Chapter Text
“Take these.”
Those two words had occupied the past six weeks of Hermione’s life. Three separate law compendiums were open on her desk and her eyes couldn’t focus. Words blurred together, hopping from one page to another, even leaping from one compendium to the next. Hermione lifted her head and leaned back in her desk chair. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then backward to nil. Her brain wouldn’t slow, and if she opened her mind too much the gaps could be filled with memories Hermione had hidden from herself.
Her office was incredible. The far right wall was a built-in bookshelf, charmed inaccessible to anyone but Hermione. Her desk was a thick, cherry wood with pull-out book stands for extended periods of reading. The far-left wall had a nice sitting area where it wasn’t plastered with every award available to wizards in the northern hemisphere. Hermione had grown weary of awards, galas, and thanks. However, Harry and Ron had stopped going to those things long ago. Someone needed to show up, someone needed to represent the truth and the trauma of everything they went through. It had become far too easy for people to place the war firmly in the past, refusing to acknowledge it at all.
Hermione glanced up at the clock to see it was a bit past five. With the laziest flick of her hand, the books each slammed shut with a loud thud. Hermione could leave; it was late enough that she could go home. She could sleep, or perhaps watch a silly film then another and another. Hermione leaned forward to rest her forehead on the desk, exhausted. The work, the caseload, the pressure of someone’s freedom was taxing. It was, however, all Hermione had. If she allowed herself to have a life outside of the work, she had to embrace a failed marriage and friendships which had only thrived when their lives were hanging in the balance.
She could leave, she could go home, she could Her office was too big, the door too far away, and her eyelids were so heavy—
“Hermione?”
She jolted upright as the secretary knocked on the door. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and shook her head. She glanced at Lila van Ravensway, who had poked her head in just the slightest bit.
“Yes?”
“You have visitors.”
Hermione frowned and wondered, “At this hour?”
“It’s Dean.”
“Oh! Send him—”
“And Blaise Zabini.”
“Oh.”
Hermione sighed. Blaise Zabini was a beautiful, horrible man who managed to get Dean to fall in love with him. Zabini had become much softer since their school days, a bit gentler with his prejudice, and Dean was good for him. Hermione was begrudgingly grateful to Blaise for funding some of their pro bono work. (Tax exempt, of course.) He was so much different from Hermione, who was loud and outspoken where Blaise was quiet and peddled his influence in the background.
Lila offered, “I can tell him to piss off, if you like. I know he doesn’t exactly fit your idea of a pleasant end to the day.”
“Did they give a reason?”
“No, and Zabini looks about as thrilled to be in your office as you are for him to be here.” Lila shrugged. “I tried to pass him off to Padma since it says Granger and Patil on the sign, but he’s insistent. He wants to speak with you.”
“Probably why he brought Dean, then. He needs a shield.”
“Seriously, I’ll tell him to find someone else to take the stick out of his bum.”
Hermione chuckled to herself. Lila would say that. Hell, she’d say it to the Supreme Mugwump if the situation presented itself. Hermione shook her head and acquiesced.
“Show them in.”
Lila nodded and closed the door. Hermione fluffed out her hair the moment it clicked shut. She took a deep breath in through her nose, held it, and exhaled through her mouth. Why couldn’t the day just end? Hermione jumped at the knock on the door.
The door opened and Dean Thomas entered, followed quickly by Blaise Zabini. Both of them looked rather somber, so it must be a serious inquiry. Dean was dressed far too nicely for this to be a casual visit. Blaise walked in, wearing a lilac robe that probably cost more than the entire contents of Hermione’s bookshelf. She didn’t bother standing, just nodded to the two chairs on the other side of the desk. Lila closed the door and Hermione smiled halfheartedly at Dean.
“How are you?”
“Usual, you know.” Dean’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What are you working on?”
“House-elf accidentally offered a glove in the middle of a stack of parchment. The woman used the phrase, ‘Take these.’ House-elf took the parchment, including the glove. The woman’s lawyer is arguing she did not know about the glove and could not have meant for the house-elf to take the glove. It’s pro forma; there is no mention of intent in the law. She did not need to know she was making the offer of freedom when it was accepted. Her representation is being an arse about it, so the case is occupying far too much of my time. Please,” she gestured again to the chairs. “Sit.”
They obliged, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop. Dean nudged Blaise with his shoulder, but Blaise remained silent. Dean sighed and turned his attention to Hermione.
“We are here on a formal visit.”
“Right.” Hermione frowned. “You want to hire me?”
Dean confirmed, “Blaise wants to hire you.”
“Oh.”
