Sighing, Harry dribbled sealing wax next to his signature on a document and stamped it with his signet ring. No matter how long he sat behind his desk, the stack of parchment would never shrink - and this was just the important paperwork that actually needed the attention of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The items that crossed his desk were ones of the utmost importance, and the appointments in his diary were with important people, scheduled months in advance.

His eyes caught his watch as he folded the parchment; in about an hour, he had his morning meeting with the Chief Warlock, and then he had lunch with the Minister. It was Tuesday, and that was just what happened on Tuesdays. His schedule was so tightly booked that he was fairly certain that somewhere, perhaps in a safe behind one of the portraits in the Minister's office, the itinerary for the rest of his life was penned in indelible ink in some eldritch tome.

The knock at his door was not what happened on Tuesdays. Nor was his personal assistant popping his head in with a bemused expression. "McKinnon here to see you, sir."

Harry blinked and put down his quill. "All right, send him in." And who was McKinnon again? The name plucked at something close to recognition in his mind...

His question was answered as soon as the stocky greying man passed through the doorway. Harry bit back an unsavoury word. Nothing good ever came of McKinnon coming to see him personally. Even the sporadic memos the head of Unusual Crimes sent were usually bad news.

"So what's new in Unusual Crimes?" Harry asked blithely, gesturing for McKinnon to take a seat in the chair on the other side of his desk.

"Murder," was the terse reply as McKinnon sank into the chair. "Poisoning, we're fairly certain."

"You'd go to Homicide if it was just a murder," Harry said, pushing his glasses up with one finger as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "In fact, Homicide would have the case if it was just a murder. Or you'd give it to one of your team. What makes this one special?"

"It was at Hogwarts."

FACT: There had been a death at Hogwarts.

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled; his breath felt frozen in his lungs. His face, however, he managed to keep perfectly smooth. "When?" he asked shortly.

"The body was discovered this morning in the Gryffindor common room." McKinnon tossed a red folder onto the desk. Harry opened it, his eyes scanning quickly, words jumping out at him as he constructed the case in his mind.

FACT: Deceased was a sixteen-year-old male by the name of Marcus Akers, a Gryffindor student in his sixth year.

"We don't know much yet, then," Harry said finally. There was only the single page in the folder.

"We haven't begun questioning yet. We only just discovered he was poisoned."

"Are we sure he was poisoned by someone else? He didn't take it himself?" Harry absently drew a blank sheet of parchment towards him and began writing notes.

"That's not clear yet. We'll need to speak with his peers and teachers, see if he was a candidate for suicide." McKinnon's voice was perfectly emotionless. Harry looked up, raising both eyebrows.

"You don't think it's suicide."

"No." No explanation, just a bald statement.

Harry nodded distantly. "Don't give this one to Homicide. I want to look into it myself."

The expression on McKinnon's face did not change, except for his eyes; they gleamed, somehow, as though in self-satisfaction. "We thought you might." He stuck out a hand as he stood; Harry stared at it for a moment before reaching out to grasp it. "I haven't worked with you in a long time, Auror Potter. I'm curious to see if you're as sharp as you were as a pup."

"Let's hope so." Harry accompanied McKinnon to the door, through it, and into the open space outside filled with people hunched over countless clusters of desks. Harry just sat in his fortress and scribbled on papers - these were the people who actually ran the place.

His personal assistant approached him with a single sheet of parchment. Harry shook his head, and he should not have been amused at the confusion this wrought on the assistant's face.

"Altair, I need you to clear up the next several weeks for me. I'll be working with Unusual Crimes on a case. I'll reserve Thursdays for paperwork, but otherwise, I am indisposed."

"Very good, sir," Altair said, nodding. Harry left without another word, confident that his absence would be smoothed over with hardly a feather ruffled. His staff was, after all, some of the best.

"How long has it been since you last saw Hogwarts, McKinnon?" Harry asked conversationally as they waited for the lift to bring them to the Atrium.

McKinnon appeared to be doing arithmetic in his head. "Thirty-four years."

Harry nodded. "Twenty-five. It will be interesting to see how the place has changed."

"Hogwarts doesn't change. Just the people."

Although Harry would reserve his judgement until he'd walked the grounds, he couldn't help agreeing - nor could he quell the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was somehow returning home.

 

 

There was new stonework in Hogwarts, weathered from its score of years in the sun and rain and freeze but still virgin compared to the centuries-old stones around it. There were hallways that hadn't been there before, new portraits hanging in the corridors, and Harry thought he could detect far less exclusiveness in the groups of students he passed on the way to the Gryffindor common room. Emerald and silver ties could be seen mingling with gold and ebony, sapphire and bronze no longer clustered in groups of two or three but including burgundy and gold and the aforementioned emerald and silver alike. Perhaps it was his imagination.

The portrait in front of the entrance to the common room was still familiar; Harry smiled slightly when he saw it, and bowed his head for a moment. "Good morning," he said graciously.

The Fat Lady peered at him for a moment before bursting into a grin. "Ah, yes, you were one of mine, weren't you?" She twirled a lock of hair about one finger as she smiled fondly, but a shadow still seemed to haunt her eyes.

"I was," Harry confirmed. "I am Auror Potter. This is Auror McKinnon." He looked around; there were no students in the corridor, and though he'd sent an owl ahead Neville was not here to meet him yet. From the folks of his cloak, he pulled a notepad and quill. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

The Fat Lady's face fell, but she shook her head. "This is about the boy, isn't it?"

"Marcus Akers, yes. What time did he come back to the common room last night?"

"Ten thirteen," the Fat Lady answered promptly.

"Was anyone admitted to the tower after him?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Everyone else was already in bed."

FACT: No one had entered Gryffindor Tower by portrait hole after 22:13.

"Do you remember," McKinnon began, "the last time Akers used the portrait hole to leave?"

"He left the common room at four minutes past seven in the evening," she intoned sombrely.

AGENDA: Discover Akers's whereabouts between 19:04 and 22:13 the previous evening.

"Did he say where he was going?" Harry asked.

The Fat Lady shook her head.

"And do you know when his body was discovered?" McKinnon's eyes were hard and flinty. Harry kept quiet; they already knew this information, but confirmation was never something to be discarded.

"A boy brought the Head of House and the Headmistress back at six twenty-two this morning."

FACT: Time of death between 22:13 on 18 March and 6:22 on 19 March.

McKinnon drew a breath as though to ask another question, but he snapped his mouth shut as hurried footsteps echoed from around the corner. Following close behind the echoes was Neville Longbottom.

It was only years of training that allowed Harry to see the man first and his friend second. Neville was pale, his robes rumpled as though he'd thrown them on without a care for smoothing the wrinkles. There were blue shadows beneath his eyes, as though he had not slept, and stubble darkened his chin. He hadn't had time to shave, then.

"Harry," he said, and it was only then that Harry allowed his professional veneer to drop, if just for a moment. He accepted Neville's friendly one-armed embrace, clapping him on the back.

"I reckon you're a bit shaken," Harry said, squeezing Neville's shoulder before letting go.

Neville shook his head, a haunted look adding a new wrinkle to his forehead. "You have no idea. I... it's straight from my nightmares." His eyebrows furrowed in consternation. "I saw him just last night. He was fine."

"What time?" McKinnon asked brusquely.

Blinking, Neville turned to McKinnon. "Around seven or so. I had asked him to my office."

FACT: Deceased had had contact with Neville Longbottom between 19:00 and 22:13 the previous evening.

"Neville, this is Auror Clint McKinnon. He and I are going to be investigating this case," Harry said as pleasantly as he could.

"You were his Head of House?" McKinnon asked sharply, as though Harry's introduction had interrupted him. Harry shot McKinnon a look that was thoroughly ignored.

"Yes," Neville said, the haunted expression returning. "He was... the Auror earlier said it was murder. Do you think it was?"

"We can't rule out the possibility," Harry began at the same time as McKinnon said, "That's what we're thinking."

Neville looked between the two, his face carefully blank. "I see," he said finally. "I suppose you want to see the..."

"He hasn't been moved?" McKinnon asked sharply.

"Well, no." It sounded very much as though Neville were in shock. "I mean... he was obviously dead, so moving him wouldn't do anything..."

FACT: Deceased had not been moved since time of death.

"What made you contact the Ministry?" McKinnon's tone had not grown any softer.

Neville simply stared for a moment. "What else were we supposed to do?" His eyes widened slightly. "Was there something else were we supposed to do? Did we do it all wrong?"

Harry's first thought was that McKinnon needed an intense training course in reassuring smiles; his partner looked as though he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into some unwary flesh. "Not at all. You did the right thing. May we get into the common room, Professor?"

"Of course." Turning to the Fat Lady, Neville glanced sidelong at McKinnon before saying firmly, "Canis Minor."

The Fat Lady nodded soberly and swung outward, smiling faintly in acknowledgement of Harry's small wave of thanks.

Neville gestured, and for the first time in twenty-five years, Harry ducked through the portrait hole into Gryffindor Tower.

Marcus did not look as though he had had a good night.

Harry had read the report, but words were a poor way to prepare one for facing the corpse of a person who had clearly suffered through his last moments of life. No matter how many times he faced situations like this, it was always fresh, always startling.

He didn't ever want to lose that. He suspected that, if he did, he would no longer be completely human.

If the scene disturbed McKinnon, he did not show it. He merely crouched down next to the body, an intrigued expression on his face. "Has rigor mortis set in yet?" he asked the forensics witch who hovered nearby.

"Yes," the witch said diffidently. "It's hard to tell without doing a complete workup, but I'd put the time of death around four in the morning."

FACT: Time of death between 3:00 and 5:00 on 19 March.

"And what makes you suspect poison?" Harry asked, kneeling down as well. The boy's eyes were open, staring into nothing, his teeth still clenched together in a terrible mockery of a grin. He was on his side on the floor, his back arched at such an angle Harry would have thought his spine would have snapped.

"His eyes," the witch answered promptly, crouching down to point with her quill. "See how the irises are ringed with yellow? He's not old enough for that to be cholesterol build-up, so that's something toxic his liver couldn't handle. It was a careful dose; otherwise, the entire sclera would be jaundiced."

FACT: The poison was administered in a near-exact amount.

"Who found him?" McKinnon asked, addressing Neville.

"A third-year, by the name of Marjorie James," Neville responded, not tearing his eyes from the corpse. He looked positively horrified, even if his eyes didn't seem to be focusing on the body at all.

"Do we know what the poison was?" Harry asked the witch in a low voice.

She shook her head. "That's going to take some lab work. The boys at the Ministry should be able to narrow it down in a day or two."

"Don't bother," Neville said faintly, his eyes still glued to the body. "I know what it is."

"Oh?" McKinnon asked, looking up curiously. "And how do you know that?"

Suddenly seeming very weary, Neville blinked hard and passed a hand over his eyes. "I didn't look at the eyes. I was too... it's Dragonbane."

"Dragonbane?" The forensics witch took hold of the corpse's hand, presumably to study the fingernails. "It could be," she said hesitantly.

FACT: Neville Longbottom is familiar with one of the possible poisons used in the murder.

Biting her lip, the forensics witch nodded slightly, as though to herself. "The nail beds are... but why Dragonbane? That's a Category Two Controlled Substance. How would he have got hold of it?"

Licking his lips, Neville glanced at Harry. "I don't know. But... why would he have it? Wasn't this a murder?"

"We can't rule out suicide," Harry said firmly. "That may be all this is." McKinnon glanced up at him briefly but did not contradict him.

"Suicide." Neville's voice sounded faint. "No, I don't - he was - I didn't know him as well as I should have, but he wasn't..."

"These things are always shocking, Professor," McKinnon said in what Harry assumed was supposed to be a placating tone, but Neville shook his head violently.

"No. I mean, I knew him. He was over at ours for Christmas. He's - or he was - going out with my daughter."

FACT: Marcus Akers had been romantically involved with Magnolia Longbottom.

"Does she know?" Harry asked sharply.

"What? Of course she knows. I sent for her as soon as - I mean, she knew before you lot did." Neville took a deep, shuddering breath. "She's in the hospital wing. She fainted. She - hasn't seen him yet. I - she's only fifteen. I didn't think that..."

"Did you approve of him?"

If he could have, Harry would have smacked McKinnon upside the head. Neville gaped and then swallowed. "I - well, he was..."

"Never mind, Neville," Harry said firmly. Grabbing McKinnon by the shoulder, Harry pulled him back and away from the knot of people around the body. "If you're going to interrogate him, at least have the decency to arrest him first," he growled.

"I know he's your mate, but he's hiding something," McKinnon replied in the same low, gravelly tone.

"He's in shock. Don't risk invalidating his testimony with leading questions." Only then did Harry realise how much his knuckles were hurting and just how hard he was gripping McKinnon's shoulder. He reluctantly let go. "We'll bring him back to Headquarters and let him calm down a bit, and then we'll question him - in a civilised and legal manner."

"You have to know he's a suspect," McKinnon said bluntly. "Don't be unprofessional about this."

Harry closed his eyes and held back a heavy sigh. "Yes. I know. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

SUSPECT: Neville Longbottom. Male, 43, head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts.

The questioning chamber at the Ministry of Magic was meant to make the people in it uneasy, even when they were there by invitation, as Neville was, rather than required by law. The walls were an unremarkable shade of beige, with a single abstract painting breaking the monotony on one wall. There was no visible light source; the light simply was. In the middle of the room, Neville sipped his tea nervously as he glanced around.

Harry set his lips into a thin line as he observed his friend through the wall that, to Neville, was only a wall. "Hardened criminal, right there."

The statement earned him a sidelong glare from McKinnon. "Good to see you retain your impartiality, Potter."

"Impartiality has nothing to do with it," Harry snapped back. "I've been profiling killers for more than half my life. Look at him - really look at him. He's nervous, yes, but he's confused. If he's hiding something, it's buried so deep that he's not even thinking about it."

There was a long silence. "I still don't know if you'll be able to stay neutral," McKinnon said finally.

"Fair enough." Harry nodded in acquiescence. "You go in first, then. I'll stay out here. If he starts clamming up, I'll tag you out and be a comfortable, familiar face."

McKinnon looked surprised for almost an entire second before lapsing back into his stoic mask. "Sounds good." Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode from the observation room.

The door in the questioning chamber opened with a muffled click, and Neville's head snapped towards it, wilting visibly when he saw that it was not Harry entering the room. "Professor Longbottom," McKinnon said in no-nonsense tones.

