Winter Sunlight

A Prologue

He stood in a dark cavern. Dimly, he heard the shouts and echoes of the magical battle, but his attention was focused on the man before him. They both held their wands lightly, off to the side. And as it always in the dream, blood seeped from the twin wands, drop by drop. Twin wands made by the same craftsman, with the same materials. The words came back to him in a singsong voice. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." Ah, what would Ollivander think, when he saw them now? But Ollivander was dead, killed nearly a year ago, and the ages-old wand shop was burned to the ground. A pity.

"This ends here."

One of them spoke, and the other nodded. It didn't matter who spoke, because here they were connected so close together that it was hard to decide where one ended and the other began. It didn't feel strange, to be so linked, one mouthing words the other thought. Many considered them two polar opposites, the light and the dark, the evil and the good. But others who knew them both whispered uneasily about how similar they were. The same aura of power and authority, brilliance and dedication, cunning and strength. The same ruthlessness in the pursuit of their goals.

Now, the tension almost hummed in the air between them, a mixture of rage and weariness that came from the years of opposing each other. All they wanted was to get the other out of the way, this time for good. Then get on with life that had come to a hing halt for the past five years.

"Life for one," one of them said.

"Death for the other," the other finished. And lifting their wands, they waded into battle.

The magical duel that ensued was the greatest since Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald. There was no room here for tricks or sleighs of hand, but raw magic pushed against raw magic. Curses, hexes, counterhexes and unforgivables echoed off magical defenses and the rough cavern walls. If their powers were about equal, then one had the energy of youth, while the other held the craft and cunning of age. Bursts of magical power burst in a brilliant display of futility against invisible shields of energy, and they laughed at each other and themselves in mockery. What was power anyway, but a whim of fate? But many-faceted fate was a whimsical mistress at best, and one of her faces was called Chance.

He fired off a shining silver lance, and his opponent, sidestepping, slipped on a lose piece of stone. He flailed in his arms in the air, trying to regain his balance, but went flying, landing on the rocky floor with a satisfying snap of a broken ankle.

Seizing his opportunity, he stretched out a hand, and now both wands were in his possession. He marveled briefly at their similarity, how the new wand fit his hand just like the old. Then he looked down upon his enemy, staring up at him in hate, and smiled thinly, knowing that it would be the last thing burned onto the eyes of his foe before he dealt the death so richly deserved. Both wands were pointed at the defiant figure, and he spoke the words that he knew would finally, once and for all, stamp out the life from his elusive foe. For a moment it seemed almost tragic, to rid the world of so much talent.

Even as he enunciated the last word of the spell, a figure dived before his wand, and the stream of lethal energy he'd unleashed slammed into her chest. Dark hot liquid the color of her hair blossomed before his eyes as his magic carved into her body, cutting through flesh and muscle like hot knife through butter, and he could see her eyes go wide with shock, before being flung by the force of magic to the side.

"Nooooooo!!!" someone cried, and the echoes rebounded in the cavern walls, a heartaching call of loss. Startled by the failure of his spell, he was momentarily vulnerable to attack. In the blink of an inattentive eye, he was looking at the black gleam of a metallic object appearing in his foes hand, and his brain made the connection - a muggle pistol! - a second too late.

Something slammed into his body with the force of a charging horse, and he was thrown back onto the floor behind him. He was beyond normal physical pain, but this burned into his body, sending flaming signals of pain to his brain. He writhed on the floor, then a black shadow fell over him, and the cold muzzle of the pistol that was aimed by a limping figure, eyes burning with hate.

"God damn you to hell."

More pain thudded into his body, and he was forced to writhe in pain again and again, before the bolt slammed mercifully into an empty chamber. His foe, looking down on him with feverish eyes, drew forth a shining object, long and double-edged.

The last thing he saw in life was the image of young Potter, lips stretched in a headsman's grin, raising the Sword of Gryffindor high above his head. As the cold metal flashed and arced down to his neck, Voldemort shoved every last scrap of darkness and rage and venom he could feel pulsing along their link in a final act of vengeance.

