Bad Faith

Bad Faith

Chapter Three: Pay in Cash, No Questions Asked

Draco wasn't sure how he found his way back to Harry's flat. And like so many things, he did not bother questioning it. After receiving a few funny looks from a conspicuously unwashed fellow, he hurried back as fast as his injuries allowed. He was too shaken to pay mind to the pain until he knocked.

His face hurt like hell.

When he placed one hand to his forehead, his fingers came away red and wet. Some glass fragments had probably got embedded in his skin, he thought. But he welcomed the physical aspect of the pain, the way it pressed and pounded like a rotten tooth. He didn't want to wake Harry up if he was sleeping, but he doubted that; Harry was more a nocturnal type.

"Who's it?" Harry's voice, sounding very pissed off.

"Draco." The smelly git you picked off the street a few days ago who drank all your scotch, he was tempted to answer.

The door opened. Harry was flushed and tousled and from the looks of the half knotted bathrobe, he was probably naked underneath. Draco wondered if he had been taking a bath, or if he was if one of the strut-around-in-the-nude types. Either way, he was presented with some interesting images.

"What're you doing home so early?" He squinted and Draco realized he didn't have his bloody sunglasses on for once. "Is there something on your forehead?"

"I'm bleeding. Long story."

Harry made a vague motion toward the inside. "Come in."

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Harry sighed, pouring himself a brandy. "Post coital. She just left. I pay them to leave, not to stick around, after all." He sounded almost bitter, knocking back most of the glass in one gulp. Draco was impressed.

"A hooker?" Draco said and winced as a fresh burst of pain wrapped itself around his skull, squeezing unbearably around the temples. "Do you have any bandages?"

"In the bathroom. Help yourself. If it still hurts, I have something that might help."

Locating the bathroom wasn't too difficult, though he nearly ran into the wall twice. The bathroom was a large one with marble sinks, silver taps and racks of monogrammed towels. The wallpaper was a fabric-like shell pattern that was curling away at the edges from moisture, revealing the yellowed paste underneath. A set of double mirrors pulled open to show the medicine cabinet and Draco found a roll of bandages, placed next to the blue-capped bottle of Valium. He was tempted to take one to take the edge off.

Dabbing some wet tissue on his cuts in a weak attempt to clean off the blood, he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming, located the glass fragments and pulled them out, hard bloodied bits. The floor flickered white, and then black and he gripped the sink to keep from falling.

"All right?" Harry asked, sounding surly, when he came out.

"More or less. Still hurts a bit." A lot. "What's that thing you said could help..."

Squinting again, Harry fumbled on the table next to him and slid his sunglasses on. "On the counter," he said, sounding oddly disconnected, tasting something. "One or two lines should do it."

"Coke?"

"No. Pepsi, fuckwit. Of course it's coke."

The thought had an odd effect on him, an onslaught of memories so old they were more dreams than past realities. Back when school had been drawing to a close and he had done some heavy experimenting, hell, he'd done more than experiment... Harry had too, he remembered, both keeping their mouths shut unless they wanted to be expelled. They had first taken his money, so much money that had always been there for him, gone...He'd gone to Harry when he couldn't bear it any longer, but Harry by then had not been much better off than Draco. Help me, he'd said. And Harry had laughed at first, after all, was he really expected to help his enemy?

He took the drinking straw in one hand, hesitating for the briefest second, pressing one nostril closed, clenching his teeth, careful not to breathe on the powder...

His nose burned momentarily, as always, and then came the numbness, spreading to the roof of his mouth like expertly administered Novocain. He could no longer feel four of his top teeth, the foul drip, drip from his nasal cavity down his throat an acid reminder of the past.

The only way he could have described it was as a waking dream; everything was crisp, heightened, every thought brilliant in its entirety, energized, his brain sliding across a cocaine space, grasping every inflection, every theory, a clarity of thought. The strained fatigue of his rigid, controlled driving was gone, the high enveloping him in a twenty-minute heaven.

"Nice, isn't it?" Harry said distractedly, gazing at the ice cubes in his newly poured bourbon. He seemed to be sampling his own collection, an army of full and half filled bottles with a wooden rack of wine standing next to it. Narcissa had been very fond of wine; Malfoy Mansion had had an extensive wine cellar filled with Bordeaux, Cabernet Sauvignon, and vintage wines, including one that was supposedly from Salazar Slytherin's own collection. Wizarding wine had a notoriously high alcohol content and was often supplemented with charms. Draco had once passed out and woken up levitated above the flower gardens after a sneaked drink from his father's bottle.

"It's amazing," he managed to say. "Fucking amazing."

On the glass topped table lay a stack of blue cigarette packages with the heavy, coarse tobacco of Spanish cigarettes. A superfine coating of dust lay on the glass, disrupted by wet shot glass rings and melting ice cubes. Harry held a tissue to his nose, blood seeping out.

