"'And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.'"

—Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was a remarkably odd shop in many respects. From the psychedelic, flashing neon colours atop every display, to the inventions that were…overenthusiastic in showing off to the customers, WWW was a place where no could be bored. This applied to the back room of the store as well. The boxes of inventory were more likely to attack you then not, and Circe help you if you ran into an employee on their break. Still, the most entertaining part of the back room was something that many first overlooked. This was because the long window beside the door opening to the front register seemed positively utilitarian. When the twins had first shown him the contraption, Ron had thought the one-way window looking out at the front of the shop was a good idea. A touch creepy, sure, but a decent way to keep an eye on things.

Looking back, he found it amazing he'd thought his brothers capable of something that normal. For the window had nothing to do with catching shoplifters or the like. Undoubtedly designed to be a mirror of entertainment from a safe distance, George seemed all too used to it. Bored with it, almost, as he somehow wasn't currently gazing in horror out to the front of WWW.

Ron, not as familiar with this chaos, stared out the window to where a pygmy puff rebellion had taken over the shop. He gave a silent thanks that he hadn't switched careers like he'd considered years ago, having then been under the ridiculous notion that working at WWW was far less dangerous than being an Auror. He didn't know what he'd been thinking.

"Shocked you're here," George said, leaning against the glass. Unlike Ron, the owner was wholly flippant about the shrilling puffs and screaming customers. "No offence, nothing about you. But Harry made it seem like it was for the hit-wizards."

"He changed his mind," Ron peered out the window, brow furrowing as brightly coloured puffs flung themselves off the shelves into shrieking customers' hair. "Are you, ah, going to do anything about that?"

"That?"

"That that," Ron nodded out the glass, in case the situation somehow hadn't grabbed his brother's attention. Which, to be fair, it probably hadn't.

"Ah, that." George followed his brother's pointed look and glanced out the window to where his employees were flinging boxes onto the puffs with ninja cries. "Nah, it's fine. Got to get it out of the puffs' system. See, little rebellions now and then does them good. Least, that's what Angie says. But that woman's terrifying, so she might just be looking for a fight."

As Angelina swept by the window at that precise moment (jumping off the counter to hurdle on a crowd of pygmy puffs), Ron figured George was onto something. But this didn't sway his certainty that his brother was behind the chaos. That it'd quickly made him 'bored' made it even more likely.

"So Harry changed his mind?" George continued, focusing back on Ron. His expression then lit with gleeful realisation. "Hold up, it was you! You've finally broken Harry's patience? Good on you, little bro. Couldn't be prouder. What made him crack? He usually just laughs at pranks, stupid git, so it must be the partner nonsense. You've got rid of another one?"

"I didn't do anything," Ron claimed in a half-truth, wrenching his gaze away from the front room. "Diggle, my idiot ex-partner, called Teddy a monster in front of Harry."

George let out a low whistle, "He in the morgue?"

"Kicked off homicide, probably off of Investigation altogether," Ron shifted. "But listen, about Charlotte Fawcett."

"Lottie, not Charlotte. She's like Tonks used to be: hates her first name. 'Bout took my ear off the first and last time I made that mistake," George squinted at him, happy enough with juggling multiple conversations while ignoring the war rampaging in his shop. "But no, you think I can't see through a lie? Harry set you on this after telling me the case wouldn't go to the Aurors. That doesn't add up and you're avoiding the topic. I repeat, how did you piss him off?"

"About Fawcett," Ron forced them back on track. George, though rolling his eyes, didn't protest. "You know her well?"

"Fine fine, this is more important. Though I'm not forgetting, yeah?" he leaned back against the glass, undisturbed about the chaos reigning behind the window. Shrill shrieks leaked through the silencing wards. "Lottie's worked here near a year. Studious, quiet type, but madly creative. I recruited her when she graduated Hogwarts."

"You recruited her?" Ron asked. He'd thought his brother had been batting away mounds of applicants. Though Merlin knew why, if the present employee vs. pygmy puff war was anything to go off of.

"Absolutely," George grinned. "See, I had lunch with Neville right before that. He was mightily ticked off. From what I could gather from his awful penmanship, someone had hexed all the Gryffindors' voices—including his. Unable to undo it, they'd been stuck roaring like lions for a few weeks."

Ron snorted, wondering how he'd missed this.

George nodded at the snort. "Naturally, I investigated. Found a genius Ravenclaw Chaser who was ticked off she'd lost her last chance at the Quidditch Cup to Gryffindor. So I talked to Lottie and gave her two options: either she come work for me, or I'd give the Headmistress a call. Seeing as how McGonagall was still roaring at the time, Lottie agreed to be WWW's newest inventor. With generous pay and benefits, of course. Not even an internship, so it was a win-win for everyone. Well, not for Nev. But it's his own fault he didn't put two and two together and find the culprit."

"Uh huh," Ron was wholly unsurprised by any of this. "What's she been inventing?"

"Lately? Reinventing," George corrected. "The Skiving Snackboxes have been looking shabby so haven't been a big seller. She was supposed to bring in her prototypes of the new versions today. Warned me they're still wonky, but it was just going to be an assessment of how things were coming along."

Ron remembered the note in the summary. "Anything special enough to go to Zonko's with?"

George exhaled, "Sure, I told Harry that was possible. But it's not. First, she's too by-the-books to turncoat. More importantly, she's too smart to commit 'corporate espionage' with something as stupid as this. The new Snackboxes have potential, but there's too many issues for anyone except us to bother dealing with them."

"What kind of issues?" Ron switched gears. This would likely be a dead end, but it could be something. He was also genuinely curious about the revamped product. He blamed this on the numerous times he'd gotten out of Binns' class with a magical nosebleed. Good times, good times. "What's new about these Snackboxes?"

"The new ones are more subtle with the symptoms. Plus, there's a wider range of items," George glanced out into the front shop with a barely hidden snicker at the chaos unraveling his store. "Blimey, have the puffs gotten into the punching tele—ooo, ouch." He opened the door, hollering out a cascade of shouts. "EVANS, USE A STUNNER! DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, YOU'RE FINE. THAT'LL BARELY BE A BLACK EYE!"

