FIC for marseverlasting (1/2)
For: marseverlasting
From: trubbleclef
Title: Death at the Manor, a mystery by Alasdair Head (1/2)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A house party hosted at Malfoy Manor becomes dashed awkward for the guests when some thoughtless blighter starts killing people.
Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter, nor a time machine, sadly.
Warnings: BLATANT AND INTENTIONAL USE OF STEREOTYPICAL ANACHRONISTIC BRITICISMS; adultery; mention of a very inappropriate relationship; het; romance; smoking; Slytherins; filthy letters; NSFW picture at end.
Author's Note: Please note that the materials bookending the story were written by a mystery contributor. All Most persons mentioned within said materials were real at one time or another. As noted above, out-dated British expressions abound, particularly from the 1930s and the Victorian/Edwardian eras. This is because it was inspired heavily by the works of P.G. Wodehouse and Agatha Christie. Other sources of inspiration are simply too numerous to mention: books, films and historical relationships, in particular. I leave it to you to pick them out. marseverlasting, you have proved a wonderful muse, and I enjoyed writing this more than I can say. I hope that this affords you some real pleasure.
Introduction to the 3rd North American Edition:
As we celebrate this 20th anniversary of the original publication of Alasdair Head's seminal work with a new, revised edition, it is time perhaps to reexamine Mr. Head's contributions to literature, science and pornographic representations of the characters from Harry Potter.
How did this odd little man from a family in decline manage to claw his way to the very top of so many different fields? Head has submitted papers to the Royal Society on topics ranging from entomology to phlebotomy and in nearly every example managed to seamlessly weave in complex homoerotic stories set within the 'Harry Potter' universe originally created by J.K. Rowling.
Is it literature or is it science? Gentlemen; the very fact that we are asking this question suggests that we are dealing with a true pioneering giant of the humanities.
Mr. Head was fond of saying that a man is best judged by an examination of his enemies. Perhaps this was why he made so very many of them and at such varied levels of society. In the spirit of that sentiment, let us now examine Head's most notable enemies.
Head's long-standing quarrel with Rev. Gilbert White over the particulars of the supposed hibernation of European barn swallows is well-known. By the time of their respective deaths, no one other than themselves actually believed that swallows hibernated at all. By all appearances they ought to have been natural allies and yet on at least three occasions the two men had to be forcibly separated during melees in the street. Rev. White felt very strongly that this hibernation occurred at the bottoms of Cornish tin mines while Head followed the example of Aristotle (a great lover of the Greek ways was Mr. Head) in arguing that the swallows, in fact, dove in vast flocks to the bottoms of mill ponds for the duration of winter. It is widely known that the short, ugly scar above Mr. Head's left eye was caused by a blow from Rev. White's brass-headed cane on the occasion of Sir Henry Hallett Dale's funeral. Their subsequent expulsion from the Athaeneum Club was a direct result of their feud.
His dispute with noted SoHo dandy Sebastian Horsley was somewhat one-sided. Head had an affair with Mr. Horsley that was brief but believed by many to have enormously influenced the homoerotic themes that would later appear in his literature. The fling ended badly and Head bore a grudge against Horsley for the rest of his life, going so far as to savage Horsley in the editorial pages of the Daily Mail after the latter’s dramatic crucifixion. For his part, Horsley appears utterly oblivious to Head’s ill will and struggled to even remember who Alasdair Head was during an interview in preparation for this piece.
There was, of course, Head’s notorious battle with pioneering physicist John William Strutt (the 3rd Baron Rayleigh). Lord Rayleigh of course proposed the existence of the noble gas argon. Head quickly retorted, presenting a paper before a meeting of the Society in which he labeled Lord Rayleigh “a raving lunatic.” Surely no one could ever sum up Head’s criticism of argon more clearly than Head himself:
“The belief in so-called noble gases of any kind is the very worst sort of modern superstition that I have seen among Englishmen since the seance craze. What is the nature of this imaginary gas? Lord Rayleigh says that you cannot see it, you cannot smell it and it does not react with much of anything. And yet we are to believe that this invisible nothing of his is an elemental, on par with gold and iron? Gentleman, the only gas that I detect in Lord Rayleigh’s theory of ‘argon’ is very much of an odour - very much indeed!”
Following Mr. Head's untimely death of scurvy last May, a wealth of old letters was discovered among his things which documented a private quarrel between himself and the pioneering Egyptologist Sir E. A. Wallis Budge. This quarrel, unknown to the general public until recently, originally concerned early pairings that Head shipped in some of his first published HP fan fiction. In a letter to his mother regarding the disagreement, Budge wrote:
“I cannot countenance a pairing of Hermione and Harry, for it is of the worst incestuous nature. This pairing can only encourage the most immoral, un-healthy desires in the loins of the reader, not only setting him apart from G-d and his fellow man but also necessarily leading to a sort of shame that must put one in ill balance of the humours and endanger the liver.”
The disagreement between Budge and Head later expanded to the question of whether the Heiratic script descended directly from the true Heiroglyphic or merely borrowed characters. Head’s papers on early Coptic manuscripts were later discredited, but scholars still consider them worth reading for the frotting scenes.
The least of Head’s enemies was indisputably the old woman affectionately known to Northampton locals as ‘50p Lil.’ A former prostitute, 50p Lil raised the ire of Alasdair Head when an unknown prankster paid her a small sum of money to defecate in his umbrella, which had been left by the door as he entered Woolworth’s on a rainy afternoon. Head was more vexed by the 50p Lil situation than he had been by quarrels with any other person. There was literally nothing he could do. Write about it? Lil was and remains illiterate. Challenge her? She’s a dried-up old woman who could not possibly fight a duel. Press legal charges? The authorities didn’t want her to be their problem any more than Head did. 50p Lil, so named for her usual price, was untouchable in her ignorance and filth and Head’s inability to obtain any sort of revenge haunted him to his last days.
As the untimely death of Mr. Head fades farther into the past, it would seem that public interest in his life only increases. The bookshops have seen a parade of tell-all biographies, photographic retrospectives and anthologies of his scientific papers, HP slash fiction and personal letters. But has this flood of research gotten us any closer to understanding the man himself?
Surely the recent revelations of his various trysts with the Boswell Sisters shed some light on the origins of his 'het-fic' period. It is not unreasonable to suggest that Head's pairing of Seamus simultaneously with Ginny, Luna and Hermione had some origin in that relationship with the famous trio of crooners. His depiction of a young wizard torn in three directions and unable to choose among them is of a nature so vivid and penetrating that only personal experience could have allowed it.
Head’s experiences with the Boswell Sisters, both individually and in a languid, opium-fed orgy in a Paris hotel had a marked effect on his approach to the brothers Weasley. We know from Head's letters that the sight of Connie and Martha Boswell's entwined limbs and bobbing heads led him to reconsider his past opposition to the pairing together of Fred and George Weasley.
Darker questions have also been raised by some of the recent Head scholarship. Could it really have been Alasdair Head who put Bella in the witch elm? His presence at Stourbridge at the estimated time of the killing can easily be explained by his attempts to follow up on reports of European barn swallows being seen in the act of diving to the bottom of a Stourbridge dew pond during the previous October. But other details are more sinister. The strip of taffeta found in the dead woman's mouth, believed to have been used to asphyxiate her, perfectly matches the fabric of a dress that Head was known to have worn during his liaisons with Ernest Rutherford, 1st Baron of Nelson. Head and Rutherford later fell out over the notorious argon controversy (the existence of argon being necessary to some of Rutherford's experiments demonstrating orbital theory of the atom). Was Rutherford telling the truth about Head's taffeta dress, or were these the angry accusations of an unhappy former lover?
Head was democratical in his selections of both enemies and bed-mates, rare enough though it is that those can be separated into distinct groups in the case of Alasdair Head. Another generation of scholars will surely continue trying to disentangle clues as to Head’s personal psychosexual history from his papers and essays on beetles of the South Pacific islands. Meanwhile, Head’s work must speak for itself.
Acknowledgements:
The author wishes to express his affectionate gratitude and warmest regards to a number of persons who have provided invaluable assistance in the course of producing this work.
I could not have produced this, my opus, without the advice and friendship of Sir Edmund Stokes, FRS. Sir Edmund's world-famous work on gynandromorphism among new world butterflies has been (and remains) a source of great inspiration to me.
The infinite patience of Miss Edith Humphries has been essential to the progress of my work these last several years as I have toiled away on the volume that you now hold. Miss Humphries is the proprietor of the 'Snodgrass Arms' pub and boarding house where I have been forced by circumstances beyond my control to take up temporary residence. One could not ask for a more understanding woman in this line. Without a word of complaint she has put up with my coming and going at all hours of the night and tapping away at the type-writer until dawn. Never more than a sideways glance and a discreet cough was directed at me on those occasions when I have brought a rum-looking rent boy up to my meagre quarters for purposes of research and evaluation.
Among my many colleagues at the Royal Society I scarcely know where to begin for fear of leaving someone out. Professor L.P. Thomson stands out for having patiently explained to me the workings of the internal combustion engine, providing the true fount of automotive wisdom that the reader will note within these pages. I am in the debt of Sir Ernest Huxley for his ground-breaking anatomical drawings demonstrating the means by which the male anatomy could be made to spontaneously dis-engorge its seed solely through stimulation by the human hand. Lady Rayleigh has been terribly obliging in allowing me access to her late husband's research into inter-aural time delay. While the late Baron and I did have a long and public standing quarrel as to the alleged existence of argon, it fills me with no end of joy to have my way with his wife now that he has departed this world.
Finally, I must express my gratitude and affection to my dear Aunt Agatha who raised me from the age of 10 and to whom I owe my valuable habits of diligence and cleanliness. Each and every day, from morning inspections to bed-time enemas, Auntie taught me the importance of good character and above all else perseverance. Perseverance in the face of any and all adversity even when that means doing something again and again and again and again and again until one gets it right and isn't dirty anymore.
DEATH AT THE MANOR
by Alasdair Head
Narcissa Malfoy considered the lilies. She detested lilies. Their obnoxious pollen, their smell, the horrible way they clogged up a garden when they finally died. She was sure that they represented death because of their awful waxy texture alone. She congratulated herself for insisting on the tiger lilies. At least they had some color and the blooms weren’t quite so enormous. Also, they were orange, which she seemed to have an unexpected fondness for. She sighed. Bulbs in general were so...plebeian. Really, they were only there at all as a gesture. A terribly obvious one, in her opinion, but one that needed to be made, just the same. A simple message that the old guard purebloods accepted the great Harry Potter and all that his sacrifices stood for.
Muggleborns.
She shuddered inwardly, and set to the task of adjusting the blooms. Really, she was going to have to talk to Muffy about this shoddy flower arranging. She thought about the parts of the manor yet to be inspected. Everything had to be perfect. The house party needed to go off exactly as she’d planned. She had never, in fact, hosted anything quite so important. Even the dark lord himself didn’t compare to the securing of her future happiness. And what a party it would be! Representatives from wizarding society gathering together for what were ostensibly purely social reasons. Pureblood, muggleborn, and everyone in between coming together for a week of well-mannered frivolity. Showing the wizarding world that one year post-bellum, those from both sides were able to bury the hatchet. The importance of the event could not be overestimated. Everything depended on it.
Everything.
~~~~~
Ron was conducting a discreet search. He was beginning to get just a tad bit concerned. He couldn’t find Harry anywhere, and he’d been walking around the bloody place looking for what seemed like an hour, at least. In a final act of desperation he decided to check the dining room. The afternoon tea had been served on the lawn, so thus far he’d had no reason to enter.
He looked around, his palms sweating just a touch as he opened the door and walked inside. He looked around. The place must have been redone because it looked completely different, which helped. It helped a lot. He heard a scuffling noise coming from the wall. From the dumbwaiter, to be exact.
He walked up noiselessly and stood there for a moment, listening. The sound of breathing was barely perceptible, but it was there, nonetheless.
“Harry?” he whispered.
“Ron?” a voice whispered back.
“Yeah, it’s me. Uh. Why are you in the dumbwaiter? And why am I whispering?” Harry slid the door up and peered out.
“I’m hiding from Bully,” he explained.
“Why on earth should she be looking for you?” Ron asked, befuddled. Harry grimaced.
“Your mother! She’s trying to set me up with ‘a nice girl,’ as she puts it, and sicced Bully on me at tea. She’s cornered me twice and now I’m here.” He looked around. “It’s quiet.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “It took me a while to talk myself into coming in here.” Harry nodded in agreement.
“I know what you mean. The old place is full of memories. Let’s see. Hermione was tortured in that corner, I think,” he said, pointing. “And over there is where Draco failed at being a Death Muncher. Ah, salad days.”
