Chapter Four: Mixed Strategies
No. 12 Grimmauld Place
13th December 2009, 9.57am
Ron probably ought to have felt worse about leaving Dean to the wolves of the Associated Wizarding Press, but he reasoned that he'd drawn by far the shorter straw for himself.
Why, he wondered to himself, as he apparated directly onto the doorstep of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, did his friendship with Harry so often involve having to turn around, hold his hands up and say you know what, mate, you might have been right about that one. Granted, when Robards had shown his hand and motioned the vote of no confidence against Kingsley following the Haringey affair, Harry had told Ron point-blank that he couldn't follow him out of the door.
"You've got too much at stake," he'd barked, as he yanked open a drawer in his desk that Ron had never noticed before and pulled out various files and bits of parchment. "What sort of godfather would I be if I let your kids starve?"
"Kid, singular," Ron had shot back. He'd been aware, in a vague sort of way, that he should have been stopping Harry from ransacking confidential material, but that hadn't seemed too urgent at the time. "And it's not as though -"
"I've got an independent income," Harry had interrupted flatly, and Ron had shut up, his ears burning in the way they always did whenever the subject of money was raised. "I can afford to throw away my career. And besides," Harry had glanced towards the door of the office, then lowered his voice, "it might come in useful, having the Head Auror as a contact."
"Robards is going for Minister isn't he?" Ron had frowned, confused by this strange turn in the argument.
"I mean you, you pillock." Harry shrunk the pile of parchment he'd hastily cobbled together and then cast an Impervius on the small tablet before tucking it into the side of his mouth. "Ogden's dead, I'm following Kingsley out, who else do you think they'd give it to?"
He'd been right, of course, Ron reflected, as he absent-mindedly thumbed his DMLE badge, with its tiny Head Auror inscription. One thing Harry had always been good at was seeing which way the wind was blowing, and Ron had a suspicion that whatever it was that he'd been pulling out of his desk that day two years ago, it had been something he hadn't wanted Robards (who Harry had never seemed to trust) to know about.
And, Ron had to admit, he was glad that Harry's insistence he stay on at the DMLE had saved him from what would have likely have been the fight of his married life. He squared his shoulders and pulled off his gloves in preparation to knock on the door, ignoring the little twinge of guilt when his wedding ring flashed in the insipid winter light and he remembered Callie's hand on his sleeve that morning; her eyebrows raised in question.
That was another conversation he wasn't looking forward to having.
Ron sighed, raising his fist towards the red-painted wood before he frowned, realising that his ring was also reflecting a flashing blue light. He turned to look over his shoulder, just in time to see a dark grey car, rather sleeker than anything Arthur had ever managed to get his hands on, turn off Grimmauld Place and onto the busy main road, emitting an urgent wail as it went.
In the usual run of things Ron didn't pay too much attention to Muggle cars. It had been Fred and George who had inherited Arthur's enthusiasm for cylinders and fan belts (George and Arthur had had a lengthy debate about something called flux capacitors last Christmas), but Ron did have a special fondness for noisy, flashy emergency vehicles. The car he'd just seen hadn't been bright blue and yellow, but it did have the lights, and he remembered Harry having told him once about 'unmarked' police cars, which Ron assumed was what he'd just seen.
He turned back towards the door and then paused. For some reason the sight of the car had left him with a distinct sinking sensation in his stomach that he didn't think had anything to do with the breakfast he'd abandoned when the owl about Gringotts had arrived.
Realising that he was starting to shiver in the cold, Ron focused his attention back on Harry's dark red-painted front door.
"Blood of my ancestors!" Ron squawked, waving his paintbrush wildly.
"Stains of dishonour!" Hermione giggled, dipping her own brush into the pot.
"Come on guys," Harry grinned. "Let's befoul the house of my forefathers."
Ron grinned at the memory, and brought his fist towards the wood. Unfortunately, the door chose that moment to fly open, so he ended up nearly punching Hermione in the face.
"Ron!" she exclaimed, ducking neatly out of the path of his knuckles and grabbing onto his arm to keep her balance as she released her hold on Andarta, Harry's barn owl, who hooted reproachfully at Ron before soaring upwards.
"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked, once she'd let go of him and straightened upright.
"Ah -" Ron replied eloquently, squinting up at Andarta as she winged her way over the roofs of the houses opposite. "I'm - er -"
He looked back at Hermione and frowned, trying to work out what was off about the picture. Muggle clothes, he realised, taking in the expensive-looking camel coat that she wore in place of a travelling cloak, and the briefcase in her hand - definitely leather, not dragonhide. Her hair looked as though it had had the Sleekeazy treatment, and was twisted neatly off her face. Paired with the impatient angle of her eyebrows, it was an outfit that said quite clearly that she had somewhere to be.
