Bad Faith

BAD FAITH

Chapter Six

D'ACCORD

The first thing Harry did when he got back to his flat was throw Draco up against the wall. Draco gasped: it felt like Harry was crushing his windpipe. He could hear his collar ripping as Harry ground him against the plaster. His face was close enough that Draco could see the sweat on Harry's forehead and the bridge of his nose. His breath came out in a strangled gasp.

Harry was in a bad mood.

The back of his neck burned and something hot spread over his shoulders, the base of his spine met the wall. Harry gripped his collar tighter. Draco tried to look straight at him, but his head was thrown back and his throat pressed against the clenched fist that smelt of leather interiors and nicotine. He gritted his teeth to keep from making any noise, from giving Harry that satisfaction, the soles of his feet hovering a hair's breadth above the floor.

"Malfoy, you little -" Sweat dampened his upper lip and forehead and Draco's hands tried to grab onto the flat surface of the wall. His nails clawed at white paint.

A trickle of sweat made a path over his jaw and onto his neck. There was a faint buzzing in his ears, the vein in his temple threatening to break free of his skin.

Harry dropped him. Draco massaged his throat, feeling the blood spread to other parts of his body, and slumped against the wall. "Just- just- get the fuck out of my face," Harry spat. "Can you do that without fucking up or getting a team of hit men on your arse?" He wiped something off his mouth.

"I'm -"

Harry strode over and jabbed him with his index finger. "You know what you are? You're more trouble than you're worth. Who's doing who the favor?" Draco stood still, galvanized, half-afraid and half-pissed off.

Malfoy: it sent a false-fire to his mouth. "Why?"

"What did you say?"

Malfoy: sent another false signal to his mouth. "Why even bother? You don't owe me anything." What the fuck are you doing? Trying to kill yourself again?

"You should be bloody grateful -"

"I think you said that already. Why do you even bother keeping me around? I'm nothing but a shitload of trouble, right?"

Harry glowered. Draco tried to reason: if he was going to get kicked out, he would've been anyway.

More silence. A plane flew low overhead, temporarily rattling the windows. "You know," Harry said finally. "They should've told us never to trade drugs for sex."

Draco couldn't tell whether he was being serious or not.

Harry continued, "We'd've never met properly. We'd've been two fucked up souls who were too fucked up to ever give a damn about each other. This wouldn't have happened."

"Is there some reason you're keeping me?"

Draco's original fear had abated and his body relaxed somewhat. The clench of his shoulders loosened, but he kept his eyes trained on Harry, who was still pacing in front of him. He could make a dash to the left, towards the door, if things got ugly. Or he could swing right. Calculating different routes, Draco tensed his legs to be ready to sprint.

Harry kept pacing, tracing over an invisible eight marked on the floor. "This afternoon, not now, maybe later, something's come up..." more to himself than to Draco.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"One more incident like that and you're out."

"How- how- can I -" the question died on his lips. At this point, he wasn't going to argue the impossible.

Harry, turning back to face him, "Stay here."

"You're going somewhere?"

"No. No, just stay here. Don't leave yet, I mean..."

Draco felt oddly amused. "Are you still thinking about making me your sex slave?"

"No," Harry said shortly. "You know it's cold out there, right?" It sounded like he was trying to hint at something.

"Stop being so fucking cryptic, Potter." What Draco didn't say was: It's making me nervous as hell.

"You owe me."

"I thought we'd already established that."

* * *

Arlene was feeding Kitty when the man rang the doorbell. She hadn't been expecting anybody, so the first thing she did was to peek between the shutters. Seeing the BMW parked by the curb, Arlene ignored the cat meowing pathetically around her ankles and glanced into the mirror. After straightening out the shoulders of her top and yanking her collar back into place, she cracked open the door with a careful twist. She regarded the man standing there - black hair, sunglasses, very carefully groomed. Satisfied that he wasn't a salesman or a tramp, she finally opened the door fully.

"Is Mr. Harding here?"

"Who might you be?" Her current boarder hadn't told her to expect a visitor; odd fellow, really. Arlene could sniff out any strangeness in an instant. The funny ones: they always paid their rent and showed up on time for breakfast, though. She kept an eye on her boarder, for any sign of something off about him.

"He's expecting me." Didn't answer her question. Arlene debated for a moment whether or not to press any further but the man looked respectable enough.

