Love On A String Telephone

NOTE: My eternal gratitude goes to my three brilliant beta readers, Heidi , Stacey and Cassandra . They not only edited, but encouraged and prodded and squeed at all the right times, thus making this fic happen.

+++

Saturday: September 24, 2005

Her first impression of PC Neville Longbottom was that he seemed too young to be a police constable. His photo on the laminated Edinburgh police ID he handed over for her inspection made him appear even younger, showing a shy smile that went well with his dark brown hair and deep brown eyes.

"Police officer, ma'am," he said as the London to Glasgow express sped north through the night.

"What have I done?" she asked playfully. He was in plain clothes, after all, and lacked the instant intimidation of a uniformed officer. The winsome smile danced about his full lips.

"Nothing, I hope. I'm searching the train for a young, blond-haired Scotsman with a dark scar running from jaw to cheekbone." He indicated the area on his own face. "His name is Jake Thompson, although he might be going by something else. Have you seen anything of him?"

She shook her head. "No. What's he done?"

"Killed a bloke last spring in Edinburgh , then fled across the border. Customs spotted him when he re-entered the country at Dover a few days ago. He was being transported to Scotland for the trial, but escaped from me while going to the bathroom.” He said all this while she was still holding his ID card, and she spotted an insignia on it that she knew well.

"Sorry, sir,” she said, handing the card back to him and shaking her head. “I'm the only person in this compartment, and I’ve stayed in here the whole trip. You're the first person who has come by."

“Quite all right, ma’am. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Could I help you out? There’s not much else to do on the train at this time of night.”

He paused, eyeing her speculatively. “You mean help me look for the suspect?”

She nodded.

He appeared to be considering this. “Well… all right.”

She cleared her throat and stepped into the hallway after him. “Right. What areas have you already covered? Are you moving in a pattern that prevents him from doubling back and hiding in a place you’ve already looked? Do you have the train’s security team involved? Is the man armed or otherwise dangerous?”

Neville raised his eyebrows, and she shrugged somewhat sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m a… detective.”

“Private?”

“No, I – well, yes, you could say that.”

“Well, I’ve already introduced myself. What’s your name?”

“I’ll tell you once we’ve found the criminal.”

“Charmed, I’m sure. About Jake Thompson… the train’s security team has every possible exit from the train manned, and, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there are only three passenger cars. With a man in the hall of each, there’s very little movement possible for him.”

“Well, only if you’re taking it for granted he’s following the rules.” She took off down the corridor quickly, and Neville trailed after her.

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever seen… any train-oriented hold-up movie? The fact that two cars on this train are for cargo only isn’t going to stop a criminal looking for a place to hide. Typical police mentality. Here, get the security guards, and tell them to switch cars. It’s possible to get into the others without exiting the train. You go with them back there, and I’ll continue talking to the passengers and see if they’ve heard or seen anything suspicious. Have someone go tell the driver to not stop this train in Glasgow . The minute it comes to a stop, we’ve lost the only chance we have to effectively capture him without interference. Go on, do it!”

Neville stared at her for a moment, and then abruptly nodded and hurried down the hallway in the opposite direction. She resumed her trek the other way. Her compartment was the second away from the head of the train. It was flanked on either side by passenger cars, and then followed by the two extra cars. The luggage cars weren’t opened until the train stopped in Glasgow , and the man would be able to easily slip away in the crowds.

Of course, she reasoned as she jogged past a series of doors, there was still the chance he was hiding in a passenger compartment. When she reached the next part of the train, she took a deep breath and began knocking on doors.

The first four yielded no information – the people had been sleeping since they got on the train, and didn’t seen anything out of the ordinary when they boarded. The fifth was a woman who said that the description looked familiar, but she could have been wrong. Neville rejoined her as she stepped back into the hallway then, followed by two men in uniform.

“The only way to get to the cargo cars is from the outside of the train,” he said with a sigh. “We can’t get to those while the train is moving, and it’s believed that he actually boarded with other passengers.”

She nodded. “I’m glad that’s so, because it looks like we’re getting warmer.”

It was the next passenger they spoke with who gave them the information they needed. A man told them he had seen someone with the same kind of scar Neville described enter the compartment across from his. He noticed it because he was a plastic surgeon, and had considered giving the other man his business card.

At that, Neville stepped across the hall and beat on the door. The security guards pulled out their guns, poised in anticipation. A scuffling sound could be heard from inside.

“Open up! This is the police.”

There was more scuffling, and the low sound of voices.

“We know you’re in there, Mr. Thompson. Give yourself up and no one will get hut.”

They all jumped at the sound of a scream from the other side of the door. Finally, a man’s voice floated out.

“Get away! I have a hostage!”

Neville exchanged a terse look with one of the guards, and gripped a gun that seemed to come out of nowhere. “Don’t do this, Jake. Just step outside, and everything will be all right. No one has to get hurt.”

“Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before. Just stay out there! I’ve got knife against her neck. Don’t think I don’t.”

The detective listed to what was going on in the compartment carefully, edging closer to it until her ear was against the wall. Neville looked at her warningly, but she just shook her head.

“Keep him talking,” she mouthed silently.

“I know you do, Jake. Be careful. If you let her go now, it’ll go into your record that you were compliant. I know you’re smart. You know how much better than will be than any other option.”

“I’m not coming out! Shut the fuck up!”

She envisioned the compartment in her mind – she knew from talking to the other passengers that they all had the same floor plan. The clarity of the man’s voice sounded as though he was right on the other side of the door. The windows were on the outer wall of the train, and the door was on the inner. The seats were on either side of the small room.

She stepped over to Neville and said in low tones, “Make him look at the window.”

“What?” he muttered back.

“Just do it.”

“Do you know where we are right now, Jake? Can you see out the window? We’re almost at the end of our ride.”

There was a moment of silence, and when he spoke again, the man’s voice was slightly more muffled.

“It’s too dark – “

She lunged at Neville and grabbed the gun out of his hand, quickly tucked it in her waistband, turned back to the door and kicked it straight open. Her booted foot made contact with Jake Thompson’s back, and he went sprawling forward, his head hitting the far wall with a thud. The woman he had been holding screamed again and scrambled around to get out of the compartment, and the detective was glad to know she was still alive. Startling him when his knife was against her throat was risky. Jake started to rise again, and she punched him squarely in the jaw, lifting the gun from her waistband and holding it against his head.

The security guards entered then, and one of them grabbed the murderer’s hands, slamming handcuffs on them roughly. She stepped over them to the hallway, where Neville was sending the shaken victim off with another guard.

He turned to her, and she tossed him the gun. He caught it easily and raised his eyebrows at her.

She smiled and held up a badge, a silver triangle made of three smaller triangles that was the symbol of the three main European Ministries of Magic.

“Special Agent Pansy Parkinson, 37D-857JM.”

+++

The party was a raucous, turbulent affair. Such an event as the engagement of one of London's leading journalists would not end until the entire modern art world had got smashed and shagged at least twice.

Trying to avoid anyone she knew, Hermione skirted around the dancers littering the ballroom floor and made her way towards the only person she had seen all evening who wasn't surrounded by a mob of people, loudly denouncing political theories.

"I don't believe we've met, sir," she shouted over the din of music, extending a lithe hand.

"Creevy," he bellowed back, grasping her hand and shaking it vigorously. "Colin Creevy."

She did a double take, squinting at him. "Colin?"

He blinked. "Do I know you?

"I'm Hermione Weasley - Hermione Granger at Hogwarts."

Colin laughed, still grasping her hand. "Hermione! Of course, of course, I should have known. How are you? How's Harry?"

