Bad Faith

BAD FAITH

Chapter Five

TWO FINGERED SALUTE

so i work for this brian wright .at least i'm supposed to. they dont tell me much, you know? they tell me, shut up, do you your job. once i almost got beat up ,man , i nearly pissed my pants i learned my lesson then .keep my sorry arse out of their business and do mine.

for my job , i went to paris like, two three days, i thought it might be some fun. along with some other guy, he wasn't too bad for a blond. i hate blonds, you know, they just don't rub me the right way.anyway, we were there what, three days? paris .i want to pick up some french tart. the blond's all okay ,okay, we just gotta have our job done and by that time, i'm what job? you crazy?

so heres the funny part. im not a real bad guy ,honest. i fuck up alot, maybe i got a screw loose somewhere but im not a murderer or anything , you know? i'm just not into deep shit like that . i rather feel sorry for myself and fuck up my own life ,thank you very much.so meand the blond are out in some big park and theres some person there , jogging, real upstanding looking fellow,got a rolex on his wrist and his sweats probably cost more than my junk car .and the blond looks around, i ask him what the fuck we're doing here. i thought we're her maybe to rough somebody up, get some information ,man . and the blond hands me some stick . a fucking stick. he tells me ,point it at that gu yand i don't argue and he hold my arms and says something , and the jogger looks up and i feel like a bloody fool. something really wild happens .this green light shoots out and the jogger fall over and i pass out. dont remember a fucking thing ,you know?

laugh at me all you want . iknow it sounds crazy but its true.

* * *

Timothy woke up early that morning, ran a comb through his hair, and decided not to smile that day as he examined his teeth in the mirror. Hailing a black cab, he counted out small change when he reached Harry's flat until the driver looked like he'd rather throw it at him. He tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket as he knocked on the door.

Jackal opened it.

"Rossini, great to see you!"

"Great to see you, too," Timothy said, lying. Lying always came so easily.

"Fallen on hard times?"

"No, just fine, thanks."

Jackal laughed and slapped him on the back with the hand that wasn't holding a drink. Sure, sure. Timothy gritted his teeth and forgot his decision not to smile; it wasn't a smile, more a snarl, really. Always good for a laugh, Jackal.

He didn't know anything - that was what he kept on telling himself these days. Harry was always having to yank Jackal out of some new problem that had cropped up and help him with the dirty work that he was too cowardly to do: collecting payments, dealing with disgruntled losers; Jackal didn't have any people skills. Never had.

A few sharp suited men reclined on the overstuffed leather sofas, talking quietly while one of them shuffled a deck of cards, expertly bridging them between his hands. Timothy tried to keep his gaze somewhere between the ground and his knees and twisted his hands behind his back, trying to look like he was doing something. He found that if he had a drink in one hand, he could look occupied.

The first thing he asked was, "Where's Harry?" It was more of an automatic reaction.

"He said he'd be back, said he forgot something..."

Timothy was thinking about the plane ride, the hotel room, how many telephones it would have, what kind of view from the window, what it would feel like to sit in a Jacuzzi. Fifty percent. Harry was good, very good, he had to admit that. The bloke he'd brought with him yesterday was sitting off in a corner, a blank expression on his face. There was a tired look in his eyes and his mouth was a thin line that managed to seem angry even when it wasn't moving. Draco, he remembered, yeah, that was it - Draco.

The men there shot him funny looks sometimes, like they knew something that Timothy had done or said wrong. Those were the worst; they made him break out in a sweat and blink rapidly, trying to look away but never quite losing that feeling that they could see something he couldn't. Billy, he was looking his way now. Sneaky git, never had liked him. He was a rat, that one. Told Harry that all the time. Timothy examined his hands, positive Billy still had his eye on him. For what? Had he done something? More sweat prickled on the back of his neck.

He lacked the capital or the connections that would have made him a personal interest to them; Harry provided that, anyway. Sometimes Timothy liked it that way, letting himself sit back loose limbed and watching them squabble, their controlled greed, and he wondered whether if he could participate, he would be like that, too.

In a cuffed dress shirt with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows, Billy shuffled and bridged the deck again, the cards making a pleasant whirring sound.

"Want to play?" he asked. The design on the back was of a large, green Celtic knot. Billy picked up an ace of spades between two fingers. Bam. Like that. "Harry's still not back. Know what's keeping him?"

Draco had taken up a new position, measuring vodka into a shot glass; he looked as if he was staring at the painting of a nude on the wall above the fireplace, but Timothy noticed his eyes were flicking downwards to the poker game that had started. For a second, he looked utterly confused. Wondering exactly who he was, why he was there, Timothy found himself walking towards Draco, running his knuckles along the wall.

"Hey," he started. "You were there yesterday at my place?"

Draco nodded, still watching the card game.

