Disclaimer: No part of Harry Potter belongs to me. I just borrow it when the muse demands.
Chapter Four – Auror Cases and Coffee Shops
Verna told Harry to go home at 10 pm. In fact, her exact words were, "Mr. Potter, I am not staying here another second, so either you go home so that I can, or I Stun you and deposit your sorry self on your front step."
That had been the end of that.
Harry tiredly unlocked his front door and kept the light off as he pulled off his shoes. The kids were all at Hogwarts and the house was silent except for Ginny. Hopefully she was asleep.
This was Lily's first year at Hogwarts and already, although Halloween had not yet come, she was loving it and fitting in magnificently. Harry had thought, at first, that her House might prove a problem in the extended Weasley family for she had chosen Slytherin. However, when Harry and Ginny had broached the news at one of the Weasleys' Sunday Dinners and the furor had started, Ginny had stood up and shouted them all into silence.
"Al and Rose are in Ravenclaw! Does this make them less than Weasleys? We are proud that two of our own are in the House that values Intelligence. Should we be less than proud that Lily has entered the House that values Ambition? It means my daughter has great dreams, that she will achieve great things. And that is all that it tells me!
Then she had hesitated, purposefully. Harry had felt like grinning. Ginny always had been a natural performer, craving the crowd's attention, their every breath hanging on her words. "Oh, wait, that's not quite true," she had said, sly as a Slytherin herself. "It tells me that my daughter is brave, full of courage and strength, for she chose to accept the House she was placed in, in spite of the fact that she knew very well what her family and the rest of the Wizarding World would say!
"Harry Potter's daughter, a Slytherin!," she spat. "That's what they'll say, and here, her own family can't even accept it!"
She had stood up right on the kitchen table and informed them in no uncertain terms that the first person she heard mocking or criticizing her daughter for her House, or insinuating anything at all based on where she was Sorted, would receive a Bat-Bogey Hex such as they would never forget the rest of their lives.
And Ron had seconded her by announcing that he was seeing Pansy Parkinson and that he would be bringing her to the next Weasley Sunday Dinner. With his mother's permission of course.
Mrs. Weasley had looked vaguely apoplectic, but she had given a terse nod. The table had been utterly silent as Ginny jumped off the table and took her place between Harry and Ron. She had smiled gratefully at her closest brother, but when Harry, for the first time in months, had reached out to touch her hand she had all but flinched away from him.
Her brown eyes had shot up, hesitantly, towards his own and she had given him a small smile but there had been no true joy there, no happiness at a partner beside her. It was the look of a stranger towards someone she no longer trusted.
Harry had been quiet then, for the rest of the dinner, listening with half an ear to the rowdy discourse of his adopted family, and with the other part of himself going over how he and Ginny could have fallen so far apart.
It had happened gradually, this distance, although it had become much more noticeable after Albus Severus had left to go to Hogwarts. Lily had noticed it of course. If James had inherited all the Potter pride, Lily and Albus Severus had inherited what Harry suspected to be his own mother's keen intelligence and observation.
Of course his daughter had also inherited Ginny's fire, given that she had fearlessly entered the Serpent's Den. And not only had she survived there, but she was thriving. Harry was both glad for her and somewhat wary. His prejudice against Slytherins ran deep. He had never met a good one, except Snape, and he always remembered Dumbledore telling the man that perhaps he should have been sorted into Gryffindor instead.
Even now, though he had been so proud of Ginny's stance, he was unsure how he felt about Lily being in Slytherin. Perhaps she knew that for her letters to him were overly formal and bland; they touched only on generalities. He wondered what she was writing to Ginny.
He sighed and shuffled into the kitchen. The place was a complete disaster; Ginny had obviously not straightened up this evening before going to bed.
Harry turned on the light and pulled out the remnants of dinner. He heated it with a Warming Charm and made a manly effort to swallow it down. Ginny had never been much of a cook.
They had been so in love, Harry and Ginny, in the beginning. After Voldemort's defeat they had been all but inseparable. Even Ron and Hermione – sickening sweethearts themselves – had rolled their eyes whenever Harry and Ginny had been together.
