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   “You know I’m taking an awful risk with this – I hope you realize that.”

   The man sitting opposite said nothing – there was nothing to be said, nothing that wasn’t already explicitly laid out on the long sheaf of parchment now lying on the desk between them. Very proper, very formal, and even very legal – at least for the most part.

  That was the point, after all – Lucius Malfoy was not a man to leave ends that had not been tidied up.

   “An awful risk,” the balding man repeated, straightening his spectacles as he continued to scan the parchment, noting every figure on every line. “An awful risk indeed.”

   “Is there an issue of obvious illegality?” Lucius asked crisply, toying with the silver head of his cane.

   “Willard Parkinson himself handled those loopholes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

   “Is there an issue with procedure?”

   “It will take some time for the paperwork and the finances to be processed – more time than usual, considering you desire discreetness – albeit slightly easier as you are not going through Gringotts anymore.” The balding man looked at Lucius over the top of his spectacles. “And considering I wrote the majority of the procedural measures applying to the bank we started, it should not be an issue.”

   “Then what is the problem?” Lucius asked, keeping his voice extremely even, only letting a trace of irritation come into his expression.

   Peter O’Sanden, Head of the Department of Magical Finance, set the parchment down. “Lucius Malfoy, you do realize you are dead.”

   That wasn’t exactly what he was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”

   “Legally, I mean,” O’Sanden clarified smoothly, weighing the curling edge of the parchment down with a glass paperweight as he pulled an ornately carved bottle of ink from a drawer in his desk that openly silently at his touch. “As you are undoubtedly aware, the unsteady peace we have achieved with the goblins, thus allowing a modicum of negotiation with the creatures, was earned on the assumption that we had your family, ah, removed.”

   It rankled to hear the man say it, but Lucius clenched his jaw – he wasn’t about to forget about that injustice, but now was not the time for petty revenge. “And?”

   “Well, given your family’s status and the financial complications that ensued, what with the new bank and the Ministry bombings and the goblins, there will need to be a certain dexterity on the part of my people in getting these papers through without undue scrutiny,” O’Sanden finished, withdrawing a quill from the same drawer and tapping its tip to the lid of the ink bottle, which vanished instantly. “I will have to rely on my best people, whose services do not come cheap.”

   “I have plenty of gold,” Lucius said stiffly.

   “Gold only goes so far,” O’Sanden replied, tapping a long finger twice on the parchment. “And so does necessary confidentiality – particularly in your case, where you want things arranged in multiple countries. Keep in mind this is no mere filing procedure, Mr. Malfoy – the Department of International Magical Co-Operation may have to be drawn into this.”

   “You’re the interim Head of that Department,” Lucius pointed out stonily.

   “And so I am,” O’Sanden agreed smoothly, “but even I will not be able to deflect all scrutiny.”

   Lucius took a slow, steady breath. “Mr. O’Sanden, I understand your qualms and your arguments, but I have taken a large enough risk arriving here today, so I would encourage you to get to the point. What do you want?”

   “At least three months of time, and a thousand Galleons up front,” O’Sanden replied, finally meeting Lucius’ icy grey eyes with a blank, hard stare the Death Eater knew the man had mastered. “Likely four months – it will take time to discreetly make sure the paperwork is filed and processed in a manner that does not attract attention.”

   Lucius clenched his fist with frustration. A thousand Galleons was a lot of gold, but he could absorb that loss easily. Four months, on the other hand… “Is there anything else?” he growled.

   “I’ll need signatures from your entire family, Parkinson’s guarantee his firm will legally block any challenge or question that may implicate the Department of Magical Finance in of this, and written assurance from you that once you are out of this country, you will never come back,” O’Sanden said, his voice never rising above its brisk, even tone. “While doing business with you is lucrative, Mr. Malfoy, it is hardly conducive to one’s digestion.”

   “This is extortion,” Lucius hissed. “Why shouldn’t I just –”

   “Because, Mr. Malfoy, your threats have about as much weight as an empty bucket made of air,” O’Sanden replied, carefully signing the bottom of the parchment with a meticulously blank expression. “You need me, and unless you have in your possession some Herculean magic that will bind me to your command, you must ensure my protection and that of my staff, or else you will be far worse off.”

   He nearly raised his voice to protest – but then a funny little idea came into his mind, and he closed his mouth. He still glared at the insufferable man – mustn’t give anything away…

   “Very well,” Lucius said coolly, rising to his feet, setting his cane behind his back as he fiddled silently with the silver head, carefully working it loose. “I will be Obliviating your secretary – I’m assuming you don’t mind?”

   O’Sanden waved his hand dismissively and looked back down at the parchment, absorbed in the legalese –

   He didn’t stand a chance.

   “Imperio!”

   O’Sanden’s jaw went slack as Lucius stalked closer, leaning close to the balding man as he placed his wand against O’Sanden’s ear.

   “I will justly compensate you for your hard work,” Lucius said softly, “but you will not exploit my family – those times are over. You will continue to go about your business in the timeframe you specified – after all, I do understand the need for discretion – but you will not cross me, or leak the truth to your old friend Scrimgeour, or do anything to tip off the Ministry or Gringotts. You will hardly even feel my control if you cooperate. Do you understand?”

   “Yes,” O’Sanden murmured tonelessly, and Lucius marvelled how much O’Sanden’s tone hadn’t changed under the curse. Nobody will suspect anything… particularly that he is being controlled by a dead man…

   Without another word, Lucius withdrew his wand and effortlessly Disillusioned himself. It would be a tricky task to sneak out of the Department of Magical Finance without being noticed, but he was confident that he would be able to escape detection. A quick Memory Charm for the attractive brunette secretary in the office foyer, a side route around the cubicles to where the protective enchantments – and Anti-Apparition jinx – ended, and he could easily disappear

   Another segment of my plan completed – and now the hardest part of all: the wait.

***

  “I don’t understand why we couldn’t have met in your office,” Rita Skeeter complained, sidling into the tiny booth and glaring at the scarred Hit Wizard getting in opposite her.

   “Yeah, and have you anywhere close to my personal case files?” Kemester retorted. “Not a chance in hell.”

   “So a Muggle bar?” Rita continued incredulously. “In downtown London? At ten in the morning? We’re an Apparition away from Diagon Alley, and –”

   “Both of us attract a fair amount of attention, Ms. Skeeter,” Kemester said curtly, fidgeting with his tie roughly with his hand and wincing at the rush of pain as he moved his fingers. He knew the Muggle suit didn’t look particularly good on him, with the horrific scars across his face and hands, but a simple charm he knew would give to Muggles the appearance of a healthy man, albeit a very ugly one. “Here, I can attract less. And you can’t use your Quick-Quotes Quill, so it’s another bonus for me.”

   Rita glared daggers at the Hit Wizard, but then simply sniffed with disdain. Kemester knew that she was holding back comments, but he also knew anything he would give her was too good to pass up. She smoothed out her long dark coat and looked carefully around the bar. “Do you suspect we’ve been followed?”

