"As it
Were tissue of silver
I'll wear, O fate, thy grey,
And go mistily radiant, clad
Like the moon."
-- "Fate Defied" by Adelaide Crapsey

Malfoy Manor
8 March, 2000, 8:30 a.m.

Dear Sev:

Last night's dream predicted that I will receive a visit from Harry Potter this morning. He'll be wearing a truly atrocious yellow shirt and he'll be no less irritating than he was the last time I saw him. I don't suppose if I owled him and begged him to wear something else that he would. I shall be forced to suffer in silence and wear my sunglasses to cut down the glare.

As far as what Potter wants, evidently the Ministry is concerned that someone is trying to kill me. Insert pithy comment of your choice here regarding just how long that list might be. That they're sending their Super Auror out to the Manor instead of the standard-issue variety would suggest they know something I don't. Yet. It would be very nice if these fucking visions would provide some useful information but so far all I've been getting is the Autumn collection of women's robes and Harry Potter in an awful yellow shirt. It's charmingly ironic, isn't it, that there's no predicting what the dreams will predict. I wish now I'd paid more attention to your lessons on patience. I can hear you laughing and I want you to know that I don't begrudge you your sad little amusements in your dotage.

Tomorrow's another day of testimony, so once I've escaped from Potter I'll spend the afternoon with the prosecutors going over the case. It's another open and shut, though - Bagman. They might as well pack him off to Azkaban right now and save us all the trouble, but I suppose the formalities must be observed. Worse will be Goyle on Monday. I keep telling myself that with everything else I've managed to survive, a little thing like condemning one's formerly best friend to an existence as a soulless zombie is only a minor annoyance. And yet, strangely, I still don't feel any better about it.

Perhaps tonight I'll dream something useful and Potter can go find someone else to bother. You'll be the first to know, of course, in either case.

Despite your reservations, I have not abandoned the idea of switching the Manor's wards from Dark magic to Light. Dumbledore certainly believed it was possible without reducing efficiency, and the copious notes he left for me should help. But I do agree that the current wards are far too ancient, imbedded and complex for me to dismantle without assistance. If you would be willing to provide some recommendations for an expert Dark Wards consultant, I would greatly appreciate it. Surely it's better for me to go into the project with the input of someone who knows what they're doing, and I'm determined to move forward no matter what. If bribery is in order, name your price. I await your scathing reply.

In closing, obligatory answers to annoying nagging questions: Yes, I'm eating enough. Yes, I'm resting as much as I can. No, I'm not drinking too much. Yes, I finished chapter fourteen of Carmichael's Potions and Their Counteragents but No, you cannot have it back. I think I'm making progress on the (Near) Universal Poison Antidote and I need the book to double check my measurements. I promise to keep the doors locked and the wards up and take all reasonable precautions, etc. etc. etc. Don't worry about me, Sev. You know as well as I do that it won't do any good.

Draco Jacques

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
8 March, 2000, 4:30 p.m.

Dear Obnoxious Brat-

Suffering in silence isn't your style, as evidenced by our voluminous correspondence. As for worrying, I only worry that I shall be forced to nurse you back to health yet again after you make yourself ill with your stubbornness. I imagine I shall only stop worrying when one of us is dead. I would prefer to put off that eventuality on both sides for as long as possible.

I assume you saw Potter this morning as predicted, and hopefully both of you escaped the encounter intact. He is an insufferable prat, but he does have a good head for Defence. Between the two of you I hope you'll manage to keep breath in that skinny body of yours for a while longer. In addition, I've been putting up with him for years; it's only fair that you should take your turn. Don't feel you have to be polite to him, though. I never bother.

Regarding the wards, I respond as you anticipate. You are a damned fool. The notion of dismantling everything Dark at the Manor and replacing it with Light equivalents is very romantic but Dark magic is at the very heart of the Manor house itself. Despite Dumbledore's hopes, I don't see how you can touch the Dark magic without bringing the rafters crashing down around your ears. However, you are right that your attempting this unassisted would be suicide and I know to my cost just how stubborn you are when you become enamoured of an idea. I will endeavour to find you some assistance. My only price is that you promise to listen to the consultant you hire. Perhaps he or she can dissuade you where I can't, or at the very least keep you from blowing yourself up. I'll dig up a name or two for you and send them along tomorrow by owl.

Speaking of doing yourself foolish harm, the fact that the prophetic dreams are so trivial of late indicates that you've been using absinthe to force them. This and the wards and you wonder why I worry! The cycle of absinthe to bring the dreams and then whisky to forget about them is causing you harm, Draco. I know you think you won't live long enough for it to matter, but you can't know that for sure. We've had this argument a hundred times before, and I'll not rehash it again. Perhaps it doesn't occur to you that there are people who care about you beyond your uses to the Ministry and the prophecies, and that you're harming them when you harm yourself. Surely if it did you would take better care of yourself.

Do you realize that you are just as insufferable as Potter himself? You are a stubborn, insubordinate, reckless, annoying little git. That I am forced to deal with the two of you at once is proof positive that I was some sort of genocidal maniac in a former life. Or perhaps a lawyer.

Severus

Draco Malfoy opened the door before Harry had a chance to knock. So Harry was standing there with his hand in the air like an idiot, and it was the first he'd seen Malfoy in a year and a half, and Malfoy looked especially pale and drawn, with dark purple circles under tired grey eyes like he'd been torturing himself for fun at night instead of sleeping. He wasn't wearing any shoes, which, despite the neat condition of his black day robes, made him look oddly dishevelled. Naturally the first thing out of Harry's mouth was, "Malfoy. You look like shit."

"And that's the ugliest shirt I've ever seen. Do come in and have some coffee, Potter."

Harry glanced down at the shirt under his Auror's robes in puzzlement. The salesgirl had sworn yellow was the new black. But Malfoy didn't linger to offer fashion tips and Harry followed him inside Malfoy Manor, wondering if this meeting was going to go as badly as he feared.

The last time he'd seen Malfoy, it had been six months after the Final Assault; they were both still recovering from war wounds and grieving their dead. They'd run into each other in a Ministry corridor, and Harry had taken the opportunity to tell Malfoy he hoped to see him at the award ceremony for the Order of Merlin a few weeks later. Malfoy sneered that he didn't think it terribly appropriate to accept a medal for killing one's parents and then stalked off. Harry still wasn't sure which of them exactly Malfoy had been insulting.

That conversation had been much on Harry's mind when he accepted this assignment. He knew it was going to be a challenge, but Harry told himself that he thrived on challenges. The fact that none of the other Aurors wanted anything to do with Malfoy and Arthur Weasley had begged him to step in as a personal favour was beside the point. He was a professional. No problem too big, no assignment too small. He would step in and save the day, just like he always did. But when he woke that morning, he'd found himself more intimidated by the prospect of coming to Malfoy Manor and facing its master than he'd expected.

Glancing around the entry hall, Harry was surprised by how beautiful it was, all light and air with a cathedral ceiling painted with clouds and rococo designs. He'd been in the Manor only once before and the impression he'd taken away had been one of oppressive gloom and foreboding, though charging into a place under heavy fire during a final battle to defeat a Dark Lord does tend to colour one's memories. "Has it always looked like this," he asked Malfoy, "or did you change it?"

Malfoy turned and raised a perfectly-arched eyebrow. "I've redecorated, but the structure is mostly the same. Not as gothic as you remembered, hmm?"

"Yeah. Lots of light."

He gave Harry an ironic smile, but his eyes stayed glacier-cold. "To say I have a love-hate relationship with the old pile wouldn't be an overstatement," he said, and led Harry into the first floor parlour.

A small table was set up next to a large picture window overlooking the gardens. It was set to overflowing with a tea pot, coffee carafe, a variety of bread in a basket, cheese, fruit of all sorts, preserves, and a plate of bacon. A low arrangement of roses sat in the middle of the table. The whole set-up positively reeked of class and sophistication. Suddenly Harry wished he'd chosen a more subdued shirt that morning.

"Are you expecting company?" he asked politely.

"You're here, aren't you? And the house elves have decided I don't eat enough so they always set out enough food for an army. Help yourself."

Well, this isn't so bad, Harry thought. We've only insulted each other once and Malfoy is being almost pleasant. Plus, food! He sighed happily to himself and began piling a plate while Malfoy poured tea for himself and coffee for Harry.

Harry had already taken a sip of his coffee before he realized that Malfoy had added exactly the right amount of sugar and cream. He looked up at him with surprise. "How did you - did you have a vision about this?"

"Professor Snape told you, then. About the dreams." Malfoy draped himself casually into a chair and sipped his tea, black robes flowing around him as decorously as if they'd been arranged.

"I had no idea they were so accurate, though. So detailed."

Malfoy laughed. "In the dream, I didn't have any coffee made since I don't generally drink it, and you and I got into a screaming row within ten minutes of your arrival."

"So the dreams aren't always true?"

"They're indications of direction. If I hadn't known you were coming, what happened in the dream would have happened this morning. Since the dream warned me, I was able to have the coffee made in advance. Whether we'll be able to avoid the screaming row in the end remains to be seen. Our track record doesn't inspire confidence, though, does it?"

Harry smiled and took another drink of coffee. "No, I suppose not. The coffee is lovely, though. Thanks."

Malfoy's face softened just a bit and Harry was struck by how suddenly young he looked. "You're welcome."

"So, I guess you already know why I'm here, then," Harry said.

"I gather the Ministry wants to smother the Manor in extra security." The tone of his voice left no doubt as to his distaste for the idea.

"Someone is trying to kill you, Malfoy. The Ministry is right to be concerned."

"The Ministry would be quite happy if I went and got myself splinched, just so long as they got their testimony first. I'm a tool and my well-being is completely beside the point."

"To them, maybe, but your well-being should be very much to the point to you."

Malfoy gave a bitter laugh. "Evidently you didn't get the memo about my recent conversion to the joys of painful martyrdom. If things had gone the way I'd planned, I would be far too dead already to be of any use to anyone."

"So you're just going to sit back while someone finishes the job your father started, then?"

Silence. Malfoy's teacup rattled as he replaced it just a little too carelessly in the saucer. "My father is not a topic open to discussion." The flat menace in Malfoy's tone left no room for negotiation, and Harry could see that screaming match looming on the horizon. He switched tactics.

"I'm sorry. I only meant that I always thought of you as a survivor, someone who didn't give up easily, and now you just seem resigned."

"I didn't realize that they taught counselling alongside combat in Auror training."

Harry scrubbed a hand through his thick mop of hair. He'd known that Malfoy had become intensely private since the War and that trying to install a company of Aurors in his house was likely to take some convincing but Harry really had thought himself equal to the task. He'd even bet Seamus Finnigan twenty-five Galleons that he would manage it. But Malfoy was even more stubborn than he remembered, and much less concerned about his own welfare than Harry anticipated. Harry was beginning to feel rather annoyed. "You're making this really difficult, Malfoy."

"My apologies," he drawled and picked up his teacup again. "Obviously someone neglected to inform me that my sole purpose is to make life easy for the Ministry."

"I'm not the fucking Ministry!" Harry's voice was louder than he intended, and he winced. Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him. He took a deep breath. "Look, I know we weren't friends in school but there's been enough death already. Let me help you."