She pursed her lips and looked at him again, rooting out any clues, but there were none. "All right," she said finally, making as big of a production of it as she could. "Wait here." The door snapped shut and locked automatically behind her. As she walked up the stairs, her hip pained her where it had fractured six years before after a particularly nasty fall. By the time she reached the top, she was short of breath and a hot stitch had gathered in her side. Kitty followed behind her with far more ease, still mewing for her lunch. "Now, now," Arlene told her and the cat stared at her reproachfully, tail swishing back and forth as she watched.

"Mr. Harding?" Arlene stopped in front of the second door to her left, regaining her breath. Knocking sharply, "Mr. Harding?" Just as she was growing suspicious as to what he was doing, the door opened.

"Yes?"

"You have a visitor. He's downstairs by the door if he hasn't already left. Do you know who he is?"

He didn't seem surprised and smiled a little in an infuriatingly pleased way, rubbing the five o'clock shadow on his jaw. "Could we use the parlor? It'll only be about half an hour, I promise, an hour, tops. If you're expecting anybody, we'll just go somewhere else-"

"That's fine, I suppose." As he walked past Kitty, still waiting impatiently, she said, "Next time you have a visitor, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me first," very pointedly.

"Sorry about that."

Arlene peeked into the room to check for anything out of the ordinary. It was comfortable enough, if a little cramped, and the bed had been made neatly, a stack of fresh laundry folded in a corner. This one was too tidy, too quiet, though. Those were the ones who always called you ma'am and opened doors for you and then they had your jewels shoved into their pockets before you knew what happened. Like Gertrude who had her great aunt's ruby brooch stolen, the poor dear. A real shame. All sorts of shady types these days, doing god-knows-what in god-knows-where.

Feeling indignant, Arlene snooped around for any other clues, maybe a lock pick or a dodgy manual. She was almost disappointed when she didn't find any.

She walked slowly down the stairs, gripping onto the cool, varnished banister for support. Kitty followed at her heels as she descended stiffly. From a cabinet, she took out a can of Fancy Feast and opened it, spooning it out into the bowl she'd given the cat for her fourth birthday. "Life's easy for you, isn't it?" she said, mostly to herself. Kitty didn't look up.

Taking a few steps closer to the parlor, Arlene stood a few feet away from the doorway, making sure she wasn't in easy view. Mr. Harding took a quick glance around the room as if expecting British Intelligence agents to swoop down on him and, taking the pen clipped to his shirt pocket, scribbled something on a napkin. Curiosity piqued, she went back to the kitchen as fast as her hip would allow her and quickly arranged a few cups and a lukewarm teapot on an old tray with Japanese flowers pasted onto it.

"Tea?" They both looked up and the visitor looked nervous now, fidgeting with his shirt cuff. He looked like her first boyfriend, at least the chin and hair. When he turned his head, Arlene could have sworn she saw some sort of scar on his forehead. Odd.

Mr. Harding had taken her spot on the couch; he used up all the space in a sprawling position as if it was his furniture. She set down the tray a little harder than was necessary with an efficient clink.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," the boarder said, suddenly courteous and polite again. He took a less comfortable position and again seemed more like an impossibly well-behaved guest than a host. "The tea is lovely. If you don't mind-"

Sensing what he was going to say, "Oh, I'll be going along." It seemed the visitor sighed, in relief, perhaps. One of them coughed and they both fell into an awkward silence. Arlene left hurriedly and closed the parlor door behind her.

As she pried open the shutters again, the BMW was still parked there. Maybe he was one of those successful lawyer types; there was no shortage of clients these days. The shutters closed with a metallic rustle and Kitty, who had taken up her usual post on the kitchen windowsill, was busy bird watching, probably to be followed by a catnap.

Maybe the visitor could tell her what to do about that nasty falling out between Melissa and Jake. Such a shame, really. She paused to wonder about his profession again before taking up her own post in the bathroom adjoined to the parlor.

There was a mounted leopard head hanging on the wall of the room where her boarder and the visitor were talking. Arlene had found it at the Portobello Road Market a few years back and had hung it up, not as a conversation point or a decoration, but to cover the hole she had drilled in the connecting walls.

It was a fascinatingly ugly thing, really - the glass eyes had been chipped when she bought it and tufts of hair had fallen out, giving the appearance of a stuffed toy bought in bad taste, then abandoned. Over the hole was a poster advertising out-of-style shoes; she carefully lifted the tape and placed an ear to the opening. If she had wanted to, Arlene could have seen a piece of the painting hanging on the opposite wall through the opening in the leopard's mouth.

They were talking quietly. So quietly, in fact, she had to strain to hear their voices. Even though her hip had been giving her a hard time and the arthritis acted up during rainy seasons, her ears hadn't gone yet.