“Do you think we’ll ever manage to have better?” Ron chuckled.
“With determination, we just might,” he replied.
“My mother shouldn’t be trying to set you up with anyone,” Ron said, frowning. “It’s not on.”
“And yet.”
“Well, I’ll try to get her to call off her dogs,” Ron remarked. Harry’s laugh rang through the empty room.
“Bully,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Just as long as she doesn’t send Pug-nosed Parkinson my way.”
“Yes, Slytherins are one thing, but there is a limit.”
“It’s not that she’s actually bad looking or anything, but I refuse to date someone who’s suggested having me killed.” Harry sighed. “I don’t want to sit here all evening. They’re going to come in and want to set the tables.”
“Soon, I should think.”
“Can’t they just use magic for that? I mean, they have elves.”
“Yes,” Ron replied, “but don’t bring it up around Hermione, I beg you. I think it’s something to do with the house. This place was built by Muggles. Hence the dumbwaiter.”
“I think the irony may actually kill me.”
“Well come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“Where to?” asked Harry.
“I’ll run interference if we see Bully or my mother, and you hightail it to our room, alright?” Ron suggested.
“You’ve been reading up on rugby, haven’t you?” Harry accused, grinning.
“Look,” Ron replied, spreading his hands, “if we’re gonna be playing muggle games, I am bloody well going to win them.”
“You’re awfully determined,” Harry observed.
“These days, Harry, when I set my mind to something...”
“I think it’s wonderful,” he replied. “It suits you. You...” He paused, searching for the word.
“I what?”
“You swagger.”
“Swagger?” Ron asked, embarrassed yet pleased. He felt himself turning pink.
“Swagger,” he affirmed with a nod. “It’s sexy. You’ll be fighting the birds off.” Ron’s smile faded slightly.
“Right,” he said, testily. “With a cricket bat, maybe.”
~~~~~
He’d never been to a house party before. Hell, he’d never been to anything remotely like this before. Seamus Finnigan was pretty sure that he was there in two capacities: as part of the small half blood delegation, and as part of the poor delegation. It was easy to ignore these things while everyone was at Hogwarts, wearing the same uniforms day in and day out. But here...it was plainly obvious that he was not part of this world. He was a working class bloke. Part of the great blue collar tradition. Seamus Finnigan was Irish.
It defined the most extravagant vacation that his family had ever indulged in. A trip within his own country to see Ireland play at the Quidditch World Cup. The family saved up just enough to spend the week there and rent a festive tent for the occasion. The fact that the whole getaway came to an abrupt and unpleasant halt when his current host decided to play dress-up with his friends...well. He’d try not to hold it against the lady of the house, anyway.
Such thoughts swirled through Seamus’s mind as he made his way down the great staircase and was nearly knocked over by a very terrified looking Harry Potter, who was being trotted after by a gleeful Ron Weasley. Seamus shook his head and shrugged. Probably off to have sex, he imagined.
Harry must have drawn the short straw.
~~~~~
“Sunny Jim!” Narcissa called. A small house elf with a surprisingly luxurious black moustache, appeared in front of her.
“Mistress is calling Sunny Jim?” he asked, his expression imperious.
“Indeed I did. Now, I want you to make the curry I mentioned, and-”
“Nay, Sunny Jim cannot be making such a dish! Is not proper and Sunny Jim will be doing no such thing. A nice ratatouille is being better. More fitting. Is French, it is.”
“But I wanted the curry for a special reason. It’s a popular muggle dish. Please make the curry, there’s a dear.”
“Sunny Jim does not make popular muggle recipes. Sunny Jim can be going elsewhere!” the little elf bellowed, inasmuch as an elf could bellow. More a haughty squeak, really.
“No, no!” Narcissa protested, frantically backtracking. “I’m sure ratatouille will be just fine. Thank you, Sunny Jim.” The elf nodded severely.
“A nice ratatouille. Is proper dish.”
“Indeed,” agreed Narcissa, relieved. She had just averted a true crisis. These free elves really were the limit. It was appalling that they should have to employ them. For political reasons! Trying to hold on to the best chef they’d ever had took enormous care. At any moment he could grab his knives and leave.
And then where would they be?
“Ratatouille,” Sunny Jim repeated gravely.
~~~~~
They had been napping for no more than ten minutes when they were both startled awake by the quiet hoot of Pig on the window ledge.
“Whassa?” Harry mumbled, cracking one eye open.
“Pig’s here with a letter.” Ron replied, sitting up. “Hey, I’m not going to bother you tonight am I? I can always find somewhere else to sleep if I do. I snore,” he added apologetically as he untied the letter from Pig’s leg.
“Don’t be stupid, we’ve slept in the same room for years now. I don’t think keeping to your side of a state bed is going to be too much of a hassle.” Harry was still rubbing his eyes when Ron gave a startled yelp.
“Bloody hell!” Ron went a deep scarlet and looked utterly confused.
“What’s wrong?” Harry frowned.
“Just read it!” Ron thrust the letter into Harry’s waiting hand.
My darling ginger,
We’re almost done here. I’ll be there soon.
Don’t wash.
Love always,
Your Popsy
“Yes, now that’s rather disgusting,” he said, scratching his jaw.
“You think it’s disgusting?? Someone in my family is having an affair with a house elf!” Ron cried. Harry snorted.
“I think it’s just a pet name.”
“With an animal?!” Ron looked horrified.
“No, not an animal! A term of endearment. Like darling,” he explained. “Or Mollywobbles.”
Ron winced.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He looked back to the letter. “Do you think that ‘don’t wash’ means what I think it does?”
“You can just stop right there, thanks.” Ron looked pained.
“I never imagined Dean would call himself such a thing.”
“Don’t,” Ron warned.
“Or Hermione, for that matter.”
“Harry.”
“What do you think he calls Ginny, then?” Harry teased.
“That’s it. You asked for it!”
Ron tackled him to the bed with remarkable speed.
“Oof! That’s the best you’ve got, Ginger?” Harry egged. He loved to wrestle Ron.
“I’ve got moves you couldn’t imagine, you speccy little git,” Ron grunted as he straddled him. He looked up into Ron’s face, grinning cheekily.
“Prove it.”
~~~~~
Pansy picked at her meal. Pretending to enjoy French food was always tiresome. She’d much rather have a nice apricot curry instead. She sighed and put down her fork altogether. The wine was so much better than the food. She surreptitiously wiped the lipstick off of her goblet with her thumb and looked around the table at the other guests.
There were those to be expected at such a gathering. Zabini, Goyle, Bulstrode, the Greengrass sisters, young Baddock and herself. Also in attendance were most of the Weasleys, Potter, Longbottom, Smith, Lovegood, Abbot and Wood. Then there were those with official positions who were there in a supposedly unofficial capacity: the new minister Shacklebolt, nosy Skeeter, that buffoon Bagman, and daffy old Doge. And Cissy’s poor Andy, of course. She considered the most unlikely of the guests. The halfbloods and muggleborns. Goldstein, Thomas, Granger, Creevey, and Finnigan.
That idiot Longbottom was making eyes at Abbot across the table again. So disgustingly obvious. And what was this...so was Bagman! Pansy cringed and looked around for something else to look at that wasn’t quite so disturbing. Her eyes landed on Finnigan. If her assessment was correct, he’d be wearing the same suit the entire time he was here. She wondered if he’d brought more than one shirt.
God, she wanted a cigarette, badly. And she wanted Draco to finally get off his lily-white arse and propose to her already. Perhaps if she shoved a finger up it, that might spur him to action.
She pondered this as she finished her third glass of Minervois.
~~~~~
Seamus was gagging for a fag. Somehow he’d made it this far into the evening completely sober. A whisky and a smoke would be just the ticket. A fuck would be a bit much to ask for around here, but two out of three wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.
As he walked by the french doors, he smelled tobacco. Good tobacco, too. He stepped out onto the veranda intending to beg one off of whoever it was.
He was expecting someone like George or Ludo Bagman. Perhaps even Rita Skeeter. Instead, he came face to face with Pansy Parkinson smoking from a tiny silver cigarette holder.
“What do you want, Finnigan?”
“I was hoping to bum a fag, actually,” he answered truthfully. Pansy arched an eyebrow.
“Is that so? Well, I suppose I’ll let you have one, just this once.”
“Are they unfiltered?” he asked, nodding to her holder.
“No,” she said, handing him a cigarette. “I just tear them off.”
“I heard that birds eat them and die,” Seamus offered.
“Shut up, Finnigan,” she replied in a disinterested voice, then lit his cigarette with the tip of her wand.
“Thanks.” He stole a glance at her as she leaned on the balustrade next to him. She was curvy and petite. Her bobbed hair, smokey eyes and dark red lipstick made him sure she was going for a silent film siren sort of thing. Seamus wasn’t sure how well it actually worked, but the overall effect was not unpleasant. Which begged the question...
“Have you ever seen a muggle film?” Pansy looked at him with surprise, and some measure of recognition.
“What are you on about?”
“Erm, nothing.” He struck out for another topic. “So. Are you playing any of the games tomorrow? Football? Cricket? Rugby?” Pansy looked at him with a touch of pity.
“It’s nice of you to try to make conversation, but you can’t honestly think that I intend to play rugby.”
“I didn’t think.”
“You want to talk? Alright. I’d advise you to make sure you’re in the drawing room later.”
“Why’s that then?” Seamus asked, curious.
“Andy’s been drinking. She’s sure to sing,” Pansy revealed conspiratorially.
“Mrs Tonks?”
“Yes. When she has too much to drink she always sings and starts harassing the men. It’s good for a laugh. Over Christmas holiday she drank all the sherry and ran out into the garden singing Quando m’en vo at the top of her lungs. We dragged her inside, but she didn’t stop singing until Cissy insisted that she go to bed.” Pansy looked thoughtful. “And she always sings the slatternly arias. Hmmm.”
“What are the slatternly arias, then?” Seamus asked, amused.
“Well, Quando m’en vo is one. Perfectly lovely and sweet as long as you don’t know what Musetta’s saying. Things like, ‘everyone stops and stares at how beautiful I am, I can taste their yearning, the scent of their desire makes me happy.’ It’s a terrible song. Would you believe that people actually play it at weddings?”
“You’ve ruined it for me, now. Ta.”
“Shall I ruin Carmen, then?” she asked, mischievously.
“Please don’t!” he laughed.
“I can’t believe I’m conversing amiably with a Gryffindor,” Pansy observed.
“Worse things have happened, surely.” Seamus frowned.
“You don’t say.” She stared at him, and he found himself succumb to her scrutiny. He had no idea what conclusions she came to. She sniffed. “Another cigarette?”
~~~~~
Harry sat next to Ron on a comfortable Greek Revival sofa.
“I’m gonna go get a drink,” Ron remarked. “Want one?” Harry looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be occupied, and perhaps the maxim ‘safety in numbers’ really was true.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Just be quick about it, would you?”
No sooner did Ron leave than he was joined by Andromeda Tonks.
“Dear Harry,” she said, gazing at him with watery eyes.
Harry wasn’t entirely certain just then why alarm bells began going off in his head, but it all became clear moments later when Andromeda touched his shoulder and began to explain why they could never be together.
“I know it must tear at your very soul to hear me say this. Believe me, I know.”
“Mrs Tonks, I-”
“Shh, don’t speak! Don’t speak,” she commanded, placing a finger against his lips. The smell of heavy perfume floating up from her wrist mixed with the liquor on her breath. He did his best not to gag.
Suddenly, like an angel come to rescue him, appeared Pugface Parkinson. “Andy, darling. Mr Doge insists that you come over and tell him about the first time you performed in front of an audience. He simply won’t be put off.” As she steered Andromeda away, he heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Later, if asked, he would deny that he had ever had any such thought about Pansy Parkinson.
He sighed too soon.
“Harry.” Bully sat in the empty seat beside him and took a deep breath in preparation for a speech, no doubt.
“Bully,” he said politely.
“Call me Millicent, Harry. Or Millie, since it’s you. But don’t tell anyone else I let you call me that, haha!” she barked. Harry was cornered. There was nothing for it but to wait until Ron got back. “Now. It’s important that we discuss your future. You can hardly expect me to consider marrying you if you haven’t some sort of plan for action.”
“Plan for action?” he echoed weakly.
“Yes. You need a career that builds on your past achievements. Something that will put you in line for greater things. I know how much you regard me-”
“You do?” he asked, bewildered.
“Indeed I do, but it is not enough to make me put a ring on my finger. You must prove yourself with actions, not just words!” She continued on in this vein for some time and finally gave him a hearty slap on the back as she stood up. “You think about what I’ve said, Harry.” She nodded and walked away just as Ron was returning with their ridiculously large drinks.
“Christ, Harry, I’m sorry! Look, do you want to take these and get out of here?”