Winter Sunlight Chapter 2 : Staring into the Abyss

There were flashes as an auror took pictures of the scene, while the coroner pronounced the victim dead. Of course, she was rather obviously dead, but the forms had to be kept. Harry sighed as the white sheets were pulled over the pale face, and the body - or what was left of it - lifted into the air. It'd go straight to the auror headquarters for the inquest. The ninth for this case.

"When's the inquest?" he asked the coroner, who was pocketing his wand up his sleeve. The young coroner rather scrupulously straightened his glasses before answering. His own fingers twitched with a sympathetic itch, but he no longer had glasses to straighten or clean. Having glasses had been too much of a liability, back in the old days. Instead he put a hand to his forehead, feeling the slight heat that indicated a rising fever. The blasted fever had taken a sharp plunge off the horizon the past week, but it was coming back with a vengeance. Ah well. He was used to the discomforts of life.

"Today, sir," the coroner replied, guiding the floating stretcher with an outstretched hand. "The boss wants things done ASAP. Though I'm afraid it may take a while, to find the exact spell that caused the death. Not much left to work on, you see."

Harry nodded, and stepped aside to let the floating stretcher and the coroner pass. Looking down at the still, shrouded figure, he amended his previous thought. Having glasses was still a liability, maybe even a fatal one. That young woman certainly hadn't expected an intruder to murder her in her own house. Not that the lack of glasses would have helped her, from the look of things.

He followed the stretcher to the entranceway, then out of the small flat into the short hallway and staircase - and promptly stepped back inside at the explosive flashes of cameras that blinded him.

"How'd they get here so fast?!" he muttered, blinking and rubbing at his eyes to clear the spots. There was a clamor from the gathered reporters outside as they surged against the magical boundaries, shouting questions, and even more flashes of cameras. Mercifully it was all a buzz, and he ignored them all, hiding behind the door. Of all the lowly creatures that the war didn't manage to wipe out, he privately suspected that reporters were the worst.

There was a low mirthless chuckle before him, and Harry squinted at the familiar figure squeezing past him into the flat.

"The vultures gather where the dead are, chap."

"You're late, Neville."

Neville's eyes were sharp, though overall he looked slightly rumpled, with wrinkles running along his dark muggle longcoat. His friend's preference for a muggle wardrobe probably had much to do with the fact that he spent so much time among them. But then again, he thought, looking down at his own robe, muggle clothes could be quite more comfortable than the conventional wizard wardrobe. He lifted his head back to his friend, to see the tail of a grimace at his remark.

"Save it for some other time, Harry. Sirius already sang the litany. What do we have?"

"Nothing," he replied tersely, following his friend back into the flat.

"Well, you're certainly in a chipper mood today."

They walked back to the scene. Neville sniffed and looked at the grubby walls and the cheap paintings, knocked askew. It was a tiny place, fit for a low-level paper pusher in the ministry. The aurors bustled here and there, taking photographs, casting footprint spells or fingerprinting spells and what not. A few of the female aurors gave them a smile as they passed by, but as always Neville never spared them a glance.

"Not really up to par with the normal class of victims. Unless the victim's some dark arts nut," Neville remarked. Harry wordlessly tossed the report to him, and Neville caught it without looking. He opened the report and started reading it aloud. "Hmmm. Rachel Derien. Aged twenty six. Occupation...did we even have a section for magical insects? I didn't know that. Hobby...butterfly collection?!" Neville turned his head to look at Harry. "Hey Harry, did I miss that particular class of Magical Creatures? Hagrid sure as hell would have had a pair of man-eating, dark monster butterflies to study if there were any to be had."

Wordlessly, he pointed forward, and Neville looked into the scene. The room reeked of the smell of blood and burnt flesh, and there were red flecks and little pieces all over the far walls. Frowning, Neville flipped through the report to the scene analysis, and twisted his lips as if tasting something bitter.

Most of the poor woman's torso was splattered over three walls.

Harry leaned his head back and breathed in the cold air in relief. He could still smell the blood stench of the room, and he sniffed at his robe, wondering whether it'd caught on. Beside him, Neville was looking grim and sullen, his good cheer evaporated after the close examination of the room. They were heading towards the apparation point the aurors had set up around the corner of the building, away from curious eyes.