The door was shut. George turned back to his uncertain brother, as calm as could be. "Bloody amateurs. They're a good bunch but tend to overreact. Anyway, the Snackboxes. Once the novelty of the old ones wore off people stopped buying them. The symptoms were too extreme. Nobody cared that swallowing the other half pill would instantly cure you, not when all anybody remembered was popped boils. Or, y'know, losing a pint of blood to a nosebleed."

Ron fidgeted, this also bringing up some (not as pleasant) memories. He tried to, again, ignore the battle igniting the store (at least until someone seemed to be in actual danger), "So Fawcett was lightening the symptoms."

"Yep. A buzzing headache instead of a pounding migraine, or a dribble rather than a river of blood. That sort of thing. Anything that will fool a diagnosis spell into saying someone's genuinely sick, without the customers feeling too cruddy," George explained. "Overall, she's close, we're only touching up some hiccoughs. Main problem's with the symptoms. They're subtler now, but as time passes they grow more extreme. Extreme extreme, even for me. Course, this wouldn't be an issue if people took the counter potion when they're supposed to. But when has anyone read instructions?" He waved this off, both knowing he never bothered with this himself.

"Huh, alright," Ron found himself feeling vaguely disappointed. He'd been somewhat expecting the new Snackboxes to erupt with fireworks or the like. Which was when he realised they'd gotten off on a tangent. Mentally chiding himself, he got back on track. "About Fawcett. The file says she doesn't have much family, but what about friends? Coworkers she's close to?"

"None I know of. She's the sort who has loads more acquaintances than friends."

"Any enemies?"

"Nope."

"Problems with coworkers? Suspicious behav—"

"She's a nice girl," George cut in. "Normal too, or as much as anyone in this madhouse. Also, no, she hasn't mentioned any threats. Or stalkers. Or psychotic exes. As far as I know, everything's been peachy. And no, there's been no one odd around the shop. That is, odder than usual."

Ron let it rest, thinking that when he found any friends or family they might know more than her boss. "You have any guesses where she might've gone? Has she taken off like this before?"

"Lottie would've given notice for anything, she always does. Besides, she wouldn't have missed the presentation today," George said, dismissing the implications. "When she didn't show before opening we knew something was up. She just doesn't do that. She's like Percy that way, overzealous and the like. So Angie popped by her flat to see if she'd overslept. No answer. When she was coming back she talked to some shopkeepers who'd seen Lottie walking here this morning. Problem is, she never arrived."

"You have their names?"

"Angie jotted them down. Only did it after I flooed the Ministry…hold up, it's here somewhere," George rummaged in his pocket. A moment later and he was handing the unearthed paper to Ron. "We called St. Mungo's, thinking she might've taken ill. But nothing. No numbers for her family either; she never talks about them much. Got the sense they aren't close."

Ron frowned at the short list. If this was anyone else, he'd be wondering why they'd go so much out of their way for an employee. But this was George. For all his pranking and teasing, he'd give someone the shirt off his back. He might have a mad sense of humour (the ensuing pygmy puff war being a prime example), but it was all in good fun. Even the ancient 'turning-teddy-into-a-giant-spider' had been Fred's idea—George had been the one who'd apologised later. So his concern for a wayward employee made sense.

Putting the names in the file, Ron decided to drop by them on the way to Fawcett's place. Which reminded him of something, "Tell me Angie didn't break into her flat."

"Lottie's flat? Course not!" George clicked his tongue. "Though, so you know, it doesn't look like there was a struggle."

"Of course not," Ron hadn't expected anything else from his sister-in-law and brother. They might be nice people, but they had a very loose definition of legality. Which, now that he thought of it, was rather a characteristic of his family. "She didn't touch anything?"

George scoffed at the idea of Angelina being that careless.

"Right," Ron let it rest, having bigger things to deal with. "Look, this can't be an official case until a day's passed. But since Harry…" he eyed George's scrutinising gaze and sighed, "alright, fine. So because Harry's pissed off at me, I'll be unofficially investigating before then."

"You're in the doghouse," George seemed delighted by this, even with the grim situation.

"Shut it." He realised how he'd phrased the previous sentence. "Not that finding this girl is a punishment or something. It's just—"

"That Harry wants you out of his hair. Got it. Two birds, one stone," George nodded, amused at the thought. "I take it Operation 'Get Harry To Demote Himself' is coming along swimmingly? By the by, the snidgets were a nice touch."

"Hm-mmm," was his non-answer, one that leaked with plausible deniability. He gave a last skim through the thin file. "Listen, if this turns serious I'll need to talk to Angie about her 'not break-in'. Get a memory from her to cover the bases. How close to the shop was Fawcett when she was last spotted? At what time? Did they mention anything odd about her behaviour or anyone else lurking about?"

"One of the shopkeepers said she saw her within spitting distance of here with a large bag, around sunrise. That was Davis I think, Gladys Davis. Nasty old bird, though she told Angie she didn't notice anything strange," George's amusement fell to the wayside. "You think Lottie's in trouble? Maybe she just apparated away."

"Maybe. It's odd," Ron glossed over what he was really thinking. If Fawcett had disappeared within a few streets of WWW, that wasn't good. It was possible she'd apparated away for an emergency. But if she'd been so close to work, would she have raced off without mentioning something to George? "Nothing like this has happened before?"

"She's the only person always here on time, including Angie and me," George nipped the possibility in the bud. He then frowned at his brother, genuine worry in his expression. "Look, whether you stay on this or it gets handed to the hit-wizards, hear me out. I know it's your job to be critical, what with so many liars and criminals running about. But this isn't like Lottie. She's a good kid. She pulls pranks, sure, but it never interferes with her work. This isn't a, dunno, quarter-life crisis. Or her way of telling me she's quitting. I don't care if there's a rubbish rule about 24 hours, something's wrong."

"Don't be like that, I'm taking this seriously," Ron meant every word. "Yeah, she's not an official missing person yet. But all that means is that this case can't be filed until tomorrow. Doesn't mean I'm putting off investigating until then, alright?"

At first glance there was nothing unusual about the main street leading up to WWW. No discarded Snackboxes or purses hiding under any bushes. Hardly any bushes to look around, really, and a quick search of the lining small alleys also failed to produce anything.

