When he wakes up, the low afternoon sun is shining in from the garden, turning the peonies into a blur of deep, bloody red. He blinks slowly at the blotchy colours, the realisation that he's not wearing his glasses filtering through his brain without alarm. A blanket has been draped over him and under it he's still shirtless. He feels heavy but… in a good way, his body sinking into the cushioning of the bench and his breathing deep and slow. The last time he felt anything remotely like this, he'd taken a double dose of calming draught, but this is… better, as if the relaxation is in his very bones instead of from a potion forcefully pulling the stress out of him.
He blinks when he realises his hand is empty and stretches his arm, scrabbling with his fingers over the floor. Why didn't he realise he's defenceless? He should have noticed as soon as he woke up.
"It's right here, Darling."
Turning his head, he finds Mrs Zabini sitting in the corner of the couch, leaning into the cushions and pillows with a folder resting on her crossed knee. His wand and glasses are on the table between them, placed within easy reach. He takes his glasses and puts them on, returning the world to crisp focus.
Grabbing the sides of the bench, he pushes himself up onto his knees and rises. His clothes are still there, folded on the end of the bench. He feels her eyes on his back when he turns, felt them when he heaved himself up, and when he's buttoning his shirt up and turns to face Mrs Zabini again she's wearing an appreciative smile. It gives him pause for a moment as part of him insists it's inappropriate while the other part doesn't mind.
"You should stay for some food, Darling," Mrs Zabini says, saving him the trouble of deciding if he should say something or not. "You haven't been eating properly lately, have you?"
He smiles, surprised by how much it sounds like something Molly would say. "Thank you, Mrs Zabini, but it's about time I get back to work."
"Lady."
"What?"
Harry looks up from the buttons of the waistcoat and looks into her dark eyes.
"When you're here as Darling, you will call me Lady."
Harry finds himself nodding and wonders if he shouldn't protest, but it's neither a request nor a demand. She stated it like a fact, as if telling him that that's simply how it works, so he doesn't argue as he takes his wand and slides it up his sleeve.
"I'll remember that for next time, Mrs Zabini," he says instead, shrugs on his jacket and drapes the robe over his arm.
"It's a shame you have to go," she says, a regretful twist to her full lips. She rises and walks him to the door, her motions fluid and graceful and so very different from the whip-like efficiency that Quidditch has trained into Ginny. For the first time, Harry understands why the men she sets her sights on fall for her in spite of her reputation.
She puts her hands on his arm when they reach the door and he realises that they're almost exactly the same height when she looks him in the eye.
"Stay for longer next time, Mr Potter. More time as Darling would be good for you," she says in that matter-of-fact tone that he can't argue with.
"I'm beginning to think you might be right, Mrs Zabini."
Wrapped in concealing charms, Harry sneaks into the Ministry through the visitors entrance. The red telephone box and pleasant woman's voice reminds him of that night years and years ago and the old ache that has made a home for itself within his ribcage pulses with fresh pain. He shakes his head, amazed when the memories of Sirius don't trigger a fresh headache.
He steps out of the telephone box and surveys the Atrium as he walks unnoticed across the shiny floor, but it seems the reporters have been chased off. He waves away his concealment between one step and the next and a young witch jumps at his sudden appearance, nearly dropping the papers she's carrying. Harry steadies the pile with a flick of his wand and goes for the first available lift going down, catching a glimpse of the witch gaping at him while clutching her swaying pile of papers.
Other than a few memos fluttering by the ceiling, making the light flicker and dance, he gets the lift to himself for the short ride to the second level. Harry catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, his hair as wild as ever but his clothes a little less wrinkled - Mrs Zabini must have done something about them, too. The dark shadows under his eyes are far from gone and his five o'clock shadow is only making him look more pale, but his eyes in the reflection are less red and a bit more lively.
"May I suggest a shave?" says the mirror.
The lift pings. He steps out onto the second level and rounds the corner into the Auror Headquarters.
