Bad Faith

They were staying in a suite at the Pavillon de la Reine, a luxury hotel Ginny found had a fascinatingly empty beauty. Everything was so tastefully done in period furniture, rich purple draperies and the beams and paneling... The lounge had an imposing fireplace, plush striped chairs, and elegant lamps with black steel necks that shed a golden light. The French Ministry was making an effort, they really were. But why was it that she would have rather been at the mismatched and crooked Burrow?

The minister regarded Ginny closely. The redhead was not happy, he realized. "I know it must be difficult to spend such a joyous time of year away from your loved ones. I apologize profusely. If anything is not to your liking, alert Gabrielle, my assistant and I will take care of it personally."

"Thank you," Ginny said, wondering what could possibly be fixed short of sending her home.

The Minister touched the clasps on the front of his robe, airy filigree creations that sparkled with an unnatural light. "Gabrielle, je voudrais les photographies pour AI24."

Gabrielle laid a plain manila folder on his desk on top of some scattered pink papers. It was very slender. Dupont's eyes held a dead hope in them; something Ginny usually saw when interviewing freed Azkaban prisoners. There was a tired set to his mouth and his shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

"You see," he started, "you have been brought here without being told the full story of why you are here. You were told in very vague terms of a dire emergency in France that had resulted in the death or insanity of 14 wizards and witches, all working in the French Ministry."

"André Bucher, Jules Ceever, Tristan De Lorme, Léon Badeau, Gérard Devereux, Anouk Bernard, Cécile Legrand, Luce Laurent, Margaux Dubois, Monique Dubois, Nathalie David, Nathalie Fontaine, Odette Robert, and Jean-Paul Rousseau," Cho read, looking at a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

"Yes. All of them seemingly unrelated. One the head of Illegal Artifacts, another the head of Magical Cooperation, but most of them having low profile jobs. Margaux Dubois, for example, was a receptionist at the Department of Magical Origins."

"How were they killed?"

Dupont looked troubled. "That's the problem. Usually, when someone uses the Unforgivable Curses or any spell for that matter, they leave magical residue. You can easily identify recently cast magic on anything using a simple spell. When examining the murders, Aurors couldn't find any magical residue on the victims."

"What about Muggle methods of killing?" Ginny asked.

He shook his head. "We went through all the procedures in identifying Muggle causes of death - autopsies, blood tests, examining markings on the body... We came up with nothing. Absolutely nothing. No sign of suffocation, strangling, or even natural causes like aneurysms or stroke." His eyes grew heavy and dark, like black opals, waiting to burst. One hand made a shaking gesture before dropping to his side. "So you see, there is trouble."

He drank some of his wine. Gabrielle lifted her arm, sleeve embroidered with Oriental dragons, and held up a jade colored decanter, filling his glass again.

"How is this related to the British Ministry?" Cho had finished her tea and set the chalice on the armrest, which proved to be a bad move. Her right hand atched her forehead, her elbow knocking the chalice off.

There was a horrified pause as Cho scrambled to catch it, just missing. It broke into three pieces. How delicate it must be to break from so short a fall.

"I'm- I'm so sorry, so sorry," Cho rushed out, dropping to her knees alongside Gabrielle.

One corner of Dupont's mouth twitched. "Do not worry about it, Auror Chang. That is the least of our troubles at the moment. I daresay a quick spell will repair it." Gabrielle, Ginny noted with interest, backed away, hands clasped behind her back.

"Reparo!" The pieces flew back together with an efficient clink. Cho blushed.

"We were saying?"

"The British Ministry," Cho prompted, her ears still pink.

"Ah, yes. As you know, a strong alliance between Britain and France was formed during the Voldemort War. This included sharing intelligence to see if there were any connections in crime that could be put together from underground activities. At the time, this was a given. However, now it is proving doubly useful. One of the Aurors found reason to believe there was British involvement in these deaths."

"Surely, you aren't suggesting-"

"My apologies. Please allow me to rephrase: one of the Aurors found reason to believe there were British criminals involved. Every country must wage battle with these individuals, unfortunately. I do not rest easy at night knowing that my people are capable of committing such acts on their own government."

What else was new?

