The Meeting
This was personal.
Hermione would probably warn him that it was self-aggrandizing, but Harry couldn’t help but feel that kids--just, all kids--were under his protection. Tom wasn’t satisfied with just infecting his mind. He had stepped onto Harry’s turf.
Every second he had to spare from his hefty caseload, Harry spent in search of Tom’s experimental subjects. He was drawing from the few clues in Draco’s notes, and after days of searching, all he had turned up were a few names without even a solid enough lead to justify an interview. He was about ready to throw his laptop through the office window.
Only, they couldn’t afford the repairs, so he didn’t.
What he needed was a list of names. Of course, he wasn’t stupid. He knew he probably couldn’t have that until a trial at the very earliest; in fact, if D.E.P. was canny enough to destroy the information, he might end up being the one to piece together the information for such a list.
He wasn’t suited to that, was the thing. Sure, Harry understood enough about the law to navigate it to his charges’ best advantage, but his strengths were really in discovering where a child’s best interests lay and then doggedly advocating for them. He’d had to learn the diplomatic skills involved, but the implacability came naturally. Puzzle-solving and sleuthing, though? For all he and his friends had gamboled about like Harriet the Spy and the Hardy Boys at Mallory Towers, Hermione was the logician and Ron the chess champion. Harry had only ever been nosy, restless, and awash with an indeterminate righteous fury.
And now? Well, all of those things still applied, but they weren’t of much use. These circles of fruitless research reminded him of nothing so much as the swimming lessons Hermione had given him during the fiasco with the inter-school triathlon. For weeks he’d fumbled about the shallows, gasping, feeling as though he’d better befriend the bottom of the lake sooner rather than later.
Of course, he had eventually learned to swim. Because he was implacable. And so, he would find a way to be of use here. Yes: another cup of tea, and back to work.
But as he stood on shaky legs to fulfill that resolution--hmm, how long had it been since he’d eaten, then?--Dennis Creevey, the receptionist-slash-aide-slash-office-mascot, poked his head round Harry’s cubicle wall.
“Call for you,” he chirped.
“Great,” Harry muttered, sinking back down into his seat. “Er, I mean, thanks, Dennis. Who is it?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s the thing.” Dennis was talking even faster than usual; nervous, then. “The guy on the phone claims to be Lucius Malfoy? That’s why I’m checking with you first. Didn’t want to forward it if it was just some nutter, you know?”
“Shite,” said Harry.
“Should I tell him to slag off?”
“No.” Harry scrambled out of his chair. “I’ll take the call. Here I come.”
“I could have transferred it,” Dennis muttered as Harry followed him to the reception desk. Shooing Dennis away, he picked up the phone.
“Harry Potter speaking.”
“Mr. Potter,” oozed a voice Harry had, in his heart of hearts, still somehow hoped never to hear again. “So pleased I could get in touch with you. We have matters to discuss.”
“I wasn’t aware you had interests in common with the office,” said Harry sharply. “You do know this is my work number, Lord Malfoy?”
In the momentary pause, Harry could hear Dennis’ scandalized gasp.
“It seemed prudent to approach you as a professional,” Lucius prevaricated. “I wondered if you could find time in your busy schedule to meet with me.”
It was both a command and a threat. Normally, Harry wouldn’t have responded to such a tone. But these days had been frustrating, and Harry was chomping at the bit to do something.
“At your convenience, Lord Malfoy,” he responded with the transparent sarcasm Draco said marked him as incapable of true refinement.
“Excellent,” said Lucius drily. “Tomorrow at nine?”
“Your office?”
“Obviously,” Lucius scoffed, apparently feeling that Harry’s lack of grace excused him from his own usually cool manners.
“All right,” said Harry, and he hung up. Dennis opened his mouth to ask questions, and Harry shot him a glare. Thus, he was allowed to return to his desk in peace. He promptly called Draco.
“So pleased you could make time for me,” was Draco’s greeting. Harry shuddered. He sometimes forgot how much of Draco’s speech patterns were adapted from his father’s.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been busy with--well, you know what with! But we can argue later, if that’s what you want to do. I just wanted to ask if you’d meet me at mine tonight.”
“Oh?” Draco’s voice lowered, and Harry could almost see him stretching like a satisfied cat. “Have you finally realized you need some down time?”
Harry swallowed. “Actually, I have something I want to talk to you about.” He paused, then added, “But...yeah, I mean. That--wouldn’t be bad.”
“Wouldn’t be bad, he says. All right, Potter, I’ll be there.”
***
“Absolutely not.”
“I already made the appointment,” Harry said stubbornly.
“Unmake it,” said Draco.
“And then what? He’ll just let it drop?”
That made Draco hesitate. “No,” he admitted. “He won’t let it drop.”
“I know you don’t want me to meet with him,” said Harry, a little more gently. “A large, probably more sensible part of me doesn’t want to, either. But why do you think he wants to?”
“I have a few guesses,” said Draco.
“Well?”
“My first thought is that he wants to avoid complications in the matter of--You-Know-Who.”
Harry smiled wanly. “You can say his name.”
“Rather not.” Draco grimaced. “It would be like my father to handle the affair internally as much as is possible, so he may be seeking some assurance of your non-interference.”
Harry laughed.
“What?”
“He can have that, to a point. Unless the kids need new homes, there isn’t all that much I can do. It’s Hermione he has to worry about.”