Draco ran his fingers over the fake moss filled urns set on another table, feeling the texture with a doubled tactile sense. The delicious slide of the leather couch, the rapid beat of his heart sounding off, the familiar old urge to babble, and the warmth shared with most of the human race.

He could see a spark of interest in Harry's eyes, an attentive hunch of his shoulders, a pregnant pause he imagined.

"I had a bloody horrible time driving to Tuttons," he started. "Nearly ran over half the population. Really large glass windows, the waitress was nice but was acting strange after I finished my coffee; their coffee isn't bad either. I was going to order another one when she told me about the Mercedes and the manager waiting for me out in the car park..."

* * *

Hermione had dressed very slowly that morning, the morning after she had received the owl from the Ministry.

...It has come to the Ministry's attention that you indulged in illegal and dangerous activities on the night of December 25^th. The Ministry does not tolerate embezzlement and misuse of potentially harmful magical artifacts in any way. Not only have you violated the contract signed...

Niall had chosen a wonderful day for a fight, a fucking brilliant day for a fight.

"It was Christmas, our third date, and I asked you why you looked so sad. And you told me about how your best friend had died that day on Christmas."

"What does that that have to do with anything?" She had the deer-in-the-headlights expression, her eyes fiercely angry in their defiance.

"He was more than your best friend, wasn't he."

Niall was always right.

"Fuck you," she snapped.

"I'm right, aren't I?" he prodded gently.

"What would you know? I didn't even know you back then. It's ancient history."

"Can't we talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"It's bothering you." With Hermione, the trick was to make sure she didn't explode like a popped balloon, but to let her deflate quietly. "I'm just concern-"

"Well, bloody don't be! It doesn't have anything to do with you!"

"It has everything to do with us!" He could feel the flush rising up his face. "Look, darling, let's not fight..."

"Then why did you bring it up?"

"I was just concerned."

"You don't have to be concerned for me."

Niall bit the inside of his cheek as hard he could. It was scarred there, knots and tendons of healed skin lining the flesh, the quick sting, the taste, the metallic spread. He tried to count them but the fights were all blurred together, like a building without walls, no beginning or end to them. A soap opera, love, hate, tragedy.

* * *

The barman was a slick young Asian, in a white shirt and black tie. His sleeves were rolled up and he held a toothpick between his lips that vibrated as he hummed. The crowd was mostly high-octane businessmen and off duty lawyers, all determined to put work behind them. They were doing quite a good job of it, too, Harry noted.

Two young women sat next to him on the red leather barstools, drinking cocktails and talking with the urgent efficiency of gossip. One had her back turned to him, a sheet of iron flat black hair falling across her bare shoulders.

Hung up on the ceiling were red paper lanterns with Chinese characters on them and Oriental prints of white-faced women in flowing silk garb. A screen embroidered with the long, sinuous bodies of dragons partitioned off a private room. The place was part bar, part restaurant, a trendy little find that had sprung up where the former store had been burned out. Waitresses in high collared cheongsams, slits up to the thigh, served platters of overpriced dim sum and dishes of soy sauce. A bull would have gone insane in here, the red infused in every fixture was overpowering. The Chinese didn't take any chances with their luck, he supposed.

Harry ordered a scotch; the barman grabbed a glass and poured it out of an almost empty bottle. Harry ran his fingers over the dark red wood of the bar top, freshly wiped. There was a sudden burst of laughter to his left. "He said that?" The shoulders shook and slender fingers stubbed out a cigarette on the countertop. It lay there, sighing smoke. "What a pillock, actually thinks you would..." at the thought, she broke into more giggles. The ice cubes sat in the bottom of his glass; staring at them, he tried to read them like tealeaves.

The sunglasses were falling down, resting halfway down the bridge of his nose. He pushed them up hurriedly, trying to relax and soak in the meaningless hum of chatter around him. Patchouli incense burned in a terra cotta holder set on the ledge, thin spirals of smoke rising and perfuming the air.

Harry scrutinized a man who had sat down in the seat next to him and saw his fingertips pressed white on the wood. He ordered another scotch, drinking most of it immediately. Dark hair, forgettable features, a face so easy to lose in the crowd he would have had trouble picking him out with a photograph in hand.

Harry watched the barman serve a few Oxford types in tapered trousers; they were animatedly discussing something, probably something boring. A waitress breezed past him leaving a cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

"Scotch, isn't it?" the man next to him said, a Ramrod Special in front of him.

He looked round, startled. "Hmm?"

"Your drink."

Harry looked down and his mind went blank for a moment. Odd. "Yes."

"What's your name?"

He drew on a long list. "James. James Porter," he said smoothly.

The man smiled, his thin lips spreading across his teeth. "I had a nephew by the name of Porter, all grown up now."

"That's nice." Harry took another drink, crushing the ice between his teeth. It felt good.

"Don't you know me?"

Harry looked at him again, wondering if it was a trick question. "No," he said finally, "should I?"