Dupont motioned towards the folder on his desk. They had almost forgotten about it. "Here, we have all that we know of this case," he said. "You may notice it is a very slender file," he added sorrowfully.

He picked out some crime scene photos, eerily still. He avoided looking at them but passed them into Cho and Ginny's hands. There was a beautiful young woman with curly brown hair, who couldn't have been more than 25 years old. There was also a middle-aged man who reminded Ginny of her father and a young woman with a brightly colored headscarf and bleeding earlobes.

Despite all her experience with the unpleasant issue of death, the photos chilled her. A fierce anger permeated her nose and throat, coming up from her stomach and coursing through her blood like a strong spice.

"The Aurors at the scene also found this." Dupont's wrinkled hand picked up an equally wrinkled piece of paper with some smudged writing on it.

"What does it say?"

"Read it yourself."

Cho took the paper and flattened it out. "Mr. Big," she read, "We expect the next shipment to be in by next month through the usual channels. It is almost complete and testing was successful on all subjects, as requested. Signed, YR."

"Who is Mr. Big?" Ginny's curiosity was steadily rising.

"That's the strangest part," Dupont sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Mr. Big is what the Muggle British police have nicknamed Brian Wright, a man who is thought to own a massive drug empire. They believe he is hiding in Cyprus..."

***

"Where's Hermione?" Molly asks. Ron's eyes are downcast. Harry is leaning against the doorjamb, cigarette between his fingers. Molly hates the smell of cigarette smoke, she hates this new habit of his but she does not say anything. Arthur puffs on his pipe occasionally when Molly is away, the Weasleys guiltily fanning the air and opening windows trying to hide what Molly can sniff out in an instant.

You've been smoking again, she will accuse and every time she is right.

"With her parents, holidaying in America," says Ron, staring at his palms as if he is trying to burn lifelines into his flesh. Harry does not say anything. His eyes are unfocused, thinking about something lovely and faraway.

Molly wishes she knew what it was, Harry is always preoccupied, spending so much of his time in the bathroom Fred and George simply cannot resist constipation jokes. When he comes out, he sparkles for a short while and then like a bundle of extinguished matches, he sinks into his gray moodiness again.

But Ron sneaks looks at him, as if he knows something so horrible it is snapping every fiber to restrain himself. Something is different, something is wrong.

"Why don't you send her an owl?" Molly suggests, gutting the turkey.

"Already did." It is Christmas but the looks on their faces are anything but jolly. Ron is a mechanical toy, wound up too tightly, and Harry has lost interest in everything around him. The reflections in his pupils are flat and gray, his fingertips are stained yellow and stink of chain-smoked Embassies, he wanders around outside in a thin jacket at night and Molly watches his insomnia from her bedroom window, worrying and wondering if he will be Her Harry again.

Molly suspects that she knows what it is.

Harry has left and Ron is still sitting there. His freckles stand in stark contrast to his fair skin. "Mum?" he asks.

Molly wipes her hands off on a paper towel and with efficient stitches she closes the cavity of the turkey. "Yes?"

"Do you think, I mean, would he-" Ron mutters. He sighs, his shoulders nearly breaking away from the effort. "When's dinner going to be ready?"

Shaking the finger she has pricked and blotting the blood on a fresh towel, Molly only hears what she should. "Not for quite a few more hours," she says, performing a Healing Charm.

Ginny barges in breathless. "You won't believe what Bill and Charlie are doing to the gnomes! They're...They're..." lacking words to describe it, she gesticulates wildly. "Come on Ron!" He trudges off, expecting Molly to put an end to the potentially dangerous situation but she merely places the turkey in the oven.

The Celestina Warbeck holiday song "You Bewitch Me" plays between blips of static on the WWN. They play this song every year, a slick, syrupy ballad with a small army of backup singers about Christmas, True Love, and apple cider. Molly snaps it off, retiring to a kitchen chair with Ranch Passions, a romance novel set in Texas. The heroine is a headstrong redhead, the man a successful ranch owner with smoldering blue eyes and a dark past. They have made love twice and fought three times.

The turkey burns because Molly is reading the part where they are tragically torn apart and she fans the blackened skin in despair. They joke about it over dinner and Harry is in a happy mood, he talks and talks like there is no tomorrow. They are all in high spirits and Molly passes around copious amounts of gravy to mask the dry, smoky meat. Gravy makes everything go down easy.

