Episode #2: The Lady in White, pt.2

[leveltwomods]

1:17pm


The kitchens are on the ground floor, their windows shuttered and dust gathered in the sink. Harry steps in, holding the glowing tip of his wand high and trying not to let the silence of the house get to him.

“Kettle, kettle,” he mutters under his breath as he searches. He could summon one, of course, but at the moment he’d like to avoid magic.

Halfway through the room he hears a scratching noise behind him that doesn’t sound at all like Malfoy’s footsteps. He whirls, shifting into a half crouch and bringing his wand in front of him. Malfoy has already done the same, expression pale and lips thin. Harry moves forward, flicking the Lumos away from his wand tip so that it rises to hover above them, casting light over the entire room.

There is one shadow in the corner that seems out of place.

“Hello?” Harry calls quietly, acting on a small suspicion. The small shadow twitches and shivers, large ears trembling. “I’m here to help the Master and Mistress. Will you come out?” He holds his breath, waiting silently for an answer.

After a long, tense moment, a stooped house elf slides out from between the wall and counter. Malfoy lets out a nearly audible sigh and straightens.

“Masters wishes to help the Family?” the elf asks in a creaking voice.

“Yes,” Malfoy says smoothly, in his most falsely composed tone. He straightens and lifts his chin. “We must know what happened to the Master and Mistress Malfoy.”

“We’re Aurors,” Harry says, offering the elf a small smile. “We are here to help.” He doesn’t want the creature scared off by Malfoy’s imperial tone; it looks traumatized enough as it is.

The elf looks up and glances back and forth between them, eyes enormous and unblinking. “The Aurors came once, looking for the young Mistress. Now they come for the Masters, too.” Tears well up in its eyes and Harry fairly cringes with guilt. He always feels terrible when he makes a house elf cry.

Malfoy sneers. “Stop crying,” he snaps. “Tell us what you know.”

Harry glares and straightens, opening his mouth to chastise Malfoy for his callousness, when the elf nods. It straightens, blinking tears from its eyes, and bows shakily. “Of course, Master Malfoy,” it says, sniffling. “Master and Mistress Malfoy are not dead. Shandy saw it. The dark ones came and made everything cold. The young Mistress ran away, but the Master and Mistress became so quiet. They didn’t ask Shandy to do anything, and Shandy tried to make them eat, but they would not! The Master and Mistress are not dead, but they are not alive!” The elf burrows its face in its hands, ears quivering.

Harry stares. Shandy’s words have only confirmed his suspicions as to the murder of Septimus and Aurelia Malfoy. But it is not just that. Shandy said that ‘the young Mistress’ had been there when her parents died. And that she’d fled.

“Shandy, listen to me.” He goes down to his knees on the dusty tiled floor.

Shandy looks up, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You said that Helena Malfoy was here when your Master and Mistress… grew sick,” he continues. “She was supposed to have disappeared.”

Shandy shakes his head. “The young Mistress has always been here,” he says. “The young Mistress has not disappeared anywhere.”

“Do you know where she is?” He feels the tension vibrating off Malfoy, beside him. “Right now?” He thinks of the note, sent by parties unknown and imbued with subtle and intricate spells. “She may be in danger,” he adds.

Shandy nods. “Shandy knows where the young Mistress lives. Shandy will help protect the young Mistress,” he says, and smiles tremulously.

Harry smiles back. “Thank you, Shandy,” he says. “That’s just what we need to know.”

The elf hesitates, then tugs at his ears. “Shandy does not want to say,” he says, suddenly hesitant.

“Shandy,” Malfoy snaps in a tone that he must have learn from his father. “Tell us now.”

The elf shakes, then gives in. “The young Mistress Helena lives in Muggle London,” he says. “You must not punish Shandy for knowing.”

His tone is leaning towards hysteria, so Harry reassures him, “Of course not. But what part of Muggle London?”

Shandy looks up from behind long lashes. “The part called the Chell Sea,” he whispers.



//



4:43pm


“Chelsea,” Harry sighs. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and cranes his neck back to better gaze at the sophisticated faces of the buildings lining Paultons Square. This has to be one of the wealthiest, snobbiest, and well-kept areas of London. Perfect for a Malfoy.

White steps lead up to black doorways, the brick of the upper levels of the townhouses turned a dark earthy brown by the shade from the trees in the park across the street. The shadows are long under the late afternoon sun.

