The Toxicologist

The Second House

The House of Summons

Summoners call and bind denizens of another world to aid the mage. Every Summoner has a primary summons (the familiar ) that cannot be resummoned if destroyed, and replacing it is a painful endeavour; for the bond between the Summoner and the familiar is exceptionally close. In addition to their familiar, other creatures can be summoned by the mage as auxiliary aids, for combat or utility purposes to enrich the mage’s quality of life.

Members of the Second House are known as Summoners

— Magical Minds and Where to Find Them! A Guide for 'Muggles' (Normal Folk). Alice K. Fisher

Harry got into work the next day frazzled, not having slept a wink.

“What have you got for us today, oh Teddy oh boy,” Ron slapped his hand down on the reception desk.

‘Teddy’ used to be a detective, but with his degenerative condition spiking last year, he was taken off active duty. That suited Teddy just fine, since he was sipping a literal cocktail with a pink mini umbrella in a bright neon green liquid, over an issue of Witch Weekly.  

With artfully groomed dark blonde curls, just long enough to tuck behind an ear, and a sleek black cashmere turtleneck, Ron had made some choice comments about Teddy when they’d first joined, which to be honest, Harry hadn’t entirely understood. 

Teddy glanced up as the door went, but did a double take.

“Good morning la– oh my God. Potter. What happened?”

Harry shot Teddy a distracted look, but, noticing where the receptionist’s eyes were — on Harry’s rather pronounced dark circles — scowled.

“I didn’t sleep. That’s all. No one died.”

Ron made a sound in his throat. Harry swung his gaze to him, mortified. “Oh. The funeral. I didn’t mean —”

“It’s all right,” said Ron with forced cheer. “Start as you intend to go on, as they say. Neville would have wanted us to… um…”

“Mockingly degrade the gravity of his passage?” offered Ted.

“Shut your mouth!” said Ron hotly.

“Barely open,” said Teddy, miming closing a zipper across his lips. He slid a black file across the counter. Harry stepped forward to take it, opening the folder to reveal the first laminated sleeve, containing the mission’s blurb. He could feel Ron over his shoulder.

“A Cheater's case, again?” said Ron.

“Come on,” said Harry, giving Teddy a look. “What’s our actual case?”

Teddy sipped his cocktail through a fluorescent paper straw. “This is it.”

Harry’s expression darkened.

“You’ve got a small gig,” placated Teddy, raising his hands, “just while you work on the Malfoy case –”

“ – we always have small gigs,” complained Ron.

“ – I didn’t take the Malfoy case,” said Harry.

Ron closed his mouth. He turned to look at Harry. He looked him dead in the eye.

“What?” said Ron.

A clink of glass signalled that Teddy had set down his cocktail. 

“I didn’t take the case,” said Harry, trying not to fidget. “He’s a vampire .”

“With an A case ,” said Ron. “He could be a Dark Lord for all I care! I’ll become a bloody vampire for an A!”

Harry shot Ron a look. “That’s not funny.”

“Neither’s our pay,” muttered Ron. He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should just take it. Just one time? Maybe you can call him back?”

“One ship launches the fleet,” said Harry. “One drop of rain makes a flood!”

Ron looked like he was trying hard to understand the analogy. 

“Gentlemen…?” said Teddy. “You’re over at St. Katherine’s school for girls. The husband works as a primary grade substitute, and the client feels that he is cheating on her with the English Language teacher. He’s been working there for six weeks.”

“No-o,” Ron’s face crumpled. “We always get the cheaters! They’re not even cheating! Give us a good case. What are Crabbe and Goyle on?”

“The Whites.”

“But that’s in the news!” Ron exploded. “Why do they always get the good cases?”

“Because they’re better agents,” said Teddy, looking at his cocktail; the man’s eyes were on the fridge. “They get the job done.”

“That was Harry’s fault with the last missing person,” Ron moaned, to Harry’s outcry of Oi! “He couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

“I saved their lives.”

“You lost us the mission!” 

“I don’t care.”

“And that ,” Teddy smacked the counter as he stood, “gentlemen, is why you cannot be trusted with high cases.” 

Teddy went to the fridge by the front door, one that was specifically set aside for clients take out bottles of spring water while they waited. The reception itself was roomy but bare, with a wall of chairs facing the frontdesk. Into the gloom on the right of reception was a hall, along which lay the doors of the dismal cubicles that served as their offices.

Teddy shut the fridge, having retrieved for himself a large pitcher of that same neon drink. He set it down behind the desk. Ice sloshed with a clink. “The Whites are looking for their daughter, and their daughter alone. In this business we have to make difficult decisions as to who to save and who to cut loose. Crabbe and Goyle make those decisions quickly, and efficiently. We are paid to do the letter of the request and no more. Certainly we aren’t paid to do the police’s job. Get a bridle and a pair of horse blinkers yourself if you must, Potter, but no more missing persons for you.”

Ron let out an explosive noise, and clapped Harry on the back. “Maybe I can get a new buddy.” 

“You’re an arse.”

“And you’re broke.”

Harry glowered. “You’re broke too.”

“Getting there, actually,” Ron confessed, with a slump. 

Third door down, their office was by the stairwell. Harry paused in front of the Roman bust. “But you helped buy that wedding dress for Hermione, with all the…”

“Yeah, don’t tell her.”

Harry shut his mouth, feeling uncomfortable. 

“If we can do just three more B missions, I’ll pay off the loan,” Ron said, waving it away.

“We never get B’s,” Harry said.

“We might. Change of quarter. Suicide season’s coming up!” Ron said brightly, “Lots of missing people. Tinsel and turkey. Parents pay well; and there’ll be so many of them we’ll have to take something off the others.”

“But it’s summer. We’ve got autumn before that.”

“Maybe people will go missing early?” said Ron hopefully.

Harry didn’t say anything. His shoulders were tight.

“I hate this,” Harry said eventually, kicking at the bust.

It was astonishingly more hollow than Harry expected. He watched in horror as, in one slow arc through the air, it fell.

He dived at the same time as Ron, their expressions morphed in their descent, the whites in their eyes wide.

