A/N: I haven't written anything in a long, long while, but this has been niggling at my brain for a few weeks. I don't have a beta, so I apologize in advance for errors.

This is canon compliant, but ignores the epilogue in Deathly Hallows, specifically the time frame and Hermione's relationship with Ron.

This is not a crossover. Rather, it is a cross between my two favorites: Harry Potter and The Mentalist.

This may be an unoriginal idea, but I'm hoping it's different enough to keep you reading :)

Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1

The glare from the lights alone blinded him; the shocking colour of the fluorescent hat upon his interviewer's head didn't help matters.

"So give us an update on where you are in your life right now, Mr. Malfoy. You've kept a low profile the last few years, save for your professional exploits. My readers are dying to know what you've been up to behind closed doors," Rita Skeeter said, raising an eyebrow suggestively. Draco barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

"As I've told countless reporters before, my private life is mine. I have no interest in sharing it with anyone else." He felt his charmed token vibrate in his pocket, reminding him of his meeting, but he ignored it to focus on getting this over with as quickly as possible. "Next question, then."

"Not interested in sharing, you say?" she hedged, and he fought hard not to let Skeeter see him tense. "Does that mean, perhaps, that you're still unattached? No beautiful witches in Draco Malfoy's life?"

The sound of her quill scratching furiously against her notepad irked him so completely that he felt angry heat fill his sinuses and envelop his brain. Never again would he agree to one of these stupid fucking interviews. He made a mental note to fire his secretary for agreeing to this on his behalf; he'd vehemently expressed that Skeeter was off limits. But he'd refused to cancel their appointment. Hopefully if he kept Skeeter happy, he could avoid becoming a target of her vengeful harassment. He flashed her a most polite smile and glanced around the quiet drawing room, thinking about the woman who had recently had it redecorated. It was the last room in the manor to be completed, finally transforming his home into an entirely different place than it had been during the war.

"None in quite some time, except, of course, for my mother. I've yet to meet a witch as beautiful or as interesting." There. Brief, diplomatic, and dismissive all at once. He leaned forward in his chair slightly, and Skeeter unconsciously leaned in as well. "But that's off the record," he breathed, winking conspiratorially. Skeeter blinked when he settled back against the chair again, and her face flushed as she straightened her torso and cleared her throat.

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. I'd never dream of painting you as a lonely, celibate wizard. It's wonderful that you devote so much of your time to caring for your mother. And bringing your dead family to justice, of course." She looked pointedly at him, crossing one leg over the knee of the other and pressing her fingertips together. "How's that endeavor going, hmm? Any progress?"

Draco felt his face shut down immediately, without conscious thought. He was used to this line of questioning and gave the same response every time.

"I'm closer than I've ever been." He stood, glaring down at Skeeter, and he loathed that she'd touched such a raw nerve. From the smug, acidic look on her face, she knew it. Draco reached out to shake her hand; years of pureblood breeding automatically inspired the gesture. She took his hand and rose from her seat, her quill still scratching away. "This interview is over. Have a good day, Ms. Skeeter." Draco coldly turned away, already walking toward the door. Rita Skeeter took her time following behind him.

"One of these days, Mr. Malfoy, I'll have my answers, too. One way or another," she said teasingly, but he picked up on the threat. He turned to face her just as he reached the door. She grinned at him, her sickly green robes clashing terribly with her skin. Draco gestured to the open door.

"Surely you can see yourself out. Once you've passed the gates, you'll be outside the Apparition wards. I look forward to reading your article." Draco turned on his heel before she could make another snide remark and headed for the sanctity of his room. He crooked his finger at the first house-elf he encountered, Wispy. The elf shuffled forward, her droopy ears flopping behind her.

"Master Malfoy, sir? What can Wispy do for you?" the elf mumbled, her wide eyes searching his own.

"Make sure that Skeeter woman gets off my property in the next thirty seconds. Come and find me when she's gone." He stalked past the elf, not slowing down, and turned into his room just as he heard the "pop" that signaled Wispy had Apparated.

