If You Only Knew

Harry Apparated into Paris, outside the grandly constructed home field of the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, and inhaled deeply as the smell of worn leather and fresh grass assaulted his senses.

Nowhere in the world felt more like home to him than a Quidditch pitch; nowhere else in the world did he feel as capable, as calm. He'd found more enjoyable challenges than he'd ever dreamed possible in his adult life, but sometimes, when he looked back on his childhood before the war, before everything had gotten so terribly complicated, the pitch was his favorite memory. When he was playing Quidditch, just playing, because he loved his House and his team, he couldn't remember a time he'd felt more rested, more at ease in his own skin. He recalled the sensation of solitude and oneness as he soared high above childish taunts, looming death, and being the famous Harry Potter, and now, just for a moment, he longed to be eleven again, new to Quidditch, to friendship, to the world, and without any idea what was to be.

That was the real reason he'd gone pro after the war. He'd been trying to recapture something, a feeling so ephemeral he could never pinpoint exactly what it was. He only knew that he was better up there. In every conceivable way, he was better. After the injury he was determined to take to the skies again, determined to find that sense of peace and calm, though it had eluded him for most of his professional career. He hadn't told anyone -- not even Hermione -- but a few weeks ago, he'd begun training on the sly, using weekends and spare evenings to relearn what had always been so instinctual. He wasn't sure what he was training for; he was happy at the paper, satisfied in a way that was wholly different than the win of a well-played game. And he loved spending so much time with Hermione, in her element; in their element. They'd never really had common ground like that before, and it felt good. Plus, with all the time Quidditch players spent on the road, their bimonthly dinners would become a thing of the past, and he wasn't about to lose them for anything.

But today was Saturday, and while Harry would normally have been happy to devote a few of his personal hours in the pursuit of a good story, after spending so much time with Ron, hearing him talk about how he was thinking of starting things up again with Hermione, Harry had been especially looking forward to soaring around the field for a few hours, his only worry whether or not he'd be able to beat his own best time catching the Snitch.

Harry's editor had been insistent, however: Cal Canderer, Keeper for the Quafflepunchers, was earning tremendous acclaim for the stellar playing he'd been doing all season, and Dunhill was determined that the Prophet would have the first one-on-one interview with the Quidditch world's new darling. Last week's game against the Chudley Cannons had elevated Canderer another class level in the Quidditch hierarchy, from rising star to superstar, somewhere on par with the status Victor Krum had achieved shortly before he exploded onto the scene in earnest. Harry had been scheduled to interview him four days ago, but the match against the Cannons had gone on longer than anyone -- even seasoned Quidditch analysts -- had predicted. Saturday at one-fifteen had been the only opening Canderer's press agent had been able to secure for Harry, and he'd resignedly taken it.

Had that been the end of it, Harry might have been inclined to preserve his normally pleasant disposition. However, there had been a mix-up with Canderer's scheduling office. In the past hour, Harry had Apparated to Canderer's favorite pub, his personal residence, the home he kept on the Mediterranean, and the flat of an ex-girlfriend who threatened to do terrible things to Harry's anatomy for speaking Canderer's name in her presence. Finally, Harry had been forced arrive in person at the offices of Canderer's representation, where an insufferably perky girl at the front desk had informed him Cal always had an extra practice in his home field on Saturdays, which had made Harry all the more bitter about his own aborted weekend plans.

If Canderer wasn't in the locker room after a grueling practice as the perky girl had promised, Harry was going to tell Dunhill where he could stick his desires for the Prophet.

"Hey, Harry!" a friendly voice called out from beneath the stands.

It was George Doolots, one of the handywizards who kept things running smoothly at various stadiums. His job was one of the most tedious Harry could think of, as he not only had to deal with the day-to-day maintenance of extremely large public arenas, but he also had to do so amidst throngs of screaming, fanatical Quidditch enthusiasts, most of whom were armed.

"All right then, George?" Harry called out as he crossed the field to enter the stadium.

"Damn kids," George called back, holding up what looked like a half-transfigured armadillo. What it was half-transfigured into, Harry couldn't say.

"Keep your chin up, George." Harry sighed as he made his way to the players' changing room. He did miss this sometimes. Playing Quidditch professionally had almost been like being at Hogwarts, except he hadn't had to worry himself with half a dozen academic subjects and Voldemort trying to kill him.

He also hadn't gotten to see Hermione, or Colin, or even Lavender Brown on a daily basis, faces from his past that brought comfort and familiarity to his world, Hermione especially. He'd also lost touch with Ron for awhile, only seeing him when their teams played each other, or if there were some sort of Quidditch function they were both required to attend. It was like living in another world, being a Quidditch player, even more separate than the Muggles were from wizarding folk. The schedule was grueling, and you often forgot what city you were in or what time of day it was. Games could last for days in all sorts of weather conditions, and if you were caught complaining, your mates on the team would give you a proper thrashing.

But you were free. Kick at the ground, get a heady burst of speed, crash through the clouds and you were home. Harry only knew what it was like to be a Seeker, and he doubted he'd miss playing Quidditch at all if he'd played any other position. The Seeker was a solitary player, the only member of the team not working in synch with the others to achieve a common goal, beyond the obvious end of winning. A Seeker's sole imperative was to locate the Snitch and catch it. It was advised for a Seeker to ignore the actions of the rest of his team, of the opposing team, and even of the opposing Seeker, because nothing was to distract from the capture of that tiny, lightning-fast flash of gold.

Early on, Harry had spent most of his life alone, with no one to look out for him but him. When he was eleven, that had unexpectedly and irrevocably changed. Suddenly, he had a whole stable of people ready, willing, and able to put their lives on the line for him if need be, a large portion of them bearing the surname Weasley. Ron's family had become Harry's family, and with them, Hermione, Hagrid, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy (he was like the obnoxious cousin no one liked, but kept coming around to family reunions anyhow, and you couldn't exactly turn him out, and even if you could get rid of him, you wouldn't, because it wouldn't be family without him), and even little Colin Creevey, had become integral, necessary parts of his life. Harry felt that he sometimes held on so tightly to Quidditch because it was the last part of him he kept separate from everyone and everything else, and if he lost it, what would that leave him with?

With Hermione, a little voice in his head whispered. Doing something you love with someone you love and perhaps finally having an opportunity to really figure out what that meant.

Assuming, Harry thought darkly, Ron and Hermione weren't on their way to reconciliation number two hundred and seventeen.

"'Ey, you zair, what are you -- oh! Monsieur Potter. I--I am sorry, I did not recognize you from behind."

Harry felt a grin tug at his mouth, both at the grudging nature of the man's apology, as well as the assertion he'd made. "I should hope not," he said, turning to regard the man before him. He looked to be in his late fifties, his hair well on its way to pure white, and with Stadium Security, judging by his dress of sedate navy robes adorned with gold trim.

"I did not realize you were back, sir," the man said, though the 'sir' sounded almost insulting. "I am Monsieur Beauchamp. I look after ze safety in ze stadium during ze -- 'ow do you say -- downtime."

"Nice to meet you, Monsieur Beauchamp," Harry said, shaking the other man's hand, "and I'm not back. I'm looking for Cal Canderer, actually. I'm meant to be conducting an interview with him--" Harry looked down at the Muggle wristwatch Ginny had given him for Christmas. "--Five minutes ago."

Monsieur Beauchamp gave a snort of derision, then immediately sobered. "My apologies. Monsieur Canderer should be in ze Quafflepunchers' changing room. 'E 'as been sulking all morning."

Harry felt his left eyebrow rise of its own volition at the derision in the other man's voice. The French had a way of pronouncing certain words that lent an air of criminality to them, replacing the word 'sulking' with the intent of the phrase 'murdering baby seals.' "Sulking? Any idea why?"

At that, Monsieur Beauchamp grinned. "It seems zat Monsieur Canderer wished to be traded to a different team, one zat would compensate 'im for what 'e thinks 'e is worth. 'E 'as been -- 'ow do you say, whining? -- all ze time, and 'e found out today zat 'is 'ot-shot agent cannot get 'im out of 'is contract wiz ze Quafflepunchers."

"So I shouldn't ask him how he likes playing for France," Harry noted dryly, thinking that this man was on the sort of power trip Lucius Malfoy had experienced when he'd demanded silk sheets on his cot in Azkaban.

"'E 'as no loyalty if 'e wishes to be traded from 'is own team," Monsieur Beauchamp said, his mouth pulling into a sneer, and he went on, almost as though he'd forgotten Harry was still standing there. "Ze players today, zey 'ave no respect for zair roots. Zey play wherever ze money is. I could get ten times ze pay I get 'ere if I work wiz ze Sweetwater All-Stars. Ze Americans are willing to pay, but I believe in France. Cal Canderer 'as no 'onor."

"Er, yes," Harry said, beginning to back away from Monsieur Beauchamp. "I think I'll leave that subject for another interview. But I do thank you for all the background information the press kits don't tell us. If you ever see me in a pub, I owe you a pint."

"Zat is unnecessary, Monsieur Potter," Monsieur Beauchamp said, his thin cheeks flushing scarlet with pride, but no hint of surprise. Harry got the impression this was the sort of man who was never truly pleased by anything in life, because he already believed he deserved every good thing that happened to him, and therefore only became increasingly despondent when things did not go his way.

"Good day," Harry said, turning and walking briskly down the hall. Hermione would chastise him for fleeing just because the other man was zealous about his opinions.