Ron got the plinth, Harry the bust on top. The enormous pillar came to a heart-stopping rest, steady under Harry’s hands — and the head itself, apparently broken and only resting on the neck, slid off with a gesture of emphatic (fuck you) to smash on the ground.

Harry and Ron stared at it.

“That was Dung’s favourite,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Ron said. They both stood there, as at the gallows.

“He’ll pretend it’s more expensive than it is.”

“I know mate,” Ron said. 

Behind them, Lavender swung her head out of the first door, dragging her swivel chair partly into the hall. “What are you — oh my God .”

“Don't tell him,” rushed Ron.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lavender muttered, with a tone that said how much in trouble they were. “Harry, that lady’s still in your office.”

His hands buried in statue dust, Harry looked up. “What lady?” 

Lavender put on a look that girls sometimes got on tv shows; as though to an imaginary camera off-screen. He- llo . “I don’t know . There’s a lady to see you in your office. Just you, mind.”

“What is it with ‘ just Harry' ?” Ron said indignantly, shaking white plaster from his hands. Bits of statue shard and debris fell off the cuff of his jacket. “Bloody thing’s not even real stone…”

Lavender craned her neck back into her office, where Harry knew a visual novel splashed the words Dream Daddy slowly across the screen. 

“I’ll be back,” Harry said. Ron nodded, all of his attention on the pulverised Roman head. “At least stand the rest up.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

Wondering who on earth would come in without alerting Dung, first, or booking an appointment, Harry swung his head around his and Ron’s door. “Hello?” 

Hovering by the photoframe of — oh, of Neville, again? — stood a tall blonde stranger. She wasn’t, as he’d expected, sitting by the desk like anyone else. Harry was taken aback.

She looked as surprised as he was to be caught touching his things, because the woman snatched her hand away. The emotion on her face — raw, unchecked, and for a moment completely open — dropped. But not before Harry had seen her fingers graze the photograph’s frame.

She was certainly the most expensive looking woman he’d ever seen. Those might be actual diamonds clasped at her throat. Harry cleared his voice awkwardly, catching himself before he could say Can I come in? to his own office.

“Apologies,” he said instead, opening the door a little wider. “I hope you weren’t waiting long, Ms….?”

The woman turned on her high heel, appraising Harry. Then walked across the room with an authoritative clicking of her heels on the floor. Without hesitation, she offered her gloved hand to Harry with her knuckles upturned — ‘ as befits his true station.’

Harry blinked. Her lips hadn’t moved; but he’d heard her speak. The woman didn’t seem to think anything was amiss. She’d crossed the room with a frosty but evident smile, and as her pale blue gaze slid over his appearance, Harry heard it again. This time, with an undercurrent of humour. ‘A little scruffy, a little harassed, but he is handsome. The spitting image of his father, the not-quite-late James Potter.’

Humour touched his mind, it played in the space between them.

Then she spoke aloud, and it was the same articulate voice.

“Lady Malfoy. I didn’t make an appointment, I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t like my whereabouts known.”

“What — did you — just?” 

The woman looked at him across her outstretched hand. “Pardon?”

“Erm, nothing.” Harry lowered his lips automatically to her hand and pressed one quick, reflexive kiss to her third knuckle, the dregs of a childhood resurfacing sluggishly. Harry used the time to order his racing thoughts.

"Wait. Lady Malfoy ? You're Lucius’ — not that it — yes, of course. I understand. Sorry, ignore me, I’m a little tired. Would you like some water?" Harry pulled out a chair for her self-consciously. “Or a… cushion?”

His gaze flicked anxiously to the stiff mesh back of the chair.

To his relief Narcissa smiled, a little less frostily now, withdrawing it to raise her fingers to check her flawless hair. “No, thank you. I rather appreciate a firm back.”

If there was meant to be any humour in the comment she covered it with perfect wryness, taking a seat in the chair opposite Harry’s desk and crossing her legs at the ankles.

“I realise I’ve caught you by surprise but I wonder if you have some time to discuss a case? It’s highly sensitive. Not a word of what I say must leave this room. I understand you specialise in that?”

"Of course," said Harry, grabbing a slim leather notepad from the shelf. He slipped out a fountain pen from its wire-bound spine. "We take confidentiality very seriously.”

He drew out his own chair and sat. “Anything said in this room stays between you and I. I'll need to forward the details of it to my partner," he forewarned, "should we take the case – that's Ron – but we won't store any data beyond the initials of your name, and the briefing. The file’s destroyed as soon as the case is closed, although if you terminate it early there’s a contractual fee.”

He couldn’t imagine the Malfoys being unable to afford an early termination fee, but all the same, he opened a drawer at his desk, and withdrew a few sheets of paper. “These are our general terms, have a look over it when you have a moment.” Finally Harry leaned forward, and steepled his knuckles. “How can I help?”

Narcissa's eyes narrowed a fraction as Harry spoke but she still took the papers and looked over them, taking her time to absorb the essence of what was written on each page. Her lower lip moved a little as she read, as though she were covertly chewing on the inside of it — a remarkably telling habit for a lady of such poise. She was on edge.

She nodded as she finished reading over the papers, folding them neatly before storing them in her small, green snakeskin handbag. 

"Your terms are agreeable but I must insist on one point." Narcissa's voice was clear and light but deadly serious. "I only want you. No partner. It is highly important to me that only you know the details of this work. I came here to speak with you — not Mr Weasley."

“Erm,” said Harry. “That… might be possible.” Curiosity getting the better of him he added, “I’ll need to check with my superior, but I can offer the condition to him. Mr. Fletcher’s usually okay with novel… adjustments to how we do things.”

The reason they did everything in pairs was in case of violence; traditionally it was a fool’s errand to go alone. Dung wasn’t exactly traditional, though, and by the sheer display of the woman’s tells, this case meant a lot to her. In Saviour's terms, that translated to it meant a lot financially .

Harry hated that he could predict this, now. He could see Dung’s response to a case like this. And with the sunlight streaming in through the window, lighting the side of Lady Malfoy’s head almost white, Harry wasn’t about to turn down a case with a person . He stilled the knee he’d been jumping beneath the desk.

“Tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if I can do it.”

Narcissa's lips had become thinner, slightly pursed as she spoke with tension in her tone -- evident throughout her whole body. "Mr Potter, I would like you to find my son."

