A/N: Heads up: if you haven't listened to the 'Hamilton' Broadway musical yet, you're missing the greatest innovation that's happened to literature and music since JK Rowling and John Williams teamed up. I kid you not. Because guess what you get in mixing the story of Founding Father Alexander Hamilton with historical accuracy and a soundtrack bursting with rap, jazz, reggae, and hip-hop? The greatest soundtrack known to mankind.

I don't care if you dislike rap, aren't big on history, or aren't American and are like, 'meh, whatevs' about the American Revolutionary War. You'll love it all the same. Seriously, stop reading this fanfic and search for 'Hamilton soundtrack' on Youtube. What are you waiting for? Go, shoo!

You're welcome.

General Disclaimer: I'm guessing J.K. Rowling doesn't write with a hip-hop/Broadway album on repeat in the background. So, nope, not her. Nor making a knut from this.

"Seems an awful waste. I mean, with the price of meat

What it is, when you get it, if you get it…good, you got it!

Take, for instance, Mrs. Mooney and her pie shop.

Bus'ness never better using only pussycats and toast!

And a Pussy's good for maybe six or seven at the most."

—Mrs. Lovett, Sweeney Todd

Cho didn't want to go anywhere near her flat. As she agreed to give them a copy of her memory of returning home, Ron didn't argue. In fact, it was better if she wasn't there to view the crime scene. An advance team of Aurors had already set up a ward and done a rapid survey of the flat (putting their findings in the file Ron still needed time to properly skim through), but a more in-depth look was needed.

So Ron wasted no time in apparating away to Scotland. Landing a few blocks from the flat in question, he gave a grin of triumph at managing to shake off another partner. It was only a quick grin, though, one which soon turned into a startled squawk.

"Posh place," said McLaggen (having landed near on top of Ron, causing the latter to lurch back in shock). He glanced around at the quaint apartments. "Never liked Edinburgh much. Any city without a Quidditch team can't be trusted, s'what I always say."

Ron straightened up, his surprise segwaying into irritation. "You apparated on top of me!"

"These were the coordinates," McLaggen scoffed. "You should've moved faster."

"I didn't think you'd apparate out of the Min…" Ron's protest trailed off, knowing he was being hypocritical. He also knew Harry must be laughing like mad. This didn't cheer him. "Whatever. Let's just get going."

"As I was saying, it's a travesty," McLaggen lost no time in piping up as they started down the pavement. Few cars were about on the residential street, but they passed the occasional jogger with a Westie nipping at their feet. "Look at Oxford: two professional teams! London bloody well has three, not that any of them are any good. Their own fault, there. Was keeper for the Camdens awhile back, but the coach kicked me off. Had her knickers in a twist about a joke, and blacklisted me for the rest of them! Unbelievable, I know. Must've been her time of the—"

Ron strolled down the Morningside neighbourhood, trying to ignore McLaggen's monologue. With every aggravating minute that passed it was clear the other man was as much of an arrogant prick as he'd remembered. Ron had never more wished he could apparate directly to a crime scene, but the wards the first responders had put up neatly put an end to that idea.

Not that this wasn't a nice walk, in theory. A small miracle had happened and Edinburgh was having decent weather. Even better, they were far enough from the city centre that few people were about. This upscale area was so quiet and still that McLaggen's self-approving laughter cut an awkward stab in the air. The only other noise came from distant traffic around the Waitrose a street back and, if that didn't sum up this suburban neighbourhood, Ron wasn't sure what could.

The cottage-like houses they passed were about as far from stacked London flats as one could get. The most blazing difference was that these places had yards—yards with neatly trimmed grass and pristine flower beds around the edges. Ron felt their only saving grace was the ivy twisted around the gates and framing the sun-soaked bricks of the houses, even with these plants having a bonsai tree-trimmed feeling about them. It also couldn't hide his creeping suspicion that each home was near identical to the next. It wasn't nearly as bad as the glimpses Ron had had of the utilitarian Privet Drive, but still. It was as though each homeowner had aimed for a postcard-like cliché of the British countryside: quaint house, put-together garden, and a sprinkle of ivy to wrap it all together.

Ron shook his head, grinning despite himself. He knew that if Hermione was here she'd be exclaiming over the beauty of the place while rushing to the nearest real estate office. Which he absolutely got. But, having grown up in the chaotic Burrow, his picture of the 'true' countryside was a bit different from his Cambridge-raised wife's.

Then again, they'd already passed half a dozen pubs on this short walk. Maybe this area wasn't so bad—vanishing wizard and neat yards aside. Whatever the case, looking around gave Ron an easy distraction from McLaggen, who was as ever determined to blabber away. He was wholly undeterred that his 'audience' hadn't been listening in the first place.

Roger's and Cho's home was obvious. Sure, there was a small crinkling of light around it from the ward. But it differed from their neighbours' in a few ways.

First off, someone had done multiplying and enlarging charms on the ivy. It wasn't so much 'draping' the house as it was commandeering the thing. Secondly, there was a more powerful ward around a harness under the overhang. Said harness was holding near a dozen brooms.

McLaggen whistled, having spotted the same thing. "Holy…"

"Guess there wasn't a robbery," Ron eyed the brooms in similar amazement, taking note as they passed by that it didn't look like anyone had tried to tamper with the magical wards. "Is that every Firebolt model?"

"Forget about that!" McLaggen was craning back, reluctant to loose sight of the brooms as they entered the house. "They have a blasted Lightning Bolt!"

