Title: In Blood
Rating: T+
Spoilers: Compliant with all but Epilogue.
Summary: Draco stumbles into Zacharius Smith's murder, and he becomes the main suspect in a case that has more twists and turns than ever expected. Draco tries to convince Harry - the lead worker on the case - of his innocence, but Draco's still got dark secrets of his own that could destroy him before he can prove himself.

...

Chapter One

"Fuck," he hissed at the scene before him, his wand falling from his hand and rolling across the creaky wooden floor, the light from the tip of it casting dramatic shadows upon the walls as it slid away from him.

His eyes remained on the figure in front of him. Even though he had been plunged into complete darkness, he could still see the body, slumped against the leg of the dining room table, the dark red stains donning his clothing, the glossed, lifeless eyes almost seeming to stare at him, and the blood, oh the blood. He stumbled backwards, into the china cabinet, and he could hear the tinkle of glasses against each other and the shattering of a fallen plate. Draco's hand lifted to his lips as his stomach lurched at the scene, and his knees buckled under him, sending him to the floor. He couldn't believe what he had seen. His body seemed almost unnaturally twisted against the leg of the table, and his lips were bright scarlet, as if they'd been slathered in rouge. He was slit right down the middle, from just below his Adam's apple, all the way to his belly button, as if they'd traced the line of his button down. The cut was jagged in places, and the things spilling from him were of a sickening stench that made his eyes roll back in his head. His mind fought with him, desperate to turn off the images that plagued him and would more than likely see for the rest of his life. After the war, after everything he'd seen… this was the worst. He was sure of it.

The note remained in his pocket, scrawled in his slanted writing. Drinks, my place. Z.S.

Draco felt his breath shudder from him, as if he was emptying out his lungs, before he crawled past the cold body of Zacharius Smith, retrieving his wand with trembling hands. He turned back to him with one final look before racing out the door, into the freezing winter air that nearly burned his tear-stained face.

Zacharius was dead. The thought shot through him like a bolt of lightning, and he nearly collapsed into the snow, stumbling over his own black loafers, his trenchcoat catching a bit of the white powder, but he kept rushing forward, sobbing desperately in spite of himself, cursing and choking and ever-still running away from the Smith house, out to the Portkey, and back to Wizarding London.

He could still see the soft blond hair, splayed over his forehead, and his chocolate eyes that once held that haughty spark that he always swore against having. The idea of it was devastating.

…

Harry drummed his fingers on the desk, eying over the documents before him carefully, trying to tune out the expected chaos that was going around him. His lips thinned in concentration.

"There's not much to this report, Finnigan," he finally sighed at the agent in front of him, dressed in a neat tan suit with a green tie, his dark brown coat still dusted with snow from outside. Seamus rubbed his hands together, looking frustrated. "I don't know if there's anything we can do with this."

"We haven't completed it yet. We just now got the information of Smith's murder. Its brutal there, Potter. You wouldn't believe it."

"That's the problem here, Seamus," Harry replied simply. "Are you sure this is even our investigation? Smith appears to have been practically gutted. He lives out in the middle of nowhere. He could have very well been attacked by a Muggle foe."

Seamus shook his head. "I don't think so. He had his wand nearby. It leads us to believe it was in his hand before he was killed. And to get that close to a wizard with a conventional weapon—"

"It's unlikely, I agree," Harry said. "But to go to this degree… most wizards are a bit cleaner about murder." He furrowed his brows at the photos taken at the scene, running a finger over it. "Why were they so brutal?"

"I don't know," Seamus said with a shrug. "But we both know how Smith was back in school. No one ever really knew what side he was on. Flew the coop before the battle at Hogwarts. Maybe he just got on the bad side of someone. It wasn't exactly hard for him then. I doubt that changed."

"No reason to go this far," Harry replied sympathetically, closing the folder with a hard frown. "Anything else?"

"There were some footprints that we've analyzed to and from the house. Very nice pair of loafers, apparently. We think they're only sold at Twilfitt and Tatting's, so we have some Aurors going to see who's bought them. Not much of a lead, but everything else is flawless. We couldn't even find anything out of place. He has no neighbors, and even if he did, it's doubtful they would be any nosy parkers, especially with someone like Smith."

Harry stood, adjusting his button-down, which had gotten quite askew in a long day of work, and gathered his blazer and coat from the back of his chair. "I want to see this for myself. I'm sure there's something else. Contact Susan Bones and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Get her to give me all the information she has on this case. And contact my secretary and tell her to have a Portkey ready for me when I get outside."

"Yes sir," Seamus said as Harry made for the door. Then, "Harry—"

He turned back to him. "Yes?"

"You don't think… its Death Eaters, do you?"

Harry frowned again. "I don't think Aurors would be required if it wasn't."

Seamus paled significantly before Harry stepped out of his office, leaving him behind. He really didn't want to think of it, himself. It had been seven years since the end of the war and things had been relatively quiet since then. He had been pleased to experience times of peace, to focus on just living his life without the constant threat of Voldemort leering over his shoulder. The Death Eaters that had not gone straight to Azkaban seemed to have reform, though Aurors were almost constantly patrolling them. When Harry took charge of the Auror Department, it had been six years of them under constant Auror patrol, and even as someone who had taken his fair share of Death Eater attacks, he had the patrol slackened. He was starting to think he had made a mistake and, as Ron had so quaintly put it, "been too trusting and bloody foolish."

