Anguis: The Snake Within

Anguis: The Snake Within - Chapter Two.

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0o0o0

When I first met Harry Potter, I hadn't been impressed. He'd been tiny for his age, uncared for, with fragile, bird-like bones and delicate features. He'd had messy hair and broken glasses, and, in my mind, I'd written him off, filing him away with the hopeless, chubby boy who'd lost his toad, and the girl with blonde pigtails who'd been crying for her mother.

I'd heard of him, of course, the 'Boy Who Lived.' I'd been devouring books about the magical world all summer, and the most intriguing thing had always been Harry Potter. Even at eleven, I'd been fiercely sensible, but I'd found myself seduced by the romanticism of such a tragic hero. I'd imagined him as tall and handsome, with golden hair and bright blue eyes that glowed with magical power. So when his name was called at the Sorting, and that scrawny, grubby boy from the train had stepped forward, I'd been horribly disappointed.

It's amazing how things change.

At twenty-six, Harry looks more like a brooding anti-hero than a fairytale prince. He's all scars, stubble and rough edges, but there's no denying that he's handsome, his features having matured from delicate to refined. He's six foot, but seems taller, with broad, powerful shoulders and ridges of muscle beneath his worn-thin t-shirts. He's got tattooed arms, dangerous eyes, and a grin so sharp that it's predatory. His hair's still messy, but cropped to look deliberate; short sides, the front long enough to fall into his eyes, and the back just brushing his collar. In comparison to him, those golden, fairytale princes seem dull and unappealing, and every single one of them lacks the sex appeal that Harry has in spades.

He's not perfect, though, far from it. He can be sarcastic and unpredictable. He likes to swear and drink too much for my liking and, worst of all, he's got a mean temper that can flare to white-hot rage in a heartbeat. And Harry, when he's angry, is absolutely terrifying.

I don't see him arrive, but I feel it; the change in the air and the prickle of power against my skin. I crane my neck, and catch sight of him slipping between tables as he makes his way to the bar. He stands out from the people around him like he's a breed apart, a hunter amid his prey. He's lean and dangerous; from the curl of his lip, to his leather jacket and biker boots, but more; it's the way he moves, with a fluid, feline grace that marks him as a fighter. He leans on the bar, looking casual and relaxed as he orders, but I can tell he's alert, perfectly aware of his surroundings, with equal attention on the lairy drunks as on the barmaid he's flirting with. When she hands him his beer, his fingers brush across the back of her hand and he gives her a slow, smooth smile that leaves her flustered and blushing.

I swallow as he approaches, making every effort to keep my expression pleasant but neutral, hiding the roiling tangle of emotions just below the surface. Our relationship is difficult and strained, laden with bitterness and bad memories - there is too much water under the bridge for us to ever return to the easy friendship we once shared, and God, I miss it. But the War, and the year after it, have left scars.

"Evening, Harry."

"Doctor Granger," he returns, with a small nod and a clenched jaw.

Even now, hearing his deep voice calling me 'doctor' brings back old, angry echoes - "Don't you fucking analyse me, Doctor!"

He shrugs off his battered jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, and it's only up close that I can see the Magical Law Enforcement logo on the left breast, and H. J. Potter embroidered below it. The white fabric of his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders and the muscles of his chest as he sits, lounging and lazy, his long legs outstretched. My eyes are drawn to his tattoo, a sinuous, twisting serpent that had once been horribly reminiscent of a Dark Mark, but has now grown to cover his entire left arm. His fingers, wrapped around his beer bottle, are long and elegant, but there are faint scars peppering his skin and he has half-healed split knuckles. It's the one thing he can't do, any kind of healing, and I want to reach out across the table, take his hand in mine and soothe away the scrapes... But we're not friends anymore, not really, and we don't touch.

"How have you been?" I ask, meeting his eyes. "It's been months since I heard from you."

"I've been alright. Busy."

He talks to me like I'm a passing acquaintance, someone he barely knows to say hello to in the street. I should be used to it, but deep down it still hurts.

"Heard from Ron?" he asks.

"Yes. He's with the team, touring Russia. They're doing well."

He nods, and the mention of Ron's Quidditch adventures gets more of a smile than I did. I look away, and slowly sip my wine, needing a moment to gather myself. He does this, easily, unconsciously. He undoes me.

"So." I clear my throat. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yea..." He leans back in his chair and stares at me levelly. It stretches for a beat too long to be comfortable, before he looks away and says, "What can you tell me about necromancy?"

The darkest of all Dark Arts... I recoil. "What?!"

"Necromancy. You know, resurrections. Night of the Living Dead, all that crap."

He says it too loudly and I look around nervously.

"I know what it is, Harry," I hiss, leaning closer. "Keep your bloody voice down!"

"Christ. Touchy." His lip quirks, more a smirk than a smile. Then he waves his hand casually, casting a complex privacy charm, before adding, "You can tell me about it then?"

"Why do you need to know?" I ask, carefully.

"Because I want an army of zombies. Jesus Hermione, why the hell do you think I need to know?!"

I see the familiar temper flare up in his eyes, and notice his hand tighten on his beer bottle, but I refuse to back down. I'm angry too, and so I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest and glare at him.