Ron wasn't surprised. He was less thrilled that his diagnosis charms on the streets around the shop failed to produce anything. No trace of dark magic, blood, unsummonable objects, or weapons of any sort. This would normally be a good sign, but as he put the negative results in the growing case folder, he felt an odd feeling of dread in his stomach. Giving up the perusal around as a lost cause, he considered his next move. He wasn't really supposed to do anything else, as Harry would surely get cranky if he started investigating.

Ron snorted to himself, dismissing that as a non-issue. So the only actual question was, should he first interview the people on Angie's list, or should he check out Fawcett's flat? Seeing as how his capable sister-in-law had already broken into the latter and reported nothing amiss, he decided to narrow down where and when Fawcett had last been seen.

Taking out the list, he scanned the few names. Each had their place of business jotted down beside it, which was a help. It was fairly short so he'd likely do a more thorough run-down of possible witnesses later. But for now, it was a good starting point.

Without further ado, Ron headed to the first person and shop on the list.

"Always good to see you, sir! Wonderful for the customers," Augustus McKinnon gushed, standing taller behind the counter of J. Pippin's Potions on Hogsmeade's High Street. Ron had to force back a gag; whether it was from the odious fumes or the man's gushing, he wasn't positive. "Sure as anything I saw your wife here last week. Told my cousin even! She, daft thing, wouldn't believe me. But now Ronald Weasley too! If you stay half an hour more Helga can see you with her own two eyes. I'd like to see her deny that!"

"Listen, about Charlotte Fawcett," Ron resisted scowling at the wizard, hoping he could leave well within this half hour. He wondered what he'd been thinking, ever wishing for fame. Because sure, being well-known came with its perks (the time he'd discovered his face on a Chocolate Frog card had been the proudest moment of his life, and it didn't hurt his ego that more than a few criminals had surrendered after spotting the war hero). But, overall, he understood why Harry had been arrested more than once for attacking paparazzi. Because being famous was a pain in the arse, mainly due to having to deal with networking morons like this. He didn't know how his best mate still put up with Slughorn. "You told Angelina Weasley you saw her walking about this morning?"

"Indeed I did!" he stated triumphantly, chest billowing out. "Strolling down the street."

"She had a large bag with her?"

"A bag? Why yes!" McKinnon's enthusiasm didn't halt, even in the face of Ron's unimpressed stare. "Looking dodgy. Very dodgy, with that bag she was clutching. She's a shoplifter, eh? Always knew she'd come to no good, Mr. Weasley. That Fowley girl with her—"

"Fawcett."

The wizard blinked.

Ron sighed, having stopped taking notes. "Her name's Fawcett, not Fowley. Why do you think she's a thief?"

The man was unruffled. "Because Fawcett looked like she was up to no good. You said it yourself, with that mighty big bag. Almost the size of her!"

"I see," the Senior Auror hoped the rest of Angie's list wasn't like this. Going off of a hunch, he made an attempt to cut this off. "Yeah, I get it. She looks pretty shifty, what with that mohawk of hers. What's the colour of it, pink?"

"Exactly what I mean!" McKinnon exclaimed. "Florescent pink, could see it crystal clear through the window. Why, I never know what's wrong with the youths these days. What with their…their…Mr. Weasley? Sir? Sir, where are you—"

Ron shut the door behind him, taking a breath of blessedly fresh air. Glancing down at the notepad, he scoffed at the very short entry on McKinnon and set off to the next person. Hopefully this one had actually seen the missing witch.

"Not again!" Gladys Davis didn't care a wink who Ron was. Which he appreciated, he did. Except that now he was facing a furious old woman mere moments from drawing her wand. "If it's not one of you people, it's another. Last week, that Potter boy was in here. Turning my poor mice into small dragons and laughing while he did so! Laughing! Can you believe it? I told his mother, I don't care who his father is, I'm not letting the boy have any of my precious owls. You know what she did? The nit swore at me like a sailor! All for swatting that unruly brat of hers. Some people have no idea how to raise children!"

"Good god." Ron muttered: hating his job, hating Harry for this assignment, hating Angie for this ridiculous list, and hating he had to pretend to be diplomatic. "Listen, listen! I'm not here because of Ginny. I heard you saw a girl this morning, Charlotte Fawcett? Goes by Lottie?"

If anything, this made Davis even more annoyed. "What of it?"

"She's missing," he explained. "I'm trying to find out where she was last seen. Establish a timeline."

Davis sniffed, "I told the woman earlier all I know. A Weasley too, isn't she? She and that husband of hers, horrid people. The nerve of them!"

"Excuse me?" Ron really wished she wasn't a potential witness.

"You know precisely what I mean!" she didn't back down. "Being like she is, while unfortunate, is no excuse! It's like that wife of yours, muggleborn yet uppity. But how dare the two down the street, experimenting on poor animals for their inventions. Not a shred of decency between them!"

Ron gritted his teeth, holding back a curse (magical or otherwise) at the insults. Davis was a witness, after all. If he could interview neo-Death Eaters, he could refrain from hexing a racist old woman. "I doubt they're—"

"They claim they wouldn't dream of it, but I know better!" Davis fumed, talking over him. "Lately I've been finding all sorts of poor dears around the village, little more than bones. They say it's coincidence they have a new line of products? Hah! Brutal animal testing. Worse than those Zonko maniacs, I can't believe I ever complained about them. Bodies keep being brought to me, but it's far too late for any of them. From flobberworms with one heart rather than two, to pygmy puffs with their skin cleared clean off! Why, just today Gilman across the way brought me a hinkypuff. A wee hinkypuff. Suffocated, poor thing. Cannot imagine the horrors they're testing on them!"

"Hold up," Ron raised a hand to stop her tirade, his interest peaking above his knee-jerk anger. "You've been finding magical creatures around Hogsmeade? Dead creatures?"

"Are you deaf? Of course I have! All thanks to your blasted family."

"I really, really doubt they're…look," the Auror changed tactics, forcibly putting his annoyance aside. "A bunch of animals' corpses have been appearing in London. They've mainly been larger ones, yeah, but do you have any of these bodies?"