"Auror McKinnon," Neville responded, straightening.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Of course not." Leaning forward, Neville put his empty cup on the table. Harry crossed his arms and set himself to watching Neville's body language; what he was saying wouldn't be nearly as important as how he was saying it.

"How well did you know Marcus?"

Neville shrugged. "He was one of about seventy-five Gryffindors, and until last year, he was one of about two hundred Herbology students. I try to get to know my students, but it's always a little difficult when you're dealing with that many."

"But he was going out with your youngest daughter."

"He was." Nervously, Neville cleared his throat. "I tried to not let it interfere with my duties."

"You had him over for Christmas, you said? How did that come about?"

"Maggie begged," Neville said simply. "And - it's not as though he's a bad kid. He's not."

He was still using present tense, as though Marcus was still alive. Harry made a mental note of that. Killers didn't often have trouble transitioning from present to past tense when referring to their victims.

"You say he's not a bad kid as though you're not sure about it," McKinnon said slowly. "Why is that?"

Neville hesitated, looking to the side. "He didn't come from the best background," he admitted.

"Because he was Muggle-born?" prompted McKinnon.

"What? No, not at all," Neville said, surprised. "His mother just wasn't around all that much; his dad was the one who raised him and his sister. He was... shall we say... feisty when he first came to Hogwarts."

"Feisty."

"Quick to rise to a fight," Neville clarified. "He tended to fly off the handle when anyone tried to insult his mother. It took a few years and more than a few detentions to calm him down." He shook his head. "He's not a bad kid. That wasn't why I..."

"Why you disapproved of him?" McKinnon asked shrewdly.

Neville let out an explosive breath. "Do you have any daughters?"

"One," McKinnon admitted.

Blinking, Harry filed that information away as astonishing and slightly amusing.

"And what did you do when she started paying attention to boys?" Neville pressed.

"She's thirteen. I haven't had to worry about that yet." If Harry hadn't spent some time with McKinnon before, he probably would not have been able to detect the wry twist of the words.

"You should start worrying right about now." Neville's fingers twitched towards the empty paper cup as though he dearly wished for something to occupy his hands. "Your daughter's Ashley? Ashley McKinnon?" He chuckled at McKinnon's nod. "Yes. Definitely start worrying."

"I think we're getting a little sidetracked," McKinnon said loudly, gesturing behind his back for Harry to come in.

Harry lost the next several sentences as he made his way to the door, entering the questioning chamber in the middle of Neville assuring McKinnon that, as far as he knew, Ashley was perfectly well-behaved, but she tended to turn the heads of boys who had recently discovered the glorious differences between boys and girls and might fancy exploring those differences further. If Harry hadn't been very well-versed in the art of keeping a straight face, he may have burst out laughing at the well-concealed distress behind McKinnon's eyes.

"Harry," Neville said with genuine relief, looking up as the door opened.

"Don't get your hopes up," Harry cautioned with a small grim smile. "I'm not here to be nice. This is a murder investigation."

"Right," Neville said, face falling. He swallowed. "It's easy to forget that."

The chair that Harry slipped into was meant to be utilitarian, not comfortable. As such, his lower back almost immediately began to ache. "I understand you met with Marcus the night he died. What about?"

A cloud drifted over Neville's face. "His marks had been falling," he said slowly. "Steadily. They'd never been good in the first place, but he was coming dangerously close to failing two of his three subjects. I was trying to intervene, get him back on the right track."

"And how long did that meeting last?" McKinnon interjected.

"Two hours? Maybe a bit more?" Again, Neville was toying with the empty cup.

FACT: Marcus had met with Neville Longbottom for approximately two hours the evening of 18 March.

"That's a long time to be talking about marks," Harry said, leaving the invitation open for Neville to keep talking. There was something else there. He could tell. Things would go so much more easily for Neville if he just let it into the open.

It almost seemed as though Neville was not going to take the opportunity; he was silent for several seconds before he drew a breath. "Maggie's marks were suffering too," he said very slowly and deliberately. "And they were both skipping lessons. They'd both just got detentions for - for 'inappropriate use of classroom space'."

Harry was very careful to keep his face composed, while McKinnon may as well have been made of stone. The tips of Neville's ears had turned bright pink - whether from embarrassment or anger, it was difficult to tell. The meaning of the glance that passed between Harry and McKinnon was unmistakeable: Are you going to ask him, or shall I?

"This is an unpleasant question," Harry finally ventured. "But where were you this morning between the hours of two and six?"

It almost looked as though Neville had been punched in the stomach. "Oh God," he said, his eyes widening. "You - you think I did it."

"We're just trying to rule you out -" Harry began, but Neville continued right over him.

"I was in my quarters. I was asleep. I - he left at about ten, and I stayed in my office to cool down for a while, and then I went to my greenhouse - to calm down - and then I went to my quarters and went to sleep. I didn't do it. I - he's not a bad kid! I just - I was angry at him, and the discussion got a bit heated, but I didn't - I didn't kill him -"

"No one is saying you did," Harry said loudly, in an attempt to derail Neville's babbling. Neville continued stammering, his words making little sense, until Harry slapped a hand down on the table with an echoing THUD. "Neville. We are trying to rule you out. Work with us, all right?"

Wordlessly, Neville nodded, his face pale.

"Do you think you could construct a timeline for us?" Harry asked, looking very intently at Neville's face. "When he entered your office, when he left your office, when you left your office, and when you went to bed? As well as anything in between? Be as exact as you can. The more precise you are, the more solid your alibi."

Neville mouthed the word "alibi" with a nauseated look, glancing at McKinnon's unwavering steely gaze. "Yes," he said, sounding dazed. "All right. Yes. We had an appointment for seven. He showed up at about a quarter past. I don't have a clock in my office - I usually just wear a watch..." He trailed off and coughed. "We talked until about... it was a quarter to ten, I think, because it wasn't late enough for me to write a pass for him to be out past curfew, but I told him to hurry to be in the common room by ten." His eyes had the far-away look of someone trying to remember details. "I poured myself a drink in my office, and when I finished it, I went to my quarters - it's my week to stay overnights - and it was ten-thirty by the time I went to sleep. I remember because my alarm clock said so."

"You're sure that's accurate?" McKinnon asked casually.

At Neville's earnest nod, Harry's stomach fell.

Neville had left out the trip to the greenhouse he'd mentioned earlier.

FACT: Neville Longbottom unable to consistently reconstruct his activities between 21:45 and 22:30 on 18 March.

 

 

"Don't even say it," Harry said shortly as McKinnon walked into the break room, where Harry was contemplating a cup of very black coffee.

"Sorry." McKinnon slid into a chair across from Harry. "Is this your first time it's got personal?"

"No." After taking a sip, Harry shuddered at the bitterness. "But it's the first time I didn't expect it."

The coffeepot behind them gurgled, and McKinnon cleared his throat.

"It doesn't mean he did it."

"Don't say it," Harry insisted. "Sympathy won't make it any easier to be impartial." He traced the pattern of the years-old coffee ring stains on the surface of the table. "It's so out of character, though," he said suddenly, making his hand into a fist. "Everything I know about him makes the notion absolutely ridiculous." Obviously, McKinnon knew better than to mouth platitudes at him, which simultaneously irritated Harry and made him feel better. He puffed out a sigh and looked up at McKinnon. "Are there any results back from the lab on what the poison was?"

"Not yet," McKinnon replied blandly. "But the boys who picked up the body agreed with Longbottom. It looks like Dragonbane."

"Of course it does," Harry said under his breath. He took another long draw from the paper cup. "He's back at Hogwarts by now, I assume?"

McKinnon nodded. "We don't have enough to keep him here. He knows not to leave Britain, though."

"Well, there is that," muttered Harry to himself. More loudly, "I want a list of every license Nev - Longbottom has. I want to know what he's permitted to grow and what he's permitted to research, and I want to know where he does it."

If the bequest or Harry's switch to Neville's surname surprised McKinnon, he didn't show it. "That last might be a tall order."

Harry shook his head. "For Category Three and above, he has to say where he's planning to cultivate in order to obtain the license. Not that it's enforced worth a damn, but I want to know what he's growing in the greenhouse that he forgot he told us about."

McKinnon rose from the table, hesitating. "You're as good an Auror as you ever were, Potter."

The bitterness of the coffee was not nearly enough to match Harry's disposition. "Thanks."

 

 

FROM THE DESK OF: Penelope Wainwright, Office of Herbological Licensing and Permits
TO: Harry Potter, Department of Magical Law Enforcement

CONFIDENTIAL

Auror Potter,

Following is the list I have compiled of Professor Neville Longbottom's licenses and permits on file with this office. All are current and valid as of 19 March 2023.

LICENSE TO CULTIVATE (DISPENSION PROHIBITED):

Baneberry (CAT 5)
Ashweather (CAT 5)
Spotted Ivy (CAT 5)
Amazonian Ground Creeper (CAT 4)

Demon's Bulb (CAT 3)
Star Violet (CAT 3)
Catspaw (CAT 3)
Sleeping Lilac (CAT 3)

Dragonbane (CAT 2)

Professor Longbottom does not currently hold any licenses to cultivate any restricted items above Category 2.

The registered address on file for cultivation of Category 3 specimens and above is listed simply as 'Private Greenhouse, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland.' Because Professor Longbottom holds no permits for Category 1 specimens, an inspection of his facilities has never been required per section 702.1 of the Restricted Cultivation and Dispension Surveillance Act of 1903.

Should you require any additional assistance...

FACT: Neville Longbottom had easy access to a large selection of poisonous herbs.

 

 

"He didn't do it," Maggie blurted as soon as Harry stepped into the room. "He didn't like Marcus, but he wouldn't have -"

"That's not why I asked you here," Harry said smoothly as he took the chair across from her and her mother. He placed the cup of water he was holding on the table and pushed it forward. "Take a drink and a few deep breaths."

It was not surprising that Maggie was still upset; her boyfriend had been discovered dead and her father was unofficially a murder suspect, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. She reached out and took the cup, gulping down air in a way that probably wasn't as calming as Harry had intended. Harry leaned back and studied Neville's youngest daughter as she sipped from the paper cup and very gradually descended from her near-hysteria.

Fifteen and a strong representative of the typical Longbottom physical architecture, Magnolia Longbottom was not willowy or fragile. She'd inherited her father's tendency towards stoutness as well as her mother's short stature, which she had admirably made work to her advantage: if Harry remembered correctly, she was a Beater for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and what could be mistaken for bulk under her school robes very likely disguised some impressive strength and muscle. Coupled with an earnest, freckle-smattered face and short hair more light brown than dark blonde, she definitely was not society's idea of superficial beauty, but something far more practical and down-to-earth.

It was those qualities, along with her stubbornness and steadfastness, that helped her to calm down by the time her cup was empty. She placed it carefully back on the table and drew one more shaky breath, wiping the back of her hand across a tear-stained cheek. "Sorry," she mumbled.

Harry shook his head reassuringly. "Don't be sorry. I know this is difficult. Let me know when you're ready."

Maggie puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled forcefully. "I'm ready."

Glancing at Hannah, who nodded very slightly, Harry leaned forward. "We know almost nothing about Marcus. I was hoping you could shed some light on him for us."

Swallowing hard, Maggie echoed her mother's nod. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, I understand he had a knack for borrowing trouble," Harry began encouragingly, but he was startled to see Maggie's face darken.

"Everyone thought that. Even Dad. He hasn't been in a fight since he was thirteen. He hadn't even had detention for two years until yesterday." Her cheeks coloured slightly, and Harry was positive that she was recalling the reason for that detention. She did not elaborate, and Harry didn't ask her to - not in front of her mother. "He made mistakes. How is it fair that he's only remembered for those?"

Harry bowed his head momentarily in acquiescence. "You're right. I apologise. I only ask because those who invite trouble tend to have enemies - and I need to know who may have wanted to hurt him."

To her credit, she did not break down at his blunt words; though she looked stricken and paled considerably, she only closed her eyes for the barest of moments to compose herself. "I can't think of anyone. He was a bit of a loner, but - I mean, no one was really mean to him."

"No old grudges from his more troublesome 'mistakes'?" Harry pressed.

Maggie shook her head. "Not that he ever told me. And even if there were..." Tears welled up in her eyes and she wiped them away almost angrily. "Who would want to kill him over it? What does that get them?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Harry said, inwardly wincing at how trite it was. Hannah reached over and rubbed Maggie's shoulder while Harry turned a page in the pad on the table in front of him, stalling while Maggie pulled herself back together. "He left your father's office at about a quarter to ten, but he didn't use the Gryffindor portrait hole for another half an hour. Do you have any idea why it took him thirty minutes to go up one set of stairs?"

There was no mistaking her blush. "We - we usually..." She fell silent and studied the surface of the table very carefully.

After one long moment stretched into several, Hannah cleared her throat. "Do you want me to leave?" she asked her daughter very softly. Maggie shook her head forcefully.

Harry shared a glance with Hannah and coughed. "Everything you tell me is in the strictest confidence. I won't tell your father."

Maggie drew a breath and nodded, not tearing her eyes from the table. "We usually would sneak out and find a classroom and have sex," she said in one rushed sentence, as though saying it quickly would be easier.

FACT: Marcus Akers and Magnolia Longbottom were involved in a sexual relationship.

Maggie did not look up at her mother; Harry glanced at her, but Hannah did not look surprised. It was likely she had already been told about the detention and what it had been for. "I was waiting for him to get done meeting with Dad," Maggie continued haltingly. "I'd almost given up because he'd been so long, but then he came and - he was really upset."

"Upset about what?" prompted Harry.

"He and Dad had had a row. He - he usually doesn't get that upset. We talked for a bit, and I calmed him down some, and we went back to our common rooms." Her voice had grown thick. "And that was the last time I saw him."

FACT: Neville Longbottom and Marcus Akers had fought shortly before Akers's death.

Harry nodded slowly. "Maggie, the last thing I want to do is upset you more, but it's something we really need to know, so I have to ask -"

"No, I don't think he killed himself," Maggie said dully. She looked up, and her eyes were shining with tears. "We were talking about my leaving school after my O.W.L.s. How we'd - we were going to run away and just live somewhere until I turned seventeen and we could get married. And then Dad wouldn't be able to say anything." She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "He wouldn't have said any of that if he was planning to kill himself. He'd have said something - he'd have acted different, but nothing was different..."

"Oh, Maggie," Hannah breathed, reaching around to hold her daughter close, tears standing in her own eyes. She looked over the crown of Maggie's head at Harry. "Can we be done for now? Please?"

