If You Only Knew

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Chapter Seven:
In a Lonely Place

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Breathe. If you can just keep breathing, everything will be all right.

As she entered the Daily Prophet offices, a small degree of panic bubbling up inside her, Hermione realized it was easier said than done.

Harry was somewhere inside this building. He was probably sitting on his desk -- she'd often asked if he knew what a chair was for, scribbling something or other in a notebook. When he saw her he would smile and look genuinely pleased to have her at work with him; would probably ask her opinion about something, and she'd have to give it, have to actually speak to him without choking or bursting into tears, because she couldn't wipe the image of the night before from her mind with all the memory charms in Gilderoy Lockhart's repertoire.

The horror was burned into her skull. Hermione had thought she'd cried herself out last night, thought that surely there were no tears left. But she'd cried again in the shower this morning, and a little bit more on the way to work. She'd cried more in the last twelve hours than she had her entire childhood, and just the idea of it made her angrier with herself than she already was. It wasn't as though someone had died. Surely this sort of behavior ought to be relegated to the deaths of one's family.

But it felt like something had died. The small, seemingly uncrushable hope Hermione had harbored for years that maybe, just maybe, Harry might love her back someday, seemed to have taken its last, gasping breaths last night.

Because this wasn't just a girlfriend - Harry had certainly kept company with enough girls over the years for Hermione to be well used to it. No, this was Ginny. This was Ron's sister and Arthur and Molly's daughter and the girl who'd almost died in the Chamber of Secrets. If Harry was kissing Ginny, it meant something, something real, and for the first time in her life, Hermione found herself genuinely unable to cope with reality.

And Malfoy -- Malfoy -- had borne witness to every bit of it.

After she'd fled the pub, he'd followed her, he said at the time, to make sure she didn't do anything drastic like "fling yourself off a bridge or something." Hermione would have been insulted by his low opinion of her self-esteem if she weren't positive he was only saying it to make himself feel better about being concerned. It was a decidedly strange proposition, admitting that Draco Malfoy not only had human emotions, but that they might be positive ones, at that. In light of the almost thoughtful behavior he'd demonstrated the previous night, however, she could no longer deny it.

His good natured (for him) treatment of her, however, had had the opposite effect she was sure he'd intended. Instead of comforting her, it had made her feel worse. Draco (she really did need to get used to thinking of him as Draco, and not Malfoy; why was it so hard? It was just his name) looked nearly as wretched as she felt, though he hid it considerably better, given his eyes weren't puffy and red and his cheeks weren't drenched in mascara. He made sure she got home safe. He said this didn't mean it was over. She assumed he was referring to what they'd witnessed, though how he could possibly delude himself into believing there was even a chance Hermione might win Harry's affections after... after...

She didn't like to kid herself. Hermione knew she wasn't a beautiful woman. She was pleasant enough to look at, but as far as great beauty went, she was well aware that, of the two of them, Ginny was the girl that made boys' heads turn. Ginny, with her lovely red hair that didn't frizz, even a little, and pale, porcelain complexion, had been surrounded by male suitors from the moment she began to mature out of adolescence. Hermione had always had Ron, and to a lesser extent, Harry, and she had been more than satisfied with them. Let Ginny and Cho Chang and Lavender Brown have all the handsome, devoted beaus in the world; Hermione would take Ron and Harry and be happier than any person had a right to.

Except it would seem she didn't have either of them anymore. Whatever she and Ron had was over, and it appeared that Harry... that Harry...

Stop it.

Hermione rested her shoulder against the wall that bordered the newsroom and the lobby. Inside, she could hear the bustling sounds that were as familiar to her as rain beating against a window. Quills scribbled, cameras clicked, people shouted jovially to one another about bylines and fonts and what story ought to be on the front page. And in there somewhere, was Harry. Was he thinking about Ginny? Was he remembering what it had been like to kiss her, wondering when he would be able to see her again? What if -- Oh God -- what if he wanted to talk about it with Hermione? What if he wanted to ask her opinion?

Bile actually rose to the back of her throat and Hermione ducked into the women's toilets so that she could dry heave in peace. When she heard someone coming in behind her, she darted into a stall, locked it tightly behind her, put the toilet seat lid down and sat heavily on top of it. Muted conversation followed two women who seemed to have come in just to avoid work. Hermione tuned them out and buried her head in her hands.

She did not get upset over men. She did not cry over them and avoid work over them. For a few minutes today, she'd actually considered owling in sick, all to avoid seeing Harry. Feigning sickness, shirking her responsibilities, because she was too emotionally overwrought to face a colleague... it didn't even sound like her.

Numbly, Hermione recognized exactly what had happened: she had become the sort of woman she had once pitied. Love had made her messy and weak and completely out of control. She was sitting on a toilet to prolong an awkward, potentially painful encounter with Harry, all because she thought she might embarrass herself if she actually saw him. At this point, anything could happen. She could confess that she loved him. She could slap him for kissing Ginny, even though he had every right to kiss whomever he liked. She could break down and begin sobbing uncontrollably as he watched on with wide, frightened eyes, because she was simply not the sort of woman to break down weeping in her workplace.

Correction: she hadn't used to be that sort of woman. Now, all bets were off.

This was ridiculous. What was she doing? Being stupid, that's what. She wouldn't be able to avoid Harry forever. At some point, they would see each other, and she would have to live with their friendship remaining just as it was. Putting that off wouldn't change it; it would just make her self-loathing grow with every passing minute. Steeling herself, Hermione got off the toilet, flung open the stall door, and strode purposefully into the newsroom.

"Hermione!" Colin called, rising from Lavender's desk. Lavender was -- blushing? In all the years Hermione had known the other girl, she'd never seen her blush. This, too, nearly made Hermione cry, but she forced a smile instead. "We've been wondering if you were all right. Fifteen minutes late for work -- what is the world coming to?"

"Yes, dreadfully sorry, Colin," Hermione said in response to his teasing. It was a widely known Prophet fact that Hermione was the only employee to have never been late to work.

Yet another thing that was different about her now. Funny how one little kiss really did change everything.

"Have you heard?" Colin went on, and Hermione never thought she would be so grateful for Colin's total obliviousness to the world around him.

"Heard what?" she asked, trying to appear distracted in removing her coat and setting her things on her desk, rather than what she was actually doing, which was scanning the room for Harry. Honestly, her infuriating best friend was always underfoot when she didn't want to make sure he wasn't going to take her by surprise.