The sun was threatening to slide off the horizon, though it was only the late afternoon. Not that it was much of a sun - just a pale disk hidden behind the heavy clouds. He could smell the impending snow in the air. It had been an unusually dry autumn, so maybe the sky was saving it all up for winter. He shivered in dread, imagining London in the middle of a full winter blizzard.

"Well, that was victim number nine," Neville remarked. "Nice spell, too. I should learn it sometime. I'd love to practice it on that bloody bastard, wherever he is. Or she." The wind whipped past Neville's ankles, lifting the tail of coat momentarily, then putting it back down again. He pulled a cigarette out from somewhere, and lit it with the tip of his wand. Harry wrinkled his noise as the wind blew the smoke into his face, but said nothing, even as Neville moved slightly to get the smoke out of his face.

"The Lance Argente," Harry said absently, frowning. He'd caught a glimpse of white blond hair in the gathered crowd, among the reporters herded out before the building. He looked more carefully, but couldn't find it again. Maybe it had been his imagination. What would she be doing out here, anyway? But then he'd been turning to gawk at every figure dressed in white or with blond hair for a week now.

"...Harry? Hey Harry?!"

Someone put a hand on his shoulders, and he whipped his head around to see Neville looking at him strangely. "How the hell did you know that?"

He frowned again, wondering what his friend was talking about. Then his own words caught up to him, and he paled at the memory his mind supplied him with. He knew there was something that disturbed him about the body...but not this!

"Seen it before," he spat. "During the war." And it had been used on a woman that time, too. This time he couldn't suppress the anguish at the memory of the silver light leaving the tip of the wand, pointed unerringly, yet slamming into an unintended target. His heart still ached at the memory, nearly half a decade old.

Some things, one never forgot. And never forgave oneself.

* * *

Neville rode the slow elevator as it whirled and clanged up the floors. The murder scene had left a bad taste in his mouth. Nothing to do with death - he had been gorged on the sight during the war, though the sight had been enough to make anyone lose their lunch. Though what did that say of him, so used to the sight, and so callous to its implications? He didn't particularly like that train of thought, and decided to derail from it.

But what really annoyed him was the lack of consistency in this case. What did a minor rank official in the Ministry have in common with wealthy researchers, distinguished scholars and suspected dark wizards? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero. Not a single thing. Except that she had been killed in her home, by the same wizard, by the same spell. He'd bet all the galleons at Gringotts on that. And they were left with neither leads nor clues again. He sighed as the elevator door opened, and stepped out onto the landing.

"Hey, Neville."

"Hi, Cho."

She was lounging on a comfortable looking chair in the hallway, feet raised up against the banister, a bottle of butterbeer in one hand, while she rested her chin on the other. She looked thoroughly bored. He looked at her, then at the open doorway in curiosity.

"I'm airing out the flat," she said by the way of explanation.

"Oh?"

"Keep me company?" she offered. "I've got more butterbeer. He thought the deep blue of her sweater went well with her eyes. And warm, living company sounded good, after the cold touch of the dead. He wordlessly leaned on his back against the banister in acquiesce, while she summoned and popped open a bottle with a wave of her hand.

He took the cold bottle and downed it with a grateful sigh. She took a long look at his face. "You look pretty beat," she noted.

He managed a smile at her. "I am."

"Bad day at the office?"

"You could say something like that." She smiled back at him and didn't press any further, and he was grateful. Too many women liked to pry their noses into matters that really weren't any of their business. There was a beat of comfortable silence, and they waited it out comfortably, sitting and leaning, each buried in their own thoughts. It didn't last.

"So," she said, taking a sip from her bottle, "what is it that you do, anyway?"

He grinned down at her, trying to hide her curiosity with an innocent look, and decided that she was a woman after all. Though that was a thought which seldom wandered from his mind when he was with her. "Well, actually, I'm part of the building's security."

"You're what?" she asked, startled.

"Sorry, couldn't resist. I'm an auror."

"You're an auror?" She seemed impressed, and he felt a faint stirring of pride. And pride, as it always did, reminded him of Gran. Poor Gran. She'd never lived to see him uphold his family name. They'd found her body, across the threshold of the burnt out husk that was the remains of the ancient home where the Longbottoms had lived and died for generations. Defiant to the last, that was Gran.

