Nighthawk

Chapter Seven

Blaise stepped out of Hermione's flat, his face set with grim determination, and Apparated directly to the back of the Ministry in Diagon Alley. With only a cursory glance at his surroundings, he slipped into the building and stalked purposefully to the lifts, his footfalls echoing loudly in the empty corridor.

The blond man glanced up as he pushed past the door to the Department of Mysteries, a rook palmed in his hand across an ancient Muggle chessboard. "Have a good time?" he yawned.

Blaise merely growled, collapsing onto a careworn sofa, dust billowing up around him. "You're a complete idiot," he said finally.

Draco's brows rose. "Am I?"

"Why didn't you tell me Granger caught you?"

He leaned back in his chair and grimaced. "Perhaps because I knew precisely how you'd react?"

Blaise sighed and dropped his head into his hands, burrowing his fingers into his curls. "Where are Colin and Millie?"

"Having hot sex in the broom closet."

Blaise sent him a deathly glare.

"Fine. Colin's watching Bufford, and Millie's catching up on some sleep."

"Get them here. Now."

Draco straightened in his chair, his one-sided chess game forgotten. "What's happened?"

"The bloody letters," Blaise bit out. "That's what's happened. I think she's put them all together."

"Curse her brilliance, eh?"

Blaise narrowed his eyes at him, which was just as effective as his death glare. "Do you find this amusing, Draco? Because if you do, I assure you your arse will be back on the street before you can say 'Flint wants me dead.'"

Draco blanched at the mention of one of the many Death Eaters-at-large who wanted his head on a platter for betraying the Dark. He wisely shook his head and asked, "Should we get Barnaby in as well?"

Technically, Blaise didn't have a superior at the Ministry. His expertise in the Dark Arts was unparalleled, and he enjoyed the freedom that the Department of Mysteries gave him in return for his well-needed services. He wasn't even an Unspeakable, really, more of a freelancer than anything; although he preferred to work with Millicent and Colin on his team - both lettered, high-ranking Unspeakables under David Barnaby.

"Until we work out a plan of action, let's just keep this incident to ourselves," he said, not wanting to involve any of the Officials and their superficial red tape unless it was absolutely necessary.

Draco shrugged, obviously not particularly concerned with the Ministry hierarchy either. The blond, after spending four ungodly boring years in rural France, had joined Blaise's crack team of Unsociables - a term coined by Barnaby, as the group specialized in deep undercover - with the assumption that the line of work itself would hide him better than any Wizarding protection agency could.

He soon made himself invaluable, tending to do more of the base relay work, communication being his strong point, while Colin was an ace at reconnaissance and Millicent, a master of disguises.

Blaise watched absently as Draco pulled out his wand, murmuring a simple spell that he'd created so they could contact each other when out in the field. Colin's wand would vibrate, letting him know he was needed back at headquarters, and Millicent's alarm wards would be activated at her flat.

While they waited for the others to arrive, Blaise rose from the couch and paced to the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines of their extensive collection of Dark Arts texts. He knew the contents of every one by heart, due as much to his upbringing as his photographic memory, since he could apply each and every hex, curse, incantation and potion with deadly accuracy, as well as rattle off all the ingredients, techniques and effects. Of course, much to his parents' disappointment and wrath, he'd chosen not to use his extensive... talents... in servitude to the Dark Lord.

However, neither had he been particularly ecstatic about the Order, or the war in general, and had been one of the many Slytherins who simply chose to bow out of the battle entirely. It hadn't made him popular, of course, but to him it was infinitely better than possible death. The difference between him and Draco, who'd also refused to fight, was that the blond's utter smitten-ness where the little Weaslette was concerned led him to relay every bit of information he'd ever gleaned about the Death Eaters and their Dark Lord... thus earning him the everlasting ire of all escaped or unproven Death Eaters in England and beyond, and a healthy number of those rotting away in Azkaban.

The door suddenly swung open, jerking Blaise from his thoughts, and a disheveled Millicent strode into the room, black robes hastily donned over red satin pajamas, hair wild and tangled down her back. "What's up, boss?" she asked, dropping down into the chair across from Draco.

The blond eyed her with amusement. "Plan on going on a mission like that?"