   “Unlikely,” Kemester replied coldly, motioning for the waitress to approach. “Rye straight – what do you want, Rita?”

   “Water, please,” she quickly said, fixing Kemester with another acrid glare. “I don’t drink when I’m building a case – or this early in the day.”

   Kemester shrugged. “Your loss.”

   “You certainly cleaned up better than expected,” Rita noted, rolling her eyes as she took in the ill-fitting suit.

   Kemester shrugged. “Better than most wizards would – and besides, I’m a Hit Wizard, we have some training about going incognito. This way, to everyone else here, we’re a businessman and businesswoman engaging in professional conversation in a London bar.”

   “Is your partner joining us?”

   “No,” Kemester replied curtly, reaching into his suit jacket pocket and pulling out a thick sheaf of files that could not have regularly fit inside of it. “Undetectable Extension Charm, Ms. Skeeter.”

   Rita just snorted. “Would have looked more convincing if you had just brought a damn briefcase, you know. So which of us goes first?”

   Kemester smirked – although with all of the scars seaming his face, it could have easily passed for a grimace. “You, obviously. I’m the one investigating this, after all.”

   “Not legitimately,” Rita said smugly.

   “As long as I keep my little training job and my head away from the Potter file or anything related to last November with the bombings, they don’t particularly care what I’m looking at,” Kemester returned curtly. “The Department’s overworked as it is right now. So what did you find out?”

   Rita scowled, and then pulled out a tiny reporter’s pad from her coat and flipped it open. “Laertes Rawling, born September 21st, 1952, halfblood. Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, graduated with unremarkably good grades, became a fully qualified Unspeakable in ’71. Only child, parents died in the 80s, no wife or children, Apparated daily from an apartment in Kent to work in London. Died in October last year, apparently at the hands of one Sturgis Podmore.”

   Kemester snorted. “Completely unremarkable. Anything else?”

   “I found his apartment – already had been emptied a month ago when the landlord discovered that dead people don’t pay rent,” Rita replied bitingly. “Your turn.”

   Kemester flipped open the first case file in his hands. “Everything you already said, plus more. From the papers that were declassified and that I could get my hands on, his work apparently involved studying something called ‘The Veil’ in the Department of Mysteries. I have no bloody clue what that is – apparently it has something to do with death or something, everything I could find that he wrote was so blacked out and classified that I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it.”

    “Well, that’s completely uninteresting – anything else, like circumstances of his death?”

   Kemester ran a hand through his orange hair as the waitress returned with their drinks. He tossed a few crumpled Muggle notes to her as he returned to the file. “They apparently found his body on the floor of the hallway leading to the Department of Mysteries, and from the way he was sprawled, it looked as though the murderer had nailed him with a Killing Curse in midstride.” He took a swig of the rye and nearly spat it back out. “By Merlin, this stuff is terrible –”

   “You ordered it,” Rita retorted, taking a sip of her own water, “and you didn’t specify the brand. She probably grabbed the cheapest of the lot. But back to Rawling’s death – apparently, everything I’ve seen suggests Sturgis Podmore killed him. How did they confirm that?”

   “They caught him running, and from there, it was Priori Incantatem,” Kemester replied, closing the file and setting it on the table so he could open the next in the stack. “Easy way to identify him – but things started getting murky when one asks why he did it.”

   “I thought it was because he was under Dumbledore’s orders or something,” Rita said suspiciously. “At least that was reported through the Prophet –”

   Kemester gave her a look full of frank disbelief. “And you believed that?”

   “Of course not – I know where the Prophet stood around that time – but apparently Podmore confessed.” She shook her head. “You don’t get much clearer data than that.”

   “Except for this,” Kemester said, pulling a paper from the file and sliding it across the table to Rita. “That’s from Umbridge’s fourth report on what she deemed as the ‘Order of the Phoenix conspiracy’ – namely that she suspected the Order had reformed in secret after Potter and Dumbledore started proclaiming You-Know-Who was back. So she had a few of her people keep eyes on what was going on, and apparently, according to this, Rawling was in good favour with Dumbledore.”

   “We’re relying on Umbridge’s intelligence?” Rita spat incredulously. “Forgive my suspicions, but –”

   “Sanders was the one that apparently signed off on this,” Kemester said curtly, pointing down at the bottom of the paper. “And given he was halfway reliable… I suspect the information is legitimate.”

   “Then that raises the question why Dumbledore would have had Rawling killed in the first place,” Rita said after a few long seconds of thought. “It doesn’t make sense – and particularly considering the kill was so damn sloppy. Even if we buy that Dumbledore was behind it – which doesn’t make much sense – wouldn’t he have more discretion?”

   “That would be the idea,” Kemester replied darkly, tucking the paper back into the file. “Which makes me think that Mr. Podmore was either acting under his own motivations or was coerced or bewitched into killing Rawling – and given his personnel file, I don’t think I could consider this guy capable of murder. I mean, he was a Healer in the First War, and from what I’ve seen on file, he was as far away from combat as he could possibly get!”

   “So you’re saying he was coerced into this?” Rita asked, her eyes lighting up at the hint of conspiracy.

   “I don’t think there is any doubt of that,” Kemester replied quietly, “but the questions then become ‘who’ and ‘why’.” He cast a look around the bar and lowered his voice. “I need to swear you to absolute secrecy on this matter – it’s a matter of Ministry security.”

   Rita snorted. “I’m flattered,” she began caustically, “that you just made the assumption I would need to be sworn to –”

   “I’m not an idiot, Skeeter.”

   Rita rolled her eyes. “Point taken. Fine, I swear – what’s the scoop?”

   Kemester cast another uneasy look around the bar and then lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “You know most of the Ministry now suspects that You-Know-Who has returned.”

   Rita nodded once. “So?”

   “Well, what you probably don’t know is that there has been a leak within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and information has gone missing, likely passing to You-Know-Who.” Kemester clenched his scarred hand into a fist. “I’ve been trying to track down the leak, with not a lot of success. Sure, Sanders was under the Imperius Curse, but he wouldn’t have had enough reach to leak everything. Besides, as I said before, he was on Umbridge’s payroll, and nobody really trusted him completely.”

   “So you’re saying that leak could be responsible for coercing Podmore,” Rita murmured slowly, connecting the dots. “Okay, but what’s his angle? Why kill Rawling?”

   “Deprive Dumbledore of people in the Department of Mysteries? If You-Know-Who’s involved, it makes sense –”

   “Except Dumbledore’s probably smart enough to have a back-up agent in the Department already,” Rita interrupted, drumming her long fingernails on the table. “Maybe Rawling found out about the leak, and needed to be silenced – or hell, maybe someone wanted his work in the Department of Mysteries to be stopped, I dunno…”

   “Either way, certain files will need to be acquired, and I wouldn’t mind doing a once-over on Rawling’s possessions,” Kemester finished, tucking the papers back into the file. “Assuming the leak hasn’t already covered that angle.”

