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Message in a Bottle	By : sarcastrow Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 1304 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Message in a Bottle

Chapter 5

Investigation

Hugo sat in the chair behind the desk. Where is it, Mr. Malfoy, where the fuck is it? “I know the answer is here, but where?” he said out loud.

The ornate desk was large, solid mahogany from Brazil, and intricately carved. The columns at the corners sported dragons winding their way up ionic pillars. The edges of the top were decorated with a chain of stars, planets and Malfoy flower blooms. The drawers were carved with woodland scenes, and they were alive with all sorts of magical creatures. Unicorns, hippogriffs, dragons, fairies, pixies and many others cavorted in a never-ending vision of tranquility. And across the front face of the desk, another large woodland scene had the Malfoy family motto superimposed on it.

Hugo huffed. In the report he had gotten from Boot, he had found virtually nothing to help him. Draco had had a few galleons, his wand, some biscuit crumbs, a muggle underground ticket, a picture of his son and one of his daughter, and a bracelet in a long box with Pansy’s name on it in the various pockets of his robes. In the room itself, there had been nothing one wouldn’t expect in a wizarding household. All the various detritus of potion-making – lacewing flies, frog spleen, cat whiskers, dragon blood, snake scales and a host of other things – had been ground into the carpet over the years. Nothing had set off the dark or cursed objects sweeps that Boot had done, and the wizarding coroner was still at a loss as to what had actually killed Draco. The only indication that it hadn’t been a natural death was that he had been petrified first.

Hugo flipped open Draco’s calendar. That final day two and a half weeks prior had just one appointment: “Lunch with Pansy” was written in his increasingly messy script. It was a date he never kept. He flipped back a day. Two business meetings and dinner at a fine Muggle restaurant, again with Pansy, were scrawled on the page. He flipped back more and more pages. Every day was some variant of meetings, potion or spell work, and outings or meals, always with Pansy. Hugo smiled. He was increasingly happy that Madam Parkinson had had the years with Draco she deserved. After what he had seen in the pensieve, he felt she deserved it all and more.

One meeting five weeks prior to Draco’s death caught his eye. “MGLDRMS.” What the hell does that mean? he thought to himself. Hugo pulled his notebook from his pocket and wrote down the cryptic note. He flipped back farther, and there it was again, two months ago. Now he was genuinely curious. He continued moving back through the calendar, looking for that same series of letters. Every few months it would show up. With a flick of his wand he summoned the previous year from its place on a shelf. Sure enough the letters were there, every few months, and in the year previous to that one too. They stopped appearing five years earlier.

What the fuck? He thought to himself.

<(*)>

“Madam?” Hugo asked as he entered the drawing room and crossed to Pansy in her chair. She set her book on the small table next to her and looked at him.

“Yes, Hugo, what do you need?” she asked.

“I found an interesting note in Mr. Malfoy’s calendar and I was wondering what you could tell me about it.”

She smiled. “All right, what was it?”

He shrugged. “Just some letters, MGLDRMS. Do you know what that means?”

Her face fell to a frown and she looked at the floor. “I’ve no idea,” she said shaking her head.

Hugo started. She’s lying to me! He sat in the chair next to hers. “Come now, Madam, you forget who I am,” he said kindly. “What does it mean?”

Pansy looked up at him. “It’s not important, Hugo. Let it lie,” she said in a cold, hard voice. There was no trace of the kind and cultured woman he knew. So THAT’S the Pansy Parkinson my parents grew up with. He gave her a knowing grin. “I will find out, Madam, so it’s best you tell me.”

She smirked and in the same voice told him, “No, you won’t. I’m the only one who knows, so short of Legilimency, which I know you won’t use, you’re not finding out. Draco didn’t want anyone but me to know, and so no one does. It has nothing to do with what you’re looking into anyway. LET. IT. LIE, Hugo.”

“All right, if you say so, Madam,” he said. Not bloody likely, he thought.

<(*)>

Bernard Lester had worked for the Underground for close to thirty years. From his starting position as ticket seller, he had risen through the bureaucracy to head the entire ticket sales department. Visitors to his office were rare and he liked it that way. After his years behind the window at Paddington Station he had had his fill of the public, so the knock on his office door startled him.

“Yes?” he asked the door.

It opened and a man with short-cropped, dark red hair entered his office. “Hello, Mr. Lester,” the man said. “My name is Hugo Weasley, and I’m a private investigator. I wonder if I might trouble you for a moment?”

“I am a busy man, Mr. Weasley,” he said shortly, and then looked at Hugo with a puzzled expression. “How did you get up here?”

Hugo smiled at him. “I have a winning way with people. Mr. Lester, I wonder if you could tell me how this ticket was used.” Hugo produced an Underground ticket from his pocket.

With an air of a man who wanted to be left alone, Bernard snatched the ticket from Hugo’s hand and began typing on the keyboard of his computer. “They all have barcodes that correlate to the number on the bottom off the ticket. See it there?” He pointed to a small number below the bar code.

“Yes,” Hugo said, nodding.

Bernard looked back at his screen. “This one was used at eleven-thirty A.M. on the twenty-eighth of April to enter the system at Charing Cross and exit at Saint John’s Wood at eleven forty-eight.” He handed the ticket back to Hugo. “Is there anything else?”.

Hugo smiled back at the scowling man and slid his wand from his pocket. “Yes, just one thing. Forget I was here. Obliviate!”

<(*)>

A man walked his dog down the pavement of Regent’s park near the boating lake. A loud snap drew his attention toward a small copse of trees. He looked up just as the Confundus hit him.