Malfoy took a casual sip from his cup, but there was something in his eyes that made Harry's blood run cold. Like the weight of a sum of years that Malfoy had yet to live through.

"Even you can't save everyone, Potter," he said lightly. "Some things are beyond controlling."

"Let me try."

Malfoy sighed and set his teacup down again, this time without a sound. "What does the Ministry propose to do?"

"I want to install a permanent guard of hand-picked Aurors in the Manor, just until the situation is resolved."

"My list of enemies is long, Potter. There may be more than one situation."

"Did you, um. Is that just supposition on your part, or . . . "

"Vision is not a dirty word, you know. But it's only an educated guess. More a possibility, really."

"I see."

"Well, the problem is that I don't. Seers don't normally See anything having to do with their own lives. Apparently I am the exception that proves the rule but the subjects of those visions are often very trivial. If I do See something I'll let you know but it's likely you're going to have to figure this out on your own without any extrasensory assistance."

Harry nodded. He was used to relying on himself and he found the visions slightly creepy anyway. "Okay, fine. What can you tell me about this long list of suspects?"

"What can you tell me about how many Aurors you're proposing to install in my home?" Malfoy countered.

Harry didn't think Malfoy was going to like the answer to that question, and he considered stalling but he didn't think he would be able to pull it off. And he'd have to tell him eventually anyway. "Six on duty at all times. And myself."

"Merlin! Why don't you just bring in the Chudley Cannons while you're at it? Six people!"

"It's not like you don't have the space. And it's seven."

"Space isn't the issue. And what do you mean it's seven?"

"Six other Aurors and myself equals seven people. Basic arithmetic, Malfoy."

"You're going to be staying here, too? I thought you'd just be around during the day, supervising and making a general nuisance of yourself."

"In this case I'll be needing to make a nuisance of myself around the clock. If you could find a free room for me somewhere fairly close to your bedroom, that would be ideal."

A slow, insolent smile spread across Malfoy's face and he leaned back in his chair. "Harry, if you wanted a date all you had to do was ask."

Harry could feel his cheeks burning. "In case of trouble, you twit. I'm not, um, you know, I don't - "

"If I had a Galleon for every man I've had who didn't um you know, I'd be twice as rich as I am."

His blush approaching nuclear levels of brilliance, Harry tried to get the discussion back on track. "This is serious, Malfoy. The Ministry's informant says there's a spy in your household. You're most vulnerable when you're sleeping, and I'm the commanding member of the team. I need to be here."

"A spy in my household? Perhaps it's escaped your notice, but I don't have a household. I fired all the servants when the house passed to me because I couldn't be absolutely certain of their loyalty. I fired all the guards and imported a staff of eight from London. I've checked them all out thoroughly and they stay at the front gates and don't come near the Manor itself. The house elves are all that's left, because they'd give themselves a stroke before they would betray the master of the house. That's it. That's not a household, Potter. That's barely even a skeleton crew. The Ministry's informant is off his nut."

"Better safe than sorry."

Malfoy shook his head sadly. "And to think you represent the pinnacle of the wizarding world's educational system."

And with that last barb, Harry's slowly unravelling grip on his temper gave way. "Look here, you snotty little creep. I'm expected to take care of this situation and that means you come out of it alive. I've lost parents and friends and someone closer than a brother and I will not let some wanker just walk up to you and kill you without a fight. If you cooperate, my people and I will try to stay out of your way as much as we can. If not, I can find a new way to make myself annoying for every day of the week, with extra servings on Sundays. It's your call."

Malfoy looked thoughtful, as though Harry had just delivered a well-reasoned treatise on new uses for gillyweed instead of an angry tirade. "This means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

Harry hadn't thought of it that way, but he was surprised to find that it did. Not just because it was part of his job, but because a world without an infuriating, enigmatic, arrogant Draco Malfoy in it seemed somehow uncomfortably small. "Yes, it does."

Malfoy nodded. "All right then. I'll have the house elves clear out quarters in the North Wing for your people as soon as you give me the names. I'll even let them use the pool, but tell them no swimming before 8 a.m. I don't want them interfering with my morning laps. You can stay in the guest room across the hall from my bedroom. Let me know what else you need and I'll see it's taken care of."

"Thank you."

"So, I suppose you'll be wanting that list of suspects, then." Malfoy walked over to a small escritoire and sat down. He pulled a roll of parchment out of a drawer, took up a quill and began to write. And write. And write. The parchment unrolled and began pooling in his lap and he continued to write. He wrote names down for ten minutes or so, came to the end of the parchment, turned it over, and began writing down the back. After another five minutes or so, he stopped and blew on the ink. "It's got a bit smeared, I'm afraid," he said.

"Did you prioritise those in some way, or are we supposed to just start from the top?" Harry asked.

Malfoy turned the parchment back over and began working his way down the list, making a tick every so often. When he was done he handed it to Harry. "Here's the top twenty or so. Mortimer Higgs has the liquid funds, the underworld connections and the motive to hire someone to do it - he's probably first on my list."

Harry grimaced. "And good luck finding him. We've been trying for years, since before the War, for more than just the Death Eater business. He's like the Don Corleone of the wizarding world."

Malfoy looked puzzled. "Who?"

"Never mind. So is there a motive beyond the standard Death Eater bitterness there?"

"He and Riddle had set up a scheme to manufacture drugs which could be sold on the Muggle black market. The Death Eaters were in charge of production and Higgs was in charge of distribution. It was supposed to bring money into the war coffers for Riddle and line Higgs' pockets quite handsomely for his trouble. But I blew up the labs before they could make any money. Twice. They didn't know it was me at the time, of course. But in retrospect it's probably fairly obvious."

"Ah. Who else?"

"Anyone with family connections to the Mulcibers, the Goyles, the Crabbes, and the Macnairs. I was involved in the Death Eater executions of both the Mulciber sons and that's come out during various trials. I was the key witness in the Crabbe Jr. and Sr. trials and all three of the Macnair trials. I'll be the star witness for the Goyle case coming up. So there's a motive for revenge on all those fronts."

"Okay, that's good. Go on."

"That leaves basically any person with connections to any of the other hundreds of Death Eater trials for which I've testified. Not to mention someone on our side," Malfoy's tone of voice made it clear that he wasn't sure it was his side at all, "who might have had a loved one killed by Death Eaters and be brassed off at me for it, or anyone whose loved one I personally killed during my days as a Death Eater. I wrote down the names of everyone who came to mind. I can send you some more names later, if you'd like."

Harry scanned down the list. "Hey! My name's on here!"

Malfoy shrugged. "You never know."

Harry gave him a cross look and took the quill out of his hand. "As head of this investigation, I personally vouch for my own innocence." Harry crossed his name off the list. "I'll start my team running down these leads. In the meantime, if you think of anyone else, anyone at all but particularly someone with a strong motive, send me an owl."

Malfoy sighed and went back to the breakfast table for his tea. "Fine. I'm sure you and your people will do an excellent job, Potter. Just don't feel too badly if it doesn't make much difference in the end."

Malfoy Manor
10 March, 2000, 8:15 a.m.

Dear Sev -

I'm sure it will amuse you to no end to learn that Potter's six Aurors have grown like Hydra's heads into almost thirty. Turns out that Aurors take eight-hour shifts, so having six on duty around the clock requires a small army. Potter assures me, though, that the relief shifts are assigned only part-time to the Manor and won't be needing accommodation. You can imagine the comfort this brings me. The Manor is once more host to an invading force, and it's a good thing I've sent the ancestral portraits to the Magical Portrait Gallery or I'd never hear the end of it.

Nothing of importance to relate from last night, just another tiresome version of my untimely end. One of my least favourites - poison can be rather an unpleasant way to die. It does beat repeated and prolonged applications of Cruciatus, however - every cloud having its silver lining.

Every one of these dreams feels so real. I wake each time with the absolute certainty in my gut that I've seen the truth of how the future will come to pass, just as I do the other true visions. The way all these myriad final scenarios contradict each other is maddening, and it's frustrating to have no historical precedent for guidance. As befits the standing of a Malfoy, I am unprecedented. Like everything else connected to my Name it's most irritating. Ah, well. What you cannot change, ignore, is my motto. I'm raising denial to the level of high art.

One of the things I'm most denying at the moment is Monday's testimony against Greg. Counsel for the Defence always rakes me over the coals and that has ceased to hold any terror for me, but to have to look into Greg's eyes as I condemn him . . . It's difficult, Sev. Surely if the dreams are punishment for anything, it is for this. And all my crimes previous, of course. Now that I think of it, perhaps I have no cause to complain of the dreams at all. I resolve from now on to endure them manfully, in stoic silence.

In the meantime, my study for my belated N.E.W.T.s helps to keep my mind off things. I take a small, petty pleasure in knowing that my seven exams will exceed Granger's six. I'm focusing most on Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, and History of Magic, none of which were touched upon by my "education" after I left Hogwarts. I don't anticipate any trouble with Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, or Divination. Transfiguration is a toss up. If they ask me to transfigure something innocuous into something nasty I should have no problem, but I never did very well on MacGonagall's fluffy-bunny transfigurations. Against my natural inclinations, I suppose.

I'd like to think that Dumbledore would be pleased I'm going through with my exams. He spent so much time trying to coax me to envision a future after the War, though I don't know if he ever really believed any more than I did that I would have one.

I do apologise for my maudlin temper this morning, Sev. The galumphing of Aurors' boots up and down the Manor's staircases has given me a headache. I hope you're having a more pleasant day than I.

Your Draco Jacques

P.S. Per your suggestion, I've had Potter's team run an analysis on the wards expert and there don't seem to be any problems. She's meeting me tomorrow for a preliminary consultation. Thanks for your help on this, despite your concerns. I'll keep you updated.

P.P.S. I believe I've made a breakthrough in the (N.)U.P.A. and I'll leave it at that for now to tease you. Feel free to beg me to enlighten you, oh Potions Genius. Or, if you are still unhealthily attached to your dignity, I'll give you a full report once my confirming experiments are concluded.

P.P.P.S. Has Potter been working out? He's filling out his horrific wardrobe rather nicely these days. Too bad about the personality, eh? And that absurd business about being straight. As Pansy used to say, whatever.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
10 March, 2000, Midnight

Dear Appalling Nuisance-

I'm sure being overrun with Aurors is quite distressing, but console yourself with the thought of how much Lucius would loathe having them crawling all over the Manor like ants. Considering your impetuousness and the number of your enemies, a dozen dozen more might be a good idea.

As for Potter, if you decide to make a pass at him, please alert me beforehand so I can Apparate to the Manor and witness the look on his face first hand. I think even your famous charms are lost on that one. Given the circumstances, though, I suppose you must amuse yourself as best you can.

It's an excessively cruel joke of Fate's that the wretched dreams of your death didn't stop after they were nearly fulfilled at the end of the War. But we are all of us Fate's playthings; if I've learned no other lessons in my life, I have learned this.

Which brings me to the burden of your testimony. Testifying during the first go-round of this mess was one of the most wrenching things I've ever done in my life, far more difficult than pointing a wand at an innocent and making a clean kill. Greg was your friend and he trusted you, at least as far as Death Eaters ever trust one another. But he made the wrong choices, no matter why he did it. In fact, if anyone is at fault here besides Gregory himself, it might well be me for failing to guide him in the right direction, though Merlin knows I tried my best.