"You're Draco Malfoy?" He didn't like being ignored when he was making an effort; it only made him more nervous. He ran his tongue over the back of his lower lip and put a hand on the counter to prop himself up. "Didn't get to talk to you much. How d'you know Harry?"

No answer for a moment. Then, "I don't know." Harry had a talent for picking up dispirited fucks, Timothy decided. This one had been beaten far too often as a child. Draco's shoulders slumped inward and a shock of almost unnaturally blond hair had fallen into his eyes. He sat with his knees open, hunched in over himself, observing the hand a man was holding close with one hand, a cigarette pressed between Billy's lips.

"Not much for talking, 'ey?"

Draco finally glanced over at him and for a moment, Timothy felt something like relief. Hey, lookie here, the bloke's got some life in him. As he tried to remember something about Draco from yesterday, only recalling that he'd shown him the scar on his stomach, it hurt again - the mental twinge that accompanied the recollection. That knife had hurt like a bitch; the man had been into knives; Timothy didn't know why; other kinds of metal were far more effective these days. His luck, he supposed. A point-blank shot would have left more than just a mark.

"No."

Harry had walked back in quietly, taking a position behind the sofa. Billy's head snapped around. "Back?" he said, resting his fingertips on the glass table, pushing a few crisp notes around. "What did you go out for?"

"Nothing. Everyone's here?" He took stock of the room and Timothy marveled again at how easily he processed his surroundings; a glance here, there, and he knew exactly what was going on, what was missing. Couldn't put anything past him. There was a sort of admiration and fear in that thought. Not a sodding thing.

Billy said, "Yeah," and pushed his sleeves up further, exposing the beginning of a tattoo around his upper arm; a design he had never bothered to explain to them. Mickey sat to his left with an elbow propped up on his knee, keeping an eye on his cards, his face expressionless. "Anything planned this time?"

"Not really. Just a few things I wanted to mention but it can wait until later."

Timothy noticed Mickey had taken advantage of Billy's temporary loss of focus and was sneaking a look at his hand, tilted slightly forward. Noticing this as well, Draco smiled. "Who's he?" he said, turning his head.

"Mickey." Every time Timothy saw him, he was struck by his resemblance to an actor on TV, the one Lucy had been drooling over a few weeks ago until he'd thrown the remote against the wall. It had felt good screaming at her. Got some of the stress off his mind.

"The one who took the photograph?"

He hesitated for a second, surprised Draco had remembered. The square picture was still in his trouser pocket and he felt it again as he bent his knees slightly to examine the unopened packages of cigarettes on the countertop. Somebody turned on some music, unobtrusive stuff he would've been able to identify if he was given a few minutes. "Yeah, that's the one."

Finnigan, Draco said, all of a sudden, as if he'd just remembered he was male. That was him in the picture. And Timothy said, yeah, that was him, alright. He took a pull of his Heineken and watched the resumed poker game, only thinking later this month and when the cash is all together and fifty percent, wondering how much fifty percent was, wondering how drunk he could get on fifty percent, fifty-five percent, wondering if he could afford to get a nicer flat, maybe fix up the place a little. What was he doing? And Timothy replied right away, not a fucking clue. You should ask Mickey, Mickey's the one who took it. Mickey would know. Him and his camera, like a paparazzo on acid. Draco said, Mickey would know, 'ey? He imitated his "'ey", doing it better than Timothy himself. Timothy nodded. Ask him. I don't know a bloody thing, he lied.

"Why're you so interested in Finnigan?"

"You haven't heard?"

"What did I miss? Did the queen give a two-fingered salute on the BBC? Did California fall into the ocean? ---Do grown men have sex with each other?"

Draco didn't laugh. "I know him." When Timothy waited for him to elaborate, he said, "He's got a personal interest in me."

"Why? You don't strike me as the type he'd send his goons after." Actually, Timothy had no idea what type Finnigan would go after. With his luck, it'd be him.

"It's a long story." Draco wanted to tell it; Timothy could tell from the way his mouth was working at keeping itself from spilling the words out in a harried rush of narrative, the eyes focused on trying not to. The sulky ones were usually amazingly willing to share every last detail of their life with you, providing you got them in the right spot. Timothy tapped his foot again. Now. Soon. Ask Harry.

He shrugged, "Aren't they always?", only mildly interested, hoping Draco wouldn't launch into maudlin whinging. Harry saved him.

"Rossini, about yesterday -"

Timothy's head snapped up and his pulse quickened. "Want to talk about it?"

"I just met with him again. We're on an equal footing for the most part but you know how he likes his control. Said he didn't know about it, maybe yes, maybe no."

"You mean on letting me go for you?" He wouldn't ask why Harry couldn't do it himself, he willed. Losing interest in the conversation, Draco dropped a few ice cubes into his glass and poured another scotch, examining the bottom like he was analyzing a painting.