Malfoy fidgets one last time with the suit jacket he’s conjured for himself and steps forward, touching the tips of his shoes to the first step at No. 28 Paultons Square. He touches his collar, pulling it up close to his immaculately knotted tie, then lets it fall once more. His cheeks are flushed pink from the heat, and he’s scowling. He lifts his wand and casts a discreet detection spell. Harry shifts over to add his own.

Harry sighs. “Nothing. Not a single drop of magic."

Malfoy frowns down at his wand. “Can’t be right,” he mutters.

“It’s what the spells say,” Harry says easily, in a markedly better mood because he refused to conjure a replacement for his robes and has been walking around in the light cotton of his shirt for the past fifteen minutes. He ascends the four steps to the front door and turns, taller than Malfoy at last.

“Do you have a strange feeling about this case?” he asks.

“I have a strange feeling about everything,” Malfoy snaps, looking up at him. “Why?”

Harry shakes his head, glancing up and down the street. “I received a note this morning that pointed us towards Helena’s case file. I just happen to be working with you, the last person to see her alive. When we go to question Helena’s parents, we find them dead; murdered. And their house elf seems to think that Helena never disappeared in the first place. This is beyond strange,” he says. “It’s….”

“Contrived,” Malfoy finishes for him. “And poorly so.”

Harry nods. “Exactly.”

Silence falls between them for another few moments.

A black cab turns down the street, and Harry watches it. It slows to a halt, pulling over almost directly in front of them. A slim woman steps out and turns back to pay the cabbie. Her hair is a soft gold, curled and cut to shoulder length. She turns and sees them, the loose skirt of her white dress shifting around her, white heels clicking on the pavement.

She walks forward and places a hand on the railing that leads to her front door. The gaze she narrows is hard and unwelcome, as if she already knows why they’re here.

“Helena Malfoy?” Harry asks, though it isn’t really a question.

She stares at him. “Who are you?” Her tone is flat, as if she doesn’t care one way or the other. Nonetheless, the dead expression in her eyes sends a chill through Harry.

He forces a smile. “Harry Potter.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his warrant card. “Auror. Can we talk?”

“What do you want?” she asks.

Malfoy moves forward. “We want to help,” he says.

“We’ve been assigned to your case,” Harry adds. “We want to know why the Ministry of Magic lists you as disappeared. We just need to clear that up.”

Her stance relaxes slightly. “The Ministry has assigned Harry Potter to clean up my case?”

Harry grins at her. “It really is very important.”

She looks to Malfoy and pauses. “Come in, then,” she says, and her face relaxes like the flipping of a switch. Harry blinks at the change. “I don’t have too much time before I have to go out again, but I’ll see what I can do to help you along.”

She sweeps up the stairs past Harry, slides her keys into the door, and pushes it open to reveal a wide hall with white floors. The walls are covered with framed paintings.

“Come in,” she says, glancing back at them, and walks inside.

Harry sends Malfoy a glance before following.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, closing the door behind them.

“No thank you, Ms Malfoy,” Malfoy says. “We’ve just had some.”

They have, in fact. Once Shandy had calmed down, he had only been too glad to make Harry and Malfoy a pot of strong tea and tell them all about the lovely young Mistress who’d moved to Muggle London – wasn’t it a shame - but who was kind and brought pride to the Malfoy name all the same.

“Please, call me Helena,” she says. “I haven’t used Malfoy in years. Though, I believe that you…” She looks to Malfoy.

He nods. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Draco Malfoy. Unspeakable.”

Her lips shape an O. “Of the Wiltshire Malfoys!” she exclaims. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” She stops and turns, holding out a hand to shake.

After the barest hesitation, Malfoy shakes it. “No,” he says. “We haven’t.”



“It’s always lovely to meet family after all these years,” she says, smiling happily. Harry notices that her smile still fails to reach her eyes. “How did you find me?”

Helena steps into a sitting room and walks over to a low, white couch. She settles onto the sofa with her ankles crossed; the hem of her white dress rises up her thigh as she leans forward. A wide painting hangs above the sofa in an ornate golden frame, showing four large figures arranged in a landscape, coaxed from brooding greens and shadows. The painting is non-magical and still, and obviously quite old. Each figure has his or her gaze turned away from the viewer. ¹

Helena is waiting for their answer.

“Is that a Titian?” Malfoy asks instead, looking up at the painting.

