Earlier That Day

"Afternoon, Mr. Fawley."

The silky voice crept over the Wizengamot member just as surely as the bonds that twisted themselves around his wrists, torso, and legs, securing him to his chair at his desk in his study. He let out a shout, reflexively, in mingled fear and shock, but to his growing horror, what emerged from his throat was complete silence.

He looked up, at the imposing figure in front of him, a couple inches shy of six feet, clad in flowing dark robes with a hood drawn up high, obscuring the finer details of his face in impenetrable shadow.

"As you have indubitably surmised, it is useless to struggle, Mr. Fawley. However, you are intelligent man, and so, if you vill agree to not make much sound, I vill give you back your ability to speak."

Adrenaline was suffusing Herbert Fawley's limbs, sharpening his thoughts in a way not even the most potent Wideye Potion could. This man, with his polished English and Slavic twist of phrase and tongue, had undoubtedly cloaked the room with Soundproofing charms, and yelling his head off was likely to get him killed even faster than keeping quiet would. It had just gone five in the afternoon, so Julia was likely at the shops and would not return for at least another half an hour or so, though it would do him little good even if she was back earlier – his housekeeper was under strict instructions to not disturb him until dinnertime. There was not much else he could do, and so, resigned, he looked at the cloaked figure in the general vicinity of the eye as best as he could and nodded once; a sharp, decisive movement. Better to die a man than a mouse.

An elegant gesture later, he found that he could speak. The man in front of him was entirely relaxed, even as his long fingers, ensconced in black gloves, tightened around the base of his wand.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, good sir. You know my name, but I do not know yours."

"It is not necessary, Mr. Fawley. I shall, as you say, cut to chase. As you know, zere is law to be debated in Vizengamot, soon, about employee rights in Vizarding Vorld. I am here to convince you zat zis law should not pass. You may name your price, of course."

"I am afraid I am not for sale."

He felt his head being tipped back against his will; his gaze drawn like magnets to the blackness that ensconced what were likely piercingly sharp eyes. He felt a rush of blood pooling in his forehead unrelated to the position of his body, felt thoughts tangled and jumbled scattering in a kaleidoscope across the landscape of his mind, dispassionately thumbed apart by the silhouette opposite him, a silhouette simultaneously more and less human in an instant.

"You are interesting man, Mr. Fawley. No burning desire in your heart, no hidden secret in your soul. Truly extraordinary. But I am fair. I do not only take. I also give. So, I vill try once more to convince you."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"Like zis." The man leant forward, depositing a large sack of galleons from the folds of his cloak. He gestured again with his wand, and Herbert found his right hand free.

"Take ze galleons, Mr. Fawley." There was an oddly hypnotic tone to that smooth voice, gliding along the ossicles in Herbert's ear to ooze along the surface of his eardrum. He shivered, feeling a coldness trace along his spine as though a wraith had walked upon his grave. Perhaps it had.

"No."

"No?" the figure asked, blandly, and yet something darkened in the barest undercurrents of tension swirling in the room. A whispered curse later, and Herbert's mind went blissfully, euphorically blank.

"Take ze galleons, Mr. Fawley. I insist." The words breathed, low and distinct, were now all Herbert could hear, crowding his cerebrum till even the sound of his pulse beating in his throat and the tinny, urgent sound of his subconscious receded, almost completely overwhelmed by the seductive mores of this unctuous voice, with its hard Rs and hissing Zs where the THs should be. He raised a hand almost despite himself, before coming to his senses at the very last moment.

"I said no." He spat out, through gritted teeth. He had paid richly for his defiance, feeling rather like he had been doused in shockingly cold water, water so icy it burned like fire wherever it touched.

"Very vell." The figure spoke coldly. He raised his wand above his head before bringing it down in a streak of green flame.

"Avada Kedavra."

The Next Day

"It's been twenty-four hours, Potter. Please tell me you have something." Robards rubbed his eyes tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand before gathering himself, looking at Harry levelly. His clothes were rumpled unattractively, a testament to the hours Robards had spent placating the Wizengamot and the press alike - a veritable maelstrom had erupted ever since the news of Herbert Fawley's death had broken.

"It was the Avada Kedavra. Fawley was tied to a chair in his study at home, nothing seems to have been disturbed. His housekeeper, Julia Kowalska, was in the kitchen, and heard nothing, which seems to indicate the killer used Soundproofing charms. But it seems pretty well clear this has something to do with my other investigation."

