behind and interview Malfoy. Harry puts up a good fight, in that he gets in one whole, “But,” before Ron looks him firmly in the eye, puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Mate. I love you like a brother—more than some of them, even—and you have many skills. But interrogation? No. You’re not good at it, mate. It’s just not your bag. It just isn’t your cuppa. You know this. I know this. We have this conversation every time.”

“But,” Harry says, and Ron says, “Mate, it’s not happening,” and Harry, who knows that any argument with Ron where Ron uses the word “mate” more than twice is an argument lost, throws his hands in the air and goes to find Malfoy.

He’s not in the wrecked sitting room or the wrecked study, but Harry finds him in the wrecked parlor, perched on the edge a large armchair that seems to have a fist-sized hole through its middle. He’s got his head in his hands, and Harry thinks he might be trembling slightly. Harry’s surprised to feel a stab of something like admiration for Malfoy—this was obviously quite an ordeal for him, but he kept it together enough to shield some of the children from it, even to display some tactical thinking in getting Harry to that weapon. Harry’s seen enough people in crisis situations to know it for the rare quality it is, calm in the face of a storm. It would be one thing, less impressive, if Malfoy were calm by nature, but obviously—based on this moment but also on basically every memory Harry has of him from school—it’s something he has to construct for himself.

Of course, then Kreacher says, “Thank you for saving us, Harry Potter!” in rapturous tones, and Harry realizes that he’s probably been standing next to the fireplace the whole time Harry’s been in the doorway at the same moment that Malfoy jerks upright, a mask of cool indifference slamming down over his features.

“Oh,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re still here.”

“Aurors are widely known to linger at crime scenes,” Harry says mildly. “Strangely enough.” Malfoy scowls at him but says nothing, and Harry sighs. “I’ve got to take a statement from you, Malfoy. So we can, you know, catch the criminals?”

“You wouldn’t have to if you’d just targeted the actual ringleaders,” Malfoy mutters, frowning. “It was obvious that the two who got away were the brains of the operation. But no, naturally you go straight for the muscle, bloody Gryffindor that you are—”

“Yeah, well, when you’re trained in tactical analysis of hostage situations you can decide who gets taken out first,” Harry snaps, stung. In truth he’s been kicking himself for that very thing since the ringleaders in question jumped out the window, but it’s not like he’s going to say so to—the victim, Harry reminds himself, of this crime. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “It’s really not that difficult, I swear. I’ll just have you take me through the crime, answer a few questions, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Malfoy glares at him for a long, narrow-eyed moment, before he abruptly says, “Oh, fine,” and collapses back against the chair, seemingly either etting or not caring about the hole through the middle. He waves a hand at the settee across from him. “You might do me the basic courtesy of sitting down, so I don’t have to strain my neck looking at you on top of everything else.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he sits down.

“Would Harry Potter like some tea?” Kreacher asks, suddenly appearing next to Harry and leering unsettlingly at him, and Harry says, “Sure,” in the same moment Malfoy says, “No!”

They look at each other for a beat, and then at Kreacher, who seems to be fixed in a suspended state of indecision, one finger twitching slightly. “Oh, fine,” Malfoy says again, even more irritably than before. “I’ll have one too, then. Maybe,” and he raises his eyebrows at Harry, as though daring him to say anything, “put a little something extra in mine.”

Harry does not say anything, mostly because he’s conducted a lot of interviews like this while the victim sipped on something to soothe their nerves, but a little because he’s tempted to say, “Bring the bottle.”

Kreacher vanishes with a pop and Malfoy puts one hand over his eyes, waves the other again in vague permission. “By all means, Potter,” he drawls, “ask away.”

“Well, let’s start with this—what were they after?”

“Oh my god,” Malfoy says, dropping the hand from his eyes to stare at Harry. “Really? Are you deaf? Did you not just stand there and watch them threaten me and my life’s work and, implicitly, every one of those children for that same information?” His voice climbs as he talks, nowhere near shouting but—louder, certainly, than normal speech. “I don’t know, Potter. If I knew, as I believe I mentioned upstairs, I would have given it to them just to get them out of the bloody house!”

Harry flushes, irritated. “Well, how was I supposed to know that that wasn’t just—I don’t know, a cover or something? To keep them from getting their hands on—whatever it is?”