I tell you in all seriousness that you have done the right thing, Draco. Don't ever doubt it. You couldn't have done any more for Greg without putting the whole operation at unacceptable risk. Gregory Goyle's life is a fair trade for the lives of millions and the freedom of all, though that you must make this transaction is another of Fate's cruelties. It will be hard on Monday, but the trials will be over before too much longer and you will finally be released from the duties thrust upon you at much too early an age. And though I never say it to your face, I am proud of you. You've done far more than any of us had any right to expect.

And there. You've made me maudlin, too, you sorry excuse for a correspondent. I take back anything nice I ever said about you.

It's good you have your studies to occupy your mind. Your Potions N.E.W.T. should indeed pose no problem to you - you've been doing Master-level work with me for the last year and if you can't pass a pathetic N.E.W.T. exam I shall be most embarrassed for both of us. It's rather too bad that it's Defence Against the Dark Arts you're being tested over, rather than simply The Dark Arts. Even so, you should be able to administer the exam yourself on this subject as well. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing when I saw you'd also added Divination to your slate of exams. Take care you don't provide a true vision or they'll flunk you. On second thought, give Trelawney one of those blasted dreams of your own death - she'll eat that up with a spoon.

Well, I must sign off and head toward bed. I've got miles of essays to grade tomorrow. For Merlin's sake, I know you're under stress but try to avoid the temptation of beginning a campaign of sexual conquest through the ranks of the Aurors stationed at the Manor. They don't need the distraction. And you can find your distraction elsewhere.

Severus

P.S. You're welcome, brat.

P.P.S. My attachment to my dignity remains intact. I'll expect the full report once you've proven that this is more than another of your hare-brained attempts at showing up your old Professor's oft-demonstrated brilliance.

P.P.P.S. I am entirely ignorant of Potter's personal routine and I hope to remain so.

Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Research Division

Date of Report: 11 April, 2000
Agent: David H. Malloy

Background Information on Catherine Tayce, Ph.D.

Date of Birth
11 August, 1973

Place of Birth
Hartford, Connecticut, United States of America

Mother
Susanna Tayce, nee Gordon. Certified Potions Master. Born 1946, died 1973, of complications during childbirth. No known siblings.

Father
Charles Linford Tayce, Ph.D. Professor of Non-Human Languages at new York Occult College. Born 1940. No known siblings.

Maternal Grandparents
No information available. Susanna Tayce's background could not be traced. Interviews indicated her maiden name was Gordon and that she was English, but it appears that her birth records were destroyed during the Great Ministry Fire of 1980. Interview subjects say that Mr. and Mrs. Tayce met during their studies at The Princeton School for Magic and that she had resided in the U.S. since at least 1962. No Muggle immigration papers exist, but this is not uncommon for witches of her generation.

Paternal Grandparents
Aida Jameson Tayce, nee Linford. Wife, mother and philanthropist. President of the Board of Directors of The Linford Trust, which provides grants for anti-Dark Arts research. Born 1899. One sister, Carmen Jameson Linford.

Charles Rainier Tayce. President of the Jameson Company, retired. The Jameson Company is primarily known for manufacturing electrical conversion devices which allow Muggle electrical technology to be powered by magic. Born 1883. Three sisters: Anne Tayce-Bishop; Eva Tayce; and Helena Randal, nee Tayce. Two brothers: Geoffrey and James.

Siblings
None.

Romantic Relationship(s)
Since 1996, Dr. Tayce has been linked to Jerome Stanley Howard, Ph.D., but the relationship is described as "off again, on again." Dr. Howard is a fellow researcher at the Institute for Dark Arts Defence and specializes in spells used for personal combat. Dr. Tayce dated infrequently while pursuing her studies, and in general seems more focused on her work than her personal life.

Closest Friends
In addition to Dr. Howard, Dr. Tayce has a close friendship with Leola Barkham, Ph.D., a professor of Transfiguration at the University of Occult Arts in Redlands, California. They met during their graduate studies at Salem University and have continued their friendship since that time. Dr. Tayce is also said to be friendly with another colleague at I.D.A.D., Jayne Whittier, Ph.D., Director of Potions Research. Dr. Whittier is fifteen years older than Dr. Tayce, but they are said to have lunch together frequently.

Education
Graduated from Salem Witches' Institute in 1988. Bachelor of Arts degree from New York Occult College in 1991. Master of Arts degree from Southern California University of Magical Arts in 1993 (specialization: magical barriers). Doctor of Philosophy degree from Salem University in 1996 (specialization: magical barriers and the Dark Arts).

Employment History
Immediately upon receiving her doctorate, Dr. Tayce accepted a position with the Institute for Dark Arts Defence, a prestigious institution of higher magical learning located in New York City, New York, where she is currently employed. Her teaching load is negligible; most of her time is spent on research. In 1997, she began doing private consultations in addition to her own research. Her most recent tax return indicates earnings of approximately 450,000 in U.S. Dollars last year (about 33,000 Galleons), mostly due to her consulting work.

Achievements
Graduated from high school at the age of 16 and earned her doctorate by age 23. Awarded Order of Merlin, Third Class, for her assistance to the Order of the Phoenix during the Second Voldemort War. Nominated for the Tesla Prize in 1999 for her work on the foundations of Dark Magical Barriers. Brought in more than 20 Million Dollars in research grants and contracts to the Institute for Dark Arts Defence since her appointment in 1996.

Police Record
None.

Political Viewpoint
Dr. Tayce is left-leaning, advocating a slow, careful integration of Muggle and Wizarding societies. She has an interest in social justice and supports the greater expansion of Magical government to provide a social safety net for the indigent. She belongs to the Wizarding Civil Liberties Society and has been known to make donations to both The Linford Trust (her grandmother's organization) and Foundation for Justice, an organization dedicated to greater fairness in U.S. Wizarding law.

Hobbies
Dr. Tayce's busy schedule leaves her with very little free time, and most interviewees stated that she works "constantly." She plays racquetball two mornings a week at a local fitness club in New York City, and is said to enjoy reading novels when she can find the time.

Analysis
Although the lack of available background on Dr. Tayce's mother is a troublesome gap, given the prominent position of the Linford and Tayce families and their well-known activism against the Dark Arts, it's difficult to imagine that they would have welcomed anyone with unsavoury connections into the family. Interviewees say that Susanna Tayce was beloved by her in-laws and that her early death due to complications during the birth of her first child was treated as a real tragedy by the Linford and Jameson families. Surely if Susanna Tayce had Dark family connections or loyalties, at the very least her husband's very prominent family would have disapproved of her.

All available data indicates that Susanna Tayce moved to the U.S. in the early sixties, long before the resurgence of Death Eaters prior to the First Voldemort War. None of the data suggests that she was anything other than a very intelligent, well-respected and sadly unlucky young woman.

Dr. Tayce's paternal family are all high respected members of the Eastern Wizarding community, with a history of activism against the Dark Arts and philanthropy toward the disenfranchised. She was admitted into the Order of the Phoenix upon examination by Fawkes himself. Her record of service in the Second Voldemort War and her continuing work fighting Dark Magic are considered exemplary.

I could find no evidence to suggest that Dr. Tayce would have any reason to bear a personal grudge against Draco Malfoy. In light of the data gathered, I believe that if she accepts the position she will perform to the best of her abilities and will not pose a threat to the safety of Mr. Malfoy.

On the morning of Gregory Goyle's trial, Harry sat next to Malfoy on the hard wooden bench outside the courtroom and wondered what Malfoy was thinking. Malfoy had been staring straight ahead for at least half an hour, blinking only occasionally and moving only to lift a styrofoam cup of conjured tea to his lips every so often and then grimace at the taste. Was he torturing himself with reminiscences of childhood friendship? Or perhaps he was recalling nightmarish visions of Goyle's Death Eater crimes? Or imagining himself on some sunny island, far away from trials and death threats and poorly-conjured tea? Or he could be just wondering if the house elves remembered to put his favourite set of sheets on when they made up the bed that morning. Harry was sure that Malfoy had very decadent sheets. Satin or silk, in black or red, or maybe Slytherin green. Maybe Malfoy's whole bedroom was done in green and silver, with carved serpents on the bedposts that hissed the Slytherin House Song in four-part harmony.

Malfoy glanced over at him and Harry was embarrassed to realize he'd been staring.

“What?” Malfoy asked.

“Nothing.” Harry shrugged.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and went back to examining the hallway paint job. Harry sighed. This was Auror's work for you, wild swings between stultifying boredom and sheer terror. It had only been two days and already he was wishing that the attack would come so he'd have something interesting to do.

"Mr. Potter," the staircase sentry's voice sounded in his ear, and Harry leapt up from his seat, wand in hand. "There's a Catherine Tayce here who claims she's got an appointment to see Mr. Malfoy this morning."

Harry relaxed, but remained standing. "Thanks, Janice. We're expecting her; send her on up. And it's just Potter, or Harry, no mister necessary."

"Yes, Mr. Potter. Ms. Tayce, excuse me, Dr. Tayce, coming up, sir."

Harry sighed. He didn't stand on a lot of ceremony with his teams. They had to trust each other with their lives, and formalities just got in the way of that. But there were always a few who couldn't get over their awe of the Boy Who Lived claptrap. More than a few, if he wanted to be honest with himself. He kept trying with Janice. She might get over it eventually; sometimes they did.

"The wards expert is on her way up," Harry said to Malfoy.

Malfoy sat up a little straighter. "Thank all the gods. The only thing worse than sitting here alone waiting for them to call me is sitting here with you staring at me."

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself somehow, though he wasn't sure how, but Dr. Tayce was coming down the hallway before he had a chance. Catherine Tayce, Ph.D. and American, was considered one of the world's foremost authorities on magical barriers, particularly of the Dark variety. He'd met her briefly during the War, when she'd been a consultant for the Order of the Phoenix on their efforts to bring the Manor's wards down from the outside. She'd been awarded the Order of Merlin third class after Voldemort's defeat for her work, but Harry still had one of his team check her out thoroughly. As he expected, her record was spotless and her reputation even more impressive than he'd realized. She'd received her Ph.D. from Salem University at the tender age of 23, and immediately started doing private consulting alongside her position at the Institute for Dark Arts Defence. She was a busy woman and her services were much in demand. Harry imagined that her presence was costing Malfoy quite a few Galleons.

Harry's impression of her was much as it had been two years before. She was a cool, leggy blonde who, despite her youth, carried herself with the poise and authority of someone used to solving difficult problems. She was wearing a short, smoke-coloured suit with matching high-heeled pumps and carried a black suitcase. No witch's robes, as the Americans often didn't bother.

Malfoy sat his tea on the bench beside him and rose to shake her hand as Harry stood beside him. "Dr. Tayce. Delighted to meet you. I'm Draco Malfoy. I believe you've met my shadow, Harry Potter."

Harry shook her hand as well. Her grip was firm and no-nonsense. "Nice to see you again," he said. "Sorry about the security hurdles."

"No problem, Harry. Good to see you. Well, Mr. Malfoy -"

"Draco, please."

She smiled and looked surprised. "Well, then, I'm Catherine. Shall we sit down and get started?"

