Hi guys!
I want to let you know that I'm mostly on Ao3 these days, and I've realised that I'm forgetting to upload stuff here on FFN. I have the same pen name over there (doyou000me) so if you can, come find me on Ao3 instead! That's probably where I'll continue this story as well.
Much love!
/doyou000me

Harry will never be able to look at muggle photographs the same again. He's sitting on the edge of Ron's desk, rubbing his temple with one hand as he looks at the pictures put up with sticking charms on the walls of their cubicle. Though magical, they are as still as their muggle counterpart, because the people in the pictures are all dead.

Paul Cresswell, 39 years old, hanging from the rafters of his attic with a chain around his wrists. His body has been cut and slashed in bleeding gashes, his toes dipping into a pool of his own blood on the ground. There is nothing but a bloody, fleshy mess left between his legs.

Robert Midgen, 54, hands tied behind the back of a chair and head hanging in a way that hides his face. Stabwounds cover his torso, 28 counted though it's impossible to tell from the picture. His stomach pouches out, hanging down over his crotch and hiding what is left of his severed genitalia.

Wilkie Twycross, 46, spreadeagled over his bed with his arms and legs tied to the posts, the sheets drenched red. His stomach has been slashed open, baring flesh and guts to the world, and both his penis and testicles have been cut off.

"There's nothing!" Ron snaps, slapping the files onto his desk and throwing his hands up.

Harry glances down at him over his shoulder.

"They didn't attend Hogwarts at the same time and weren't even sorted into the same house. They haven't worked together, don't share the same friends and don't have the same social circles. Midgen was married, Twycross had a boyfriend, Cresswell was a notorious playboy with more lovers than gnomes in mom's garden! There's nothing that connects them!"

Harry sighs, gets off the desk and goes over to his own to pull out the top drawer. "And it's not a matter of physical appearance, because the only thing they share is the fact that they're men," he says and takes out a potions bottle.

"Hey, mate, you sure you're gonna take that?" Ron asks, eyeing the bottle when Harry turns around to look at him. "How many is that today?"

"Just the second."

"And how many did the Healer say you could take in a day?"

"Two," Harry answers, popping the cork and tipping his head back, downing the snot-yellow potion. He squeezes his eyes shut with a grimace at the taste, then lets out a slow breath when the ache building in his skull starts to subside.

"Why don't you call it a day, go get some sleep? You look like something Crookshanks dragged in."

Harry snorts but shakes his head. "Thanks, but I'd better stay. We've still got nothing to show Robarts."

"Then sneak home, get a few hours of shut eye and come back before Robarts comes in tomorrow. It's not like anyone's here to tell on you!" Ron gestures with his hand around the empty Auror office, at the pushed in chairs and the desks covered in case files.

"Yeah, maybe you're right…" Harry rubs his face, feeling the prickle of his stubble. "Shouldn't you get home as well?"

"I'd better stay a little bit longer so I'm sure Rose is fast asleep. Last time I came home and woke her up, Hermione nearly killed me!"

"You should use some of your vacation days, make sure you get to spend time with them," Harry says, taking his outer robe from where it's thrown over the back of his chair.

"When this case is over, I will. If I didn't have such a good partner, I might even quit the Aurors and become a homemaker! Merlin knows Hermione's gonna make it further in the Ministry than I even will!" Ron grins and sinks further down in his chair, slinging one arm behind his head and shooing Harry with the other. "Go on, get some rest. I won't tell if you don't."

Harry smiles and nods. "Good night, mate. I'll try to come in early."

"Mr Potter? Mr Potter!" A young man comes sliding around the corner, grabbing on to a desk to stop his momentum as he bends over to heave in great gasping breaths.

Harry closes his eyes, feeling his shoulders droop.

"Auror Potter was just about to leave for the day," Ron states, using the same voice that makes new recruits stand straight and can get even the most arrogant newcomers to lose their confidence. "Whatever the matter is, I'm sure it can wait for tomorrow."

