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