Malfoy explained that he could be called into the courtroom to testify at any time, but he wasn't expecting they would get to him until that afternoon, which gave them some time to discuss the Manor. And discuss it they did. It was like being trapped in a lift with twin Hermiones. Harry wasn't a technical-details sort of Auror. His niche was pretty much raw power and reckless courage, the old Gryffindor stand-bys. He was good at making plans of action, but this sort of intellectual discourse on magic was way beyond him. As they chattered, his mind wandered, even as his eyes kept sweeping the hallway for signs of an attack.

Despite her accent, Catherine seemed cut from the same cloth as Malfoy; they could almost be related. They were both icy blond, confident, elegant, coldly intelligent, and terribly effective at making Harry feel about two steps above a fungus in sophistication. Harry's black dress robes, which made him feel rather 007 that morning when he put them on, seemed immediately thread-bare and ill-fitting when he was standing next to Malfoy. Malfoy was the very definition of fashionable grace, chatting amiably in low tones with a beautiful woman, his long legs angled just so as if he were sitting for a portrait. His dark blue robes were perfectly tailored to his lean body, in some heavy fabric just short of velvet that sucked the light right into it and drew every eye to him. His hair fell over his eyes in an exact approximation of carelessness and his skin glowed with an egg-shell white perfection that Harry always envied as a teenager, even when he was trying to sock him in the nose. Even though Malfoy looked as drawn and ill as he always did lately, the dark crescents beneath his eyes gave him a romantic vulnerability. And as Seamus always said, women loved vulnerability. Catherine was probably laying plans to get into those dark blue robes right now, even as she was showing off her Dark Arts knowledge. Harry snickered to himself. Too bad for her that even Harry the Toadstool stood a better chance of succeeding in that arena than she did. Malfoy never dated women, to the best of Harry's knowledge.

Malfoy happened to look over just then, catching Harry with a little smile on his face. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, obviously wondering what Harry was grinning about, but he smiled back before turning his attention back to Catherine. It was all Harry could do to keep from falling off the bench in shock. That was the first truly pleasant expression he'd seen on Malfoy's face in, well, maybe ever. He supposed that all eggheads must be alike - doing research always cheered Hermione up too.

After an hour or so, Malfoy and Catherine seemed to finish the most technical part of their conversation and they made an appointment for her to come to the Manor to check the wards for herself. As she wrote the date and time down in a little PDA, evidently charmed to run off magic rather than electricity, she said lightly, "You know, this is a very exciting opportunity for me. I was on the team assigned to crack the Manor's wards during the War, before you had the nerve to drop them yourself from the inside and invalidate all our work. I've been itching to see what those things were made of for years."

As she rose to go, Draco gave her a delighted smile. "I'm always pleased to provide a scratching post for a fellow researcher's curiosity."

She shook Harry's hand warmly as she took her leave, but her smile was definitely brightest for Malfoy. Well, Malfoy was signing the cheque, and they were kindred egghead spirits. Maybe that's all it was, but Harry somehow doubted it. As they watched her graceful glide down the hallway, Harry wondered why it didn't bother him more that women like that never seemed to go for him.

Then the Counsel for the Prosecution was at the door telling them that Mr. Malfoy was wanted, and there was no more time for frivolities, even in Harry's head. Harry could see Malfoy steeling himself and squaring his shoulders before he swallowed the last of his tea, tossed the cup in a hall rubbish bin and went inside. Harry wasn't looking forward to witnessing this any more than Malfoy was looking forward to doing it, but like Malfoy he dutifully followed.

Harry took a place in the gallery seats at the back of the room, all empty because the post-War Death Eater trials were closed to the public for security reasons. Gregory Goyle sat in the Defendant's Chair near the middle of the room, looking much smaller than Harry remembered him being. His hands were folded in his lap and his head was slightly bowed with the air of a man who was only waiting quietly for the axe to fall. His light brown hair had grown past the spiky phase and hung limply on his head as though it too had given up. Like almost everyone who had spent any length of time in Azkaban, he looked far older than his twenty years.

Malfoy walked by Goyle without looking at him and took the stand like it was something he did everyday, which Harry supposed it almost was, given how often he'd been testifying on the Ministry's behalf. Whatever discomfort or nervousness Harry had seen in the hallway had vanished as if it had never been. Malfoy nodded courteously to the members of the jury and waited for the questions to begin.

Counsel for the Prosecution was introduced as Ms. McKinnon, a middle-aged woman with short black hair and the standard issue black dress robes. She was crisp and confident, and had a reputation around the Ministry building for being as hard on her assistants as she was on defending barristers. She'd probably prosecuted more than a hundred of these cases in the last year and a half. Accused Death Eaters were almost never acquitted.

Counsel for the Defence was a Mr. Dorny. He was a mousy looking man, somewhat younger than the Prosecutor, though his brown hair was beginning to thin in the back already. He appeared only marginally less depressed than his client, but he seemed determined to do his job. Harry felt rather sorry for him. Besides being a futile proposition, defending known Death Eaters couldn't be good for his social life.

Ms. McKinnon stood behind the barrister's table and began with all the standard questions, establishing Malfoy's name and identity, and how long and in what capacity he had known the Defendant. Then the actual line of questioning began. "Did you ever witness the Defendant utilizing Dark Magic, specifically any of the three Unforgivable Curses?"

"Yes." Malfoy's expression was as blank as stone.

"Can you please provide the Court with the specific details of what you witnessed?"

Malfoy swallowed, but that was the only indication that he might be having some emotional reaction to speaking the words that would condemn his old friend to the Dementor's Kiss. "I saw the Defendant utilise a variety of Dark curses, on practically a daily basis. I twice witnessed him personally administer the killing curse."

"Who were the victims of these curses?" She glared at Goyle as though she were asking him, but of course it was Malfoy who answered.

"The first was Reginald Mulciber, a Death Eater who had allowed his intended victim to escape. The Defendant was allowed the privilege of killing Mr. Mulciber as a reward for his loyalty. This occurred on the night of 17 July, 1997, in the dungeons at Malfoy Manor. The second instance was on the night of 24 December, 1997. I saw the Defendant use Avada Kedavra on a thirteen-year-old Muggle child named Richard Scrubbs who was attempting to run from his burning home."

"Do you know how this fire was started?"

"It was intentionally set by the Death Eaters for their entertainment. They took turns hexing the Muggles who ran out of the building and gave each other points for the most amusing death inflicted."

Ms. McKinnon turned back to Malfoy. "And in what capacity were you present to witness these crimes?"

"I was a spy for the Order of the Phoenix from approximately 20 September, 1996 to the end of the War."

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy." She turned to the judge. "No further questions, I am obliged to your lordship."

"Your witness, Mr. Dorny," the judge replied.

The prosecutor took her seat, and Mr. Dorny stood up. "Mr. Malfoy, who else was present on the night of 17 July, 1997?"

"Thomas Riddle, Vincent Crabbe, Sr., Vincent Crabbe, Jr. and several other Death Eaters, I don't precisely recall all their names." Malfoy stopped as if thinking back for a moment, but again his face betrayed nothing. "Lucius Malfoy. And myself, of course."

"Lucius Malfoy was your father, was he not?"

A slightly longer pause, and the tiniest hint of pain showed itself around Malfoy's eyes, but Harry could only see it because he'd spent the last two days in Malfoy's constant company. "Yes," he said, his voice neutral and steady.

"And did your father participate in the crimes of which Mr. Goyle is accused?"

"Yes." No hesitation, and only the blank mask back in place.

"And did you?" Now Mr. Dorny seemed to be trying to turn up the heat on Malfoy, though Harry suspected that between Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort himself, it would take a lot to intimidate Draco Malfoy now. A mousy little barrister certainly wasn't up to the task.

And Malfoy's voice was increasingly bland, the more he was pressed to defend himself. "In my capacity as spy I had to take care to maintain my cover, and it was therefore necessary to appear to participate."

"Did you merely appear to participate or did you in fact participate?"

"In this instance I used cruciatus on the victim, but was able to avoid participating in the actual murder." He answered quickly with no hint of remorse. Harry wondered how he could do that, if it was because he really wasn't sorry, or if he was just that good at hiding himself.

"And did you always avoid participating in Death Eater murders?" Mr. Dorny's voice was contemptuous, but Malfoy countered with eyes so cold they made Harry shiver in his heavy dress robes.

"In maintaining my cover it was not always possible to do so, no," he replied.

"And how many people do you figure, Mr. Malfoy, you killed or participated directly in killing during your time as a 'Spy for the Order'?"

"More than I care to recall." Just that blank, aristocratic mask, but this had to be torture, to get up on the stand day after day and discuss the murders he committed. Harry couldn't imagine how Malfoy could possibly handle this kind of humiliation as month after month of the trials dragged on.

"Mr. Malfoy, you and Mr. Goyle were especially good friends as children, weren't you?"

Now there was a tiny pause, and Malfoy cleared his throat. "Yes," he said.

"How is it, Mr. Malfoy, that you managed to get yourself recruited as a spy for the Order while your good friend Gregory Goyle did not?" Mr. Dorny's eyes drilled into Malfoy, but Malfoy didn't seem to be paying him much attention.

Instead he had glanced over at Greg Goyle and something flickered in his face, some emotion too brief to even classify. "I approached Professor Severus Snape of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with the proposal that I spy for the order."

"And why did you never try to recruit your good friend Gregory Goyle as a spy as well?"

Suddenly Malfoy was testifying not to the court, but to Goyle, and little sparks of feeling were flying in his eyes, though his face still remained impassive. "I did approach him once but I was afraid to make my meaning too plain for fear he would report me to Mr. Riddle. I don't believe he understood what I was trying to imply."

And that, Harry realized, was probably as much of a statement of regret as Malfoy would ever be allowed to make to Goyle. It seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Goyle's expression didn't change one iota. Bearing Ron's coffin from the hearse to the graveside was the hardest thing Harry had ever had to do, far harder than defeating Voldemort, or even watching Dumbledore die. But at least he'd never had to look at Ron across a courtroom and see him beaten and betrayed and utterly defeated, and then pronounce his death sentence. For all his lauded Gryffindor courage, Harry didn't think he could have done it. And Malfoy sat there with only a veiled emotion in his eyes, and his face set as neutrally as if they were discussing breakfast cereal. No wonder he'd never been suspected as a spy.

Mr. Dorny was pressing on. "And if you'd been willing to risk making your meaning more plain, do you think he might now be enjoying the privileges of immunity which you currently enjoy?"

Malfoy's attention turned back to the barrister, his voice drawling cruelly. "It is possible, sir. It is also possible that he would have betrayed me and I would have been killed. In such a case, I would have been unable to play my role in the breaching of the wards around Malfoy Manor during the Final Assault, and Mr. Riddle would likely be conducting post-War trials rather than the Ministry. If he bothered with trials at all, which does seem rather unlike him."

Mr. Dorny smirked at Malfoy, and then appeared to direct his next question at the jury. "Mr. Malfoy, you've admitted to crimes far exceeding the few of which my client is accused, yet due to the Ministry's convenient pardon you continue to walk free, in full possession of the sizable estate passed down to you by your father, who you have admitted was also a Dark Wizard and a Death Eater. Isn't it true that you have an overwhelming self-interest in testifying in these trials on the Ministry's behalf?"