   “And why does that involve me?”

   “Because I want you to be the one to track down Rawling’s personal effects,” Kemester replied, a slow grin appearing on his face. “I can get you hair and blood samples, if you need them –”

   “His stuff was thrown out!” Rita snarled, her nose wrinkling with disgust. “I don’t want to be digging through garbage –”

   “Oh, I’m sorry, considering the reporting you do, I made the assumption you’d be used to it,” Kemester retorted, shoving the files back inside his jacket, where they vanished instantly. There was only a single file remaining on the table – the thinnest one of all. “But considering you’ll have the exclusive scoop, I assume it’s worth it.”

   Rita glowered at him, before downing the rest of her water in a single gulp and setting the glass down with an audible thunk. “Fine, I’ll do it. So what’s that file for?”

   “The missing-persons report that I started for Fleur Delacour,” Kemester replied evenly, flipping it open. “I figured since you were probably one of the last people to see her, you’d be willing to give me a hand.”

   “I already told you everything –”

   “You told me that she was funnelling information between Potter and the goblins, that they were negotiating something, and that you weren’t sure if everything has been processed,” Kemester interrupted, taking a larger sip of his rye and scowling with distaste. “I need to know more than that. I checked with the Department of International Magical Co-Operation, and according to them, she hasn’t left the country. And that means we need to do some digging.”

   “I remember hearing that she used to work at Gringotts,” Rita said after a few seconds of thinking. “That’s why she has the goblin contacts. Apparently she has some job at the Department of Magical Finance, if I remember correctly –”

   Kemester snapped the file closed and quickly downed the remaining rye in his glass. “All right, so we have a place to start digging. How well do you know downtown Muggle London?”

   “Decently,” Rita replied cautiously. “Kemester, what’s your plan?”

   “You go in and start asking questions,” Kemester replied crisply, rising to his feet and straightening his suit jacket. “I provide your pass and clearance inside and any background support in case things get nasty.”

   “But if Delacour was working at the Department, why didn’t one of her coworkers file the missing-persons report?” Rita asked slowly, getting to her feet and buttoning her coat.

   “That’s the other thing,” Kemester growled, “that we need to find out. Move – I want this done in time for lunch.”

***

   The Church of St. Michael was a very old building, rebuilt after the Great London Fire, but while it had once stood tall, it was now overshadowed by the skyscrapers surrounding it, only accessible by an unassuming front entrance and a small, relatively quiet alleyway that was easy to overlook.

   Nobody saw the two professionally dressed women slip out of the shadows of the courtyard and walk briskly down the alley, towards Cornhill Street. Both were blonde, and could almost be mistaken for sisters, but from their business-like attire and hard-edged stare, it would take a confident man indeed to approach them.

   They crossed Cornhill Street quickly, and headed down Finch Lane. An observant man at this point would have noticed that neither woman gave the Louis Vuitton store on the corner of Finch and Cornhill a second glance – which one might consider strange, considering their relatively expensive attire.

   But then again, most women wouldn’t cut down Finch Lane, a dark, heavily shadowed road lined by high stone buildings, darkened windows, and culvert strewn with garbage. Even with the dense population of downtown, it was not a lane the appeared safe.

   It only took them a few minutes to cross the darkened lane, but instead of continuing towards one of the banks or the London Stock Exchange just a few minutes away, they moved directly to their right, a well-appointed old building known as the Threadneedles Hotel – well-known for being one of the best hotels in the world.

   The taller woman, whose hair seemed to flicker to a light brunette as they moved inside, approached the front desk. “I’m here to pick up the key for Ms. Vuneren,” she said in a cold, commanding voice.

   The attendant at the desk looked down at her ledger, not even noticing the subtle wave of a wand behind her high counter. “It… it seems like everything’s in order.” She handed the woman a keycard and gestured towards the elevators. “Your room should be ready, ma’am.”

   “Good,” the woman replied, gesturing for her companion to hold the elevator as they ducked inside, riding it in silence to the very top floor. Getting off on that floor, they hurried down the hall to the door of their room.

   The woman abruptly gave the electronic key to her companion. “You do it.”

   “You’re telling me you don’t know how –”

   The woman reddened as she drew her wand. “Just do it, already.”

   The companion sighed, and swiped the key. The woman muttered a few words and waved her wand again, subtly disabling the protective enchantments that surrounded the room.

   A harassed male voice shouted from the room. “What?”

   “We’re here, Sirius,” the woman replied, glancing at her companion and rolling her eyes as they let themselves into the room and hastily shut the door behind them. Instantly, the woman’s hair went bubblegum pink. “Thought you knew we were coming…”

   “I did, I did!” Sirius protested, looking up from a pile of papers strewn all across the beds and tables. Each paper was filled to the margins with equations, notes, and intricately drawn maps. “It’s just that this is going to be tricky enough as it is, Tonks, we’ll need to be really careful if we want to pull this off.”

   “We broke into Gringotts, Sirius,” Harry replied tiredly from his simulacrum as he placed the key on top of the boxy television – which wasn’t working, considering the sheaths of enchantments Sirius had placed on the room. “The Department of Magical Finance shouldn’t be that difficult.”

   “That was different,” Sirius said tersely, running a hand through his unkempt hair as Tonks picked up the maps and began scanning them intently. “The Department of Magical Finance is located inside a Muggle building –“

   “Yeah, the missing thirteenth floor of the London Stock Exchange,” Tonks cut him off, flipping to the next map and reading it intently. “We get on the elevators, push the right buttons in the right order, and we’re there without issues. It’s easy –”

   “Yeah, except when you realize that getting out is an entirely different endeavour,” Sirius pointed out, gesturing out the window to the massive stone building that housed the London Stock Exchange. “This isn’t Diagon Alley where you can use magic openly if you want to get out – you have to be discreet. Plus, with the Muggle IRA bombing six years ago in the visitors’ gallery, if something causes a major commotion, they’ll have a lockdown procedure in place – and that doesn’t even begin to cover what would happen if there was a magical disturbance!”

   “How did you find out about the bombing?” Harry asked curiously.

   “Did a bit of research in a Muggle library last night after Tonks sent her Patronus telling me you two were planning on breaking in there,” Sirius replied dismissively, waving away Harry’s shocked look. “Don’t worry, the break-in was painless, I was Disillusioned the entire time, and nobody saw me regardless.”

   Harry let out a sigh of relief, but he still glared at his godfather, who was failing spectacularly to look remotely innocent. “Regardless, I’m assuming you’ve been trying to find a way to work around all the security.”

   Sirius smirked. “Well, hopefully this will be as easy as you two think it will – get in, get the addresses, get out – but in case something does go wrong and you need to get out of there, I’ve placed a few charms on the windows of where the thirteenth floor would be, if you could see it from the outside, since the entrances will be sealed, and I’m guessing the Floo Network and Apparition won’t work.”

