Hello everyone! If you're just joining us, I would recommend going back and reading "The Observer," the story that precedes this one. It's probably not entirely necessary in terms of figuring out what's going on, but it does bring you to where our heroine and hero are in terms of jobs, relationships, and emotional development. In terms of a timeline, I would put this one at a few months after the end of "The Observer," specifically, around Christmas.
Higher rating for this one - some very graphic content in terms of crime scenes and violence, some sexual content.
One of our principal griefs comes from our rivals in love.
But you must not let yourself imagine a rival,
Better believe she lies all by herself in her bed.
When Hermione left to become the bride of another,
Then Orestes' love burst into passionate flame.
Menelaus could sail, alone, to Crete without Helen;
Why should he grieve over that? He could be absent for long.
When Paris carried her off, that was a different story.
Through another man's love, he realized the depth of his own.
- From "The Remedies for Love" by Ovid
"Investigator Malfoy!"
Draco's head whipped around to see who addressed him from across the row of desks in the MLE offices.
Under normal conditions, the sight of Harry Potter approaching him while grinning like a loon would have him backing up and raising his wand in self-defense. But Potter looked so ebullient, he settled for a loose grip of his wand's base inside its holster.
"Auror Potter," he said cautiously. "The Weasley girl accepted your proposal of marriage again?"
The Boy-Who-Lived-Quite-High-on-the-Hog simply threw back his head and laughed. "A good guess, but not quite. A wonderful day to you!"
Draco watched in confusion as Potter bounced off in the direction of the Aurors' Department.
"Right," he said to no one in particular. "Okay, then."
After roughly three years in the Investigations Department, Draco was more or less accepted by the members of his office. Whether this meant that they'd back him up in an argument, or admit to being civil to him outside of the department, he didn't know. What he did know was that the crude drawings and etchings on his desk had disappeared, that his appearance wasn't a cause for hostile stares and frowns, and that he even warranted an invite to the department's functions.
So when he worked his way through the department to his office, he nodded at and was nodded to by several receptionists, was greeted jovially by Oddsbodds in the corridor, and thanked Mullaney for the "There's Christmas cookies in the break room" tip.
The new faces in the department, however, were still apt to be unfriendly or downright challenging. Case in point: Benjamon Butterfield, who shared the office with himself and Hermione. An evidence specialist, Benjamon rarely went out in the field with them, busy as he was in the department's laboratory. The little Christmas wreath that Hermione had crafted was still hanging on the door, so Benjamon hadn't pulled it down in a fit of temper.
He poked his head into the office warily. No Benjamon, just Hermione, quill trailing over the parchment of her report in a dreamy fashion.
"Oh, good. Butterfield's not here."
Hermione looked up at the sound of his voice, beaming like a star.
"No, we're all very lucky this morning," she grinned.
Draco blinked. "Is this catching? Potter sailed by me this morning looking like he's high on something. His own sense of self-importance, I'd guess."
"No, let's play the game. Me first." Not long after they'd become Investigative partners, they'd begun this game to keep themselves sharp. Played during their morning greetings or during coffee breaks, they challenged each other to find one new thing about the other person, or several things about the people they observed during coffee breaks. It kept them amused, kept them observant, and led to an embarrassing personal revelation every once in a while, so it was somewhat worth it, Draco supposed.
"Right now?" he asked, furrowing his brow while shrugging off his cloak.
"Right now," she confirmed, still smiling. "I'll start. Your father was left-handed."
Draco blinked, pausing in the act of hanging his cloak behind the door. "That's right," he said, a bit surprised. "But that's not an observation about me, and you could have remembered that from any of your previous…run-ins with him."
Hermione smiled like a cat with the cream. "It is, and I'll explain," she replied. "You're right-handed, but you wear your watch on that same right hand. Most people don't wear their watch on their dominant hand – unless one of their parents has a different dominant hand. In that case, they might wear the watch on their dominant hand – like you do."
Draco sank into his chair, eyebrows still raised. "Impressive. How long have you been holding onto that one?"
"A little while," she admitted, tossing her braid over her shoulder, "but I needed to use a really good one today."