"Don't you take that tone of voice with me, Harry Potter. I'm not one of the floozies you've just picked up for the night. I'm doing you a favour by even being here. So, if you want me to tell you anything, you'd better start by showing me some damn respect."

His green eyes flash, and it irritates me that even when I'm angry with him, I can't help but think he's beautiful. I grit my teeth and for a long moment we sit with locked glares, neither of us willing to give in. Then, Harry sighs and looks away.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he says, quietly. "I don't want to fight with you."

I gape at him, stunned into silence. I open my mouth but have no idea what to say, so close it again and just stare at him. He looks tired suddenly, worn out, with thin spider lines of tension around his eyes and bracketing his mouth. I frown and look down at my hands. I'm concerned, but there's no point in trying to help or asking if he's all right, because he'll take that as talking about his feelings and I know how much he hates 'that girly touchy-feely crap.' He looks tense, almost like he's waiting for it, and so instead I say calmly, "I take it that this is for a case."

He shoots me a surprised, grateful glance through his fringe, and I'm secretly pleased. We may have grown apart, and he may have changed so much, physically and mentally, that he's barely recognisable, but deep down he's still my Harry.

"It's connected to a murder investigation," he says.

"Well, in that case, surely MLE have their own evidence team working on it. Won't it be better just to wait and see what they come up with?"

"Not really, no." He rakes a hand through his hair. "We don't have the resources of the Department of Mysteries, and necromancy is an extremely difficult subject to research - it's very hard to find any useful information. People are being killed, Hermione. I'm sure as hell not going to sit around twiddling my thumbs and just hoping that someone stumbles onto something."

I study him, and then nod sharply. "Alright." I take a deep breath. "Most of what I know about necromancy comes from myths and rumours, so I can only say what I believe to be true. One thing we do know is that necromancy is an ancient art that tends to remain within bloodlines - passed down from one generation to another, and each family uses a slightly different variation."

"So, that would make the perp easier to track, right?"

I shake my head. "Impossible. There is no way of knowing which bloodlines carry the ability, or how they use it - there could be one family in the UK, or there could be dozens. But, hypothetically, it would be a way to identify the killer."

He nods slowly. I can practically see his brain working overtime. "Go on."

"It seems likely that a trainee would have to work their way through different levels. An apprentice would probably be raising shades - more of an echo than a spirit. I imagine that an acolyte would progress to raising the genuine, sentient souls of the dead. The messy stuff would come later, like raising bodies. A master would be able to create the imitation of life from a corpse - but it would be utterly submissive to its creator's will." I pause, pushing back unpleasant memories before saying, "Only a grand master can raise a revenant, by binding a summoned spirit into a re-animated body. Providing that the corpse is fresh when it's raised, it can be difficult to tell the difference between a revenant and a person; it thinks, it moves, it looks the same."

His brow furrows. "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but that doesn't seem so bad. It's dark and unnatural, sure, but if a revenant is pretty much the same as a living person, that doesn't seem so awful."

I frown. "Harry, a revenant may draw breath and have a beating heart, but we're not talking about some average Joe here, who went for a mini-break in the afterlife." I drag a hand through my hair, agitated. "Ignoring, for a moment, the innocent people who have to be slaughtered for the ritual to work... the things that return aren't human anymore. No matter how good the person may have been in life, a revenant is a demonic entity. Being called upon to remain... it warps the spirit, somehow - they become cruel, capricious... but smart, too, and powerful. They have abilities such as pyrokinesis, telepathy, teleportation - so anti-Apparition wards mean nothing to them." I rub my eyes, trying to think of a way to explain. "Revenants are walking death, and not just in the literal sense - they carry disease, misery and despair... major disasters follow these things around like a bad smell. Cruciatus is said to feel like a lover's caress next to their touch, and to hear their voice is to go insane. These things are fast, mean and unstoppable."

He stares at me, stunned into silence, until finally he finds his voice and says, "You don't believe any of that though, right? It's just stories, like you said. Legends."

I stare back, and say softly, "Harry, you've seen Inferi with your own eyes. What do you think?"

All of the colour drains out of his face, and he swallows hard. "Fuck."

I feel a bit sick myself. In my line of work, in the Department of Mysteries, I've seen many things. But the worst, the absolute worst, was the time they caught a revenant. It wasn't complete, something had gone wrong somewhere and it was stuck between being a revenant and an Inferius... and, God, the brief glimpse I got of it, in the glass tank they'd kept it in, had been enough to haunt my dreams for years. If there's someone else out there, trying to raise one of these things, I'll do everything I can to help him stop it.

"Harry... I might be able to help you further, but I'm going to need details."

"It's an active investigation," he says, his voice low and rough. "I can't just..."

I reach out across the table and rest my hand on his, for barely a moment. It's the first time we've touched in years, but he doesn't react.

"I appreciate that. But I can't help you any further without knowing specifics. Crime scene photos for a start, I need to see the markings and the layout of the ritual."

"Believe me," he says, grimly, "the last thing that you want to see are photos."

