Nighthawk

Chapter Two

It was the cat. It had to be the cat.

She was dressed professionally, as usual; her trousers weren't overly tight and the scoop neck of her shirt lay a respectable four inches above her bust line. And yet this man, this bloody awful Muggle bloke, was eyeing her as if she was a tasty bit of fluff.

Crookshanks sniffed disdainfully at him and then curled up on his chair in the corner, his round golden eyes fixed and watching.

Apparently, men didn't take P.I.s who had cats prowling about their offices seriously.

"I understand, Mr. Bufford," Hermione said in a tightly controlled voice, "that you wanted to see Mr. Cross. I'm dreadfully sorry that he had to slip out of the office early."

It had actually been going quite well. Very few people questioned her excuses for the mysterious Mr. Cross being absent from the offices, and as long as each report was signed off by the man - who people automatically assumed to be her boss, even though she'd never mentioned him as such - they didn't seem to mind that Hermione was the P.I. who delivered the information.

Oh, it stung, of course, that all her hard work - the research, the long hours - were, in the end, credited to her partner. But the badly needed money they gained was a balm to her injured pride. She could even start paying Colin again, who, true to Gryffindor form, had resolutely refused his compensation so she could afford to put in a Floo.

Mr. Bufford cleared his throat and Hermione knew he was just dying to address her with a condescending 'little lady.' She suspected it was only the dangerous glint in her eyes that stopped him from actually doing so.

"It's fairly important," Mr. Bufford explained, "that I speak with your boss."

Hermione gritted her teeth and bit back a snarl. "He's not really my boss, Mr. Bufford," she forced out politely. "We prefer to be called partners."

His brows rose suggestively and Hermione curled her fingers over her chair arms. Stupid, stupid, wanker, she ranted to herself. "If you would just tell me what services you require from Nighthawk, I'm sure Mr. Cross and I will be able to collaborate on a plan of action."

"I'm sure you're perfectly competent, Miss...?"

"Granger," she nearly snapped. He knew damned well what her name was. Bastard.

"Ah, yes. As I was saying, I'm sure you're wonderfully good at your job. However, I really think my problem is a bit too... harsh, shall we say, for a woman of your sensibilities."

Oh, for the love of... She'd fought in the bloody war! She'd hexed more people into oblivion than he'd probably shagged in his entire life. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Bufford, but I assure you I wouldn't have lasted this long in the business if I'd had a weak stomach."

"You're quite young, Miss Granger," he stated matter-of-factly, a bit of his amiable façade faltering. "To be perfectly blunt, I have no wish to work with you. This is the second time your Mr. Cross has brushed me off, so it looks as though I'm going to have to take my business elsewhere."

He got to his feet, clearly expecting her to beg him to stay. As it was, she had to restrain herself from pushing him out the door... and then down the narrow staircase. She needed the money, yes, and from his demeanor she suspected it'd be a juicy case; one she could probably charge an arm and a leg for. But it wasn't worth begging. Nothing was.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Bufford," she said smoothly as they stepped into the outer office. "I'll have to..."

"Granger."

Hermione stared dumbly at the tall, dark-haired man standing in front of Alice's desk. The blonde sitting behind it was staring wide-eyed at him as well, practically drooling. Before she could gather her wits enough to ask him why he was there, he strode towards Mr. Bufford with his hand outstretched.

"Tynan Cross," he said, shooting Hermione a smirk before taking Mr. Bufford's hand. "And you are?"

"Bufford. Henry Bufford. You're a very hard man to get a hold of, Mr. Cross."

"Please, call me Ty."

Ty? What in the holy hell was going on? Hermione cleared her throat. "Excuse me, Ty," she glared at him. "Can I have a word with you?"

His lips dipped into a frown and he said in a mock-apologetic tone, "Not right now, Granger. Mr. Bufford has been waiting long enough don't you think? Alice, can you get us a couple of coffees?" He grinned widely at the secretary. "Thanks, love."

As they stepped into the office she'd furnished for the imaginary Mr. Cross, she heard Mr. Bufford say jovially, "Call me Henry."

"Alice," Hermione said sharply as she watched her friend move towards the coffeepot they kept on hand for clients. "What is going on?"

"I have no idea," she said, grinning dreamily over at her. "But I think I'm in love."

Hermione fidgeted at Alice's desk for a half-hour before giving up and heading for her office, asking her friend to let her know when Mr. Bufford left. Nearly forty-five minutes later, her intercom buzzed.

"Yes?"

"Buffoon has left--Oh, Hello Mr. Cross," Alice said brightly, and Hermione knew she'd left her finger on the button purposefully to warn her.

"Is Granger still here?" His gruff voice crackled over the line.

"Yep, she's in her office. Go on in."

The next moment, her door swung wide without so much as a courtesy rap, and Zabini strode across the rug towards her.

