For What Is Broken | Drarry

Chapter 3

"Information?"

"For your investigation." He couldn't keep the note of disparagement from his voice. He still believed that the Ministry's suspicion of Malcolm was beyond ludicrous, but protecting Malcolm—protecting his own livelihood—meant finding the real culprits, the sooner the better. The shop couldn't afford the scrutiny, and, as Pansy had pointed out, neither could Draco.

He tossed a small, folded piece of parchment onto Potter's already cluttered desk. Potter eyed it with suspicion, his gaze flickering between Draco and the parchment before he picked it up.

"Irene Parrish?" He furrowed his eyebrows. "What is this?"

"The name of the woman who came into the shop yesterday morning looking to sell something." Draco folded his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall of the cubicle. "Like I said before, I don't usually deal with our sellers. But Malcolm was busy with a special delivery, so I told her that I could help."

Potter looked up at him, a new attentiveness in his gaze. "And?"

Draco didn't mention how wary the woman been of him—the keen, slit-eyed way she had appraised him, as if she already knew exactly who he was, or how she had been halfway to the door before Draco had managed to draw her back with a few carefully chosen words. He didn't want to give Potter any other reason to mistrust him.

"She refused to finalise the transaction without the proprietor present. Said it was too valuable to risk. But she showed me what she wanted to sell." He pointed to the parchment in Potter's hand, where he had sketched a crude drawing beneath the woman's name. "It was some sort of hideous china doll, like the kind a child would play with. Porcelain skin, ugly lace dress. Except..." He hesitated, unnerved even by the memory of it. "Its hair was human, and so were its eyes."

Potter frowned. "What do you mean, its eyes were human?"

"I mean," Draco said, annoyed by Potter's incomprehension, "they weren't glass doll eyes. They looked perfectly real. Moving around, pupils dilating in the light, everything."

"Well, that sounds creepy as shit, but—"

"It was Dark magic," Draco cut him off, leaving no room for ambiguity.

Potter's frown deepened. "Are you sure?"

Draco nodded. "I'm certain. As soon as I touched the doll, I knew. Dark magic always leaves its traces."

For the first time since Draco had stepped foot in his cubicle, Potter turned fully in his seat to face him, something calculating in his gaze. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm not the villain here, Potter, much as you may want to believe that," Draco said, voice sour. "I'm just trying to help."

Potter said nothing, only continued to look at Draco, that same assessing expression. He had lines on his face that hadn't been there several years ago, Draco noticed, etched on his forehead and near his eyes. They were concealed in large part by his untidy fringe and the lightning bolt scar, almost impossible to notice at a glance, but there to see for anyone who looked close enough. He was so young still, younger even than Draco, but in those lines was a man who had lived too many lifetimes in too few years.

"Potter!"

Draco jolted at the sudden shout. Potter, apparently more used to such commotion, sprang to his feet, eyes alert to something over Draco's shoulder. A gruff, bearded man rounded the corner of the cubicle, looking grim. He was at least a decade older than Potter, but they wore the same crimson robes, both had that same intensity about them, a fire just waiting to be lit.