"Harry, these rituals need to be tailored, not just to the bloodline of the necromancer, but also to the spirit they are trying to raise. It might be impossible to find a link to the bloodline via the ritual, but perhaps we could work out who they are trying to contact. Then, you can work back from there and see who would want that person raised."

His eyebrows shoot up. "You could do that?!"

I smile at him. "Well... It's only an idea at this stage. I'll have to do some research, make a few subtle enquiries with my collegues."

He stares at me for a long moment, and then says, "There's something else you need to know. This case has been going on for over a month, but a few days ago the bastard actually managed to raise something. I don't know what it was, revenant or Inferius or shade, but it was in the fresh body of the victim."

I stare at him, horrified. "What happened to it?"

"It was trapped in the ritual, so I burnt the body and without anything to possess the thing inside it just vanished."

"Was it sentient?"

"Yea. It tried to convince me to release it." He shudders.

Interesting. It sounds like a revenant, but I've never heard of one being contained within a ritual before. I stare blankly at my drink, mind working overtime.

"I need to see the photos."

He studies me for a second, and then nods. I watch as he makes a small, complicated hand motion and then plucks a case file from mid-air. I gape at such a casual display of wandless magic, and the fact he just pulled off something I've never seen before, some kind of long-distance 'accio.' Fascinating.

He flicks though the file before glancing up. "This isn't the most recent crime-scene, we're still compiling evidence on that, but this is the previous murder. The rituals are very similar, and in a language none of us have ever seen before."

He begins removing crime-scene photos and laying them out on the table for me to see. They're incredibly gory, a dead girl splayed in the centre of a ritual painted in blood, followed by close-ups of the symbols. I frown, tilting my head, something about the symbols seems strangely familiar.

Harry watches me closely, before asking, "What is it?"

"I don't... I'm not sure. There's something about them that..." I shake my head in frustration. "I'm sure I've seen these somewhere before."

"That's exactly how I felt, the first time that I saw them. That there was something I couldn't quite put my finger on."

Suddenly, it comes to me, and I snap my fingers with a wide smile. "'Hogwarts, A History!'"

There's a long silence, whilst Harry stares at me like I've gone barmy. "Er..."

"Can you," I make a vague swirling motion with my hand, "do that thing, like how you got the case file, to get a copy of 'Hogwarts, A History?'"

"Yea. Of course."

He shoots me a doubtful look, but a second later pulls a copy of the book out of thin air. I snatch it off him quickly, and begin scanning the contents, muttering under my breath. Then finally, I find the page, at the end of the chapter on Salazar Slytherin, and bring one of the crime scene photos closer, comparing the symbols. Then, grinning widely, I turn the book around and push it towards Harry.

His eyes widen when he sees the page, and he grabs a crime scene photo, looking between them, comparing.

'Hogwarts, A History' is a fascinating book, as Harry and Ron would have discovered had they ever given it a chance. It covers everything from the building itself, to the wards, the ghosts, the legends and, of course, the Founders. The chapter on Slytherin is easily the smallest in the entire book, painting him as an intense, reclusive character, passionate, but overly protective, about his work. He left behind a journal, written in a strange, mysterious script, that has fascinated and captivated generations of linguists and rune masters. The general consensus is that the script is some form of written parseltongue though when I tell Harry, he shakes his head and says distractedly, "It's not parseltongue." Then he glances at me, his eyes bright, and says eagerly, "'Mione, where is this journal now?"

He obviously doesn't notice that he slipped into the shortened, childhood version of my name, but I have to hide a soft smile. "It's in Slytherin's vault at Gringotts. The family only ever allowed a few pages to be seen by the public, wanting to preserve the privacy if the code was ever cracked."

"But Slytherin's line died out," he frowns.

"True. But Gringotts have spells on all of the vaults so that if a bloodline ends, the vault either goes to the person named in the previous owners will, or to the closest relative - the spell can track bloodlines back for generations to find the most recent offshoot."

"So there's no way of knowing who now has possession of the Slytherin vault?"

I shrug. "You could try your hand at tracing the bloodline back, but most of the pure-blood family trees are so inter-woven I doubt you'd get anywhere. And the Goblin's certainly won't tell you." He sighs, shoulders slumping. "Still, that's something though, right?" I ask, nodding to the reproduced pages of the journal.

"Yea. Yea, it's a starting point, which is more than I had before." He stares at me, and then gives a strange, awkward little laugh. "It's typical that only minutes after I tell you, you uncover a lead that my entire team and I have been searching for for weeks."

I duck my head, trying to hide my flattered blush.

"Well, now that we know it's not parseltongue, thanks to you, I'd like to approach one of my colleagues to see what he thinks, if that is okay? Ancient languages is not my forte, but Doctor Spencer is a whizz at them - of course, I won't tell him anything about the case. I appreciate the need for confidentiality."

He nods. "Of course. Anything that will help me catch this bastard."

