Harry's hands fall limp, his hearing deaf to everything around him: he can see Williamson's mouth moving, forming an indignant pout; he can see Robards roaring and he can see Neville shaking his head, his lips moving slowly, drawing the word 'sorry'. He closes his eyes, he needs to think.

How could he not see it? How could he have utterly missed it when it had been in the background all along? Hiding in plain sight; silently, eagerly feeding on the information they had all provided.

Harry takes a step back - and then he darts headfirst out of the Auror Office, taking the same exit as Ron.

He doesn't waste time looking back, he instinctively knows the loud thumping behind him is his boss chasing after him. Harry doesn't have time to explain.

He launches himself into the supply closet and finds it disappointingly empty, then tries the men's bathroom right next to it, slipping slightly on the wet patches of water on the floor. He'd been busy lately, the caretaker, Harry thinks grimly.

"Potter, stop or I'll hex your arse," Robards fumes, panting heavily behind him, fingers just in reach of the back of Harry's robes.

"Can't - I'll brief you later," he shouts back, pelting himself forward - enough so that there's no immediate threat of being strangled by his superior. His feet run faster than ever, eyes scanning minutely for every detail, for every sign that he'd been there.

Can a man simply vanish?

Yes, if he'd spent all his life hiding in the background.

"Harry, Ron said -"

But Harry doesn't wait to find out what Ron had said. He speeds past Hermione, leaving her behind and bewildered as he continues his frantic search for the murderer.

"Harry, wait!" she pleads, exasperated. But there's no time to wait.

Jumping down a flight of stairs, Harry scans the Atrium. Nothing, not a trace of him between the rush of dark robes, witches and wizards engaged in their daily dance, skirting around each other and their work problems. In the distance, the Floo gates flash green - and, next to them, Harry sees something that makes his chest bleed: Ron, shoulders slumped, his head bowed low as he talks fast to his father.

Not his family, Ron had told him.

Robards' boots clang closer and Harry swallows the emptiness he's feeling, jumping again, sliding down the marble railing, running at full speed upon his landing.

"I'll send you an owl when I can," he calls back to a red-faced Robards, balding hair stuck to his forehead, before he spins on his heel and Disapparates.

"Come back here, Potter! Come back here so I can have the satisfaction of verbally firing you!"

Thankfully, Harry doesn't hear the rest.

Blood red ripples across the sky, undulating into the horizon. The trees are still, their branches becalmed, inert as statues. No creature, no trace of other humans - nothing but Harry's steadied breath disturbing the absolute quiet.

He fills his lungs with air, eyes scanning the rich green fields rolling into the distance, stopping upon the small stone cottage hidden by a copse of trees. Its topsy-turvy roof rises from around the gnarled branches, the browns contrasting subtly against the vivid reds of the sky.

It's something unnatural, Harry feels, about the way the cottage is placed, about the way the trees have grown. Instead of blending in, the effect is rather opposite, drawing the passerby's gaze, making them wonder.

Harry makes a mental note to review the Department's stealth and safe houses capacity with Robards once he'd calmed down. Then, he drags the Cloak back over him and disappears completely, feet threading steadily on the muddy ground.

"NO," a woman's cry slashes through the deafening silence.

His heart twists.

The crisp air whips at his cheeks as Harry runs, wrist swishing as the door is blown apart from a distance.

"Please be alright, please be alright," he pleads under his breath and, bracing for whatever's waiting for him inside, Harry throws himself fiercely through the open door.

"Stu -"

"Ginny, it's me," he calls, letting the Cloak slide off him. As his body appears, his heart leaps and aches, pain coursing through his chest.

Small and shaking against the wall, Ginny drops her wand to the stone floor, white face contorted between agony and fright. She starts to cry.

Then, Harry's next to her, holding her to his chest, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her tears. Her body feels limp in his arms, and cold - so cold he's suddenly taken back to the damp floor of the Chamber, to his mouth pleading with her to be alright, to be okay, to please, Ginny, please don't be dead.

"The window," she says, weak, and transports him back to the present.

Harry follows her gaze and, indeed, there it is, the undeniable contour of a man's palm marring the glass. His grip tightens around her, the stone wall cold against his arms.

"Ginny, have you seen him?" he asks her gently, feeling her heart start to beat against his own.

She's quiet for a moment, her body stiffening.

"No, but I heard him," Ginny whispers. "He called me by a different name - I think it was 'Magdalene'. I heard him through the window and then I screamed."

Harry's eyes bore into hers, freckles peppering her face like coloured spots splattered on a blank canvas. It makes no sense.

"Let's get you to bed," he says and helps her to her feet, pushing aside the thoughts starting to shape inside his mind; thoughts of a past he'd forgotten, thoughts of bells ringing and the scent of myrrh pungent in his nose as his heart scuttles wildly inside his chest. He's small and knobbly-kneed and cowering in a dark corner, careful not to touch any of the golden objects laying around - or else they'll hear, and they'll come for him, and then his thin arms and legs will ache again.

He crushes the images of his early childhood, banishes them to the edges of his brain, fingers laced with Ginny's as he sits her on the dusty bed.

"Scourgify," he tries, watching as the dirt is siphoned weakly into the tip of his wand. "Never been too apt with cleaning spells."