“Oh, because I’d protect myself and my unknown personal treasure at the cost of history and schoolchildren,” Malfoy sneers, a bitter twist to his mouth. “Not to mention a perfectly innocent wizarding home, right, yes, of course. It has be so surprisingly easy to et what a terrible person I am without you constantly popping up to remind me.”

Harry’s mouth is open around a retort when Kreacher reappears with a tea tray. It seems to startle both of them away from the argument—he can see his own slight shame reflected for a second on Malfoy’s face—and he takes his cup without replying. When he sips it, he’s touched to realize that Kreacher has remembered how he takes it, and smiles at him. “It’s perfect, Kreacher, thanks.”

Kreacher beams at him and scurries over to hand Malfoy his cup before he and the tray vanish with a pop.

Malfoy takes a long sip of his tea and sighs contentedly. “He’s a strange creature, but Merlin favor whatever Black ancestor trained him into his heavy pour.” He regards Harry coolly over the rim of his cup. “Well,e on then. Let’s have the rest of them. I haven’t got all day to sit around and answer questions, you know.”

Harry sighs, wishing that he had given in to his instincts and told Kreacher to bring him some Firewhiskey too, professionalism and rules for on-duty Aurors be damned. Instead of sharing this with Malfoy, he says, “So—you turned the place into a museum.”

Malfoy stares. Slowly, as if talking to a child, he says, “Yes?”

Harry imagines throttling him a little, but he thinks he seeds in keeping it out of his voice as he says, “And this museum specializes in artifacts from Wizarding history?”

“You know, I don’t think you actually need me for this interview at all,” Malfoy says, tone mockingly thoughtful. “There are several others around the place you could consult— our brochures, for example, would be eager to help—I’ve had nothing but pleasant conversations with the sign outside—”

“Are you always this difficult?” Harry snaps, needled to his breaking point.

“Well I’ve had a rather trying day,” Malfoy says, drawling the words out slow, dry as the Sahara. “So you’ll ive me if I’m not eager to answer questions with answers so obvious it’s painful.”

“Was anything. Of value. Taken,” Harry says through gritted teeth, writing YOU GIANT GIT in the margins of his form as he does.

It seems to be the magic question, though; Malfoy’s body language changes and his eyes dart to the floorboards that have been torn up, the painting on the far wall that’s hanging in ribbons in its frame.

“They damaged far more than they took,” Malfoy says, abrupt and miserable. “If they took anything, that is. I haven’t exactly,” he stops and takes a long sip from his tea before he says, “taken a thorough inventory or anything, but. I haven’t noticed anything significant is gone. Certainly none of the more obviously valuable pieces.”

“Odd,” Harry mutters, making a note of it. “Do you have insurance?”

“Are you actually trying to use me of insurance fraud?” Malfoy demands, sitting up straight so abruptly that he very nearly spills his tea. “Because I would never, you must bepletely daft. It would hardly be worth the risk, and even if I did lose my mind and decide to give it a go I would never damage the house itself—”

“I am not using you of insurance fraud, Malfoy,” Harry says, holding up a weary hand. He’s really regretting not asking Kreacher for the Firewhiskey right about now. “I am asking whether you have insurance. Because it’s a question. I have to ask. On this form.”

Malfoy glares at him suspiciously and so Harry holds up the form, pointing at the offending prompt. He’s not expecting Malfoy to lean over, snatch it away, and start reading off the questions in a lazy voice.

“Target of theft, we’ve done that; history of property and/oranization, yes, okay; was anything of value taken—my god, Potter, you really don’t deviate much from these questions at all, do you? Except, I note, for this stunning gem of professionalism.” He holds the paper up much as Harry had, his finger pointedly beneath the words YOU GIANT GIT. Harry tries to grab it away from him, but Malfoy’s quick and just used that move besides, and so leans out of reach, regarding Harry with a superior little grin, and keeps reading.

“Insurance, yes, yes, ah, here we are: ‘Additional questions, asked at Auror discretion, may be notated here, to be written out in full in final report.’” Malfoy raises his eyebrows at the form, and then lifts his face to direct the expression at Harry. “Bureaucracy at its finest, isn’t it? I must say, I feel ever so assured of the Auror department’spetence.”

“Would you just,” Harry says, and before he can stand up to snatch the form out of the bastard’s stupid hands, Malfoy leans over and passes it to him, all innocence and grace, like he intended to all along. God, but he drives Harry up a wall. “Just—the kids, what were the kids doing here? Who were they? We actually are going to have to take their statements, we’l

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