'Childhood Sweethearts' The Prophet had dubbed them. Picture after picture they had taken of them. "A repeat of the past', 'A Tragedy Rectified', 'James and Lily Live Again', were the headlines that had followed them. Ginny, with her long red hair and lively personality, and Harry with his traditional Potter looks were nearly a dead ringer for Harry's long-dead parents.
He sighed, apathetically stirring his now-lukewarm dinner. Perhaps that was where they went wrong. Perhaps they had been merely trying to re-create the past, convinced that it was everlasting love because of the mystique which still surrounded the saint James and Lily Potter.
Perhaps it had had something to do with the War. That was Hermione's pet theory. War breeds a closeness, and adrenaline rush, which does not last often in peacetime, she was fond of saying to him. They had all lost so much, seen so much death and destruction that was it any wonder they held on so tightly to childhood friends? Held on tight enough to marry them? Have children with them? Face the unknown, forever changed world with them still by their sides?
Our entire generation has post-traumatic stress disorder, Hermione would say. If the Wizarding World were more up to date in mental health care, perhaps the divorce rate now wouldn't be so startling. Perhaps we wouldn't have gotten it all wrong.
Or perhaps we'd still be messed up, but we'd just have a name for it, Harry would argue back. Does that make it any better?
Hermione would shake her head. Neither of them had an answer to that question.
Harry sighed, felt someone standing behind him, turned quickly and saw a red-haired monster standing behind him.
A girlish scream sounded throughout the room. Afterwards Harry felt himself turning as red as Ginny's hair, for of course it was she.
"Merlin's Balls," she snapped, rubbing an ear with an annoyed expression on her face. "What is wrong with you?"
"Don't sneak up on me then," Harry snapped back, embarrassed by his outburst. Experienced Aurors did not react to danger that way. And certainly not to their wives that way. This was not the way he wanted to meet with Ginny again after their uncomfortable talk yesterday. She had demanded he come home once in awhile, he had stated with finality that he was too busy at work right now, that people were dying all over the place. She had said that it felt like he had died for the time he spent with her. And then she had stormed out.
Verna's expression had told him all he needed to know about whose side she was on. After his drinks with Ron last night he had gone back to the office – making sure that Verna had long since left – and slept once again in his uncomfortable desk chair.
Today he had decided to make an effort. Nobody had died in three days. Nobody had disappeared either. He would come home tonight and sort things out with Ginny in the morning. Besides Verna had all but chased him out of the office with a harpoon. After he had made her a lovely breakfast in bed, they could discuss things in a rational, adult-like manner.
Except here she was, standing before him, in the kitchen, in the middle of the night. Yelling at him. Not according to plan at all.
"I do live here, you know! In case you haven't noticed after all these years!"
"What on earth are you talking about? Of course I've noticed. We have three children together!"
"One would never know that for all the time you spent with them as they were growing up!"
"I was extremely involved with them. I was at every quidditch game, every play!"
"Really?" Ginny yelled, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "I must had missed all that when everyone kept asking where you were and if I was even MARRIED!"
"Somebody needed to help rebuild the Wizarding World!"
"And SOMEBODY needed to help RAISE OUR CHILDREN!" Ginny screamed.
Harry stood up, chair flying backwards. Ginny took a step forwards, right into his personal space, red hair frizzing angrily, brown eyes flashing with fire. She glared up at him.
"Yes?" she snapped, "do you have something to say to that?"
Harry narrowed his green eyes at her. There was a coldness in them that caused even Ginny, with all her fierceness, to fear for a moment. "No, I have nothing to say to you," he said, voice tight with control and suppressed anger. He turned to walk away from her.
"No, that's right!" Ginny yelled after him. "You never have ANYTHING to say to me! You never talk to me, you never TALK to our children. You think everything is more important than WHERE YOU ARE IN THIS MOMENT! And you know what," she screamed – he was already in their room, closing the bathroom door – "I'VE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH!"
