Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: I have not abandoned The Code series. This is just a fun, holiday breather which will be completed by around New Year's. It is a new AU, so there are differences. Mostly from book six and on.

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London, England

Auror Department, IRS

December 18th

1:34 pm

Their time was up.

Captain Buchannan stared at the missive on his desk. The ink shone in the light, glistening like filthy black oil.

Captain Buchannan,

Your presence is requested in the Minister's Office.

~Pius Thicknesse

He knew who Thicknesse was, or rather, who he had been. The past month had brought several inexplicable changes to his character. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement had never been a friendly man, but now he had become cold and cruel. He had never been able to withstand the pressure of the Ministry, but now he bowed to the Wizengamot's every whim. He had been graced with the ability to see his own faults, and fix his own mistakes, but now he turned a blind eye to the slow death of the Auror Department.

Buchannan suspected the Imperius, his entire division did, but there was nothing to be done. The other Auror squads had already fallen. First it was Internal Investigations, infiltrated by Death Eaters in order to spy on the inner workings of England's police force. Through II, the Death Eaters spread to the rest of the force. Business and Fraud was next. Companies owned by Muggle-borns were seized, their funds siphoned off to businesses sympathetic to the Pureblood cause. The Head Hunters fell soon after. The most informal of all divisions, made up of bounty hunters and thrill seekers, had begun to tread on the Dark Lord's robes, arresting prominent Death Eaters and lowly minions alike. The Special Task Force, responsible for undercover, sting, and protective operationgs, held out for as long as possible, but with Thicknesse firing, and occasionally arresting, good Aurors left and right, even the STF couldn't stand for long.

Now they were turning their eyes upon his division, upon his men.

The IRS had the smartest, most capable Aurors in the field. His men weren't just law enforcement, they were detectives, responsible for solving burglaries, assaults and homicides. Not only did they use their wands, chasing down suspects and occasionally assisting the STF and Head Hunters, they used their brains, following clues and using deductive reasoning. He only took the best on his squad, and in return, they gave their best every day.

Yes, he was damned proud of his men. And women. They'd held on for as long as they could, ignoring the mounting pressure from the Ministry to turn in Muggle-borns and Potter supporters. They refused to take bribes from Ministry officials, on the stipulation that they let convicted Death Eaters slide through the system. They refused even when threatened. They refused to allow their Muggle-born co-workers be forced off the squad when Scrimgeour suggested that it might help 'keep the peace'. They had all laid down their badges, prepared to walk out, before the Minister had relented.

They had done well, something Buchannan needed to tell them more often. In truth, working with these men – and women – occasionally humbled him. He couldn't have hoped for any better result than this. The Ministry had been under siege since late August. Internal Investigations had been seized two weeks later. It was December now. Almost Christmas time. Over one hundred days. That was how long his men, and women, had stood, defying the odds.

But Buchannan could smell the change in the air, a tangy scent, one reminiscent of blood. Scrimgeour couldn't hold out much longer. He would be killed and Pius Thicknesse, the Dark Lord's puppet, would be put in his place to rule.

Buchannan tossed the paper missive into the fire. He wouldn't be walking up the stairs to join whatever Death Eaters had congregated. He would be leaving. But he had one last task to perform.

Buchannan stood and opened his office door. The brightly lit bullpen was a veritable maze of desks. Adding to the usual clutter were outlandish Christmas decorations. Flying mistletoe sprigs swooped from corner to doorway and garland drooped around the walls. Apparently his detectives could apprehend the world's most dangerous wizards but couldn't cast a proper sticking charm. Red and gold lights were tacked up with greater success. By the two desks on the side of the room, the lights had been changed to green and silver. The youngest of the detectives felt all Christmas colors, not just the Auror hues, should be represented. A few paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling, releasing a puff of white glitter whenever they gusted in the wind. With all of the paper plane memos flying about the ceiling, that was quite often.

A fat Christmas tree barely fit in the far corner. It was gaudily decorated, with a truly garish, blinking star on top. Presents had been stacked underneath it. Buchannan felt a moment of regret. The office knew they weren't likely to make it to Christmas, but the department party had still been planned and presents gathered. It would have been a good Christmas this year.