"I have an interest in telling the truth, Mr. Dorny, and that is exactly what I have done today."

"Isn't it true, Mr. Malfoy, that without the Ministry's pardon you would have been eligible for the Dementor's Kiss many times over? Isn't it true that you have an overwhelming incentive to lie in these circumstances in order to preserve your current privileges?"

Malfoy drew himself up in his seat and seemed to muster all the chilly elegance he had at his disposal. "I admit that the crimes I committed are legion, Mr. Dorny, but they were all in the service of the War effort and the work I was charged to do by The Order of the Phoenix and the late Albus Dumbledore. It would be rather hypocritical of the Ministry to charge me for crimes I committed at what was essentially its request. And I would state again for the record that all my statements to this Court are factual and correct in every way to the limits of my knowledge."

The judge stepped in, with a small scowl. "I hear what you say, Mr. Dorny, but I feel it advisable to note that I propose to take judicial notice of Mr. Malfoy's public war record. I am minded to send this case to the jury without hearing further argument on this point from you, unless you feel that you are able to convince me otherwise. Do you have any further submissions?"

Mr. Dorny exhaled, and shook his head. "No, m'lud, I am obliged. No further questions." He sat down. Malfoy must have been relieved to have the cross-examination over, but his posture did not change and he showed no signs of having been stressed by it at all.

Ms. McKinnon stood up. "I would like to re-examine, m'lud."

"Very well, Ms. McKinnon," the judge replied.

"Mr. Malfoy, you stated earlier that you entered into service with the Department of Mysteries on 20 September 1996, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Had you taken the Dark Mark prior to that point?"

"No."

"And prior to that time, Mr. Malfoy, had you ever inflicted an Unspeakable Curse on another human being?"

"No."

"So all of the so-called crimes that you committed while posing as a Death Eater were enacted solely in aid of your cover as a spy?"

"That's correct."

"Mr. Malfoy, weren't you awarded the Order of Merlin first class for your role in the War?"

"Yes."

"Thank you Mr. Malfoy. No further questions, I am obliged to your lordship."

"You may step down, Mr. Malfoy."

And that was that. Malfoy was released from the courtroom, and Goyle left for the closing arguments and the jury to seal his fate. The sentence would probably be carried out immediately, and Malfoy would not see Gregory Goyle again.

Harry rose to follow Malfoy out of the courtroom. Just as they got to the double doors to the hallway, Malfoy stumbled. Harry took Malfoy's elbow to steady him and turned him so he could get a good look at his face. He looked horrible. Worse than the usual bad, but Harry supposed he had a right. It was comforting, in a way, to know that the ordeal of the trial had some effect on him, that he wasn't as heartless as he could look.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked once they reached the hallway and the doors shut behind them.

"I suddenly have a screaming headache," Malfoy answered. "I think I need to sit down for a moment."

They took a seat on the wooden bench where they'd been sitting that morning. Malfoy's breath was coming in shallow gasps.

"Malfoy, you don't sound well."

"Having trouble catching my breath. Panic attack," he panted. "Used to get them at Hogwarts. Not before, after. After the War."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Harry asked.

"Just sit with me," Malfoy gasped. "Sev always sat with me."

So Harry just sat there feeling useless. Finally on a whim, he took Malfoy's hand. His skin was clammy but his fingers fit perfectly with Harry's. Malfoy shot him a grateful look but was too busy breathing to comment. It wasn't until Harry glanced down at Malfoy's slim, pale fingers between his own and noticed they were taking on a distinctly blue cast that he suspected something was terribly wrong.

"Malfoy, I don't think your fingers are supposed to be that colour."

Malfoy looked down at his hands in alarm, and began cursing between ragged inhalations. "Cyanosis. Not a panic attack. Poison."

Harry called down to Janice. "Janice, call St. Mungo's. We're Apparating there immediately."

Malfoy began shaking his head frantically. "No. No. No. No. Not St. Mungo's."

"Where then? For God's sake, you've been poisoned!"

"Manor. The Manor." Malfoy's panicked eyes pleaded with Harry. And Harry decided to go with it. There was a good chance that Malfoy knew something he didn't. Hell, Malfoy definitely knew a lot of things he didn't, and Malfoy was in no shape to explain his reasoning.

"Janice, belay that. We're heading back to the Manor. Have a mediwizard with potions training meet us there right away, and I do mean right away. It looks like Malfoy's been poisoned. He needs immediate medical attention. No one is to go in or out of the House except for me, Malfoy, and the doctors. Hydrangea's in charge of the perimeter, you see to the interior of the house. If you need more personnel, call headquarters. I'll be with Malfoy."

"Yes, sir," she answered crisply. Harry began half helping, half dragging Malfoy out of the Ministry building so they could Apparate. Malfoy was looking really seriously ill. His colour was shading toward blue around his eyes and mouth and he was clenching a hand to his temple like he was desperate to keep his brain inside his skull.

Harry Apparated them both to the Manor gates. But it was five minutes' fast walk from the gates to the front door, and there was no way in hell Malfoy was going to make it.

"Have the guards call the carriage," Malfoy said. "Can't walk there."

No shit, Harry thought, but he called for the horseless carriage. The guards brought it around and helped him bundle Malfoy in. By the time they got into their seats, Malfoy had developed a rash along his jaw and neck that disappeared into his robes. As the carriage flew down the Manor pathway, Malfoy grabbed Harry's face and made him look him right in the eyes.

"Pupils dilated?" he gasped.

"Yes."

"Big?"

"I don't know. Pretty big, I guess. It's hard to see in this light."

"Pale?"

"You're always pale. Maybe more than usual, though. It looks like you've got some kind of rash on your neck."

Malfoy spared a breath to swear again. Then began rasping out instructions. "You have to tell Sev. Maybe variation on barbital, hydrocyanic acid, atropine, something. No telling when, last twenty-four hours, spells can delay onset. Strychnine . . ."

Malfoy's eyes were starting to lose their focus, and Harry shook him while trying to burn what Malfoy had just said into his brain. "Stay with me, Malfoy. Talk me through this. What about strychnine? Tell me what to do."

"Fuck you, Lucius! I'll see you in hell!" His eyes started rolling back in his head.

Harry shook him by the arm, hard. "No. Do not give up on me, Draco! Tell me what to do!"

Malfoy came to. "'Kay. Boil water. No. No." He shook his head gingerly as if to clear it. "Workroom. On the table, bottle marked N.U.P.A. Hasn't been tested. Should work, though. Tell Sev I'm sorry. Sorry."

And he passed out. Harry commenced swearing himself, and shook Malfoy viciously to no avail. By then they had reached the Manor. The other Aurors gathered around the carriage to help Harry drag Malfoy out, and then down the hall to the workroom.

"Where's the fucking mediwizard?" Harry yelled as they laid Malfoy gently on the floor.

"On his way, sir." Anna answered. "They said five minutes about three minutes ago."

"Shit. I don't know if he's going to last that long." Malfoy's colour was really blue, and the rash seemed to be creeping up his jawline. Harry looked around frantically for the potion Malfoy had mentioned.

And there it was, right out in the open on the worktable, a little bottle marked N.U.P.A., obviously the most recent project. Harry uncorked the bottle and brought it over. It smelled truly awful, but the mediwizard wasn't there and Malfoy was running out of time. Malfoy's grasp of potions was second only to Snape's; if he said it should work, it should. But there was that little matter of the hallucinations . . .

Fuck it. Malfoy was dying. Harry opened Malfoy's mouth and forced the potion down his throat. A bit of it spilled down his chin, but most of it seemed to go down the right way. Harry could only hope that it was meant to be administered orally and not rubbed on the skin or something.

His Auror team looked at him. "What now, boss?" Anna asked.

"Call the fucking mediwizard again, get somebody with some fucking training on the ground here, now. Call a Potions Master, too. Severus Snape at Hogwarts would be best, but if you can't find him, get someone else. If Malfoy stops breathing, we try CPR until we can get some goddamned medical help."

They looked at each other like they weren't sure what he meant. They'd never heard of CPR, Harry realized. Great. His crack team of Aurors couldn't manage CPR, and between the lot of them, himself most of all, they'd let Draco Malfoy get himself poisoned. Brilliant.

Harry checked Malfoy's throat for a pulse. Still there, thank all the gods, faint but regular, maybe getting stronger. He took a close look at Malfoy's face. The skin around the eyes and lips was pinking up, losing the blue cast. "I think he's going to be okay," he said, with great relief.

Malfoy took a deep breath, opened his eyes and croaked, "Don't call Sev." Then he rolled over and threw up all over Harry.

Malfoy Manor
13 March, 2000, 5:45 p.m.

Dear Sev:

Sorry I didn't get a chance to write my usual update this morning. I didn't sleep well and then there was the trial to get through. I hope I didn't worry you.

Speaking of worrying you, I had rather an eventful day today. The good news is that the N.U.P.A. is a great success. The bad news is that I had the opportunity to test it out myself in a somewhat more dramatic manner than I'd anticipated.

DO NOT DROP THIS LETTER AND APPARATE TO THE MANOR. There's no need. I MEAN IT. I'm fine. I spent the last three hours throwing up all over Harry Potter, but I'm unharmed. I'm not sure if the vomiting was an unexpected side effect of the antidote (I hadn't intended it as a purgative, though that's not generally an unwelcome result with a poison antidote), or if it was just the taste of the stuff. It's seriously foul, Sev. The smell of it is still up my nose and my stomach's not yet settled down completely. We need to add some orange and mint to it, or something. Lemongrass? I doubt I'll ever be able to work on it again without taking some sort of olfactory-blocking potion first.

As to who, what, when, where, why - these are the questions burning in my mind too. It would appear that a combination of Muggle and magical poisoning techniques were used. I deduce from the symptoms (cyanosis, headache, dizziness, ataxia, dry throat and mouth, suffocation, rash on the face and neck, rapid pulse, dilated pupils, confusion, dimmed sight, loss of consciousness) that the assailant used either a form of barbital or a combination of hydrocyanic acid and atropine. I think the combination of the last two, along with who knows what else, is most likely the culprit, mixed with charms to delay onset of symptoms and obfuscate the poison used. I took some blood samples as soon as I was clearheaded enough to find a vein, and I hope that analysis of these will prove fruitful. As always, any thoughts you have on the best analytic method would be greatly appreciated.

It seems clear that either my own security or that of the Ministry has been compromised; the poison must have been administered at the Manor during the last twenty-four hours or at the Ministry building this morning. All the house elves and guards report nothing unusual at the Manor except a bit of unseasonable fog this morning - certainly no lurking strangers were seen. The house elves say they checked my food for poison just as they always do and everything seemed fine. The guards never come through the wards and the gate, and have no greater access to the house and kitchen than any of the public. I don't see how the poisoning could have happened here, unless it was one of the house elves themselves. But there's never been a case of a house elf murdering a Head of House in all the annals of house elfdom - I checked. Besides, if they were going to branch out from domestic tasks to the more challenging field of assassination, you'd think they would have started with Lucius instead of my own poor self. He gave them far more reason to be peevish, after all.