A hand was extended to him, dry and callused. "I'm Brian Wright. And you are Harry Potter."

* * *

"Black or gray?" Cho held up two men's jackets, the kind that could be picked up for twenty percent off in any department store. Pulling on a pair of thick wool socks that Molly had forced her to bring, Ginny didn't raise her eyes.

"Black," she said absently.

"You didn't even look."

"Does it matter?"

Cho pulled on the black coat. "No," she said, now wrapping a long scarf around her neck. "No, I suppose not."

The holster refused to fasten; it had either shrunk or she had put on weight. Ginny suspected it was the latter. She shoved in the wand and a small automatic pistol. Another wand was hidden in her boot and a new invention literally up her sleeves. Curse Cards. The latest the development team had come up with, right after their idea of carrying around Muggle weapons. "In case they take your wands," one explained, his voice so eager it was painful. "Migh' be useful, see, they won't expect it..." The Curse Cards, he explained, were voice summoned and could be thrown in defense.

They cast glamour charms. Cho looked like an aging actress this time, with an oddly beautiful bone structure beneath wrinkled skin. Her eyes still held an Asian slant but they were a lighter shade of brown.

"Been watching old movies again?" The effects of the glamour charm were mostly set in the subconscious and highly unpredictable.

"Just bought another glossy coffee table book on the Golden Age of Hollywood, saw it in the bookshop and I couldn't resist."

"We'll have to wean you off them when-" Ginny almost said when we get home. She wouldn't jinx them, she wouldn't.

Too preoccupied with her own holster to notice, Cho held the Muggle weapon in her hands with a bemused expression. "I never got the point of these," she said, turning it around in her hands, "Wands are so much more useful. You don't run out of bullets."

"Tell that to the development team. I swear, I want to wring Smithson's neck, he comes up with the most ridiculous things."

They took the plush carpeted lift to the rez-de-chaussée, selecting from a dizzying array of buttons. The hotel was in a state of suspended animation, the maids loitering round, chatting and half-heartedly folding sheets, receptionists reading thick novels, not a guest to be seen. The bracing winter burned their lungs when they stepped outside; late December was hitting record lows in Paris, with single digit and sub zero temperatures brought in by a bizarre weather system that was wrapping itself around Europe, east to west.

They were searching for a deserted alleyway to Apparate from when an old woman, and dressed in little better than a sack, and with her head wrapped in filthy rags, came rushing towards them, feverishly trying to convey something.

"Mesdames! Aidez-moi! Ayez de la pitié!" A passerby glanced over with bored interest, assessing the sight as another everyday occurrence.

.

Ginny looked at Cho. "What is she saying?" Cho shrugged, trying to calm the woman in hysterics.

"Morts! Morts! Une femme et un homme!" she shrieked, grasping Ginny's arms with a chilling intensity, her fingers violet and corpse cold. "Regardez!"

A teenage boy in a dark gray coat, leaned up against a brick wall, his hair slicked back with grease, stared at the scene with amusement. He leaned in over something, his blue eyes meeting the gaze of none that looked at him. Exhaling, his mouth opened. "A crazy woman, mees..." His voice held a heavy French slur, one corner of his mouth twitching.

"Help us?" Ginny asked the boy. "What is she saying?" She silently cursed herself for not taking French in Hogwarts. The woman had sunk to the pavement in a grubby heap.

"Morts, morts, froids comme glace..." she murmured, rocking back and forth, hugging her knees like a child. Her ankles were naked and blue, laid out for the arctic air to claim. "Morts... morts..."

"Eet's not important." He smiled at them, more a grimace, and sunk deeper into his jacket. "Happens everyday."

"What is she saying?" She felt herself lunging out at him, her hands ready to pound some sense into his head. Cho gently held her back.

"We need to start," she reminded. "It's not going to get any warmer."

The boy said something to the woman in low, rapid French. He laughed, a short bark that set a stream of breath in the air. "Follow 'er, she will lead you."

"All right," Cho said reluctantly, "Can't be gone too long, remember."

The woman stood up with great difficulty. While not a mediwitch, Ginny knew the woman out in this cold was probably suffering from hypothermia and would lie down to sleep one night, one more cold night, and never wake up. They followed her down an alleyway, faded posters peeling off and snapping in the brisk wind, down a narrow street where tracks of ice had been created before the water reached the sewers. Stopping in front of a cluster of dustbins, the woman shivered. "Regardez."

A man and a woman, the former in a handsomely tailored suit and the latter in a jewel encrusted party dress, a black crochet shawl wrapped around her white limbs. A few people had gathered around them, chatting amiably as if they were at a theater function during intermission. The old woman seemed to be the only one bothered by the sight; a policeman wrapped in a heavy leather jacket, blue and yellow emblems sewn on the pockets, chatted with a few of the others, making no move to identify or move the bodies.

