

"I still wonder why whoever set this up didn't go straight for one or both of you. Of course, it could just be standard D.E. mind games - soften the victim up before the final strike, and so on - but I'm not so sure. Is there any reason you can think of, apart from the obvious ones that is, that someone would want to get to both of you?"

Malfoy shook his head. "I've told you everything I can, Weasley." However, I saw, and I knew Ron did, too, the strange shadowed look that passed between him and Neville. It was also obvious that he was alive to the implications of the words, "that I can" coming from a Slytherin. Behind Ron Weasley's good bloke façade lurked the mind of a shrewd strategist. He took this all in and obviously decided he'd nothing to gain by pursuing the issue right now.

"Well, if you do think of anything, call me, OK?" He stepped into the fire, and was gone.

***

Friday came, and with it the Board Meeting. Malfoy managed to hang on by the skin of his teeth, thanks to the Weasley twins. The meeting had lasted all afternoon, and you could cut the atmosphere with a knife when the participants emerged. It was obvious that Devereux and his crowd were not happy with the outcome.

Fred and George Weasley lingered behind for a while to talk to Malfoy and Neville. They came into the main office just as I was beginning to pack up for the day. This was the Weasleys in a very different mood from the blokiness of the UK Quidditch League match. They were brisk and businesslike, and I could see why Malfoy had called them shrewd. After a penetrating analysis of the characters and motives of the participants in the afternoon's meeting, tossed from one to the other in their usual rapid-fire style, they summed the whole thing up in a few sentences.

"Up to you now, Malfoy mate."

"We've done what we can."

"But even we can't go against Devereux and his mob for long."

"So, get it sorted, eh?"

They slapped Malfoy on the back in their usual fashion, and headed for the nearest Disapparation point, with a cheery double wave to me and Neville as they departed.

"Get it sorted," Malfoy mimicked, looking after them. "What in Salazar's name do they think I am? A miracle worker?"

"At least they've bought us time, Draco," Neville replied. "Now I'm going home, or Tracey'll kill me."

"Yes, go, Longbottom," Malfoy replied. "I have no desire whatsoever to find myself on the business end of Davis's wand." Neville left, and he turned to me. "And you too, Miss Granger. Time you were going."

I was just about to tell him the same thing, when Ditzy appeared carrying a letter and a parcel. "Package and letter for Miss Vanessa Granger. Mr Finnigan is saying it has been thoroughly checked."

I took the letter reluctantly and opened it. I'd recognised Blaise's distinctive copperplate handwriting, and hoped that it wasn't yet another plea to at least grant him a hearing. Malfoy was watching me closely, and I knew he'd figured out who it was from.

Vanessa,

I'm returning some things you left at my place. I wish you would see me and let me try and explain but I realise how much I've hurt you, so I'm not going to contact you again. Draco knows the whole sorry story of my so-called engagement, and if you ask him I'm sure he'll tell you. Please do this one thing at least for me.

Believe me when I say I'm sorry about all of this, and I miss you terribly.

Blaise

I just had time for the thought, Oh bloody hell, not now, before the tears came. I groped blindly for my handbag to find some tissues. At the same time a comforting arm went round my shoulders and a clean white cotton handkerchief was pressed into my hand. I wiped my eyes, furiously choking back the tears.

"Zabini?" Malfoy asked the question like someone who already knew the answer.

I nodded bleakly. "He says -" I fought to stem another flow of tears. "He says - oh bugger it, see for yourself." I handed Malfoy the letter.

He scanned it, then looked down at me. "I will tell you, if that's what you want." It was. Anything was better than this awful quagmire of suspicion and doubt. I had to know exactly what I'd really meant to Blaise, even if the truth hurt.

"Yes." I found myself swaying under the onset of a sudden wave of dizziness. Malfoy plonked me firmly down in a chair and knelt in front of me, staring up at me.

"How long is it since you ate properly? You look terrible."

I noted his haggard appearance and the violet shadows under the grey eyes. My sense of humour and proportion both made a rapid reappearance. "You can talk. Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?"