Blaise Zabini shook his head and insisted, “She won’t help.”
“That’s presumptuous even for you,” replied Hermione.
“I don’t need a lawyer.” Zabini’s tone was soft, but there was rage in his eyes. “The law got him into this. The law is what has brought us here.”
“I am not in the mood for riddles. If you have a request, please bequeath it to me or get out of my office.”
Zabini pulled a small envelope from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers. He glanced toward Dean, who nodded for him to answer.
“Draco was sentenced to Azkaban ten years ago last month.”
Hermione’s heart fell into her stomach. She shook her head and opened her mouth to say something, but no words came. Hermione hated Draco Malfoy, but she also hated injustice. He was prosecuted and sentenced for things far beyond his control. There was no justice in sending Draco Malfoy to Azkaban. Draco had been punished for his father, his mother, Voldemort, and everything which happened around him. He was prosecuted for things he had no choice but to do as a child, and that was anything but just.
“I would help, but I don’t do parole. You want Padma.”
“You don’t understand.” Zabini swallowed thickly, continuing to press and twist the envelope between his fingers. “When Draco was convicted, we set up a schedule. Someone visited him every week. We brought him photographs from Tracey and Theo’s wedding. They left the first chair open for him, because he should’ve been there. He should’ve—” Zabini cut himself off as his voice began to waver.
Dean added, “Malfoy should’ve turned thirty in Azkaban.”
“Should’ve?”
“He is missing.” Zabini revealed, “Two years ago, our visitation privileges were revoked. We went to the middle island as we have always done, every week for eight years, and they wouldn’t let us in. The guards said he didn’t want to see us.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“Every week for eight years,” Zabini insisted. “He would never miss a visit. Every letter received a response for eight years, then nothing. We came back the following week, and it was more of the same. After six weeks, we hired your partner to demand a wellness check. We were denied—”
“Because it requires prisoner consent.” Hermione sat up straight. “If he is missing …” Hermione felt as if she was touching the delicate edge of a very tangled web. “If he is missing then there is no one to consent.”
Zabini nodded.
“Solicitor Patil found an obscure law from a few centuries back for right to proof of life.”
Hermione nodded. Padma asked for Hermione’s help, wondering if she had any idea about proof of life for families of prisoners. Said it was important, for a high-profile confidential case, but that had been well over a year earlier.
“The warden appealed to the head of the Auror Office, who denied the claim. Padma appealed to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which was denied two weeks ago. Two days later, Narcissa Malfoy died.”
There was a brief pause, as though Blaise thought Hermione might offer an, “I am sorry for your loss.” Perhaps, “How are you holding up?” Hermione remained silent, tempted to plan a party. The world was better without Narcissa Malfoy in it. Blaise finally continued,
“This is the letter she sent me on the night she died.” He tossed the envelope onto Hermione’s desk. “It’s not for me. It is for you.”
Hermione sighed as she grabbed the envelope.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Dean revealed, “It is not nothing. Blaise opened it—”
“Yes,” replied Hermione, “as it is not addressed to me. It’s addressed to him.”
“If you received a letter from Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione, I expect it would have ended up in the rubbish bin.” Blaise huffed, “She was the closest thing I had to a mother, so she knew I would bring it to you. Not that she bothered with an explanation—”
Hermione held up a hand to silence him. She skimmed the document in her hands then read through the estate overview. The Malfoys had a thriving real estate business; the overview noted several commercial properties in England and France. It outlined the assets in Malfoy Manor, three separate vaults at Gringotts, and the family crypt on manor grounds. At the bottom, right above Narcissa Malfoy’s signature, was:
Temporary Custodian: Hermione Granger
I, Narcissa Black Malfoy, of sound mind, designate Hermione Jean Granger as custodian of the Malfoy estate for the duration of my son, Draco Lucius Malfoy’s incarceration.
Hermione laughed, unsure what to make of it. She noted the seal in the lower-right corner.
“This is an excellent forgery. Both of you, truly, excellent work. What exactly did you intend to accomplish with this very elaborate prank?”
“Hermione.” Dean leveled her with a look that said I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t matter. “Draco Malfoy is missing from Azkaban and his mother left you in charge of the entire estate. We were hoping you could connect the dots.”
Hermione took a deep breath and glanced up at the ceiling.
“If this is real, there are three possibilities.”
Blaise asked, “Will you outline them for me, please?”
“First: Draco is dead, and this is a legal maneuver to avoid determining who is entitled to which part of the estate.”
“He is alive.” Dean insisted, “If he died, there would be a body. They would have shown Blaise he was dead. There is no reason for them to hide it, even if he was killed by staff. They have dozens of prisoners to blame.”