"Oh yes, I have them laying around to scare the other dearies," Davis said sarcastically, waving about at the cluttered shop. "No, obviously not! I vanished them straight away."

"Which creatures have you found?"

"How would I remember."

Ron stopped, knowing this was useless. Also, he was keen to stop talking to her. Jotting down a note to mention this possible (albeit unlikely) lead to Lisa. Maybe she, with her not-controversial family, would have more luck than him. Either way, it'd be her problem. With that settled, he reluctantly returned back to Davis and the main matter at hand. "Creatures aside, you saw Fawcett this morning? You're sure it was her?"

Davis huffed but acquiesced, "Of course I'm sure. The girl, I noticed her because of the atrocious thing she'd done to her hair. Cut it right up to her head! Looked like a boy, just horrible. Saw her through this window when she was trooping around at the crack of dawn, holding this overflowing bag to her. Clearly hadn't the brains to do a featherlight spell."

He was finally getting somewhere. "What time was this?"

"Around five, I suppose."

"Was Fawcett with anyone?"

"Not a soul," she sniffed, wanting this intrusion to be over. "Before you ask, no, there was no one lurking about or watching her. Just a boy a few streets back, dawdling and window shopping. Mmph, like any boy would glance at her with that silly haircut. She had enough sense to hide it under a hat, but it fooled no one."

"What sort of hat?"

"That nasty French one," at Ron's look, Davis sighed, thoroughly put-upon. "The flat circle kind."

Ron recalled a favourite dark brown hat of Hermione's, gotten during a vacation with his in-laws years back. Or was it a gift from Fleur? Eh, she'd gotten it somewhere. "A beret?"

"I haven't the faintest!" she exclaimed. "That's all I know. So leave!"

Ron was happy to comply.

Madam Rosmerta had flooed straight into The Three Broomsticks and hadn't seen more than a glimpse of Fawcett through the window, like the others. She also couldn't remember if it had happened this morning or the previous one.

Her waitress Belinda Marlin, overhearing, had gleefully chimed in. While Rosmerta scurried back to her waiting customers, Marlin told Ron she'd seen a girl with a large purse at the right time that morning. She waxed poetic about the colourful bag, exclaiming that it was a vintage design from Gladrags and almost positively a knock-off.

The Auror had stopped his note-taking at that, giving her an odd look. "The sun would've barely been up. How could you tell what the purse was? Wait, hold on. Why do you say it's fake?"

Marlin sent him a condescending look, not bothering to answer the first question. "Mate, listen. Vintage Gladrags, y'see? Costs the sun and the moon, along with your firstborn. This is a shopgirl you're after? She wasn't affording that," the waitress stopped, a hungry look crossing her face. She leaned in, suddenly eager for gossip. "Less she stole it. That why you're chasing her?"

After explaining that Ron was looking for her and that she wasn't a thief, he asked if she'd noticed anything except the purse.

"You mean the silly nit?" Marlin rolled her eyes. In no hurry for the conversation to end, she lazed around her words while gazing at the busy restaurant around her. "Seen her about, sure. Never spoke much. Lives near here, I think. I'll see her walking about every so often. Not too often, though. She ain't much of a club girl, so we run in different crowds. You said her name's Charlotte?"

"Goes by Lottie," Ron had mainly stopped taking notes, getting the sense this girl didn't know a thing. But it didn't hurt to be thorough. "You see her walking around with anyone?"

"A boyfriend or whatnot? Nah."

"About this morning," he tried again, "did you notice anything about her behaviour? Like, if she seemed calm or in a hurry. Also, where did you see her?"

"Where? Right outside here," she smartly tapped the table while nodding towards the door. "As for the rest, not really. Though I 'spect that's the point. I didn't notice anything, so she must've looked normal. Was hugging that purse to her, though. Shielding the stuff in it from a drizzle."

Ron paused at the last. "It was raining?"

"Drizzling," she repeated with more emphasis.

"No umbrella?" a nod. "She didn't cast a shield charm over herself?"

Marlin snorted. "How could she? Dunno 'bout you, but if I had my hands full I wouldn't grapple for a wand."

Ron frowned, jotting this down, "You didn't see her wand?"

"Course not. S'what I said, yeah?"

"You see anyone else walking around?"

She giggled. "Hmm, one. A cutie who works at Flourish and Blotts."

"Lottie? Sure, I know who you mean," Jeremy Dunbar shrugged, somewhat countering his words. He was half-paying attention, shelving books as Ron looked on. "Works at Wheezes? Blonde ex-Ravenclaw?"

"That's her. I'm trying to find her," Ron fended off the next question. "She's not in any trouble, but she might be missing."

"Damn, I'm sorry. Why are you talking to me? You think she's in trouble?" Dunbar properly turned around, concerned. But in catching sight of the Senior Auror's face who he was talking to hit him. His concern turned to vague panic. "You're Ron We—frick. Hey mate, I barely know her. I was a year ahead of her at Hogwarts, we haven't talked much since. A really nice girl but, look, I know nothing about this, Auror Weasley!"

"You aren't a suspect," Ron internally sighed. The boy's defensiveness wasn't suspicious. After working on so many cases, it was easy to tell a criminal mastermind apart from a kid who'd likely just done something stupid and quasi-illegal in the past month (a feeling Ron was far too familiar with). Being approached by a 'War Hero' in law enforcement was going to make the kid nervous. "I'm interviewing anyone who was walking around Hogsmeade early this morning. It was when she was last seen and I'm trying to get a timeline. Did you see her?"

Dunbar relaxed, but now seemed concerned. "Ah, right. Got it. Sure, this morning. Five-ish? That's when I usually spot her, at least. That'd be around when it started raining? Had to make a dash for the shop to avoid being soaked. My boss was pleased: first time I haven't been late all week."

Ron took note of the phrasing. Did the kid watch for Fawcett? "Remember anything else?

"Right, Lottie. Sorry," Dunbar glanced away from the Senior Auror, frowning as he thought back. "I wasn't paying much attention. Half asleep, you see. But I—yeah. I saw her. She'd gotten a haircut, a really cute one." He caught himself, rubbing the back of his neck as he flushed. "I, I mean, I like short hair. It looked good on her."