Harry didn't react outwardly to the word. He was surprised, but he knew better than to express an emotion – any emotion. Doing so risked upsetting a client or ‘devaluing their trust in his ability to handle the case’. Dung had rung him dry. Don't raise yer eyebrows you little wanker. These muppets don't come in aksing for some wet behind the ears fucker. You're a seasoned detective. Nothing spooks you, you got it? Act like an effing surprised Pikachu and they'll think you one.

Harry opened his pad and pressed his pen’s nip to a line. "Your son. What's his name? Actually, I’m going to run a few questions past you, if that’s all right?” 

He flew through the standard ticks. Age, date of birth, the guy’s current known address. If she had a photograph or a close physical description, including any tattoos, scars, birthmarks, etcetera. 

Narcissa nodded and paused after Harry's questions, as if steeling herself.

"Draco Malfoy,” she exhaled. “He was born on the fifth of June 1992 —” Now Harry did look up, before catching himself; she didn’t look a day over thirty, how’d she have a son Harry’s age? “His last known address and last sighting was at five o'clock in the evening at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire... exactly eleven weeks and four days ago. Just after his birthday."

The tremor was barely perceptible as she searched in her handbag, withdrawing a handsome photograph of her son reclining on a sofa in their grand living room. He was laughing at the camera. She looked at the photograph for a long moment before sliding it across the desk to Harry.

"He's exactly six feet tall and he's even fairer than he looks in that photograph. He gets that from his father." Another pause and Narcissa swallowed to keep the tightness out of her voice. "He has a café au lait birthmark by his left shoulder blade. You know, the smudged ones that look like a coffee stain."

Harry took the photograph. Her son was the striking image of his father, all haughty smugness inclusive. The obnoxious space-stealing, man-spreading Renaissance sprawl, though? His own. The guy was unreal.

"Does he have any medical diagnoses which mandates medicine, and if so, what's the medication he takes; could he have left without it?"

Narcissa nodded again, apparently slightly taken aback by these simple questions that she had not considered. "No, he's very healthy. He doesn't take any potions or tinctures."

Harry’s pen swept across the pad in sleek, even strokes, his gaze flicking occasionally to the photo. The guy really did look like Lucius. Although… the higher planes of his face, the sharper chin, the catlike focus… 

"Any possessions he took with him, or left behind? For example, passport, car keys, wallet; were his clothes missing? Does he normally live at Malfoy Manor? If not, have you checked his normal residence for possessions missing or present?"

Her pale brows knitted as she tried to recall what had been missing from Draco's home. "He usually lives in a smaller house on our grounds."

Harry baffled (privately) as she listed off the location of the 'smaller' manor house. She also recalled a list of items that had been missing from his home as well as the trunk she assumed they had been packed into. 

Harry nodded, his eyes on his notes. "Did you notice any activity that was out of character for him?” he asked, looking up. “Not completing a task he usually would — or just not arriving at a place he was expected to be in the days leading up to his disappearance? Oh. Wait." Harry stared at her, flustered. “This is around the time your husband was um…”

The words trailed off. He presumed both sides of the marriage knew the other had visited him, but what if they didn’t? Was Harry already breaching confidentiality by saying he’d met Lucius? That he knew he was a vampire?

“Lady Malfoy, there’s erm, some information that’s pertinent to your case, I think, that might be good to have out on the table… if you know it…?”

"Information? I am telling you absolutely everything I can fathom might be pertinent to this case. Unless you are referring to Lucius’... condition.”

“Yes! Just that!” Harry reassured quickly, raising his hands a touch. “Your husband’s Embrace, I mean. It’s just a coincidence we can’t really rule out why your son might have left your home. If he was frightened or — worried — about his father’s change, he might have run away to somewhere he feels safe. Sometimes that gives a lead.”

Narcissa’s voice was clipped now as Harry mentioned Lucius.

"Yes. You're quite correct."

She sniffed delicately. "It was Draco's birthday, in fact. We were hosting a party for him and some friends — that's why he was at the manor. Lucius was terribly late. I thought Draco had already gone to bed but there is the possibility that he overheard a conversation between Lucius and I."

She swallowed again and gestured to the water jug that Harry had offered her early with a small nod. 

"That was the night when it happened. Lucius' turning, that is. He told me immediately when he returned home."

If she felt shame or anger on the topic of her husband's recent entry into vampirism, she hit it beautifully. Her composure was only broken by a small frown as she stared pointedly at the water jug.

But Harry’s attention was on his notes. “Registration plate?” Harry had asked, before realising what a stupid question that was.

"He doesn't drive a motor car,” said Narcissa, more easily than he’d expected. “Not that I know of anyway. Draco has been a little distant in recent years. I believe he's had business in all sorts of fields I might not know of."

"Oh? When did he start to become distant?”

Narcissa made a sound in her throat. "Well, Draco had been distant in general . I believe he was busy with some project or other, he was always very nebulous about his whereabouts. I believe he might have another residence but if I'm totally honest, I have no idea where it might be. In London, perhaps."

Though she spoke evenly Narcissa was clearly stressed at the admission that she was not aware of every last detail of her son's life.

Harry nodded, still writing. “I’m afraid I can’t really rule it out as a coincidence; it seems his leaving is timed pretty well to your husband getting Embraced.”

"I think it is more than a coincidence,” Narcissa acknowledged. “Draco has no love for vampires. He has disliked them and their motives for some time, years maybe. As for how long he had been distant for... maybe five years."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at Harry and then looked pointedly at the water jug again. 

"He's become more worldly since then. More independent. Harder. My son and I have always been very close, you must understand, Lord Potter. I am sure that he assumes that I have noticed no change in him – he's tried to be subtle about it all – but a mother can tell when her child is pulling away. It's as clear as day even when they try their hardest to pretend as though all is well."

Narcissa pointedly cleared her throat.

“Oh. Sorry,” Harry finally looked up, to catch the death glare he was getting. He stood up quickly so he could pour the large jug properly, and slide a full glass across the table. “What happened five years ago? And it’s just Harry, by the way. No — Lord. The Ministry stripped my father’s peerage.”