She smiled slightly at his last comment. Some things never changed.

"I'm doing well. I actually don't talk to Harry much these days." At all these days, she corrected silently. "He's very caught up in his work, writing and all."

Colin nodded knowingly. "Can I get you a drink? We should talk, catch up."

She lifted her right hand, indicating to the full martini resting in it.

He smiled. "Well, can I interest you in stepping outside? It's terribly noisy in here."

She scanned the smoky room, searching for her husband, or any other sodding Weasley, for that matter. Failing to spot any, she turned back to the famous photographer. "Thank you, I'd like that very much."

He led her out to a terraced garden, where a few other couples were walking around.

“It’s been so long,” he said. “What are you doing these days?”

Hermione folded her arms as they strolled along in the fairy light. “Well, I’m an editor at the moment. I currently work for a publisher that mainly does schoolbooks. I’m looking to actually write schoolbooks eventually. History of Magic is my main interest.”

“You’d be wonderful at that,” he said immediately. “You were always excellent at – well, all of you classes, but History of Magic and Transfiguration in particular.”

She smiled wistfully. “It’s been a long time since then. That’s not to say I don’t still read a lot, but… well…”

“People change,” Colin supplied.

“Yes.” Hermione turned to him and nodded slowly. “Precisely.”

“What about your family? Did you ever marry…?” He trailed off awkwardly.

“Percy,” she finished, knowing what he was thinking. Everyone thought she’d either marry Ron or Harry, but after the accident, either one was out of the question. “Percy Weasley, Ron’s older brother. He’s the Charms teacher at Hogwarts.”

“He’s a very lucky man.”

Hermione blushed faintly, readjusting the spectacles on the end of her nose. They were useless and made of plain glass, but she had learned that a person who wore glasses commanded much more respect for being wise than a person without them did.

“What of you?” She quickly changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on her failing marriage. “Are you married yet?”

“Cor, no. I don’t plan on it, either. Photography has pretty much drummed any desire of a social life right out of me. I don’t have the time for it, and I find that being around people who I just… can’t connect with is weary and tiresome. Heck, the only reason I came tonight is because Hannah and Bert are getting married. I suppose that sounds strange to you.”

She shook her head, sending her carefully styled ringlets bobbing. “No, not at all. I tend to avoid these sorts of gatherings like the plague. With the Weasleys, it seems as though there’s always someone getting married, someone getting promoted, someone buying a new house, closing a deal, having another baby… every month there’s some new reason to have a huge gathering with children and noise and bells on, and I can’t stand it. I would much rather stay at home with a good book.” She sighed. “And now there’s this whole thing with Ginny – you dated at Hogwarts, didn’t you? – it has the whole family in an uproar.”

“Oh, god, yes, I didn’t even think of that. I’ve seen that all over the news. I’m sorry, you must be –“

Hermione interrupted him before he could get any farther with his condolences over the absence of her sister-in-law. “No, no, it’s quite all right. I mean, it isn’t, but it hasn’t affected me that badly. I’m afraid I didn’t really know Ginny at all. Well, that is, I don’t know her that well. She’ll undoubtedly turn up shortly. As I’m sure you know, she has certain… quirks… that often dictate her actions. She’s probably off in Morocco drinking Mai-tais and gambling.” Hermione’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “But anyway, my point was just that I agree with you when it comes to social situations. I detest having to constantly put up with people wanting to gather at the drop of a hat, and be forced to make small talk and actually care about what’s happening in the lives of all of these people I don’t really know.”

Colin laughed. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I mean. So I never really get a chance to meet anyone or date, and besides, I really don’t think I could stand having my quiet life disrupted by someone else with their habits and lifestyle, and children, and all the other trappings of married life.”

Hermione thought of her quiet, placid home, completely devoid of personality, or the children Molly Weasley was always harassing her to have. “Yes, I know what you mean. I suppose I was lucky in that sense. Percy so rarely bothers me, and he hardly shows an interest in having children. Or if he does, I certainly am not the one who hears about it.” She paused, realizing how much information her careless words were giving. “I mean, no – not that I… well…”

Colin placed his hand on her arm reassuringly. “I understand you, Hermione.”

She covered his hand with one of her own, and smiled up at him. She couldn’t help but think that he was right in more ways than one.

+++

The office was full of smoke and shadows, which cast the meeting in a gloomy mood. The two men sat on their respective sides of a highly polished desk, neither speaking for long moments. It was finally Marcus who broke the silence.

"She's gone."

The other man shifted uncomfortably, but his words were spoken with a razor-sharp edge. "Well spotted, Flint. Did you really think I wouldn't notice? It's all over the papers."

The brunet snorted, tapping a capped fountain pen on the wood. "Are you saying you weren't involved in it?"

"It should be fairly obvious, Flint, since you put it all together." Theodore Warren glowered at his accomplice.

Marcus leaned back in his chair. "I was never for this murder business happening too quickly, you know that. And I think it's pretty plain to see I wouldn't so something as stupid as forgetting to leave the body somewhere in sight."

"So who was it, then? Baddock? Lestrange? And didn't you get Pritchard in on this? Do any of them even have the ability to pull this off by themselves?"

"Never dismiss people as being too stupid, Warren. Someone obviously took this matter into his or her own hands, for whatever reason. It obviously wasn't the right time yet, with all of this Black Crescent fanfare going on. Someone was impatient." He steepled his fingers. "It wasn't Malcolm, he sticks to the books too much to strike out on his own. It wasn't Lucretia, because for all her legal knowledge, she doesn't have the gall for physical murder. It certainly wasn't Graham, because he's nothing more than a pawn."

"Who else knows the plans?"

"No one, I believe. A few other people at the museum might know bits of it, but nothing solid."

"Malfoy?"

"Draco? Hardly. He was against this from the start."

"Maybe that was just covering something up."

"I doubt it. It was rumored she had something going on with him at one point. To be quite honest, I think he's fond of her or something." Marcus tapped his foot on the ground idly. "No, I think I can say with some certainty it wasn't Malfoy. I'm not sure who it is at this point, but I think we'll find out soon enough. Just keep watching the papers for some sign of the body. I can only pray it turns up soon; without it, she'll never be declared dead."

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Monday: September 26, 2005

Malcolm Baddock could not tolerate brains. He could handle buckets of blood, emerging intestines, and protruding bones. He didn't like those things either, but he could handle them.

The sight of oozing brains was a different story.

Ministry of Magic Crime Bureau Agent Draco Malfoy gave his partner's shoulder a light squeeze every time Malcolm heaved. Draco noted that he must have taken his girlfriend out to dinner the evening before. The variety of colors suggested Chinese food and he knew that Baddock’s girlfriend would never cook Chinese at home. According to Malcolm, she barely managed hamburgers.

Draco heard laughter above him. He looked up and saw two junior deputies leaning against their patrol car. The glare from the headlights made it difficult to make them out clearly, but the one on the left sounded young. He pointed down at them and snickered. Draco’s light eyes narrowed. Aurors were forced to work with the “Muggle Aurors” on cases such as these that had both magical and Muggle victims. The officers were wizards themselves, but were usually Muggle-born, and often masqueraded as regular police officers when not working on a case. They all seemed to be brash and rude, and very disrespectful of their all-magical counterparts.

Soon, Malcolm's heaving stopped and he was breathing hard. Draco gave him a handkerchief, then climbed the embankment to the two officers. "Come with me," he said to the younger one. Malfoy led him down to the body and shined a plastic torch on it. The woman was looked to be in her late thirties, dressed in a loose-fitting dress and sleek robes that echoed the fashions on the mannequins in Madam Malkin's window. She was lying in a ditch ten feet below the road. Draco aimed the light at her head, showing her crushed skull and its grisly contents. Malfoy asked, "What's your name?"

