A/N: Sorry for the long wait! This chapter was surprisingly hard to organise (too many silly subplots, I swear), but here you go. An especially huge apology (and huge thank you!) to the wonderful DarkPhoenix! I'm not entirely sure of your username so I'm sorry I couldn't respond to your comments. I'm so glad you're enjoying my story and I hope this update makes up for the wait :D

Finally, Son of Whitebeard, I hope you like who's about to vanish into thin air.

"Lift your razor high, Sweeney!

Hear it singing, 'Yes!'

Sink it in the rosy skin of righteousness!"

—Sweeney Todd

"Shame it wasn't a woman."

Ron—having been fiddling with Lottie Fawcett's mirror—wasn't listening. He'd been tuning McLaggen's whines out, having no sympathy about his suspension over the Sweeney Todd mess. This was because, a.) It was McLaggen's own bloody fault, b.) Ron had been enjoying not having to deal with the lout, and c.) If Ron heard one more person singing from the musical, he was baking someone into a pie himself.

"Bad enough the bloke was strung up," McLaggen huffed, kicking the edge of Ron's desk. "Ruddy gruesome. But, if it'd been a bird, at least there'd have been a nice view."

Ron (having only caught the last few comments) had no idea what this was referring to. He stared at the mirror, brow furrowing. "What blo…" he stopped, having come to a possible conclusion. But no, not even McLaggen could be that thick. "Tell me you aren't talking about Lisa's case."

"Course I am!" McLaggen answered. "They said we were consulting on a dead Veela. Might've warned us it wasn't a woman!"

Ron slowly lifted his head to stare at him, stunned. "Let me get this right," he cursed Harry for putting him in this position. "Instead of being horrified about the murdered man, or concerned for the mounds of traumatised kids, or massively worried about the ongoing crime sprees…you're pissed off that it wasn't a female Veela?"

"The bloke was naked!"

"He was brutally killed and—Merlin, why am I bothering," Ron gave up trying to decipher McLaggen's thoughts. He considered giving the whole, 'record-his-partner-and-get-him-suspended-for-complete-inappropriateness' thing another try, but that had lost it's appeal after the third go around. Though, recording him and giving the transcript to Hermione had potential; she was becoming more and more brutal with her transfigurations. Last time, the poor bloke had spent a day as a rubber duck. "Fine, go on, tell me about how unfair it is."

As McLaggen happily returned to waxing poetic about hypothetical Veela breasts, Ron flicked his wand to set the recording charm going. With that done, he tuned out his partner and returned to eyeing the mirror.

He'd had high hopes for the object when it'd been found in Fawcett's flat last Spring. Back then, it'd been possible the kidnapping was a personal crime or a stalking case. But when the victims started pilling up the importance of Fawcett's contacts flew out the window.

Ron missed the days when all he had to deal with was a murder-suicide or two, armed robberies, and potential Death Eater sightings. Some cases went cold, sure. But never like this. This, at times, felt like it was his entire caseload. A spree of kidnappings where every possible lead and suspect had run dry. Almost as annoying: the Ministry bureaucrats and the hounding press were all well aware of this.

So, in many ways, having an incompetent partner was the least of his worries.

Ron had been scrutinising the Samuel Gideon crime scene the last few days, like he had done with victim after victim. He'd turned over, questioned, and dismissed everyone who might have wanted Gideon to disappear—just like all of the other kidnappings. He'd interviewed the family, lightly tripped over specifics, and assured them he was trying everything he could—exactly like he had assured all the other families. Because it was the same, like always. Vanished out of the blue. No magical trace. No ransom. No clues.

But this infernally aggravating pattern wasn't why Ron was fiddling with Fawcett's useless mirror. No, this procrastination was because of a different pattern. This one was something he'd actually managed to crack—he just hated the implications. So he was careful to not look at the stack of cold case files lying on his desk. They were from the Aurors, Hit-Wizards, and Scotland Yard. He knew he'd have to confront it soon, but was desperate to put it off even for five more minutes.

Ron pressed back through Fawcett's messages, skimming and not really reading them. He didn't need to: he'd practically memorised what was on the mirror. He knew all about Fawcett's strained relationship with her mum, her amusement at her dad's puns, her long-distance 'book-recommendation-pen-pal' in Bermuda, her weekly catch up with her dorm mates from Hogwarts, and her notes back and forth between her and other WWW workers.

