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Chapter Text

It’s 200 years earlier. Our cast lives in Regency era England, and with the antiquated times come antiquated norms — namely, Muggle and Muggleborn inferiority are widely accepted as truth. Society operates on different levels according to blood status: purebloods hold large estates, study at elite magical private schools, attend society functions, and live to accrue power, wealth, and status; Muggleborns are subservient and oppressed, and the most fortunate are sent to apprenticeships where they learn menial magic to allow them to serve in pureblood households and businesses — many never learn magic, and simply perform manual labor or live as Muggles; finally, half-bloods are considered a taboo of highest impropriety, and many are ostracized, so they hide their identities and behave like Muggleborns. As such, when Voldemort rose to power, he encountered minimal resistance, and easily usurped the existing wizarding monarch to overtake the control of magical England.

He has since ruled for 25 years, maintaining a strict hierarchy placing him at the top. And as typically happens in these conditions, a rebellion has formed, this one by the name of the Order of the Phoenix. In the gutters of London, a group of outcasts has spent the past two decades recruiting and training talented magical children and orphans, and have unconvered a means by which to take down the Dark Regent. Unfortunately, it isn’t straightforward — he has extended his life by the use of a Dark Magic known as Horcruxes, which make him impervious to direct murder attempts, but the destruction of which would allow his regime to be overthrown.

After half a decade of plotting, the Order has identified and located many of these Horcruxes, and must send out their most promising spies to begin disposing of them as they continue to unearth more.

It’s in these circumstances in which we find ourselves. And it’s in these circumstances in which we begin our story.

Chapter Text

Draco was so, so bored. In fact, boredom didn’t even begin to describe it. What came after boredom? Could one die from the feeling? Could one’s heart give out from overwhelming disinterest?

His eyes scanned the ballroom somewhat suspiciously, making note of the retinue of dullness presented to him that night and trying to identify what may be the final element to do him in. Orchestra playing yet another waltz: tiresome. Table of assorted foods and drinks arranged at the side: uninspired. Collection of wizarding gentlemen smoking pipes outside: stuffy. Ornate decorations dispersed throughout the salon: drab. Tittering mothers around the dance floor: cloying. Simpering daughters fluttering their eyelashes and fans with equal vigor at any passing gentleman: positively plebeian. It was most likely going to be this last which would be his final downfall, he contemplated.

He eyed his own entourage of insipid women, who had spent all night flocking after him, with misgiving. Upon noticing his skeptical attention, they all straightened immediately, chests thrust out and fans rivaling the speed of a snitch’s wings, strategically below their cleavage. Draco had to suppress rolling his eyes. Did the breeze even reach them with the fans lowered that far?

He adjusted his cravat – it was too tight for some reason. The awareness was probably made worse by how warm the room was. He’d appreciate one of those fans right now. Maybe he could ask one of them for a fan in exchange for them leaving? No, no, that would just be two things to benefit him. Not to mention they’d probably interpret the request to give him a fan as a sign of interest, and then he’d have to deal with the added burden of letting them down on top of everything else. Maybe if he surreptitiously made his way toward the window, he could catch a breeze from there? He shuffled two small steps to the left, and noticed with unease as the flock mirrored the movement, as if tethered to him by an invisible string. 

Nevermind, he thought bitterly. The closest window was in an alcove, and he didn’t want them to be presented with a moment of solitude. He knew from experience that these women have been trained to pounce when presented with privacy, but be it to compromise themselves such that he was obligated to marry them or to disarm him so much he accidentally asked for their hand, he was unsure. 

And pounce was meant literally. Despite having never had any desire to compromise a single one of them, after entering society, he constantly found himself with bodies suddenly pressed against him, bosoms out and faces tilted up to his, and it was always so unexpected that Draco had, for a while, wondered if they had Apparated directly in front of him the instant the opportunity was presented to them.

Since then, he had learned to keep himself exposed at all times, despite how desperately he wanted to remove himself from the crowd and hide away in an enclave somewhere, waiting out the night. At least that way he could spend some of the night reviewing the estate’s numbers, or balancing their books. All in all, he had better things to do than play cat-and-mouse with pureblood noblewomen whose names he never remembered.

Ah, speaking of which – at that moment, he saw his mother coming toward him flanked by two of Draco’s old classmates, a set of sisters. They all matched each other as they approached him, in their short, lithe statures, hair falling around their faces in elegant curls, skirts ballooning out from their waists and fluttering along with each step. The most apparent difference was in their necklines, the younger women sporting a plunging style popular among modern ladies, whereas his mother’s neckline hiked up to the base of her neck, but this discrepancy had minimal impact. Even their cheekbones matched, the aristocratic peaks characteristic of his mother’s family prominent on these sisters as well. Did it turn out that they were long lost relatives of his that his mother had just unearthed their connection with?

He frantically wracked his brain for what they were called. In addition to the fact that witches and wizards had rarely crossed paths at Hogwarts, he was sure these two had been younger than him, so they would not have even attended ceremonies or co-ed etiquette classes together. Wasn’t it their family hosting this very ball? He eyed the approaching trio with newfound misgiving. It wasn’t uncommon for his mother to introduce him to the lord and lady of an estate hosting an event, but she has never presented him to their daughters. 

“Draco, dear, there you are! Astoria and Daphne just informed me that they had spent all night hoping to have a word with you, but as you weren’t asking anyone to dance, they haven’t had a chance to do so!” his mother announced gracefully in greeting. Ah, yes, Astoria and Daphne. Now, which was which? He was pretty sure the dark haired one was the older one. But more importantly, how can he get away from both?

“They could have just come to talk, no?” he challenged petulantly. His mother’s eyes flared in warning.

“Don’t be silly,” she effused at him, “That would be the height of impropriety! Not to mention they’re our hosts – we’re grateful for their invite, as you’d do well to remember.” She then turned to the sisters to placatingly add on, “Don’t mind him, he just isn’t the biggest fan of balls. My Draco would rather be laboring away over estate business.” She affected a suppressed giggle at this and smiled at them conspiratorially, which the girls returned.

“That speaks well of Lord Malfoy’s character,” responded the darker haired of the two, coquettishly looking over Draco as if assessing him. Draco straightened rigidly in affront at this indecent behavior, but it must have come across as trying to impress her, because her perusal slowed, finally landing on his eyes with a flirtatious smirk. His face remained impassive.

“Draco, where are your manners? Greet the young ladies!” his mother barked at him, apparently displeased by his lack of enthusiasm at the introduction. He stiffly took each of their gloved hands and bowed over them, kissing the air above each brittle hand in turn politely. He felt the darker haired one imperceptibly nudge her hand up toward his lips, and he violently jerked back to avoid the collision, noticing with some concern that she looked completely unabashed at her forwardness.

“It’s a pleasure,” he bit out after a moment of strained silence. Really, what was with these society ladies, behaving so brazenly?

“Likewise,” the dark haired one demurred. “Daphne and I are very honored by your attendance, especially if what your mother has told us is true and you don’t prefer balls.”

The blonde one was Daphne then. He glanced at her, and she returned his attention with polite interest, but nowhere near the outward audacity that her sister displayed. This must be the dark haired sister’s plot, in that case. He looked back at the bold one – Astoria – and didn’t respond. What was he supposed to say to that anyway?

“Is there anything you do take an interest in, other than estate business?” she asked, clearly trying to start a conversation, her voice teasing, like they now shared a joke between them. His hard gaze flicked to his mother, who was smiling at this interaction like it was some great success. Was she in on this? He looked back at Astoria, who preened at the attention.

“Not particularly. Any free time I don’t dedicate to estate business I spend at the gentleman’s club.”

Astoria nodded at this sagely. “My father always advised me that the better part of a man’s business is built by networking in such establishments. You’re clearly wise and clever beyond your years, making such strategic steps for your future family’s livelihood already.”