“Yes, please,” he nodded vehemently. “Andromeda was breaking it to me just now that we’d never be together!”
“She what?” Ron asked, baffled.
“She was completely off her face, convinced I was in love with her.”
“God, have you ever had a rough evening. Come on, up the stairs.”
On the second landing Ron stopped and stared at a folded piece of parchment laying stark against the red carpet.
“What do you reckon?” he asked. Harry shrugged.
“Pick it up and see,” he said, leaning against the railing, glugging his sundowner.
Ron retrieved the parchment and unfolded it, handing his drink to Harry. He let out a low whistle.
“Well, well, well. This is just...filthy!” he said with an enormous grin. “Haha!” He handed it over to Harry.
My fat little minx,
Every moment not spent fucking your tits is a moment wasted, in my opinion. I’m imagining, right at this very moment, slicking up my cock and burying it between your huge creamy globes and fucking, fucking, fucking until I come all over them, all over your face. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My little slut. You love it when I do these things to you, don’t you? Say yes! If you thought me a pervert I could never bear it. I do so love to fuck your tight little cunny, your delicious, wet cunny; but there are so many other filthy things I want to do to you as well. Such as spread the plump cheeks of your gorgeous arse and bury my face there. I could fall asleep like that...lips at your hole and nose at your cunt. I’d breathe you even while I dream.
Tonight, will you write on my cock with your QQ quill? And if I bring back your knickers, will you let me have last night’s pair?
In your thrall,
Oliver
“Holy fucking shit, Oliver wrote this!” Harry cried, astonished.
“Shh!” Ron hissed. “Let’s just put it back where we found it and go to our room!”
“Who’s it to, d’ye think?” Harry slurred.
“Fuck if I know. What’s a QQ quill?”
~~~~~
Seamus sat in the drawing room, listening to the various conversations going on around him.
“Well, Mr Doge, I’ll tell you. Jane Eaglen started Hogwarts my seventh year, such a sweet girl. I could see that she had a natural talent straight away. If there were only one reason to maintain the statute of secrecy, it would be to protect our sopranos.”
“Really, dear, and why is that?” asked Elphias Doge.
“Why Mr Doge,” Andromeda replied, “Wherever would the world be without coloratura? Only witches have such demanding vocal flexibility. It would be a very sad place indeed without Der Hölle Rache, don’t you agree?”
“Why yes, of course, my dear. To my great shame, I was not aware of the role witches played in the lyric arts,” Doge twittered.
“Who are you staying with now, Baddock?” asked George Weasley. The slight Baddock stared at him as though he’d grown two heads. There was something distinctly odd about him, in Seamus’s opinion.
“My aunt Agatha. She’s a batty old cow who ought not to exist at all.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Er, that’s nice, then. I have an aunt Agatha, too.”
“Oh! So do I!” piped in Ginny, grinning.
“What a coincidence!” exclaimed George.
“There’s nothing remarkable about that,” interjected Goyle, simply. “Everyone has an aunt Agatha, don’t they?”
“Those who enter our society as muggleborns are necessarily the same as the nouveau riche- inconsiderate and completely lacking in refined tastes,” stated Lucius Malfoy.
“Of course the nouveau riche are inconsiderate. That’s why they have so much money,” explained Blaise Zabini, nodding.
From the first moment Blaise Zabini opened his mouth, people usually wished he’d close it again, Seamus included. He saw Pansy looking on, bored.
“I’m back,” said Goldstein, perching himself on the arm of the highback Seamus currently occupied.
“What were you up to?”
“Just freshening up, eh?” he winked.
“Forgive me, everyone, but I have an important announcement to make!” Everyone stopped to look at Draco Malfoy standing by the mantle.
Seamus noted the small nods exchanged between father and son.
“There are times in a man’s life when he must stand around and wait for his beautiful wife to get ready.” A tinkle of laughter made its way across the room. “I am here to report that very soon I, too, will be able to participate in this most thrilling of pastimes. Ladies and gentlemen, I have asked for my own Queenie, Daphne Greengrass’s hand in marriage, and am elated to report that she has accepted!”
Applause filled the room as Draco and Queenie held hands and shared a small kiss.
“My god, that girl’s plucky!” remarked Goldstein.
Seamus looked over to where he indicated. Pansy was standing there with a glass of champagne in one hand, a huge smile plastered to her face.
She was white as a sheet.
~~~~~
Pansy left the room as soon as was possible without being completely unseemly, after her hosts had taken to milling around on their own again, and walked slowly upstairs to her bedroom. The same bedroom that she’d stayed in for years, every time she’d ever visited the manor.
Years.
“Oops! So sorry, sir!” Queenie Greengrass apologised quickly as she closed the wrong door. She giggled ditzily at Pansy as she walked next door to her own room.
Pansy studiously ignored her and entered the room. She closed the door behind her and sank to the floor, swallowing the lump that lodged in her throat.
She was not going to cry.
~~~~~
“And then Ginny told George to open the cupboard and it got everywhere, all over his hands and down his pants. Everywhere!”
Harry gasped into his empty cup and let the tears of laughter flow. Ron had Muffy bring them refills on their sundowners, and they were now drunken puddles on the floor. Several fits of laughter later, he finally managed to catch his breath.
“She’s been so good. He’s so much better.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, looking at the door bleary eyed. “When did that get there?”
“Another letter? What the fuck is with all these letters? Do you think it’s actually for one of us this time?”
Harry grabbed it and unfolded it to read.
Dennis-
I say, but I couldn’t help noticing you eyeing Potter’s arse today at tea. Not that I blame you. Potter has a very fine arse, indeed. I happen to know, though, that he’s off the market. Not to say that I’m certain, but everyone’s pretty sure he’s being fucked by Weasley. However, this is all beside the point.
If you fancy anything, I’m always up for it. I can give you a very thorough education, I don’t mind telling you. I’m quite gentle. In fact, you could even fuck me for the first go, if you like. If you’re interested, just knock on my door tonight, yes?
-Anthony
Harry swallowed and stared at the paper. He could feel the blood rush into his face.
“Well what does it say?” Ron pressed.
“Just...” he began, then fell into silence. Ron snatched the letter away. Harry watched his face turn the deepest shade of scarlet he’d seen yet. Ron cleared his throat and stood up.
“Dennis is across the hall. I’ll just go slip it...er...yeah.”
Harry nodded dumbly. His head felt heavy, his limbs buzzing with something that felt strangely like electricity.
Finally climbing into bed wasn’t the relief that it should have been. They both lay there, Harry still in his t-shirt and boxers, laying prone, listening to the other one breathe in the dark.
“I...” Ron started.
“It’s okay,” he interrupted. “You don’t have to say anything. You still gonna play rugby tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Ron said, though he didn’t sound exactly relieved. “If it doesn’t rain.”
Just then a clap of thunder announced the oncoming storm.
“No rugby, then,” Harry whispered.
“No.”
The thunder continued so loudly it rattled the windows every so often. It was strangely soothing. He let the cacaphony lull him to sleep, erasing the awkwardness that threatened to suffocate him. He drifted into such a state of comfort, he didn’t register anything but peace when two fingers came to gently rest against overtop his.
~~~~~
Seamus woke with a start as a loud bang echoed through the house. A bang that was decidedly not thunder. He hopped out of bed and opened the door, wand in hand.
The corridor was still dark. He saw another door open. Pansy peeked out.
“Finnigan, is that you? Cast a lumos!”
“Parkinson?”
“Yes. I just heard the most glorious what-not, but I can’t tell where it was coming from.”
“Lumos.” Pansy looked him up and down.
“You have a lovely build, and if I were you I’d show it off, too, but you really ought to put a shirt on before Andy sees you,” she suggested bluntly.
“Huh?” he asked, distracted. “Any idea what time it is?”
“Just past four,” she informed him. Just then, more doors began to open.
“What is going on out here?” asked Neville, rubbing his eyes, clutching his mimbletonia.
“I was just going to ask that, myself,” barked Bully.
“Millie, what’s all the fuss?” Asteria asked, grabbing Bully’s sleeve.
“Did everyone hear that?” Dennis asked, coming from Goldstein’s room, strangely enough.
“Oh balls!” whispered Ginny.
“Ginny?” Dean whispered. “What did you do?”
“George?” Hermione hissed.
“She didn’t do anything,” George answered. “She helped me distract Mr Bagman while I put a leak in his hot water bottle. It wasn’t supposed to explode.”
“That wasn’t an exploding hot water bottle, I’m afraid.” Luna piped in.
“I say, if you lot are going to have loud parties out here and keep me up all night, I’m asking to be moved downstairs,” Smith said in a harassed voice.
“Yes, some of us are trying to sleep,” seconded Zabini.
“It sounded like a .22 to me,” offered Goyle. “You know, a muggle pistol?” Everyone turned and looked at him with respect and admiration.
“You know something, Goyle? I think you may be right,” Seamus said, impressed.
“Of course he is. You’re very smart, Greg.” Hannah patted his shoulder.
“I’ll go wake Harry and Ron,” Hermione informed them. “Those two will sleep through anything.
“You’ve got an awfully brave fiancee,” Goldstein told George.
“Or an awfully kinky one,” George agreed.
“No one cares about your kinky girlfriend, Weasley. Now, if the sound came from downstairs, and Mr Bagman isn’t down there thrashing about the hallway soaked, and it sounded like a gun, I say we go down there and find out what’s happened.” Pansy looked around at everyone expectantly. “Finnigan?” she suggested.
“I’ll just go grab my shirt.”
“No! Here, just take my housecoat,” Pansy said quickly. A shade suspiciously, Seamus, thought.
“I couldn’t bring myself to wake them,” Hermione said as joined them, a curious expression on her face.
“Everyone go back to bed. We’ll let you know if anything’s wrong.” Seamus told everyone.
“I have absolutely no problem with that,” replied Dean.
Seamus watched Pansy tiptoe two steps ahead of him down the staircase in her flimsy pink negligee.
“Aren’t you going to get cold in that thing? You should take your housecoat back.”
“Nonsense. We must protect your virtue,” she replied dismissively.
“What about yours?” She ignored him and paused.
“Now, who is staying on the first floor?”
“Mostly the older people, I think. Bagman, Doge, Mrs Tonks, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Percy Weasley, Wood, Shacklebolt and Skeeter,” he ticked off on his fingers.
“Draco’s room and the Malfoy’s rooms are on that floor, also.”
“They sleep in separate rooms?”
“Oh, you know. All rich people do.”
“I have a very hard time believing that.”
As they rounded into the corridor, they saw that another gathering was taking place, similar to the one upstairs, but huddled around one particular set of doors..
“You two. Come here!” boomed Kingsley Shacklebolt. They rushed over to the others.
“What’s happening here?” asked Pansy.
Kingsley looked at them and said in a voice grave and sober, “Our host has been murdered.”
~~~~~
Ron woke with his arms wrapped around Harry, whose face was tucked into his chest. Ron buried his nose into the unruly mop of black hair and breathed in deeply. He could feel Harry’s cock stiff against his thigh. He ran his fingers up under the t-shirt, feeling the knots of his best friend’s spine beneath his smooth skin. Harry let out a little sigh and began a gentle, sleepy thrust against his leg.
He wanted more than anything to reach down and hold him in his palm. Feel him heavy and warm in his hand. Run his tongue between his lips and kiss him softly.
Instead, he settled for a peck to the top of Harry’s head before disentangling himself and moving back to his side of the bed.
~~~~~
Breakfast was a somber affair. Word had spread quickly about the house that Lucius Malfoy was dead, but no one was quite sure how to act.
It certainly didn’t help that Narcissa was wearing a bright and colorful sundress. Pansy was baffled. On the one hand, she was pleased that Narcissa was treating her as usual, considering that she must not expect her to be a daughter-in-law someday. But then, that was just the problem. She was acting just as usual, possibly even cheerier than before. Gone was the dour madonna of literally yesterday hiding some terrible, secret sorrow. One that nobody already knew about, anyway. Narcissa Malfoy appeared genuinely happy. Of course, Pansy didn’t believe for a moment that she had anything whatsoever to do with the murder.
Suddenly, it hit her like a tonne of bricks.
She had a plan.
~~~~~
“Attention, everyone!” Kingsley Shacklebolt announced. “Are we all here? Good. By now you will all have heard about this morning’s tragedy, but I will fill in the blanks for you. Just after four in the morning, Lucius Malfoy was shot in his private quarters with his own Muggle pistol. I am personally conducting the investigation to determine the identity of his killer. This party was scheduled for one week, and I will have to insist that you all, each and every one of you remain here at Malfoy Manor until the investigation is concluded.”
Groans could be heard around the table.