The young man just shakes his head, brown locks falling into his eyes. "The gala!" he manages between gasps. "The Minister… requests… Mr Potter's presence…"

Harry's head throbs and he swears, eyes flying to the complicated piece of clockwork over the door to the Head Auror's office. It shows time, day of the week, date and year, all at the same time.

Tuesday, 2nd of May, 2006

He's forgotten about the annual celebration of the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Blood hell," Ron mutters. "You want me to stun him so you can escape? I could obliviate him, make him think he never found you. Maybe make him think he fell in the corridor and bumped his head real bad," he suggests, hand already going for his wand as he eyes the Minister's assistant.

The assistant gulps, edging backwards as his eyes flicker between the two Aurors. Harry has to admit it's a tempting offer, but shakes his head all the same.

"The poor kid's just doing his job, Ron. He's not even one of ours, you shouldn't scare him too bad," he says and Ron pouts. Turning to the assistant, he wavs for him to get going. "Go on, then, take me to Shacklebolt. I suppose I'd better say hi."

Ministry galas are always extravagant affairs of nosy reporters, overly friendly Ministry employees and opportunistic Wizengamot members looking for a chance at a drip of extra influence. The party has been underway for the better part of an hour, and the free alcohol has turned the babble and laughter into a ruckus cacophony that clashes with the music from the live orchestra.

"Harry! I'm glad you could make it!" Shacklebolt calles over the racket. He's standing in a circle of men and women who Harry distantly identifies as department heads and members of the Wizengamot, and he raises a brow when the young assistant practically pushes Harry into their midst. "Auror robes, Harry? When you're here as a guest of honor and not a guard on duty?"

"I found him in the Auror Department, mister Minister, sir!" the assistant pipes up.

"Thank you for finding him for me, Mr Hughes," Shacklebolt says and the kid shines up like a Christmas three. "Now that you are finally here, let me introduce you to our new head of the Foreign Affairs and Sports Department…"

Harry plasters on a smile he knows is barely polite and lets one of the servers put a drink in his hand. He shakes hands and nods at people as if he's listening to them and lets Schaklebolt put a hand on his shoulder and lead him around the ceremonial hall to shake hands with and smile at more people. He tries his best to ignore the noise, push it to the background, but a sudden bark of laughter or shout of a name cuts through and his eye twitches when the pain in his temple comes back with a vengeance.

"A picture, Mr Minister? Auror Potter?"

"Why not?" Shacklebolt answers, his smile ready and his hand on Harry's back as if to keep him in place. The flash goes off, a crack of blinding white. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away, gritting his teeth when the headache drives an iron pike through his brain.

"Mr Potter," the reporter gushes, leaning in close. "Our readers are dying to know-"

"Excuse me," Harry cuts him off, shaking his head a bit to clear his vision. "Nature calls."

He turns and sidesteps Shacklebolt, aiming for the toilets by the entrance. He pushes his way through the crows, dodging anyone who looks the least bit inclined to approach him, and finally steps into the white-tiled room. Slamming the door shut and smothering the festivities into a dim hubbub, he flings away a detection spell to make sure the stalls are empty before breathing out.

The foot of his champagne flute clinks sharply against the marble countertop when he puts it down and he winces, eyes flinching shut. Lifting a hand to his temple, he tries to hold his head together against the stabbing pain. The lavatory is too bright, all white marble, glossy tiles and gold finish. With his eyes squeezed closed, Harry takes off his glasses and puts them aside with his wand. Turning the tap, he splashes his face with cold water, then grips the lip of the basin and lets his head hang limply, fringe dripping.

He knows that public appearances have their use, that they're important to show a "united front" and make "the people trust in their work". He knows because Shacklebolt has told him so several times, usually with a more or less demanding tone, but right now it's just not worth it.

Harry pushes his dripping fringe back and puts his glasses on. Looking at himself in the mirror, he sees the redness of his eyes and the bruise-like shadows under them. Even he can tell that he looks like an absolute wreck.

The door opens and a shockwave of noise from the party breaks into the room. Harry swings around, his stance widening and his fingers closing around his wand, and then he has to grab the marble counter when the room careens sharply to the side.