He (catching a snatch of McLaggen's rant about how various pie shoppes had temporarily shuttered up due to boycotts) turned more attention to the messages on the mirror. He found that he'd been scrolling through Fawcett's exchange with Angelina. They'd been closer friends than he'd first realised and, what with how his sister-in-law had increasingly glanced at him while biting her lip (and stomping on George's foot when he opened his mouth) she was anxious to get information about the case. He wished he could help her. But honestly, he was thankful she restrained from asking. Because he could only give her vague comments about it being an ongoing investigation. It was better to give that excuse than admit to her that he'd be shocked if they found Fawcett alive.

A day before the kidnapping, Angelina and Fawcett had written each other about a recipe for blueberry pancakes and about how best to coax pygmy puffs into rioting en masse. The messages were interspersed, enough that Fawcett seemed to be suggesting that cayenne pepper with a hint of cardamon worked on both counts. Ron would've thought it was referring to just the pancakes, but Angelina's responding, 'thanks! that brightened them right up', made him wonder. As did both women's typed cries of, 'VIVA LA BREAKFAST!'

Naturally, the most recent messages were from Angelina, asking if Fawcett was okay. Ron clicked off the mirror, unsettled and feeling like he was invading their privacy.

He wasn't sure why he kept coming back to Fawcett. Sure, there was the obvious reason. She'd become the public face for this crime spree: with each new kidnapping, the papers' reminded their readers that this had all started with an attack on an innocent, lovely girl. The photo of her at graduation had gained a life of its own.

Or maybe Ron's interest lay in the connection to his own family. Not only was Fawcett friends with Angelina and employed at WWW, but she reminded him so much of the twins. But it was more than any of that. Fawcett's case had begun this spree of near unsolvable crimes—a constant, horrid thorn in Ron's side. It had been his first case where, no matter how many hours he put into it and how many leads he followed, he was forever stuck at square one.

Other Aurors talked about how they had one case, that one miserable cold case, which had never met a conclusion. Some retired Aurors still came in from time to time, looking without hope at a double homicide from five years ago. Or a home invasion and massacre from a decade ago. Or a possible but suspicious suicide from twenty years back. They hadn't personally known the victims, but the unsolved crime kept them up at nights.

Ron had a nasty suspicion this had already turned into his. That he'd spend years going over Fawcett's mirror, rescanning the Pensieve memories, answering owls from her exhausted family, waving off the insidious press with each new disappearance, banging his head over why the kidnappers hadn't used the Skiving Snackbox after Roger Davies, theorising over and over (and over and over again, en tedium) about what awful thing had made Fawcett convulse…

Ron pushed his chair back with a Bang!, startling McLaggen and halting his rant about how Lisa was so incompetent that she couldn't even identify the murdered male Veela.

"Don't mess with my office," Ron said gruffly, dropping the mirror and whisking up the pile of cold case folders. The recording charm was turned off with a snap and, without looking back, he strode out of the room. He tried not to think about what he was doing because, if he paused, he'd only further put off seeing Harry about the pattern he'd spotted. Which was a horrible idea.

Ron was so distracted he didn't take notice of Taylor's shout and frantic wave off. If he had, he would have dismissed it as Harry taking his lunch in his office and wanting some privacy. So he barged into the office without concern.

Only once the door was open did he remember why he usually knocked.

"Christ!" Ron clapped a hand in front of his eyes, letting the office door swing shut behind him. His macabre thoughts were promptly replaced by the horrifying sight in front of him. "On the desk?"

"Hello to you too," Ginny grumbled. Ron—eyes firmly shut—heard Harry cursing and clothes rustling. "Why are you always the one interrupting us?"

"I've been asking myself that for years!" Ron moved the case folders in front of his eyes as well (as one could never be too careful). The only bright side of this, he mused, was that it'd thoroughly distracted him from the Fawcett case. "As you've already scarred me, how about you put on your clothes and leave? Y'know, so you can stop disrupting important Auror business?"

"We're both dressed, you berk! It was only a bit of kissing," Ginny snarled, rustling papers off the desk as she made sounds of climbing down to the floor. "We're both on our lunch break, nothing wrong with a…why are you even covering your eyes?"

"Because I walked in on my sister on top of my best friend! DOING UNSPEAKABLE THINGS TO EACH OTHER!"

"WE WERE KISSING! Besides, we're kind of married. Did you somehow miss that?" Ginny huffed.

"You were doing more than snogging! Trying for baby number four? Which is disgusting, by the way."

"I'm still pregnant with my third child! Do you have any idea how human anatomy works? Wait. DID YOU JUST CALL MY KIDS DISGUSTING?!"

"What? No, they're adorable. It's their sex obsessed parents I have a problem with! WHY CAN'T YOU TWO GET A ROOM?"