She twists to look. “Yes, or a Giorgione.” She turns back with a wicked smile. “No one is quite sure.”

“That must have cost quite a lot,” Malfoy says, almost asking a question, his gaze steady on her.

“I’m a collector,” Helena says lightly. “It’s my profession.” She leans back. “I collect things – mostly art, but also other interesting trinkets that come my way.”

“Are you interested in any particular period?” Malfoy asks. Harry is beginning to feel very out of touch with the conversation.

“No,” she says. “I gather all kinds of art for my collection. But I suppose that there is always that one elusive piece that I can’t seem to get my hands on.” She pauses, a faint smile touching her lips. “Please, sit down. You never did say why you’re here.”

“We were assigned to your case,” Harry says, settling into a white, minimally-styled chair that matches the sofa. Malfoy sits in the matching chair nearby with conspicuous upper class grace and practice. “Nothing more.” He smiles at Helena and feels Malfoy watching him. They haven’t agreed on this particular story, but Harry is confident that he can pull it off. Helena doesn’t know much about the inner workings of the Ministry, he’s sure.

She nods. “So you said. But I’m not exactly the easiest person to locate.” Her tone is edged.

“It did take us a while,” Malfoy says with an easy smile, lying through his teeth without an instant’s pause for thought. Harry is grateful for that; he’s never been the best liar, even when it’s essential.

Seeing that Helena is getting ready to ask another question, Harry forges ahead. “Your file states that you disappeared on 8 November 1981. Yet when we called at Chrysos Hall to speak with your parents, we were assured that you’d never disappeared. Why the discrepancy?”

She blinks, fingers folding together carefully in her lap. “Did you call at home?” she asks. “I haven’t spoken to my parents in years.”

Harry nods. “Did you run away from home in 1981?”

“Oh, no,” she says, eyes wide and mocking. “That disappearance nonsense was all a misunderstanding. I went overseas for school, and someone filed a false report that never quite went away.”

“Someone?” Harry pauses. “I believe it was your parents who filed the missing persons report. Why would they do that if you’d simply gone away to school?” And besides, he thinks silently, where would she have gone? The only overseas options Harry can think of are Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, or Salem. Yet he’s worked with witches and wizards who’ve spent time over seas in the past; Helena lacks the burr in her enunciation, the subtle shifting of speech that signifies time spent in a foreign land. She’s too precisely English.

Helena watches him with her deadened gaze for a long moment before blinking. Her eyes shift to look at Malfoy, and Harry nearly sighs as her regard is lifted from him. He has the feeling that Helena couldn’t care less about them or the questions that they’re asking, that the majority of her thoughts are concerned with something else entirely. He just wishes that he could figure out what that is.

“When I was young,” Helena says, voice rough as it shatters the silence, “my mother was often unstable. She would have fits, screaming until the whole house shook with the sound. She…” Here she pauses and looks back to Harry. “After I left for school, she reported me as missing. I don’t know why. I’d been going to Hogwarts for years, so why would she become convinced that I’d been taken from home, when I’d simply left for school?”

“Could you remind me,” Harry asks, acting on a hunch, “of the year you were born?”

Nonplussed, Helena blinks at him. “1963,” she bites out.

Malfoy does the math more quickly than Harry. “So you were 18 when you were reported missing. You would have already graduated Hogwarts. Why were you leaving for school?”

Harry is glad to see that Malfoy has picked up on the strangeness surrounding Helena Malfoy as well.

“What does that matter?” Helena snaps. “You came to ask about my disappearance. I’ve explained that. All of it. I don’t know why you’re still asking questions.” She stands, obviously wanting them out.

Harry and Malfoy exchange a quick glance.

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “Thank you. You’re right of course. What you’ve told us should clear up the file.” He stands and Harry follows suit.

Something is wrong here. Helena’s story is implausible and her demeanour is twisted. Harry can’t quite name what’s wrong here, but he’s willing to bet that it’s illegal. And likely the real reason that he and Malfoy were sent to investigate Case No. 08297. He won’t just let that go.

“Thank you for your time,” Harry says, smiling. The one Helena offers in return is strained, and her gaze seethes with distaste.

They head for the door and as Malfoy steps into the hall, Harry pauses. He turns back.

“Just one more thing, Helena.” He gives a breath of silence. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she says, her grimace brief.

“Where were you on the night of your parents’ murder?”