Cho knelt down and took off one glove, placing two fingers on the man's neck. "Gone," she said dully, "Cold as ice." They were both huddled in each other's arms, eyes closed. The heavy crimson on the woman's lips stood out like blood spatters on white paper. One false eyelash had fallen off, giving her face an oddly lopsided appearance.

A girl standing nearby leaned over, snatched the shawl from the dead woman's shoulders and put it around her own. Another girl stroked the black wool enviously, running the silky fringe between her blue tinged fingers, watching with a possessive glint beneath her painted eyelids, a streetwalker's swagger in her unformed hips. "Jolie," she commented, eyeing the jeweled clips in the woman's hair. They reminded Ginny of vultures circling a carcass guarded by lions, swooping in, occasionally mustering the courage to taste.

Retreating from the scene, Cho had averted her eyes. "Come on, let's go..." Her fingers played with the collar of her jacket and the zipper, and she wasn't quite looking at anything. Shoving her hand in her pocket, Ginny pulled out a few notes and put them in the old woman's hands; she noticed arthritis had crippled the fingers into grotesque shapes. One note fluttered to the ground, a paper butterfly.

"Take them... buy food..."

They trudged along the street, lined with barbershops, well displayed convenience stores, and the occasional bakery. "There was something wrong about that," Cho burst. "Peaceful, my arse, this place is some sort of- of-" she stilled.

""Would Dupont lie about it? D'you think he's covering something up?"

"Covering up? I bet..." Cho said darkly. "Dead people in the streets, the police just standing around..."

An Art Nouveau styled underground entrance with a yellow "M" was only about twenty feet away. "Why don't we take the Metro?" Ginny suggested, pointing.

"Why? We can just Apparate." Cho had a look on her face as if Ginny had just declared she wanted to nail herself in a barrel and ship it to Greenland.

"You're right. Don't know what got into me there." With a discreet flick of her wand, Ginny recast the Heating Charms around both of them.

And in two small pops, both of them disappeared.

* * *

The high had worn off, the second one actually. Shitty was the only word that could describe how he felt.

Uncorking a bottle of wine, he poured himself a glass and swirled it around, fingers cupping the base. He smelled it first, then took a sip, letting it roll over his tongue, swallowing. Narcissa had taught him the proper way to taste wine back at her parties with lacquered society women who drank too much and talked too much, their layers slowly peeling away with every sip. Draco had watched from behind his raised glass, seeing the defenses crumbling.

The last lines of coke were gone, the remaining residue numbing the gums underneath his upper lip where he had put it. A rush of memory, a quick dream, almost fully realized, then passing, a glimpse into utopia that was then snatched from him, tasting it, touching it, never quite possessing it.

And he still remembered the drugged stupor of his last year at Hogwarts, too numb, too high to work, too proud to beg, for a while at least.

Cocaine to Draco was an exhilarating freefall, diving from the sky, the ground rushing up beneath him and swallowing him afterwards, a directly proportional low. The pain in his forehead had waned to a dull throb, the badly wrapped bandages slowly unraveling.

Harry, curiously enough, had not reacted badly to the news about the Mercedes. "I know an East End repair shop, pay in cash, no questions asked," was all he said before leaving for some dinner function. Draco was scared, or as close to it as he'd ever been. He was never scared; being scared was not something his body was capable of. Run, his mind said. Run like the fucking wind.

He'd been sleeping in the guest room for the past few days, not much different from staying in a sterilized hotel except there was no room service, just frozen waffles and avocado dip coupled with instant coffee. There was something about the place he could barely put his finger on until he came up with an absurd idea.

The flat didn't look like Harry lived in it. The rooms had been decorated in what could be department store displays, matching coverlets and pillows and framed pressed leaves that seemed more TV decorating show than Harry Potter. The bookshelves had meaningless, dry titles, only the obligatory set of Shakespeare and Dickens, a dictionary still in its shrink wrap covering, a few soft porn magazines strewn on top.

No photographs, knick-knacks, crusty seashells from the beach, cheap trinkets or certificates. Nothing broken, nothing out of place, nothing spilled, nothing remembered, the detached splendor of jewelry in a glass box, beautiful but without any warmth.

Transfixed by this thought, Draco searched through the rooms. He felt a passing guilt but had long learned how to suppress it. Guilt was a luxury that few who wanted to survive accepted. Harry wouldn't mind, he reasoned. Harry wouldn't even know, he didn't have to.

Logically starting in Harry's room, he found it furnished only with a bed and varnished chest filled with socks and underwear. The wardrobe held suits and slacks, all in perfect condition, all like skins waiting for an owner.

An empty lighter lay on the nightstand, a rubbish bin stood next to it containing nothing more than a few wadded up tissues, cartons, and last week's paper. "When Will it End?" read the headline, above a picture of a woman cradling a dead baby in her arms, a looming ash skeleton of a building set behind her. "Morton promises new measures, plan deemed too weak by many," was printed beneath the tall, bold words. Draco almost smiled.