Draco walked directly across his bedroom toward his balcony, throwing his outermost robe onto his bed as he went. The curtains and double doors were already open to the fresh spring air; a sweetly scented breeze filtered through his hair as he stepped outside, looking out over the gardens. No sooner had he reached into his pocket and withdrawn a cigarette than Wispy popped back into his presence.

"Wispy has seen the Skeeter woman on her way, Master," the elf supplied helpfully. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?" Draco saw Wispy eye his cigarette suspiciously, but she wisely didn't say anything. Draco nodded.

"Please inform my mother that I'll be along for dinner around eight this evening." Draco withdrew his wand and used it to light the cigarette. Placing his wand back into his pocket and the cigarette between his lips, he sighed and took a long drag. Wispy watched, her eyes growing impossibly wide, as he released a smoky breath. "I have another meeting in a few minutes in Diagon Alley. If there's an emergency, come and find me there. Otherwise, I want absolutely no interruptions. This is important."

"Yes, of course, Sir. Wispy understands. I'll tell my lady immediately." Draco nodded curtly and let his eyes roam over the manicured gardens again, stopping to admire the freshly blooming gardenias. After a moment, he sensed that Wispy had not left him, and he raised an eyebrow curiously at her. She was ringing her tattered garment - a tea towel - between her long-fingered hands and avoiding his eyes.

"What is it, Wispy? Are you confused by my request?"

"N-no, Master, sir. I-I just…you do know, sir, that those-those things," she said, pointing a shaking finger at his cigarette, "those are dangerous, sir. Wispy's friend Mickle once worked for a half-blood who used those, you see, and they made him quite ill, sir, and he never recovered, even with healing potions-"

"Wispy," Draco interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. He tapped his cigarette against the balcony railing and blew out another puff of smoke. "You can't be serious. I've been practically enslaved by an evil wizard, fought in a war, and now…you know what I've survived. I'm hardly afraid of an illness." He turned away again, walking to the other side of the large balcony and snuffing out his finished cigarette before tossing it over the side. As soon as he did, he realized how it must've looked-like he was taking orders from a house elf. "Mind your own business, Wispy. Go to my mother now."

"Yes, sir," Wispy said sadly, and then she disappeared. Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He was eager for his meeting. The lead he was following was quite promising, and the first solid clue he'd come across in nearly three months. For that reason, though, he was also gripped with an icy fear that was so cold it made him shiver and burned his throat at the same time. He tried to stay positive. If nothing else, he could cross a name off his list after today.

One down, but so many left to go.

-:-

Hermione Granger would never admit it, but since the Wizarding War had ended ten years earlier and she'd settled into a routine at her Ministry job, she took great guilty pleasure in reading the Daily Prophet on Sundays. She'd gotten so used to her adrenalin-fueled adventures with Harry and Ron that the last few years she'd felt…tired. Bored. So she sat in a ray of warm sunlight in her breakfast nook, cuddled beside Crookshanks and sipping a cup of rather sweet coffee. More milk than coffee, actually, but it was Sunday and that made it okay.

Hermione knew, of course, that the Daily Prophet was utter bollocks for the most part, but she always found a few skewed stories that gave her a good chuckle. Since Harry had practically disappeared from the public eye, she always enjoyed reading the Prophet's wild speculations about his recent activity. The headline "Harry Potter Spotted Purchasing Love Potion on Honeymoon: Trouble in Paradise?" elicited a particularly wonderful belly-laugh when it suggested Harry was having a sordid affair with an older wizard.

"Nonsense. I can't wait to write Ginny to ask who the lucky bloke is," she murmured, stroking Crookshanks lovingly. Then she paused in thought. "You know, Crooks, I always did think Harry was a bit-"

She was cut off by the sound of an owl screeching just outside the open window, and looked up in time to catch a letter as it fell from the claws of Tibbins, a familiar Ministry owl. Tibbins hooted quietly as he settled on the back of one of her dining chairs to wait for a reply.