That sounded particularly final to Harry. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to care enough to go after her.
He was just so bloody tired.
"You look like Hell," Romilda Vane, one of his Senior Aurors, said to him first thing next morning when he stumbled into the office. Verna, sitting behind her at her desk, gave him a narrowed eyed glare. Obviously she agreed with this assessment, although she probably assumed other causes then what had actually happened.
Romilda thrust coffee into his hands. She had obviously been waiting for him.
"You have something to report," Harry murmured redundantly. "Come in," he waved her into his office. It was a terrible mess, as usual. Harry pointed her to the only other chair in the room. "Just dump those papers on the floor," he told her wand watched, with some amusement, as she gingerly picked up the hap-hazard stack and gently deposited it onto the floor by her feet.
Then she took a seat and fixed him with her dark eyes. She had come a long way from the girl who had tried to slip him love potions during their Hogwarts days, but there were times when her dark gaze reminded him uncomfortably of someone else.
Today, right here, right now, was one of those times.
He tried to shake off his unease and give his subordinate his full attention. Romilda had been nothing but competent, and even exemplary, her entire time with the Department. According to the rumor mill that was an Auror office, she had lost three fingers in the Battle of Hogwarts fighting Dolohov, and had even dueled Bellatrix Lestrange.
Harry looked up into the patrician nose, dark hair and dark eyes of the woman in front of him. He shook his head sharply. Everything was blurry and blending into everything else.
He hadn't slept well last night. He'd come out to find that Ginny had not come up to bed but had elected to spend the night on the couch downstairs. He had proceeded to spend the rest of his supposed-sleeping hours lying awake and feeling guilty about this.
He'd snuck out really early this morning, gone for a run, and then picked up a bite to eat before stumbling into the office an hour early.
Apparently not early enough for the entire Department seemed to be here ahead of him.
"Rough night, Boss?" the woman across form him tossed out cheekily.
Harry was long used to her irreverent sense of humor. He rubbed red eyes tiredly. "You could say that," he agreed. "What's up?"
"We've had another one." And just like that Auror Vane was all seriousness. She leaned forward and placed a file in front of him. Harry opened it but the words swam in front of his eyes.
He closed it again. "Summarize it for me."
"There's been another one. Another murder," she elaborated before he could ask. "Do you remember old Griselda Marchbanks? On the Hogwarts OWLs Board?"
"She's still alive?" Harry asked in wonderment.
"Not anymore," Romilda said grimly. "Found dead in her living room this morning by neighbors who smelt something really bad. Our first response team believes she was killed at least a week ago. It was very messy. We thought you'd want to take a look at this one, Boss. It's different than all the others."
"Different how?" Harry asked. But he was already grabbing his cloak and following her out the door.
The first time Hermione Granger saw Draco Malfoy after Harry had told her he was acting suspicious, was in a little café in a discrete corner of Diagon Alley.
It was usually a quiet, sun-filled little place with great scones and a peaceful atmosphere, but today that atmosphere was ruined by the presence of a tall, blond git. Why, oh why, could she not escape from the name 'Draco Malfoy' this week? She wondered tiredly.
She'd been up all night with her Wall of Web, had made absolutely no progress, kept returning to Harry's conversation about Malfoy and his mysterious conversation, and now the first person she ran into this morning was Draco bloody Malfoy.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she ordered a scone with cream and a cup of English Breakfast tea. She loved tea. In fact, she thought she would marry tea if she could get away with it. Delicious, warmth-filled beverage of caffeine goodness. And none of the bitterness of coffee to get in the way of her enjoyment.
Malfoy was sitting at a small, flower-patterned table next to the sunny window, a newspaper in front of his face and a tall, steaming cup of coffee in the other. He was inhaling the liquid like
His robes were extremely fashionable and expensive. That's suspicious, considering he has no money, Hermione thought to herself. They were also an extremely flattering shade of silver-blue that went perfectly with his silver-blond hair and pale, pointed features.
He might never be called handsome, the Malfoy scion, but there was something undeniably distinguished and patrician and…..old-world about him.