“Do you reckon everyone will have more fun now he’s dead?” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear. Harry shivered.
“I know I will,” he murmured truthfully.
“Are you going to play in the match today, too?”
“I suppose. It’s muddy, but why not?” Though now that he thought about it, getting muddy with Ron could prove embarrassing.
“...and I will have to conduct interviews with each of you, in turn,” Shacklebolt’s voice cut through Harry’s thoughts. “Please do not be alarmed by this, it is strictly routine. In the meantime, consider the events of last night, making particular note of anything that may have seemed unusual to you. Good day.”
“And do try to enjoy the rest of your stay, would you?” added Narcissa.
“Is it just me,” Harry said in a low voice, “or is Narcissa acting weird?” Ron looked to where she was sitting, sipping a mimosa.
“I’d say you’re right. It’s as though she’s trying to hide how pleased she is.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Harry. “That’s it exactly!” Ron looked at him, a mischievous smile crossing his face.
“What say we do a little investigating, eh? Make up for missing the party this morning?”
Harry broke into a huge grin.
“It’s an idea, that! Let’s do it!”
“Harry? A word.” Molly Weasley’s business like tone caused the smile to fade from his face.
“Yes, Molly?”
“I want to hear how you’re getting on with Millicent.”
“Er, Molly, I’m terribly sorry, but I just don’t think it’s going to work.”
“Why nonsense! What Millie needs is someone to shape. To mold,” Molly insisted.
“I’m not malleable! I’m hard as a rock!” Harry protested loudly.
“We hardly needed to know that, Potter,” Draco commented from down the table. He’d caught George’s attention, too.
“Just what sort of conversation are you having with my mother?”
~~~~~
Seamus stepped off the patio and took a long drag off his newly acquired Dunhill. A stroll around the manor grounds while it wasn’t raining seemed like a nice idea. It wasn’t as though there were anything else to do. As he rounded the path that circled the east wing, he came face to arse with Pansy, who was attempting to climb up the wall trellis in a pencil skirt.
He simply stood there and continued to smoke, staring up at her pleasantly heart shaped bottom, waiting for the Oxford shoe to drop.
Suddenly she froze and sniffed the air. As she turned to glance back over her shoulder, several things happened at once. She gave a startled gasp of recognition, followed closely by letting go with her left hand, and finally with her foot twisting in the trellis. Seamus caught her, much as he expected he’d have to.
“Oof!” She looked up at him, arms round his neck. “Nice catch, Finnigan.”
“No problem,” he replied, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“You can put me down now.”
“Oh. Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “What exactly were you doing up there?”
“Investigating,” she explained with a defiant tilt of the chin. “I’m going to find out who killed Lucius and win Draco back.” Seamus frowned.
“Why would you want to win back Malfoy? He’s a twitchy little rodent.”
“He’s a blond Adonis.”
“He’s a blond git,” he corrected.
“I’m going to win him back and marry him. We’ll have two children, one of each, and I’ll have elves and a Hufflepuff nanny and a Ravenclaw tutor. I look forward to helping Narcissa redecorate the manor. You should see the third floor!” She pulled a face of distaste.
“Huh.” Seamus thought she was completely bonkers.
“He’ll stride up to me and say, ‘Pansy, you are simply it! I’m completely besotted, my darling! Let’s elope tonight!’ Then he’ll pick me up and carry me across the threshold of his room and toss me onto the bed and lift my skirt and-”
“Ahhh, stop right there,” he interrupted.
“He’ll ravage me senseless,” she said with determination.
“Got it all planned out, have you?”
“Indeed, I do. I just need to solve this. You’ll see.”
“Why don’t you marry Zacharias Smith instead? He’s just like Malfoy only less evil.”
“A Hufflepuff, Finnigan?” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you Gryffindors have no standards. She eyed his fag. “We’re not allowed to leave the house, so where did you get those?”
“Muffy nicked them from our late host’s study for me. Want one?”
“Stealing a dead man’s cigarettes? How tacky,” she observed, accepting one nonetheless.
“Ah, but I now have three packs of an otherwise useless luxury item,” he pointed out.
“Hmm. Well, it’s been the time of my life, really, but I must get back to work.”
“I think I’ll stick around if you don’t mind. Extra set of eyes can’t hurt. And someone has to catch you. Climbing in that getup? You’re out of your fecking mind, woman!”
“If you must,” she assented with a sidelong smile. “You can be the brawn to my brains.”
“Tsk! Such a charmer.”
~~~~~
After breakfast Harry and Ron put their careful plan into execution.
This mostly involved sneaking around after Narcissa Malfoy in a rather unstealthy fashion.
“Perhaps we should send off for some of those special shoes,” Ron suggested. “Mugshoes, I believe they’re called. Get us into the proper spirit of things.”
“Your tie is crooked,” Harry observed. His fingers itched to fix it, but he’d avoided touching Ron all morning. Their normal shoulder bumping boyish interaction had seemed to come to a crashing halt since last night’s letter. Things felt dashedly awkward, for his part, and it seemed to Harry that sneaking around the manor on a little adventure was just the thing to take his mind off of the tension.
“Hallo, what’s this? Another!” Harry gestured to the sealed parchment laying on the floor of the hall just behind the gong.
“I’m damned,” exclaimed Ron. “This letter business is getting awfully ripe. I wonder what sort of bilge will be in this one. Your turn.” Harry bent down to retrieve the letter. “Good man.” Ron took it and tapped the seal with his wand, unrolling it. His face...
“You know, it’s the most remarkable thing, you look just like a fish right now. It’s nothing to do with us, is it?”
Ron gave a jerky shake of the head and thrust it towards Harry.
To the one who knows me best,
Last night I started this after all the commotion. You’d already drifted back to sleep, but I had no desire to do so. I couldn’t stop staring at you, laying there asleep. I gave serious consideration to parting your legs while you were dreaming and having my way with you. But... the moonlight. It still shone in through the window. Your skin was lit up like marble. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I hope that my drawing says I love you with more eloquence than my words can. God knows I can’t wait to touch you again.
Your artist,
D
Those words were written at the top of the page above a charcoal sketch. Ginny was stretched out, nude. It was full of shadow and light and really quite lovely.
“That’s awfully romantic,” Harry smiled.
“That’s awfully my sister! Just seal it, would you?” Ron begged. He complied.
“I definitely don’t think we should leave this where we found it.”
“I should bloody well think not!” Ron agreed vehemently.
“Let’s bring it up to their room, alright?”
A few minutes later, errand accomplished, they walked back down the staircase only to find their quarry arguing with a house elf.
“That was easy enough,” murmured Ron.
“I’m terribly sorry, but you must!” Narcissa insisted.
“Sunny Jim is refusing to use charmed vittles! Sunny Jim is not having it! Sunny Jim is to be getting his knives!”
“But I don’t understand. Why ever not?”
“Is affecting the flavor! Is not right! Is insupportable!”
The scene was attracting an audience. Harry could see Kingsley and Doge watching from the entrance to the parlor, and Parkinson had just walked in with Seamus from somewhere in the back of the house.
“Sunny Jim, how are you?” Parkinson interrupted.
“Sunny Jim is not being so well, actually,” the elf answered grimly.
“Good. Now, I promised Narcissa that I would help out while I was here, and I wanted to talk to you about the food situation. Are we running out?”
“We is not having anything fresh, miss. We is only having charmed. Sunny Jim does not cook with charmed comestibles. Is tasting nasty.”
“Oh dear, then we’ll just have to come up with something else, won’t we? Have you considered an icebox?”
“Icebox?” asked the elf, suspiciously.
“Yes, or a frigidaire, the Muggles call them,” she explained. “You keep food fresh without charms by putting them in a box with great blocks of ice. Doesn’t that sound like such fun?”
“Is sounding unnatural,” Sunny Jim grumbled. “Is flying against nature, it is.”
“Nonsense. Mother Nature is all very well in her place, but she mustn’t be allowed to make things untidy. Think of it, nice cold milk that you don’t have to charm, your vegetables will last longer, too, all without affecting the taste. What do you say?”
To Harry’s great surprise, the elf was beginning to yield.
“Cold milk? Where would miss be getting such a thing?” he asked, twiddling his tiny moustache thoughtfully.
“We could get one from the town and bring it back here. And uncharmed food to put in it, of course. Minister?”
Harry watched as Kingsley considered the proposal.
“I could make an exception for a supply run,” he replied, addressing the elf.
“We’ll go!” Ron shouted down from the landing.
“How do you propose to get there? Broomstick?” Harry pointed out. “Plus you’d miss the rugby, wouldn’t you?”
“I could drive there in my two seater,” offered Parkinson.
“You have a car?” Seamus asked with surprise.
“Don’t look so shocked, Finnigan,” she admonished.
“I’m going with her,” he said quickly. “I mean, if it’s alright with you sir,” he added sheepishly.
“That will be fine, but I’ll need to talk to the two of you in the study before you go.” With that, Kingsley walked to the room in question and waited just past the door, expectantly.
“Thank you, my dear,” Narcissa said, grabbing Parkinson’s hand. “I’m so very...” Harry thought she looked a bit regretful, but couldn’t imagine how that could have anything to do with Pugface.
“I used to have an automobile,” Doge prattled. “I have such fond memories of going up to town in the Hispano. Ah, but she was a spanking fine goer.”
No one paid him any attention.
“Look,” Ron whispered, nudging Harry in the ribs. “There she goes into the billiard room. Come on.” They walked down into the hall on the trail of Narcissa Malfoy.
“Ahem.” They stopped, and Harry looked to his right only to find Kingsley staring at the two of them. “You boys, too.” He cocked his head, directing them to enter the study.
The four of them sat down on the leather couches that faced each other across a low table.
“I want to discuss the detective work the four of you have been engaged in.”
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Haha,” laughed Ron. “Sniffing around, eh Parkinson?”
“One more word about my nose, Weasley, and I’ll hex your balls off,” she replied sweetly.
“That’s enough, you two,” Kingsley interrupted. “Now, I’ve seen the four of you snooping around the house all morning and-”
“We’re sorry, sir,” Harry interrupted. “We just thought we’d-”
“-and I wanted to know if you have found anything,” he finished.
“Oh! Well, we’ve been keeping an eye on Mrs Malfoy.”
“Or the merry widow, as we like to call her,” laughed Ron.
“Oh, shut up!” Parkinson cried angrily. “She had nothing to do with this!”
“Who are you kidding? She’s been prancing about like it’s Christmas all day long!” Ron countered.
“Just you leave her alone.”
“Mate,” said Harry, “let’s not, alright?” Ron’s temper was clearly rising, and Harry placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. It seemed to work all by itself, because Ron was visibly soothed. He looked at Harry and gave a little nod. It was probably his imagination, but it felt as though Ron moved closer against his hand. He had no choice but to leave it there.
“Well, if you can manage to be a little more discreet than you’ve been so far, I’d like you to keep doing it,” Kingsley instructed.
“But sir!” Parkinson objected.
“Miss Parkinson, in a murder investigation it would be remiss not to investigate the widowed spouse. Consider it strictly routine.”
“He’s right,” Seamus affirmed. She pursed her lips and said nothing.
“As for the two of you,” Kingsley went on, addressing Seamus, “I want you to find out what people heard last night. Find out who was absent, who wasn’t where they were supposed to be. After your errand, of course.”
Seamus nodded his assent. “You can count on us, sir. Right, Parkinson?”
“Right.”
“Good. Then I’ll leave you to it. Report back to me if you find anything of interest.”
They were dismissed.
“I hope Narcissa likes to watch rugby,” Ron commented once they were outside. “Hey, if Seamus isn’t playing, maybe we can get Percy to step in.” They saw Neville wandering aimlessly in the garden with his mimbulus mimbletonia, wearing a planter hat.
“Why’s he still carrying around that plant?” Harry wondered aloud.
“He always does, he’s obsessed with it. I think he’s a little touched these days, if you want my opinion. Oi, Neville!” Ron called. Neville waved over to them.
“Hallo. You chaps haven’t seen a house elf around, have you?”
“Only the cook. Why?” replied Harry.
“I’m looking for Buck Buck, the gardener,” Neville explained, approaching. “Want to show him my plant.”
“Of course,” nodded Harry.
“What on earth is behind all these elf names? Sunny Jim, Buck Buck. You haven’t heard of a Popsy, by chance, have you?” asked Ron suddenly.
“Popsy?” Neville answered, thinking. “No, but there is a Soggy Muff. They’re all siblings, I believe.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Soggy muff?” repeated Harry. “That’s horrible!”
“Is it? Muffy, you know.” Ah. Poor thing. And there Harry had thought Muffy was a strange name. “Well, I’m off. Got to find him soon if I’m going to play in the match this afternoon.”
And with that, Neville shambled off into the rose garden.