Draco almost scoffed at this. He wanted to correct her assumption that this was for any sort of future familial purposes, but that would require admitting he only spoke to the same two people every time he went, and she would most likely see that as him taking her into his confidences, so instead he simply said, “Indeed.”

Astoria and his mother beamed at him as if he had made a wonderfully profound assertion, and he uneasily focused on the youngest instead, whose continued passive bemusement was a welcome deviation from the strange absorption the other two displayed.

He cleared his throat, looking for a way to redirect the conversation from this precarious subject. “So, Lady Greengrass, you attended Hogwarts after your sister, correct?”

“Yes,” interrupted Astoria on Daphne’s behalf, irritating Draco. “Daphne is younger than I am. She was in the same year as Lady Parkinson’s middle brother.” Rather than being put out by being spoken over, Daphne simply inclined her head in agreement, smiling serenely. This was definitely Astoria’s show, it would appear. 

“Can she not speak?” he asked in a display of rudeness uncharacteristic even for himself.

“Draco!” his mother chided with affront. “That was most unbecoming! Apologize to Lady Greengrass this instant!”

“No need, Lady Malfoy,” Astoria assured. “I appreciate a bold tongue.” She eyed him coyly, eyelashes fluttering, and he immediately regretted his outspokenness, so he quickly said,

“No, my mother is right. I am not one who is typically so unrestrained. My apologies, Lady Greengrass. I believe I’m overtired – if you wouldn’t think it too rude of me, I believe I’ll depart early, before I make any other unrefined blunders.”

“Oh,” Astoria said, clearly displeased by his sudden departure, eyebrows furrowing, “but we’ll see you at the Parkinson’s ball next weekend, right?”

“Of course,” announced his mother before he could respond, so he simply inclined his head and excused himself, absently noting the jealous looks the flock was now shooting at the Greengrass girls. This time he openly rolled his eyes.

As he stepped outside, he was briefly caught off guard by the sight of two figures huddled together to the side, but upon closer inspection, realized it was just some nobleman murmuring to a servant girl, most likely in an effort to cajole her into his bed. Draco huffed out irritably, and signaled at one of the manservants to call for a coach. Shivering against the cold, he caught a couple of phrases wafting over from the couple.

“... I want you most desperately…” “... but you have me…”

He started. The first voice was familiar. He peered back, and only then registered the shock of red hair.

“Weasley!” he called over, “Could you keep it down? It’s cold enough without the sound of your pathetic attempts at flirting with servant girls further freezing my insides.”

“I don’t know, Malfoy, I’m feeling quite warm myself,” Weasley cajoled back crudely, and the servant girl giggled. Malfoy vaguely registered that it was one of Lestrange’s servants and rolled his eyes into the dark. It wasn’t uncommon that nobility borrowed servants between each other for large events – it was hard enough to find well trained Mudbloods as it was – so he wasn’t particularly surprised by the fact that his aunt had allowed the Greengrasses this favor, but he knew the Lestranges kept their servants on extremely tight leashes. The youngest Weasley son would have trouble getting her into a bed, either hers or his – which he most likely was aware of.

What a strange bunch, contemplated Draco, climbing into the horseless carriage that had pulled up at that moment and directing it to head toward Malfoy estates. The Weasleys were a withdrawn crowd, especially following the exile of their lycanthropic eldest son, and hadn’t been very involved in society over the years beyond the lord and lady making their rare appearance once a decade. Having already been a bit anomalous with their large brood of children, the withdrawal hadn’t come as a complete surprise, and Draco had been vaguely fascinated when he had arrived at Hogwarts and had finally seen his first Weasley child.

The one in his year – his name was Ron, if Draco remembered correctly – had kept to himself, especially being the only boy of their year in Gryffindor, and had seemed largely happy in the shadow of his boisterous older twin brothers. He had been smart, but unimpressive, and had surprised everyone when, unlike the rest of his family, he had gone against the norm and began attending society events alone following his graduation from Hogwarts. Not that he was unwelcome – he was simply unexpected.

For a brief time, it was speculated he was looking to elevate himself by marrying a woman of nobility, distancing himself from his family, as they had been fleetingly considered political adversaries of the Dark Regent at the time, but when they showed themselves as isolated but devoted members of the Sacreds, the Weasley boy simply became a customary members at events instead. Behaving politely and respectfully, but never making any overt moves toward matrimony, his attendance eventually became less interesting, and Draco largely forgot about his presence when they weren’t looped into the same conversation.

Perhaps he just went for the access to servant girls? Draco never saw him at the Midnight Consort, the most popular magical gentleman’s club in London, so unless he hired a mistress, he wasn’t regularly around the fairer sex. Not that he necessarily has to be, admitted Draco to himself, but as most men their age were partaking in some level of debauchery, he wouldn’t be surprised if Weasley did the same – maybe he had a penchant for Mudbloods? Definitely odd, but not unheard of, even if Draco couldn’t understand the appeal himself.

The carriage stopping with a jolt, he climbed out, and paid the coachman before letting himself into the mostly empty manor – the servants, most likely not expecting his return, didn’t come to greet him. No matter – he would just head up to his bed, at which point he could call someone to bring him his nightcap. Strolling toward his room, his mind began drifting back to the ball, and he recalled his mother’s strange behavior as he had spoken to Astoria. She had been so invested in the progression of the conversation and on ensuring his proper behavior. He didn’t think she had ever been so caught up by a discussion between him and someone else. In fact, she had almost been behaving like the other mothers plotting their pairing schemes from beside the dance floor. At the thought, he froze. She wouldn’t… would she?

No, she wouldn’t. Not without discussing it with him first, surely. And he had made his attitude toward marriage very clear – not now. He wanted to establish himself first, he always told them, which was true enough. And they would need him on board to marry him off, after all.

No, she wouldn’t.

He apprehensively reviewed the progression of the evening.

And… if she would, would his father be involved? Would he even be aware?

Deciding he had to find out, he turned around, heading into the adjacent wing where his father’s study was. If they were plotting any matrimony-related schemes, the relevant correspondences would be in there. Almost absent mindedly, he slammed the door open and strode over to the desk, surveying the piles of papers on top. After ruffling through a few, he wondered if his father had hidden the letters instead, and taking his signet ring, inserted it into the lock of his father’s desk drawer, waiting for the customary pop of the lock opening.

Once he heard it, he pulled at the drawer, but to his surprise, it didn’t open. He jostled it a bit in case something was jamming it shut, but when his second pull yielded no movement either, he reinserted the ring to be sure. On the pop , he pulled once more with more force than necessary, and the drawer yanked open immediately, the lack of resistance making Draco stumble back.

He caught himself on the window sill, and his preoccupied mind suddenly cleared itself to  simultaneously make three critical realizations: one, the drawer had already been unlocked; two, the window was open; and three, he wasn’t alone.

Almost instinctively, his defense training kicked in, and he cast a wordless locking charm on the door and Hominem revelio across the room. Seeing the telltale light signal a presence on the other side of the armoire, he quickly strode across the room to reorient himself in front of the door, the new angle allowing him to cast a quick surprise curse at where the intruder hid.

Expecting the thump of the efficient curse striking true, he briefly froze at the realization that the spell had been wordlessly deflected. The curse had been a strong one – whoever had blocked it must be talented.

Anticipating a retaliatory curse, he quickly cast a Protego, but when nothing came, he lowered it to shoot two new curses in rapid fire succession. Like before, they were quietly dismissed. Who was this person?? Why weren’t they attacking?