He went into Harry's study, where a messy sprawl of paper covered the desk. Jackpot. But it was nothing more than hastily dashed off memos that meant absolutely nothing to him, nonsensical messages in Harry's spiky handwriting. Pulling out the drawer, Draco froze.

The gun in the glove compartment was not the only one Harry owned.

And a wand, like a passing curiosity. Draco's wand, actually. He snatched it up indignantly, wondering why Harry hadn't given it back to him. It was odd; wands to him were in the league of antique curios and relics from a bygone era. The other wands, he guessed, had been picked up from the wizarding black market, more sinister than Knockturn Alley and operated by corrupt businessman.

He placed his fingers on the wand. Almost lost you there, mate. Twice. When the Ministry had come for him, he had had a mountain of legal barriers and paperwork waiting. He had burned all the dark arts items under the drawing room and Obliviated every last house elf. They hadn't taken his wand; he'd managed that much.

He shoved it in his pocket, then put it back in the desk.

A search of the other rooms turned up nothing more than blank notebooks, not even a receipt was to be found in the maddening neatness. A stack of old newspapers, the crosswords half filled in and a brown ring of coffee on the front page, lay on the table.

"Charing Cross Bombed, 15 Dead," it read, a close up shot of a dying face, grim, sooty firemen pulling through rubble. It was an odd contrast, half of the station in perfect condition, the other half leveled.

He flipped through, skipping the disaster pictures, an almost casual death reflected in them taken by an impassive photographer. He skimmed an article on a lawsuit against Internet porn, another on the new crop of gay actors, and the continued box office failure of war epics. As he refolded the paper and placed it on top of the pile, a small title caught his eye.

Exclusive Report on Britain's Crime Kings, it read, and Draco wondered if Finnigan had been included. Certainly the Adams family, they always made the top list of any article he read. He picked up the newspaper, shook it open and started to read.

It was concise and deadly in its accuracy, so much so that it made Draco squirm as if the reporter was routing him out. Finnigan received a small nod, the Adams family a paragraph, but the author was obviously most excited over the fresh blood spilt by Brian Wright.

Brian Wright, 34, the man suspected to be behind some of the most brutal massacres in Britain's history, including the Brighton Bombings, and known to run a number of illegal gambling rings, money laundering operations, extortion, and a multi billion euro bootlegging racket. Most infamous for the 2008 seizure of five tons of Colombian cocaine with a street value of €170m, Wright was put on trial only to have charges dropped three months later due to lack of evidence. Arrested again last year by British police for triple homicide, he made a high profile escape from maximum security Shotts prison in Lanarkshire, Scotland and has eluded the police in an ongoing search. He was last seen in Cyprus.

Beneath the article was a small, grainy photograph, half the face covered in shadow. It could have been anybody, but Draco detected an ease of mind on the lips, a casual lean of the shoulders. Not an easily intimidated man.

He read the article again, recalling the chaos of the Brighton Bombings. Draco had been in Sussex at that time, smoking hashish in a tiny, rented cottage paid for with his informant funds. At fifty Euros a day, it was a steal; as long as he didn't bother the neighbors and cleared the rooms of any suspicious paraphernalia, no one gave a shit about what he did. The street had been lined with tacky bed and breakfasts that served orange juice in cans and rolls for breakfast and catered for tourists shuttled around by tour guides. They had all left when the news had come; all the airports had been tied up that entire bloody week and it wasn't just travelers from abroad who had left. Draco had been too concerned about his depleting stash to think too much about it.

He was reminded for weeks and weeks afterwards to his dismay, pictures of smoky rubble and gray bodies running. How many had died? Hundreds? Thousands? Never caught the culprit, not that the attempt was half-arsed in any way. On the train back to London, names had been whispered. Italian mobsters, Middle Eastern terrorists, perhaps a rabid commie.

Brian Wright - they had passed over him with a light touch; after all, the possibilities were endless. Not a scrap of evidence left behind, a spotty teenager had mused, clearly over the tragic part and having a grand time theorizing. Not a scrap of evidence left behind, not unless you counted the bombed out buildings and the casualties. Not a trace...

Draco folded the paper shut and snapped the pages. It was 10:30, Harry should be coming back to the flat soon and he had to make sure he hadn't left any evidence behind. Just like the bombings.

* * *

"Must we, darling? You know I enjoy these things as much as being buried alive..."

It was the conversation they had had before leaving for Ruth Shoreham's semi annual gathering, mostly filled with intellectuals and philosophers, tweedy, pipe smoking, scalding critics. No-nonsense people, stubborn as hell, (Niall had dared argue once and nearly had his nose hexed off) and about as much appeal among the lot of them as raw carrots.

