Chapter Text
There is a reason not many wizards have tattoos.
When ink is permanently etched onto a wizard’s body, the ink combines, dramatically and irreversibly, with the magic in that wizard’s blood, to varied and unpredictable effect. The heart you wanted to represent your lover shrivels and blackens when he breaks your own. A playful butterfly might be on your shoulder one day and have fluttered off to your ankle by the next. Inked letters might rearrange themselves to spell out your darkest secrets. Sometimes it’s a lot worse.
The only way to avoid this sort of thing is to employ a magical tattoo artist. These highly trained artists are able to charm your tattoo to stay the way you wanted it. They can add other charms as well; spells to simulate hope, to increase fertility, to help you remember things, or even to extend your life. Or at least, so they say. Of course, where they are charms, there can also be curses. So the artist must be trusted. It is not a good idea, for example, to wander into the place in Knockturn Alley with the boarded up windows and handpainted sign that reads Markus Scarrs Indelible Tattoos. Unless you’re the gambling sort.
So this, in addition to a cultural stigma in the pureblood community against polluting the perfect blood they’re so mad about, is the reason very few wizards have tattoos.
Draco saw the tattoo shop while he was lost. He was lost because he was high, which wasn’t unusual by that point, and he had a bad habit of going out for ‘fresh air’ and not finding his way back for a day or two. A more reputable shop probably would have turned him away, given his unfocused eyes, vague speech, and a sense of style that was odd even for the sort of people who usually frequented the place (he was still learning how to wear Muggle clothing). But this was not a reputable establishment, any more than was Marcus Scarrs. The burly, heavily-tattooed man with the needle only had one point of reluctance, namely, the reddish brand scar Draco wanted covered was ‘cool’. Was he sure?
He was sure.
He paid for the tattoo with sex. It wasn’t the first time, as he had already run out of the pittance he’d been left with after the Ministry had stripped the estate bare. The big Muggle man was not exactly gentle, but he was careful not to jostle the newly illustrated arm, which stung for the next two days.
It took him a week to notice that the rose that covered most of his forearm was closed in the morning and open in the afternoon. Fortunately, he had few enough people he saw regularly that no one else noticed either. Once he spotted it, he did his best to remember to keep it covered. That got difficult, however, when the vines wrapping his forearm started to grow. Within a couple of months they were tickling at his wrist. Within six months, they were reaching for his shoulder. Sometimes, especially when he was at his worst moments of self-loathing and despair, he would look for whatever was biting, stabbing at his arm, only to see that it was the thorns. Sometimes they pricked him so hard that he bled.
The few Muggles he saw on a semi-regular basis - the ones he bought food from or paid rent to or the couple he supposed he had to call his friends, who sold him weed, and then crack, and let him crash on their sofas sometimes when he passed out - occasionally made comments about how often he was getting the work done, and why didn’t he just get it all done at once? But no one suspected anything stranger. In that one respect, he found, Muggles were rather lacking in imagination.
Not so much in other ways. Their drugs for example, were considerably better at fogging his head than anything in his mother’s potions cabinet. Their clothes, he had to admit after a year, were more comfortable and easier to move in than even casual robes. And there was television. Why had no one ever told him about television? He spent days at a time doing nothing but staring at the screen. There was not much else to do.
The people he saw the most were his clients, the regular ones, and they tended not to ask questions. If they saw his arm gently weeping blood, maybe they assumed it was a needle mark, or maybe they simply didn’t care. He was pretty sure at least two of them didn’t even know what he looked like, they paid so little attention. They fucked him with the TV on and left the cash for him to scrape up off the floor.