Harry nodded. "One more, and then I'll let you both go home. Where is Neville's private greenhouse at Hogwarts? I don't recall there being room for one in the courtyards."

"It's in the Room of Requirement," Hannah answered somewhat shortly. "He didn't want students to be able to break in, and no one knows that room like he does."

"Thank you," Harry said simply. He rose and bit his lip awkwardly. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said as gently as he could manage, ignoring how patronisingly inadequate it sounded. He'd spent most of his life doing this, and he still hadn't worked out the right thing to say at times like these. That he knew Maggie and Hannah made it even worse.

His office was not empty when he arrived ten minutes later, not that he'd expected it to be. McKinnon rose from the chair where he'd been waiting, holding up a square of parchment stamped with the wax seal of the Chief Warlock.

"Search warrant?" Harry asked shortly.

"Ink's not even dry," McKinnon confirmed. "The question is whether Longbottom will cooperate and let us into that damn room."

Kneading his temples, Harry sank into his chair. "Well, if he doesn't, it's another mark against him." A glance at the clock told him it was hardly past three; the day felt as though it had lasted three years so far. "Take your best men. And - be respectful. If I know him at all, he's got rare things in there, not just dangerous, and they'll be his pride and joy."

"He doesn't get preferential treatment just because he's your mate," McKinnon began bluntly, but he stopped when Harry held up a hand.

"No. But he doesn't get treated more harshly just to prove that we're not giving him preferential treatment, either." Odd, how Harry had become so accustomed to adopting that note of authority, even with Aurors fifteen years his senior. More odd still that McKinnon actually looked abashed for a moment before nodding.

There was a knock at the door and McKinnon turned just as it opened to admit Altair. "Sir, Aubrey is here to see you. From Forensics," the personal assistant clarified when Harry raised a questioning eyebrow, and then he ducked out of the doorway when Harry waved in acquiescence.

"Do you have toxicology results yet?" Harry asked briskly as Aubrey slipped through the doorway into his office.

"Not yet, but Hansen is staying late to push them through," Aubrey replied in his clipped accent. "I doubt they'll be necessary, though - we're rather certain we've found how Akers was poisoned." With a small flourish, he held up a cellophane-wrapped sweet and tossed it to Harry. If Aubrey noticed how Harry froze once he snatched the sweet from the air and stared at it in his palm, he did not indicate it. "It's some ghastly liquorice sweet with a soft centre," Aubrey continued, pulling another from his pocket. "We found these in Akers's robe pocket, as well as an empty wrapper. We tested a few on a hunch, and in some of them, those soft centres were laced with -"

"Dragonbane," Harry supplied in a resigned tone. He did not look up from the sweet in his palm as he raised his other hand to cover his face. "Shit."

Several moments slipped by before McKinnon cleared his throat. "Potter?"

"Confirm it for me when you're there later," Harry said finally, holding up the sweet, "but if memory serves, Longbottom keeps a bowl of these on his desk."

 

 

TOXICOLOGY REPORT

SUBJECT: MARCUS RYAN AKERS
SEX: MALE
AGE: 16
TIME OF DEATH: 3am-5am 19 MARCH 2023

Subject is a 16-year-old male of average vitality. No trauma (contusions, etc) noted on body. Sclera shows evidence of localised jaundice 1mm surrounding iris. Nail beds blue, consistent with reports from on-scene forensics. Capillary beds observed to be hypersensitive to post-mortem bruising. Subdermal blood pooling and coagulation consistent with field estimate time of death between 3:00 and 5:00 19 March 2023.

Blood, intestinal lining, and lymph nodes tested for Dragonbane, Baneberry, Scarlet Demise and Lethevine.

Blood, intestinal lining, and lymph nodes POSITIVE for Dragonbane.

Blood, intestinal lining, and lymph nodes NEGATIVE for Scarlet Demise and Lethevine.

Intestinal lining NEGATIVE for Baneberry.

Blood and lymph nodes INCONCLUSIVE for Baneberry.

Enc: objective lab results with confidence levels and margin for error.

SIGNED 16:29 LEX ANDREWS

19 MARCH 2023

FACT: Marcus Akers had died of Dragonbane poisoning.

 

 

The paperweight that Harry passed from hand to hand was not nearly fascinating enough to merit the attention he was giving it. "Say that again."

McKinnon appeared eager to oblige. "The Dragonbane showed signs of being recently harvested. Everything else looked as though it hadn't been touched in ages."

"Recently." Harry was having trouble making his thoughts match up in his mind. "How recently?"

"Within the last day - or so Jacobs said."

FACT: The poison used had been harvested between the time Neville Longbottom learnt of the extent of Akers's involvement with his daughter and Akers's poisoning.

The long, heavy sigh Harry heaved did not do anything to ease the weight pressing at his ribs. "So Longbottom hears about the detention. He's likely suspected that Akers has been sleeping with his daughter for some time, but he could always pretend to be oblivious before, and now, he's got proof. He's angry. He's not thinking straight. He goes to his greenhouse to calm down, sees the Dragonbane, knows that its taste would be masked by the taste of liquorice. He prepares several sweets - he'd know if Akers liked them, or he'd use different ones - and summons the kid to his office. Pushes a handful on him to ease the tension. The conversation starts off innocuous and becomes more accusatory, until Akers leaves with the poison in his pocket."

"Nearly untraceable to the source, or so he'd think," McKinnon interjected. Harry nodded wordlessly. "Means, motive, and opportunity." Harry nodded again and didn't look up, even when McKinnon coughed. "Potter, no one else we've questioned has had any of those."

"I know. And I hate it." Harry placed the paperweight very precisely in the middle of his desk; the crystal refracted the rays of the setting sun from his magic window into a full spectrum over the sheets of parchment scattered across the desk's surface. "After I arrest him, I'm taking myself off the case."

There was a moment of silence. "Prudent, I think," McKinnon said. There was something in his voice that made Harry lift his eyes from the paperweight; McKinnon almost looked to be vacillating over what he was about to say. "You don't even have to make the arrest, you know. I can go in with some of my boys and do it."

"No," Harry said decisively, standing up and walking to the cupboard in the corner. "If he's going to Azkaban for murder, he deserves to know who gave that order."

 

 

The castle was dark, the corridors quiet. The last classes of the day had been out for some time, and the students were likely in their common rooms, the library, or eating a late supper in the Great Hall. Harry had asked Professor Sprout, and the Headmistress had seemed to know what they were there for. Her eyes had been wide as she revealed, in a disbelieving, faltering voice much unlike her usual strong tones, that Professor Longbottom was in his office.

Harry tugged at his collar. He so rarely wore his actual uniform, preferring plainclothes now that his authority had been firmly established in his department. But he somehow felt he owed this to Neville. Harry owed him anything he could manage to make it easier to separate Auror Potter from the Harry he had known in school, the Harry he had lingered over ale with during their young adulthood, the Harry who had stood for Neville as a groomsman in his wedding. To understand that Auror Potter was doing his job.

Taking a deep breath, Harry drew his wand from its holster, squaring his shoulders as he faced the office door. "Let's go."

McKinnon knocked. There was a moment of startled silence and then an answering "Come in" came from behind the door, along with the noise of a chair scraping across the floor. Neville had probably stood up.

For the barest of moments, Harry closed his eyes, before turning the handle and entering the office.

Neville was standing, confusion plain on his round face. The stab of recognition twisted in Harry's gut, and though his lungs were full, he felt as though he hadn't drawn a breath for week. "Neville Augustus Longbottom," he said, and his voice did not shake, "by the authority granted to me by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Ministry of Magic, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Marcus Akers."

The blood drained from Neville's face as Harry levelled his wand at him; McKinnon's nonverbal Incarcerus winding a rope about his wrists went almost entirely unnoticed.

Harry swallowed hard and continued. "You have the right to remain silent under Auror questioning. You have the right to legal counsel; if you do not have a counsellor, the Ministry is prepared to appoint one on your behalf..."

It seemed impossible that twelve hours ago, Harry had left this house for what he had been sure would be a dull and uneventful day at work. He felt oddly separated from everything that should have felt familiar, from the shoe rack under the window to the porcelain drawer pulls on the hall table. How could everything still look so normal?

He heard footsteps and turned just in time to fold his arms around Ginny as she stepped in for an embrace that he surmised was more for him than for her.

"I got your note - and Professor Sprout sent a letter to all the parents - should we take the kids out of school? I know the place is crawling with Aurors and the murderer's probably long gone by now, but -"

"Arrested, actually," Harry said heavily as he extracted himself from his wife's arms. "I brought him in myself. Not two hours ago."

"Oh, thank Merlin," Ginny said, her shoulders falling as tension leaked from them. "So it was murder, then? The letter from the school was rather vague..."

"It was murder." Confirming it made Harry's heart grow heavy. "I can't tell you much more than that. The case is still open."

"Right." His wife's brow wrinkled. "Who would even do something like that? And Marcus - wasn't he involved with Neville's daughter? I remember the name from Christmas at theirs."

Harry bobbed a single short nod, dread unfurling in his chest like ink in water. He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want her to have to deal with this burden. But she'd discover it sooner or later. One of their children would write with the news, and if nothing else, the Daily Prophet would announce it on the front page in the morning. "It was Longbottom," he forced himself to say, the words heavy on his tongue.

Ginny blinked, and then her eyes went wide. "I'm sorry?" she asked sharply as though she had misheard.

Closing his eyes, Harry summoned the words forth, feeling strangely detached from them. "I arrested Longbottom a few hours ago for murder. The evidence - it couldn't have been anyone else. And I'm sure they'll just find more as the investigation continues."

"No." Ginny had gone pale behind her freckles, her face flat. "That can't be - you've made some sort of mistake. He wouldn't. He - Harry, we know him."

Still feeling as though someone else was saying the words, Harry shook his head. "Longbottom was the only one with -"

"Stop calling him that," Ginny interrupted forcefully, her eyes flashing. "His name is Neville. We've known him for thirty years. We've eaten at his table. And he'd never -"

"Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that from the friends and families of people I've arrested?" Harry demanded, his tenuous grasp on self-control slipping. "It's always a surprise. It's always devastating. Nobody wants to believe that about their friend or their father or their husband, but it happens. It happens all the time." He suddenly felt weary, right down to his marrow. "I've just - the last time I was on this side of it, it wasn't nearly this difficult."

"This is different," Ginny insisted, taking him by the arm and moving him into the sitting room. "We do know him. Even during the war, he hated hurting people. He needed therapy for years afterwards." Her eyes widened and then narrowed as though something had just occurred to her. "You're not actually on the case, are you?"

"No. I took myself off." It was only now that he was in his wife's arms, being lowered onto his sofa in his home, that he felt himself begin to unravel. "I thought I knew him, Ginny. I know he's protective of his daughters, but..."

"I won't believe it," Ginny said firmly. "Obviously, you just made a mistake. He'll get off, and you can go back to finding the real killer."

Shaking his head, Harry wrenched off his glasses and lowered his face into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. "You didn't see the evidence against him."

The conversation skipped a beat and Ginny huffed a frustrated sigh. "Of course you can't tell me what it is, but - is it really that bad?"

"It gave me no choice but to arrest someone I called a friend," Harry responded gravely. "It's not just a little bit bad. It's about as bad as it could get without him doing it in front of a dozen witnesses." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes hard enough to see sparks. "The look on Hannah's face when she came to Headquarters. And Maggie's. Allison's probably already on her way home from Versailles." His hands were shaking now, and his stomach roiled. "I've seen what something like this does to families. I..."

"Stop that," Ginny said, pulling him close. "It's not your fault. It's - it's the fault of whoever did this. And you're going to find who it is."

His explosive sigh left him feeling weak. "I already did. As much as I don't want to believe it - I already did."

"It can't be," Ginny began, but Harry waved a tired hand.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's going to be hard enough to deal with at work."

"But you said it's no longer your case," Ginny said, perplexed.

"I'm still head of the department. I'm not investigating anymore, but I'll still get to see every bit of evidence that comes across the table, and I'll probably be called in to his trial as his arresting officer." He yanked his hands away from his face almost forcefully, shoving his glasses back onto his nose. "I'm going to bed."

"You haven't eaten -"

"I'm not hungry." He was, but despite the fact that Ginny had inherited her mother's talent for cooking, he knew that anything he tried to eat right now would taste like ash and make him want to choke. He kissed his wife on the forehead, trying to make it as much an apology as a bid goodnight, and turned wearily. Ginny squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before he slipped out of her reach and began to trudge up the stairs.

Sleep was a long time coming, the events of the day swirling about in his head as though trying to find a place to land. Despite the logical progression of information, disbelief kept preventing him from dissecting the facts and laying them out for proper inspection.

FACT: Neville Longbottom not only had access to the poison that killed Marcus Akers, it had been in his private greenhouse and shown evidence of having been harvested hours before the murder.

FACT: The poison had been hidden within the liquorice sweets Longbottom kept on his desk, which had then been discovered in the pockets of Akers.

FACT: Akers and Longbottom had had a heated discussion that had upset Akers a great deal just before his death.

THEORY: Longbottom and Akers had been discussing Akers's involvement with Magnolia Longbottom, during which Longbottom lost his temper and -

Harry's eyes flew open, his breath catching in his throat.

They'd been treating it as a crime of passion, with rage being the motive. Neville hadn't been capable of sound judgement. And yet, the preparation of poisoned sweets hours ahead of time? That was premeditation. Premeditated crimes of passion just didn't exist - it was either an instantaneous decision or it wasn't.

It wasn't a large hole in his logic, but it was still a hole. The possibility that he'd made a wrongful arrest rarely comforted Harry so.

 

 

Harry's eyes felt gritty with lack of sleep, and the Portkey to Azkaban was not the most pleasant thing one could do early in the morning. He blinked hard as he tried to find his centre of balance upon landing, both to ward off the sleep in his eyes and to adjust to the dim light of the prison's antechamber.

"Auror Potter," the gaoler behind the desk said, straightening. "I didn't know you'd be coming today. Questioning?"

"No," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the strain the Portkey had put on it with its spinning. "Visitation. With Neville Longbottom."

The gaoler's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That's - unusual," he said finally. "I - do I sign you in and everything?"

"I'm a civilian right now," Harry confirmed. "Treat me as such."

"Yes, sir. Er - yes. Very good." Still looking bewildered, the gaoler handed Harry a quill and inkpot to sign the ledger of visitors. Harry's stomach did a sour twist when he saw Longbottom, Hannah and Longbottom, Magnolia on the sheet.