I am absolutely fascinated, I love the challenge of an intellectual puzzle, but if I'm really honest with myself, it's the thought of working with Harry, that really has me excited. I grin, lost in distant memories of him, Ron and me, sneaking around and foiling plots, but when Harry looks up and sees my expression he doesn't smile back. Instead he recoils, not physically but mentally - I can practically see his barriers slam into place, and the warmth that had been creeping into his eyes suddenly disappears. His face turns cold and hard, making him look every bit the arrogant bastard he's reknowned for being, and his mouth tightens into a thin line. I suddenly find myself completely shut out, and the change is so fast and so sudden, that it takes my breath away. I stare at him, confused, as he stands abruptly, not bothering to finish his drink. He even avoids looking at me, when he says cooly, "Thank you for your time, Doctor Granger. You've been a great help. I'll be in touch."

Then, leaving me hurt and bewildered, he turns and walks away.

0o0o0

My memories return in the form of nightmares, awful flashes of the final battle, that wake me screaming, night after night. Eventually I stop trying to sleep, and spend the twilight hours wandering the house, exploring the dark corners of Grimmauld Place and imagining Sirius doing the same.

In the lounge there are piles of copies of the Daily Prophet, unopened deliveries from my time in Mungos, and sorting through them gives me a better picture of what happened to me. The earliest edition is the day after the Final Battle, proclaiming Voldemort as dead, and me as missing. The following day has photographs of people celebrating in the streets, of fireworks peppering the early summer skies, and I'm mentioned in a footnote as missing, presumed dead. Over the weeks and months, I watch the headlines change as people forget about the War, and go back to their lives. I almost miss the small sideline in late June that proclaims me as alive, but in Saint Mungos in a coma. I'm not expected to wake. Whilst interest in me dwindles, Ron and Hermione develop a following. When Ron is accepted into the Montrose Magpies, he has a full-page article in the sports section, that touches on his background and his known association with the Boy Who Lived - I'm not mentioned by name.

Whilst Ron seems to revel in the attention, Hermione tries to avoid it, and although her name comes up in the society pages, the Prophet doesn't manage to snap a picture of her until mid July. In it, she is walking through Diagon, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip, her hair flowing loose and free. She looks beautiful, and for a long moment I stare, as the dull ache in my chest turns into a sharp pain that seems to catch in my throat as I breathe. I run my fingertip over her face, and remember the long months she spent studying with me, trolling through dusty tomes and ancient scrolls, trying to find something, anything, that would help me beat Voldemort. I remember the hours she made me practice awkward incantations and elaborate wand movements, though deep down we both knew I wasn't fast enough or strong enough to win. And I remember the feeling of the storm approaching, or knowing that I had only days before he came for me, and the way my heart had hammered in my chest when I sat her down and told her that I loved her. I tear my eyes away from her picture and swallow hard, skimming the article. She was accepted into a Muggle university, studying, of all things, 'fizzicks.'

A month before I wake up, alone and afraid, there is a photograph of Ron and Hermione in a small, intimate restaurant, clearly on a date. The accompanying article proclaims that the Montrose Magpies' star keeper, and his fellow war hero are now an item. I always knew it would happen, but seeing the proof, printed in black and white, makes me feel sick to my stomach. I watch them smiling and flirting, and when Ron leans across the table to kiss Hermione, I tear the page from the paper and scrunch it into a tight ball, tossing it into the hearth. I'm shaking when I try to set it alight with my wand, and nothing happens.

I curl into a ball and have to struggle not to cry.

000

The day after we talk, Harry sends me some of his case files. He doesn't attatch a letter, or an apology for the way he behaved, just a generic MLE compliments slip with his name scrawled along the bottom. The fact he's so convinced that I'll still help him infuriates me, but he's right, of course - my natural curiousity makes me look at the files, and after seeing more crime scene photos and more of that strange language, I really can't say no.

Harry continues to be a bastard though - I keep waiting for him to contact me, to ask what I think, but he doesn't, and after a week with no word, I decide to track him down myself and give him a talking to. But Harry, it seems, is not an easy man to find.

He's not in his office, not in the canteen, and after I ask a couple of people in the halls (who all seem either in awe of him, or terrified), I find a member of his team, who tells me he's training at the Auror Academy. I'm surprised, I'd have thought as a Supervisory Auror, Harry would have mainly a desk job, but then he's never been the type to sit still, and it's pretty obvious from his physique that he works hard. I floo to the Academy, only to have the receptionist refuse to tell me which hall he's using - though she's not quick enough to stop me sneaking a peek at the sign-in sheet. There is no 'Harry Potter,' but I'd recognist Harry's messy scrawl anywhere, and take note of the hall number beside 'Will Hung.'

The training hall has an attached viewing room, just a couple of hard, wooden benches set behind reinforced, warded glass. There's a blinding flash and a loud boom as I step inside, and it takes a moment for my vision to clear enough to see what's going on. Then, when it finally does, my mouth drops open.