It was fine for a while. Well, not fine, but he survived. Sometimes it even felt good, to be able to survive on his own with nothing, without his parents or his fortune or even his family name to fall back on. Some days were better than others. The days when he had money and could afford to get high, those were the best. Some things he could pay for in other ways, but not everyone was so accommodating. It took a while to narrow down the dealers who would let him pay with favours. But then what they would give him wasn’t enough, and they wanted cash he didn’t have, and even the people who’d been nice before were suddenly not so nice. He was warned, of course, over and over. But deep down, no matter what happened, no matter how many men he let fuck him, or how many times he ate out of a rubbish bin, or how low he sank, he was still the Prince of Slytherin, he was still above all of it, so he didn’t listen. And before he knew it he was lost again, lost while standing still, and there was no one left around him who gave a single shit whether he lived or died, so what was the point, anyway?
And all the time the chain of thorns tightened.
It was Neville’s last week as an Auror, and it could not have come soon enough. As a kid, being an Auror had been some kind of unachievable fantasy; the ultimate dream of following in his parents’ footsteps. After three years, he had come to the painful realisation that it was the last thing he really wanted to do. In seven days he’d be back at Hogwarts, with two weeks to get up to speed before term started and he was officially assisting Professor Sprout in her last year as Herbology Professor. And starting next September, he’d be one of the youngest ever people to actually teach at Hogwarts. He ought to be terrified.
He couldn’t wait.
And all he had to do was get through the week.
“You are not going to believe who’s at the front desk,” Ron said, eyes flashing dangerously as he stalked over to where Neville and Harry were trying to look like they were doing paperwork.
“Great Aunt Muriel,” Harry guessed, without looking up.
“Good one, but no. Narcissa Malfoy.”
Neville sighed inwardly, sensing that his evening was about to get a lot more exciting than promised.
“Why?” Harry asked, all suspicion, his body tensing automatically.
“From what I could hear, she is filing,” Ron said, with a dramatic flair, “a missing person’s report.”
“You’re joking.”
“Apparently he skipped out on his parole.”
Neville really didn’t want to get involved. This sort of thing was no longer his problem. But he couldn’t help looking up, interested despite himself. “Really?”
Harry got up and went to peek around the door. “Bloody hell, you aren’t joking.”
Neville could hear raised voices. “Someone should probably go out there,” he suggested.
Harry gave him an incredulous look. “Right, that’ll go well.”
“No fear.” Ron made a face. “You go, Nev.”
“Why me?”
Ron grinned at him. “You’re less offensive than either of us.”
Neville glared. “Thanks a lot.”
Narcissa Malfoy was tearfully berating the secretary whose job it was to man the public desk in the evening. It was the sort of time when hardly anyone was around, which was lucky, because before long they’d be able to hear her the next floor down. She did not look well. She was sickly pale, her hair was tied back in a stiff, unflattering bun at the nape of her neck, and the robes she wore looked cheap and poorly tailored.
“Can I help?” Neville asked as he approached, holding back another sigh.
Narcissa took one glance at him, then thrust a sheet of parchment in his direction, with barely a moment to breathe in the midst of her screeching rant about incompetent Ministry stooges. Neville looked down at the form, wincing at the assault on his ears.
“Three months!” she wailed. “Three months, and no one’s seen him, and no one is doing anything about it.”
Neville scanned the report briefly. It was indeed a missing person’s report. For Draco Malfoy.
“When was the last time you saw him, Mrs Malfoy?” he asked, bracing himself.
Narcissa’s lips went, if it was possible, even thinner. “Two years,” she admitted. “But he used to send me letters at least once a month, and now nothing. And when I checked with that lump of a parole officer, she said - ”
Neville looked down at the form again. It had been cosigned by a Cordelia Smith in Corrections, confirming that Draco Malfoy, who had been on parole for the last twenty three months, had missed his last two appointments. “He’s on the run?”
“On the run?” Narcissa shrieked. “From what, pray? Draco has been a model citizen for the last two years, no one denies it, and now he is missing. Something has happened to him, and none of you overpaid monkeys give half a damn -”
Model citizen? Neville frowned. As far as he was aware, no one had so much as seen Malfoy since his trial and subsequent twelve-month prison sentence for the attempted murder of Dumbledore and various other crimes. No one except, apparently, Cordelia Smith. “Do you know where he was staying?” he asked, interrupting the tide of abuse that he had already tuned out.