"So what?" Ron gave into the temptation and looked back at the spectacular collection. "A Millennium Firebolt. A Millennium model! Gold leaf too, looks like. Sweet Merlin."

McLaggen scoffed. "Right, forgot your family must've bought out the Lightning Bolts. Don't forget the rest of us have barely laid eyes on one."

"They're rubbish," Ron waved off, "horrid breaks. Only decent for seekers, being so fast and whatnot. But come on, a Millennium! Nothing else holds a candle to it."

He gave him an odd look. "Are you out of your bloody mind? There's rumours a Bolt can break the sound barrier!"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah well, if you can get your hands on a 2000 model, I'd give you two Lightning Bolts for it. Don't look so shocked, my family has more than enough of those brooms. Besides, the look on my sister's face if I can get a Millennium when she can't would be worth it."

Though McLaggen's expression was also priceless, the Senior Auror reluctantly turned away from the stunning collection to enter the house. After a pointed look, his partner scowled and stormily followed. Ron couldn't exactly blame him. Though, as they went through the entryway, he could've done without the door being slammed shut behind them.

McLaggen noisily stomped down the foyer.

Ron smugly wondered whether the other man even knew what a foyer was.

A moment later he realised he wasn't entirely sure what it was either. He then felt a bit foolish in considering whether or not this room was or wasn't what he thought it might be. He mused that, at the very least, no stealthy Auror would stomp around the whatever-it-was room like that. This made him a touch cheerier as he walked more sedately into the hallway lined with paintings. But the cheer distinguished as soon as he entered the living room.

It was a bloody mess. Literally.

Not horrifically splattered blood like in that muggle movie Hermione had unwisely suggested they watch the previous Halloween. But he was startled that likely only a few people had partaken in this struggle, and that this room hadn't instead had a herd of hippogriffs barrelling through it.

The worst part was the shattered glass table to the right side by another door, the shards on the carpeted floor dripping with blood. Yet the rest of the room was in almost as bad a shape, even with how sparse it was. The curtained windows lining the entire left-hand wall had been blasted with spell fire, piercing the glass and fragmenting the large beige fabric with holes of splintering black ash. The once luxurious couch and loveseat in front of the windows now had more blackened stuffing in them than out. The opposite wall wasn't much better, seeing as the brick had harsh dents carved out of it. Ron could only guess what cacophony of curses had resulted in that.

In comparison to this, the far side of the room was almost comically untouched. An armchair sat in the centre (a leather work bag leaning against it), a cabinet with bottles of whiskey and wine on one side, and a small table on the other. A single glass half-filled with amber liquid sat there, undisturbed by the disaster that had fallen the rest of the place.

Ron let out a low whistle, walking around and taking in the other details. As McLaggen was by the couch, he moved to the other side. Opening the other door he saw it led to the kitchen. This area, as well as the hallway, looked untouched.

The carpet draped over much of the wooden floor was relatively intact, except the blood and glass surrounding the table as well as a bunching of fabric right in front of the armchair. Ron glanced through the file: the cabinet had been unlocked when the advance team had gotten here. He scoured the containers themselves. There could easily be something missing, but from his untrained eye a number of the remaining ones looked expensive. A bottle in front and centre was unsealed and partly empty.

Ron turned back to the door leading out to the hallway. Through it, he could see a number of pricey paintings lining the wall. Even the leather bag cost more than a few galleons and—poking in it and pushing aside a variety of papers—Davies' wallet and money pouch remained. On the side table he could vaguely spot a blueish residue of a Skiving Snackbox around the glass, like the advance team had said.

"Not a robbery," Ron mumbled to himself, confirming what he'd basically assumed since he'd seen the untouched, insanely expensive broomsticks. Standing up he went back to the door and turned around, facing the room. He strode forward as his voice rose to a normal level, catching McLaggen's attention. "Davies comes back, tired from the day. He sets his bag by the armchair then goes to the cabinet." He waved vaguely at the last as his partner began to pay attention, moving away from examining a painting of flapping birds on a tree. "Grabs some whiskey. Might've conjured a cup or grabbed one from the kitchen. He pours out a drink, leaves the rest, and goes back to his chair."

Ron walked over and slouched into the armchair, glancing around him as he did so. "So he's relaxing, whiskey beside him on the side table…which was where the residue was found. In the whiskey too, but why'd it be on the table?"

"Davies spilled it," said McLaggen, coming over from across the room. "The bottle had been dosed so, after he'd drunk it, he became sloppy. Simple."

Ron checked the file, frowning. "Whiskey wasn't found on the table, just the faint blue residue. Plus, how'd anyone know to poison the whiskey? There are plenty of other drinks in the cabinet. How'd someone even know Davies would be drinking?"

"Oh. Oh!" McLaggen snapped his fingers, stepping up until he was directly in front of Ron and the armchair. "How the potion got into the cup and the table?" He moved his hand above the glass, pouring an imaginary vial. He smirked. "Someone poured it in."

"They were here before Davies came home," said Ron slowly. Though he'd never admit it, he was grudgingly impressed by the theory. "The invisible man, like with Fawcett."

"Stupid of him," McLaggen chortled. He drew his wand and lazily raised it. "Why bother with dosing him when a stup—"

"Stop!" Ron barked, batting the wand away from where it'd been pointing at his head. Any minimal respect he'd been feeling towards McLaggen vanished. "What're you doing?"