Hermione glanced down at her rumpled, out-of-date maroon robes and ran a finger through unkempt, frizzy brown hair. She felt downright grungy in comparison and damned Draco Malfoy to all Seven Hells for making her feel this way this early in the morning.
It could only go downhill from here.
She sighed as she accepted her scone and tea and deliberated on a place to sit. Might as well start as she meant to go on, and all that. Harry was suspicious of Draco Malfoy, and frankly so was she. She might as well attempt to find out what he was up to.
She sat down one table away from him and nonchalantly started eating her scone. She snuck quick glances at him out of the corner of her eyes as she deliberated the best way to start up a conversation. She had just about decided on the time-honored tradition of 'Hello', when he spoke without looking up.
"Yes, Granger, can I help you with something?" Draco Malfoy's voice hadn't changed one bit in all the years since she had last heard him speak. It was still all cut-glass tones and haughty inflections.
She rolled her eyes.
"Can it, Malfoy," she told him, forcefully. "I don't need you smarmily asking me questions after the day that I've been having."
Flabbergasted grey eyes shot up to hers. Hermione smirked internally; she wasn't an Unspeakable for nothing. Throwing people off of balance was an acquired specialty of hers. She tilted her head and gave him a distinctly smug smile. "I was just looking at you because I haven't been this close to you since the War ended. We did go to school together, if you remember –"
"How could one forget that bushy hair and obnoxious personality?" Malfoy asked blandly.
Hermione dropped the smile and glared. Her hair was not bushy. " – And," she continued, louder, "that is what people do to school acquaintances they haven't really seen in twenty years. By the way, that's a lovely receding hairline you've got there, Malfoy."
He snorted. "And is that grey in your hair doing you any favors, Granger?"
"Well, at least I have a good job, unlike some people with fancy pedigrees and a lack of brains."
"What is it, exactly, that you do again, Granger?" He leaned forward, across the small aisle that separated their spindly little tables, until his face was quite close to hers. "Oh yes, that's right, you can't talk about it. That is the whole catch with Unspeakables, right? You can never talk about your work. Must have made your marriage difficult, all that secrecy…but I forgot, Weasley dumped you, didn't he?"
There was delighted malice in Draco Malfoy's tone and Hermione, for the first time, realized that maybe she had assumed things about him that were by no means true. She had thought that he would be broken, defeated, worn down by a life-time of disappointments and defeats. All bark and no bite.
But it seemed that he was alive and kicking, and that he'd only grown more dangerous over the years. He had hit her right where it hurt the most – and she didn't have many weak spots.
She narrowed her eyes at him, refusing to show that he'd struck home. But he knew it anyway if that malicious light in his grey eyes was any indication.
"Couldn't even hold onto the Weasel," he reiterated. "How did that feel, Granger?" he asked her, like a sick parody of a shrink.
Hermione's hands clenched into fists, but before she could decide whether to leave or retaliate, someone came up behind her and punched Draco Malfoy in the shoulder.
"That wasn't very nice at all, Draco," a small, brown-haired woman said, sitting down in the empty seat at Draco's table and pulling the metal chair noisily around until she was sitting right next to him. "Seriously, what are you guys, twelve? You're bickering like school children." Her accent was English RP, something high-class, like she had been educated at private schools and Oxbridge all her life. For she was unmistakably Muggle given the fashion of her clothing, and her utter comfort with them.
Even Muggle Borns were never that good at choosing Muggle clothes after a lifetime in the WIzarding World.
"One of us is," Hermione muttered, aggrieved and mulling quickly over possibilities. This must be that woman, Ellie, which Harry had seen with Malfoy the other day.
"Well, one of us is a – "
Ellie clamped her hand over Draco's mouth. "Shut up," she told him, mildly. Then she turned to Hermione, extending the hand that wasn't still clamped over Malfoy's mouth. Oh, if looks could kill, Hermione thought delightedly at the look Malfoy shot the brown-haired muggle, shaking the hand offered her.
