Blue-Eyed Angel
Chapter Eight
A week had passed since the last murder and everyone was on edge while waiting for the next that was sure to come. Reamann had managed to secure the case files from the Muggles on the first five attacks, so now the Aurors could review them and look for details and patterns they hadn't known before, while anxiously waiting, hoping to somehow solve the case before another Muggle was hurt…or worse.
But there had been no luck so far.
Now they all waited, knowing the attacks were not going to simply stop after six, and after a week everyone felt they were no longer waiting for an attack but for someone to discover it, no one holding out any hope that one had not happened on schedule.
Draco had reviewed the Muggle files time and time again, and he had sat with his fingers fisted in his hair, staring down at the papers for hours, frustrated to wit's end at the "Muggles' incompetence" and that he could not figure the case.
Every bird in the sky that caught Reamann's eye now caused his stomach to clench, a brief moment of him thinking it was an owl bringing him news of another attack and another terrible scene to report to.
He was on edge like everyone else, and he was at his girlfriend's family house that night in hopes of easing his mind and nerves with a Sunday family dinner. His nerves were anything but relaxed though thanks to the topic of choice.
"So, you gonna ask her to marry you or what?" Ron asked as he, Harry, and Reamann stood in the kitchen at the Burrow. The women, aka: Hermione and Ginny, were in the living room while everyone else was in the backyard where a fire pit was set up for the children to roast marshmallows that cold night. Ron, Reamann, and Harry were on dish duty after dinner, and taking the opportunity to talk without Mrs. Weasley there to bud in like she tended to do.
"Oh, I don't know," Reamann muttered, flicking his wand at the sink as the dishes washed themselves.
"She is arse over teacup for you, mate," Harry said, drinking his coffee.
"You really think so?"
"Don't you?" Ron asked. Ron was the tallest in the room. Reamann and Harry were both a respectable six foot even, but Ron was just over six foot four and had filled into a pair of strong shoulders. It was hard for most in the family to think of him as "massive" having known Hagrid, but he certainly was big and took up a lot of space.
"Well, she is sometimes really distant."
"That's just women for you. They need their space one moment, claim you don't pay enough attention to them the next," Ron said with a shrug.
"This coming from the bachelor among us," Harry teased.
"Hey, I have chosen to put my career first thank you very much, Mr. twice-divorced-by-thirty," Ron said down his nose but not in a harsh tone, bickering good naturedly over who was better qualified to give advice on women to Reamann.
"Right," Harry and Reamann said, both rolling their eyes, clearly not believeing Ron simply did not want a bint of his own.
"How is the case going? I hear your first day was, well, rough," Harry asked as Ron chuckled.
"Heard you puked on the body," Ron sniggered. They had been unable to talk about such things over dinner itself.
"I did not. I puked near the body," Reamann huffed indignantly while blushing. He had hardly made a good impression on the Constable at the scene, nearly "compromising the scene's integrity" and getting yelled at a lot while others on the scene that hadn't puked, guffawed quietly at him behind their hands. He hadn't been the only one that puked, however, so he was able to save face to a certain extent.
"I heard you couldn't get the Aurors on the scene," Harry said, not of the department but very interested in the case nonetheless.
"No, I tried. Unfortunately, Scotland Yard was backed up, and there was no one on the scene that day I could talk with about getting a bunch of witches and wizards on the case," he said with a sigh. "I had to man it all by myself. I've gotten the information from the other scenes since then, so hopefully by the time…" he paused for a second before dropping his voice in a defeated tone, "the next scene comes up, I will have the clearance I need and I can go back to what I'm good at: being the translator."
"You think there will be another attack before you are able to make a break?" Harry asked, looking at Ron.
"Things look rather bleak. An attack a week for over a month and we still have nothing to work with. Now it's a week later," he said, looking a bit downhearted himself. "I just got cleared to join the case given the increased pressure the Ministry is putting on the department for us to solve this," he said, Reamann looking at him. "I'll have full access to all the scenes and evidence, and Reamann here will do all the talking so I don't have to deal with the ruddy Muggles," he explained, slapping Reamann around the shoulder.
"You can enter any scene?" he asked. Ron nodded.
"You think it's Death Eaters behind it?" Harry asked.
"Could be," Ron said. Reamann bit his tongue a little.
"Wouldn't surprise me if they were," Harry said, taking a sip of his coffee, his eyes darkening behind his glasses.
"I can't see that as a possibility myself," Reamann said, Harry and Ron looking over at him. "I mean, seems like a silly thing to risk everything on. Is attacking some Muggles really worth going back to Azkaban over?"
"They have nothing, so they have nothing to lose," Ron said while Harry nodded in agreement, both the men having fought the Death Eaters, Reamann having been too young to be a part of the fighting so he seemed to lack a certain amount of fear…and prejudice.
"I think a life outside of Azkaban is a lot to lose," Reamann muttered, flicking his wand at the sink, pocketing a hair he had pulled off of Ron's collar for safe keeping. He needed to talk to Draco.