"What else would it be about?" Harry sighed and Timothy felt more stupid than usual.

"Maybe means yes."

Still a little dubious, "When? When do I go? Where?"

"He said about two weeks. Thede owns the casino. You'll just have to run my name by the secretary and she'll take you to him immediately. Just explain you're taking my place and make sure you mention the amount you're depositing."

Timothy said, "Two weeks."

"You ever been on a plane?"

A few times, Timothy answered. Will I fly first class? Harry said yes. Thede would pay for his ticket. And for the first time, he was nervous as hell; his skin itched and crawled. Thede'll comp you with the kind of money you'll be playing with, Harry said. What should I bring? Some clothes, things like that. It just made Timothy more nervous. What things? What if he forgot something? What if he fucked up so badly they'd need his dental records to identify his remains?

Somebody hit the table, saying something Timothy committed to memory for future use, wondering if it was physically possible. "It's easy," Harry told him. Sure it was. Of course it was.

"And if I get caught? If something happens?"

Raising an eyebrow from behind his sunglasses, "Optimistic today, aren't we?"

"I can't help it-" he shut up. "Mind if I take one?" Timothy asked, picking up a white carton.

"Not at all."

He scooted closer to the poker game that was in high gear. Billy was losing impressively, not seeming to care.

Timothy glanced to where Draco had been before; seeing that he'd gone somewhere else, he said, "Who's that Draco fellow, 'ey? Moody little number." The smoke felt good. He closed his eyes, feeling calm for a split second. Then it was back again, he had to keep moving, something that kept on pushing him. Look around. Anyone watching? Listening? Relax. Keep your eyes there - no, over there. Look at Harry. See if he's lying. Look at his eyes. But I can't see his eyes. Timothy wanted to grab the glasses off his face and break them beneath his heel. He changed the subject. "Who's Thede? You've dealt with him before?"

"Plenty. He sees me every year."

"He'll be cool with it?"

"Why not." Harry ran his fingers through his hair, his attention moving elsewhere. "Why not."

* * *

Since the Daily Prophet article had been published, owls had been arriving daily, some of them consoling letters from Hermione's oldest friends, but most of them she crumpled after a glance and tossed into the growing pile of hate mail. A few were Howlers and spat the angry accusations of strangers; she listened to them unflinching, although she occasionally turned white.

"Well, that's a new one," she said after glancing at a piece of parchment brought in by a giant, reddish-brown owl that had barely been able to fit through the window. "According to them, I should stew in a cauldron of my own waste."

Niall tried at humor. "That's not new. That was in yesterday's letter, the one from Bella Ludgoose."

"And the two owls on Monday..."

"Are you okay? Anything I can do, anything-"

"The first sixty eight times you asked, it was sweet, Niall. Now it's just annoying."

"Still." He looked at her, his gaze falling on the shadowed hollows under her eyes and the set of her mouth he knew only too well. It was there when she insisted on working late to finish a last-minute project and when she maintained that she wasn't sick and he had to force her to stay at home, complaining even when she couldn't stand up straight that she was fine.

"You didn't have to take the day off work. I'm fine, how many times do I have to tell you that?" Hermione slid her hair tie up to her wrist and hastily pulled her hair away from her face. She bit the insides of her cheeks, and pursed her lips, looking into the wall mirror.

"Honey, you should get some sleep," it advised her in a badly faked Texan drawl.

"No chance of that happening," Niall remarked, putting his hand in the fridge and grabbing a few eggs and a half-empty carton of milk. "You haven't slept properly since you were twenty-two."

"I'd need to go through detox to get the caffeine out of my system. I should, really, since I'm not working."

"You'll get another job," Niall said firmly, breaking an egg one-handed against the edge of the bowl, staring at the yolk for a moment, forgetting a lot of things. "I'll pick up the Daily Prophet when I run to the store for some more eggs. These are the last two. Anything you want?"

"Some chocolate would be nice. Junk. Crisps and prepackaged food to clog up my arteries..."

"What happened to the detox plan?"

"Screw that." Grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl, she examined it for brown spots and bit into it. "Buy the largest bar of Cadbury's there is."

Niall continued staring at the egg yolk, not moving. "You're sure?"

Another bite. "Yes."

"Susan sent an owl this morning - he says he's coming over whether we like it or not."

"Susan Jones?" She sounded surprised. Niall looked up at the kitchen clock shaped like a cow, only to see that the hands had frozen; warm air escaped from between his teeth. When Hermione switched on the radio, the carefully pronounced syllables of a news report informed of them of things Niall had heard her discussing - placement of Hit Wizards in wizarding Britain, the extinction of Ramoras.