Ruth would have been nice looking, Niall thought, had it not been for the severe cut of her hair or the dress so proper not even Puritans could have disapproved of it. "Hermione," she greeted them. "And you're... Neil. How wonderful you could make it." Her eyes were suddenly alight with a glittery fascination that made him very uncomfortable. Hermione handed her the wine Niall had picked up on his way back from work.

"Beaujolais, your favorite."

They were ushered into a room covered with modern art prints that Niall had never been able to understand. The air was dimmed in one corner by Cary Reeve's expert smoke rings. A group in another corner was in a heated argument over something, another two discussing the translations of Rowena Ravenclaw's Russian cousin's journal. Hermione entered the scene easily, quickly grabbing a drink and joining a group.

Niall wasn't paying attention; he nodded politely before drifting off to the bathroom. After finishing, he leaned against the wall outside, watching the painting of Marie Faye-Fournier that sulked and pouted at him from beneath her sparse eyebrows. There was another man there now, in carefully ironed slacks and a blue shirt tucked into his trousers.

"Hullo," the man said gloomily. He, too, was holding a martini. "Nice party, isn't it?"

Niall shrugged. "I suppose. Not my type of thing."

"Me neither."

"What's your name?"

"Niall Havish, yours?" He swirled the olive around in his glass, watching it roll around.

"Susan Jones." His shoulder slumped, almost imperceptibly and he took a drink. A gust of warm air brushed past his knees.

"Pardon?" Poor bloke, must have had a rather unhappy experience at school.

He grimaced. "Yeah, well, my parents were sadistic people."

"Sorry." Not sure what else to say, Niall tried changing the subject. "Must be tough. How do you know Ruth?"

"Ruth?" Susan said blankly. "Who's Ruth?"

"The hostess. The lady of the house."

Susan smiled, the dimple in his left cheek forming. He gave off a kind of optimistic energy, like a pop dance beat. "I'm here with my boyfriend. Little git deserted me five minutes ago when I didn't know the difference between Tolstoy and toadstools," he added. "Don't blame him. Must be embarrassing to cart around such an ignoramus as me."

"I'm here with Hermione, she's talking-"

"Hermione Granger?"

"Do you know her?" Susan had the happy-go-lucky air of a professional clubber. He ran his fingers through the frosted tips of his hair and smiled, so sincerely and easily it caught Niall off guard.

"You could say that. She's fucking brilliant. Too bad about the Ministry, work and all, the pillocks don't know what they just lost. They'll be crawling back any minute."

Niall shifted his weight to his other foot, staring very pointedly at the olive. "Well, you know, things are just..."

"Fucked up."

"Yeah. You could say that."

Susan smiled. "Cheer up. Dunno why Malcolm drags me along to every dusty function he gets invited to, poor bloke doesn't have any networking skills anyway." He winked, placing one hand on the wall next to him and taking a more comfortable position.

"Same with Hermione, doesn't matter how much I try to convince her I don't fit in with these... people."

"Their intelligence is killing me," Susan agreed, pointing to his head. "I'd rather get hammered and call it a night."

Niall heard the pat, pat of footsteps on the carpet, just before Hermione rushed at him in a blur of violet and hair.

"Something wrong?" he asked, rather bewildered.

"...fuck...them..." was all he made out.

"What happened?" Susan, he noticed, had shifted positions again and was watching with a new interest.

"Raymond- Lucy- everybody," Hermione spat. "All of them are Ministry Nazis, next thing you know, they'll be accusing me of the Brighton Bombings..."

"Calm down, darling, I'm sure it wasn't that bad-"

"Wasn't that bad? For fucksakes, Niall, Raymond practically said I used the Time Turner to kill children in cold blood!" she hissed, completely oblivious to Susan.

"You know, maybe we should go home, I'll make some coffee..." he placed his arm around her waist and half-waved to Susan who smiled and waved back.

Good luck, he mouthed to him, or maybe it was borscht, though Niall doubted it. That was the last he saw of Mr. Jones, at least for a while.

* * *

"Stupid... stupid..." Cho kicked the brick wall of a shop. "I can't even feel my toes. Could you zap up the Heating Charm again?"

"You know," said Ginny mildly, "I think we are in a hopeless situation."

They had spent the last two hours searching in the 13^th Arrondissement. Their compressed volume of Paris history informed them it had formerly been a cholera plagued slum, but other than that, it hadn't provided any useful information. Their search had turned up a store with a nice jacket and a senile man in a moldy fur coat trying to sell them opened packages of batteries.

"The problem is that we don't know what we're supposed to be looking for." They walked down another frozen alleyway, an ad for an ancient movie papered up on the wall no one had ever got around to changing. "A person? A building? A specific type of magic? And of course, we could have walked right past it and never known because I'd bet my grandmother that they have dark magic protecting it."

"Rather pointless, isn't it? And we're not even sure if this place is in the 13^th Arrondissement. There might be a radical new breed of villain who will bravely defy convention and break the evil number tradition and set up shop in say, the 7^th Arrondissement."