------------------------
Ginny and Hermione sat in the living room, talking casually. The fireplace was roaring and warm in the otherwise dark room. The men were in the kitchen and the rest of the family was in the back. It was girl time, and it was usually a fun experience filled with giggles and hand grabbing in excitement. Ginny wasn't so much in the mood for that today.
"So, tell me, you think Reamann will propose for Christmas?" she asked, Christmas being just nine days away. Ginny looked awkward.
"I'm not sure."
"Oh, you must be excited," she said with a girlish giggle that she dared never use in the vicinity of the boys lest she be taunted mercilessly.
"Oh, oh I am," Ginny said in an only mildly convincing tone while nodding her head.
"Then why don't you look it?" Hermione asked, voice dropping a little, face sad. Ginny just shook her head then.
"It's nothing. Just, you know, the anniversary coming up, has me a bit down this year."
"Why this year more than others?" Hermione asked softly, talking of the war.
Ginny shrugged.
"Come on, Gin. I know you better than this. You have always been good at talking about what's bothering you. What's got you so down and silent about it?" she pressed, holding her friend's hand.
"I had lunch with Draco Malfoy, last week," she said almost suddenly and Hermione visibly recoiled in her shock. Ginny had not told anyone about her lunch with Draco the Saturday before, and really why would she? But she trusted Hermione.
"Did you now?" she asked, her tone not giving away her tension like her grip on Ginny's hand did. Ginny had not been lying when she had told Draco that Hermione felt terrible about the whole ordeal and him being sent to Azkaban.
"Yeah. I sent him a note at the Ministry from my office asking him to join me, and he actually did," she said, having half expected Draco to RSVP her back with the same "two-worded reply" he had sent back to Hermione some years before when she had owled him to meet her.
"He actually agreed to meet you?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I guess you weren't the one that handed him off to the Aurors, so I guess he holds less of a grudge against you," she said with a sad smile. She had a pound of guilt over the "Malfoy situation" just like Harry.
"He didn't mention you if that's what you're wondering…I brought you up but he seemed rather disinclined to talk much on the subject. Really, he was quite civil and courteous, and actually easy to talk to," she said and Hermione stared at her like Ginny had just grown a second evil-head that resembled a slightly less unattractive Goyle. "Don't look at me like that," Ginny laughed.
"No, no, it's just…you just had a mental moment where you mistakenly implied that Draco was a pleasant person to sit and chat with over lunch," she said, eyes still wide and staring.
"I did say that, and I meant it because it's true. I mean, he's defensive and a bit of a stuck-up prat still, but he really is quite smart, and nice when he lets himself be. I think he just guards himself," she said, glancing away, tired of watching Hermione gawp at her.
"You're serious," she said, blinking a few times. "And you had a lunch date with him?"
"It was just a lunch, no date. It was just us catching up since I hadn't known he was out…that's all."
"Catch up on what? You weren't exactly chums at Hogwarts."
"We saved each other's lives during the war, `Mione. That creates a bond between two people, even if they choose not to acknowledge it. We talked a lot that night before the final battle when we were camped out together," she said. What Ginny didn't mention was the passionate kiss they had shared on that cold December night they spent wrapped up in each other's arms in hopes of staying warm with only meager Warming Charms, their robes, and flimsy blanket to keep the bite of the cold at bay.
Harry had never mentioned what he had seen that night (that he had seen them kissing) to anyone but Ginny herself, it bothered him too much, and she wasn't about to spread the fact around that she had snogged Draco Malfoy. She could only imagine her mother's horror, and what Ron would do to Draco after tracking him down. She might have felt there was something redeemable within him that no one else saw, but everyone else in the world seemed to think very low of him.
She also didn't mention to Hermione that Draco had kissed her during their lunch date…their lunch…but a slight flush crept across her cheeks at the vivid memory of his lips on hers, his soft tongue against her bottom lip...
"You've never mentioned that part, you two talking before," Hermione said, never having been able to ask Ginny about the time she had spent with Draco. Ginny had been very brief in her defense of Draco, telling her about how he had saved her life, hidden her for a night, and sent her off to return to the Order in the morning when it was "safe"…but Ginny had never mentioned them talking during that time they shared, Hermione has always assumed it was a heavily weighted and silent affair.
"I didn't want to think about it for a long time after the war, then I didn't want to talk about it, then I just sort'a forgot about it. Well, not really, but I filed it away in the part of my brain where I put everything I don't want to think about," she said, knowing the sorts of memories buried in there were what her nightmares were made of. Her first year at Hogwarts with the Diary was deep in there, under all the fighting and death she had seen thirteen years ago.
"So, you had a pleasant lunch with Draco Malfoy, and everything else is well, so the only thing that's got you down is the time of year?" Hermione asked. Still sounding skeptical.