"You think so or you know so?" Robards asked sharply.

"Fawley had security up in his office, professional. The real thing. Not in the rest of the house, but he took the privacy of his work very seriously. A little statuette on one shelf pointed right at his desk, capturing what took place in that room, like Muggle CCTV almost, but better picture quality and sound. It's like a Pensieve memory in terms of clarity of image, but the spells only go back about a day's worth of memory. Still, it was well in time – housekeeper let me know about it straight off. I can't make a copy of it directly, but I did submit a documented copy of my memory of the scene into evidence. I'll wait till you've had a look."

He placed a vial on Robards's desk, who pitched it into his Pensieve without further comment before sticking his head inside. Harry watched the memory swirl as he waited for his boss to come back, following the events along with ease. There was the man Imperiusing Fawley into picking up the galleons and failing, there was the Killing Curse. Rather straightforward so far. It was the part that came after that caused him the most consternation. Did their murderer know about the security charms? It seemed almost a given – why else would he turn and face the statuette towards the end before striding out the door? But if he did, why would he let the charms stand? Why not blast the statuette to bits instead of letting it immortalise the crime for the Aurors to find?

"I don't like it." Were the first abrupt words out of Robards's mouth as he deposited himself neatly in his chair, the trip in the Pensieve now over. The frown in his forehead was so deeply entrenched it looked like a patchwork of gashes above his eyebrows.

"Inconvertible evidence that our briber is escalating. Just what we need. But why would this blasted lowlife let this evidence stand? Anything of interest on the shelf where this statuette sat?"

"Just a few knickknacks. Photos, books… typical. But he didn't head towards the shelf either, sir. Just looked at it. Almost like he was confirming that it was working alright. But why?" Harry looked at Robards, expecting the veteran Auror to have a ready answer for him as he so often did.

"Could it have been tampered with? The memory, or whatever the hell you'd call it. Held in the statue. Could it be a fake?" Robards asked suddenly, after a few minutes.

"I don't know – we'd need to figure out who it was who did the charms of course, to get a straight answer. Perhaps he has a receipt or something, squared away in that office."

"And another thing – the accent. You said the housekeeper's called Kowalska? Sounds foreign. Eastern European. So did the murderer. Any connection?"

"I don't know – yet. But I intend to find out."

"Find out quickly. There's an uproar going on in the chambers – press got wind of our killer's motive through another blasted anonymous letter – I suspect this means that our perp is behind the explosion at Diagon, too – and the Wizengamot's suspended proceedings on this law until he is caught; many members are calling for the law to be struck off completely. Fawley's death is our number one priority right now. You can take another few middle or higher ranking Aurors – Pritchard is yours, and it's Proudfoot's lucky day, you can pull him off the hairpin. And as many Juniors and Trainees as you think they'll need, purely on Fawley, and need to know basis on the other part. Tell Proudfoot to schlep the hairpin and the Smiths off to MLEP, and I'll smooth it over with whoever necessary. We don't have time for this anymore."

"Damn." Williamson sat back along with Terry, both looking at Harry as he stopped for breath.

"You can say that again," muttered Harry.

"The last few days have been a right shitshow. Robards is pissed. Entering the Wizengamot Admin pool is going to be a nightmare, they're going to be tracking everyone who enters and exits, but we have to get into Barnaby's office, and it'll have to be during general office hours given the increased security." Williamson summarised. "Wonderful."

"I have an idea." Harry said in reply, slowly.

"Great! Let's hear it."

"Polyjuice Terry into a courier. And then he can go in and charm Titus's secretary into telling us what's going on. Couriers are still allowed, obviously. He can drop off a package for Barnaby – I bet we can put together something innocuous."

Terry scowled. "Charm the secretary? Why can't you do it?"

"I'm not really the charming type." Harry replied smoothly. He winked at the now openly sniggering Williamson.

"You're the bleeding Boy Wonder! Don't give me that shite."

"Man-Wonder, Terry, I'm in my thirties." He said, with a poorly concealed grin. "And the last girl I got to go out with me was my best friend's sister when I was seventeen. Do you know how lucky I am that she married me? If she hadn't, and I'd had to win over some other bird, I would've been screwed. Williamson's been married longer than you and I have been Aurors. C'mon. All you have to do is bat your eyelashes and she'll be a goner – I bet Anthony could attest to their power!" he added, slyly.