Continue to Part 2
From: trubbleclef
Title: Death at the Manor, a mystery by Alasdair Head (1/2)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A house party hosted at Malfoy Manor becomes dashed awkward for the guests when some thoughtless blighter starts killing people.
Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter, nor a time machine, sadly.
Warnings: BLATANT AND INTENTIONAL USE OF STEREOTYPICAL ANACHRONISTIC BRITICISMS; adultery; mention of a very inappropriate relationship; het; romance; smoking; Slytherins; filthy letters; NSFW picture at end.
Author's Note: Please note that the materials bookending the story were written by a mystery contributor. All Most persons mentioned within said materials were real at one time or another. As noted above, out-dated British expressions abound, particularly from the 1930s and the Victorian/Edwardian eras. This is because it was inspired heavily by the works of P.G. Wodehouse and Agatha Christie. Other sources of inspiration are simply too numerous to mention: books, films and historical relationships, in particular. I leave it to you to pick them out. marseverlasting, you have proved a wonderful muse, and I enjoyed writing this more than I can say. I hope that this affords you some real pleasure.
Introduction to the 3rd North American Edition:
As we celebrate this 20th anniversary of the original publication of Alasdair Head's seminal work with a new, revised edition, it is time perhaps to reexamine Mr. Head's contributions to literature, science and pornographic representations of the characters from Harry Potter.
How did this odd little man from a family in decline manage to claw his way to the very top of so many different fields? Head has submitted papers to the Royal Society on topics ranging from entomology to phlebotomy and in nearly every example managed to seamlessly weave in complex homoerotic stories set within the 'Harry Potter' universe originally created by J.K. Rowling.
Is it literature or is it science? Gentlemen; the very fact that we are asking this question suggests that we are dealing with a true pioneering giant of the humanities.
Mr. Head was fond of saying that a man is best judged by an examination of his enemies. Perhaps this was why he made so very many of them and at such varied levels of society. In the spirit of that sentiment, let us now examine Head's most notable enemies.
Head's long-standing quarrel with Rev. Gilbert White over the particulars of the supposed hibernation of European barn swallows is well-known. By the time of their respective deaths, no one other than themselves actually believed that swallows hibernated at all. By all appearances they ought to have been natural allies and yet on at least three occasions the two men had to be forcibly separated during melees in the street. Rev. White felt very strongly that this hibernation occurred at the bottoms of Cornish tin mines while Head followed the example of Aristotle (a great lover of the Greek ways was Mr. Head) in arguing that the swallows, in fact, dove in vast flocks to the bottoms of mill ponds for the duration of winter. It is widely known that the short, ugly scar above Mr. Head's left eye was caused by a blow from Rev. White's brass-headed cane on the occasion of Sir Henry Hallett Dale's funeral. Their subsequent expulsion from the Athaeneum Club was a direct result of their feud.
His dispute with noted SoHo dandy Sebastian Horsley was somewhat one-sided. Head had an affair with Mr. Horsley that was brief but believed by many to have enormously influenced the homoerotic themes that would later appear in his literature. The fling ended badly and Head bore a grudge against Horsley for the rest of his life, going so far as to savage Horsley in the editorial pages of the Daily Mail after the latter’s dramatic crucifixion. For his part, Horsley appears utterly oblivious to Head’s ill will and struggled to even remember who Alasdair Head was during an interview in preparation for this piece.
There was, of course, Head’s notorious battle with pioneering physicist John William Strutt (the 3rd Baron Rayleigh). Lord Rayleigh of course proposed the existence of the noble gas argon. Head quickly retorted, presenting a paper before a meeting of the Society in which he labeled Lord Rayleigh “a raving lunatic.” Surely no one could ever sum up Head’s criticism of argon more clearly than Head himself:
“The belief in so-called noble gases of any kind is the very worst sort of modern superstition that I have seen among Englishmen since the seance craze. What is the nature of this imaginary gas? Lord Rayleigh says that you cannot see it, you cannot smell it and it does not react with much of anything. And yet we are to believe that this invisible nothing of his is an elemental, on par with gold and iron? Gentleman, the only gas that I detect in Lord Rayleigh’s theory of ‘argon’ is very much of an odour - very much indeed!”
Following Mr. Head's untimely death of scurvy last May, a wealth of old letters was discovered among his things which documented a private quarrel between himself and the pioneering Egyptologist Sir E. A. Wallis Budge. This quarrel, unknown to the general public until recently, originally concerned early pairings that Head shipped in some of his first published HP fan fiction. In a letter to his mother regarding the disagreement, Budge wrote:
“I cannot countenance a pairing of Hermione and Harry, for it is of the worst incestuous nature. This pairing can only encourage the most immoral, un-healthy desires in the loins of the reader, not only setting him apart from G-d and his fellow man but also necessarily leading to a sort of shame that must put one in ill balance of the humours and endanger the liver.”
The disagreement between Budge and Head later expanded to the question of whether the Heiratic script descended directly from the true Heiroglyphic or merely borrowed characters. Head’s papers on early Coptic manuscripts were later discredited, but scholars still consider them worth reading for the frotting scenes.
The least of Head’s enemies was indisputably the old woman affectionately known to Northampton locals as ‘50p Lil.’ A former prostitute, 50p Lil raised the ire of Alasdair Head when an unknown prankster paid her a small sum of money to defecate in his umbrella, which had been left by the door as he entered Woolworth’s on a rainy afternoon. Head was more vexed by the 50p Lil situation than he had been by quarrels with any other person. There was literally nothing he could do. Write about it? Lil was and remains illiterate. Challenge her? She’s a dried-up old woman who could not possibly fight a duel. Press legal charges? The authorities didn’t want her to be their problem any more than Head did. 50p Lil, so named for her usual price, was untouchable in her ignorance and filth and Head’s inability to obtain any sort of revenge haunted him to his last days.
As the untimely death of Mr. Head fades farther into the past, it would seem that public interest in his life only increases. The bookshops have seen a parade of tell-all biographies, photographic retrospectives and anthologies of his scientific papers, HP slash fiction and personal letters. But has this flood of research gotten us any closer to understanding the man himself?
Surely the recent revelations of his various trysts with the Boswell Sisters shed some light on the origins of his 'het-fic' period. It is not unreasonable to suggest that Head's pairing of Seamus simultaneously with Ginny, Luna and Hermione had some origin in that relationship with the famous trio of crooners. His depiction of a young wizard torn in three directions and unable to choose among them is of a nature so vivid and penetrating that only personal experience could have allowed it.
Head’s experiences with the Boswell Sisters, both individually and in a languid, opium-fed orgy in a Paris hotel had a marked effect on his approach to the brothers Weasley. We know from Head's letters that the sight of Connie and Martha Boswell's entwined limbs and bobbing heads led him to reconsider his past opposition to the pairing together of Fred and George Weasley.
Darker questions have also been raised by some of the recent Head scholarship. Could it really have been Alasdair Head who put Bella in the witch elm? His presence at Stourbridge at the estimated time of the killing can easily be explained by his attempts to follow up on reports of European barn swallows being seen in the act of diving to the bottom of a Stourbridge dew pond during the previous October. But other details are more sinister. The strip of taffeta found in the dead woman's mouth, believed to have been used to asphyxiate her, perfectly matches the fabric of a dress that Head was known to have worn during his liaisons with Ernest Rutherford, 1st Baron of Nelson. Head and Rutherford later fell out over the notorious argon controversy (the existence of argon being necessary to some of Rutherford's experiments demonstrating orbital theory of the atom). Was Rutherford telling the truth about Head's taffeta dress, or were these the angry accusations of an unhappy former lover?
Head was democratical in his selections of both enemies and bed-mates, rare enough though it is that those can be separated into distinct groups in the case of Alasdair Head. Another generation of scholars will surely continue trying to disentangle clues as to Head’s personal psychosexual history from his papers and essays on beetles of the South Pacific islands. Meanwhile, Head’s work must speak for itself.
Acknowledgements:
The author wishes to express his affectionate gratitude and warmest regards to a number of persons who have provided invaluable assistance in the course of producing this work.
I could not have produced this, my opus, without the advice and friendship of Sir Edmund Stokes, FRS. Sir Edmund's world-famous work on gynandromorphism among new world butterflies has been (and remains) a source of great inspiration to me.
The infinite patience of Miss Edith Humphries has been essential to the progress of my work these last several years as I have toiled away on the volume that you now hold. Miss Humphries is the proprietor of the 'Snodgrass Arms' pub and boarding house where I have been forced by circumstances beyond my control to take up temporary residence. One could not ask for a more understanding woman in this line. Without a word of complaint she has put up with my coming and going at all hours of the night and tapping away at the type-writer until dawn. Never more than a sideways glance and a discreet cough was directed at me on those occasions when I have brought a rum-looking rent boy up to my meagre quarters for purposes of research and evaluation.
Among my many colleagues at the Royal Society I scarcely know where to begin for fear of leaving someone out. Professor L.P. Thomson stands out for having patiently explained to me the workings of the internal combustion engine, providing the true fount of automotive wisdom that the reader will note within these pages. I am in the debt of Sir Ernest Huxley for his ground-breaking anatomical drawings demonstrating the means by which the male anatomy could be made to spontaneously dis-engorge its seed solely through stimulation by the human hand. Lady Rayleigh has been terribly obliging in allowing me access to her late husband's research into inter-aural time delay. While the late Baron and I did have a long and public standing quarrel as to the alleged existence of argon, it fills me with no end of joy to have my way with his wife now that he has departed this world.
Finally, I must express my gratitude and affection to my dear Aunt Agatha who raised me from the age of 10 and to whom I owe my valuable habits of diligence and cleanliness. Each and every day, from morning inspections to bed-time enemas, Auntie taught me the importance of good character and above all else perseverance. Perseverance in the face of any and all adversity even when that means doing something again and again and again and again and again until one gets it right and isn't dirty anymore.
DEATH AT THE MANOR
by Alasdair Head
Narcissa Malfoy considered the lilies. She detested lilies. Their obnoxious pollen, their smell, the horrible way they clogged up a garden when they finally died. She was sure that they represented death because of their awful waxy texture alone. She congratulated herself for insisting on the tiger lilies. At least they had some color and the blooms weren’t quite so enormous. Also, they were orange, which she seemed to have an unexpected fondness for. She sighed. Bulbs in general were so...plebeian. Really, they were only there at all as a gesture. A terribly obvious one, in her opinion, but one that needed to be made, just the same. A simple message that the old guard purebloods accepted the great Harry Potter and all that his sacrifices stood for.
Muggleborns.
She shuddered inwardly, and set to the task of adjusting the blooms. Really, she was going to have to talk to Muffy about this shoddy flower arranging. She thought about the parts of the manor yet to be inspected. Everything had to be perfect. The house party needed to go off exactly as she’d planned. She had never, in fact, hosted anything quite so important. Even the dark lord himself didn’t compare to the securing of her future happiness. And what a party it would be! Representatives from wizarding society gathering together for what were ostensibly purely social reasons. Pureblood, muggleborn, and everyone in between coming together for a week of well-mannered frivolity. Showing the wizarding world that one year post-bellum, those from both sides were able to bury the hatchet. The importance of the event could not be overestimated. Everything depended on it.
Everything.
~~~~~
Ron was conducting a discreet search. He was beginning to get just a tad bit concerned. He couldn’t find Harry anywhere, and he’d been walking around the bloody place looking for what seemed like an hour, at least. In a final act of desperation he decided to check the dining room. The afternoon tea had been served on the lawn, so thus far he’d had no reason to enter.
He looked around, his palms sweating just a touch as he opened the door and walked inside. He looked around. The place must have been redone because it looked completely different, which helped. It helped a lot. He heard a scuffling noise coming from the wall. From the dumbwaiter, to be exact.
He walked up noiselessly and stood there for a moment, listening. The sound of breathing was barely perceptible, but it was there, nonetheless.
“Harry?” he whispered.
“Ron?” a voice whispered back.
“Yeah, it’s me. Uh. Why are you in the dumbwaiter? And why am I whispering?” Harry slid the door up and peered out.
“I’m hiding from Bully,” he explained.
“Why on earth should she be looking for you?” Ron asked, befuddled. Harry grimaced.
“Your mother! She’s trying to set me up with ‘a nice girl,’ as she puts it, and sicced Bully on me at tea. She’s cornered me twice and now I’m here.” He looked around. “It’s quiet.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “It took me a while to talk myself into coming in here.” Harry nodded in agreement.
“I know what you mean. The old place is full of memories. Let’s see. Hermione was tortured in that corner, I think,” he said, pointing. “And over there is where Draco failed at being a Death Muncher. Ah, salad days.”
“Do you think we’ll ever manage to have better?” Ron chuckled.