"Harding?" That was the visitor. Scottish, maybe.

"Name of an old friend."

"What happened to him?" That sounded like a dare, which confused her even more.

"Her, you mean. She's dead." Arlene pressed her ear even harder against the hole and placed the cupped side of her hand to her head.

"Oh."

"You came. Is that an agreement?"

"Everyone seems to want a definite answer."

Chuckling, "It certainly makes it easier."

"Who's the old woman?" She bristled and wished that the BMW outside wasn't his. Lawyer, her foot. Some hoodlum, more like. Probably stole those clothes from a second-hand shop.

"I'm just staying here for the moment. I have to keep moving."

"So, Wright, what's your offer?" There was something distinctly nervous, apprehensive about his voice, but excited all the same. She almost missed the "Wright" part and wondered if her hearing was starting to go as well. Putting it down on the mental checklist, she placed it under buying a birthday gift for Melissa. Earrings? Did Melissa even have pierced ears? She had to call Richard about that; he'd know.

"You'd be surprised at what I know about you, Harry."

"You do." A pause. "What school did I go to?"

"Hogwarts. You finished in 1997; your marks seemed to have dropped dramatically in your final year as well." He was hinting at something; Arlene wondered what it was.

"So you know about-"

"Triwizard champion in your fourth year. I know who your friends are, or should I say, were? You have a very impressive past, especially that bit about your scar. Tell me, do you remember getting that?"

"But you're a Muggle." It came out in a disbelieving, empty tone. She moved up "check up on hearing" to the first slot.

"So?"

"You're not... surprised by this? Almost no one knows about that anymore. It's in the past."

"When my keys disappeared four times in one day, I knew it wasn't natural."

"Very funny."

"Such morals in your people, Harry, Not a properly corrupted one in the lot. You sent off all the useful ones into Azkaban, did you?"

"Some are corruptible."

The boarder sighed. "They're young. It would take time. You, on the other hand..."

"There are others." Sounding suspicious, "The sort of things you pull off - on second thoughts, I wouldn't be surprised if you already had magical help."

"I'm just good at hiding and blending into the crowd. It's a specialty of mine. You know what they called me? Houdini. You know, after that magician?"

Flatly, "He wasn't magic."

"Jaded, aren't you? Aren't we all? I make them cry in their beds at night. Even got the French thinking I've got a wand. That abracadabra shit you can work. Really funny, you should see them."

"Mail me the tickets sometime."

"I will. Box seats. You can even be in the show."

Arlene was more confused than ever. Obviously, her boarder was mentally disturbed. And who was this visitor named Harry? She shifted on the lid of the toilet. As soon as they had finished, she was going to find some reason to get him out. Maybe the electricity had shorted out? She had a relative staying over?

"So, what do you say?"

"What's in it for me?"

Mr. Harding (or was he?) laughed and said something, very low; it escaped her ears. There might've been some sort of movement but knowing she couldn't see anything, Arlene just pressed her ear even tighter against the drilled hole.

"Quite a lot," the visitor said in a strained voice.

"It is, isn't it?" In desperation, Arlene put her eye up to the spot to see if she could catch anything that was going on. All she could see was a piece of the Monet reproduction, which didn't look like anything. She ought to take that one down; after all, she wasn't speaking to that ratty Jake any more and Melissa seeing it on her next visit might upset her. Delicate nerves in that girl. Arlene wasn't sure which side of the family that came from.

There was more shuffling and the visitor said, "Perhaps. What do you want me to do?"

She could hear the smile in the boarder's voice. "Do you see that leopard on the wall?"

"How couldn't I? Ugly piece of shit, isn't it?

She froze. The drip of the leaking tap water amplified.

"I'm not stupid, you see," the boarder continued. "If you'd just lift it-"

* * *

The owl rapping on the window of the hotel room was half-frozen by the time Cho finally woke up and grumpily let it in. It shivered on the dresser top next to a tray of complimentary soaps and shampoos, then hooted angrily when its feathers started to defrost. Never a morning person, Cho plucked the parchment from its claws and pushed it out. Ginny watched, eyelashes sticking together with the last residue of sleep, and remembered the stories of the sandman Bill used to tell her.

"Poor thing," she croaked and pulled the sheets up higher.

Cho held out the parchment whose heavy wax seal she'd broken. "It's a reply from Dupont, well, his secretary anyway. I think the signature's stamped."

"That's insulting," Ginny remarked, feeling more awake. The heating had been left on overnight and the room was stiflingly hot, especially with the heavy bed sheets over her, like being weighted down with heated stones.