The phrasing suddenly made sense. Ron bit back a grin, "Did you tell her that?"

"No, though I thought about it. Nice opening, I figured," Dunbar said sheepishly. "That's hard to get with a girl like her. Never see her at pubs or the like. But her nose's always in a book so, honestly, I've been waiting for her to come in here to start chatting. Stupid, huh."

Ron felt rather sympathetic. He understood his pain: chasing after a smart bookworm was no easy task. "Why didn't you talk to her this morning? She busy with someone else?"

"No, Lottie wasn't with anyone. But she was across the street and struggling with this big bag," Dunbar groaned at the last. "I was a right idiot. After I saw this I realised, duh, I could offer to carry the stuff. Perfect idea, you see? Except that, when I turned back, she wasn't there."

Ron stiffened, his amusement fleeing. "How long were you looking away?"

Dunbar blinked at the sudden seriousness. "Not sure? It was, dunno, less than a minute. Much less."

"This was all on the main road? You were both walking in the same direction?"

"Yeah. Why're you—"

"Were there any side alleys or doorways she could have turned off on?"

"I, I don't think so," the boy had paled. "Galloping goblins. I figured she'd apparated off. I didn't think it was…"

"Can you show me where you last saw her?" Ron cut in. Though he felt sorry for the kid, he needed to follow the first true lead he'd gotten. To a nod, the Senior Auror pulled Dunbar out of the shop and onto the street, calling out to the blustery manager that his employee was going on a break.

"It was over here," Dunbar said, pacing back towards WWW as he gestured farther on. "Is Lottie okay? What do you think happened?"

"Not sure yet. How close was it to Wheezes?"

"Pretty close."

In fact, it was only down the road from WWW. The path was brushed with footprints leading off every which way, a small squelch remaining from this morning's drizzle. There was just enough mud that whatever footsteps there were had likely come afterwards.

"It was here," Dunbar said restlessly from beside him, peering around as though expecting Fawcett to pop out of one of the nearby side-alleys. Ron had already cast a number of diagnosis charms, coming up with very little. "Is there a spell, you know, to see the past? See what happened?"

"If there was my job would be a lot easier," Ron was kneeling on the ground. There was nothing that struck him as odd in this area of the road. No sign of a struggle, or anything that Fawcett might have dropped.

"But Divination…"

"Is about the future. It's also touchy as hell," Ron made a note of how close the side-alleys and doorways were. There was nothing close enough that Fawcett could have darted into, least not in a few seconds. Apparation or a portkey were looking more and more likely. "My wife's convinced the whole thing's self-fulfilling, but whatever. You're sure this is where she last was?"

"Right there. I'm positive," the boy was frowning, his worry clear. "But what about, you know, scrying? Or, or time-turners! They go back a few hours."

Ron couldn't help but snort at the last.

"What?" Dunbar said, offended.

"Sorry, sorry. It wasn't a bad suggestion," Ron stretched, looking back up at the kid. "With the time-turners? Most of them were destroyed years ago."

"I heard the Department of Mysteries made more!" Dunbar argued.

"Sure, course they did," Ron shrugged. "But since the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, the Head Auror, and myself were three of the ones who broke them in the first place? Let's just say the Unspeakables don't trust us with their sensitive equipment nowadays," he straightened, standing back up with a last frown at the useless potential crime scene. "But hey, if you get your hands on a time-turner? Give me an owl. Though that probably wouldn't help anyway, since you can't change a thing and are spending all your time hiding."

"What about scrying!" he protested.

"It's as iffy as Divination," Ron rubbed his head. "Listen, trust me on this. I'm not a complete idiot. There's a reason the muggles can stop so much crime just with investigating. You know, following the clues? Magic comes in handy, but more often than not it muddles things."

Dunbar was clearly disbelieving.

"It's not like we don't use magic," Ron tried again, wanting this key witness to stay cooperative. "Take Veritaserum, it's handy in interrogations. Or collecting memories to view in a Pensieve. But you know what happens with the last one? At most, it shows us what happened and who did it. Which makes prosecution a snap, but doesn't help find the criminal. Most often, we don't even have that much. Take now for instance. You were the last person to see Fawcett. But what you saw was a lack of something, which is exactly what we'll see in your memory. That is, if you're fine with me taking it?" a quick nod and Ron continued. "It won't tell us if anyone took her or where she's gone. But it might give us a clue to follow. Got it? Magic's a tool, not a crutch."

The kid still didn't look sold, even when Ron said a spell to make a shield go up around this area of pavement (to stave off contamination or anyone else trodding on the spot).

Ron couldn't blame Dunbar's incredulity, seeing as how he'd had a similar attitude when he'd first joined the Aurors. It'd taken Hermione and Harry (both far more used to muggle ways, and not having a default assumption that magic solved everything) to convince him otherwise. They'd primarily done so by pointing out the numerous times through the years when they'd lived solely because of blind luck or instincts…and rarely from just magic.

It'd taken Hermione's frustrated reminder of the troll incident back in first year for Ron to finally see their point. For, sure, his levitation charm had done the final trick. But it'd only worked because of Hermione's split second thinking and Harry jamming his wand up the creature's nose.

Still, whatever Dunbar thought, he'd agreed to give him his memory of what happened. So there was that. Now to dump the kid back at the bookstore and hunt down Fawcett's flat.

Knock.

Another knock.

Ron glanced around the apartment's small corridor and spiral stairs leading down four floors. The place was clean enough. There were spiderwebs and the signs of mould in the corners, but in all he'd seen far worse. After another look at Fawcett's door—#31, with the paint being scrubbed clean off the bronze knocker—he cast a spell to detect close human proximity, directed only for her flat rather than neighbouring ones. When that came back negative, another few spells followed: for detecting recent foreign magic and checking on the lock, respectively. This time, he got his own spell, Angie's unlocking and relocking, and a few minor household charms he assumed were from Fawcett.

One alohomora later and he was gingerly opening the door, casting out spells to warn of impeding obstacles as he did so. But again, nothing. It was only then that he relaxed, though he kept his wand out. Closing the door behind him, he surveyed the small face before him. It seemed odd. No, familiar. He'd never been here before, but the flat with its pale green features and clean though cluttered look reminded him of something.