"That's the one. And Molly did, too, with more food than we'll ever need if the world decides to end."

It was Hermione's turn to sigh. "It's too hot in here," she said abruptly, pushing up the window over the kitchen sink. Her toes curled up on the white tiles of the floor, the dim light of morning illuminating one side of her body. "Now it's too cold," and she shut it. As she turned around, it seemed like her cardigan had more color than her face. He laid a hand on her cheek, feeling as helpless as ever, wondering if he could rub off the circles underneath her eyes like smudging watercolor off her skin.

"I'm fine," she snapped, pulling away. "I've never been better. I don't need to be coddled like a two year old, Niall."

He didn't say anything. Her mouth tightened, then relaxed. "Look, I'm being a pillock here, aren't I?" One hand pulled out the tie and her hair spread into a brown cloud. He wanted to say not at all, or it's all right, hug her, anything you want at all...

What he said was, "About last Saturday."

She brushed it off impatiently. "The important thing is no one was hurt. Honestly, moping around about that isn't going to help matters."

"I was just worrying-"

"Stop bloody worrying!" Her lips clamped together with exasperated force. "I'm fine!"

"Aren't you always." He hadn't meant it to come out that way.

"What is it with you? I tell you I'm fine, I'm fine. Can't you just bloody accept that? I'm not made of glass, you know."

"I know you're not, darling, it's just that..."

"It's just that what?"

He wasn't sure himself, just the old feeling trying to tell him something, constantly shadowing him about it. She was fine, or so he wanted to believe; he wanted to believe that more than a lot of the things he'd been told, but the words from her mouth seemed more of an empty statement and he didn't want to believe them - she couldn't be fine. She needed him. She needs you. He could believe that.

"Niall?" Hermione had the beginnings of worry on her face. "You okay there?"

"I'm fine," he said, smiling as he beat the eggs, watching the broken yolk fall over the fork. "Never been better."

* * *

"The Quick Quotes Quill worked, right?" Ginny flipped through a heavy sheaf of paper, all covered with notes in impossibly neat writing on the interviews ; the quill had recorded transcripts and a blow by blow commentary while hidden in her bag. Just looking at it gave her a headache.

Her mind was still trying to process all the information, fit the pieces together. "A visual learner," her tutors had always told Molly, and for a while, Ginny had hated labels and had been determined to learn in other ways before accepting it. She lined the notes up on the hotel room floor, pushing a pile of wrinkled clothing and equipment out of the way.

"You could say that. I think it recorded the percentage of cotton and elastic in their socks." Cho stepped around her and took the comb from the nightstand, dragging it through her hair; she winced as the comb tugged through a particularly stubborn knot. Sitting down on the bed, she crossed her legs into a sloppy lotus position and pretended to meditate.

"What now?"

Ginny scanned the sheets of unrolled parchment and tapped each with her wand as she passed over them. "Lambert, Marat, Mirabeau."

With Cho watching, Ginny began to feel self-conscious. "Why don't you help?" she said irritably, depressed over the progress or distinct lack thereof that morning.

"You know," Cho said, "Lambert was right."

"About what? The dead thing, or the house thing?"

"No." She uncrossed her legs and spread them out in front of her, sighing. Cho had usually struck Ginny as more prim than this, forever nitpicking, quick to form an opinion. At the moment, she looked far too relaxed to be Cho. It made her head hurt.

"Then what, pray tell?" Impatient, the frustration was building up where it always started: beneath her forehead, then prickling on her neck, her arms, threatening to burst out of her.

"About Brian Wright."

"What about him?" All the interviewees had seemed to agree on the personalities and life stories of the victims; a few had shared tidbits of gossip about their personal lives - an affair here, a betrayal there, but all were equally clueless as to how they had died or why they'd been chosen. Some of them were still mulling over the why with a particular ferocity, searching for answers, and Ginny felt a sort of old pain watching them struggle - she knew the why only too well.

"Dupont seemed so sure about it. If we could just get our hands on this Wright, maybe we'd learn something. A little Veritaserum - I could get us cleared for that quickly, ask a few questions..."

"Wouldn't that be nice?" Ginny replied absently.

"It would be very nice," Cho agreed, examined the breakfast that had been wheeled in and speared a peeled grapefruit section, popping it into her mouth.

"Bung me one of those pastries, will you? Maybe a blackberry one." Ginny caught it in midair without turning to look.

"Nice reflexes."

"If they weren't, I'd be dead." As she tugged her backpack into her lap, she rifled through her folders, pulling one out and taking out the stack of photographs . "It's eerie how they don't move."

With a shrug, Cho took another grapefruit section. "Wouldn't expect them to, right? Could I see those again?" Ginny passed them over, feeling hopeless, not liking the thinking parts of her job. Well, that's what Cho was there for, she assured herself. A wrinkle appeared between her partner's eyebrows; she scrutinized each photograph with a dedicated eye.