“Handsome animal,” Hugo said as he bent and patted the terrier on the head. “Have a lovely day.” He smiled at the dazed man and walked away toward Park Road. As he reached Regent’s Lodge he ducked under another tree and pulled the Underground ticket from his pocket. “Where did you go,” he asked the ticket, and then he placed his wand atop it in his flattened palm. “Point me!”

His wand spun on his palm and pointed to his right and out of the park. Hugo slid it up his sleeve so the Muggles wouldn’t see it, gripped his wand lightly so as to let the spell guide him, and crooked his arm to level the wand. When he reached Park Road his wand nudged to the right, and he walked along the pavement until he reached Saint John’s Wood Church. His wand again nudged him further up Park Road until he stood across from The Wellington Hospital. The wand steadfastly pointed at the front door.

Hmmm, MGLDRMS… Muggle Doctor! I wonder who MS is? He crossed the street and entered the hospital. There was a directory of physicians in the lobby, and Hugo found five with the initials MS. He ruled out two immediately, as one was a gynecologist and the other a pediatric specialist. That left Margaret Simpson in Ophthalmology, Mark Staler in Neurology, and Mathew Smith in General Practice. He dismissed the ophthalmologist; the healers at Saint Mungo’s dispensed all the eye care in the wizarding community. He also dismissed the G.P., as again the staff of Saint Mungo’s would have provided that service. This left Mark Staler in Neurology.

“A good place to start,” he said to himself. The lift took him to the fourth floor. A few turns down a few hallways and he stood at the reception desk of the Neurology department.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked from behind the window.

“I don’t know,” Hugo told her. “I’m looking for some information about a friend of mine’s father. I think he’s been coming here for some time.”

“Well, I can tell you some if you’ll give me his name,” the middle aged woman said.

“That’s just it. You see, my friend’s father valued his privacy, and I’m sure he didn’t use his real name.”

She tsked, “That puts rather a damper on things, now, doesn’t it?”

“I have a picture here.” He showed her the picture of Draco and Scorpius.

“Oh, Mr. Mathews, why didn’t you say so? Such a charming man, and so gracious. He always brings us the most wonderful chocolates.”

“I’m sure he did. May I see his file?”

“Oh, I can’t possibly; it’s against the l…” Her eyes went unfocused for a moment. “What was I saying?” she asked dazedly.

“You were getting me Mr. Mathews’ file,” Hugo told her.

“Oh yes, of course. Just a moment.” She left the desk and shuffled into a room just behind the desk. There was the sound of opening and closing file cabinets and then she reappeared with a quite thick file in her hands. “Here you are.” She handed Hugo the file through the slot in the window.

“Thanks. Goodbye,” he said, nodding, and hurried back down the hall.

The receptionist shook her head and looked out of her little window, puzzled. There had been someone in front of her a few seconds ago, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember him. “Time for a break,” she said to herself.

<(*)>

Huntington's disease. The more Hugo read, the more horrific the thought of it was, losing control of your body, and then your mind. Horrible. That was what Draco faced. The chart indicated that he had had tests run on Scorpius and Delphinia’s blood to check for the gene that was thankfully absent from both.

But not from his.

The murderer did you a favor, Hugo thought. “Oh, Mr. Malfoy,” he said to the room. The chart told Hugo that Draco had known of his condition for close to five years, and that, as of his last checkup, the disease had progressed on its normal track. He was beginning to have some motor control issues, and the doctor was treating him with some medicines that, while not curing the disease, moderated the symptoms. His mental faculties were just beginning to be affected. The most recent test showed Draco was starting to have short term memory issues, and he also said that Pansy was seeing some angry outbursts from time to time. I wonder when you were going to tell Scor, he thought.

Well, that was a dead end. Hugo huffed and closed the file. “Another flat white, please,” he told the waitress at the small coffee bar that overlooked Regent’s Park. She returned in a few minutes with another cup. The artfully poured steamed milk in the cup reminded Hugo of the flowers decorating the desk in the study. He contemplated. No, I won’t tell Scor. I do need to tell Madam Parkinson, though.

<(*)>

“I know.”

Pansy turned from the fireplace in the sitting room. “I told you it wasn’t Important.” There was no smile or kindnesses in her voice, no hint of anger either, just resignation.

“I won’t be telling Scorpius.”

“That’s for the best, Hugo.”

“He didn’t commit suicide?”

Pansy snorted and a hint of a smile played on her face. “No, Draco would never do that. I told you, Draco couldn’t kill anyone.”

“I’m sorry, Madam. You were right,” he said sincerely.

“That’s okay, Hugo.” She half smiled again. “I knew you wouldn’t give it up. You Ravenclaws!” She rolled her eyes. “And they think the ‘puffs are tenacious.”

He chuckled. “Well, let’s get down to dinner, shall we? I think I need to be prepared for tonight.” His expression sobered.

“What are you two doing tonight?”

“Just looking in the pensieve, but it’s a… particular memory.”

She looked at him curiously for a moment and then a look of understanding came over her face. “The night your parents were here?”

He nodded.

Pansy straightened. “Hugo Weasley, you didn’t listen to me before, but listen to me now. I was here that night. I didn’t see, but I did hear. I couldn’t help but hear. Don’t, you really don’t want to, Hugo.”

“I’ve wanted to know since I can remember, Madam. I need to know.”

“It was awful,” she said angrily. “All right? It was horrible. You have no idea what that… that woman was capable of. Don’t be a fool, Hugo.”

“I can’t help it, Madam. I must know.” He held his fist against his chest. “I need to know.”

She sighed. “Well, I won’t rat you out to your mother, but don’t expect pity from me when you…” She shook her head and smirked. “Come on, let’s go have dinner.”
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Message in a Bottle