She gaped at him. “No,” she said, finally, with a pained voice, as though it hurt her to admit as much. “And that woman refused to tell me anything, said I had no right to his personal -”
Neville nodded. “I’ll look into it.”
She stared at him, struck suddenly dumb. “You will?”
“You have filed the report, madam. We have to look into it.”
Her fingers flew to her lips. Her hands looked brittle and lined, and her nails were untidy. The Malfoys had no money anymore, and her husband was still in Azkaban; Neville couldn’t help but wonder how she was even supporting herself. “Find him,” she begged, her tone utterly changed now that there was a sliver of hope to cling to. “Please. Please find him.”
Neville nodded. He knew better than to make any promises.
Cordelia Smith was a large, smiling, accommodating woman who made Neville a cup of tea and gave him a biscuit when he came into her office. “Poor woman,” she said, when Neville mentioned Narcissa. “Difficult not to feel sorry for her really, even when she’s screaming in your face. She’s used to getting everything she wants. Doesn’t know any other way.”
“What about the son?” Neville asked. It was easier to talk about him as though he were a stranger, as though he hadn’t spent most of his school years terrified of coming across him in a dark corridor. “It’s unusual for him to miss appointments?”
“Been coming every month like clockwork since he got out. Never looks well, mind, even worse than the mother. I always give him extra biscuits. Very polite, just a bit…” her brow furrowed as she searched for the right words. “Foggy. You know? Not quite there.”
“Oh.” That didn’t sound like Malfoy at all, but then, he had spent a year in Azkaban. Even without the Dementors, the place was sure to change people. Especially people who had spent their whole lives eating off silver platters and sleeping on feather beds. Not that Neville had any right to criticise on that score. He looked around the office; the fireplace looked too small to be hooked up to the Floo network.
“How does he get in?” he asked. “His parole means no magic, right, no Apparition?”
“I have his wand in storage for when his time’s up. Not that that means much, of course, you can always get wands on the black market. But he gets tested for magic while he’s here, and so far he’s been clean. No, he walks in off the street, usually. Always the last appointment of the day.”
“Right.” Neville tapped his finger on his knee. “Why didn’t we know about this until now? Him skipping parole?”
Cordelia sighed. “I did all the paperwork. These things take a while. After two misses, there’s a warrant out, but there’s a pile of warrants as high as your ar - your er, hip, and sometimes it takes years. Red tape.”
“And what do you think’s happened to him? Reckon he’s left the country?”
She shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Could be. Terms of the parole forbid international travel, but that doesn’t always stop ‘em. The Malfoys have property in France. The mother’s only still in England waiting for the boy to do his time, then they were meant to leave together. That was her plan, anyway.”
“When was his parole meant to be up?”
Cordelia shook her head. “That’s the strangest thing. His last appointment would have been next month. He could have been free and clear by Christmas. If you catch him now, he’ll get another year added on if he’s lucky. If the Wizengamot is having a bad day, he could end up back in Azkaban.”
“Mrs Malfoy thinks he’s been murdered, or something.”
“Oh, I hope not.” When he glanced at her in surprise, she shrugged. “Well. Like I said, he was always polite. There’s not many I can say that about, let me tell you.”
Neville sighed. “All right. What’s the address you have on file?”
The address she gave him turned out to be, of all things, a block of flats in Druid’s Heath. It was an area they had studied briefly in History of Magic, he recalled, but it had been overrun by Muggles centuries ago and was now a sprawling urban area full of snarling roads and the kinds of thick, tall buildings, flats piled on top of each other up to the sky, that were totally unknown in the wizarding world. Neville had a bad feeling the second he walked up to the doors of the address and saw a handwritten sign taped up on the wall which read PLEASE REFRANE FROM SPITTING.