She gave him a tight smile, reached out over the chessboard, and moved a black bishop forward. "Check."

Draco scowled at her, and opened his mouth to no doubt retort rudely, when Colin rushed in, breathless and red-faced, as if he'd run the entire way there. He yanked the tightly fitted black hood of his Stealth Outfit - as Millicent always called it - back off his head, causing his short brown hair to stand on end. "What did I miss? What's going on?" he asked, voice edged with panic.

Blaise shook his head, used to the high-strung ex-Gryffindor's overreactions. "Calm down, Creevey."

Colin dropped down onto the sofa, taking great gulps of air. "Right. Cool. I'm fine." He took one last deep breath. "Okay, why are we here?"

"You said Weasley had the notes Granger received, right?" Blaise asked, settling down beside him.

The brown-haired man nodded. "Did a bit of snooping, but it wasn't the whole spell. Which could mean she was holding back, or simply hadn't gotten them all. Knowing Hermione, though, it doesn't matter one wit. She's sure to have made copies of all of them."

Blaise cursed. The spell was amazingly simply, which was most likely why Granger had been taunted by bits and pieces over time. Smith knew she wouldn't be able to resist a challenge, although the odds were so incredibly risky that she would unwittingly perform the correct incantation... there just had to be some sort of back-up plan in effect. So far, though, they hadn't been able to find a thing. And with their informant dead, they were relying heavily on dated information.

"Still no sign of Smith?" he asked.

Millicent shook her head. "It's like he dropped off the face of the earth."

"I can't help thinking we're missing something," Colin said, frustrated. "He had to have found out about Abbott. But how?"

"Well, it doesn't much matter at the moment. I'm pretty sure Granger cast the spell."

"Really?" Millicent leaned forward, her face a picture of fascination and glee. "Probably not the best circumstances, you know, but..."

Blaise arched a brow and said sternly, "No."

"It's perfect," Draco said, catching onto Millicent's meaning. "I mean, we have an idea why he wanted to use Granger, but this should lead to hard proof, right?"

"We're not using Granger as bait."

"Why not?"

"Blaise," Colin said, elbows on his knees and chin resting on a fist, "I'm rather fond of Hermione myself, but it's not only the easiest way… it's bound to be the safest."

"Bufford," Draco said suddenly, straightening in his chair.

"What about him?" Millicent asked.

The blond looked thoughtful a moment. "Who's to say he hasn't done the same thing to Bufford? It'd be simple... destroy Bufford, then kill off Abbott, deliberately framing himself, then abandoning the body in favor of our very own Miss Know-it-all. Bufford's right in the thick of it, the perfect scapegoat."

"He could just as easily have used Polyjuice," Colin pointed out.

"Same difference... he'd still be Bufford. Have you noticed any odd behavior?"

Colin shook his head, and Millicent scratched her chin, eyes at half mast. "Well," she said, "he's taken to drinking an abnormal amount of coffee."

Draco smirked. "A man after Blaise's heart."

"This isn't the time for joking, Draco," Blaise groused, his head pounding. It was the easiest way. Damn. "Alright, I want 'round the clock surveillance on both of them. Millicent, you and Colin split Bufford..." He drifted off, picking at his cloak, a thoughtful frown marring his face.

"What about Granger?" Draco asked. "Want me in, too?"

"No," he said. He took a deep breath. "No, we need you here... I'm going to have to bring in Potter."

Draco groaned and dropped his head to the table, disturbing the chessboard and causing a few pieces to drop to the ground with a clatter. "Not Potter."

"I thought you wanted to keep him out of this?" Colin asked.

"I did," Blaise nodded, "but he's the only one we can trust not to go running to the Ministry Officials. And you can't deny he's an excellent Auror."

"He won't like it," Millicent predicted. "Us using Granger."

"No, but I have some powers of persuasion," Blaise said, rising from the couch to pace the room.

"Is that what you call it?" Draco asked idly.

Blaise gave him a narrowed look. "I save my intimidation tactics for you," he said dryly, "although that method clearly has its faults."

Millicent looked from Draco to Blaise and back again. "Went to visit Weasley anyway, eh?" she guessed.

"Shut it, Bulstrode," Draco growled.