Percy has invited Penelope over for Christmas, much to the delight of the twins who enjoy sharing embarrassing photos and stories, which make Percy's freckles indistinguishable from his skin color.

But they sense there is something more there than a simple mutual like. Bill has a new boyfriend, he seems to chew them up and spit them out at machine gun speed. Bill is smiling so widely when he talks about Noah, it looks like his face will crack.

Ron excuses himself early, saying he will write an owl to Hermione. Probably going to his room to wank off to her picture, Fred suggests and Molly smacks him with a serving spoon. They know it; they can feel it, like they can feel the glow surrounding Percy and Penelope. Molly is always surprised by their inherent sensitivity that is covered up with exploding things and rude jokes.

Harry nibbles at the meal, but he does not eat anything. He is so thin; he has barely eaten anything in the time he has stayed. Penelope is the one who suggested dining by candlelight. The candles are melted down to uneven lengths and placed in a tarnished holder but somehow, it looks unearthly. In the flickers, the hollows and shadows of his face are pronounced.

It is drawing late; the children grow drowsy, all except the perpetually buoyant Matilda. She has just nipped in for a glass of milk for dear Matilda. She needs warm milk to get to sleep every time she stays over.

Ron is lying on the kitchen floor. Ron is lying there, a stain spreading out from his stomach and bleeding onto the white shirt she ironed for the interview. Molly ironed that shirt so studiously like it was the last shirt she was ever to iron, flattening out every last wrinkle and turning the cuffs just so. Ron blushed when she fussed over him too much. He looked so young and adorable when he blushed.

And her eyes see the dagger in Harry's hand. Sirius gave it to him for his seventeenth birthday and Harry loves it more than even his first Firebolt. It shines dully, even in the waning kitchen light. The blood on the blade seems luminous.

A charmed blade, Sirius wrote on the card. Aided in the fall of Grindelwald. Harry loves that blade like his first-born; Albus died early in the year, a heavy clutch at everyone's hearts. Dear Albus, who so unerringly led them through as his health deteriorated and his energy was sapped.

Harry has a dumb look on his face, staring at the dagger in his hand as if trying to put two and two together.

It is quiet. The pile of dishes are stacked high in the sink from Christmas dinner, large silver gravy tureens, huge embossed platters and enormous serving spoons with a coating of food. A cabinet door and two drawers are open. A framed picture of all the Weasleys, grinning brightly and tickling each other. A photo of Matilda and Maurice, both cherubic babies, Molly's spoilt grandchildren, hangs on the wall next to their red and blue handprints. Charlie's wife, Natalie, has another Weasley on the way, Ginny is the eternal bachelorette, and the twins need women with a sense of humor.

Harry's eyes are huge and liquid green behind his glasses. His face is pale, the edges of his lips bloodless. He keeps licking them as if he wants to taste something that isn't there.

His hand has trails of blood running between the knuckles, in slashes across his palm and pooling underneath his bitten fingernails. He has a green cloak on and a sweater she sent him for Christmas. It is bunched up untidily around his elbows.

"Mrs... Mrs... Weasley..." he says. His eyes are full of a fevered desperation, almost dead in how alive it is. He looks down at his hand.

A light snow is falling. The brown grass is powdered in white. It's too warm to be snowing. Too warm.

"Mrs. Weasley..."

Green spots dance in front of Molly's eyes, blurring at the edges. The world is slowly folding in on itself. Her knees... Where is Arthur? Arthur needs to be here. She has lost all control of her body, she isn't sure if she is laughing or crying or choking or screaming. Something is clawing away at her insides. Burn her. Kill her. Consume her.

"Mrs. Weasley!" Harry's voice breaks into a high, wavering treble. He looks so young. "Mrs. Weasley!" There is a horrible whine in his voice. One hand raises up to her elbow as if to touch her. Ron's blood is on that hand.

Harry starts crying, long wet tracks flowing down his cheeks, crying and crying, punctuated with guttural sobs. "Mrs. Weasley... Mrs. Weasley..." He says the name as if it is a red and white buoy cast out to him at sea. "Mrs. Weasley..."