The elevator smelled like cigarette smoke and sick. He was glad he’d at least thought to wear Muggle clothes, though he wished he’d dressed it down a bit. His outfit could probably best be described as ‘country gentleman’, and even he could tell he was sticking out like a sore thumb. The few people he passed in the corridor as he walked along looking for the flat number were staring at him, and most of them skirted him widely as though afraid he might be looking for them. There was simply no way he was going to find Draco bloody Malfoy here, he thought, as he found the right door and knocked. He was not surprised when a total stranger opened the door.
“What do you want?” the woman demanded, balancing a snotty child on one hip.
“Ah.” Neville wished he’d brought Harry with him. He was good in these sorts of situations. So was Ron, for all that, though he still needed some training so that he wouldn’t slip up in conversation with Muggles. But on the off chance that he actually found Malfoy, it was probably best that neither of them were around. Disaster was likely to ensue otherwise, though he wasn’t entirely convinced that it wouldn’t, anyway. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Draco Malfoy? This was his last known address.” When the woman looked blankly at him, he added, “average height, slim build, light blonde hair? About my age?”
“Oh. You mean Daniel.” The woman shrugged. “He left months ago. Missed his rent too many times, or something.”
Neville wished inwardly for patience. “I don’t suppose you know where he is now?”
Another shrug. “No idea. He sometimes hung out with the kids who waste their time down in the alley off Thicke Street, if you want to try askin’ round. Chances are they’ll leg it when they see a copper, though.”
“Oh, I’m not -”
The door slammed in his face. Well, he thought. Good start.
There was only one kid hanging around when he finally found Thicke Street, and he was probably about eight years old, half-heartedly throwing a brick at a wire fence. He did indeed leg it up the alleyway when Neville approached, and he didn’t think it was worth chasing him. Instead he went back to the office, tidied up a few things and generally tried to look busy. Harry and Ron looked at him incredulously when he explained.
“He must have given a fake address,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Malfoy wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that.”
“No, I told you, the woman who lived there knew him. Just under a different name.”
Harry snorted. “Can’t blame him for that. The Muggles I went to school with would have kicked the shit out of anyone called Draco.”
“He’s broke, Ron,” Neville pointed out, looking over an old map he’d pulled out of records of the Druid’s Heath area. “Housing in magical areas is expensive. You seen the rent on a Diagon Alley flat lately?”
Ron snorted and flushed. Neville remembered that he and Hermione had been talking about moving in together. He probably knew exactly how much it would cost.
“Anyway he can’t use magic,” Neville went on. “Couldn’t get into the Alley by himself anyway even if he wanted to. Can’t Apparate, either. Limited options.”
“Still,” Ron muttered. “Malfoy, living like a Muggle? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I’ve got evening shift tomorrow,” Neville said. “I’ll go back then, see if I can find the kids she was talking about. You’re welcome to come.”
“Wish I could. Taking Hermione out. I can’t skip out again, she’ll castrate me.”
Harry shook his head at Neville’s inquiring look. “Sorry Nev, I’ve plans too. Reckon you’ll need backup?”
“Against a bunch of Muggle teens? I think I can just about handle it.”
“I was thinking of Malfoy, actually, if you do find him. Could be dangerous, if he’s gone rogue.”
Neville shook his head. “I doubt I’ll even find him. I still think he’s probably crossed the channel. Could have done it months ago and we wouldn’t have known.”
Having learned from the day before, he tried to find some clothes that wouldn’t be such an immediate giveaway. There wasn’t anything in his wardrobe even remotely suitable, so he ended up borrowing some worn jeans and a jacket from Dean.