"You're, er, what?" Hermione prompted, when Ron continued to stare at her.
"Yes," he said, then shook his head. "No. I mean - is there any chance Harry's around?" He craned his neck to peer past Hermione, as though he might detect his best friend lurking in the shadowed hallway.
(Harry had always been much more inclined to leap than lurk, but even a decade on the Auror squad couldn't quite quell Ron's optimism.)
Hermione gave him an eloquent you're an idiot look. "Obviously not," she replied, shaking her head so that a couple of rebellious curls freed themselves from the twist of her hair, before she stepped out over the threshold and pulled the front door closed behind her.
Glancing quickly around to make sure there were no Muggles watching, Ron backed down the step onto the pavement outside the house. Now standing lower than Hermione, he looked down at her feet and was surprised to see she was wearing heels.
He was so much more accustomed to seeing her in sensible loafers or brogues that he instantly recalled the shoes she'd worn to Percy's wedding. Ron had a sudden, vivid memory of Hermione removing one vertiginous sandal and massaging the ball of her foot before she looked up at him and said, "We need to talk."
That had been eight years ago, he realised; so long that it was almost hard to believe they'd ever gone out in the first place.
"Ron," Hermione said sharply, and he jolted back to the present.
"Yeah - um - do you know when he'll be back?" he asked. Hermione gave him another disbelieving look, and he wondered what, exactly, he was missing, before she huffed a sigh and flung the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder as she stepped past him to start walking (or more accurately marching) down the street, those maddening heels clicking against the uneven paving stones.
Ron stared after her for a moment, then gathered his wits and followed. "It's just - it's really quite - I've got to see him, Hermione, there's - it's a sort of -"
"Ron, it's lovely to see you, and while normally I'd be happy to let you reach the point in your own time I'm in something of a hurry, so can you spit it out?" Hermione stopped and spun towards him, her bag swinging out to catch him in the stomach.
"Oof - bloody hell 'Mione what have you got in -"
"You know I hate it when you call me that," she sighed, shooting him a mild glare that became a considering look. "You're on the clock," she said slowly as she took in his greatcoat, with the DMLE badge prominently pinned to the lapel. "Why are you here if you're on the clock?"
Her impatience appeared for the time being to have been replaced by curiosity, and Ron seized the opening gratefully. "Look, I probably shouldn't be telling you this but -"
"Is this about Gringotts?" Hermione asked, and Ron gaped at her.
"Who told you?" he demanded.
"It's in the Prophet," she said. "No details as yet, but it's obviously something big." Her mouth curved into a small, mischievous smile. "They had a lovely picture of you. Does Callie know you're giving Rowan an exclusive?"
"I am not," Ron replied hotly, before he could stop himself. "It's - look. I really need to talk to Harry about this -"
"Haringey," Hermione said suddenly, her eyes widening. "This is about Haringey, isn't it?"
"How do you know about that?" Ron asked, aghast. "No one except me and Dean knows we're even talking to Harry, let alone -"
"I … Elementary deduction." Hermione's chin lifted slightly.
"Bullshit," Ron rolled his eyes. "Harry never could keep secrets from you."
There was a moment where he wasn't quite convinced that she wasn't about to do a Ginny and knee him somewhere painful, but then Hermione's expression softened slightly. "Whatever's happened - you think there might be a link?"
Ron nodded, straightening out of his slight protective crouch and hoping she hadn't noticed. "Massive break-in," he said, wavering slightly before he decided, in for a knut -"Multiple goblin fatalities, and while it's too early to be totally certain, there are some injuries and COD that look consistent with details of the Haringey case that were never made public."
Hermione's eyes widened and she blew out a low whistle. "Sounds like a heck of an 'I-told-you-so' to me."
"Yeah, well." Ron grimaced, and glanced down at his watch to try and hide his discomfiture. "Are you going to tell me where Harry is, now? I'd quite like to tell him the good news."
"Bugger it!" Hermione exclaimed, which didn't sound like an answer.
Rather than offering anything resembling an explanation, she set off again at a brisk pace, raising her arm in a bizarre salute as she hurried towards the main road. Ron chased after her without the faintest idea what she was doing until a black cab extricated itself from the flow of traffic and pulled up next to her.
Hermione leaned down to speak to the driver and said something incomprehensible before wrenching open the back door and clambering into the thing. After a moment she leaned forward and beckoned Ron to join her. "Aren't you coming?"
"Oh!" Ron said, "Oh - er - right."