Buchannan turned his attention to his detectives. Even with the flashy decorations, it was easy to focus on his men (and women). Sometimes Buchannan didn't know if he was running the IRS, or a nursery.

"Give me a kiss, won'tcha darling?" Pat Savage entreated, holding up a twig of mistletoe. His merry brown eyes and wide, smiling mouth were a direct contrast to his family name.

Delia Proudfoot, blonde, athletic, and impeccably attired, sparked the mistletoe to ash with one quick spell. Pat yelped and dropped the plant as his fingers burned.

"Shot down in flames," called out Will Williamson, who then laughed at his own play on words.

Ellington Hawke shot the younger Auror a dark, unimpressed look and then returned to his papers. From this distance it was impossible to tell if he was doing actual work, or if he was filling out the Daily Prophet crossword. Whichever one, it wasn't doing a good job of holding his attention. His gaze kept drifting towards Penelope Farraday, a self-conscious, self-proclaimed wallflower, who was blushing for Pat.

"Don't give up too easily," called out the department secretary Madeline Henwick, a wizened old witch. She wore a Santa hat over her white hair, the bells on the end jingling whenever she moved. "I think she protests too much."

"By the end of the holiday," said Pat to Delia.

"Please," said Delia. "You'd have better luck with a banshee."

"Five says Delia kick's his ass," said Gordon Harding.

"Ten says she kisses him by New Year's," Will returned, always ready to support his partner, even if the deck was stacked against Pat.

"Fifteen says Pat ends up in the hospital by New Year's," said Delia with a dirty glare.

"Twenty says she goes to dinner with me," said Pat, sinking down on one knee in front of Delia's chair.

"I'll pay, if only to end this ill-fated romance and save us all a headache," came a new droll voice.

Two detectives had just stepped out of the elevator, long red-leather coats wet with melting snow. Upon their entry, the bells above the elevator chimed out a chorus of 'Joy to the World' and a flutter a paper snowflakes drifted to the ground.

"Sunshine!" Pat greeted, his voice chorused with the rest of the office.

Buchannan cleared his throat when he saw the scowl on his newly-arrived Detective's face. The youngest Auror detested the nickname, and insults could be traded for the rest of the day if not checked right in the beginning. Buchannan knew; it had happened before.

At the sound of their boss, the room immediately quieted. Expectant faces turned to their captain and Buchannan tried to smile, not because everything was going to be okay, but because he appreciated each and every one of his detectives.

"I'm afraid our luck has run out," he said. "I have been asked to meet with the head of our department, and we all know what comes next."

A very quick sacking and occasionally imprisonment at Azkaban if he didn't leave quietly. It had happened to Kurt 'the Fury' Gallop, captain of the Head Hunters and Regina Persley, head of Business and Fraud.

"I want to say," he continued, not giving his men – and women – time to react that the news, "that you deserve to be proud of yourselves. You have not been derelict in your service to your country. You have upheld the law, even at risk to yourselves and your loved ones. When this war is over, you will be remembered as the few, brave faithful who did not bend and who did not break and who did not let the IRS be tarnished by the actions of our Ministry.

"At this time, however, we are left with no options. I have no doubt that to remain here is suicide, and we still have a public to serve. There is a resistance, gentlemen – and ladies. A resistance that I will fight for in order to ensure the survival of the values we hold dear, values such as freedom, and honor, and justice only measured by a fair hand. I cannot ask that you join, because you have given so much of yourselves already, and for that you have my deepest gratitude, but I believe you have more to offer, and that now, at this moment, you are needed more than ever."

Buchannan paused, meeting each and every one of his detectives' gaze.

"I am proud, no, I am honored to have been able to serve with you. I thank you, most adamantly, for your diligence."

He nodded, having said all he needed. From the side of the room, the droll voice spoke again.

"A speech worthy of any theatrical performance, although the stirring strings section was sorely lacking. Might I suggest use of a timpani too – oof!"

The voice cut off as his partner elbowed him in the ribs. "Shut it, Sunshine."

But the moment had already passed, and Buchannan wasn't resentful. His men – and women – didn't cope well with dramatics. In their eyes, they weren't heroes or legends, just regular men and women, overworked and underpaid, but glad to do their job.