   “Between the twelfth and the fourteenth, I’m assuming,” Harry reasoned.

   “Actually, between the seventeenth and eighteenth floors – hey, don’t look at me like that, magic can be weird like that!” Sirius said hastily, raising his hands in surrender. “Anyways, if you hit them with a spell, the charms will let me know that you’re coming. If a window breaks and you go through it, I’ve got a spell that will slide you straight here, thanks to the powers of solidified air, gravity, and my prodigious concentration.”

   “Wouldn’t a Portkey make it easier?” Tonks asked with a frown as she set down her papers and began toying with her hair. “I mean, this seems an awful lot of work –”

   “Portkeys require timing you might not have,” Sirius replied with a shrug, “and this way you’re guaranteed to bypass any enchantments that could stop them. All you need to do is get to the windows – any windows, thanks to the charm – and you’ll have a way out.”

   “That assumes the windows aren’t spelled shut,” Harry pointed out.

   Sirius shook his head. “Assuming they make the connection and spell them shut – most people aren’t nuts enough to leap out the window in the middle of January. But even still, my charms will unravel those with one touch of your spell on them.” He gave them a smile. “See? Easy!”

   “Okay, that could work,” Harry conceded, “but that still doesn’t solve our biggest problem.” He turned to Tonks. “Namely that you’re not a Veela.”

   Tonks smirked. “That’s what spells are for, Harry. I’ve got a little charm up my sleeve that should do the trick. Besides, Fleur was only part-Veela – being drop-dead gorgeous will get me past anything my charm won’t stop.”

   Harry let out a long slow breath. “Okay, then. Let’s get this done.”

   One step closer to the Potter Vaults… and figuring out everything in this mess.

***

   Suddenly, he knew the truth.

   He could see them – all of them – for what they were. Despite everything they had said, consoling him otherwise, he could see right through them. Right through their lies, their deceptions, their smiles and assurances.

   It was unclean. It was unholy.

   “Ernie?”

   He snapped up, and he saw Binns still at the front of the room, droning on and on about giant wars – wars that he had already read about when he had studied on all those long nights. The nights when hardly anyone at Hogwarts could sleep. Nights where Dreamless Sleep potions only got one so far…

   They were poisons, not potions. A subtle toxin, lulling one beneath the blankets of blissful ignorance… but no more. He was aware now, of the taint, of the corruption pouring like rivers of rot across the school – no, not a school, a breeding pit for evil incarnate…

  “Ernie?” Hannah Abbott asked with concern, snapping her fingers. “You awake? You listening?”

   Oh, he was listening. He could hear them all. He could hear their frantic, terrified souls, clutching the bars forged of ignorance and lies, quaking for the chance to be set free, seeking that holy reprieve…

   And he was ready. He had felt the presence of the student, but now the teacher had arrived, his words born of fire in the belly and spirit on his tongue.

   And they would never know. The preacher had been silenced for half a millennia, but the silence would be broken, and the clarion trumpets would ring, and the heretics and witches would burn...

  Ernie blinked twice, looked at Hannah, and gave her a warm smile. “I’m awake, Hannah.”

   “Are you okay?”

   And all of those who would not accept the freedom and truth that he gave would taste nothing more than the wrath of the Creator, the purifying scourge, the Light which consumes evil utterly, and leaves only the pure behind…

   Thus it had been written, and thus it would be done…

  He nodded, his smile never wavering. “Never been better.”

***

   Harry couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of déjà vu the second they entered the London Stock Exchange. The doors were not nearly as imposing, and there were no goblin guards, but the stakes were just as high. He held the door for Tonks and set off across the foyer, keeping a chill, business-like expression fixed upon his simulacrum’s face.

   “You should really relax,” Tonks muttered, now effortlessly wearing the face of Fleur , Delacour as she tossed her shimmering blonde hair back over her shoulder. “You look like you’re going to piss that nice suit.”

   Harry went red as Tonks chuckled, as the two of them reached the elevators without a second glance, other than a few warm smiles from some sharply-dressed businessmen leaving the building early for lunch. Better yet, there was nobody waiting for the elevators, so they easily managed to commandeer an elevator car for themselves.

   The second the metallic doors closed, Harry let out a breath. “That was close…”

   “Would you relax?” Tonks replied quickly, eyeing the elevator buttons keenly. “Okay, so we need a four and a fifteen… and a thirteen… and a six… and then the bell.”

   She rapidly jabbed all of the buttons and hit the alarm buzzer with the palm of her hand. But instead of a screeching alarm, a pleasant female voice filled the elevator.

   “Welcome to the Department of Magical Finance. Visitors, please sign in at the desk. Have a pleasant day.”

   Tonks smiled as the elevator began slowly moving. “See, no trouble at all.”

   “We’re making the assumption that Fleur got our message and won’t be in the office today,” Harry said nervously, drumming his fingers against the elevator wall. “We never did hear back from her.”

   “True enough, but it’s not like she told either of us where she lived,” Tonks replied briskly, carefully tying her hair back before drawing her wand. “Okay, I need to cast this charm before we get to the top.”

   “You sure it’ll work?”

   “It should,” Tonks muttered tensely, pointing the wand at her face. “Pulchellus visio!

   There was a flash of pink light and perfumed smoke, but when the smoke had dissipated, Harry smiled. Though he wasn't inside his own body, there was now a certain otherworldliness surrounding Tonks' features that nearly matched Fleur's perfectly. “I think it worked, Tonks.”

   “You sure?” Tonks asked concernedly, eyeing herself in the mirrored elevator. “Not sure I can tell…”

   “Department of Magical Finance main floor,” the pleasant voice said, as the elevator dipped slightly to the proper floor. “Have a pleasant day.”

   The elevator doors opened up to a flurry of activity. The foyer, done in white marble and dark woods, had a peculiar opulence that almost felt like the rooms in Gringotts Harry had seen, but the light was much brighter and whiter, giving the room a very clean and new, almost antiseptic feel. An attractive young woman, wearing Muggle business attire, was sitting behind the front desk, and behind her was the door that Harry guessed led to the cubicles of the Department proper.

   “Good morning, Miss Delacour,” the woman began politely – although Harry caught the flash of pure envy on her face. “Good to see you back from your leave. How was the vacation?”

   If Tonks was surprised by this comment, she didn’t show it, only giving a warm smile and mimicking Fleur’s accent. “It was quite passable, thank you. Did I get any messages?”

   “Everything’s at your desk,” the woman replied, her eyes darting to Harry. “Who’s your friend? We’ll need her to sign in.”

   Harry forced a smile onto his simulacrum’s face. “Clarissa Desdame, of Desdame & Vuneren, attorney at Magical Law, here to pick up some paperwork for my case.”