"Harry!" Ron spots him as soon as he steps through the heavy oak doors. He waves him over to their shared cubicle, Savage and Proudfoot crammed in there with him.
"Potter!" comes from the other direction before he's taken two steps and he turns to see Robarts standing in the door to his office. "My office! Now!"
Changing his direction for Robarts' office, Harry sends Ron a look. Ron makes a face in turn but nods towards Robarts, meaning it's unavoidable and better to get it over with though it's probably going to be unpleasant. Harry raises a hand in thanks for the warning and follows the Head Auror.
"What's your relationship with Mrs Zabini?" Robarts asks as soon as Harry has closed the door behind them. He's standing behind his desk with his hands on the back of his chair.
"Sir?" Harry stops and at him, then frowns. "Sir, don't tell me you believe that bollocks the Prophet has been writing."
"Answer the question, Potter. I need to hear it from you."
Harry crosses over to stand before the desk and looks Robarts in the eye. "I am not in a relationship with Mrs Zabini. We met by chance and she offered to help me with the headaches."
Surprise flitters over Robarts' face before he nods, pulls his chair out and sinks into it. Taking it as the only invitation he's going to get, Harry takes the visitor chair across from him.
"I got the message from Healer Stern about your worsening condition. As soon as the case is over, I'm putting you on sick leave."
Harry opens his mouth, about to protest on reflex, then closes it and looks down at the cluttered desk, nodding. "Thank you."
"About Mrs Zabini, I need to know if you can be impartial or if I need to take you off the case."
Head snapping up, Harry stares at him. "She's involved?"
"She might be, but I need to know if I can continue to trust you with this before I tell you more."
"You can trust me, sir. The case is more important than whatever help she might give me."
Robarts looks him in hard in the eye for a long moment, then nods. "Good, because I need you and Weasley to go question her and she has a record of being... uncooperative with Aurors."
"Savage found an article from four years ago when she went through the Prophet's archives," Ron explains as they walk down the muggle street towards Mrs Zabini's home. "There was a rumour that Hawkworth had some kind of affair with Zabini, but there doesn't seem to have been any proof. Then Savage got the idea to look into the other victims, see if she could find any similar rumours about them, and guess what? Turns out all of them have been rumored to be in affairs with Zabini over the past few years."
"So we think… what? Is Mrs Zabini getting rid of her past lovers?" Harry muses, then shakes his head the next moment. "No, she can't be the killer. Hawkworth died while she was taking me home from the MInistry Gala, so we know she didn't kill him. Jealousy, then?"
"Maybe," Ron agrees. "Could be a past lover getting rid of the competition. Could be a case of 'if I can't have her, no one can'."
Harry knocks on Mrs Zabini's black-painted door while Ron takes a step back into the street to take in the yellow limestone, nine-by-nine sash windows and glossy ivy climbing around the corner from the side of the house. The door opens and there she is, dressed in the same casually high-quality robes as she wore when Harry left her less than an hour ago, her black hair piled on her head in a messy bun. Her brows climb up when she sees Harry, then climb further when she sees Ron behind him.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs Zabini," Harry says. "We suspect that you could have information pertinent to our case and hope that you could help us by answering some questions."
Her dark eyes wander back to him, and even though she's not saying anything, it's clear she's considering closing the door in his face. Harry grimaces when a twinge of guilt hits him - she did help him, after all.
"I am sorry, truly," he says, lowering his voice so that Ron won't hear him. "I wasn't planning on coming back like this, but we've got a new lead. I can tell you that you're not a suspect, if it's any consolation."
She leans back against the doorframe, crossing her arms. "I'm not a suspect? That's a first." She glances back to Ron who's standing back, clearly giving them their privacy, then sighs and steps aside to let them in.
"Thank you," Harry mumbles when he walks past her and she gives him a minute nod in response.
She takes them to the sitting room with the Red Charm peonies in the garden outside. Mrs Zabini takes the couch and Harry does his best not to think about the massage she gave him when he sits down with Ron on the padded bench.
"How can I help the Aurors?" she asks in a tone that makes it clear she'd like to get this over with as soon as possible.