"Dramatising the crime," shrugged McLaggen, pocketing his wand. "You started it. So, why the Snackboxes?"

"Give me a sec," Ron grumbled, annoyed at having a wand pointed at him. "There's another problem. These Snackboxes, the experimental ones that produce residue? They're meant to be rubbed on your skin, not swallowed. Why'd they put it in his drink? Unless," he stared at the glass, thoughts churning, "unless they didn't know exactly what they had. Because unless someone told them, they'd assume it should be drunk. Like powder to drop in a liquid."

"So Fawcett didn't tell them," clarified McLaggen, frowning. Maybe due to his continued thought of her guilt.

"Looks like it," Ron considered. "What if that was why they dosed Davies? A test, to see how effective the product was."

"Not very effective, looks like," he bluntly gestured around the torn up room.

"Right. Right," Ron tapped his hand against the armrest. "You're the kidnapper. You've sprinkled the powder into the glass, getting it onto the table as well. For Davies not to notice anything," he leaned down, away from McLaggen and the short table and towards the leather bag, "he wasn't looking at it. Maybe he got up, or maybe he was reaching down to unclasp his bag."

McLaggen came around, kneeling and rummaging through the papers inside, holding them up at random. "Quidditch strategies, looks like."

"Not surprising," said Ron, still bent over. He mimed getting the papers from the bag before straightening up. "He gets his work, sits back, and drinks. Meanwhile the criminal," he sent McLaggen a look. The other man got the cue and, grumbling, stood and returned to standing by the side table, "the criminal's leaning right over him."

"What about the Snackbox?" McLaggen said. "Meant for pranks, ain't it? So you'd think Davies would be suspicious if he suddenly got a nosebleed or threw up."

"Could be something subtler," Ron considered, adding this to a growing list of things to ask George about. "Let's say it's a narcotic, for example. Meant to knock him unconscious. Or it gives him a headache, bad enough to put him off balance. But we already know he drank the stuff. I'll have to ask my brother, but I imagine it'd get diluted in the liquid. Not as potent, see?"

"So it didn't effect him as much as they expected?" McLaggen let out a low whistle. "Could explain the struggle."

"Yeah, okay," Ron warmed up to this theory. "Davies drinks the stuff. Begins feeling out of it, say, tired or loopy. Realises something's wrong and that he's been hexed or dosed—"

"That's a stretch," he cut in. "He'd be that observant?"

"He's smart," Ron said absently, mind on what might've happened. He didn't notice that he was actually working with McLaggen. "Has to be to lead the Falcons to three championships, cheating or no. So he knows something's up. What's his first instinct? Shout for help?"

"Nope." McLaggen pointed his wand back at Ron's head. After a glare, he rolled his eyes and shifted it to the side. "He'd have been cursed without a struggle. Same thing if he'd gone for his wand."

"Not if he was careful about it," argued Ron. "Let's say Davies thinks there's a chance there's an intruder. He doesn't know where the bloke is. Don't know about you, but if it were me I'd try to hide getting to my wand." He hunched over just enough to covertly grab his wand from his pocket. "Maybe it was on him, maybe in his bag. Either way he'd probably lean forward to block the movement."

"Davies still wouldn't know where the intruder was. Pretty useless for a fight."

"Yeah," said Ron. "But it might be enough to break for an exit. The kitchen door's close enough, and with a surprise start and a lot of luck?" He jerked up to a stand, careful not to step on the waves in the rug. "Davies made a run for it, scrunching up the carpet as he bolted."

"But invisible bloke's watching all of it," McLaggen strode on, wand pointed forward. He gestured at the broken glass table. "Bludgeons Davies into the table. End of story."

"Nah," Ron shook his head, a step further. "Look behind you: there's burn marks up and down the curtains. Davies got in some shots, though most of them missed. He didn't go down immediately," he twisted back around. Avoiding the grisly sight of the blood-stained table, he eyed the bashes to the nearby wall. "Invisible man missed too, allowing Davies to return fire."

"Then the poor bugger dropped through the glass." McLaggen knelt by the destroyed table, tilting his head sideways. "Y'know, there's not much blood up close."

Ron humourlessly snorted.

"Not much at all," McLaggen either didn't hear Ron's derision or disregarded it. "No pool of it, at least, so Davies didn't bleed out here. No trail of blood either."

Looking closer, Ron saw that his partner had a point. Woe as he was to admit it, he was starting to see how the infuriating bloke might have become an auror (maybe—he was still betting on family connections). But that didn't stop him from pointing out the clear flaw. "There is a trail. See there? Only a foot or so, but Davies was dragged."

On top of that, there was a much larger smudge of blood on the floor where the trail ended. It almost seemed like the bleeding body had been shaken. Or…

"Bloody hell." Ron let out a small curse, straightening and jerking away from the blood. "It's all smeared. Remember how Fawcett might've been convulsing?"

Though McLaggen stayed put, Ron had had his share of staring at blood. He usually didn't mind it all that much. But the longer he looked at this crime scene, the more he imagined Roger Davies' splayed out body. What really got him was that he knew the man. Not much, but they'd spoken before. Had seen each other occasionally back at Hogwarts, at DA reunions, or at Quidditch events. He'd talked about him at times, too. Not much (mainly rants about the Falcons' success, like every Quidditch fan who supported another team), but still. It was unsettling. Reminiscent of a time when death haunted everyone he knew. It almost reminded him of seeing the arrows on his parents' old clock turned to 'mortal peril'.