As for the Ministry, I checked my tea for poison myself when it was handed to me by the Prosecution Counsel's secretary. Obviously there were no indications of anything amiss, except for the fact that the tea was badly conjured and tasted terrible. Potter has suggested that the taste might have come from an added poison, but that woman's tea always tastes like that. I ingested nothing else while at the Ministry building. Super Auror is now running himself ragged checking over everyone with whom I came into contact in the last twenty-four hours, but last I heard there weren't any leads.

Turning to the question of motive, I think it's unlikely to be Death Eater revenge. The mix of Muggle and magical seems uncharacteristic. But it's awfully ruthless and cold-blooded for a nutter from the other side. I would expect a more personal, hands-on approach if that were the case. I suppose Higgs or another well-placed Death Eater could have hired someone to do the hit, which might account for the odd mix of approaches, but under that circumstance, I feel very discouraged that we will ever discover who did it, short of a dream.

Don't worry, I won't be hitting the absinthe or the mugwort to try to induce the visions tonight. I'm knackered.

I take consolation in the fact that Potter will be needing some new clothes. I'll finally have an opportunity to purchase something halfway attractive for him, in the guise of apologizing for sicking up all over him repeatedly. And really, for all the times he's made me feel like vomiting, it seems fitting that I finally actually did.

Don't worry don't worry don't worry. The Aurors are all in a lather, all testimony's been postponed, and I won't be leaving the Manor for the foreseeable future. I'm perfectly safe. They're going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I can't deny that I'd take some comfort in your presence, but you'd only frighten everyone with your scowling and get in the way. Stay at Hogwarts, teach your Slytherins and the rest of the idiots and leave all else to the Ministry and Harry Potter. They have to be good for something, right?

Oh, and the key to the N.U.P.A.? The blood of a condemned person, i.e. yours truly. The contradiction between the assured untimely death and the present life of the condemned was the factor that balanced out the alchemical elements of the major families of poisons. I'm merely fortunate that it works better than anticipated on Muggle poisons as well, though it makes a certain amount of sense if one stops to think about the metaphysical similarities of all poisons, Muggle or magical. It may be that my "gifts" as a Seer enhanced the potency of my blood and therefore the potion, of course. I count that as likely, in fact. This is disappointing because it makes the potion less duplicable, but at least the damn thing works. Larger scale trials will be necessary, of course. I bow to your superior knowledge on the best way to accomplish that.

It does strike me as amusing and ironic that the key to saving my hide was the fact of my certain death. Life is so poetic at times.

Don't worry don't worry don't worry. And if I never get a chance to say it, Sev, I do love you. Having you for my godfather is more than adequate compensation for all of Lucius' failings.

Your Draco Jacques

P.S. There's no chance of my sleeping my way through the Manor's contingent of Aurors. Not only am I in no shape for it at present, evidently my reputation preceded me and Arthur Weasley talked Potter into installing an all-female crew.

It's not kind to laugh at a man who spent the day poisoned, you know.

Harry came down to breakfast to find the table set in the parlour as usual, but instead of sitting at the escritoire finishing up his morning letter, Malfoy was nowhere to be found. There was a note on the plate at Harry's customary place. He unfolded it and found elegant, somewhat eccentric handwriting in green ink, reading:

Potter,

DJM

Harry folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. Snape had dropped everything and Apparated to the Manor the minute he had word about the poisoning. He insisted on staying a week, though his primary contribution to Malfoy's welfare seemed to be an endless supply of cutting remarks, aimed primarily at Harry and his team. Harry had thought dealing with Malfoy on a daily basis was irritating but now he understood that things could always be worse. He was counting the days to the end of the week.

He made his way to the pool, which was in the North Wing along with the spare bedrooms and the large dining room that the other Aurors used. Sometimes Harry would go over and eat with them or play cards for a little while in the evenings if Hydrangea or Janice were on duty to watch over Malfoy. But for the most part, Harry stayed in the South Wing with his charge. Harry suspected that Lucius had primarily used the North Wing and that was why Malfoy would only go over there in the mornings to do his laps.

A former ballroom had been refitted accommodate the Olympic-sized swimming pool, a Jacuzzi large enough to seat fourteen comfortably (the Aurors had tested it), and a redwood sauna. It was a typical Malfoy excess, but a wholly Draconian one, all light and glass and air, with rococo detailing and a cathedral ceiling upon which a small, friendly-looking dragon could sometimes be seen goosing the cherubs with harmless puffs of fire.

He found Malfoy sitting in a lounge chair with a champagne glass full of Bucks Fizz in one hand and a book in the other. The cover read: Poisons in the Dark Arts: History, Theory, and Practical Application. Light poolside reading. His hair was damp, falling gracefully into his eyes, and he was wearing a thick, dark green bathrobe that reached almost to his ankles. His paper-pale shins showed where he had his legs crossed; they were lightly dusted with golden hair. Harry wasn't surprised that Malfoy wasn't very hairy - who could imagine a hirsute Malfoy, after all - nor would he have been surprised if Malfoy didn't have a stitch of clothing on underneath the robe. But Malfoy gave no sign of concern, didn't pull his robe closer around him or move to cover his legs. He didn't move at all, in fact.

"I thought you'd be assisting Snape in the workroom," Harry said.

Malfoy spoke without looking up from his book. "Professor Snape deserves the courtesy and respect of referring to him by his title rather than by his last name as though he were a Quidditch player. I wanted to help but he insisted that I needed to rest, despite the fact that I feel perfectly fine."

"So he's driven you out of your workroom and you came for your morning swim instead."

"Basically, yes. He'd prefer it if I went back to bed, but I had enough of lying in bed all day when I was ill after the War. Without a good incentive, I'd rather not."

"A good incentive?"

Malfoy finally raised his eyes and gave Harry a knowing smirk. "A playmate, Potter. You don't happen to know of any likely volunteers?" He took a sip of his drink but kept his eyes on Harry.

Harry hated that he couldn't keep himself from blushing. He knew Malfoy was only winding him up and he hated seeing that little gleam of triumph when Malfoy succeeded in embarrassing him. "Very funny."

Malfoy looked pleased with himself and turned his attention back to his book. "Pity. I suppose I'll just stay here, then."

Harry sat down on the lounge chair next to Malfoy's. "You need to talk to Snape."

"I talk to Professor Snape nearly every day in one form or another," he replied absently, and Harry began to wonder if he was going to have to snatch the book out of his hands to get his attention.

"You know, Malfoy, they might not have explained this in Death Eater Finishing School, but it's generally considered polite to actually look at the person who's talking to you."

He sighed as though he were heavily put upon indeed. Setting his drink on the small table beside him, he put a bookmark in his book and snapped it shut. Then he sat up and turned to face Harry with both feet on the floor. He laid the closed book in his lap and folded his hands on top of it. "There, Potter. You have my full, rapt and undivided attention."

"You need to talk to Snape."

"Yes, we've been over this part. And I can see that courtesy isn't seeping in through the repetition. I assume you have a specific topic in mind?"

"He's destroying my team's morale. I want you to tell him to leave them alone."

"He's scaring your team?" One eyebrow quirked up. "Your team of hand-picked, battle-tested Aurors is falling apart because of a little sarcasm? This doesn't strike you as amusing?"

"He's spent the last three days listing each Auror's faults individually in excruciating, scathing detail. I don't blame them for being upset."

He waved a languid hand. "Well, you know, he's concerned about the poisoning. He's not usually that bad." He stopped and seemed to think about what he'd just said. "No, I take it back. He is usually that bad. I find it funny though."

"You would. They're asking for danger money."

"What a bunch of wimps!" Malfoy laughed. "Merlin, imagine if they had to survive three days of real torture. The Ministry need to rethink its training program, Potter. Perhaps when Professor Snape retires from Hogwarts, they should put him in charge of it."

"Yeah, you can laugh but when he isn't terrorizing my Aurors he's bitching about you."

Malfoy shrugged. "That's how you know he cares."

Harry considered. Could it really be that Snape's famous foul temper was a rather contrary mark of his concern? "But he does it to all his students."

Malfoy gave him a pointed look.

"Even Neville?" That was straining credulity.

"Well, I admit that he also sometimes does it to the people he despises, which can make it somewhat hard to tell which is which."

Harry had to laugh. "You two are quite a pair, aren't you?"

"In all seriousness, Potter, if it weren't for Severus Snape, I'd be dead many times over, and probably so would you. Dead or worse."

Harry knew that this was true, but he just couldn't bring himself to admit it out loud.

"Besides, he's my godfather," Malfoy added lightly.

"Snape is your godfather?"

"I was even named after him. Draco Lucius Severus Fornet Malfoy."

Harry raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Professor Snape tried to talk him out of it, but you know Lucius - evil."

"I didn't realize that your father and Snape were so close."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Close is a word for it. You don't know anything about Professor Snape, Potter. And that's exactly how he likes it. Now, how do you expect me to convince him to keep his opinions to himself? As you said, he doesn't treat me with any more deference than he does anyone else."

"I have no idea. You're his godson; you work it out. But I'll tell you something. These Aurors volunteered to take this assignment and it's not an easy one. They're away from their homes and families and if Snape keeps harassing them, they're going to start requesting transfers. I had a hard enough time filling my roster to begin with; I doubt I'll be able to find replacements if I start losing people."

"Hmmm." Malfoy ran a hand along the back of his neck absent-mindedly. "All right. I'll think of something to say to him, but I make no guarantees that it's going to work."

Harry nodded. "That's all I ask."

"Is that all, then? Am I released from this taxing level of politeness?"

"Yes, that's it. God, you're annoying."

Malfoy smirked and unfolded gracefully back onto the lounge chair. "So I'm told." He opened his book, settled back, and in a moment looked as still and relaxed as if he'd never moved.

"You're like some huge, irritating, blond cat," Harry said.

"Cats don't read, Potter. And, please, do shut up."

Harry sighed and reclined back on his chair. He supposed he should go find some paperwork to do. He hated paperwork. He sighed again.

"Potter, you sound like a steam engine. Why don't you pour yourself a drink, or go for a swim? On the other side of the pool. Far, far away from me."

"I don't have my swimming trunks," Harry said without thinking.

Malfoy raised his eyes from his book with a look that suggested Harry might be the stupidest person ever born. "I have better things to do than ogle the bits of the Lion of Gryffindor," he said, and lowered his eyes again. "Feel free to drop trou, just do it quietly."

"That's all right," he mumbled. "I'll just, um, pour myself some juice."

Malfoy waved a hand toward the back of the room, at a small wooden drinks cart that usually resided in the parlour. On top was a half-empty bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, a carafe of orange juice, a decanter of whisky, a bottle of absinthe, a small, ornate, silver and glass water decanter, a silver bowl with sugar cubes in it, and a rococo silver absinthe spoon with a green glass handle. On the shelf below there were whisky glasses and a few absinthe glasses. There were no other champagne glasses to be found. Harry took a whisky glass and poured it full of orange juice. He took a deep drink and considered the varied contents of the cart.

"Are you in the habit of drinking whisky first thing in the morning?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no. I don't know why the elves brought the whole cart. Perhaps they had a premonition that you'd be driving me to drink this morning. Don't you have something else you could be doing?"

"Not really," Harry lied. "Isn't drinking absinthe, even at night, a bit, you know . . . overwrought?"

