The Black Library
Rokesmith

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury Publishing. This fanfic was written for fun not profit.

Author's Note: This story came as a result of a late-developing interest in Harry Potter (I did read the books when I was younger but it honestly didn't make much of an impact at the time) spawning various small thoughts about how things that weren't addressed in the books might work. These ideas multiplied, stuck together, evolved into a plot and then grew and grew until I was left with no choice but to actually write down the enormous story that had developed. Hopefully the result will speak for itself.

I am indebted (as, it seems, are half of the authors I read in this fandom) to HalfASlug for her invaluable assistance helping me construct this story and keep me from slipping up on the details of the magical – in more ways than one – world that J.K. Rowling created.

Chapter One: Draco Malfoy's Request

Ron Weasley dodged the Impediment Jinx, swept his wand around and riposted with a Blinding Curse that hit his opponent with enough force to knock them back a step. He sprang forward, smashed aside a Stunning spell and grinned savagely.

"Is that the best you can do?"

The next thing he knew, he was hanging upside down by one ankle, robes falling in his eyes. He flailed wildly, trying to aim his wand, and realised he wasn't holding it anymore.

He hit the ground with a heavy thud and rolled over onto his back. Harry Potter, a wand in each hand, looked down at him.

"You git," Ron growled.

Harry grinned. "Language, Ron. We have an audience."

Ron scrambled to his feet and looked around. Standing by the door of the gym were the half a dozen trainee Aurors whose mentors weren't on World Cup duty that day. Neither Harry nor Ron were surprised. Even after seven years, it was hard for Harry to do anything without attracting a crowd.

That tendency was the reason that the pair were passing the time in the Auror gym that afternoon rather than something more interesting. It had come down from on high that the Ministry's loan of Aurors to the overstretched Dublin department for Ireland's hosting of the Quidditch World Cup that year was specifically to show the rest of the wizarding world that the department had fully recovered from the war and its aftershocks. It had also been decided that the presence of two of the war's most famous faces – even in their professional capacity as Aurors and Quidditch fans – was likely to cause far more problems than it solved. And so they stayed at the Ministry, passing the time catching up on paperwork, speculating on who would win the Cup this year and providing their equally bored juniors with entertainment as they threw DA-level spells at each other.

"Any questions?" Ron asked cheerfully.

The trainees whispered for a moment and then one of them cautiously raised his hand. "Auror Potter… why did you use a levitation spell?"

"Well, why do you think I did?" Harry said.

More whispering, and then a dark haired girl stepped forward. "Was it because Auror Weasley wasn't expecting it?"

"Exactly," Harry told her. "You've all had your training in curses and counter-curses. They're important, but they aren't the only spells you know. But a spell – any spell – your opponent isn't ready for can make all the difference."

"Plus," Ron added. "You'd be amazed what I can do with a levitation spell."

"They all know the troll story, Ron," Harry said wearily.

"Can you really do that?" one of the other trainees asked. "Win a fight like that?"

"What was the first thing you were taught in combat training?"

"This is not a school duel," the group chorused, "there are no rules."

Ron grinned. "Okay, who wants me to prove it? I know one spell that's guaranteed to defeat the great Harry Potter no matter who you are."

A ripple went through the group, but Harry just laughed. "No, you don't."

"Oh yes I do. Give me my wand back and I'll prove it."

Harry grinned and handed it over. "I can't wait to see this, Ron. I'm shaking with fear."

"You should be," Ron responded. "Even Riddle himself wasn't smart enough to think of this one."

Ron stepped back into the duelling circle. Harry backed away and stood with his arms by his side, still smiling. The trainees fell silent.

"Ready?"

"Just get on with it, Ron."

Ron cleared his throat, glanced over at the trainees, grinned, pointed his wand at his best friend's face and yelled, "Accio glasses!"

There was a rush of air and Harry's famous spectacles flew off his nose and sailed across the room. Ron caught them and held them triumphantly over his head like a trophy. After an instant of trying to restrain themselves, the trainees burst out laughing, a few of even clapping. They were joined by Harry himself, who walked cautiously across the duelling circle, hand held out in front of him, towards the long, red-topped blur he assumed was Ron. The blur took a bow and then handed Harry back the glasses.

"You git," Harry muttered, slipping them back on.

"Merlin, I wish I'd thought of that while we were at school."

Harry shook his head and turned back to the crowd. "Okay, show's over. Come back next week and watch as I completely incapacitate the famous Auror Weasley by Summoning his wife."

Ron gave him a horrified look. The trainees started laughing again and left the gym talking amongst themselves. Once they were gone, Ron aimed a swipe at Harry's head, but his more agile friend dodged as they both headed towards the changing rooms.

They arrived back in the Auror office ten minutes later, but hadn't even made it to their cubicles when Auror Genevieve DuPont – an unnervingly tiny woman on secondment from the Paris Ministry – rushed over to them. "Ron, I have a message from your wife. She would like you and Harry to come to the archives office at five to see her."

"Did she say why?" Ron asked, a note of panic in his voice.

"She said she'd explain in person."

She hurried away, leaving Ron and Harry to walk back their cubicles.

"Look, Ron," Harry said, "it can't be anything serious. If it was, Hermione wouldn't have waited till five. She'd have sat on your desk and refused to move till someone went and got you from the gym."

Ron nodded. "Yeah. Right. Thanks Harry." He relaxed. "What d'you reckon she wants then?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. I guess we'll find out at five."

The reason for Hermione's message came from her three p.m. appointment. Just before three that afternoon she had been sitting in her cramped office in the archive bureau of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As the department's new Junior Assistant to the Archivist (a title that made her the bureau's second in command since there was no Archivist and hadn't been for a hundred years), her job mainly involved processing requests for withdrawals from its seemingly endless archives. In this case, the journals of Kingsley Shacklebolt from his days as an Auror for the official biography to be published when he formally stepped down as Minister for Magic at the end of the following year.

She was distracted from her analysis of the thirty-item list – and pondering which version of the hunt for Sirius Black was going to make it into the biography – by a tap on her office door. Sam Samson, the bureau's apparently un-aging secretary, stuck his head into the office.

"Hermione… your three o'clock appointment's here."

Hermione double-checked the enchanted calendar on her desk and nodded. "Astoria Greengrass? Can you bring her in?"

"Sure." Sam nodded and gave her an odd smile. "They don't look much like an Astoria, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Hello, Granger."

Hermione's head snapped up. Sam was right. Her visitor didn't look like an Astoria. He looked like a Draco.

"Malfoy?"

Draco Malfoy gave her a familiar, arrogant smile, as though he expected her to be honoured to receive him. He sauntered across the room to her desk, his cane clicking on the floor. Then, as soon as Sam closed the door, Malfoy did something she would never have expected. He held out his hand.

Hermione watched him carefully, almost suspecting a trick, as she got to her feet and shook his hand. As she did so, she saw his eyes drop to the bulge in her robes. For a second, an expression she'd never seen before flickered across Malfoy's face and then he adopted his familiar sneer.

"I ask you, Granger, does the world really need more Weasleys?"

Hermione resisted the urge to snap back and instead said, "Please, sit down, Malfoy. Can I help you?"

Malfoy wordlessly slipped into the other chair. As Hermione sat back down, he drew a sheet of parchment from his robes and carelessly tossed it onto the desk.

"I've come to collect some property from the Auror vault," he said. "I was told you were the person to ask about that."

"I am," Hermione replied. "What do you want?"

"It's all on the list."

She scanned the parchment. It was a simple list of five codes that she recognised as identifying items stored after confiscation by the Aurors.

"What do you want these for?" she asked.

"I don't have to tell you that," Malfoy responded. "Under the Amnesty Act I'm allowed to reclaim anything those oafs took that's been proven not to contain any Dark magic."

"I know that," Hermione snapped.

"Well, if you must know, Granger, they belonged to my mother. They're family heirlooms and she'd like them back."

Hermione took a slow breath and forced herself to treat Malfoy like any other petitioner. "Certainly, Mister Malfoy. I'll have to process your request to make sure the articles are harmless and then have them collected from the vault. You should receive an owl in three to seven days with an update."

"Sooner rather than later, Granger," Malfoy said, and stood.

"Have a nice day, Malfoy."

When he was gone, Hermione finally let herself shiver. It was strange, she thought, that while she had largely managed to deal with his involvement with the Death Eaters, she still couldn't look at him without seeing the cruel bully who'd called her a Mudblood, insulted Harry's family and made up a song to destroy Ron's fragile self-esteem.

Hermione tore her thoughts away from her school days and looked down at her desk. Kingsley's biography, she decided, could wait a little while. She picked up Malfoy's parchment, got to her feet and left her office, glancing at the clock as she did so.

"Sam," she said. "Could you go down to the Auror offices and ask Ron and Harry if they could meet me at five? If anyone needs me, I'll be down in the index room."

"He's up to something," Ron said.

It was an uncomfortably muggy July day and they were sitting in a small café near the Ministry, having agreed it was better to discuss this outside rather than anywhere they could be easily overheard. As it was, the rush hour traffic was more than capable of swallowing their conversation as long as they kept their voices down.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe."

"He's Malfoy, of course he is," Ron responded. "You should just tell him to sod off, Hermione."

"I can't," Hermione responded. "That's the trouble. I checked and double checked the items on the list he gave me. After they were confiscated, they were examined half a dozen times. You tested one of them yourself, Ron. And they're harmless."

"Well, we did take pretty much everything that wasn't nailed down," Harry muttered.

Hermione sipped her orange juice. "Exactly. And they let you. They never raised a single protest with anything the Ministry did after the war. I can't withhold this request simply because we didn't get on at school."

"That's one way of putting it," Ron said angrily. "He tried to kill us."

"And he lived for two years without a wand as punishment," Hermione responded. "It would have been longer if Harry hadn't defended him. I can't find a single reason not to give him what he's asking for, and believe me, I've looked."

"But why's he asking now?" Ron demanded. "He's had years. Why now?"

Harry put his Butterbeer down on the table hard enough for them to both look at him. "Okay. What exactly does he want, Hermione?"

Hermione glanced at the notes she'd scribbled next to Malfoy's index codes. "A necklace, a book of poetry, a letter opener, a signet ring and a clock. He said they belonged to his mother."

"Always was a mummy's boy," Ron snorted.

"Glass houses, Ron," Harry said.

Ron glared at his friend while Hermione hid a smile. "So what do we do?" he asked eventually.

"If he wants it, he can have it," Harry said.

"But…"

"But," Harry interrupted, "the Amnesty Act gives Aurors the right to make anything we return won't be used for the Dark Arts, doesn't it, Hermione?"

"Yes."

Harry smiled. "Then we'll just be doing our jobs, won't we? Hermione, how long will it take to clear this request?"

"I'll have to send it first thing in the morning so… three days. Maybe four."

"Then we'll get to work first thing as well." Harry said, and then pulled out his watch. "Sorry, I've got to go. Got to pick up James from your mum's."

"Can't wait to hear Ginny's commentary on the match tonight." Ron grinned.

"Yes, because you'd never listen to a World Cup game otherwise," Hermione said.

Harry left them to it. He wasn't sure they noticed him leave. He strolled away towards somewhere secluded he could Apparate, wondering how long it was going to take to separate James from his grandmother.

Harry arrived in the office the next morning just in time to catch the closing stages of an argument that sounded like it had been going for some time. Ron, captain of Team The-Russians-Are-Cheating-Bastards-And-You-Know-It, was looming over Clementine Rook, beater for Team It's-A-Perfectly-Legitimate-Tactic. The game seemed to have split the office almost down the middle, and while Harry did think that the Russian trick of flying directly in front of bludgers so the English players couldn't see them coming was worthy of the worst days of Marcus Flint's Slytherin team, he had to admit it was not actually against any rule he knew. He wasn't going to admit that in a public place, though. He'd gotten enough grief from Ginny the night before after she'd stormed out of the fireplace, ranting about how she was expected to sound even remotely neutral in the face of such awful sportsmanship.

Instead, he chose to sidestep the discussion entirely, sit down at his desk and re-read a copy of the Amnesty Act. After two minutes of inspecting the section relevant to the return of confiscated items, he looked up, suddenly aware the office had fallen silent. Gawain Robards, Chief Auror, was standing in the doorway with his arms folded, watching the argument.

"Weasley!" he barked. "Potter!"

"Sir?" Ron seemed to shrink.

"Sir?" Harry said at almost the same time, standing up.

Robards blinked and turned around. He'd obviously been expecting Harry to be one of the row's leading players rather than a spectator.

"Could I see you two in my office?" Robards said eventually. "And the rest of you can debate the game all you like over lunch."

Harry and Ron followed Robards into his office, leaving an awkward chorus of affirmatives behind them. Once inside he stood silently behind his desk, watching them as though he was waiting for them to confess to something. It was a tactic that worked as well on his subordinates as it did on suspects. Unfortunately for him, Ron and Harry had always been immune to it; they'd had far too much experience of this at school.

Eventually, Robards admitted defeat and gave them permission to sit. "I received an owl this morning. At home. First thing, in fact. From the young Mr Malfoy."

He paused and waited for a reaction. Neither Harry nor Ron gave him one. They'd never dare tell him, but compared to Professor Snape, Robards was an amateur.

"He said, in brief, that he regretted the necessity of his path crossing yours again, but that he was making a legitimate request under the Amnesty Act and that he sincerely hoped that no one involved would let schoolboy rivalries interfere with their professionalism or the fine reputation of the Ministry. My first question, gentlemen, is this: what in Merlin's name is he talking about?"

Finally, Ron and Harry shared a glance. Harry went first, and they took turns recounting Hermione's story of Malfoy's request. Robards listened in a stony silence.

"What do you think, then?" he asked when they'd finished.

"I think he's up to something!" Ron burst out. "Harry doesn't agree but this is Malfoy, for Merlin's sake!"

"Actually…" Harry said quietly.

"Oh, come to your senses, have you?" Ron asked.

Robards looked at him carefully. "What do you think, Potter?"

Harry pushed back his glasses. "It's too obvious, sir. I've seen Malfoy being sneaky, and he's very good at it. Why didn't he just write to the archives like everyone else? Or… get his mother to do it, since it's her property he seems to want? But he doesn't do that. He makes an appointment with Hermione under a woman's name, then walks straight into the Ministry and tells her that she has to get him this stuff as soon as possible and it's none of her business why he wants it. And then, before she's even had a chance to submit the request, he writes to you, sir, in person to make sure that Ron and I don't interfere with it."

"But Hermione spent half last night telling me there's nothing we can do even if we wanted to," Ron grumbled. "And she's right. I checked."

"Exactly," Harry said. "So why's he going to all this trouble? He'd be stupid not to realise that all it would do was make us more suspicious."

"It's like one of those old shows isn't it?" Ron muttered. "The last thing you want to do with a detective is tell him there's nothing to investigate. It'll only make him try harder."

Robards gave him a baffled look. Harry just snorted.

"You've been spending too much time with your mother-in-law, Ron."

"However you make the point, Weasley, I think you and Potter are right. If Mr Malfoy wants attention, we'll be sure he gets it."

Ron grinned. "Yes, sir!"

"Pay him a visit. Personally assure him that you will do nothing at all to obstruct the recovery of his rightful property. See how he reacts. Find out whatever you can."

He looked across the table again. The temperature in the room seemed to have plummeted. Ron's grin had vanished. Behind his glasses, Harry's green eyes had gone cold.

"Visit him at home, sir?" Harry said eventually.

Robards looked from one to the other. "I am aware," he said solemnly, "of what… you experienced at Malfoy Manor during the war. If you would rather not relive those memories, I can ask someone else."

"No, sir," Ron said, through gritted teeth. "That won't be necessary. It'll be our pleasure."

In the bright summer sunlight, Malfoy Manor almost looked like a nice place to live. The hedges on either side of the drive up to the house were perfectly trimmed and the lawn beyond them was a cool, peaceful green that seemed to invite picnics and long walks. The house itself, on the other hand, looked too squat and solid to be truly pleasant to look at, and it had a strange chill to it, like it was a museum rather than somewhere anyone actually lived.

Harry rapped on the gates with his wand and they obediently opened. As he walked down the drive he reflected that the last time either of them had been there they'd been backed up by half the department. The raid had swept through the house with the force of a hurricane and the Aurors – many of whom had lost friends or family during the war – had taken a delight in confiscating anything they could justify taking and smashing most of the things they couldn't. At the time, Harry hadn't thought twice about it, but approaching the house again after all this time he felt a twinge of guilt.

Ron, he knew, wasn't thinking any of this. Ron would be thinking about anything at all if it meant his mind didn't settle on the first time they'd come to this place.

Finally, the walk to the front door ended. Harry looked at Ron, who wasn't moving, then gently tapped the wood. Three heavy thuds rang out, and they waited. A moment passed, and Harry started wondering if he should knock again. Then, without a sound, the door opened.

"Potter," Malfoy hissed. "Weasley. I should have known. What do you want?"

Harry managed to keep his face blank. "We have a message from Chief Auror Robards."

"Well, it's good to know where you stand in the department. Chief Auror, Aurors, owls, and then you two."

"Can we come in?" Ron growled.

"If you must," Malfoy said. "Try not to touch anything. We aren't allowed to keep a house elf anymore and I don't want to waste any time cleaning your stench off my family's valuable possessions."

They followed him into the hall. The carpets under their feet were new, emerald green with serpentine patterns of silver weaving in amongst patterns of stars. Pictures lined the walls, generations of Malfoys watching them with cold eyes and thin lips.

For an unpleasant moment, Harry thought Draco was leading them to the drawing room, but he turned aside at the last minute and opened a smaller door next to it.

"Draco, who is it?"

They turned, half way through the door, to look at the woman standing on the staircase. She was their age, strawberry-blonde hair falling in well maintained curls around her face and watching them with cool grey eyes. Then they registered the fact that her hands were resting on top of belly that was several months more swollen than Hermione's.

"It's just the Aurors, Astoria," Malfoy said. "Go back upstairs. Please."

The last word had an unfamiliar note of tenderness in it. But Harry barely had time to glance over at Ron, trying to decide how to process this new information, before they were inside the room and the door closed behind them. It was a study, dominated by an ancient, heavy desk made from a dark wood. The window behind the desk looked out onto a patch of the garden prowled by the animals from the topiary. The walls were lined with cabinets of books and scrolls, all of them precisely ordered and labelled. There was also, somewhat curiously, an upright piano against the wall by the door. As they passed it, Malfoy reached out and tapped one of the keys and the piano began to play a quiet, gentle tune that neither of his guests recognised.

A moment passed, filled only by the music from the piano, and then Malfoy spoke. "I am Draco Lucius Malfoy. At the beginning of our sixth year I put Potter in a Body-Bind Curse after he snuck into our carriage. I poisoned Weasley on his birthday because he drank the mead I'd given to Professor Slughorn. Then, during the final battle, you saved my life twice and punched me in the face."

What felt like hours passed in silence.

"Yeah," Ron said slowly. "And? We didn't come all this way to talk about school."

"I wanted to make sure you two were sure it was me," Malfoy told them.

"Why wouldn't we be?" Harry asked.

Malfoy looked from one to the other, wincing as if he found making eye contact with his two old rivals physically painful. Then he said, "I need your help."