"Carmichael. Josh Carmichael."

"Tell me, Officer Carmichael, how long have you been in uniform?"

"Six months next week."

Draco nodded toward the body. "So you've seen a lot of this?"

Carmichael nodded. "Worked my share of murder scenes." There was pride in his voice.

"And it doesn't bother you."

"Nope. It's part of the job. If you can't handle it, you don't need to be in the business."

Draco was silent for a moment, then moved his torch up to shine in the other man's face.

Carmichael squinted and raised his hand to try and block the light. "What're you doing?"

"Getting a look at your face. I want to be sure I'll know you if I ever see you again. If this stuff doesn't bother you, you shouldn't be in this business. As soon as I get back, I'm owling Detective Barnes and telling him that I never, and I mean never, want you to be sent into a case I'm working on again. Now get back up there and keep your mouth shut." The younger man scrambled back up the embankment, and Draco watched him go before kneeling next to the body.

Malcolm, now standing behind Draco, directed his flashlight toward the bank. "That's where she fell from, when the car hit her."

Draco leaned closer to the mangled head. "If a car hit her. The forensics people will tell us a lot more, but this doesn't look right. There's very little trauma to the body except for the head."

Malcolm squatted next to Draco, his initial shock having diminished. "It's tough to smash a skull like that. It'd take one strong son of a gun."

Malfoy grunted. "Maybe." He was thinking strength wasn't the only factor. Maybe not one at all. Somebody wouldn't have to be particularly strong to do this if he had the right instrument. Leverage makes up for strength.

He turned his head to the side, squinting at the neck of the body, which was twisted at a highly unpleasant angle. It was hard to tell, but he was almost certain he could make out the faint hint of a tattoo there.

The sounds of car doors slamming came from the road. Soon, a bevy of flashlights was heading down toward Draco and Malcolm. "Come on," Draco said to his partner. With the crime lab team there, they were free to leave the body.

When they reached the top of the steep ravine, Malcolm nodded to the other agents. "What are you thinking, Malfoy?"

Draco fished a cigarette case out of his pocket, taking one from it and offering it to the other man. He shrugged and snapped it shut when Malcolm declined, extracting a silver lighter from a different pocket.

"I'm thinking that it's a bloody shame we ever decided to "update" the Ministry with all of this Muggle codswallop, for one thing. A crime division team arriving by automobile? Fudge is rolling in his grave, no doubt."

Malcolm snorted, although he agreed. “Well, once the apparition mess gets sorted out, things will go back to normal. At least somewhat.”

“Oh, I don’t buy that for a minute. The fools down in Technology and Innovation are just yanking our chains. They could have fixed that much earlier.” He took a drag off of the cigarette, and the corner of his elegant mouth twisted down in a frown. “Anyway, I think this murder is definitely connected to the Black Crescent case.”

"Really?"

Draco slid into the passenger seat of their car, crushing his cigarette into the ashtray. "I almost didn't think so at first, since this is far more violent than the stranglings have been. But just before the lab got there, I think I spotted the crescent on her neck."

"Could it be a copy-cat?"

"Possibly. The time seems to fit right in with the Crescent Murderer's schedule of killings, though. I'll like very much to see the forensic reports."

+++

The taxicab's wheels splashed through gritty puddles as it made its way through post-lunch traffic.

Ginny sat in the backseat, nervously tapping her foot against the carpeted floor. The back of the cab was full of thick smoke; she didn't want to put out her cigarette (or the one before it, or the one before that) and wasn't keen on the idea of letting the uncharacteristically cold fall air inside.

The driver, a fat and unattractive man, kept shooting her appreciative glances in the rear-view mirror. Her fingers strayed to her handbag, which held her wand. She didn’t take it out, but feeling its presence made her feel calmer.

"What brings you to the Crucio, love?" the driver finally asked, seeming to disregard the fact she was obviously in a foul mood.

"I'm a singer," she replied coolly, gazing out the window. "I've got an audition."

"Oh, well that explains it."

"Explains what?" Her gaze remained fixed on the city life they were passing by.

"Why you'd be going there at this hour. They don't open until eight."

She finally met his eye in the mirror. "Oh. Do you go there often?"

"Nah, not really. I go when I can, which means not very much."

He didn't seem interested in pursuing this topic of conversation, and she gladly let it drop, unable to bite back a slight smirk. From what she heard, The Blue Crucio was one of the finest jazz clubs in the entire Diagon District, if not London itself. Surely the wages of a cab driver, even one who ferried between the Muggle and magical worlds, wouldn't be enough to get in any more than annually. The driver was probably just attempting to make conversation with her.

As they glided to a stop in front of a red light, she caved in and rolled the window down. The smoke was starting to get stifling. The wind blew in, as she knew it would, and she raised a hand to brush her hair out of her face. It was still shocking to feel so little of it under her fingertips. She smiled wanly and tapped ashes out the window. Her appearance was obviously the biggest obstacle that abandoning her former identity presented.

No longer having the luxury of walking into a styling salon and getting a cut, she had to do her hair by herself. It didn’t seem that difficult at the time, but in retrospect she was rather shocked she had managed to do such a good job with it. It had been transformed quite artfully from a long mane of carroty red to a bouncy chin-length bob of dark, dark auburn.

If she was quite honest with herself, the entire ordeal of changing her appearance was as dim in her memory as anything else that happened between arriving at her flat on Tuesday and waking up in the hotel on Saturday. The process of abandoning her life seemed to zip by quite inexplicably, and she was left looking remarkably different, armed with a lot of money, a new name, and a burning desire to sing.

That in itself was preposterous when she really thought about it. She had never been a good singer at any time in her life that she could remember; the extent of her experience was wandering around the Burrow chiming in with the WWN on the radio. But she knew more than she knew anything else that the only way to survive this trek out on her own would be to go sing. Specifically, go sing at the Blue Crucio, a place she had only ever heard of a few times.

She was going, though, figuring that the only way to deal with the ramifications of her previously rash actions would be to go along with the plans she had made. There was certainly no going back at this point – articles on her disappearance were already on the front of every major newspaper in the country.

Being the widow of a former public figure, it seemed that her actions were always being distantly followed by a troupe of paparazzi, as if they thought one day she might bring Roger back. It was pretty obvious, she rationalized, why she left. Getting away from all of that stress could only be good for her.

"Miss? Miss, we're here."

Her head snapped up at the voice of the cab driver, who spoke in a tone that indicated he was repeating himself.

"What? Oh. Thank you."

With a shake of her head, Ginny stepped out the car, handed him the fare, turned towards the club, and promptly tripped over Harry Potter.

+++

"OI! I need two copies of that on my desk by three o'clock. You, take these down to the print house and start setting the plates for it. Cavanaugh, your deadline is this time tomorrow. Bailey, I want that exposé piece in my hand in five minutes. You there, get me my tea."

It was a Monday of crime, and the Daily Prophet headquarters were bustling with more energy than usual. Reporters and clerks scurried about with papers and files, collecting bits of information and preparing for the many interviews that were being conducted through the week.

"Mr. Finnigan? Sir, I wanted to speak with you."

Seamus ignored the voice and continued firing off instructions as he made his way through the crowded room. "Hebrock, I want to see you at three-thirty. You, Dobbs, this is Owen Cauldwell - he's our new reporter - show him around the office. Yes, Stella, yes, tell them I'll be there on the fifth."