"WE HAD A ROOM! YOU BARGED IN! RUDE ENOUGH TO INTERRUPT WHAT MIGHT'VE BEEN HARRY'S LUNCH, BUT YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO BLAME US?"

"His LUNCH? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU TWO—"

"Could you both stop?" Harry cut through the siblings' shouting. "Ron, open your eyes. This is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is how we can't get any privacy!" Ginny stormed, glaring at her brother as he reluctantly moved the folders away to look at the—thankfully dressed—couple. "If it isn't the paparazzi, it's my tactless brothers."

"To be fair," Harry scratched the back of his neck, not nearly as annoyed as his wife. Ron had the enormously unwelcome thought that this was due to the same reason his shirt was unevenly buttoned and his hair was even messier than usual, "we are in my office. Isn't too surprising someone walked in."

"Why didn't Taylor stop you!" Ginny hissed at Ron.

"Think she tried," Ron recalled that the secretary had been waving frantically at him. Oops. "Odd she didn't stop me. Maybe she wasn't trying that hard? Huh, because I finally got her those triple chocolate biscuits? That must be it. Hey, I'm back on her good list!"

"Good for you," Ginny said drily. Giving Harry a last kiss and ignoring Ron's mock gagging, she walked towards the door. "Be home for dinner, you got that? I don't care what catastrophe happens, you need a break."

"Yeah yeah," Harry said. "Don't kill your editor in the meantime, alright? I'm not covering up a murder for you."

"Hah, sure you wouldn't. Bye love," Ginny said with a laugh. Her steely look returned as she gave a parting glare Ron. "Bye idiot brother! Learn to freaking knock."

She slammed the door behind her.

Ron glanced after Ginny, made the conscious decision to ignore what'd happened, and sought to erase the image from his mind. He gave his sheepish best friend a silent stare.

"Shut it," Harry grumbled, making his way back over to the chair. "Is this about a case? Or are you—"

"It's about the Sweenies," it said a lot about the situation's graveness that Ron jumped to the point. He dropped the case folders on the desk and pulled up a chair.

"Please stop calling them that," Harry said with a note of pleading, his good mood from before evaporating. "The press is bad enough, but half the office won't stop quoting the blasted musical."

"Yeah, we're all tired of Dmitri's tone-deaf singing. But the name's catchy." Ron winced. "I swear, if he gets 'The Worst Pies In London' stuck in my head one more bloody time…"

"What about the disappearances?" Harry pulled the folders to him, uncaring that a mass of unorganised papers was pushed away. If questioned, he'd certainly wave the state of his desk off as being 'organised chaos', and that he knew precisely where everything was. "Hasn't been a new name today…frick. Please, please tell me there isn't another one?"

"No new ones, sort of." Ron leaned forward seriously. "Listen, this is even more insane than we thought. Remember me thinking that, huh, it sure was lucky we caught that people were vanishing without a trace? Then how we theorised, hold up, what if we weren't always lucky and missed earlier cases?"

"So you were looking at cold cases before Fawcett that fit the signature. Yeah. What, going back three years?" Harry said with a weary tone, knowing full well where this was leading. He glanced down at the files he had yet to open, fingers tapping the binding. "How bad is it?"

"Bad." Ron shrugged helplessly. "Potentially very bad. Though, y'know, to be clear? Since I was looking for any missing cases without any massive clues, few to none of these might actually be the Sweenies."

"Worst-case?"

"Another fifty people." Ron ripped off the plaster.

He heaved a slow sigh. "Okay. What's the most likely number?"

Ron hesitated. "A few, a few dozen. At least."

Harry froze, having been about to open a folder. "In addition to our dozen?"

"Yeah," Ron said glumly. "Educated guess, mind you. Not like I'm going off of much. But…yeah, this is a lot worse than we'd thought. When I said it's 'potentially very bad'? I meant more of, 'sweet Merlin, it's like another Dark Lord'. Which, uh, don't tell the press that last bit. Best not add to the hysteria."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, expression turning from disbelieving and panicked to glimmering determination. "I'm guessing these were missed because they never came to the Aurors?"

Ron nodded. "Mainly Hit-Wizard cases. These missing people aren't like 'our' group—y'know, middle class to wealthy, with almost all being low-risk targets. This new first group are mainly disenfranchised people. Some were homeless or prostitutes. The sort of people who continuously moved, changing addresses or giving different names. What I said, about how maybe none of them were kidnapped by these guys? It works the other way too. It's possible the Sweenies grabbed even more people, but no one ever reported them missing." He gave a low breath. "Still, the other names on the list…"

"What?"