The reporter from earlier puts his head through, then breaks out in a smile when he sees Harry. "There you are, Mr Potter! I was hoping to catch you for a few questions, I hope you don't mind!" he says excitedly, slipping in and pushing the door closed.

Harry blinks, his grip on the counter turning white-knuckled as he takes one deep breath after another, waiting for the room to slowly righten itself. He is clearly not equipped to handle reporters right now, especially not the kind willing to corner him in the toilets.

"I understand you're investigating a big case at the moment. You must be very busy, being one of the most talented Aurors in the Department," the reporter prattles, digging a quill and notebook out of his robes.

"You know I can't comment on ongoing investigations. I-"

"How does your work affect your relationship with Ginevra Weasley?" the reporter presses on. "She's playing against the Cannons tonight, isn't she? It must be difficult to maintain a relationship when you're both-"

The door is thrown open and slams into the reporter's shoulder, sending him staggering into the wall with a pained gasp as he drops his notebook to hold his arm. In steps a woman with glinting gold around her neck and robes of deepest red.

"How unsightly, Mr Caterwauler," she says, lifting her lip in a disdainful sneer. "Intruding on people's privacy in the toilet is low even for the likes of you."

"Wha- This is the men's room! What do you think you're-?"

"I am asking you to leave. Accio." She summons his notebook and quill from the floor, then chucks them out the open door. "Out. Now."

The reporter scrambles after them and she shuts the door as soon as he's crossed the threshold. With a tap of her wand the lock clicks into place and Harry gapes at her when she calmly places her wand on the counter and turns to him.

"Good evening, Mr Potter. Do excuse the intrusion." Her voice is deep and husky, her skin dark and her cheekbones high. There is something vaguely familiar about her.

"Thank you for getting rid of the reporter, ms...?" Harry says slowly, trying to place her.

"Mrs, actually. Zabini. A pleasure, Mr Potter."

She holds her hand out, clad in a silken glove. Harry doesn't take it.

Mrs Isobel Zabini. Mother of Blaise Zabini and widow of seven husbands, all dead under more or less questionable circumstances. No signs of foul play, no clues, no evidence of her involvement in their sudden passings except for the suspicious sprouting from the considerable wealth she inherited. And now she is here, in the mens' room at the annual Ministry gala, her smile unwaveringly pleasant even as she looks down at her unshaken hand, shrugs a shoulder and lowers it. Harry might just take the reporter over her company.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a party to get back to, madam." And an apparition point to find, he thinks and takes a step towards her to push past.

The room tilts again. Harry hits his side against the counter with a grunt. The shattering of glass cuts sharply through the room and Harry winces at the sound. Pressing a hand to his head, he squeezes his eyes shut and wheezes through the pain.

There's the soft mumble of a Scourgify and the champagne that has started to seep into Harry's sleeve is suddenly gone.

"That was probably for the best," says Mrs Zabini. "Had a few too many, have we?"

"I wouldn't say one is too many," Harry grinds out. Even he can hear how tired he sounds.

"That would depend on your dinner, would it not?"

Harry shakes his head, leaning heavily against the counter. Did he eat dinner? Or did he forget it again, caught up in the files and pictures and pensive memories of the case? He tries to remember the last time he ate something when realisation drops like a stone.

The pain-relieving potion. Rookie mistake, mixing potions with alcohol.

His head throbs and he screws his face up in pain, pressing his hands to his skull to keep it from splitting open. Warm fingers brush his neck and he flinches away, then stumbles when he loses his balance again. A surprisingly strong hand grabs his arm and holds him upright.

"Breath, Mr Potter. Slowly."

Harry draws in a deep breath and slowly, shakily lets it out.

"Headaches commonly originate from tension," Mrs Zabini says behind him and he freezes when one of her hands settle on his shoulder. She tsks. "Relax, Mr Potter. Concentrate on breathing."