Hermione broke the Ministry seal on the letter immediately and unfolded the parchment to read the familiar handwriting. It was from Mafalda Hopkirk, her colleague in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

"'Hermione,'" she read aloud, as she often did when alone, "'Please expect to meet with myself, Horace Slughorn and Minister Shacklebolt first thing tomorrow morning. I can only speculate as to the reason for the meeting. I'll see you there.'" Crookshanks nuzzled Hermione's fingers, seeming to realize that she was intrigued. "Slughorn's coming, and the Minister. I wonder what's happened?" She patted his head and withdrew her wand to Summon the pouch of treats from her kitchen counter and a quill from her writing desk. She scribbled a quick reply at the bottom of the parchment before returning it to the owl.

"Here, Tibbins. Good boy," she said, handing the bird a treat. It nipped affectionately at her hand, causing Crookshanks to growl warningly. "Have a good day."

Tibbons hooted and flew out the window again, just as a warm breeze floated through the open glass. Hermione smiled. Autumn was her favorite season, as it always reminded her of returning to Hogwarts, but spring was nice, too.

She glanced back down at her copy of the Daily Prophet and an article by Rita Skeeter caught her eye. As much as she enjoyed privately reading the gossip, she avoided Skeeter's articles. They were never written in so that they could be interpreted as silly or far-fetched in a hapless, good-natured way. They were incendiary, volatile, and insulting. But this one, and the included picture of a platinum-haired, handsome wizard, captured her undivided attention: "Lonely Bachelor Draco Malfoy No Closer to Avenging Dead Wife and Child."

Hermione let out a slow breath. Regardless of how she personally felt about Draco Malfoy, he had helped their cause in the war, and committed to many other charitable causes for the betterment of Muggles and Muggle-borns since Voldemort's demise. But on a more basic level, he was a fellow human being, and he'd been through an unimaginable loss.

Two years after the war had ended, Malfoy had married Astoria Greengrass. They'd had one son, Scorpius, and as far as she or the gossip rags knew, they'd been happy enough. The Wizarding world was mending and Malfoy and his company, Malfoy Enterprises, had never been better. With his father remanded to Azkaban for a life sentence, he'd no doubt thought he was safe. But he wasn't.

To Hermione, that was the cruelest thing about his situation. The war was done. Everyone had moved on. Everyone thought there would be peace. And then, one night, his new peace was stolen away. Only blood and a killer's grim calling card remained. Images from countless magazines of Draco Malfoy stumbling into the Ministry, covered in blood and completely in shock, flashed across Hermione's mind. Then the personal images of when he'd sat before her, Minister Shacklebolt and others as he recounted discovering his family's bodies. It had been six years ago, but she would never forget what he'd looked like. She'd never seen him so broken and unhinged, even when he'd been under Voldemort's wicked thumb.

Hermione folded the paper and placed it back on the small table as her mind swirled with thoughts of Draco Malfoy, her customary coffee forgotten. She felt a pang of pity for her former bully, turned former ally. If she believed the Prophet to be accurate on this, he hadn't made much progress on his private hunt for the man who had slain his family. She knew he was still empty, regardless of how he tried to appear in public. He was a ruined wizard.

And a Muggle had been the one to ruin him.

-:-

Draco blinked as the sunlight streaming into his room slowly roused him from the first deep sleep he'd had in two weeks. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table and grimaced as he realized he'd only slept three hours. Yesterday hadn't afforded him the victory he'd craved, but at least he'd been able to glean enough information from his meeting to dismiss at least one suspect. Unfortunately, it was his strongest suspect, which had led to a night of heavy drinking and regrettably, Draco collapsing in a pool of his own vomit.

He supposed Wispy had cleaned him up and moved him to his bed. He'd thank the elf later. He was already going to be late.

Groaning, he realized he would be delivering bad news today. At least no one would be as devastated by his lack of progress as Draco himself.

