Chapter Text
Ron slid into the corner booth, set one tray in front of Harry, and peeled the clingfilm off his sandwich. Ham and cheese. No mustard. The bread was dry—typical of the Ministry canteen—but it still caught him. He’d been eating well lately. It took him a second to stop noticing.
Harry stirred his coffee—black, no sugar—and glanced over. “Glad we could sit down. You’ve been neck-deep in the Malfoy case.”
“It’s been a mess. The Unspeakables ran their scans—twice. No magical residue, no breach signature. And the threat at the scene doesn’t match Mourning Star’s usual tone or methods.”
“So you’ve got nothing solid?”
Ron shook his head. “Not until Malfoy shared a few memories. Turns out he’d received threats before the break-in.”
Harry leaned in slightly. “What kind of threats?”
“Written. One of them was on Ministry letterhead.”
“That’s bold.”
Ron nodded, sipping his tea. “Reckless, but useful. It’s the first proper lead I’ve had.”
“You’re sure it’s not a forgery?”
Ron set his mug down. “I don’t think so. Twigg—Records Officer—checked the duty roster for when the letter was sent.”
“Anyone stand out?”
“Zacharias Smith.”
Harry paused mid-chew. “Smith. Didn’t know he was in Records.”
“Been there a few years. Quiet post. Suits him—lots of rules, no risk.”
Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then glanced at Ron. “Prophet dragged him for deserting at the Battle. Must grate, seeing Malfoy get glossy write-ups in the Society page.”
Ron felt something twist at that—sharp, unwelcome. He pushed it down. “You saw that?”
Harry shrugged. “Didn’t everyone? Pansy says the pureblood lot are just waiting for Malfoy to pop the question. Astoria ticks all the boxes—beautiful, rich, and her family didn’t get their hands dirty during the war.”
Ron’s jaw tightened. He told himself it was Smith that bothered him.
Harry tapped his mug. “So. Motive’s solid. You got anything physical?”
“Twigg flagged tampering in the correspondence logs—same window Malfoy got the letter. Smith was on shift.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Can she tie it to his wand?”
Ron shook his head. “Not yet. I’m pulling him for a Voluntary at three. You free? Might rattle him if we go in together.”
“I’m in. Let’s hope he cracks. Robards still pushing for a wrap?”
Ron exhaled. “Yeah. Yaxley’s trial starts tomorrow. Lucius agreed to testify for immunity, but if he thinks Draco’s being targeted from inside the Ministry...”
“He’ll still testify. But not the way we need.”
Ron nodded, jaw tight. Yaxley’d do time no matter what, but without Lucius’ full cooperation, he could be out in twenty years.
Harry nudged his tray aside, seeming to read the shift in his silence. “George holding up? He can’t be thrilled you’re investigating a break-in at Malfoy’s business.”
Ron wiped his hands on a napkin, eyes fixed on the table. “I haven’t said anything.”
Harry paused. “Ron…”
“I know.” Ron’s voice came out low, rough. “But he’s… not great. Angelina’s been around more—it helps. I just don’t want to tip anything.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. Then: “If this leaks—and it will—he’ll hear it from someone else.”
“I’ll tell him,” Ron said.
Harry took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down. “I should ask how you’re doing with all this. George wasn’t the only one who lost people in the war. It can’t be easy, being assigned to protect someone like Malfoy.”
Ron shook his head. “I told you before… he’s not what I expected.” He straightened his cuff, eyes lingering on the scrap of skin Draco’s potion had healed. Draco had warned it might not last, but the skin was still clear. Still whole.
“We’ve talked a bit about the war. As part of the investigation.” He looked up, meeting Harry’s eyes. “He didn’t make excuses. The work he’s doing now—it’s all aimed at fixing what he can. And I don’t think it’s just optics.”
Harry settled back in the booth, skeptical but not dismissive. “If that’s true, he’s changed a lot. Just…”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful with him.” Harry took off his glasses, cleaning them with a charm Ron had seen him use a hundred times. “Pansy says he’s good at curating his image. He has to be—he’s the Malfoy heir, and now he’s trying to look like a reformed Death Eater.”
He slid the glasses back on, eyes steady on Ron’s face. “I know how much you want things to get better. Just make sure that hope isn’t clouding your judgment.”
Ron’s fingers curled around his mug, then tightened. He didn’t lift it. “It’s not blind hope. I’ve seen him try—when no one’s watching. He’s not performing, Harry.”
Harry shifted in his seat, like something in him didn’t quite settle. “Yeah. All right.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t argue either. “If you trust it, I trust you.”
They let it sit there. Then Harry nudged his tray aside. “Did you see the Arrows traded Conroy?”
Ron blinked. “Seriously?”
“Mid-season. Puddlemere picked him up. They’re betting on his left-side sweep.”
Ron snorted, relieved for the change in subject. They drifted into easier talk—Quidditch, the new security charms at the Ministry, a book Angelina swore would fix George’s sleep.
But his mind kept slipping back to the previous night. To Draco’s flat.
The cold touch of the potion. Draco’s fingers, careful and trembling. The way he’d looked up, startled, when Ron flinched.
Ron reached for his drink, trying to ground himself. Focus on Harry’s voice. The rhythm of normal things.
But the memory pressed in. Draco’s unexpected honesty, the way he’d looked at him. Not like he was owed anything, but like he hoped.
Ron took a slow breath and pushed the thought aside.
It didn’t mean anything.
He just hadn’t expected it. That’s all.
Zacharias hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside. The interview room felt smaller with him in it. Just a table, three chairs, and the steady scratch of the recording quill. He took the seat opposite Ron, gaze skimming past Harry without landing.
“Right,” he said, aiming for casual. “Twigg said you wanted to talk about the correspondence logs?”