Harry can tell he’s caught her off guard by the way she goes still, then slides her gaze up to meet his, smooth as a snake and just as warm.

“I only ask because, when we went to Chrysos Hall, we found the bodies of your parents in one of the upstairs sitting rooms. They were in a terrible condition. You see…” Here he pauses and turns to face Helena fully. “No one knew they were dead.”

“Is that so?” She lifts her chin. “It’s a shame, really. But as I told you, I haven’t been back to the Hall in years.”

Malfoy steps up behind Harry, taking his cue to keep pressuring Helena until they can uncover the truth. “There was someone who saw you,” he says. “A house elf by the name of Shandy. He wanted to help you so badly, he told us everything we wanted to know.”

Helena is pale, but composed. It’s admirable, in the face of the fact that he and Malfoy are quickly backing her into a corner.

“I still don’t understand,” Harry says, “how you could watch your parents die and do nothing. But I do know why you never told anyone that they’d died.” Helena is tightening, her muscles tensing farther and farther. The coldness in her gaze has gone as icy as the tip of Antarctica, and Harry knows that with one last push, she’ll be over the edge. “If you told anyone how you ran away…”

She shifts forward, drawing her hand back for a slap, snarl plastered on her face. Harry spreads his arms to let her come and Malfoy moves forward, pressing close to Harry and shoving the tip of his wand under Helena’s chin as she lunges. She freezes, shuddering to a halt, trembling with the urge to hit Harry.

They stand still as statues for a moment. “I could have you arrested for that,” Harry says quietly.

Helena’s hand falls to her side. “And take me to your magical prison, I would think. Lock me away where you’ll never have to see me again.” There is something in her tone as she refers to Azkaban that sits badly with him. As if a magical prison is different from the norm.

As if magic is a foreign entity to Helena Malfoy.

Malfoy shifts, and from the corner of his eye, Harry can see that he’s frowning.

“’Magical prison’?” Malfoy asks. “Why do you call it that?”

Her gaze narrows and she shifts away from the tip of his wand. “What do you care?” she sneers.

“Answer the question,” Harry says. “And this one, too: why have you exiled yourself here, to Muggle London? Why haven’t you returned home?”

With a toss of her head, Helena laughs harshly and steps back, spreading her empty hands. She suddenly seems at ease. “Because I could not go home,” she says with a twisted smile. “If I still had my magic, I would have set wards on this house so that you would never find me. I would rip you to shreds with my curses, and you would enjoy every moment of it.” She glances at Malfoy and her eyes widen. “Don’t be sad, cousin. I don’t hate you any more than the rest of this goddamned family.”

Malfoy has gone so pale he seems white.

This is the wrongness, the strange feeling at the centre of this case. This is why nothing seemed to fit at first, why Helena Malfoy had vanished so completely all those years ago. She has lost her magic.

“How?” Harry asks.

Helena’s brows rise and she laughs. “You want to know the details? The intimate moments? How I went out to a Muggle club and ended up in a hotel room with no magic? I’ve had to live with Muggles. You stand there, dripping with magic and fame, and you presume to judge why I ran away? Why I preferred to hide from the monsters that killed my parents rather than face them, weak and pathetic without my magic? You make me sick.”

The idea of Helena leaving her parents to die slowly, of thrist and lack of a soul within the grand Manor where they had raised her, makes Harry sick. Glancing the Malfoy’s face, it appears he feels the same. How could she have done that?

“If what you say is true,” Malfoy says, voice weak, “then you didn’t just run away once, but twice: the first time when you let your parents die, and the second when you left them to rot.”

“I could do nothing!” she screams, hands clenching into fists. “I couldn’t save myself, and I couldn’t save my parents! Do you think I didn’t try?” Her eye flash and she moves towards Malfoy. Still pressed close together, Harry feels Malfoy’s breath quicken. “Every day, for twenty-five years, I’ve tried to get my magic back. So that I could live like a normal person. So that I could save my parents. I’ve killed for that. And I still can’t lift so much as a teacup. Do you think I wanted to live like a fucking Muggle?”

“Who did you kill?” Malfoy asks, voice hoarse.

The anger drains from her quickly, rushing away like water down a drain. Helena smiles with a mixture of satisfaction and nostalgia. “The Muggle boy who took my magic, of course. I trusted him, all those years ago. I even fucked him. And he took my magic.” She pauses, drawing herself up. “So I left him to rot in that hotel room.”

