The polished floorboards groaned under Blaise Zabini's Dragonhide boots as he sprinted through Malfoy Manor. He slid across the Persian rug and into the hall, slamming headfirst into Narcissa Malfoy. Her arms waved comically for several seconds before she could pull herself up on an ivory hatstand. Blaise squinted fearfully up at her, but needn't have worried. Her clawed hand grasped his shoulder kindly, smoothing his rumpled jacket. "I hear you turned ten last week Blaise?" she enquired, making the polite chit chat parents often do when alone with their children's friends. He nodded, still thoroughly abashed at his clumsiness. A frantic thumping sound drifted from the stairs, "I assume you're hiding while my son is seeking?" she asked politely. Blaise nodded again, keeping his eyes trained on the winding staircase. "Two doors to your left there's a linen closet, I think you'll fit snuggly in the towel box" she giving him a little push. Without a word he shot off, waving a hand of recognition as Draco swung around the corner. "Mother, have you seen Blaise we're playing hide and seek?" she shook her head, faking a look of disinterest as he ran back up the stairs.
She stood there, looking after her son with undisguised pleasure. After several minutes of silence her reverie was interrupted by the creaking of floorboards, and the click of a doorhandle. A man in his early thirties shuffled out from the shadows, ominous in the candles dim glow. His skin was patchy and yellowing like parchment, and a red flush crept over his cheeks as though he had been running. He had the complexion of a melted candle, with bright brown eyes and a messy smattering of dusty hair. Narcissa took in his flushed appearance with surprised interest; "you look like you've just seen a ghost". "All I ever see are ghost's ma'am" he replied cryptically, keeping his eyes trained on a cracked pocket watch in his hands. Narcissa looked a little exasperated at this. Her husband had recently invested in several hundred broken magical artefacts and was under the impression he would make an enormous profit by fixing and selling them back to the peddlers of Nocturn Alley. Unfortunately the shady character he had employed had leeched the life out of their house for two months. Draco hated him, and made a point of staying two floors above or below him at all times. Narcissa didn't share that luxury, and had the pleasure of bumping into him at least three times a day. As he shuffled back into the office, she noted that his appearance was becoming more dour an decrepit by the day. Perhaps tinkering with dark artefacts every waking hour did that to a person.
Eleven years later Harry Potter staggered through an eruption of blue flames into the ministry of magic. In tow an enormous centaur fought against vast shackles around his rippled and veined neck. His hoofs scarred the panelled wooden floors as he shot across the hall, with Harry being dragged in his wake. Several witches from the department of magical law enforcement leapt forwards, wands raised. With a jab and a flourish the centaur froze in place, standing like some grotesque statue in the middle of the hall. Harry keeled forwards in a fit of pain and exhaustion. One of the witches took the reins off of him, levitating the beast into the lift for processing. It had been a tough few hours, and Harry was glad to see the beast being taken in for holding. He stood up, deciding that the entrance hall wasn't the seemliest place to recuperate from his ordeal. Without missing a beat the vultures closed in around Harry. "Mr Potter, is it true you've captured the leader of the so called Iron Tramplers, a notorious centaur herd rumoured to have captured several muggle towns?" Harry grunted, gesturing to the lift. Bursts of light popped as several photographers landed. "Mr Potter I'm Meredith Meadows from Witch Weekly; is it true Miss Ginevra Weasley is feeling 'frustrated and lonely' due to your frantic schedule." This slightly infuriated Harry; if they weren't asking him obvious questions they were pushing 'reliable sources' on him left right and centre. "I think she's frustrated with you lot squatting on our lawn to photograph our fashion faux pas every other week" he countered, pushing past the circle of reporters and onlookers.
Harry looked at the gleaming marble obelisk that detailed all the victims of the 2nd Wizarding War. He preferred it to the fountain of magical brethren, and considered it an apt replacement to the statue that had rested there in the Voldemort's day. Years on the ache he felt for the sheer number of listed names never left him, but he felt more respect than dumb sadness these days. He passed the monument, walking through a smattering of artefacts on display from Voldemort's second reign of terror. He grinned at the battered tent they had borrowed from Bill when they left shell cottage. 'This tent housed the infamous Golden Trio for half a year when they were on the run from You Know Who'. Of course the caption was wrong; it was Perkins' tent that they had spent so many lonely nights in, discussing Voldemort's troubled past. He also smiled at a recording of Pals of Potter, cringing at Fred's crass comment on Umbridge's new regime. In pride of place the maimed diary grinned cruelly up at him; sinister even without the soul of Tom Riddle oozing through its pages.
