Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Summary: Hermione is shocked; Harry and Ron get a new job from "Boris"; Harry and Ron see a familiar face; Harry grosses Ron out; cryptic messages.

Midnight Blues

Zeitgeist84

Part I: Punch-Clock Hero

4.) Good News for People Who Love Bad News
or,
I Don't Know What the Term "Good News" Means

"Harry, stop walking away from me!" Hermione shrieks; I stop my quick trot through the flooded cemetery and turn back to Hermione. Her hood has fallen in attempt to chase me and now her hair is sopping, plastered to her forehead as she takes deep, steadying breaths.

"You were... you were..."

I nod. "Yes, I was."

Hermione recoils, as though I've physically struck her. "And you didn't think I was worth telling?"

"It's not like that, Herms," I reply, running a hand through my own wet hair. "Hannah was on a really important case and we couldn't come out and announce we were dating, let alone getting married."

"...Did Ron know?"

There it is. I knew she'd ask that. And I know she won't like the answer.

Swallowing, I nod slowly, and Hermione's face seems to crumple. Now, I know I've never been the most open person in the world, but it was never my intention to deliberately lie to Hermione. Now she probably thinks I don't trust her and that makes me feel like a shitehead.

"Why not me? Aren't I your friend, too?"

"Of course you are!" I find myself nearly shouting, which causes Hermione to jump. "But it's just that—" I continue more tenderly, "—it's just that sometimes these things get so far out of hand and it becomes harder and harder to talk about that it becomes easier just to never mention it."

"But you should have told me! I could have helped after... after..." Hermione starts shouting but trails off by the end, pointing at the gravestone. It's kind of funny when I think about it; from the moment we became friends, there Hermione was, from things as trivial as saving Ron and I food when we came to the Great Hall late or helping us with notes, to saving our lives several times over. She's always cared for Ron and I more than she should. It makes it worse that I've always been an ungrateful bastard about for it.

"I know you could have," I try to placate her. "It's just that, sometimes people don't want to be helped."

"…What?" She sniffles. I step closer and put a comforting arm on her shoulder, at which point she moves to embrace me; I reciprocate the action.

"People like me; we like being miserable," I jest with humorless smile into her hair, the scent of lilacs and morning rain invading my senses. "It gives us something to be angry at the world about. To feel justified in our hate."

Hermione laughs, one of her little, sarcastic laughs. "So you're like one of those people who waits on hand and foot for bad news, huh?"

"Yeah, I just love bad news," I smile down at her. "But you know I've never been open, and Ron only knows because he walked in on us. If it had been up to me, you'd both be in the dark right now."

Hermione gives me a dour look, pulling away from me. "Not helping your case."

"Of course it isn't. I want you to be mad at me. I like bad news, remember?"

"Well, good news, then," she huffily retorts. We both look at each other and chuckle slightly as sounds of thunder crack above us.

We won't be okay now, and probably not for sometime yet, but Hermione won't show it. That's just not the person she is. She still feels betrayed, I know, but she'll act as she always has. Like I said: a nurturer. And in some ways, still the sprite of a girl I met at eleven. I know Hermione and I will be okay someday soon. We'll forgive and forget. That's why I love her.

That's why I love all my friends, I suppose. They're the only ones who'd put up with me.

When we return to the flat, Ron is waiting with a worried look on his face. Hermione immediately asks what's wrong, but Ron ignores her and turns straight to me:

"Boris rang," he states simply.

"Boris," I sigh. "Why always Boris?"

"Who's Boris?" Hermione queries, confused.

"He's got a job for us," Ron replies, ignoring the woman. "Not exactly clean, though."

We both give Hermione looks that tell her to leave the room. Being that she is Hermione, she stamps her feet (surprisingly cute from a twenty-five year-old), folds her arms, and stomps into the kitchen. Ron raises his wand and casts a Muffliato just to be sure.

"So what does Boris want?"

"What doesn't that wanker want?" Ron retorts; we both laugh. "We're supposed to meet him at the Lodge in Croydon tomorrow morning."

"The Lodge? In Croydon? We're going to be in Glasgow the whole day!"

Ron runs a hand through his unruly mop of ginger hair. "I tried to get him to move the meeting closer to Birmingham, but you know how these Soviet types are... he says he can only do it somewhere close to Greater London and Croydon has the nearest Lodge. So we'll have to get to the Lodge before work. Hah. Work."

"Yeah, work. We're actually respectable now, Ron."

Ron looks sour. "But yeah, we've still got to get up early tomorrow."