Five minutes later, Draco was dressed impeccably, though his head was pounding. He gathered his wand and pouch of galleons, checked and double-checked that his notes were in order, then placed them carefully back into their folder before shrinking them down and tucking them in his robes. He took a deep breath and suppressed a groan at the sharp pain that surged at his temples. Licking his lips, he stepped over to his fireplace, grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, and stepped into the ashes.

In his pocket, he traced the side of his token, his wife's wedding ring, and was lost in wistful thoughts.

You can do this, he told himself. You must do this. For them.

Before he could second-guess himself, he tossed the powder at his feet and shouted "Ministry of Magic!"

-:-

"Good morning, Mafalda!" Hermione greeted, smiling brightly at her friend. Mafalda returned the smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Have a good weekend, then? You look well-rested." Mafalda collected several sheets of parchment in her hands and tapped them against the desk to straighten them. Then she glanced around to be sure they wouldn't be overheard before lowering her voice and grinning mischievously. "Did you read the Daily Prophet yesterday? Oh, Merlin! That story about Harry buying that love potion-"

"Just horrible!" Hermione giggled, closing the conference room door behind her. "At least we can be comforted in the thought that no one of sound mind will believe that rubbish." She hurriedly walked around the table to sit beside Mafalda, slinging her bag around the back of the chair before dropping into her seat. Then a dark look crossed her features, and she sighed heavily. "Did you read…the other article? The one by Skeeter?"

Mafalda regarded her with confusion before casting her eyes to her parchment and fumbling with her quill.

"I did. I thought you didn't read those. They're awful. I wouldn't have bothered if…"

"-if you hadn't been there. I know. Me, too. I'll never forget that day." Hermione realized no one would remember it as clearly and as eternally as Draco Malfoy, and she felt overwhelming pity for him again.

"Oh, dear. I can't imagine being in his place. I only met his wife and child once, and I still think of them every single day. Especially cruel of the Prophet to run such an article on the anniversary, too."

"I agree. Tasteless. But not shocking in the least."

They lapsed into a melancholy silence, each witch arranging her blank pieces of parchment on the table, preparing to take notes, taking sips of coffee - Hermione's was black today - and remembering that unusually cold morning in May six years before. Just as Hermione realized she had no idea what this meeting was about and turned to Mafalda to ask, their colleagues joined them.

The sound of the doorknob turning caused them both to look up as Horace Slughorn and Kingsley Shacklebolt entered. Slughorn appeared aloof, even grinning at the women, but Shacklebolt looked appropriately solemn. He nodded to them both before taking his seat at the head of the large table, with Mafalda on his left. He placed a thick folder on the table and Hermione's eyes widened. Slughorn walked around to sit beside Hermione. He didn't have a quill or parchment to take notes. She tried not to look bothered by his obvious lack of preparation.

"Good morning, Miss Granger. How have things been getting on in your unit? Quite well, I suspect, with you at the helm! I'm certainly proud of your accomplishments! Er-proud for you, of course!" Slughorn rambled, and Hermione fought hard to smile. She'd never been particularly close to or fond of her former professor. He was terrible at picking up on social cues and it still bothered her that he'd tried to "collect" Harry as though he was a shiny trophy, but he was an accomplished wizard and she did have a measure of respect for him.

"It's…getting on, Mr. Slughorn-"

"Horace, please-"

Hermione kept her smile pleasant.

"We are a bit short-staffed at the moment, but other than that, everything is going well. Luna Lovegood has just finished her training and joined our team as a Junior Auror." Hermione felt a swell of pride fill her chest. She'd had a part in training Luna, and was excited that she was joining her department. Luna had started off writing for The Quibbler right after leaving Hogwarts, but she'd ultimately decided on a different career path, and Hermione knew she would make an excellent Auror.

"Splendid! And that Longbottom fellow, how are things going with him? I never thought he was the brightest candle in school, if you know what I mean!" he chuckled and nudged her a little too hard with his elbow. Hermione grimaced.

"Neville is actually quite intelligent. He's our Curses and Hexes Specialist. We've closed several difficult cases thanks to his work." She glanced at Shacklebolt, hoping she didn't sound bitchy. He gave her a knowing look and cleared his throat.