Passion, Hermione was fond of saying, is what arguments coast on while logic and reason refuel.

"It's also the excuse people use when they've gone totally nutters," Harry muttered quietly to himself, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Mr. Beauchamp hadn't followed him. He was alone in the hall, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the changing room at last, shouldering the door open and stepping inside.

The showers were going, steam pouring out of the stalls, lending a distorted perspective to a room filled with mirrors and benches. Harry stubbed his foot twice before he pulled out his wand and muttered a spell that instantly cleared the room of steam. As he swept his gaze across the room, looking for signs of Cal, he caught sight of the last thing he'd wanted or expected to see.

Blood, a lot of it, was trailing out of a locker, and smeared, in small bits, along the front.

Harry had seen blood before, had seen death up close and far away and surrounding him, everywhere he looked. The night Voldemort tried to decimate everything in Harry's life the ruthless creature had left intact seventeen years before had given Harry the opportunity to look death in the face. Death was no stranger, but it had been a very, very long time since Harry'd been forced to shake hands with it and remember the very close association they shared.

Hand trembling so slightly he almost couldn't feel it, Harry reached out to touch the locker, then felt his arm drop. He knew he had to open it, to confirm what the horror in his heart was telling him was inside, but he could not find the will to do more than stare, horrified, at the sight before him.

His gaze was riveted to the silver letters that spelt C. Canderer, marking the bloodstained door like a headstone.

xXxXxXx

The inside of Hermione Granger's home was not a sight Draco had ever aspired to see, nor had he ever wanted to pretend to be her boyfriend, yet somehow, both these horrors had come to pass. She was neat and orderly, much like Draco himself, but if he compared this sterile environment to that of Ginny's homey clutter, he much preferred the latter. Besides, he merely tended toward cleanliness, whereas from the looks of things, Granger bordered on obsessive.

"I thought I'd get your opinion on some new clothing I bought this morning," said the burden in question, sounding muffled from behind a closed door.

Draco sighed deeply and looked at his watch. If this didn't take too long, he could still catch the Magpies-Harriers match on the WWN. His money was on Montrose, mostly because he hadn't had any use for Germany ever since the time he'd been on a family holiday and his favorite brand of pumpkin juice hadn't been available anywhere in the country. He was very interested in the outcome of the game. not because he needed the money, but because he enjoyed winning, and it was all the more satisfying when the losing party knew full well he didn't really need it.

He was reclining on the imitation-leather sofa, trying to make himself more comfortable and considering a nap, when Granger opened a door that led somewhere he didn't care about and abruptly presented herself, modeling a new ... a new ... Draco's mind worked for a few moments, trying to supply answers, then ceased the exercise in futility. What was it?

"What do you think?" she demanded.

"Many things," Draco replied. "But if you're referring to how best to get rid of that thing, then might I suggest a merry bonfire?"

Granger's face fell, and Draco almost felt sorry for being so critical. Well, if you want to change, first stop being so critical of yourself then, he thought reasonably, and decided that this was sound advice.

She looked down at herself, spreading her hands in bewilderment. "What's the matter with it? I thought it looked nice!"

"Well, I should hope so," Draco said, "or I'd think you were even more daft for purchasing it." He crossed his arms. "It's very ... orange, for one thing."

"You said my clothing ought to be more dramatic and eye catching!" came the protest.

"Yes, well, I assumed you knew I meant in a good way."

Granger pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "All right then, other than the color, what's wrong with it?"

"I can't identify it. Is it a dress? Trousers? An overly decorated sack?"

"It's a dress!" Granger exclaimed, flushing red. "I know the folds are a bit unusual, but the salesgirl said it was the latest fashion!"

"Of course that's what she's going to say," Draco retorted, "if you went anywhere other than the list of shops I gave you. And I can only assume you did, because there is absolutely no way that thing came from anywhere I'd recommend."

"Well, I haven't the means to shop at the places you recommended," Granger replied snippily. "I went into one of those stores, and you would not believe the number of Galleons they wanted for a pair of knickers! There isn't enough material there to justify that kind of cost!"

"You wouldn't be paying for the material," Draco said. The fact that he even had to point out such an obvious fact to this clueless woman was a testament to his astonishing patience.

"Whatever it is I would be paying for would not be worth that price," Granger replied, her nose in the air. "In any case, this dress may not have been the right choice, but I'm sure there are items available at a reasonable price that would be acceptable even to you, Draco Malfoy."

"If you say so," he sighed. It appeared he was going to be obligated to spend more time with Granger than he'd wanted or anticipated; if she was unwilling to go the easy route to achieve the desired results, then he would have to go shopping with her to find the gems at these so-called fashion establishments and -- inspiration suddenly struck. He could simply buy her the clothes from the right shops. He'd call up the proprietors, let them know approximately what he was looking for, and let the sales clerks take care of the rest. All he'd have to do was pay. Certainly, a part of him balked at the idea of spending his money on Granger, but the ends would justify the means. Glorious would be the day when she and Potter found bliss in one another's flailing arms, and Ginny would stop trying to make oil and water mix.

Granger would probably veto the idea if he brought it up, but there was little she could do if the clothes simply showed up at her door and he refused to return them. Besides, she wanted Potter -- an idea he really couldn't fathom, but then, he was not a Mudblood nor did he have bad hair, factors that might conceivably make Granger that desperate -- and if he was right (which of course he was), she'd swallow that damn pride of hers and accept the clothing. He'd also make an excuse to help her come to that decision more easily. This was clearly the best course of action. Draco had long ago accepted that if he wanted something done properly, he had to do it himself.

Well, sometimes he could depend on Ginny, but she was a bit dotty and liked to argue with him too much.

"I do say so," Granger said. "What else?"

Draco sighed again and propped his feet onto the coffee table, mostly to annoy Granger, and by the look on her face, it was working splendidly. "It's a size too large."

"It fits."

"It should be fitted. You don't want to be entirely comfortable. Comfort equals complacency -- poor posture, you know."

"So I'm not supposed to be able to breathe?"

"Of course you should breathe. Just not too deeply." Draco linked his fingers behind his head. He was sorely tempted to give her bad advice, but the end result would only mean his misery, so he refrained.

Granger rolled her eyes. "I think Harry would like it if I were able to breathe. In fact, I think he'd prefer it."

Draco shrugged, thinking that conversation with Granger was like watching Blast-Ended Skrewts mate: it had questionable entertainment value, and when it was over, you wish you hadn't bothered. He was missing the match for this? "Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, you might think about investing in a corset. Not only would it help your posture, it'd help accentuate your rather limited offering up top."

Granger gasped, hands balling into fists at her sides, causing her to resemble a woodland creature, if one could quiver in outrage the way she was doing. "I'll thank you to keep your comments about my chest to yourself! And why are you looking there anyway?" She glared.

"Please," Draco scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself, Granger. A man taking notice of how well endowed a woman is -- or isn't, in your case -- is hardly personal. All men do it. Well, men who are interested in such things, at least. It's on par with noting hair and eye color, whether she has good teeth, that sort of thing."

"I don't believe you," she said, obviously trying to sound confident. "I'm sure Harry does no such thing."

Draco did not even attempt to roll his eyes, as he was sure he'd hurt himself from how hard he'd have to do it. "Well, that changes everything, then," he announced. "If you had told me from the start that Potter was gayer than a of male figure skater at a Barbella Quicksand concert, I wouldn't have wasted my time trying to make you attractive."

"Harry isn't gay!" Granger responded immediately, then frowned, and Draco would have wondered what she was thinking, if he'd possessed even the slightest interest in the answer. "He's just not a disgusting lecher like you. He doesn't notice things like that. He's good and decent and--"

Draco held up a hand to stop the tide of Potter virtues being hurled at him with lightning precision, before he was forced to be sick on her sofa. However, considering the cause, it might be well deserved. "Let's assume you're right," he said. "That simply proves my point. You want him to take notice. Before he can find you attractive, he first has to notice that you're a woman. And as far as I'm concerned, you've just admitted he does not."

Granger opened her mouth to object -- probably with something literal and asinine such as, "Of course Harry knows I'm female!" -- but she shut it abruptly as Draco's meaning became clear. He smirked in triumph and she scowled. "Fine, I'll return this," she said, looking defeated. "I don't suppose there's any point in showing you the rest of it."

Draco tamped down the urge to say, "Yes, bye then" and find the nearest pub to watch the match. A little time investment now could end this farce that much sooner, and this hope kept him in his seat. "We could use this as a learning opportunity," Draco suggested reluctantly. "I'll tell you what's wrong with each item, and when you're shopping on your own, you'll have a better idea of what to look for." There wasn't really much point, as he was going to buy her a whole new wardrobe if necessary, but it wouldn't hurt for her to possess the knowledge.

After a moment, Granger acquiesced and disappeared into the other room once more, leaving Draco to reflect that he was becoming such a good Samaritan, it was nauseating. And the blame could be laid squarely at the door of Ginny Weasley's House of Infernal Matchmaking Attempts.

He was surprised she hadn't seemed happier about the fact that he and Granger appeared to be getting along famously. Perhaps she hadn't been feeling very well yesterday; she had looked a bit peaked during their conversation. This required serious consideration. After all, he wouldn't want a sick partner watching his back if they were chasing down suspects, or passing an illness on to him. Yes, there was no help for it, he would have to stop by Ginny's flat later and check on her. If she was even at home. He wondered if she had another date with that prat from pathology. Draco began to drum his fingers impatiently on the arm of a sofa, now regretting making the hasty offer to critique Granger's purchases.