Ginny pressed her lips together and looked away, unable to come up with a better lie at that moment. She could not confess her lukewarm feelings for Reamann, and she could not mention her faintly warm feelings for Draco…what could she say except that the end of the war memories were haunting her particularly bad that year?
----------------------
Reamann checked the address twice before he approached the door. He had the right place, but the state of it was so sad, so poor, it did not look like someone should be allowed to live there. It looked like it should be condemned and torn down before it hurt someone. He was in the middle of a rundown Muggle neighborhood in the East End of London, where some of the poorest districts in all of London resided. This was not what he imagined…but thinking on it, he was not terribly surprised either.
Shaking his head, Reamann knocked on the front door firmly, waiting quietly on the metal stairs that groaned ever so slightly if he stepped too far to the left. To his right was a second battered door, Draco's block tightly packed so there were two decrepit apartments in every space one normally would be in any other neighborhood. There was no answer right away, so Reamann looked up at the apartment above that belonged to the second door, and considered knocking again. He heard someone on the inside move, however, so he looked back down and took a step back, and moments later the door opened.
"Hello?" they asked, Reamann's eyes widening so that he could not respond immediately.
The boy's face was shockingly familiar. Reamann found himself looking right into Draco Malfoy's pale eyes and pointed features…but the hair was wrong, as was the age. The boy at the door could not have been more than ten or eleven years old.
His hair was a pale-blond mess of long, heavily-curled locks that hung down over his eyes and covered his ears and was probably past his chin when pulled straight.
Reamann had no idea who was before him, and he feared he had the wrong door, but the resemblance to Draco was unmistakable and so Reamann was at a loss.
"Um, hello," Reamann finally managed, swallowing the lump in his throat that had formed while he had stared openmouthed for a moment at the boy. The boy continued to look at him with slightly confused and intensely suspicious eyes, waiting for him to say more without verbal encouragement. "I…I'm looking for Draco Malfoy. I work with him and I got his address…" he said, stammering off into a mumble as he stared at the boy before him. The boy had a strong gaze full of thought and consideration. It was so much like Draco's that Reamann wanted to cast some Disillusion Spells at the boy. It had to be a trick, had to be. Right?
There were footsteps from inside indicating that someone was coming up behind the boy and the boy finally spoke.
"Dad, you have company," he called as he stepped backwards from the door. Draco appeared there behind the boy, and the boy disappeared around him while Draco's face froze in surprise and mortification, his eyes wide with astonishment and shock that rivaled Reamann's.
"Reamann, what…what are you doing here?" he managed, stepping out into the cold so that he could close the door behind him with a snap, his hands latched to the handle as he leaned his back against the door like he was barricading Reamann out, looking panicked.
"Dad?" Reamann managed while still staring at Draco. Draco's eyes remained wide. "Draco, you are a father?" he asked, in disbelief. The boy was clearly a Malfoy, the strong resemblance there, but Draco's son? That had not been an option that had crossed his mind. Little brother maybe, cousin, nephew…anything but a son.
"How did you know where I live?" Draco asked, disregarding Reamann's question, voice a little higher than usual.
"Your address is on file at the Ministry, I just had to ask for it," he said, not intending on letting Draco ignore his question. "What the hell is going on?" he asked. Draco looked over his shoulder -though all he saw was the door at his back- and then back at Reamann.
"This really is not a good time," he tried.
"Please, it's important that I talk to you," Reamann pressed, wanting to tell Draco of the idea he had come up with after having spoken to Ron. He had come straight from the Burrow with much apology to everyone for his abrupt exit, saying it was Ministry business that had come up suddenly; no one prepared to argue with that. He had requested Draco's address as part of his "investigation into the Muggle attacks" days before, thinking it would be useful if he ever needed to send him an owl. He hadn't really planed on using the address to visit Draco, but he felt his plan needed a face to face explanation that couldn't wait until morning.
Draco looked torn as he continued to press himself backwards against the door and stare at Reamann.
"Daddy? Is everything alright?" a second voice, a young girl's voice, called out to them, drifting through the closed door so that it was slightly muffled. Draco's eyes remained locked with Reamann's, color draining out of his face -if that were even possible for someone so pale- so that he went from an embarrassed flush to a white look of horror.
"Draco?" Reamann asked, wanting an explanation.
"The house is a right mess at the moment and…"
"Draco," he said flatly then, showing he was not buying into any of Draco's excuses. He wanted an exlanation, and he wanted a chance to explain why he was there. Draco took a deep breath and seemed to hold it.
"Yeah, sure, come in," he said, sounding defeated, turning and opening the door and holding it for Reamann as he half hid behind it half leaned on it. Closing it after Reamann walked by, his face looked pained.
Reamann walked in to find himself in the living room, seeing that the flat was just as dilapidated on the inside as it appeared on the outside.
What was worse was the state of everything inside.