Shaking his head of these thoughts and telling himself he was being ridiculous, he moved to the other side of the room. Davies' curses had burned charred holes into the wide curtains and branded patches of wall. As the Senior Auror got closer, he caught a whiff of something. A faint but nasty whiff. Looking around, he couldn't find a source for it. Rechecking the files' notes also revealed no answers.

Ron brushed open the curtain, peering around into the small space between it and the wall. The source of the smell then became obvious.

He nudged the curtain farther aside, noting as he did so that one of the charred patches lined up with the small body behind the curtain. The curled up kneazle could almost appear to be asleep, if not for the fact that a spell had gorged out much of its stomach and catheterised the blood.

Ron's hand flew to his nose. This was mainly to block the smell, but he also felt a churning in his stomach. He didn't need to check if the animal was dead.

"McLaggen?" he voiced up, wrenching his eyes from the sight. He tried not to gag at the stench. "First response: see if they said anything about a dead kneazle. Looks like one of Davies' spells hit his pet. It's, well, it's not pretty."

Though Ron had had more than his share of dissected animals in the past few weeks, this sight was enough to hit him in the gut. Because while this was a brown spotted kneazle rather than an orange half-kneazle, he couldn't help but see Crookshanks' squashed face on top of the mangled body. Though Davies was obviously far more important, he'd grown fond of fur balls over the years.

Ron stood back up, peering around him again. "Damn. Not looking forward to telling Cho her pet's dead, on top of everything else."

"I'll take care of that."

"What?"

"I'll talk to Chang," McLaggen sent him a grin. "You don't want to, right?"

"Sure. But I don't want you hitting on her," Ron retorted.

"Relax, I'll be charming."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Ron muttered. But, knowing they had to get through the rest of the scene, he let it rest for the moment.

Before Ron knew it, he was forced to apparate from Edinburgh with few more leads. They might have reconstructed what had potentially happened, but the clues for the actual kidnapping were near nonexistent. Their best lead was the strange connection between Fawcett and Davies, which said how much they were grappling at strings.

The 'blood trail' led nowhere. There was little signs of magic around the home. There was no sign as to how the kidnapper had gotten in, where Ron could just as easily have betted on a muggle lockpick as following an oblivious Davis through the open front door. The only thing that was anywhere near something to note was that the amount of blood found on the scene was nowhere near enough to kill a man. Even this was little comfort.

The main problem was that there was no clear connection between the two victims. While Fawcett had been a victim of opportunity, Davies had been targeted in his home. While Fawcett had no enemies, almost everyone related to Quidditch had a grudge against Davies. Fawcett was at best middle class and had her purse taken. Davies was rich and his money hadn't been touched. Even if Fawcett's capture had been random and her Skiving Snackboxes used in the next crime by chance, why change everything about the target?

Not helping matters, as soon as they were out of the crime scene and back in London McLaggen had reverted back to his old, unbearable self. They'd barely been looking into leads for an hour before McLaggen began getting restless. Impatient. The reason for this soon became apparent.

Though Ron had forgotten McLaggen wanted to tell Cho about her deceased pet, his partner hadn't. That is, McLaggen hadn't forgotten wanting to talk to Cho.

When McLaggen cornered her at the Ministry and started telling her about his 'Gryffindor Sword', not a mention of kneazles was made. Ron made an attempt to stop him, but he wasn't that upset when Cho beat him to the punch. 'Punch' being quite literal. As McLaggen gaped from the ground at the scowling witch, Ron might or might not have mentioned a certain transfiguration spell.

The not-actual-lamppost was, once again, put out to the street corner.

Ron, feeling that this good bit of work deserved a break, figured he might as well make a quick floo call to solve an irritating issue of his. It had been his last resort, but McLaggen had almost gotten Cho to hex both of them. As any fool could see, this was a horrid work environment.

Going to his office's floo, Ron tossed in some powder and said out the household name. Sticking his head in the fireplace, he glanced around the empty living room. He shouted out a name and waited for an answer…only to be met with silence. Another shout resulted in equal failure.

Drawing out his head and taking out his wand, Ron conjured a Patronus. As the silver terrier yipped happily around him, he told the little critter to keep yapping at the person in question until she got the bloody message and flooed him. He then cheerily sent it on its way.

Not twenty minutes latter (which Ron spent combing through even more people who might be out to get Davies), a grumpy face appeared in his fireplace. Flaming red hair was tossed back over the logs as annoyed brown eyes flickered above a puckered mouth.

"Do you care," Ginny stated in a monotone, staring up from the hearth at her brother as tendrils of fire lapped her frame, "that I was breast-feeding my baby when you pestered me?"

"Too much information," said Ron. "If you'd just—"

"Or that your Patronus' barking woke up Jamie?" she continued, voice dry. "Or that I'm supposed to be working from home, which I can't do with all you prats heckling me?"

"Wait. 'All' us prats?"

"Charlie's convinced Jamie's stolen his precious dragon eggs," Ginny started off on a rant, missing Ron's raised eyebrows, "Angie thinks I'm being horribly unfair to Puddlemere's rubbish excuse of a Keeper, mum won't shut up about Al's teething, and George keeps sneaking in rebellious pygmy puffs because, 'They make great pets for kids, barely even bite'! On top of that, my husband's driving me up the wall complaining about you. He was laughing nefariously at dinner yesterday, I kid you not. Nefariously! Harry! It was so ridiculous I stunned him and checked him for polyjuice." She took in a deep breath, now glaring at him. "So, Ron. What the hell do you want?"