He Apparated back to the alley he had seen the boy run down and waited. After the first couple of scraggly looking teenagers walked down the street with furtive glances in his direction, he cast a notice-me-not charm. He might be blending in a little better with Dean’s clothes, but there was a certain attitude required to look comfortable in the Muggle world that he had never quite been able to master. At least not in a place like this, where every car horn or distant noise of construction made him flinch inwardly. Really he was no less suited to it than Malfoy was; he’d also been raised almost entirely in the Wizarding World, after all, with the exception of a couple of educational outings. Maybe Harry really should have come instead.
It took several hours, and his feet and back were seriously starting to ache from keeping still in the shadows, before his patience finally paid off. A gaggle of young men and women in varying states of unkempt dress began to gather in the mouth of the alley, where a scattering of plastic crates and old rubbish was utilised as seating. They talked together and laughed in low voices, exchanging lighters to ignite the cigarettes dangling from almost all their mouths. A bottle was passed around discreetly in a paper bag.
Satisfied that this was probably the group he’d been waiting for, Neville ducked back around the nearest corner and removed the charm. Then he walked back out in full view, hunching his shoulders slightly, hands in his pockets. The group went quiet and eyed him as he approached, but did not disperse. He tipped his chin at them in greeting.
“What d’you want?” one of them snapped at him before he could so much as open his mouth. The man looked about Neville’s age, with short spikey hair dyed white-blond, and wearing a grey vest article so thin that his nipples were visible through it.
“Looking for a friend,” Neville replied, gruffly. He was not a good actor; he could see a couple of the other group members exchanging nervous glances already. “Dra - Daniel Malfoy - the lady in his flat said he might come down here.”
Someone snickered.
“Don’t know anyone called Malfoy,” replied the one who had spoken, taking a long drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke into Neville’s face.
“Woss he look like?” asked another, from the back, a short black kid in a hoodie who didn’t look older than fifteen.
Neville described Malfoy as he remembered him, indicating the estimated height with his hand. This was more difficult than it sounded, as he had put on several inches himself in the last couple of years of school and beyond, and Malfoy was always taller in his mind’s eye than he knew he really was.
“You a copper?” one of the others demanded.
Was it his walk? Neville wondered. It wasn’t as though he was even born to be an Auror, like Harry was, and Harry was built like a Seeker, all slim-lined. He doubted any Muggle would accuse him of being police, but Neville apparently gave off all the wrong signals. “No,” he said, flatly. “Actually I’m an old school friend.”
More cautious glances. Eventually the self-appointed spokesman piped up again. “Could be the Daniel we know. He talks like you. Posh. Fully up himself.”
Neville nodded, mildly amused at this description. “That’s him. Any idea where I can find him?”
A general shrug went around, from everyone except, Neville couldn’t help noticing, the kid in the hoodie. “Nah, haven’t seen him around for a few weeks,” the one in the vest said, not very convincingly. “He said he was on parole. Could’ve been arrested.”
Neville hesitated. He could probably get the answers he needed right now, with the right spell in the right place. But it seemed unnecessary, and he really didn’t like using magic on Muggles unless he absolutely had to. It wasn’t fair. “All right,” he said instead, nodding. “Thanks anyway.” He turned, as though he was about to go back down the street, but stopped at the last minute and dug in his pocket for his wallet. You couldn’t carry bags of gold in Muggle clothes, and he’d come prepared for any eventuality. He pulled out a crisp five pound note and caught the eye of the black boy. “For one of those?” he asked, indicating with the same hand the packet of cigarettes sticking out of the kid’s pocket.
He dropped the unlit cigarette into his pocket as soon as he was out of sight. He had the strong sense he had overpaid, but that was all for the better. Putting on a casual air, he started down the main street at snail’s pace, making a show out of looking into the windows of every shop he passed. It was perhaps ten minutes before he realised he was being watched, and glanced across to the other side of the street to see the same kid, staring at him. He leaned against a nearby wall and offered a wave, barely more than a flick of his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, the boy crossed the road in his direction.