"So what's it like, being an auror?" she asked, brimming with curiosity. He thought of the broken bodies, the long endless days and nights, and grimaced.

"It's not really all that it's made out to be. Especially since, well, the war." Not since the war had decimated the division, that they were forced to replace them with men and women, energetic, smart, eager - and young and inexperienced.

'You're not so old yourself,' he thought to himself. 'Not nearly old enough for the shoes you're wearing, anyway.' In the entire division, only Sirius had the age and experience fit for his job. Then again, he was very possibly the oldest auror in active service. Or the oldest auror with his faculties fully intact, depending on how one saw things.

"Hmmm." She looked thoughtful, taking another drink. "So what do you do? Do you go around and catch dark wizards and dark creatures?" There was something strange to her tone when she said that, somewhat sarcastic, but Neville put it to his paranoia.

"Well, I usually work with Harry on cases." Strangely, the magic name failed to summon any kind of response he was used to, and he looked at her in slight surprise, to see if she'd caught on to the name. "Harry? You know, Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived?"

She let out an exasperated breath. "Neville, I know who Harry is. I used to date him, remember? But I'm asking about you, and not," and here she narrowed her eyes, grinning impishly at him. "The charmingly delectable young Mr. Potter."

"The charmingly delectable young Mr. Potter?" he repeated in amusement.

"Well, that's what the Witch's Weekly described him, just last week," she explained with an airy wave of her hand, that said while she may read such things, she didn't exactly agree with them.

"Well, well, well. Charmingly delectable, eh? I'm sure hell be just ecstatic hearing that," he said sarcastically, and Cho grinned.

"Back to the point, Neville! The topic is your job, remember?"

"Well, I guess I do go out and catch dark wizards and everything." She frowned, and he decided to try putting a lighter spin on things. "Not too many dark creatures, though. Not enough of them around, ever since the war."

"Because they were all killed off, by both sides." Apparently it didn't quite work the way he intended. He looked down at her, leaning back and staring off to the far wall gloomily. He cocked his head to the side.

"I didn't know you were such a vehement activist for dark creature rights."

"I'm for everyone's rights," she stated, then looked up to him and blushed lightly. "Sorry. It just frustrates me a little, to see innocents stripped of their rights. They didn't ask to be born the way they were, you know. Unlike dark wizards."

He grinned down at her. "It's all right. It's just that you're the second person I've met in my life who's all for rights of the downtrodden."

"Really?" she asked, brimming with curiosity. "Who else do you know, who does something like that?"

"Hermione, with what's-the-name, at fifth year at Hogwarts. That's right, SPEW."

"SPEW?" She made a face, but grinned back. "That wasn't quite what I had in mind, but she had her heart in the right place."

"I know. But I'd be careful about saying things like that in London these days," he warned. "People aren't particularly happy with anyone associated with dark magic at the moment." And people could be very, very stupid.

"I know," she said, grimacing. "The serial murders, right? The Prophet described the last one rather gruesomely."

He nodded, the sight of the newest body, and the gaping hole that used to be her torso, rising to the front of his mind. There was going to be another body on the front page tomorrow, he thought. He shook his gloomy thoughts away, and changed the subject. "So, let me guess. You're a lawyer, right?"

She grinned embarrassedly. "Does it stand out that much?"

"Well, despite what they say about lawyers, someone's got to do it. And Ravenclaws are sharp, after all. It's an ideal job for them, I guess."

She looked slightly offended by that, and he hoped that he hadn't inadvertently stepped on a sore spot. She crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. "What about you? You've had to kill people, for heaven's sake! Are you the sure that's the kind of job you want?"

"In war, we killed or were killed." He sighed and added. "And there really wasn't anyone else."

Apparently his lackluster response wasn't what she had expected, and she looked at him with a...curious sort of look, he decided. Her clear-eyed gaze was discomforting, and he lowered his own to the semi-translucent glass of the bottle. Deep brown, speckled with tiny bubbles of air trapped in molten sand. Like everything else, this bottle wasn't perfect. Condensation was gathering on the outside, and he drew meaningless patterns on them with his finger. The silence this time wasn't as comfortable as the last one.

