分卷阅读7（2 / 2）

They shared a long, pointed look for longer than was comfortable, which was interrupted by the breeze and whoosh of an Inter-Ministry memo flying onto Felix’s desk. Igora took advantage of the distraction to make a point. “See,” she pointed to the parchment Felix had begun unfolding. “If Eversworn was simply part of your investigation as an informant, you would follow the code of action for such circumstances. And you’d have sent it by post.” Igora watched as Felix read whatever was in the message, then continued, “There are ways to tell other departments to lay off informants for such situations. Instead, you made the mistake of coming up here yourself, against what proper procedure dictates.”

Weasley glowered at her and his shoulders tensed.

“You’re hiding something, Auror Weasley,” Igora stated. Felix huffed and Igora leaned to the side to get a view of her partner who she’d briefly forgotten was even in the room. “What is it?”

“Bloody unbelievable,” he muttered. He crumpled the letter and tossed it over to her desk. “Home office says the ops-team we saw last night is ‘out of our purview’ and we are not to acknowledge them.”

Weasley huffed, half a grin forming on his lips. “Do not disturb,” he said. “Typical Department of Mysteries nonsense.”

“The DOM?” Igora tilted her head to the side and caught Felix’s gaze. That made things interesting. That meant Draco Malfoy and Archie Eversworn were caught up in something complex, probably tremendously important.

“Wait,” Weasley turned to Felix and then back to Igora. “Where did you see an ops- team?”

Igora couldn’t stop herself from grinning. “Outside Archie Eversworn’s flat.”

Weasley gulped.

Pansy Parkinson was rarely on time. By her own admission, she cultivated tardiness as a means of control. “Never do what they expect,” she wrote to Draco once. “They weigh us down with their expectations.” She’d tried her best to ignore his honest reply of “No one expects anything from us. That’s the problem.” But she found herself oscillating between trying to subvert opinions and caring far too much about maintaining the appearance that she didn’t care.

“You’re late.” The attendant at the Ministry Check-In frowned at her, and Pansy returned his lack of greeting with a scowl. The young wizard pointed to the sign in sheet. “Sign in and sit in the waiting area. A case worker will be with you shortly.”

Pansy stared at the man, picked up the quill, and wrote her name quite forcefully without breaking his gaze. Something about his demeanor bothered her, and his judgment washed over her. Did he recognize her face or her name? She didn’t allow herself to hold on to such questions. She made sure to glare a bit before she turned around and found a plush chair in the waiting room. Perhaps this wouldn’t be one of the days to forge a new image for herself.

She adjusted her pencil skirt and tried to get comfortable. The wait times at the Ministry were notoriously unpredictable, and since she had no hint as to why she had been called back from Brussels, there was no way to know if she’d be there half an hour or until her next birthday. The last time she’d been summoned to the Ministry, she’d assumed it was a simple witness statement for a forfeiture of assets. Pansy had just finished one of her biggest acquisitions, a charmed seventeenth century walnut wardrobe that de-wrinkled and freshened all of the garments within. On her way back to Britain, after having partied and celebrated accordingly, she’d been flagged as suspicious by one of her fellow Portkey travelers and was subsequently kept for questioning in a Ministry holding room for over twelve hours. The officials involved got the authority to riffle through her things and read all the documents in her possession. It wasn’t until Draco had come storming in with a cease and desist that they backed off and released her.

That reminded her—she rummaged around in her briefcase for the rest of her unread post and decided to sift through it. Letters from random admirers, people begging her to take on their cases, and a few, heavy parchments from her close friends and family. She opened the letter from her goddaughter, scanning over a rather long rant about a birthday party, a lake house, and a father hell-bent on ruining her life. Pansy smiled at the ability of young teenagers to devolve into hysterics over the slightest problem. It reminded her of herself at that age. At least, before the War. As soon as she saw Draco’s neat script on the letter underneath, she tossed the others aside and ripped his letter open.

At first it was the usual comments about their mutual interests and acquaintances; Greg’s catering service was booming, apparently; Blaise had won an award for his expose on some winning Quidditch team throwing matches; and as always, Draco passed on the warmest regards from his mother, Narcissa. After that, without fail, would be the repetitive and unvaried line, “Work is more of the same,” which to Pansy’s continued annoyance revealed absolutely nothing about Draco’s busy and mysterious professional life. She’d always write back and tease him, “You’re either an escort or an Unspeakable, and either way, I’d die if you would just finally kiss and tell.”

Only this letter held no such statement. The regular news was followed by a plea:

Pansy, dear, I don’t wish to alarm you, but your close family friend Bertrice Zivantus has gone missing. I am in contact with her father and can assure you that we are doing everything within our power to find her. There is no need to return early from your trip, I only wished to keep you apprised of the situation. Love, Draco.

“What?” Pansy practically shrieked. She grabbed her things and rushed to the Check- In where the attendant had been speaking with a petite Ministry official. Pansy ignored the fact that she was interrupting their conversation and said, “I’m sorry, something has come up and I have to leave.”

“Pansy Parkinson?” the small woman practically squeaked.