In the next second, it struck him. The place reminded him of the hole-in-the-wall that Ginny had rented after Hogwarts. That flat in Wales had been one of the cheapest she could find. She would have taken the cheapest place, if not for Harry teaming up with his mum and forcing the newest Harpy trainee to look at a safer area of town.

Ron took a quick tour of the one-bedroom flat (with a teeny hallway, a bathroom, and a connected kitchen and dining room/common room). The young inventor had made an art of shoving and balancing her possessions into every free nook and cranny of the tiny flat. Not much was out of place. So while there were too many things for him to say it didn't look lived in, he got the sense that this was more of a place to sleep than a home. He wasn't sure if Fawcett was tidy or if she was like Ginny had been and was more often at work than here (or, in his sister's case, at the pitch or sneaking into Harry's and his old flat in London).

The spotless kitchen only further confirmed that Fawcett rarely spent time here, as did the small quantity of food in the fridge (good quality though, so she wasn't poor, but the amount was meagre). The dining room table was messier, but this only consisted of scattered work papers. These were mainly on the Snackboxes.

Ron took a closer look at these, only lightly touching the pages. Some were rough sketches with outlines of possible advertising (with slogans such as, 'A Small Headache For An Early Weekend—Get Skiving!' and 'Snackboxes: As Easy As One, Two, ACHOO!').Others were lists of potions ingredients, with some scratched out and others frenziedly underlined. Still, most of the pages had a slanted and hurried air to them. Though the handwriting of these were harder to decipher, it looked like a series of experiments to try and improve the Snackboxes. The main thing Fawcett seemed to be correcting was the extreme symptoms, like George had mentioned. Another, secondary issue was that she had changed the Snackboxes from being pills to powder that was meant to be subtly rubbed on the skin (likely under a desk or some such). The issue was, it left behind a blue residue. Fawcett had made an irritated note that it was an obnoxious, Smurf blue.

He frowned, not understanding what the last meant. But he got the gist: blue powder meant it was easier for others to spot it, especially one's boss or school healer. Skimming through the papers, while Fawcett had made some progress on both problems, it looked like the overall solutions had evaded her.

Not finding much else, Ron moved on. The bathroom and laundry area was as spotless as the kitchen. He blinked at this, not having expected the flat to be anywhere near this clean. It was at an almost Privet Drive level of spotlessness, and that one had been so damned 'impressive' that his short sights of #4 as a teenager were still stubbornly imprinted in his head. If not for the one or two areas of untidiness, he'd have guessed that Fawcett was an impulsive cleaner, that she'd never properly moved in, or that someone had swept through here to conceal a crime scene.

Fawett's bedroom made him feel better about the messy state of his own home, but only a bit. Her polka-dotted bed was unmade, a pink nightdress was flung over a chair, and her desk was littered with papers and biros. There was a quill or two as well, though it was clear what she favoured. He glanced at the papers (more snatches on her inventions and a few bills) but her attention was caught by the enchanted mirror on her bedside table.

Of all of George's products, this mirror was arguably his most profitable one. It'd started off as a two-way mirror, inspired no doubt by stories of the Marauders. But soon more and more designs had followed. These had been Ginny's fault. Having gotten obsessed with a miniature phone that Hermione used to call her parents and muggle friends, Ginny'd went right out and gotten herself one, and then got Harry one for his birthday. Her boyfriend had first been amused by her constant texts, but soon it became a bit much. So he'd gotten out and grabbed these 'mobiles' for many of the Weasleys and other friends. Under the guise of a spontaneous gift, his desperation for Ginny to bother anyone else was clear.

For George, the mobile had been love at first sight. He didn't even mind his sister's texting, eagerly giving back as much as she could throw (with a splurge of unnecessary 'emoticons'). Naturally, he figured that even such a perfect machine could be improved upon. So the two-way mirror became a touch more complex and even more marketable.

Ron picked up Fawcett's mirror, frowning as it didn't respond to his touch. So it was a model with some security. No surprise there. "Open sesame," he tried.

But no, just his reflection stayed as the mirror remained merely a mirror. George's default password failed to work. Again, it wasn't a shock Fawcett had changed it.

"Lottie. Charlotte. WWW. Skiving Snackboxes. Snackboxes," Ron tried some more, not expecting them to work. He wondered if George could get around the password? It could only be one or two words at most, but that left plenty of possibilities. "Ravenclaw. Eagles. Quidditch. Eh, what did she play? Right, Chaser. Quaffle."

He gave it up as a lost cause for now, setting the mirror back down and turning to the rest of the room. The closet was unremarkable as was her collection of purses. A spell showed that there was no obviously hidden safe, like the rest of the flat. He then turned to her sprawling bookcase, one that took up an entire wall. It wasn't shocking, not for an ex-Ravenclaw and professed bookworm.

Still, Fawcett's taste in books did surprise Ron. The girl was an adventure junkie.

Stories of espionage and K2 climbing disasters. Soldiers' memoirs ranging from the American Revolution to the First and Second Wars against Voldemort. Books on Sherlock Holmes, James Bond, and Odysseus. In all, thrillers and action-adventures stood beside fast-paced spy novels and disaster tales.

A thought occurred to him as he glanced over the collection. Taking a closer look, he examined the book spines. Many showed signs of wear and tear, but only one series was coming apart at its seams. If there was one thing his bookworm wife had taught him, it was to recognise the sure-fire sign of truly beloved novels.

"Thank you Hermione," Ron muttered, darting back to pick up the mirror and speak into it. "James Bond. Bond. James. 007. Agent 007. MI5. MI6. Uh, Fleming. Ian Fleming."

Again, none of the passwords took. Ron was about to set it down with a sigh, when he remembered whose mirror this was: an ambitious inventor's.

"Q."

Ron was about to try 'Quartermaster', but there was no need. The mirror rippled into life, no longer showing the Senior Auror's reflection. Now, it showed a list of contacts. He gave a small grin of triumph. This would come in handy.

As soon as Ron left the building housing Fawcett's flat at the edge of Hogsmeade, with a quick turn he apparated to Auror HQ in the Ministry. More specifically, he apparated straight into the break room, causing Susan Bones to choke on her late lunch.