"We have an appointment with him today - not for very long, but it's something, at least. They'll probably provide us with whatever equipment they've just found. With any luck, it'll be dusty fifteenth century armor," she predicted. "The good thing about working in a paranoid country is that the technology is always up to date."

Ginny shrugged and slid off the bed, grabbing the top she had flung over a chair and a pair of thick, unbecoming trousers. Outside, the light was still gray but the hotel room had been decorated in overpowering shades of red and yellow with a healthy dose of gold to balance it out. "You're the one who gets excited when they tell us there's a new type of fastener for our knapsacks."

"So?"

"We'll work with what we get. If manual searching doesn't do it, I'm sure they've got something that'll help. Almost every country has the WTD somewhere; of course, Britain has the most advanced version. It could probably track the movement of firewood shipments if we wanted it to."

"I'll have it Summoned, but it's probably too far. There are a few other transport systems these days, none of them are too secure, and it usually takes a few days. But we're pressed for time."

Cho put the parchment down on a bar of soap with Pavillon de la Reine inscribed on it, and yanked a brush through her hair - they were required to keep it under shoulder length but lately, Cho had been slipping. Ginny put a foot into one trouser leg, then the other, and felt too tired to bring herself to dress any further.

"Well, they could owl them over, I suppose," Cho said dubiously and pulled on her jacket, leaving the front open. "Technically, it would be possible, though with all the wards put up to avoid that sort of thing, it'd wreak hell."

"That's a no, then." Ginny stared down at the waist bunched up down by her ankles and thought, wouldn't it be great if they made clothing that put itself on?

"That's an extremely doubtful yes."

"Is there a difference?" The energy required to talk seemed like such a waste. Ravenclaws - they always talked around in circles. Never could get a straight answer out of them.

"Not really." She gave Ginny an impatient look. "They won't let you into the Ministry if you refuse to wear clothing."

Yawning, she tried to stand up finish dressing but had to sit down as a bout of fatigue pressed against her skull. She shut her eyes and said, "Then I won't go."

"What about breakfast?"

Opening her eyes, Cho was clipping on her wand holster and twirling the eight inches, cedar, core of Re'em skin between her fingers.

"I knew you'd come to your senses. Stop grumbling and get dressed. We've got to get there by ten."

Ginny said something under her breath and Cho gave her a withering look but otherwise ignored it - it was too early in the morning to disagree and Ginny would have taken it back with some prodding.

* * *

Two weeks. Timothy liked the feel of these words and the way it sounded when he spoke them out loud: solid, definable. It was just close enough to be real but far away enough to wait.

Harry had lied.

He'd said, two weeks, Rossini. You'll go in two weeks. Now Timothy was in Heathrow and feeling lucky that he hadn't had to shove the money up his arse, literally. The check-in man was looking at him funny, he was sure of it and the guy took his passport and examined it, anything wrong, he'd asked. Eyeballing the passport for a few more moments, no, nothing. Gave him another look and Timothy'd said, the freak show doesn't start until five.

He didn't feel ready. But how could he complain? Sorry, Harry, but wait another week and I can go. I don't feel like I'm up to it just right now. So he just shut his mouth and packed his suitcases with whatever he could find, took his ticket, and got in a cab.

Timothy half-listened to the safety talk by a pretty flight attendant with perky tits and a nice smile - in case of low cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the panel above, life jackets under the seat in case the plane crashes in which case you'll probably die anyway but at least your body'll float for awhile. Everyone in his section looked like nice, law-abiding people: yuppies, a few snobby-looking families, techies with their ultra-light laptops. Timothy drew the side of his hand across his mouth, drained his glass and tried to relax. It was hard: he felt so wound up, broken up, nervous as hell. Was that the only thing he was feeling these days?

The flight attendant wheeled a cart around with lunch. He wondered how she kept on that fucking smile, not a fuck-me smile of course, the kind of smile you give to cute little dogs and children. Chicken, beef, or fish? A smile. Here's your napkin. A smile. He just kept his eyes on her chest, beef, thanks, and then slipped on the headphones. Fell asleep. Timothy dreamed about the ace of spades and two of a kind and a black and red roulette wheel. When he woke up, he had a splitting headache and a different attendant, more heavyset, was passing out sealed packages of honey-roasted peanuts. Some shit movie was playing; he watched it for a while before dozing off, wishing he'd taken the Dramamine.

And what do you know, Newark, New Jersey already. Things always seemed to happen faster when you weren't ready for them. The techies were closing their laptops, the yuppies picking up their designer briefcases, and Timothy just wanted another drink to calm his nerves.