Ron was even more reluctant to say this part. "Orphans. Well, children in orphanages or foster homes. A lot had histories of getting into trouble, so most of their disappearances were chalked up to them running away. But, these cases, they fit the Sweenies' 'signature': taking someone without leaving any real clues behind. I was always suspicious of Fawcett being the first victim, seeing as that crime was too professional. Well, these? They stretch back another year, were slightly more sloppy, and were all targets who would be far easier to capture."

Harry took a hollow breath. "How sloppy?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Ron said. "CCTV caught shadows of the people—so yeah, definitely a group—but it's all too faint to—"

Knock knock.

Harry glanced at the door. Giving a pointed look at Ron he gestured at it. "See? That's how normal people enter a room."

Ron huffed, inwardly glad for the distraction from the uncertain spree. "I had crucial evidence for ongoing kidnappings. Not my fault you were eating your—"

"We were just kissing!" Harry cut in, exasperation clear. "But, yeah, even if I was having lunch it's basic politeness to knock. So long as it's not an emergency, obviously."

"Dozens of people missing is a—"

"A time-sensitive emergency! Like, say, you finally killing McLaggen."

"Thanks for reminding me. When the hell are you getting rid of—"

Knock knock.

The two men stopped, sending embarrassed glances at the door. Harry cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Sorry, come in! Door's unlocked."

Lisa Turpin walked in without further ado. She glanced at the men but, clearly disregarding their odd fidgeting, figured they must have been in a meeting. "This a good time?"

Harry sent a questioning look at Ron. Ron shrugged, not having much else to say. "Think we were about done, unfortunately. I'll let you two—"

"No, wait," Lisa stalled Ron as he stood up. "Need to talk to you both."

Harry sat back, gesturing at another seat as he did. "About King's Cross? Good work on organising the clean-up, by the way. Any leads on the death?"

Lisa seemed a bit green, sitting down with a sigh as Ron followed. "Thanks. But no, not really. Cause of death is the same potion as all the others. The experts have extracted a few ingredients from it, but it's still a mystery. The Veela is also a John Doe. I've run him through the international registry, but zip. Nada. No reports of missing Veela, either. Though this one's butchering was…" she trailed off, face a decided green. "For the record, I hate this case and the Rippers all deserve slow and painful deaths."

"No disagreement here," Harry said, not surprised (but not happy) at the lack of progress. "Not to be rude, but did you want to ask about a lead or—please, please tell me you have a bloody lead."

Lisa hesitated, nibbling her lip. "Not a lead, per se. A half-baked theory? Have you thought about…look, I know it's two different signatures, two different areas, and two different victim pools. But don't you think it's bizarre that Britain's being hit by two serious, high-profile crime sprees at the same time?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a look, both having considered this.

"That the Rippers and Sweenies are somehow connected?" Harry said. "Definitely possible. With that being said, it is London they're both focussed on. It's not like this city's unfamiliar with violent crime, so having two unrelated but simultaneous crime sprees isn't that crazy. Not nice, mind you, and I'll give you that it's massively rare that neither of them are leaving any significant clues."

"Also, sorry, but their motives are really different." Ron sent an apologetic glance at Lisa. "The Rippers might be psychopathic poachers, but they're killing rather than kidnapping. With your spree, a monetary motive would make sense—what with selling the butchered body parts on the black market. But the Sweenies? Human trafficking, maybe, but their possible motive's more iffy."

Lisa sat back with a sigh. "Hey, I agree. Just thought I'd mention the possibility. Not sure if I'd be relieved or horrified if they were connected, honestly. But come on, you'll give me that this entire thing is insane."

"Oh, absolutely," Harry said tiredly. He pursed his mouth, sending them both a serious glance. "Shouldn't dismiss a connection, it's just unlikely. But, all of this aside, I've been meaning to talk to you two. I don't have to tell you that your investigations are being heavily covered by the press. I'm sure you've been bothered by the—"

"Here we go again." Ron rolled his eyes, wholly unsurprised. Harry sent him a look before continuing.

"—bothered by having your names plastered in the papers. Everyone who matters knows you're doing everything you can and realise there's only so much that's possible in cases with nearly zero leads. But Merlin knows I get how horrid the 'court of public opinion' can be." Harry leaned forward, shooting even Ron's incredulous look down. "So if you want someone else to take the lead on either of these sprees, I completely understand. Hell, if you're just sick of the lack of progress, let me know. I'd hate if either of you felt like you were stuck with this."

It was Ron's and Lisa's turn to exchange a glance, one which was incredulous and reluctantly fond of their idiot boss.