"Your story, the Quidditch Cutter piece - it's sold out. Sold out, Hermione. We haven't sold a paper out since our headliner was 'YOU KNOW WHO IS YOU KNOW WHAT - Wizarding World Rejoices!' We certainly didn't do this kind of business with 'Worldwide Wizarding League Demands Reform.' Nasty business. The Quidditch Cutter, of course, not the WWL reforming, or the war ending, which were both quite good days, actually."

"That's nice," she said, because she honestly couldn't think of anything else to say.

Colin remained standing in front of her desk, smiling like an idiot. He had a rather nice smile, now that the rest of his face had grown into it. Unfortunately, someone as unrelentingly cheerful as Colin was precisely what she didn't need at the moment.

"Did you want something, Colin?" She winced a little at the sharpness of her tone, then sighed as she watched Colin's face fall.

"Oh. No. I just thought -- well, I just thought that maybe you could tell me what you know about the Quidditch Cutter." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "You know. The stuff you couldn't put in the article."

Hermione looked at him carefully. "Colin, if we didn't put it in the article, that means we've been sworn to secrecy about it. You should be ashamed of yourself for asking; you'd never try this sort of nonsense on Harry."

"Actually, I would," Colin said, "but the lucky bastard is out in the field."

Every muscle in Hermione's body stilled. "He's what?"

"The boss sent him to some stadium or other," Colin went on, blissfully unaware of the damage he was doing to her mental health with every word he spoke. He wasn't even here. Harry wasn't even in the building. "He's supposed to be out covering the match, but I think our beloved editor is hoping Harry'll stumble over another dead-- hey, what's so funny?"

"Me." Hermione took a deep breath and tried to reign in the hysterical laughter that had spilled out of her mouth. "Me, Colin, I'm funny. And ridiculous. And -- oh, please be a dear and go back to pretending you're not flirting with Lavender. I'm not good company at the moment, I'm afraid."

Colin gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Hey, cheer up. Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as being brutally murdered in a changing room, can it?"

"I keep telling myself that," she assured him as he went on his way. Sure enough, he returned to Lavender's desk as though he'd cast a homing charm on her so he'd never lose his way. Hermione sighed and sat down heavily in her chair. There was only one personal item on her desk, and that was a picture of herself, Ron, and Harry, taken when they'd finished school their seventh year. They wore their Hogwarts robes and it was the last time she could recall them all looking so put together at the same time. They were smiling, big, wide smiles that gave Colin's a run for its money. For a split second, Hermione wished more than anything that they could go back to those simple days when no one in the world had meant as much to them as each other.

Then, with a resolve she'd thought lost to her, Hermione decided that her behavior was unacceptable. So Harry was kissing Ginny. There, she'd thought it, and the world hadn't come to an end. Harry was kissing Ginny. Ginny and Harry were kissing. The more she forced herself to think it, the less power the words would have over her. This didn't have to be the end of the road. Harry had beaten Voldemort, one of the most evil and powerful wizards to ever curse their world with his presence; he was brave enough to stand up to something that struck paralyzing fear into the heart of every other man, woman, and child who knew of its existence. Surely Hermione could manage to confront her love for Harry head on, and come out on the other side as victorious as Harry had been. She just had to figure out what her next move should be.

Because Draco had been right; there would be a next move. It wasn't over; not when things were still unclear. Hermione had loved Harry far too long to give him up without even knowing what his real feelings for Ginny were. It was decidedly beneath her skills as a journalist to draw hard and fast conclusions based on so little evidence. And if he was in love with the redhead...

Well, Hermione supposed the women's toilets would be available for weeping if it came to that.

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Something was wrong.

Ginny eyed Draco as she extended a hand over her shoulder, then used the other hand to push down on her elbow, creating a taut stretch. He was being suspiciously quiet. Not that Draco was normally a chatterbox -- in fact, he could be quite maddeningly reticent when he chose -- but normally he had at least one comment to make, whether it was about her appearance, the choices she made, or the state of her life in general. That was just how Draco was, and Ginny was quite used to it. But today, there had been nothing. Not even a "God, Weasley, you really look like you need a cuppa."

In fact, he'd barely said five words to her. She had the impression he didn't want to be there at all ... which made two of them. They usually met at least once a week -- often more -- to run in the park and conduct a light workout. Their session this morning had been planned weeks ago, and when Ginny's alarm went off that morning, she'd groaned and debated whether or not to even show up. She hadn't been feeling her best, and she wasn't even sure Draco would remember their plans, given his company the previous night. In the end she dragged herself out of bed, knowing she'd get all sorts of grief from her partner if she didn't show up (or he'd reach her via their Auror link, and then she'd have to go anyway and get grief), and she needed the workout, in any case.

She'd been the first to arrive at their typical meeting point in the park. He'd shown up five minutes late, grunted in reply to her greeting, and been silent ever since.

Ginny could only stare in open-mouthed surprise when, without another word, Draco finished his stretches and took off on a run. Usually they started off together in a steady, but leisurely, pace, building up to their individual levels of endurance. At some point Draco would pull ahead, his longer stride bringing him forward. They would run for about an hour, the final lap bringing Draco back to her side. Apparently, however, Draco didn't feel like starting off slow today.

That was just fine with her, Ginny fumed. She didn't need him to pace her, anyway. He was usually very distracting, making comments about this or that while Ginny was trying to concentrate on her breathing. She had never been much of a runner; she disliked it more than anything, but there was no denying it kept her fit. It kept Draco fit, too, only he seemed to actually enjoy it.

Why was he in such a bad mood, anyway? Had he and Hermione rowed? Or perhaps the sex had been bad. Ginny realized guiltily that she was personally hoping for that reason. Did that make her a bad person? Maybe. She wasn't even sure why she was feeling so oddly. Or maybe she just needed a little time to get used to the idea of losing both of her friends in one swoop. And last night she had nearly lost one more.

Ginny groaned inwardly as she remembered that. It hadn't exactly been inspired, had it?. Really, she and Harry ought to make a pact never to touch alcohol while in one another's presence. They were both too volatile, too susceptible to letting alcohol govern their actions once they had it in their systems. Neither of them were capable of stepping back; instead, they merely encouraged each other.

Not, of course, that Ginny regretted kissing Harry now that it had happened. She had always wondered what it would be like to be with Harry the way she'd fantasized about as a young girl. And now she knew -- that young girls' dreams belonged to young girls, not women. When the girls grew up, well ... they had their own kind of dreams.

Ginny scowled at the ever-smaller dot that was Draco.