"Are his wife and daughter still here?" he asked as he signed the ledger.

"No." The gaoler shook his head. "Their thirty minutes was up about an hour ago."

Harry froze. "He only gets thirty minutes?"

Shrugging, the gaoler took back the quill. "Standard procedure for homicide."

Thirty minutes a day. Harry pressed his lips together. "You may be getting a memo from me about that. When is his bail hearing?"

"I don't know, sir. I was under the impression he wasn't to have one."

"I see." Harry mentally added that to the list of things he was going to have to talk with McKinnon about. "I might need more than half an hour. Yes?"

The gaoler looked conflicted. "Of course. I'll have him brought to Chamber Nine."

Chamber Nine at least had a window, albeit one barred so heavily it seemed that even the sunlight had a hard time getting through. The chairs were cushioned, as well: thin, inadequate things, but a damn sight better than the metal stools in the other chambers. The table was even wood, and it wasn't bolted to the floor. This was the visitation chamber where low-risk criminals were brought. Harry very much doubted that Neville's previous visits with his wife and daughter had happened here, and his suspicions were confirmed when another gaoler let Neville in and his eyes widened at the relative luxury of the space.

Harry cleared his throat. "He's not to be bound," he said sternly.

The gaoler looked stricken. "Sir, I - I don't have the authority to unbind him. And he's to be bound for all visits. Boss said so."

Biting back a cutting response, Harry nodded curtly. It wouldn't do any good to upset the chain of command. He'd already strained procedure enough as it was. "And I suppose private visits are right out?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine." He held back a sigh of frustration. "Neville, have a seat."

"Oh, it's back to Neville now, is it?" Neville asked in a bitter tone that Harry was not used to hearing from him. He flopped awkwardly into the seat opposite Harry, bringing his bound wrists to rest on the table between them. "I'm so glad we're pretending to be friendly."

"I'm not pretending," Harry said flatly.

"You kind of arrested me for murder. That doesn't strike me as a particularly friendly gesture."

"I -" Harry began, but Neville shook his head before lowering his chin to his chest in a defeated posture.

"No. I know. You were doing your job. Just like you're doing it right now."

Harry coughed. "Actually, I'm not." The look of disbelief on Neville's face as he snapped his head up made something inside Harry's chest twitch. "I'm not here in an official capacity at all. I'm not even carrying my badge."

Neville's mouth worked for a few moments as though he were trying to work out what to say. "Why?" he asked at last.

"Because I'm visiting my friend who has had a very bad couple of days." It took everything Harry had to not bite his lip at the wash of gratitude that softened every line on Neville's face.

"Harry, I - I don't know why I'm here," Neville said in a lost voice as he craned his neck around, looking at his surroundings. "I don't understand any of it. I didn't do anything."

The gaoler at the door was pretending very hard to not listen to the conversation. Harry licked his lips. He might regret saying this, but he wasn't on the case anymore, was he? It didn't matter. "I know."

Neville's blinked "What?"

"I know you didn't. At least - I think I know you didn't." Shaking his head, Harry continued, "I don't know what to think either way. My gut is telling me one thing, but years of doing this job is telling me the exact opposite."

"I didn't do it," Neville said plaintively. "They won't even tell me how I'm supposed to have done it."

"Well, no, they wouldn't. Not until you have a counsellor present. It's to protect you." A thought occurred to Harry. "Do you have a counsellor?"

Neville shook his head. "I mean, Hannah knows one that does all the legal stuff for the Leaky, but this is more than a bit out of his league."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "The Ministry will appoint one if you don't have one, but try to get Hannah to contact Chang first. She's the best defence counsellor I know."

"Cho Chang?" Neville sounded surprised. "I didn't know she was in law."

"She's a partner in her own firm," Harry confirmed. "She's overturned more of my arrests than I care to count." He smiled grimly. "Usually, I wince when I see her name on the docket."

"Why are you doing this?" Brows furrowed as he studied his bound hands in front of him on the table, Neville sounded utterly confounded. "You arrested me. Now you're trying to get me off?"

"Not exactly." Harry glanced at the gaoler. "I'm just trying to give you a fighting chance to prove your innocence."

Neville swallowed. "It's that bad?"

Reluctantly, Harry puffed out a sigh. "Yeah. It's bad."

"So - you're going to be finding evidence against me, and hoping I'm innocent at the same time?" The incredulity of the question made Harry want to smile, inappropriate as that would be.

"I took myself off your case."

"Because you think I'm innocent?" Neville sounded hopeful.

Harry shook his head. "No. Because despite all I've seen, I still want to believe you're innocent."

Blinking, Neville thought about that for a moment. "I can't work out whether that's good or bad."

The laugh that escaped was a little rueful. "Yeah. Neither can I." Harry cleared his throat to break the momentary silence that followed. "I'm not going to be able to visit you very often. It's already dodgy that I've done it once. And I can't talk about your case in any detail, either."

Neville nodded. "I understand. Thank you," he added belatedly. "For wanting to believe me. That's something, at least."

Rising from the chair, Harry signalled to the gaoler that he was finished. "Have Hannah contact Chang. I have the address if she needs it."

Neville did not answer; he appeared to be steeling himself for the walk back to his cell. Harry felt a twist of guilt. The Dementors were no longer part of Azkaban's punishment, but the dark, windowless cells where Neville was almost certainly being kept were still not a pleasant place to be.

After signing out on the ledger, Harry squared his shoulders as he turned to face the Portkey back to the Ministry. The next conversation he needed to have was even more necessary and would likely be far more unpleasant.

 

 

Harry did not have to wait long outside McKinnon's office before being admitted. It was not the first time he'd been in his colleague's office, but it had changed drastically in the intervening years. What had once been bare walls were now covered with maps and photographs. Some of them were of crime scenes or suspects, but on the wall next to McKinnon's desk were, surprisingly, photographs of him with his family. He was smiling. There was even a pennant for a Quidditch youth league pinned above a photo of a young boy missing his two front teeth.

"Potter." The greeting was short; McKinnon sounded displeased. "I hear that you visited Longbottom today."

"That was fast," Harry admitted. "Yes. I did. Just came from there, in fact."

"Don't you think that's a little - inappropriate?" McKinnon pressed.

"Actually, no. I don't." He hadn't been invited to sit, but Harry did anyway. "I'm no longer on that case, and murder suspect or not, he's my friend." His eyes narrowed. "The gaoler at the desk mentioned that Longbottom's not getting a hearing for bail. Why's that?"

McKinnon raised a single eyebrow. "Did you miss the part where he's a murder suspect?" he asked slowly.

"Did you miss the part where everyone except dangerous criminals gets the option to make bail?" Harry countered. "He's practically pissing himself in Azkaban. He's not dangerous."

"I don't think you're impartial enough to determine that, Potter." Folding the parchment he had been writing upon, McKinnon matched Harry's glare evenly.

"Maybe not. But I don't determine that, do I? That's what the hearing is for." Harry leaned forward. "And you don't get to decide whether he gets a hearing. That happy responsibility is ultimately mine. He gets a hearing."

"You'd just let a murderer walk free because he's your mate from school?" McKinnon challenged.

"Merlin's arse, McKinnon!" Harry burst out. "I arrested the man! It's my job to make sure everything follows the law and that justice is served. And that includes justice on the part of the accused as well. Or did you forget that he has rights as a prisoner?"

"He told me to be worried about my daughter," McKinnon said in a low voice. "And he's already poisoned one child who strayed from his moral compass."

It took a moment for what McKinnon was saying to sink in. "Were we listening to the same conversation?" Harry demanded incredulously. "That wasn't a threat."

"Maybe you didn't hear it as such, but I certainly did," McKinnon said stiffly.

"Fine. Take it as a threat. He's not going to be free to traipse about Hogwarts if he's granted bail. He'll have a Trace so strong he won't be able to weed his garden without us knowing. He won't be able to leave his house." Harry stopped before his anger turned this from setting out the facts into a legitimate rant.

"His daughter -"

"No," Harry interrupted bluntly. "His daughter will be at Hogwarts, in all likelihood. And even if she's not, he allegedly did this to protect her. Or had you forgotten that, too?"

"You're doing a fantastic job of defending him," McKinnon said acidly.

"Innocent until proven guilty, McKinnon." Dimly, Harry realised that his voice had taken on that veneer of authority that he adopted only occasionally. "And that's for a jury to decide, not us."

"He did it," McKinnon said flatly.

"Good. I envy your unshakable belief. Now do your job and find the evidence that will convince a jury of the same." Inwardly, Harry forced himself to calm down. McKinnon was not an enemy. In fact, if he did his job right, McKinnon could be Neville's best ally in this investigation. "We're not working at cross purposes. We both want to be absolutely sure that the right person is put away for murder. I know you'll do everything in your power to ensure that."

Amazingly, McKinnon nodded. "I would appreciate it if you stayed away from my suspect," he said in the very formal tones of someone graciously accepting something they did not agree with.

"Fair enough," Harry conceded. "I'll try not to interfere with your investigation. But - there is one thing I need to bring up."

Irritation was clearly warring with curiosity in McKinnon's mind; the curiosity won. "Yes?"

"Was it a crime of passion, or was it premeditated?"

McKinnon did not look surprised at the question; clearly, he had already considered it. "Why else do you think I believe Longbottom is dangerous, Potter?"

The answer chilled Harry straight down his spine. Wordlessly, he nodded a goodbye as he rose from the chair and left McKinnon's office.

So lost in thought was he that Harry did not remember the walk across the floor to his own department, but he was startled from his reverie by Altair, who was hovering in front of Harry's office door in that nervous way he had when things were not going according to plan. "Sir, Rothchild is waiting for you in your office," he said hurriedly as Harry approached.

Harry blinked. "From Missing Persons? Why - no, never mind. Thank you, Altair." He pushed open his office door, wishing desperately for some time to just sit alone and think. That was, apparently, going to have to wait.

"Auror Potter," the woman said, rising as he entered. The severe bun her blonde hair was pulled into made her appear several years older than she actually was. "I hope you don't mind that I waited in your office."

"No, no, not at all." Harry waved at her to sit; she did not. "What do you need?"

"I have a warrant to search a certain house, sir, and I need your cooperation."

Bemused, Harry cocked his head to one side. "I don't have anything to do with search warrants. Go ahead and search it."

"Sir, I'm afraid you have everything to do with this one." She unfolded the square of parchment and handed it to him. "The warrant is for Twelve Grimmauld Place, which is under the Fidelius Charm with you as primary Secret Keeper."

He did not realise that his mouth had opened until he snapped it shut as he looked up from the warrant into the no-nonsense face of Rothchild, who drew a breath and continued in her businesslike tone. "Under Section Twelve of the Magically Concealed Residences Act, refusal to aid in searching this house is considered Third Degree Obstruction of Justice and is grounds for immediate arrest."

"Nobody has been in that house for years," Harry said slowly. "And no one can get in without -"

"Without the express invitation of a current Secret Keeper," Rothchild interrupted. "Which is why we require your cooperation." She narrowed her eyes. "Incidentally, depending on what we find... you may want to have your defence counsellor on hand, Potter."

Harry did not keep the key to Grimmauld Place readily accessible. He had not, in fact, even been anywhere near the old house Sirius had left him since Lily had been born; he disliked the crawling feeling he got on his scalp whenever he set foot in the silent, dusty hallways. It took him rather longer than he thought it would to find the key in one of the smaller drawers in his bedroom's armoire, and when he Apparated to the park across from Grimmauld Place, it was to meet a rather irritated Rothchild and three equally disgruntled Aurors from Missing Persons, all clearly put off by the delay.

"I had to find the key," he said by way of explanation as he handed it to Rothchild, though really, he didn't owe an explanation at all. He hadn't spent much more than five minutes looking for it. Rothchild and her Aurors continued to look unimpressed, and Harry decided not to press the matter. "Right. How many of you need to go in?"

"I do," Rothchild said immediately. She looked appraisingly at the Aurors she had brought with her. "As well as Simon and Waterly. Auror Potter, you and Fuller would do well to remain outside."

The two Aurors she had named stepped forward; Harry noted in the back of his mind that the largest of them had been the one selected to stay behind. It was quite clear that Rothchild expected Harry to raise some kind of fuss. The tiny knot of anxiety at the base of his spine tightened. "Fine. Aurors Rothchild, Waterly, and Simon, you have my express permission and consent to enter the residence known as Twelve Grimmauld Place. If I remember right, you'll need to actually approach the gates in order to see it."

With a curt nod, Rothchild turned neatly and led her Aurors across the road. A moment later, they seemed to have stepped through the gates with no issue, the magic that concealed the house rendering them invisible from the road.

With no idea what they were looking for, Harry had some difficulty trying to determine what kind of search pattern they were using in the house, or how long he would have to stand out here before someone offered him some kind of explanation. He'd memorised the basic outline of the warrant; they were searching for "evidence related to the abduction of Janice and Jillian Nicholby", Muggleborn twins who had been missing for nearly a week. What the mostly abandoned house had to do with anything, Harry could not think of, and the knowledge that he was missing something crucial bothered him nearly as much as the intrusion in the first place.

"What can you tell me about the case?" Harry finally asked the mute Auror Fuller.

Fuller shot a sidelong glance at Harry before answering. "Two identical twin girls, identified early as Muggleborn witches. They're eight years old. Their parents were not pleased to discover that their perfect little daughters had, and I quote, 'Satan's influence', and they had vowed to use any means possible to 'remove the taint'." Fuller's mouth twisted in distaste. "They were also unenthusiastic when the Aurors showed up yesterday to take over the case. They're being vastly uncooperative with us and complaining to the Muggle police at every turn."

Harry snorted. "Sounds a lot like the family I grew up with, minus the religious implications."

There was an odd pause. "Yes," was all Fuller said in response.

"And what else?" Harry pressed after a few moments of silence.

"If you don't mind, sir, I really think Rothchild should be the one to indulge any further information." No outward signs of discomfort were apparent, but something in the cadence of Fuller's words made the anxious knot in Harry's back tighten by another small increment. It was now a dull, physical throbbing that seemed to count the passing seconds that Rothchild and her Aurors remained in the house.

And then, quite suddenly, Rothchild materialised in front of the gates between numbers Eleven and Thirteen. Even from across the road, Harry could see how her brows were drawn together in determination - or possibly anger. Behind her, the tall outlines of Waterly and Simon appeared, and -

Numbness struck Harry like a brick in his chest. Each of the Aurors following Rothchild had, cradled in their arms, the tiny form of a female child.