"Eleanor Montgomery," she introduced herself. Her face was small and pale, her hair a mouse brown color, and her eyes a muddy green. She was utterly unremarkable say for a certain vibrancy in her personality. There was a zest in the way she sat, a crispness in her movements, and a sharpness in her gaze. She was at least a decade younger than Hermione and Draco, but the forcefulness in her eyes as she watch Hermione coolly made her seem much older, more in control.
Hermione straightened up and returned a level stare of her own.
"So you're the woman Harry said Malfoy here was meeting the other day," she said, deciding to go right on the attack. "He told me he thought you had spotted him through the Disillusionment Spell."
"Let's just say that I saw him spying on Draco from a bush, figured he'd follow us, and made an educated guess as to where he would watch us from."
Malfoy opened his mouth in indignation, got his foot promptly stomped on by Eleanor Montgomery, and closed it again.
"How do you know Malfoy?" Hermione asked. "Bit unusual, a Malfoy voluntarily talking to a Muggle. And I heard there was even hugging involved." Hermione couldn't help baiting him. Not even Ron was this fun to needle. She suppressed the sharp pang that thought brought with violence.
"Why, was he jealous?" Malfoy snapped, peevishly. "Honestly, it's been twenty years and all Potter can do is follow me around. Doesn't he have any other hobbies!" he demanded of the world at large. He whirled on Hermione. "And what do you mean it's a 'bit unusual' me hanging out with a muggle? What do you know about my social life? I could have tons of muggle friends for all you know. Don't you think you're being prejudiced and bigoted?"
"Yeah, you and your Dark Mark are the open, tolerant ones," Hermione returned.
The café owner looked at the riotous little group with dislike.
"Draco and I met during the War," Eleanor said calmly, ignoring Malfoy's outburst and Hermione's arguing. "He introduced me to some charming friends of his. Oh, and the muggle doesn't really like being refured to as 'the Muggle,'" she added lightly. There was steel underneath all that posh.
"Sorry," Hermione said instantly.
Malfoy shrugged. Eleanor shoved him playfully.
"Wait, what do you mean you met Malfoy during the war? How old were you, six?"
"I'm older than I look."
Hermione's next question was on the tip of her tongue when she noticed that both of them were looking at her like they already knew it.
"I was a captive. Muggle sport for them to torture and kill. Brought in with a dozen others." Eleanor's voice was very gentle. "Narcissa Malfoy tried to save the children. In her own way."
"And somehow you survived?" Hermione probed, gently, hesitantly. There was a lot more to this story than she felt either of them were going to tell her.
Malfoy's voice was filled with glee as he cut in, "She told the Dark Lord exactly where he could go shove his wand, proceeded to cause absolute chaos within the Manor, and then escaped out the window – we were on the third floor mind you – with the nearest child and escape. With all the Death Eaters after her I might add."
Hermione looked back at Eleanor Montgomery.
She raised an eyebrow at Hermione.
Malfoy looked back and forth between them, smirked, and drank the rest of his coffee.
"And after you escaped from his house you suddenly became bosom buddies," Hermione finished, sarcastically.
Malfoy and Eleanor shared a glance.
"Yup."
"Pretty much."
"Well, we should get going. Nice meeting you, Hermione Granger."
"Can't say I was thrilled to meet you again, Granger."
"Hopefully I'll see you around."
"Hopefully I won't."
"Draco, that's rude."
"So is your face," he told her cheerfully.
And then they were out the door. As it closed behind them Hermione heard Eleanor Montgomery say, "I like her."
Malfoy was resigned. "Somehow I knew you would."
And then they were gone.
That had to have been the weirdest conversation with….anyone, really….that she had ever had in her life.
Notes: Sorry. This chapter just got away from me. I was having so much fun writing Harry/Ginny and Draco/Hermione that I ran out of room and impetus to describe what the Strickland Case actually is. Ah well, next chapter. How's it coming? Do you have any ships yet? I have pairings for this story which will become apparent over time, but I want to know where you think this is all going. Cheers. And please review. I can't tell if anyone actually likes this story besides me.