Molly just stumbles out of the back door, so very sure it is a nightmare.

Harry follows her.

And now this. "Mrs. Weasley..." he tries.

Molly raises her head, trying to focus her eyes on him. "This is a dream," she says simply.

Harry is scared to hear her voice. It is robotic, dead. "I didn't! I didn't! I didn't! I didn't..." he chokes out, even though she has not verbally accused him of anything. But they both know, both know only too well. Harry is heaving and sobbing, like he is trying to vomit. Not the first time.

His nose is bleeding. He has had so many nosebleeds since coming to stay with the Weasleys, it is the winter weather, he assures her. He grinds his teeth constantly, Molly notices again, his jaws always clenched in a rigor mortis. She is not surprised he is still awake, he hasn't slept much from the sounds of whispering. Sometimes he wanders the backyards and drinks the store of Christmas rum. He is so lackluster, just a fading portrait of the Harry Molly used to love.

"Get out." There is nothing in her voice but what she means. It is the most truthful thing she will ever say. "Get out. I never want to see you again." Molly forgets this is Harry Potter, forgets he was Ron's best friend and the little boy she fed and fawned over. She forgets everything. She does not know who this young man standing before her is.

From somewhere deep inside, Molly screams. She screams because she wants to break. She screams so every atom and subatomic particle will crack and bleed along with her and tears are burning down her face like acid rain and her heart is about to burst out of her throat and her lungs are going to explode like the red and green Christmas poppers Maurice is so fond of.

Lights snap on upstairs, footsteps creaking down the stairs and the rustle of robes being pulled on and cold feet being shoved into slippers. Percy is the first out and the second to know. Molly turns around and Percy is standing there, moonlight throwing a shadow across his face that elongates his nose.

"Mum," he croaks, his shoulders slumped, "Ron-" and a guttural sound rips through his throat and Molly thinks he is crying, only Percy hasn't cried since he was nine when he cut half of his finger off trying to slice cucumbers. And he snaps into a no-nonsense mode that is usually reserved for her. "Quick, find some towels and I'll get Ginny, she took the Medical Magic course. Dad can probably emergency-summon mediwizards from the Ministry..."

Molly just runs forward and grips Percy so tightly he goes blue. She knows; she knows it will be useless. She knows Ron is gone forever, like she knew when Fred and George were hiding joke shop items in their clothing and knew that Charlie had fallen in love. It is motherly instinct, sometimes a curse and a gift and she wishes not to know , wishes she could still hope that maybe, just maybe, Ron would be hers to cook for and scold and embarrass again.

"What the bloody hell is going on..." Bill stumbles down the stairs.

"Ron," Percy croaks. "He-"

Molly woke up, panting, her nightgown clammy and twisted around her thighs. The blue and yellow quilt was halfway off the bed. Arthur was lying on his side, snoring gently, his ribs rising and falling.

She looked at the little clock on the nightstand but it was too dark to make out. She fumbled around for her wand, knocking off a notepad and bumping into the cracked lamp which wobbled dangerously on its stand.

"Lumos," It was only 4:27. Molly rolled back onto the bed. Arthur could have slept through the Normandy Invasion. She pulled one sleeve across her eyes. The fabric there was worn, even more than the rest of the nightgown. It used to be new, years and years ago...

"Merry Christmas," she whispered to the air. She leaned over and kissed Arthur's bald spot, the one he kept on trying to cover up, and cuddled up to him. He felt warm and dependable, like always. Bill would be arriving at two, Percy and Penelope at four with Maurice and Matilda and Charlie with Angelica, toting baby Elisa. Ginny was stationed in Paris, working on some top secret case for the French Ministry that she seemed to know as little about as Molly.

Soon enough, she would spend all morning and afternoon over the stove. She drifted off into an empty sleep.

* * *

Draco drove along Victoria Street. Unlike Harry who narrowly missed other cars on purpose, Draco's bad driving was completely unintentional. The last time he had handled a car was years ago and while he remembered the basics, he kept lurching forward and then braking quickly, throwing himself back in the seat. He drew a symphony of angry honks.