For the next forty-five minutes, she resolved to think of nothing but her breathing. Which did help; she managed not to think about the Harry situation or the Draco and Hermione situation or even the most pressing situation of all -- the fact that there was a killer on the loose, and they were no closer to finding the murderer now than they had been days ago. Ginny slowed to a walk on her final lap, noticing that Draco had already chosen a small clearing on which to do his post-run stretches. In due time she joined him, her body feeling limber, her mind feeling quite sharp and awake.

Without a word he laced his hands behind his head and lay on his back, staring at the sky above. Ginny took this as her cue to grasp his ankles with her hands and press down hard, anchoring him. She tried to talk to him as he began doing sit ups, first about the case and then about less consequential things, but she only got monosyllabic replies, when she got any reply at all.

Finally, Ginny couldn't take it anymore. "Are you planning to be like this when we meet with the Commissioner?" she asked with some irritation.

"Like what?" Draco grunted.

"I don't know ... surly and off putting?"

He didn't say anything.

"Draco," she said in exasperation, trying to put him in a better mood by using his first name -- a trick that usually worked.

"What, Weasley?" he barked irritably.

Hurt and anger forced her to her feet, just as Draco was coming up. Her sudden movement caused him to lose balance, and he fell awkwardly to the side, catching himself with an elbow. She ignored his colorful cursing as she stood over him with her hands on her hips.

"I don't know what your problem is, Draco Malfoy," Ginny began, "but you'd better get over it by this afternoon. I am not walking into Commissioner Roldy's office with you like this."

"Why? Do you think my attitude will bother the Commissioner?" Draco drawled, now resting back on his hands and looking at her in that insolent way of his.

"No," Ginny said, gritting her teeth. "Because I am two seconds away from hexing you, you insufferable--" She broke off with a small shriek as Draco suddenly reached out and clamped a hand around her wrist, yanking her forward. Ginny tumbled to the ground, only slightly mollified by the fact that his body had partially cushioned her fall. Draco now held both of her wrists in his hands and was pressing them up against her chest.

Ginny's heart suddenly began to beat double-time. From rage, she deduced, because his face was so close to hers, that long patrician nose just asking to be given a good wallop, and yet she was unable to act on that impulse with her wrists bound. "Let go of me!" she said, sounding a lot less authoritative than she had in her head.

"Don't think I will," Draco replied, his eyes alight with mischief. Despite her current predicament, Ginny was glad to see that the scowl he'd worn all morning had faded, replaced by a lopsided grin.

Ginny moved so that one of her legs was between his. She raised her knee slightly so that it pressed against him -- a part of him he wouldn't want injured. "Let go of me, or the Malfoy line ends with you," she said sweetly.

A look she couldn't interpret flashed across his face. Ginny decided it was fear. She was forced to adjust her thinking, however, when Draco let out a laugh. "Stop it, Weasley, you're getting me excited," he teased.

Her ploy having failed, Ginny dropped her knee and released her tense muscles, dropping her head back with a sigh. "Fine. Do with me what you will," she said, knowing her rage and struggling were only encouraging him. He was just that perverse. Now he would get bored and let her go.

For a second, Ginny thought she had miscalculated. Draco's hands actually tightened on her wrists and his eyes darkened. Then a shuttered look came over his face and he let her go. Though she had gotten what she wanted, she was dismayed that she'd somehow inadvertently made the sullen Draco return - where had his laughing counterpart gone?

They both sat up. Draco didn't look at her as she brushed grass off of her hands and instead stared off into the distance. Ginny reached out to touch him, his name and another query about what was bothering him on her lips, but before she could utter a word or make contact with her fingers, he spoke, still without looking at her. "Ready?" She dropped her hand, the words dying on her lips. Whatever it was, he was clearly not going to share it with her. She tried not to feel hurt. Draco was not the most communicative person on the best of days, but Ginny had sometimes been able to reach him, even when no one else could. Now it seemed he was drifting farther and farther away from her, her place taken by someone else. It was her own doing, so there was little reason to feel sorry for herself.

She felt sorry for herself anyway.

Draco turned and squinted at her. "Sit ups, Weasley. You're not trying to skive, are you? I can't have someone who's out of shape watching my back."

Ginny made a face at him but obediently lay down, her knees bent. As she'd done, Draco pressed down hard with his hands on top of her trainers to keep her grounded.

She kept waiting for him to suddenly let up, as revenge for having done it to him, but he never did. Draco held Ginny steady until her reps were finished, and then he helped her to her feet.

xXxXxXx

The best part of being a Quidditch journalist when you spent a great deal of time playing the sport professionally was that every game was filled with the faces of old friends.

Today, two people Harry had once been close to were present: on the field, Ron was playing for Puddlemere United.

And out in the stands, Cho Chang was waving a little flag in support of his team.

Cho looked good, and Harry was proud that he could appreciate that fact without great passion or great ire. Her face bore no traces of makeup, which was not unusual for her post-Hogwarts, and she was trussed up in warm clothing, as were most of the other people in the stands. It was a cold day and even Harry, who, after weeklong matches in blistering cold had grown almost immune to the weather, felt the chill. Taking a closer look at Cho, a pang of melancholy struck him -- her sweater reminded him of the kind Mrs. Weasley knit for her family; a family that had included Harry for a time. Still did, probably, though Harry had not spent a Christmas with the Weasleys in too long to be sure. Though Cho's sweater bore no monogram, it catapulted him into the past anyway.

The first real gifts Harry had ever received in his life had been presents from Mrs. Weasley, a sweater with a giant H on it, horribly unstylish, and quite possibly the loveliest thing Harry had ever laid eyes on. It represented acceptance and friendship and the simple notion that there were people out there in the world who gave a damn what happened to him. Harry had never known what that felt like, and every year, when Mrs. Weasley knitted him a new monstrously garish sweater and sent it to him at school, he wore it proudly and stored it in a chest with the few possessions he had that were precious to him.

During the war, Voldemort had taken Hogwarts; most of the student body lost precious keepsakes when the Death Eaters started burning the place to the ground. When the flames got to the seventh-year boys' dormitories, Harry lost every sweater Mrs. Weasley had ever knit him; he lost school portraits and the book of his parents' pictures Hagrid had given him at the end of first year. He lost frivolous things, like his collection of wizard trading cards, and he lost things to which no value could ever possibly be assigned, like the words Sirius wrote to him while in exile.