"Why's that?" Draco asked, unscrewing the lid of his coffee thermos. "Same reason Potter looks like he's high on a Cheering Charm?"
"Probably," she returned, folding her arm to prop up her chin. "Go ahead and guess, then."
"Let a man drink his coffee, Hermione. You know I'm useless without the first sip."
"Fine," she huffed, looking put out, "but if you don't guess this one straight away, I'm going to start to doubt your ability as an Investigator."
Draco purposefully took a long sip, humming in exaggerated delight at the coffee's taste, while Hermione continued to stare at him in a way that made him slightly uneasy. He took another sip, turning to face her, when the glint of shining metal, like a warning beacon, caught his eye. Draco's stomach gave a hard lurch, as if he'd been caught in a malfunctioning lift.
He choked, thumped himself on the chest, and managed a hard swallow that felt like knives in his throat.
"You're engaged," he rasped. "To Weasley, I'm guessing?"
Hermione broke out into a radiant grin. Everything about her seemed to be shining – eyes, hair, skin, teeth. She tossed a crumpled piece of parchment at his head playfully. "Of course it's Ron. Who else would it be?"
Anyone else, he thought, but did not say. "Congratulations," he said, because it was the polite thing to do. "How did he ask you?"
Hermione's smile slipped the tiniest bit – an observation he would keep to himself. "He took me out to dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, then he jumped up on top of the bar and shouted it out. Everybody started cheering. It'll be nice to be engaged for Christmas." Her cheeks pinked as she spoke.
"He didn't get down on a knee?" Draco asked, allowing the surprise into his voice.
"No," Hermione replied, and continued, in a more defensive tone, "I don't really hold with that old tradition, anyway."
Draco thought this was the singularly most unromantic proposal that he'd ever heard of. For one thing, a man went down on his knee to a woman as a sign of respect, as an acknowledgement that she did him the honor, not the other way round. For another, proposals before an audience were manipulative. If one proposed to a woman in a secluded area, it meant that the words were for her ears alone, and gave her all the power. It showed that the man was placing himself in her hands. Proposing in a busy area with a cheering crowd meant that the man was willing to use public pressure as a way to get the woman to say yes. What else could she say with the fear of disappointing a crowd who would undoubtedly report the details to the Daily Prophet?
"Ah," he said, lightly flicking away her defense. "I'll bet it's in the Prophet. Have you two set a date?"
"Not yet," Hermione said, examining her ring once again. "I'm thinking in the fall, but we'll have to figure that out soon. You're invited, of course."
Draco smiled, a practiced motion, before flicking his gaze away to the morning's reports. "Of course," he replied, turning so that she couldn't see his face. "You'll have to get registered somewhere and tell me."
Lighter than a wisp of silk, Hermione reached out and brushed her hand against his. He stilled at the touch, every point in his body suddenly concentrated on the small patch of skin that she was in contact with.
"I'd ask you to stand for me," she said in a rush, "but Ron's got so many brothers, and Harry's standing as best man for him, and we need to keep it small, and I didn't think you would want to be in the feminine side of the entourage."
Draco also supposed that the sheer number of Weasleys would mean that they would dominate the decision-making in this wedding. Very daring, he brushed her fingers back with his own. "Hermione, I'm touched, I really am. Maid-of-honor, though, should really go to the youngest Weasley – she'll fill out the dress far better than I ever would."
Hermione smiled warmly at him, and the cool band of her ring stung against his skin as she withdrew her hand.
When his face was hidden from Hermione's view, under the guise of searching for a file in his desk drawer, his face pinched, and he rubbed at the crinkle of skin formed by the furrowing of his brow. A few moments later, he unbent himself, composed, and began surveying the day's reports in from the Analysis branch. He could hear the scratch of Hermione's quill against her parchment, meaning that she'd gone back to her work.
Minutes and a few more sips of coffee later, Oddsbodds burst into their office.
"Oh, good, I'm not interrupting wedding chatter. You two are needed in Little Flagley. Initial reports are of a potions accident, one dead, one taken to hospital," he fired out. "Congratulations, by the way, Miss Granger."