Deciding he’d had enough of guessing blindly at the presence’s location, he cast a Lumos, letting the ball of light hover high above them, but instead of showing a crouching figure, the light simply revealed… nothing. The presence was Disillusioned. Snarling, Draco sent three curses and a jinx, and was gratified to hear the intruder’s stumble as he got out of the last jinx’s way, clearly not fast enough to deflect the entire barrage. Newly inspired, Draco sent off a slew of offensive spells, constantly vigilant for a return hex, but was disconcerted when his opponent simply blocked them, never striking back. In fact, with Draco’s wide range of spells, he could see the leftmost spells were no longer getting blocked, instead hitting the armoire behind them, indicating the presence was moving right instead. Draco was begrudgingly impressed by the strength of this Disillusionment charm – usually a waiver of light revealed movement, but this Disillusionment remained solid. Whoever this wizard was, they must be incredibly powerful.

Draco adjusted his spells’ direction, only to notice the same continued rightward movement of the protection spells. What was the intruder going to do?? Draco stood in front of the only exit!

Realizing it too late, he tried to close the window with a desperate fling of a spell, but he was deflected from this as well.

“You bastard,” snarled Draco, trying to close the window again, and to his surprise, he heard a light laugh in return from the window as this attempt was blocked almost lazily.

A light, very high laugh. Draco’s eyebrows flew up despite himself. He would definitely remember a gentleman with a laugh like this – it was uncharacteristically breathy. This was a stranger.

“Who are you?? Reveal yourself!” he demanded.

Not expecting a response, he was surprised when the spell was dropped, and was nearly floored by what he was presented with. Crouching on the window sill, like a human gargoyle, was a woman. A very strange looking woman, but a woman nonetheless.

Draco felt his legs give out in shock, and his back fell into the door behind him, holding him up. The woman eyed him.

He looked her over. She had wild, tempestuous hair, fastened to the top of her head in a practical plait, a few unruly tendrils framing her round face. She looked soft, with sun-baked skin, and a smattering of freckles across the top of her nose visible above the mask she had fastened across her lower face. She crouched comfortably, as if she spent all her time on strangers’ window sills, and Draco realized with horror he could make out the position of her legs because she was in trousers. Men’s trousers! With suspenders and everything, as was typical for fieldworkers!

He continued gaping, eyes returning to her face in shock. He had the distinct impression she was smiling – a couple of creases had appeared at the corner of her eyes, and her entire face lifted, bringing his attention to her eyes, which somehow alarmed him more than anything else had. They were a bright, golden amber, framed dramatically by thick eyelashes, and they shimmered with mirth, though why, he couldn’t understand. She almost seemed breathless with some mysterious excitement that he wasn’t to know. It was this glittering, however, that finally brought him to his senses, and he righted himself, quickly pointing his wand at this intruder, getting ready to hex her. Who was she to break into the Malfoy manor??

Preparing to curse her once more, he noticed she was holding a small notebook in her hand, and hesitated. Was this what she came to steal?

“Is… is that notebook what you’re taking?” he asked for some incomprehensible reason. If this was some common thief, why not take something more valuable instead of this inconspicuous, tattered thing?

She simply looked at him. He stared back, wand still raised. Almost unconsciously, he lowered it slightly, and she tracked the movement. She cocked her head.

“You weren’t what I expected.” Her voice, deep for a woman in a way that indicated sophisticated intellect, resonated through him, and it set his nerves on fire. It was musical and confident, like she was used to speaking up, and he was suddenly sure he’d never be able to forget it. Then what she had said registered.

“What do you mean??” he demanded, raising his wand to point at her once more. What did she know of him? Had they encountered each other before? Was she spying on him? How had she gotten in?

Noticing his antagonistic stance, her eyes crinkled once more, before she leapt backward off the window and into the dark. He bound to the window and called for a broom, casting two stunning spells at her that she easily evaded. This estate was huge – he would easily catch up with her before she got to an Apparition point, and he held off on casting additional curses to focus on identifying his approaching broom in the dark. 

Seeing its shadow headed toward him, he glanced back to her, and with surprise noticed she was taking a strange trajectory. Instead of making a beeline for the back entrance as he had expected, she almost seemed to be heading toward the servant’s quarters in the opposite direction from where the Apparition wards ended.

Then, she suddenly stopped and turned to face him, watching him grab the broom which had just arrived. It was at that moment that he realized where she stood, and he frantically made to grab his wand to stun her, but it was too late – with a friendly salute, she turned on the spot, and Disapparated.

She had known the exact location of the servants’ Apparition point. This small portion of the estate had been erected with the intent of making it easier for the servants to run household errands. It was, in total, half a meter wide. She had to have prepared for this. She had to have insider knowledge.

Draco’s insides froze. This had been a planned attack.

Chapter Text

Draco was pacing in the entrance hall when his father and mother finally returned home that night. His mother opened her mouth, brow ruffled, likely to chide him for his abrupt and rude treatment of the Greengrass sisters, but Draco forestalled her,

“Father, might I have a word?”

His father, who had been looking down at his shoes, apparently deeply lost in thought, raised his eyes in surprise, then glanced at his wife, who was staring in put-out affront at Draco.

“I believe your mother has something she wants to discuss with you,” he provaricated, which his wife nodded at obstinately.

“Quite right, dear,” she said, picking up her vigor. “Draco, what has come into you? Why did you treat Astoria in such an ungentlemanly way? I was mortified, for my own son to have such poor manners! And after they had been so enthusiastic to speak with you.”

Ah, so his supposition had been correct about the source of her ire. Draco wondered if there was a way to politely convey he had been insulted by Astoria’s brazen behavior, and briefly contemplated confronting his mother about his conspiracies of her matrimonial plots, but choosing to prioritize a quick resolution to this disagreement so he could discuss the robbery (if it could even be called that) with his father, he merely said, “I apologize, mother. As I had said at the time, I was feeling unwell. I will… apologize to the ladies Greengrass at the Parkinson ball.”

This had been the correct thing to say. Her face quickly melted from disapproving to concerned, and she rushed to him to place a gloved hand against his cheek. “Oh, my dear, I had merely thought that an excuse, but now that I see you better, you really are looking quite peakish.” A fortuitous and somewhat insulting coincidence, but Draco simply allowed her to fuss over him. “Can your business with your father not wait until tomorrow? You need to head to bed. Your hairline looks like you’ve been sweating.”

His hand shot up to the nape of his neck, and he realized he was indeed damp. Concluding with chagrin this was most likely due to how much he had exerted himself dueling with… her, he tried to quickly placate his mother, “Oh, well, unfortunately the business I need to discuss with Father is part of the reason for my discomposure, but I’ll head to bed right after.” He smiled at her reassuringly, and she smiled back softly, using her grip on his cheek to pull his head down to plant a soft, surprising kiss on his forehead.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” she excused herself, walking the length of the entrance to meet the waiting servant there, who closed the foyer door behind them when they departed. On the resounding thud, Draco turned back to his father, who looked at him expectantly.

Draco suddenly realized how old his father looked. Nearing 60, the man, who had once towered over his son with strength and impassiveness, now had to slightly tilt his head up to meet Draco’s eye, and his wan face and thinning hair gave him a tired look that Draco wasn’t sure had always been there. Suddenly, he wondered whether he had received troubling news once already that night. If so, he felt bad for adding to it, but it must be done.

“Father, I have… an alarming report. After returning from the Greengrass ball, I had gone into your study, and when I was there, I was alerted to a Disillusioned intruder who had let themselves in through your window.”

His father immediately straightened in concern. “An intruder? Whatever do you mean?”

“Just that,” Draco responded. “The study window was open, and they had let themselves in.”

“What did they want? Did they hurt you? Did you recognize them?”

“No, they didn’t hurt me, although we briefly dueled.” He didn’t admit he was the only one who shot offensive spells, and that his opponent had been a woman who had deftly blocked some of the most complex hexes he knew – that didn’t seem relevant. “I didn’t recognize them, although they spent most of the time Disillusioned, and when they became visible, they were wearing a mask. As to what they wanted, I’m not sure. They seemed to be a thief, but didn’t seem to have taken anything of value.”