   The woman at the desk nodded. “Understood, ma’am – if I could just get you to sign the guest book, that would be great.”
   Harry walked stiffly to the book and bent to sign it.
Just need to keep control… shit, nearly signed my name 'Harry' here! Just stroke out the first few letters…

   “Sorry,” Harry said aloud, giving the young woman an apologetic, slightly embarrassed smile, “my mind’s on the case, wandering a bit.”

   “Oh, it’s fine,” the woman said brightly, returning the smile. “If you wouldn’t mind passing the book to those two visitors, that’d just be fine.”

   Finishing his signature, Harry carefully set the quill flat on the book and turned…

   Only to come face-to-face with the scarred visage of Dmitri Kemester – whose eyes lit up with sudden recognition…

***

   The sudden knock on the heavy wooden door would have caught most men off-guard – but Alastor Moody was not most men.

   He didn’t raise his head from the heap of scribbled notes – which was starting to resemble a small Muggle paperback, allowing his eye to swivel to the door. Granger… interesting. She doesn’t look like she’s slept, but that means nothing in Hogwarts these days… and from the looks of things, she’s running on pure adrenaline more than anything…

   He cleared his throat. “What?”

   Hermione cracked the stone door open and carefully looked in the office. “Professor, can I have a moment?”

   “Depends,” Moody replied curtly, still not looking up at her – though his magical eye was fixed on her every nervous motion. “What do you want?”

   “Well, I was doing some research in the library about the attacks,” Hermione began hastily, unslinging her book bag and rifling through it frantically to pull a thick, slightly crumpled wad of parchment. “Oh shoot, they’re –”

   “Cut to the point, Granger,” Moody growled, taking the notes from Hermione’s hand and quickly spreading them one of the few spots on his desk not covered in papers.

   “I was trying to track down a pattern for the attacks, running on my theory that each stage represents an age period of human life,” Hermione said quickly, running a hand through her tangled hair distractedly as she moved closed to the desk. “And from that, I was going through old Daily Prophets going back a few centuries to find out if other people have died at Hogwarts before. That sort of thing might not have been mentioned in Hogwarts: A History, but it probably would have made the news.”

   Moody grunted. It wasn’t a bad idea, of course – he’d done it two weeks earlier. “What did you find, Granger?”

   Hermione swallowed hard. “Not a lot, really. I found a few possibilities, but nothing substantial, and the Hogwarts library only carries Prophets back to about 1793 –”

   “So you have nothing?” Moody growled, forcibly keeping the disappointment and bitterness out of his voice.

   “Not exactly!” Hermione said frantically, pointing down at her notes. “So, from there I started looking up the memoires of old professors and Headmasters –”

   “Granger, I’m going to stop you right there,” Moody said curtly, “because you’ve wasted your time. I’ve already gone through the Hogwarts library and every volume the Headmaster was able to provide for me in intricate detail – no easy task, considering the language and magical protections of the earlier books, so what do you think you’ve found –”

   Hermione ducked down and pulled a massive book from her bag that Moody recognized instantly, and he wrinkled his nose with disgust. The book was bound with black gaudy leather and a tattered silver ribbon poked out of the spine for use as a bookmark.

   “This,” Hermione said, breathing fast, “is the personal memoires of Phineas Nigellus Black, least popular Headmaster at Hogwarts.”

   “I know,” Moody said with distaste, taking the book with the same air one would hold a rotting rabbit carcass. “I’ve already read through it – it wasn’t very good, and certainly not insightful.”

   “Except for this,” Hermione said quickly, flipping the book open to the ribbon-marked page and pointing down to the bottom. “It’s an excerpt from Phineas’ speech when he took Headmaster’s office.”

   Moody scowled, but he read:

   “…and I cannot thank my great family enough for providing their necessary support to me. The Black line has always upheld the highest degree of integrity and generosity, and I will uphold their legacy at Hogwarts to the end of my days, and enshrine the family name in the castle for future generations who prove worthy…”

   There was silence for a long few seconds, and then –

   “Well?” Hermione asked urgently. “Don’t you see it?”

  Moody snorted before closing the book. “Yeah, I see it. Pompous gasbag.”

   “He said he wanted to ‘enshrine the family name in the castle for future generations who prove worthy’!” Hermione exclaimed, jabbing down at the book. “Considering the man made no real lasting impact on the school, couldn’t it mean that he wanted to be buried here?”

   Moody’s raised both his eyebrows. “That’s a big leap, Granger, to pull from this little scrap of text –”

   “It’s all we –”

   “Which, if you knew the history of Phineas Nigellus Black,” Moody snapped, glaring at Hermione, “you’d know comes from a speech he never gave.”

   Hermione’s mouth fell open. “What? B-But, the book, it has –”

   “Use your bloody brain, Granger!” Moody snarled, shoving the book off the desk onto the floor. “Black was a liar from beginning to end, and not a very good one at that. If you knew the true history of the man, you would have known he spent most of his acceptance speech yammering like an imbecile!” He stood up and turned to his wall of papers as his scowl grew deeper, his magical eye still fixed on a trembling Hermione. “After all, Black ego tends to outstrip Black intelligence.”

   Hermione took a few seconds to compose herself before taking a deep breath. “Okay… but does it matter that he didn’t say it in real life? He could have still meant to say it, and he could have done something even without documenting it.”

   “That’s an even bigger leap of logic, Granger,” Moody growled.

   “Professor, we don’t have anything else to lose,” Hermione pleaded. “Look, say he did try to build a tomb at Hogwarts. He would have built it deep in the dungeons, it would have been easy to hide, and ‘the worthy’ – Slytherins, in his eyes – would have had the best chances to find it.” Her eyes suddenly began shining with ideas. “What if the labourers building the tomb found something by accident, a passage down into the depths of Hogwarts…”

   “Stop.”

   Hermione stopped talking as Moody slowly turned to face her, his expression stony.

   “How long has it been since you’ve slept, Granger?”

   She didn’t expect that question, and she shifted awkwardly. “I… I dunno, Professor. Nobody really gets a lot of sleep at Hogwarts anymore… ever since the beginning of the term…”

   “Get some sleep – now,” Moody ordered sternly. “Get up to Gryffindor Tower and stay there, and for Merlin’s sake keep your mouth shut.”

   “Does that mean… does that mean you believe me?” Hermione asked hesitantly. “You think it’s possible?

   Moody snorted as he reached for a bag on his mantelpiece and tossed some of the Floo powder in the smouldering grate. “I won’t be able to rule it out until I check.”

   As soon as Hermione had pulled her notes and books back into her bag and hurried out, Moody turned to the fireplace.

   “Minerva! Dumbledore’s office – we may have a lead.”

***

   “Blaise, stop doing that,” Malfoy said curtly, looking up from his essay.

   Zabini scowled, but stopped drumming his fingers on his already completed paper and crossed his arms. “Why, was I disturbing you?”