"Wouldn't it be best," Colin piped in, "to, ah, let Hermione in on this as well? Just so she knows what she's in for?"

Blaise rubbed a palm over his face and yawned, then blinked wearily at the slightly younger man. "It makes sense," he said slowly.

Colin beamed at him and Draco sent him a disgruntled scowl. "She'll fuck it up. One word to Bufford and we're done. All this work... for nothing. Care to risk something this important?"

While Draco had been adamant about keeping her clueless, even going so far as to suggest extensive Memory Charms lest she blow their building case on Smith, the ex-Gryffindor had been petitioning all along that it made more sense just to tell Granger about the threat on her life, insisting that the woman was intelligent enough to keep out of their way.

Although Blaise had outright vetoed altering her memories - no matter how many times Draco brought it up - he had been reluctant to come clean with his ex-classmate as well, plagued with visions of a bossy, stubborn witch making his job even more hellish - her reputation as a loose canon within the Ministry was well known. Of course, since he wasn't much of a team player himself, he couldn't really judge her. He hadn't, however, relished clashing heads with her when it came to her safety.

Now, though, he supposed it was unavoidable. He sighed. "It can't be helped Draco... we can't let her unknowingly risk her life this way." The blond muttered something foul, but Blaise wisely ignored him. "Millicent, can you change and swing by to watch Granger's flat?" At her brisk nod, he turned to Colin and said, "You can head back to Bufford's, and check in with Draco if anything odd happens. That goes for both of you. I'm heading over to Potter's."

"Now?" Draco asked.

Blaise gave him a pained smile. "Have to be at Nighthawk bright and early. No time like the present."

******

Potter opened his door soon after Blaise had gone from simple polite knocking to all out pounding on the thin wood.

"Zabini... what the hell?" He leaned his weight on the doorknob and yawned loudly. "I've gotten just about three hours sleep in the past two days, Zabini, so this had better be good."

"Oh, it's fucking fantastic," Blaise cracked, pushing past the brunette and entering the flat. Settling down in an overstuffed armchair, he asked, "Ever hear of Soul Displacement, Potter?"

"What... like Transference? Body switching?" Potter sprawled himself across his sofa, pillowing his head in his arms. "Necromancy?"

Blaise nodded. "Somewhat of a mixture, I'd say. Although, unlike necromancy, Soul Displacement doesn't involve calling forth a dead soul, and it's categorically not considered a Dark Art. On the surface, it's a voluntary spell."

"Voluntary?" Potter had perked up a bit now, moving languidly into a sitting position. "You mean voluntary as...?"

"The spell has to be self-cast in order for it to work," Blaise explained, tapping his fingers on the chair arms. "As with Transference, the spell involves two souls from live bodies... However, the most fundamental difference between Displacement and Transference is that the victim - or spell caster - is not meant to switch into another shell. Their soul merely passes on as if they were dead. Which, essentially, they were.

"Mainly this was used when someone considered to be a more important member of the Wizarding community was in need of a stronger, healthier body. Think of it as a moderately less painful Dementor's Kiss." He shot Potter a wry look. "Ancient Wizardry was unusually focused on self-sacrifice. It was considered an honor for a Wizard or Witch to give up their life for another."

The other man seemed at a loss for words. "That's just..."

"Incredibly noble, but stupid? Yes, I agree. Seems they were all burgeoning Gryffindors," he muttered dryly. "Anyway, because this is a self-sacrificing spell, it isn't strictly illegal, although there hasn't been a case of it being used in hundreds of years at least. Except now..." Blaise trailed off, watching Potter lean his elbows onto his knees, green eyes questioning.

"Now...?" Potter prompted.

Blaise sighed heavily. "How much do you know about Smith's release, Potter?"

Potter rubbed a hand over his short, dark hair. "We didn't have enough evidence to keep him."

"Maybe not," Blaise agreed, "but didn't you find it odd that he had been kept for nearly six years, then suddenly let go?"

"Politics?" Potter offered.

The ex-Slytherin shook his head. "We could have gone on indefinitely, putting off his release... there are hundreds of loopholes we could have used. After all, he attacked you, Hero of the Wizarding World." His tone was only slightly bitter.

Potter's eyes were clouded with confusion. "Then why...?"

