the sweetest con [d.m]

nine

Mavi stares at him — and he can see the pain in her eyes.

She jolts to her feet, the file sliding off her lap and thudding to the floor, the pages sliding out of it. "I told you not to meddle."

"I didn't," he replies, calmly, sitting back in the armchair. Her breathing has picked up, her jaw tight.

"This is meddling, Draco." She gestures to the file at her feet. "I don't—I don't care about Merrick Aumutage or—"

"And I don't care that you don't care." He leans down to sweep the file off the floor, slipping the pages back in.

"Why is it so difficult for you to let this go?" Mavi's hands clench into fists, briefly. He's never seen her express anger before — and it strangely appeals to him. "This is my mother. If I say I don't want—"

"Believe it or not," he cuts her off again, tossing the mirrorball at her which she pointedly ignores. It thuds to the floor, rolling under the bed. "I wasn't digging about for your mother."

She doesn't believe him. He can see it on her face. With a sigh, he gets to his feet, leaving the file and the pen on the armrest.

"Last week, a woman was killed," he tells her. "In Clover Hill. Wisteria Fallon."

She refuses to meet his gaze, stubbornly staring at his chest.

"She was found in a field," he continues. "Strangled to death. She was a a Muggle but regardless, we should've been able to use Traces to find her."

Mavi's eyes flicker and he knows she's remembering the lack of her mother's Trace when they looked for her.

The way Magical Traces work is dependent on the precise things that make an individual them — scent, even voice. If the individual had spoken, the Trace would lead them all the way to where their voice was last detected.

With magical folk, it's easier. An individual's magic is pretty strong and easy to detect — so more often than not, it'll lead to where their magic was last felt. With Muggles, the Trace relies more on scent or voice.

But like Merrick Aumutage, some wizards and witches have learned how to counter Traces — and hence, have been able to wipe any remainder of their victim off the grid.

"I was given the case. It was only after I went through his file that I realised he'd stayed at an address that seemed familiar. It took me a couple hours but I remembered seeing it on your file when I hired you."

Still, she glares at his chest, ridiculously un-intimidating in her baby blue striped pajamas.

"So I looked into it." He gives a casual shrug. "Did a little more research, checked your mother's file. It all adds up. He could easily be connected to her. In fact, I'm sure he is."

"We never found a body," she says to his chest, voice wavering.

With another sigh, he reaches out and nudges her chin up with one knuckle. "Look at me."

She does — and he sees what she was trying to hide: the glimmer of a tear.

His chest is suddenly tight.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"You basically told me my mother was murdered. Brutally. How can you be so unfeeling to think I wouldn't be upset?"

He blinks. He hadn't thought of it. He'd thought she'd be relieved. He'd thought she'd want justice.

"I—"

"You can't go in there!" It's Libby's frantic voice, emanating from the corridor outside.

"Don't be ridiculous, Libby. He's my son and I'll do as I wish."