Narcissa took the glass brusquely and almost drained it, offering Harry a tight smile before setting it down again. The same smile faded on her lips as Harry explained the circumstances around his title.

"I'm terribly sorry. For once I truly had no idea. That's unthinkable — I cannot believe that Lucius never thought to tell me."

Harry nodded stiffly. He tried not to hate the Ministry, not everyone in it. It’s not like his father had ever cared about the title, either. But having it suddenly stripped from him — after that — was a sting Harry hadn’t expected to hurt quite so much. The title itself, he didn’t care about. Could he miss something he’d never had?

Narcissa frowned and then gave a small shrug of her shoulder. "Then again he has been so wound up in other matters these past years. Five years ago. That's when the Church became obsessed with immortality, in my view. I believe that time marks a period where the leadership began to research vampirism in search of eternal life. I suppose you could call it a hunch of mine but I'd place good money on it. That's when Draco became more secretive and distant -- especially when it came to his father."

Harry froze. “Researching vampires?” he echoed, trying to make pieces fit in his head. “To become one? Voldemort didn’t strike me as the type to want — you know. Wasn’t he against… err...”

Lord Voldemort was notorious for his less-than-progressive views, even tamed as they were for the public eye. If it wasn’t for his horrendous views on muggleborns, Harry might even have agreed with a few of his points. But Voldemort, the leader of the Church of Eternal Life, hated muggles, hated muggle borns , hated goblins and house elves and — though he welcomed werewolves in a way a lot of old money purebloods didn’t, Voldemort kept them at a healthy distance to himself and his own precious inner circle. If it wasn’t pure wizard, it was nothing.

Harry couldn’t imagine him agreeing to become a vampire. He’d only ever known the sod as one, at least personally, ever since Voldemort had become a vampire and stepped into Harry’s life. It was all very recent, meeting Voldemort. But it always struck him as odd that the Dark Lord went with vampirism as his route to eternal life. Especially now he knew his followers weren’t behind it, cheerleading away.

"Yes, I believe they were." Narcissa finished her glass of water, speaking in a matter of fact tone.  "I assume that Lord Voldemort and his followers were not expecting what happened to, ah — unfold. It is my understanding that they were researching the vampiric source of eternal life but I do not think that His Lordship ever intended to be Embraced."

She paused, one finger resting thoughtfully on her chin. "These matters are particularly confidential, Mr Potter." Narcissa almost stumbled on the change of title but she managed it with distaste. "I came to know them upon my husband's Embrace. If these details were to come to light, my entire family would be at risk. I am sharing them only because I believe Lucius' vampirism to have been a trigger for my son's disappearance."

Merlin. Her family was already at risk. Harry said nothing for a long moment, and filled the silence by pouring himself some water.

“I understand,” he said solemnly. “I can’t imagine the stress you’re under. If I can, I’ll help. I’ll try and find your son.”

"Thank you." Narcissa said the words with meaning as she made eye contact. Uncomfortable, Harry looked away first.

He revised the evidence he had, from the photograph to the notes he’d taken, the addresses. 

“I know this might be difficult, but earlier you said Draco had business in other fields. I need you to try and guess at what those fields were. Places he went that were unusual for him, or even the kind of people he saw. Did you notice him going to a different city, for example, or hanging around with a particular group of people?”

Now, the words were clearly difficult for her to get out, and Narcissa spoke with tremendous reluctance.

"He was mixing with… unsavoury sorts." Narcissa looked away again, apparently finding this topic more difficult to discuss than her husband's death. "Criminals. Muggles. Underworld people."

Her lip curled and she switched her crossed legs so that the other ankle was tucked underneath the chair. "I assume he did this in order to gain information, either about the Church's research or about vampirism itself. He spent more time in London, that I know. I cannot give you the names of any particular places or people. He was so very secretive."

Harry was nodding more rapidly now, his pen firing across the pad.

“That’s great , I mean — this is useful. This is really useful, Lady Malfoy. Seriously, this gives me a much better lead.”

"Really? It does?"

Narcissa seemed confused and surprised all at once but gradually an inkling of hope began to show on her features.

“Yeah, definitely. I need to run these details through our database, just to see if we have a ping on him already. I take it he’s never been convicted of a crime under the muggle courts?”

“A muggle what ?” said Narcissa, outraged. "A criminal conviction!”

“All right. He doesn’t?”

“Of course not . Draco would never get himself in such a position and he certainly wouldn't be caught by the muggle police. I would know."

Narcissa's shocked tone wavered with a hint of uncertainty as she spoke the last few words. Perhaps she wouldn't know – perhaps he wouldn't have told her.

Harry refilled her glass of water, and pulled out a box of tissues to put cautiously near her side of the desk. He offered a flat-lipped expression of sympathy. “If he’s a bit streetwise, that’s actually good for us.”

Narcissa was staring daggers at the box of tissues. “It is?”

“Yeah,” said Harry gently.

“Very well. What may I do? I cannot just sit around and do nothing.”

“The best thing you can do right now is lay low,” said Harry. “I know, it’s crap. But give me a week and I’ll have an update. Feel free to look around and see if Draco left a note anywhere that might have gotten blown under something, like a bed or a dresser. You can owl any friends and family to see if he’s checked in with them. Otherwise it’s a waiting game. Don’t put yourself in danger; more than likely, he’s gone to ground and is just hiding.”

Narcissa’s tone was tight again. Clearly that particular topic was painful for her. "I've looked high and low for a note but there is nothing. He must have left in a hurry."

"As for his friends, I am in contact with them but no one has seen him. I have no reason to believe that any of them would lie to me. Or Lucius."

Harry inclined his head but said nothing; at the end of the day, if her son’s friends were lying to her to cover for him, that wouldn’t change without significant pressure. Crabbe and Goyle might have unusual ways of unearthing information, but Harry did not like to harass people.

Besides, he had other ways.

“All right, that’s all I need for now,” said Harry, making as if to stand. “You can owl me at this address, if you have any concerns, or new information appears,” he passed over a business card for a PO box that took owls. This area of London had banned them. You could send out to zone two.