Battered and frayed furniture, and a ripped and stained carpet of a horrid burnt orange color, surrounded him on all sides. The place was not messy -there was no rubbish or clutter and the amount of downright filth was minimal; it mostly looked like permanent dingy stains- but everything just simply looked abused, shabby, ruined. It was as though someone had attempted to tidy up after a foul-tempered Manticore had had its way with the place.
The furnature was tattered: the couch beige and the armchair dark brown, and the walls sky-blue and cracked, a few claw marks raking pale plaster gashes into its fractured surface. It looked possitively horrid with the burnt orange -once probably shag- carpet, and olive green accents on the wood molding in the room, yet those colors had been so popular years ago. Years and years ago. The ceiling had a brown stain near the corner where a pot half-filled with slightly discolored water sat on the floor collecting the drips as they fell slowly. The whole place was dimly lighted by battered table lamps with yellow lampshades, and it was kind of chilly.
A small Christmas tree stood next to the closed-curtain windows to his right, in the corner that shared the wall with the front door. The tree was multicolored and blinking merrily in the rather despondent room. A ghost-faced Barn Owl sat on a stand next to it, swiveling its head and blinking at him in suspicion and curiosity.
Standing there near the middle of the room were two children. They looked close enough that they could have been twins, both so shockingly Malfoy that there was no mistaking their relation to Draco. The boy stood on the left, the girl on the right. The girl was a tad shorter than the boy, with the same, unruly, curling platinum hair, but hers was much longer, so long it must have reached past her lower back. The children both had that telltale Malfoy smirk, but her lips were clearly not Malfoy like the boy's were, and the freckles they both bore were something they couldn't have gotten from daddy. They were dressed much like Draco was, in clothing that looked like it had seen better days, but clothing that had been repaired and tended to with much attention so that it was acceptable.
Draco walked passed Reamann after closing the door while rubbing his arms from the cold, to stand behind the two children, placing a hand on each other their shoulders, looking painfully uncomfortable.
"Um, children, this is a colleague of mine from the Ministry, Reamann Rossiter," he said, giving their shoulders a gentle squeeze as he pulled them together against him and they each bobbed their heads.
"Hello," they chimed politely.
"Reamann, these are…my children," Draco confessed, looking like it pained him something to admit that to the other man. "This is my son Michelangelo, he is eleven - well, twelve- and we call him Michael," he said, seemingly fumbling over his son's age. "And this is my daughter Clarissa, she is eleven and we call her Claire," he said, looking at Reamann as though waiting…waiting for his opinion, waiting for him to say something unkind.
"It's very nice to meet you. Um, your father has said nice things about you," Reamann attempted, inclining his head toward each other the children in greeting, trying not to let his shock show through as he addressed the children with a friendly smile.
"I find that hard to believe," Michelangelo said in a tone that was very confident and skeptical.
"Daddy never talks about us," Clarissa said as though that fact was not something that bothered her in any way. Reamann just looked up at Draco.
"Children, could you runoff to the kitchen and have a start on supper? I will be in shortly to help, I just need to discuss boring Ministry business with Mr. Rossiter here for a few moments," Draco said lovingly, giving his children another affectionate shoulder squeeze before giving them both a little push in the direction of the kitchen.
"Sure," Michelangelo said as Clarissa ran off ahead to start dinner.
Draco and Reamann waited for a moment, until the sounds of the children getting pans and plates out could be heard coming from the kitchen. Clarissa also apparently started humming.
"Draco…"
"You have to excuse the mess and the state of this place," he said quickly, sounding nervous more than ever with the children no longer in the room and Reamann's interrogation pending. He ran his fingers through his long hair as an excuse to fuss over something and sort of wrung the ends in his hands. "I work a lot of hours and I like to spend my evenings with the children rather than on chores. I'm not exactly high on the Ministry's payroll," he said while letting out something like a breathy laugh that hinted at bitterness, "and so this is the best I…"
"Draco," Reamann said firmly, not caring at the moment of the state of Draco's living and income. Draco was rambling, and that was not like him. He knew that much, even if he apparently knew even less about the man than he originally thought.
"Reamann-"
"You did not tell me you had children. How is it I was not somehow aware of this?" he asked, keeping his voice down in an urgent whisper.
"It really wasn't imperative to our work for you to know," Draco retorted, now sounding defensive.
"Draco, we been working together for nearly two weeks and you never mentioned them, or a woman?" he asked and Draco just looked down. "I honestly, kind of got the impression by how you avoided the topic of relationships, that you were not in one, not with a woman at least," he said and Draco blinked at him, caught between astonishment, embarrassment, and anger.
"You thought I was gay?" he asked, somehow not have picked up on this little detail even though he made habit of reading the people around him, never trusting anyone's motives. He supposed his attempts at ignoring Reamann's obnoxiousness, and his persistent mistrust, left Draco to be blindsided by this assumption of Reamann's.