Malfoy smiled wryly. "I'm not sleeping too well at the moment. Look, I'll make a bargain with you. You let me feed you before I tell you Zabini's story, and I'll knock myself out with a Dreamless Sleep potion tonight. Deal?"

"Deal." I stuck out my hand, and he shook it solemnly. He rose, pulling me with him.

"Come on. I can at least promise you a decent meal. My house-elf may be certifiably insane but she is also a very, very good cook."

***

Malfoy was right. Winky might be mad as a hatter but this certainly didn't seem to have had a detrimental effect on her culinary skills. True, the running monologue she kept up while serving us dinner was slightly disconcerting but I followed Malfoy's lead and did my best to ignore it. The creature seemed predisposed to see "Master's" enemies everywhere and would suddenly break off from whatever she was doing at the time to conduct an extensive search for Death Eaters under the sofa or behind the bookcase. In an extraordinary display of uncharacteristic patience Malfoy simply waited until she had finished and then carried on as if nothing had happened.

"How on earth did you ever end up with her?" I couldn't help asking when Winky had finally served coffee and muttered herself off back to the kitchen.

Malfoy smiled. "Dumbledore called it serendipity. What the crafty old devil really meant was fate was having a damn good laugh at my expense. You see, when Potter and Longbottom rescued me they had help - a former Malfoy house elf by the name of Dobby. Owing a life debt to Potter was bad enough but to owe one to a house-elf - " He poured us both a brandy. "Naturally, I was anxious to pay it off as quickly as possible. Dumbledore and Dobby came up with this idea. Winky had lost her previous family in circumstances which rendered her quite unfit to work for anyone else, and I had need of someone to protect me when I returned here to try and recover from my - experiences." He took a sip of his coffee, staring thoughtfully into space. "She is incredibly loyal. Stark staring raving mad, but incredibly loyal."

It was the first time Malfoy had seemed at all inclined to talk about the horrors of his past and, remembering what Neville had said, I cast around for some way of continuing the subject.

"Why come back here at all after everything that happened?"

"Why not?" Malfoy sounded matter-of-fact but I could imagine the effort it had cost him. "This is my home, after all. My Aunt Andromeda, who became my legal guardian after Father's death, was rather against the whole idea, and she made me wait a year until I was of age. In retrospect, she was probably right."

"Is that Tonks's mother? The woman who came here the other day?"

Malfoy chuckled. "You were listening! I thought so. Not much gets by you, does it, Vanessa? If you were a witch like your cousin I'd bet a hundred Galleons there'd have been a Granger in Slytherin."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." He rose, and motioned me to follow him. "So you've taken an interest in my relatives, have you? Then come and meet some of them. It's easier to show you than to try and tell you about them."

He led me through the open double doors into the room which served as his sitting room, and stopped in front of a full-length portrait of a blonde-haired, grey eyed man. "Father," Malfoy said softly. "Lucius Tiberius Malfoy, sixteenth in the line of direct descent from the Malfoy who built the Manor and as proud as the devil himself. When I was a child I wanted to be just like him. He seems to find me something of a disappointment these days. Given what happened to him as a result of his political choices I don't think he has much right to criticise mine." The portrait gave him a hard stare, turned and stalked out of the frame. Malfoy smiled bitterly. "No, these days I find my father's side of the family rather dull by comparison with mother's." He moved on to another portrait of three young women, one dark-haired, the other two fair, who stared out at us with haughty expressions. "My mother was a Black, from the most Noble and Ancient House of the same name. An interesting lot, the Blacks. Unlike the Malfoys they were consistent only in their inconsistency. Take my mother and her sisters. Aunt Bellatrix, that's her there in the middle, was one of the most notorious of the Death Eaters, and Aunt Andromeda, she's the one on the right, was promised to Father before she ran off with a Muggle-born, Ted Tonks. You could say my mother was the quiet one." The young blonde woman on the left smiled at him. "Which is possibly why the family talent for shape-shifting passed me by. My cousin Sirius was one of the youngest ever recorded Animagi - that's a wizard who can assume animal form - and cousin Dora's a Metamorphagus - a classic shape-shifter. I was rather disappointed that nothing of that sort ever happened to me. Maybe it takes a touch of the rebel to achieve it."