“So they did take something?”

“Well… somewhat. They had a small, tattered notebook in hand. I believe they had retrieved it from your desk drawer…?” His voice clearly conveyed his skepticism of the item’s worth, but rather than seeing the expected confusion mirrored in his father as well, his father’s face blanched, mouth dropping open in horror.

“A notebook??” he gasped, stumbling up to Draco and clasping him by the shoulder. “My son, are you sure what you saw was a notebook?”

“Yes!” confirmed Draco in alarm. “Why, Father? What was the significance of this notebook?”

His father looked around in paranoia. “Into my study, quick.”

For the second time that night, Draco found himself purposely rushing into his father’s study, and after rapidly closing the door and warding the room against espionage, his father rounded his desk and sat down, letting his forehead fall forward into his hands in apparent distress. Draco, unaccustomed to such displays of vulnerabilities from his father, shuffled uncomfortably and found himself looking everywhere but him. The position emphasized the exhausted appearance that Draco had noticed not moments ago.

After a brief silence, his father took a deep, bracing breath, and then looked up. “Have a seat, Draco,” he bade, gesturing at the chair across from him before getting up to pour two tumblers of Bitterbrandy, a gift from some nobleman they did business with no doubt. Offering one of the glasses to Draco, his father sat himself again, and paused only briefly to take a sip before speaking up.

“That notebook was a gift from the Dark Regent.” Not having expected that, Draco’s face twisted in confusion. It had not looked like a gift from royalty, he thought. Seeing his son’s face, Lucius raised a hand in a bid to hold any questions, taking another sip before continuing. “It was a gift granted to us right after his ascension. Following the overthrow of the previous monarch, the Dark Regent’s Inner Circle was called in, and he informed us that we were being gifted with the source of the Dark Regent’s power, which came in many parts. That he was entrusting us with a great honor by bestowing these upon us, and that it was a reward for our loyalty and commitment through his rise. That we were not to use them for our own purposes, and that, by no means, should anything happen to these gifts.”

Draco’s stomach began churning anxiously. This did not bode well.

“He made it clear, by no uncertain terms, that these objects were to never be revealed to anyone else, at risk of death. And that to ensure our confidence, he cursed each item and granted us each our gifts separately, so that if he heard news from external sources about one of these gifts, or if any of us tried to use them to our own advantage, he would know exactly who betrayed him.” At this, his father swallowed on nothing. “Draco, I swear to you, I never revealed the existence of this object to anyone else, not even your mother. I upheld my vow. I cannot… I cannot fathom how this has come to be.” At this, he faltered, fear apparent in his face.

His father’s gaze dropped from Draco’s before looking up again, an emphatic look in his eyes. “Tell no one of this. We must recover the notebook before news of our failure reaches the Dark Regent. The Regent has been… displeased with the Inner Circle of late. He questions our power and ability. If he learns of this, he will kill me, and strip you of all your inheritance.”

Draco’s body felt cold with worry. He was suddenly unbearably ashamed he hadn’t tried harder to stop the intruder. This person wasn’t just stealing a worthless item – she had targeted a means by which to take down the entire Malfoy bloodline. And Draco had let her go. 

At that moment, a thought seemed to occur to his father, the change in expression disrupting Draco’s self-flagellating ruminations.

“Why were you in my study anyway?” he asked his son.

Ah, yet another source of shame. “I… Well, Mother had been behaving oddly during a conversation we were having with the Greengrass sisters at the ball earlier today, hence her frustrations with me on your return. I had… suspicions that this behavior was due to a marriage plot, and was hoping to validate this theory by checking whether you had any correspondence on the matter.”

His father immediately looked disapproving. “Draco, don’t snoop. And any steps your mother makes toward your marriage isn’t a ‘plot,’ it’s her duty. As it is yours to follow them through.”

Draco felt further chilled at this response. That wasn’t the reassurance he had been hoping for. “Father, are you and Mother planning my marriage?”

His father’s clamped lips were answer enough. “You know my feelings on the matter! I do not wish to marry, especially not to Lady Greengrass – either Lady Greengrass!”

Lucius tutted. “Draco, my boy, it’s nigh time you get married. You are 25. This is the prime age for such a step. You need not further establish yourself – you are more than proficient at managing the estate, have completed all the schooling you desire, and have not voiced any interest in travel. You must not marry Lady Greengrass if you do not wish, but you must express to your mother who you would prefer in her stead so she can make the appropriate preparations.”

“I don’t wish to marry anyone!”

His father simply looked at him pityingly. “If you do not choose, your mother must do so on your behalf. You are the most eligible bachelor in wizarding England. We can make any advantageous match of our choosing right now. We must use this position in our favor.”

“Advantageous? What do we need advantage for?”

His father sighed. “More than you can understand.”

“Then explain it to me!”

After a contemplative pause, his father said, “When I say the Dark Regent questions our strength, it isn’t purely speculation. Have you heard of the attacks against the Sacreds as of late?”

Draco nodded. For the past two months, a string of attacks had been committed against members of the Sacreds, the elite members of pureblood society, but they had been disparate and random, and as similar attacks against the upper echelon of society weren’t uncommon anyway, Draco hadn’t thought much of them. Being that the only change of note had been an increased frequency, he concluded that the commoners must just be extra resentful of their position as of late – nothing of concern. And something he could easily defend himself against with his superior education in dueling.

“Well, they aren’t just the regular riffraff going at it more frequently,” continued Lucius, unknowingly responding to Draco’s quiet contemplation. “This is a targeted campaign. Our spies indicate that the attackers are all being hired by the same unknown company, and have been tasked to target the heirs specifically.”

This surprised Draco. He’d heard nothing of this sort. “But… no one I know has been attacked,” he objected.

His father looked down, this time sadly. “No, but you are very well protected, and until now the violations have been largely minor. While I was at the Greengrass ball, however, I was informed of an escalation. The Macmillan heir was murdered yestereve.” Draco’s mouth opened in surprise, and Lucius nodded solemnly. “Indeed. The boy had been drunkenly returning from a revel when he was attacked, and killed. The family took their younger son, who I believe is your age, and escaped with him to the mainland. They had been warning us that their son felt observed, but we had dismissed it as paranoia.”

“What enemies did the Macmillan family have??” Draco was dumbfounded. From his schooling, he knew the Macmillan family as a neutral force in the Sacreds, and the son from his year had been wholly unremarkable. If it weren’t for their elite blood status, they would be a completely unexceptional family.

“None,” his father confirmed, “which is why it is such a troublesome tragedy. We received news that these attacks will continue with this concentrated focus on the heirs. We believe the Sacreds are at risk.”

Draco just silently contemplated this ominous pronouncement. Seeing his son struck quiet, Lucius continued, “Which is why it’s important you get married. And why it’s imperative we don’t reveal the theft of the notebook. We must come across as strong, reliable, and resilient. We must ensure the continuation of our line, and solidify ourselves as a dependable resource for the Dark Regent. We cannot let him down.”

He allowed this warning to sink in, the two men gazing at each other solemnly for a moment, before Draco finally spoke up, “What must I do?”

His father smiled appreciatively before finishing off his Bitterbrandy.

“Your top priority will have to be the recovery of the notebook. You said you saw this assailant?”

“Barely.”

“That’s better than nothing. Go with the description you have to the Den of Thieves – they’re efficient, for all that they are a shady bunch – and recruit their help in tracking down this individual. Were you able to ascertain the intruder’s blood status?”

“Well, we didn’t have much of a chance to chat,” Draco said sarcastically, “but they were an adept dueler, so they must have been pureblood.”