That was the day Harry learned to let go of the past and live in the moment. If you held too tightly to the past, it still had the power to disappoint you, and that was awfully stupid, wasn't it, giving something that had already happened control over your present. So he started to let go of old attachments, started to pull away from the people he loved, who were precious to him, all because of a bunch of junk getting burned up in a fire.

Though it seemed more like a dream than something that had actually happened, Harry could vaguely recall once feeling that Cho might be something infinitely precious, too. And like the sweaters and everything else, his vision of her had been taken from him as surely as if she had burned away to ash.

For a time after fifth year, Harry had borne something of a grudge against Cho. It had been completely fueled by disillusionment; how dare she, this gorgeous girl who was the subject of nearly every barely coherent fantasy and lustful emotion he'd had before the age of sixteen, how dare she turn out to be anything but wonderful?

Of course, whatever slight he felt she'd dealt him by being imperfect had long since faded away. Cho's career in Quidditch had been widely publicized by the Prophet, as well as several other, far less reputable papers. Unable to cope with the deaths of most of her family during the war, Cho had started abusing alcohol and certain spells that one had to travel to Nocturne Alley to purchase. More times than Harry could count, pictures of Cho and whatever poor bastard she'd been joined at the hip with for a few months were splashed across the gossip section of this syndication or that, with headlines like 'Seeker Seeks Bar' and 'Party Girl Packs Punch.'

Sadly, he could well remember the few occasions the bloke in the picture next to her had been him. The papers had speculated as to the exact nature of their relationship; it had never been confirmed publicly that they were linked in any way but platonically. Harry sometimes wished that had been the truth.

Even disillusioned fantasies sometimes still held sway, however, and it was no different for Harry. They were never teammates, but several years ago Cho and Harry had spent nearly an entire season playing against one another as their two teams seemed destined to make it to the Quidditch World Cup. After they started sleeping together, it certainly made for an interesting campaign to capture the Snitch. Harry had been nineteen years old and still a virgin before their affair. Cho had grown out of her shallow adolescence and now held a world-weariness that Harry had identified with and felt drawn to.

Cho had used to drink. A lot. It was one of the few recurring stories about her that had not been fabricated, even then. A drink now and then, she told him when he asked her about it, that's all it is, Harry; just something to make all the crap easier to manage. He had taken her at her word and paid the price for it several months later when they got into a very public screaming match. Mostly, it was her screaming, and him trying to get away. She had been drinking, of course; the world had just learned that Harry's team, the Chudley Cannons, would be playing the Quidditch World Cup; the Holyhead Harpies, whose Seeker had failed to catch the Snitch the night before due to sluggish reflexes, would not.

After that incident, Cho was put on indefinite suspension and told to dry out. To all indications, she had, though she still drank socially and was classified as one of Quidditch's most unpredictable spirits. Some speculated that she was too wild, too volatile to last in this world; that she would find herself succumbing to Viktor Krum's fate, an accidental death brought on by recklessness and too much whisky.

Harry dearly hoped they would be proven wrong; there had been more than enough tragedy for the children who'd grown up around him. For the ones who were left, he thought they really deserved to live their lives in peace. Cho was smiling and cheering, which Harry conceded was a damn good start; the Wasps were closing on the Snitch. The commentator's voice filtered into his internal reverie.

"..... Weasley does a fantastic job keeping Wimbourne from scoring with the Quaffle, but he seems a bit distracted."

"Well Leo, perhaps that's because his new dish is here watching in the stands."

"I'm sure you're right, Deborah; it's hard enough playing a game when a new girlfriend is watching. When that girlfriend also happens to be a professional Quidditch player - talk about pressure!"

"You've got that right, Leo!"

Harry tuned them out. That sort of mindless gossip had always irritated him, particularly as it had no place in a professional game (and it only served to get the rest of the crowd gossiping, which, to Harry's annoyance, they were). As a Seeker, he had very little to do for most of the match other than look for the Snitch, which was not the sort of thing one required all of one's focus to do - at least not always. He often had plenty of time to watch what his teammates were doing, and to hear every insipid word the commentators spoke. Poor Cho, not even allowed to attend the game of an old acquaintance without a lot of rubbish being talked about.

Two girls in front of Harry were on a roll.

"Cor, Ron Weasley is dreamy. He's the best Keeper Puddlemere's had in ages."

"I can't believe he's stepping out with Cho Chang. He'll catch something from that one, mark my words."

"Better than him getting sliced up by that Quidditch Cutter," the first girl remarked.

"Come on, let's not talk about that," the second girl said. "It gives me the willies."

Harry sighed and did his best not to listen to the rest of their conversation. Talk of the Quidditch Cutter had followed him since the article was published and the entire business was beginning to consume him. He wanted to take a day off to be a sports reporter, which is what he'd been hired to do. Not to mention the opportunity to just be Harry, someone's friend.

Ron was frowning as he brought his broom to a halt and scanned the field. He was utterly still for all of fifteen seconds, then the crowd began to yell. Philip Bulstrode, the Wasps' Seeker, had spotted the Snitch. Puddlemere's Seeker, Kate Simpson, started for it a second later, and Ron, seeing (as Harry could) that the Puddlemere Beaters were occupied on the other end of the field, moved. It all happened in a blur, but Harry, who was familiar with the fast paced nature of the game, couldn't wipe the enormous grin off his face.

"Jameson's got a shot at the Bludger, he's taking aim at Simpson -- great Merlin, Deborah, Puddlemere's Keeper's come in from nowhere and taken the hit -- my god! He's got the Bludger, Weasley's got the Bludger! He's traveling with it, heading toward -- Weasley's knocked Bulstrode out of the air! Simpson catches the Snitch! It's all over -- Puddlemere wins! Puddlemere wins!"

The crowd began chanting Kate Simpson's name. Cho began to jump up and down and cheer wildly. Harry couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was stunning. She had always been beautiful, but before, he had been blinded by it, lost in a desire to have her, before he even knew what that meant. He didn't want her anymore, but that didn't make her any less beautiful; he just saw it in a far less personal way. She wore tragedy around her like a cloak and the vivid red of her sweater accentuated the lovely paleness of her skin. When she and Harry had dated, there had been hollowness in her eyes, an emptiness that had only ever receded out on the field, or during some daring, exciting deed she'd thrown herself into. Her sweater had a wide neck, and it slipped just so off her shoulder as she bounced up and down -- Harry's gaze was drawn to a nasty bruise on her shoulder. He let out a sigh -- he hoped there was a good explanation for it, and that she wasn't in the thick of her old ways.