“Which brings us to the second: Draco is in prison, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is intentionally cutting him off from the outside world.”
“No,” replied Blaise. “We have letters from other prisoners asking where he might be. He was rather popular, evidently, for story time. According to one letter, he had ‘bang-on impressions of Professor Binns and Moaning Myrtle.’ I have a letter from one guard confirming Draco is not in any of the upper solitary cells. All the evidence we’ve collected these two years clearly demonstrates Draco is no longer in Azkaban.”
Her heart sank even lower.
“Then we are left with option three: Draco has been taken somewhere in the Shadows, with the help of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
“I am not here to hire you as a lawyer for human and creature rights, Hermione.” I am here to hire you as a private investigator to find my best friend. Name your price.”
“I—”
“I swear on Merlin’s grave, Hermione,” Blaise said, raising his voice. “Name your price. I will buy you Buckingham Palace if you like.”
“I respect your willingness to pay—”
“Anything. I will pay anything.”
“Shut up!” Hermione shouted. “God, you’re so quiet until you’re not.”
Blaise clenched his jaw and did not reply. Dean rolled his eyes; they always seemed to work their way around to this moment. Hermione did her best to keep her voice level when she spoke again.
“If Draco Malfoy is in the Shadows, this isn’t just the Auror office. This could go all the way up to the Minister.”
“Which is why Narcissa left the estate to you.” Blaise nodded toward the letter and revealed, “You are the only person powerful enough to find the answer. Brilliant enough to find him.”
“This is … a lot.” Hermione shook her head in disbelief. “Is it … Is it possible Narcissa Malfoy knew more about this than she let on?”
“I am certain she did.”
“Right, and left us none of those answers. Mucking up my life from the grave; why am I not surprised?”
Dean chuckled and Blaise sat there, stone-still. Hermione tapped her fingers on the desk and realised Narcissa Malfoy had done the most practical thing in this situation. She found a lawyer who would know all the rules for custody of the estate, and a woman who could not resist a proper challenge. Nobody would ever accuse Hermione Granger of denying herself a proper mystery to solve. Hermione wondered, rather absentmindedly,
“Why have you waited two years to come to me?”
“I told him not to.” Dean admitted, “I wanted Padma to handle this because she has more distance and less history with Malfoy, obviously. Once Blaise received the letter, there was no denying your involvement any longer.”
“This is important to me.” Blaise looked at Hermione with what looked like the world on his shoulders. “Dean and I have been engaged for a year-and-a-half. I will not be married unless my best friend is standing at my side.”
“If I do this, I’m doing it for Dean’s happiness. Therefore, I will do it for free.”
Blaise scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous. You must be heavily compensated for work in the Shadows. You, of all people, should know how dangerous it will be.”
“Honestly, I haven’t had interesting work in awhile. Haven’t had my life threatened in awhile, and the Shadows seems like just the place to start. I’ve heard they love Muggleborns in the underground.”
“Keep in mind,” cautioned Dean, “I would also like to have my best friends at our wedding.”
“Right. Just as I’m certain Ron would love to spend an entire ceremony sitting next to me.”
“You are our friend, Hermione, whether you are around or not. Whether Ron is pissed at you or not. The divorce can be blamed equally on the both of you.”
“I accept my half, but Ron is still denying his.” Hermione stood up and shook Blaise’s hand before opening her office door. “Thank you for coming to me.”
Blaise offered her a black velvet pouch and said, “Don’t forget this.”
“What is it?”
He tossed it onto a nearby chair where it landed with a loud clang, disproportionate to the size of the pouch.
“Your retainer.” Blaise placed his hand on Hermione’s shoulder and said, “I trust you to find him.”
“I will.” Hermione conceded, “Even without your money, I am well incentivized.”
“Oh?”
“I want to see my ex-husband’s face when I bring Draco Malfoy back from the proverbial dead.”
Blaise nodded and left. Dean hugged her quickly before following his fiancé out. Hermione closed her office door and pushed the lock into place before muttering her strongest shield charm. Hermione walked to her bookcase, placed her hand on the centremost shelf.
Aberto.
The drawer below the shelf opened to reveal twenty-one labeled vials with strands of hair inside. She plucked the first vial in her collection and held it at eye level. The coiled black curl had been in that vial for thirteen years. If there was one person who could move safely through the Shadows—Hermione placed the vial back in the drawer hoping her investigation would never reach that point.
“Draco Malfoy,” Hermione sighed, “you’ll never be able to hide from me.”