His father nodded his agreement. “Tell the Den this. Although,” and his face briefly contorted in confusion, “the lock on my desk is warded against any pureblood access not authorized by the signet ring. This wizard must be an incredibly strong spell breaker to have overcome this protection. Inform the Den of this as well, and start with this in your own investigation. You will be responsible for recovering the notebook.”

“You can rely on me.”

“I know, my son,” his father responded with a small smile.

“And what will you do?”

“I will focus on managing the Dark Regent. And on assisting your mother in finding you a match,” he said decisively, brokering no argument, and Draco’s stomach flipped unpleasantly, but he merely nodded tightly, which his father returned, acknowledging his son’s reluctant acquiescence.

“Let me know the moment you discover anything,” his father added, in clear dismissal of Draco.

“Of course,” Draco responded before finishing off his own drink, getting up, and retiring to his rooms.

Once there, he was suddenly overcome by bone-deep exhaustion, and after preparing himself for bed halfheartedly, he threw himself into his covers and immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only waking halfway through the night with the uneasy feeling that he was being observed. Dismissing it as paranoia from his father’s dire pronouncement, he immediately fell back asleep, and when he awoke the next morning, he did so having completely forgotten the passing disturbance from the night.

–

The following day found Draco performing his regular duties with a bit of a preoccupied air. After having corroborated his claim of feeling under the weather with a bit of a lie in, he rose the next day motivated to ensure the return of the notebook, and spent the day passively combing through every aspect of his memory from his confrontation with the intruder to see if he missed any clues or hints on who she may have been. To his consternation, she had been completely nondescript, for all that she had been a bizarre sight, and he could identify nothing that would clarify who she was.

He mulled this over as he managed estate business, and at one point found himself writing his stream of consciousness on a letter for the steward of the estate, which he quickly discarded before starting anew, cursing himself for his wayward mind. He didn’t fare much better throughout the rest of the day, and caught himself moodily staring instead of working multiple times, contemplating the strange witch he had encountered. Unfortunately, it was ultimately all for naught.

The only helpful anomalies he had to go off of were her skill in spellwork and her knowledge of the servants’ Apparition point, the latter of which would require the interrogation of his staff, and for which he was brewing Veritaserum at the moment. The former, however, was a trickier aspect to investigate. He would need to track down where she had received her education in order to deduce her identity, but being that his knowledge of wizarding education options other than Hogwarts was restricted, he was unsure where to begin. She had looked close to his age, and he was certain he would have remembered her if they had attended at the same time. Not to mention she hadn’t looked noble, though maybe it was just the crouching pose that had given this impression. No, her sun-kissed appearance definitely didn’t match the nobility. She must have gotten her schooling elsewhere. 

He contemplated asking his mother about this, as women of the household typically were responsible for investigating educational options for their children, making her a viable starting point. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure how to delicately ask her without exposing the truth of what he was investigating – he didn’t wish to worry her about this. He was startled from his thoughts by the clock chiming 8pm, indicating it was time to depart for the Consort, as was his habit of a night. Quickly finishing the rest of his dinner that a servant had brought to him half an hour earlier, he donned some outerwear to shield against the cold and called for a carriage, continuing his ruminations on the way.

It was in this contemplative state that he sat himself at a table with Theo and Blaise, and after issuing them an absent greeting, he flagged down a servant to bring him a drink before returning to his thoughts. Accustomed to his random pensive moods, they disregarded him to begin with, but after finishing the card game they were playing, Blaise finally spoke up to ask, “So what has Lord Malfoy preoccupied this fine eve?”

Draco scoffed, but seeing his friends’ inquisitive looks, he shook himself of his stupor, and hesitated only briefly before deciding to share the challenge he was facing. He told his friends everything, and they trusted each other above all others. He looked around quickly to ensure they weren’t being observed before casting a silencing charm and leaning toward them confidingly.

“Our family was robbed last night,” he pronounced without ceremony, and both sets of eyebrows flew up simultaneously. He nodded at their shocked expressions, but before he could continue, Theo disarmed him by saying, 

“So were we.” Now the alarmed gazes were directed at him. “Finish your bit, Draco. I’ll share after.”

Draco recovered quickly, and then tilted his head side to side, hedging. “Well, ours wasn’t quite a robbery. In truth, I would have thought this thief completely incompetent had my father not informed me of the importance of the object stolen, for when I came across them, they were merely holding a small, tattered notebook.”

“Wait, you saw the thief??” interrupted Blaise in surprise. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

Draco felt himself heat, bracing himself. “I tried, but she was an incredibly talented duelist.”

“She??” his friends exclaimed simultaneously, faces aghast. 

Draco nodded solemnly. “She,” he confirmed, letting this revelation sink in. Blaise fell back in his seat with a thunderstruck expression, and Theo mutely opened and closed his mouth.

Anticipating the questions they may ask, he forestalled them by saying, “I guess I should start at the beginning,” and regaled them with all the events of the night, including her initial Disillusioned state, her skill at spellwork, her strange getup, her athletic jump out the window, and her comment about him not being like she had expected. His friends were looking at him in rapture when finished.

“So she knows… of you?” Theo asked, finally breaking the silence.

Draco shrugged. “I suppose so. I don’t believe we have met. Her phrasing sounded like she had an assessment of me through word of mouth and conjecture, and I definitely would have remembered her if we had come across each other before.”

To his surprise, his friends eyed each other in amusement at this, and Draco raised his eyebrow at the pair in response. “What?”

“Oh, we simply never expected to see Draco Malfoy to be so disarmed by a woman as to act without utmost efficiency to put her in her place,” Blaise answered smugly, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“It wasn’t like that! You would’ve been shocked at a woman clad in men’s clothes crouching in your window as well!”

“Oh, most definitely,” responded Theo, although his voice implied entendre. “Was she pretty?”

“I don’t know, she had a mask on if you recall! Not to mention I was too busy dueling her to assess her… attractiveness! Theo, don’t distract from the point, she was a thief!”

“But potentially a pretty thief,” he responded slyly, and he and Blaise exchanged looks that indicated they considered this worth contemplation. Draco groaned.

“We jest,” reassured Theo placatingly, patting Draco on the shoulder. “We know you’re above such base observations. I just wish our robbers had been a potentially pretty woman with uncanny wandwork abilities.” Draco ignored the entendre in this as well.

“Robbers? As in plural?”

“Indeed,” proclaimed Theo, seating himself deeper and taking a sip of his drink, getting himself ready to regale their own saga. “We were struck by two men last night around 9. I was out carousing, but my father, gem that he is, came across the thieves as he was making his nightly trip to our weapon room, and caught them as they were escaping from the window there.”

“Weapon room? So they didn’t steal another notebook?” asked Blaise.

“Correct. They stole one of the many, many swords in my father’s collection.”

“Was it any particular sword?” Draco prompted.

“Well,” Theo related dramatically, “with regards to the appearance, it was spectacularly ordinary. Not ornate, not giant, but not an antiquated relic of an age passed either. In fact, I would have never believed it of any significance if my father didn’t spend every night wielding it against imagined foes and then polishing it obsessively. Which, to be fair, he has a habit of doing with a variety of swords, but he would rotate between the others so they all got use – he returned to this particular one every. Night.”

“Why??” implored Draco.

Enjoying the attention, Theo smirked mischievously, before ominously responding, “I… don’t… know.” His friends groaned in exasperation, and he leaned back, chuckling into his drink. “Nonetheless, my father became enraged that this was what they had stolen. He desperately tried to apprehend the individuals, but failing to do so, completely destroyed the weapon room, injured two of our servants in the act, and shouted and railed at anyone in his vicinity, before forcing the entire household to take an Unbreakable Vow not to disclose it to the Dark Regent, of all people.”

Draco’s feeling of misgiving strengthened. This was too much like their own situation.

“I think I may know why,” he voiced, and concluded his own story with his conversation with his father the night before. “I think… I believe the sword may have been one of these gifts as well,” he speculated at the end.