He had driven a few cars before during an extremely brief stint as a taxi driver and had luckily been sacked before he caused any fatalities. Draco, in general, liked things he could ride and steer like Quidditch brooms. He'd never been brilliant at anything, which had been the brunt of his shame during his Hogwarts days. He'd been good, getting good marks in almost all of his classes with the highest being Potions and Runes, he'd been good at Quidditch (for all of Ron's yelps of buying his way onto the team), he'd been good at being an insufferable git. But he'd always lacked that thing that made people great.

It didn't bother him anymore, partly because the Malfoy name was in the crapper and partly because Lucius was dead. It a way, he was more free than he'd ever been but hard as it was to admit it, sometimes that unbearable pressure was what had made him at least good at something.

He was brought back to the matter at hand by several rude honks from a driver in a red sports car.

Turning left onto Whitehall, he passed by the Clarence Inn and Charing Cross Station. He nearly ran over a male couple before pounding his foot down on the brake pedal (consequently nearly putting his head through the windscreen) and one of them angrily made several suggestive gestures with his hands. Draco, finally finishing the harrowing drive white-knuckled and flushed, ended up in pricey Covent Garden.

Tuttons was at the busy corner of Russell Street and the Piazza with red and yellow umbrellad tables set out on the pavement and giant glass windows that provided a perfect looking glass of goingson in the continuous life of pedestrians, the everyday soap operas of insolent children and necking lovers.

It was a writer's delight, where one could innocuously eat their fettuccine while examining strangers and spinning elaborate stories about their lives. Draco, never the artistic type, was interested in no such thing.

Inside, it was decorated in the same Spanish red and yellow and Draco couldn't help but feel cheered. In the Good Old Days (as he referred to them bitterly) Lucius had taken him out to dinner twice a week during the summer, sometimes to Rollman's when he was feeling daring or to the Grisseldorf, which, despite its name, was a laughably proper English restaurant that served tea at 4 o'clock sharp and employed a cook who would take great offense if anyone requested a dish that was remotely exotic.

Narcissa would order a salad, never Caesar, always some sort of runny speckled vinaigrette drizzled on top of dark, strangely shaped leaves. And she always ate exactly half of it, drawing a near perfect line down the center of the plate to separate the half she would eat from the half that she would not, her claret lips never touching her fork.

He didn't like to think of Narcissa.

"Are you ready to order?" A chubby waitress holding a white pad and a pencil was standing in front of him. He scanned the menu, which was the definition of "moderately priced international fare". He wondered why Harry had suggested it, he seemed to live both the black and white stereotypes of the social classes without stopping in between.

"A cup of coffee and the baked cod."

"How do you like your coffee?"

"Black, with two sugars."

She scribbled it down on her notepad and left.

He wished he had ordered something Thai immediately after. He'd never had the opportunity to try it as Lucius had had a prejudice against the far East, citing some ancient war or the other. He looked around carefully out of habit and involuntarily made mental notes. Red sweater man with curly hair, Asian family of four, two blondes in blue raincoats.

A little folded stand on the table listed different types of drinks illustrated with grainy photographs. He touched the petals of the red and yellow carnations standing upright in the tall glass vase. They were real.

The waitress carried over his coffee. "Here you go," she proclaimed, more dropping it in front of him than setting it down. The coffee rocked dangerously close to the lip of the yellow mug. "Be careful, it's hot."

Draco's left hand shot out to steady it.

"The food will be ready soon. If you need anything, just call me over."

Draco nodded. He blew on the surface of coffee, little brown ripples spreading out like agitated pond water. He took a sip, it wasn't bad at all. When was the last time I was in a proper restaurant? He mulled over the complexity of his current position. Harry-bloody-Potter had rescued him, sort of. Did he want to be saved by Satan?

The baked cod wasn't half-bad, if too dry. He felt very conspicuous and lonely, seeing everyone else traveling in groups or the brave people in pairs. It was, as the American papers had dubbed it, Bloody Bloody Britain. The foreign travelers were foolish and intrepid types these days, who didn't worry about becoming another listed casualty read about by a Brighton commuter on the tube. Londoners were jaded now. The disaster footage on the telly seemed almost essential to the news.

He presses the flat of his fingers and palms together and rests his chin on his thumbs. He breathes in from his nose, sucking out the warm air from between that tiny space where his fingers don't quite meet, sending little tingles down his thighs. He breathes out, filling it with warm breath again.