Reamann shrugged uncomfortably, understanding his mistake now. He had gotten the impression that Draco just kept it private, and joked about being irresistible to women despite his tattered appearance, and got curiously flustered at being implicated as homosexual, all as a means of cover. He had clearly been wrong. Draco was never really keen on talking about himself, and came across as terribly private, but Reamann had been sure Draco would have mentioned children at the very least, even if he had been unwilling to discuss relationships.
"I am not gay, Reamann," Draco fumed a little.
"I can see that," he mumbled.
Draco glared.
"Well…the children in the other room didn't spring from your loins without the help of another -a woman obviously- that much is clear…" he said as though that in of itself was part of his apology, "so, uh…you in a relationship, or are you divorced?" he asked, wondering what else Draco was hiding. Maybe he was a married family man and he had been totally unaware of this. Maybe there was a woman in the other room he hadn't been introduced to yet.
"Widower," Draco said fiercely, keeping his eyes locked with Reamann's and almost challenging him to break the eye contact first. Reamann looked a little green but didn't look away either so Draco elaborated, feeling Reamann had earned that much by not cowering like he had expected him to. "My wife died, eight years ago," he said, somehow able to admit such a thing to Ginny casually, while practically spitting it in Reamann's face. He supposed it had a lot to do with Ginny not knowing about his children and not having barged in on him while at his home unexpectedly. That and she hadn't just admitted to thinking he was homosexual, and he liked her a right bit more than he did Reamann, particularly at that moment.
He turned his embarrassment into anger and protected himself with it. It was common procedure with him and any Malfoy.
"Oh," Reamann said, that being all he could say. He was feeling like an arse. Draco always somehow made him feel like an arse. Whenever he thought he would be able to catch Draco being deceitful or dishonest, he always seemed to uncover instead some rather shamed or wounded secret that Draco would have much rather kept hidden for personal reasons, not because he was being particularly nefarious.
There was a very awkward silence between them.
Draco said nothing while Reamann wrapped his still numb with shock mind around what he had just learned of Draco, and what he had seen. Draco was not gay, (which was a mild relief) a father, and a widower. That was an astounding revelation to say the least, a total 180 of what he had thought Draco to be. He understood then why Draco was reluctant to work late and why he had refused to have him over to his place to review the case.
Seeing now though where Draco lived was like a jinx to the gut. Draco had once had everything, now he was living on means so clearly dismal that the Weasleys Draco had once tormented so fiercely for being "poor" now looked positively prosperous in comparison.
Reamann knew Draco was painfully aware of all that he was thinking, because he was back to looking terribly uncomfortable and wouldn't make eye contact again after flushing and looking away. Apparently his unease could overpower even his anger.
"This is awkward."
"Look at it from my end," Draco muttered. Reamann nodded, wishing he could enquire but feeling it was not his place.
There was a silence so heavy with things unsaid it was almost difficult to breath. Draco was dreading what was sure to come, and it eventually did, as was his luck.
"Draco…forgive me…but I just did this sum in my head, and if your wife died eight years ago, and your son is twelve, and the war is only on it's thirtieth anniversary…you would have to of met your wife while in Azkaban," he said and Draco sighed.
"That's right," he said, wishing Reamann had let this go, but knew he wouldn't have, knew he would try to delve deeper. That was his luck.
"How…"
"You are not going to let this go until I give you some kind of longwinded explanation of how she and I met, in ramblings befitting you, to satisfy that unquenchable curiosity of yours, are you?" he asked and Reamann flushed. "It is none of your damn business, and I don't talk of her. Just know that I met her when I was seventeen in Azkaban because she was on my block, a cell apart, and during a permitted excursion from our cells we managed a moment of privacy that resulted in us getting pregnant. While she finished her term before Michelangelo was born, I was left there to finish up my ten years," he said.
"But what of your daughter?"
"What of her?"
"Where does she fit in then, if you were in Azkaban and your wife was not…and when did you actually marry her?"
Draco sighed and grumbled.
"She and I wed while I was incarcerated, when we discovered that one of our visitations just after Michael's birth had led to her getting pregnant again. She and I were only married for a short time, because she died when Claire was two and Michael three," he explained and Reamann nodded, chewing on his bottom lip in a very uncomfortable way.
"You want to know who she was," Draco said and Reamann just looked up at him and dared to shake his head. "You can't lie to me," Draco said, shaking his head at that point, looking annoyed.
"Fine, alright, I'm curious as to whom she was, but you have to give me credit for not asking," he snapped back a little irritably. Draco just smirked.
"You familiar with Christina McGucken?"
Reamann's eyes widened. "The witch who-"
"Killed werewolves?" Draco finished for him. "Yeah."
"You married McGucken, a woman who kidnapped and tortured werewolves?" Reamann repeated, his voice raising some and Draco shushing him harshly.
"Quiet. My children do not know of their mother, and I would like to keep it that way if I can, thank you."
"But, Draco, you're a werewolf."
"I'm well aware of that," Draco replied quite blandly.
"But…but…how could you get involved with a woman who had been locked away for, like, killing your people?"
