"You must have known he was talking about Lucius Malfoy," Harry says angrily, remaining seated.
"As I said, I am unable to — "
"Draco went missing the same day he was supposed to meet you to talk about Lucius! And you never told someone, you never said anything."
Zeisel's face closes up; all the muscles tighten and her mouth turns into a narrow, unforgiving line. "The Malfoy family has plenty of holiday houses and overseas residences. I suggest, Mr Potter, that if you want to find Mr Malfoy, you start there. Rather than throwing around baseless accusations," she adds coldly.
"You're just like the rest of them," Harry says, his voice low and angry. "Think Draco's gone off to live in some luxury villa somewhere, don't you? You don't know a damn thing about him."
"I must ask you to leave," Zeisel snaps, and Harry stands up.
"Gladly," he says, striding to the door. "Thanks for all your help." He leaves, slamming the door behind him and knowing it's childish but he can't stop himself. He's so angry. Draco's been missing three years, three years, and everyone involved in the case — besides Astoria and Narcissa — has treated Draco's disappearance like it's a joke. The first case officer's notes are laughable.
But running beneath the torrent of anger at Zeisel is the anger at himself.
After all, he'd thought the same when the investigation first started. And even further back, when he first heard Draco had disappeared. He was twenty-three then and his whole life seemed lit up like summer sky. Friends and drinks at the pub and Ginny, beautiful, bright Ginny, and they'd only just bought the apartment and there was so much energy in them. And Draco's disappearance had been nothing but a footnote in his life, a brief read of a newspaper headline, a small snort of contempt as he imagined Draco gloating in an expensive retreat somewhere. Then he'd effortlessly moved on, never sparing the incident another thought until the file landed on his desk three years later.
Three long years.
And maybe, somehow, he's still not doing enough. He found the notebook a month ago, for Merlin's sake, but he'd only just spoken to the solicitor? What sort of investigator was he? He was rubbish.
Harry tastes blood and realises he's biting his lip. He unclenches his jaw and Disapparates to the Ministry atrium.
* * *
Arthur Weasley is delighted to see him.
"Come in, come in, have a seat," he says, ushering Harry into his office. Mr Weasley has come a long way since his pokey little office so many years ago: as the newly-appointed Head of the Muggle Liaison Office, his new office is very roomy and well-appointed. "What can I do for you, Harry?" he asks, offering a tin of toffees. Harry accepts one and sits down in a chair opposite Mr Weasley's desk.
"I'm doing a few cold cases at the moment," Harry says, unwrapping the toffee. "One of which is Draco Malfoy's." He pauses then, in order to study Mr Weasley's expression. He frowns, but doesn't appear too surprised or unhappy. "I was wondering," Harry presses on after a momentary silence, "if I could access the Muggle database for unidentified people."
"Oh, dear," Mr Weasley says slowly. "I'm sorry to hear that, Harry. Not much hope for him then, I suppose. We have a liaison officer for the Met, so — "
"I was thinking somewhere more regional," Harry interrupts. "The Devon and Cornwall Constabulary."
"Ah." Arthur nods. "I can talk to our Law Enforcement Cooperation team and they'll arrange it all. A few police uniforms and a Befuddlement Charm or two and you'll have your files."