“A source of the Dark Regent’s power?” echoed Theo, looking thunderstruck. “That old sword?”

Draco shrugged. “More believable than a tattered notebook, I would say.”

The three friends contemplated this.

“So you said your father had seen two robbers?” prompted Blaise, and Theo nodded. “Did he see what they looked like? He was sure they were men?”

“Yes. He said one was light haired but small, and the other was tall, but hooded, so he couldn’t see his full appearance.”

“Ah. So no chance it was Draco’s mystery woman?”

“She isn’t ‘my mystery woman’!” contradicted Draco irritably. They seemed more caught on her being a woman than her inexplicable strength as a magician, which was what preoccupied him most of all. Being a woman – strange. Being someone who could defend against him with apparent ease – completely unfathomable.

“No, I don’t believe it was,” continued Theo, ignoring Draco’s interruption. “It sounds like the thefts occurred about the same time anyway. Around 9, would you say?”

Draco nodded his confirmation. “I had left the Greengrass ball early – I believe I returned home shortly after 9.”

Theo raised his hands in a way that indicated There, you see?, then said, “My father’s nightly sword habit is at 9 on the dot. It couldn’t have been the same people. How was the Greengrass ball, by the way?”

Neither of his friends having attended, Draco recounted the regular humdrum, and then informed them of the distressing escalation of his parents’ matrimonial intentions for him, which his friends gratifyingly bemoaned with appropriate enthusiasm.

“So what will you do?” Theo asked.

Draco shrugged. “I think I’ve truly run out of time. My father said the Sacred lines are being targeted, and believes this would strengthen our position, especially as I’m their only heir – the sooner I produce my own heirs, the better. I’ve resigned myself to it.”

“How do you mean the Sacreds are being targeted?” asked Blaise.

“Well, Father told me that they’re receiving reports that Sacred heirs are the focus of dissident attacks – so watch out Theo. The Macmillan heir was murdered two nights ago.”

“Murdered? Artie Macmillan??” exclaimed Theo, and Draco nodded solemnly.

“It’s not the regular commoner's displeasure. It seems to be more serious.”

“Interesting that it occurred around the same time that these robberies had occurred, isn’t it?” observed Blaise. “Could it be the same culprits? Targeting heirs and sowing discord among the Dark Regent’s Inner Circle?”

They contemplated this. “Sounds viable. Could it be the Unsacreds?” speculated Draco, looking at Blaise.

Blaise, although born into an Unsacred family himself, was in the unique position that he had managed to move up in ranks, and therefore had the ability to provide insights on both sides of the divide. Although the Zabinis themselves were not a member of the Sacreds, making them Unsacred purebloods, Blaise’s mother had married Yaxley as her third husband, giving Blaise the opportunity to ingratiate himself in Sacreds society prior to Yaxley’s death. Following the death of his stepfather, no one questioned that he still belonged there, and he has run in their circles since. Nonetheless, having grown up in Unsacred society, he had experiences Draco and Theo hadn’t undergone.

Blaise contemplated this. “Not unlikely. Being able to orchestrate an effective attack against Sacred heirs sounds too sophisticated to be merely Mudbloods, no?”

Draco nodded his agreement. “But who among the Unsacreds would be driven to violence? Someone who stood against the Dark Regent’s ascent? Moody? Or maybe Wood?”

“Well… Moody doesn’t have his own family. Attacking heirs implies a wish to replace a lineage – if it was pure frustration against the Sacreds, he would go for anyone he could reach, or maybe the Dark Regent directly. And Moody doesn’t have an alternate lineage. Not to mention he’s a bit of a loner oddball. The Wood family did have a son who was about our age, but I believe they moved to France, so I don’t think they’re too concerned with the English rule anymore, even if they were opposed to it at the time.”

They thought for a moment, before Theo asked, “What about that wizard that disappeared around the time of the Dark Lord’s ascent? Porter? Poulter? I remember my father mentioning him…”

“Potter,” confirmed Blaise, face scrunching in thought. “Yes, I recall the surname… but I believe he was killed? He definitely disappeared in a bit of a scandal right before the Dark Regent’s reign, although I don’t remember the specifics. Though he had been Sacred before the scandal demoted him, and he didn’t have children before his disappearance anyway, so I doubt it’s him.”

“So maybe it wasn’t an old opposition against the Dark Regent,” hypothesized Draco. “Might be someone with a direct issue with the Sacreds? What were the names of those two brutes who had attended Hogwarts with us? I always forget them, although their families had been quite involved in the Dark Lord’s ascent…”

“Crabbe and Goyle!” answered Blaise with a bit more enthusiasm. “Yes, there’s something there! They were always very resentful that, despite their fathers’ support for the Dark Regent, their families weren’t accepted in elite society! They used to gripe about it all the time. In fact, a lot of the old supporters share similar sentiments – Borgin, Dolohov, Mulciber, Rookwood, Gibbon – they all feel sidelined. That could be worth looking into. Although…” and his face turned contemplative again, “I don’t know that they would have the thought to use a methodology as sophisticated as sowing discord, much less devise such a secretive means to do so. They’re definitely more the attack-the-heirs-physically types, but who knows. The motive is certainly there.”

Draco nodded slowly, turning this over in his mind, and resolved to pursue this line as well. Who knows, maybe this would unearth the Malfoy estate’s mystery intruder as well?

“Well, I would like to gamble a bit before closing out of the night,” announced Theo, drawing the conversation to a close. At his friends’ agreement, he cancelled Draco’s silencing charm, and dealt them all a hand. Draco allowed himself to forget about contemplating the night’s discussion in favor of focusing on the card game. The situation wouldn’t resolve itself right then regardless, he reassured himself, settling in for the night.

Chapter Text

Two days later, when the Veritaserum was finished brewing, Draco took a break from managing estate business to address the more straightforward of his theories: that his staff had informed the intruder of the servants’ Apparition point. He called in each of the workers, one at a time, and gave them a 30 minute dose of Veritaserum before asking them a list of prepared questions that would help him glean as much as he could within the allotted timeframe. Unfortunately, the interrogations were predominantly all identical to each other, and he didn’t proceed past the first two questions for anyone –

“Were you aware of an intruder who broke into our home three nights ago?”

“No.”

“Have you told anyone outside of this household of the servants’ Apparition point?”

“No.”

The only interesting interviews were the steward, who answered the second question with, “Yes, I informed other households’ servants of it for society events or deliveries,” which Draco waved off, and one of the maids, who said, “I was forced to give it to Avery, as he wished to visit me.” Avery, who was one such pureblood with a proclivity for Mudbloods, was not a cause for concern for Draco, and after calling back the steward to have the maid punished for exposing the household to an outsider, he returned to his study, stopping only to ask the head groundsman to move the servants’ Apparition somewhere else as this one had been compromised.

Looking over his unsatisfactory notes from the afternoon, he flicked the parchment into the fireplace and stared pensively as it charred and disintegrated. The sole alternative that he could think of was that their household was under observation, which would require espionage abilities that didn’t break the protective wards around the estate. He could think of one group who would have the required skills, or would know of others who did. Fortunately, he had already planned to call upon them to investigate the intruder further, and could double the purpose of his trip.

There was nothing for it, he concluded. He’d have to pay the Den of Thieves a visit. If they didn’t know the intruder directly, perhaps they’d have an idea around how she was able to locate the servants’ Apparition point without being informed by his staff.

Decision made, he dressed in his customary all black, pulling a hooded robe over his ensemble that would help shield his identity, and stowed a large number of purses in the enchanted pockets, anticipating significant bribery would be required to get the answers he needed.