"Thank you, sir," Hermione piped up in a small voice.
"You can Floo in to the Flagpole Pub, or you can Apparate in the square, and follow the hullabaloo," he continued, as if Hermione had not spoken. "I'll be along shortly."
Thank Merlin. Now he'd have someone else's woes to distract him.
Hermione, he noted absently, had removed her new ring before they Flooed into the little pub, and he felt something in his shoulders relax.
The pub itself, however, was in an uproar. Their arrival seemed only to complicate things, as people correctly began to interpret their arrival as a new development.
"Excuse us, excuse us," Hermione said softly, trying to get through the crowd and duck any questions. Draco just scowled and pushed, since the crowd should know better than to delay them in getting to the scene.
The crowd eventually parted enough to let them out into the crisp winter air. Draco had only ever been to Little Flagley on Investigations business, and doubted that he would ever be back on anything but business. The town was quaint enough, if that sort of thing appealed. But aside from a small collection of wizarding shops, a wishing well, and a small cemetery, it was a far cry from the bustle of Diagon Alley or even Hogsmeade. This town seemed to appeal to those who wanted a quiet, private life.
There was no question of where the trouble was – if the crowd gathered outside the small cottage wasn't clue enough, the purple smoke emanating from an open window would have attracted some attention.
"Is that toxic, or is something burning?" Hermione asked, as they broke into a jog over the crunching snow.
"Dunno," he called back, then spotted the familiar swinging black cloaks. "Look, there's the squad."
They pushed through the gathered crowd, past the secured line, and before the eyes of a familiar squad member.
"Hello, Frances," Hermione said calmly, greeting the older woman. "What's the story?"
Frances Ferguson gestured them forward, out of earshot of the crowd. "Skeeter's not here, but it's only a matter of time."
They stepped into the modest bungalow, Draco looking around for the source of the smoke. The air was thick with the scent of chemical smoke and a sick undernote of charred meat. He knitted his brow and paused at the threshold, but figured it must be fairly safe if the MLE had been inside. The interior of the home was quite basic – whoever lived here didn't have much to spend, but a little Christmas tree twinkled blithely in the window, and Draco felt a sick turning of his stomach as he took in the children's toys scattered about the living room.
Ferguson must have caught his moment of hesitation, and shook her head. "From what we can tell, it was the blast that killed her, not the smoke or any contact with the potion."
"Who?" Hermione said softly, at his shoulder. She had closed the door, having already cast a silent Impervius on her hands.
"Naomi Thiessen," Ferguson replied, indicating a framed portrait of a pretty young woman with dark, curly hair, smiling and waving at them, a little boy who resembled her waving more shyly. "She brewed potions for locals, so they didn't have to make a trip to bigger towns. The explosion happened in her lab over there."
"The boy?" Draco indicated the picture.
"Nigel, about six, I think," Ferguson said, her eyes finally shifting from professional detachment to sorrow. "He looked all right to me, but we took him to St. Mungo's to get him checked out. I think he was still asleep when the explosion happened, went running to a neighbor, who had already contacted us when they heard it."
"Family?" he asked, looking at the other pictures, most of which showed Nigel in various laughing poses. He caught an odd look from Hermione, since the scene was their immediate concern.
"Still working that out," Ferguson replied, also casting an eye at the portraits. "I don't think there's a father in the picture, but we'll have it sorted soon."
"How about the scene itself?" asked Hermione, jerking her chin in the direction of the smoking room. "Clear for us to examine?"
The bang of a closing door, followed by shuffling footsteps, echoed in the little house. Draco guessed that MLE had just cleared the scene.
"As near as we can tell," Ferguson said hesitantly. "You heard them making the final check. Ms. Thiessen's body is still there, but we can't find anything that's obviously spilled or toxic around the body. There was a small fire burning when we got here, but a simple Extinguishing Spell took care of that."
"Did they walk around the body?" Draco snapped, remembering that the MLE was just now phasing in a new, untried bunch of recruits. They'd spend the next two hours on their backs holding their booted feet in the air if Draco found that they'd tainted the scene. He'd devised the punishment for the last group who tainted a scene, and it had been an effective deterrent.