It was a heavy gust of wind that saved him

"Damn! I've left papers lying on the desk!" She hopped off the chair and ran quickly to her flat. Blowing out a long breath in relief, he gathered up the bottles and prepared to head off to his own flat. Then he realized that her chair was still sitting out in the hallway.

"Hey! Did you want your chair back?" he called out to her. There was a muffled curse or two from the insides of her flat, then her voice floated out to him.

"No, leave them! I'll get them later!" He stepped up to his door and disarmed the wards. The raven-haired head popped out of her doorway as he opened the door. "Oh, and Neville?"

He looked up at her twinkling eyes. "What?"

"My housewarming party's tonight! Food and drinks mandatory, sanity optional!"

Neville leaned against the counter and lifted the last bottle of butterbeer to his lips. He'd had enough drinks more than even he was used to and decided to play it safe. The party was over, after all. And despite the no sanity clause, he had found it to be a charming affair, the people polite, but not afraid to enjoy themselves. He'd recognized very few people here although he though a few might be former Ravenclaws. But he'd hardly cultivated acquaintances during Hogswarts, especially with those a year above in another house.

The flat was a mess though, the couches pushed away from the center of the living room, where people had cleared the furniture and turned the place into an impromptu dance floor. The rest of the available surface was strewed with empty bottles and plastic cutlery the muggles used. There was an overlaying smell of liquor and mingled perfumed that made his head ache, and he was glad that the windows were open, to let in the fresh winter air.

Cho came back into the flat, after seeing off the last of her friends at the elevator, a couple from a wizard law firm. He wondered where she'd met all these colorful characters while spending so many years across the Atlantic.

"Well, that was fun." She said, putting her hands on her hips and staring at the mountain of trash in her flat. "But I think I might have gone a little overboard with the guest list."

He grinned, and drew his wand out of his sleeve. "Have no fear. I'm the second worst shot in the entire division. For a moment she looked a bit apprehensive as he waved his wand about, but relaxed as he made bottle after bottle disappear into empty cases with flicks of his wand.

"Oh! Theres really no need for you to be cleaning up, Neville!"

He shrugged. "I haven't got anything better to do."

"But I appreciate the help. And while you're at it you might as well scrub the floor and take out the garbage," she finished deadpan. She burst out laughing at the look on his face, and pitched in, making the trash disappear, until most of the visual bits and pieces had been cleared off the floor. She crossed her arms and frowned at the mass of rearranged living room furniture.

"Rearrange today, or tomorrow, that is the question."

"Keep doing that, and you'll have a flat just like mine."

She punched him lightly on the arm, and grinned. "How was your party? My party was quite fun, but I wasn't sure whether how the court you were holding around the kitchen counter was."

He had stayed in a quiet area, enjoying the flowing music she, or whoever had brought the music, had good taste and the free liquor. And some people had strayed over to his corner, when they wanted to escape the music and dancing for a while. He'd encountered some very stimulating conversationalists today. Ravenclaws every last one of them, he'd privately decided.

She stepped up to the empty space in the middle of the living room floor, apparently deciding to put the furniture back after all. Then the track changed to a slower sort of music, and cocking her head to the side, she grinned at him.

"Do I get the last dance?" she asked. She held out an outstretched hand, solemn look marred only by the quirk at the edge of her lips. He went up to her and took her offered hand with as polite a bow as he could summon.

"What can I say? What could any man say, against your charms?" She might have blushed a little at his excessive gallantry, but he'd already taken her into his arms. She was very light of her feet, but he could feel the press of her body where she leaned against him. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he could smell faintly the scent of roses and mint.

"Neville?" she said in a muffled voice. He rolled his shoulder slightly, bouncing her head away from him.

"Hey, if you're sleepy you should tuck in."

"No." She raised her head, and looked straight into his eyes, and he was pierced by how clear and bright her eyes looked under the bright lights. "I'm not sleepy at all."

Then she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him, and all thought fled from his head.

* * *

Harry apparated into a clean hallway, lit bright with long magical lights in a glass case, keeping the night - and the darkness - away. Much like the muggle fluorescent lights, he thought. Strange how he hadn't noticed them, the first time he was here. The rest of the hall was equally well kept, and he could feel the aura ofcomfortable luxury surrounding him. Not the ostentatious display of wealth he'd seen at one of the murder sites. But a sparse, understated message of the wealthy who were comfortable with their wealth.