"Mr. Finnigan… Mr. Finnigan, please, sir…"

"Ms. Brooks, remember to keep your head on when you're talking to those officers. Stare them straight in the eye - you're a Prophet journalist, not some namby-pamby Expelliarmus Enquirer blow-hard. Lucretia, get me someone on the phone about those about those requisitions. Pritchard, what is it?" He finally halted and faced the other man.

Graham cleared his throat. "Well, Mr. Finnigan, I wanted to know if you have anyone working on the Weasley-Davies case."

"Of course I have. What's-his-name Cauldwell is going to cover it, as his first piece for the Prophet. He's from Mintz, you know, in Germany. Head reporter for the North Winds News. Very talented bloke."

Seamus lifted his cup of tea from the hands of his assistant and with a slight nod, resumed his trek to his office.

The other man's wistful, dogged expression changed to one of dark anger as he stared at the retreating back of his superior. His hands clenched at his sides involuntarily.

"Excuse me, you're Graham Pritchard, aren't you?"

He turned around abruptly, spotting a tall, dark-haired witch leaning in a doorway a few feet from him. His eyebrows snapped together as he spoke.

"Yes, I am."

A slow smile crept across her face.

+++

Pansy was doing paperwork when her secretary informed her that Chief Inspector Snape wanted to see her. She knew what was coming before she entered the office, and sure enough, she was correct.

The moment she sat down in the uncomfortable chair in front of his desk, he fixed a glare on her, eyes narrowing and mouth twisting down in frown.

“Ms. Parkinson, would you happen know anything about why an entire floor of Ministry workers is buzzing about the Auror who not only helped a Muggle-stationed detective, but then unmasked itself to him?”

She sighed, shifting her weight in the seat. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, Chief Inspector.”

“That’s not an exaggeration at all, Ms. Parkinson. You showed yourself to a police officer, said what you were, and gave him your serial number! Now we have to give memory charms to what’s nearly an entire division, and could result in some catastrophic consequences if anything goes wrong with what’s erased. These are officers of the law – they need to remember a lot. And that’s ten Aurors who could have been doing anything else, that are now spending their time Obliviating fellow Ministry workers. What were you thinking?”

“He needed help, I saw that he worked for the Ministry, so I helped him. He needed me!”

“You were showing off.”

Her jaw dropped. “I was not – I – I was assisting a fellow Ministry official! How was I supposed to know he’d go telling all his coworkers?”

“Ms. Parkinson, perhaps you’ve forgotten something. We are the Department of Unspeakables. Unspeakables, not Speakables. That means you don’t talk about us without explicit permission. To anyone. Not even the Minister himself. When you became an Auror, you signed a contract agreeing to follow the rules placed before you as an Agent of the Ministry of Magic. Every Agent has a copy of those rules. Section C, Paragraph Four, Line Two: All Aurors must never disclose information pertaining to the department, missions, personnel, or their role as an Auror. In the event that your anti-veritiserum charms fail upon being captured, choose death over giving information. Failure to observe this rule can result in expulsion from the Auror division, and sometimes execution. End quote.”

She stared at him wide-eyed. “You’re – you’re going to strip me of my rank because I showed a police officer my badge? Because I don’t have the Auror manual memorized to chapter and verse five years after being inducted? You didn’t even do that to Natasha!”

“No, no, Ms. Parkinson. You’re not going to be expelled from the Auror division, and you’re not going to be stripped of your rank. As I’m sure you’re well aware, you are the best Special Agent on our team. Frankly, we can’t afford to lose you right now. This is the first time something like this has ever happened, and I think it shows a phenomenal slip of common sense. You are correct in drawing parallels between yourself and Agent Vanderbilt, for her offense was of the same caliber, and your punishments will be similar.”

“What will I be doing?” Her thoughts strayed to their Hogwarts days, when he would make her come into class at night for detention, and she would have to wash out cauldrons before she could go to bed.

“I’m taking you off the Shepfield-Pollux case. We have a problem with Lucius Malfoy, and I’m going to need you to infiltrate the Malfoy Manor. You’ll be receiving the detailed file on it this afternoon. But for now, you’ll be working on civilian cases, not political ones. Let’s see you earn back your Special Agent status.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off smoothly. “Dismissed.”

The detailed file, as it was, proved to be rather interesting. There was some sort of inquisition dealing with Lucius Malfoy and his Dark Arts involvement – although the defeat of Voldemort had long since been written into the history books and, Pansy thought dryly, added to Harry Potter’s résumé, there were still people who dabbled with Dark Arts. The Malfoys’ collection of illegal and incriminating objects had never been recovered from their mansion, and it seemed that the Ministry was finally tired of waiting for Lucius to die. They wanted in there badly, and needed someone with the right connections to work their way in.

As Pansy skimmed the documents outlining her objectives, she wondered why Snape had gone through so much to give her the assignment. She was obviously the only person close enough to the Malfoys to pull such a thing off, and she would have accepted the job without hassle. It looked interesting, to say the least.

She had missed working hands-on with criminals, something she discovered on the train ride the day before. Her job of always discussing foreign policies, hobnobbing with executives and working with the Minister was interesting, but lacked the excitement of actually solving mysteries, grilling suspects and fighting with the violent.

She considered this as she dropped by the Disguise and Decoy division, confirming her appointment with them. She had to look a lot more demure if she was going to follow the plan for meeting with Lucius Malfoy – he expected her to be the quiet, trodden-upon creature he had known when she was a child, and he found assertive women on the whole to be unsettling.

“Pansy! Hey! What are you doing for lunch?”

She turned around and spotted Justin Finch-Fletchly walking towards her. “Sorry, Justin. I’ve got to pick Rowan up from school and take him to get his father at the Portkey station. We’ll do something tomorrow, okay?”

He smiled at her. “Sure thing. I heard about the new case – are you going to quit, or take leave?”

Pansy sighed. She had two jobs, one as an Auror and one more practical one in the Muggle world – she worked for as a part-time nanny for a family that consisted of a wealthy widower and his young son. She had originally taken the job at an urging from her mother, who didn’t know that her daughter was one of the most powerful women in England, and it served as a good disguise to keep suspicions quelled. But she had grown attached to the small family, and found that now she had the choice, she really didn’t want to quit.

“I’ll probably work out some sort of leave. The story is that my fiancé died,” at this they both laughed, “so I’m sure they’ll be understanding.” She glanced at her watch. “Crikey, I’m late. Here, I’ll see you in an hour or so, all right?”

Without further ado, she disapparated away.

+++

The Blue Crucio was, in addition to being a very popular nightclub, one of the only places in the magical world one could hope to find Harry Potter. The author always claimed that he couldn't get in touch with his muse anywhere else in the magical district, but the truth was a bit more seedy – Lillian Avery, the half-veela owner and manager, was fond enough of Harry, and the extra business his presence gave her, to pass along any information she happened to acquire regarding the shifty workings of the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic. That was enough to make Harry set aside his somewhat hypocritical dislike of the wizarding community and visit the popular thoroughfare every few weeks.

When he strode through the gilded glass doors that afternoon, however, his intentions had nothing to do with politics.

"Hey, we aren't open yet," a female voice floated down to him from the upstairs level, over the tinkling of piano music. A young blonde-haired woman leaned over the railing. "Oh, Harry, it's you. Come up, I'll get you a drink."

Sunlight fell across the stairs, filtering in through one of the few windows in the building and illuminating specks floating lazily in midair. Harry followed her through the maze of set tables in the upstairs balcony to the bar. Lillian set a stack of files down on the highly polished counter and pulled out two bottles and a glass.

"What have you got there?"

She followed his gaze to the paperwork she had been carrying.

