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."