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Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
Multi
Fandom:
Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships:
Draco Malfoy/Harry PotterHarry/Ginnypast Draco/Astoria
Characters:
Draco MalfoyHarry PotterHermione GrangerRon WeasleyAstoria GreengrassGinny Weasley
Additional Tags:
MysteryDramaFriendshipSlow BurnRomance
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:2014-09-30Completed:2014-12-25Words:74885Chapters:17/17Comments:407Kudos:2311Bookmarks:912
Running on Air
eleventy7
Chapter 6
Chapter Text
Harry leaves early the next morning, before Ginny wakes; he has an 8:30am meeting with the family solicitor who, he discovers, is a tall, broad-shouldered witch who reminds him somehow of Madame Maxime. She ushers Harry into her office — a small room clearly designed by a fan of minimalism. He'd been expecting something extravagant for a solicitor worthy of the Malfoys, but there's little more than a set of filing cabinets, a glass table, and two chairs.
The solicitor — Ms Zeisel, she introduces herself crisply — takes the seat behind the table and gives Harry a look over her silver spectacles. It's a look worthy of McGonagall and Harry has the absurd feeling he's about to be told off for something.
"So," she says, "you want to know about the Malfoys."
"Draco, specifically. I'm undertaking his case." Harry hands over his badge; Zeisel scrutinises it closely before handing it back.
"If you want to know about his financial affairs, you'll have to contact the family's financial advisor," she says.
"No, actually. Draco had an appointment with you the day he disappeared. September ninth, 2003, at 4:30pm." Harry speaks without preamble; Zeisel doesn't strike him as the sort of person to indulge in light chit-chat.
"Yes, I recall that."
"You do?" Harry says with surprise. Zeisel gives him another look over her spectacles.
"I have quite the memory, Mr Potter."
"Can you give me any details about the meeting?"
Zeisel gives his badge another considered look, and for a moment he thinks she's about to say something sharp about client confidentiality.
"Draco Malfoy contacted me a week earlier, stating that he required legal counsel."
"Draco was in trouble?" Harry says with alarm.
"Nothing urgent, apparently. I asked if it was an emergency and Mr Malfoy assured me that he simply required some legal advice. He took no issue with waiting a week for an appointment."
"Did you have any idea what he wanted to discuss with you?"
Zeisel frowns and tilts her head slightly. "He required information about hindering prosecution."
"And what's that mean?"
"Generally, preventing a criminal from being prosecuted. This may include concealing a criminal sought by law enforcement, providing them with the means of avoiding discovery or apprehension — usually giving money or arranging transport — and so on."
Harry stares at Zeisel for a long moment, his thoughts whirling. "Draco knew where his father was. Or was possibly even helping him."
"I am unable to comment on the matter. All I can say is that Mr Malfoy requested legal counsel regarding hindering prosecution, and agreed to an appointment. The appointment was not kept and I have had no further communication with Mr Malfoy." Zeisel neatly smoothes a crease in the sleeve of her robe and stands up. "I'm afraid I have an appointment with a client now, Mr Potter, but if you require any additional information please contact my secretary for an appointment."
"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."
"Thanks," Harry says gratefully, just as there's a polite knock and a secretary pokes his hand around the door.
"Report from the Muggle Prime Minister, sir."
"Ah, yes," Mr Weasley says, "He'll be wanting an update about the Welsh dragon incident." He stands up and looks apologetically to Harry. "Sorry to dash off. Say hullo to Ginny for me, won't you? Molly misses her something dreadful."
"All right. Thanks again," Harry says, standing up and leaving the office.
It will be a long and impatient wait for the files, but he has other cases to attend to, he reminds himself.
He returns slowly to his office.
* * *
That night, he dreams of Cornwall again. The cliff, the dark waves eddying endlessly around the dark rocks below.
Draco isn't there.
Harry waits. The wind nips at his face, a salt-tinted bite from the freezing Celtic Sea. He shivers and draws his cloak closer, fighting with the material as it slips from his numb hands.
This is Draco's memory. How can it exist while Draco isn't here? It doesn't make sense.
Harry steps closer to the edge of the cliff, moving slowly until he can look straight down into the wind-tossed waves and watch the water smash against the craggy rocks.
"Draco," he says, but the word is whipped away by the wind and disappears soundlessly into the dark depths of the sea. He tries again, raising his voice to call out. "Draco!"
This time, the word lifts and carries clear across the night sky, echoing twice. Draco, Draco!