“The terms for payment schedule are on those sheets I gave you; Mr. Fletcher will handle this side of things, if you could contact him — ideally tonight — he’ll get your case confirmed. I’ll start all the same.”

For a moment Narcissa looked surprised at Harry's prompt manner of tying things up but she hid her reaction quickly and got to her feet. She took the business card from Harry, glanced at it and then stowed it away in her handbag. "I will write to Fletcher this very evening,” said Narcissa primly, “and set up the transfers. They will be coming from a private account, mind. My husband isn't to know about any of this, you understand?"

“Understood.”

She adjusted her black dress and slim-cut outer robe, and extended her hand to Harry again. This time when he took it, she gripped his fingers with hers and caught his gaze.

"Thank you, Lord Potter. This means more than you can know."

“It’s just Harry.”

“Harry, then. Thank you. If you do this for me, if you find my Draco, you will be forever welcomed in my home.”

Harry nodded awkwardly. He couldn’t imagine a less dangerous place.

“Thanks. That means a lot, Lady Malfoy.”

“Please, call me Narcissa.”

“Right. Narcissa.”

Harry showed her out the main door, to a dark carriage with a literal pair of glossy black horses, with frilly things on their foreheads. One of them had a white sock.

“Goodbye Lord — Harry ,” Narcissa said, before she was helped up into the carriage by a driver, and the horses clattered away at a posh trot. 

“Goodbye.”

He watched the carriage vanish down the rainy road. Ron came up behind him. From his tone, the man was flabbergasted.

“Bloody hell. How do you think she gets across Park Lane?”

"No idea.”

* * * * * 

“For those of you who don't know me, I'm Harry. I was Neville's friend.”

A sea of banners, scarves and students sat silently in front of him, some graduated but loads still in Hogwarts, so many that the vicar had made them bring in the garden chairs, too. Neville taught Herbology, and because the majority of his students lived in England — many coming from muggle homes or mixed families — they’d decided to use a church. Nev would have wanted it accessible to everyone.

Harry adjusted the little microphone. “Neville would smile if he was here with us today. He would have some funny story to tell about the flowers we've picked — maybe that they're poisonous to a local small bird species and how we should have gone with the lilies.”

Laughter lifted the church slightly. Harry exhaled shakily, and focussed on Hermione. 

“Back when we were in school Neville got picked on... erm, a lot.  I wonder if it made him take up less space. He was quiet. He was really quiet. Everyone who loves him speaks of his kindness and his sincerity, but no one mentions how quiet he was. It’s kind of important when you consider something else about him.”

“One time in fourth year, two other guys in our class were picking on me, I was suddenly the ‘unpopular’ one that year. Several of the other boys in our class followed suit, and quit talking to me. Not Neville. He stood right by me and told off the others for being so mean. He was trembling when he said it, and someone laughed because he stuttered.”

“When we had to practice dancing for the Yule ball and all the boys were on one side of the room snickering and making fun of the demo, Neville was looking across the hall to where the girls were sitting, trying to hide how they were feeling. They wanted to dance. Neville got up. He went straight to the middle, across bloody no man zone. He stood there, waiting for a partner.”

“I've gone over this final memory maybe twelve times as I wrote this speech. I didn't realise how big it was at the time, and now I know why Dumbledore made it stand alone. In first year Neville had three people willing to talk to him. Me, Hermione and Ron. And we were like bulldogs facing out; that is, we were really protective of each other. Neville was on the outside of that. And one night we crept out of the Gryffindor dorms.”

“To the three remaining people who were willing to talk to him, he stood up to us. He ambushed us in the common room to stop us leaving. He said it was about House points. Years later he told me the truth. He knew we were going to this corridor that was off bounds, and that we might have died. We very nearly did.”

“Over his lifetime Neville would attract a wealth of friends and loved ones and there's a reason even the Hogwarts professors have named the biggest greenhouse Neville's Place , in memory of him. But before all this, before everything, he didn't have mates. He didn’t have a best friend. He was alone, and did everything alone.”

“Neville's death was sudden, but his life was not faint. He was the bravest person I know, because he was able to do the thing no matter what he felt about it. And he put himself in that position — often, for someone he didn't even know.”

“I will be forever grateful that Neville lived. I will forever be grateful for spending eighteen years of my life with a friend like him.”

The vicar took over, and Harry left the pulpit. A soft, warm voice followed him. Harry found his seat just as the vicar said, ‘ the deceased's fiance has sent us a lovely letter —’

Hermione gave his hand a squeeze. One seat deeper, and Ron leaned forward to give Harry a difficult smile. Hermione took Ron’s hand, too, and held them both in her lap. Behind them, Mrs Weasley was crying, muffling herself with a handkerchief. Arthur grasped Harry’s shoulder.

An arrow of light bounced off the coffin and caught Hermione’s temple and the side of her face, bringing up a chestnut lock in a snap. All around her head she had a thin, cobwebby thing that had got onto her somewhere. Glancing up, Harry could see the rafters high above.

He didn’t quite whisper it, but mimed something poorly. Hermione frowned, and bent her head slightly, to let Harry pull off whatever he’d seen. It was surprisingly damp, but tore free very much like a cobweb, breaking in the air to leave behind several tattered ends. 

“Um,” Harry whispered. “Sorry.”

He pressed his fingers to his thumb a few times, it had such a tacky texture, before shaking his hand free. Hermione glanced at his fingers, then gave Harry an odd look.

When the final hymn began, music hit into the wide rafters above. The sun had come out, and was making the stained glass windows glow. Harry and Ron stood up.

The pallbearers were usually male family members, close friends, or colleagues of the deceased. They'd made a notable exception for this, in that all of Neville's students were allowed to carry — and walk with — the coffin.

Standing on the coffin’s right, Ron on the left, they bent to lift. Two of Neville’s taller seventh year students, Will and Toby, were there to provide support. Then eighty nine heads spilled out behind in two long snaking lines around the church. Harry and Ron stepped away once the seventh years, and the sixth, and fifth… had gotten a steady hold. 

The procession crossed a stray god beam, coming in through the stained glass. It lit the varnish on the coffin gold, dust motes floating past. Tens of younger Gryffindor and Hufflepuff students passed Harry and Ron in a proud burst of red and gold. They outnumbered even the mourners. 