"What would you say if I told you we were going to the Muggle library?"

"You could just ask," Ginny said pointedly. "Or order me to."

* * *

"Is he still in Cyprus?" Cho shushed her and leaned in closer over the Muggle newspaper. Sighing, she slapped it shut on the table and grabbed another from the pile.

"Can I help?" Cho's black hair was pulled tightly away from her face and her fingers impatiently pushed away a stray lock.

The room had one faulty fluorescent light bulb that dimmed and flickered directly above them. A table was piled high with Muggle newspapers (Cho was wary of the microfilm for some reason) the top paneled with a plastic wood pattern. There was an empty buzz in the air, the noise generated by her ears to fill the emptiness. Even the librarian seemed to have left, probably to a back room. Long lines of bookshelves marched along the walls like a set of wooden dominoes while Cho scanned the next paper with feverish efficiency.

"Do you think there might be a non-Muggle way to go about this?" Ginny asked, looking at the gilt clock that stood oppressively behind them like a painted walnut dictator. The hands pointed to 4:57 and something suspiciously like hunger was starting to appear, not to mention that the boredom that had set in was starting to become overwhelming.

"But he's a Muggle criminal," Cho said logically, in a way only she could do, placing another newspaper on the discarded pile. "What could La Bibliothèque Nationale de la Magie possibly carry? Wait, here's something..." As Cho pointed out a small article written entirely in French, Ginny blinked, wondering who had come up with the bright idea of creating different languages.

"And it would say...?"

Impatiently, "Not much actually. It's from a few months ago. Just says he's probably lying low in Cyprus and the police have a $25,000 reward if anyone finds him, and he's also wanted in France for... wow."

"What?"

"A lot of things." Cho didn't elaborate and Ginny was afraid to ask. "They don't mention the Ministry murders"-she checked the date again "-I think only one or two cases had happened back then and they thought they were isolated, muggings, some disturbed wizards, sort of thing. Do you have the interview notes?"

"Right here, somewhere." Unzipping her backpack, Ginny found the paper between her map and the Smithson's concise guide to the workings of the French Ministry she had yet to crack open. The silence was louder than ever until the kick of a rumbling motorcycle came through the wall, followed by a faint human yell. She already missed the eerie warmth of Lambert's residence and the sun - clearly, Paris had not seen it for a while.

That morning, the air had had the quality of stepping into a walk-in freezer, her breath smoking blue and white in front of her, Cho jamming her fists deeper within her pockets. Paris was cold gray and brick; for a moment, she wondered if home was any better, i Christmas had been any better. She quickly pushed the thoughts out of her mind.

The librarian had reappeared behind her desk and was ignoring them with a fat novel in front of her.

Cho took the notes. It looked as if she was searching for something; Ginny wasn't sure what they could possibly have missed. Marquise du Châtelet, Rene Daumal, Michel Foucault -all passed by, meticulously numbered and highlighted.

"Dubois was a friend of Francois Arouet, they said something about..."

"About what?"

* * *

Harry snapped the phone shut and put it back in his jacket pocket.

"Who was that?" Draco asked; Harry seemed unusually friendly. Draco had given up trying to get an explanation for his continued meals and board and was holding onto them with a sort of anxious tenacity, the empty acceptance he'd managed to drill into himself without thoughts of why it was. It didn't get him anywhere.

"Boss," he answered shortly.

Draco decided to push his luck. "Who's this boss?" Harry didn't answer, eyes focused on the road, one hand holding a fag that was burning down to an ash stump. He pressed a button to his left, the electric window rolled down and his fingers flicked the cigarette end into the traffic. A blast of cold air flew in, temporarily bringing up goose bumps on Draco's arms. His throat felt dry and he tried to swallow but it got stuck halfway down.

"Boss?" Timothy said from the back seat; he was admiring the leather interior. "Anything about me?" Draco refrained from askng his question again, willing himself to remember the cold, the empty low. He wished he had some tape he could slap over his mouth.

Silence for a moment, then, "Yeah. I suppose so."

"What do you mean, you suppose?" Draco sneaked a look in the rearview mirror - Timothy was leaning forward, his thin face close to Harry's shoulder. "That a yes or no?"

"A yes, Rossini. A yes." The car made a pleasant hum over the damp, cold streets and Harry flipped on the radio. As Draco stared out the window, the faces of passers-by were pink streaks and the bright red and blue neon of an Open sign flicked off, and then back on. The name Finnigan remained at the back of his mind, keeping him uneasy. Timothy was still fidgeting and his fingers drummed out a rhythm on his thigh, his leg jittering. It made Draco nervous just looking at him.