But there's no answer.
* * *
The first day of December. London is still shrouded in morning fog when Harry arrives at the Ministry and goes to his office, unlocking the door and removing his mittens and scarf. Just as he sits down at the desk, a thick file comes flapping wildly into the office and nearly strikes him over the head. Harry frowns at it. Any files sent the previous day, after Harry's already left, tend to hang about in the hallways until he arrives in the morning.
His faint irritation vanishes, however, when he sees the note scribbled on the cover of the file.
Copies taken from Cornwall/Devon police database of unidentified persons.
The file is quite slim; Harry would guess there's only fifteen or so cases. He dismisses the first twelve cases; the bodies were all found prior to 2003. The thirteenth case consists of nothing more than a partial jawbone found in woodland in Devon; Harry dismisses that one. The fourteenth sets the age at 50-70.
The fifteenth lists the sex as male, the age 18-25. Hair and eye colour unknown. Found on the twenty-first of January 2004, washed up near Rosenithon Point, Cornwall. Body believed to have been in the water 4-6 months, the notes observe.
Harry stares at the page for a long time.
Then he slowly turns to the piece of parchment adhered to his desk with a Sticking Charm and writes on it.
Consultation required. Potter.
The words dissolve. It's a full five minutes later when a reply appears.
Be there in an hour. Butterworth.
It's a very long hour. Harry tries to work but he can't. The words seems to trickle away like rain. He can't focus. He reads the fifteenth page of the file over and over. Washed up near Rosenithon Point, Cornwall...
Harry pauses, then presses a quill to the parchment again.
Bring map.
Butterworth doesn't reply to that one, but he arrives twenty minutes later with a tattered book under one arm. A Comprehensive Guide to the Geography of Great Britain.
"What did you find?" Butterworth says, handing Harry the book.
"I don't know." Harry pushes the file, open at page fifteen, towards Butterworth. For a moment, the office is silent as Butterworth reads the page and Harry quickly finds a map of Cornwall, drawing his finger along the latitudes and longitudes until he's found it. Rosenithon Point. Fifteen miles north-east of Helston.
"Tell me the details of your case," Butterworth says, reading the page.
They've done this a thousand times before, but this time...Harry can't think of what to say for a long moment. He retrieves Draco's file and opens it, fumbling with the pages. "Male, aged twenty-three at time of disappearance. Went missing September 2003." After a long moment, he adds quietly, "Known to frequent the Cornish coast."
"High chance it's a match, then."
Harry nods mutely.
"You don't look very well," Butterworth says. "I hope you haven't come to work with a cold," he adds disapprovingly. There have been a number of highly contagious colds going around the Ministry.
"No, I just...I'm fine," Harry says, clenching his trembling hands around the atlas.
"Well," Butterworth says after a moment, "Magical signature available?"
"From — from our side," Harry says, finding his voice thanks to Butterworth's reassuringly disinterested expression. "The file you've got now — that's a Muggle one."
Butterworth frowns. "I'll need to access the remains." He pauses. "Cremated or buried by now, most likely. We'll have to do it the Muggle way. Go and arrange the Muggle Liaison office to fetch the DNA sample." He waves a hand irritably. "Contact me when you have it."
Harry nods and Butterworth leaves, taking his atlas with him.
Harry stands up and goes, once more, to Mr Weasley's office.
* * *
Harry floos to Matthew and Astoria's house late in the afternoon. He has a driving lesson, although it couldn't be further from his mind. Mr Weasley had spoken to the Magical Law Enforcement Department and explained they would be able to send along their Muggle Liaison officer to sufficiently 'negotiate' with the Muggle police officers and gain access to the DNA sample. The sample would then be sent to Butterworth, who could analyse it for a match in magical signature.
"Your indicator's still on." Matthew sounds amused. "Something on your mind? Been out of it all afternoon."
Harry turns a corner and says nothing, wondering whether or not he should tell Matthew or Astoria. No; it would be unprofessional. He shouldn't say anything until he's gotten the results back.
Which could take anything from a week to a fortnight.
"Just thinking about one of my cases," he mutters at last, and Matthew doesn't press further. Harry slows down to turn into the driveway, listening to the tyres crunch over wet gravel.