"You can't just barge in here," she growled. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Call-Me-Ty?"

"Take a look at this," he said, ignoring her angry query and tossing a photo onto her desk.

Glancing down automatically, she was startled by the picture, the subject caught in mid-laugh. The texture was grainy, but the woman was definitely recognizable. "Hannah Abbott?" she asked. "Why do you have a Muggle photo of Hannah?"

He dropped into a chair and stretched out his legs in front of him, clasping his hands over his lean stomach. "According to Mr. Bufford," he said the name with barely veiled disdain, "her name is Corrine and he married her two years ago. She went missing last month."

"Went missing?" Hermione scowled at the picture. So he'd thought a missing person's case was too 'harsh' for her? Sodding prat. She looked over at Zabini, the man watching her with hooded eyes and a slightly lazy smile. She stared at him silently for a few moments, allowing herself to study him more closely than she had the morning she'd run into him at the coffee shop.

He seemed disturbingly the same, only a few lines of age bracketing his mouth and running the length of his forehead. And perhaps his cheekbones and chin seemed a bit more angled, harder. His skin was still a warm golden brown, his eyes still far too light for his complexion. Finally, she said softly, "What are you doing here, Zabini?"

"You said I could drop by," he replied easily.

Growing increasingly agitated under his steady gaze, she picked up a pencil and rolled it between her fingers. "Yes, but why did you tell that man you were Tynan Cross?"

He shrugged and straightened slightly in his seat. "Thought I'd give this P.I. deal a whirl."

"But you can't just impersonate--"

"Come off it, Granger," he cut in blithely. "We both know there is no Mr. Tynan Cross."

Hermione stared at him, stunned. "How did you know?"

He arched a brow. "I have my sources."

"Well," she said briskly, "It doesn't matter. Just give me the notes on this case and you can go."

He smiled a little at that. "I thought we could grab some lunch."

"I'm extremely busy, Zabini. Perhaps another time?"

"Sure," he said slowly, rising to his feet. "Sure, Granger. Another time."

Something in his tone made her instantly stiffen. "Zabini..." she trailed off, watching him warily as he reached the door.

He turned to look over his shoulder at her. "Yes?"

"You're not going to... mention this to anyone, are you?"

Turning fully around, he leant back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why, Granger, what do you take me for?"

Jumping out of her chair, she rushed towards him. "You can't, Zabini. You can't say a word to anyone."

He smirked at her. "And what do I get for keeping your dirty little secret?"

"I'll..." She grimaced, suspecting what he was fishing for and unwilling to give it. "I'll go to lunch with you."

He chuckled dryly. "I'm afraid that's not going to cut it."

"What will then?" she asked warily.

"Oh, I think you know."

Although his suggestive words brought back every fantasy she'd ever had about the man when they'd been in school, she knew exactly what he was alluding to. Damn it. "Fine," she snarled. "Fine. You can 'play' P.I. for a while. But Ty Cross is my partner, Zabini. Not boss. We split the work fifty-fifty and..." She paused, taking a deep breath before rushing on, "the company gets all of the profits. You don't take home a thing."

He stared down at her, eyes clear and emotionless. Finally, he uncrossed his arms and held out a hand. "All right."

Hermione blinked. She was sure he'd balk at that. Cautiously, she placed her palm in his and immediately regretted the action. Sweat popped out all over her skin, misting her forehead and upper lip.

Her tongue swept over her lips and she took a step backwards, pulling her hand out of his firm grasp. "Right," she said. "Well, I suppose we should discuss this Bufford case."

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm going to question the neighbors. Care to come along?" he asked politely.

Two hours later, Hermione was still on edge, unable to relax in Zabini's presence at all. And the neighbors had proved unhelpful to say the least. Apparently, the Buffords were not well liked.

By the time they Apparated into the alley behind her offices, Hermione was starving and exhausted. She walked into the office, took one look at Alice's adoring mien towards Zabini and said, "I'm going home early, Alice. I'm sure Ty here can handle my afternoon appointments."

"Certainly, Granger."

She was too tired to even take offence at his tone, her body wound tight and craving surcease. "See you tonight," she said to Alice. "I'll make something for dinner."

"Don't bother, Hermione," she said, smiling, "Colin's taking me out."

Hermione arched a brow. "Colin, eh? Given up on Harry?" she asked, amused.

"Just trying a new tactic."

Hermione shook her head. "Jealousy never worked with Harry. He's too thick."

"Did you ever try to make Potter jealous, Granger?" Zabini asked.

She eyed him cautiously, but couldn't find any reason writ on his face as to why he'd ask her about Harry. "No. Why?"

He shrugged. "Just curious. You two were always close."

"Close friends," she elaborated.