“With determination, we just might,” he replied.
“My mother shouldn’t be trying to set you up with anyone,” Ron said, frowning. “It’s not on.”
“And yet.”
“Well, I’ll try to get her to call off her dogs,” Ron remarked. Harry’s laugh rang through the empty room.
“Bully,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Just as long as she doesn’t send Pug-nosed Parkinson my way.”
“Yes, Slytherins are one thing, but there is a limit.”
“It’s not that she’s actually bad looking or anything, but I refuse to date someone who’s suggested having me killed.” Harry sighed. “I don’t want to sit here all evening. They’re going to come in and want to set the tables.”
“Soon, I should think.”
“Can’t they just use magic for that? I mean, they have elves.”
“Yes,” Ron replied, “but don’t bring it up around Hermione, I beg you. I think it’s something to do with the house. This place was built by Muggles. Hence the dumbwaiter.”
“I think the irony may actually kill me.”
“Well come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“Where to?” asked Harry.
“I’ll run interference if we see Bully or my mother, and you hightail it to our room, alright?” Ron suggested.
“You’ve been reading up on rugby, haven’t you?” Harry accused, grinning.
“Look,” Ron replied, spreading his hands, “if we’re gonna be playing muggle games, I am bloody well going to win them.”
“You’re awfully determined,” Harry observed.
“These days, Harry, when I set my mind to something...”
“I think it’s wonderful,” he replied. “It suits you. You...” He paused, searching for the word.
“I what?”
“You swagger.”
“Swagger?” Ron asked, embarrassed yet pleased. He felt himself turning pink.
“Swagger,” he affirmed with a nod. “It’s sexy. You’ll be fighting the birds off.” Ron’s smile faded slightly.
“Right,” he said, testily. “With a cricket bat, maybe.”
~~~~~
He’d never been to a house party before. Hell, he’d never been to anything remotely like this before. Seamus Finnigan was pretty sure that he was there in two capacities: as part of the small half blood delegation, and as part of the poor delegation. It was easy to ignore these things while everyone was at Hogwarts, wearing the same uniforms day in and day out. But here...it was plainly obvious that he was not part of this world. He was a working class bloke. Part of the great blue collar tradition. Seamus Finnigan was Irish.
It defined the most extravagant vacation that his family had ever indulged in. A trip within his own country to see Ireland play at the Quidditch World Cup. The family saved up just enough to spend the week there and rent a festive tent for the occasion. The fact that the whole getaway came to an abrupt and unpleasant halt when his current host decided to play dress-up with his friends...well. He’d try not to hold it against the lady of the house, anyway.
Such thoughts swirled through Seamus’s mind as he made his way down the great staircase and was nearly knocked over by a very terrified looking Harry Potter, who was being trotted after by a gleeful Ron Weasley. Seamus shook his head and shrugged. Probably off to have sex, he imagined.
Harry must have drawn the short straw.
~~~~~
“Sunny Jim!” Narcissa called. A small house elf with a surprisingly luxurious black moustache, appeared in front of her.
“Mistress is calling Sunny Jim?” he asked, his expression imperious.
“Indeed I did. Now, I want you to make the curry I mentioned, and-”
“Nay, Sunny Jim cannot be making such a dish! Is not proper and Sunny Jim will be doing no such thing. A nice ratatouille is being better. More fitting. Is French, it is.”
“But I wanted the curry for a special reason. It’s a popular muggle dish. Please make the curry, there’s a dear.”
“Sunny Jim does not make popular muggle recipes. Sunny Jim can be going elsewhere!” the little elf bellowed, inasmuch as an elf could bellow. More a haughty squeak, really.
“No, no!” Narcissa protested, frantically backtracking. “I’m sure ratatouille will be just fine. Thank you, Sunny Jim.” The elf nodded severely.
“A nice ratatouille. Is proper dish.”
“Indeed,” agreed Narcissa, relieved. She had just averted a true crisis. These free elves really were the limit. It was appalling that they should have to employ them. For political reasons! Trying to hold on to the best chef they’d ever had took enormous care. At any moment he could grab his knives and leave.
And then where would they be?
“Ratatouille,” Sunny Jim repeated gravely.
~~~~~
They had been napping for no more than ten minutes when they were both startled awake by the quiet hoot of Pig on the window ledge.
“Whassa?” Harry mumbled, cracking one eye open.
“Pig’s here with a letter.” Ron replied, sitting up. “Hey, I’m not going to bother you tonight am I? I can always find somewhere else to sleep if I do. I snore,” he added apologetically as he untied the letter from Pig’s leg.
“Don’t be stupid, we’ve slept in the same room for years now. I don’t think keeping to your side of a state bed is going to be too much of a hassle.” Harry was still rubbing his eyes when Ron gave a startled yelp.
“Bloody hell!” Ron went a deep scarlet and looked utterly confused.
“What’s wrong?” Harry frowned.
“Just read it!” Ron thrust the letter into Harry’s waiting hand.
My darling ginger,
We’re almost done here. I’ll be there soon.
Don’t wash.
Love always,
Your Popsy
“Yes, now that’s rather disgusting,” he said, scratching his jaw.
“You think it’s disgusting?? Someone in my family is having an affair with a house elf!” Ron cried. Harry snorted.
“I think it’s just a pet name.”
“With an animal?!” Ron looked horrified.
“No, not an animal! A term of endearment. Like darling,” he explained. “Or Mollywobbles.”
Ron winced.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He looked back to the letter. “Do you think that ‘don’t wash’ means what I think it does?”
“You can just stop right there, thanks.” Ron looked pained.
“I never imagined Dean would call himself such a thing.”
“Don’t,” Ron warned.
“Or Hermione, for that matter.”
“Harry.”
“What do you think he calls Ginny, then?” Harry teased.
“That’s it. You asked for it!”
Ron tackled him to the bed with remarkable speed.
“Oof! That’s the best you’ve got, Ginger?” Harry egged. He loved to wrestle Ron.
“I’ve got moves you couldn’t imagine, you speccy little git,” Ron grunted as he straddled him. He looked up into Ron’s face, grinning cheekily.
“Prove it.”
~~~~~
Pansy picked at her meal. Pretending to enjoy French food was always tiresome. She’d much rather have a nice apricot curry instead. She sighed and put down her fork altogether. The wine was so much better than the food. She surreptitiously wiped the lipstick off of her goblet with her thumb and looked around the table at the other guests.
There were those to be expected at such a gathering. Zabini, Goyle, Bulstrode, the Greengrass sisters, young Baddock and herself. Also in attendance were most of the Weasleys, Potter, Longbottom, Smith, Lovegood, Abbot and Wood. Then there were those with official positions who were there in a supposedly unofficial capacity: the new minister Shacklebolt, nosy Skeeter, that buffoon Bagman, and daffy old Doge. And Cissy’s poor Andy, of course. She considered the most unlikely of the guests. The halfbloods and muggleborns. Goldstein, Thomas, Granger, Creevey, and Finnigan.
That idiot Longbottom was making eyes at Abbot across the table again. So disgustingly obvious. And what was this...so was Bagman! Pansy cringed and looked around for something else to look at that wasn’t quite so disturbing. Her eyes landed on Finnigan. If her assessment was correct, he’d be wearing the same suit the entire time he was here. She wondered if he’d brought more than one shirt.
God, she wanted a cigarette, badly. And she wanted Draco to finally get off his lily-white arse and propose to her already. Perhaps if she shoved a finger up it, that might spur him to action.
She pondered this as she finished her third glass of Minervois.
~~~~~
Seamus was gagging for a fag. Somehow he’d made it this far into the evening completely sober. A whisky and a smoke would be just the ticket. A fuck would be a bit much to ask for around here, but two out of three wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.
As he walked by the french doors, he smelled tobacco. Good tobacco, too. He stepped out onto the veranda intending to beg one off of whoever it was.
He was expecting someone like George or Ludo Bagman. Perhaps even Rita Skeeter. Instead, he came face to face with Pansy Parkinson smoking from a tiny silver cigarette holder.
“What do you want, Finnigan?”
“I was hoping to bum a fag, actually,” he answered truthfully. Pansy arched an eyebrow.
“Is that so? Well, I suppose I’ll let you have one, just this once.”
“Are they unfiltered?” he asked, nodding to her holder.
“No,” she said, handing him a cigarette. “I just tear them off.”
“I heard that birds eat them and die,” Seamus offered.
“Shut up, Finnigan,” she replied in a disinterested voice, then lit his cigarette with the tip of her wand.
“Thanks.” He stole a glance at her as she leaned on the balustrade next to him. She was curvy and petite. Her bobbed hair, smokey eyes and dark red lipstick made him sure she was going for a silent film siren sort of thing. Seamus wasn’t sure how well it actually worked, but the overall effect was not unpleasant. Which begged the question...
“Have you ever seen a muggle film?” Pansy looked at him with surprise, and some measure of recognition.
“What are you on about?”
“Erm, nothing.” He struck out for another topic. “So. Are you playing any of the games tomorrow? Football? Cricket? Rugby?” Pansy looked at him with a touch of pity.
“It’s nice of you to try to make conversation, but you can’t honestly think that I intend to play rugby.”
“I didn’t think.”
“You want to talk? Alright. I’d advise you to make sure you’re in the drawing room later.”
“Why’s that then?” Seamus asked, curious.
“Andy’s been drinking. She’s sure to sing,” Pansy revealed conspiratorially.
“Mrs Tonks?”
“Yes. When she has too much to drink she always sings and starts harassing the men. It’s good for a laugh. Over Christmas holiday she drank all the sherry and ran out into the garden singing Quando m’en vo at the top of her lungs. We dragged her inside, but she didn’t stop singing until Cissy insisted that she go to bed.” Pansy looked thoughtful. “And she always sings the slatternly arias. Hmmm.”
“What are the slatternly arias, then?” Seamus asked, amused.
“Well, Quando m’en vo is one. Perfectly lovely and sweet as long as you don’t know what Musetta’s saying. Things like, ‘everyone stops and stares at how beautiful I am, I can taste their yearning, the scent of their desire makes me happy.’ It’s a terrible song. Would you believe that people actually play it at weddings?”
“You’ve ruined it for me, now. Ta.”
“Shall I ruin Carmen, then?” she asked, mischievously.
“Please don’t!” he laughed.
“I can’t believe I’m conversing amiably with a Gryffindor,” Pansy observed.
“Worse things have happened, surely.” Seamus frowned.
“You don’t say.” She stared at him, and he found himself succumb to her scrutiny. He had no idea what conclusions she came to. She sniffed. “Another cigarette?”
~~~~~
Harry sat next to Ron on a comfortable Greek Revival sofa.
“I’m gonna go get a drink,” Ron remarked. “Want one?” Harry looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be occupied, and perhaps the maxim ‘safety in numbers’ really was true.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Just be quick about it, would you?”
No sooner did Ron leave than he was joined by Andromeda Tonks.
“Dear Harry,” she said, gazing at him with watery eyes.
Harry wasn’t entirely certain just then why alarm bells began going off in his head, but it all became clear moments later when Andromeda touched his shoulder and began to explain why they could never be together.
“I know it must tear at your very soul to hear me say this. Believe me, I know.”
“Mrs Tonks, I-”
“Shh, don’t speak! Don’t speak,” she commanded, placing a finger against his lips. The smell of heavy perfume floating up from her wrist mixed with the liquor on her breath. He did his best not to gag.
Suddenly, like an angel come to rescue him, appeared Pugface Parkinson. “Andy, darling. Mr Doge insists that you come over and tell him about the first time you performed in front of an audience. He simply won’t be put off.” As she steered Andromeda away, he heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Later, if asked, he would deny that he had ever had any such thought about Pansy Parkinson.
He sighed too soon.
“Harry.” Bully sat in the empty seat beside him and took a deep breath in preparation for a speech, no doubt.
“Bully,” he said politely.
“Call me Millicent, Harry. Or Millie, since it’s you. But don’t tell anyone else I let you call me that, haha!” she barked. Harry was cornered. There was nothing for it but to wait until Ron got back. “Now. It’s important that we discuss your future. You can hardly expect me to consider marrying you if you haven’t some sort of plan for action.”
“Plan for action?” he echoed weakly.
“Yes. You need a career that builds on your past achievements. Something that will put you in line for greater things. I know how much you regard me-”
“You do?” he asked, bewildered.
“Indeed I do, but it is not enough to make me put a ring on my finger. You must prove yourself with actions, not just words!” She continued on in this vein for some time and finally gave him a hearty slap on the back as she stood up. “You think about what I’ve said, Harry.” She nodded and walked away just as Ron was returning with their ridiculously large drinks.
“Christ, Harry, I’m sorry! Look, do you want to take these and get out of here?”