He stepped gingerly into the interior of the vehicle, which was surprisingly spacious, though it clearly didn't benefit from the same accommodations that his father's old Ford Anglia had had. When he sat down he saw that the driver was watching him in the rear-view mirror with a suspicious glare.
Ron smiled faintly and raised a hand in what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly manner. The man merely huffed, and switched his gaze to Hermione.
"West End Central did you say, love?"
"Please," Hermione nodded, fishing in her briefcase for something. "Call it twenty quid if we're there before ten thirty."
"Right you are, miss," the driver said, before flooring the accelerator and launching them back into the flow of other cars with a squeal of rubber that had Ron gripping the seat tightly.
"Hermione," he murmured out of the side of his mouth. "Why aren't we apparating?"
"Best to keep up appearances," Hermione said absently, leafing through a box of business cards that she'd pulled out of her briefcase. She selected one, lifting it out and frowning before nodding to herself and tucking it into an inner pocket of her coat, only then turning to look at Ron. "Muggles don't really like it when you just pop out of midair," she whispered conspiratorially. "Unnerves them."
There was a very slight lift at one corner of her mouth, and Ron had the distinct impression that he was being teased. "Fine," he said, "but - sorry - why are we going to a police station?"
"Oh," Hermione said, and for a moment she looked genuinely surprised. "I thought you were - so you didn't see?"
"See what?" Ron asked, though he recalled, suddenly, the police car pulling away from Grimmauld Place and the little twinge of unease he had felt at the sight of it.
"The police came for Harry just before you did."
"The police - "
"Keep your voice down," Hermione scolded him sharply, and Ron chanced a look at the rear view mirror, catching the driver's eye before the man looked pointedly back at the road.
"They always take him into Savile Row, it's the only one where they've got a warded interrogation room -"
"What do you mean 'always'?" Ron interjected. "A warded what?"
Hermione paid no attention to the interruption. "The duty solicitor changes over at half past, so as long as the traffic isn't too bad we should -" she flicked her wrist and Ron recognised her slim, gold watch as the one his parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday "- be just about on time."
The wheels of the cab screeched to a halt outside an imposing concrete block of a building with a whole five minutes to spare. 'West End Central Police Station' was spelled out in small, neat metal letters to the side of the entranceway, next to the Met's rather impressive coat of arms.
"Just - wait a second," Ron said, making an ineffectual grab for Hermione's arm as he followed her out of the cab. "Why have the muggles arrested Harry?"
"Who said they'd arrested him?" Hermione asked, frowning, as she trotted up the stairs.
"Well, you did, sort of -" Ron squinted at her, the significance of her muggle garb hitting him for the first time. "What you said before about a solicitor, do you mean -"
"Me, of course," she said impatiently. "Who did you think?"
"But you're a magical lawyer!" Ron was aware that there was something at play that he hadn't quite grasped yet, and Hermione's eye-roll didn't help.
"No shit, Sherlock," she huffed; such a nonsensical phrase he decided it wasn't worth demanding a translation. Instead he remained silent at her shoulder as she pushed open the heavy door and slid a professional smile into place, walking up to the uniformed police officer in the reception booth and removing the card from her inside pocket to hold it up against the glass partition.
"Hermione Granger, I'm with Black & Lupin LLP. I believe Detective Inspector Dursley called for a solicitor?"
"Wait," Ron said from behind her. "Wait just a second. I thought you were - did you say Black & Lupin? Detective Dursley? Are you having -"
"Excuse my colleague," Hermione said to the officer behind the desk, who was eyeing Ron sharply. He saw the glow of Hermione's winning smile fade as she rounded on him. "Ron, I swear if you don't shut up right now I will confund you, stun you, and send you back to the DMLE transfigured into a teacup," she hissed. "Do I make myself clear?"
Deciding the safest option was to fall silent again, Ron nodded mutely. Hermione sighed, dropping her shoulders, and then glanced around the blessedly empty waiting area before she turned back to the frowning desk sergeant and whispered "Obliviate."
Almost at once the officer's scowl faded into a dreamy expression, and he smiled blithely at the pair of them. "Can I help you?"
"Oh, yes!" Hermione said, her bright tone restored. "Hermione Granger and -" she shot a glare over her shoulder at Ron "- and associate. We're with Black & Lupin, here at the request of Detective Inspector Dudley Dursley."
The desk sergeant nodded and tapped at a few buttons on his cheeseboard. "He's down in the special interrogation room. I'll let him know you're here." He lifted his fellytone, expression still a little bemused, and spoke quietly into it.