"Mr. Longbottom is an invaluable asset to your team, Hermione. I have no doubt." Hermione felt Slughorn shift in his seat. Shacklebolt straightened, obviously ready to move on. "Now, I'd like to fill you in on why you're here before our visitor arrives. He should be here any moment."

Mafalda and Hermione leaned forward to listen intently; Slughorn appeared vaguely aware he was supposed to be in a meeting.

"As I'm sure you're aware, yesterday was the six year anniversary of the deaths of Astoria Malfoy and Scorpius Malfoy." His authoritative voice rang in Hermione's ears as she mentally berated herself for not putting the obvious clues together. Of course this was about Malfoy. She cursed under her breath and started scribbling notes, trying to look efficient.

"I've called you three here because you were present at the time Draco Malfoy gave his statement regarding the discovery of their bodies. I believe you will be the most sensitive to what he's endured. I realize the case has gone cold, and that it was assigned to Seamus Finnigan's team not long after the killings, but as you know, Mr. Malfoy has been continuing the investigation on his own. I have discouraged this, but he is financially capable of pursuing his own leads, and he was quite…insistent that he do so." Shacklebolt paused, seemingly caught up in a dark memory.

"Sir, if I may," Mafalda interjected, "I have not seen Mr. Malfoy since that day. I've only kept up with the case as the Prophet prints it, and Merlin knows how much of that is true. I don't know what help I can offer," she finished lamely, cutting her eyes sideways at Hermione, and then Slughorn.

"I understand your concern, Mafalda. But trust my judgment, if you will. Mr. Malfoy and I have been meeting one Monday each month since, and he's rarely brought good news. I feel, today, more than help with this case, he needs encouragement. Support."

Hermione felt her eyes narrow. Support? What kind of support? Mafalda barely knew Malfoy. Hermione had loathed him in school, and had hardly seen him since the war. And Slughorn was…Slughorn.

"Kingsley," Hermione said, using his first name to let him know she intended to be frank. "You can tell us what it is you really want. You want Malfoy to relive the day he came in here. You're hoping he'll reiterate his statement and remember something he's forgotten." Her eyes widened as she came to her own realization. "Or…you're hoping he'll remember it differently. Make a mistake."

Hermione felt Slughorn perk up beside her. Mafalda's jaw dropped.

Shacklebolt didn't speak, but his mouth twisted just to confirm what Hermione had said.

"It only makes sense!" Slughorn said suddenly. "There've been so few clues, and so many dead-ends, because Draco Malfoy is somehow involved. Did you know, a dear friend of mine who works for Malfoy Enterprises told me that Mr. Malfoy spent several months in St. Mungo's after the killings? Went completely mental, he did! Maybe he had a guilty conscience?" Slughorn began to nearly glow with each new accusation, almost with pride. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"There were witnesses who confirmed he was in his office at the time of their deaths," Hermione droned, "and he was checked for Polyjuice Potion immediately afterward, before you suggest it." She was losing her patience. Clearly Slughorn had forgotten the few legitimate details of the case that every wizard and witch with a brain knew. Like the fact that no traces of magic were detected at the crime scene, that the victims hadn't been killed by magic, and that the killer left his signature, confirmed to be genuine. And that it belonged to a Muggle serial killer who was also highly sought-after by Muggle police.

"That is true, Miss Granger. We have no solid reason to suspect Mr. Malfoy's involvement. But Horace is quite right, unfortunately. With so little to go on, our best course of action is to retrace our steps from the beginning. That starts with Mr. Malfoy, and it goes beyond today. I'd like to make a suggestion that could-"

A knock at the door hushed the room.

"Sweet Merlin, it's him," Mafalda squeaked, gripping the arms of her chair tightly.

"Come in, please," Shacklebolt called.

The door opened, and Draco Malfoy stepped inside, looking haggard at worst, haunted at best.

His eyes focused first on Shacklebolt. Draco acknowledged him with a nod, then glanced at the other three in the room.