Ron paused, going over her lengthy statement. He considered commenting on how she'd paranoidly stunned her own husband, before realising he actually wasn't that shocked about it. He wasn't sure what that said about Ginny, Harry, or himself. So he went with another option. "You know, with little kids you really shouldn't be swearing."

"F—k you."

"Charmer, you are," said Ron, leaning back on the ground to get more comfortable. He brushed aside the rest of her rant as well as her steely glare. "Whatever. Listen Ginny, you owe me and I'm calling in a favour. Convince Harry I don't need a partner. At the very least, I certainly don't need to be babysitting Cormac McLaggen."

Ginny was surprised enough that her anger fell to the wayside. Tiny embers cascaded off her eyelids. "You've, you've got to be joking. How do you reckon I owe you?"

"Not joking," Ron said to his sister's head in the fireplace. "Harry will listen to you! Tell him to lay off. It's not my fault he has to figure out somewhere to put McLaggen."

Her confusion transformed back into an annoyed frown. "Sounds to me like it's a training programme. But again, I owe you?"

"McLaggen!" Ron complained. "Your prat of a husband ordered Cormac Freaking McLaggen to tail me, all because I can't find a partner."

"According to Harry, you've been given plenty of partners," Ginny said, unimpressed. "None met your expectations?"

"Not since your idiot husband took the promotion."

"He offered you Deputy Head!"

"Which I turned down," Ron scoffed, hating the idea of that. "Like I want to deal with more paperwork and bureaucracy. But—as I've said numerously—we've got to get Harry checked into St. Mungo's."

"He's not a head case, unlike you. Or if he is it's your fault," Ginny said with a world-weary sigh, apparently putting aside how she'd stunned Harry due to him acting out of character. "So what if he accepted the position? We both made compromises."

"Yeah yeah, both of you hated each other's dangerous jobs. Blah blah blah," Ron waved this aside. "Tell me again how you going into reporting Quidditch and getting free tickets to Quidditch games equates to Harry getting off the field for a crummy desk job?"

"It's not a desk job!" she exclaimed. "He's Head Auror. Besides, those free tickets? I go to almost all the games with my husband and kids."

"Harry got the worse deal," he retorted.

"Ron!"

"Hey, don't blame the messenger," he said, raising his hands placatingly. "As his best mate, I've gotta say: I'm taking his side. Sorry sis."

"There are no sides! It was his bloody idea!"

"Sure it was," Ron scoffed. "Anyway, whatever. If Harry really wants to be mental, more luck to him. But McLaggen? You've got to help me here."

"You were just picking a fight with me!"

"Because this is all basically your fault. But see, here? You can make it up to me by convincing Harry I don't need a partner. Especially not that oaf."

Ginny gazed at him, wholly unamused. "Luckily for you, I'm going to go now because my OB-GYN said undue stress isn't good for the baby. 'Undue stress', meaning murdering my brother to get some peace and quiet."

"You're barely pregnant," Ron dismissed the threat, wanting to continue the conversation.

"I'm three months in!" Ginny protested, bristling. "But whatever, I don't care. Just shut it, play nice with McLaggen, and stop bothering me. I'm supposed to be relaxing, not yelling at you—though Merlin knows I want to! Harry likes his damn job and taking the promotion was his idea. Stop messing with your partners just because they aren't Harry!"

Ginny's raging head disappeared from the fireplace with a Snap!

Ron sat back on his heels, considering who else to floo. Hermione was just amused by this. Kingsley would do that eyebrow lift thing. George would laugh hysterically. His parents wouldn't see what the problem was and…frankly? There weren't too many other people who could hope to change Harry's mind. He was a pretty determined bloke. Even Ginny had her hands full trying to convince him of some things, such as which Quidditch team to support.

He halted at the last thought, groaning as a burst of realisation hit him. "Quidditch!" he muttered, annoyed at himself. He grabbed another batch of floo powder. "Ginny knows everything about the bloody League and…frick."

The floo was quickly restarted and Ron stuck his head in the fireplace. After hollering for his baby sister for a few minutes she finally appeared, arms folded around her chest and undeniably grumpy.

"I'm not here about Harry!" Ron said with a rush, hoping to get her to stay. "Not that I'm letting that go but, yeah, Quidditch. You on top of it?"

Ginny sent him a disbelieving look.

"Right, it's your job," Ron backtracked. "The Falmouth Falcons. Got any gossip on them?"

The frown turned into a scowl, "Just about them being cheating, dirty bast—"

"Yeah, I got that," said Ron. "Haven't been under a stone, everyone's heard the rumours. I meant behind the scenes. Anyone particularly hate Roger Davies?"

"Anyone?" Ginny scoffed, walking closer to the fireplace. "Try anyone not involved with the Falcons. The prat doesn't care how he wins and will do anything shy of illegality to get it."

"Well, 'the prat's' been kidnapped. Any recent gossip?"

She halted, startled, "Kidnapped. Roger Davies? Roger Daredevil Davies?"

"Taken from his home in a struggle," he recalled that he ought to have a disclaimer in there. "Which hasn't been released to the press yet, so keep quiet for a bit. You know the drill. Anyway, recent problems?"