“Yes, please,” he nodded vehemently. “Andromeda was breaking it to me just now that we’d never be together!”
“She what?” Ron asked, baffled.
“She was completely off her face, convinced I was in love with her.”
“God, have you ever had a rough evening. Come on, up the stairs.”
On the second landing Ron stopped and stared at a folded piece of parchment laying stark against the red carpet.
“What do you reckon?” he asked. Harry shrugged.
“Pick it up and see,” he said, leaning against the railing, glugging his sundowner.
Ron retrieved the parchment and unfolded it, handing his drink to Harry. He let out a low whistle.
“Well, well, well. This is just...filthy!” he said with an enormous grin. “Haha!” He handed it over to Harry.
My fat little minx,
Every moment not spent fucking your tits is a moment wasted, in my opinion. I’m imagining, right at this very moment, slicking up my cock and burying it between your huge creamy globes and fucking, fucking, fucking until I come all over them, all over your face. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My little slut. You love it when I do these things to you, don’t you? Say yes! If you thought me a pervert I could never bear it. I do so love to fuck your tight little cunny, your delicious, wet cunny; but there are so many other filthy things I want to do to you as well. Such as spread the plump cheeks of your gorgeous arse and bury my face there. I could fall asleep like that...lips at your hole and nose at your cunt. I’d breathe you even while I dream.
Tonight, will you write on my cock with your QQ quill? And if I bring back your knickers, will you let me have last night’s pair?
In your thrall,
Oliver
“Holy fucking shit, Oliver wrote this!” Harry cried, astonished.
“Shh!” Ron hissed. “Let’s just put it back where we found it and go to our room!”
“Who’s it to, d’ye think?” Harry slurred.
“Fuck if I know. What’s a QQ quill?”
~~~~~
Seamus sat in the drawing room, listening to the various conversations going on around him.
“Well, Mr Doge, I’ll tell you. Jane Eaglen started Hogwarts my seventh year, such a sweet girl. I could see that she had a natural talent straight away. If there were only one reason to maintain the statute of secrecy, it would be to protect our sopranos.”
“Really, dear, and why is that?” asked Elphias Doge.
“Why Mr Doge,” Andromeda replied, “Wherever would the world be without coloratura? Only witches have such demanding vocal flexibility. It would be a very sad place indeed without Der Hölle Rache, don’t you agree?”
“Why yes, of course, my dear. To my great shame, I was not aware of the role witches played in the lyric arts,” Doge twittered.
“Who are you staying with now, Baddock?” asked George Weasley. The slight Baddock stared at him as though he’d grown two heads. There was something distinctly odd about him, in Seamus’s opinion.
“My aunt Agatha. She’s a batty old cow who ought not to exist at all.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Er, that’s nice, then. I have an aunt Agatha, too.”
“Oh! So do I!” piped in Ginny, grinning.
“What a coincidence!” exclaimed George.
“There’s nothing remarkable about that,” interjected Goyle, simply. “Everyone has an aunt Agatha, don’t they?”
“Those who enter our society as muggleborns are necessarily the same as the nouveau riche- inconsiderate and completely lacking in refined tastes,” stated Lucius Malfoy.
“Of course the nouveau riche are inconsiderate. That’s why they have so much money,” explained Blaise Zabini, nodding.
From the first moment Blaise Zabini opened his mouth, people usually wished he’d close it again, Seamus included. He saw Pansy looking on, bored.
“I’m back,” said Goldstein, perching himself on the arm of the highback Seamus currently occupied.
“What were you up to?”
“Just freshening up, eh?” he winked.
“Forgive me, everyone, but I have an important announcement to make!” Everyone stopped to look at Draco Malfoy standing by the mantle.
Seamus noted the small nods exchanged between father and son.
“There are times in a man’s life when he must stand around and wait for his beautiful wife to get ready.” A tinkle of laughter made its way across the room. “I am here to report that very soon I, too, will be able to participate in this most thrilling of pastimes. Ladies and gentlemen, I have asked for my own Queenie, Daphne Greengrass’s hand in marriage, and am elated to report that she has accepted!”
Applause filled the room as Draco and Queenie held hands and shared a small kiss.
“My god, that girl’s plucky!” remarked Goldstein.
Seamus looked over to where he indicated. Pansy was standing there with a glass of champagne in one hand, a huge smile plastered to her face.
She was white as a sheet.
~~~~~
Pansy left the room as soon as was possible without being completely unseemly, after her hosts had taken to milling around on their own again, and walked slowly upstairs to her bedroom. The same bedroom that she’d stayed in for years, every time she’d ever visited the manor.
Years.
“Oops! So sorry, sir!” Queenie Greengrass apologised quickly as she closed the wrong door. She giggled ditzily at Pansy as she walked next door to her own room.
Pansy studiously ignored her and entered the room. She closed the door behind her and sank to the floor, swallowing the lump that lodged in her throat.
She was not going to cry.
~~~~~
“And then Ginny told George to open the cupboard and it got everywhere, all over his hands and down his pants. Everywhere!”
Harry gasped into his empty cup and let the tears of laughter flow. Ron had Muffy bring them refills on their sundowners, and they were now drunken puddles on the floor. Several fits of laughter later, he finally managed to catch his breath.
“She’s been so good. He’s so much better.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, looking at the door bleary eyed. “When did that get there?”
“Another letter? What the fuck is with all these letters? Do you think it’s actually for one of us this time?”
Harry grabbed it and unfolded it to read.
Dennis-
I say, but I couldn’t help noticing you eyeing Potter’s arse today at tea. Not that I blame you. Potter has a very fine arse, indeed. I happen to know, though, that he’s off the market. Not to say that I’m certain, but everyone’s pretty sure he’s being fucked by Weasley. However, this is all beside the point.
If you fancy anything, I’m always up for it. I can give you a very thorough education, I don’t mind telling you. I’m quite gentle. In fact, you could even fuck me for the first go, if you like. If you’re interested, just knock on my door tonight, yes?
-Anthony
Harry swallowed and stared at the paper. He could feel the blood rush into his face.
“Well what does it say?” Ron pressed.
“Just...” he began, then fell into silence. Ron snatched the letter away. Harry watched his face turn the deepest shade of scarlet he’d seen yet. Ron cleared his throat and stood up.
“Dennis is across the hall. I’ll just go slip it...er...yeah.”
Harry nodded dumbly. His head felt heavy, his limbs buzzing with something that felt strangely like electricity.
Finally climbing into bed wasn’t the relief that it should have been. They both lay there, Harry still in his t-shirt and boxers, laying prone, listening to the other one breathe in the dark.
“I...” Ron started.
“It’s okay,” he interrupted. “You don’t have to say anything. You still gonna play rugby tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Ron said, though he didn’t sound exactly relieved. “If it doesn’t rain.”
Just then a clap of thunder announced the oncoming storm.
“No rugby, then,” Harry whispered.
“No.”
The thunder continued so loudly it rattled the windows every so often. It was strangely soothing. He let the cacaphony lull him to sleep, erasing the awkwardness that threatened to suffocate him. He drifted into such a state of comfort, he didn’t register anything but peace when two fingers came to gently rest against overtop his.
~~~~~
Seamus woke with a start as a loud bang echoed through the house. A bang that was decidedly not thunder. He hopped out of bed and opened the door, wand in hand.
The corridor was still dark. He saw another door open. Pansy peeked out.
“Finnigan, is that you? Cast a lumos!”
“Parkinson?”
“Yes. I just heard the most glorious what-not, but I can’t tell where it was coming from.”
“Lumos.” Pansy looked him up and down.
“You have a lovely build, and if I were you I’d show it off, too, but you really ought to put a shirt on before Andy sees you,” she suggested bluntly.
“Huh?” he asked, distracted. “Any idea what time it is?”
“Just past four,” she informed him. Just then, more doors began to open.
“What is going on out here?” asked Neville, rubbing his eyes, clutching his mimbletonia.
“I was just going to ask that, myself,” barked Bully.
“Millie, what’s all the fuss?” Asteria asked, grabbing Bully’s sleeve.
“Did everyone hear that?” Dennis asked, coming from Goldstein’s room, strangely enough.
“Oh balls!” whispered Ginny.
“Ginny?” Dean whispered. “What did you do?”
“George?” Hermione hissed.
“She didn’t do anything,” George answered. “She helped me distract Mr Bagman while I put a leak in his hot water bottle. It wasn’t supposed to explode.”
“That wasn’t an exploding hot water bottle, I’m afraid.” Luna piped in.
“I say, if you lot are going to have loud parties out here and keep me up all night, I’m asking to be moved downstairs,” Smith said in a harassed voice.
“Yes, some of us are trying to sleep,” seconded Zabini.
“It sounded like a .22 to me,” offered Goyle. “You know, a muggle pistol?” Everyone turned and looked at him with respect and admiration.
“You know something, Goyle? I think you may be right,” Seamus said, impressed.
“Of course he is. You’re very smart, Greg.” Hannah patted his shoulder.
“I’ll go wake Harry and Ron,” Hermione informed them. “Those two will sleep through anything.
“You’ve got an awfully brave fiancee,” Goldstein told George.
“Or an awfully kinky one,” George agreed.
“No one cares about your kinky girlfriend, Weasley. Now, if the sound came from downstairs, and Mr Bagman isn’t down there thrashing about the hallway soaked, and it sounded like a gun, I say we go down there and find out what’s happened.” Pansy looked around at everyone expectantly. “Finnigan?” she suggested.
“I’ll just go grab my shirt.”
“No! Here, just take my housecoat,” Pansy said quickly. A shade suspiciously, Seamus, thought.
“I couldn’t bring myself to wake them,” Hermione said as joined them, a curious expression on her face.
“Everyone go back to bed. We’ll let you know if anything’s wrong.” Seamus told everyone.
“I have absolutely no problem with that,” replied Dean.
Seamus watched Pansy tiptoe two steps ahead of him down the staircase in her flimsy pink negligee.
“Aren’t you going to get cold in that thing? You should take your housecoat back.”
“Nonsense. We must protect your virtue,” she replied dismissively.
“What about yours?” She ignored him and paused.
“Now, who is staying on the first floor?”
“Mostly the older people, I think. Bagman, Doge, Mrs Tonks, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Percy Weasley, Wood, Shacklebolt and Skeeter,” he ticked off on his fingers.
“Draco’s room and the Malfoy’s rooms are on that floor, also.”
“They sleep in separate rooms?”
“Oh, you know. All rich people do.”
“I have a very hard time believing that.”
As they rounded into the corridor, they saw that another gathering was taking place, similar to the one upstairs, but huddled around one particular set of doors..
“You two. Come here!” boomed Kingsley Shacklebolt. They rushed over to the others.
“What’s happening here?” asked Pansy.
Kingsley looked at them and said in a voice grave and sober, “Our host has been murdered.”
~~~~~
Ron woke with his arms wrapped around Harry, whose face was tucked into his chest. Ron buried his nose into the unruly mop of black hair and breathed in deeply. He could feel Harry’s cock stiff against his thigh. He ran his fingers up under the t-shirt, feeling the knots of his best friend’s spine beneath his smooth skin. Harry let out a little sigh and began a gentle, sleepy thrust against his leg.
He wanted more than anything to reach down and hold him in his palm. Feel him heavy and warm in his hand. Run his tongue between his lips and kiss him softly.
Instead, he settled for a peck to the top of Harry’s head before disentangling himself and moving back to his side of the bed.
~~~~~
Breakfast was a somber affair. Word had spread quickly about the house that Lucius Malfoy was dead, but no one was quite sure how to act.
It certainly didn’t help that Narcissa was wearing a bright and colorful sundress. Pansy was baffled. On the one hand, she was pleased that Narcissa was treating her as usual, considering that she must not expect her to be a daughter-in-law someday. But then, that was just the problem. She was acting just as usual, possibly even cheerier than before. Gone was the dour madonna of literally yesterday hiding some terrible, secret sorrow. One that nobody already knew about, anyway. Narcissa Malfoy appeared genuinely happy. Of course, Pansy didn’t believe for a moment that she had anything whatsoever to do with the murder.
Suddenly, it hit her like a tonne of bricks.
She had a plan.
~~~~~
“Attention, everyone!” Kingsley Shacklebolt announced. “Are we all here? Good. By now you will all have heard about this morning’s tragedy, but I will fill in the blanks for you. Just after four in the morning, Lucius Malfoy was shot in his private quarters with his own Muggle pistol. I am personally conducting the investigation to determine the identity of his killer. This party was scheduled for one week, and I will have to insist that you all, each and every one of you remain here at Malfoy Manor until the investigation is concluded.”
Groans could be heard around the table.
“Do you reckon everyone will have more fun now he’s dead?” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear. Harry shivered.