"Hermione," Ron whispered, aware that he was severely at risk of another telling-off. "What the fuck is going on?"
oOo
West End Central Police Station
13th December 2009, 10.14am
"Alright, guv?" Guleed trilled as she and Walsh escorted Harry into reception. "Look what the cat dragged in!"
Harry raised his eyes towards the ceiling and muttered "give me strength" before giving Dudley a half-hearted wave. Dudley smiled in response, unfolding his arms and reaching forward to shake Harry's hand. He still had the crushing grip of a trained boxer, but though no one would ever describe him as small, Dudley had long ago shed most of the bulk he'd carried as a child, and was now simply imposingly solid-looking.
"Did he give you any trouble, Sahra?" he asked over Harry's shoulder, laughing when Harry scowled.
"Not you too," he muttered, at the same time that Guleed sighed, "Disappointingly, no."
"Have you just brought me here to take the piss?" Harry asked. "Please tell me Sahra didn't make up the whole thing about a murderer?"
Dudley sobered abruptly. "No," he sighed. "Suspect's downstairs, but I was wondering if you could take a look at a couple of things before we take you in to talk to her."
"Her?" Harry repeated. Guleed had refused to give him any more details during the ride over, so this was the first he was hearing of the suspect's gender.
"Yup," Dudley nodded. "The name Pansy Parkinson mean anything to you?"
"Pansy?!" She'd moved abroad, the last Harry heard. "Where did you pick her up?"
"She appeared in the middle of my crime scene," Dudley said darkly. His eyes flicked towards Walsh, and Harry figured the other DS wasn't one of the SCD-9 regulars.
"She's secure?" Harry asked, following after Dudley when he jerked his head and turned to call the lift.
"In the warded room, pewter handcuffs," Dudley confirmed. They stepped into the lift and Dudley pressed the button for level -2. He looked at Harry and narrowed his eyes, his gaze seeming to follow the line of faint bruising just visible below the edge of Harry's glasses. "Been keeping busy?"
"That tip about the Fantasy Football checked out," Harry shrugged. "What did you want to show me?"
Wordlessly, Dudley pulled his phone out of his pocket and passed it over. On the screen was a photo of a what seemed to be the interior of a muggle flat. "Where is this?" Harry asked.
"Soho," Dudley said. "Dean Str-"
"Shit," Harry said. He'd just flipped through to the next picture which showed the corpse, with its eyeless sockets, looking even more obscene in pixel form.
"What?" Dudley asked. "You know him?"
"I think -" Harry zoomed in on the corpse's face, and then nodded. "That's Gregory Goyle."
"And he's -"
"A wizard, yeah."
"Right." The lift chimed, opening onto an artificially lit corridor. Dudley stepped out and set off for the set of doors at the far end, footsteps echoing hollowly. "Well, that's that confirmed I guess. Also -" he said, pausing with one hand on the door to the observation room "- before you ask, it had nothing to do with me."
"What had nothing to do with you?" Harry asked, shrugging off his coat as he followed Dudley inside. By way of an answer, Dudley gestured at the one-way mirror that looked onto the interrogation room. "Ah," Harry said, understanding at once.
Pansy was sat on a plastic chair in the centre of the room, her hands, in their heavy, pewter manacles, resting on the table in front of her.
As well as the handcuffs she was wearing black stilettos, a self-satisfied smile, and nothing else.
"She did that without her wand?" Harry asked, suddenly uneasy.
"Just before I got her into the room," Dudley affirmed curtly, his mouth thin and unhappy in a way that made him look very like his mother. "Other than that, she was remarkably cooperative."
"Right then," Harry sighed. "Well, I guess I'd better go and have a word."
"Take this," Dudley said, passing him a manila folder. Harry glanced at the photos inside and nodded.
"Thanks."
He picked up his coat as well, and then let himself into the room next door.
Pansy's smile turned into a grin when she saw Harry come in. "I was wondering when you'd show up," she said.
Harry ignored her for a moment, letting his eyes rove around the khaki-painted walls as he checked the enchantments with a quick, non-verbal spell. Kingsley and Ogden had laid them personally, watched over by DCI Nightingale and the Met Commissioner. Finding nothing amiss, Harry finally turned his attention to Pansy, who was watching him carefully.
"Well," he sighed. "I'd love to say it's good to see you again."
"You didn't miss me?" Pansy asked, shifting in the chair. She'd hardly changed since the last time he saw her, at the Battle of Hogwarts - if a bit less bedraggled and a lot more naked. She'd somehow managed to arrange herself with artful precision, keeping everything important covered, but Harry could still feel himself flushing.
"Merlin's sake," he muttered, releasing her from the manacles with a wave of his wand before he threw her his coat. "Put that on."