He was already beginning to feel a migraine at the back of his skull as he threw on his coat and scarf and tugged his leather gloves over his hands. The Ministry was bustling, even at the time of night it was. Given, many of the higher officers had taken leave for the evening, but there were plenty still at work, especially in his department as a whole. Magical Law was interfered with constantly, regardless of whether Death Eaters were on the prowl or not. There were the constant dealings-with of underage magic (typically by accident) and regular misuse of it all together, especially with Muggles. The Aurors were not necessarily required for minor cases, but big ones occasionally came to their attention, and Harry spent more time at work than he did anywhere else.

It was actually quite a vicious circle. He was addicted to his job, because he really didn't have anything better to do, and he didn't have anything better to do because he was addicted to his job. He had dated Ginny for a few years after school, but it didn't work out well in the end, and after a few bitter fights where ugly words were said, they decided friendship suited them better. Their relationship actually did work better that way and he'd had way too many drinks at the local pub with her to let her go completely from his heart. Still, he would drag himself to work every day and stay overtime, even when there wasn't a case, because surely, something would pop up. And after all his hard work training to get there, Harry figured it would be only logical that he wanted to embrace it.

A case like this hadn't come in a long time, however, and Harry was actually surprised to see such brutality done to someone he once, albeit grudgingly, considered his ally. He'd been no stranger to death over the years, but something done to such a disgraceful degree just sickened his stomach, and he just knew Death Eaters had to be involved.

"Potter, going home?" Terry Boot asked, looking like he was headed home himself, an armful of scrolls in one hand, a briefcase in the other.

"No, I've actually got a case to check out."

"This late?"

He nodded. "Head home, Boot. You look positively exhausted. I'll fill you in on all the juicy details in the morning."

"It better be over Firewhiskey. Don't stay up too late, Potter. You've been pretty busy too."

"They say there's no rest for the wicked," Harry responded. "I suppose that makes me wicked?"

"No, there's just no rest for anyone anymore, mate. Goodnight, Potter."

With that, Terry stepped into the Floo and vanished. Harry envied him a little – getting a good night's rest and all – but he could feel the adrenaline of a new case keeping him moving, so Harry continued his way out to the Portkey that was provided for him.

"It's all ready for you," Gloriana, Harry's secretary said, her black hair starting to fall messily from its bun in the cold winter wind. "Will you be requiring anything else, sir?"

"For the last time, Gloriana, you can call me Harry. And please have someone owl me the results of the tests they're doing."

"Yes sir – er – Harry."

…

Even after all the years of using them, Harry still wasn't completely used to Portkeys. He straightened his glasses on his nose, pushing hair out of his eyes and to the side, where it had been neatly combed that morning. As he approached the Smith home, a rather large, but lonely looking house sitting in the middle of a snowy field, gloomily lit in the moonlight. The trees looked weighed down with the powder, creeping heavily over the ground, casting blackened shadows upon the dust and overall adding to the chill of the area. Harry could feel it in his gut, the awful feeling that something seriously terrifying had happened in the Smith home – that it really wasn't his home, not anymore.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!"

Harry groaned. The Daily Prophet was already there, trying to get inside. It let him wondering if they had ever been decent in their entire life. The Smith family would be devastated to learn of their son's death. He doubted having it splayed all over the news would help.

"I'm not answering any questions at this time," he announced, the words rolling off his tongue as if he had said them a million times before – and he probably had – "Please, return home for now. We will release information when it becomes clear to us. Thank you."

He tromped through the snow until he reached a still somewhat buried footpath and made his way to the front door. It opened before he could reach for the handle, and Ron stood in front of him, tall and gangly as always, but severely spooked. Each freckle on his face stood out in stunning quality against his pallid skin, his blue eyes looking lighter and faded as he pulled Harry inside, slamming the door. In the foyer, Harry could hear sounds from the other room, of Aurors and probably medical personnel.

"Ron, are you alright?" Harry felt the need to ask as his friend slumped against the wall with a sigh.

"You wouldn't believe it, Harry. This is just brutal, mate. I know Smith was a bit dodgy, but there was no reason for this. No reason at all."

Harry frowned. He hadn't seen Ron so shaken up in a long time. He imagined seeing photos wasn't giving him the full experience.

"Smith still here?" he asked.

Ron shook his head. "No, he was off for an autopsy about fifteen minutes ago." Ron looked nauseous. "Place still stinks of death though. This was personal, Harry. It had to be."

"Ron, go home. Get a drink. You could use it," Harry said. "I'll handle it from here. We've got plenty of Aurors here."

"No way, mate. Hermione would be asking me all kinds of questions anyway. You know how she is."

"I'm sure she'll hear plenty of information about it at work in the morning."

"But that's never enough. You know that. Besides," Ron looked at his watch. "It's already past two – it is morning."

"Huh," Harry said, blinking. "Didn't realize it was that late already."

"You wouldn't. You're always holed up in that office of yours."

"Careful, Ron, you're sounding like your sister."

"That was very unfortunate, you know."

Harry nodded. He did believe that to be true. "Get some rest, Ron. One of us needs to."

"Yeah," Ron replied, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'm just not so sure it's me."