Harry frowned into the rearview mirror and his shoulders tensed up as he leaned in to see something. He made a sudden left onto Kennington Road and then made a sharp right onto Lambeth Street. Suspecting he knew what it was, Draco craned his neck to see behind them, catching the white flash of headlights and the outline of a car that he was almost positive he'd seen before. Not wanting to believe it was happening, he sunk back into the seat.

They kept driving, Harry periodically checking behind them. The thought hung in the air in front of him, almost tangible.

"Somebody's following us," Harry affirmed in a curiously flat tone, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him. But Draco could see the tension at the corner of his mouth and in the fingers that held the steering wheel. His lips tightened around the cigarette and he glanced back quickly.

"Who's following us?" Timothy turned back in his seat to look behind them. A blast from somebody's horn.

"Get the fuck down!" Another turn. Sweat broke out on Draco's forehead.

"Who is it?" Almost a whisper.

Shortly, "I don't know." Another turn. Draco gripped the seatbelt. The sound of the car was almost sinister now, the sputter of gravel and the surge of other cars passing.

He tried to sink down as far as he could into the seat, willing his body to press into the leather. His chest hurt as if something hot was poking from the inside, his heart beating like a trip-hammer. This wasn't fucking happening.

Harry spun the wheel to the right in another sharp turn and the tires squealed on the damp concrete, mirrored by the following car. His eyes were still fixed on the road and every line of his body was poised, trying to drive the vehicle forward with the force of his own body, transferring his will into the machine.

A long, dark saloon drove by, pausing in front of them, and then zooming off. Draco's mouth went dry and he pressed his knees together, reminded of reality, bent over; this wasn't fucking happening. Blood rushed to his face. He gritted his teeth. He tried to break them. Tried to breathe.

"It's Finnigan."

Harry still didn't turn around. "How do you know?"

"I know."

"You sure?" Timothy was trying not to back round; he looked as scared as hell, eyes giant in the darkness. Shit.

"I'm going to try to lose him," Harry said in that same flat voice, lower than ever. "What did you do? Rape his mother?" An angry edge had crept into his voice and its volume rose a fraction. Harry tore off his sunglasses all of a sudden and slammed them down on the dashboard. He was nervous, too. It didn't suit him. His thigh was quivering and his movements were brief and jerky like a badly made mechanical doll.

"I didn't do anything. It was all-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Harry had lost all semblance of cool; his voice had a raw edge in it now, ready to snap. "You're nothing but a shitload of trouble, aren't you?"

Draco didn't answer.

Timothy was breathing hard, wheeze in, wheeze out. In. Out. The arrow on the speedometer crept up slowly - 40, 45, 50, 55. It must have been the street lamps, but Draco thought he saw a black figure, a man running after them, the flashing lights of a police car. More fevered imaginings. A siren, the garbled static of a walkie-talkie, the clang of jail bars, over and over again. And then his father standing before him and something like regret and fear. Then his mother.

Blood pounded in his ears. His heart rate rose with the speedometer, now 60, 65, 70. Another screech as the car maneuvered into a narrow street, narrowly missing another car. The rising roar of the motor, the presence behind them, closer and closer it seemed, some coked up game of tag. In a carefully controlled turn, Harry yanked the Mercedes sharply to the right, with another high whine from the tires.

"Fuck," Harry spat with surprising force. "They're gaining."

"Could I have a fag?" Timothy said and Harry just tossed him back the carton without glancing back, not a question. He fumbled for a second and lit it with shaking fingers. "Holy shit, Malfoy." Angry, scared. "He's after you, 'ey? Well do us a bloody favor and jump out."

He coughed, seeming calmer, somewhat. The Mercedes rolled over a pothole and Draco flew up on the seat. Going ever faster, Harry hunched over the wheel, his foot on the accelerator. The car behind them. Closer.

"Grab the gun!" Harry barked.

"What gun?" Desperate.

"The glove compartment." Draco was struck dumb for a moment and Harry leaned over and in an instant, yanked it open. Sifting through the contents, Draco drew out the Glock 17. His fingers shook as he held it and he wanted to shove it back in, snap the compartment shut.

Draco looked behind and suddenly, there was a bang that made his body go hot and cold and he thought he was going to vomit.

"Shoot it!"

"What? But-"

"Just fucking shoot it!" The window rolled down and Draco tried to aim, black spots clouding his vision, the cold gush of wind drying up the dampness on his forehead. He pulled the trigger.

Bang. Harry swore again. "Shoot it again!" The Mercedes swung to the left. The car behind them veered off. "The back window!"

Timothy dropped down on the seat. Draco aimed and squeezed his eyes shut. Black. Mouth dry. Pull.

Bang. He nearly dropped the gun. Then the sound of wheels swerving wildly on the road, violently changing course. Draco held his hand out in front of him and dropped the Glock into his lap. It fell there. His hands were shaking so hard. He was going to fucking explode.