Over the next half hour, Draco gave rapid-fire suggestions about every new outfit Granger appeared in. There were one or two items he didn't despise too much, but with every passing moment he was getting more and more antsy. He was considering telling her he'd had enough for one day and to simply return everything else she'd bought, when she came out in a nearly see-through top that was the most daring thing she'd shown him all day. It was still hideous, of course, as sheer clothing that wasn't lingerie required extremely discerning taste and the right sort of body -- neither of which Granger had. Still, at least it was a step in the right direction.

Draco was about to tell her so when a breathless voice calling her name issued from the fireplace next to the couch. He could make out Potter's head in the flames, his glasses looking slightly askew.

The identity of the caller was confirmed when Granger shrilly exclaimed, "Harry!" and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Hermione, I'm so glad I've caught you at home. You won't believe what I've just seen." Potter gulped, and Draco's interest was piqued by the urgency in his voice. "I had a devil of a time finding Cal Canderer -- you know, the player I was to interview today, and finally I'd gone to the Quafflepunchers' changing room, and ... and ..." Potter's voice seemed to have failed him. When he spoke again, it sounded rather strangled. "What are you wearing?"

"Well, I ... um, that is ..." Granger was blushing and stammering like a schoolgirl.

Draco decided it was time for him to interrupt, as their awkward mating ritual could go on for some time, and he had other plans. "She's just modeling some clothes for me," he said casually, drawing Potter's attention. Draco's grin widened at the look on the other man's face. Even if he'd rather bed a banshee than lay a finger on Granger, it was quite satisfying to watch Potter turn a mottled shade of red.

"What are you doing there?"

"I've just told you," Draco said.

"Harry, it isn't--" Granger began, then stopped when she caught sight of Draco's raised eyebrow. What was she going to say, after all? "What were you going to tell me?"

"Yes, what were you yammering on about, before you were so captivated by Gra-Hermione's new shirt?" Draco threw Granger a rather smug 'I-told-you-so' look. Her lips thinned, but she didn't say anything.

"Well," said Potter slowly, looking at Draco suspiciously. "I suppose it's a good thing you're there, Malfoy, as the Ministry will need to get involved. I've just been to interview Canderer--"

"You've said. If you have a point, do try and come to it quickly," Draco interrupted.

"--only when I was in the changing room, I couldn't see anything at first, with all the steam, you know, coming from the showers, but I cleared that up, and that's when I saw it. Blood. A lot -- a lot of blood." Potter looked grave and tired, seeming to have run out of words all at once.

Draco sat upright, his attention immediately focused. What he said next wasn't a question, because he already knew the answer. "And he was dead. You found Cal Canderer dead." His voice was flat.

Potter let out a long breath and nodded. "I found him stuffed in his locker," he said calmly. "He was jammed in there, between his practice uniform and his broom."

"Dear God," Granger whispered, staring in horror, one hand covering her mouth.

"Where are you now?" Draco asked, his voice hard.

"I'm using a fireplace in the Quafflepunchers' main office."

"Was anyone else there?"

"No, it was off time, Canderer was there for a private practice."

"Did you touch anything?"

"No, other than opening the locker. I mean--"

"Potter, listen to me carefully. The second we disconnect, I want you to go back and make sure no one's in that room. Don't touch anything. Then I want you to stand outside that changing room and make sure no one goes in. Do not move from that position. Do not offer any information and do not discuss what you saw. If anyone asks, that area is a crime scene and is now under Ministry protection. No one is to step foot in that room without my say so. In the meanwhile, I want you to think about everything you did today, from the moment you woke up until the moment you discovered the body. Don't leave out any details. We'll need you to provide an official statement recounting everything you know, and I don't want to miss anything. Do you understand me, Potter?" Draco said, removing the brown stone ring from his left ring finger. "I'll be right there."

xXxXxXx

Stripping off her clothes into a messy pile on the floor, Ginny eyed the rapidly filling tub. She snapped her fingers to upend the bottle of bubble bath into the water, and another snap stopped the flow and floated the bottle back to its original position by the side of the tub. Next she used the same method to open a bottle of chilled red wine and poured herself half a glass, setting it down on the floor but within arm's reach. Learning how to focus magic without the aid of a wand was part of her early Auror training, and it was very useful in times like these. Likely not what the Ministry had intended, but Ginny rationalized it as exercising the skill for when she would need to use it in a work-related situation.

Dipping a toe into the filled tub, she gasped slightly as hot water met her skin. Always one to prefer a bath that was too hot to one that was not warm enough, she bravely stepped in, the water covering her knees. She took the opportunity to tie her hair into a messy bun on top of her head, then cautiously lowered herself the rest of the way in increments, allowing her body to adjust to the temperature of the water. Once fully immersed, she brushed away the bubbles that tickled her chin, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the edge of the tub.

The water that lapped over her shoulders felt unbelievably good, soothing her sore muscles. She let out a small sigh. It wasn't often that she was able to indulge in a bubble bath, but Ginny was having one of those lazy Saturdays where she woke up late, had a nice, leisurely brunch at her favorite cafe, then spent the rest of the morning sitting on a park bench reading The Daily Prophet. Today's issue had had an interesting article about some new spells that researchers at the Institute of Responsible Magical Discovery and Research (IRMDR) were working on.

Occasionally she'd been known to ask Draco to join her, but today he was the last person she wanted to see. Today was about relaxing and pampering herself, and that meant not having to deal with him.

Even as the thought went through her mind, Ginny felt guilty. She wasn't really being fair. More often than not, Draco's company could make a dull time more interesting, and he could lift her spirits more easily than anyone else she knew. However, the reverse was also true; he was more capable than anyone of driving her stark raving mad. In this case, however, Ginny had to admit he was blameless (for the most part). It wasn't his fault she was feeling grumpy ... or that most of the grump was directed toward him. She wasn't even sure why she was feeling so put out, but she was, and it was for the best that she have a weekend alone to get over it. Ginny wondered if it was PMS making her so surly, and after a bit of reflection she came to the realization that her period was in fact due in about a week. The knowledge was somewhat comforting -- at last, a rational explanation for her recent seesaw of emotion. Hopefully by the time she had to face him again on Monday, she would be feeling more like herself.

Unless he was a git, in which case, all bets were off.

She supposed this was a long time in coming. When she'd first gotten her Auror detail three years ago, she had seriously contemplated asking for reassignment. She couldn't possibly work with Draco Malfoy, no matter what he'd ended up doing during the war. Weasleys and Malfoys did not mix, and Ginny saw the potential for him to make her life absolutely miserable, just because he could; being the Ministry's golden boy, he'd get away with it, too. If their partnership was problematic, the blame was going to be placed squarely on her, not him. After all, Draco had been recruited by the Ministry directly after the war, despite only just having graduated from school. It was decreed by Those Who Mattered that he had already proven himself in the field by being an immensely valuable operative when someone had been needed on the inside, providing faulty information to the Death Eaters while keeping the Ministry apprised of Voldemort's movements -- not an easy task for one so young and untested. Of course, to catch a criminal one had to be able to think like one, and Draco had been raised by Lucius Malfoy.

Being a Gryffindor, Ginny had not taken the coward's way out. She had accepted the assignment, and while he hadn't been the easiest person to work with, neither had he been the boy she'd remembered from school.

Draco had been a prize for both sides, being a Malfoy and a Slytherin, as well as Quidditch team captain for his House and Head Boy at a school full of impressionable youth. The Death Eaters wanted him because he could recruit fresh members to their cause, while the Ministry needed someone who had pre-established trust with their enemy and would therefore be above suspicion for a longer period of time than a new recruit, someone who would be able to infiltrate their ranks without too much effort, someone who understood the risks and accepted them. Thus, getting Draco Malfoy on their side was truly a coup, and very few people knew why he'd committed himself to the Order of the Phoenix, though theories abounded. All Ginny knew of the story was that one day, he'd been called out of Transfiguration to the Headmaster's office, where Snape and Dumbledore had had a discussion with him. She didn't know what had transpired during that session -- Draco had never seen fit to satisfy her curiosity -- but the person who had gone into that office was not the same person who had left.

However, Draco's massive character growth had not become widely known until much later, Ginny reflected.

Technically, Harry and Professor Dumbledore had been the ones to finally rid the wizarding world of Voldemort, but that had only been made possible by the efforts of countless individuals who'd worked tirelessly behind the scenes, many of whom never received full recognition for their contributions. Draco, of course, had not been among their ranks. His double agent status had been concealed for far longer than anyone had hoped, but eventually, it had become too risky, and they'd pulled him out. It was only then that word spread amongst those who opposed the Dark forces of what Draco had done. At that point, his life was at risk by the very people he'd grown up venerating, while those he'd been helping in secret looked upon him suspiciously. Not an enviable situation, but if Ginny recalled correctly, he'd treated it with the same casual indifference he seemed to approach everything else. She had been fascinated and repelled by him in equal measure.

It wasn't until after the war that things began to turn around somewhat; the Ministry, determined to keep someone like Draco in check, approached with an offer to accelerate his progress through Auror training. It was anyone's guess why he'd agreed. Ginny supposed he found the type of work suited him: it required using his instincts, quick thinking and logical reasoning, and the ability to analyze a situation and use it to his advantage. And there was rarely a dull moment, which was probably the most attractive part. Someone like Draco Malfoy feared only one thing: boredom.