Well. There it is. Harry lets his wand, which he’s been hiding in his sleeve, slip into view and raises it.

“Helena Malfoy,” Harry says, trying for a flat professionalism that is difficult in the face of what this woman has just admitted to doing.

The gaze she focuses on his is flat and dead. “Yes, Mr. Potter?” Her tone sends chills down his spine.

“You are under arrest for murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later rely on before the Wizengamot. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” He grasps her arm and turns her. “Incarcerous,” he casts, and ropes spring from his wand to wind themselves around her wrists, dragging them together.

Helena turns to look at him. Her gaze is satisfied, and for a moment, her bound hands clasp Harry’s. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Harry pulls away and sends Malfoy a glance, then with a swift turn Apparates himself and Helena away.



//



9:28pm


The lift ride up from Level Two is quiet, with just him and Malfoy in the cage.

“It isn’t possible,” Malfoy says suddenly, “to lose your magic. It’s innate; it can’t be taken from any of us.”

“So why did Helena think she’d lost hers?” Harry asks. “She seems certain, and she didn’t once try to use magic against us.”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Trauma? A curse? Magic can’t be taken, but it can be suppressed for a time. Though anything that would hold back her magic for such a long time would have to be extremely powerful.” He grimaces. “She’d have to be more thoroughly examined to determine the cause. But the Auror Department has her now, so that is unlikely.”

Harry sighs. He knows that Malfoy would have liked to have kept Helena within Unspeakable jurisdiction, to better understand her. But it’s probably for the best that she’s kept far away, Harry thinks. He’s afraid that she’ll end up damaging Malfoy far more than either of them would expect.

“At least she’ll go to trial,” he says. “The Ministry will have to contact the Met about the Muggle she killed, but she’ll be tried by the Wizengamot.”

“Then she’ll get off,” Malfoy says. His tone is somewhere between relieved and disturbed.

“She confessed to us,” Harry says.

Malfoy glances up at him. “Remember my father? If your family has money, the Wizengamot is prone to leniency,” he says. “And Helena has money. I suspect she was getting it from her parents’ estate, but I can’t be sure. You saw the townhouse she was living in, the art she had on her walls. She was living well.”

Harry grimaces. “You’re right.” The lift slows to a stop and the doors slide open with a clang. Harry moves to get out, then is nearly bowled over by someone very tall rushing into the elevator.

“Harry!” Ron exclaims. “Did you hear? We closed the kidnapping!” His face is flushed and his hair messier than Harry’s seen it in years. Malfoy edges away from him on the other side of the lift.

Harry gapes, dismayed. Already?

“We found Wilfing dead,” Ron says, sighing and leaning against the lift door. It wheezes, attempting to close, but he ignores it. “Hanged himself. Savage is calling it suicide.” Ron’s tone is doubtful.

Harry blinks, trying to recall the details of a case he’s never worked. “Well, if he hanged himself…”

Malfoy, edging out carefully around Ron, snorts. “What kind of wizard hangs himself?” he asks sharply. “I’d take a well-brewed poison any day.”

Ron startles as if just seeing him and steps back. “Exactly!” he says.

Malfoy ignores him and looks at Harry. “Keep me up to date,” he says. “I’ll be around.” He turns on his heels and leaves, heading for the Floo.

If only his last words hadn’t seemed so sinister.

Ron steps fully into the lift and Harry takes the opportunity to slide out. He’s exhausted and as much as he’d love to hear about Ron’s case, he needs sleep more at the moment.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Ron,” he says.

“Mark my words!” Ron says, wild around the eyes. “It was murder.” The lift doors slide shut and, with a sigh, he’s carried away.

Harry sends a tired smile after him. He turns towards the Floo and shoves his hands into his pockets.

What a day. Hopefully he can put this all behind him for the night, but it seems more likely that he’ll be dreaming about Helena Malfoy – sharp, dark, and deadly dreams. He tries wistfully to think of the nice soft bed waiting for him instead.

In his pocket, Harry’s fingers brush against a folded parchment.

Case No. 08297
The Fifth Room

Helena Malfoy.

A chill begins to build within him, settling in around his stomach. He doesn’t know who sent the note, or why. Helena’s case, despite the appearance of being solved, still sits oddly with him. Something isn’t finished here.

There is still a knot to unravel. And Harry isn’t sure he’ll be able to solve this one on his own.

¹ Pastoral Concert by Titian/Giorgione

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK...