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Framed
By MichiganMuggle

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Category: Post-DH/AB
Characters:None
Genres: Action/Adventure, Romance
Warnings: Dark Fiction, Death, Extreme Language, Mild Sexual Situations, Negative Alcohol Use, Rape
Story is Complete
Rating: R
Reviews: 193
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter is training to be an Auror, and he is finally back together with Ginny Weasley. But when a young woman dies of poisoning at the Ministry’s Midsummer Ball, Harry is the first suspect, and he can only uncover the true murderer by working with his childhood rival, Draco Malfoy.
Hitcount: Story Total: 56128; Chapter Total: 2503
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Well, this certainly took a while. My apologies for the delay, and thank you to everyone who is still reading, even with the month+ break. This was meant to be a short chapter. It still is, I suppose. Just longer than the previous six, and much longer than my original intent. I was going to tie up some loose ends here and drop a clue there, and then, Draco Malfoy happened and he kept demanding the spotlight for just a little longer. As he tends to do.




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Chapter 7: Lost and Found

June 20, 1998
The Ministry of Magic


The Ministry of Magic ballroom was now a crime scene, and Draco Malfoy had no idea what happened to his date. The former should have been more unsettling than the latter, but Draco had lived at Malfoy Manor for part of the Death Eater occupation. He had witnessed both tortures and murders, and in comparison, the murder of Romilda Vane was almost gentle. Whoever did it had wanted her out of the way quickly, as it happened too quickly for anyone to produce a bezoar or an antidote, but they did not seem to have interest in making her suffer either.

Draco’s first thought had been, ‘What poor bastard did that, just as we were all given a chance to live normal lives again?’ He supposed it wasn’t normal that his first instinct was sympathy for the murderer, but he could hardly expect to make it out of Death Eater ranks unscathed. The justice system may have been kind to him, but he was still warped from his wartime experiences, and he knew he wasn’t so different from whoever killed Romilda Vane. He too could have been a murderer. And if not saving people at Malfoy Manor made one a murderer, then he supposed he already was.

He wondered what Astoria would think if she knew he had once plotted to kill Professor Dumbledore. She came from a Slytherin family, and undoubtedly knew a thing or two about self preservation, but she struck him as someone who would have liked the headmaster. Astoria, being a little quirky herself, might have found his eccentricities to be endearing. As a Ravenclaw, she would have admired his sharp mind. Draco sensed that Astoria was a person who felt deeply and understood many things, but she would not understand the necessity of a murder. It would be foreign to her.

****


Draco’s entire sixth year had been dominated by thoughts of murder. It hadn’t seemed so complicated when the Dark Lord had initially given him the mission. He had been grateful at the time, even though he knew it was a deadly test and he hadn’t been naive enough to believe Voldemort wanted him to succeed. However, it had been an opportunity to prove himself, to bring honor back to his family. Dumbledore was there, then he would no longer be. Simple. Nothing more than a move back to the natural order of things. Those things always came at a cost.

The first few weeks were strangely empowering. He had walked the corridors of the castle, drunk on his little secret. The headmaster was going to die, and no one knew about it except for him. The other students were just going to class, getting into fights in the common room, all stuck in the ordinariness of their lives, while Draco was part of something bigger. The entire world was full of possibilities. And ever since he “accidentally” let his Dark Mark show in the compartment of the Hogwarts Express, his fellow Slytherins had treated him like a dangerous man. Even Blaise, who was normally coldly courteous towards Draco, had seemed impressed. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that he might fail.

Draco had watched Dumbledore for a full school year. His father had always impressed upon him the importance of knowing one’s enemy. Spying on Potter had always proved useful in the past. But watching Dumbledore was a mistake, as Draco became aware of the impossibility of knowing your enemy and still killing him. Death and causing death was not terribly disturbing as an abstract notion. Even killing someone you knew was not that disturbing as an abstract notion.

And up until sixth year, Dumbledore had been more of an idea than a person to Draco. He had been an old man, swooping around, saying witty yet peculiar things and playing favorites. He did things like let Slytherin believe they won the House Cup after a year of hard work, only to give it to Gryffindor on what seemed like a whim. To Draco, he had been like a hideous antique prominently displayed in the family china cabinet–revolting but too much of a crowd pleaser to be disposed of.

But when you watch someone closely enough, you become as aware of them as you are of yourself. As Draco observed Dumbledore and his mysterious comings and goings, he became obsessed with the inner workings of Albus Dumbledore’s mind. What did the headmaster do in that tower office that Draco had never set foot in? Did he think of lofty magical theories all day, or did he dream of lunch like everyone else? Was he planning intricate strategies for the Order of the Phoenix? Or was he merely micromanaging Draco’s professors, telling Snape to work on his people skills or urging Sprout to wash the dirt off her forehead?

Whatever he did all day, Dumbledore was fighting a war, same as Draco was, no matter how calm he might seem, walking throughout the castle in his violet robes. He had seen Voldemort giving his orders with threats behind every request. Dumbledore, he was sure, was quite different, but he suspected he shared the Dark Lord’s preference for keeping the big picture to himself and only letting his followers know bits and pieces.

Draco had obsessed over Dumbledore’s blackened hand. Had he failed to block a hex? Or had he mistakenly handled a cursed object? Most importantly, did it mean he was in decline, which would be good for Draco, or did indicate he was fearless, which was not good for Draco? He thought of that hand so often, he sometimes thought his own hand was black when it hovered on the edge of his vision. He began imagining a loss of feeling in his right hand. He would be writing his Charms essay, and all of a sudden, it would be like his writing hand no longer obeyed him as it normally did. It was the beginning of Draco’s sense that he and Dumbledore were becoming joined, like the headmaster was a Siamese twin that Draco had to destroy.

He began to sense him, his comings and goings. When the headmaster left the castle, sometimes for days at a time, Draco could feel it. It either felt like loneliness or relief, he could never decide which. When Dumbledore returned, Draco felt it before he saw him. Even when Draco was in the Room of Requirement, far removed from all the hustle of castle, he could sense the change in the air. When he would pass the old wizard in the corridors, he had to fight the urge to nod at him, reminding himself Dumbledore didn’t know their fates were linked.

He knew so many things about the man, random things, as if the headmaster was the subject of one of his school reports. Dumbledore had been published in Transfiguration Today 142 times, more than any other modern wizard. He owned four pairs of high heeled boots, one pair–his favorite, Draco suspected–he only wore on Fridays. He had an impressive sweet tooth for a thin man and could put away more pudding than even Hagrid. He didn’t like to be away from Hogwarts for more than three days at a time, but rarely remained in the castle for more than four successive days.

Time moved both too slowly and too quickly that year. Before he knew it, Draco was in the tallest tower facing Dumbledore, with the headmaster’s wand in his hand. The conditions were perfect yet impossible. He was surprised at Dumbledore’s response. The headmaster knew all about his task and he regarded Draco with compassion rather than judgment. And, unless Draco was very much mistaken, Dumbledore felt the connection between them as well, the linking of their lives. They both knew he couldn’t murder Dumbledore–it would be killing himself too–even as his fellow Death Eaters closed in on the tower.

Then Snape was there. He did it so easily, so quickly as if he did not understand the weight of a life.

*******


Draco wondered about Romilda’s murderer. And he didn’t doubt there was a murderer. After the war, Draco no longer believed in accidents. Had he felt connected to Romilda? Did he feel the loss of her life? How had he been able to go through with it? Why had he done it in the first place?

Draco didn’t know Romilda personally. She was in another house and younger than him. They would have passed each other in the corridors and on Hogsmeade trips, but he had never had to talk to her in class or pass the carrots to her at dinner or ask her if she was saving those chairs in the common room. But it was impossible not to know who she was given the events of last year. Even before her assault, talk had been buzzing about her, as it did whenever a girl developed over the summer holidays. The boys of Hogwarts hadn’t been so excited since Fleur Delacour.

Had it been one of the boys who had assaulted her? Draco thought he had a pretty decent guess who the perpetrators were. It was difficult not to, given the appearance of Romilda’s knickers, a lacy trophy of war, in the Slytherin seventh year boys’ bathroom the morning after. But all of them were dead, or being questioned by the Ministry, or keeping an extremely low profile. He certainly didn’t see any of them here tonight. If not them, then who?

He noticed something pale out of the corner of his eye. On the table next to him was the parchment that he and Astoria had played hangman on, but now it was covered with a sketch. He picked it up, his grey eyes widening as he recognized the subject as Romilda Vane. When Romilda had collapsed, Draco had completely forgotten his date’s peculiar behavior in the chaos. She had wanted to talk to Romilda and urgently.

Had she known what was going to happen?

Draco noticed a beautiful young woman standing very close to him, close enough to look over his shoulder. Had she seen the sketch? He folded it up and placed it in the pocket of his dress robes. While it made him uneasy, he certainly didn’t want anyone else seeing it.

Ministry officials began herding all of the guests into the Atrium so the Aurors could conduct their investigation. He permitted himself to be herded without comment. He was still uncertain of Astoria’s whereabouts, although he did spot his mother, but his date would be guided into the Atrium as well.

“We should have listened to your father and stayed home,” Narcissa said when they caught up with each other in the Atrium.

“I doubt Father sensed anything like this would happen,” Draco drawled. “Terrible luck.”

“It’s worse than bad luck. They’ll go straight for the purebloods.” Narcissa sniffed.

Draco shifted uneasily, as he thought of what was in his pocket. He had no intention of sharing it with his mother. She’d probably point the Aurors in Astoria’s direction just to make sure they didn’t go after the Malfoys. And whatever happened with his date, Draco knew Astoria had not killed Romilda.

He was mostly sure of it anyway.

The fact was he knew nothing about Astoria or the Greengrass family. He had been at Hogwarts with Daphne Greengrass, of course, sharing classes and the Slytherin common room with her, but Daphne had always kept a distance from him. She had been friends with Pansy, Tracey, and Nott. She was cordial with Millicent and occasionally tutored the burly girl in Transfiguration. He remembered her being friendly with Blaise the first few years, but they later grew apart. She had disliked him, Crabbe, and Goyle from the beginning and never made an attempt to disguise it.

The Greengrasses were one of the few pureblood families who had been notably absent from England last year. Nigel Greengrass had been in Slytherin like his eldest daughter, and he was friendly with all of the old families. He was a wealthy man, the owner of the oldest wine shop in Diagon Alley, passed from father to son for three centuries. His wife, Sophie, was French and an heiress to a wine fortune. Nigel was a philanthropist, a collector of rare art, and popular at parties.

But he was a mystery too. No one knew his political beliefs, which Draco knew Lucius had tried to puzzle out over the years. Dumbledore’s supporters whispered that he was a Death Eater, while Death Eaters whispered that he was a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. In all likelihood, Nigel was probably neither. He probably found politics to be bad for business.

Whatever Nigel was, his youngest daughter was her own person, and Draco did not think Astoria capable of murder. Some people said anyone was capable of murder under the right circumstances, but Draco wasn’t so sure.

He chatted with his mother for a while, both of them avoiding the topic of the body in the next room until he saw Astoria enter the Atrium with her sister. She looked pale and was nodding in response to whatever Daphne was saying. Their eyes met, and she gave him a small smile.

“Excuse me, Mother.”

He crossed the Atrium to join the sisters.

“Hello,” he said to Daphne, then turned toward Astoria. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s a shock. Romilda was in my year, and I thought this sort of thing was over. But I am fine.”

Her polite response seemed a bit rehearsed to him. “Were you friends?”

“I honestly don’t know if we ever spoke. We only had one class together. But she was a girl you couldn’t help but notice.”

“Yes, I think everyone knew of her.”

“Well, I should get back to Roger,” Daphne said. “Good evening, Draco. See you at home, Tori.”

“Good evening, Daphne.”

Astoria gave him a small smile, but her large brown eyes were watery. This girl had not killed anyone. He knew it suddenly and certainly, and he was glad he had taken the parchment before the Aurors could find it.

Draco had always thought that he preferred blue eyes in a woman. He had always liked the gleam in Pansy’s light blue eyes when she formed a new scheme. He noted the way his mother’s darker blue eyes sparkled when she laughed at something his father said, and he figured that grey-eyed Malfoy men were drawn to blue-eyed women. But here was this brown-eyed girl before him, a curious blend of mystery and innocence, and she couldn’t be more different from either of Draco’s ex-girlfriends.

He reached for her hand. “Let’s a walk a bit. Some movement will make you feel better.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but she followed him in walking the perimeter of the Atrium. “I didn’t really know her.”

“Neither did I, but no one here is likely to forget her. We don’t have to talk about Romilda. Tell me about your trip to Brighton with your cousins.”

They kept walking hand in hand, and Astoria’s voice grew stronger as they talked. They briefly stopped to speak to Astoria’s parents, who both seemed wary of Draco, by the unfinished statue and then they continued their circular stroll. When they grew weary, they sat in silence in the chairs that had been conjured.

At a quarter to eleven, the Minister left the ballroom where he had been consulting with the Aurors. He announced that to give Mr. and Mrs. Vane some privacy in this difficult time, the Ministry would be vacated. Before leaving, each person was to sign out so the Aurors would have a complete list of everyone in attendance. The Order of Merlin ceremony would be rescheduled for late summer, and the press conference was to be cancelled. He led them in a moment of silence for Romilda before releasing them.

“Ready to go?” Draco asked Astoria once the moment of silence was over.

“Merlin, yes. I’m surprised they are letting us leave, honestly.”

“So am I. I would have thought everyone would be questioned by the Aurors.”

“Unless they believe the murderer has already left.”

“What do you think?” he asked, remembering her sketch.

She shrugged. “What do I know?”

After signing out, they used the Ministry fireplaces to Floo to the Greengrass townhouse in London, as Astoria was not old enough to Apparate and he did not think Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass would approve of an eighteen-year-old side-apparating their daughter. It did not appear that Daphne or Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass had returned yet.

While the Greengrasses were one of the wealthier wizarding families, they had a very different sort of wealth than the Malfoys. The Malfoys, along with the Macmillan, Nott, and Bones families, were one of the rare magical families that still had vast ancestral estates. The Lestranges had also been landed gentry until their first imprisonment in Azkaban. The Goyles had been selling off family heirlooms for more than a century, and Draco heard they were selling Goyle Hall to pay for legal expenses. The Greengrasses were more typical of wizarding wealth. Their primary residence was their London townhouse, which was large and expensively furnished, and Draco knew there was also another Greengrass property, a cottage somewhere in the Lake District.

Draco had only seen the townhouse briefly when he had picked Astoria up, but he had immediately liked it. The Greengrass family certainly enjoyed luxury. There were huge paintings everywhere, but it was modern art, not the historical pieces and portraits common to Malfoy Manor. He had noted stacks of books everywhere–on the table in the entryway, strewn across sofas, even one book left open on the dining room table as if someone had just wandered off mid-chapter. A large bar cart was a prominent feature in the parlor, which Draco supposed was appropriate for a family that made their living by selling wine. There were large vases of flowers everywhere, exotic blooms rather than the white roses in Draco’s home.

“Would you like a drink?” Astoria asked him, surveying the bar cart. “We have port, brandy, firewhiskey, various cordials?”

“Are you allowed to drink that?” Draco asked. At sixteen, he had been permitted a glass of wine or two at nice dinners, but nothing harder. He had seen Astoria drink three glasses of wine at the Ministry, the last of which had been consumed while talking to her mother. She appeared perfectly sober, but given her small size, it was only a matter of time. Pansy Parkinson was at least two inches taller than her, and she generally became unsteady on her feet at around drink three.

Astoria laughed. “My mother grew up in a vineyard, and my father has been training both me and Daphne in the family business since we were small. My parents are strict, but not about alcohol. Oh! I know!” She held up a bottle of red wine. “Not a nightcap, I know, but it’s from my family’s estate. It’s the wine I associate with my grandfather’s–now my aunt’s–house.”

Gone was the forced cheerfulness he had noted in the Atrium. The blond girl seemed genuinely at ease and in good spirits. He wasn’t sure what to make of the change other than that they had escaped the grim atmosphere of the Ministry.

“What region is the vineyard?”

“Burgundy.”

“So your mother’s family is from the Burgundy region. Where is Beauxbatons?”

“It is just outside of Angers. That’s in the Loire Valley. Loire wines are crisp and light. Burgundies are more complex and emotional.”

“Is that true of the people as well as the wine?”

“I think all of the French classify as complex and emotional. At least they do in my family.”

“If there was a wine similar in personality to my family, it would definitely be an acquired taste,” Draco said.

Astoria laughed and handed him a glass with a generous pour. “You seem to enjoy your parents’ company, though.”

“I do,” Draco admitted. He sipped at the wine, which was both fruity and earthy at once. “Do you like your parents? If you turned out like them, would you pleased or disappointed?”

“Pleased, I suppose. My parents are good people. They aren’t the heroic types, likely to earn an Order of Merlin, which is all anyone cares about these days. But they are kind and generous, and Daphne and I have always been loved.”

“Your family also makes good wine.”

“Thank you. The soil is good on the vineyard. Good earth makes all the difference. And you? Would you be disappointed if you turned out like your parents?”

“I am already like them.”

“Are you? You strike me as being quite different, particularly from your father.”

That was something no one had ever said to him. From the youngest age, everyone had always told him how like Lucius he was. You look like your father. You laugh just like your father. You fly like your father. You argue just like your father. When he was a child, his parents’ friends would refer to him as “Little Lucius” when they dropped by the house. He was fairly certain that none of them realized he had a name of his own until he was at least thirteen.

The funny thing was he had liked it. In the pause between the Dark Lord’s two reigns, Lucius had been the unofficial leader of the purebloods. His wealth had been the greatest, his influence the strongest, and his charm undeniable. Draco had wanted to be like his father until he no longer did. He didn’t love his father any less, but he loved him differently.

If Astoria didn’t see Lucius in him, what did she see? She was attracted to him; he had sensed that the first day she had shown up at Malfoy Manor with her paints and canvas. He also sensed she was unsettled by this, which likely meant she had not had many boyfriends. But did she like him as a person? If yes, what did she like?

He knew there were girls who liked his bad reputation. They had lined up outside his courtroom during his trail, looking him over with interest and giving him a wink. And most of them not been daughters of Death Eaters or sympathizers–those girls thought him a traitor–they were just girls from all families, classes, and Hogwarts houses. He found them to be ghoulish. Astoria wasn’t one of those, he felt certain.

“I think I am most like my father.”

“Physically, yes. But you seem more like your mother in personality.”

Draco pondered that for a moment. Narcissa was shrewd, practical and utterly unsentimental, and fiercely protective of her family. She also lacked her husband’s cruelty. Lucius would have killed Dumbledore, or at least attempted it. Narcissa wouldn’t have. He would not mind being like his mother.

“Astoria?” called a feminine voice from the front hallway.

“In the parlor, Mum.”

“Did you have a nice . . . Oh! Draco!”

Mrs. Greengrass did not look happy to see him. He wondered if she and Hermione Granger practiced that expression of disapproval together. Perhaps they had a standing lunch date every Wednesday.

“Hello, Mrs. Greengrass. I did not realize it was getting so late. I’ll say goodnight.”

She gave him a sharp look and then nodded. “Astoria, I will see you upstairs.”

When they heard her footsteps move in the direction of the stairs, she gave him an apologetic look. “I am sorry. She can be a bit overprotective.”

“She was fine.” Perhaps not fine, but most mothers would have been worse.

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Daphne isn’t even home yet.”

Given the reputation of Daphne’s date, Roger Davies, Draco would be very surprised if Daphne made it home to mummy and daddy tonight.

“Perhaps your mum just likes you best,” Draco said as he got up.

“Well, I am a fun girl,” Astoria said, also rising from her chair. “I had a good time tonight. Not the murder aspect of the evening, but I enjoyed spending time with you outside the Malfoy library and away from paint fumes.”

Draco laughed. “You love my library.”

“I do. One day, you’ll wake up and find all of the books have been stolen. They’ll all be in my bedroom. I’ll no longer be able to locate my bed, but it’ll be all right as I’ll have too many books to bother with sleep.”

“You officially have more ambition than me,” Draco said.

His shy girl had definitely become more talkative over the last few weeks. He imagined her in her cave of stolen books, and he imagined moving in there with her and living in their literary refuge together.

“More ambition than a Slytherin? No wonder the Sorting Hat tried to put me there.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Too bad it didn’t. I had a great time tonight, Astoria.”

He shouldn’t kiss her. She was too young, too sweet, too virginal. All things he wasn’t. She would even be better off with a bloody D.A. member than with him. Of course, she didn’t seem terribly impressed with their heroics, but still, he was too tainted to date a sixth year who had not even seen the war.

He kissed her.

He meant for it to be a sweet, innocent kiss but once Astoria opened her mouth and pressed her body to his, his willpower disappeared. They snogged until they heard footsteps on the stairs and they sprang apart. Her cheeks were as flushed as on the day they first met.

“Er, I’ll walk you to the door. Were you Apparating home?”

“Yes.”

In the front hall, Draco remembered what he had in his pocket. He waited until Nigel Greengrass, who had just come down the stairs, went into his study before he pulled it out.

“Er, I wanted to make sure you got this back.”

Confusion was the first emotion he saw on her face. It was quickly followed by realization, and then horror.

“Draco, I . . .er, that is . . .”

“It’s okay. I didn’t show it to anyone, and I am not going to tell anyone.”

“I had nothing to do with . . .”

“I know. Really, I believe you. I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just thought you should have it back.”

They stared at each other.

“Well, good night, Astoria.”

He walked out the door, and on the top step, he Apparated away.
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