“Hi,” Neville said. Now that he was closer and out of the dim light in the alleyway, he felt that his estimation of fifteen years old had probably been optimistic. Thirteen, at most. “You stalking me?” he asked. The boy frowned up at him warily. “I’m joking,” Neville assured him. “Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
The kid made a face. “What’s it worth to ya?” he asked.
Neville had to hold back a triumphant grin. “I’m Neville,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Ahmed.”
“Nice to meet you, Ahmed. You want a doughnut or something?” he asked, pointing in the nearby bakery window to a where a row of delicious treats were laid out in an enticing row.
The boy went wide-eyed for a second, as though tempted, but then rounded back on Neville with a glare. “Listen, toff,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to startle any passers-by, “I ain’t like that. You ain’t gonna take me back to your mansion or whatever and make me your fuckboy, so don’t even think it.”
Neville’s mouth dropped open in shock and horror. “I - what? That’s not - don’t - bloody hell, kid, that’s not what this is. That’s disgusting, even if you weren’t what, twelve?”
The boy looked slightly mollified, shrugging. “Aight, aight, you’re not like that, okay. You wouldn’t be the first one who asked. I take cash for info, man.”
It took Neville a moment to catch up with this. “How much?” he asked.
“A hundred.”
“All right.”
Ahmed looked stunned. Clearly he had thrown out the most absurd number he could think of, expecting to be haggled down considerably.
“Fifty now,” Neville promised. “And fifty more if the information is good.”
The boy shook his head. “Lookin’ for a school friend, right?” he said, doubt written all over his face.
“That’s right.”
Ahmed rolled his eyes. “Whatever man, none of my business.” He held out a hand.
Neville pulled out a fifty pound note.
“I can’t use that,” Ahmed sighed. “People’ll think I nicked it. Give us smaller notes.”
“Bit demanding, aren’t you,” Neville muttered, fishing around and coming up with four tens and two more fivers. Fortunately he had plenty; he always underestimated the exchange rate.
Ahmed took the money and stuffed it hurriedly in his pocket. “Daniel used to hang out with us a bit,” he said, low. “But he fucked around with some other guys, too, dealers. Last we heard he’d fallen out with them - not paid up when he was told. Been a couple months since we saw him last. Some people reckon he got hisself killed, but I heard different.”
“Oh?” Neville was only half-following. Dealers of what?
“Yeah, my brother Kaleb knows someone who runs with those guys. They don’t kill a guy if they can get cash out of him later, right? They make people work their money off, like on the street or… other ways.”
Neville frowned, not any less confused. “Okay,” he said, cautiously. “That doesn’t help me find him, does it?”
“Relax man, I’m just givin’ you the 411 so you don’t go down there and get yerself shot in the face.” Ahmed’s nose twitched nervously. “There’s a house on Marie Avenue - sounds nice but it ain’t - it’s the one with the blue roof. It ain’t the big boss man’s place, just some guys that work for him, but it’s dangerous as shit. I would not go in there if I were you.”
“I think I’ll be all right,” Neville said. “Besides, I need to make sure you’re correct, don’t I, or you won’t get the rest of your money.”
Ahmed gave him a doubtful look. “Yeah, right. Meet you here same time tomorrow if you don’t die, and you can give me the rest.”
“It’s a deal.” Neville offered his hand. “I’ll be here.”
Ahmed laughed and shook it. “I bet you will, too. Mad toff.”
The house with the blue roof looked nicer than Neville had been expecting, after Refrane from Spitting and the filthy alleyway. He watched it for a while from under another Notice-Me-Not charm on the other side of the street, noting that several cars drove up to it over the course of a couple of hours for only a few minutes before going away again. No other house on the street had so much traffic, but it seemed otherwise fairly innocent.
He waited until dark to approach. If Malfoy really was working here, it would be easier to grab hold of him and make a quick getaway when it wasn’t broad daylight; less Muggles on the street, for one thing. He had been trying to come up with a clever way of getting in for hours now and hadn’t come up with anything, so he decided he may as well try a semi-honest approach and hope for the best, with his wand close to hand in case of emergency.