The golden grills clanked open, expelling two ministry workers and three tea towel clad houseleves. Behind them an exasperated junior assistant shepherded them through the legs of an Unspeakable. Harry smiled down at them, and to his surprise they smiled back, each looking him right in the eye. He got out on the second floor, glad to be tucked away from the public eye. He waved at Savage who was magically adding thread to an enormous corkboard with several known criminals, Wizarding dwellings and maps of rural Wales pinned to its face. He remembered Ron telling him during their Auror training that there were celebrations whenever a dark wizard was captured. He had been so indignant when they only got a polite nod after their first big capture. The path of the Auror was not surrounded by glory; but that was the way Harry liked it. For two hours he filled out extensive paper work, detailing his encounter and capture of Boar; the enigmatic leader of the Iron Tramplers. He rubbed his right forearm, almost reopening a recently repaired arrow wound from several hours before. He had very nearly failed the healing part of his Auror examination, unlike Ron who had learned to heal cuts with uncharacteristic pace and delicacy. Signing his name at the bottom of the forms he slipped it into his out-tray and stood up to leave.
The troll's leg umbrella stand was on its side again. Harry bent to pick it up, noticing a warm perfume coming from the wood. Kreacher had gone above and beyond at Grimauld Place, buffing glasses, cooking three meals a day and apparently lacquering the floors. The scent of the oil intermingled with pea soup as Harry entered the cavernous kitchen. Inside Ron and Hermione were scrambling over a mountain of boxes, magically levitating pots and pans onto the shelves. Harry ducked under a copper pan that arced dangerously close to his head. "How's the unpacking?" he yelled over the clunking of metal on wood. Ron turned in surprise, lost his concentration and sent grater flying towards Harry. With the reflexes no doubt born of his Seeking days he caught it, tossing it back over to Ron who squirmed uncomfortably. "Orry 'Arry" he spluttered through a mouthful of bread. Hermione slapped his wrist, "Ron Kreacher bought that bread for our dinner". Harry shook his head in amusement, "did Mrs Weasley give us all of these old cooking utensils?" he asked. Ron looked mulishly around the kitchen, clearly annoyed that his mother had been so generous, "she's decided to get a whole new set with that fortune she made by selling her story to Rita Skeeter" he replied. Mrs Weasley had taken it upon herself to sell the 'real story' behind the Potter saga to every journalist in the Wizarding World. "She told us today that it's her right after we went gallivanting around the country for half a year" said Hermione. Harry privately agreed, and thought a fraction his privacy was a small price to pay for the Weasley's sacrifice.
Kreacher waded through to the mahogany dining table, placing four bowls of pea soup on silver placemats. They all sat, chatting animatedly as they ate their soup. Hermione beamed with pride at Kreacher, who had been convinced some weeks previously that he could eat meals at the table. Ron pointed his wand at the radio, twisting the dial to receive the WWN. A crisp announcement came from the wireless, interrupting their conversation. "Earlier tonight it has been rumoured that a high profile politician has disappeared from Diagon Alley. Witness Dean Thomas, a trainee at Olivander's Wand Emporium claims that black smoke engulfed the as yet un-named politician and spirited him to an unknown location. No further details are available." They looked at each other, shocked by the news. "In another astounding case; Warlock Willy Widdershins has been released from Azkaban after 2 years lockup for muggle bating. Widdershins, who has been arrested for muggle bating and theft on numerous occasions is under suspicion for a burglary at the Ministry of Magic. Witnesses listed several of Widdershins trademark calling cards; and Law Enforcement authorities report that Widdershins is now on the run, mere hours after his release. The missing items include a signed first addition of 'The life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore' and a magical diary that is rumoured to have belonged to You Know Who prior to his death." The story ended there, and they all sat in shell-shocked silence.
"We've got a busy day tomorrow Harry" Ron groaned, running his fingers through his hair. Hermione looked concerned, "I wonder who was abducted, they didn't say a name did they?" Harry didn't reply, looking into the fire as if the answers to his burning questions were crackling in the flames. He had just finished a three month investigation into the spread of centaur herds to muggle dwellings. Without a doubt the case would be assigned to him, as he had nothing further to look into. He had a spoonful of soup, trying to banish the story from his mind for the time being. One thing was for sure; tomorrow the press around the ministry would be unbelievable.