"My people?" Draco chuckled. "What, am I part of a religion now or something?" Reamann felt awkward. "Yes, Reamann, she was imprisoned for harming werewolves, but who's to say she was guilty?"
"The courts."
"Then by all accounts, I am guilty of all my crimes too," Draco challenged and Reamann withdrew, not about to accuse Draco of being a murderous Death Eater by extension that he believed his wife to be guilty of her crimes.
"Then, then she was innocent?" Reamann asked, remembering reading about her, knowing she had done things comparable to Josef Mengele.
"She never harmed me," Draco said with a shrug, not answering Reamann's question. "She took good care of our children," he said, looking beyond Reamann, as though he could see through the wall to his children in the other room.
"Are they…"
"Are they what?"
"Like-"
"Like me?" Draco asked for him, his tone as unfriendly as Reamann had ever heard it. "Meaning, are they wolves?"
"Draco…I'm sorry. I don't mean to stand here and rifle through your life…I just stumbled across all this and am just trying to understand it. You have to admit this is a bit…shocking," he said and Draco had to give him that much.
"Your reaction is polite -as you can manage- but it is exactly what I fear would be anyone's reaction, and thus why I prefer to keep his fatherhood on a need to know basis," Draco sighed and Reamann nodded.
"I won't say a word, but would you humor me with some more answers?"
"You blackmailing me?" Draco huffed.
"Sure, we'll call it that if you like," Reamann said, almost challenging Draco, and Draco backed down, almost physically assuming a submissive posture and looking down. His eyes looked suddenly very weary and sorrowful. "You said your wife took care of your children, implying it was more of an undertaking than a mother would typically assume," Reamann tried to explain, so he felt less like a bully.
"Yes, both my children are werewolves, like me…because of me," Draco mumbled, his tone drawling, but not due to arrogance, but defeat, and guilt? "I passed it on to them, unknowingly. Christina was familiar with werewolves, she studied them, understood them. She cared for Michael when he was born and was so sick, and did the same for Claire even though she was born stronger, healthier, because Wolfsbane had been administered to Christina throughout her Clarissa's pregnancy, rather than just at the end of Michael's."
"Studied them? More like kidnapped and tortured them. Draco, I have read about her. She did terrible things to werewolves, tortured them with her `studies'…"
"Are you quite finished?" Draco snapped.
"Sorry," Reamann muttered as he looked down and shuffled his feet a little. He supposed insulting or accusing Draco's wife of such things was rude, as well as insulting to Draco.
"The case was groundbreaking," Draco admitted. "No one thought -no matter how `grotesque' the crimes- that someone would be convicted of cruelty to werewolves. The public then didn't think we were people, and today is not really any different," Draco said bitterly, glaring at the carpet beyond Reamann's feet some.
"That, that is not true. Harry Potter has-"
"Harry Potter has made amends to laws and restrictions, so that in theory we wolves have more rights, but that is only so in paper, not practice. You can change laws, but you can't change public opinion. I had to work damn hard to keep my children while in Azkaban, I had to make deals and sacrifice a lot -including my dignity- to give them a decent life."
"What would have happened to them?" Reamann swallowed, Draco's barking tones dripping so heavily with distain and hurt that it was stomach churning.
"Lycanthropy is not typically hereditary, but lucky me, I'm in that 24 percentile who can pass it on. Without the relief Wolfsbane offers, infants born with the syndrome never survived before, so there was never a real precedent for infant werewolves but older children who were attacked and infected young. Because of that, there was a real lack of procedure in treatment, and lack of understanding. Children due to be born with the condition would normally have been terminated, forcibly. Christina knew that, and had kept her condition a secret -even from me- until she was too far along to be administered an abortion. Still, they would have taken my children from me, but I gave up something very dear to me to save Michael's life, and I continue to sacrifice everything I have for them, so that they may have a normal life, and have things human children would have…like an education."
"Can the Ministry, ethically, really force a woman to have an abortion?" Reamann asked, astounded, baffled, appalled.
"Werewolves are one step up from animals, but liked far less. Few think twice about neutering animals or putting down the unwanted. Werewolves are not treated any different, the same spin that it is for the "greater good" used as justification."
"Merlin," Reamann sighed. "But you kept them both," he said, as though that was comfort, even though he dared not ask what it took for Draco to keep his children. "I see you sacrificed a lot, but what I can't understand still is that with all this hoopla over you having children, and the Ministry clearly being so firmly against it, how is it no one knows about it?"
"Oh, plenty `know' about it, just not the public. The Ministry seems humiliated by it, and few outside of those in charge of Azkaban, and those working in the Beast Division of the Ministry know. The idea of a story getting out that their newly applied security at the prison in the absence of the Dementors was so insufficient that two inmates were able to procreate, the fact that they were basically blackmailed and manipulated by my wife so that I could keep the children, the fact that both my wife and I had front-page reputations, was embarrassing. They on their own kept things quiet," Draco explained. "It was hard getting Michelangelo accepted to Hogwarts, however, I had to manage that on my own and the Ministry wasn't exactly keen on the idea. No one really wants a werewolf attending school with their precious little babies, and there would be no way of keeping his condition a secret from the faculty, since they would have to look after and help him."