Walking off the plane felt surreal.

The connecting flight had been delayed so he wandered around the shops, looking at glossy handbags and silk ties in the Duty Free shop, then bought a gooey cinnamon roll and a coffee at Cinnabon. Walking through Terminal A, he passed by a Wok-n-Roll and Starbucks, paused by an ATM, feeling the sudden urge to call Harry as he licked the last of the sugar off his fingers and knuckles. Well-dressed families and couples, just reeking of morality and success, ignored his rumpled outfit and kept a consistent six-foot distance.

He threw the styrofoam cup towards a dustbin politely marked, "Keep our airport litter free," not bothering to pick it up when he missed.

Propping his suitcase against the seat, Timothy sat down on one of the chairs by the lifts and tried to relax, but his legs felt stiff and he kept on having to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Finally, a male voice said Newark to Atlantic City, passengers please board your flight and he got up, his senses going double-time.

The plane this time was smaller, crappier looking, with separating curtains made of vomit-green fabric and what looked like white shower curtain rings. The first class section in the front wasn't much different from the coach and his mouth froze when a man in a blue vest asked if he'd like anything to drink: water, soda, juice? If you need anything, just ask. Timothy couldn't even bring himself to nod.

He wasn't sure if he liked the way his shoulders pressed against the seat when the plane rushed forward or the way he felt when the wheels met the long, thin pavement again as they said, ladies and gentleman, welcome to Atlantic City. He wasn't sure if he wanted to get off.

Have a nice trip. Don't get yourself killed. The sunlight was brighter over here than in Britain, still a little on the chilly side but not much snow on the ground, at least not in the airport. He took off his belt, a chain around his neck, a cheap watch, and walked through the metal detector. Threading his belt back on the other side, the man didn't even look up.

The luggage trolley kept on circling around and what if it got lost? Confiscated? Where the fuck was it? Finally, he found it under a giant purple suitcase and kept up a brisk, snap, snap pace, don't look at anybody, don't look suspicious if he had dressed in some suit some Calvin Klein rip-off it wouldn't be so bad oh fuck there was a cop what the fuck was a cop doing here don't look at him. Don't look at him. The cop didn't stop him and he walked even faster, then slower; he couldn't look suspicious.

There was a taxi waiting for him - at least Harry hadn't lied about that part. Name's Joe, the bloke behind the wheel said in some accent; Timothy couldn't identify it. Cage's Hotel Casino, he just said. Hitting the slots already? Joe asked. You feel lucky today? Nah, I just have to talk to somebody.

"Where you from?" Joe drove worse than Harry on a bad day; he kept looking back and drove with one hand, the other resting out the open window. "Lemme guess, you're one of those bloody, bloody Brits?"

"Yeah," Timothy said tersely.

Joe did a bad imitation of some Eastenders actor that started with "bloody hell" and went downhill from there and ended with "what did you think?"

"Hey, look, nice building there," he said, avoiding the question. Couldn't Harry have got him a driver who could drive? Holy shit, it was a nice building. He guessed it'd probably look even nicer at night, all lit up.

"That's Trump's. He owns half the town," he said and hit the brakes, hard. Timothy lurched forward and swore. "Sorry 'bout that. You know, I saw Anna Diego there once, I swear."

"Who's Anna Diego?"

Joe faked a shock and placed both hands up to his chest, abandoning the wheel. "My man, you've never heard of Anna? How do you Brits jack off at night?"

Timothy pointed to another building. "Hey, look at that one there..."

At least he was keeping his mind off this Thede. The name brought up the image of a muscled giant with dark, slicked-back hair and a moustache. He felt a little sick, actually, and blamed it on the jet lag.

The hotels and casinos that lined the boardwalk like super sized Monopoly playing pieces made him nervous as well, each looking like it was trying to outflash the last. He wondered idly how much money people lost at the slots and tables everyday.

"Here we are." The cab stopped in front of a tan building with "Cage's" emblazoned on the front in what promised to be red neon at night and a panel of dark, tinted windows that glittered even in the weak light. "Wishing you luck, man. Make sure you have enough to get back."

"Oh, that won't be a problem." It was the first positive thought he'd had since walking into Heathrow. "It won't be a problem at all."

* * *

"Tell him it has to do with Harry Potter."

The secretary looked up from her computer keyboard, which had a bag of takeaway sitting next to it from Kanakura around the corner. The top of her hair was carefully parted and the dark roots were just starting to show through copper red. She cast an appraising glance at him, paused a mid-second between chewing her Winterfresh, then picked up the phone. "There's someone to see you ... not, it's not Arnold again ... he said something about Harry, yes, that Harry ... should I send him in? Sure, fine. Will do." She turned back to Timothy and pointed in a vague direction. "Down there, the door's labeled." Already typing at an alarming speed, her attention returned to the computer screen.