"Great. We're working for High Inquisitor Pillock Shepard, Boris is nipping at our heels, and we have to go and hunt down Bloodies," I grouse. "This week gets better and better."

"Well you're not going to like what he wants us to do, then."

I stare. "Do I even want to know?"

"No. Well, yes... but, no."

"Pleasantly unhelpful," I drawl. "Lay it on me; I love bad news."

"You remember those hitmen we killed a couple months back. You know, the poufs?"

About six months ago, under Boris's directive, Ron and I killed a very dangerous and very elusive pair of German assassins who had been charged with killing a rather influential judge in France. Apparently, their Aurors couldn't get to the killers, but apparently, we could. The only thing we knew about them post-briefing was that these two guys were totally shagging each other in their spare time.

In essence, we were hunting down gay, German versions of ourselves.

We tracked them from the scene of the crime in downtown Paris and found they had stolen a beat-up '98 Renault Espace and made their escape to Marseilles muggle style (eluding French Hit-Wizards all the way), there the stolen car was found by muggle authorities.

From there, we figured the pouf hitmen were bunking in a nearby hotel. We went from hotel to hotel confunding receptionists into telling us whether these two German guys had checked in. When we found them, Ron and I barged in, wands ablaze, only to find these two... rough-housing (for lack of a classier term) as we came careening in. Too surprised to react, Ron and I had downed them both with a killing curse before the one behind could pull out.

"Yeah, I remember them," I reply, shuddering.

"Well, apparently nobody knows they're dead because Boris has been managing their commissions," Ron starts, "so they've been invited to a dinner party."

"A dinner party?"

The redhead nods. "Paying respect to the man himself: Hozhen."

"That Chinese Dark Lord-hopeful?"

"Right in one," Ron smirks. "You might be wondering where we come in. The poufs never made physical contact with anyone they were working for, so nobody knows what they look like. We're supposed to go disguised as the poufs, and steal an item from the chinaman."

"An item?"

Ron smirks. "Apparently, he's been holding this ancient weapon from the Roman period. Anyone who wears it becomes irresistible."

"Irresistible? How so?"

"Dunno, Hermione told me something about pher-o-mones being released. Anything the wearer orders is followed; this weapon was made holy by killing some important guy, I didn't really listen to the story. But the power of the weapon was curse-locked by old man Slytherin himself back in the dark ages, and if old Hozhen discovers how to break Slytherin's curse..."

"...He becomes a real Dark Lord, minions and all," I finish for Ron.

"So we steal it from him, hand it over to Boris, who'll sell it to the Department of Mysteries and give us a forty percent cut. Not bad, eh?

Now that was what I least expected when I said bad news. "You're having me on."

Ron's expression is sharp and serious. "If I was, I'd be laughing."

"You mean to tell me that we're to go to a party filled to the brim with killers and dark wizards from all over the Eurasia and break into the host's vault under everyone's notice?"

Ron nods happily, vaguely reminiscent of a stupid dog beaten one too many times by its master to understand the merits of self-preservation.

"Are you being daft? I'd say our chances of pulling that off are three-eighths to sod all," I predict. "I don't care what Boris wants, this job seems dodgy. The answer's no, Ron."

"How, again, did you rope me into this?" I ask as we find ourselves just outside of Croydon, nearby a small brick building.

"Carefully," is Ron's blasé response.

To say The Lodge looks dodgy would be the understatement of the century. It wouldn't look entirely out of place in a Ukrainian ghetto; The Lodge, on the outside at least, is a smoked-out shell of an old building that not even the most desperate of squatters or skag addicts would consider stepping in.

The building is surrounded by a tall fence, signs posted on every side denoting the condemned building was an electrical hazard.

Of course, that and several notice-me-not wards are applied to keep the muggles (and a select many wizards and witches) away from the building, which changes soon enough as Ron knocks on a rusty old door. A slot slides open, revealing a hawkish set of golden-brown eyes:

"Password?" It asks, a Slavic accent corrupted by decades of living in England.

Ron smiles charmingly. "Death is whimsical today."

Those hawkish eyes blink and the slot slides shut. Moments later, a large creaking noise is heard and the door swings open, revealing a middle-aged man with far too many tattoos: on his neck, his arms, and I know more are underneath the expensive suit he wears.

"Milan!" Ron exclaims, embracing the man.

"Ronald Weasley," replies Milan, smiling as well. "I see you have brought Harry along. Come then, Boris is in sauna."