It almost looks as if he is praying - except Draco Malfoy doesn't believe in God, never will believe in God. It's hard to believe in God when your parents are Death Eaters and you want to become one too, the way little boys want to be firefighters and policeman and little girls want to be ballerinas and singers.

God, if he does exist, is one twisted motherfucker, Draco thinks.

There was just a brown ring and film in the bottom of his cup. He thought of ordering another, debated, then decided not to. The waitress showed up again, throwing down a platter of baked cod, garnished with a lemon slice and a spray of cilantro.

Draco takes a bite. "My compliments to the chef," he says, deadpan.

"I'll be sure to tell him."

He almost ate the lemon garnish before spitting it out. His mouth was acid sour and filled up with saliva. He fingered the petals of the red and yellow carnations, spinning the stems around in their vase. The waitress was drawing near again, wringing her hands.

He was automatically struck by the blind fear in her eyes. He acknowledged her with a quick tip of his chin. He would wait for her to say something and then he'd order another coffee.

"Sir- sir- you need to uh- meet the, uh, manager outside in the car park..." She trailed off with a miserable look on her face, flattening out the front of her blouse in nervous motions.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What's this about?"

"Uh, you see, the manager needs to see you."

"About what?" he snapped, wishing she'd get on with it.

"Um, I'm not, well, it's about the uh, your car."

"What about my car?" Draco prayed Harry hadn't done anything Really Damning to the Mercedes that might lead to a night in the slammer.

"It's, uh, parked in the wrong space."

"Really? You sound awfully unsure. Why would the manager need to see me about a parking space?"

"Um, please, just meet them, I mean him, outside about the uh, parking space."

The girl looked like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her ankles rocked in and out and she was methodically wrinkling the lower half of one shirtsleeve. Draco got up. He didn't really want to finish his cod all that much anyway.

"Out in the car park?" he said suspiciously.

The waitress nodded. "Be careful," she blurted.

"Why? Will he attempt to molest me in the backseat?"

Oddly, she did not smile or even look disgusted. "He's, uh, not a nice person," she finished lamely.

"Thanks for the warning."

He walked out the door, immediately slapped across the face with a belt of winter wind. His hip caught on one of the chairs placed outside (it was winter and they still had the tables out?) He rubbed it furiously. His brand new trainers felt like wood on his feet. Everything he was wearing was brand new and paid for courtesy of Harry Potter with the exception of his jacket.

Two men were standing in front of the Mercedes, one in pressed khakis and a blue polo, the other in jeans and an ill fitting windbreaker. They could have been anybody.

An alarm went off in his mind. Two managers?

He approached them warily, giving them a wide berth and stopping six feet away. They didn't look like Draco's mental image of a manager. Parking space? Bollocks.

"So, boys, what is this about the parking space?"

He was suddenly aware of two semi automatics pointed at him, not unlike the one in Harry's glove compartment.

"Damn."

"You could say that, Malfoy. Don't even try moving."

"What'd you do to the waitress?"

"Threatened her with the same thing we're about to do to you. Blow your brains out."

"It does appear that way, doesn't it?" Stall, stall, think up Brilliant Plan because the arsehole here doesn't have a wand... Their hands did not waver.

"Does Finnagin pay you well?"

"Good enough."

"I was told I suck cock very well. How about we do a trade? Sexual favors in return for my life." Draco said, feeling desperate. The images in front of him swam.

"Give it up. We've got you this time and you can't work any funny stuff either."

"How do you know? I was just about turn Mr. Blue Polo here into a fire hydrant and you, I think, would make a nice dog. You could just lift a leg and piss on your friend here."

The one in the windbreaker laughed grimly. Deep wrinkles showed up on his cheeks, he looked like one of the men in a Van Gogh painting. "Oh no you don't. You can't."

His lungs felt tight and he found it hard to draw in air. Oh what a fucking convenient time to develop asthma. He reminded himself to quit smoking if he ever came out of this alive. At the moment, it looked like he would never have the chance to suffer withdrawal or wear those patches on his skin.

"I could."

"You need a wand. You don't have one."