He tried to imagine Harry walking to the same door, only Harry would know what to expect, Harry'd know what to say. Timothy tried to remember what he'd told him: what to mention, depositing the money that was hidden in every crevice of his luggage, the note. Stopping in front of the door, he shuffled his feet and knocked. This was it. Don't fuck it up now. Fifty percent. A big, fat five-oh.

"Come in." The left wall was covered in awards, photos, autographs of various celebrities of which only a few Timothy recognized. "Why don't you sit down?"

He did, gripping the armrests to steady himself.

"What's this about Harry?" Thede leaned over the desk, placing his elbows on the surface. Looked friendly enough, straight teeth, brown hair shot through with some gray, the pattern of laugh lines around his eyes. "He in trouble?"

"No, no..." Timothy fumbled around in his pocket and for a moment, thought he had lost it and felt like he had swallowed liquid nitrogen. He wet his lips quickly and his fingers met the folded envelope. He pushed it across to Thede.

The casino owner took it, ripping the seal carefully where Harry had licked it shut. He drew out the letter inside, unfolded it onto the desk, flattening it out with his fingers, and read it without any change of expression. Then he glanced over at a man standing in the corner. Bug, muscle-bound, at least 6'8". Could crush Timothy under his little toe. Scoop out his brains for his toast.

"So?" he finally said, the silence unnerving him.

"So, Mr.-" Thede glanced back at the letter, "- Rossini, you'll be taking his place?"

"Yeah."

"You ever gamble?" Still smiling. Timothy was just trying not to look at who he presumed to be the bodyguard standing in the corner.

"A few times." And he had lost every, single bloody cent.

"We've got 176 table games and over three thousand slot machines, you know. How much is it this time?"

Timothy repeated the amount he'd been told. Thede whistled and he liked the sound of that, somehow.

"So it's been a good year?"

"Do I get a comp?"

Standing up, Thede walked towards him like an old friend. "For that, you get pretty much whatever you damn want. Anything, just ask. Rentals, rooms, meals, VIP passes, fly in your own Japanese chef..."

He tried to think of what Harry might ask for and his mind wiped itself blank. "A scotch?"

* * *

The weather outside had eased up a bit and in finding an empty alley to Apparate from, neither woman encountered any citizens, disturbed or otherwise. The French Wizarding district consisted of several interconnected alleys, much like Diagon and Knockturn, only far more cramped and confusing in the seedier alleys. The Dinde D'écarlate section housed the more prosperous: high ranking Ministry officials, businesswizards, and robe designers, for the most part. The filthy rich owned villas out in the countryside and kept flats on the outskirts of the Wizarding community, ones which Ginny probably wouldn't mind owning.

A few years before, they had voted to move the Ministry headquarters to the middle-class section, separated from the Dinde D'écarlate by only a we magical gate. The official Apparating spot was a spare backroom of a shop called Couleurs du Monde that sold overpriced, over-decorated creations that reminded Ginny of peacock headdresses. Several enthusiastic assistants, glittering with sequined zeal, descended upon them like particularly tacky vultures until they realized they were Aurors.

"You need to teach me how to say, 'no thank you,'" Ginny reminded her.

"There are probably more forceful ways to put it."

"Yes, but we don't need the French thinking poorly of us. What's that?" She heard a chanting, growing louder as they moved closer, and a solid mass of jackets and cameras surging against the cold brick front of the Ministry headquarters.

"Looks like the press."

"What're they here for?"

Cho shrugged. "Don't know." She automatically placed her hand over her wand in a ready position to draw it out. "We check in through the side door."

"What're they saying?" For some reason, Ginny had never got used to the press, even though she had to keep up with it back home. There always something about a reporter that made her distinctly uncomfortable; while Cho had done an interview or two for the Daily Prophet, Ginny had declined, and the way the editor had spoken to her had made her feel like she was hiding something.

"Wait..." she squinted and paused for a second. "Sounds something like, 'We demand the truth.' Except it sounds a lot catchier in French."

"If they demand the truth, why don't they ever print it?" Ginny tapped her wand on the door knocker and whispered the password they'd been given, wondering for a moment whether she'd pronounced it incorrectly until it swung open.