We step across the threshold of the building, exiting the dreary London air and enter the most magnificent little lodge I've seen. Let it never be said criminals don't have taste, because criminals built this place and taste is exactly what it exudes.

High vaulted ceilings, thick mahogany wood on the walls, dark marble flooring... even the fucking the lights are set bright enough to see but dimly enough to blanket the entrance hall in dark sensuality.

Magic is a hell of a thing, isn't it?

"Sauna, you say?" I question Milan, who nods:

"You would do well to join him. Come, I will lead you to dressing room."

Milan leads us down tastefully decorated rooms, past a smoking lounge where several old men sit puffing on pipes; I snag several cigars for later when Hermione isn't around the flat, and soon we find ourselves outside a simple wooden door.

"Go in, change, and go to door on other side of room. Boris will be in there."

Ron and I take lockers on the opposite sides of the dressing room, so that there's no chance either of us sees the other's bits; I grab a towel, strip down, wrap the towel around my waist and enter the sauna, where a man who looks surprisingly young despite his silver hair and goatee awaits me:

"Harry!" He greets in a similar accent to Milan's. "I have not seen you since our last dinner party. We should do it again; you are a very good chef."

I smile lightly at the praise. "I make do."

"Make do?" He questions incredulously as Ron enters the sauna, wrapped in his own towel. "Ron, Harry here says he 'makes do' with cooking. Makes do!"

Ron quirks an eyebrow. "He does, actually. I haven't seen him make anything like that since the dinner party."

Well, yeah, of course he doesn't. Why would I spend that much time on food for Ron and Hermione? All they do is bicker through dinner anyway. Besides, the dinner party was ridiculous enough; I was up most of the night before the dinner prepping the food at Boris' palatial manor in Canterbury. That and the notion of all the country's scum: hitmen, drug lords, bounty hunters and their handlers getting together for supper, is laughable.

"No spark," I say instead. "I haven't any new recipes."

Boris smiles mildly, nodding. "Do tell me when you do; I would be very interested in hosting another party. You were a hit at the last."

"Yes, food is fantastic and all," Ron replies. "But where exactly are we going and what exactly are we doing for you?"

Boris, never one to mince his words during business, leaned forward, a bead of sweat dripping from his Roman nose. "You are going to steal the Lance of Longinus from Hozhen's armory."

I squint. "The Holy Lance? The one that stabbed Jesus? But isn't it in Vienna?"

"That is a fake, cast nearly a thousand years ago from portions of the real lance, which was hidden within the Byzantine Empire for some time after Slytherin cursed it, then it was held by the Ottomans, then it made its way to Italy when a Florentine nobleman stole it from the Ottomans. Afterward, it was given to the Vatican, whereupon it was stolen two months ago by an agent close to Hozhen. The Department of Mysteries want the artifact back for study and they're willing to pay for it."

Ron and I look at each other. "And it's in this Hozhen guy's vault?" Ron questions.

"As far as we know," Boris replies succinctly. "You will be going to a stronghold in Siberia, he runs his operations from there."

"A little cartoony, don't you think?" I muse; the more I hear of him, the more Hozhen sounds like a comic book villain.

Boris laughs. "Yes, a little. Are you willing to do it?"

"How much?" We ask simultaneously.

"Ten-thousand galleons each," Boris says. "The Department of Mysteries isn't keen on spending more than eighty thousand on the lance, and some of the money must go to the lodge. Still, it's enough to last several years for both of you."

"We're in," Ron says. Usually we'd talk it over, but ten-thousand galleons is nothing to sneeze at, regardless of the danger.

"Although," Boris holds up a hand to calm down the redhead. "I have one request. You will take on another partner. You two are magnificent hitmen. However, you are not thieves, and you need a thief for this heist."

"Fine," I acquiesce; Boris is right, we're killers, not thieves. "Who is it?"

"They're in the office."

Ron's jaw slackens, and I can't help but stare at the vision of beauty sitting on one of the plush leather couches of Boris' de facto office. Her raven hair and iceberg blue eyes stand out against her ivory skin. She wears robes of a navy blue color that only seems to accentuate those eyes further. It's odd, I'd never forget this woman, but I distinctly remember her having green eyes, not blue.

"Tracey Davis," I greet cordially, regaining my bearings before Ron does.

She smiles in faux-demure fashion, enjoying Ron's shock and my pitiful greeting far too much. "Hello there, Harry Potter. I'd never expected to see you on this side of the law."