He smiled at his detectives and then saluted. His men (and women) snapped to attention. He had never seen them salute so crisply, in perfect synchronism, their faces all reflecting a shared determinism. With what he knew his detectives were capable of, the war could only go one way.

"Alright, boys," Pat Savage drawled. "And ladies," he added with a wink. "Let's clear out and find us some Death Eaters to fight."

"You won't have far to look," said a hard voice in the back of the room.

His detectives swung around, wands appearing in their hands and leveling at the intruders in a blink of the eye. Buchannan held his own wand loosely at his side. How had they come in?

"We had hoped you might display some form of higher intelligence," the black-robed figure said.

Buchannan couldn't identify the Death Eater just by the voice, and a mask covered his face. His compatriots, all fourteen of them, spread out behind him, similarly masked.

"But you were always a bit of a heroic, Albert."

That was directed at him, and now Buchannan raised his wand. There was only one man who called him by his despised given name.

"Yaxley," he said, and cast the first curse.

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Diagon Alley, England

December 18th

2:51 pm

Snow whipped around the darkened, battered buildings. The streetlamps shone weakly, adding their dim, yellow glow to the fading, muffled light of the afternoon sun, blocked by the thick, grey clouds that hung low in the sky. The wind shrieked as it whistled through deserted alleys and through broken, boarded windows.

Draco pressed his sweater further into the wound on his partner's chest. Blood soaked through the pale blue cashmere, turning it a deep burgundy and welling over his fingers. His body shuddered from the cold, his muscles seizing and tightening, but he made no move towards his hastily discarded coat. The long, red leather duster flapped in the wind, skidding slightly across the sidewalk, but the weight of the coat kept it from tearing away in the gusts.

"Damnit," he breathed out through still clenched teeth. Tears, born of the frigid air and desperation, stung at the corner of his eyes. His eyes and his hands, buried by his partner's blood, were his only sources of warmth. His arms were bare, his chest and back covered by a thin, wet t-shirt. The snow that had collected on the cotton had melted from the warmth of his skin, but now it was beginning to freeze to his shoulders. His legs were completely numbed from kneeling on the frozen ground, even though he'd only been stemming the flow of blood from his partner's chest for a matter of minutes. He could feel the gush of blood slow. It was no longer pumping forth, but slowing to a stream. Draco pressed down harder.

"Don't die. Don't die. Don't die," he chanted. The words were chattered, his teeth knocking together. The stream slowed to a trickle.

Draco struggled for his wand. It was fallen from his hand and partially wedged under his partner's side. His blood-slicked fingers nearly lost purchase on the hawthorn wood, but he tightened his grip and cast the blood replenishing charm for the third time. He followed that with an energy spell and renewed the pacemaking charm to keep his heart beat steady. He hoped the pain-numbing charm was still working. He didn't have the strength to cast another. Already, he could tell his spells were weakening. There was no outrush of blood from the wound, which would be indicative of a large deposit of red cells. Instead the flow peaked, then abated again.

The tears spilled, freezing on his cheeks. Draco leaned over his partner, raising one bloody hand to the still face, and the vivid, lethal green curse cut through the air, right where his head had once been. It left a searing stench of sulfur. Draco didn't stop to swear in frustration, or wonder how they had been found again. Instead, he rolled his partner over, onto his discarded coat. A quick lightening charm, and he grabbed the red leather sleeve and ran, bent at the waist and dragging his partner behind him. He strained to see any sort of shelter through the ever thickening snow.

Curses were flung, badly aimed, but still deadly. Draco dragged in quick breaths, his lungs seizing in the cold, the white-hot pain a counterpoint to the arctic weather. He turned down a small alley, towing his unconscious partner into relative safety, and then he grasped his wand again and ducked down near the entrance.

Colored lights flew by in bursts, fireworks he had once seen at the Quidditch World Cup. Several green lights. Too many green lights. He liked green, didn't he? Draco leaned against the brick building behind him and then abruptly sank to the ground as his knees gave out. He stared at his legs, wondering if they were still attached to his body because he couldn't feel them anymore.