“He’ll probably expect you to speak for her as well.”
“He can ask,” Harry said simply, “but I won’t.”
Draco sighed. “A secondary motivation,” he continued, “is probably to gauge the nature of your connection with me.”
“Doesn’t your mum know?” Harry asked, brow furrowed.
“Yes,” said Draco patiently, “but that doesn’t mean she’s told him. Of course, I suspect she has, but even then, he may not believe it.”
“Why would either of you lie about that?” Harry asked.
“Why indeed,” said Draco mysteriously, giving Harry a fond look.
“So…do you not want me to tell him?”
“About us?” Draco smiled. “I don’t mind. Actually, I’d be curious to hear what you’d say.”
Harry swallowed. He, himself, was curious about the same thing. “I need a drink.”
“Then pour one,” said Draco. “It’s your flat.”
Harry snorted. “Some boyfriend you are.”
It wasn’t until several seconds later, as he poured his whisky in absolute silence, that Harry realized what he’d said. He poured Draco a measure and doubled his own.
“Um,” he said.
“It’s all right,” said Draco softly, taking the proffered glass. “Shall we table that for a while?”
“Of course,” said Harry. “Please. I’m sorry--I didn’t mean--I mean, I didn’t even know I was thinking it until just now.”
“I’m, er.” Draco sipped his drink. “Not opposed.”
“Not?”
“That is, if you’re not--”
“I mean, I’m not. Obviously. Or maybe not obviously? I suppose it could have been a complete mistake, just a fluke, and we could have ignored it, only now I’ve given myself away, and--” Harry interrupted himself by taking a gulp of whisky. “Please stop me from saying anything else.”
“That I can do.”
***
Harry left Draco--who was possibly his boyfriend, now?--sleeping in his bed, wondering fondly whether the lout had any respect at all for business hours. Survey said no. He briefly considered wearing Draco’s discarded dress shirt to the meeting with Lord Malfoy, but it was a no go: too long in the sleeves, too tight in the chest. Plus, wrinkled. Instead, he dressed in his own clothes, just as he did for a regular work day. Let Lord Malfoy sneer. He probably would, regardless.
At eight fifty-five, Harry stepped off the elevator into what looked like the waiting room for a million-pound plastic surgeon. Amongst the immaculate chairs and striped ivory wallpaper, a woman sat at an elegant wooden desk. Harry vaguely recognized her from school, the younger sibling of one of Draco’s hangers-on.
“Mr. Potter,” she greeted with detached, ironic professionalism.
“Hi,” said Harry. “Er--Davis, is it?”
The young woman winced. “Greengrass, actually. Lucius is ready for you any time, so you can go on through. Just knock first.”
Harry couldn’t help rolling his eyes just a bit at the proud, possessive way Greengrass said Lord Malfoy’s first name, drawling it just as Draco’s lackeys had done his when they were in school. Like it was such a coveted achievement to be cordial with one’s boss.
“Thanks,” he said, and knocked lightly on the imposing double doors to Lord Malfoy’s office.
“Enter,” said the voice from inside, and Harry did. He stopped short when he took in the scene: Lord Malfoy seated behind his outrageously oversized desk, and in a comfortable conference chair pulled up intimately to his side, one Tom Riddle.
“Oh,” said Harry. “If I’d realized this was an ambush, I would have dressed for it.”
Lord Malfoy sneered. “I sincerely doubt that.”
“No,” Harry agreed, “you’re probably right. But I wouldn’t have walked in alone.” He caught Tom’s eye. “Stupid of me. I should have woken Draco.”
It was amazing, given how different Draco and Tom were from each other, that they both took so much after Malfoy Senior. Lord Malfoy and Tom fixed Harry with matching looks of chilly disapproval.
“He only would have gotten in the way of our chat,” said Tom after an awkward moment. “I wished to speak with you in a professional setting, and I applied to Lord Malfoy for help.”
“I see.” Harry gritted his teeth. “That was badly done, Lord Malfoy. You should have listened to your wife.”
“I’ll thank you not to bring my private life into this,” said Lord Malfoy.
Harry snorted. “You’re going to try and convince me this somehow isn’t about your family life? What’s it about, then?”
“Business interests.”
“Business interests.” Harry sighed, frustrated. “Look, Lord Malfoy, if it’s really about that, take my advice. Wash your hands of Riddle before this all blows up, or you’ll go down with him.”
***
“Harry,” Hermione groaned. “You didn’t.”
“Didn’t--what?”
She huffed, creating a loud crackle of feedback on the line. “You as good as told Riddle we have something on him.”
“Well--don’t we?”
“Yes,” she said, “but the sooner he knew about it, the more time he would have to prepare a defense. And possibly dispose of evidence. That’s why we were keeping it quiet.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Well, I am sorry about that.”
“Quite.” Hermione sighed. “Draco isn’t going to take this well.”
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “Maybe this is what it takes for him to finally--”
***
“--finally get disowned.”
“You’re taking this awfully well,” said Harry.
“It’s all I’ve ever dreamt of,” said Draco.
“Won’t it cause problems?” Harry suggested. “You know--with money? I know that matters to you.”
Draco waved the concern away. “I have a few million in trust from my mother’s side of the family,” he said. “I haven’t touched it, since I’m saving it for when Father finally cuts me loose.”
“You really have been planning for this.”
“Like I said. All I’ve ever dreamt of.”