Cho shrugged. "I doubt it. Evil people are usually pretty predictable creatures. I could set up a spell that reveals wards, only problem is that it makes them glow red and with all the Muggles around, that might cause a bit of a commotion."

"Can't... can't... you make them sing or something?" Ginny asked, in a lame attempt at humor.

"That would be worse. Wards suddenly playing Broadway show tunes. Not to mention, some wards don't show up on this kind of sweep. Probably wouldn't work even if we evacuated the place."

"Let's go over it-"

"... again, for the forty-third time."

The sky was still a flat gray. "Fourteen Ministry workers dead. Unmarked. The Butcher's Bag. Something about testing and a shipment."

"Maybe they're awaiting a shipment of makeup to test on poor, innocent rabbits," Cho said hopefully. "That wouldn't be so bad."

"Tell that to PETA. Anyway, Dupont told us that it was probably in the 13^th and that Aurors had conducted searches before."

"Wonder what happened to them." Abandoning the watchful, guarded stance drilled into her, Cho shoved her hands deeper into the coat pockets. Cold seemed to have that effect. The wand twirled between her fingers, endless hours of curse and hex throwing, hand to hand combat and fencing lessons scrambled up in her mind. She liked being ready, alert, but the numbness that invaded her body was stealing it.

"Wonder..." Spotting a half full café, nobody out on the terrace, she pointed to it. "Let's warm up."

When they stepped inside, clusters of well-wrapped men and women were gathered at tables, speaking in hushed tones. A few pored over newspapers, holding cups of coffee or chocolate; one punched away at his Pocket Internet with a furious speed. Not one lay idle, a low hum of activity filled the air.

They both agreed on something hot, something chocolate. Cho did the ordering and Ginny pulled out the petty cash they had been allotted. Her gloved fingers pushed the notes across to the paunchy fingers of the cashier, a gold band on his pinky that grabbed the money greedily, like sweets. He counted them carefully, holding one up to the light, and slipped them inside the cash register. It had been bolted down and had chains snaking around it, an electrical field that was currently turned off.

They sat down with their mugs, and Ginny stared out the window. It looked more romantic from the inside, watching the outside, having a sort of nineteenth century quality, almost gone because of urban development, boarded and painted over, giant ads hawking perfume, deodorant, men's shoes, blinking logos competing for customers. A flash of graceful leg, red lips, stomach. You can be beautiful like us, they were saying, and for a moment Ginny almost believed their crap. Almost. The chocolate settling in her stomach, Cho gave a sleepy sigh.

Shifting in her seat, the pistol pressed against her hip. The feeling was slowly coming back into her fingertips, they buzzed and ached like her defrosting toes. "Would I feel any less guilty if I stood outside?"

Cho shrugged again. "I suppose. But you'd be freezing your arse off and chances are you wouldn't find anything anyway. Hey, cheer up, Gin. Today's only the first day. Cut yourself some slack, we have some interviews scheduled tomorrow. Maybe we'll find something new out tomorrow."

A gust of arctic wind blew in, as a man entered. A few shot him dirty looks, others just shivered. His hair was frozen into spikes, probably from failing to dry his hair after a shower. Staring at him distractedly, Ginny rubbed her arms. "D'you think the interviews will be any help? Would they know anything more?"

"Maybe not about the murders, but we might learn more about the victims. Figure out if they're connected in some way the French Ministry hasn't found out."

"Are they even murders?"

"You know, I never considered that." Cho crossed her legs the other way. "Fourteen people, all from the Ministry, just dropping dead." She snapped her fingers. "Like that. Dead. The question is, how could they not be murders?"

"Just a thought. But the whole business just reeks of something fishy. Normally, I'd say it was just another mass AK like that massacre in Russia with the Swiss ambassadors, but that method is awfully risky and has magic written all over it. Has the potential for world destruction, as well, if things get too out of hand."

"Too many people on the world destruction bandwagon, anyway. Dupont seems awfully ready to accept the idea that this Brian Wright is behind it, as well, based on very little evidence as far as I can see, unless he's withholding something..."

"Plus a pretty shoddy explanation for why he wants us. I'm surprised the Ministry even agreed to lend us out. Britain is a disaster every two weeks, with a replay of the Brighton Bombings every two months. We're having enough trouble keeping London from dissolving into chaos, much less Paris. Heard the British PM doesn't like Dupont much, he called him a superstitious git."

Cho rubbed her eyes, yawning. "Seems almost commonplace now."

"Know anything about France? I haven't been paying much attention to international affairs lately."

"You cleaned up that big mess in '08 by some Parisian radicals- in Germany, I think. What was it?"

"A lot of people dead." Ginny said dryly. "Besides that, I've been mostly battling evil on the home turf. This morning-" she hesitated, thinking of the frozen man and woman.

"What?"

"Never mind... oh, I was just thinking about the people we found. I was disturbed by it, you would think I'm used to it by now, right?"