“I know I will,” he murmured truthfully.
“Are you going to play in the match today, too?”
“I suppose. It’s muddy, but why not?” Though now that he thought about it, getting muddy with Ron could prove embarrassing.
“...and I will have to conduct interviews with each of you, in turn,” Shacklebolt’s voice cut through Harry’s thoughts. “Please do not be alarmed by this, it is strictly routine. In the meantime, consider the events of last night, making particular note of anything that may have seemed unusual to you. Good day.”
“And do try to enjoy the rest of your stay, would you?” added Narcissa.
“Is it just me,” Harry said in a low voice, “or is Narcissa acting weird?” Ron looked to where she was sitting, sipping a mimosa.
“I’d say you’re right. It’s as though she’s trying to hide how pleased she is.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Harry. “That’s it exactly!” Ron looked at him, a mischievous smile crossing his face.
“What say we do a little investigating, eh? Make up for missing the party this morning?”
Harry broke into a huge grin.
“It’s an idea, that! Let’s do it!”
“Harry? A word.” Molly Weasley’s business like tone caused the smile to fade from his face.
“Yes, Molly?”
“I want to hear how you’re getting on with Millicent.”
“Er, Molly, I’m terribly sorry, but I just don’t think it’s going to work.”
“Why nonsense! What Millie needs is someone to shape. To mold,” Molly insisted.
“I’m not malleable! I’m hard as a rock!” Harry protested loudly.
“We hardly needed to know that, Potter,” Draco commented from down the table. He’d caught George’s attention, too.
“Just what sort of conversation are you having with my mother?”
~~~~~
Seamus stepped off the patio and took a long drag off his newly acquired Dunhill. A stroll around the manor grounds while it wasn’t raining seemed like a nice idea. It wasn’t as though there were anything else to do. As he rounded the path that circled the east wing, he came face to arse with Pansy, who was attempting to climb up the wall trellis in a pencil skirt.
He simply stood there and continued to smoke, staring up at her pleasantly heart shaped bottom, waiting for the Oxford shoe to drop.
Suddenly she froze and sniffed the air. As she turned to glance back over her shoulder, several things happened at once. She gave a startled gasp of recognition, followed closely by letting go with her left hand, and finally with her foot twisting in the trellis. Seamus caught her, much as he expected he’d have to.
“Oof!” She looked up at him, arms round his neck. “Nice catch, Finnigan.”
“No problem,” he replied, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“You can put me down now.”
“Oh. Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “What exactly were you doing up there?”
“Investigating,” she explained with a defiant tilt of the chin. “I’m going to find out who killed Lucius and win Draco back.” Seamus frowned.
“Why would you want to win back Malfoy? He’s a twitchy little rodent.”
“He’s a blond Adonis.”
“He’s a blond git,” he corrected.
“I’m going to win him back and marry him. We’ll have two children, one of each, and I’ll have elves and a Hufflepuff nanny and a Ravenclaw tutor. I look forward to helping Narcissa redecorate the manor. You should see the third floor!” She pulled a face of distaste.
“Huh.” Seamus thought she was completely bonkers.
“He’ll stride up to me and say, ‘Pansy, you are simply it! I’m completely besotted, my darling! Let’s elope tonight!’ Then he’ll pick me up and carry me across the threshold of his room and toss me onto the bed and lift my skirt and-”
“Ahhh, stop right there,” he interrupted.
“He’ll ravage me senseless,” she said with determination.
“Got it all planned out, have you?”
“Indeed, I do. I just need to solve this. You’ll see.”
“Why don’t you marry Zacharias Smith instead? He’s just like Malfoy only less evil.”
“A Hufflepuff, Finnigan?” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you Gryffindors have no standards. She eyed his fag. “We’re not allowed to leave the house, so where did you get those?”
“Muffy nicked them from our late host’s study for me. Want one?”
“Stealing a dead man’s cigarettes? How tacky,” she observed, accepting one nonetheless.
“Ah, but I now have three packs of an otherwise useless luxury item,” he pointed out.
“Hmm. Well, it’s been the time of my life, really, but I must get back to work.”
“I think I’ll stick around if you don’t mind. Extra set of eyes can’t hurt. And someone has to catch you. Climbing in that getup? You’re out of your fecking mind, woman!”
“If you must,” she assented with a sidelong smile. “You can be the brawn to my brains.”
“Tsk! Such a charmer.”
~~~~~
After breakfast Harry and Ron put their careful plan into execution.
This mostly involved sneaking around after Narcissa Malfoy in a rather unstealthy fashion.
“Perhaps we should send off for some of those special shoes,” Ron suggested. “Mugshoes, I believe they’re called. Get us into the proper spirit of things.”
“Your tie is crooked,” Harry observed. His fingers itched to fix it, but he’d avoided touching Ron all morning. Their normal shoulder bumping boyish interaction had seemed to come to a crashing halt since last night’s letter. Things felt dashedly awkward, for his part, and it seemed to Harry that sneaking around the manor on a little adventure was just the thing to take his mind off of the tension.
“Hallo, what’s this? Another!” Harry gestured to the sealed parchment laying on the floor of the hall just behind the gong.
“I’m damned,” exclaimed Ron. “This letter business is getting awfully ripe. I wonder what sort of bilge will be in this one. Your turn.” Harry bent down to retrieve the letter. “Good man.” Ron took it and tapped the seal with his wand, unrolling it. His face...
“You know, it’s the most remarkable thing, you look just like a fish right now. It’s nothing to do with us, is it?”
Ron gave a jerky shake of the head and thrust it towards Harry.
To the one who knows me best,
Last night I started this after all the commotion. You’d already drifted back to sleep, but I had no desire to do so. I couldn’t stop staring at you, laying there asleep. I gave serious consideration to parting your legs while you were dreaming and having my way with you. But... the moonlight. It still shone in through the window. Your skin was lit up like marble. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I hope that my drawing says I love you with more eloquence than my words can. God knows I can’t wait to touch you again.
Your artist,
D
Those words were written at the top of the page above a charcoal sketch. Ginny was stretched out, nude. It was full of shadow and light and really quite lovely.
“That’s awfully romantic,” Harry smiled.
“That’s awfully my sister! Just seal it, would you?” Ron begged. He complied.
“I definitely don’t think we should leave this where we found it.”
“I should bloody well think not!” Ron agreed vehemently.
“Let’s bring it up to their room, alright?”
A few minutes later, errand accomplished, they walked back down the staircase only to find their quarry arguing with a house elf.
“That was easy enough,” murmured Ron.
“I’m terribly sorry, but you must!” Narcissa insisted.
“Sunny Jim is refusing to use charmed vittles! Sunny Jim is not having it! Sunny Jim is to be getting his knives!”
“But I don’t understand. Why ever not?”
“Is affecting the flavor! Is not right! Is insupportable!”
The scene was attracting an audience. Harry could see Kingsley and Doge watching from the entrance to the parlor, and Parkinson had just walked in with Seamus from somewhere in the back of the house.
“Sunny Jim, how are you?” Parkinson interrupted.
“Sunny Jim is not being so well, actually,” the elf answered grimly.
“Good. Now, I promised Narcissa that I would help out while I was here, and I wanted to talk to you about the food situation. Are we running out?”
“We is not having anything fresh, miss. We is only having charmed. Sunny Jim does not cook with charmed comestibles. Is tasting nasty.”
“Oh dear, then we’ll just have to come up with something else, won’t we? Have you considered an icebox?”
“Icebox?” asked the elf, suspiciously.
“Yes, or a frigidaire, the Muggles call them,” she explained. “You keep food fresh without charms by putting them in a box with great blocks of ice. Doesn’t that sound like such fun?”
“Is sounding unnatural,” Sunny Jim grumbled. “Is flying against nature, it is.”
“Nonsense. Mother Nature is all very well in her place, but she mustn’t be allowed to make things untidy. Think of it, nice cold milk that you don’t have to charm, your vegetables will last longer, too, all without affecting the taste. What do you say?”
To Harry’s great surprise, the elf was beginning to yield.
“Cold milk? Where would miss be getting such a thing?” he asked, twiddling his tiny moustache thoughtfully.
“We could get one from the town and bring it back here. And uncharmed food to put in it, of course. Minister?”
Harry watched as Kingsley considered the proposal.
“I could make an exception for a supply run,” he replied, addressing the elf.
“We’ll go!” Ron shouted down from the landing.
“How do you propose to get there? Broomstick?” Harry pointed out. “Plus you’d miss the rugby, wouldn’t you?”
“I could drive there in my two seater,” offered Parkinson.
“You have a car?” Seamus asked with surprise.
“Don’t look so shocked, Finnigan,” she admonished.
“I’m going with her,” he said quickly. “I mean, if it’s alright with you sir,” he added sheepishly.
“That will be fine, but I’ll need to talk to the two of you in the study before you go.” With that, Kingsley walked to the room in question and waited just past the door, expectantly.
“Thank you, my dear,” Narcissa said, grabbing Parkinson’s hand. “I’m so very...” Harry thought she looked a bit regretful, but couldn’t imagine how that could have anything to do with Pugface.
“I used to have an automobile,” Doge prattled. “I have such fond memories of going up to town in the Hispano. Ah, but she was a spanking fine goer.”
No one paid him any attention.
“Look,” Ron whispered, nudging Harry in the ribs. “There she goes into the billiard room. Come on.” They walked down into the hall on the trail of Narcissa Malfoy.
“Ahem.” They stopped, and Harry looked to his right only to find Kingsley staring at the two of them. “You boys, too.” He cocked his head, directing them to enter the study.
The four of them sat down on the leather couches that faced each other across a low table.
“I want to discuss the detective work the four of you have been engaged in.”
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Haha,” laughed Ron. “Sniffing around, eh Parkinson?”
“One more word about my nose, Weasley, and I’ll hex your balls off,” she replied sweetly.
“That’s enough, you two,” Kingsley interrupted. “Now, I’ve seen the four of you snooping around the house all morning and-”
“We’re sorry, sir,” Harry interrupted. “We just thought we’d-”
“-and I wanted to know if you have found anything,” he finished.
“Oh! Well, we’ve been keeping an eye on Mrs Malfoy.”
“Or the merry widow, as we like to call her,” laughed Ron.
“Oh, shut up!” Parkinson cried angrily. “She had nothing to do with this!”
“Who are you kidding? She’s been prancing about like it’s Christmas all day long!” Ron countered.
“Just you leave her alone.”
“Mate,” said Harry, “let’s not, alright?” Ron’s temper was clearly rising, and Harry placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. It seemed to work all by itself, because Ron was visibly soothed. He looked at Harry and gave a little nod. It was probably his imagination, but it felt as though Ron moved closer against his hand. He had no choice but to leave it there.
“Well, if you can manage to be a little more discreet than you’ve been so far, I’d like you to keep doing it,” Kingsley instructed.
“But sir!” Parkinson objected.
“Miss Parkinson, in a murder investigation it would be remiss not to investigate the widowed spouse. Consider it strictly routine.”
“He’s right,” Seamus affirmed. She pursed her lips and said nothing.
“As for the two of you,” Kingsley went on, addressing Seamus, “I want you to find out what people heard last night. Find out who was absent, who wasn’t where they were supposed to be. After your errand, of course.”
Seamus nodded his assent. “You can count on us, sir. Right, Parkinson?”
“Right.”
“Good. Then I’ll leave you to it. Report back to me if you find anything of interest.”
They were dismissed.
“I hope Narcissa likes to watch rugby,” Ron commented once they were outside. “Hey, if Seamus isn’t playing, maybe we can get Percy to step in.” They saw Neville wandering aimlessly in the garden with his mimbulus mimbletonia, wearing a planter hat.
“Why’s he still carrying around that plant?” Harry wondered aloud.
“He always does, he’s obsessed with it. I think he’s a little touched these days, if you want my opinion. Oi, Neville!” Ron called. Neville waved over to them.
“Hallo. You chaps haven’t seen a house elf around, have you?”
“Only the cook. Why?” replied Harry.
“I’m looking for Buck Buck, the gardener,” Neville explained, approaching. “Want to show him my plant.”
“Of course,” nodded Harry.
“What on earth is behind all these elf names? Sunny Jim, Buck Buck. You haven’t heard of a Popsy, by chance, have you?” asked Ron suddenly.
“Popsy?” Neville answered, thinking. “No, but there is a Soggy Muff. They’re all siblings, I believe.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Soggy muff?” repeated Harry. “That’s horrible!”
“Is it? Muffy, you know.” Ah. Poor thing. And there Harry had thought Muffy was a strange name. “Well, I’m off. Got to find him soon if I’m going to play in the match this afternoon.”
And with that, Neville shambled off into the rose garden.
Continue to Part 2