"Well, if you're Polyjuicing me, I won't have my eyelashes to rely on, will I?"

"Just think of it this way – if you strike out, at least no one will know it's you. And Anthony wouldn't mind, he knows it's just for a case."

"I know Anthony won't mind. He'll just laugh himself stupid at the thought of it." Terry muttered darkly, a slight blush on his cheeks at the thought of his once-dormmate and now-boyfriend of just over a year. He shook himself slightly, resigned.

"Fine."

"Thank you for your time once again, Mr. de Lapin. I know it must be difficult for you to take time out of your schedule." Dennis held back the sarcasm in his voice with difficulty. Lucrezia Zabini's grieving widower had been back in France for most of the investigation, cooperating just enough to consent to his movements being tracked. He had flatly refused to stay in England, necessitating a whole lot of travel on the part of the Auror Office whenever they wanted to ask him a question or two. Now that he was finally back this side of the channel, albeit for only a few days, Dennis had wasted no time in capitalising on this opportunity.

The silver-haired man opposite Dennis raised an elegant shoulder. A thin smile sat on his lips, leaving his cold eyes untouched.

"Bien sûr. I am at your disposal." His voice was heavily accented.

"I wanted to ask you about the security charms on your house, and if there's any information about whether Ms. Zabini met with a visitor on the night that she died. As I'm sure you understand, the longer we wait to obtain information, the harder it will be to identify her killer. Blaise indicated that you are the only person who can work the charms."

"Oui. Ze charms are tied to my… wand, I think is 'ow you say in English. Lucrezia did not care for zem… she wanted somezing as simple as could be if I must 'ave zem, she said. We can do zis now, if it suits."

"What information do your charms capture? A picture? Sound?"

"Picture or sound, non. Lucrezia found zose too invasive. I told 'er, what is ze problem if you do not 'ave anyzing to 'ide, mon amour? But," he shrugged, "she said it was not right when she lived with 'er cher son, Blaise, and 'is wife, la jolie fille, Daphne. I can tell you if she 'ad a guest zat night. Zat is all." He spread his hands wide in an apologetic, entirely foreign gesture.

"La jolie fille means 'the pretty girl', doesn't it? Is that how you thought of her, or how Lucrezia thought of her?"

"She is, as you say, a pretty girl, zat Daphne. I see no 'arm in noticing it. Her intelligence, perhaps zat is to be questioned. Lucrezia," and here his mouth twisted in a wry smile, more genuine than any of the others that had come before it, "she would not 'ave agreed even to ze comment on 'er looks, though 'er words would perhaps be even sharper zan my own. She was… devoted, to 'er son, as most muzzers are, more devoted zan most, perhaps. Lucrezia did not appreciate 'aving a competition for 'er son's affections. After all, between a muzzer and a paramour, it is but natural zat a paramour shall win, and Lucrezia, she did not like losing. Zey often got into little disputes."

"Little disputes?"

"Oui. I am afraid I did not pay much attention to zem, 'owever, even when I was 'ere in England, which was not very much of ze time, you see. Women can be so very vindicative. I find it tiresome."

"Forgive me for asking this," Dennis started, giving into a lingering curiosity, "but I can't help be curious, especially after you mentioned how little time you actually spent here in England, with your wife when she was alive. Not to mention how that time has gone down to near-nothing since her death. How did you feel about your wife, Mr. de Lapin? And is there any reason why you avoid being here, even though you know it may cause delays and setbacks in the investigation into her death? Do you know who might have killed her, and are you protecting that person?"

"I loved my wife, M. Creevey, but we 'ad a very… independent relationship. I 'ave loved many, many women before, and I 'ave no doubt I will continue to love many women even after. After all, we found each other after several failures – I 'ave 'ad five women insatisfy, before Lucrezia, and she 'ad suffered seven tragedies. Perhaps we were 'appy only because we did not spend too much of our time in each ozzer's presence. I want 'er killer caught, naturellement, but I 'ave a business zat relies on me, and zat business must come first. For Lucrezia, also, 'er son came first. We understood each ozzer. Your judgment, M. Auror, is wrong. As for who killed 'er – I do not care enough for anyone who knows Lucrezia to shield zem from ze law. I am afraid I do not know. Zat, I believe, is your job."

