Charge
Fred Weasley knew Malfoy couldn't be trusted. Being proven right left something smug in his stomach. He had a rather pleasant image of hitting the wanker in the face.
Well, it couldn't do harm if he read the damn thing would it?
The wax was still hot on the letter. A sound down the corridor sounded like footsteps. He stilled. The sound faded. He was the last of the search party. The mission had, by most accounts, been a success. The prisoners liberated, the guards gotten rid of.
But Fred had been told to leave Rosier alone and that just wouldn't do. After the last Order meeting, Harry and Kingsley took him aside and told him that whoever their spy was had determined that Rosier was a reluctant death eater.
Well reluctant death eaters were a dime a dozen.
Rosier may have looked different than he expected --- in fact, after finding him here, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen Rosier in the basement at all but he still allowed all this to happen under his own roof and that had to count for something right?
He gulped uncomfortably when he glanced at the dead body on the floor. It had been an impulsive decision, he'd meant to interrogate him about Georgie first. But Georgie had not been found and they’d had a rather promising lead bound downstairs. The death eater was probably in the basement at Grimmauld by now, experiencing Moody’s rather fierce brand of interrogation.
And the wards at the door had been so easy to break, thanks to Fred's being a curse breaker’s brother and a consummate pranker to boot. Not that he’d meant to brag but breaking wards was something he was better at than many a wizard. And with Harry’s invisibility cloak, it had been so easy, too easy, seeing the wanker at his comfortable desk, taking a long swig of muggle liquor, and closing his eyes with a sigh. It had seemed one of contentment that led Fred into a rage.
Now he wasn’t sure if it hadn't actually been wariness.
The man had quickly opened his eyes and sealed the parchment in front of him with frantic motions. Fred had snuck behind him. Aimed not his wand, but a knife. Reached around the chair.
It was done, there was no use dwelling on it now. He tried to block out the gurgling of recent memory. The guilt. This hadn’t been self-defense. This had been. . . He tried to ignore the silence ringing through the room. The rush of moisture in his eyes.
He moved closer to the light. Lifted the letter. Stared at it. Broke the seal.
Lord Malfoy,
I know you do not know me and normally I would never think to ask, but I am desperate. I hope you forgive me for not sending this via owl but I have the utmost faith in my courier and trust that he can keep this letter from being intercepted. I have also received enough words of your character to know you can be trusted as well.
Your mother did me a great favor and kept me apprised of a someone I hold dear as soon as she discovered the relation; I hope you can forgive me for asking the same of you.
I just wish to know if my niece is well. She is the last daughter of the family line and I fear my time is near. I’ve missed her and news of her well-being is the only thing that has held me afloat. You probably think me maudlin but please consider this a dying man’s wish.
It is of upmost importance. I can tell you more details if you agree to meet with me but just know that our family took great measures to protect her and it is vital that she remain protected.
You know her as Hermione. I have been told you have a soft spot for her.
Your ally and supplicant,
E.R.
The letter had never been sent. Fred briefly wondered if the courier would show up to pick up the missive. He wondered if he should accompany the courier while he delivered it just to grab Malfoy by the throat and ask him what he knew.
Fred was not a violent person no, but Malfoy had always looked so uncomfortably at Hermione. It made his stomach churn. When they were children, it was hatred yes, but also . . . interest that resembled his own longing but the difference is Malfoy hid it not in the nonchalant teasing way Fred used and the git had hurt Hermione. More than once. He could never be okay with anyone hurting Hermione and if the person doing the hurting was a Malfoy and a Slytherin, well then all the more reason to hate the prat. Georgie and he always joked that the kid must have had a permanent stiffie after making it his duty to insult her and Potter. They had a permanent bet going as to which one the little git desired more. Fred knew this was Georgie’s way of making him not worry about Hermione.
And now---- the ferret still looked at her, watched her. He wasn’t sure if Hermione noticed. He’d made it a point not to ask. Did Malfoy still have an interest in Hermione? Was there something between them she hadn't told him about? He knew their relationship was new but still. He would know right? This was stupid. His mum and Ron’s whinging about her was getting to him. He just had to block them out, that was all.
Did the ferret suspect something? Know about this letter? Fred reread it. He tried to. He couldn’t finish a second reading.
Fred inhaled sharply, suddenly aware that his chest felt heavy and his vision was quickly tunneling. He looked at the body on the floor again. Could this man really be related to Hermione? They didn’t even look alike. Except for maybe the hair. But Rosier’s was smoother. So maybe some distant relation, that was it. Some long lost squib in the family leading Hermione to be raised muggle. It wouldn't be unheard of. And purebloods were so quick to feign a closer relation to someone not at all close if it meant keeping a line from dying.
And if they had been close, Hermione wouldn’t have had that slur carved on her arm. He thought of her eyes, shrewd but warm. Of the ring he’d nicked in his pocket. One couldn’t just go out and buy an engagement ring when one was on the run. He’d left a few galleons of course. His eyes closed.
Maybe Rosier planned to use her to his advantage. Befriend Potter's mudblood (death eater talk left a foul taste in his mouth but for years, he'd never heard her name, just bits of gossip with that slur directed at her and he felt guilty whenever he thought about how his ears perked up every time he’d heard it hoping for some news of her). But this had to be it. This was Rosier’s plan. Pretend to be a doting uncle, get left alone by the Order. Moody and Kinglsey were so stupid to believe it.
Or maybe it was blackmail. Rosier had been planning blackmail due to some long lost relative on the family tree. That seemed likely. Hermione probably had no idea. He made a mental note to re-check the room with the photographs for evidence of this. He was sure he’d find it. His heart pounded in his chest and he proceeded to look through the rest of the documents on the desk.
Nothing. Reports of crop harvests and tenants. A newspaper. An empty picture frame in a drawer.
His eyes watered. Hermione would've told him, wouldn't she? No one knew. He would've known if they did. Did she know?
But then. . .
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Kept looking through drawers. Nothing more.
All boring this or that. Nothing of use.
His hands pressed against something, he wasn't sure what. His throat tightened. Nothing happened.
He turned around, intent on burning the letter. Intent on pretending he'd never seen it. He'd go home and kiss Hermione. Tell her he'd taken care of things. Ask her if she knew, there was no way she did but if she did, maybe she had a good reason. Surely she'd forgive him for killing some distant uncle or whatever Rosier was.
A tapestry had appeared on the wall behind the desk and he was sure it hadn't been there before. Maybe whatever the clicking sound was what revealed this? Some lever or switch he hadn’t intended to find?
He ignored the photographs stuck to it. He couldn't look at them, he couldn't process them. His eyes skimmed downwards, to the last name on the tree.
He felt his heart drop. He’d already thought it was so low before. Then his eyes focused on the photograph.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there. But at some point Moody was at his side looking at the same name he was.
"Well I'll be."
More Order members trickled in.
Placed on the tapestry with a half hazard sticking charm next to the name was a photograph. It showed Rosier, or at least someone who looked like Rosier but younger, less stressed, with a child on his lap.
The child had wild bushy hair and a heart-melting smile.
………
Evan Rosier supposed he should be glad they hadn't checked his pulse.
The world faded to black anyway.