Once he had passed a rigorous training course and had taken all the requisite exams, he had been paired with a more seasoned Auror, as was the norm (this practice was how Ginny had herself ended up assigned to Draco). The Auror he'd been paired with had been so seasoned, in fact, that a year or so later, the other man had retired, leaving Draco without a partner. Instead of reassigning him to another experienced Auror, the Ministry left Draco a solo agent, which worked for awhile. He took advantage of the freedom of being left to his own devices, and began circumventing protocol and working on cases that had not yet been sanctioned by the Ministry. It didn't matter to the powers that be that the cases he pursued usually had merit; what mattered was that there was procedure to be followed, and one of their Aurors was not appreciative of that fact.

So, Ginny could understand the Ministry's logic in assigning her to him. "Give him a green cadet to baby sit and keep him busy," they'd probably thought. The fact that she was a Weasley -- the natural opposite of a Malfoy, if there was such a thing, and liable to disagree with him on just about everything -- only helped matters.

What they hadn't known, of course, and what she hadn't realized at the time herself, was that witnessing that final scene between father and son had altered Ginny's opinion of Draco Malfoy, and there was no changing it back. The risks he'd taken during the war, the things he'd done, had required a certain level of courage and sheer audacity that she could imagine no other possessing. At the time of his appointment, he'd been one of the youngest Aurors ever to carry a badge for the Ministry of Magic, and Ginny had appreciated that fact much later, when she'd gone through her own training.

Ginny's path to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had differed greatly from Draco's. Not quite the war hero that Harry and Draco and others could claim to be, she'd gone about it the long way. After the war had ended, she went back to Hogwarts to finish up her schooling, but academic life during the rebuilding period had proved dull. Nothing seemed to really matter anymore. How could concerns about exams and Quidditch season and whether so-and-so liked so-and-so come close to the not-so-distant past, when worries had been centered around life and death? She wasn't the only one to feel this way; anyone who had been remotely near the front lines seemed years older than they were, and looked at everything around them with distant eyes and hollow expressions. Most everyday things seemed trite and unimportant, and to someone like Ginny, who hadn't been a typical girl since she was eleven years old, the feeling was only magnified. So she did everything by rote, in the process earning a number of N.E.W.T.s that made her mother ecstatically happy. After graduation, Ginny took on several different apprenticeships, but nothing held her interest for long, and after only a few months she would find it necessary to move on to another project, only the results would be the same as all the times previous. She was a Jill of all trades and expert of none; she was smart and educated and had a great resume on paper but no direction.

It wasn't until her twenty-first birthday, listening to the WWN detail the apprehension of a long-wanted Death Eater, that Ginny had felt that spark she'd been lacking for so long. Hearing Draco Malfoy's name listed as being part of the team of Aurors that had captured the man had been like a wake-up charm. Draco Malfoy was making a difference. The last person on earth she would have expected to take up a profession helping others was out there apprehending criminals, while she was where? Sitting in a restaurant, half-heartedly celebrating yet another birthday, contemplating if the growing and nurturing of trees for ideal broom making was really the career for her.

Ginny had to smile now as she remembered the way her mother had begged her not to apply. It was a miracle that Molly's entire family had survived the war, and now her headstrong daughter was determined to take even more risks with her life. Ginny had dramatically declared that she had waited her entire life for the sense of purpose that now suffused her, and when one felt something like that, to turn away from it would be to only live half a life. "Don't worry," Ron had said, trying to assure their mother. "Give it two months, she'll be wanting to shepherd hippogriffs next."

Two years of hard work and intensive training later, she had received her Auror's badge. Ginny had never had a prouder moment -- and she knew that whatever her mother's misgivings, Molly had been bursting at the seams with the knowledge that her little girl was a member of one of the most elite law enforcement groups in Europe.

The first hiccup had been, of course, getting assigned to Draco, but that had actually been rather anticlimactic. After their initial stilted "introduction," he'd been the epitome of courtesy and professionalism. Ginny had been rather disappointed; this was the person she'd been so intimidated by? She'd expected -- maybe even wanted -- to have to struggle for every inch with him, to fight tooth and nail to gain his respect. Instead, he'd been accommodating, patient, and kind.

Ginny laughed to think of how confused she'd been -- and how well he'd fooled her. He wouldn't be able to do so now, but she knew him much better than she once had. Ginny reached out with a bubble-covered arm for the glass of wine, then sipped at the delicately aromatic liquid. That particular Draco had lasted for nearly a month. He'd been an absolute perfect angel of a partner until the day Ginny had discovered that he'd been working on a case that was clearly out of their official parameters. She'd been outraged at having been duped for so long, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was either going to include her on everything, or she was going straight to their department head.

The real Draco had been unleashed then -- cold and threatening, and when that hadn't worked, wheedling and sullen. By the end, they'd formed a cautious truce, and only then had their true partnership begun. They'd found, somewhat to their surprise, that when it came to their jobs, they complemented one another very well. Where Ginny was pragmatic and compassionate, Draco was edgy and intuitive. She trusted easily, while his trust was short in supply and hoarded tightly. But somehow, when they worked together, all the parts fused to make a whole.

As if this reminiscing had somehow reached through the ether to conjure him, Ginny saw the flash of her partner charm ring, which she'd set on the edge of the sink.

What now? she thought with no little irritation. Was it too much to ask for one day of peace from His Royal Draconess? She thought about ignoring it, sinking deeper into the bath, feeling extremely reluctant to move. In the end, she couldn't do it; it might be important. If it weren't, he could have simply owled or even stopped by. Of course, if it turned out that her confidence was misplaced, she'd have the great satisfaction of telling him off.

Ginny got out of the bath and ran a quick towel over herself to catch the water droplets and soap bubbles that lingered on her skin, grumbling all the while. The ring never paused in its flashing. "I'm coming," she snapped. She grabbed a bathrobe and slung it on, tying it quickly around her waist. She took the ring into her hand, closed her eyes (this wasn't required, but it was less disorienting to do so), and muttered the spell that would connect her with her partner.

When she opened her eyes, Ginny wasn't sure what she expected to see, but it was certainly not Draco and Hermione, wearing a top so sheer that it was positively indecent. And if she wasn't mistaken, they were in Hermione's flat. For a split second, Ginny wondered with some horror that perhaps the ring had not been activated on purpose. However, initiating the ring required a very specific spell, and unless the two of them were engaging in something bizarrely kinky, it was unlikely to have been an accident.

At the moment, the two were involved in what appeared to be an argument, and hadn't noticed Ginny's appearance. Their constant bickering was, of course, what had prompted her to believe they were hiding deeper feelings in the first place, but she wished they would abandon this strange courtship of theirs and act like a normal couple already. She was tired of having to referee their flirtation.

"I'm here," Ginny said loudly. "What do you want?" She crossed her arms peevishly.

Both turned immediately in her direction, Draco with a raised brow. "Took you long enough," he said. "I hope we didn't interrupt anything."

Reacting to the censure and insinuation in his tone, Ginny snapped, "As a matter of fact, you did." She deliberately reached for her wine glass and took a sip, just to annoy him. "So I hope this is important."

Draco's mouth tightened, and Ginny thought she saw a tic start in his jaw. But that was impossible. Malfoys didn't have tics, and even if they did, they'd conceal it so as not to compromise their external equilibrium.

"I'm sure Cal Canderer feels very sorry for inconveniencing your busy social calendar, and he'd apologize to you himself, but having just been murdered, his ability to communicate is rather limited," Draco said caustically.

Well, that took the wind right out of her sails. "Merlin," she breathed. "Another one?"

Draco nodded while Hermione cut in, "What do you mean another one?"

"Oh, you know, another murder, it's so disheartening every time we come across one of these," said Draco, giving Ginny a significant look. She nodded, the slight movement imperceptible to Hermione, who didn't press further but looked at the two of them suspiciously. Ginny knew exactly why Draco didn't want to draw attention to the incident just yet. It wasn't so much because Hermione was a civilian; it was because she was a reporter, and while news of these murders was bound to get out sooner or later, they preferred it to be later. Much, much later. They were both well versed in the fact that the media only complicated matters, often impeding investigations and making an Auror's job more difficult.

"So how did you hear of it? Canderer -- that was his name?"

"Harry found him," Hermione supplied.

"Harry?" Ginny gaped.

"Apparently, Potter was going to interview him for that little rag he works for, and he found the body in the poor sot's locker."

"Oh, God. Poor Harry," said Ginny sympathetically. "I take it we're going to -- where are we going?"

"France," said Draco. "Canderer played for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers."

"Keep talking, but turn around. I need to get dressed," said Ginny with a pointed look.

Sighing deeply, Draco nevertheless did as he was told. Ginny shed her bathrobe and dressed quickly, listening to Draco's thorough recitation of events. "All right, you can turn around now," she said at last, drawing on her Auror's robes. "You've owled the forensics team?"

"What do you take me for?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "It was just a question. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

"Can I get your knickers in a twist?"

"Shut it."

"How about neatly folded then?"

"I'm leaving now. I'll meet you at the stadium's Apparation point." Ginny found that when Draco got like this, the only recourse was to ignore him.

"Granger, you stay--" The order stopped abruptly as the two realized they were alone.