"Oh, that." She rested a hand on top of folders almost possessively. "Well, you heard about what happened to Julia, didn't you? Our singer? Some sort of pill overdose. They found her in her apartment yesterday."

"Christ, that's horrible."

"Isn't it though? Anyway, I need a new singer, so I've been looking things over, and I have a girl coming for an audition in a few minutes. Geneva Arthur... I haven't heard of her before, but she seems to know what she's doing. Want to stick around? It won't be too boring, and we can talk afterwards."

"I really can't wait, I'm in a bit of a hurry." Harry lifted the glass she slid towards him and downed half of it.

Lillian rolled her eyes. "You're always in a bit of a hurry. It's a miracle you ever get anything written when you're constantly running around." Her tone was sulky.

"While I'm flattered you pay such astute attention to my schedule, I don't think I can stay. It’s a rather pressing matter... I'll be back later in the week." He finished the drink, leaned across the counter to drop a cool kiss near her ear, and strolled down the stairs.

He had just been about to hail a cab when out of virtually nowhere, a woman stumbled out of the crowd and collided with him.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, righting herself. She glanced up him and froze, a piece of red hair falling in front of her eyes as she stared.

"There, are you all right?" Harry's hands rested on her shoulders from when he caught her. He squinted at her... there was something familiar about her eyes.

She jumped, blushing slightly and stepping away from him. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I - was that my fault? It was, wasn't it?"

Harry released her, dusting himself off and tossing her a wan smile. "No, no, of course not. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"No, I - I was in a hurry, because I'm about to be late. I have an audition in here," she motioned towards The Blue Crucio, "that was supposed to start five minutes ago."

"Oh? Oh. You must be Geneva, then?"

She paused again, looking up at him in a mixture of nervousness and confusion. "Yes, yes, I am."

"Ah. Here, I know the owner of the Crucio; she was just talking about you. Let me walk you in."

Harry noticed that the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. It really did look familiar. "Really? Oh, dear, I've already made a bad first impression." She laughed. "But thank you, that'd be nice."

When they walked through the doubled doors, they found Lillian sitting at one of the tables near the stage, waiting. She jumped up when she saw them come in, eyebrows shooting skywards.

"Harry, back so soon?"

"Yes. I no sooner stepped outside than I collided with none other than the Geneva Arthur you were waiting for."

The half-veela turned her attention to the redhead, extending a hand. "Oh, hello. I'm Lillian Avery, I spoke to you on the phone."

"Yes, of course," the singer replied, shaking the other woman's hand and apparently forgetting all about Harry. She followed Lillian as she turned and started walking to the stage.

"What I'll have you do is sing two songs, or more if you'd like. Something fast and something slow, to see your range. This is Luke, he'll be accompanying you on the piano. Just sing whatever you know. I'll be sitting over here."

Geneva nodded, flashing the pianist a weak smile and stepping onto the stage. Harry lingered at the back of the room, feeling compelled to watch; he had only been giving Lillian a bad time earlier, hoping to escape listening to a poor amateur singer attempt to master the songs that Julia had belted out. But there was something about this Geneva Arthur that made him want to wait and see if she really could do it.

The girl leaned over and whispered something to Luke, then moved up to the microphone.

Harry suspected the moment she started singing that the interview would take quite a bit longer than Lillian had originally thought. She would undoubtedly want to virtually grill the girl on her vocal talents, making sure that she was going to be able to handle the nightly sets. Judging by voice, she obviously already had the job if she could keep up.

His attention was soon distracted by the stack of files Lillian had left on the bar. He had to admit that he was extremely curious about what was in them, despite her claims they had something to do with hiring a new singer. Lillian was a woman of many secrets, and although she kept him aware of the gossip circulating in the inner circle of dark wizards, he knew there was a lot she neglected to tell him.

Her attention was completely wrapped up in the happenings onstage, and no one even realized he was still there...

He quickly and quietly strode over to the bar, tossing Lillian a final furtive glance before opening the top folder.

He almost laughed with glee, for what it contained indeed had nothing to do with singing. They appeared to be official documents of some type - he spotted the Ministry of Magic's seal in the top corner. Each page was marked with a red "confidential" stamp, and seemed to have information on the chain of crimes that were all over the wizard and Muggle news alike - the Black Crescent Killer, who left all his strangled victims with a dark tattoo of in the shape of a crescent at the nape of their necks.

Every file seemed to just have more information on the crimes, although one had several documents written in German. He could only suspect what that had to do with.

What Lillian was doing with confidential information on such a high-profile case was beyond him, although he did have to wonder why she was being so foolish as to leave it laying about.

He was starting to actually read the papers when he realized the music had stopped and the two women were talking. Trying to act nonchalant, Harry straightened the stack and strolled away from the bar. He intercepted Geneva on her way out.

"So how'd it go?"

She jumped, then smiled widely at him. There really was something familiar about her mannerisms. "You stayed! It was marvelous. I start this weekend."

"Congratulations! I can't say I'm surprised - you have a wonderful voice." She blushed profusely. "Here, let me call you a cab. It's the least I can do after making you late."

"You're too kind, really, it's not necessary."

"Nonsense, it's no trouble." They stepped out into the late afternoon sun. "Where are you headed?"

"Mayfair Inter-Continental on Stratton. My hotel."

"You don't say! That's right near where I'm headed."

They stood there for a moment, waiting for a red light down the street to change so traffic could start moving again.

"Terrible about all this anti-apparition business, isn't it?" she said conversationally.

His expression darkened slightly. "Yes, very."

"I hear only Aurors can do it anymore. I do hope they get the problem straightened out soon."

"I heard that, too."

She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but then closed it quickly as a taxi pulled alongside the curb.

Harry opened the door and slid into the seat next to her, giving the address to the driver and turning his attention back to his mysterious companion.

"So tell me, Ms. Arthur -"

"Call me Geneva," she interrupted.

"Geneva," he amended. "Where did you study singing? You truly have talent."

She ducked her head slightly. "The Siren Institute of Vocal Enhancement, in Athens. Have you heard of it?"

"Oh, yes. I know someone who went there, actually. I hear it's lovely."

"Mmm," she said noncommittally, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "What is it you do, Mr...?"

"Potter," he cut in. "Harry Potter."

Her face assumed the expression of excited shock that he had seen on witches countless times. "Harry Potter? Harry Potter?"

He glanced out the window and then back at her, smiling slightly. "Yes."

"Goodness. My nieces would certainly have a fit if they knew I was talking to their favorite author."

He laughed lightly, somewhat relieved she only brought up the self-imposed half of his fame. "Yes, well. I can't stand the little monsters, honestly. Children bother me to no end. But I suppose I can't be too disparaging about them, since they are what I make my money from."

She gave a laugh of disbelief. "Harry Potter doesn't like children? Oh, that's one for the papers."

"Ah, I fear it's true." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Just don't tell anyone, or I fear my public might revolt."

She smiled. "Your secret is safe with me, Har - Mr. Potter."

"No, it's all right, call me Harry."

"Harry... oh, it looks like we're here."

The cab glided to a halt in front of her hotel, and she reached out and opened the car door, slamming it shut behind her.

Harry leaned out the open window and smiled at her. "I'll be at the Crucio this weekend. I look forward to hearing you."

She glanced out at the street, then back at him, looking almost nervous.

"Thank you, Harry. I'll see you then."

The car moved to pull out into traffic, and she waved after him.

The night had been a long one, and when Percy stumbled through the door of his flat, he didn’t expect to find his wife awake. His eyebrows snapped together when he saw that several lights were turned on, and he found Hermione laying back on the couch in the living room.

At first he didn’t notice that she was dressed, and said, “Why the devil did you wait up for me?”