Ginny blinked, getting used to the news. She took the off-limit story in stride, "I…no. It's the off-season. There's mainly just pick-up matches and charity games, nothing big. This came to the Aurors?"

"Yep. Your husband's probably still traumatised from Cho crying on him, beware of that," Ron, though sorry for Cho, couldn't find it in him to extend the sympathy to either Potter. "But never mind that. You're telling me there's no new Quidditch scandals?"

"Behind the scenes? Maybe," said Ginny doubtfully. "The team managers, including Davies, will have been getting their line-ups for next season. That involves money, rivalries, bribes, and rather a lot of blackmail. I'm sure the Falcons are having their share of it, but I haven't heard anything specific."

"What about the Falcons' last season? Everyone grumbles about them winning, but did they actually cheat?"

"You mean, can I prove it? Nope," Ginny said this with a scowl, as though it was a personal blow. "Believe me, I've tried. Gone through all their books, watched practice tapes, interviewed the lot of them. Whatever that team's doing, they're damn good at covering it up."

"What do you think they're doing?"

Ginny rubbed her face in annoyance. "Do you really not know this?"

"I pay attention to league ranks," Ron explained, putting aside that if this had anything to do with the Chudley Cannons he'd be the go-to expert. "You're the Quidditch reporter who's gone all investigative-y. So tell me."

She still seemed reluctant. But, after a groan, she gave in. "For the record, I'm still peeved at you and am only helping because it's a case. Alright, Quidditch 101? Teams don't become brilliant overnight. Too good to be true. You know that tripe about how one player can make all the difference? It's just that, tripe," she raised an impatient hand before he could protest. "Yes, I know everyone used to say that about me. That was the point. The Harpies said, 'Hey, we have a brilliant new player who's winning all the games. Get obsessed with her and us!' If the teams hype about individual players they get more money from the fans. In reality, a single player can change the points by a bit, sure, or raise enthusiasm. But they aren't going to take a humdrum team to the championship. That sort of story only happens when the team's completely switched up. I'm talking about new players, new management, new everything. There needs to be a drastic, fundamental overhaul."

"So?"

"So," Ginny huffed, "four years ago the Falcons were in the bottom half of the League. Had been there for ages. Then Jeffrey Nott retired and Roger Davies became Head Coach. Next season, the Falcons steamrolled their competition and took their place at the top. The only thing that changed was Davies."

"Might just be a good coach."

"No one's that good," Ginny rebuffed. "Mediocre players all around, so-so equipment, and they win? Don't make me laugh. No one else's buying it either. After their first championship people thought it was a fluke, a Cinderella story. With the second championship the conspiracy theorists came out, with it only getting worse each year. Problem is, no one can figure out how they're cheating. The League's official investigation turned up nothing."

"Basically, Ron? If Davies' disappearance has anything to do with Quidditch, you're looking at one of three things. A pissed off and obsessed fan of a different team, an even more peeved opposing player, or a back stab from whichever shady character has been helping Davies win the championships."

Ginny's insights, while informative, didn't really help the case. It gave Ron plenty of new suspects, but it always came down to the same question. If this was about Quidditch, why was Fawcett the first victim? Yes, she played chaser at Hogwarts, but she had never been connected to the professional leagues.

For the rest of the afternoon, Ron put aside everything related to Quidditch to focus on what was left of the cases. There was plenty for either one separately, but the only thing even vaguely connecting them was that they were both former Ravenclaws. Which was when he realised just how much he was grasping at straws.

Putting that aside, Ron looked at just Davies (minus everything Quidditch). This also resulted in little. No robbery, no body. No attempt to clean the crime scene, so the kidnapper wanted to display it. No attempt to target Chang, so Davies was the target. It was also a decent bet that they knew she'd be out of town, so the house had been watched. It was a targeted home invasion, which meant it was about as personal a crime as one could get. Which all meant that he had to consider that Chang was behind it.

And yet—Ron rubbed his head, staring at the parchments littering his desk as the day drew on—why would the kidnapper use an experimental potion that they weren't sure about? It'd turned an otherwise professional crime into chaos. Which was clearly unintentional, but why take the risk?

"Because if it worked, it'd be helpful," Ron answered his own question with a sigh. "For Fawcett, they were all about being untraceable. This would be an untraceable, unidentifiable potion. Course they'd want to use it."

Which brought it back to why the kidnapper hadn't cleaned up the Davies crime scene. They'd been overly meticulous with Fawcett. Why the change in MO? The crimes must be related, as the only ones with access to the prototype Snackboxes were George and Fawcett.

Ron gave a low curse, realising he'd need to get George's alibi. Same with all the employees at WWW. The next step would also have to be reviewing their security systems to see who would have access to the Snackboxes. Best to check off every possibility.

He yawned, breaking himself out of his thoughts. Glancing around, he was stunned to see a darker light coming in from the window. There was still the chattering of Aurors around him, but he could see out of his open door more than a few of his coworkers trooping out for the night.

Realising that this was a brilliant idea, Ron brushed the case papers together and slammed the files closed. He needed a break. Going home for a peaceful evening sounded like a fantastic way to clear his mind.

Of course, in thinking this, Ron had forgotten that his evenings were never peaceful. Not that this was a bad thing. What usually 'broke up' the tranquility was his daughter making her stuffed unicorn sentient, having dinner parties with his friends, talking Hermione down from buying yet another library, all-out-shouting-matches with his siblings (in-laws or otherwise), or babysitting a gaggle of squealing nieces and nephews as they got everything they really shouldn't.