A flash of orange hit the wall across from him, just on the edge. It collided with a shower of gold sparks that made him turn his head from the blinding glitter. When he looked back, a few bricks were gone, torn out from the wall and lying in crumbled dust on the ground.

Draco didn't notice the crescendo of spells, or the shouts that were nearly lost in the shrieking wind. His mind had detached from the cold, from the pain, and from his fight for survival. Instead, he focused on one thing.

He tipped himself over, onto his hands. He managed to crawl the few feet to his partner. He pressed again on his sopping sweater. The blood was turning to slush, meaning it was freezing over, meaning that no new, warm blood was draining out to counteract the cold. He leveled his wand, trying to think of the charm that might keep his partner alive just a few minutes longer. He couldn't think of the words. His wand wavered in his grasp.

He didn't need to remember the words, just the intent, the motions, that should be enough, just think! The warm, white light shone from his wand. His partner jerked under the force of the spell, the slowing heart finding more plasma and red cells to distribute throughout the injured body.

Draco collapsed over his partner, a shallow breath of air leaving his lips in triumph.

A figure stepped into the alley, visible in the lesser flurry of snow. Draco stumbled back, grasping his coat again, trying to drag his partner away while raising his wand. The coordination of the movement eluded his frozen limbs and sluggish mind. He stumbled, not releasing the coat or his wand, so he hit the ground on his elbow and side. It jarred him enough to find one last burst of strength.

His wand sparked. The curses flew out, as strong as ever, but his hand shook. His whole arm wavered. The spells blasted through the stores to either side, forcing the figure back into the street, completely unharmed.

Draco staggered to his feet, still clenching the red leather in one hand, wand in the other. His feet carried him four steps, and then the figure had returned, this time accompanied by two others.

Draco could have screamed in anger, in frustration. He had tried, sweet Merlin, he had tried. He raised his wand once more. There were voices over the wind, urgent and loud, but he couldn't even hear the howling of the storm. Couldn't feel the icy grip of a Dementor-influenced December blizzard.

The snow seemed to be falling faster, harder. His vision was turning white all around. He suddenly thought he must be caught in an avalanche, because he didn't know if he standing or sinking into a myriad of snow.

Something struck his head. It wasn't hard, but he had the vague feeling that this empty echo of a sensation should be pain. Someone had spilled paint. The snow was no longer white, but black, and it was covering him, burying him until there was nothing but darkness.

Arthur Weasley waited until Detective-Auror Draco Malfoy of the IRS crumpled to the ground next to his partner and Order member Kingsley Shacklebolt, before attempting another rescue.

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England, Location Confidential

The Burrow

5:19 pm

Arthur sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. For a few minutes, when he had been out in the blizzard, fighting the Death Eaters, he had wondered if he was every going to be warm again. Now, sitting at the kitchen table with a fire roaring in the fireplace, with dry clothes and thick socks on, he finally felt comfortable.

Comfortable was perhaps the wrong word. Very little had been comfortable since the summer. He had watched the Ministry gradually collapse until only Death Eaters remained. The clock on the kitchen wall reported that all of his children were in constant peril. His home was on the top of the list for Voldemort to find.

Just today he had witnessed the end of the Auror Department in which a very good friend and Order member was grievously injured. Kingsley Shacklebolt was being tended to by his wife and second-oldest child. Molly had worked as a Healer's aide before marrying Arthur, and Charlie had advanced medical training, a necessity for working with dragons. They hadn't come downstairs yet.

Arthur and Tonks had focused their attention on a very different sort of problem: Draco Malfoy.

The boy hadn't woken up once, not since his collapse in Diagon Alley. He'd been half-dead by the time the rescuers had returned to the Burrow, but freezing to death in the wizarding world was a very rare occurrence. Several potions were able to restore frozen tissue and raise the core body temperature. According to Tonks, the boy might sleep for two days, but he would suffer no permanent damage.

The boy's well-being was not the problem. It was a problem, to be sure, but the more pressing matter involved his presence in the Burrow. With 12 Grimmauld Place gone, the Burrow was one of the last havens for the Order of the Phoenix and Arthur did not know if the boy was to be trusted.

There were footsteps on the stairs and then Molly and Charlie appeared. Both appeared weary, but they were smiling widely. Arthur smiled too and then got up to pour them both a cup of tea. Tonks and Remus came in from the living room and Arthur grabbed two more cups. The five settled around the table.