The girl who answered the door was very thin, with hair like a rat’s nest and a sour expression. “Hello,” Neville said cheerily, before she could shut it in his face. “Sorry to bother you, but I heard a friend of mine might be staying here.”
The woman looked him up and down with pursed lips. “Doubt it,” she said.
Neville put his foot inside the door jamb and winced inwardly as the solid wood slammed into it and bounced back. “Sorry about this,” he sighed, and flicked his wand slightly.
“Sorry about what?” she asked, but her expression brightened up considerably even as he stepped over the threshold. She didn’t try to stop him. You could get pretty good results out of even a really mild Cheering Charm, Neville had found. No need for anything really drastic.
“Interrupting your evening,” he replied, with his most charming smile. “My friend’s name is Daniel. He might be using a different last name than I knew him as, though. Blond hair? Very irritating?”
The girl giggled. “Curtis?” she called back.
“Who the fuck is it?” a reply came, shouted from a room at the end of a long hallway.
“Someone to see Daniel,” she called back.
A man emerged from the room, looking furious. “What the fuck?” he demanded, storming up to them. “And you just let him in?”
“I won’t take up any of your time,” Neville said. Something bad was sticking in the back of his throat, and he didn’t think it was just the sickly fog of smoke that seemed to permeate the inside of the place. “Just need a few words with Daniel.”
“Well, he’s not here,” the man shot back. He was a big man, muscles bulging from under a black T-shirt with some kind of logo splashed across it. “Fuck off.”
“Mind if I check?” Neville asked.
He saw the punch coming and ducked. It hit the wall. “Stupify.”
Both Muggles fell into a pile on the floor. He sighed. “Oh well.”
The house was a tip. It might have looked all right from the outside, but everywhere he looked there were piles of brown bottles and pizza boxes, and there was cigarette ash over nearly everything. There were three more Muggles in the living room watching television; he stunned them as well to save time. It wouldn’t hurt them, and it’d wear off in a few hours. The bathroom was empty, as were the first two bedrooms he tried. The third bedroom was dark, and smelled pretty bad, and he would have missed the figure curled up in the corner entirely if it hadn’t been for the slight grunting noise it made as he went to close the door.
It was Malfoy, and he was in a horrible state. Neville didn’t think he would have recognised him at all if he hadn’t already expected to find him there. He was rake thin, dressed only in a ratty t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. His hair was overgrown and dull, and there were circles under his eyes so dark they looked painted on. There was something black all over his arm as well, and it was difficult to tell what it was in the dim light of the single, failing bulb that hung overhead. There was a faint smell of sick. Malfoy’s wrist was handcuffed to the radiator. Neville swore.
“Malfoy,” he called, shaking him by the shoulders. Grey eyes opened just a fraction, and then a little more. Then Malfoy smiled.
“About time,” he croaked. “Didn’t think it’d be you. How many meetings I miss?”
“Two,” Neville said, flatly. “What the hell happened to you, Malfoy?”
Malfoy shrugged, making the handcuffs jangle. “I fucked up, obviously,” he said. He sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the wall. “Still rather be here than fucking Azkaban,” he muttered. “Don’t s’pose I could convince you to pretend you never found me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Ha. Worth a try.”
Neville severed the handcuffs with a cutting charm that accidentally went through the pipe as well. Precision spellwork had never been his best skill, unless it involved plants. He didn’t know much about plumbing, and at this point he didn’t much care if the whole house burned down once he had left, but he did a quick patch job anyway. “Come on,” he said, putting one arm gingerly around Malfoy’s chest and lifting him up.
“You know, Longbottom...” Malfoy muttered, getting shakily to his feet.
“What?”
But he didn’t get to hear what, because at that point Malfoy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp, and Neville had to stagger to catch him.
This was really turning out to be a bitch of a final week.