Then deep blues, and even greens.

* * * * *

“I hate this,” said Harry. “He didn’t kill himself.”

Ron and Hermione shared a look.

“He didn’t.”

Hermione’s lips were even thinner, and her eyes bright. “Harry…”

“Why would Luna put herself in protective custody?” he urged. “She said they were being hunted. That people were out for them, for Neville , just like the rest of his House! Luna said —”

“That he was tremendously depressed, Harry.” 

Hermione’s voice was tender. Harry couldn’t look into her eyes. “Luna’s also…”

“What?” bit Harry. “You’ve never liked her.”

“Excuse me?”

Ron stood up. "So! I guess, Hermione, you need a lift to your car. Harry, what about all that paperwork, mate?”

They’d stopped by the office afterwards to hang out. Harry could hear Lavender and Teddy in reception, arguing about women. 

“You hated her!” repeated Harry. “You hated her hair, her earrings and her — crystals!”

“You hated those too!”

“I’m parked about a mile away,” rambled Ron, grabbing his keys.

“Just because she’s not… rational — she was rational! She just didn’t get seventeen million degrees, or a PhD or whatever.”

“I don’t care about degrees!” Hermione gasped. “And we got along just fine!”

“Even when we first met her you did this sigh and you stuck your nose in a book and ignored her!”

“I read all the time in school! I did that with everyone .”

“Mate ,” Ron begged, holding the door.

Hermione made an aborted sound, and gathered up her platypus. The creature wheezed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you’re not the only one under a tremendous amount of stress! I have a terribly important press meet tomorrow — and a conference!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

“Yeah — well —”

The door closed on his face. 

Harry stared at it a moment, then followed them out into the hall.

Ron looked back and shot him a sort of apologetic thin-lipped expression. Hermione had her head bowed, clutching her summons, and was talking rapid fire to him. As they reached the front door Harry felt hot and annoyed and confused all at once.

“Well then, go!” he shouted. “Go talk with vampires!”

The door had already closed.

Lavender and Teddy were staring. Lavender leaning over reception looking at a magazine that Teddy was tapping at in gesture, her black pencil skirt outlined as she relaxed one side of her hips. Between them lay an aggressively notated series of lingerie models. 

“Um,” said Harry, frowning. “Hey, Lavender. Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Sure?”

He dragged her into the hall past her office, so Teddy couldn’t hear. “Um. How do — you know — afford all this?”

Lavender blinked. She looked down to where Harry was gesturing. “My shoes? Or the belt?”

“Both, either,” said Harry. “You’ve got that Gucci bag.”

“I have several Gucci bags.”

“Yeah. Right. Exactly,” said Harry. “How’d you afford it? Your new place is insane rent.”

“I use an app,” said Lavender easily. “They have designer brands for second hand. You want the link?”

“No, I mean,” tried Harry again. “You do it with other things, too, not just…” he waved awkwardly, directly at her body because Lavender started scowling. “How do you find stuff for what it isn’t in the real world?”

Lavender shot him a look. “You mean expensive brands for cheap? Not just clothes?”

“Err — kinda,” Harry cast around helplessly. “Like… You know how some chairs are just, sometimes, really expensive? Or windows! Windows are more expensive than you’d expect. Even a dog could be more expensive than another dog. So not clothes but umm… other stuff. You know. Less normal stuff. Stuff that you use for — not that you could eat per say but when you — you take when you… need, erm...”

“Harry. What on earth are you talking about?”

“Nevermind. Where’s Dung?”

Dung, it turned out, wasn’t in till evening, and when he was, he wasn’t in the mood.

“Don’t effing tell me, Potter!” Harry ducked the old phone that went sailing into the wall, cord and all. “Don’t you tell me yer don’t have it!”

“I do! I mean, I’ll have it — soon! ” said Harry. He lifted his hands placatingly, as if to some Hippogriff. “I took one of the Malfoy cases — just not… Mr Malfoy’s — his wife came in, though! I told her to contact you?”

“You turned down the effing Malfoy case?”

“I took his wife! Not like that.”

Dung chewed on the inside of his gum angrily, working his mouth. “You lying to me?”

“No!” said Harry. “She said she’d mail you tonight.”

“Just got in ain’t I? Haven’t had an effing chance. What is it? A different case?”

“Yeah. A missing person,” said Harry quickly. “It’s her son.”

Harry stayed back several feet; there was still a water jug still to toss. The cogs were working in Dung’s mind. Harry could practically see the cost-risk chart. “Her son? Ain’t he their only heir?”

“Yes,” said Harry uncomfortably. “Draco Malfoy. So. About those pills…?”

“What about em?” Dung was only here to grab a few things; he was already shutting stuff down, locking up cupboards. 

“I need them,” said Harry nervously, trying to catch Dung’s eyes. He followed him around the reception as the smaller man banged about. “If I can just — maybe you could — Dung , would you look at me?”

“ What Potter?” Dung swung around furiously. “Yer not getting summin for nuffin. You still owe me for the last effing lot. I gave yer half off on that, to pay up last month, or did yer forget?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” mumbled Harry.

“Better find that Malfoy lad, then, or yer brain’s batshit. I ain’t looking after yer no more.” Dung paused by the front door, his leather jacket on and motorbike helmet tucked under an arm. “Fucking hell. Other people exist too, you know. I’ve got shit goin’ on mee-self, so help me Potter, if I’m going down, you’re going down and all. Misery loves company.”

Something cold settled over Harry. “What do you mean?”

Dung snarled. “Treat it as a bit of incentive, eh? You don’t pay up, I’ll let the other wankers here know what you've been munching. And why .”

Panic warred with anger. “Why would you do that?” said Harry. “It doesn’t help you, either. I’d have to leave. The others wouldn’t work with me. You’d just lose a —”

“I don’t fucking care , mate,” snapped Dung, taking his hand off the door to get up into Harry’s space. Despite Dung being a lot shorter than him, Harry took a step back. “You think this matters?” Dung gestured at the office. “None of this matters! What matters is getting that effing money .”

Dung breathed for several long seconds, collecting himself. “Sort yourself out. Get me that money. Then you’ll get yours.”

The door slamming had never sounded so final.