Ron flew by Harry's seat on his broom, and Harry gave a great whoop! for his friend's victory, then winced at the sharp motion. In the excitement of the game, he'd almost forgotten the slight hangover he was currently suffering from. As he watched Ron fly over to Cho and lean down to buss her soundly on the mouth before doing a victory lap with the team, Harry completely forgot how to close his mouth.

So maybe all gossip wasn't rubbish.

Once the shock had passed, Harry tried to summon up some sense of outrage or betrayal, and found the emotions decidedly lacking. He thought of the bruise on Cho's shoulder and hoped she wouldn't be dragging Ron down into her ever-present melancholy. He didn't let himself dwell long on the possibility that the bruise might very well be a love bite -- lifetime friends or not, there were just some things Harry would just as well rather not know about Ron.

Just then, the potential love-biter in question made another pass around the stands and spotted Harry, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. Harry couldn't quite hold back a grin at his friend's obvious panic. Ron opened his mouth, Harry knew, to apologize for not having warned him about this new development, but Harry shrugged and smiled wider and jabbed his head in Cho's direction, his intent clear: Go on, kiss her again. With a grin of thanks, their wordless communication as effortless as it hadn't been in forever, Ron angled his broom back toward Cho and kissed her in a way that left no doubt in the minds of anyone present just how not-platonic their relationship was.

Harry took a moment to imagine how hard his best friend would hit him if Ron ever found out Harry had kissed his baby sister in a drunken stupor the night before.

The answer, of course, was very hard indeed; not that Ron had anything to worry about. Harry sighed. He and Ginny must have really been hard up for something if they'd even considered trying each other on for size. He was just glad there had been no one else present to witness their moment of great stupidity -- the shame should remain between the two of them, and the two of them alone, for all time.

Out on the field, Kate Simpson flew up to Ron, threw her arms around him, and kissed him soundly on the mouth in gratitude. Ron looked a bit stunned as she flew off again without a backwards glance, but when Harry glanced at Cho in the stands, he thought someone else might be getting hit rather hard later on.

"Excuse me," an excited voice asked from beside him, "but aren't you Harry Potter?"

Harry looked down at a boy, no older than ten, his wide blue eyes earnest and unblinking.

"So they keep telling me," Harry confessed.

"I have every trading card they ever did of you," the boy said with great awe. "And every article you've ever written. Are you going to start playing Quidditch again? Oh, please, I hope you do."

"You never know what's going to happen," Harry answered. Play Quidditch again. The thought of it seemed so far away, like a dream he'd had. He did know one thing: it was nice, being looked up to because of something he did, rather than because he had a scar on his forehead. "What's your name?"

"James," the boy answered.

Harry smiled painfully; then, after a moment's pause, shrugged out of his cloak. He draped it around James' small shoulders, his smile becoming less painful as the material dragged along the ground. James' mouth was now as wide as his eyes.

"Something to keep you warm, James," Harry said gently, then passed his hand over the boy's head as he began to make his way out of the stands.

There was almost a full minute of silence before Harry heard a young voice cry out "MUM!!" in the most desperately excited tone he'd heard in ages.

His smile remained intact for the rest of the afternoon.

xXxXxXx

Draco didn't like to be kept waiting, but he'd been doing it for well over fifteen minutes now. Commissioner Roldy hadn't yet put in an appearance. Granted, he and Ginny had arrived ten minutes early, but in his opinion the Commissioner ought to have received them immediately. Draco fidgeted impatiently with the ties on his shoes, wanting to get this meeting over with. The comfortable chair in which he was sitting was making him antsy ... it was too comfortable, making him feel like he was being lulled into complacency.

Ginny was nattering on about something, and Draco knew he ought to be paying attention, but he just couldn't seem to do it. All day, he had found himself sidetracked by memories of the night before. He didn't know why he kept thinking of it. It wasn't as if he had particularly enjoyed seeing Ginny and Potter slobbering over each other. Or having to console a blubbering Granger (who didn't even have the decency to act very consoled, afterward). It must be that because if Ginny were to have the extreme poor taste of taking up with Potter, all of Draco's hard work would be for naught. After all, he'd voluntarily spent time with that insufferable swot Granger, and the idea that he might have done that for nothing was truly galling. It was time he could have spent working on his novel. Which Granger now knew about, and could hold over his head as blackmail. Bugger.

"... so I think we ought to simply allow him to -- you're not even listening! What is the matter with you?"

Draco jerked his attention back to his partner guiltily. "What do you mean?"

"The way you're acting!" She sounded peeved.

"How's that?" he asked, feigning disinterest. He thought he probably had some idea, but wasn't about to admit it.

"You know very well how," Ginny shot back. "Like the miserable little git you were at Hogwarts."

For some reason, this hurt. All right, so he hadn't been the most pleasant person in the world today, he could admit to that, but was it a requirement that he be Mary Fucking Sunshine? If only she knew how positively sympathetic he'd been last night, cleaning up the mess she'd made. "Well, that's me, Ginny," he said, knowing he sounded like an arse. "This is how I am. Take me or leave me." Now why had he added that last part? He held his breath. From the look on her face it wouldn't surprise him in the least if she were to take him up on the offer and simply walk away, putting in a request for a transfer to another division. Or at least another partner.

After another tense moment, Ginny shook her head. "I don't know how to talk to you when you're being like this."

Draco let out the breath he'd been holding. He was being a complete prat and he knew it. He seemed to have no control over the way he was behaving or the things he was saying. If he went much further, she was liable to rip out his heart through his throat then throw it in his face, and he really couldn't blame her. But every time he thought he'd gotten himself under control, he only had to glance at Ginny and his brain would supply the positively nauseating image of her with Potter. Then there'd be that uncomfortable clenching feeling in his gut, which inevitably made him snap at her again. It was a vicious cycle, and he didn't know how to get himself out of it.

It wasn't that she had done anything wrong. He was being unreasonable, which wasn't like him at all. Just because he couldn't see the first thing appealing about that four-eyed "journalist" obviously didn't mean that others with less refined tastes didn't. Look at Granger, a perfect example. She and Potter were made for one another. But Ginny -- Draco had given Ginny more credit than that. She was supposed to have better taste. He couldn't help being disappointed in her. She hadn't lived up to his expectations, so he was acting like a louse.

Just like his father.

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, and Draco grimaced. He was being like Lucius. He took a deep breath. Instead of snapping at her, he should be guiding her. Showing her why Potter was all wrong for her. After a bit of discussion, she was sure to see the error of her ways. After all, Ginny was a reasonable, rational person, for the most part. He'd point out all of Potter's deficiencies, all the ways he couldn't support or satisfy her, and she would come to the natural conclusion that she couldn't waste herself on him, all without Draco having to lift a finger.