An annoyed looking witch held out a hand for their wands, muttered a spell she couldn't quite catch, and a column of colored smoke rose from the ends. Handing them back as if she were sure they had somehow conned their way in, she said something in French, Cho nodded, and they ascended a set of stairs with a magical barrier around it. The rooms were in a state of blatant disarray and scraps of multicolored parchment were tacked up on the walls, each more hastily scribbled than the last.

Dupont looked less tired than the last time Ginny had seen him. He spoke clearly, although still stoop-shouldered like a frail gentleman hunching over a cane, and his eyes had a set determination to them - in some ways, he reminded her of the late Albus Dumbledore, only he didn't have the same aura of infallibility and wisdom.

"How has your work been progressing?"

"Fine," Cho said quickly.

"Just fine." Well, they hadn't received any life-threatening injuries and in Ginny's book, that was enough to justify it.

The air smelled faintly of incense, as if it had once been a holy temple, but was overlaid with something less sacred she couldn't quite put a finger on. Glass figurines dozed on the shelves, all presumably from the 2005 International Wizarding Convention: an elephant with opaque tusks, a dove, an impossibly delicate model of a Chinese Fireball. All had a thin coating of dust like someone had given up on keeping the office clean. Dupont rearranged the stacks of folders and papers on the desk but he was fighting a losing battle. The memos and empty cartons looked like they were plotting to overthrow him.

"Glad to hear it," Dupont said, not sounding convinced but letting it pass. He started coughing and doubled over, hands cupped over his mouth. Cho looked worried and reached over in an automatic gesture to pat his back but he straightened up again. "I'm fine, but thank you."

"Where's your assistant; Gabrielle, I think it was?"

"She's gone." A sober smile.

"Gone? You don't mean-" Ginny interjected, not wanting to finish the sentence. Cho nudged her side with a well-placed elbow.

"No, no, nothing of that sort," he replied. "Thankfully, nothing like that. Since our killer targets only Ministry workers, now we have quite a few vacancies. Did you hear about Jacques Montier resigning from his post? It is a tragedy, truly. Some of our brightest minds are deciding it is not worth the risk anymore."

Ginny said, "I'm sorry." And then, wanting to say more, "We're doing our best."

"I know." He gave them a reassuring smile as if consoling young children about the bogeyman under their beds and drank a half-glass of brilliant orange, made a slight face, then set it back down. "I've brought you here today - there's a new development. I think it might be some help." The Minister paused to let this sink in. "About Brian Wright."

"What about him?" Ginny sounded a little bitter and she was. Taking another vicious gulp of coffee, she burned her mouth. Again. I don't have time to be chasing after Jack the Ripper. The paper cut on her thumb where a library pamphlet had left its mark had closed and started to itch. Don't touch it. It'll heal faster. She scratched it anyway. "There wasn't much evidence in the first place."

"Ah, but Auror Weasley, that is changing. The Muggle police who are following Wright have found that he is on the move again; this time, intelligence reports say that he is in Britain. In or around the London area, specifically."

"Does it have to do with anything here?" Cho asked.

"We are thinking it might. The problem is that he is a very difficult man to find and seems to pass over borders at will, which is part of the reason why we suspected he had magical aid. A photograph of Jules Cheever was found in a murdered cabdriver's hand with the number "12/14" on the back. We think it might have been because the cabdriver knew too much, whatever it was. It is too late now, however, to question him."

One of Dupont's problems, Ginny observed, was his tendency to speak the obvious.

"There never seems to be much evidence," Cho observed. "Most of it seems circumstantial."

"You know how it is. I cannot take the risk that it was by chance the photograph found its way into his hand. We have to operate on whatever we can find in this case."

"Isn't that an awfully long shot, though?"

He sighed and resumed busying his hands by squaring off stacks of paper. "Everything in this case is a long shot. Nothing has ever happened of this sort in the French Wizarding community - even the murders in 1916 do not mirror this one. I trust you have found there is little to be found, even after interviews and searching around Paris."

Ginny didn't know how she could answer besides agreeing.

"So..." Cho said, finding words. "What now?"

"What now, indeed." Dupont smiled, tired, but a smile nonetheless. "You know as well as I that to continue your work here would not get you any further than where you are now."

"We could do more interviews, really-" Cho interrupted.

"- and learn nothing you do not already know," he said firmly. "There is no time to waste at the moment."

"So," Ginny echoed. "Now what?" Dupont drew a spoon out of the air and stirred around the dregs in his glass.

With her hands in her lap, Cho crossed her legs and stared very intently at her dragon hide boots and the fraying shoelaces. The door clicked open and a haggard-looking witch with a patterned beige scarf around her neck poked her head in.