After he parks the car, they go inside and sit in front of the roaring fire. Matthew asks a few questions about billywigs but he seems to pick up on Harry's mood and draws the conversation to a close. Harry knows, distantly, that he's being a bad guest — darkly contemplative and distant — but he can't bring himself to feign smiles and easy chatter. Draco could be dead. Drowned, three years ago, before Harry even saw the first memory, before he even wrote likes circles in the file, before he even read the words do you remember when we were eleven?
Harry says his farewells to Astoria and Matthew, flooing to the apartment. Ginny's put a small Christmas tree — no bigger than an owl — on the end of the kitchen counter. Harry stares at it for a moment, remembering the lush pine needles buried beneath the snow drifts of Godric's Hollow. The cheerful pub, decorated with lights, and the distant sound of carols being sung. He could have grown up there. Built snowmen as a child, and when he was older he could've had his first drink in that pub.
Let's go back to that.
What would Ginny say if he sold the apartment and bought a country home?
Harry exhales sharply and goes to the sliding door, opening it and stepping out onto the balcony. It's cold tonight; dewdrops bead along the balcony railing and Harry's breath hangs in the air like clouds.
Far below, in the street, someone's whistling again.
Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly...
A faint pop, and the front door opens.
"Harry! You'll never guess who we're playing Saturday! Only two matches left of the season, and — what are you doing out there? Close the door, it's freezing." Ginny takes off her woollen hat and scarf. "We're playing the Swindon Skylarks, and their seeker is Wanda's brother, so of course it's going to be very interesting. Nothing like a bit of sibling rivalry to liven things up." She glances up at him, her cheeks flushed with cold, looking beautiful as ever. "Hurry up and come inside."
Harry pauses a moment, listening to the whistling in the streets below, then steps inside and snaps the door shut.
* * *
It's a very long week waiting for the test results. When Harry's not working his other cases, he's in the Muggle Liaisons office, badgering people about making arrangements. When he finally receives news, on Thursday, that a DNA sample has been successfully retrieved, he begins badgering Butterworth instead.
It seems strange, to be living in the apartment with its clean white walls and convenience-sized Christmas tree. To be walking along the streets of London, passing beneath the bright and extravagant festive displays: twinkling lights looped overhead, and strings of gold stars, and electric-blue snowflakes. To see the people laughing, crowded in pubs and inns, drinking spiced cider and mulled wine. Happy Christmas, the signs in the shop windows proclaim. Diagon Alley, enchanted to have soft, warm snow falling over its streets, is awash with festive cheer and every shop has a Wizarding Wireless playing carols and the beloved Christmas classics. Outside Quality Quidditch Supplies a sign states, in colourful lettering, Buy the latest Skyblazer and make it home for Christmas!
Yes, it seems strange to be here while Draco Malfoy may have died three years ago.
If he died alone in the cold and unforgiving tide of the Celtic Sea, the worst part is that Harry hadn't even noticed for three years.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that.
Sometimes Harry's tempted.
* * *
Saturday is the day of Ginny's big match. If the Wandsworth Warriors win this game, they'll reach the season final.
Harry can't go to the match. He apologises profusely to Ginny, saying he has to interview relatives about a recent case. Ginny's disappointed but says she understands.
"I don't know how you do it," she says. "Those poor families."
Harry feels absolutely terrible about lying, and he knows he's been behaving so distant lately, and he's been dreadfully on edge this week... He waits for Ginny to say something about it, but she kisses him and wishes him luck with the case before portkeying to Swindon.
So instead, he goes and prepares himself for the real reason for his absence from the game: his practical driving test.
* * *
Matthew drives him to the test centre.
"Got all your paperwork?" he asks.
"Yes." Harry feels as nervous as he did before he faced the Hungarian Horntail.
"Theory test certificate?"
"Yes."
"Nervous about the test, eh?" Matthew says, pulling into the centre car-park.
"That obvious?"
"You've been stressed all week."
"You noticed," Harry says slowly. Hermione and Ron had noticed too, asking Harry if something had happened. He'd told them the truth: he'd found a possible match for Draco. It'd been a relief just to tell them, and that had helped a little.
They walk into the centre and sit in the waiting area. Harry had spent the entire morning wondering if he should just call off the test. Why did he start learning to drive, anyway? He's fully qualified at Apparating and has portkeys, he can use the Floo network and the Ministry can even provide him with driverless cars.
But he wanted to do something for himself, for once.
What's the point in that? Sitting in a box, going only where someone else takes you?
Deep down, there's another reason he learned to drive, but he's not ready to voice it just yet.