   “Yes,” Malfoy snapped, struggling to regain his fragile focus. Ever since Nott had disappeared (according to Blaise, he had gone down there), Malfoy’s nerves had been on edge. Nott’s dangerous enough with his mind half-gone… if he exposes himself, there’ll be hell to pay… but if he’s around, he could find out about my father’s plan if I let something slip… blast!

   His quill tip split beneath his fingers. With a muttered curse, he abruptly rolled up his essay and tossed it into his bag with a scowl.

   “Drama queen.”

   “Fuck off, Blaise.”

   “I don’t know why you’re so concerned Nott will expose us,” Zabini said idly, reaching into his bag and carefully extracting a Daily Prophet. “You’re the one who’s acting suspicious as all hell.”

   “Wasn’t that the plan?” Malfoy growled.

   Zabini shrugged. “Does it really matter now? Things have escalated as much as they have, and the poor souls don’t have a damn clue where to look. I say nonchalance is the way to go.” He leaned back in his chair and turned the page. “At least it’ll be my plan.”

   “Well, your family isn’t in disgrace at the moment,” Malfoy spat. “At least whatever’s left of it.”

   Zabini’s eyes narrowed dangerously at the low blow, but to Malfoy’s frustration, the other wizard refused to respond to the goading. Icy cold bastard…

   “Oh for Merlin’s sake, now you’re sulking,” Zabini said drily, not looking up from his paper. “I stand by my comment – you are a drama queen.”

   “How are you so damn sure that Nott won’t –”
   “I trust he’d be less likely to expose us with his mind gone than with you lucid as you are,” Zabini said coolly.

   “Maybe I should just leave then.”

   “Maybe,” Zabini replied, still not looking up, completely ignoring Malfoy’s intent gaze.

   “Blaise.”

   He finally looked up and glared. “What?”

   “Maybe,” Malfoy repeated slowly, “I should just leave then.”

  Zabini’s eyes widened for an instant before snorting and turning back to his newspaper. “Coward.”

   “Better one alive than dead or worse – without station,” Malfoy said in a low voice, leaning forward. “You have nothing left either, Blaise, and my father has a plan-”

   “Your father always has a plan, and the last plan he had got your family where they are in the first place,” Zabini said flatly. “Maybe you should consider that.”

   “Regardless, Malfoys stick together,” Malfoy said fiercely.

   Zabini stopped reading, and carefully folded his newspaper, setting it down on the table between them. And then he leaned close.

   “Take a lesson from my family, Draco: family is not sacred. Just because you were born from them does not mean you should let their rash words destroy you.” Zabini scowled. “They’re just like us – human. Refusing to acknowledge that doesn’t make you bold, it makes you prodigiously stupid.”

   “So I take your answer,” Malfoy began furiously, blood rushing to his face, “is a –”

   “We’ll see,” Zabini replied with a shrug, kicking his chair back a few inches so he could put his feet on the table, conveniently right in front of Malfoy’s face. “We’ll see what –”

   BANG.

   Malfoy recoiled back away from the table as Zabini turned towards the door of the nearly-deserted common room – everyone had slipped off to dinner. Or so they had thought.

   The figure leaning against the wall was recognizable – although Malfoy could hardly restrain his desire to pull away as he approached the table, his move half a stagger, half a lazy prowl. His eyes were listless, rolling in dark sockets, and he stank of sweat and foulness.

   Zabini’s eyes narrowed. “Draco, I may stand corrected.” He slowly rose to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, Theodore?”

   Theodore’s Nott’s wasted lips curled into an insane grin. “You… you really needed to be there… to be there… it starts blue, and stops, and then it goes until the sun shines…”

   “He’s raving… Blaise, what are you doing?”

   Zabini, who had just finished rolling up his sleeves, gave Malfoy a short gesture. “Get up, I’m going to need your help in a second.”

   “But what are you…”

   “The colours were spinning, they were everywhere –”

   He didn’t get another word out, because his jaw had been rammed shut by Zabini’s fist. Nott staggered back, his eyes glazing, but Zabini wasn’t done. Grabbing the insane Slytherin by the scruff of the neck, he began dragging him towards the dormitories.

   “Would you actually help instead of just stare?” Zabini snarled, glaring at Malfoy and kicking Nott in the ribs as he began to struggle.

   I’m going to regret this, Malfoy thought bitterly, but taking Nott’s feet, he helped Zabini carry him into the bathroom towards the showers, where they unceremoniously dumped him on the floor.

   “You know,” Malfoy mused as he stepped away from the showers, “this is the sort of thing we should have kept Vincent and Gregory around for –”

   “Oh, quit bitching and turn up the damn water!” Zabini snapped, drawing his wand and launching several jets of sparks at the faucets.

   It didn’t take long for the water to turn on. A few seconds later, Zabini’s careful jets of sparks showed their true purpose, and Nott began howling as stream billowed out of the stall.

   “He’s going to kill us,” Malfoy said, carefully stepping towards the door.

   But he was too late – out of the mist came Theodore Nott, soaked to the skin and mad as hell.

   “What… the FUCK-

   “Oh, who would have thought that scalding hot water restores your logical faculties,” Zabini cut him off curtly, flicking his wand and sending a few jets of sparks to turn off the faucets.

   “What did you –”

   “You were starting to smell,” Zabini said coldly, tossing Nott a towel. “I didn’t want your stench to blow our cover.”

   Neither of them expected what came next. Nott’s eyes, for an instant, cleared of any mad light, instead burning with horrifying realization. And then –

   “She knows.”

   “I didn’t catch that, what?” Malfoy demanded.

   “She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, SHE KNOWS!” Nott’s final words were a bellow that even caused Zabini to step back a step, and Malfoy couldn’t blame him – the madness had fully returned to Nott’s face.

   “Wait, who knows what?” Zabini snarled, putting away his wand. “Who’s ‘she’?”

   “Mudblood,” Nott whispered, dragging the word through his teeth.

   “Yeah, and there are a lot of those,” Zabini retorted. “A name, if you would.”

   “It’s Granger, isn’t it?” Malfoy said suddenly, his eyes flashing.

   “How would you –”

   “Mudblood,” Nott hissed, giving a single slow nod.

   “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

   Zabini rounded on Malfoy and jerked his thumb at Nott. “You know he’s incoherent, we can’t put weight behind a single thing he says, and besides, I thought we silenced the bitch –”

   “She used to run around with Potter!” Malfoy spat, slamming his fist into his palm. “Fuck, we should have known scare tactics wouldn’t have taken her down for long –”

   “But it wasn’t like we had much of an option to do anything about here!” Zabini argued. “I mean, from what we were told of the rules of this…”

   “Then maybe we can use the one possessed now –”

   “Can’t compel, can’t compel… can’t compel once he’s already inside…

   Malfoy growled with frustration as he glared at Nott, who was now muttering fiercely to himself as he stared with insane intensity into the mirror. “And if that insane rambling meant anything, we can’t compel the spirit to do shit, so we’re stuck…”

   His voice trailed off at the slow smile spreading on Zabini’s face.”Blaise, I know that smile, what are you thinking?”