“I didn’t,” she replied, sitting up, and it was then that he saw her face was covered in heavy night makeup, and she was wearing a lovely dress. He wondered when she bought it; he hadn’t ever seen it before. “I just got in, myself.”

“You just got in?” His tone was incredulous. “Where were you?”

She shrugged and rose, stretching her arms out to either side languorously. “Does it matter? Look, I’m dead tired. I’m going to bed.”

He strode across to the doorway, blocking her from leaving. “Yes, it matters! I think I have a right to know why my wife is staying out to all hours of the night when I think she’s home in bed.”

Instead of being intimidated, as he had hoped she would be, Hermione threw her head back and laughed loudly. “Percy, Percy, Percy. If this isn’t irony at its highest, I don’t know what is. Where were you?”

He glowered down at her. “I was working, Hermione. I have to stay late sometimes. You know that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Working? Is that what they’re calling it these days? Don’t think I’m such a fool as that, Percy. What is it that’s going through your mind? You think I honestly believe that you’re spending your time doing research when you stay out till three in the morning? You think that when you come home steeped in cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, I don’t know what it means? You’re truly one to preach about propriety and the virtues of punctuality.”

He quivered with indignant rage, feeling even more angry because she was right. “I have never been more insulted in my life! You dare insinuate that I’m cheating on you – “

“Stop with the ruffled feathers already. The whole town knows that you are.”

“Hermione Granger – “

“Oh, so I’m single now, am I?” she interjected.

“ – you are the most difficult woman I have ever met. What is it you’re saying? You don’t want to be married to me anymore? Am I that bad of a husband? I’ll give you a divorce if that’s what you’re after. Just give it to me to sign and I’ll let you have whatever you want.”

Her hand made contact with his cheek before he finished the sentence, and he winced as blood rushed to his slapped face.

“Don’t you even joke about something like that,” she said in a deadly quiet voice. “The very idea that we would shame the family with a divorce is the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard. You might not care about anyone in this world but yourself, Percy Weasley, but I do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

She stormed past him, and he remained standing there in the living room for a long time after she slammed the bedroom door.

+++

Tuesday: September 27, 2005

Lucius Malfoy was not a fool. He knew the moment that the delicate creature entered his office that greater things were at work. He wasn’t entirely certain of what they were, but he thought it best to go along. The woman could have easily not known that she was part of a plan. So that was why when she murmured in a voice hardly louder than a whisper, "You understand my predicament, don't you, Mr. Malfoy?", and bit her trembling lower lip, gazing up at him from under dewy eyelashes, he was inclined to assist in any way possible.

"Of course, Miss Parkinson. I understand perfectly well. You must accept my sympathy and condolences in this difficult time." He raised a hand, jerking a handkerchief from his breast pocket with a flourish. She took it from him gratefully, wiping daintily at her eyes with a grace that must have been drummed into her from infancy. She glanced up at him again before fishing a carton of cigarettes out of her handbag and sliding one out.

"Light?"

Pansy lifted the white cylinder as he held out a monogrammed silver lighter; her gaze halted at the curly "H.J.P" on the side before she let the flame flicker over the end of the cigarette.

She didn't raise it to her lips, but instead let out a shuddering breath, as people recovering from a bout of tears are wont to do.

Lucius folded his hands complacently on the desk that separated them. "I'm willing to give you whatever you need to get back on your feet, Miss Parkinson. A job, money, a house, servants… whatever you deem necessary." She looked up in surprise. "All that I ask of you in return is that you agree, after the proper mourning period, to marry my son."

+++

The woman - Ms. Lestrange, Graham reminded himself, for that was what she had introduced herself as the day before - spoke rapidly, not touching the food in front of her, but occasionally sipping her wine or inhaling from the cigarette dangling between her fingers. The restaurant they were sitting in was far more extravagant than anything Graham had been in before, and he tried to pay equal attention to both the food he was consuming at the beautiful woman across the table.

"...At any rate, Mr. Pritchard, when my father died, he left his entire estate to me. Unfortunately, this inheritance was only noted in a rewrite of his will - I was raised in boarding schools, and my father didn't know me at all for a great portion of my life. We become close in the months before his death, so he decided to change what he left to me. This rewrite could never be found, and his estate was turned over to his business. The money, land, and possessions are all part of Lestrange and Parker Associates, Incorporated now. I was left without anything to remember my family by. It's truly tragic when such a thing happens."

She paused, wetting her lips with the amber alcohol and watching him take a bite of steak disproportionate to the size of his mouth.

Chewing rapidly, he hastened to reply. The gears of his mind were starting to turn as she spoke this last part, though, and his defenses began to go up. "That's horrible, Ms. Lestrange. What I don't get, though, is why you're coming to me about this. I'm just a reporter."

The cold yet cunning smile he had seen earlier returned to her elegant face. "Yes, Mr. Pritchard, you're a reporter. Don't dismiss that profession the way you do. Do you not realize the kind of power you have? A reporter has the ability to make or break anyone. All it takes is a certain turn of phrase, a certain hidden meaning, and you've ruined someone's career or cast the spotlight on a future star. You have access to every document in this city with the flash of a press pass, and you can get into the most highly secured places in the name of research. You might not get paid well for your work, Graham, but yours is one of the most valuable professions there is."

He blinked repeatedly, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that she had used his given name. "I never really thought of it like that before, honestly."

"I thought you might not have." She reached into her velveteen handbag and withdrew a business card, which she pushed across the table at him. He lifted it and read over it: 'Lucretia Lestrange, Head Curator, Parkfield Museum'. The phone number was local.

"I'm not here to solicit your services about my father, Mr. Pritchard, that story is just helpful to know. I am here regarding something entirely different."

"Your museum?"

"Partially."

Graham leaned back in his chair, leaving his meal for a moment. Her hazel eyes revealed nothing, and her face might as well have been a mask for the emotion it betrayed. "Why me?" he finally asked.

She smiled once again, and he found himself starting to feel a bit uneasy at how self-satisfied she always looked.

"I overheard what was going on in the office before I approached you, Mr. Pritchard. I overhear a lot of things." She arched a finely penciled brow. "And just like I know how much you want to report on the Weasley-Davies case, I know why you do."

He froze. She tilted her head to the side slightly, motioning to the waiter in an unhurried manner for more wine.

"Now, look here, ma'am. I don't know what it is you're trying to imply -"

"I'm not trying to imply anything, Mr. Pritchard," she cut in smoothly. "I'm afraid neither of us have the time to mince words and beat around the bush. Implications are for those who wish to play games. I am simply stating as a fact that I know your involvement with the disappearance of Ginny Weasley, I know why you want so desperately to get a hold of that scoop so you can paint your involvement in the public eye right out of it, and I know that you would do anything to wash your hands clean of the affair. Which is why you're going to help me."

+++

Pansy couldn’t help but look at it all under a speculative eye that afternoon, thinking of the Malfoy Manor’s gardens of lavishly bright color. In many ways, she was happy to get away from her live-in job for a while. At age twenty-five, she occasionally felt that by taking care of someone else’s husband and someone else’s child, she was very nearly living someone else’s life.

The Haines family - which consisted of Rowan and his father - had tried to convince her to stay with them, at least for a while longer, but she had, of course, been firm. Mr. Haines seemed to understand that she needed to be with her family, having been through the loss of his wife only three years before. But Rowan’s memories of his mother’s death were few and blurry, and he couldn’t fathom why the radiant Miss Parkinson would want to leave her home, even if she was sad.