"Nah, I'm good." Ron stretched. "Sick of the lack of leads, but I want to see this damned thing through. Besides, not like I'm bored: I've been working on plenty of other cases."

"Exactly." Lisa nodded in agreement. "Can't say I'm fond of reading rumours about how I'm about to be fired, but I want to bring the Rippers in."

Harry stared at them a moment, the smallest smile lighting his face. "That simplifies things. Still, let me know if you change your mind." He paused, backtracking. "Also, obviously, no one's getting fired. You're both doing exemplary jobs—no matter how much you annoy me." This was wholly directed at the unremorseful Weasley. "Can't speak for anyone else, I admit, but if it comes down to it? I'll happily take the blame for the lack of progress."

"Moron." Ron rolled his eyes.

"I know, seriously," Lisa spoke to Ron, both ignoring their blinking boss. "How did someone this thick become Head Auror?"

"Heard he offed some Dark Lord," Ron said conspiratorially, not looking at Harry's arching expression. "Shame how that's mistaken for intelligence. Gosh, I even heard he used a disarming charm on the bloke! You believe that?"

Lisa shook her head. "Poor thing likely doesn't even have an anti-summoning charm on his glasses. With one swish and flick I could—"

"Okay, okay! I get it." Harry shook his head at his grinning friends. "For the record, I thought that was nice of me to offer."

"Oh, it was. But you're too noble by half." Lisa dismissed. "You're a brilliant Head, so shush and stop listening to the press. Reporters are full of it."

"Eh," Ron shrugged, a disgusted look crossing his face. "He doesn't mind what one reporter's full o—"

"Really?" Harry cut in. "We were close to having a nice moment there, so you make a comment about Ginny?"

"Your fault. Blasted 'lunch breaks'," Ron said, miffed. Lisa eyed the two of them before deciding she didn't care and didn't want to know.

The rest of the day was busy. Ron barely had time to snatch lunch himself as he had to set some teams up with looking into the 'new' cold cases, give HR the recording of McLaggen being a sexist pig, send McLaggen to get lectured by HR, and give Hermione the recording so she could plot as well. Then he picked up Rosie from morning daycare and dropped her off at Cambridge with his delighted parents-in-law, only just managing to escape after unwisely mentioning that his quick breakfast and lunch had mainly consisted of sugar.

In arriving back at the Ministry, he wasn't as lucky at avoiding Harry—who'd gotten wind of how McLaggen was locked in with the shrieking HR, how ten Aurors had been monopolised into looking into the cold cases, and how Hermione was planning how to murder McLaggen. Harry (well aware of who was at fault), told him that because of the sudden lack of available personnel, Ron needed to go to the Atrium to guide Fudge and his handlers to the Ministerial debate in Courtroom Five.

Ron, miffed, insisted that this was payback for interrupting Harry and Ginny earlier. Ron was then smugly informed that he'd just volunteered himself into not only guiding Fudge to the debate, but to sit in and guard the Wizengamot meeting itself. The Senior Auror again protested. Rather vocally. Which was when he was shoved into a broom closet by his irate friend and told to shut up, deal with it, and stop adding to the chaos. Ron—Harry's fist scrunching up his collar—glibly replied that Golden Boy didn't need any help creating chaos.

Which was when Harry's patience crumbled and he snapped that if Ron was going to be a child, then he was just going to have to babysit him. So the two grumpy and peeved men found themselves making their way to the Ministry Atrium to guard a pompous politician.

There wasn't meant to be anything too hostile in the Wizengamot that day. A regular Minister Questions would normally, at most, get a few bylines for the tabloids (and then only if the Minister or opposition fumbled). Unfortunately, this wasn't a regular Minister Questions. With Shacklebolt and Fudge in the same room with the upcoming elections and crime catastrophes in the headlines, most of the Wizengamot members (plus gaggles of reporters and quite a few guarding Aurors) had decided to make an appearance. More than a few of them had placed bets on who'd come out victorious in the day's debates.

The Head Auror, at first, had assigned most Aurors to the perimeters of the chamber while he stood by the wall behind the Minister. But by the third time Shacklebolt roped him into the debate, he'd broken his cool and signalled for Dmitri to trade with him.

"Bloody wankers," Harry gritted out, sliding next to Ron as the newest argument erupted in the chamber. Apparently, his anger at Shacklebolt was greater than his suspicions towards his friend (as he'd caved on his threat to 'babysit' the man before they'd exited the lift down to the courtroom—proving, once again, that when determined Ron truly could be that annoying). "Can't the bloke get a hint? I'm not supporting his damned policies! Isn't that obvious?"