She didn't like the way his lips curved in that slightly knowing, slightly mocking smirk. Frowning thoughtfully, she nodded at him and said goodbye to Alice. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder and popped into her newly built hearth, thankful that she wouldn't have to expend the necessary energy to Apparate home.

******

"I know you're still up, Hermione."

The lights flickered on and Hermione pulled a pillow on top of her head with a groan. "Go away, Alice."

She felt the edge of the bed dip down and Alice giggled. "No can do. I let you leave early, so now you must spill. Tell me all about the divine Mr. Z."

"How was your date with Colin, then?" Hermione asked, peeking out from under her pillow.

She yawned. "Boring. He's a darling, really, but there's no... excitement, I suppose."

"Doesn't make you shiver like Harry does," Hermione said knowingly.

"Exactly. Harry's so," she licked her lips, "delectable." She waggled her brows. "Now, about your mysterious Ty Cross..."

"He's not mine," she snapped.

Alice looked skeptical. "Oh, so you've always been tense and flustered and unusually prone to sweating?"

"I don't sweat," Hermione protested stiffly. "I glow."

"Like a stuck pig," Alice added with a snort.

Hermione sighed and struggled into a sitting position, leaning back against her headboard. "He was a Slytherin. My year."

"Oooo," Alice cooed, practically bouncing on the bed. "So Ernie'd know him?"

"Maybe," Hermione replied, noncommittally. Alice had been a seventh year when Hermione had suffered through her long term as Hogwarts' Librarian, the first Gryffindor in a long line of Hufflepuff Macmillans. "You know that Hufflepuffs, as a rule, never associate much with Slytherins."

"I can't see why," Alice rushed out. "Slytherins are so..." she closed her eyes and shuddered.

Hermione shoved her friend on the shoulder. "Out."

"But I want to hear more about--"

"Out!" Hermione exclaimed again.

"You can't fool me, my dear," she said as she let Hermione push her off the bed. "You're simply dying to get into that young man's trousers." Flicking her braid over her shoulder, she turned to move from the room.

"Hang on a sec, Alice," Hermione called after her.

The other woman paused at the door. "Ready to confess all?"

"Do you know if your brother keeps in contact with any of his schoolmates?" she asked, ignoring Alice's comment.

She shrugged. "He's pretty tight with his fellow Hufflepuffs."

"Good," Hermione said, tapping her forefinger on her chin. "Can you try to get him on the fire first thing tomorrow morning?"

Alice cocked her head quizzically, but said, "Sure thing, boss." She slipped from the room leaving the door open a crack behind her, and Hermione could hear her singing lightly as she flitted down the hall, "How do you solve a problem like Hermione? How do you catch a star and pin it down...?"

Hermione chuckled and snuggled back into her blankets, hoping Ernie would be able to give her something tangible on Hannah Abbott's life after Hogwarts.

******

Brother or not, it took Alice nearly a week to get a hold of Ernie. As the Ministry's newly appointed Ambassador to Japan, he spent little to no time in his London flat. Alice was able to leave him a message, though, and he'd taken his good old time getting back to her.

Although Alice was one of her closest friends, Hermione had never much liked her older brother. And since the first words out of his mouth were, "Have you seen Zach?" delivered with a fat smile, her opinion of him dropped even lower. Ernie was one of the number who'd never believed the charges brought against Smith.

The conversation, however, proved somewhat illuminating. Not only had Ernie kept in contact with Abbott over the years, he'd even seen her less than three weeks before... after her supposed disappearance.

The only wrinkle in the interview was that Macmillan hadn't known anything about Bufford, about Hannah going by the name 'Corrine,' and that she'd been married for over two years. He refused to believe that Hannah would keep something like that from him, and wondered aloud if Corrine Bufford wasn't Hannah, but instead someone who merely resembled her.

Hermione had to admit it was a viable possibility, but she still wasn't discounting the Abbott theory entirely on Macmillan's say-so.

Around lunchtime, Zabini poked his head into her office, crunching on an apple. "Got a call from Bufford. Seems his car's gone missing now."

"His car?"

Zabini nodded. "A cherry from the States, apparently. '66 Corvette Stingray, mint condition, deep blue." His tone was careless, but an unmistakable glint in his eyes betrayed a fondness for automobiles. Not exactly an odd trait in Wizards, but certainly in a pureblooded ex-Slytherin.

"Shouldn't be too hard to find, then," she said.

"You wouldn't think so, no," he agreed slowly, then pulled his head back and closed the door.

Hmmm... Pressing down her intercom, she said, "Alice... can you get me Officer Carlyle on the phone?"

"Straight away, boss." After a few moments, she buzzed back, "Hooked on line one."

Hermione picked up the phone and pulled out a scrap of blank paper. "Beth?"

"What's up, Granger?" Beth Carlyle asked good-naturedly. "Caught me just before patrol."

"Listen, did you get a stolen car report this morning for an American car; a classic Corvette? Name would be Henry Bufford."