The wooden door stood imposingly before him, like the gates of a castle, and he hesitated with his hand on the doorbell. He wondered what he was doing here. But something had been left inside him on that long night, and his body still remembered her cool kisses and touches while his mind remembered how her tears had streamed down her silvery cheeks. She haunted his waking mind, every glance of a white figure making him whirl around in a strange heartache. Strange, that.

He pressed the bell, firmly. He'd find out, one way or another.

He only waited for a few heartbeats, though it seemed as if his heart waited and bided its time between the beats. His heart was pounding by the time he sensed a presence on the other side of the door, then a voice called out questioningly.

"Who is it?"

"Its me."

There was another eternity of heartbeats, and he wondered whether he should have clarified who he was, or why he was here, but found that he knew the answer to neither question.

Then the door opened, and Narcissa stood there, and he wondered if she had been expecting him, as he had wanted her. Perhaps she had. Because there she was, a vision of white in her pale gown and paler skin. He stood there uncertainly, not sure where to go on from here. She seemed uncertain as well, the hems of the gown moving slightly back and forth in the still air. They stood there, motionlessly for long moments laced with silence. Then she slowly offered an outstretched white hand.

He looked at the slim hand, and the long graceful fingers, palms turned upward. Some people spoke with eloquence, with words that moved mountains to rage and stones to tears. Others, instead, spoke with their bodies, each movement a graceful dance more eloquent than a thousand words. He could read her message, in the slight turn of her wrists and the shoulders, how she stood turned a little to the side, how her proud head was bent but unbowed.

He took her hand, soft and cool, and stepped over her threshold. And firmly closed the door on the world.

* * *

Neville snapped his eyes open. The sunlight was streaming through the open curtains, painting the white sheet a golden hue. He'd slept quite a bit longer than he was used to sleeping at a stretch. The warm figure spooned against him murmured something incomprehensible and huddled closer. She felt warm and comfortable, the way she pressed against him, and he carefully turned his head to see who the night had brought to his - or rather her's, the way things looked - bed.

He saw the top of the short black hair, hiding the rest of her features beneath. He blinked, thinking that it looked awfully familiar, then traced his memory back to the events of the night before. He could remember the party with clarity, then stepping up to dance, then the kiss and....

"Bloody hell"

She had a light grip around his waist, and he pried her hands away with a gentle but firm hand and slipped out of the large double bed. Her bedroom was large probably there was a duplicate of this room boarded up in his own flat but rather sparsely decorated. At another time he might have appreciated her rather Spartan decor, but he was concerned with other things at the moment.

Gathering the trail of clothes that lead all the way to the living room and pulling them on in silent haste, he fled out of her closed door. Shoes in hand, he crossed the cold landing to his own flat, and slipped inside. He leaned against the closed door behind him.

"Bloody, bloody hell," he whispered.

* * *

Harry woke from a dreamless sleep. He could feel something soft lying along the length of his body. He explored the smooth curves of the body with a light brush of his fingertips, marveling at the cool smoothness of her skin. She seemed to quiver with his touch, though he tried to avoid waking her. Her body was almost unnaturally cold, as his was hot.

He reluctantly drew away from her body, knowing that his fascination, left unchecked, would not be satisfied until it had run its course. He could see that it was still dark underneath the curtains, but winter was notoriously short on daylight. And his body told him that it was time to rise and face the world again.

He slipped out of bed. The floor was laid with a thick carpet, and he welcomed the luxurious feel against his feet as he put his clothes on, as silently as possible. It was only as he was creeping out of the room when he caught her steady grey eyes on him. He turned to see her, still stretched out in bed and resting her elegant head on the pillow, gazing at him with unblinking eyes.

"Sorry. I've woken you up."

"I'm a light sleeper."

He searched his mind for something else to say, but couldn't sort out the jumble of words and expressions in his head. She looked at him expressionlessly, but he saw the flicker of emotion in her eyes. Perhaps he'd gotten better at reading her expressions. Or could he guess, that the only thing she could be feeling, must be the only thing he was feeling, as well? He walked silently over to her, and kissed her on the corner of her lips, and he imagined that he felt it curve slightly beneath his own.