Having prepared all he could, he steeled himself to the task ahead before descending to the entrance hall. He had barely left his wing, however, when he was immediately stopped by his mothers voice gently calling him from the tea room. Letting out a low sigh of exasperation, he let himself into the chamber, and saw his parents at their customary spots in the ornate seats by the fireplace, his mother reading a newsletter in her evening finery and his father reviewing papers. A tea set was placed on the table between them, and his father was absentmindedly stirring his tea with a spoon, absorbed by the reports in his hand.

“Are you headed out for the Consort?” his mother asked with polite interest, smiling at him softly.

Deciding on giving her a half truth, he merely said, “I have business to address in London.”

His father looked up at this and inclined his head once in acknowledgment before returning to the papers, clearly unwilling to give any indications of concern that would upset his wife. Nonetheless, the corners of Narcissa’s mouth turned downward at this slightly.

“Do take care. The Macmillan boy was in London as well during his murder. The ladies are saying that the attacks are concentrated there.”

“I’ll be careful,” he reassured her, and then hesitated, waiting to see why his mother called him in. “Is this what you wished to discuss?”

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking herself of whatever dark thoughts she was entertaining of her son in danger. “I merely wanted to inform you that we have a tea scheduled with the Greengrasses on the Sunday following the Parkinson ball.”

It was now Draco’s mouth that turned down in displeasure. After the conversation with his father, there had been a blissful lapse of any further marriage discussions over the past few days, but despite knowing that the subject was bound to be revisited, Draco had been so preoccupied by his investigations that he hadn’t had a chance to prepare for it. Not wishing to respond antagonistically, he merely remained silent at this pronouncement, face mulish.

His mother mirrored his unhappy expression upon seeing it. “I thought your father discussed this with you and you had been amenable?”

He faltered. “We discussed it and I provided my acquiescence,” he corrected.

“Unwillingly, it seems,” his mother observed needlessly. Draco bristled.

“Of course, unwillingly. I have made my position on marriage clear. But Father explained our circumstances, and I understand the necessity. I will not oppose any arrangements you make on my behalf.”

Narcissa looked further crestfallen. “I thought Astoria a fine young lady who suited you admirably. You’re not excited by the prospect?”

“Draco understands his duty,” interrupted Lucius, moving his hand from the teaspoon to gently cradle his wife’s hands, folded in her lap. They looked at each other briefly, a moment of intimate understanding passing between them, and Narcissa nodded reluctantly.

“I merely wish you were heartened by your future wife, not resigned to it,” his mother addressed Draco, moving her eyes from her husband back to her son. 

Having nothing to reassure her with, he inclined her head, and said, “I will be present at the tea.” 

She opened her mouth briefly, clearly wanting to voice her objections to his reluctance, so he forestalled her by kissing her cheek in farewell before departing, inclining his head at his father once on his way out.

Unwilling to let the gloomy prospect of his impending nuptials derail his mission for the night, he shook himself of the conversation and stepped into the Floo in the entrance hall, calling out for Diagon Alley. Letting the turbulent flames carry him to London, he stepped out at the Leaky Cauldron, immediately dusting the smattering of soot at the hem of his robes. He sardonically admitted to himself that this was likely a wholly unnecessary exercise, as the grime of London was bound to get on him in the next few moments anyway, but etiquette dictated that one brush off soot after Flooing, and etiquette was hard to shake.

Having righted himself, he quickly navigated through the pub’s rickety seating arrangements, avoiding eye contact with the shadier figures, before letting himself through the wall into Diagon Alley proper, taking in the sights around him. As expected, the main street was muddy and unpleasant, with lower class magical folk and servants scampering about like rats in the dungeon, each preoccupied with their own business. 

Draco, aware that he was conspicuous solely by the fact that he wasn’t already covered with a layer of filth, pulled his hood around his distinctive white-blond hair, shielding the general rabble from his aristocratic features. As much as he trusted his abilities to defend himself, he didn’t want to deliberately make himself a target, and his mother’s paranoia must have affected him more than expected, as he immediately had the uneasy feeling of being observed. Surreptitiously scanning the streets once more, he noticed no one, so he turned the corner, letting his black attire blend him into his bleak surroundings.

He efficiently navigated the alleyways, dodging the meandering droves, and walked up to the Horned Troll, a seedy pub in the depths of Diagon Alley. As the official headquarters for doing business with the Den of Thieves, the place was famous for anyone who is involved in underground operations, but for all its notoriety, it looked more rundown than any of the surrounding buildings. The window panes were askance, the roof looked leakier than that of the Cauldron, promiscuous women flanked the entrance, and a mysterious odor emanated from the building that promised grime and death rather than food and revelry.

Inside wasn’t much better, and when initially introduced to the Horned Troll, Draco’s first impression had been that the only reason this business would allow a group of thieves to base their operations here was because the pub simply had nothing worth stealing. At most, thieves would only be able to acquire the meager earnings of the day, or the large portrait of nothing behind the bar.

However, upon learning that “Den of Thieves” was a misnomer, and that the gang was actually an operation of spies, not thieves, Draco had been completely bewildered by why such a successful operation was run from such a nondescript locale. The Den was well-known for the fact that they were willing to take Unbreakable Vows in exchange for their missions, placing them in high demand from those who required utmost secrecy. It was completely unfathomable to Draco that an enterprise with so much success chose somewhere so run down as their base.

That was, until Draco witnessed law enforcement, tasked to capture the Den’s ringleader, completely dismiss the pub. Then Draco understood.

Nothing was easier to overlook than what one already believed to be unimportant, Draco observed wisely.

And it was very easy to dismiss the Horned Troll. Even the patrons somehow managed to look like the most unfortunate of society, everyone’s posture slumped and unobtrusive. No matter how hard he tried to mimic it, Draco’s own posture always looked too erect in these surroundings, and the only way he could avoid unwanted attention was by making himself look in charge and dangerous. 

As such, he immediately pulled back his shoulders and made his face impassive before marching up to the barkeep, one of the two brothers who ran the pub. As expected, everyone avoided eye contact.

“Is the head of the Den in?” he barked at the old man wiping down a glass, the piercing blue gaze characteristic of the brothers locked on him. Draco had heard that the brothers had lost their sister as an unintentional casualty of a duel between them, and that the two brothers had been on bad terms since, but as halfbloods, were unable to rise past the status of rundown-pub-owners. As such, they never worked shifts together, which was fortuitous, as Draco was unable to tell the two apart, and didn’t want to have to start doing so. Having one working at a time was much more practical.

The man, ignorant to Draco’s musing, raised an eyebrow. Draco groaned internally – while he couldn’t tell the brothers apart from appearance, one was much more of a pushover. The one currently running the bar was clearly the more stubborn of the two, and always demanded bribery for his favors.

Flicking a Galleon that the barkeep caught easily, Draco repeated his question, and was gratified at a reluctant nod toward a door at the back that Draco suspected was originally meant for liaisons with the barmaids or… women out front, but now served to house covert business transactions.

Draco let himself in the back room, and was surprised when, rather than the middle aged man he had become accustomed to dealing with, he was presented with a round faced, sandy-haired youth about Draco’s age. The man, engrossed in writing on a piece of parchment, completely ignored Draco’s intrusion.

“Where’s Fletcher?” demanded Draco, immediately put ill at ease by the unfamiliar face.

“Dead,” answered the youth, Irish accent heavy on his voice. “Law got him and he didn’t want to get locked away. Name’s Finnegan.” This Finnegan , still not having looked up, dabbed his quill in the well beside him, writing another line with his tongue clamped between his teeth. 

Draco’s chin shot forward in offense, disarmed by the dismissive attitude, affront welling in his chest. This was not a promising start to his endeavor.

After a moment longer, Finnegan lowered his quill and looked up expectantly, gaze flicking over Draco once before saying, “And you are?”

“Never mind who I am,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “I have some questions for you.”

Finnegan raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his seat, folding his fingers and laying them on his stomach, the picture of relaxation. “About?”