"Contact their parents immediately," Rothchild snapped to the Aurors behind her as soon as she was within earshot of Fuller. "Let them know that, in a few days, we will need their cooperation for testimony, and if they try to give you any trouble, threaten to arrest them for obstruction of justice. Fuller, you stay here." Fuller nodded firmly and squared his shoulders; Simon and Waterly adjusted their grips on the children they were carrying and turned on their heels to Disapparate.

Rothchild turned her steely eyes to Harry. "You come with me."

 

 

At least a thousand, Harry decided. That was how many times he'd been this room, or one just like it somewhere along this corridor in the Ministry. He usually wasn't on this side of the table, though, and nor had he ever had this counsellor sitting next to him for anything other than a cup of terrible coffee in the break room.

The door opened and Rothchild strode in. She'd changed back into her Auror robes from the less obtrusive Muggle street clothes she'd worn to Grimmauld Place, and her eyes were like twin thunderheads as she flipped open the folder she was holding.

"You're familiar with CCTV." It wasn't a question; both Rothchild and Harry already knew the answer to that. Nearly every Auror had at some point been forced to work with Muggle police in order to catch a criminal, and Muggle police were very keen on their CCTV. Harry nodded anyway. "These stills were taken from a CCTV camera three nights ago outside a Brixton Road bar." Rothchild pulled several photographs from the folder, tossing them onto the table between them before taking her seat across from him and crossing her arms.

Harry stared at the photographs and pursed his lips. "That looks a hell of a lot like me."

"It does." Rothchild uncrossed her arms and pointed at one of the other photographs. "And that looks a hell of a lot like a man that was seen on CCTV loitering outside of Grimmauld Place last night. Do you know him?"

"I've never seen him before in my life," Harry said honestly, squinting at the figure. Though the rest of the photograph was crisp, the man himself was blurred around the edges - an indication that the mundane video cameras were being affected by the magic of the individual. The man that looked distressingly like himself was also blurred around the edges.

"So let's talk about Grimmauld Place for a moment," Rothchild said abruptly. "Prime location, that is. All the fancy charms and protections. Why are you just leaving it to rot?"

"It's not rotting." Surprised by how affronted Harry felt at that comment, he sat up a little straighter. "Until the house-elf I inherited died a few years back, it was very well-maintained."

"Fine. Why not let the rooms? Why keep it empty? Or for that matter, why not live in it yourself?"

"You don't have to answer that," the counsellor next to Harry murmured.

"I know that, Murray," Harry replied. To Rothchild, he said, "I don't live in it because I don't like it. I inherited it when my godfather was killed in the war and it never stopped feeling like his. I don't rent it out for the same reason."

Rothchild's mockingly thoughtful nod made the back of Harry's throat twist. "I see," she said simply. "Say you were to let a room. Or the entire house, for that matter. What sort of monetary figure do you think you'd put to it?"

"I have no idea," Harry replied bluntly. "I've never even thought of it."

"Something around, say, four thousand Galleons?" Rothchild prompted.

The number struck Harry silent for a moment. "I don't think the bricks are even worth that much," he said finally. "No, it'd be something like - I don't know. Not that much."

"Then perhaps you have another explanation for the anonymous deposit made to your Gringotts vault yesterday evening," Rothchild said smoothly, bringing a parchment stamped with the Gringotts seal from the folder. "An amount of four thousand Galleons in a Size 3 strongbox. The deposit slip simply had the 'rent' box checked." She handed Harry the receipt. "Unless that isn't your vault number, which I'm fairly certain it is."

Mouth suddenly very dry, Harry stared mutely at the receipt for a few moments. "No, that's mine." He looked up. "That's impossible. I'd have been alerted if there was a deposit this large -" He bit off his words. He'd left his house this morning before the post had arrived, and Ginny did not open anything with his name on it. He likely had been alerted.

"So someone is paying you rent, even though you're not letting the house or any room in it. Interesting." Rothchild gave him a very small smile that didn't show any teeth. "And yet, since you're the Secret Keeper for this residence, anyone wishing to use it would have to have your express permission to enter. Four thousand Galleons seems to be rather a lot of money to pay for a house you cannot enter, wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm not the only Secret Keeper," Harry pointed out. "Number Twelve was originally the Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, if you'll recall, and Dumbledore - the original Secret Keeper - didn't exactly make arrangements to pass on the responsibility. Everyone he ever told became Secret Keeper when he died."

Rothchild blinked at that; Harry could tell he'd slightly weakened her theory that she was presenting to him in a painstakingly slow fashion. "Who else can not only enter Number Twelve but also reveal the secret?" she asked sharply.

"My wife," Harry said immediately. "Nearly all the Weasleys still alive - well, the ones who were alive and in the Order. Really, just the Order members who are still alive, and there aren't many of us."

Making a note on a scrap of parchment, Rothchild huffed an irritated sigh. "Fine. We'll move past that for now. Let's go back to the bar. Would you like to tell me why you were there that night?"

"Three nights ago, you said?" Harry asked. Rothchild nodded. "I wasn't. I was at home." He nodded down at the photographs. "That's not me. It looks like me, but it's not."

"For the love of - it's not that blurry, Potter," Rothchild said, exasperated.

"It's either a Metamorphmagus or someone Polyjuiced," Harry said firmly. "But it isn't me."

"Are you really going to try and use that defence?" Murray asked Harry under his breath anxiously.

"It's true," Harry said stubbornly, not bothering to lower his voice. "It's someone who looks like me. Not me."

Somehow, even Rothchild's cheekbones looked smug. "All right, then. Can anyone confirm that you were at home between seven and seven-thirty that evening?"

"Of course, my -" Harry froze, his stomach plummeting. No. Ginny had been at a friend's. She hadn't got home until well after eight. "No," he amended. "My wife wasn't home." Next to him, Murray shifted slightly. He was far too professional to do anything more than that, but Harry was fairly certain that his counsellor's stomach had just had a similar drop.

Acting as though Harry had not said anything of any consequence, Rothchild pulled another sheet of parchment from the folder. "The barman of this establishment had some very interesting things to say about your visit that evening. He said you came in, took a seat in a booth, and ordered a drink. A few minutes later, the other man entered the bar and joined you. You spoke for some time and then - this is the interesting part - you 'gave him some papers, like calling cards'." Her eyes flicked up from the parchment she was reading. "Unless I'm much mistaken, permission to enter a residence under the Fidelius Charm can be written, can't it?" She didn't give Harry time to answer. "Once the exchange had been made, you left, and the other man picked up the tab."

Repeating that he hadn't been there wouldn't do any good. Harry knew exactly what Rothchild was doing. "Get to the point," he said shortly.

Rothchild looked taken aback for a moment before she set the folder firmly on the table. "All right. Fine. You're known for your tendency to be a vigilante maverick at times, skirting round the rules if it suits you. Your childhood familial situation is also well-known. So here is what I think happened. I think you heard about the plight of the Nicholby twins a few years back - probably from your friend Hermione Weasley, who was head of the pilot programme to identify and acclimate Muggleborn children and their families well before their acceptance into Hogwarts."

Harry kept his face schooled to stillness, though his heart had given a leap. That was why the names of the twins had sounded so familiar. Hermione had told him about them, several months back, before she and Ron had moved their family to Australia.

"Now, you can't just let a situation like that lie, especially not when it looks as though Social and Family Services is going to just leave them in that household," Rothchild continued. "Of course, you can't do the actual abduction yourself - you're too clever for that. But you have your ear to the ground. You know what everyone is up to, and your special pet project you've been working on with human trafficking was exactly what you needed."

Wishing dearly for a cup of water, Harry folded his hands in front of him. Brilliant. This was actually brilliantly done - he had indeed been working very diligently on tracking down and apprehending a human trafficking ring for well over a year now.

"You tip off one of the people who can get the job done. He's going to need a place to stash them, of course - and for some time. Where better than an Unplottable house in the middle of London, under the Fidelius Charm? And in exchange for this prime merchandise - there are families that would pay a fortune to adopt a little magical girl, you of course know - as well as your blind eye to anything he might do in the future, your contact pays you in gold - once he's actually able to settle in to Grimmauld Place, which wasn't until after you'd given him and the girls written permission to enter."

"I know what you're doing," Harry said bluntly. "And you're doing it very well. But you're not going to get an admission from me, because I didn't have anything to do with this." He crossed his arms. Rothchild pursed her lips before flipping the folder shut.

"I'm going to report to Digby. We'll be in contact," she said crisply.

"Rothchild," Harry snapped in a tone that made Murray shoot him a startled look, "you've made your case. It's a good one. If you think you have the evidence to arrest me, then do it. Don't send it upwards. Don't let someone else take that risk. Do your job."

For the first time, Rothchild looked uncertain. "It's not my job to -"

"It's your job to find suspects and apprehend them before they can do more harm," Harry interrupted. "If you really believe in the case you've presented me, then do your job and arrest your suspect."

 

 

"So what was your brilliant plan again?" Murray asked lightly as he paced in front of Harry in the visitation chamber. "Only it's typically easier to get someone off charges if they're not arrested in the first place."

Harry made a dismissive gesture. "Rothchild's been in that department for eight years and hasn't made a single arrest. She always referred any sort of risk upwards. She was dead weight. Maybe now she'll stick to her convictions and actually do Missing Persons some good."

The tapping of Murray's shoes faltered as Murray stopped pacing and turned incredulously. "So you're gambling your freedom and your reputation on a ploy to give some underling a confidence boost?"

"It's not much of a gamble," Harry admitted heavily. "She would have sent it upwards, and I'd have been arrested anyway. Hell, I'd have arrested myself if I was presented with that evidence."

"You seem almost like you want to be here," Murray said slowly.

"Of course I don't want to be here. I have too much to do to be under arrest right now. That's why I've got you to get the charges dismissed." Even though Harry put every ounce of confidence he had into those words, Murray still snorted.

"You only asked for me because you couldn't get Chang," the counsellor said knowingly.

"Chang is going to be rather busy with a friend of mine for a while," Harry said reluctantly.

Murray's brows drew together. "No, Chang's not - maybe you hadn't heard yet. She's left her practice. It's just Goodwin and Reilley, now."

Harry was not entirely sure how he'd burst to his feet. "What? When did this happen? Why wasn't I told?"

Blinking at the sudden onslaught, Murray shrugged helplessly. "It was quiet. Her father fell ill, very suddenly. There apparently aren't any Healers that can help here in Britain - some obscure blood poisoning - so she's relocating with him to America."

"Very suddenly? How suddenly? When was this?" Harry demanded.

"I don't know - she announced she was leaving Chang, Goodwin and Reilley just a few days ago. It can't have been long before then." Murray looked puzzled. "Why does it matter?"

"Shut up for a moment," Harry said distractedly, holding up a hand. The part of his brain that did nothing but make free associations had suddenly begun churning like tumblers in a lock.

FACT: Neville Longbottom, Cho Chang, and Harry Potter all experienced events crippling their professional lives within the same week.

"Murray," Harry said intently, his eyes unfocused as he continued to think, "has anything else odd been happening? Cases come through your office that seemed out of the ordinary because of the people involved?"

The counsellor thought for a moment. "Not at my office, but Burns and Foster recently had to perform a Gringotts audit that ended up with two employees fired for embezzlement - and they'd been exemplary employees."

"Who were they?"

"Er, Marcelle Graham and Justin Finch-Fletchly."

Harry nodded. "Right. Anything else you can think of? Not just lawsuits or financial oddities. Anything."

Thoroughly bemused, Murray scratched his head. "Well, I read in the Prophet last Friday that Healer Patil -"

"Had her licence stripped," Harry finished, unable to contain the growing dread in his voice. "For administering paediatric potions laced with lead. I remember that article. I thought it had to be a mistake."

FACT: Patil, Finch-Fletchly, Chang, Longbottom, and Potter had all been members of Dumbledore's Army - and extremely visible during the final Battle of Hogwarts.

"We're being rendered ineffectual," Harry breathed. "Disgraced. Our credibility down the toilet."

"I'm sorry?" Murray asked politely.

"Don't you see?" Harry demanded, beginning to pace. "Someone's been laying the scene for a very long time, and he's starting to pull the strings. Parvati putting paediatric potions into leaded vials? Justin embezzling from Gringotts? And Cho's father suddenly becoming deathly ill? Someone wants to get us out of the way. And they wanted me discredited, or even better, in Azkaban, so that I can't investigate." A thought struck him so forcefully that he stopped in his tracks. "What if the poison had been intended for Neville?"

Murray blinked, clearly out of his depth.

"We can't all drop dead - that would be far too suspicious - but no one would even question the suicide of a middle-aged war veteran with PTSD. What if it was just a coincidence that it ended up looking like he murdered that boy?" Harry began pacing again, his mind a blur of data going by so fast that ideas didn't have time to fully form before he'd filed them away again. "I'd have had no reason to investigate a suicide. I might not even have connected these dots. And that means someone still wants Neville dead."

"Potter," Murray said slowly, "you're not making any sense."

"Not to you, maybe." Nodding, Harry looked straight at his counsellor. "Do what you have to do to get me out of here. I can't do a thing in Azkaban. And get me Altair."

 

 

It was not only Harry's personal assistant that was in the visitation chamber when Harry returned two hours later. Standing by the window was a clearly irritated Rothchild who looked at her watch pointedly when the guard escorted Harry in.

"Altair?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised for an explanation.

"I'll explain later, sir. We'll be joined shortly by one Matthew Wilkins." Altair looked very seriously at Harry. "Do yourself a favour and think very hard about your least favourite drink."

It took Harry a moment, and then a smile spread across his face and he nodded. "You haven't lost your touch, Altair."

"The day I do is the day I retire," Altair replied glibly. He gestured to the gaoler at the door.

Matthew Wilkins was a gangly, fair-haired man with a ruddy complexion and heavy-lidded eyes. He took his seat at the table across from Harry and Altair with the too-casual air of someone who is supremely nervous but trying not to show it, and he crossed his arms in a way he probably thought looked confident.

"Thank you for coming to join us again, Mr Wilkins," Altair said easily. "I'm Sebastian Altair, and I do believe you have met Auror Potter."

"Not by name, no." Wilkins studied Harry closely for a moment. "I assume I'm here to testify again."

"We just need to verify a few details." Opening a file that, as far as Harry could tell, contained interdepartmental memos, Altair looked down for a moment. "You can confirm that Potter was the man in your bar that night?"