"Too late, I think," said Ginny dryly.

"Goddammit."

xXxXxXx

Ginny knew it was going to be a long day when she and Draco arrived at the Quafflepunchers Stadium Apparation point and were met by an official-looking wizard wearing dark green robes that bore the insignia of the French Ministry.

The Auror held up his hand. "I am sorry, but ze stadium is off limits. Official personnel only."

Ginny could practically hear Draco's teeth grinding together, and she put a light hand on his arm to curtail whatever insult might have leapt off his tongue. Perhaps a bit of diplomacy was in order, and if the French prat didn't respond to that, then she would unleash her partner to shred the man to ribbons.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding," she said, smiling courteously. "I'm Ginny Weasley and this is Draco Malfoy. We're the lead Aurors on this case. And you are?"

"Gabriel Chausset. I am an Auror wiz ze Ministry, second division."

"Auror Chausset, we appreciate your diligence. Would you be so kind as to show us to the crime scene?" She revealed her badge, in case their British Auror robes were not enough to verify their identities, and saw Draco do the same out of the corner of her eye. Vibes of impatience fairly leapt off his body.

The guard hesitated. "I was not aware zat ze British Ministry 'ad jurisdiction in France," he said firmly.

"We don't," Draco said shortly, clearly unable to restrain himself any longer. "However, this case originated in Britain, and this investigation is ours. Take us to the crime scene and locate your captain for me." Chausset, trained to obey authority, was not immune to Draco's domineering ways, and he relented.

They followed him across a broad expanse of freshly cut lawn and into the stadium, where they wended through several hallways before Ginny knew they were getting close. She could hear contentious voices speaking English tinged with British and French accents echoing off the walls, and as they turned the corner she saw a large group of people hovering outside the door to what she assumed was the changing room where Cal Canderer had died.

As they drew nearer, Ginny could see that the forensics team had already arrived, most of them still carrying their equipment. When Richard Hudgemeyer, the team lead, noticed Draco and Ginny, his face broke out in relief. "It's about time," he said. "These prats won't let us through!"

Chausset called for his captain, and when there was no response and no one else had, he gave Draco nervous look and went off in search of the missing man.

"What's going on here?" Ginny demanded, drawing up to the group.

"We haven't been able to investigate the scene yet," Hudgemeyer said. "They keep insisting that we don't have any rights here. Did I misunderstand your owl, Malfoy?"

"No," Draco replied grimly. "Do they have a team in there?"

Hudgemeyer smiled a little, shaking his head. "Near as I can tell, they haven't got the right people here yet. It's a good thing you showed up when you did; I think they've got reinforcements coming."

"Just what we need, a turf battle," Ginny sighed, dismayed. This sort of thing was not at all uncommon, but it was her least favorite part of the job. Luckily, she had Draco around to fight these things out.

"There isn't going to be a battle," Draco said. "This is our case."

"Oh, good. Well, I'm sure it will be just that easy," said Ginny. "Make sure you explain it exactly like that."

"I will," Draco replied, shooting her a quick grin. He turned back to Hudgemeyer. "Why haven't they gone in? Why haven't you hexed them so they'll move?"

"Draco!"

"Why haven't you been more convincing in asking them to move?" Draco amended without blinking an eye.

"Well, they might be keeping us out, but Potter's keeping them out. I think we all figure that as soon as Potter moves, we'll make a dash for it."

Draco's eyebrow nearly climbed into his hairline. "Potter?"

"What?" said an irritated voice from behind the wall of people. "Malfoy, is that you? I don't know what 'I'll be right there' means to you, but it's not forty bloody minutes."

The members of their team parted to make way for them, and soon Draco and Ginny found themselves standing directly in front of the door to the changing room. Blocking the door was a disheveled-looking Harry, and by his side was Hermione, who was still wearing that hideous shirt from earlier. Couldn't she have taken a jumper with her or something? Ginny thought irritably.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "You said not to move or let anyone in, so I haven't."

Ginny had to grin. "Good show, Harry."

"I also told you not to discuss what you saw, but apparently you've told all of France," said Draco, not as willing to dole out praise, though the corners of his mouth threatened to turn up.

"It wasn't me," said Harry. "Someone might have overheard our conversation, though. You were barking out orders so loud, they probably heard you back in Surrey."

"Very stealthy of you, Potter." Ginny noticed that Draco totally ignored the insult Harry hurled his way.

Harry pushed his glasses up. "You're lucky I've done this much, Malfoy. Just say the word and I'll take off this shield and let the French have the room."

"Don't you dare," Draco warned.

"He couldn't anyway; the French broke through his five minutes ago. This one's mine," said Hermione.

"Hermione," Harry said, disgruntled.

"Thanks for all you've done," said Ginny, impressed by her friends. "You've been a real help."

"Yes, now get out of the way so our team can go in there and do their jobs."

Before anyone could do anything, a loud voice cut in, "Zere zey are!" It was Chausset, and following behind him was a distinguished-looking wizard who looked to be in his late 60s. His robes were decorated with long copper tassels, indicating his rank. "Captain Montagne, sir. Zese two say zey are ze lead investigators of zis case."

Draco and Ginny formally introduced themselves, then asked if they could speak with the captain privately, as their conversation was not meant for all ears. As Ginny followed the captain off to the side, she heard Draco hiss to Harry and Hermione that they were not to let anyone in.

Quickly explaining the situation to Montagne, Draco was at his reasonable best. Ginny was glad to see that the captain had been doing his job long enough that he didn't seem particularly compelled to struggle with them on jurisdiction. If he'd been twenty years younger, he might have felt he had something to prove. As it was, however, he merely nodded through the recitation, inserting questions and the occasional comment here and there.

"Well, Aurors Weasley and Malfoy, I believe zis case is yours," said the captain. "To be 'onest, we 'ave quite enough to do wizout taking zis on as well. I will confirm wiz my superiors zat we can officially turn zis over to you, and I believe zat will take care of it."

"Of course," said Draco. "In the meanwhile, our team will start gathering forensics data from the crime scene. If it turns out for some reason that this incident is unrelated to our ongoing investigation, you'll have our full cooperation in turning whatever evidence we find over to you."

"Would you like our assistance in any way?" Montagne asked. "I can spare a small team."

Draco nodded, but it was Ginny who replied. "We'd appreciate that very much. Since your men are bound to be more familiar with the area and they speak the local language, I'd like to have a team of four of your men paired with four of ours to scope out the area and talk to anyone they come across. There have to be people here on the weekend -- maintenance workers, janitorial staff, tourists, anyone, everyone. I'd like to get a full report by Monday morning."

Montagne nodded and barked out four names. While Draco went to prep the forensics team, Ginny paired each French Auror with a British Auror and sent them off in different directions.

"If zere is nussing furzer?" the captain asked. At Ginny's negative response, he inclined his head toward her, then raised his hand and made a short, sweeping gesture. Immediately the rest of his Aurors began to depart, and he followed swiftly after them.

"Well, let's get a move on," Ginny said, rejoining her team. Her voice betrayed none of the nervousness she felt. She wasn't sure she was prepared to see what they'd find in that room. "Hermione, if you wouldn't mind?"

Harry stood aside as Hermione removed the spell, and Draco and Ginny waited until after the forensics team had moved in, each person looking relieved to be able to do his job at last, before moving to go in themselves. Draco held the door open, waiting for Ginny to step through. Hermione, however, moved forward at the same time Ginny did, and Draco let go of the door, causing it to slam shut. He stopped Hermione by taking hold of her arm. "Excuse me," he said pleasantly. "Where in hell do you think you're going?"

"Inside," Hermione snapped, attempting to pull her arm away, without success.

Ginny and Harry exchanged wary looks.

"Take your hands off her, Malfoy," Harry said, then took a step closer to Draco when the other man made no move to obey him.

"Let go of her, Draco," said Ginny, and his arm dropped away almost immediately.

"She cannot go in there," he said emphatically, looking at her with a resolute expression.

He was right, of course. Ginny turned to Hermione with an apologetic look. "Hermione, it's a crime scene. You're not allowed--"

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know there was a crime scene," Harry said. "If you'll recall, it wasn't you I was calling, Malfoy; it was Hermione. You just happened to be in her flat." At that, Harry looked as close to murderous as Ginny had ever seen him, and she glanced away from her old friend as Hermione spoke up.

"And without our help, what crime scene you had left might not have been worth an old Fizzing Whizbee," said Hermione. "If Harry and I hadn't stood outside this door--

"I don't care," said Draco, his voice icy with disdain. "And lower your voice." Ginny looked at one, then the other. How could they look at one another with so much aversion when not an hour ago she'd found Draco at Hermione's flat, looking for all the world as if they'd been engaged in some sort of private sex show that required Hermione to dress the part of a slut?

"I won't lower my voice!" Hermione said loudly. "In fact, I can be EVEN LOUDER THAN THIS! IF YOU DON'T LET US STAY AFTER ALL WE'VE DONE--"

Ginny winced. While she would normally have backed Draco fully on this issue, there was another consideration: both Harry and Hermione had already seen and heard plenty. If they went off angry, there was a chance they could print everything they knew -- without the right context -- in the Prophet. She didn't think they'd be that irresponsible, as whatever they printed could endanger the investigation, risking many more lives, because they were good people, and because their careers and reputations were on the line, but even so, the remote chance of it happening did not sit well with Ginny, and appeasing them would be so easy. "They did help..." she said to Draco, trying to get him to come to the same conclusions she just had. Her fear was that his oftentimes irrational dislike of Harry and Hermione (Ginny noted that whatever their new feelings for each other, it had not yet colored Draco's professionalism, at least) would overcome his ability for rationality.