Pansy played the part of maudlin almost-widow to perfection, although her anxiousness to actually get on with the mission did play a large part of it. The first task had gone off without a hitch. She was amazed, in retrospect, that Lucius had been so willing to take her in. But there was that wager on the table, as well: he wanted her to marry his son. Draco Malfoy was quite possibly the most repulsive man Pansy had ever met, at least as far as personalities went. She had been forced to work with him on projects before, and had been disturbed every time; although he had good looks and money going for him, he was vicious and ruthless, and always went straight for the throat. He was famous for being one of the best crime agents – what the public called a certain non-secretive group of Aurors that worked on civil cases – in all of England, but it was rumored that he was also involved in a lot of other kinds of business as well.

"Miss Parkinson? Miss Parkinson, your carriage is here."

She looked up to the somber face of Jacob Haines.

"Thank you, sir."

The icy wind bit at her cheeks when she stepped out the door, reminding her once again that this was not a Thomas Wolfe autumn of brilliantly colored leaves floating down from the crowned boughs of trees, but a bitterly harsh one that was more an early winter than an extension of summer.

"If you do change your mind, Miss Parkinson, please come back whenever you wish to. I'm afraid no other nanny will ever measure up to you, certainly not in Rowan's eyes, and… well, we're going to miss you." The dark-haired man watched the driver lift her bags into the carriage, sporting a pensive expression.

A wan smile flitted across her face. "Thank you, Mr. Haines. I intend on coming back, I just need some time with my family.”

She stepped down from the massive front porch as the last of her things were packed into the Malfoy carriage. She was relieved to note that the vehicle - why did such an affluent family insist on such an outdated mode of transportation, she puzzled - was devoid of distinguishing marks, although Muggles like the Haineses couldn’t possibly be familiar with the Malfoy family.

Pansy lifted a gloved hand in farewell to the two figures still standing on the porch, and started to climb inside when Rowan came barreling at her.

"Miss Pansy! Oh, Miss Pansy! Don't leave me!" He flung his small arms around her, sniffling quietly into the dark wool of her dress.

She smiled down at him wistfully, stroking his dark hair. Sinking to her knees, she took a handkerchief out of her pocket and gently patted his cheeks with it. "Please don't cry, Rowan. Please don't cry."

"I'm going to miss you," he whispered, lower lip trembling.

"I'm going to miss you, too," she whispered back. "But I’ll be back soon. It’s just going to be a short while. Here." Pansy took the handkerchief and, slowly angling it so the wand in her pocket was positioned towards it, murmured something Rowan couldn't hear. He suspected what was coming, though, and as the piece of cloth morphed into a single orange flower, he giggled in delight.

She smiled at the blossom as well; the brilliant color seemed to cut through the dank colors of the day like a knife. He reached out and took the flower from her, and she hugged him.

"Be good, Rowan. Keep your father happy."

With a final wistful look up at her, he walked back up to where his father was standing. Pansy climbed into the carriage and raised a hand in farewell, and Mr. Haines waved back.

When she arrived at the manor, she found that the entire house was on edge. Servants and house elves scurried about, trying to keep away from the master of the house as best they could. Lucius was locked away inside his study with someone, and it was more than clear that if anyone bothered him and his guest, he would personally see to it that their ears were cut off and fed to the creatures that lived in the house’s moat.

The butler and maid welcomed Pansy and showed her the temporary rooms she would be staying in. She had no intention of residing in the actual mansion any longer than she needed to, but she decided it was nice to have some space to herself for a while, even if it was within the walls of the Malfoy estate.

After they left her to explore the cavernous maze of hallways and parlors, she wandered around aimlessly before happening upon the library. She was left quite breathless by the sheer size of the room; she had thought the library at Hogwarts had been large, but this was truly something amazing. Endless rows of shelves were filled with volumes, stacks of books on various subjects rested on a mahogany table near a group of chairs.

Pansy strolled through the shelves, noting wryly that there was an extraordinarily large amount of books on the subject of historical dark arts. There also seemed to be a lot about culinary arts, something that surprised her a bit.

The Malfoys and the Parkinsons had a past that was deeply entwined. Both had legacies of involvement with dark power, rooting back to the original druids and Catholics of medieval England. Pansy's immediate relations were not ones that had duly kept up the honor of the Parkinson name, however. She was the only daughter of a tragic family; her mother had died during childbirth and her father, a musical composer who had never gotten the Dark Mark, had become a severe alcoholic in the years after his wife's death. When she was eight years old, he was found frozen to death in a gutter, too drunk to come in out of the January snow. She had stayed with the Malfoys briefly after her father's death, before moving in with distant relatives she hadn't ever met before. Narcissa Malfoy had been very close friends with Pansy's mother, and had been only too happy to take care of her "niece".

It was strange, she thought, that she was now in the house to bring the shady family to its knees, when she had once sought shelter there. Being in the house she had ghosted around in fourteen years earlier was a deeply eerie feeling in and of itself... she couldn't shake the feeling that it had all happened before.

In her wanderings through the library, she happened across a fireplace in the far wall. Flanking it on either side were more shelves of books, but these had a different look to them. They were newer, possibly. She ran her finger along the spines of a row, and frowned when she realized what the difference was. The ones by the fireplace were completely devoid of dust.

Intrigued, she pulled one of them from the wall -- and found herself spinning around and vanishing into a shroud of darkness.

Pansy gave a muffled shriek and leaned back against the rotating wall, gasping for breath. She could guess what had happened; it was a trap door, a secret passage. Trompe l'oeil. Only Malfoys would have hidden passageways built into their home.

She patted her pockets, cursing the fact she had left her wand in her room. Her eyes were slowly growing used to the almost nonexistent light in the passage way - a thin band of illumination seeped in from the cracks of the moving wall - but she couldn't seem more than a foot in front of her, and her imagination was starting to run wild with thoughts of spiders and decay.

Shivering, she tentatively began to grope along the walls, searching for a light panel, a torch, or anything. They were completely devoid of features, though, and her fingers just encountered smooth, dry wallpaper. As much as she tried to kick the wall back open, it appeared she was stuck. Taking a deep breath and praying to all deities she could think of that the corridor didn't cross with any others, she started following the wall down into the darkness.

There were a few times that she was certain she could hear activity on the other side of the wall she was pressed against, and knew she must be traveling through the heart of the house. The realization was more than a little unsettling; the manor was huge, and if this wasn't a very direct passage - she had already turned twice - she could be trapped inside of it for hours. Pansy suddenly felt rather claustrophobic.

Fortunately - or somewhat unfortunately, as the case turned out to be - it wasn't much longer before she reached a dead end. Loud voices came from the other side of it, and her questing hands found a lever on the wall to the side of the one in front of her. This was obviously where the passage had been leading. Her first instinct was to pull on the lever and get out of the positively creepy passageway, but something held her back. The voices she could hear sounded angry, and if she pressed her ear up against the paneling, she could just barely make them out...

"I'd like to help, Mr. Malfoy, don't think that I wouldn't. But the fact of the matter is simply that all of our available officers are already searching for her. There's nothing more that we can do."

"Fuck your available officers, Barrington. I don't care what strings you have to pull, and I don't care who you have to fuck over, but you're going to search for her, you're going to find her, and you're going to give me the head of whoever is responsible for her disappearance on a silver platter."

There was a snort of what sounded like amusement from the man Lucius was talking to, and then a loud slamming sound. She imagined him bringing his fist down on the table. Whatever had happened, it shut the other man up.

"Let me phrase this another way. You either bring her back to me as soon as humanly possible, or your family will disappear, too. And then they'll be found a week later, in so many pieces that you won't be able to recognize one person from the next. And then I will go to your superior, and see if they can't help me."

There was a strangled noise, a cough, and then the first man's reply, in a much raspier voice. "You're a madman."