He recognized Mafalda, Hermione could tell. And obviously Slughorn. Then his cold, stormy silver eyes found hers, and she couldn't breathe. Two years since she'd looked directly into them, and they were just as empty as they'd ever been. In that moment, any resentment or nagging thought of Draco tormenting her at Hogwarts fled her mind. Here was a person who had lost everything, who hadn't given up, but she thought perhaps he could at any moment. Selfishly, she hoped this would not be that moment. She was already uncomfortable just being near to someone so achingly miserable.

Whereas she had lost relatively little in the war, and nothing since. She'd only gained, improved.

Draco Malfoy made her feel guilty. His hard stare made her wonder if he was doing it on purpose, like he blamed her for not finding his family's killer. Maybe she blamed herself.

Then his eyes left hers and she felt a little warmer.

"Minister," Malfoy said, quickly taking the seat opposite Mafalda. "I do have an update. I have gathered sufficient evidence to prove Blaise Zabini was in no way involved with my wife and son's murder."

Hermione nearly flinched. 'Murder.' Of course it was a word she was well familiar with, but Malfoy had nearly spat it. He said it so coldly, in such a detached way. She and Mafalda always referred to Astoria and Scorpius's deaths as 'the killings' or 'the incident'…but 'murder' brought back images of the blood, and the killer's symbol on the wall, and the eerie absence of spring that day.

Shacklebolt looked taken aback.

"That…is progress, Draco. I know you were concerned about Mr. Zabini. Is there more you'd like to tell us?" He asked gently, and Hermione thought for a moment he would reach out and place a comforting hand on Malfoy's shoulder, but he didn't. She watched Malfoy, who suddenly looked as mortified as she imagined a Malfoy could.

"No. That's…all. That's all I've learned in the last month. One name scratched off the list."

Hermione wasn't sure, but she thought he was only talking to himself.

"Right. Well, I'll get right to it, then," Shacklebolt said, squaring his shoulders and placing one hand on the table, fingers spread over the folder before him.

"This is everything we have on your family's case. I've been assured by Auror Finnigan that there is nothing else. I realize it's not much, but it's all I have to give you." He slid the red folder toward Malfoy, who eyed it with hungry curiosity and painful reserve. He reached one pale hand out to touch it, but withdrew his fingertips at the last moment.

"Why are you giving me this now?" he asked suddenly. "I've been begging for this information for years. I was told it was classified. What's changed? Are-" his eyes grew wide and frantic, "-are you giving up?"

Hermione didn't know what possessed her, but she heard her voice before she realized she had spoken.

"No. We will never give up. That's not what we do here." Her heart began to pound in her chest. The room was so quiet, she knew everyone could hear it.

Shacklebolt inclined his head, keeping his gaze on the folder.

"She's right. But I won't pretend we're close to a resolution. I'm reassigning the case. Hopefully fresh eyes will uncover what we've been missing."

"Reassigning the case, Sir?" Mafalda murmured. "To whom?"

"Are you bringing in Muggles?" asked Slughorn. "Perhaps a collaboration-"

"No. I cannot put additional Muggles in danger with this. They're investigating other murders by the same killer. Their hands are just as full as ours." He paused, then turned to Hermione. "Your team is short, is it not? You've told me there's been a struggle with other cases recently."

Hermione nodded. "Yes. We've looked at hiring a dozen different applicants, but no one has fit the bill. None of them scored highly enough on their field tests." Just seconds later, it dawned on her what Shacklebolt was getting at, and a film played before her eyes showing just how disastrous it would be for everyone involved, should his plan be put into motion.

Malfoy seemed to catch on at the same time, but his reaction was much different.

"Yes. I'll do it. I'll start today."

"Excellent. Of course, you'll just be a consultant on the case. I can't grant you all the responsibilities of an Auror. There's a good deal of paperwork you'll have to sign-"

"Wait, Minister. Are you…certain about this? Mr. Malfoy is very…intelligent, I'm aware," she said with a wince, feeling terribly awkward, "but he's not and has never been an Auror. And this is a high profile case."