Harry's dressed all in black and armed to the teeth. His heavy boots hold knife sheaths, and there are two long, wicked-looking daggers strapped to his thighs. On his left forearm is a wand sheath, and he's wearing a Muggle style shoulder holster, with a heavy pistol on either side. The overall effect should be over the top, ridiculous even, but it's not... it's impressive, and terrifying. Harry's movements are so smooth and graceful, that it almost looks like he's dancing, but each step, each motion, carries deadly consequence for his simulated attackers. He switches from spell work, to physical blows, to knife attacks with ease, spinning to take out people behind him that he shouldn't even be aware of. Even sitting behind the reinforced glass, I can feel the backlash of his spells, and I realise he's using an incredible amount of power, enough to drain most people in a heartbeat, and leave them bed-ridden for days, trying to recover. Yet he seems unaffected, it doesn't tire him or slow him down, and I chew my lip, frowning. I've always known Harry was powerful, of course, it would be impossible to miss it, but this... this is impossible. No-one could channel this amount of magic and not be affected by it. As I watch, one of his spells is blocked by a construct, and comes veering towards the viewing room. I flinch, even though I know the spell should be absorbed by the layers of wards, only to gasp when they take out some of the force but still leave enough punch that the glass shatters, and I have to throw up a 'protego' to protect myself. I'm shaking slightly, and wild-eyed, as I brush shards of glass from my skirt and stare down into the hall - where Harry is still duelling, like he hasn't even noticed the damage he's caused.

The fighting gets faster and more furious the longer it lasts, and my breath stops when he throws a spell at a simulated attacker, and then in one smooth motion, twists and hurls a knife at another. Instantly, a third man is on him, and they fight for a moment, punching and blocking, before Harry draws a gun and shoots him, point-blank, in the gut. He stands and fires for a moment, taking down the other attackers, and when one pulls a gun on him, Harry's lip curls and he makes a tiny flicking motion with his hand. The man tries to shoot at him, but the bullets bounce back and I realise that Harry has erected a shield... but, although theoretically possible, I've never seen a bulletproof shield before. I lean closer, fascinated, as the attacker drops his gun and starts firing spells instead, dodging them as they bounce back, but trying to weaken the shield. I glance at Harry, who should be struggling to keep it intact, but he's just standing casually, watching, holding the other constucts at bay. And then something really weird happens, Harry doesn't move, but the shield around him seems to, so that the spells start rebounding closer to the construct each time he casts. Harry's head tilts as he watches, and there's something slightly creepy about the intensity in his bright green eyes, and a prickling, unsettling feeling crawls along my spine. Especially when suddenly, for no apparent reason, the attacker construct begins to simulate a fit, his eyes rolling back in his head as he convulses, before finally fading away - signifying death. Wide-eyed, and completely confused, I look back at Harry just in time to see a small, satisfied smile spread across his lips, before he turns and carries on fighting. I shift uncomfortably, aware that I've just witnessed something disturbing, though I'm unsure exactly what.

"Don't tell me he blew out the glass again," says a soft, cool voice behind me. "Reparo."

I jump, so absorbed with Harry that I hadn't noticed anyone else arrive. The woman is young, twenty perhaps, with thick dark hair and slanted, almond shaped eyes. She's got the look of an Auror; an easy fighter's grace to her movements and a hardness to her blue eyes that speaks of occlumency shields.

"I enjoy watching him train," she says, with a small, sharp-toothed smile. "He never fails to inspire me."

"You watch him often?"

"Every day," she answers, with a curt nod.

She has a strange fluid accent, almost English, but with a slight flatness to the vowels that says it's not her native tongue.

"I keep an eye out for the type of names he likes to use to sign in. 'Will Hung' is a classic example." She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Last week he was 'Ivor Biggen.'"

I snort, shaking my head. Boys. They never grow up.

"Seriously though, I learn a lot from watching him. You know, he held the Academy record for six years. Before him, the longest period was six months, and that was in 1733." She leans lightly on the wall beside the door, her eyes fixed on Harry in the hall below.

I stare at her. "Held? You mean someone actually managed to beat him?"

Harry's movements are faster than thought, he must be functioning on pure adrenaline, reflexes and instinct, and how anyone could better that is completely beyond me.

"Yes. Barely a week ago." She smiles. "Though I doubt they could beat him now - his record is from his Academy days, and over the years he has only improved."

She nods her head towards him, as Harry ducks an attack I barely saw coming, and then weaves out of the path of another.

"That's just him playing, blowing off steam. He's a lot faster when he's serious."

I stare at her with wide eyes, not realising that he could be any faster. If they weren't fading away upon their 'deaths', he would probably be hip-deep in bodies, and if that's him 'playing' then what he's truly capable of is horrifying.

"Ah." She tips her head toward the hall. "He's finished. Are you waiting to speak with him?"

I glance down to see Harry rolling his shoulders, before summoning his knives and securing them into their sheathes. He doesn't even seem winded.

"Yes, but I can wait if you...?"

She waves me off. "No, it's fine. I just came to watch." She watches at him a moment longer, and then steps to the door. "A pleasure meeting you Doctor Granger," she adds over her shoulder, before slipping outside.

I stare after her for a moment, gaping, until I realise that she probably just recognised me from my pictures in the paper - less frequent now, thank God. I turn my attention back to the hall, savouring the guilty pleasure of watching Harry without him knowing. By rights he should be pale and swaying on his feet after using so much power - over the years I've tested hundreds of people; enchanters, hit wizards, champion duellers, but I have never, ever, seen any of them come remotely close to this. My mind racing, I push through the door, seperating the observation room from the main hall, and walk towards him. I'm determined to find some sign of exertion, a little tiredness, anything to show that his spellwork drained him, because anything else is impossible. But, up close, I can see that Harry looks fine, better than fine; buoyant, exuberent, clearly on a high. He's barely out of breath, his hair only slightly mused, and when he sees me he grins openly, nothing cold or wary about it.