   Zabini looked over at Nott. “That we contact the Dark Lord… and then we get creative.”

***

   “Strange,” Kemester began slowly, fighting to keep any expression off his face, “that you and I keep running into each other.” His eyes narrowed as he extended his hand. “And yet we’ve never made any introductions. Dmitri Kemester, Hit Wizard – and you are?”

   Potter’s lawyer hesitated, her eyes filled with sudden shock for a few minutes before she took Kemester’s hand and shook it briefly, with the firm, fast handshake of a professional. “Clarissa Desdame, attorney-at-law.”

   Rita’s eyes lit up. “I know that name – you’re Harry Potter’s lawyer! My, I could imagine you would have –”

   “Absolutely nothing to say to you, Miss Skeeter,” Desdame retorted swiftly, with supreme disdain, not even deigning to look at the indignant reporter. “So what brings you here, Hit Wizard… ah, Kemester, you said it was?”

   “You know my name,” Kemester said in a low, dangerous voice, “so don’t play games here, Miss Desdame.” He raised his voice a bit louder. “And actually, I’m here to speak with Miss Delacour here, regarding the missing persons report that was filed regarding her – or rather, the lack thereof.”

   Delacour frowned. “Missing persons report?”

   “You’ve been missing for a few months, Delacour,” Kemester said lightly, pulling the file from his blazer jacket, “so I can only assume you wouldn’t mind catching up with me, just so I can make sure this report is filed properly?’

   “She’s been on vacation,” the receptionist helpfully chirped up.

   “Has she?” Kemester asked, his voice filled with sudden, intense interest as he sidestepped Desdame and approached the counter. “And who told you that?”

   “Mr. O’Sanden did, of course,” the receptionist replied cheerfully.

   “Spectacular,” Kemester murmured, his mind racing turning to the three women glaring at each other. “Miss Delacour, if you wouldn’t mind, can we continue this at your desk? I don’t want to keep you away from your work, of course.”

   “You have to sign in here,” the receptionist said loudly, tapping her wand on the sign-in book.

   Kemester considered for a second wiping the receptionist’s memory where she sat and taking Rita, Desdame, and Delacour down to the Ministry proper for interrogation, but he restrained himself and quickly scrawled a signature in the book, blatantly taking up a few extra lines. Rita gave Kemester an incredulous look, but she quickly added her signature beneath his.

   “Oh, and Fleur?” the receptionist added suddenly.

   “Que?” Delacour snapped. She seemed startled at the harshness of her reply, and carefully lowered her voice and smiled. “Sorry about that, oui?”

   “I just remembered to tell you, O’Sanden had your desk and papers moved over on the far left side, by the new windows,” the receptionist replied, a little thrown off by Delacour’s sharpness. “Hope you find everything okay.”

   “Ah, understood. Merci.”

   They passed through the doors behind the receptionist to a flurry of activity. Despite the hardwood floors and paneled cubicles, there was still a buzz of activity from the numerous Floo connections scattered around the room, and hundreds of purple paper airplane memos zooming through the air. Delacour led, but Kemester immediately noticed that she was moving a bit haltingly – as was Desdame.

   “You two lost?”

   Desdame stiffened, but Delacour simply huffed and pointed at a far, unoccupied desk by the windows. “My desk is right over there. You may conjure yourself chairs if you wish.”

   Kemester gave a small grin as he drew his wand and conjured three stiff metal chairs out of thin air and set them on the ground. “Well, take a seat then, ladies. After all, I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time, now would I?”

***

   He signed his name carefully at the bottom of the page and smiled at the receptionist. “Hope that’s fine.”

   The receptionist returned his warm smile. “Hope you find what you’re looking for, sir. Mr. O’Sanden’s office is near the back. Do you have an appointment?”

   He shrugged, and waved his wand. Instantly, her eyes went glassy, and he carefully stepped around her. “You know,” he remarked, almost to himself, “I really don’t feel like answering that question.”

   He didn’t wait for the receptionist’s response that would never come as he stepped inside the Department of Magical Finance and began walking to the back, his mind racing. It wouldn’t take long to get this issue sorted out, the money going to the right people, and fortunately O’Sanden had always been pliable.

   And then he saw the flash of white-blonde.

   At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, but he looked again – and there it was.

   He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. No… how… it can’t be… how can she…

  But it was unmistakeable. She was sitting opposite Rita Skeeter – Rita Skeeter! – an ugly-looking Hit Wizard he didn’t recognize, and –

   If there had been any air left in his lungs at that point, it would have been gone. His mind went blank, his rational thought evaporating like a puddle in a furnace.

   She’s there… and they’re together… and Skeeter’s there…

  He nearly drew his wand and cursed them all right there, incinerating them to ash. He’d take the office down too, just to be sure…

   This can’t be happening. It’s too soon… it’s too soon…

   But then rational thought returned, and he took a deep breath. Trust, but verify – even what I see. Any one of them – or more – could be imposters, and they aren’t why I’m here. I can verify the truth later, make this all make sense…

   He nearly chuckled to himself at that thought as he resumed his course. Sense… it hadn’t made much sense for years, and it wasn’t going to start now.

***

   “So,” Kemester began, fixing Tonks with a steely eye, “you don’t have much of a tan – where did you go on holidays?”

   Tonks gave Harry a quick look, ignoring Skeeter entirely as the reporter pulled out her Quick-Quotes Quill and a pad of paper, and then replied just haughtily enough to imply that Kemester was an ass for even asking the question.

  “I went home, to France.”

   “Not according to our files, you didn’t,” Kemester shot back, a smirk creeping onto his face. “No record of you leaving the country. Try again.”

   “I received special clearance from the Department of International Magical Co-Operation, as a Ministry employee, to return home for a time to clear my head,” Tonks said steadily, her faked French accent still managing to hold up. “After the… problem at the Ministry.”

   “Who paid for your trip?”

   “The Ministry, obviously,” Tonks replied, trying desperately to keep the uncertain edge from her voice.

   Skeeter scoffed. “The Ministry wouldn’t have paid –”

   “With as many workers as were injured and killed in that disaster, if the Ministry wanted to have any employees by the end of the day, they would have had to pay,” Harry interrupted smoothly.

   Neither Kemester nor Skeeter looked convinced.

   “And how would the Ministry get that money, with the goblin hostilities?” Kemester asked slowly, dragging his finger in a pattern along the desk.

   “Workers’ compensation funds,” Harry replied stiffly. “Required by law to have them.”

   “And why would Miss Delacour be at the main offices at all?” Kemester continued, raising his uneven eyebrows. “She works here, far from the calamity there. Why would she have received any compensation?”

   “I was… I was at the main offices on the day of the attack,” Tonks replied, and despite himself, Harry could feel a thin trickle of sweat on the small of his back.