"How did you manage?" Reamann asked, surprised. Few werewolves had ever attended Hogwarts. Though, then again, Draco had managed for a year by himself.
"Guilt is a powerful and manipulative tool if used correctly," he said sounding detached. "I needed someone who had weight to throw around on my side. I wouldn't go to Potter for shit, but I was thrown into Azkaban after being promised a pardon from one Minerva McGonagall, who just so happens to be the current headmistress. She made it possible, and attending under his mother's more common surname, his true identity and condition only known by McGonagall, Michael is in his first year and currently home on Christmas break," Draco explained, feeling a little proud of this, but also that he had said more than enough already this night.
"They look wonderful, Draco, they really do. Healthy and bright," Reamann praised and Draco managed to look, if possible, more depressed at the complement. Reamann really did not want Draco to get all emotional at that point. He knew it was terribly selfish, but he just couldn't handle Draco getting emotional. He liked the pompous and detached Draco Malfoy he had come to mildly resent yet respect.
"It's not fair to them," he said softly.
"Being a werewolf is never fair to anyone, but they have you to look after them, right?"
Draco said nothing.
"You have only been out of Azkaban for three years," Reamann said and Draco didn't even bother to look back up at him. "If your wife died eight years ago, who…"
"My mother. She raised them, brought them to see me every other week, and is actually still their legal primary caregiver. She was really all that saved me. She took care of me, and my babies, and supported me, even with how disappointed she was with me at becoming a father to two illegitimate children so young, with a woman she didn't particularly like," he said, the barest of smiles pulling at his lips, so subtle but not missed by Reamann.
"So they have you, and their grandmother looking out for them. Forgive me, but that seems rather formidable to me," Reamann offered, Draco looking up at him though his head was still tilted down, and Reamann saw for the first time appreciation seep into those silver eyes.
"Dad," Michelangelo called from the kitched.
"Come on, we cannot use the cooker without you out here with us," Clarissa chimed, appearing in the doorway.
"Awright," Draco said, rewarding his daughter with a kind smile, showing no signs of any of the dark emotions he had expressed to Reamann, a bright, warm, strong mask in place for his daughter. Reamann could sense the love and affection wafting off of Draco like a warm breeze, and it was almost infectious the bubbly joy the girl brought with her that filled Draco, and overflowed into Reamann.
"I…I should go…let you get to your…"
"Would you like to join us for supper?" Draco offered, no hint of bitterness, anger, or depression in his voice now. He was actually sounding friendly, for once. Reamann had to wonder if that last bit of praise and consolation had really had that big of a positive effect on Draco. He liked to think so, but still, he felt out of place, and awkward.
"I couldn't intrude any further than I already have, and I had…"
"Nonsense, we rarely have company," Draco said, sounding amused while walking towards the kitchen, "the children will enjoy it. Besides, you had something important to tell me?" he asked, still walking, looking over his shoulder. Reamann blinked. The reason for his visit had been completely driven out of his mind by all he had learned about Draco.
"Oh, oh yes…" he mumbled, following after him.
The dinner was simple, chicken and rice and canned corn. Reamann, having come from the Burrow, was already rather full and thankful for that because it seemed like it was small portions all the way around as it was without him added to the mix.
Reamann mostly listened as the two children recapped their day to their father. Apparently Michelangelo had gotten home earlier that day, but since Draco had seemingly not been feeling well after coming back from the platform, he had not been up to going out into the cold again, so the children had spent some hours with their grandmother.
"The kids at the park started a snowball fight, and Nana joined in a little though she denied it all later," Michelangelo said with a roll of his silver eyes, Draco smiling with a laugh.
"That sounds like my mother. Did you two win?" he asked, looking over at Clarissa with a good-natured leer.
"Of course we did," she said with a grin, fork in hand.
"And why is that children?" Draco cued them to chime in.
"Because Malfoys never fail, never surrender," the children said with much enthusiasm. Reamann laughed as Draco smiled.
"Quite right you are," he said approvingly. Reamann meanwhile was trying to hide his laugh so as not to come across rude at the table.
"So, Michael," he said after gaining control of himself, deciding to get to know these remarkable children a tad better while he had the opportunity. "I hear you are a first year at Hogwarts," he said and Michelangelo beamed in a sophisticated way that caused Draco to smile down at the chicken he was cutting into respectable bite size pieces.
"I'm in Slytherin, like the rest of my family before me," he said proudly, clearly pleased with himself that he had lived up to the Malfoy standard and lineage, even if he wasn't a "Malfoy" while at Hogwarts, not as far as anyone there was concerned at least.
"My cunning little Slytherin," Draco said affectionately, Michelangelo looking positively radiant in his pride.