"Doctor! Didn't expect to see you here," he says, cheerily.

"How did you do that?" I ask.

"Do what?"

I wave my arms vaguely about the empty hall, indicating the fight that just took place. I'm beyond impressed, maybe even a little awed, but Harry just shrugs.

"It's not a requirement anymore, but I still like to train, and keep myself in shape."

I shake my head, no idea what to say when he is so blasé about his abilities. He starts reloading his gun with a casual confidence and ease that tells me he could probably take apart the weapon, name every piece, and then put it back together again. I'm surprised that he knows how to handle a Muggle weapon; I knew MLE had undergone a huge change after the War, but I didn't realise they had progressed so far. "I didn't know Aurors carried pistols."

"Yup. Glock 9mm, standard issue," he says, holding up the gun, before drawing the other. "I also carry a Beretta 92, though that's just personal taste." He re-holsters both at the same time, his arms crossing over his chest. "So, what brings you here?"

I had a whole speech planned, but watching him train has left my thoughts muddled and I'm at a loss for words. He watches me struggle for a moment, amused, and then says, "Look, I need a shower. How about I meet you upstairs in the cafeteria in quarter of an hour?" When I don't answer, he puts on an innocent expression and says, "Or, if it's really important, you can come and talk to me whilst I shower." He winks. "I don't mind."

I don't think that's very funny, given our past history, and I scowl. He justs laughs though, deep and rough, and turns away.

"It's on the second floor. I'll see you in fifteen minutes, Doc," he throws over his shoulder as he leaves.

I order a large latte and a cinnamon danish, and I'm hunched over, collecting my thoughts, when Harry arrives. He's still wearing his training clothes, though he's spelled them clean, and without the weapons and the holsters it's all too easy to see how tight they are and how they cling to his body. He seems at ease in them though, much more confident with who he is and how he looks than he ever was at school. He smiles when he sees me, not a smirk but an honest to God smile, and I'm struck with how relaxed he seems, like the training has bled all the tension from his body. He sits opposite me, all loose-limbed grace, and snags my danish, taking a bite that coats his top lip with icing sugar, before prompting, "Well?"

I snatch the pastry back off him with a mock-glare, ignoring his cocky grin, and clear my throat.

"I've been waiting for you to contact me, Harry. All that talk about helping you, you send over the files, and then pfft, nothing."

His eyebrows go up. "Well, yea, I thought you'd let me know if you found anything. You've got your own work to do, I figured you wouldn't want me pestering you about mine."

I frown, deciding to leave that for a moment rather than get into an argument with him. "Yes, well, I looked over the files, and I think I should be able to help."

"Really?" He leans forward, eyes serious and all hint of a smile gone from his lips.

"Yes. First of all, I looked up necromancy in our private library in the Department of Mysteries, but I didn't have much success. So, I've applied for access to the restricted section of the DOM library, because I'm positive that if there is anything useful on necromancy, it'll be there."

Harry looks surprised. "Even the Unspeakables have a restricted section?"

"Of course. Harry, as one of the oldest established ministries, we have a vast collection of books from all around the globe. Many can be accessed via the main Ministry library, but the most valuable, and rare, tomes are kept in the DOM. Our restricted section holds some of the most dangerous books in the world." I lean forward, my eyes bright. "We have the grimoire of the Witch of Endor, the only translated copy of the Voynich manuscript, and even an original Greek copy of Alhazrad's Necronomican - all three of which might prove useful in helping us to understand what you are up against."

"I..." Harry clearly has no idea what I'm talking about. "Well, good. That's good." He clears his throat. "Are you likely to get access?"

I smile smugly. "I'm the best in my field, and my specialism is pretty rare - not many people really understand it. So yes, they'll grant me access. The only problem is, it may take a while. But I do have some other ideas.

"When I failed to find anything useful in the primary section of the library, I decided to turn my attention to the symbols. When I spoke to our expert on ancient languages about Slytherin's journal, he confessed to always having thought the language was parseltongue... and I think he's right." Harry frowns and immediately opens his mouth to argue, but I hold up a hand. "Wait. What if it is parseltongue, but layered under encription charms? Parseltongue may be a rare ability now, but in Slytherin's time it was much more common, in his bloodline at least. It's perfectly understandable that he would have wanted to protect his journal from prying eyes."

"Maybe," Harry concedes. "But as we don't have access to the journal itself, just a copy of a copy of a copy, isn't the theory a little redundant? There's no way to prove it."

"Well," I rifle around in my bag, and then retrieve some parchment and a self-inking quill. "We'll just have to work backwards. The first thing I'm going to need you to do is write something in parseltongue. Then I can try various encription charms and concealment spells, to see if I can produce anything that looks similar to the journal."

"Okay." Harry stares down at the parchment blankly. "What do you want me to write?"

"Anything." Harry still looks at a loss and I sigh. "The lyrics to a song, a poem, your prediction for next years quidditch world cup, anything. It's not like I'm ever going to be able to read it."