Ron and Harry stood at the bottom of the raised risers that circled the wide chamber. The seats above were filled with reporters, camera flashes, and murmuring politicians in ornate robes. Other Aurors were throughout the room and stationed at the wide doors. Apart from the last group, everyone's attention was on the two roaring Ministry candidates standing on the pedestal in the centre of the room. The 'debate' had long since dissolved into shouted insults. It was a wonder that wands had yet to be drawn.

["Minister, what is your take on the recent riots in London?" A mousy member of the Wizengamot voiced.

"The public speaking their mind!" Fudge spouted out before Shacklebolt could. "Freedom of speech, I might say. A right good show!"

"Did I miss your election to Minister?" Shacklebolt gritted out, temper tightly in check. "If so, forgive me. If not, the question was clearly for me."

"Details, details," Fudge waved away, apparently not aware of how close the Minister was to hexing him—witnesses be damned.]

"Thank your stars it isn't," Ron pointed out, watching as two members started screaming in each others' faces. He was irritated at being dragged to this debate, but was amused that it'd already irritated Harry enough that he'd willingly joined him. "Or do you want Fudge thinking you're on his side?"

"Don't joke about that." Harry only reluctantly watched the shouting candidates. The Wizengamot members, for their part, were yelling cheers at the mess rather than trying to subdue the rowdiness. Only a few were trying to calm the situation. "Can you think of two worse options for Minister?"

"Just because you're pissed at Shacklebolt for the memorial—"

"For making a mockery of it," Harry retorted, "and for pulling me into the mess. He's still asking me to speak at the Halloween Gala, can you believe that?"

"Great, whatever. You're actually saying you'd vote for Fudge?"

["Still running this great nation like we're at war!" Fudge howled, his pudgy face growing pudgier as his bowler hat tipped in outrage. An aide who attempted to fix it was angrily waved away. "What we need is a Ministry focused on building our floundering economy. Rebuilding, more like! To what we had in the 1990s. I request the public not forget which Minister made that possible!"]

"That pillock?" Harry snorted. "I'll vote for Fudge when flobberworms fly. No, I'll do a write-in or something. Maybe abstain out of protest."

"Don't tell Hermione that last bit. She'll get fussed about the whole, 'if you don't vote you have no right to complain' thing."

"Fine! I'll write in her name," Harry answered, then paused thoughtfully. "Huh, that's not a bad idea. Ought to make a point of it. Tell some reporters or the like."

Ron turned from surveying the room to eyeing his friend. "Oh yeah, she'd take that well. How about you run for the position yourself?"

Harry gave an involuntary shudder.

"That bad?" Ron followed Harry's nod to the screaming Minister candidates. He conceded the unsaid point. "Fair enough. Still, thought you were all about embracing bureaucracy."

["Is it too much to ask for a civilised debate?" Shacklebolt rubbed his eyes. "Cornelius, stop this circus. Can we agree that we're both qualified for the job and stop with the mud racketeering?"

"Thank you, Kingsley." Fudge smiled neatly. "I quite agree. Moreover, I'm pleased to accept your view that I would make an excellent Minister."

"Why you little—"]

Harry gave a weary sigh, one that bespoke his reluctance to continue this argument. "I accepted the promotion, get over it. I'm adult enough to work through the nonsense parts of the job. It's not like I'm a fan of bureaucracy, politics, or election nonsense! Have we met?"

"Says the man who keeps holding press conferences to ridicule Shacklebolt," said Ron.

Harry sent him a steely look. "How d'you wager that? Protesting the sorry excuse of a memorial doesn't mean I'm ridiculing him."

"Come off it, you know exactly what you're doing," Ron rolled his eyes. "It's like your stupid sarcasm; you enjoy ripping people to shreds. You make reporters cry with your snarkiness! Like, proper tears. I've felt genuinely sorry for a few of them."

Harry turned to look at him. "…did you say 'snarkiness'?"

"Means snarky."

"I know what it means!"

Ron grinned. "Also, not protesting how many reporters you've driven to tears? You're proud of it, aren't you. Keeping a record?"

Harry was a hint indignant. "I'm not proud of it!"

"Yeah right. After you verbally demolished that cameraman last week for sneaking a photo of Jamie?"

"The git had a camera in his face!" Harry protested. "It was completely inappropriate and—"

"You reduced the bloke to a crying sob by saying he'd never get a grapple back on, 'the poor, sorry excuse that his life had become', and that he was fooling himself in thinking his wife would ever take him back." Ron halted, rather impressed. "Again, what?"