Slowly, from their office, Ron put out his head.

“How long did he give?” Ron asked hesitantly.

Harry didn’t turn around. “Two weeks.” 

He strode over to reception to sign out.

Ron whistled. It was a low, depressing whistle. Both he and Hermione knew about Harry’s ‘situation’. (“You can’t help what you are! Why, my Great Aunt Tessie was a…”) It was the rest of the world Harry kept it from.

Ron had been playing Candy Crush in their office for hours; Harry had begged to share a lift home. Getting to Bath in the pouring rain when the trains were striking just wasn’t fun.

“What you gonna do?” Ron asked. He traipsed out into reception, Harry’s jacket on his arm.

“Dunno,” said Harry moodily. “Be depressed. Go crazy.”

Ron nodded. “You should get a cat. They help with that.”

It took ages to get back in the dark, rainy traffic. An accident had blocked the M4. Ron’s Ford Fiesta pulled up in front of Harry’s flat almost two hours late. Harry couldn’t even hear his thank you! in the wind and rain; but he watched as the red headlights pulled away, and Ron’s car vanished up the road.

Inside, Harry wasted no time in stripping his damp clothes, jumping into the shower to warm up, and then straight into bed. 

It can’t be that bad. I’m exaggerating how bad it was. He’d been on the pills for years, after all. He was probably misremembering how it was before. Not having slept the night before, Harry was all too happy to curl up in his sheets, shivering in pleasure at the simple feeling of not having to do anything until the next day.

He passed out.

* * * * *

In a strangely vivid dream, Harry opened his eyes.

He was sitting on a fallen log. Light dappled the canopy high above, and cast pools of green light onto the forest floor below, igniting harebells and foxgloves aglow. There was moss at his feet. An insect buzzed past Harry’s ear. Distantly, a chorus of lyrical songbirds. But not here. This close to the cabin — to the hunting lodge, if that was what it was — it was quiet.

He’d stopped dreaming of this place since he’d gotten back on the pills. There had been a rough spot though, maybe end of spring, when Harry had missed a few doses. Dung had ended up giving him the rest despite Harry being short for cash. But during that interim of time, he’d started getting the dreams. 

And here he was, back again.

"Harry Potter, I never asked: but how is it that you know of my father's lodge?”

The voice was rich, and low; smooth with interest.

Tom — Lord Voldemort — stood at ease, his hip resting against the pillar of a smooth tree, his ankles crossed. As occurred more in dreams than in waking life, the vampire was clad in a form-fitting dark suit, with no jacket in sight. The crisp white shirt, open by a button or two at the neck, practically glowed.

“I don’t know this place,” said Harry. “You know I don’t.”

The vampire stood too close for Harry’s liking, even if it was a dream. A weird, lucid dream that Harry knew Voldemort was all too conscious of. He was genuinely speaking to him, when this happened, as he unhappily learned. Vampires got off on bewitching people through sleep.

"These are your dreams,” Harry added, “and you just drag me into them. For what? So a random person can watch you standing in sunlight?"

“Oh, Harry, you are no random bystander to my affairs.”

Harry imagined changing the surroundings. He'd read that if you could do that, you could get out. But the trees held still, even the knots on the log’s bark held fast. No broom appeared. 

He sounded as frustrated as he felt. "As idyllic as this forest is, these encounters just aren't worth the effort of speaking to you."

Voldemort’s heavy eyebrows lifted in amusement; or rather one of them did, the black wing arching up as smoothly as the corner of the vampire’s mouth. The internet considered him handsome. Tiktok made thirst bait of his interviews. Two silver eyes narrowed.

“The effort?” Voldemort crooned. “You wound me, Harry. I quite enjoy our little chats.”

His half smile deepened. Voldemort pushed away from the tree and took four deliberate strides forward, closing in. Harry bristled, his shoulders squaring where he sat. He would not move from his log.

Voldemort moved from the head and his hackles, like a predator, his bright gaze fixed. “You haven’t been taking your medicine.”

There came no change to Voldemort’s face, but his tone was subtly lower — laced with intrigue.

Harry pressed his palms to the log, straightening up. “I’ll be on it again soon, don't you worry. Actually — you can thank one of your followers for that.”

“Oh?” Voldemort sauntered forwards, with a haughty smugness that said that no such event occurred. “I thought we’d talked about lying, Harry.”

Harry saw red. “Malfoy,” he snapped, his voice clipped. “Malfoy came in.”

Voldemort stopped.

Pleasure flared in Harry’s chest. “On behalf of a new patron. Couldn’t imagine who.”

“Neither could I,” said Voldemort smoothly. His tone was receptively light. “Whatever could dear old Lucius want that he does not already have?” 

“I couldn’t say,” said Harry, stretching out his legs happily.

“Why did you stop your medication?” Voldemort pressed. 

Harry suppressed a scowl. With as light an expression as Voldemort currently wore, he said, "What are you talking about? You're the one that needs sedating, dragging me into your dreams or whatever the hell this is." Harry gestured around at the woods before letting his hand fall into his lap in an expression of frustration. "Are you really so bored wherever it is while you're... torpored or whatever? Can't you just sleep and leave everyone else alone?”

There, a twitch. But Voldemort didn’t answer him, not properly. He only murmured, "It is quite clearly a forest, Harry. That is what it is. Did you know they represent immortality? And courage, endurance..”

He didn't stop. He walked forward until he was upon Harry, barely a foot out. His tall profile cast Harry shadow. He’d put himself between Harry’s outstretched legs.

This close and his trouser legs were criss-crossed with a grey pattern. Harry could see the scar that passed white across Voldemort's pale face. A thin thing, it was invisible unless you were this close. It decorated the edge of Voldemort’s high cheekbone, before turning sharply down in a line to his jaw. The silver irises shrank, Voldemort's pupils expanded, and he was suddenly staring at Harry with unparalleled intensity.

Harry instinctively stood up — hating the feeling of the vampire looming over him. He might not be quite as tall as Voldemort but standing to face him still felt better than sitting before him. Voldemort's lips twitched slightly, his eyes opening a fraction wider. He didn't move.