"Not, cough, again!" Susan choked, spitting out a crouton while sending Ron a pointed glare. "Why do you keep trying to kill me via salad?"

"I've never tried to kill you! Salad just, ah, dislikes you," Ron said weakly, not ready with a good comeback. Luckily, the room was empty of any other Aurors he'd almost maimed or seriously injured. "Besides, that lettuce awhile back was barely man-eating. Quite playful, actually, once it calmed down a bit."

"Shut it," Susan gritted out, gripping her fork as though preparing to toss it at Ron. "You're mad at Harry? Fine, take it out on him—not on all of us. Apparate into his bloody office for a change!"

"Tried that. He finally wised up and put down wards. Plus, Taylor's terrifying," Ron regained his balance and started to walk out. "But still, tsk tsk. Some Deputy Head you are. You only want me to sabotage Harry with cannibalistic lettuce! Or should I chuck croutons at him?"

Her irritated cry was cut off as he shut the door behind him. A ping of a fork hitting the door made him hurry on. When he was a safe distance away down the hallway, he took the vial with Dunbar's memory out of his pocket. In short time he'd gotten to the Pensieve room. It was rather more of a closet than a room, but it got the job done. As the stone basin took up the vast majority of the space, he'd always been a tad more weary about apparating directly to this spot. If he was off the mark at all he'd find himself dropped into a pool of liquid.

Plucking off the stopper and closing the door with his foot, Ron poured the silvery memory into the Pensieve. It flowed out across the liquid, rippling like a pebble. The vial was returned to his pocket. Holding the edge of the basin, he gingerly swayed forward. This part always bugged him, tilting at the edge of the Pensieve before vertigo took old. Some jumped right in while others conjured steps to race in with a topple. But he preferred to see what he was getting into, thank you very much.

Which, in this case, was a cascade of colours and shapes that coalesced into Hogsmeade. A corner sidewalk a few streets away from Flourish and Blotts, to be precise. Ron, holding his breath (he thought it helped with the queasiness), moved his feet off the ground and hurdled in.

After a moment of realigning himself (and letting the lights and colours properly solidify), the Senior Auror gazed around. It was dusk, with clouds bundled against the sky. Barely anyone was out walking and the entire village only just seemed to be slowly rising from sleep. Some shops had lights in them, others just a candle. One or two were opening up.

It only took a moment to find Dunbar, who was yawning and strolling in from a side alley connected to the main road. Ron walked along beside him. Almost as soon as they reached the Hogsmeade's central street, Dunbar's gaze jerked around, becoming far more awake. Rather than staring lazily at the buildings as he had been doing, his stare honed in on a girl across the pavement. His pace increased. Ron followed suit.

Fawcett was, indeed, lugging a large bag and was wearing a blue beret. Neither matched her red dress, but she didn't seem to care. She had the air of one whose thoughts were a million miles away. Tucked in the bag was what seemed like they could be the prototype Snackboxes. Maybe this was why she hadn't minimised the load or done any other spells to it.

Ron surveyed their surroundings. Aside from Dunbar's keen stare (which Fawcett was oblivious to, as the boy was following her at a distance and her mind was clearly elsewhere) no one was paying any attention to her. They barely even passed anyone else.

Within a few minutes it had begun to lightly rain. They'd passed the bookshop. Ron raised an eyebrow at this but, looking back as Dunbar stumbled on some rocks, he figured the kid was so focused on Fawcett that he hadn't noticed. With this, Ron glanced back at the girl…to be met with nothing. Dunbar was also looking back at the direction, confused.

"Stop the memory!" Ron cried out, stunned. He blinked around at the now frozen scene where there wasn't a trace of Fawcett. He was stunned she really had disappeared so quickly. "Rewind slowly. At a…dunno. Rewind it at a quarter of real time."

The scene rewound at a turtle's pace. Dunbar trudged backwards, unstumbling, with the rain lifting off his shoulders. Fawcett soon came back into view, but with something odd.

"FREEZE!" Ron yelled out, staring at the girl. Or, not at the girl: at the small beam of colour that was about to collide with her back. The spell was a light blue. Off the top of his head, the only charm that produced that colour was…

"A notice-me-not. Christ," the Senior Auror was now certain she'd been kidnapped. Kneeling down, he noted that another pair of footsteps almost perfectly mingled with the witch's. Only a few feet behind her, the dirt was compacted around two footprints, though part of the right one was being smudged by something. Maybe a cloth…or an invisibility cloak.

Cursing to himself, Ron trudged back the way they'd came, keeping his gaze on the ground. The strange footprints hadn't been following Fawcett for that long. They'd only joined her at around The Three Broomsticks, which was good, or it would've been 'out of sight' of Dunbar's memory. The footprints had come from nowhere, the first two smudged and dug deeper into the ground. Whoever it was had apparated in, likely wearing an invisibility cloak. They'd waited by The Three Broomsticks for awhile, leaning against its wall.

"Doing what?" Ron muttered to himself, staring at the footsteps. He then looked around, getting an unobstructed view of the street. The answer quickly came to him. "He was watching. So it was probably random. But why choose Fawcett when Dunbar was trailing her?"

But this answer was equally obvious. With the notice-me-not, the kidnapper wouldn't care if there was one 'potential' witness—not when Dunbar was incapable of seeing anything.

The Auror gave the footprints one last look, knowing the rain would have long washed away any the evidence. So he jogged back to where he'd left the frozen Dunbar and Fawcett, a moment from her being hexed.

"Why was she hexed?" Ron continued mumbling to himself. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, at times like this he missed having a partner. Even if it was Harry making some unhelpfully sarcastic quip. "Stunned, sure, or a thrown portkey. But a notice-me-not? He could've apparated her away just as quickly. Unless…unless he needs her here for something?"

Without much of an option, he focussed back on Fawcett's form. He took in the beret, the bag, the tiny smile on her face, and her short hair whipping into her eyes. "Unfreeze the memory."

The scene started up again, where Ron found her gaze sliding over Fawcett, unable to focus. "Freeze again!"