Pansy privately agreed.

"That might very well be, but it's hardly a relevant issue. What's it going to be? Will you comply, or are you going to be taking some time off from work for burial arrangements in the near future? I'd choose wisely if I were you, Barrington. Closed-casket funerals tend to leave you without a sense of closure."

Pansy’s eyebrows shot straight up. She had known, as most people did, that Lucius Malfoy was a violent man. It was shocking to actually hear the voice that normally spoke refined, crisp words be so harsh and cruel. She had come to the Manor to investigate about Dark Arts involvement, but it looked as though she had stumbled upon something much larger.

She could still hear their voices as she hovered near the wall, torn between not wanting to make her presence known, not wanting to turn back to the dead end of the library, and not wanting to hear any more.

The man seemed to have agreed to whatever it was Lucius was coercing him into, for the tone of the voices lost the urgency and instead were reduced to lower, more conversation tones, although Lucius still sounded very fierce.

"I'll get my best officers on it, Malfoy. I'll take them off the bigger cases, and stick the lesser-experienced ones on them. I’ll get the best Muggle-stationed men on this. Don’t worry about it.”

"I don't care what it is you do, Barrington. You just get me Ginny Weasley back here in one piece, before a lot of people die most unfortunate deaths."

+++

"So how was your day?"

Draco wearily sank into a chair, switching his brandy to his left hand and looking over at Natasha, his coworker and sometimes girlfriend.

"Nothing special,” she replied. “I worked a bit on that whole larceny case with the Pruitts. I still can’t believe I’ve been reduced to a desk job until I get my apparition license back. What’s more is that I still can't believe they revoked it in the first place. Bloody useless bastards."

He couldn't help but smirk a little at this. "Well, you know, dear, they tend to not reprimand agents who don't do anything wrong. You really should have known better than to try and work a side deal during work. Even I wouldn't have attempted something like that."

She rolled her eyes, drumming her fingers on the arms of the velvet chair. Her flat seemed to have a lot of velvet furniture in it. "Yes, yes, I've heard it all before, Malfoy. Pooh-pooh, such a disappointment, what was I thinking, I should be happy I got such a lenient sentence, should be glad they didn't know the extent of it, and so on and so forth."

"Something like that, yes."

She noticed for the second time that night that he looked tired and harassed.

"What about you? How was your day?"

"Utter hell, same as always. The crime wave still hasn't stopped, and there we’re dealing with the aftermath of another murder. I still can't figure out what the connection could possibly be. All the victims and all the crimes themselves are too different to possibly be linked, but the there's always that damned mark." He set the brandy down, running his hands over his face. "I don't think I've seen anything this puzzling in all my years in the department."

Natasha frowned deeply. "Draco Malfoy, unable to crack a case? Christ, what is the world coming to?" She shot him a furtive look under orangey eyelashes. "Well, could I interest you in a little something to possibly... get your mind off it?" She reached a hand out towards him.

He gave her a steady look, almost as if he was sizing her up. He knew why he was attracted to her in the first place, and why he had started their little affair; there wasn't any doubt in his mind about that. She was certainly not the brightest or most talented officer at the Ministry, but she was very beautiful, and could have easily have passed for Ginny Weasley's sister. Consciously, Draco knew it was sick that a man could be that attracted to – and that obsessed with – his collogue and his father’s mistress. Yet on some level, he really didn’t care. Ginny Weasley had fascinated him for years, and as long as no one guessed his feelings on the issue, he might as well enjoy himself.

"Yes, Natasha, that sounds like a very good idea."

As he took her extended hand, he noticed idly that he was still referring to Ginny in the present tense.

+++

"I know for a fact that someone has abducted my sister. I want retribution, I want bloodshed, and I want her back here in one piece."

Neville fervently wished he had someone to exchange an exasperated glance with.

"Fred, you do realize that this investigation is going to take some time, don't you? This is obviously a high profile, top-priority case, but I can't make any promises about Ginny's condition when and if we find her, nor can I vouch for what will happen to her abductor. She had a lot of influence in the community, and this could very easily be related to the Voldemort situation. You know as well as I do that the Death Eaters are regrouping. You might need to deal with the fact this could be a murder situation."

“Yes, yes, I know,” Fred said, almost wilting down into the chair. He closed his eyes and sighed. It was at that moment that Neville suddenly felt sorry for his old acquaintance; the other man appeared positively war-torn. He looked as though he hadn't slept, eaten or washed his hair in a week, which, Neville though, could have easily been true. He seemed to be taking the disappearance of his sister a lot harder than most men would have, but he had become very protective of her after Roger Davies, the briefly reigning Minister of Magic, left her widowed at such a young age.

Clearing his throat, the officer lifted a notebook and pen out of his pocket. "Well, it’s a public case as of now, because she’s officially a missing person. What I need from you is information about her current state of social affairs. Does she have any enemies? Anyone who might wish… something unfortunate upon her?"

"Malfoy," Fred immediately answered.

"Draco Malfoy? The Auror?"

"Lucius Malfoy. The politician. It was him."

Neville blinked repeatedly. "You sound awfully certain of that."

"I…" he ran a wayward hand through his bright hair, making it stand up in odd directions. "My wife, Angelina, told me… well… it was a brief conversation, but -- Ginny and I rarely speak anymore, to be totally honest, because things are just somewhat awkward between us. But Angelina told me that when she last spoke to Gin, she had told her that she had Malfoy had a... relationship about five months ago," he finally spat out, a dark red color sweeping across his cheekbones, "and it ended rather violently. She found him in bed with… well, his wife. I guess he told her he was going to leave Narcissa, and then he obviously didn't. She refused to speak to him after that, and made it clear she didn't want to be around him. His behavior got quite foul after that, up until last week. He has the means to do it, the initiative, and the gall. I don't doubt for a moment - not one moment - that whatever happened, he's behind it."

+++

The man strolled along the street, enjoying the chilly air that blew across his cheeks. He loved being in the city. Crowds were where he felt most at home, feeling the pavement under his shoes and the hum of voices and industrial life all around. It was here that he was not singled out as someone abnormal and disturbed, but instead just another shopper, just another pedestrian, just another suit without a face or a name. It was comforting, it made the game all that more fun to play.

Everything was a game to him. Everything from what he put on his toast in the morning to how he chose his victims, to the mark he branded in their skin… they were all games, little rhymes and rituals that he made sure he kept up, or else there would be consequences. They were all leading up to the bigger game, all tying into the game that was his existence. But the main game was between him and them. Them. They. The ones on the other side. He wasn't insane - oh no, hardly that. Confused, maybe, but not insane.

He just knew that they were there, and he knew what they were doing. Voldemort hadn't died that night, so many years ago. The name had, perhaps, but not the entity. It was still as strong as ever, that black magic they used. After their leader's demise, they had continued to use it, continued to make plans for the future. And he had known what they were after.

He stopped walking for a moment, finding himself right outside of the nightclub. He lingered there briefly. Such places had a strange look to them during daylight, as if they suddenly went dormant and dead when the sun came up.

A quick glance at his watch told him she had only left a while earlier. He had made her arrange the appointment, of course. Amazing the things people will do when they don't have control over their thoughts. He felt a momentary stab of guilt, but it fled as quickly as it came. He was only doing what was in her best interests, something he had to keep reminding himself of. It wasn't as though he was doing anything harmful to her -- she had been tone-deaf and in danger of being murdered when he "took" her, and after a few charms, she had talent, she was ambitious, and she certainly wouldn't be found by them.

He knew he had done the right thing.

He only hoped that when the time came, she'd be able to see that, too.