Chapter 1

It all started over the summer.

I'd been an Auror for years by that point, although it felt like a lifetime. Still, nothing prepared me for what was about to happen.

July 12, 2007. The headline on the newspaper blared at me so loudly that I swear I thought I could hear it. TRAGIC ACCIDENT CLAIMS MALFOY, FAMILY.

I sat staring at the headline for minutes, my hand shaking momentarily as it brought my morning cig to my lips. With the first drag, though, business mode took over. I exhaled hastily, flipping the paper open to the article. Draco Malfoy, 27, his wife, Asteria, 25, and their one-year-old son, Scorpius (what the hell kind of a name that was I'd never know) had been vacationing in the south of France when their rented car exploded, killing them all instantaneously.

I sat back in my chair, blowing a fat trail of smoke out of the corner of my mouth, as I reread the article. The French Ministry claimed the horrible loss was the result of a manufacturer's defect – a faulty petrol line had caused the fuel to combust. They had no reason to suspect foul play, as their country was free of the prejudices that still haunted the Malfoy name in the UK, and stated for the record that they would work closely with any British investigation into the incident.

A knock at the door confirmed my gut feeling.

Gawain Robards, head of the Auror department, strode in, slapping a copy of the paper onto my desk.

“I see you've already seen this morning's news,” he said grimly.

I nodded, stubbing out the last of my cig and running a hand through my hair. “I take it you want me to investigate?”

He nodded, exhaling. “Something's not right. You know it as well as I do. I don't care that the Malfoys have an estate down there – the Draco Malfoy we all knew wouldn't have been caught dead in a Muggle vehicle.” Robards winced at his unintended and utterly distasteful turn of phrase. “I want you to take Weasley and Harcourt, maybe one other if they're discreet, and check this thing out. Carefully, mind you. We can't afford not to know if there's another lunatic out there thinking they're some new hero for taking down old Death Eaters.”

I knew what he was talking about all too well. Ever since the war, there had been at least one incident a year where some maniac decided to play Potter and beat up some poor old sop with a funny tattoo. But at least four of those attacks had been on the Malfoy family.

“You got it, Robards,” I said, and when he left, I sent a message to Ron.

The next day found us Flooing to the French Ministry.

“Ah, Messieurs Aurors,” Marie-Claude Delalande, the French Ministre, greeted us immediately. “You understand the sensitivity of this matter, oui? Yes, I'm sure you do. All immediate evidence points toward an unfortunate accident, but because of who Mr. Malfoy is – was, we are more than happy to assist you in any way. The French people have held no ill will toward the Malfoy family, but if someone has caused this disaster, then we would like nothing more than for you to take them home with you.”

Ron and I nodded in tandem, understanding at once what the Ministre was and was not saying. “We understand, Madame Ministre,” Ron said. “With whom shall we be working?”

“Ah. Because of the nature of the incident, it has been investigated by our non-magical government as an accident but also as a possible terrorist threat. I am quite sure you will be able to navigate your way through the Muggle police reports, oui? You should report to them as soon as you can,” she explained. “If you should require any of our assistance, you know how to find us. I trust that you will find what you are seeking with all due haste.”

“Of course, Ministre Delalande,” I said. “We will indeed.”

Three days went by with us combing through French police documents, looking at pictures, twirling pens around our thumbs as we sat in on investigative meetings that led us nowhere. We scoured the crime scene looking for any possible clues, re-interviewed the scant few witnesses that had come forward, but all to little end. On the fourth day, we went back to the Ministry.

“Well?” Madame Ministre Delalande said impatiently.

“Definitely magical,” I told her. “The Muggle police are baffled. There's no trace of any sort of bomb or accelerant anywhere, and for an explosion of that size, there would have to be.”

“As I thought, but you do not know who did this,” she stated.

“Not yet, Ministre,” Ron answered. “But you were right before, Madame Ministre Delalande. No one in France would care enough about Malfoy's past to target his family. This has to be the work of someone from England. Someone with a grudge.”

“I think you should allow your people to believe that it was a fluke, a Muggle bomb that unfortunately got the wrong target,” I said. “We'll go back to our Ministry and continue the investigation from there, and if everyone thinks we're not pursuing it further, they might slip up. We'll find them.”

“See that you do. And if we can be of any further assistance, please do not hesitate to contact us,” she said. “Au revoir, Messieurs Aurors.”