"Harry Potter?" a woman asks, stepping into the waiting area. Harry likes the way Muggles say his name, in that blandly polite way. "We'll check your paperwork and take a brief eyesight test, then you'll be ready for the practical."
Harry stands up.
* * *
He returns to the testing centre forty minutes later. Matthew — apparently deeply absorbed in a very ancient-looking copy of Good Housekeeping — takes a minute to notice Harry's return.
"Well?" Matthew says.
Harry smiles.
* * *
Harry Apparates back to the apartment while Matthew drives home. Matthew had been keen to celebrate over a few butterbeers, saying that Astoria had offered an invitation to dinner, but Harry politely declined, saying he had to do some work.
"On a Saturday? That's rough," Matthew had said with surprise, but they'd made arrangements for Harry to visit on Sunday for dinner instead. Right now, Harry just wants some time alone, to think about things. His happiness at receiving a full licence is negated by everything else that seems to be going on in his life.
Not five minutes arriving in the apartment, he receives a firecall from Butterworth. Unusual, as his colleagues know only to use personal firecalls in urgent situations.
"Got your test results," Butterworth says without preamble, and Harry scrambles over to the fireplace.
"You only got the sample Thursday."
"I put in overtime and carried out the tests this morning, just so you'd stop visiting my office every five minutes and requesting updates," Butterworth says irritably, but Harry's grateful nevertheless. "Here's the results." A piece of paper flutters through the fireplace and Harry snatches it up quickly, skimming past all the typical file information until he's reached the only part that matters.
Match: Negative (0.5%)
Notes: Muggle sample provided.
"It's not...they were a Muggle?" Harry asks blankly. Butterworth nods.
"The sample was Muggle. Complete absence of magical signature."
Harry stares at the paper, reading the words over and over. Match: Negative.
"Thanks," he says distantly. "Have a good weekend, Butterworth."
"I will if I don't see you." He terminates the firecall.
Harry slumps against the wall, sliding slowly down it until he's sitting on the floor.
Match: Negative.
He lets himself have a good twenty-minutes of reprieve before he straightens up, then stands and heads towards the dining table. He'll need to do some serious analysis of his meeting with Draco's solicitor.
* * *
Ginny comes home in an unusually happy mood, especially since her team lost the match.
"I've got something to tell you," she says to Harry.
"Me too," he says. Everything, I've got everything to tell you. The driver's licence will be a wonderful surprise — he can only imagine Ginny's expression — and there's so much more he wants to say. All the things they somehow never find the time to tell each other.
"Well, we can share our news Friday night," she says, smiling. "I've made reservations at a new restaurant, just opened up in Diagon Alley."
"Looking forward to it," Harry says, feeling quite gratified. It's been a long time since Ginny planned a date.
Things might be all right.
* * *
But that night, he finds it impossible to sleep. He keeps thinking about Draco's case, his mind racing over thousands of possibilities, thousands of tiny clues he might be overlooking or misinterpreting. He waits until Ginny's asleep, then gets up and picks up the box beside his bedside table, carrying it out into the kitchen and setting it upon the counter.
"Lumos," he whispers.
The wandlight casts a gentle glow over the Hogwarts textbooks, the bottle of aged whiskey, the origami rose the colour of a faded pink heart. Harry reaches for the first textbook. He hadn't looked at this book last time, on account of it being very firmly tied shut with a length of rope.
The Monster Book of Monsters. Harry unties the rope; a set of beady eyes open but soon flutter shut again when Harry runs a finger along the spine. After waiting a moment to ensure the book is settled, he begins flipping through the pages. He's certain Draco would never have bothered with this book —
Notes and notes of tiny writing in the margins.
Harry gazes, struck with incredulity, at the observations. The Limax should be approached with caution...Valcores tend to have poor eyesight and rely on their hearing to locate targets, cast a Silencing Charm before approaching...
The notes — same as all of Draco's other ones throughout the years — seem to focus on practical techniques and applications rather than theoretical knowledge. He seemed to have had an obsession with documenting each step perfectly, making sure there was no room for error. Harry turns a page. Hippogriffs, the title announces, but the rest of the page has been torn away. That moment, he realises — Buckbeak attacking Draco — must have been a scene of utter humiliation for Draco. Judging from the lack of notes, Draco hadn't prepared adequately for the lesson and had consequently been thoroughly defeated by the hippogriff. Of course, Harry thought irritably, it had been Draco's own fault — the arrogant prat hadn't been paying attention.