"Maybe it was because they weren't blown to small, bloody bits?" Cho suggested helpfully.

"No, not that." She blinked, looking out the window again. "We should go out and conduct our futile search again."

"Must we? Let's just Apparate back to the alleyway next to the hotel and get room service, rack up a huge bill, and let the Ministry pay for it." Cho was joking, they both knew they would suffer for a few more hours before giving up for the day.

* * *

He took her to Anemos, her favorite restaurant. "Now," he said very gently, "tell me what happened."

Gulping her coffee, she started off. "Nerves, it's like a red scare all over again." She pulled a newspaper clipping from the Daily Prophet out of her purse and slammed it down on the table. "This," she hissed, "was an article written about me after the Daily Prophet found out about it."

The headline read, "Hermione Granger Found Guilty of Embezzlement."

"Embezzlement?" He scanned the text quickly. "Tabloid trash. Sensationalized reporting, sad how they try to earn a Knut these days," hoping to console her.

"Well, Lucy got her hands on this gem and you know how she is-" Niall didn't know, but he was afraid to ask, "-and she showed it to Raymond, the one who pulled you out of the pool last summer at Club Nautico, remember him? He used to be all best mate with me, now he thinks I'm just some sort of- some sort of- thief, for fucksakes, he was saying how awfully funny with all the trouble about the new PM lately, as if the fucking Time Turner had something to do with it. Time Turner! Time Turner! Now tell me, what the fuck does the Time Turner have to do with anything? Asked him that too and then everybody was grabbing at the article, everybody just reading it and I couldn't do a single fucking thing. Not a fucking thing." She proceeded to call Raymond a number of names that would have made Niall's mother roll over in her grave.

This night, the restaurant wasn't too full but several patrons looked at Hermione, some amused, some annoyed.

"Calm down, darling-"

"No! I refuse to calm down!" The mug wobbled on the table. "I lost my bloody job and on top of that, as if that kick in the arse wasn't enough, all my so-called friends, the entire lot of them, think I'm a child killer. They think I run South American brothels and bomb small villages for fun during coffee break!"

"Hermione-"

"Niall, don't you understand? Everything, fucking everything is gone-"

"Hermione-" It was useless to argue. Her nails were clenched into her fists, her voice steadily growing higher and higher. A waiter was walking towards them, a quick skip in his walk.

"Miss," he said, "some of the customers are complaining that-"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave if you can't calm down. Now please..."

Grabbing Hermione's arm, Niall mouthed an apology to the waiter. "We'll be going now."

He flagged down a bus filled with a rowdy crowd that laughed too loudly. Sitting down, Hermione looked very prim and stiff, like a paper doll. She pressed her hand to the glass of the window, watching the street lights and neon pass by in fluorescent streams; the back of her head had strands of loosened hair running down her neck; she turned towards him. "I really fucked up this time, didn't I?" she said sadly.

Placing one arm behind her shoulders, he pulled her in closer. "Nah." The warmth of her skin felt nice, very nice. "We'll just have to find another place for dinner."

The seats behind them creaked and hoots of laughter broke the temporary silence. "Put your shirt back on!" a female voice said.

"Make coffee for me when we get home, Niall, lots of coffee..." She closed her eyes. "You can drink the wine we were saving for our anniversary next month. Four years, like forever..." Shifting over, the light caught the necklace he had bought in Jamaica, the one with the pearls and bits of carved wood. "... promise I'll make it up to you. I'll cook my own breakfast. I'll cook yours too and wake up early, you won't have to always set the clock. I'll stop being such an arse, I'll change... I'll get a new job..."

Niall stared ahead, the dim flickering light was little comfort. He could see the bus driver's cap, the stickers informing them of safety hazards. Hermione's head rested on his shoulder, bobbing like a rag doll when the bus rolled over a bump. So dark outside, except for the signs that glowed, sequins on a dress caught in a flashing light, racing forward. The bus stopped, making a hissing noise; the door opening. Two men in ski masks boarded, one with a knife held at the bus driver's throat, the other walking towards them.

Gimme yer money, he growled, they all dug into their wallets and purses, he collected notes, took a woman's ring, a man's watch. He watched their tired, impassive faces, having nothing to do with age or fatigue. They handed over whatever he demanded of them with the martyred air of a child taking medicine, his light blue eyes skittering from one person to the next, then behind him. As he drew closer, Niall could see the black light of the pistol. Hermione's eyes opened.

What's going on, she asked, then saw them. The man grabbed at her necklace, it broke far too easily, cheap tourist shit, the man muttered, the beads clacking and rolling like pieces of dried bone. He took her purse, nothing in there but makeup, tissues, and a half used gift card.

Niall still stared ahead but tightened his hold on Hermione. They won't take you, he willed. A little girl was crying, so high and loud he couldn't bear it. Her mother shushed her with a finger to the lips. They mustn't cry, she told her.

* * *