"Erm..." Hermione could hear her tapping keys on a computer. "Doesn't look like it; nothing on a Bufford at all. I could ask dispatch, though. Could have gotten misplaced. I'd like to say that's rare," she chuckled, "but unfortunately we're so busy right now with the holidays coming up that anything's possible."

"Thanks, Beth. Could you also keep an eye out for the car? Nothing official, of course."

"Of course," Beth replied.

Hermione rattled off the auto's details, and then thanked the woman for all her help. Placing the phone back into its cradle, she leant back in her seat, biting her lip in thought. So Bufford hadn't reported the stolen car to the police, nor, apparently, his missing wife. Something didn't quite fit, and Hermione suspected Bufford knew more than he was letting on.

Leaning forward, she pressed the intercom and buzzed Zabini's office.

"Yes?"

"What do you think," Hermione started slowly, "the odds are that Bufford was married to Hannah for two years and didn't know she was a witch?"

"If she really was Hannah Abbott? Slim to none, I'd say," Zabini answered.

"Exactly my thoughts." Hermione scribbled a few notes on her paper. "I think we should pay Bufford a little visit to clarify a few things."

"Whatever you say, Granger."

Hermione straightened in her chair and glared at the intercom. "You don't think it's necessary?"

"I think that he most likely knew his wife was a witch... But it doesn't necessarily have much bearing on her disappearance."

"All right, then," Hermione huffed. "Think of it this way; he didn't report any of this to the police. He reported it to us."

A pause. "So you're saying you think he knows we're Wizarding-kind?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Zabini," she said, slightly exasperated at his nonchalance. "I've got a call in with the police; she'll let us know if anything comes in through their end. And I'm going to owl Harry."

"Owl Weasley instead," he said quickly.

"Charlie?" she asked, naming the only Auror Weasley. "Why?"

He sighed. "He's above Potter, isn't he?"

"Yes, but--"

"Just trust me, Granger."

Hermione nearly snorted at that, but reluctantly agreed to owl Charlie. As she released the intercom button, she briefly pondered how strange it was that Zabini had been there for barely a full week, yet it already felt natural having him around. She was nearly at the point where she could relax in his presence. Nearly.

Still, it was nice having someone around to bounce ideas off of, someone with a mind as keen as her own. She wouldn't let herself get used to it, though. She didn't expect this amusement to hold Zabini's attention forever.

With his playboy reputation from their school days, she imagined he'd grow tired of hanging around with her day after day rather quickly. Their line of work wasn't exactly exciting, after all; it was more grunt work, really, than anything else.

But Merlin she loved it. She loved everything about it, from the long hours spent in front of her computer, down to her sore and ink stained fingertips and the cricks in her neck. Grunt work was what she did best.

Pulling out a clean piece of parchment, she composed a concise note, briefly outlining their possible containment problem. Despite the defeat of Voldemort and the advancements they'd made living side by side with Muggles peaceably, knowledge of the Wizarding world was still kept on a tight rein. Trust was tentative at best, and relations remained on a need-to-know basis.

Some Aurors relished damage control, but for Harry, she knew, it was a distasteful part of the job. It made the decision to follow Zabini's advice and contact Charlie instead that much easier.

******

There was a letter waiting for her when she arrived at the flat that night.

Her mouth went dry when she spotted the red lettering, the little heart drawn above the 'i' in her name. She hadn't received one in nearly two weeks, and had hoped they'd stopped coming permanently.

She hadn't told Harry about them. There wasn't anything he could do about it, really; nothing tangible in the notes to grasp on to, no open threat. But the words never failed to frighten her, nonetheless.

Hermione, despite being a witch, which in itself was a whimsical occurrence, had a very practical and rational mind. She shouldn't, by rights, be hesitating to open a simple square envelop. Swallowing hard, she slid her finger under the front flap, tearing a line down the top of the paper.

Drawing out the folded parchment with trembling fingers, she smoothed it across the kitchen counter, staring hard at the simple red scrawl.

The mortal frame will break

Her vision blurred and she realized she'd been holding her breath. Taking great gulps of air, she leant forward, touching her forehead to the cool countertop.

Getting a handle on her fear, she walked to the sink and splashed her face with water, then filled a glass and drained it, before filling it once again and moving to the living room.

It was the tenth note. The tenth note, and she couldn't help thinking she was missing something. Some clue. She sat on the couch for over an hour, staring off into space and trying to clear her mind. Finally, she got up and went back to retrieve the letter.

The mortal frame will break

There was something deliberately careless about it. No punctuation. No anchor. The more she studied it, the more she was certain it was part of a larger picture. A puzzle. Whatever it was, though, someone was toying with her, mocking her intelligence. That much she could see.

Carefully, she folded the missive into the envelope again and slid it into the side of her briefcase with the others.