Malfoy released an irritated sigh and let the open book drop onto his chest with a muffled thump. "If you must know, it's for the dreams. Now, if you're not going to have a swim, then be a good little Super Auror and go patrol something. Somewhere else."

Harry refilled his juice glass and returned to his lounge chair next to Malfoy. "Absinthe keeps the dreams from coming?"

"No, Potter, it forces them to come. Usually it brings the most trivial ones, but not always."

"So you can try to get a vision of something specific?"

"Is it really necessary to discuss this?" Malfoy looked more than habitually annoyed.

"I'm just curious. We don't have to talk about it if it bothers you."

Malfoy's nose wrinkled up just a little in distaste. "It's not that it bothers me, it's just . . ." He stopped, clearly bothered and not wanting to admit it. "If I don't have a vision for a few nights, I start to feel out of sorts. Itchy, I suppose you'd say. Wound-up. I take the absinthe, have a vision, even a trivial one, and the feeling goes away."

"Huh. So they're sort of addictive, then, the visions. If you went long enough without a dream would the itchy feeling go away?"

He shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. No one really understands exactly how prophecy works or why, and every Seer's experience seems to be different anyway. Even when I don't force them, the visions come regularly enough that I doubt I'll ever get the chance to experiment with it."

"And nothing else works to make the itchy feeling go away? It has to be a dream?"

Malfoy gave him a wolfish grin. "Actually, sex helps. Could just be the distraction factor, though."

"I should have known."

"You asked," he said with a smirk and picked up his book again.

A house elf suddenly appeared next to Malfoy's chair. "Master Draco, sir. Miss Pansy Parkinson is here to see you."

"Fucking hell! Is everyone in the universe determined to disturb me this morning?"

The house elf just waited patiently for a response to his question. Malfoy put the bookmark back in his book and sat up. "Have her wait for me in the parlour, Wilson. I'll be there presently." The house elf nodded and disappeared and Malfoy began digging underneath his chair for a pair of dark green rubber sandals.

"Malfoy, why do your house elves speak in complete sentences?"

He looked up with a distracted air. "What? Oh, the elves." His expression darkened a bit. "Lucius did it. Don't ask, Potter. Trust me; you don't want to know. Changed all their names, too, and they won't answer to the old ones. It's fucked up but there's nothing to be done about it now." He stood up and slid his feet into the shoes, then took up his glass from the table. "Potter, since you're obviously at loose ends this morning, would you mind terribly acting as chaperone during Pansy's visit? Just to err on the side of caution, you understand."

"All right, Malfoy. No problem."

"I'm going to get dressed, then, and I'll meet you and Pansy in the parlour in ten minutes."

And so they made their way back to the South Wing, and Malfoy disappeared upstairs while Harry went to wait in the parlour.

Ten minutes became twenty, passed in excruciating silence with Pansy Parkinson. She had made herself at home on the sofa as though she'd just been there last week. Her chic green witch's robes showed quite a bit of décolletage, but somehow she didn't seem quite as put-together as she had when they were in school together. She examined the seams of her short white gloves, and Harry pretended to be fascinated by the parlour moulding and tried not to pace.

When Malfoy came in, still carrying his book, the reason for the delay was clear. His hair was perfectly dry and styled, his black and silver day-robes exquisite over black silk trousers. Pansy leapt up and made a bee line for him, bestowing air kisses on each chiselled cheekbone.

"It's been a while, Pansy. What can I do for you?" He said as he guided her back toward the sofa and set his book on the end table.

"What makes you think I want something?" She smiled playfully and made a show of looking the parlour over. "Well, it's a good deal more relaxed, I'll give you that. Did you redecorate the whole place?"

"The majority of it. The previous décor was so . . . Spanish Inquisition, didn't you think?"

"It looked like the house of someone who had minions."

Malfoy's smile was just the slightest bit forced. "I learned a lot during the War," he said lightly. "Chiefly, that minions are always looking for ways to advance, generally by stepping over the bodies of those above them. This struck me as a tradition that I could do without."

Pansy took a seat on the sofa and Malfoy sat down in the overstuffed armchair. Pansy looked slightly annoyed that he hadn't taken the position next to her, but she turned her attention to Harry, who had remained standing. "So, how many times have you hexed each other so far?"

Harry frowned at her. "None, thank you very much. We're both adults now, you know, not a couple of little kids."

"We restrict ourselves to hurling insults," Draco added, but his smile was more genuine. "So far."

"Very noble. Potter, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak to Draco in private."

"Sorry, Pansy," Malfoy answered before Harry could. "I'm afraid he has to stay. Security reasons. Everything you say will be kept confidential, won't it, Potter?"

"My word of honour."

"There. You know what that means coming from a Gryffindor. You understand, I'm sure."

"Yes, of course. That poisoning sounded like a nasty business, though I suppose if there's anyone equipped to recover from poison it would be you."

"Well, we all have our talents," Malfoy drawled. "It would appear that living through a wide variety of assassination attempts is mine."

"Not your only talent, as I recall." Her eyes glittered.

"Perhaps not. But I've become a bit more particular about how I use my talents of late. So tell me, how have you been spending your time, then? 1996, wasn't it, last time we saw each other?"

Harry felt like he was watching a tennis match. Pansy returned the volley. "Summer before sixth year. I have to admit I was worried about you, Draco. You didn't look well that summer. But you came out on top, just like always. Another of your talents."

He arched an eyebrow. "Not always on top, I assure you. But often enough. You haven't done badly yourself, I assume. Very smart of your father to escape to France before he got pulled any farther into Lucius' plans. I envied you that summer, actually, having an out."

The coolness of her façade melted a little. "I wasn't convinced at the time that it was wise, but of course he turned out to be right. Unfortunately, he isn't always so prescient." She pulled off her gloves and tucked them into her pocketbook. "I suppose I'll get to the point. I have a proposition for you. A proposal, actually." She paused.

"Well, go on. I'm listening."

"It occurs to me that although our betrothal was dissolved you still don't have a Lady of the Manor. You'll want heirs, I'm sure, and assistance in running the estate. And I am not yet spoken for . . . "

Malfoy looked at her with unconcealed amazement. "Pansy, what part of extraordinarily gay don't you understand?"

But she waved a hand. "Psh. As if Lucius wasn't. That has nothing to do with the practicalities of maintaining a Family of Standing, and you know it. We're not discussing a love match - it's a business proposition. Though I actually was rather fond of you when we were children."

"That's sweet of you to say, I'm sure, but I've been trying to arrange my life so that it is as different from Lucius' life as possible, short of becoming poor. I was particularly hoping to avoid the sham marriage."

"It wouldn't be a sham! I'm fond of you; I hope you retain some fond memories of me. We wouldn't be pretending to be anything we weren't, well not in private, anyway. But the Malfoy line would continue and you'd have the benefits of a partner in dealing with the affairs of the Family."

"Such as spending the Family's money, I imagine. Pansy, I'm fairly certain that the world will be a much better place once the Malfoy line dies out. If this is about money, then we can discuss your situation, but let's leave matrimony out of it."

She looked crestfallen and gazed at the parlour carpeting. Her face coloured in embarrassment but she kept her voice steady. "Turns out Daddy's much less adept at making investments than he is at guessing the outcome of civil wars. We're going to lose the estate if we can't find a way to cover some of our debts. You're still single, for obvious reasons, and you're rich as hell. We were betrothed at one point anyway, and I always thought you'd make an excellent Head of Family. Getting married seemed a logical way of getting the necessary capital."

"Well, it is traditional. But tradition isn't all it's cracked up to be, Panse. I think you could do better." He was almost tender with her. "How much money do you need?"

"About thirty thousand Galleons to halt the foreclosure. One hundred twenty-five thousand to get our heads above water."

Harry nearly choked, but Malfoy just nodded as if he weren't surprised. "Three percent interest."

"Compounded quarterly?"

"Annually should be sufficient."

She blinked. "That's very generous. Are we talking about the thirty thousand or the one twenty-five?"

"I can manage the one twenty-five. I'll have my solicitor draw up the papers and I'll send them over by owl this afternoon. You should be able to transfer the money to your account as soon as you've had your people go over the loan agreement and you've signed."

"And what's in it for you?" She twisted her hands in her lap, looking both suspicious and hopeful.

Malfoy's smile was sharp. "I don't have to marry you, for one. Then, there's the interest. Even three percent annually isn't peanuts when the principal's one hundred and twenty-five thousand Galleons. There's no catch, Pansy. You caught me on a good day."

It hadn't seemed like such a good day to Harry. In fact, Malfoy had been decidedly cranky. But perhaps he measured these things by some bizarre standard known only to himself. Maybe just the fact that he'd not spent the day poisoned or tortured counted as good for him.

Pansy gave him a watery smile. "Thank you."

Malfoy walked her to the door and even allowed her to give him a hug on the way out. Then he came back to resume his spot on the sofa. As soon as he sat down he started taking off his shoes.

"So, what do you think, Potter? Should I look into continuing the ancient and honourable Line of Malfoy?"

Harry snorted a laugh and sat down in the chair again. "Was there ever a Malfoy who wasn't a stuck-up, sneaky, power-hungry practitioner of the Dark Arts?"

Malfoy considered the question. "I'm sure that there must have been, sometime, by the law of averages. A white sheep was bound to appear eventually. But if there was, said sheep was probably disinherited. So I'm afraid the answer to your question would be no."

"You weren't seriously thinking of marrying Pansy?"

"Good heavens, no! She's got a face like a pug! I don't know what Lucius was thinking when he arranged that betrothal. That he'd wiggle out of it somehow, I'm sure. Can you imagine, that nose entering the bloodline?" He shuddered. "The Malfoys may have been stuck-up, sneaky, power-hungry practitioners of the Dark Arts, but they always had an eye for beauty."

"I think that comes along with the stuck-up part, Malfoy."

"Oh. Perhaps you're right. Anyway, if I were going to saddle some poor woman with the title of Lady of Malfoy Manor, she'd have to be a lot more attractive than Pansy. And I'd want her to have some common sense in addition to having a strong nose and an understanding of fashion. I might even find a mixed-blood witch, if she was powerful enough and had a good brain in her head. Cause a little scandal for old times' sake. Fresh blood would probably do the family some good."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, especially the kind that refers to genetics rather than what you'll be sacrificing at the next new moon."

"Oh, you wound me," he said dryly as he picked up his book and stretched out on the sofa.

"So why did you give her the money?"

"I didn't give her the money, Potter. I loaned her the money."

"At a paltry three percent annually. And don't tell me you can use the interest, because I know you're overrun with cash and you could care less about accumulating more."

Malfoy shrugged. "She was kind to me when we were children." He opened his book and it was clear that he considered the discussion closed.

Harry shook his head and headed upstairs to collect his paperwork.

The Daily Prophet
14 March, 2000

DRACO MALFOY POISONED AFTER DEATH EATER TRIAL
Ministry Expenditures for Protection Growing Daily

by Staff and Magical Press Agencies

Inside sources at the Ministry of Magic confirmed this morning that Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater turned Ministry spy and son of Voldemort lieutenant Lucius Malfoy, was poisoned yesterday after giving testimony in the Dark Magic trial of Gregory Goyle, Jr. Malfoy is reported to be recovering and is expected to survive.