"We've been building a solid case on Smith since before his arrest, Potter, and after hitting brick wall after brick wall, it came down to two choices - release him and hope he digs his own grave, or run the risk of him someday attaining a full pardon. And I never do anything half-arsed, Potter. We sanctioned his release, only he's proved to be a bit wilier then we'd previous thought. We weren't expecting Abbott's death, for instance."

"Smith murdered Hannah?"

Blaise nodded. "Blood relatives, close as siblings... Hannah knew everything about the man, and eventually became terrified enough to approach the Ministry about a year ago. She was the steadying factor in our case, but somehow Smith suspected her involvement." Pausing, Blaise let Potter absorb the information so far, and watched for the exact moment when disbelief crossed his face.

"What's this 'we'?" he asked skeptically, green eyes narrowed.

"My team under David Barnaby," Blaise said matter-of-factly, willing to divulge only what the other man specifically asked for, offering no additional explanation.

"Department of Mysteries Barnaby? You're an Unspeakable?" Potter looked vaguely startled. "But you can't be; I'd have known that."

Blaise shrugged. "I'm not an Unspeakable... I just work for the Department of Mysteries."

"And your... team?"

"It's not important that you know my team, Potter, but we're all above board. You can talk to Barnaby if you want, although I'd prefer it if you didn't. I doubt he'd approve of me bringing you into this."

"Bringing me into what, exactly?"

Ah, here it was. The moment he hadn't been looking forward to. "Psychoanalysis revealed that Smith has more than just a passing obsession with Hermione Granger. With certain recent developments, it's safe to assume that he plans on having her body."

Potter let out a strangled growl. "He's sexually obsessed with her?"

"Have you been listening to a word I've said?" Blaise demanded, frustrated by Potter's denseness. "Soul Displacement?"

"I told you I'm running on little sleep, Zabini," Potter snapped. "So he's..." he waved a hand, "trying to get Hermione to perform some self-sacrifice spell? No worries there, then. She'd never be that stupid."

"I'll agree with half of that statement," Blaise drawled, sinking lower into his chair. "She's not stupid. But apparently, neither is Zacharias Smith. The symptoms are all there, Potter. It's only a matter of time."

Potter appeared flummoxed, his mouth opening and closing dumbly. Finally, he sputtered, "What exactly are you going to do about this, then?"

Blaise's grin was wolfish, if somewhat weary. "Shove Granger down his throat and pray he fucks up." Sure, it wasn't the best way to tell Potter the plan, but it was definitely the most direct.

"Over my dead and mutilated body."

Blaise bit back the instinctive, 'That can be arranged,' and merely flopped his head back against the cushion, closing his eyes. "If we can catch him in the act--"

"But you said the spell wasn't illegal," Potter protested.

He lifted his head and glared at him. "If we can catch him in the act," he repeated firmly, "and prove Granger hadn't knowingly cast the spell, it's tantamount to attempted murder. Premeditated."

"Azkaban for life," Potter whispered, head bowed slightly. "What about Abbott?"

"Doubt you'll be able to prove it. Not if our theory is correct."

"And that would be?" The ex-Gryffindor somehow looked even more tired, his face a waxy gray-green.

"That he's done this spell before, and all the evidence you'll come up with will be a giant red arrow pointing towards Bufford." Blaise shrugged.

Potter bit his lip, brow furrowed in thought. "But... if that's true... then Smith wouldn't be Smith anymore."

"Soul's the same. Aura's the same. Shouldn't be too hard to identify him magically, even if he's running around in a Bufford shaped body."

After a few minutes of silence, in which Potter tried unsuccessfully to glare a hole through his carpet, he said, "You're going to have to tell her."

"That's the plan," Blaise drawled. "I'm not so much of a bastard that I'd lead her into this blind."

A wry grin tugged at the corner of Potter's mouth, before it fell into a tired frown. "All right," he breathed. "What do you need me to do?"

******

After barely two hours of restless sleep, Blaise stumbled into Nighthawk, diving almost immediately into the swill that they left out for the clients, which Alice - obviously not a connoisseur - referred to as coffee. It was most likely two days old, but with the benefit of a Heating Charm it was hot and strong and caffeinated... and at the moment it would do, if not satisfy.