Having not been offered a seat, Draco simply took it, hood falling back as he lowered himself back into the chair. He stilled, but Finnegan didn’t react, so he disregarded it as well. Likely this Finnegan guy was too new to know who he was.

“I need information on one of your jobs,” Draco pronounced, leaning back to mirror Finnegan’s unbothered pose. Privately, Draco thought he could do it better than this hooligan.

“What information?” Finnegan asked.

“I need to know if you have been hired to break into or observe the estates of any of the Sacreds.”

Finnegan rolled his eyes. “Of course we have. You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Have you been hired to break into or observe the estates of the Nott or Malfoy family?” he asked, throwing in Nott both to be thorough, and to hopefully shield his identity from being exposed. He was unsure how this Finnegan would react to having the Malfoy heir in his office.

Finnegan’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, head tilting from side to side before eyeing Draco slyly. “I can’t recall.”

As expected, then. It would appear Fletcher’s protegee was just as money-driven. Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out purse, placing it on the desk between them, and when Finnegan didn’t move to pick it up, retrieved another. Finnegan pulled the two purses toward him, feeling their weight, before saying, “No.”

“No?” echoed Draco loudly.

“No,” Finnegan repeated. “We have not been hired to observe or break into the Nott or Malfoy households.”

“But you would know how to, were you tasked with it?”

“Of course,” responded Finnegan, sounding almost smug about it. “Noble estates have a variety of weaknesses.”

“Such as?”

Finnegan’s hand waved vaguely in the air. “Magical technicalities, preconceived biases, human error. It depends on how far you want to get. Getting on the grounds is easy – most estates are too large to truly be fully covered by solid warding – and while more difficult, breaking into the manors themselves can be achieved as well, depending on the household and the individual doing the breaking in.”

“And you weren’t hired for these skills, or asked to disclose them, to break into the Nott or Malfoy estates?”

“No,” Finnegan reiterated, finally lifting the purses to put away. So the Malfoy intruder had already had this information in advance, Draco contemplated.

He eyed the two purses Finnegan was stowing in frustration, but a knowing glint in the young man’s eye caught Draco’s attention, so he pulled out two more purses.

“But you know something you think I’d find interesting,” he prompted, holding onto the purses. As if expecting this, Finnegan inclined his head.

“Indeed. We were hired to observe one of the homes of the Inner Circle, just not the ones you listed.”

Had someone else been robbed? “Lestrange?” Finnegan shook his head no. “Avery?” No, again. Draco wracked his brain. “Black? Snape?” No, and no again. Finnegan was beginning to smirk, frustrating Draco.

“The amount of money I have presented you with could buy you a new house. Tell me,” he demanded.

Finnegan shrugged. “I have no need of a house. I have need of funds. And this amount is not nearly close enough for the value of the information.”

With a groan of exasperation, Draco pulled out two more purses, leaving only one in his pocket. This was proving to be more expensive than expected.

“ Now will you tell me?” he asked, laying the purses with a thump on the desk. Finally, Finnegan inclined his head in agreement.

“The manor we were hired to observe was the Pettigrew Estate,” he pronounced. Draco thought he must have heard wrong. 

“Pettigrew??”

Finnegan nodded, pulling the remaining purses toward him as Draco absorbed this information. Pettigrew? Why Pettigrew? Draco would never have expected this. The information shook him.

Pettigrew, while technically a member of the Inner Circle, was one of the strangest, most anomalous members – even odder than Snape, halfblood that he was. Pettigrew was a meek, cowardly man, who was more like a pet to the Dark Regent than an accomplice. In fact, from all Draco knew of him, he purely served administrative functions, and was, for all intents and purposes, the Dark Regent’s secretary, merely there to make note of and coordinate the Dark Regent’s less important obligations. 

From what Draco knew of his history, while Pettigrew had been a pureblood, his family wasn’t a Sacred one, and he had attended Hogwarts at around the same time that the Black brothers had, but hadn’t been particularly impressive even then. Black had said that Pettigrew had been one of the two Gryffindors of his year, and had been blindly devoted to the other Gryffindor, who, if Draco remembered correctly, was actually the wizard he had been discussing with his friends at the Consort earlier that week. Potter? Proctor? 

But Black had confided that Pettigrew had been almost pathetically devoted to his housemate, and for all that he lacked in magical ability, he made up for in blind worship, and likely this was what had appealed to the Dark Regent.

When the rest of the Inner Circle partook in alcohol, a favorite drunken pastime was guessing how Pettigrew had ended up in his position at all. Milder theories included that he had offered to wash the Dark Regent’s clothes or to be his food taster, but as more drink was imbibed, the theories became scandalous whispers that Pettigrew had an unnatural draw to the Dark Regent, and had fallen in love with him, which the Dark Regent interpreted as reverence and used to his advantage. The latter always made Draco scoff in offense, and he’d usually depart the conversation at this point. He was sure the theories only grew more salacious from there.

Nonetheless, other than his mysterious rise, Pettigrew was unobtrusive on his best day, and utterly wretched on his worst. He was not worthy of trust, and none of the Inner Circle took him in their confidences. Draco could not see why he, of everyone, was the one singled out for observation.

This truly was valuable information.

“Why Pettigrew?” he finally asked, having wrapped his mind around the revelation.

Finnegan smiled dryly. “That, I cannot tell you.”

Draco pulled out the last purse and tossed it at Finnegan. “This is all I have left,” he told him.

“Then keep it,” Finnegan responded, surprising Draco when he pushed the purse back. “I cannot share this information.”

Having never had a Den member turn down money, Draco flailed briefly. “Did you take a Vow?”

Finnegan shook his head. “No.”

Draco was completely disarmed by this. “So this is out of loyalty?”

“If you want to call it that,” Finnegan responded dismissively, but his guarded look told Draco his guess had been correct, and he fell back, dumbfounded. What had earned the Den’s loyalty that usurped the hold that money had on them?

“If that is all, I must get back to my work,” Finnegan pronounced, interrupting Draco’s thoughts with his ungraceful dismissal. Draco bristled and got up, preparing to depart, when he remembered the other purpose he had for his visit.

“Do you have any women under your employ? Or know of any women for hire who serve functions similar to yours?”

Finnegan, having picked up his quill to write again, minutely froze, gaze fixed on his parchment. Draco was immediately alerted as well. For all that Finnegan’s predecessor, Fletcher, had been a suspicious and anxious individual, Finnegan was unbothered and confident, having yet to display anything other than relaxed control. This was the first time since Draco’s arrival that he had been even slightly on edge, and this piqued Draco’s interest. When he finally responded, his voice affected disinterest. “What sort of women?”

Draco grunted in frustration. “You clearly know who I refer to. A woman who has the ability to break into homes, very talented at magic, likely pureblood.” At this last, Finnegan smiled faintly, finally looking at Draco. Draco wasn’t sure how to interpret this amused expression.

“Ah, yes, I know who you refer to,” Finnegan said, clearly humored by some joke Draco wasn’t to understand.

“She broke into… a house recently. Breached the Sacred family’s protective blood magic to steal something. I’m looking to contact her,” he said diplomatically. Finnegan clearly held this woman in regard – being demanding and rude was unlikely to get him anywhere. Finnegan’s smile only widened.

“Unfortunately, I cannot help with that. I have no means by which to reach her. She only ever comes to you,” he responded, apologetic tone colored by the light mirth.

“If she does… come to you, could you ask her to contact me?” he asked, and Finnegan inclined his head.

“That, I can do. But I cannot guarantee she will honor the request.”

Draco nodded his head and this, and making to depart, opened the door and stepped out. Realizing he never told Finnegan who he was, he was about to turn to give his name when Finnegan’s voice piped up – “Farewell, Lord Malfoy.”

Draco paused only briefly, back still turned to the man, and said “Until we speak again” before closing the door behind him.