Fuck. How could they have known that? His scalp itched, his arm itched, his leg itched, his crotch itched. Second rate underwear. And with any luck, he would be allergic to silk as well.

"I have a wand."

Another chuckle. "You don't."

Draco's temples felt like they were going to explode like a stopped up pressure cooker. He felt hot and panicky, so intense he was going to combust and kill himself before they could kill him. That was the idea anyway. His hands balled up so tight he could feel his nails working caverns into the flesh of his palms.

And suddenly, the Mercedes' doors popped open, hitting the car next to it and Draco was inside. He could hear shouts of confusion behind him and he slammed the door shut, twisting the key in the ignition with his other hand. The car engine roared to life, he pushed the parking brake and his mind went blank.

"Oh shit," he moaned, trying to regain his senses. Brake, brake, then he yanked the gearshift to reverse and hit the gas pedal. The car zoomed back with a truly alarming speed and he saw the two men running out of the way, Draco's hands gripping the steering wheel, tires squealing. His heart was hammering away against his chest and he was breathing shallowly and with a very audible bump he hit another car.

Bullets whizzed by where he had been only a half second before. Draco braked furiously and was nearly thrown out of his seat. He was temporarily stunned again, he pushed the gear shift forward into drive and pressed the gas.

Two bullets broke the windscreen and Draco was sorry to say he screamed. His foot slammed down on the gas pedal as if he was trying to break it, his hands frantically turning the steering wheel in what he hoped was the right direction. It was.

Draco had no time to savor his miraculous getaway or to question the wandless magic, which he had assumed was Pretty Damn Impossible. Nearly crashing into Tuttons and mowing over the tables, he sped away, car swerving wildly. Drops of blood from his forehead were staining his hands like a Pollock creation.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

***

"Muggle involved in this? But- but- that's a full breach of Clause 73 of the ICW..."

Dupont looked amused. "Yes, it would be. But at the moment Clause 73 is the least of our worries. We must put it in perspective."

"Yes, yes, of course," Cho said quickly. She had always been the legal nitpicker. Ginny suspected she slept with a leather bound edition of the ICW under her pillow at night and memorized it, footnotes and all. "What else do you know about Brian Wright?"

One corner of Dupont's mouth moved in what could have been a smile. "The Muggle police... They have enough on him to use up several rainforests. He is wanted in most European countries, including France, for an impressive list of crimes. Drug trafficking, first degree murder, arson... He specializes in cocaine smuggling but also dabbles in the Muggle club drugs scene. He owns more firearms than the German and French military combined." He stopped for a moment, his tongue heavy. "The police describe him as ruthless, violent, and extremely intelligent. And that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"He's wanted for murder?" Ginny asked.

"He appears to be connected to the murders of members of his own networks - people who embezzled funds, those who went to the police with information as well as those who were investigating him. Mixed in is the death of pedestrians and guards who were standing in his way."

"Why would he be involved with the magical community?" Cho stared at the picture of Monique Dubois in her hands, as if willing her to move.

"We don't know. We can speculate it may have to do with drugs, but we have no concrete evidence to support this. The note simply says 'shipment', whether it be cocaine or porn..." Cho rubbed her eyes and took another sip of her drink. "Are you familiar with the workings of cocaine?"

Ginny wracked her brain. "We had a few 'Just Say No' pamphlets at school, ridiculous really, all the students just used them to make paper aeroplanes. They never went into huge detail."

"It is unfortunate that many wizards underestimate drugs. I believe that they are every inch as dangerous as Class A Non-Tradeable Goods but the wizarding world continues to ignore them as a plight of weak Muggles. Even the strongest wizard can fall prey to them." Ginny noted there was an edge of bitterness in his voice.

"Do you have personal experience with them?" Ginny asked, curious.

"Yes." There was something fiercely angry and regretful in his voice, like a horrible realization of hindsight, directed at nothing in particular. Ginny let it drop.

Dupont continued. "We've already sent an elite squad of Aurors to investigate in Cyprus. There are wanted posters hung up in every coffee shop and telephone pole there. Even using magic, they couldn't locate him, which for a mere Muggle is fairly impossible. Jacques, who led the search, combed over every last square inch of Cyprus but they turned up no more than the Muggle police."