Alice watched him bemusedly from behind her desk. "Rough night?"

Blaise made a guttural noise of assent and passed into his office, sitting down to stare blindly at his computer screen and work out exactly how he should go about approaching Granger.

He couldn't delude himself into thinking that Granger wouldn't go ballistic on him when he confessed his hidden agenda. She'd be furious. And Granger furious was... well, to be honest, it was rather stirring. He allowed himself a wry smile. She didn't have the quickest temper, which meant that when she did let loose, it was invariably loud and passionate.

At least, that was how she'd been at Hogwarts.

He still remembered the day he'd deliberately taunted her at the lake, her blatant fascination of his body warring with her innate prudishness, making it so incredibly easy to push her towards a Weasley-like explosion of anger. Oh, she'd tried her very best to remain stiff and cold, despite the lust buried in her amber eyes, but when he'd pointblank refused to don his clothes, slanting her sidelong looks of amusement, her face had grown steadily redder and her small hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. He'd been sure she would lunge at him - and was perverse enough to admit he wouldn't have minded - but she'd merely sputtered some of the most crude curses he'd ever heard out of a girl's mouth and stalked away, leaving her books and discarded robes behind.

It was strange, how stark that incident stayed in his mind. He'd never had a particular fondness for the bossy Gryffindor, although he couldn't deny she had a certain sort of appeal. The mere fact that she so obviously desired him was an immediate turn-on. And the equally obvious fact that she refused to give in to her baser instincts was a challenge he was hard pressed to ignore.

He was under no circumstances, however, that would allow that to ever happen. Granger was an essential element of the Smith case, and nothing more.

With a sigh, he leaned back against his chair and took a long sip of his coffee, grimacing at the vile, overly bitter taste, and hoping Granger was in a good enough mood to stop for their coffee before heading into the office. He didn't allow himself to think how easily they'd slipped into workplace camaraderie, or how utterly... content he felt in his role as Tynan Cross, P.I.

Once they nailed Smith, he'd be thrown straight into another case... he doubted he'd even see Granger and Alice for a long while. He'd always loved the anonymity his job offered him. He had Draco. He had Millicent and Creevey. He didn't need a stern, overly short witch that questioned and challenged him at every turn. Even if she did have excellent taste in beverages.

He hadn't realized that he'd drifted off until he felt a nudge on his shoulder and an insistent, "Wake up," hissed in his ear. He blinked his eyes open to see a large paper cup of coffee in the middle of his ink blotter, steam rising out of it in wispy curls. Breathing the freshly brewed aroma into his throat, he said without thinking, "I think I love you, Granger," his voice husky with sleep.

"Nice, Zabini," she said stiffly, moving around to face the front of the desk.

She still looked worn out, dark smudges under her eyes, her face almost sallow. Her breathing was slightly erratic, chest hitching, and he wasn't sure if it was from the spell, or a reaction to his words.

Smiling at her, he said, "I was serious."

"Right," she snorted, crossing her arms over her chest, but he could see a hint of amusement in her eyes. Shaking her head, she turned to walk from his office.

"Wait a minute, Granger," Blaise called after her. It was now or never.

"What?"

He waved her back over to him, gesturing for her to take a seat. "We've got to talk."

She gave him a wary frown and absently scratched her throat, moving to sit in a seat across from him. Eyes drawn to her fingers, he spotted faint, thin white lines, what looked like scars, running down the length of her neck and disappearing into the collar of her blue jumper.

"What happened to your neck?" he demanded, gaze narrowed and his lips in a flat line.

Flattening her hand, curling her fingers over the marks, she swallowed hard. "Er… nothing. What did you want to talk about? Is there something wrong?"

"You could say that," he muttered, then said louder, "Look Granger, I..." He trailed off, the words caught in his throat. How the hell was he supposed to tell her this? Tell her he'd been lying to her all these months? That Colin and Millicent had been tailing her for even longer? That if they made the slightest wrong move now, she could die?

And somehow, after spilling all that, he had to convince her that dangling her in front of Smith was the only way to save her life...

"Granger," he started, wrapping his hands around his coffee cup, relishing in the heat burning through the thin Styrofoam. "I'm not who you think I am."