Harry's decision to get up, also, left them very close to one another. Harry inhaled sharply, as Voldemort’s face came up incredibly close. With a mix of disgust and genuine fear, Harry took a step back — and stumbled over the log.

"When you find yourself walking through a forest,” said Voldemort, enjoying his current company’s flailing, “it symbolises that you are trying to hold onto something which has been lost."

The sound of the canopy stirring above; the damp grass and the scent of pine needles; the light that bounced off a stagnant pond and brightened Voldemort's face — it was all lovely, and completely fake. This is a dream. Wake up.

"Does it? What does repetitively dreaming of another bloke tell you?”

Voldemort smiled. “That we share a connection. A remarkable connection.”

“You made that connection when you started dream-snaring me. Did one of my articles just piss you off, now that you’re one of them? You read an article and that was that?"

He'd never seen the scar on Voldemort's face up close before and despite himself, Harry wondered where he had got it. He'd like to send the culprit a bouquet. 

“Did I?” Voldemort enjoyed the sight of Harry stumbling around the trunk. He followed immediately, at a sedate prowl. "The reason your subconscious mind moves through landscapes in your dream generally means that you are feeling unsettled and..." Voldemort drew his gaze over Harry's body, slowly. The wolf eyes came up. "Insecure."

He rounded the trunk, and artfully tilted his head on one side. The dark waves were almost glossy in this light, curling at their ends, groomed back behind his ears. "It can also mean you've been feeling lost… unable to find any type of direction in regards to your career. Or, in boorish fashion, you are suffering from domestic problems. Knowing you, Harry, it's all three." Voldemort smiled indulgently. "Fortunately for you, then, that changes are afoot if, while in the woods, you meet somebody along the way who is able to help you.”

The space vanished between them. “I can help you, Harry. Why did you stop taking your medication?" 

Harry almost tripped over in his haste to get away from the vampire. “Hey - hey!”

Voldemort inhaled sharply, air moving over his parted lips. Excitement thickened the air. "Have you decided to speak with her? Will you at last summon her spirit in some ghastly fashion? Will you use your powers now, Harry, for this greater need?"

It took Harry a moment to process the words. He was caught entirely off guard, his expression dropping into blank fury.

"Keep her memory out of your filthy, bloodsucking mouth. My business has nothing to do with you and I sure as hell don't want your help." Harry's voice was rising now, colour rising to his cheeks. "Why do you have such a bloody obsession with my life? How do you even know half of these things? Go back to whatever hole your sire is keeping you in and leave. Me. Alone."

Voldemort moved. One second he was there, safe a good few steps out, the next — Harry slammed against a tree. 

All his air escaped him in a rush. His spine went rigid, and Harry found himself trapped in a vice, the hard tree behind him and Voldemort, flush to his front. The vampire snatched his dominant wrist out the air as it moved to strike, he held it firm in a manacled hold. With his free hand Tom grasped Harry's jaw, his long fingers curling, as he leaned his handsome face close to Harry's. Cool breath fanned over Harry's mouth.

"Where it concerns you, Harry, I don't know half the things I'd like, nor half the things I ought. What I do know is that you are as foul and filthy as the rest of us. I can smell you," Voldemort murmured, taking his lips over his cheek to the sensitive shell of Harry's ear. "I can smell a fel chill that nips, ever, at your heels. If I am a slave to instinct and horror, what makes the necromancer... but the slaver?" 

Voldemort's strength was terrifying. Moving against his grip was absolutely futile, like pushing against stone. Harry felt his heart rate rocketing, his pulse beating in his ears as his body went into overdrive at what felt like the very real threat of attack. 

"Get off of me, you insane corpse."

As Harry practically spat the words in Voldemort's face, the meaning of what the vampire had said sunk in with a dull and terrible weight. He was a corpse and this was only a dream after all, wasn't it? Would it be so awful just to try?

Harry closed his eyes with a restricted breath and sank into himself, falling into the void and reaching out for his power that lay dormant but watchful – waiting to be beckoned. Feeling a twist of nausea in his belly, Harry seized that power and willed it forward. With all his might, he willed Voldemort's dead limbs to yield to his power; to weaken and drop. To let him go.

It worked.

Light bounced off the stagnant pond, lit the edge of the vampire's black curls a burning gold. Voldemort's strong chest was rising and falling rapidly but — it worked.

His weight unbalanced. With a discordant jerk, as though resisting it, Voldemort dropped Harry's wrist. He let his jaw go. Voldemort did not, quite, take a step back, but he stood in place with his laboured breathing, his gaze bright with something like shock.

Harry on the other hand took quite a few steps back, holding one hand out in front of him in a gesture that could be a warning to stay back — or a spell-casting form. His other hand patted his clothes down for something he could use as a weapon. Would violence even work in a dream?

Real or not, Harry felt the effect of the necromancy as clear as day. His head swam and he felt a cold, sticky sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He felt sick to his stomach and all he wanted was to sit down and put his head between his knees, but he refused to take his eyes off of Voldemort.

For a moment it looked as though Voldemort might attack him. His whole body was poised, whipcord tight. His intelligent gaze flicked to Harry's fingers; it took in the tremble, the bob of his throat, the sweat at his brow.

Then Voldemort smiled. A slow, permissive smile, full of tolerance.

"Isn't that better?" His eyes were hooded and a shadow fell about him, but the ring of his irises shone all the brighter. "Claim whatever sainthood you like in this crusade against vampirism. But your magic is an evil older and deeper than any creature can hope to achieve."

Harry grabbed the front of his own shirt and shifted it on his body, trying to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling of sweat running down his back. "I don't claim to be a saint, I'm just not gripped by whatever mass insanity has the general population accepting your kind as people. And my magic’s not like that."

A hiss came into his voice, but Harry seemed less certain. Voldemort's words struck a chord in him — one that he wanted to ignore but couldn't. He hated how the vampire could speak and sometimes it felt as though Harry's deepest, most private thought came spilling out of that fanged mouth.

"I've had enough of this. I want to wake up." Harry swallowed and closed his eyes, concentrating. "I'm going to wake up."

“Oh, and Harry.”

Voldemort’s voice carried on the air. 

“I am not, in fact, the master behind these dreams. Loathe as you are to accept it.”