Tonight though, no one was over. Dinner was leftovers and wouldn't for a bit, his wife was upstairs taking a nap, and Rose was relatively well-behaved. The only issue was the pet who was—Ron swore to Merlin—glaring daggers at him.

Simply, feeding a cat pepper-up potion wasn't an easy task. Especially when the half-kneazle in question was a dour orange tabby who was picky about all food, let alone medicine.

Not that Ron hadn't grown fond of Crookshanks over the years. There was a reason he was trying to heal the stubborn animal, after all. But the moody cat, while affectionate in its own way, was a stubborn pain whenever it set its mind to something. Ron would normally sympathesis, he would. But he'd been trying to give him his medicine for ten minutes now, and was quickly becoming done.

Rose wasn't helping. Ron wasn't sure why she connected 'daddy's-tackled-Crookshanks-with-a-potion', with, 'time-to-play-with-kitty'. But there they were. So now his daughter was latched onto Crookshanks as well, squiggling and giggling at the manic ride she was getting.

Ron would have just put Rose back in her pram, but she looked adorable clinging onto the unimpressed half-kneazle. That, and she was sure to start screaming if he unlatched her. So, all in all, it was best to continue struggling with the mad situation.

Crookshanks gave another sneezy purr. The wizard jumped on the distraction to recapture the cat from escaping. Lunging forward on the rug, he wrapped his arms around both the irritated cat and laughing baby, potion vial clasped between his teeth. But even with this effort, the tabby would've gotten away if it hadn't been hit by more peppery sneezes. The auror thanked his lucky stars and used the pause to unclasp the vial.

Ron would be worried about Rose catching the pet's cold, but the little girl had so many vaccination and preemptive healing charms on her that chances were far better that a Crumple-Horned Snorkack would waltz into the room and start tap dancing.

Hermione, on the other hand, couldn't have many of the vaccinations due to her pregnancy. Hence her mad paranoia over germs, as well as her reluctant distancing from Crookshanks and his lingering cold.

Still, none of that changed Ron's current predicament. Whenever he got the potion anywhere near Crookshanks' mouth, either he'd shake his head away, or Rosie's foot, hand, or dress would collide with the bottle instead. He couldn't believe this was more difficult than giving his daughter her vitamins. At least with her, if he demonstrated how 'yummy' the things were himself, she'd gulp them right down. She might give him betrayed looks as soon as the taste hit her, but he could live with that.

How could a cat be more difficult than a child? As Ron had to summon another bottle (the first pepper-up having been spilled over rug and fur), he found himself fondly recalling the long-ago days when he couldn't stand Hermione's pet. Back then, if the half-kneazle refused all medicine, then fine, it could sneeze. But now, the mad animal was his pet too, and he cared about the mangy furball.

"Stop squirming!" Ron struggled to hold the madly wiggling Crookshanks in place while not accidentally hurting him or causing his daughter to fall off her haphazard perch. "As bad as giving you a bath. Come on, I'm trying to help here! One little sip of potion, s'all I'm asking. It's not that foul tasting and—Crookshanks! Stop clawing at me, you mad beast!"

Rose giggled at her dad's plight, perfectly content in sitting on the cat. Ron was vaguely disbelieving that Crookshanks was fine with being mistaken as a horse, but protested some harmless medicine. Then again, the animal pretty much considered the little girl her kitten. The wizard usually thought this was cute, except when circumstances like this flew it back in his face.

"Yeah yeah, daddy's hilarious," Ron gave his daughter a strained smile. She giggled more, and was answered by a burst of laughter from behind them. Craning his neck around, he spotted Hermione with her hands pressed against her mouth, eyes watering from the ridiculous scene. "Hello to you too. Give me a hand here?"

"What, what in heaven's name are you doing?" Hermione forced out from her giggles, walking into the room with a broad grin.

"What does it look like?"

"I have absolutely no idea," she managed to get ahold of herself, though her amusement hadn't lessened. Ron sighed, taking a break from wrestling with the uncooperative cat to properly turn to his wife.

"You're worried about catching Crookshanks' cold. I mean," he held back her answer as she opened her mouth, "I know you've been sneezing, but it's mini-sneezes really, not the full-blown thing. So, though I think you're out of your mind, I'm trying to fix the problem."

Hermione still looked confused.

Ron held up the potion, jiggling it, "Pepper-up."

Hermione fell into another spree of helpless giggles. Rose happily copied her mum, still clinging onto Crookshanks (who, on his part, was still eyeing Ron suspiciously). "Oh Ron! Sorry, sorry love," she hiccoughed, trying to control the bubbles of laughter, "that's very sweet of you. It is. But that won't do anything."

"Course it will," Ron argued. "If he stops protesting long enough to drink it, that is."

"It's pepper-up, Ron." An amused grin lined Hermione's lips, softening as she sat down next to her husband. "Incredibly thoughtful of you, but that doesn't work on kneazles."

"What? Course it works," he waved this away. "I've fed it to Pig and Art countless times. It always cures their sniffles."

"Owls aren't magical creatures," Hermione patiently explained. "I used to think it might have some effect on Crookshanks, seeing as he's half cat. But no. It simply doesn't work—the magic in him is too different from ours. Potions meant for humans only work on us and mundane animals; that is, anyone where a differing magic won't interfere."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I did look up a few things before I got Crookshanks," she said in amusement rather than annoyance. "Though, this does make me wonder if we're splitting the pets' chores evenly. You've never given Crookshanks medicine?"