Ron nodded warmly. “Appreciate you coming in. Just a few questions about your shift on…” He glanced at the parchment. “March twelfth.”
Zacharias blinked. “That was three months ago.” He scoffed, but his collar was damp. “Do you remember what happens on your shifts that far back?”
Harry didn’t look up. “I think you’d remember this one.”
Zacharias shifted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ron leaned in slightly, voice easy. “Look, Zach—can I call you Zach? We did go to school together.”
“Yeah, Ron. Sure.” The look he gave wasn’t friendly.
“I’ll be straight with you.” Ron let his posture relax. “Someone in Records sent Draco Malfoy a threatening letter. No return mark. Deleted from the logs.”
Zacharias squirmed. Not much, but enough.
“If it were up to me,” Ron continued, “I’d say it’s not exactly a hanging offence. But Harry—” He gestured across the table. “Harry’s got a lot on his plate.”
Harry finally looked up. His voice was flat. “I’ve got a missing person and a cursed artifact in evidence. If I have to waste time with this…”
Zacharias swallowed, voice thinner now. “Yeah—I mean, I don’t care for Malfoy either. He was a prat in school, everyone knows that. And during the war—people forget, don’t they? Inquisitorial Squad. Hexing first-years just for being Muggle-born.”
Ron leaned forward. “Honestly? If someone gave Malfoy a bit of a scare, I wouldn’t lose sleep. But deleting logs—that’s where it gets tricky.”
Harry’s tone sharpened. “Once the spell residue report comes back, we’ll know whose magic was used. If they wait that long, they lose the chance to explain it on their own terms.”
Zacharias paled. “Spell residue?”
Ron kept his voice friendly. “Oh, didn’t you know? Everyone in the Ministry’s magical signature is registered. Helps when someone gets a bit above themselves. Tries to administer justice off the books… however understandable.”
Zacharias looked down, jaw tight. “It was me,” he said finally. “I sent the letter. I didn’t think it’d be traced.”
Ron sat back, careful not to glance at Harry. Sympathy had to hold, just long enough.
“I didn’t write it, though.”
Ron raised his brows. “What do you mean?”
Zacharias pressed his palms flat against his thighs. “If you understood what my life’s been like since the war…” His voice cracked. “I earned six N.E.W.T.s. Six. And I’m stuck in Records. Denied promotion three times. They’ll never let me climb higher. While Malfoy—” He shook his head. “You’ve seen the Prophet. New business venture. Partnering with St Mungo’s. After everything he did?”
Harry didn’t blink. “So you let someone else do your dirty work.”
Zacharias flinched. “It wasn’t like that. I met this bloke at the pub—I’d been drinking. Got stood up. Susan Bones said she’d set me up with one of her friends, but the woman never showed. Typical.” He looked bitter. “This bloke sits down next to me, starts talking. I mean—he got it. What it’s been like for those of us who weren’t handed the Order of Merlin and a front-page spread after the war.”
Ron kept his tone steady. “What night was it?”
Zacharias frowned. “I don’t remember exactly. A Friday, I think. Maybe the week before the letter went out.”
“Which pub?”
“The Broken Wand. Near Knockturn. I know—it’s dodgy. But it’s quiet. No one from the office goes there.”
“You said you were drinking. How many pints?”
Zacharias hesitated. “Three? Four? I wasn’t pissed, just… annoyed. I’d been stood up.”
“Did you speak to the bartender?” Ron asked. “Anyone else see you with this man?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even catch his name.”
Harry leaned forward. “But you took a letter from him. Trusted him enough to send it.”
“He said it’d be a laugh,” Zacharias muttered. “Said people send Malfoy hate mail all the time. That it’d get lost in the pile.”
Ron kept his tone light. “Did he say why he wanted you to send it? Why not do it himself?”
Zacharias shifted. “He said it’d mean more coming from someone inside the Ministry. That it’d rattle Malfoy more.”
Harry’s voice was cold. “So he knew where you worked.”
Zacharias nodded. “I suppose. I might’ve mentioned it.”
Ron tapped the parchment. “Did he give you the letter already written?”
“Yes. Folded. Sealed. I didn’t even read it.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “But you deleted the log.”
Zacharias swallowed. “I didn’t think it mattered. It was just one letter.”
Ron’s voice gentled. “Did he say anything else? Accent, age, wand type, anything?”
Zacharias shook his head. “He was older than me. Late thirties, maybe. Wore a hooded cloak. Didn’t take it off. I thought he was just another bitter war vet.”
Harry stood. “We’ll need a full statement. And you’ll submit your memory to the Department Legilimens for analysis.”
Zacharias looked up sharply. “I’ll help however I can, just… you’ll make sure I get leniency, right? If I lose this job, I don’t think I’ll find another.”
Ron stood as well. “I’ll see what I can do.” He glanced at Harry. “Can I have a word in the hall?”
Once the door shut, Harry crossed his arms.
“I don’t know if I buy Smith’s story. It’s a little too neat.”
Ron nodded. “The memory’ll give us something to go on, at least.” He rubbed his temple, the headache already blooming.
Harry watched him. “You alright? Maybe take a break. Let Smith stew for an hour or two.”
Ron straightened. “No. I’ll get the Legilimens now. I don’t want him clamming up or calling a solicitor.” He flicked his wand, and a silvery Jack Russell terrier shot down the corridor.
Harry touched his shoulder briefly. “Alright. But this is good news, yeah? I know you can’t show it in front of Smith, but it’s a real breakthrough.”
Ron nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Good news.”
He didn’t say what he kept seeing: Draco, alone in his flat, face in his hands.
Then he turned back toward the door.
“Let’s finish it.”