* * *

"I brought flowers. Hope you don't mind. They're awfully nice, don't you think? He said the pink ones would be better but Hermione doesn't strike me as a pink kind of person, or a red one for that matter. So I told him, I'm going to get the orange lilies and that was the end of it..." Susan spoke rapidly and Niall wondered how he managed to keep his smile on so easily.

"She's just in the next room," Niall told him, taking the flowers and taking the old ones out of the vase in the hallway.

"She OK? You OK? Horrible thing to happen. Don't know what the world's coming to, as my grandmother would say. Scared the hell out of me when I was a kid; she always talked about the world ending. Hasn't though, and it's not bloody likely to," he continued breezily. "Ms. Granger!" She looked up from the book she was reading; one by some author whose name Niall could never pronounce. Dostoyevsky, she would repeat exasperatedly. It's not that hard, honestly. He had never been any good at languages. "Did you see the flowers? I was just telling Niall about them. Orange lilies, just lovely, really. Your favorite, I think. Are you OK?"

"What should I answer first?" She looked amused and a little grateful; Niall was struck with a pang of jealousy at how effortlessly Susan could put her at ease.

"I'm being such an idiot today, aren't I? Anyway, how's your mother doing?"

"She called me several times last week about her back and how my father isn't doing anything to help her; it's as if she thinks I'm a chiropractor or something. She's getting her doctors mixed up."

Niall dashed into the kitchen and set up a biscuit tray and drinks, mentally slapping himself for not doing so beforehand.

"How's work, Havish? Anything new over at the EMD?" Almost forgetting that he'd taken a few days off work, Niall almost missed the routine meltdowns at Experimental Magic.

He took a moment to answer, looking at Susan's blindingly white teeth, and smiled at him, the tension in his chest finally slacking off. "Good, mostly. Last week, the lab only exploded twice and the third degree burns only covered twenty percent of my body. The doctor said I was lucky."

"Job search coming along?" Susan asked, as tactfully as possible.

Hermione didn't seem to mind. "I still have to go through the help wanted in the Prophet. Not sure what job I'd apply for, anyway, unless they had a 'head bitch' position listed..."

Laughing, "Something you're extremely good at."

She sobered for a moment. "I don't know, sometimes. Some days, things are more uncertain than they've ever been."

"I know what it's like."

""Do you?"

"I do," he said firmly. "Why don't you sit down, Niall?"

"No, I'm fine." After some more prodding, he finally did to shut him up and Susan smiled again, widely. Niall picked up a biscuit and bit into it very purposefully.

"So," Susan was saying, "How is Sirius? I haven't heard from the bloke since he left for that three month excursion to China."

As she pulled her feet up onto the couch, Hermione sighed and leaned the side of her head on her palm. "Last I heard of him, he was in Cairo doing the brochure for Fwooper's Magical Travel. He's rather popular these days, what with the bloody, bloody Britain epidemic and all." She smiled at her own joke; her hair was still damp from the shower and she had put on a trace of lipstick, her reading glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose. One hand rested on the arm of the sofa.

"He never stays in one place for long, does he?"

Niall said, "Sirius sent a postcard yesterday, darling. From Madagascar, I think. Or Singapore."

"There's been so much mail lately," she commented without a change in expression. He had to admire her for that. "What did it say?"

With a grin, Susan said, "He sent me an owl once with some pickup lines in Italian when he was holidaying in Sicily."

"Did you try them out?"

"I was afraid to. It takes a certain personality to pull them off. Not to mention I don't think they would have worked very well - the men I go for usually don't have breasts."

Hermione said, "Sirius." Her lips curved up slightly. "Anyway, anything new from him?"

"Just the usual. Hugs, kisses, and malaria, hopes you're fine and that he'll send another owl soon."

"I'm fine."

"I know, darling. I'm just saying." Please, not another row. Relaxing quickly, she brushed it off with a laugh, closing the book in her lap, then placing it carefully on the coffee table next to the tray. Her fingers hovered over it and picked up a hexagonal shaped biscuit with a logo stamped into it; Susan followed suit and took the same one.

Susan spoke rapidly. "I have a friend who owes me a favor... He's vice president of Lobalug Inc., maybe you've heard of it?"

A frown appeared between her eyes and she ate the rest of her biscuit. "Can't say I have. What do they do?"

"He explained this to me once but I think I was half-asleep at the time. They sell remedial potions, controlled draughts, wizarding products like that."

"What about it?"

Niall added, "I think I might have heard of them. Sounds familiar for some reason. It might've been mentioned to me before."