"I want to be in Slytherin, but Daddy teases me, saying I'll end up in Hufflepuff," Clarissa said, making a face.
"Because you're so darn sweet," Draco taunted and Clarissa stuck her tongue out, causing a chuckle in Draco before he said "mind your manners at the table," discreetly to her.
"So you are eleven then, or twelve?" Reamann asked, looking back at the boy. Michelangelo looked over at his father and Draco snapped his attention from Clarissa.
"Oh, he's turning twelve actually. Clarissa is ten and a half months younger. Michelangelo would have liked to have started classes last year but his birthday is in late December and the cut-off is August 31st, so he had to wait. Clarissa had to as well. Even though she is eleven now, she couldn't start this year because her birthday is November 13th," he explained. "But really, it was for the best. Easier to be a little older than everyone else than younger," he said speaking from experience, being one of the youngest in his year.
"Yeah, so he says," Michelangelo said with a roll of his eyes as he pushed his rice around on his plate in what looked like a moping way. Clarissa giggled and made a face at her brother from across the table.
"I also enjoyed him home for the extra year so we could continue to have quality time since I missed a lot the first ten years of his life," Draco said through a clenched tooth smile and kicked Michelangelo under the table, and the boy smiled abashed and sat up straight where he had been slouching down like he was about to duck under the table and escape just moments before.
"Yeah, well, that was nice, too," he said, making a face back at his sister. Draco reprimanded them both under his breath to demonstrate their good manners while a guest was present. Then he called them a pair of Boomslangs with a sigh.
Reamann actually enjoyed the dinner with the little family and Draco tucked the children off into the living room to watch the telly before bed while he cleaned up, giving Reamann the opportunity to talk business, that being the reason why he had come to Draco's home that night to begin with.
Draco cleared the table and stood at the sink, washing the dishes -by hand no less- listening to Reamann.
"I had a thought," he said as he leaned against the counter. "The department is not breaking the case on the files alone, and since you can't make anything of the files yourself, I think getting you on the scene firsthand would be greatly beneficial. I mean, you can pick things out of photographs that I missed, that half the Aurors overlooked, just think of what you would notice if you were right there, full color and in person."
"And how do you propose you would smuggle me onto a crime scene, confound every person that asks about the albino at your back?" Draco asked, having already thought of how much easier it would be for him to go to the scene, but knowing it to be an impossibility.
"No, no, with this," he said, pulling out the hair he had taken from Ron. Even while singular and slender, it was still noticeably red.
"Please tell me that is not a Weasley hair, Reamann, because I can tell you right now the answer is no," Draco said, looking over at Reamann with narrowed eyes, elbow-deep in soapy water.
"Ron Weasley has full access to the investigation and that includes the crime scenes," Reamann explained.
"I would rather be a hairy, unwashed, manky troll than…oh, wait…" he said and Reamann sighed, letting his extended arm drop to his side.
"Really, Draco, I would prefer if you did not insult my friends, and this is a good idea!" he huffed.
"And what would you have me do when the real Ron Weasley shows up on the scene? I know there are about a dozen Weasley blokes, but I doubt I would be able to pass as one of his plentiful brothers to Ron himself. Even he isn't that thick," he said.
"I could make sure Ron is buried in paperwork. And we'll have his pass, so even if he tried to barge onto the scene, he wouldn't have his clearance, you would," he said.
"Fine, say that works; Polyjuice Potion takes over a month to prepare and is terribly complex. Not to mention it tastes awful."
"The Ministry keeps a batch of it ready and on hand. It's on the floor with the "Unspeakables" but I know someone who knows someone who could get me some," he said and Draco eyed him.
"You are serious about this, you wanker," he said, pulling his hands from the sink and flicking them towards the floor to free them of suds and water.
"I think you would really help the case as more than just the guy I have write up my reports," he said. Draco considered him for a long moment.
"Dad! Michael's hogging the zapper!" Clarissa shouted from the living room. "Ow! And he just hit me!" she tattletaled.
"I did not!" Michelangelo shouted almost immediately, the children fighting over the remote and the control of the television apparently.
"Awright you little Runespoors, do not make me come in there," Draco called calmly, holding a finger up to Reamann as to excuse him for a moment as they stood there. "Michelangelo, you keep your hands to yourself and Clarissa, do not be a tattletale. Share the telly time or it's off to bed, the lot of you," he reprimanded calmly.
There was a murmur of "yes sir" and much grumbling from the other room and Draco turned his attention back to Reamann.
"Is there any other option? Must I be…Weasley?" he asked, looking down at the hair still clutched in Reamann's fingertips.
"This is it," he said, causing Draco's face to twist in disgust and make a small whiny noise.
"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this," he muttered.
"You are?" Reamann asked, pleased and relieved.
"Just have the potion ready for the next scene. And make sure you have me in and out of there quickly. I don't want to spend more time than I have to as a Weasley," he said in disgust, Reamann laughing.
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