"Just me and Bibulus," Ferguson replied, waving them through the darkened house in the direction of the smoking room. "You might want Bubble-Head Charms for this one."
"They called in an Auror?" Hermione asked in surprise, her words slightly distorted by the bubble that enveloped her head. "That's unusual for an accident."
"I know. He wouldn't say why, just that he'd been ordered to check things out." Ferguson paused uncomfortably, brushing her braids off of her shoulders. "If you'll activate your Soft Steps, we can go in."
Hermione shared a sharp look with him before Ferguson, charming her own Bubble-Head, pushed open the door. Draco and Hermione both activated their Soft Steps Charms, a patented device allowing them to step into a crime scene without contaminating or disturbing the evidence therein. It took a bit of practice to walk in them – he always had the odd sensation that he was floating a hands-width above the floor. Draco had heard Oddsbodds complain about the astronomical renewal price on the Charms for his department in private, but never in public, where their department head might overhear.
As they stepped inside, Draco thought it might have been a tidy little potions lab at one point – despite a coating of dust and debris, the wall farthest from the explosion point looked as if it had been neat and well-organized, brimming with order forms and brewed potions, despite their current disarray. Draco was gratified to see that Naomi Thiessen had been a responsible potion-brewer and used shatterproof glass – he hated the hazards created when a large group of different potions were mixed.
On the other side of the room, it was a different story.
Observing it with an Investigator's eye, Draco ignored the body for the moment and focused on the blast radius. The explosion had been contained to a small area – but was intensely violent in that area. The oaken table that Thiessen had presumably used for brewing had been reduced to a mass of splinters. Shards of glass (breakable under the right circumstances) glittered in the rubble, among bits of charred parchment and wood. The cauldron, presumably the one used in the mishap, lay in a corner, its shape distorted and its bottom blown out.
Draco considered all of this carefully, then turned his gaze to where Hermione was, at the side of what was left of Naomi Thiessen. He watched as Hermione pursed her lips hard, a sign that she was reining herself in, and bent over Thiessen's corpse where it lay sprawled on the stone floor.
Thiessen had certainly been facing the explosion when it happened – the grand majority of her front was not there. What had once been a pretty face now looked like a sandblasted piece of raw meat. Draco could see bits of gleaming bone amidst the bloody tissue and muscle. Where her mouth should have been gaped a hole, where her chest had once been was a smashed array of bone, muscle, and blood, littered with bits of broken glass and other debris. One arm was attached only by some tendons.
Slowly, Draco began to rein himself in as well. This was no longer a woman, this was a piece of evidence. Granted, it was a piece of evidence to be treated with the utmost respect and care, but he needed to get to the mindset that would allow him to work.
"I pronounced her a minute or two after I got here." Ferguson's clipped tone broke through the silence. "We'll need to get someone in here who knew her to make a positive identification, but other than that…"
"About what time did the boy report the explosion?" Draco asked, glancing at his watch (which was on his right hand, he noted, with detached amusement.)
"About forty-five minutes ago," Ferguson said, nodding with approval at the direction of his thoughts. "Another few minutes and we'll know for certain."
Before a positive identification could be made nowadays, a witch or wizard had to remain sequestered for an hour, to determine whether or not Polyjuice was in use. Even dead bodies would return to their previous state within an hour, if the person had drunk the potion a few minutes prior to their death.
"Did her son say what alerted him?" Hermione asked, not taking her eyes off of the body while fiddling with the light adjustment on the camera around her neck. "I mean, was it the noise, or a smell, or what?"
"I'm not sure," Ferguson replied. "He just said that his mother was in trouble. We can ask him a few questions later, once St. Mungo's has him checked out. I'll check on that, if you don't mind. I'll be right outside the house."
She stepped out, and Draco suspected that St. Mungo's and the MLE headquarters weren't the only ones who would be getting a call. Ferguson had two children of her own.
He shook his head, irritably pushing away those thoughts, and studied the scene once more.