"Mum was excellent with them," Ginny says, and immediately seems to regret it. Harry turns slightly to give her a little space, a bit of privacy. There's hurt on her face, some form of raw emotion he doesn't want to stir further.

Not now, not when she's gone through so much already.

"I'll go check outside, alright?"

He walks out into the perfect stillness, the sky now bleeding into a violent dusk. Faint and pale, the moon starts to rise.

His boot threads onto something thick, face falling into an expression of pure and undeniable disgust as the object shifts into focus before his fogged up glasses. He taps it with the tip of his wand, lifting it up in the air, careful not to touch it. Hermione'd be livid if she ever saw such rot.

The letters glint golden in the orange light, the leather covers peeling at the corners. In the middle, adorned carefully by a hateful hand, the words 'Malleus Maleficarum' reign haughtily.

Magic is might, Harry remembers with great disdain, two equally dangerous ideas crafted by evil men, Muggles and Wizards alike. It's not magic or the lack of it that darkens the soul, but hate and the vile certainty that one is better, or superior, or simply more deserving than the other.

He rounds the cottage seven times, wand working the spellwork to protect themselves, erecting invisible barriers. His mind suddenly wanders to the Forest of Dean and Harry shivers, dragging the edges of his crimson robe tighter around him, the book now in his pocket. It's been so long and, yet, the cold and hunger are still there to pull him back, to pull him right back to what had been his darkest year.

Harry locks the door behind him, bending low to untie his muddy boots. He does everything slowly, dragging out every pull and tug of his shoelaces, the push of his hand with the pull of his heel. He carefully pockets his Cloak. It's his final chance to make it right and Harry doesn't rush. It's a terrifying thought.

Conjuring a quill and paper, he writes a note to Robards first, taking his time to properly explain, to show how the pieces of the puzzle fit and fall together perfectly. Between them all, there's only one missing: the why.

"Have everyone on watch and searching for our caretaker. Plaster the entirety of England with his face if you have to. The man is ready to kill again and we need to act now.

Fire me later.

Cheers,

Harry

P.S: Williamson really did try to steal the case report. Maybe fire him too? Thanks."

Rolling it, Harry raps his wand against the window, waiting for the owl to come. When it does, he traces a finger over its winter gray wings, thanking it; the owl hoots as he ties the scroll to it, tightening the knot around the book, grateful Ginny hadn't seen it.

He watches it take flight, and finally makes up his mind.

"Tea?" he asks her from the door frame, remembering something Ron had said a lifetime ago about tea when one's upset.

Her gaze is lost somewhere in the distance, body folded into itself, arms resting against flexed knees. She slowly raises her head to meet his eyes.

"Why are you here, Harry?"

His stomach churns. "Don't worry, I'll sleep on the floor."

"Not what I asked," she quickly rebukes him, annoyed.

Harry draws in a breath, feet moving towards the bed. "I found out who the murderer is."

"You said that before."

They stare at each other, frowns digging deep into their flesh. He looks at her tired, brown eyes and, sighing, Harry sits next to her. He rubs under his glasses, takes them off for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. Then, he turns to face her.

"I know. I was so blind, so stupid, I - I'm sorry it took me this long to see."

The corners of her mouth twitch, hands curling tighter around her knees, freckled cheek resting on top of them. "Reckon he's really gone, Harry?"

"Yeah, I'm positive I'm right this time, it must be him -" he hurries to assure her, palms reaching out to touch her shoulders, to let her feel how certain he is, when she stops him.

"No, not him - Riddle, do you think he's finally gone?"

It takes Harry fully by surprise, her question, the fear hidden deep within her beautiful brown eyes. It's her again, the little girl he found in the pit of the Chamber.

"Yes," he says softly, something painful yet warm filling up his chest. It's like the sun starts to shine after a rainy day, its rays timidly sneaking up through the thick, dirty clouds to lightly caress your skin.

Her eyes close, a sob ripping from her throat. "I still see him sometimes. At night, when I'm alone, he still comes to see me sometimes."

Harry feels like breaking down, heart bleeding, blood seeping from his fingernails to the bed. From the red hot puddles, flowers grow, surrounding them, tying their lives together in ways Harry had never fathomed before.

"I do too," he whispers and, without thinking, he reaches for her, drawing her to him. Their mouths nearly touch.

"What are we doing, Harry? What are we?" she exhales hard against his lips.

"We're friends," he answers hopefully, lips so close to hers it makes his breath hitch.

"We're not friends, Harry."

And though Ginny speaks softly, her words still sting.

"We're not?"

"I've been away for the past nine years," her eyes slip from his lips to look at him, "I was eleven the last time we spoke and, in case somebody's been intercepting my mail, you haven't reached out once."

Her tone doesn't change, but her words fall like stones on Harry's heart.

"Fair," he says decidedly, hand curling around her wrist. "But we must be something."

"Something is exactly what we are. Two somethings with benefits."

"I'll take it," Harry replies and, without waiting, without thinking twice, he kisses her.

Ginny's right, he thinks as she threads her fingers through his hair and he feels her tongue with his, heart pounding violently against his eardrums. Friends don't kiss like this.