"I can." Wilkins had a very penetrating gaze; it almost made Harry break out in a cold sweat. Harry smiled disarmingly; startled, Wilkins looked back to Altair.

"Good. What did he order?" Altair asked matter-of-factly.

"What?" Taken aback, Wilkins appeared to tense slightly.

"Drinks. What drink did Auror Potter order in your bar that night?"

"I don't remember," Wilkins began angrily, before Harry cut in.

"You don't remember? What kind of barman are you? You remembered what I was wearing, where I sat, and who came in to see me, but you don't remember my drink?"

"It was busy," Wilkins protested, letting his arms drop from his chest.

"Strange, then, that you should take such special notice of Auror Potter and his guest," Altair pressed. "Why don't you think a moment? I'm sure it'll come to you."

Wilkins's brow furrowed, his eyes sliding out of focus as though he were remembering. "Irish whisky," he said finally. "Rocks on the side. You didn't care what label, 'so long as it's older than my daughter', you said." He grinned smugly. "Didn't know how old your daughter was, so I poured you a ten. You didn't seem to mind. You ordered another." He sat back with a satisfied air, folding his arms over his chest again.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face and he swallowed hard. "Damn. I take it back. You must be a fantastic barman."

"I am," Wilkins confirmed.

Harry leaned forward. "Quite a talent, there. It's got to be a real moneymaker, knowing exactly what drink everyone wants before they even order it. Being able to tell when someone's dithering over ordering another, so you offer it half price. I bet most patrons don't leave your bar sober." He slammed one palm down on the table; it made Wilkins jump and the sound echoed through the room. "Except for one thing. It's damned tricky to learn, but all Aurors master Occlumency before they get their badge. I hate whisky. I order a vodka neat in a chilled glass."

Wilkins looked as though he had just swallowed a large quantity of fire beetles; a muscle in his cheek twitched.

"Now," Altair said, shutting the folder briskly, "We think that someone paid you to place Potter at your establishment at a certain time. Given your particular gift, you must have known it wasn't actually Potter the minute the imposter walked into the room."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The barman's voice was steady, but his eyes had begun to flit back and forth between the two of them, and the muscle in his cheek had not ceased its spasming.

"We're talking about a few years in Azkaban for accessory to kidnapping if you don't cooperate," Altair said smoothly. "Or, if you think we can't prove that, we have enough to leverage you with a very hefty fine for the practice of Legilimency on the public without a posted notice."

"That fine doubles if you have any appreciable Muggle custom, by the way," Harry interjected helpfully.

A glance at Rothchild revealed that she no longer looked impatient or irritated; though she was still looking out the window, it was very obvious that every fibre of her attention was trained on the conversation happening behind her.

"You don't have to go to Azkaban, Matthew," Altair said very quietly. "And we can protect you from the person who paid you. You have the chance to turn everything right back around."

Wilkins looked between Harry and Altair once more before licking his lips. "I - you won't arrest me for - for the kidnapping thing?"

"We're prepared to negotiate, if you're prepared to assist us." It had been a very long time since Harry had heard Altair sound so grave.

There were several long moments of silence that seemed to stretch for hours before Wilkins nodded and coughed. "It wasn't him. It looked like him, even sounded like him, but it wasn't him. His mind - he wasn't in the right body. He was used to being taller." He held up his hands. "It was busy that night. I - I didn't actually see anything."

"What were you paid to say you saw?" Harry asked.

"That you came in. I had to mention you by name. That you sat down and exchanged cards with a bloke that came in later. That he's the one who paid your tab." Wilkins shook his head. "I swear I don't know anything else. And the guy that made the deal with me - he was a clever one. Mind completely blank the whole time. Like talking with a statue."

"Could you describe him?" All three heads whipped around to Rothchild, who had turned away from the window and was now gazing very intently at the barman. Wilkins jerked as though he hadn't even known she was there.

"I could do," Wilkins said slowly. "But I don't think that was his face."

"Mr Wilkins," Altair interjected pleasantly, "thank you very much for your time today. I believe Auror Rothchild will be taking care of you from here."

"Yes," Rothchild said, approaching the table. She tore her eyes from Wilkins to look to Altair and give a grudging nod. "Well done. I'll get the paperwork started to get the charges reversed." Finally her gaze settled on Harry, and she looked more than a little abashed. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, squaring her shoulders. "I didn't have the case I thought I did."

"You acted on the case you thought you had," Harry said, rising from his chair. "That's all any of us can do. No lasting harm done."

As Rothchild escorted her new favourite witness out of the visitation chamber, Harry turned to his assistant. "So did Murray arrange this?"

"Murray?" Altair asked blankly.

"My defence counsellor?" Harry prompted.

"Of course not. If you'd let him take over, you'd be here for days. No, I set this into motion as soon as I read the warrant that Rothchild had for Grimmauld Place." Suddenly distracted, Altair looked at his watch. "Longbottom's bail hearing is in half an hour. Third floor. Did you want to go?"

The realisation that had slammed into his brain earlier made Harry's blood go cold as the memory came flooding back. "Oh God. We need to arrange protection. Someone's still after him."

"I'm missing something," Altair said after a moment.

"I need you to arrange some hefty protection for him and for everyone who was ever a member of the Order of the Phoenix or Dumbledore's Army," Harry said, running a hand through his hair. "I'll explain on the way back to my cell. Try to keep up."

Neville's bail hearing had at least been short; Harry didn't go himself, as he thought it best to not appear before the press in Azkaban prisoners' robes, but Altair reported the proceedings in his usual efficient manner. "I didn't get a chance to speak with Longbottom, but he looked relieved, if not actually happy," he finished. "I also wasn't able to tell him the purpose of the three Lieutenant Aurors that will be guarding his house. I thought that would be best left to you."

"That's assuming I'm not left here to cool my heels for too much longer," Harry replied dryly. He looked at his wrist out of habit, even though his watch had been taken from him during processing. "Rothchild did say she would push the paperwork through, right?"

Altair opened his mouth to reply, but just then, the door to the visitation chamber opened, admitting a very puzzled-looking gaoler with his ring of keys.

"Finally," Harry said impatiently, but the gaoler shook his head.

"Not yet, sir. Your wife is here to see you."

"Oh." Harry winced. "I was actually hoping she wouldn't get wind of this until I got home tonight."

The gaoler shrugged and opened the door further to let Ginny through. Harry arranged his face into a self-mocking grin that fell immediately as soon as he saw her.

As a rule, nearly as a law of nature, Ginny did not cry. Harry had seen her grit her teeth through broken femurs, the deaths of her parents, and even childbirth with hardly a tear shed. The last time he had seen her eyes swollen and rimmed with red like this had been when -

Harry's stomach plummeted as he rose from his chair. The last time had been when Fred had been killed.

"I tried to send you an owl, but when it came back - and you weren't in your office - I finally got wind that you were here." The characteristic steel in her voice now sounded almost tinny and hollow.

"Not for long," Harry said hurriedly. "It was a mistake. What happened?"

"Ron and Hermione. They're - Hermione might make it, but Ron..."

Harry's tailbone hurt, and it was only then that he realised he had sat back down very hard in his chair. "How?"

"A gas leak," Ginny spat. "A gas leak in that stupid Muggle house of theirs, while they were sleeping - for some reason, Enforcers were told to go and check on them, and that's when they - they found..." She trailed off again, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand almost angrily.

"I wasn't fast enough." The words were soft, and Harry wasn't even sure if he'd actually spoken them aloud. "If I'd connected it all earlier - but I didn't -"

"You knew?" Ginny sounded incredulous. "You knew this would happen?"

"I worked it out not three hours ago, and I tried to set things in motion to protect them - but -" ignoring the smudges he made on his glasses, Harry lowered his face into his hands.

"What are you talking about?" Ginny demanded, but Harry shook his head.

"It's an open case. I can't - but you're a target too. That means you have a right to know." It was a very small token of relief, but it gave him something to focus on while he desperately tried to process the terrible news she had brought. "Someone is targeting D.A. members. I don't know who, or why, but they've brought down me and Neville and Justin and Parvati and Cho... and now Ron and Hermione..."

Altair cleared his throat, and Harry jumped. He had quite forgotten his assistant was even in the room. "I don't want to intrude, but if you'll excuse me - I'd like to see if the Enforcers will extend their jurisdiction to allow some of our people to investigate."

"Of course," Harry replied blankly. "Ask for Rochelle. She'll get them to cooperate."Despite his best efforts to stay focussed on the job at hand, Harry's thoughts snapped back inwards on themselves. Ron. Harry couldn't even remember the last words he'd spoken to his best friend; it had been some inane farewell after Christmas, routine words that had blurred into obscurity with the assumption that they'd have plenty of other opportunities to exchange the same trite goodbyes.

"And bring McKinnon in on this," he added suddenly. "Bite him if he whines that he's on a murder case. I need him - I need everyone on this. I want to know who's trying to take down Dumbledore's Army and the Order; I want to know how he's doing it, and I want to know what he has in his diary for tomorrow. Whatever he's planning, he that he has to have us out of the way so badly that he's killing innocent people in their sleep." He was startled to find that he'd raised his voice and was nearly shouting. UnflinchingUnruffled, Altair nodded and slipped from the room without further comment.

"It wasn't an accident, then," Ginny said softly.

"Please. There are alarms for gas leaks, and their home is one of the most efficient blends of magic and Muggle technology I've ever seen. You know Hermione; she'd have known within seconds if something was malfunctioning, even if she was asleep." His mind lit on something Ginny had said before. "You said she might make it?"

Ginny nodded, her eyes still hollow but now narrowed slightly in anger. "She's at St Rooney's in Melbourne. I was going to go - but -"

"Do that," Harry said forcefully. "I'll follow when I can. I'm going to send an Auror with you; you're not to leave her sight unless you're with an Enforcer - they're the Magical Law Enforcement in Australia. Do you understand?"

Ginny looked as though she dearly wanted to argue, but she just didn't seem to have the energy. "And what will you be doing?"

"Making absolutely certain this doesn't happen again." The clock read nearly half five. "Assuming they ever let me out of here."

With no other split-second decisions taking up his thought processes, they naturally settled back to Ron and Hermione. A hand seemed to clench itself around his throat, the tip of his nose stinging in a precursor to actual tears, but Harry shook his head roughly. He couldn't afford to fall apart right now. It would be a poor memorial to Ron if Harry let others die because he couldn't get a grip on himself.

And those were the stakes. If he hadn't been convinced before, he was now: this was a game of life or death.

 

 

"I don't believe it." Neville shook his head. "Why would anyone want me dead?"

"You're a catalyst," Harry replied bluntly. "And you're cleverer than you let on. I'm not even talking about these - these attacks and deaths. This is just paving the way for something that this psychopath doesn't want us getting in the way of. Which means it's something that you or I wouldn't take lying down. Forget modesty for now; if either of us took a stand against some evil force, we could start a very large movement. We could practically raise an army. Hell, you have done."

"Then why frame me for murder?" Neville sounded utterly bemused.

"You weren't meant to be framed. Marcus was an innocent bystander. If you'd been peckish and had those sweets like you were meant to, we'd all be standing round your grave right now, wishing we'd seen the signs of your impending suicide sooner."

After a moment of studying his hands, Neville looked up. "I don't suppose you could prove all this and get me off these charges?"

Shaking his head bitterly, Harry crossed his arms. "McKinnon agrees that something is odd, but the man's like a bulldog: he's not going to let you go until he's bloody well ready."

"So someone is still trying to kill me, and nobody wants to do anything about it because I'm a suspected murderer. Lovely." Reaching up, Neville began to massage one temple.

"Not quite. That's where Cho comes in." Harry sat back; he was rather proud of himself for this. "The minute I told her what I suspected, she agreed to take on your case. I believe her exact words were 'if you're right, we're going to need him'. So you're going to have the best defence counsellor in the business advocating for you, and I'll have Aurors watching this house night and day to keep you and Hannah both safe."

Eyes darting in the direction of the kitchen where Hannah was preparing dinner, Neville sighed. "You really think something is building out there?"

"I really hope that I'm wrong and that this is all some giant coincidence. But I don't think that's the case. And even if something isn't building - someone wants you either dead or in prison, and right now, you're neither."

Neville shook his head slowly, more in disbelief than in any attempt to deny what Harry was saying. "I've been spending the last day trying to think of who would want to do this to me. Who could have got into my greenhouse without me knowing? Or my office - I spend several hours a day in my office, you'd think I'd have been able to tell if someone was there -"

Harry froze.

The expression on his face must have been startling, because Neville's brows drew together in concern. "Harry? Are you all right?"

"Quiet," Harry snapped. "Something you said just knocked something loose..."

It was, painfully enough, in Ron's voice, dredging up through decades of other remembered conversations...

That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't it, that you don't know it's there?

 

 

The Hogwarts kitchens had not changed at all. The four long tables still ran the length of the room, with house-elves ducking and bowing as they passed him in their usual bustle despite the late hour. Many of them were scurrying about with scrub brushes and tiny mops, ostensibly on their way to clean hallways and classrooms for the next day.

Finally, the house-elf he had come to see appeared before him, bowing very low. "Mister Harry Potter," he squeaked, "Bobbin is happy to be of service!"

"It's been a while, Bobbin," Harry said and he crouched down to rest on his heels. "I was surprised when they told me you were Head House-Elf now. Congratulations."

Bobbin beamed, puffing out his chest where the bright gold badge gleamed against his tea towel. "Bobbin is working hard for many years for this. Bobbin never properly thanked Harry Potter for placing him here."

"It was nothing." It really had been nothing; Bobbin had been bereft of masters after a particularly nasty triple homicide some years back, and Hogwarts had been the first place Harry had thought of. "Listen, I have a few questions about how things work around here. Are you in charge of assigning who cleans which dormitory every night?" Bobbin's ears flapped as he nodded enthusiastically. "Who is in charge of the Gryffindor common room? Why didn't he or she notice that there was a dead body there two nights ago?"

At this, Bobbin's face darkened. "Tansy is ill, very ill," he intoned in a lower register than Harry was used to hearing from a house-elf. "She fell ill that night and had to go home to her mistress."

Harry blinked. "Her mistress?"

Nodding solemnly, Bobbin adjusted the badge on his chest. "Tansy's mistress is new, sir, and she is the mother of some of the students. She sends Tansy here when Tansy isn't needed at home." The house-elf looked around and then whispered, "Tansy is a little odd, sir, but always eager and pleasant."