"A contained blast, but very violent," he murmured to Hermione, squatting beside her. "Must have been very sudden, else she might have had time to get away or do something."
Hermione nodded, looking about them. "Do you see her wand?" she asked. "Chances are it was probably obliterated, but it's certainly worth looking at if it's around."
Draco shook his head. "Check out the cauldron. Distorted, but still intact. Just looking at her, I'd say that she was standing over it."
"Probably adding an ingredient or performing a spell," Hermione said, completing his thought, taking a few more pictures. "Accio Naomi Thiessen's wand!"
With an almost apologetic air, five wand fragments dislodged themselves from the debris and zoomed into Hermione's evidence bag.
"It's pretty bad," she said, looking down at the bits of wand, "but if I can repair it, or Butterfield can, we can at least see an echo of the last spell she performed."
Draco only half-heard what she was saying, eyeing the powdery debris around Thiessen's body, continuing to emit small streams of indigo smoke.
"That Extinguisher Spell works for most things, doesn't it?"
"Hmm?" Hermione looked up from her perusal of the body. "Oh yes. Whatever the spell didn't get, the Inertia Powder will have taken care of."
"Ah." Draco attempted to cover for his embarrassment. "Can I take the camera? I can get a few pictures of the smoke in progress."
Hermione tutted. "When will you learn to bring your own?" It was a familiar argument.
"Never," Draco said, taking the camera with an offhand manner. "I much prefer using yours." He threw the camera strap around his head and went to work.
Observing how much glitter there was in the rubble as the flash illuminated the scene, Draco groaned. "We may have a problem," he muttered. Glancing at the wall near the door, he found a tattered photograph of Thiessen grinning in front of her potions bench, Nigel waving at up at him from his perch on the bench. His attention, however, was on the shelves behind them, colorful jars of potions and ingredients shelved just above the work area. Easy reach, and easy contamination of any potions wreckage. He groaned.
"What's that?" Hermione asked, not raising her eyes from a battered lockbox, trying to pry it open.
"I thought there was an awful lot of glass in the debris," he said, showing her the photograph, noting her understanding frown. "She didn't keep her ingredients in a locked cabinet or anything. She kept them on shelves above the workbench." He gestured at the blast area. "Figuring this combination out is going to take forever."
"Maybe," replied Hermione, returning to fiddling with the lockbox, "or maybe not. She brewed potions for the locals, right? She has to have order forms around here somewhere. She'd probably keep them away from the lab to keep from spilling on them or something. Then we at least have a list of base potions to work from…Alohomora!"
With a drawn-out groan, the box creaked open, hinges protesting after the beating they'd taken. Hermione gingerly drew out a small order book and leafed through it. "There we are. Order forms since…ooh, October. That should give us a good base to work from, right?"
"Should," Draco agreed, taking multiple pictures of the suspect cauldron. The only one in this part of the room, a jumble of mixed cauldrons of varying metals and sizes on the other side suggested that they'd been cleaned and stacked for storage. "This might tell us quite a bit as well."
"Taking it to Butterfield?" Hermione grinned up in his direction, at odds with the carnage of the scene.
Draco sighed heavily, conjuring a clean crate for the cauldron. "Three more months. Three more months and then that moron is eligible for shift transfer. Any luck, and he'll be put on the night shift, and we'll get someone who's nice and relatively normal."
"Considering the two of us, normal's not exactly a relative term," retorted Hermione, sounding amused. "In the meantime, though…"
"Yes, in the meantime I will continue to restrain myself and show admirable tact in the face of his overwhelming lack of tact or regard for human feeling or foibles," he shot off, rapid-fire. "I believe that was your speech?"
"It was," Hermione said, already sounding distracted. "There are forty potions she received orders for in the last three days, and that doesn't include potions that needed a longer brewing time. I wonder if she experimented?"
"MLE will probably ask, but remind Ferguson when she gets back," Draco murmured, examining the pressure marks on the sturdy cauldron. "Kind of hard to tell under all this debris, but I think Thiessen brewed pretty cleanly, even if she didn't keep the best records in the world."