"Les journalistes... ils ont réussi à entrer, et les gardes ne peuvent rien faire."

Dupont stood up and slammed a fist on his desk. He said something that Ginny was sure was probably rude in French. "Tu plaisantes, n'est-ce pas?" He no longer looked frail and exhausted - an angry bitterness had etched itself onto his face like a split-second capture of emotion, his jaw clenched. "Fais quelque chose!"

Ginny leaned over and said softly, "What's he saying?"

Placing a finger to her lips, Cho shook her head, keeping her eyes on Dupont. "Not now." p>

The woman ran a hand through her hair and said rapidly, "Les journalistes... ils ont passé les gardes chargés de la sécurité, les gardes ne peuvent rien faire... pas question de leur dire non."

Dupont sank back into his seat. "Trouve des faux-fuyants. N'importe quoi". She left. He drained the rest of his drink and in the confusion, threw the glass into the dustbin.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Ginny asked, "What happened?" He didn't answer and she wondered if she could take it back.

He finally answered, "The reporters. Did you see them outside? They got through."

Cho said quietly, "They broke in?"

"It won't be long now... I'll have to speak to them."

"But- but- what could you tell them? It's about the murders, isn't it?" Ginny searched his face carefully for any clue and for once, wished she had been Cho. I will not ask her. I will not ask her.

He shrugged as if it didn't mean anything. "It looks worse on paper. They don't need to do much sensationalizing for once to make us seem like bumbling idiots; after all, fighting this is taking shots in the dark. No solid suspects, anarchy, chaos - it makes for a good tabloid article."

Outside, Ginny could hear the faint chant of the reporters and protesters, then closer, probably in the building.

"You will be Portkeyed back to Britain and follow up on Brian Wright. He is our last hope before they completely overthrow us and establish a new government." It was an odd moment of humor from him.

It didn't even register with Ginny that she was going home.

"I trust you are familiar with the London area."

Cho said, "Only too well."

"If this is another shot in the dark, so be it." Dupont placed his fingers up to his temples. "We don't have anywhere near the magical technology the British Ministry of Magic has put in place. Perhaps that will help you."

"Maybe it will," Cho said optimistically. "Who knows."

Dupont started, "He will probably be under a different name, a different appearance..."

Ginny laughed grimly. "You don't know how many tracking and locating spells the Experimental Magic Department came up with after the Brighton Bombings."

"We'll need to be cleared before we use them-" Cho said, in typical fashion, and Ginny was reminded why she wasn't best friends with her partner.

Dupont dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Permission is no problem. Anything - I will see to it personally that you are able to use it."

"If only they said that more often," Ginny said, "our job would be that much easier."

"You know, you're right about that. If we had had the Veritaserum cleared back in that case in September with the Hudson family, we wouldn't've had to -"

Ginny winced. "Don't say it."

* * *

Harry opened the drawer in his room after tossing his jacket onto the sofa. Frank would replace the windows for the Mercedes; not happily, but Harry knew he would, all the same. He took out Draco's wand, looked at it for a second, then as if on a whim, pointed it at the lampshade and said, "Engorgio." Except, of course, nothing happened.

"Stupid fucking..." he threw it back into the desk and shoved the drawer shut.

Brian Wright didn't know everything. But if Draco could still cast an Imperius, work some of that abracadabra shit, he might still be in business. Taking the napkin out of his pocket and staring intently at the figure on it, he crumpled it and shoved it back in.

Draco was sleeping, or at least it looked like he was, in the guest room with one arm flung over the side of the bed. He hadn't bothered changing out of his day clothes, mostly because Harry hadn't bothered to waste money on sleepwear and besides, weren't tramps used to sleeping in their clothing? Harry looked at the back of Draco's head for a few moments, trying to sort out his problems and put them in order. Draco slept on his stomach, his face buried somewhere in the pillow.

Swallowing, he remembered the wand back in the drawer, remembering that Draco bloody owed him. The trouble might've been worth it. Might have. If he could just get him to agree to it.

If he split the money - but he was splitting everything these days, first with Rossini and now Draco? Harry wondered if threatening would do more harm than good.

Fuck, he let Malfoy drive around in his cars, eat his food, even wear his clothes. There wasn't anything more he could do besides hold a gun to his head. That way wasn't foolproof, either, when you wanted somebody to do anything - it only worked as a quick fix. Loyalty, yeah, that worked better. Butter them up, let them think you're great friends and some people'd melt right in your hands. Draco, he was a question mark for him. Harry didn't know how much Draco had changed since seventh year, after all, seventh year had changed Harry, too.