And if that didn't work, he'd tell her Granger loved Potter. Surely she wouldn't continue seeing a man her friend was in love with.

xXxXxXx

There were a great many things that Hermione could do to occupy her leisure time. Unlike Harry, she enjoyed cleaning her home, keeping everything tidy, assigning a place for everything. However, even for Hermione, the task of cleaning was sometimes wholly unappealing, and so she had to turn to other pursuits. Reading, or something equally academic would not do at all when the entire purpose of engaging in an activity was to silence the riotous thoughts in her head, and so, though she was not very good at it, Hermione decided that she would bake.

Hermione quite enjoyed baking, in spite of the results she always yielded. As a young girl, she had spent many an hour carefully watching Mrs. Weasley's every move to determine the exact angle at which to fold an egg into cake batter. These lessons had been almost completely unhelpful to her, yet the baking bug had never fully fled. Ron and Harry had been forced, over the years, to consume a great number of foul-tasting things, only to dispose of them the moment her back was turned and they thought she couldn't see them.

Every poorly concealed napkin was like a dagger to Hermione's heart; she just didn't fail at things. Divination, certainly, had been an abysmal failure, but that was because Divination was so imprecise. Hermione enjoyed things with patterns and reason and certainty -- baking should have been like that. There were numbers and charts and all kinds of measurement to ensure a successful outcome. No matter how carefully Hermione followed a recipe, however, it never turned out right.

And so, what Hermione did when she was already frustrated, was bake. One hopeless campaign, after all, went well with another.

Tonight she had decided on a chocolate cake, which had been one of the few things her mother was adept at baking. With every step, she tried not to imagine Harry and Ginny kissing, and with every step, she could do nothing else. When the directions in the book told Hermione to "gently fold the eggs in" she pictured Ginny whispering something into Harry's ear and she ended up beating the eggs into frothy submission. Grimacing at the sight, she gently spooned at the batter as though she could undo the brutal treatment of seconds ago.

Ginny was good at baking.

Cattiness was unattractive and unproductive and Hermione hated it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Ginny was like a sister to her, and yet jealousy was twisting her heart and mind into something ugly. If Ginny had Apparated over just then, Hermione would have been hard pressed to keep herself from striking her best girl friend simply because the other woman could have made this chocolate cake with her eyes closed.

Hermione knew Ginny had inherited her mother's prowess in the kitchen, and Draco had felt the need to reinforce this knowledge over a meal they'd shared in the past few days. This is absolute rot, he'd said, making a distasteful expression at his perfectly acceptable chocolate soufflé. Pushing it away, he'd glanced up at Hermione. Ginny can make one of these without all the right ingredients and still have it turn out better than this.

It had intrigued Hermione, his casual, totally unconscious ability to pull Ginny into the subject of any conversation -- or any random occurrence, for that matter -- and because she was truly fascinated by human behavior, Hermione had probed a little further. What she had learned was that Ginny sometimes cooked meals for Draco; there was nothing overt or suspicious about them, it was just something she did from time to time, just like how he spent the occasional night on her couch because he didn't like his garish mansion or something. The details were supremely uninteresting and obvious to anyone paying the slightest bit of attention, so it wasn't the facts that piqued her curiosity.

No, what interested Hermione was that Draco honestly didn't appear to realize he was completely besotted with his partner.

Even then, Hermione allowed for the possibility that she might be mistaken; even the most successful theories still had to account for a reasonable margin of error. Men and women could be close, dear friends without any romantic feelings between them. So she had put her suspicions aside and went on with the insane plan Draco had laid out for her, but she kept her eyes open, like any good reporter would, and tried to see each new clue that came her way objectively.

Until, of course, she had stumbled upon his novel-in-progress. At that point, Hermione had thrown objectivity out the window, because no one could possibly be more obvious about feelings he wasn't even aware he had.

"Deacon and Georgia, indeed," Hermione muttered under her breath as she used an entire stick of butter to grease the bottom of a pan. The last time she'd attempted this, the cake had refused to come free so she was making doubly sure she got to every nook and cranny.

How Draco could create an entire universe that was basically a bastardization of the one he lived in and not realize the depth of his feelings, Hermione didn't know. She supposed the Malfoys had been living in denial for so many centuries that it was probably like second nature to them.

But really:

"You're so beautiful," Georgia whispered. "It's almost unnatural. Here, I've baked you a chocolate soufflé you can eat while you stay over on my couch."

"Thank you," Deacon answered. "I shall dream of your long red hair and the cases we will solve tomorrow."

Perhaps her memory was exaggerating, but Hermione didn't feel it was by very much at all. And really, it was just pathetic, Draco sitting home late at night, tapping away on his typewriter, living out his perceived unrequited feelings for Ginny in the pages of questionably prosed pulp fiction.

Almost as pathetic, Hermione realized numbly, as angrily baking a chocolate cake no one would ever eat because you're too much of a coward to fight for the man you loved.

Well that tore it. There was no way Hermione was going to let herself be as sad an act as Malfoy. If he wanted to waste his life subconsciously pining after a woman who might very well fancy him back if given half a chance, then that was his prerogative. So what if Ginny was prettier, and sweeter, and easier to get on with than Hermione was? Harry and Hermione had a very special bond, one that he did not share with Ginny, and Hermione wasn't going to sell it short another second. She would fight for Harry.

She would fight, and she would win, because this was the one personal battle Hermione had ever fought in which losing was not even a mathematical possibility; she wouldn't let it be.

Perhaps as a show of good faith, her chocolate cake would even cooperate and turn out all right. There was, after all, always hope.

xXxXxXx

Ginny was trying to go over a strategy on how they ought to handle their meeting with the Commissioner -- high-ranking political figures were inevitably tricky -- but it was clear that Draco had less than zero interest in what she was saying. Really, what was the matter with him today?

"Malfoy!" she snapped, after trying and failing for the second time since they'd arrived in Commissioner Roldy's offices to get his attention. "Have you heard a single word I've said?"

"Of course I have," he said disdainfully. Then his expression turned impassive. He studied his fingernails. "So what did you do last night?"

The new topic caused Ginny to pause for several seconds as her mind adjusted to the change. "Pardon?"

"Last night," Draco repeated. "What did you do?"

Ginny shrugged, wondering why he'd decided to make small talk in the middle of discussing an interview for their most important case. "Last night? Nothing."