"Course I have! Pepper-up, like I said."

Hermione's smile slightly dimmed. She turned to the half-kneazle with a hint of worry. Rose, having grown bored of the adults' conversation, had scooted off the half-kneazle and was lazily petting his head. "You've always given Crookshanks pepper-up potion?"

"Of course."

"Oh, you poor sweetheart!" Hermione turned her attention to Crookshanks, rubbing his belly. "No wonder you're still sick, with your daddy giving you the wrong medicine."

Ron frowned down at the potion bottle, brow furrowing, "You aren't joking? Wait, hold up. Tell me this hasn't been hurting him?"

"It's just ineffective," Hermione was still cooing at Crookshanks, who'd rolled over onto his side and was purring into his owner's petting fingers. "Oh, this is my fault. I'd always assumed you'd had a magical pet at some point!"

"Aside from the baby dragons Charlie snuck home?" Ron rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a twinge foolish. He'd set down the bottle, but not before giving the traitorous potion a dark look.

"I'm sorry love, I never thought of this," she turned from the animal to give Ron a small smile. "Don't worry, no harm done. It was sweet of you to try and make him feel better."

"You know me," Ron said, managing a weak grin. "Sweet but ineffective."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione scoffed, properly turning away from the purring Crookshanks to look at her husband. "That's the only stupid thing you've said all night. It was a simple mistake. Honestly, it's rather adorable you tried to cure him. I just regret not getting a picture of you struggling with Crookshanks' squirming!"

"While Rose rode side-saddle," Ron's grin crept back in, finding the funny side of this situation. Rose, seeing that her mum had stopped petting Crookshanks, had gleefully crawled back up onto his back. "So, the real question. Do we have the proper potion?"

"I'll pick some up at the Magical Menagerie tomorrow," she waved this away, now very close to him. Their daughter was cheerfully chirping as Crookshanks padded her around the room. "I've been meaning to do it for ages. But I've been silly, it's just a case of the sniffles. There's more important things." Their noses touched, upturned lips a breath apart. "You're the most wonderful, thoughtful man. Have I told you that lately?"

"Think I need a reminder," Ron murmured, leaning forward enough to meet her lips. His arms folded around hers. "So, the emotional range of a teaspoon?"

"Shush you," Hermione tutted against his mouth, not stopping the kiss.

Both parents were vaguely aware their daughter was still riding Crookshanks around the living room. But as the little girl's delighted squeals rang in the air, the cuddling adults felt no need to move anytime soon.

A/N: Ron not knowing it was the wrong potion for years? Yeah yeah, I know it's silly what with him being a pureblood. But I figured plenty of people accidentally don't realise something kinda obvious. For example? I've been writing and posting fanfics for ages, and only recently got two incredibly helpful comments (THANK YOU conjure-at-your-own-risk and Psych0Geek!) letting me know I've been screwing up my dialogue with end stops. So, in the same way that I missed a crucial grammar lesson somewhere along the way, Ron hadn't realised the pepper-up wasn't helping Crookshanks.

Other news since the last update? Ah, 'Hamilton'. Water on Mars. New Cormoran Strike book. Oh and, you know, it's cool there's going to be an 8th HP story. No big. I mean, it's not like I'm over here freaking out about Cursed Child or anything. Not like I'm going to bend heaven and earth to get a ticket to the show. Not like I'm totally chill with justifying an expensive trip to the UK just for a play. A play about Harry Potter. A play which is a sequel. A play which almost positively touches on prequel stuff. A play which looks like it's all about daddy!Harry.

…BECAUSE DAD!HARRY! SWEET MERLIN, HOW ADORABLE IS THAT? We got a sneak preview of it in the Epilogue, but this could be sososo much better. Because you KNOW he'd be an overprotective, wonderful dad who drives his kids mad with his hovering and bear hugs, and makes Ginny roll her eyes fondly at him: "Because really Harry, you're worried about them getting Firebolts? They've been on Silver Arrows since they were babies." "You put them on WHAT?!" "They barely went five feet off the ground." "They couldn't walk yet!"

BUT TALKING ABOUT GINNY. "Darkness from unexpected places"? Read a brilliant theory on Reddit which I hate but now can't get out of my head: WHAT IF THE REMNANTS OF THE HORCRUX COME BACK TO HAUNT HER? OR HARRY?

ALSO, WHO'S THE EFFING CURSED CHILD? IF IT'S SNAPE AND THAT'S WHY IT'S FOCUSSED ON ALBUS SEVERUS FREAKING POTTER, SOMEONE'S BEING CRUCIOED! IF ALBUS AND LILY AREN'T IN SLYTHERIN AND LITTLE HELLIONS, THERE IS NO WIZARDING GOD!

(pleasepleaseplease let Harry be the 'cursed child', so it'd be all about the Dursleys and abuse and things coming out about it in public, where Harry has to be like, "Cupboard? What cupboard?" which none of the Weasleys believe for a moment, and while Ginny's worrying and planning homicides Al sees some of his dad's memories in a Penisieve, which is when all hell breaks loose and…yes. All in Part 1)

(it might also be a musical, just saying, with Darren Criss+British accent in the starring role because, let's be serious now, we're all hoping for that)