He glances up at me through his fringe, and an indefinable expression crosses his face, gone too quickly for me to identify it. Then he grabs the quill and starts writing. I watch in fascination at the marks appearing on the paper, unlike any script I have ever seen before, and the complete antithesis of Harry's normal, atrocious handwriting. There are no breaks between words, no clear patterns, just endless swirling lines of sinuous script, strange and beautiful, and I suddenly realise that I have seen it before - my eyes dart from the parchment to his right forearm, and the three insecting lines of script inked there. Then I quickly turn back to the parchment when Harry looks up and declares it done.

"Even if you can get a match though, I still don't see what it'll achieve since we can't get hold of the journal."

"It's not the best solution, I'll admit... but we are limited with our leads right now. What it means is, that if I can figure out the charms, and if the script is the same as what's being used by the murderer, then the next time he strikes, you have to let me try it on the symbols of the ritual. They are the real deal after all, first hand, and if they are coded they should respond to anti-encription charms. Then you will be able to read what the symbols actually say, and you'll have something more solid to work from."

He stares at me. "But that means someone else has to die."

I grimace. "I know. And if I could think of any other way to do this, and prevent any more killings, then God knows I would."

He nods firmly. "Okay."

"Well, then..." I cast a drying charm on the parchment, and slip it into my bag. "I believe that's everything."

He shakes his head. "Not quite."

"Oh?"

"There are a few things I need to go over with you. I have the paperwork in my office." He holds out his hand. "Shall we?"

I touch my fingers to his, a little bewildered at what he means, and the second our skin connects there's a sudden jerk and I find myself sitting opposite Harry in an office, a large imposing desk between us.

I gape at him. "Did you...? Did we...? You can't Apparate into the Ministry!"

He stares at me, and then starts to chuckle. "Well, those words sound familiar. But to answer your question, I'm keyed into the wards."

I frown at him, and then I blush, remembering my girlish fascination with 'Hogwarts, A History,' particularly the chapter on security spells. I avoid Harry's eyes by taking the opportunity to look around, and I have to say, I'm impressed. The office is fairly large, and in the Ministry the size of the office is directly proportionate to the importance of the witch or wizard occupying it. It's very masculine, panneled half way up the wall in dark cherry wood, and painted a deep forest green above. Opposite his desk there's a huge enchanted window, giving a view over a large and distinctly foreign city, where dusk is just beginning to fall, the sky blazing a hue of orange that's both savage and beautiful. To the left is a large ornate fireplace, a jar of floo powder on the mantel, and the guard is up, blocking all calls. Harry's desk is huge, the same dark wood as the panneling on his walls, with a green leather top. There is a silver plaque, with 'SA Harry James Potter' engraved in elegant script, and I'm amazed that although there is a lot of paperwork on Harry's desk, it is all very neat and organised.

"I'm impressed," I say. "You must be very good at your job to get such a nice office."

He blinks, and then tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "Does that surprise you?"

There's an edge to his voice and I curse myself. Talking to Harry these days is like walking through a minefield, there's no telling what might set him off or make him explode. I wonder if he's this sensitive with everyone or if it's just me. I suspect the latter.

"It was meant as a compliment, Harry," I snap.

He glowers at me and I glare right back, annoyed how the easy comaraderie has already disappeared and how we can rile each other up so easily.

"What did you want to tell me?"

He watches me for a moment longer, his eyes still narrowed and then nods decisively, like I've passed some sort of test.

"There are a couple of things, but first, how would you feel about coming on board in an official capacity, as a consultant for the case?" I blink, surprised, and he plows on before I can answer. "It would allow me to gain access to additional resources, and give me the authority to act upon your information without having to constantly justify my actions to my superiors." He pauses, like he's considering his next words carefully. "Also... I know we don't work well together, and I think having an official framework in place could help negate our personal differences."

I remember the months of research we did at school, before the final battle, and how well we'd worked together then. But he's right, that was a long time ago, and things have changed.

"I agree... though I have a couple of conditions."

"Go on," he says, his face unreadable.

"First off, I want you to keep me abreast of all developments on the case. I've spent all week working from your files, without a word of contact from you. I don't want to spend hours researching a lead, only to discover that it has become redundant and nobody told me."

"That seems fair," he says easily.

"Secondly, I am happy to assist officially, but I would prefer that it not become common knowledge. My work as an Unspeakable is highly specialised, and it keeps me out of the public eye and gives me a degree of anonymity. I'd prefer for it to stay that way - I don't want to give the press any reason to resume their fascination with me." I scowl. The year after the War had been hell; all of the worry over Harry, a new relationship with Ron, and starting a new life in a Muggle University had been difficult enough - the intense scrutiny of the press had done little to help matters.

"Again, understandable. In the interest of confidentiality you will deal with me, and me alone."

"And finally..." I falter, wondering how to word my final condition without him flying off the handle. "I know how you feel about me these days, and I realise that asking for my help must have been a last resort." I take a deep breath. "But whilst I am assisting you on this case, I would appreciate it if you would treat me as any other specialist drafted in to consult."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" he demands.