Harry scratched his head, embarrassed but not apologetic. "It was a guess? Not a hard one, mind you, considering the twat hadn't had a shower in ages but had a spotless wedding ring. Guilt, I bet. Probably cheated, and you know his wife was the victim, seeing as how he was taking it out on my kids. Or any kids! Scumbag."

["Might I add that some of us don't swish our coattails about and go running to the hero of the moment," Fudge said. His aide was nodding along beside him. "We pull ourselves up and stand strong!"

Shacklebolt sent him a sour look. "To be clear, you're on about Potter? If you haven't noticed, we're disagreeing at the moment! He's hardly supporting my campaign. How exactly am I running to him?"

"Pish posh." Fudge waved this away. "You've been covering up for Potter with that nasty pie business. Heavens, there was no cannibalism when I was Minister!"

"What pies? The Sweeney kidnappings?" Shacklebolt said in disbelief. "Firstly, that was a horrid rumour the press irresponsibly ran with. Secondly, while Head Auror Potter and I disagree on certain topics, he and the MLE have my full support on how they—"

"They're making a mockery of it! If I was Minister, I wouldn't so casually toss aside the public's worry that they're about to be baked into pies!"

"THERE ARE NO PIES."]

"Uh huh," Ron wondered how it'd taken Harry so long to figure out he'd been behind the pranks. It still startled him how trusting and stupid his otherwise smart friend could be. "So instead of hexing him, you mercilessly announced how he failed at life. Alright, no joke: is it actually impossible for you to be normal? Or to not nefariously plot to take down Ministers and reporters?"

Harry gave him an impatient glance. "Shacklebolt's being a git. As for the reporters, they keep shoving cameras at my kids and saying Ginny and I are divorcing! So excuse me for having no problem with making some paparazzi cry," he frowned, put-out. "It's a waste, anyway. The prats don't even get most of my insults. If I say someone's a Chizpurfle, that's not a good thing! I don't care how cute it sounds! It's a crab parasite with fangs. Better yet, who takes being called a hairy Quintaped a compliment? Or forget about magical creatures. Can you believe Ripley thanked me for saying he was a vainglorious rooster with god delusions? I obviously meant he was an arrogant coc…uh, Ron? Why're you staring at me?"

"Remembering why you never went into politics," Ron shook his head fondly, imagining the chaos that would ensue if Harry ever ran for anything. He also pondered that he wasn't the only one who had clearly spent far too much time in Hermione's vicinity, "and why you stopped interviews after that fiasco with Witch Weekly."

"Sure, like it's my fault they took the remark seriously," Harry grumbled at the old memory. "I was obviously making fun of their idiotic question about if Dumbledore had faked his death. I didn't mean to create mass panic by saying he'd become an inferi! Of all the stupid, bloody…"

"Face it, mate. People don't get sarcasm. Or stupid animal references," Ron turned his attention back to the Wizengamot. "Go for puns."

[Shacklebolt huffed, losing his patience. "Besides, if you were Minister? You'd have hung Potter out to dry, like you did him and Dumbledore in '95! I refuse to be insulted for not making someone a scapegoat!"

"Oh, ancient history. NOT LIKE THESE HUMAN PIES!"

"ARE YOU COMPLETELY DAFT?"

"APPARENTLY YOU—"]

There was a small beat of silence. Harry's and Ron's conversation as well as the candidates' shouted argument came to a screeching halt.

Ron blinked at the scene. He drew his wand on instinct, but was more taken aback than ready to curse. After all, it's not everyday that Cornelius Fudge disappeared right in front of the stunned Wizengamot.

Harry was already swearing. "So sick of this nonsense," he muttered while striding forward, cutting through the stunned members of the Wizengamot without a glance. While muttering a spell to secure all doors, he mumbled furiously into his two-way mirror, giving instructions to the assorted Aurors. In this short seconds, pandemonium had erupted in the chamber.

Harry, having gotten to the podium (but not touching it), pointed his wand at his throat. "Sonorus. WOULD YOU ALL SHUT UP!"

The hysterical screams softened a touch, though there were still unintelligible shouts and questions amidst bright camera flashes.

"THANK YOU. NOW STAY IN YOUR BLOODY SEATS, KEEP CALM, DON'T LEAVE, AND LET US DO OUR JOBS! QUIETUS," Harry's voice returned to its normal volume. He ignored the close-to-mutining crowd and turned his attention to the podium to continue flinging spells at it. Five other Aurors had already all but tackled Shacklebolt, getting him (and the main Wizengamot members) to a 'safe' corner. By this point, Ron had long since shaken off his shock and joined him at the centre. Though, instead of looking at the podium, the Senior Auror's attention was on the chaotic scene around him.