To her relief, however, he seemed to understand, if the dark scowl was any indication. He pinned the other two with a glare and spoke through clenched teeth. "Stay in the corner at all times. I don't want to hear one single word out of either of you, or you're both out of here. Take it or leave it."

"Fine," sniffed Hermione.

"Whatever you say, Malfoy," said Harry, looking tired and annoyed.

Draco pushed the door open once more, making sure that he entered directly after Ginny. Harry and Hermione were as good as their word, going to an unoccupied part of the room and staying there, silently observing.

When Ginny first saw the body, stuffed as it was into the locker, she barely recognized it as human. Canderer was wearing a scarlet jumper, which made the discoloration of his skin even more pronounced, his joints were grotesquely and unnaturally bent, and his wide, unseeing eyes seemed to contain all the horror of what he'd experienced just before his death. His red jumper, she saw now, had once been white. The red was his blood -- blood that had not too long ago been pumping life-giving oxygen through his arteries.

Ginny inhaled once, sharply, and tried to remind herself that this was not the first time she had seen a dead body. Draco's hand rested on her shoulder reassuringly, and the warm, solid presence was a comfort. He didn't say anything, and after a moment she felt him move away, knowing without being told that he was going to investigate the rest of the area. Ginny knew he wouldn't suggest that he take this detail; she wouldn't appreciate the coddling.

Regaining her composure, Ginny drew nearer, looking the body over with a detached investigator's eye. She donned a pair of latex gloves, then bent down to where Hudgemeyer was busily working with a magically enhanced brush that would reveal fingerprints and other foreign substances on Canderer's skin.

"Make sure you scrape under his fingernails," Ginny said, peering at Canderer's hands closely. "Looks like there's something there."

"He was a Quidditch player; it's most likely grass or broom wax," said Hudgemeyer.

"No, look -- it's red."

"Blood?" the forensics specialist suggested without looking up from his work.

"No, it doesn't look organic. It might be something."

"You got it, Weasley. I'll send whatever I find to the lab for analysis, and I'll have them alert you or Malfoy the second we get anything."

Ginny nodded. "Good job."

Straightening, she glanced over to where Harry and Hermione sat. They looked subdued, but they seemed to be drawing strength from each other. The dread that had formed a knot in her stomach tightened. She knew with absolute certainty that all of these murders were connected, despite the discrepancies in the MO. She had felt rather disconnected from the previous two victims, as if her life and the case she was investigating did not inhabit the same world. But Canderer's murder was so recent that she could still smell the deodorizer charm he had used. His battered and lifeless body was not five feet from where she stood. He might have a sister somewhere who would have to be told that her brother had not only died, but died as a victim of a horrific and senseless murder.

It drove home the one fact that she hadn't allowed herself to think about consciously until now, when she could no longer avoid it.

Her own brother was a professional Quidditch player. And without knowing exactly how the killer chose his victims, Ron's life could be in danger. Next time, it could be his murder site swarming with official Ministry personnel. His mangled corpse that she stood over. His life, gone.

Ginny's gaze drifted to her friends again, and she swallowed to see the same somber realization reflected on their pale faces.

xXxXxXx

Crime scenes were quite boring, really. Hermione wasn't a person naturally inclined to boredom; few things outside of Divination or exceedingly long Quidditch games in which Harry or Ron weren't participants had the power to bore her to tears, but watching Malfoy and Ginny comb through an area they -- and an entire forensics team -- had already covered ten times at least was about to lull her into a coma.

It might be different, Hermione conceded, if she were actually allowed anywhere near the body, or the evidence, or allowed to move, speak, or in any other way contribute to what was happening in the changing room. Malfoy had been adamant when he'd ordered her and Harry not to move or get in the way, and while the logical part of Hermione's brain understood -- and approved -- of this, the part of her that was still wearing a see-through top and had spent an inordinate amount of time with Draco Malfoy wanted to shove his little Auror's badge down his aristocratic throat.

Oh, but it had been embarrassing when Harry saw her wearing this -- this thing. He must have been horrified, because his eyes had widened and he hadn't been able to say anything, though he'd tried several times. Then, he'd studiously avoided looking directly at her, though sometimes, he obviously forgot how terrible a sight she made, and his gaze would accidentally land on her, then skitter quickly away again.

And she'd thought the mocking whistles she'd gotten from the landscaping staff had been humiliating.

She really ought to tell Draco Malfoy to stuff his little humanitarian project. Why she was entrusting her future romantic happiness to a man too blind to see he was in love with his own partner was beyond her. Hermione rolled her eyes as she recalled the moment Ginny had begun changing clothes during her communication with her partner earlier. Malfoy had dutifully turned around, but his gaze had immediately gone to the full-length mirror he and Hermione had been using all day to admire (or, in his case, mock) her clothing. Ginny's form had been fully visible in the reflection.

Hermione would have ousted him for the lecherous pervert he was if she hadn't caught a certain look in his eyes. It was obviously unconscious, but for a moment, just before he'd caught her watching him, he'd looked like a man dying for something he knew he'd never have, and wasn't even sure he should want. But of course he had noticed her noticing him, and for a second, there'd been something like pleading in his eyes. In that moment she'd softened toward him, thinking how awful it would be to get caught in a moment of such guilty pleasure. Then, he'd smirked, making a crude gesture, and that made her want to hit him again, but the urge had been tempered by her new knowledge: she wasn't the only one hopelessly adoring a close friend.

The difference between them, Hermione was willing to wager, was that Ginny quite obviously felt something in return for Malfoy, even if she wouldn't admit it. There was at least an attraction there, Hermione was sure, though whether Ginny would act on it was another matter entirely. While Hermione and Harry worked together, their jobs didn't require that they work in as close quarters or in situations nearly as dangerous as Malfoy and Ginny's did. If a romantic relationship between the latter two didn't work out, it could prove disastrous to their careers, and given that Hermione knew how highly Ginny regarded her work as an Auror, she wasn't sure the other girl would be willing to risk her professional career over some circumstantial affection for Draco Malfoy.

It was actually quite easy to forget the brief moment of vulnerability she'd glimpsed in Malfoy's eyes, as when he was going over details with Ginny as she'd dressed, he'd been simultaneously pantomiming to Hermione that she was simply going to have to enhance her chest if she had a prayer of making a go of the blouse.

Hermione had Apparated out the very second Ginny had told him it was safe to turn around, knowing full well he'd never consent to allow Hermione to accompany them to the crime scene. But so long as she didn't give him the opportunity to forbid it, she could honestly say she hadn't disobeyed a direct order from an Auror.

There were many things she'd learned from Ron and Harry over the years.

For instance, Hermione had spent a great many hours listening to Harry and Ron go back and forth on Quidditch statistics, the stadiums at which the best games had been played, how many different teams this player or that had played, and on which positions. It had always been tiring, but never more so than this one summer holiday after the war, when both boys had insisted on taking a worldwide Quidditch stadium tour and somehow -- likely because she'd been Ron's girlfriend at the time -- Hermione had been talked into accompanying them.

The experience had been mind-numbingly dull for her (not unlike her trials in the changing room). If she hadn't remembered to bring a dozen books in her magically enhanced bag, she would have gone mad.

When she'd Apparated directly outside the Quafflepunchers' stadium over an hour ago, Hermione had sent a silent thank you to Ron and Harry for so thoroughly seeing to her Quidditch geography education, as one could not Apparate somewhere without knowing precisely where one was headed.

Her press pass got her past the first security guard she encountered, but in the halls near the changing rooms a particularly nasty older Frenchman had attempted to stall her, not listening to a word she said, or how important it was she be allowed to move on.

Fortunately, they had been very near the changing rooms, and Harry had come to her rescue. It seemed the snippy gentleman, while not overly fond of Harry, felt some sort of respect for him. He'd left them in peace, and that was when Harry had begun his uncanny impersonation of a fish out of water as he'd seen her attire in person. Finally, he snapped out of it and managed to tell her what he knew, and listen as she told him what she'd overheard Malfoy and Ginny talking about before she'd Disapparated.

"There have been more victims than just him?" Harry had looked horrified, and a bit disgruntled as he gestured toward the locker behind him. "How have they managed to keep it quiet?"

"Ginny and Malfoy are the only Aurors assigned to the case," Hermione had explained. "If you hadn't discovered this body, and I hadn't already been with Malfoy, we wouldn't know about it now."

Harry had frowned at that. "That's right, he was at your flat, wasn't he?"

Her eyes had widened. "Oh -- well, I mean, erm -- yes?" She simply had to get better at this.

"Hmph," Harry had responded stiffly, and she'd winced, questioning for the thousandth time whether this foolish plan was worth this sort of awkwardness. Gratefully, a forensics team had arrived then, shortly followed by Malfoy and Ginny -- both wearing scowls -- and she'd been spared having to conjure up a response.

Sighing now as Malfoy imperiously shoved one of the forensics team members away from the body and proceeded to use the most microscopic pair of tweezers she'd ever seen to poke at yet another previously examined area, Hermione considered the two men who meant so much to her and Ginny. Harry and Malfoy had been mortal enemies for a great many years. While it was true that the war, and the years that had come after had done a lot to mend fences between them, they were not best mates by any stretch of the imagination. Hermione was sometimes convinced their mutual tolerance of one another was for Ginny's sake alone, a fact that really ought to have clued Hermione into Malfoy's affection for Ginny ages ago, she realized now.