"Do you know a Mr Ernest Hawkworth?" Ron asks.
"Yes."
"And did you have a relationship with him?"
"I can't tell you that," she says flatly. "Any and all relationships I have are based on a mutual understanding of discretion."
"I'm afraid Mr Hawkworth is in a place where he won't mind," Ron says and takes a collection of pictures out of his pocket, pushing the one of Hawkworth across the table for Mrs Zabini to see.
It is one of the milder pictures, showing only Hawkworth's face and the top of his shoulders, but there is no mistaking the graying pallor of his skin or the deadly stillness of the photograph. Mrs Zabini looks at it from her place on the couch, neither leaning back to get away from the picture nor leaning in for a closer look. Her eyes harden ever so slightly, but other than that her face remains still.
"I see," she says slowly. "His wife must be devastated."
"I'm sure she would appreciate your help in catching his killer," Ron tries.
"I'm sure she would not appreciate finding out about her husband's unfaithfulness," Mrs Zabini counters.
Ron pauses for a moment, then places the other three pictures on the table. "Did you know any of these men?"
Mrs Zabini looks down at the pictures, her eyes moving over them. "How am I not a suspect?"
"Because you were with me the night Mr Hawkworth died," Harry answers.
She looks up at him, then draws her brows together in a slight frown. "The Ministry Gala?"
"Yes."
"Mrs Zabini, we suspect that the killer is one of your past lovers targeting other lovers you have had," Ron explains, leaning forwards to catch Mrs Zabini's eye. "We need a list of the people you have had relationships with."
"I can't give you a list like that. It would ruin careers and lives if it got out."
"More people may die if you don't give it to us. Anyone who you have been with may be a target. We need to warn them."
"Some of them would prefer actual death to a political one," Mrs Zabini says, but her eyes stray down to the pictures.
She reaches out slowly, and touches two fingers to the picture of Robert Midgen's still face. Pushing it up and around the other pictures, she places it to the right.
"I met Robert last year," she tells them quietly and takes Paul Cresswell's photo next. "Paul was just before that, a couple of months over the summer."
She trails off as if considering how to continue or perhaps trying to decide how much to tell them, then taps the table next to Cresswell's picture. "I spent 2003 with Charles Garcias."
Ron hurriedly takes out a piece of parchment and a quill to scrubble down the name and the year. Mrs Zabini glances at the parchment, a displeased curve to her lips, but doesn't comment on it as she drags Hawkworth's picture across the table.
"Earnest was four years ago," she says, then pauses when she reaches Wilkie Twycross's picture. "Such a shame. I helped Wilkie come to terms with his sexuality. He was so happy with his boyfriend." She places his picture last in the line of photographs, then closes her eyes in thought, tapping the table at a steady pace. "Let's see… I had Joshua Lee before Wilkie, and before Joshua there was Castor Thicknesse…"
"Thicknesse?" Harry asks.
"Yes, the nephew of Pius Thicknesse, the Dark Lord's puppet Minister all those years ago."
"Castor Thicknesse…" Harry mumbles to himself, closing his eyes. "Castor Thicknesse… Castor Thicknesse…" His eyebrows twitch when the beginnings of a headache makes itself known, but then his eyes fly open. "Castor Thicknesse! He was put in Azkaban in 2000 for abusing his ex girlfriend."
Mrs Zabini looks at him and nods slowly. "Yes, Castor's family situation was rather… unstable after what happened with his uncle. He had an obsessive streak when it came to relationships that made him difficult to deal with."
"If I remember correctly, it was a severe case of abuse…" Harry says, staring past Mrs Zabini as he tries to remember. "Shouldn't that be five years of Azkaban?"
"Sounds about right," Ron agrees.
"Then he should have been released just last year."
"And the first body was found in February." Ron is already on his feet and turning to the door. "I'll report to Robarts. We need to find this guy as soon as possible."
"I'll get the rest of the list, we need to know who the possible targets are."
"See you back at the Ministry," Ron throws over his shoulder and then he's out the door and the crack of apparition sounds from outside.
