May 3rd – 1999.

"Now Arthur, I'm sure I don't have to remind you, that our betters except a very high-profile show of response."

Arthur couldn't help but notice that John Vortimer held up his wand as he spoke. It was just another quirk of Gawain's right-hand man. Arthur nodded.

"Of course sir."

Vortimer interlaced his pudgy fingers. Arthur was glad that he was seated and Vortimer was standing. It would be awkward to tower over his superior and Vortimer was as tall as he was round. With his shiny bald head, Vortimer looked very much like an overripe egg. Vortimer's beady eyes flickered over Arthur's desk. Barely a day in and it was already a disorganised mound of parchment, quills and ink.

"Yes but we need to make sure we get the right man. The last thing the Minister wants is to be accused of a wild witch hunt. We need to be very sure before we can act."

"Yes sir."

"I'll let you get to it then."

Arthur watched Vortimer trundle away and shifted the papers around on his desk. Vortimer's words were hardly unfounded. Seemingly every witch and wizard from Cornwall to Oban had responded to the Ministry's request for tip offs. Arthur sighed, at least ninety percent was typical gossip along the lines of 'so and so came back late and was covered in blood (but it was dark, and the blood might've been butterbeer)' the other ten percent was people reporting on what Arthur suspected were different crimes. If not, then he had no idea how a broom theft in West Yorkshire could be linked to murders in South London.

Malcom Hearb slid into the seat next to Arthur's.

"Old Vortimer giving you trouble?"

Arthur shrugged, "I can tell he's very committed to the job."

Malcom gave Arthur a knowing smirk, "So committed that the Brass want him out."

Arthur kept his eyes on his reports and scratched the back of his head. Ireland had taught him that, even if bombs were going off every other day, office politics were a constant of any profession.

Malcom continued without encouragement, "This time last year he was singing a very different tune."

Arthur shrugged again, "Last year was a very different time."

Malcom ducked a paper aeroplane and put his feet up on his desk, "Vortimer showed real gusto in going after them Muggle-born though. Above and beyond the call of duty. No wonder Shacklebolt can't wait to see the back of him."

Arthur dabbed his quill into some ink, but he couldn't think of anything to write. Instead, he reluctantly turned to face Malcom. Malcom was younger than Arthur by a good few years. He'd spent most of the conflict in the United States. With his good looks, roguish grin and sandy hair, Arthur wasn't sure that Malcom's appointment to the Auror office was based entirely on merit.

Arthur put down his quill, "You saying I should tell Robard that I'm investigating his number two?"

Malcom grinned at Arthur and gave him a wink, "All I'm saying is…keep your eyes on the prize."

Arthur thought of the picture he kept in his pocket.

"Don't worry. I will."

Malcom sauntered off and began chatting animatedly with a witch a few desks over. Arthur gave up trying to write anything coherent and slipped on his coat. He made his way across the Auror office, dodging paper aeroplanes and the odd errant spell. He knocked on Gawain's door.

"Enter." Came the voice from inside.

"Afternoon sir."

"Ah Arthur…what do you have for me?"

Gawain's office was stark. Almost barren. No framed newspapers. No pictures or plants of any kind. Just a dark mahogany desk which seemed to dwarf the man who sat behind it. Arthur pulled the scrap of parchment from his pocket and place it on the desk.

"I'd like you to authorise a search sir."

Gawain unfolded the parchment. Instantly, his brow creased. Gawain frowned.

"Ah…we've been instructed that the Malfoy family has been dealt with privately."

"Instructed by whom?"

Arthur knew the answer before the question left his mouth. The bloke hadn't even finished his NEWTs and already seemed to be running the Ministry. Gawain shifted awkwardly in his chair.

"Yes… well it's been settled outside of the Ministry."

"Understood sir." Arthur made to leave, "If it's not too much bother I still have some other interviews I'd like to conduct?"

Gawain tried for a smile, "Oh yes off you go then. I told you the bug would be on you didn't I?"

"Yes you did sir."

Arthur slipped out of the office and closed the door.

An hour later, Arthur sat opposite a pale blond boy in the Leaky Cauldron. In the year since the conflict ended, the Leaky Cauldron had truly lived up to its name. Damage in the ceiling, which Arthur knew for a fact had been an arson attack, meant that the endless grey of the London sky slithered into the pub with a rhythmic dripping noise which grate fiercely against Arthur's ears. But Arthur's discomfort was nothing compared to the person before him.

Draco Malfoy kept twitching, fidgeting and casting nervous glances at the other patrons. Few had forgotten his family's actions during the conflict. Even less had forgiven.