"I've thought this through, Miss Granger. I have every confidence in Mr. Malfoy. It's not a matter of public record, but he was on his way to becoming an Auror once. You'll be pleased to know he passed his field tests," Shacklebolt said with a crooked grin. Hermione blushed.

"Why didn't you continue?" Mafalda asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

Malfoy deadpanned, the excitement on his features dulled to nothing. "My family was murdered. I wanted my own kind of justice. The Ministry would not have approved." He frowned, and his cold eyes found Hermione again. Her breath caught in her throat. Malfoy spoke again, sounding strangled, but not weak. If anything, he sounded more sure of himself than ever. "But now, I'd settle for any kind of justice. I just want the fucking bastard caught. I want him…to never see the light of day again. I want him to die in the dark, like they did."

She didn't know why, couldn't put her finger on the reason, but Hermione didn't believe him.

No one spoke for several long, heavy minutes. Hermione watched Malfoy's face the entire time. He never looked away from her. He was determined. Confident. He would not leave this office without being on a team of Aurors. Her team.

Pity surged through her again. Then, starting somewhere in her throat, a tiny bubble of hope formed. Hope that her team could be the one to catch a vicious serial killer, avenge so many innocent lives. Malfoy's insight, his connections and intelligence would be a monumental addition to the team. She would be lying if she said catching the killer wouldn't help assuage some of her own personal guilt that he'd gotten away so many times. And perhaps they could help this man who had lost so much in a time of expected peace. He was so broken that in one moment he seemed utterly beyond help, but in this moment now, he looked just as assured of himself as ever. He'd been given a new purpose, and there was no doubt he was going to run with it until there was no where left to take it.

"Miss Granger," Shacklebolt finally said, "while I do feel this will be a mutually beneficial partnership, I will not approve it without your consent. It comes down to whether you feel you can take on this case and the additional responsibility of Mr. Malfoy's wellbeing, should things become dangerous. I know you're aware that while a Muggle may be the killer, it's doubtful that a witch or wizard isn't helping him in some way."

While he spoke, Malfoy still remained focused on her eyes, boring into them with his own. He would make her life hell if she didn't agree. He would make her life hell even if she did.

Hermione closed her eyes tight and took a deep, slow breath.

"Okay." It was barely a whisper, but it was out there. Mafalda gasped. Slughorn shifted in his seat again.

Disbelief flashed across Malfoy's face, but it was gone in a moment, replaced with a smug smirk.

"Well, then, Mr. Malfoy," Shacklebolt said, standing up and extending a hand. "Welcome to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." He turned to Mafalda and Slughorn. "Ms. Hopkirk…Mr. Slughorn…if you'll come with me, please."

Malfoy stood from his seat, still smirking like a cat who'd caught a particularly juicy canary.

"Thank you for this, Minister," he said, with more emotion than showed on his face. "You won't regret this."

"See that I don't," Shacklebolt said firmly, then followed behind Mafalda and Slughorn as they left the room, casting questioning glances behind them. Hermione began to rise from her chair also, and Shacklebolt grinned at her.

"Sir, is there anything more you need from me today?" Hermione asked, hoping to escape to her office with coffee and a potion to soothe her aching head. But then she took in Shacklebolt's expression and all thoughts of a nice, quiet morning went out of her mind. He looked too pleased with himself when he spoke.

"Mr. Malfoy…why don't you spend some time today getting reacquainted with Miss Granger? If you're to be working together, you need to establish a professional relationship as soon as possible." He winked and quickly left the room, in more of a hurry than Hermione had ever seen him. She narrowed her eyes at his back as he fled.

"Well, Granger," Malfoy started, placing both hands on the table and smirking at her. "What shall I call you? Granger? Ma'am? Is 'Hermione' inappropriate?"

A thought crossed her mind at that instant, and Hermione felt her own lips curl into a taunting grin. She folded her arms across her chest and looked directly into his eyes.

"You can call me 'Boss.'"

-:-

Read and review, pleeeease.