"Odd?" Harry was not sure why his heart skipped a beat. "Odd how?"

"Tansy has a mistress, but her mistress pays her." Bobbin shuddered as though he'd just found a spider on him. "Some house-elves is asking for wages now, Bobbin hears this, but Bobbin was raised to know that to work is an honour and privilege."

"Bobbin," Harry said, a dreadful suspicion building in the base of his brain, "who are the students that Tansy comes to Hogwarts with?"

It was a moment before Bobbin's eyes lit up with recollection. "The Weasleys! Rose and Hugo Weasley!"

FACT: The house-elf known as Tansy was employed by Hermione and Ron Weasley as well as having access to Hogwarts.

 

 

This was not the right floor.

Or, rather, it was the right floor to find Tansy the house-elf; this was indeed the non-human ward at St Rooney's Teaching Hospital of the Healing Arts in Melbourne. But Harry really should have gone to the ward Hermione was in first. Time-sensitive as his discoveries were - not to mention vital to preventing any further deaths - if Harry was half the man he was supposed to be, he would have gone to visit Hermione. And yet the idea of her being awake and trying very hard not to blame Harry for what had happened (she'd never blame him, but the thought would be there behind her eyes nonetheless) was only slightly less terrifying than the prospect of seeing her comatose or, worse, lifeless.

Instead, he was here. And though it had taken nearly fifteen minutes of asking, wheedling, and finally bullying, so was McKinnon.

"This is useless," McKinnon murmured to Harry now as the Healer led them down a row of tiny curtained beds. "We can't use a house-elf's testimony even if it sings and dances it in front of the full Wizengamot."

"Here she is," the Healer said in a low voice as he drew back a curtain. "Came in a few hours ago. We've been trying to make her breathing easier, but it's not working nearly as well as it is on her mistress."

A tiny idea took root in Harry's mind. "You're treating her for carbon monoxide poisoning, yes?" At the Healer's nod, Harry decided to throw all caution to the wind. "Try the antidote for Dragonbane."

"Dragonbane?" The Healer looked startled.

"We have reason to believe she was in contact with Dragonbane within the last few days. I doubt she wore gloves. House-elves have different physiology, so what might have killed a human could just have made her very ill."

The Healer knelt down to take Tansy's hand and examine the nail beds. "I do think you might be right. We assumed she was hypoxic from the gas, but if she's been in Dragonbane..."

The antidote was delivered in less than five minutes, and the Healer carefully administered it with a dropper into Tansy's slightly open mouth. The effect was immediate; her eyelids fluttered and then opened to reveal large, watery blue irises and pupils that focussed on the Healer immediately.

"You're in hospital, Tansy," the Healer said with a very calm voice. "I'm Healer Meredith. You're going to be all right."

"Master," Tansy said sluggishly, trying to sit up, "Master needs his Tansy -"

The Healer looked up at Harry and McKinnon sorrowfully before going back to the house-elf. "Tansy, I'm very sorry to tell you - your master is dead."

Tansy's already pale face went completely colourless. "No," she whispered hoarsely, "Master can't be - Master had things for Tansy to do, things to keep him from dying -"

"Your mistress is still alive," Healer Meredith said, laying a gentle hand on the sheets to keep Tansy lying down. "She's all right."

Tansy gasped, her eyes going even rounder. Harry was not an expert on house-elf body language, but facial expressions were close enough to human ones that he could take a fairly good guess that Tansy had just realised she had said something she was not supposed to.

"The Weasleys aren't your true masters, are they, Tansy?" he asked softly, kneeling down next to the low bed. "You have another master who sent you to the Weasleys."

Tansy began to tremble, her eyes darting between Healer Meredith, Harry, and McKinnon, who loomed very impressively at the foot of her bed. "I is - I is not knowing - Tansy is tired, sir -"

"You didn't know what that plant would do to Professor Longbottom, did you? That's why you didn't wear gloves." It was perhaps cruel to continue questioning the house-elf, especially given her state of terror and exhaustion, but Harry had no doubt that as soon as she was well enough, she would Apparate back to her real master and he'd never find her again. "But when you got sick, you went to Hermione, not your master. I get the feeling you knew your master wouldn't be as kind to you as Hermione was."

"Do not speak against Master! Sir doesn't know Master!" Tansy again struggled to sit up, pushing feebly at the Healer's pressure on her chest.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Healer Meredith began angrily, but Harry held up a hand.

"Tansy, my name is Harry Potter. But you already know that. Ron and Hermione Weasley were my best friends. I don't think you knew what your master was asking you to do. He sent you to the Weasleys and told you to turn a certain knob on a furnace when he gave you a signal. When he found out you were at Hogwarts sometimes, he had you put a leaf into Professor Longbottom's sweets. He's been using you, Tansy, using you to hurt people. To kill people. I'm trying to find out why."

"You'll kill Master!" Great tears were rolling down Tansy's face to soak into the pillowcase. "Master is scared - Master knows bad people are after him, and Master asked Tansy to help him and keep him safe..."

McKinnon had knelt down now, and the space around the bed was very cramped. "Tansy, your master is sick," he said in a surprisingly gentle tone. "He thinks that hurting people is okay, and it's not. If he doesn't stop, he is going to get hurt. We need to find him so that we can put him where no one will hurt him, and he won't hurt anyone else."

"You'll kill Master; you'll take him away and you'll kill him, Master told Tansy..."

"We will take him away," Harry said honestly. "But we don't want to kill him. He needs help so he stops wanting to hurt people." He hated himself for what he was going to say next, but he had not got to be Head of the DMLE without being able to manipulate a witness. "Don't you want to help your master?"

"No, Harry Potter is a bad man - Master said -"

"You're done," Healer Meredith said firmly. "I'll give her something so she sleeps, and I'll keep her here for you, but I'll have no more interference with my patient until this afternoon."

"Healer, more people could be killed if I don't learn who her true master is," Harry replied in a low, dangerous voice. "Two of them are upstairs right now, and I don't think her master cares that much about collateral damage. How many patients do you have in this hospital?"

If Healer Meredith had been able to glare daggers, Harry would have needed a Blood-Replenishing Potion. "I will give her something that will make her sleepy. She'll be talkative for a few minutes before she drifts off. Once she's asleep, you're to leave this ward. Do I make myself clear?"

Meeting her gaze was difficult, but Harry didn't even flinch. "Crystal."

"Tansy does not want to say, Tansy cannot say," the house-elf sobbed, but she made no effort to get up even as the Healer went to a cabinet in the corner, and when she returned with a cup of what looked like weak tea, Tansy did not fight as the Healer gave it to her in tiny sips. Her large eyelids began to droop as her sobs quieted, and Healer Meredith glanced at Harry venomously.

Harry ignored the malice in her eyes and looked back to the house-elf. "Tansy," he said softly, "I know you didn't know you were doing bad things."

"Tansy didn't want the boy to die," the house-elf said groggily. "Tansy was cleaning the grate - the boy was eating sweets - and then the boy fell over and Tansy saw the sweets and Tansy - Tansy knew he ate the sweets Tansy made -"

FACT: Tansy the house-elf was ordered by her master to poison Neville Longbottom.

"Did your master tell you what that plant would do?" McKinnon asked.

"Master never said. Master has been so busy, Master doesn't sleep or eat as he should, Master is getting so old..." Tansy began to cry weakly again.

"Tansy," Harry said intently, "who is your master?"

"Master is from an old family," Tansy said, pride winning through the drowsiness in her voice. "Master is the last one left. Oh, there will be no more Macnairs left when Master dies..." The house-elf gave a little sigh, and then she was asleep.

FACT: Tansy was the house-elf of the Macnair family.

FACT: Walden Macnair, the last living member of the Macnair family line, had been a Death Eater at both Battles of Hogwarts and had disappeared soon after the defeat of Voldemort.

Harry looked across the bed at McKinnon. "That good enough for you?"

 

 

McKinnon actually looked stunned. "Macnair has been dead for ten years."

"No," Harry countered, "he's been missing, presumed dead, because we stopped looking for him. Which, obviously, was the most stupid call that's ever been made." Harry could clearly remember the decision, too; he'd just been promoted to Senior Auror and had been researching lost Death Eaters when the head of the DMLE at the time had decreed that all Death Eaters still missing were to be presumed dead. And though Harry had argued, he hadn't got far. "We need to track him down. Now. This needs to be done yesterday."

To Harry's surprise, McKinnon nodded briskly. "As soon as I get back."

A sharp glance from Healer Meredith brought both men to their feet with some haste. As she shut the door to the ward quite firmly behind them, McKinnon turned to Harry. "You do realise that this isn't going to exonerate Longbottom unless we find Macnair and he confesses, don't you? We can't use a house-elf's testimony."

Feeling irritated, Harry chose to ignore that for the time being. He could argue for it later - or, rather, Cho probably would. There were laws, of course, but there were also ways to get around those laws, and Cho was an expert. "I want you to focus on this case for now. Longbottom's not likely to go on a killing spree. There's every indication that Macnair will."

"What avenue will you be pursuing?" McKinnon asked as they approached the lift.

Steeling himself, Harry pressed the button for the upper floors. "Call a staff meeting for three hours from now. I want all the department heads there. Tell them to bring everything they can collect on Macnair. He's been missing for so long that we practically have to start from scratch." The light above the lift illuminated and the doors slid open. "Right now, I need to go and visit a friend."

 

 

This was not the first time a family gathered around a hospital bed was Harry's fault, and he almost subconsciously slipped into an unsettling duality where he both recognised and did not recognise the people clustered around the bed. Rose and Hugo, numb with shock and sitting together very closely at the foot of Hermione's bed, could have been someone else's niece and nephew. Mrs Granger was practically a stranger anyway, and her red-rimmed eyes were like so many others he'd seen: a mother trying with all her might to be strong for everyone else in the room.

Only Ginny grounded the scene to reality, holding Hermione's hand and lightly stroking the back of it. The sight of the hospital room wavered back and forth between something he could coldly file away to inspect later and something raw and hot that his mind flinched away from in self-defence.

Ron should have been there.

No, Harry reflected, none of them should be there - if he'd done his job properly, none of them would have any reason to set foot in this hospital at all. But if he'd just been a little quicker, then Ron would have been in the next bed over, recovering next to his wife, surrounded by family.

No matter how Harry tried to deny it, this was his own fault.

Ginny looked up first, her eyes drooping with fatigue and grief. "She's sleeping," she said softly, but the words carried in the quiet room. "Not a coma. She's going to be all right, but she's very tired."

At least he'd managed to save one of them. He moved to stand awkwardly by the bed, not certain what he was supposed to be doing. "I can't stay long. There's still a madman out there, and there are still a lot of people who could be on his list."

"D'you know who it is, then?" Mrs Granger asked in a strained voice. "Who's responsible for this?"

Yes, Harry wanted to say, but years of public relations training took over. "We have an indication," he said instead, and the official-sounding words blessedly distanced him from the emotions that were threatening to spiral wildly out of control. "I'm mobilising the search as soon as I get back to Headquarters."

"Go, then."

Harry's head snapped around so fast that his neck hurt. Hermione's eyes didn't open, but she licked her lips and took another breath. "Do what you need to, Harry. I'll still be here."

"Hermione, I - I'm so sorry -" Harry began, but Hermione lifted the hand Ginny wasn't holding and made a brushing gesture. Even that small motion looked as though it took all the energy Hermione had.

"Later. Once it's over."

"We understand, Harry," Ginny said seriously. "Go. There are people depending on you. This can wait."

Conflicted, Harry took a deep breath. "If you insist - Hermione, I have a few questions that might help."

"Of course." This time, Hermione opened her eyes. The emptiness and weariness behind them nearly tore Harry's heart in two, and he girt his teeth as he tried to summon back the professional calm he'd been so close to grasping earlier. He couldn't afford to fall apart right now. Hermione shifted as though to sit up, but Harry shook his head.

"No, no. Don't move. I just need to know - your house-elf. Tansy. Where did you find her? When?"

"Oh, Tansy." Hermione sighed, and she shot a quelling glance at Ginny's surprised expression. "She came to us just after Christmas. She was having trouble finding work because she wanted payment." Even through her weariness, there was an undeniable note of pride in her voice. "Of course I took her in. She helps with laundry on Saturdays, and then she's at Hogwarts the rest of the time." Her eyes opened wide. "Is she all right? She's so small - oh, that leak must have been ten times worse for her - and she was already ill -"

He couldn't do it. He couldn't tell her. Not right now. "She's here too, in the non-human ward," Harry said evasively. "They're taking care of her."

"Thank goodness." Closing her eyes, Hermione melted back against her pillow. "She's like family now - another death would..." She trailed off, suddenly sounding confused and forlorn.

It was suddenly all too much. Harry swallowed the giant lump of emotion in his throat and took a very deep, shaky breath. "Right. I'm going to - I'll be back later." He reached down to squeeze Hermione's hand tentatively before he left the room with what he was sure was unseemly haste.

He did not have to look to know that the footsteps that followed him a minute later were Ginny's. Somehow, he'd always been able to sense her, in a way that had nothing to do with magic or sight or sound.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled to the wall. "I can't - I can't do this right now. I can't fall apart. I don't have the luxury of processing this, not while..."

"I know, Harry," Ginny said softly, her hand going to press her fingers against one of the knots in the muscles of his neck. "I understand. Hermione understands. Ron -" Her voice cracked for just a second. "Ron would understand too." She continued kneading at the rope of muscle silently for a moment. "I just wish I could help."

"You can." Harry turned from the wall so suddenly that Ginny took a step back. He grasped her by both forearms and looked very seriously into her tired face. "Keep yourself safe. Keep Hermione safe. Knowing that you're all right - that you're taking care of yourself -" He drew her to him forcefully, as though trying to replace the weight in his chest with her warmth. "I can't function if you're not there at the end of it. Help me by watching out for yourself and for the kids."

One of the largest sticking points in their marriage was the fact that he risked his life every day, and that she could do nothing to help him. He knew that she hated staying home or sitting at her desk, wondering if he'd come home that evening. He could feel her stiffen at his request. "Please, Ginny. If something were to happen to you -"

"Oh, be quiet," Ginny said, softening the snap of her words with a fond tone. "Go and catch your psychopath. I'll have treacle tart waiting for you when you're done."

Taking a deep breath, Harry nodded. "The funeral -?"

"I'll let you know," Ginny said firmly, though the muscles in her back tightened, belying the strength in her voice.