Pansy rolled her eyes, but she complied, even holding out her wrists for Harry to re-attach the cuffs when she was done. With his suspect now dressed enough to prevent distraction, Harry settled into one of the two chairs opposite her, and placed the folder deliberately on the tabletop.
Pansy's dark blue gaze briefly dipped towards it, before she looked back at him. "Greg?" she asked quietly.
Searching her face, Harry couldn't see anything that told him she was faking the dread that seemed to await his answer. Then again, it was Pansy Parkinson.
"Yes," he nodded. The spasm of pain that passed over her pert features looked real enough, but Pansy quickly rallied herself.
"How?" she asked.
"The police think you might be able to answer that," Harry said mildly. Pansy frowned in response.
"He invited me to visit. I had no idea -"
"Didn't you?" Harry sat forward, and opened the folder. "Last I heard, Goyle was in Germany. What exactly was he up to that saw him wind up back in London and dead in a shitty muggle flat?"
Pansy's face, already alabaster, turned the colour of milk when she saw the photographs.
"That wasn't me," she said firmly. "I wouldn't -"
"Who would?" Harry asked.
Pansy's expression turned crafty, and her lips, which had been painted a deep crimson that emphasised their fullness, pursed into a faint moue. "Can't you ask a more interesting question?" she purred, making a shrugging gesture that somehow managed to be elegant while allowing Harry's coat to fall open and expose an expanse of creamy flesh from throat to navel.
Harry narrowed his eyes, keeping them firmly north of Pansy's chin. He had the distinct impression that she was humouring him, somehow. Dudley had plenty of experience apprehending witches and wizards who found themselves on the wrong side of Muggle law, so the fact that he'd found her obliging was interesting, and Harry couldn't help wondering why it might be that Pansy had allowed herself to be brought in with so little fuss.
"Why don't you tell me what a more interesting question would be?" he asked, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.
Pansy's smile widened, eye-teeth glinting in the harsh fluorescent light, but she was saved from answering as the door swung open behind Harry.
"Oh my god," Hermione said, staring at Pansy as she dropped her briefcase on the table and slid into the chair beside Harry's. "Are you naked under there?" she looked at Harry. "Why is she naked?"
"That," Pansy said, raising an eyebrow and nodding in Hermione's direction, "would qualify as a more interesting question."
"What did he ask you, then?" Harry didn't need to look away from Pansy to know that Hermione was smiling. "Oh no - let me guess - some variation on 'what are you doing getting mixed up with Muggles'?"
He fought to keep his indignation from his face at Hermione's unflattering impersonation of his voice.
Pansy gave Hermione a considering look. "You know," she said eventually, "I can see Potter setting up as some sort of private detective after that shitstorm at the Ministry, but I don't understand where you come into things."
"I'm just here to make sure the paperwork gets done properly," Hermione said primly, removing her own manila folder from her briefcase and leafing through the several pieces of parchment it contained. "But I notice that you don't seem to have answered either of our questions..?"
Pansy gave another shrug. "I thought I should give the impression I had nothing to hide," she said, all innocence, and Harry snorted.
"Right," he said. "I completely believe you. And Goyle?"
"He's been back in London for a while, and before you ask, I can't tell you why." Pansy's smile dropped. "He had a hard time after the War." She kept her expression neutral, but her eyes had darkened. "Like I said, I got an owl from him a couple of days ago asking if I'd visit this morning. I guess it was just poor timing."
Harry glanced at Hermione, and saw her mouth tighten.
"You've been out of the country for...seven years," she said, eyes flicking down to the parchment in her hand as she confirmed the number. "Do you really think we would find it credible that you just happened to return the morning that Goyle was found dead?"
"Stranger things have happened," Pansy said mildly. "Are you really telling me you think I did that?" she pointed at the bloodied holes where Goyle's eyes had been.
"Did you?" Harry asked, and Pansy had the temerity to laugh.
"Merlin's beard Potter, you don't fuck around do you?" Her smile faded, her serious expression returning. "No," she said quietly, "I assure you I did not."
There was a long moment of silence as they held one another's gaze. Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Pansy was being sincere, but without an application of Veritaserum he couldn't be certain, and he wasn't about to -
His thoughts were interrupted as the door behind them crashed open again, and Harry and Hermione turned in their seats. Across the table, Pansy grinned.
"This interview is over," Theodore Nott pronounced flatly. "I demand that you release my client immediately."
His expression of professional boredom wavered as he caught sight of Pansy, and his nose wrinkled slightly. "And for fuck's sake, somebody get her some proper clothes."
A/N: look what the cat dragged in, indeed.