In the meantime, Ministry sources indicate that a contingent of as many as fifty Aurors has been installed at Malfoy Manor, the Malfoy ancestral home, to see to his protection. Reports are circulating that the security force is being headed up by none other than MOM's most famous employee, Super Auror and teen heartthrob Harry Potter. While Malfoy has provided key testimony for most of the Death Eater trials to date, critics maintain that the Ministry is expending far more in protecting Malfoy than his testimony is worth, reportedly as much as 2,000 Galleons a day. Malfoy was allowed to retain the whole of his family's estate and holdings after the War and is considered to be one of the richest wizards in Britain, despite the fact that his fortune was accumulated largely through the Dark Arts and under normal circumstances would have been confiscated by the Ministry. Wizarding opinion polls show that 98% of the public would prefer for Malfoy to pay for the Aurors' protection out of his own pocket.

Harry Potter's team is said to have few leads at this time and it is likely that the round-the-clock protection of Draco Malfoy will continue for some weeks to come.

Another morning, another breakfast at Malfoy Manor, but for the second time in a week, no Malfoy. Harry went next door to the workroom, since by this time of morning Malfoy could usually be found reading in the parlour, reading in the workroom, or locked away in his bedroom, presumably reading. He knocked on the closed door but didn't wait for an answer to enter.

What he saw when he opened the door was rather startling. Malfoy was sitting at his worktable with his sleeves rolled up and an ornate silver dagger poised over his wrist, blood just beginning to ooze down in shocking scarlet contrast to the delicate white skin of his inner arm. Harry shouted and was across the room before Malfoy could move. He grabbed the hand that held the dagger. "What the hell are you doing?" Harry screamed.

"What the fuck, Potter! Get off me! You're wasting it." Malfoy wrenched his hand away from Harry and exchanged the dagger for a little vial off the worktable, holding it to the wound to collect the blood. There were three other little vials on the table that had already been filled, and two empty ones waiting. Now that it was lying on the table, Harry could see that the knife's elaborate silver handle had a dragon etched into it. So very Malfoy.

"Please tell me that this is something other than what it looks like," Harry sighed.

Malfoy glared at him. "Well, I suppose if you're a moron it looks like a very slow, controlled suicide attempt. If there were a person here who had a modicum of intelligence, which clearly there is not, they might think it looked like blood collection for potions' use."

Harry could see a few other small cuts on Malfoy's wrists, some obviously fresh, others in various stages of healing. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Since the day after the poisoning," Malfoy answered, his voice still tight and cross. "My blood has certain properties required for the Near Universal Poison Antidote. I'm putting away as much as I safely can into preservative vials so it won't deteriorate. So Professor Snape can use it if I'm not around."

"Because you're a Seer?"

"That's part of it, Potter. I'm sure it's a bit beyond you." That was the exact tone that Malfoy used to use on Harry when they were both eleven.

"Oh, I'm sure it would be," Harry sneered back. "You don't have to be such a wanker about it, Malfoy. Anybody would find it alarming to see someone sitting there bleeding with a knife against their wrist."

Malfoy capped off the vial and smoothly exchanged it for an empty one, losing only a drop or two of blood in the process. "I apologise if I startled you," he said absently.

Harry could hardly believe his ears. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm sorry I startled you. What?"

"I've never heard you apologise before. Not sincerely."

Malfoy laughed. "Potter, we've hardly spoken since 1996. I did eventually grow beyond the snotty little brat stage." He picked up the dagger and reopened the shallow wound expertly and reapplied the vial. "Well, sort of."

Harry grinned. "Not to hear Snape tell it."

"And I'll bet he sneaked away to Hogwarts this morning without waking me up to say goodbye, didn't he?"

"That's what Janice said," Harry answered, helping himself to a chair next to the table. "She was on the early shift this morning. And she also gave me this." He took a letter out of his pocket, unfolded it and removed the article enclosed inside, laying it on the table where Malfoy could read it without needing his hands. "The Daily Prophet strikes again. Moody sent it. He says they've run several articles like it in the last few days, and he's been getting a lot of mail complaining about the cost of keeping the team here. He and Arthur want to meet with me this afternoon to discuss it."

"I often wish Lucius hadn't sold the Prophet off. I'd make a few editorial changes if I could." Malfoy's tone was bland, his attention split between his task and the article. He skimmed through the piece quickly, snorted a laugh at one point and muttered "teen heartthrob," and then returned his focus to the nearly full vial. "I wondered why Professor Snape was hiding the newspapers. When I was at Hogwarts recovering after the War, he always hid the paper if there was something negative about me in it. So, what do you want to do about this?"

"Well, I certainly don't want to pull my team out. We're no closer to catching the perpetrator than we were a week ago, and it's obvious you're still in very real danger. But I don't know what kind of compromises Arthur's going to be forced to make."

"Tell Weasley I'll pay." He capped off the vial, took up the knife and cut his wrist again, a new wound this time, producing a faster flow. He managed to get the blood dripping into the new container with a minimum of waste, graceful even in exsanguination.

"You'll pay for what?"

"Everything. The Prophet says I'm one of the richest wizards in England and we all know how reliable they are." Harry snickered. "Seriously, you know I've got more money than I'll ever be able to spend. Whatever is left when I die is mostly going to charity. Lord Snape certainly doesn't need it and I don't have any other family. If the Ministry wants me to pay for your team being here, it makes no difference to me. I'm already paying for their grocery bill, and I must say for a group of dainty little girls they eat a prodigious amount. Paying their salaries or whatever else is no burden to me."

Harry shrugged. "All right. I'll tell him. That's probably going to solve a lot of his problems." He folded the article back up and returned it to his pocket.

"I exist only to serve." Malfoy smiled and continued dispassionately watching his blood drip into a preservative vial. Perhaps in the end it was just another commodity to him, no different than strangleroot or toad's toes, something to appear on an inventory list. Seer's blood, one fourth-ounce, unadulterated, pure wizarding stock, aristocratic.

"Now is there something I can do for you this morning, Potter, or did you just have a sudden urge to make a dramatic entrance to my workroom?"

"I've got a couple of things I need to discuss with you, and I was hoping you might be able to help me with a project. But I'm starving. Can you finish up there and we'll talk over breakfast?"

"A potions project?" Malfoy capped off the vial and pulled a handkerchief out of his robe pocket to hold against his wrist.

"No, Dark Arts. Defence Against, actually."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow but followed him into the parlour without further questions. As they sat at the table, Malfoy went to pour himself a cup of tea but was hampered by the necessity of holding the handkerchief against his still-bleeding arm. "Would you mind giving me a hand here, Potter?"

Harry reached over to pour the tea for him. "Aren't you going to spell those closed?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm not done. I plan to keep collecting as much as I can safely manage, and using magic on the skin would contaminate the blood when I collect again in the morning."

"You need an Elastoplast." Malfoy gave him a blank look and Harry had to smile. "It's a self-adhesive bandage. A Muggle thing." Harry pushed the cup of tea over to him and poured himself some coffee, then began piling food on a plate.

"It's usually not a problem, I only cut a little too deeply on that last one. It will stop bleeding in a moment. Well, let's hear about this Dark Arts project of yours, then." Malfoy sipped his tea, looking a little silly holding one hand to the other wrist as he lifted his cup.

"It's good to know that even you look like a giant prat every now and then, Malfoy."

"Do not mock me. I am a martyr to the cause of research. Are you going to tell me about this project, or are you going to keep dodging the subject until teatime?"

Harry sighed. "It's about the spell that Voldemort used to kill Albus."

"Exanimus." Malfoy's expression was grim.

"What do you know about it?" Harry took a croissant and began drizzling honey on it.

"Lucius did some of the research that led to Riddle finding that spell. The book it came from was in the set of Dark Grimoires that I donated to the Aurors' Library after the War."

"Yeah, I found it." Harry pulled the copy he'd made out of his pocket and handed it to Malfoy, who checked beneath the handkerchief to see if the bleeding had stopped, seemed satisfied that it had and put the handkerchief back in his robes. He unfolded the parchment and took a look.

"That's it all right. If you've read through the book you probably know as much about it as I do."

"I'm trying to develop a counter-measure," Harry said with a mouth full of croissant. "If you were me, where would you start?"

Malfoy whistled as he buttered a piece of toast, carefully spreading a perfectly even coat all the way to the edge of the crust. Trust Malfoy to make buttering toast an operation requiring surveying equipment. "That's not going to be easy," he said as he took a bite.

"I know. That's why I'm coming to you. You probably have more direct knowledge of the Dark Arts than anyone else still living; I thought you might have some advice."

"Did you ask Professor Snape about it?"

Harry nodded. "He suggested I speak with you. He said that you have more recent experience with Dark charms and hexes."

"Huh. It's not like him to be so modest. He was probably too busy to talk to you." Malfoy swallowed the last of his tea and set his cup down. "Well, I can tell you that this spell runs on raw power, which is why it's so uncommon. There's a tremendous danger of losing your grip on your own magic in a spell like this and burning yourself out. Basically the person casting the spell is using his own magic directly to suck the life force or magic out of the victim. It's crucial that the caster be certain that he is more powerful than the victim. If he isn't, two things can happen. One is that the caster can't get a hold on the victim's life force and there's no effect. The second is that the victim's magical power can overload the caster and it basically explodes. Very messy, that. It's not easy to ascertain the level of someone's magical power, but once you have, you've also established that the victim's not going to have much chance of protecting himself. Even if you could develop a counter-spell, the victim probably wouldn't be powerful enough to maintain it in the face of the caster's greater power."

"So by casting Exanimus you're adding the victim's magical power to your own on a permanent basis?"

Malfoy nodded. "Assuming you can handle the extra power in addition to your own. That's the danger of the spell. It was an incredible risk on Riddle's part to try it on Dumbledore. With his typical arrogance, he presumed he would be able to channel his own power and all of Dumbledore's power on top of it. But if it had worked, I can't imagine that anyone would ever have been able to stand against him again."

Harry shuddered. "It looked like it was working. He drained enough power out of Dumbledore to kill him."

"It might have run over and burned him out or exploded on him at the last minute. Or maybe it's a really good thing that you took him out while he was distracted."

Harry was silent for a moment, considering. "What could you do with that power?"

"Anything," was the shrugged answer. "Everything. It's raw power, just like what you always draw upon to work magic. You'd just have that much more with which to work."

"Could you pass it along to someone else?"

"You mean split it up and give it to a group of other people? To keep from burning yourself out?"

"Yeah."

Malfoy looked thoughtful. "I don't know. You'd need a second step to the spell. Sucking energy in isn't quite the same as infusing it. You'd need an opposite equivalent, Perfundere or something, I should think. But I imagine it would be possible if you could hold all the extra energy long enough to dole it out, and if you didn't force more magic into anyone than they could handle. It would be a very tricky business though. On more than one level, Potter. Look, spells are considered Dark for what two reasons?"

"The spell is created through a process which causes grievous harm to a sentient being, or the spell is cast with the intent to cause grievous harm to a sentient being," Harry answered immediately.

"So at the very least Exanimus is equivalent in Darkness to Avada Kedavra; it would kill whomever you were using as a power source. I'd make an argument