To her surprise, a hint of a scowl appeared on Draco's face, before it relaxed again. A smile played at his lips. "Really? Nothing?" he asked lightly. "You looked nice when I saw you."

Ginny bristled as his words made her recall how unwelcoming her reception had been when she'd appeared at the Manor. It had been an accident, and he'd been a complete git about it. "Thanks," she said, and did not elaborate, just to irritate him. She fought back her glee when she saw his expression tighten, then faded into equanimity once more. Clearly he was trying to make some kind of point. Well, she certainly wasn't going to make it easy for him.

"Are you saying you spend quiet evenings at home dressed like that? How sad for you, Weasley. All dressed up and no place to go," he finished blandly.

Immediately Ginny's temper sparked, but kept her own features impassive. She would not let him goad her. "Actually, I had drinks with Harry."

Draco smiled, but the way his eyes were studying her as if she were an insect under a magnifying spell was making her unaccountably nervous. But it had to be her imagination. What cause would he have to look at her that way? "Interesting," he said. "So it was the two of you."

"How do you mean?" Then she drew the natural conclusion. "Oh, did you see us?" Ginny said in surprise.

"Mmm," said Draco. "Hermione and I thought we saw you, yes."

"Well, why didn't you come say hello?" Ginny wanted to know.

"It was far too crowded, and anyway, by the time Hermione and I got to the restaurant, we had lost our appetites," Draco responded easily enough, though Ginny noticed there was an odd twitch in his left eye. And why was he saying Hermione's name in that emphatic, unnatural way? Ginny wondered if he'd been hexed recently and the symptoms were just now manifesting themselves.

"Oh. That's too bad," Ginny murmured. She was slightly hurt by the knowledge that Draco had thought to take Hermione to Unrobed for a date. It was their place. Such thoughts were irrational, of course, since Ginny herself had brought Harry there. But we weren't on a date, she argued.

But you kissed.

Which only served to prove how much of a date it wasn't.

Draco had continued to talk, oblivious to Ginny's internal debate. "... I'd simply be a little more cautious."

The condescending tone snapped Ginny back to attention, despite only catching the tail end of whatever he'd said. "What exactly are you trying to say?" she demanded.

"Your reporter friend is sniffing after a story. You have all the details," Draco said bluntly. "I'm just warning you to exercise a little caution, that's all."

"How dare you," Ginny exclaimed in a low hiss, glancing at Commissioner Roldy's secretary, who was seated at her desk not far away. "First of all, Harry would never abuse our relationship like that. Second of all, what do you take me for? I'm not new to this, and I'm not an imbecile!"

"Relationship?" Draco pounced, almost before Ginny had even finished speaking.

"What?" He had gotten her all riled up, and now he was turning the tables on her again. She was getting a headache trying to keep up with the discussion. "Yes, relationship! I know that you're not extremely familiar with the concept of friendship, but there's a certain level of common decency--"

"Oh, friendship," Draco cut her off, waving his hand dismissively.

Ginny stopped abruptly, feeling a bit disoriented. Were they even engaged in the same conversation? Or were they somehow in different dimensions, and while she was speaking to him, he was actually talking to someone else? She had heard of such things happening. "And anyway," she continued haltingly, though a lot of her ire had evaporated due to confusion, "any caution I should be taking, you should be doubly aware of, given that your reporter girlfriend is staying over and might chance upon your case notes as well as other confidential information."

"She's not--" Draco began, then stopped when Ginny raised her eyebrows for him to continue. "--staying over," he finished.

Ginny had the feeling that wasn't what he was originally going to say, but was distracted by the unreasonable gladness she felt at the knowledge that Hermione hadn't stayed at the Manor last night. But wait... "That doesn't sound like you," she said.

Draco ran his fingers through his hair and wouldn't meet her gaze. "We're taking things slow. Very, very slow."

"Well ... that's a great idea," Ginny said, trying to sound less enthusiastic than she felt. "You really shouldn't jump into these things." Unless ... he was holding back because Hermione actually meant something to him, unlike the other witches he'd dated in the past. "Or maybe you should just get it over with. You know, then if it's bad, you won't have to waste your time." She could hear herself talking, but was getting confused about what advice she should be giving. Now she was encouraging Draco to sleep with Hermione, and if Harry found out, he'd kill her. But there was a good reason for it! She was actually trying to break them up! Ginny's brow furrowed. That didn't really make any sense, did it? It did at the time she made the suggestion, but now...

"You know I despise it when you go into Ginnyland while we're in the middle of a conversation," Draco slotted in, neatly disrupting her thoughts. They squawked like chickens and scattered around in her head, landing haphazardly. She would have to round them up later.

"Well, I despise it when--"

"The Commissioner is ready for you now," came the professional, falsely kind voice of the secretary.

Draco and Ginny both rose and followed her to the double doors that led to the Commissioner's well-appointed office. Before they went in, Ginny managed to get in one last, "Don't be a prat," under her breath.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Draco replied, his tone clearly implying that he was preparing to be the biggest prat on the face of planet Earth.

It was going to be a long meeting.

xXxXxXx

As anticipated, the Commissioner's office was nothing short of luxurious. Even Draco had to admit that, but then his standards had declined somewhat after being forced to work out of a dinky little office day in and day out. The view seemed wasted on an office; from the look on Ginny's face, it was clear she shared his sentiment -- a view such as this should have been attached to a home. Her home, preferably, her expression said. But there was no use in coveting the views of others, and after allowing herself a moment of envy, Ginny got to the business at hand. Despite the Commissioner's invitation to sit, she remained standing. Draco, however, chose to settle himself in one of the enormous and comfortable-looking chairs in front of the large mahogany desk, facing the seated Commissioner.

Roldy smiled at Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, I heard you were once quite a fine Seeker during your Hogwarts years."

"You heard right," said Draco, ignoring Ginny rolling her eyes.

"And yet you chose to be an Auror rather than pursue a career in Quidditch -- why is that?" Roldy sounded genuinely curious.

"Most Quidditch players are seeking fame and fortune; I had those things," said Draco truthfully. "And while I enjoy Quidditch as much as the next bloke, being gifted with both intelligence and talent, I ultimately decided that I'd rather use my intellect rather than my brawn in my career."

Roldy chuckled. "Most in my acquaintance would say that it is an impossibility to become a truly fine player of Quidditch without also having intelligence -- which might also explain why you yourself took to the sport, yes? But your point is taken."

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement of the other man's point as well.