But soon enough, his irritation turns to pensiveness as he thinks about Draco as he was in the early years at Hogwarts. Immature, always showing off his wealth and drawing attention to himself...there had been a brash confidence that had slowly melted away, taking the last of Draco's childhood with it and leaving someone else. Someone who hid away all the time, he thinks as he remembers sixth year. Someone who seemed permanently afraid, always retreating, always looking away.
"You were always so terrified of failure," Harry murmurs.
"Probably, but it's still difficult to hear someone say that about me."
Harry doesn't move for a moment. It's just in your head, you just thought you heard Draco say that —
He looks up. Draco stands across the room, facing away from Harry, looking out across the London skyline, one hand resting on the cool glass.
"It's a nice view," Draco continues, as if he hadn't spoken moments before. "But this isn't you, is it, Potter? This is nothing. A concrete box in the sky." He leans so close to the glass, Harry can see his breath mist over it. "You need something grounded. Something real."
Tell me, how did you get inside my head? It frightens Harry for a moment, that Draco Malfoy knows him better than most of his friends, better than his colleagues, better than Ginny. Then he remembers —
"You're not real."
Draco jumps. It's almost worth it just to see him do that. He whips around and stares at Harry.
"You can see me."
"This is a dream, another dream," Harry says, more to convince himself than actually respond to Draco.
Draco's still staring at Harry like he's a new species of dragon.
"You're not supposed to see me," Draco says at last. "Or hear me."
"Why not?" If it's a dream, Harry decides, he's perfectly fine with it.
"You didn't the other times," Draco says, his voice almost accusatory.
"What other times?"
"All those other times when you were going through my memories and possessions."
"You were watching me?" All those times Harry accessed memories and rifled through Draco's possessions...did Draco watch him when he was sitting in the Renault Mégane? "You can see me? Like a ghost, following me around?"
Draco looks amused. "There you go again, Potter," he says. "Thinking the world revolves around you." He turns away again, gazing out across the twinkling lights of London, faint under an early winter mist. "I'm not a ghost."
"Where are you? I'm trying to find you."
"I know." Draco rests a hand lightly on the glass of the sliding door again. "I can't tell you where I am."
Harry is silent for a long time. It's something he's learned from Draco, from all those endless nights spent in the memories of Draco driving, driving through dark streets and long highways. It lends Harry patience and contemplation.
Can't, Draco had said. I can't tell you. Not I won't. Some external factor was preventing Draco from disclosing his location, then. Either a person, or a spell.
He looks up. Draco is studying him. Years ago, he thinks, Draco would have said something acerbic by now. Forgotten how to speak again, Potter? or something similar.
"You've changed a lot," Harry says.
"So have you."
"How would you know?"
"I can see you when you're around my old possessions or memories," Draco says, looking away to gaze out the window again. "It's like watching pensive memories."
"Watching me watching you," Harry says. "Another circle."
"There's a certain duality about it, yes."
Harry studies Draco. He should have realised. Those first few conversations with Draco, he seemed somehow far too placid, far too accepting of Harry's sudden appearance in his life. It makes sense, now, to realise Draco's been there the whole time. Right from the start, perhaps. Watching Harry in the owl emporium, watching him read through the textbooks, the notebook. Watching him as he sat in the Renault Mégane. Harry wonders what Draco was thinking as he watched Harry pull apart his life.
"Can you tell me how you disappeared?" Harry asks. There's a sharp splintering noise, as if the air around Draco is cracking like glass, and Harry takes a step backwards.
"I — " Draco says, but his voice wavers on the air like someone plucking a metal wire and the noise seems to wrap around Harry's mind, cutting into it, and he knows something is terribly wrong.
"Don't," he says urgently, "don't answer — "
But there's a sound like glass exploding, like someone's thrown a mirror across the room, and pure agony flashes across Draco's face just a second before he suddenly vanishes into thin air.
Harry waits a long moment, wand held high, his heart hammering, then crosses over to the sliding door, staring at it carefully. There's nothing there. No crack in the glass, no mark, not even a fingerprint.
Draco has gone, or perhaps he was never there.
Harry says his name, just once, and it's a light question that hangs in the air like a snow cloud. For a moment, Harry's standing on the Cornish coast again, calling out into the storm-tossed sea, listening to his voice echo across the cliffs.
Draco.
That night, the windows rattle in their panes like a restless spirit caught in the winter winds.
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