"Good bye, Narcissa," he said, heading back out the door again, his steps light.

"Good bye, Harry."

* * *

"Okay, let me start over again. What do we have on the case so far?"

"Nothing on the Death Eater families."

"And nothing at the homes of the dead, except for those missing tomes a couple of weeks ago. Though bits and pieces of cash keeps on disappearing. Sizable bits and pieces, actually."

Neville looked at the other two in the office. The three of them were gathered together in Sirius' office again. And while there were lines of exhaustion written clearly on their faces, along with frustration, he noted that Harry looked much better. He himself looked much better too, he supposed. But the case was getting mired deeper and deeper.

The murders continued unabated, and people were beginning to fear that this was another dark uprising. Some families began to hide and safeguard their assets, while others went out against suspected dark wizards. A man had been lynched by an angry mob in Diagon Alley for buying illegal spell ingredients, while children of people with Death Eater ties were being turned away from schools. Things were falling apart, and at increasing speed.

Sirius sighed, counting the points on his fingers. "Yesterday brings the count to a total of eight incidents, nine deaths. Most of them were killed by magical means, while one was...tossed out of the window, for the lack of a better term. One incident, one murder, except for the one time, when the wife was killed along with the husband. And...."

Someone chose that moment to tap on the open door. The three men turned to see a grim looking auror standing in the doorway.

"Sir, you might want to make that nine incidents and ten deaths."

The place was swarming with aurors. It seemed the entire division was out in full force. Men and women in uniform and casual clothes alike bustled here and there with determined strides. Neville knew it was for the benefit of the press, who were pushing against the magical barriers the aurors had set up while they conducted their investigations. There was very little they could take away from the scene of the murder, both aurors and reporters alike.

He kept to the shadows, where the press couldn't get a clear shot of him. There still were the occasional flashes in his direction - or rather, the direction of the room, but they'd slowed off since the initial flurry, when he'd first arrived with Harry. Harry himself had quickly disappeared into the murder scene, cursing under his breath. The man attracted cameras like bees to the honey, but felt every sting.

Footsteps sounded from the room behind, and Sirius stepped up next to him.

"Harry find anything?" he asked Sirius, who sighed and shook his head. Neville marked how Sirius' hair had grown greyer, and the creases on his face had deepened over the past months. He realized with a start that this was how the minister had looked, back when he had run into Arthur Weasley a few days ago. Old and tired, desperately trying to hold together the pieces of a world that was still jerking around in the aftermaths of the war. Trying to make sure that those throes weren't the death throes of Wizard Britain, and most of Wizard Europe along with it.

"Who leaked this to the press?" Sirius complained under his breath. "She's hardly a celebrity, for them to be all over her like that." Then the body was brought out by the examiners, and there was another flurry of flashing lights as the pressrambled for more shots.

"I don't know. And no," he continued, noticing Sirius look at the reporters. "Harry's probably not going to sell a few interviews and find out that it was an anonymous tip-off by public owl-mail."

"Public owl-mail, huh?" said a third voice coming up behind them, and Harry joined them again. His mood was strangely light, though he'd just appeared from the murder scene. Had been so for the past few days, actually. It wasn't a noticeable change at all, just a strange feeling in the back of his head that told him something had changed. That could explain how the buzzards gathered so fast, Harry continued.

"Why aren't we turning them away, so we can work in peace?" he asked.

"Arthur wanted to show that were doing all we can," remarked Sirius wryly.

He cocked his head to the side in disbelief, and Sirius shrugged. "The public thinks that you two are the best though I have no idea why - and Arthur's willing to use whatever means necessary to prop up public morale, while we get this thing resolved."

Harry sighed, looking at the flashing cameras. "I'd rather hoped that my days as a figurehead had ended with the war," he said caustically. "But it seems that my name is further stained with fame with every new crisis."

"Why you ungrateful lout," Neville mocked, and the three shared a wry smile. He looked at his watch, well past the working hours and edging into the night. He badly needed a drink. And there was a new place that he'd wanted to test out....