"Effing nothing. Again," Harry muttered, frustration clear in his tone. He stopped the spells with a growl. "No magical signature, no trace of apparation or portkey, nothing!"

"Fan-bloody-tastic," Ron turned to the podium with a grimace. He noted another Auror had grabbed Fudge's shaking assistant and was already questioning him. "Look at that bloke, even he didn't see a thing."

Harry, following Ron's gaze to the stricken assistant, heaved another sigh. "There'll be dozens of taped videos and, blimey, hundreds of potential Pensieve memories. So why am I sensing those will reveal nothing?"

"Because Fudge just disappeared into thin air." Ron kept surveying the room, keeping his wand out. "I'm not sure if the criminals are mental or brilliant."

"That we, again, have no clues? I'd go with brilliant. They're laughing at us," Harry gritted out, saying more commands into his communicator to ensure no one could leave or enter the chamber, for a checkpoint to be made at all exits of the Ministry, and for a systematic check to be done for polyjuice and the imperius charm on all witnesses.

"I'm betting invisibility cloak," Ron muttered to him over the tension that had rapidly filled the room. "Polyjuice's too recognisable. A cloak—hold up. Accio invisibility cloak!"

No cloak came rushing at them.

"Yeah, so an invisibility cloak under an anti-summoning charm," Ron continued without pause. Though Harry was still regaling orders and talking to Hermione (who was outside of the chamber and focusing on things there), he was listening. "This isn't a secure meeting, so it'd be easy to sneak in under that. It'd be possible for them to drape Fudge under it and 'disappear' quickly enough. Which means they're still in the chamber."

"The doors weren't immediately locked," Harry answered back, his mouth pinched.

"Don't be stupid, you locked them within seconds of Fudge vanishing," Ron dismissed, still on alert. "They're locked in with us. So, two outcomes. One: they have a plan to escape undetected. Two? They take more hostages and go out wands blazing."

"They wouldn't do the second." Harry gave up on the podium for the moment and, like Ron, surveyed the chamber as the other Aurors slowly regained order. "This is the Sweeney's signature, no doubt, and they've never hinted at suicide by Auror. If we had them cornered, maybe, but they have the upper hand here. They must have a way to escape."

"Through the spell-proof walls? This place was built to be impenetrable." Ron frowned, thoughts whirling. "They're planning on sneaking out. Maybe we're looking for a metamorphmagus. I know they're rare, but they're undetectable."

"All the reporters have press passes, we can check them and the Wizengamot," Harry argued. "The Sweenies aren't idiots, they know we have a list. If they had someone under the imperius or polyjuice they'd know that person would never escape the chamber. Even if they managed to get a metamorphmagus, how're they planning on smuggling Fudge out? We'd catch any transfigurations on him. Leaving a body isn't their signature!"

"Unless we're talking about a copycat."

There was a pause, both men tensely watching the somewhat settling chaos.

"The door was unlocked for a few seconds," Harry mumbled to himself.

Ron groaned. "Not that again. If you're blaming yourself or—"

"Shut up! I'm thinking." He put a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why does this seem familiar? Someone wants to escape from a locked room, deemed impossible…oh. Oh hell." His hand snapped back to his communicator, whipping it to his mouth in a panic. "Hermione! Check the Department of Mysteries and their time turners. Yes, yes, I know they don't like us—no, I don't want to use one! I want to see if any are missing. Yeah, yeah, exactly like Sirius, that's what I'm afraid of. Thanks. Let me know."

Ron eyed him as he tiredly cut off the message. "Should I ask?"

"Remember when Hermione and I rescued Sirius back at Hogwarts? Her time turner made it so the locked room and the dementor were irrelevant," Harry said. "The Wizengamot door wasn't only unlocked for a few seconds: it's been unlocked all day."

"Okay…all of that's if the kidnappers stole a time turner. I mean, blimey, it's hard enough for us to get a hold of one."

"Because we do it legally!" Harry gritted out before catching his temper and sighing. "Look, let's see what Hermione says. Hopefully they're still in the chamber."

"'The Tale of the Three Brothers' is a story," said Hermione firmly. "A story about how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we'd have everything we need already!"

—Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

A/N: I love thinking that the cynically sarcastic teenager!Harry only got more brutal over time. If the seven books proved anything, it's that Boy Wonder's more likely to verbally demolish someone ("There's no need to call me 'sir', Professor") then toss out a hex. The latter's more his wife's thing. Also, the man's Head Auror! Don't tell me he can't do a bit of Sherlockian deductive reasoning.

Though, yes, Harry's a bit sick of all this nonsense.