I was tempted to say that Malfoy had done enough rebelling in his later years for several generations of Blacks, but I didn't. Instead, I studied the younger version of Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, who stared back at me, curiously.

"She was very beautiful, your mother."

"Yes," Malfoy agreed, that strange shadowed look flitting across his face, "she was." Then, with an abrupt change of mood and subject, "But you came here to talk about Zabini. Come and sit down, and I'll tell you all about it." He fetched the decanter, and poured us each another brandy. We sat together on the sofa in front of the fire, and Malfoy began his story.

"I'm sure you've realised by now that marriages in the older Wizarding families are more like business transactions. My parents' marriage was an arranged match, and so were the marriages of most of my friends' parents. It was just something you accepted. At least it had become the custom in later years to wait until your children were of age and give them a choice, if a rather limited one. My father, for example, made it quite clear to me that I had a choice of three potential brides, and I should make my mind up between them by the time I came of age, or he'd make it up for me. Aren't customs among Muggles in some parts of the world are broadly similar?"

"Yes, they are."

"Where Zabini's case differs is that his father, Alessandro, although not actually a Voldemort supporter, was a raving pureblood supremacist who was terrified his only son and heir would go to Hogwarts, fall for some lowly Muggle-born, marry her, and pollute the bloodline. So he took steps to ensure that could never happen. Poor Zabini was bound to Agnes Devereux at the age of ten. He'd never met the girl before the day of the ceremony, and what little contact they did have convinced him he couldn't stand her. The ceremony constituted a binding magical contract, and if Blaise doesn't get married to his fiancée by the time he is thirty, the penalties are pretty dire. Suffice to say that he has no alternative. For most of our time at Hogwarts he kept the whole thing pretty quiet."

"So, how do you know about it?"

"I'm coming to that. In our fourth year Zabini had a thing going with one of the Slytherin girls. It was pretty serious on both sides, and we all thought they'd probably get married after Hogwarts. This was the year of the Tri-Wizard tournament, and Zabini's fiancee's elder sister, Suzanne was one of the potential champions from Beauxbatons. She spotted Zabini with his girlfriend at the Yule Ball and took it upon herself to remind him and the girl that he was already spoken for. Zabini's girlfriend fled in tears, and Zabini ended up getting very drunk in the Slytherin common room and confiding in me and Parkinson. As far as I know we're the only two people outside his family and Agnes's who know about the arrangement. He's been trying to work out some way of breaking the contract ever since, but short of murdering his father or his fiancée, there isn't one, and Zabini's not prepared to go quite that far to attain his freedom."

I felt a stab of pity for Blaise. "He should have told me."

"I agree," Malfoy said seriously. "He should have. I thought he had, or I would never have invited you to my Samhain Feast as a couple. I can only think his fear of losing you overcame all that upright Italian honour. He may have thought he could persuade you that it didn't matter at first, but I'm sure that the more he began to realise how differently Muggles do things the more he would have become afraid that if he told you that would be the end of it."

I stared into the fire. "He was right."

"He cared about you very much indeed, Vanessa," Malfoy said, earnestly. "Longbottom and I were always teasing him about how love-struck he was. Zabini's the type who doesn't fall often but when he does he falls hard."

That did it. The tears flowed freely again. I knew now that Blaise had cared for me, and that made a difference. Knowing that he'd been a fool not a philanderer left me free to truly mourn our relationship. I was dimly aware of Malfoy putting his arms round me and murmuring words of comfort, that somewhere along the way turned into words of endearment. I laid my head on his shoulder, and I remember thinking vaguely just how good it felt that he was holding me. Then he kissed me, and shortly after that I ceased to think at all.

***

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