"Where on earth did you find that blouse?" Harry muttered finally, breaking the silence between them.

"It was a present," Hermione said, thinking quickly. "From Draco."

Harry's jaw tightened, but he made no reply. She wanted to draw him back into conversation, but wasn't sure how. All she knew was that talking to Harry had been her favorite thing since she was a child, and when he was put out with her in any way, it made her stomach hurt terribly.

"Poor bastard," she said, indicating Canderer. "I wonder if he saw it coming."

"Everyone sees death coming, Hermione," he said quietly with the authority of someone who knew it for fact. "Even when it's sudden."

A chill passed through her at the certainty in his voice. It was easy to forget that Harry, with his easy smile and sparkling green eyes, had seen and felt so much pain and death in his relatively short life. She wanted to take his hand, to brush her fingers through his perpetually messy hair and offer him whatever comfort she could. Feeling awkward about such gestures since she'd come to a new understanding of her ever-deepening feelings toward him, she instead crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she'd thought to quickly Apparate to her own flat for a change of clothes.

Harry winced. "You look -- erm ... I mean, I can tell you're cold." He kept his eyes averted and shrugged out of the sport coat he was wearing, offering it to her mutely.

"Thank you," she muttered, quickly pulling it on with cheeks that flamed as hotly as she'd ever seen Ron's. Thinking of Ron brought another sharp jolt of fear to her heart, and she decided to refrain from thinking about what it meant that a Quidditch player -- and apparently not the first -- had been murdered, at least until she was alone and properly equipped to have a panic attack.

"All right, then," Malfoy announced as he suddenly stood from his crouched position, "that's all, nothing more to see here, time to move it along."

"Hold up there," Hermione said, "that's it? We've been standing here quietly for over two hours, and now we're just expected to toddle on out like good little ninnies?"

"Yes, that is about the thrust of it," Malfoy said cheerfully.

"Really, guys, there's nothing you can do," Ginny said gently.

"I disagree," Harry said. "We can warn people there's a mad killer out there cutting Quidditch players to bits."

"Yes, we've got an extraordinary communication device," Hermione added. "Perhaps you've heard of it. It's called a newspaper. Millions of people see it every day."

"Yes, very clever," Malfoy said. "Your wit is obviously what I adore most about you, Gra-Hermione."

There she went, blushing again; only this time, in fury. Thankfully, however, her brain seemed to be working. "I thought we'd discussed this and decided to keep things professional between us when we were working," she scolded in an overly nice tone of voice.

"So we did," Malfoy agreed easily. She thought he looked a bit relieved he didn't have to pretend to like her every moment of the day. Though given the way he treated Ginny -- someone she was sure he liked a great deal -- she wasn't quite sure what the distinction was.

"Look, now that you've resolved your little lover's spat," Ginny inserted, looking annoyed, "we really have quite a bit more work to do -- getting results from the lab, fact checking, interviewing witnesses, you know how it is."

"Gin, we're not rolling over on this," Harry said. "I found the body. I know there've been more. Innocent men are dead and I doubt given the way you've been going over that body like maniacs that you've got much in the way of solid leads."

"I think you mean our typically thorough and professional examination of the crime scene," said Malfoy. "We're doing just fine."

"The dead man in the locker would indicate otherwise," Hermione said primly.

"You're going to cause a panic," Ginny said desperately.

"We're going to give people fair warning," Harry disagreed. "I swear to you, we wouldn't publish anything inflammatory or intentionally salacious. You know us, Gin."

Ginny looked like she was wavering, and it seemed to displease Malfoy greatly. "No chance in hell you're going to convince me to let you print a single word about this investigation in that rag you work for."

"Look," Ginny said, "this isn't the time or the place." Her gaze indicated the forensics team still buzzing around. "Let's table the discussion until later. I had a bath less than three hours ago, and I already feel disgusting. Let's all have a change of clothes and meet up again." Hermione thought Ginny was staring at her when she mentioned the change of clothes, and she pulled Harry's jacket around her more tightly. "Say in an hour?"

Harry blew out an agitated breath. "Good idea," he said grudgingly.

"Yes," Hermione agreed stiffly. "Where shall we meet?"

"Our office," Malfoy answered immediately, then muttered, "so I can have you both arrested if need be."

"Funny," Hermione said, her voice brittle as she Apparated back to her flat.

Forty-three minutes later, Hermione's mood was greatly improved. She'd taken a shower and changed into an old mauve sweater with a giant H embroidered on the front -- a Christmas gift from Mrs. Weasley when the older woman had been grooming Hermione as a daughter-in-law -- and wondered why on earth fuzzy clothing couldn't be considered sexy. Harry's jacket was lying on her bed where she'd left it, and with only a slight feeling of guilt she pulled it back on, giving in to the temptation to sniff at the collar.

Harry wore no cologne, but he'd used the same soap since he was a boy and she'd come to associate the scent with him, feeling comfort from it at first, and later, more arousing emotions entirely. She recalled the undershirt that lived in the bottom of her bureau, the one Harry had left in her flat one night after a game and several thousand fans outside his place had caused him to flee to hers. That had been the night, a few short months before his accident, she'd realized just how much her feelings for her old friend had changed. It was the first time she'd ever illicitly sniffed at an article of his clothing left abandoned in her care, and it seemed that not a great many things had changed in the intervening year.

"Hermione! You in there?"

She turned her head around so quickly she feared whiplash for a moment. He was outside her door, so there was no possible way he'd seen her sniffing at his jacket like a lunatic, but that didn't make her feel any less foolish. She gave her reflection a quick glance in the mirror and grimaced; no makeup, hair in glorious, frizzy disarray, and wearing a fuzzy sweater with her first initial on it, along with a jacket that swam on her small frame. Yes, it was stunning he'd somehow resisted the urge to jump her.

"Coming, Harry," she called out, bustling through the bedroom to the front door.

A grin split his face when he caught sight of her. "I thought I was the only one who kept all of Mrs. Weasley's sweaters."

"Sentimental value," she said, which was odd, considering she wasn't a particularly sentimental person. But certain things had meaning, they stood for something, and Hermione greatly believed in keeping mementos of one's life, be it a dirty old undershirt she never washed or a mauve sweater that reminded her of the single Christmas she and Ron had spent together without fighting.

"Sure," he said, but he seemed subdued, though she was fairly sure he remembered the same Christmas she did. She recalled a lovely toast he'd made to her and Ron, thought of how sure everyone had been that marriage for the two of them couldn't be far off. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine why such a memory would provoke the sort of sadness she saw in Harry's eyes. "Ron mentioned trying to spend Christmas at the Burrow this year," he added.

"That's what Mrs. Weasley's last owl said," Hermione confirmed. She and Molly Weasley had a great affinity for one another, Hermione being the person closest to Ron and to Harry, the latter of whom the older woman adored as a son. And, Hermione was fairly certain Mrs. Weasley still held out a little hope that Hermione might become Mrs. Ronald Weasley yet. "I'm glad he's really thinking about it. She misses him."

"I'm sure you do, as well," Harry said, but there was something in his voice, something that made Hermione answer him more slowly than she normally would.

"Of course," she agreed. "I'm -- I'm worried about him, as well. Especially with all this..." Harry nodded his agreement. Hermione recalled the moment her gaze had met Ginny's over the crime scene earlier in the day. Ginny realized that her brother could be in serious danger, and the four of them might be all that stood between Ron and imminent death. Whatever had gone on between Hermione and Ron romantically, he and Harry were and would always be her two best friends. They were family, the three of them, and it was a bond stronger than blood or death or screaming Quidditch fans trying to keep Ron on the road as much as humanly possible.

"Sometimes," Harry said, "I wonder how things would have turned out if Ron had been the one injured and you had gotten him the job at the Prophet." He tried to smile, but it seemed forced. "I'd wager the two of you would be married by now."

"I doubt it," she said softly. "I think we've learned that Ron and I don't make sense as a couple. Sometimes I wonder if we ever really did."

"Oh, you're just saying that," Harry said. "The next time you end up in each other's arms you won't be able to remember a time you weren't mad for him."

"I think I know myself better than you do, Harry," she snapped. It was beginning to grate on her, how sure Harry was of the great and eternal love she supposedly shared with Ron. Was that really how he saw them? If that was the case, obviously the entire farce with Malfoy was unnecessary; Harry would never be jealous unless it was another in a long line of things he did on his best friend's behalf.

"Of course you do," Harry said, and he was using his best placating voice, something she'd learned to detect during sixth year when he and Ron had perfected it. Then his voice changed, became softer, genuine. "It's just not easy sometimes, seeing how much you love someone when they're standing right in front of you." He cleared his throat. "You know, give it some time, the two of you away from each other, you'll miss him so much you'll forget all the reasons he gives you to throttle him."

Hermione was silent for a moment, wishing with all her heart she could open a vein or cast a spell and let everything she felt for him wash through the room so he would know, so there could be no doubt in his mind about everything she wanted from him, everything she was willing to give him. The urge to kiss him, to hold him, to do anything for him that would obliterate in his mind the image of her as Ron's girl, as 'just Hermione,' burned so hotly inside her for a moment, she actually thought she might evaporate into mist, the will to just go on as they were turning to ash.