"Thank you for meeting with us this afternoon, Commissioner," Ginny said, clearly wanting to jump in before the entire interview got completely off track. "As you're aware, we have quite a serious situation on our hands. Three WWL Quidditch players have been found murdered in the last--"

"Yes, yes, it's terrible. Terrible," the Commissioner interrupted gravely. "Coffee?"

"No thank you," Ginny said firmly, while Draco waved his hand in refusal. He rested one ankle on the opposite knee and crossed his arms as if in boredom. Ginny remained unfazed and continued. "We've reviewed personnel records from each of Britain's teams spanning the last month, but the scope of the league makes it difficult to ascertain--"

"Majorie," Roldy interrupted again, speaking into his fireplace, "Could you be a darling and bring us a glass of water? My throat gets very dry," he said in explanation to Ginny and Draco.

"Of course, Commissioner," came the secretary's saccharine voice.

"You were saying?" Roldy motioned for Ginny to continue. As his partner spoke, Draco surreptitiously studied their interviewee. Roldy, who was rather young for his position -- he couldn't have been older than 60 -- was not particularly impressive in stature, but the sharpness of his gaze belied the good natured, somewhat absented-minded facade he had shown them so far. He hadn't gotten to his position by being stupid or a doormat; unlike the Minister of Magic from several terms ago, Cornelius Fudge, Roldy would not have been able to rely solely on PR to obtain his position. No momentary public flights of fancy would have filled his role, not when the lives -- and finances -- of so many important patrons were at stake. The Minister of Magic was a temporary public servant, liable to change if the wind blew the wrong way; the Commissioner of Quidditch, however, while a highly public figure and held in extreme awe and respect, generally answered to no one but a small number of constituents -- powerful entities consisting primarily of large corporations and important shareholders.

"At the moment, we do not know whether these three players comprise the entirety of the killer's victims," Ginny was saying. "We have not been able to verify the whereabouts of four players and six alternates who are currently on leave -- and these are players just from the British teams. We had initially focused our inquiries domestically; however, Cal Canderer's murder indicates that the perpetrator is not limiting himself to British teams, which introduces the complexity of an international investigation."

"I understand," Roldy said, "and I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to assist your investigation."

It was all Draco could do not to smirk. There was a knock on the door, and Majorie entered, carrying a tray laden with a tall glass and a pitcher of ice-cold water (if the frosty beads of condensation covering it were anything to go by). She set the glass down on a coaster -- shaped like a Snitch, of course -- and filled the waiting glass to three quarters full. The pitcher with the remaining water she set down discreetly at a nearby side table.

"We're very glad to hear that, Commissioner," said Ginny, after Majorie had departed. "Therefore, we'd like for you to temporarily call for a halt to the Quidditch season, postponing all upcoming games until after we have apprehended the perpetrator and can more readily assure safety for the players."

Draco had kept his gaze on Roldy as Ginny delivered this request, and the other man's expression did not change. "My dear, are you quite mad?" Roldy said mildly. "What you're asking for is an impossibility. Even if I thought it was a good idea -- which I don't -- I couldn't do it."

Neither Draco nor Ginny flinched. It was what they'd been expecting, after all, despite his grandstanding of not ten seconds ago. They both knew that there was very little a man like Roldy couldn't do -- not if he truly wanted it done. He knew it as well.

"Commissioner, we do not make this request lightly," said Ginny. "We understand that what we're asking for is unorthodox --"

Roldy laughed. "Unorthodox? My dear, do you pride yourself on understatements? We're talking about the cessation of an entire community. We're talking about thousands of hours of work, gone to waste. We're talking about--"

"Human lives -- those, in fact, who keep the community you speak of functioning," Draco slotted in softly.

"Yes, well," Roldy seemed to founder for a moment. "And I have great respect for what you are doing, in helping to bring this criminal to justice. Surely, however, you realize that what you are asking for is outside the boundaries of reason. Quidditch cannot be put on hold, as if it were a set of robes in a shop! Quidditch keeps our very society functioning, and if I did as you asked, do you know what would happen?"

"Rioting in the streets?" Ginny said, in a kind of monotone, as if she were repeating something she had heard before. "Perhaps the Ministry under siege?"

"Don't be so melodramatic, my dear," said Roldy impatiently. "I am speaking the plain truth; I do not need hyperbole to prove my point. You were both raised in the wizarding community. I shouldn't have to explain to you that Quidditch is our lifeblood!"

Draco noted the passion in the Minister's voice; it was clear that Roldy actually cared about the sport and was not just another politician.

Roldy went on. "If we take Quidditch away from the people, they'll simply form amateur leagues, mark my words. How will you monitor that? You'll have the same problem on your hands, only without any semblance of order or official parameters. We will work with you as much as we are able, and lend whatever assistance we can, Aurors Malfoy and Weasley. You will have no such guarantee were you to force people into playing Quidditch 'on the sly,' as it were. What will you do then? Ban Quidditch altogether? Make it against the law?"

Ginny protested that Roldy's assertions were exaggerations and pure conjecture, that their request was not asking for an indeterminate blackout of the sport, that people would place the capture of a murderer higher on their list of priorities than their sports entertainment, but it was no use; the Commissioner would not budge on his position, and in the end, Draco and Ginny were ushered out of his office when Roldy claimed a prior commitment.

"Thanks for the help in there," Ginny said, glaring at Draco as they Apparated back to the Ministry.

Draco shrugged, nodding to another Auror as they passed. "Well, he's probably right, you know. We wouldn't accomplish anything by shutting Quidditch down. Either the killer will simply lie dormant during that time, or he might escalate and turn to the general population. In any case there's no guarantee he won't continue to kill Quidditch players even if they're no longer playing."

"It's just so frustrating!" Ginny burst out, flinging the door to their office open. "We haven't got a single lead to work with, and he could be killing someone else right now, for all we know!" She paused. "Maybe I should owl Ron..."

"Don't worry about him," Draco assured. "I wouldn't be that lucky."

An urgent knock sounded on the door, saving him from one of Ginny's death glares.

"Yes? Come in," she called, still giving Draco dirty looks.

A bespectacled man poked his head inside the door, his face shiny with sweat and his hair needing a good brush. He could be Potter's twin, Draco thought. "I'm so glad I've caught you," he said breathlessly. "I work with Yellowbrook -- that is, James Yellowbrook, I think you know him--"

"Yes, of course. What is it?" Ginny asked, gently so as not to seem rude for interrupting his babble.

Draco was already out of his seat and headed for the door when the man replied.

"There's something you should see."