There were more footsteps, hurried ones, and no sooner did Harry register them did Altair burst around the corner.

"Sir," he said, drawing himself up short to avoid colliding with them. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," Harry replied, dropping his arms and stepping back. "What is it?"

"There's been a break-in to Azkaban and an attempted murder of one of the prisoners."

"One of the prisoners?" His mind reeled as it tried to shift gears. "But there aren't any Order mem -"

He and Ginny locked eyes. "Mundungus," they said simultaneously.

 

 

"And you didn't once think to question this suspicious offer?" Harry asked, kneading his temples. His voice echoed oddly in the interrogation chamber, and the beige walls were so similar to those at the hospital that it did very little to help him separate himself from his professional role.

Across from him, Mundungus Fletcher shrugged helplessly. "I'd never've got this far if I questioned every dodgy thing that came my way, would I?"

"No, you'd have never made it to Azkaban for money laundering," Harry snapped. "You might try being a little more inquisitive. It'll probably be better for your health. Now. Back to my question. This man offered to get you out of Azkaban if you did him a favour. What was this favour?"

Mundungus had the grace to appear embarrassed. "Well, you see, he needed to shift something, and he knew I could get him into somewhere secret. He said he wasn' going to be there long - he just needed a few days - and I knew you didn't use the house anyway -" He swallowed at the look this wrought on Harry's face. "It was a good opportuni'y! I can't spend another year in here!" He gestured sharply at himself, his eyes wide. "Can't you see how old I am? This place is bad for me health! He said he could get me out! I just - didn't exactly realise he meant to get me out in a body bag..."

"So you wrote down three invitations to Grimmauld Place," interrupted Harry, "and gave them to him." The amount of anger that coiled hotly in his stomach was perhaps excessive, but he honestly couldn't be bothered to rein himself in at the moment. "Do you know what the 'goods' were that your mate was shifting? Did you bother to ask?"

It was apparent by the way Mundungus shifted that he did not. "Children, Dung," Harry said. "I was implicated in a kidnapping and human trafficking case because of your idiocy. And if it had worked -" Harry bit off his words and stood up to pace in the narrow space between the wall and the table. "I'm going to be sending another Auror in to question you. It's technically her case. In the meantime, did you recognise the so-called guard who tried to kill you?"

"He'd been hanging about since February," Mundungus offered, slightly wild about the eyes as he processed the information that Harry had just fed him. "Never seemed to have any duties. He just... wandered."

"Well, if I'm trying to avoid detection, I suppose hanging about a prison is the last place anyone would think to look for me," Harry muttered to himself. "I don't suppose you could give me a description?"

"Tall?" Mundungus ventured. "Skinny? Looked like he was three days dead, to be honest. Nearly as old as I feel."

"You're barely seventy," Harry said dismissively, "and with my luck, you'll be a thorn in my side for another century at least." He checked his watch and sighed. "I'm sending you back to your cell. I'd get used to the scenery if I were you."

It was a petty remark, and it didn't really make him feel any better as he strode from the interrogation chamber to take the lift to the conference room. Perhaps that was why the room hushed as he walked in and took his seat at the head of the table, almost forgetting to flick the tails of his uniform robes out of the way before sitting down.

"Right," he said briskly. "No doubt you've all been briefed. Does anyone have any questions as to why we're here?" No one stirred. "Good. I realise I haven't given you much time, but has anyone been able to dig up any information on Macnair?" He looked around the table expectantly.

"I have his old personnel record, when he was working for the Ministry," a witch at the far end of the table offered. "He went in for psychiatric evaluation several times. There was talk of excusing him from his duties, but... well, there wasn't anyone else who wanted to fill his position as Executioner."

"He was sighted twelve years ago in Brussels," a younger Auror with an ink-smudged nose interjected.

"That's the last recorded sighting," McKinnon added. "He's lain low ever since."

Silence fell around the table. Harry huffed out a sigh. "That's it? A decades-old personnel record and a sighting too old to be of any use? Merlin's arse, what have we been doing these last ten years?" He badly wanted to pace again, and he took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "All right. Here's the information we do have to work with. His house-elf - or the house-elf who calls him Master - says that he sent her to poison Longbottom. The wrong person got the poison, which ended up sending Longbottom to Azkaban. You could say that started the whole chain of events."

"How can we be sure that this is his house-elf?" one of the Aurors asked.

"We can't," Harry replied simply. "There's a reason we don't use house-elf testimonies: often, they're so devoted to a current or previous master that they tend to have a very convoluted or muddled view of what's actually true. It could be she was dismissed years ago and still believes she's taking orders from him. There's no way for us to know."

"So how do we know it's actually Macnair behind this?" another Auror asked. Inwardly, Harry groaned as he recognised the voice. "How do we know that all these events in the briefing memo are connected at all?"

"I know it's your job to question everything, Smith," Harry said evenly, "but this is all we have to work with at the moment. And seeing as how you're on the list of people he might be after, I'd think you'd want to take this seriously."

"I'm an Auror," Smith replied haughtily, "I've always got someone after me, one way or another. Are you sure you're not just jumping at shadows?"

Before Harry had a chance to get down to some serious questioning of how Smith had ever got to be head of Internal Investigations, the door opened and admitted a shockingly ruffled Altair.

Harry stood up immediately. Nothing bothered Altair; Harry had seen him come across a completely unexpected crime scene and hardly blink. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Chancellor Shacklebolt has been assassinated," Altair replied, loud enough for the entire conference room to hear. His steady voice was completely at odds with the paleness of his face. "In the middle of a talk he was giving in Copenhagen. In front of two Aurors." He cleared his throat. "The Aurors report that it was a Killing Curse. They didn't get a glimpse of who cast it, but this was found in one of the empty seats once the hall was evacuated." He brought forth a sheet of parchment that had been folded into thirds. "There are no curses we could detect, but we're worried it will incinerate if anyone but you opens it."

Hand infinitely steadier than he felt, Harry took the parchment; his name was written in impeccably neat handwriting just above the blob of black wax that held the parchment shut. As his heart thudded against his ribs, he broke the seal and unfolded the sheet.

Auror Potter,

I do not seek to build as the Dark Lord did. I do not seek lasting power. I do not seek to bargain; there is nothing you can offer me that I want. You did well to evade my efforts to dispose of you and your cohort, but that matters little; it simply means my reign will be shorter than I'd planned.

But oh, what a reign it shall be.

I'll be seeing you soon, Potter. Don't disappoint me.

In Anticipation,

Walden Macnair

The letter did not shrivel into cinders; Harry scanned it several more times, throat constricting as his eyes took in the spidery script. He swallowed as he drew his wand. "Imatari," he said flatly, and the parchment split along its folds, dividing until he had enough copies to toss to the table, one for each Auror seated there. They all reached forward to take a sheet with some trepidation.

The quiet in the room was thick enough to swim in as the letter was read by two dozen pairs of eyes. After what he judged to be an appropriate amount of time, Harry cleared his throat and glowered directly at Smith. "I hope this is sufficient."

Smith did not answer; his eyes were wide as he shifted his gaze between Harry and the parchment.

"Auror Jackson." The witch jumped at being addressed. "Macnair's psychiatric evaluations. What did they say?"

"That..." Jackson swallowed. "It was possible he was overly fond of the grisly nature of his work."

"That he liked killing, you mean?" Harry did not need her nod; Hagrid had told him as much years ago. "There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. This is what we have before us. People made a lot of incorrect assumptions about the Death Eaters; we all profiled them as a little stupid, dangerous only because they were under the direction of Voldemort. That's why we stopped looking for them. We assumed that without him, they were harmless.

"I need every single one of you to stop thinking that way, right now." He stabbed a finger at the centre of the letter; it smudged the ink slightly, which in turn smudged the ink on all their copies. "These are not the ramblings of a stupid man. This is a man who thinks he is cleverer than we are. And by all accounts, he may be right. He orchestrated several murders and no small number of nontrivial crimes, and none of us - not one - cottoned on.

"And he knows he's going to get caught. He's practically daring us to catch him. That makes him exceptionally dangerous, because he has nothing to lose. He must be, what, eighty? Ninety? He's going to give us everything he's got."

Many of the Aurors were nodding thoughtfully, determination plain behind their eyes. "We need to take this to the Minister," McKinnon said, breaking the silence.

"Yes," Harry agreed tightly. "She's going to have to issue some decrees. I don't know what Macnair is capable of, but I don't doubt that his scope is larger than we want to admit."

A rapid knock at the door broke Harry's train of thought. "Yes?" he barked when it did not open.

It was a mousey-haired desk clerk that slipped through the door; Harry knew her by sight if not by name. "Sir," she whispered, "there's - the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad - they want to speak to you."

Harry was speechless for a moment. "This is a very important meeting," he finally managed, "and -"

"I know it's important," she hurried to interject. "I wouldn't have come if this wasn't important, too. It's - it's Longbottom."

"What about Longbottom?" How McKinnon had heard the clerk's whisper, Harry had no idea, but the other Auror was now at his shoulder. The clerk looked between the two of them, wetting her lips nervously.

"He's - maybe you should come and see."

 

 

It was incredible how much blood could be contained in a single human arm.

"It's bad," the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad agent said, shaking her head. "He should have known he couldn't Apparate out of an Anti-Apparition hex, but - well, he apparently tried very hard."

"Trying to escape his sentence, no doubt," another Agent said primly. "Knew he couldn't get off. I've seen it before. Any road, we got word that about a pint of blood showed up in some garden in Liverpool; one of our agents is testing it, but with a Splinching this bad, I don't doubt that it's his."

Harry stared down at the arm lying on the rug, the hand still grasping a wand he recognised as Neville's very tightly. A right arm, his mind noted in a detached manner, and he felt like laughing - but didn't. "Where's his wife?" he asked instead.

"We sent her to St Mungo's for shock," the first agent assured him. "She apparently walked in, saw this, and sent for us - and then promptly fainted."

Nodding, Harry cast his gaze about the room. He was not interested in the arm. His eyes lit upon what he was looking for and he walked past the Magic Reversal agent before she finished speaking, earning him a bemused look as he picked up a piece of parchment with tidy, spidery handwriting.

I won't fail a second time, Longbottom.

There was a dried leaf pressed into the parchment. Harry had never actually seen a Dragonbane leaf, but he had a very strong hunch that he was seeing one now.

"You're certain he Splinched himself?" He asked in a distracted tone.

The two agents looked taken aback. "It's textbook. The trauma to the muscle - and the perfect terminus of the vessels - I don't see how it could be anything else," the second agent said slowly.

"Right." Nodding to himself, Harry tucked the parchment into his pocket. "You were right to call me. You said it's bad. How bad? If the blood in Liverpool is his, I mean?"

The first agent looked dubiously at the limb on the rug. "Assuming he hasn't lost more parts that we haven't found yet? He'll be dead from blood loss in an hour if he doesn't get to a hospital for a Blood-Replenishing Potion."

Harry somewhat doubted that would be happening. It was difficult to reconcile the calm he was feeling with the surreal scene before him; it was entirely possible that he'd encountered so many shocks in the past seventy-two hours that he was incapable of handling any more until he worked through the queue.

He turned to McKinnon, who had been standing silently; Harry was not sure whether McKinnon was shocked or simply had nothing to say. "My office?" Harry said, and he did not wait for the answering nod before he strode from the house to a safe Apparition point far outside the circumference of the Anti-Apparition Hex.

It was several moments before McKinnon appeared; Harry took the time to look around his office. It was largely unchanged; aside from the general untidiness of the sheaves of parchment on his desk, it looked almost exactly as it had when McKinnon had approached him three days ago with the beginning of it all, a simple murder at Hogwarts.

The CRACK of Apparition made him jump slightly, and he turned to meet McKinnon's eyes.

"I think it's time to drop the case against Longbottom," the older Auror said flatly.

"I think so, too," Harry replied. "We've got something bigger on our plates. I'll be meeting with the Minister in half an hour. I'd like you to be there."

McKinnon did not look surprised. "And why's that?"

"I'm going to need someone steady at my back. Altair's good, but he hasn't been in the field for years." The magical window showed the edges of evening beginning to claim the sky. Harry turned to watch a cloud float serenely by. "I'm not sure what's going to happen, but we need to prepare ourselves for something we haven't dealt with before. We need to be prepared for absolute chaos. You read his words; he doesn't want to build anything up. He just wants to watch it fall."

"So it's war, then."

Harry shook his head. "War has a certain logic to it. This is terrorism, plain and simple, and unless we can get the rug from under him, all we're going to be doing is reacting." He turned, pulling the parchment from his pocket. "This was at Longbottom's house."

McKinnon glanced at it. "Hell, I'd run, too - but I'd at least have gone outside the Anti-Apparition Hex." He looked up just in time to see Harry's momentary smirk. "What?"

"He did."

There was a beat of silence. "Come again?"

This time, Harry's smirk widened into a knowing grin. "This was all staged."

"Potter, I know a Splinching when I see it," McKinnon began.

"Hopefully, Macnair will be just as convinced of that as you. It might just protect Longbottom's wife and daughters." The parchment's edges curled as Harry incinerated it with his wand; it left a trace of smoke on the air that dissipated almost instantly. "What hand do you hold your wand in when you Apparate?"

"My right," McKinnon said slowly.

"Because you're right-handed." The laugh that had unfurled itself when he'd realised it was Neville's right arm on the floor bubbled up inappropriately again; it was only with supreme control that he kept it from touching his voice. "Neville's left-handed."

If Harry had not come to know McKinnon very well over the past few days, he would not have known the other man was bewildered. "So you think he's out there, wandless and wounded."

"Maybe." It wouldn't do to get his hopes up. And yet...

"Why?" McKinnon asked bluntly. "Why would he do that?"

"He knows we'll need him," Harry said simply. He turned to look out the window again. "And he's smart enough to know he can't hide from Macnair forever. If everyone thinks he's dead... He knows how to lie low, and how to fight when the time is right. He surprised us all last time. Maybe he'll do it again."

Behind him, Harry could imagine McKinnon's face as he tried to make sense of all this. "So we're not organising a search for him?" he asked, sounding dubious.

"I don't have the manpower. Update Longbottom's status to 'Missing, presumed dead'." Harry let out a single bitter laugh. "After all, look at how well that worked out for Macnair."

There was a long silence. "These are going to be some very interesting times," McKinnon said finally.

The knock at the door was unmistakable; Harry did not even turn as Altair slipped into the office. "Sir, the Minister is ready for you."

END PART ONE