Then the moment passed, as they always did, and she cleared her throat and said they'd better get going if they didn't want to be late meeting Malfoy and Ginny.

"Yes," he agreed, and he held the door open for her and neither mentioned that she still wore his coat.

xXxXxXx

Malfoy and Ginny's office was so deep inside the bowels of the Ministry, Hermione sometimes wondered how they managed to keep from feeling claustrophobic. The lift they took had been sparsely populated to begin with, it being Saturday, and had emptied completely by the time they neared the right floor. It stopped with a jerking motion at the last floor it traveled to, and they stepped out into the dark hallway that housed the often bizarre cases Malfoy and Ginny saw fit to investigate. The second floor of the Ministry housed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but somehow, Malfoy and Ginny's office was sequestered in the basement of the building. Ginny had once confided to Hermione that Malfoy believed all the open-air cubicles the rest of the Aurors inhabited were far too pedestrian for a Malfoy, and he had requested the privacy of the basement so he could have 'a bloody quiet moment to think.'

"I don't know why they've got to have their offices down here, anyway," Harry muttered. "It's probably to do with Malfoy not wanting the peasants staring at his magnificence."

Hermione glanced to her left at Harry's words and saw him looking tense and uncomfortable, though not from any fear of enclosed spaces. Though he'd tried and failed to restore conversation between them by discussing the weather, Harry had fallen silent since they entered the Ministry, and given his clipped words about Malfoy and Ginny's office space -- an office they'd both visited countless times before -- she knew he was thinking of Sirius, as he always did when he had to make the long trip into the bowels of the Ministry. Awkwardness set aside in favor of friendship, Hermione reached out and blindly grasped his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. He returned the squeeze, and held on with blinding strength as they both continued walking, staring straight ahead.

As they approached Malfoy and Ginny's slightly ajar office door, however, the sound of the Aurors' voices caused both of them to slow, then stop and release their hold on each other as they unashamedly listened in.

"Look, really, it happens to everyone," Ginny was saying.

"Not to me," Malfoy declared hotly. Hermione had rarely heard so much emotion in his voice.

"I didn't realize you were still this wound up about it," Ginny said, sounding surprised.

"It's not exactly the sort of thing a man's likely to forget, is it, Weasley," Malfoy said bitterly. "It's easier for you. You don't have these sorts of problems."

"That's not true. It could happen to me just as easily."

"You know it's not the same for women as it is for men," Malfoy argued. "You've got your part to do, it's true, but no matter how sexist it is -- and honestly, Ginny, I do not want to hear it -- there's just a certain ... expectation of the man, in the heat of the moment. He's supposed to get things done. And instead ... oh, Merlin."

"Maybe it just needed a woman's touch," Ginny said archly, and Hermione thought it might have been his punishment for shushing his partner.

"You know very well a woman's touch was part of the problem," he said. "You've always got to be the center of attention, distracting me." He sounded so genuinely miserable, even Hermione was nearly sympathetic toward him. Nearly.

"It's all right," Ginny said, and her voice sounded soothing. Perhaps she felt a bit guilty for ... whatever it was she'd done. Hermione's mind shied away from what, exactly, that could be. "You can -- well, maybe we can try again this afternoon, get some practice in so it won't go off so soon next time."

"I've never had a timing problem before!" Malfoy ranted. "My performance has always been exemplary. Even mother thought so."

Harry looked at Hermione, a horrified expression crossing his face. "I know it just can't possibly be what we're thinking it is," he whispered, "but I still can't believe you're going out with him."

Hermione grimaced. "It's probably..." It made her quite sad that she couldn't think of anything.

"Look, I can pull a dozen case files right now with others who've had a similar experience to yours," Ginny was saying. "Aurors with far more seniority having the same, er, firing problem."

"Oh, yes please, let's do see how I compare with the masses." Malfoy let out an indignant snort. "You're not going to make me feel better about this, Gin, because no matter how many cases you find, it still happened to me."

"Fine, if you're going to be a baby about it--"

"I am not being a baby!" Hermione thought his tone was a bit too petulant to claim anything of the sort. "And besides, if it had happened to you, you'd be going on about it like a banshee for weeks."

A squeak of protest left Ginny's mouth, and Hermione had had enough. She wrapped her knuckles loudly on the door, ignoring Harry's muttered "spoilsport" as they walked into the office.

"We're not early, are we?" Hermione wondered.

"No," Malfoy said, straightening from the sullen leaning position he'd taken up against the filing cabinet. "Right on time."

"Well, we're here," Harry said. "We're listening."

"What an incredibly obvious statement to make, Potter," Malfoy said. "Can always count on you for that."

"The way I see it, you two are the ones interested in silencing the press," Hermione reminded him, "so I'd think you'd want to be a bit nicer."

"Well, as I see it, you two are the ones who seem hell bent on endangering the lives of other people by exercising your right as gossip mongers to sell more issues of your rag," Malfoy said. "Isn't perspective lovely?"

"Look, Malfoy, what do you want us to do?" Harry said.

"Keep your mouths shut," Malfoy said easily. "Don't print a word of what you've seen or heard today. Let us investigate this as quietly as possible."

"Not a chance," Harry said. "People are dying here, Malfoy. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that secrets don't protect anyone but the people keeping them."

"Blah, blah, I've led a sad, pathetic, hardship-filled little life where grownups lied to me," Malfoy said carelessly. "I've heard the song before, Potter, and I wasn't terribly impressed by it then." Something happened then, and his face almost softened. "It's not the same thing and you know it." Hermione wondered if he was remembering something he and Harry had shared in the past, or if he'd simply decided antagonizing Harry unduly wasn't going to help him get his way.

"I don't know anything of the kind," Harry said, and if Malfoy's jabs had upset him, he certainly didn't show it.

"Look," Hermione said, getting between the two of them, "if this had been the first death, I might be inclined to agree with you, Ma-Draco." She winced, because her slip had sounded like she'd called him 'my Draco' and the thought made her throw up a little in her mouth. "But it wasn't. There've been more. Quidditch players are dying and they -- and their friends and families -- deserve the courtesy of a warning."

"It'll cause a panic," Ginny said. "We've seen it before. The press gets hold of a story, and even with the best of intentions, it takes on a life of its own. It's always harmful to the investigation."

"There has to be a middle ground, Gin," Harry said. "Something that falls somewhere between full disclosure and utter secrecy."

"Sod middle ground," Malfoy said. "Just keep your bloody mouths shut and everyone's happy."

"I'm not," Hermione said hotly. "And if you keep that attitude up, Malfoy, I'll be inclined to print whatever I damned well like."

"In that case, Granger, I would be inclined to see you thrown into Azkaban," Malfoy said.

Hermione snorted. "For what? Not doing as you said?"

"Disobeying an order from an Auror that directly conflicts with the security of the wizarding world," Malfoy said smoothly.

"Bollocks," Hermione pronounced firmly. "Freedom of the press, Malfoy. I'm sure you've heard of it. We've done nothing illegal to obtain this information, and I'm sure the Ministry would be delighted to hear that the reason this information came to me in the first place was because you had dressed me in a see-through top in my flat." That wasn't necessarily the entire truth, but she knew he couldn't deny it, and that made her feel a sort of unholy glee. It felt nice to be able to hold something over his head for once, and while it occurred to her that they'd both given up all pretense of a budding romance, at the moment she was far too riled up to care.

"Try it," he said in a cool, low voice that reminded Hermione chillingly of Lucius Malfoy. She wanted to take a step back from him, but held her ground.

"All right," Ginny said slowly, and she took a step forward at the same time Harry did, effectively breaking the murderous tension between the two combatants. "Now that we've calmly and dispassionately laid out where everyone stands, let's see about that middle ground, eh?"

"Maybe stop threatening your girlfriend with prison, as well," Harry added, sending Malfoy a rather icy look. Hermione placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed. The last thing she wanted was Harry playing big brother, telling Malfoy off for treating her badly.

"Terms," Hermione said at last, glaring at Malfoy.

Malfoy in turn glanced at Ginny, who sent him a pleading look. He let out a sigh, and said, "You print what we tell you and nothing more. You restrict yourself to factual reporting without editorializing. There will be no cutesy names for the killer and absolutely, positively, no mentioning Ginny or myself by name, no going into detail about each crime, and absolutely no chasing after interviews with any victim's family. The last thing they need right now is to be hounded by the media. Nonnegotiable."

"Too bad," Hermione said. "We have to give the killer a name or the people will do it for us, and as you've so eloquently stated, the public is prone to panic. We'll agree to no editorializing until after the killer is caught, at which point we expect exclusive rights to your perspectives on the case, as well as in-depth, cooperative, interviews."

Malfoy's nostrils flared, and he looked like he wanted to object. Hermione wondered how he could possibly disagree with what was an entirely fair proposal.

"Done," he said finally, and they turned away from each other without shaking hands. Malfoy went to sit sullenly in his chair, and Hermione turned to leave. She heard Harry remark to Ginny, "Well, I guess we'll be going now," and held the door for him.

They made their way back to the lift, and when the doors had closed behind them and the lift was taking them back up, Hermione glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye and caught him grinning.

"What?" she asked crossly.

"You're amazing," he said, and she tried very hard not to blush.

Given the way he kept grinning at her, she was almost positive she was not successful.

xXxXxXx