"Thank you," Harry says to Mrs Zabini in the silence that falls over the sitting room. "This could be what lets us catch the killer."
Mrs Zabini leans back on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "Do you need more names?"
"Yes, if you would. Castor Thicknesse is only a suspect, it could very well be someone else."
Mrs Zabini sighs but nods. "If this list gets out…"
"I know. It won't."
Mrs Zabini closes her eyes again and keeps going, one name after the other. Harry takes the quill that Ron left and starts writing, jotting down the names and the years. Ludwig Masters. Rami Amin. Douglas Petersen. In the end, it's a list of 18 names.
"Do you think any of these men could be the killer, Mrs Zabini?" Harry asks as he puts the quill down.
"Apart from Castor?" She drags a finger over her bottom lip in though. "No… I chose them based on what they can give me, not their personalities, so some of them are quite unpleasant and would certainly kill to get what they want, but… No. They'd have nothing to gain from these murders."
"What about you, Mrs Zabini? Should we have any reason to believe there's a threat to you?"
"What will you do if there is? Stay by my side and play bodyguard?"
"If necessary, yes."
She tilts her head to the side, a smile turning the corner of her mouth up. "What about you, then, Mr Potter? I've just told you how many men I've used. You've got the evidence right here." She taps the table again, pointing at the list lying between them. "I'd imagine an honest man like yourself would have some issues with that."
"Of course it bothers me," he answers, looking down at the list. Due to her reputation, he knew from the very beginning that she gets close to men solely to get the benefits they can give her, but having the list of her victims in front of him is like a cold shower. Even so… "But until this case is over, I have no choice but to get your help with my headaches."
"How very pragmatic." Mrs Zabini rises from the couch and rounds the table, coming to stand behind him. She tips his head forward with two fingers against the back of his skull and squeezes his neck, kneading the tension out of him.
"It does make things easier for me," she muses. "I had thought you would be more principled and difficult to approach."
"Staunch principles like that don't survive very long in the Auror Department," Harry answers, letting his eyes drift shut.
He can't help but think that things would have been different had he met Mrs Zabini a few years ago. Fresh out of Auror training, his belief in right and wrong was still as strong as it had been in Hogwarts and his black and white view of the world hadn't completely crumbled yet. Now, he has seen the underhanded methods of Wizengamot members trying to get their will through, be it a shake of the right hand or an outright bribe. He has seen suspects walk away simply because they happen to know the right people and has been told not to bother certain families with too many questions during investigations. It's still wrong, he knows that, but the line between those things and Shacklebolt demanding he attend Ministry galas or Robarts dragging him along to press briefings isn't as clear anymore. In a world where everyone does it, he can't bring himself to blame Mrs Zabini for being the same.
Not all evils are the kinds that can be fined or put in Azkaban, so he has learnt to focus on those that can.
With a sigh, he tilts his head to the side to shake off Mrs Zabini, puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself up.
"Thank you, Mrs Zabini," he says as he picks up the list of names, folds it and puts it in his pocket. "Truly. I know you don't have the best experiences with Aurors, but this might just be what helps us crack this case."
"Go be an Auror, Mr Potter," she answers, patting him on the arm. "Come back when you need to be Darling. I'll take care of you until I need another healthy meal."
Harry gives her a wry smile and nods. "I will."
When he steps out onto the street, there's a muggle standing in the neighbouring doorway. He's got a baseball bat leaned against the wall, has a cap pulled down to shade his face and seems busy with his cigarette, but with his very unmuggle Auror robes, Harry doesn't want to risk drawing attention to himself. Turning, he walks briskly down the street, aiming for the corner where he can get out of sight to apparate. Perhaps he should use the Auror issued emergency port key that is the top bottom of his robes to avoid the noise?
He hears steps behind him and frowns when the muggle man calls "Hey, you!"
Stopping, he slips his wand into his hand and puts on a friendly smile. A confundus should be enough to shake the man, he thinks as he turns around, right into the swing of the bat.