Her hands move to his neck, fingers resting along the sides of his throat and thumbs pushing upwards along his spine to the base of his skull. He raises a hand in an attempt to push her away, every fibre in his being shrieking in warning, but the mounting pain is making his stomach turn and he's busy keeping himself from throwing up. He drops his head forwards, holding on to the sides of the sink as he breathes, feeling Mrs Zabini's thumbs press small circles into the base of his skull before moving down again. Something tight releases it's hold on his neck and shoulders and he breathes out a breath of relief.

"How are you feeling, Mr Potter?" she asks after a little while.

Pushing himself up, he forces her to step back and release him as he turns around. "Thank you, Mrs Zabini," he says quietly, his voice raspy. "I think I'd better head home now. Have a good evening."

"Let me apparate you, Mr Potter."

Harry swallows, his stomach clenching at the thought of apparition in his current state, but spinning through the floo wouldn't be much better right now. Knowing his luck, he would most likely fall out the wrong fireplace.

"I'll apparate on my own, thank you very much," he says, but there's no bite in his tone and he's too tired to shake her off when she takes his arm.

"Nonsense, Mr Potter. I can't let you go and splinch yourself in good conscience," she says and picks up her wand, unlocking the door. "It'd be a shame, on such a handsome young man like yourself."

Looks is a factor that Isobel Zabini has never taken into account when choosing her men. If they are handsome or not is inconsequential to their ability to give her what she's looking for, be it money, influence or a particular favour. A certain measure of attractiveness can of course be helpful when sex comes into the picture, but it's been years since she learned that sex doesn't have to include looking at her partner's face.

As she stands by the orchestra at the Ministry Gala, mindful of how the glittering lights reflect in her black hair and the gold jewelry that complement her skin tone, she determines that she has nothing to gain from pursuing Harry Potter. While he has influence and money in spades, he is far too honest and has too many scruples about what's right and wrong to be swayed in a way that could make him useful, not to mention his admirably faithful relationship with Ginevra Weasley. The public attention to everything Potter could also lead to a back-lash she would rather avoid, so no, Mr Potter is not a man she would ever pursue.

Twirling the champagne flute in her hand, she takes in Potter's raised shoulders and the hands tightly clenched behind his back. He nods at something the Minister is saying, but looks like a hippogriff about to charge at the boundaries of its enclosure to escape. If she remembers correctly he's the same age as Blaise, but looks much older with stubble growing along his chin and dark circles under his eyes that make him seem unwell. Tapping a nail against the glass in her hand, Mrs Zabini realises she'd like to give him a shave.

What would he look like without all that hostile tension, with his hair combed and a freshly washed face? How much work would it take to erase those shadows under his eyes? She admits to herself that she is curious, and lets herself indulge in thoughts of what it would feel like if she could get him to relax, the stress and strain draining out under her hands.

Just then, a short man with a big camera sidles up to Potter and the Minister for a picture. She recognizes him; Jacob Caterwauler is an irritating little pest that she has caught camping outside her home on more than one occasion, hoping for the latest scoop about her. She smiles when Potter ducks out of the way and makes for the toilets as soon Caterwauler has snapped a photo, leaving the reporter with the Minister. It seems Potter has some good sense, in spite of the stories Blaise told her during his Hogwarts years.

Then Caterwauler makes his excuses and follows Potter, making her lips tighten. Without a shred of shame, the reporter opens the door to the men's room and goes in.

Taking a sip of the champagne, she weighs her options. There is no immediate gain in intervening, but she has long since stopped lying to herself and the thought of Caterwauler harassing an already wrought out Potter is irritating enough for her to make her way to the toilets, dropping the glass onto the platter of a passing waiter as she goes.

Later, when they spin out of the apparition and Potter stumbles, leaning heavily against her, she knows she made the right choice. There will no doubt be consequences - Caterwauler must want revenge and she did see a flash go off when she guided Potter towards the apparition point. Still, she decides it'll have to be worth it as she holds Potter against her side, feeling his heavy breaths as he tries to gather himself. She looks down at his pale face, his eyes closed and his fringe stripy against his forehead. She squeezes his arm and smiles, knowing he can't see it and thinking it's probably for the best.

It's been a long time since she picked someone not because of what they could give her, but simply because she wanted to.