"Well, I'm going to call it a day. I'll be seeing you two tomorrow."

* * *

Harry walked down the dark, ill-lit hallway. Outside, he could hear the roar of passing vehicles and bustle of the moving city, but inside there was only a dusty stillness. One of the overhead lights flickered, then went out, but he ignored it. The landlord was stringy enough, and more than likely to charge the cost of a replaced bulb to the first tenant that complained.

There was the faint smell of garbage in the hallway, and the dust and dirt was thick enough to form a carpet of its own. His flat was at the very end, thankfully away from the noisy streets. And he'd paid in cash for every decibel of silence he'd received in exchange. It was also cold, the wind streaking in heedlessly through the thin cracked glass and shifty sills. Or was it the death around him, that chilled him so? It seemed that with every passing day he was seeped deeper in the aura of violent death, once more.

He stiffened, sensing someone hidden by the shadows before his door. His hand strayed to his wand, and he tensed every muscle, preparing to dive, attack, or do any one of the number of things that killing and being nearly killed for half a decade had ingrained in him. Though there was little chance of meeting a dark wizard, in this part of muggle London that not even the reporters knew he lived. It was probably some drunk who'd wandered into the wrong building.

But whoever it was must have sensed his apprehension, because they stepped out of the shadows into the hallway. For a stunned moment he forgot where he was, wand held loose in his grasp. Her white cloak was almost blindingly brilliant in the darkness, though her face was pale enough to imitate a ghost. He wondered in the back of his mind how she'd stayed hidden from the eyes of passersby, then decided it didn't really matter. Nothing did, except that....

"You've come," he whispered, and she nodded. Her long cloak covered her from shoulder to knees, and he could see the little flecks of dust that had settled on the hems of her fine velvet skirt. He felt almost abashed, as if he'd set a queen down among the mud and dirt of the commons to let the grimy fingers of the world sully her, when she belonged high, high up on her pale throne, to be admired and worshipped.

He drew up to her, and she turned to face him, less than a foot away. Her cool grey eyes were almost level with his, and he realized with a start that they were nearly the same height, though he was a shade taller. He was short, she tall, and he'd gotten used to the thought that she towered over him, in more ways than one.

Her eyes looked at him without blinking, and he could feel her light breath on his face. Then without warning, she was leaning forward and they were kissing, hot lips on cool. The taste of her lips made him heady, like heavy wine, and he drank deeply.

They stumbled in each other's arms, and he pressed her body to the closed door even as he somehow wrenched it open, and they fell through. He kicked the door shut behind him, while white arms encircled his neck, and his own hands traveled over her lithe body.

He gathered her up in his arms, letting the heavy cloak fall to the floor. She was light, yet with enough presence that he didn't have to wonder whether she'd disappear in the morning, as with everything else that was made of dreams and desire. He laid her down on his rundown couch, the springs screaming in protest, but neither of them noticed. His shirt was unbuttoned, and her cool hands pressing and caressing, leaving trails of delicious cold. He moaned against her lips, exploring the shape of her lips and running the tip of his hot tongue along the rows of delicate teeth. Hands moved feverishly, until they were free from the constraints of civilization, and they met, flesh on flesh, skin against bare skin, hot against cold, and there was only the two of them in the world.

* * *

The music was satisfyingly loud - loud enough to blot out all conversation and coherent thought along with it. Which was just fine with him. Neville moved drunkenly against the wall of flesh surrounding him, and especially the soft body before his own. She was tall and curvy, and she pressed alluringly against him, her dark eyes flashing.

"Wha...yer...nam!" she shouted. He simply grinned in reply and leaned in closer, and caught her dark lips against his own, and roamed his hands along her smooth back. Her tongue was hot and pressing against his own. He could feel the heat surging in his body, and his hands explored even further, feeling the turns and bends of her body, as she pressed and offered to him.

She pulled away from the kiss, and shouted something at his ear. He couldn't hear a word of it, but didn't need them to understand her meaning, written clearly in the way her full lips were parted and the glossy material of her top revealed her flushed skin. He let her lead him away from the dance floor, and remembered another woman who'd done the same, then erased the thought from his mind.

She was, after all, only the last in the series of women he'd woken up to.

End Chapter 2