"Does he have the help of wizards?" Brian Wright was like the ultimate villain, almost god-like in power, it seemed. He reminded Ginny uncomfortably of Voldemort.

"We suspected as much. Since we already believe he somehow was behind the deaths at the Ministry, it would make sense."

Even with the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, the story struck a familiar chord. The disappearance, the long line of deaths, the ardent network of followers. "Death Eaters?" Ginny asked without thinking.

Dupont was silent, the patient tick, tick of the clock magnified. "Perhaps," he finally replied, looking more exhausted than ever. "Perhaps."

"But all Death Eaters were captured and imprisoned in Norselles," Cho protested, "after the war, there were mass trials and an enormous team of Aurors, over 120 I believe, rooted out anybody associated with the Dark Lord."

"And it was an excellent effort. They not only captured Death Eaters, they ruined the lives of everybody connected to them. Wives, husbands, children, lovers, employers, employees. They left a ocean of ruined lives in their wake."

"But if they hadn't half of the world's population would have been completely obliterated!" There was an indignant look on Cho's face.

"I wasn't criticizing their method, Auror Chang, I apologize for the misunderstanding. I meant simply that it's not an impossibility for relatives, still bitter over having their properties seized and reputations disgraced, to feel that they need to put those who hurt them in their place."

"But why us?" Ginny broke in. "Why do you need us, how would we help?"

"Ah, Auror Weasley, an excellent question," Dupont laced his fingers together. "France, save for the second Voldemort War, has been an exceptionally peaceful country. All troubles and disagreements here, for the most part, have been suppressed quickly. Crime is at an all time low, the law keepers are growing lazy from lack of work. We employ some of the most bored Aurors in the Western hemisphere. And, sadly, almost all of the Aurors we sent to participate in the second Voldemort War never returned alive or are retired. Britain on the other hand..."

"Has not been particularly peaceful," Cho supplied, almost amused at the grim contrast. Her lips held a bleak smile.

"I took the liberty of looking through your records. You have both been key figures in handling the Manticore Uprising of 2006 and the Brighton Massacres that would have certainly led to another war had it not been for your efforts."

Ginny wasn't sure how to receive the compliment. She still had an ugly scar on her back, so deep even magic had trouble covering it up.

"So, this is what you need to do in your stay here," he said, his eyes boring holes in them, "In the 13^th Arrondissement, we have heavy suspicion that is where much of the criminal activity happens. Pose as Muggle criminals or whatever guise you must use. Pretend to be interested in cashing in, and capture as many people as you can for questioning. You may use any methods possible for achieving these ends."

That's all? Dupont read the expressions on their faces. "I dearly wish I could give you more detailed instructions but this is as much as a mystery to us as it is to you. It has been attempted numerous times before, none of them successful. While we believe it is in the 13^th Arrondissement, we may be wrong as it has not actually been located. It is more than likely to be protected by a variety of obstacles, both magical and Muggle."

"No pressure," Cho whispered under her breath.

Dupont granted them a wry half-smile. "Bonne chance. You will need it."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Much pain went into this chapter. Who knew the second chapter was going to be so difficult? Does it get any easier? Not to mention a slew of self doubts yammering away... "You can't do this! It's a horrible idea! You'll get flamed to high hell!"

Tutton's exists the way it is to the best of my knowledge, plucked from between the pages of Frommer's Travel Guide to England. The car scene may not be entirely correct, I crash coursed myself on how to put a car into reverse. This may only apply to a certain Dodge Intrepid, however, so I wouldn't know. The back-story is mainly experimentation in style. The cocaine will appear in the next chapter, promised, as I have already started writing it. I have an almost scary knowledge now, who knew such things were on the internet? :P

Love to: Kate (supreme beta), Alec (Britpicking), and Ursula (alcohol beta), who is the one that is going to be responsible for all drink choices in the future so Draco no longer suffers through drinking decidedly Unmanly Alcohol. And to Aja, for reccing my fic on her Livejournal, words cannot express how blown away I was. And to Kokopoko who apparently dreamed about my fic... all sorts of amazing things have happened to me since the first chapter came out. And hugs and kisses to everybody who reviewed, detailed responses are on the review boards where you posted them. Go check them out if you haven't already. ;)