Only five and it was Christmas time. The Burrow should have been full of people, all seven of his children and their various friends and, in Bill's case, spouse. Molly should be cooking up a feast in the kitchen, enough to feed an army. The younger generation should be chatting by the fire over cups of hot chocolate. The radio should be playing softly, filling the room with classic holiday music.

Instead, the family was forced apart. Charlie had made it back from Romania and his dragons, but just barely. Bill and Fleur were settled in their little home, not a large distance away, but the Floo was being monitored and there were anti-Apparation wards on the Burrow. Other means of public transportation would be watched, especially for such prominent Potter-supporters like the Weasley family. It would be difficult to make the trip.

Percy still had not contacted the family.

Fred and George were stuck in their shop on Diagon Alley. Instead of being arrested for publicly supporting Harry Potter and providing 'weaponry' to the rebellion, Fred and George had simply hid in the secret basement of their store. Lee Jordan, founder of Potterwatch, had already been living there with his radio broadcasting equipment. But the Death Eaters had never truly left the store. There were hourly patrols up and down Diagon Alley, and while Fred and George could leave for supplies, getting out of the market was nearly impossible. The Death Eaters had set up checkpoints at all entry and exit points.

Ron was somewhere with Harry and Hermione. It hurt Arthur to think that the fate of the wizarding world was resting solely on one boy's shoulders. He didn't think it was fair. Hadn't Harry suffered enough? And where Harry went, Ron followed. Arthur couldn't protect his son, not when he didn't know what sort of mission Harry was on. The secrecy pained him. The fact that Ron was so closely tied to Harry scared him.

Ginny was safe at Hogwarts. While Dumbledore remained in control of the school, she would be cared for and looked after. Leaving Hogwarts would mean stepping out from that safety, and again, the trains were being watched. The Death Eaters would love to capture the girlfriend of the Boy-Who-Lived. It was stupid to risk her safety for a mere holiday. The best gift Arthur could receive was the continued safety of his children.

Arthur pulled himself from his musings. There were seven residing at the Burrow now, and while Draco Malfoy wasn't his first choice for a house guest, Kingsley was a good friend.

"How's Kingsley?" Arthur asked.

"Lucky," said Charlie. He wrapped his hands around the mug like his father. "He took a slicing hex to the chest, severing an artery and damaging his heart. Nearly all the blood that was in him was from blood-replenishing charms. The wound had been staunched with a sweater, which I'm guessing belongs to Malfoy."

It would explain why the boy was wearing a t-shirt in the middle of a blizzard.

"And even with that, and the blood charms, the only reason Kingsley is alive right now is because of the cold. It slowed his heart enough to prevent a fatal blood loss and relieved the pressure on the damaged muscle."

"So he'll recover," said Tonks.

Charlie nodded. "He'll need to stay completely level for the next twenty-four hours, but after that, he'll be up in no time, no lasting damage. He already woke up once. He wasn't real coherent, but he was asking about his partner."

Arthur found Molly's eyes. "Ginny did write," he said.

The non-sequitor threw the rest of the table.

"What did she write?" Charlie asked.

Molly took a sip of her tea before answering. "She managed to get us a letter. She mentioned that Kingsley was at Hogwarts investigating a series of attacks and that Draco Malfoy was his partner. She wasn't sure if he was Ministry plant or not, but he did get Umbridge sacked."

"So chances are he's legitimately an Auror," said Charlie.

"So it would seem," said Remus.

"How is he?" asked Molly.

"Sleeping," Tonks supplied. "He'll be out for a couple of days as his temperature rises."

Molly nodded and then looked over to Arthur, eyebrow raised.

"I put him on the ground floor," said Arthur.

"Right next to you and mom?" Charlie asked.

Arthur shrugged. "I've never had a Malfoy in my house before. I want to keep an eye on him."

"A Malfoy who is an Auror," said Tonks. "Now there's a story I want to hear."

Rest assured, the Decoding will continue after New Years, but I needed a break, so here's a late Christmas present for you all. The story will be complete around New Years, so look for frequent updates! Please leave a review on your way out.