"You'll be polite to me, you'll treat me with respect... I am putting some of my own projects on hold to spend time helping you, and I will not put up with any sarcasm or insults. Any outbursts and I will immediately withdraw my services." I raise my chin, and look him straight in the eye. "I don't have to put up with such behaviour from anyone, Harry Potter, and least of all from you. Are we clear?"

Harry knows me well enough that his more scathing comments cut to the quick, and I have no desire to spend the next few weeks, or months, taking his jibes. His expression doesn't change, but there's a flash of something vicious in his eyes, there barely a second before his occlumency shields slam down and turn them blank. His face echoes the change, becoming colder, harder, and his voice is a low growl when he says, "We're clear."

There's a long pause, and his jaw is set, but he wraps his professionalism around him like a cloak and continues to speak, although his manner is now overtly formal.

"There are several details of the case that I was unable to share, without you becoming a consultant."

I watch closely as he makes a strange little twisting motion with his hands and I feel a privacy ward flicker into life around us. Then he pulls the case files from his top drawer, and lays them on the table. They are a lot fatter than the versions he sent me, I note, as he spends a moment sorting them into chronological order. Then he opens the earliest file, removes a page and slides it across the desk towards me. It's a small, grainy photograph, showing a tall, dark-haired man, with his arm around a slim brunette, her mouth caught mid-smile.

"What is this?"

"That," says Harry grimly, "is our first victim. And her killer."

I gasp. "Are you sure?"

He flicks open the girl's file. "Lisa Morris, 22 years old, a former Ravenclaw prefect. Good marks on her OWLs, excellent marks on her NEWTs and destined for great things. From her friends we learnt that Morris liked to work hard and play hard, and despite being a pureblood she had a pretty modern outlook - if she was at a club and met a wizard she liked, she was not averse to taking him home. When her friends saw her leave Euphoria with this guy," he taps his finger on the grainy picture, "they thought nothing of it.

"That image was captured on Muggle CCTV as barely a blip. They exit Diagon Alley, via the Leaky Cauldron, and then Apparate away - a clever move, no-one even thought to look for an Apparition trail outside of the Alley, in the Muggle street, until it had already faded. He's fast too, this image was on the camera for a fraction of a second, the Muggles didn't even notice it.

"If this guy isn't our killer, he is, at the very least, the last known person to see Lisa Morris alive, and that officially makes him a person of interest."

I chew my lip, leaning closer to the image and squinting, trying to get a clearer view of the man's face. However, the picture is poor quality, and the angle of his head casts his features into shadow.

"What's Euphoria? A club?"

He stares at me, surprised. "Yea, in Diagon Alley. You've never been there?"

I give him a faint smile. "I'm hardly the clubbing type."

"No, I guess not," he mumbles softly. "Anyway, so far this is our only known image of the man I believe to be our killer. By comparing him with the victim, MEAT have estimated him to be around 6'2 and of medium build. I have some of my team looking through footage from nearby CCTV cameras around the area of the last murder, but I suspect he just Apparated straight in, and with so many derelict buildings there are plenty of blindspots. I highly doubt they'll find anything. We're fortunate that we even found that." He nods towards the picture. "It was probably the excitement of his first kill making him sloppy."

"Is that normal?" I ask.

"What?"

"That someone would just suddenly start killing. Don't murderers usually work up to that kind of thing? Isn't it hard to just start killing people?"

"Not as hard as you might think," he mutters. Then louder, he says, "Magic takes away the intimacy of Muggle-type killings. When you can kill someone with two words, it becomes frighteningly easy." He leans back in his chair. "Though, you do have a point. The typical serial killer, if there is such a thing, works up to killing people. They normally start with animals, or 'lower' creatures like house elves, and escalate from there. MLE keeps a record of everyone with a reputation for house elf cruelty for that exact reason, though the majority of cases go unreported - it's all too easy for an elf to be killed off without anyone being any the wiser. However, I don't think that is what we're dealing with here." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Our killer isn't doing this for kicks, or at least that's not his primary reason. His main focus is the ritual, I think the girls are just tools to him, their sacrifice is a necessary step. That's why I asked you about the ritual first, because if we can figure out what he's doing and why these girls, then perhaps we'll have a better chance of stopping him. Why brunettes? Does the ritual specify a brunette sacrifice or is it just his personal taste? I think the physical similarity of the victims points to the latter, but that's just a hunch. There's so much we don't know... but I think recruiting the smartest witch of the generation will definitely give us an edge."

His lip quirks, his anger faded and his professional mask slipping.

I blush, but return his smile. "I'll do everything I can to help you, Harry. You have my word." I glance at my watch, my eyes widening at the time. "It's getting late, I best get back to my own department."

"Yea." He grimaces. "I have to deal with a graduate who's going to be shadowing my team for the next couple of months."

I'm secretly surprised they still give him graduates, after the scandal he caused last year, but wisely choose to remain silent. Instead I stand up, brushing off my trousers needlessly, and say, "I'll let you know if I find anything."

"And I promise to keep you 'abreast of developments.'" He says, echoing one of my ground rules, with a playful glint in his eyes. Then he leans back and flashes me a rare, boyish smile. "Thanks Doc. I'll see you soon."

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