   “Why?” Kemester pursued. Tonks quickly glanced at Harry… and he suddenly remembered the last time he had seen Fleur, and why she had left the Ministry…

   “She was answering allegations Scrimgeour had brought against her,” Harry said quickly. “The Head of the Auror Office had been poking around here, inquiring into her actions, and she felt it necessary to answer his queries in person.”

   Kemester hadn’t expected that, and Skeeter’s nostrils flared with irritation, but when Kemester glanced away for a few seconds, Tonks slipped Harry a grateful smile.

   “I’ll be speaking with Scrimgeour to confirm that,” Kemester said after a few seconds.

   “Of course you will,” Harry replied, giving the Hit Wizard a sweet smile he knew would frustrate him to no end.

   “So, where in France did you go?” Kemester asked, changing tactics.

   “Bordeaux,” Tonks answered promptly. “To stay with my family – my uncle has a vineyard there.”

   “Really,” Kemester said dryly, his disbelief plain. “And I assume you enjoyed your time there? I suspect it was beautiful there.”

   “Oui.”

   “A lot of time outside?”

   Tonks shrugged. “A bit.”

   “You didn’t tan or burn at all,” Kemester said, the grin creeping back onto his face. “Must not have spent that much time outside. I mean, what’s the point of going to the south of France if you’re not going to spend time outside –”

   “My family,” Tonks replied quickly, trying to keep her expression as blank as possible. “I mean, it was Yule –”

   “I know the date,”  Kemester cut her off sharply. “So, buy gifts for your family?”

   “Oui.

   “Where did you shop?”

   Tonks paused, and Harry frowned – he wasn’t sure where Kemester was going. “Around.”

   “Do any shopping here, or just in France?”

   “Some here,” Tonks replied with a frown.

   Suddenly, Harry got an idea where things were going. Uh oh.

   “If you bought gifts for your family, I suspect you got receipts for those gifts,” Kemester said slowly. “And I suspect you would have had to pay some taxes at the border – I mean, our Department of International Magical Co-Operation is good, but not that good.”

   He gave a predatory smile, like the cat that had finally caught his prey. “So, can you show me the receipts?”

   Tonks huffed. “You honestly would have expected me –”

   “As a member of the Department of Magical Finance, I would have assumed it,” Kemester interrupted, his eyes narrowing.

   “Nobody’s perfect, Mr. Kemester,” Harry interrupted sharply.

   There were a long few seconds, only interrupted by the ambient noise around them and the scratching of Rita Skeeter’s quill whizzing across the parchment.

   “You know, O’Sanden is the interim head of International Magical Co-Operation,” Kemester finally remarked, his smirk widening. “I could just have Miss Skeeter skitter on over to his office, and I can get some real answers here.”

   Harry could hardly hold back a grin of his own at the suddenly nervous expression on Rita Skeeter’s face, but Tonks only crossed her arms over her chest.

   “I’m sure it doesn’t need to come to that,” Harry interjected crisply.

   “And why do you keep interfering in investigations that I’ve involved in?” Kemester asked, suddenly turning to Harry and glaring at him with irritation. “It’s getting rather annoying.”

   “And unless you’re accusing Miss Delacour of a crime, she does not need to answer any further questions,” Harry replied curtly, her irritated expression matching Kemester’s. “It is not your concern where she was on holidays or what she was doing.”

   Kemester nearly opened his mouth to say a harsh retort, but with a warning glance from Skeeter, he pursed his lips and turned back to Tonks. “I apologize, Miss Delacour. It’s good to have you… well, back among us.”

   “From what I’ve heard about you, Mousieur Kemester,” Tonks replied evenly, “I think I can say the same thing.”

   Kemester’s laugh was barking, and too loud. “That’s fair. Incidentally, Miss Desdame, is it too much for me to ask why you’re here?”

   “I’m collecting material for my client’s case,” Harry replied tersely, “and Miss Delacour is aiding me in procuring that information.”

   “You have a subpoena to get that information –”

   “It isn’t required if the records are declassified and public,” Tonks interrupted smoothly. “I’m just helping Madame Desdame get the correct information.”

   “Well, we wouldn’t want our legal partnerships,” Kemester replied softly, rising to his feet, “even the, ah, translucent ones, to become informed, now, would we?”

   Harry’s breath nearly caught in his chest, but he gave Kemester a curt nod. “No, Hit Wizard, we would not.”

   Kemester glared at the two of them for a long few seconds before turning to stalk away, heading towards the entrance, Skeeter close behind.

   The second they were out of eyeshot, Harry leaned close. “You did a good job –”

   “Not good enough,” Tonks whispered. “They suspect something’s up. We need to get the papers and get out before I lose my breakfast.”

   “But you don’t think they’ve got enough for leads, do you?” Harry asked anxiously.

   “Harry, with Hit Wizards like Kemester, you should know by now that leads don’t matter,” Tonks replied tiredly, rising to her feet unsteadily. “He just digs and digs until he hits something.”

***

   “You gave up far too easy,” Rita spat, her voice rising to an accusatory tone as she stormed out of the Department behind Kemester. “You should have hammered –”

   “Skeeter, do the world a favour and shut up,” Kemester snapped, turning to the receptionist. “You – how long do you reckon Delacour was on vacation?”

   The receptionist blinked a few times, but Kemester could tell from the glazed look on her face that he wasn’t going to get anywhere. “You know what, forget it.”

   He looked down – and paused. His eyes fell on the sign-in book and…

   “Oh, that is interesting…”

   “What?” Rita said, clamouring behind him to get a closer look. “What’s –”

   “Nothing that would concern you for the moment,” Kemester replied shortly, snapping the book shut and moving towards the elevator. “Skeeter, you touch that book and I’ll take your fingers off, let’s go!”

   “I don’t have to take orders,” Rita sneered as she stepped into the elevator as the doors closed behind her. “Especially not from –”

   She didn’t say another word, because Kemester had just placed his wand an inch from her nose.

   “You want to get answers?” the Hit Wizard began in a quiet, dangerous voice.

   “Yes, but –”

   “Then I need your eyes. I need you to keep an eye on Desdame and Delacour when they leave this building. Follow them, get any information you can.”

   “And what makes you think –”

   “That you can get any more than I can?” Kemester finished with a smirk that only highlighted the horrific scars on his face. “Simple – you’re paparazzi. You specialize in this shit, and knowing you, you’ve got tactics and methods I don’t. So use them.”

   “And in return?” Rita’s voice was surprisingly even, almost business-like – it was clear she had been intimidated before, and knew what to do.

   “Larshall and I will be tracking our other leads.” Kemester replied curtly. “Finding out who killed Laertes Rawling, finding the leak in the Department, and getting Desdame & Vuneren for the legal fraud it is.”

   “And how are you going to do that?”

   Kemester smirked. “I read my partner’s reports, the ones he made when I was in Azkaban – and according to that, Desdame had another client – and I think I should pay him a visit.”