Arthur's first butterbeer had already been drained, Malfoy's hadn't been touched, his fingers were too busy tapping on the table.

Arthur kept his own hands in his pockets, "I hear you got up to some interesting things after I left. Made prefect even. I'm impressed. Shame we never got the Quidditch cup though."

Malfoy brushed his hair from his eyes. It clearly hadn't been cut for some time. His voice, once so full of arrogance, was far quieter than Arthur remembered.

"I heard you joined the Muggle Army."

"You heard correctly."

"Fought their wars."

"If you call Northern Ireland a war."

"What would you call it then?"

"I'd call it being a turkey during hunting season. Only a turkey was never given a gun and then told they weren't allowed to use it."

The ghost of a smile played across Malfoy's face but it quickly faded. The chatter in the pub was muted. Business hadn't fully returned to Diagon Alley. The burnt-out shops and shattered glass storefronts were still enough to keep most customers away.

Arthur called for another butterbeer, "I need to know something."

Malfoy swallowed, "I didn't think this was a social call."

Arthur peered over his own shoulder, "Battersea. Somebody knows something."

Malfoy scowled, "And you think that somebody is me?"

"Is that assumption wrong?"

Malfoy leaned across the table, "We still get threats. Every day another owl comes with a message promising to put us all in an early grave."

"Former Death Eaters?"

"Half the time."

"And the other half?"

Malfoy spoke miserably, "Everyone else."

"Come on. Surely there's something."

Malfoy's eyes flickered across the room, "These people are dangerous."

Arthur thought of the building where the old woman had died. Walls blackened and scorched by writhing, sentient flame only someone with a mastery of Fiendfyre could've achieved. Standing in that room, with the tattered remnants of the curtains swaying in the Spring breeze, Arthur had the distinct impression that the caster had laughed as the fire claimed the old woman.

"I'm aware."

"I don't think you know just how dangerous they are."

"So enlighten me."

Malfoy kept his gaze fixed on the table. His voice was barely a whisper.

"They want to kill Muggles. As many as they can for as long as they can. They think its some sort of divine mission. During…during the winter of '97 it got so bad that the Dark Lord himself had to rein them in. He…He said that there would be plenty for it later. I think it had gotten to the point where the Muggle authorities were catching on. The people who did it…it was like a crusade for them. They thought they were dispensing justice."

Arthur pushed the second butterbeer away from his hand. He found he suddenly no longer had any desire to drink.

"And what do you think?"

Malfoy jerked his shoulders in what might've been a shrug, "I don't really. I just want it to end."

"What?"

"The hatred."

"I can help you."

Malfoy wiped at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, "No one can help us."

"You need to give me something."

Malfoy finally met Arthur's gaze, "You have to promise not to tell anyone."

Arthur put a hand over his heart, "I do solemnly swear."

Arthur found himself on the streets of London again. He walked amid the brick buildings and the sunless sky and he thought of the many things Malfoy had told him.

Arthur thought of the secret houses and the hidden haunts. The places where the butchers might seek refuge. The fortresses from which the remnants of the Dark Lord's army fought the war. The Dark Lord's eternal war.

Arthur sat alone in a coffee shop. He drank a cappuccino. It tasted awful. It tasted so awful that he ordered another and drank it too. He took the cellphone from his pocket, a great big brick of a thing. He dug through the contacts until he found the number. There was no name attached to the number. Arthur took a deep breath before he pressed call.

It was answered on the second ring. The reception was poor and the line crackled, but there was no mistaking the Yorkshire drawl which sounded from the other end.

"Look who's come crawling back to his uncle Paul."

"I need to run an address by you."

"Come now Arthur, that's no way to greet an old friend."

"You gave me names. I gave you bodies. I wouldn't call that friendship."

Paul Hunter of Special Branch made a noise in Arthur's ear. Harsh, cruel laughter.

"It was just the one body Arthur. Just the one."

It was Arthur's turn to drum his fingers against the table.

"What do you have on 31 Court Road?"

"Doing a spot of sleuthing are we?"

Paul's voice was amused.

Arthur scratched at his head. He knew he needed to wash his hair.

"Can you help me or not?"

Paul cackled.

"Old times' sake?"

"Whatever."

Arthur watched the rain drops splatter against the shop window. The air stank of cheap coffee and damp clothes. A cleaner futilely tried to sweep away the mud which had been tracked across the floor. Arthur dug the nail of his thumb into his palm as he listened to the static.

"For you Arthur. Anything." Paul mocked, "Check your mail. Sent an attachment."

Arthur hung up.

He looked down.

Beneath the table, his leg was shaking.