This time, he looked again at the footsteps. The 'vanished' witch had walked a few more steps. Her 'stalker' had closed the distance even farther. Slowly, the Auror looked up at where he knew the girl was…

"Bloody hell," Ron cursed, his gaze shifting away again and again. He knew it would be useless to try and change the Pensieve memory. Since it followed Dunbar's perspective, anything that was imperceptible to Dunbar would be equally invisible to him. It was little help that there was some measure of wiggle room in that anything that could potentially be seen by the kid would come through. Still, even invisible people could be spotted. "Start it up again."

The two pairs of footsteps continued forward. Fawcett's pace remained unhurried, so she didn't seem to have noticed there was a spell on her. Dunbar had stopped a bit away, confusion having settled on his face. Ron felt a surge of worry, for when Dunbar walked out of sight his view of the memory would end. There were few other people around, so getting another memory was unlikely.

Within view of WWW, a tiny branch of red light could be seen for a mere moment. Ron, blinking, was only sure it'd actually happened once he rewound the memory and viewed it at a slower pace. But the spell, without a doubt, had hit Fawcett in the back. The leading footsteps stopped, a small splash of mud taking its place. The indent in the ground was about the size of a girl.

"A body-bind, then," Ron muttered, watching as a smaller indent appeared beside Fawcett likely prone body. The follower seemed to be kneeling next to her. For the barest of seconds a hand, a man's hand, flashed out. But all that it did was to toss an invisibility cloak (a second one) over Fawcett. The indents remained more or less in place. "Why make her invisible? Unless, unless he's taking off the notice-me-not. Why?"

The answer instantly struck: so Fawcett could be seen by him. The criminal needed to see the girl for some reason. But why not just apparate them both out? Ron was also getting more nervous, because Dunbar had stopped peering around and was beginning to head away.

The larger indent (Fawcett) began moving, recapturing Ron's attention. He first thought she was getting up, but the moving just increased. It was almost as though she was rolling around. Or pounding the ground. Or…

"Convulsing," Ron felt sick as the realisation came to him. The kneeling indent stayed put, as though he was watching her. He very well might have been. The Senior Auror swore, not only at this but at how the colours and shapes around him were starting to shift and sway: Dunbar was hurrying back to the bookshop and out of sight.

"Come on Dunbar. Slow down," Ron muttered, stare focussed on Fawcett. If he squinted he could just tell a third indent appearing next to the criminal. What could that be? It was small, like a child…or a large bag. Fawcett's bag? Could this be a robbery gone wrong? No, course not. Some liquid had appeared on the other side of the swishing and turning larger indent, something dark. A poison? A potion? "There's almost something. Come back here, kid. Come on, we're close."

The scene was fading fast. He was just able to catch a harsher convulsion (where the cloak lifted up just another to reveal Fawcett's shuddering hand) when the memory fell away completely. Without further ado, the Auror was knocked out of the Penisieve.

"Damn it!" Ron was tossed back into the Ministry. Before he could catch his balance he skidded forward again, gripping the stone edge of the basin with white fingers. The memory now playing was of Dunbar entering Flourish and Blotts. He knew he'd been lucky to have gotten even that much, but he wasn't feeling pleased. "Stupid Pensieve, I could almost see something. It was right effing there and I…bloody hell."

Eliciting another swear he grabbed a vial and scooped up Dunbar's memory. He stoppered the top, thoughts a whirl.

Fawcett had definitely been kidnapped. By a professional, it seemed. There was no clear motive, no ransom, and no obvious personal connection. All evidence pointed to it being a random attack. A high risk, public attack. This 'kidnapper' was reckless, a psychopath, or both. Whatever he was, it didn't look good for Fawcett…no, for Lottie. Stranger abductions were bad enough, but a potion-induced convulsion?

"Damn it," Ron sighed again, wishing this case had merely been George being paranoid.

After grudgingly assigning Dennis to the case (giving him the notes, mirror, and file, while telling him to find her family asap), Ron glanced down Headquarters. After going back and forth between the risks of heading to Harry's office, he decided to take the safe route. So he stayed in his own office, spinning slightly in his chair.

"Expecto patronum," Ron swished his wand, smiling down at the yipping silver Jack Russell Terrier. Another flick, and the dog looked up at him attentively, waiting for the message. "Harry, put your irrational anger at me to the side and listen up. That case George brought in, about the missing girl Charlotte Fawcett? I have a memory of her being put under a notice-me-not, incapacitated, and maybe being tortured. Someone needs to be on this. If not me, someone bloody well competent. I haven't contacted the family yet, but I don't think this was personal or that we'll get a ransom demand. This was a stranger abduction and I don't have to tell you how not-good that is. I doubt this is just a kidnapping but, still, might as well release her photo to the press. I'd keep light on the details. She was captured in daylight in a public place, so that'd induce panic. Even worse, whoever took her is good. It was a methodical, thought-through abduction. So, seeing as how I'm under 'house arrest', get a team on this now. Keep this with the aurors, least until we know more."

Ron pushed his chair back, hesitating. He was regretting not biting the hex and talking to Harry in person, "Don't hold much on this next bit, but this was too professionally smooth for a first time offender. They've done this before. You know the sort, they don't just start with a high-risk abduction. I'm not positive but…listen, we're either missing earlier crimes, or we should be on the lookout for a spree. It's a miracle we caught this before the 24-hour mark and that we have a partial witness. Which makes me wonder if this has happened to anyone else and their case went cold. Just get a team on this now."

He sent the Patronus off. Then, remembering something, he cursed and spelled up another silver dog.

"Forgot to mention," Ron quickly said. "Because Angie had the bright idea of breaking into Fawcett's flat, ignore any spells by her or me at the scene. I haven't gotten her memory on that yet, so someone needs to talk to her. Dennis has the rest of the preliminary paperwork and memories, bother him about that."

He sent it off, then conjured a third and final Patronus. "Lisa? Hey, it's Ron. I talked to Harry and you should be getting a team, but listen. You ought to speak to Gladys Davis, owner of Magical Menagerie. It might be nothing, but she's been finding magical creatures' bodies around Hogsmeade. Davis won't want to talk, but all you've got to do is insult my family and she'll open up. Seriously, just rant about us mad Weasleys and Potters. If that doesn't work, compliment her animals. Sorry in advance for sending you there."