"Proudfoot – I expect you've heard?"

"I have indeed, Harry!" the grizzled Auror looked almost genial at the thought of being rid of a case he considered a waste of his time.

"Great – head on down to MLEP please, update them with your files, and then join us in the Billywig room, as quick as you can."

"Already done. Went there as soon as Robards told me, wanted to get it done before he changed his mind. Spoke to Patrolman Stephen Challock, brought him up to date. Poor bastard's got his hands full with a missing prozzie, so the thought of a stolen heirloom hairpin linked, however dubiously, to a descendant of one of the Hogwarts' founders has him jumping with joy. One man's trash and all that. I'll grab some parchment and be there in a jiffy."

"So… Vincent de Lapin's a cockhead. Ron calls him Monsieur Poncy French Man, seems to fit. What else did you expect from a man who willingly married Blaise Zabini's mother?" Harry summarised Dennis's recollections of his long, bothersome day neatly.

The younger man sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, his blond curls on end.

"I'm exhausted. After a painfully long conversation with the wanker, we went and checked out the spells and determined that Lucrezia did let in a guest half an hour after Blaise and Daphne went over to the Malfoys for dinner, and everyone from the Malfoys themselves to the battery of House Elves they have in that oversized house of theirs swears up and down that the two of them never left. Savage pulled Leslie to help her determine cause of death on Zabini since she's been so busy with the explosion – trying to figure out if it's a non-standard brew, and to isolate a magical signature, you know the drill – and Leslie told me they pretty well determined that death would have been nearly instant. Not a slow-acting Potion, this. So, this mysterious guest – could well be the killer."

"Does it necessarily have to be someone who doesn't have permission to Apparate straight in? It could have been de Lapin, couldn't it? Surprising his wife or whatever tosh?"

"It could. I thought of that too. I went through his initial interview notes, and his alibi-"

"-was his brother, Jean-Luc. Yes, I remember." Harry finished, thoughtfully. "Up for another trip to Paree?" he asked Dennis with a grin.

"Maybe I'll get to take Leslie with me, now that she's officially on Zabini too," Dennis added, cheerily. He continued, more seriously. "I suppose the visitor could have been someone more innocuous. Maybe she was stepping out on Vincent, and he knew. He could have taken an illegal Portkey to avoid being traced, popped straight into the house, gotten revenge on his wife by framing her lover. Or maybe Vincent's innocent and Daphne decided to stop in on her mother-in-law after dinner, offer her tea with a side of poison."

"Why do you think Lucrezia was cheating on Monsieur Ponce?"

"Well, I don't know for sure, of course. Just a suspicion. But, well – she met a man at the Leaky, late in the evening, the night she died."

"You really have been busy today, haven't you?" Harry said, admiringly. He went on, "I wonder why Hannah didn't mention it to me – I asked her when I first got on Zabini."

"Cheers. Well, I got a bit of a lucky break, really. I don't think Hannah had time to clock whatever happens in the pub that isn't directly linked to orders or keeping order, you know what I mean? She wasn't the one to tell me. I went all over Diagon and only really managed to confirm what you found, that she got her nails done and went to Twilfitt and Tattings, but on my way back, I ran into Neville at the Leaky. He was waiting for Hannah to finish up, she was run off her feet, and we got to chatting, and it turned out that he remembered being at the Leaky the day Zabini died. Something about marking the date 'cause of an incident with a Venomous Tentacula, don't ask. Anyway, he said he noticed her standing with a man near the Diagon entrance, he only remembered because she looks so much like her son. He only caught a glimpse of them, and the man only from the back – he had a hood up, like half the Leaky rough crowd – but the hood shifted and he saw the man had brown hair. Brown, not silver like de Lapin's. He doesn't know what they were talking about, but he did see her touch his arm for a long moment. And the conversation seemed intense. He gave me the memory, if you want to check it out. I took a trip through it already, but I can't figure out any other details. It's such a fuzzy memory… I can't get more even if I get closer. Just fuzzes out more."

A/N: No cliff-hanger this time, but enough happened that I don't feel bad about leaving the chapter on a slightly dry note. Apologies if the interview scene with Vincent is a pain to read, but I really wanted to emphasise his accent and make my readers struggle as much as Dennis did. Nothing else to be said really, except a request for you to review, if you've made it this far! Constructive criticism is also always welcome :)