Susan placed his feet on the coffee table but Hermione, usually fussy about that sort of thing, didn't seem to notice - or ignored it. He glanced over at the clock on the wall and breathed out very quickly; his chest rose and fell in a heartbeat. As he brushed his fringe to one side, "I could owl him, I think they've got a few positions they need to fill and you'd obviously be overqualified. You'd be overqualified for any job," he added rapidly, "but if you're interested, just let me know. Wouldn't be any trouble at all. It really wouldn't," Susan added as she opened her mouth, as if he knew exactly what she was going to say -"honestly, I owe you a few favors myself."

"What's the name of the company again?"

"Lobalug Inc." She seemed to be considering it at least and Niall hoped her pride wouldn't get in the way. Take it, he willed. She rubbed her calf thoughtfully and repositioned her leg.

"I'll let you know," she said finally and took another biscuit, popping it into her mouth whole. "I have to think about it." Think about what? "What sort of position is it?"

"I'd have to ask. Not some sort of janitorial gig, mind you. I'm pretty sure of that. It might be worth a try."

"I still have to update my resume."

Niall said, "You said you'd do that on Sunday."

Hermione gave him a very cross look. "So? I just haven't got around to it. I've been-" she stopped and he knew she was about to say busy except that would have been a lie.

Interrupting easily, "Busy, I know. We've all been busy. Don't feel any obligation to take it, really. I know you could get a job with your hands tied behind your back."

"Thanks."

Susan stood up and straightened out his Burberry overcoat, brushing off invisible lint on his sleeve. He smiled again, eclipsing all the others, and it was like the flash of a tanning bed. He should have done toothpaste commercials. Movie star teeth. "I should be going."

"Thanks," Hermione said again, looking a little dazed. "For everything."

* * *

A lone fly flew onto the newspapers, testing the surface with its feet. Cho swatted at it absently and it went away, then landed again in another attempt to annoy her.

"So you're saying..." Ginny prodded, fairly sure of what Cho was going to say but needing it confirmed anyway. Damn evasiveness.

"Think about it: he could be anywhere. He can travel anywhere. He doesn't have to depend on aeroplanes and whatever transport the Muggles are using these days. With magic-" she stopped, looking very pissed off. "This is not good. I think we've been going in the wrong direction."

"Not good," Ginny echoed. "At all."

"Could be bloody anywhere, looking like anybody. There aren't any limits..."

"We can't rule out Greenland, then? And Dupont was sure about this?"

Cho sighed, burying her head in her arms. "We should go and talk to him again about the implications of this. I don't think we quite got the scope of it the first time around. You attach "Muggle" to "criminal" and we automatically think "man with midlife crisis and a few steak knives"."

"It's misleading, is what it is."

Ginny must have spoken too loudly because the librarian set down her book and shot them an annoyed look, then returned to reading. Sitting down in a chair, Ginny pulled it in closer, tapping the end of her pen on the table.

"How's Dupont on the matter?" Ginny said.

"I think he might be able to help. In Britain, we had all sorts of tracking maps, thanks to the Experimental Magic budget, but we didn't really consider that since it works mainly for wizards. And I don't even know if France has any..."

* * *

Harry kept on driving for a while. Farther and farther, staying away from police cars, before finally stopping at a pub. Draco was shaking all over now, his legs, couldn't keep his arms still. He stumbled into a yellow, urine-soaked toilet and threw up. As he washed his face, he looked into the old mirror. His lip was bleeding. He rinsed his mouth and walked out.

Harry and Timothy had sat down and ordered a scotch and a bourbon respectively.

Timothy said, "Well." He blinked slowly and took a drink. Draco placed a damp hand on the table and noted that it was still shaking slightly. "What happened?"

"I think I got them. " He sounded calmer than he felt.

"They nearly got you, 'ey?" Draco took in a breath of air, suddenly aware that it didn't have enough oxygen in it.

Then he looked at Harry and something cold hit him in the gut again. It was a different sort of fear. "Harry-"

"That was Finnigan?" Composed. Took a sip of his drink.

"I don't know. Maybe." He tried to convince himself it wasn't, maybe it hadn't been. Some mistake. Harry probably had his enemies, too. It didn't have to have been Finnigan. It was better if it hadn't been.

"Maybe?" Even less oxygen in the air now. "That was a lucky shot."

"I know." If he had been seventeen again and in the same position, he knew he wouldn't have felt the same. "Do you know where my wand is?"

"Maybe. What do you need it for?"

"You know. In case. If something happens."

The calm slipped for a moment. " 'Something' is going to fucking happen. I just saved your sorry arse, you know that? Without me, you'd be floating in a river somewhere with your dick cut off."

Draco didn't know how to answer except, "I know." And almost as an afterthought, "Thanks."

Timothy wet his lips and ran his fingers through his hair. "Two weeks, 'ey?" he said absently.

"You have a one track mind, Rossini."

* * *