It was Draco's third whiskey of the night and the parchment in front of him had begun to blur.  Seven folders.  Seven witches, or, he supposed, eight if you counted his.  Eight Veela and he couldn't find the answer to the puzzle of why him.  It shouldn't matter that he'd made no progress.  As his father had pointed out the day he'd handed the information over there was no deadline.  No monster stood behind him ready to kill him if he didn't produce quickly enough.