Tracey Davis has long been a staple of Hogwarts' boys' (particularly in our year) wank fantasies: beautiful, cunning, a great conversationalist, universally loved. Snape had assigned us together several times in Potions class, thinking I'd hate it. But, hey, she turned out to be good fun. Hell, it was hard to hate her even as a Slytherin. And Gryffindors hated those snakes on principle.

The only person I've known that seemed to genuinely dislike her is Hermione, though I suspected that had more to do with Hermione's jealousy: Tracey was smart and beautiful, and Hermione was insecure about her own looks. Of course, Hermione's something special to look at now that she's comfortable in her own skin (and when she isn't wearing those dreadful heavy woolen skirts), so I would wager the hate has subsided.

I notice it's been an exceptionally long time since Tracey greeted us; Ron still stands in shock, but I chance a response:

"Nor did I expect you to become a cat burglar. Wasn't your family big-time at Gringotts?"

Tracey smirks. "Was is the operative word. My father had disagreements with the goblins over their acquiescence in turning over several select vaults to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. So, our vault was raided, too."

I snort. "Peas in a pod, then."

"Indeed," is her short response as the door opens behind us, revealing Boris.

"I trust you three are well-acquainted," he says.

"Very well acquainted," responds Tracey smoothly. "We'll discuss this further at dinner on Friday night. Shall I book reservations at a restaurant?"

Boris's eyes suddenly light up. I don't like it when his eyes light up. It usually means something—

"You know Miss Davis, Harry here is a splendid chef."

—bad's about to happen.

Tracey turns to me with a propositioning look.

Fuck.

"Alright," I say with a long-suffering sigh. "But don't expect me to make wonders from my flat."

"Nonsense," Boris urges. "You may use my kitchen." He turns to Ron. "You're welcome to bring Miss Granger."

"It's a plan, then," Tracey says before Ron can say anything. "I'll see you Friday." Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and marches out the door, leaving both Ron and I to wonder what exactly we've gotten ourselves into. I chance a look at my wristwatch and swear loudly.

"What?" Ron asks, alarmed.

"We need to get to the Scots Tower before Tonks tears us a new one!"

Ron and I exchange quick goodbyes with a smug Boris (that wanker, strongarming me into cooking a gourmet not only for him, but Ron, Tracey, and Hermione) and follow Tracey's lead, walking out the door.

Ginny sounds suspiciously smug, like the cat that caught the canary. "You're having me on."

"Not at all, one-hundred percent serious," I say into the receiver, kicking up my legs onto my office table and playing with the standard issue sneakoscope. Maybe being a consultant isn't so bad after all.

Ginny gives a tinkling laugh, drawing my attention back to the conversation. "My brother and Hermione, the most boring couple in history, have filmed themselves...? You're absolutely sure that Ron the prude and Hermione the bookworm made a porno?"

"Ask Luna if you don't believe me."

"I want to believe you!" Ginny exclaims. "Do you know how much ammunation—"

"—Nition. Ammunition, Gin'."

"—Ammunition I have against Ron now? If Fred or George ever find out about this..."

I smirk. "You know, I could sneak out the video to you. You could hold it over their heads for the rest of our lives."

"Imagine that," Ginny muses softly. "They're fifty and their kids are back from Hogwarts and we can make them do whatever we want."

"Yeah, imagine that," I say, privately noting that the way things are going, there aren't going to be any brown-haired Weasley kids. But I don't tell Ginny that.

We continue talking about our resident pornographic couple and the interest Luna took in them. We make plans for a date later and I shut off the phone. I look up from my desk to see Ron glaring at me at the entrance to the cubicle with his arms crossed:

"Hermione and I are going to make sure you never get that videotape to Gin'."

"Who's to say I don't already have it?" I ask nonchalantly. "That I haven't already made twenty copies ready to be sold to Finch in Manchester?"

Finch is our fence. He sells our stolen goods, and he knows there's good money in decent porn. Especially if it involves two-thirds of the vaunted 'Golden Trio'.

"You wouldn't dare," Ron threatens, but his face blanches at the threat. "Hermione would sodding murder me!"

"'The Dirty Duo'? it has a nice ring to it," I grin. "'Can Ronald Weasley sneak his basilisk into Hermione Granger's chamber of secrets?"

"Mate, what the fuck."

"What the fuck, indeed," A voice drawls somewhere to my right. I look up to see Tonks shaking her head at us. "If you're done with... all that... we have a murder to investigate."

Ron stares at the metamorph oddly. "What do you mean murder? Isn't that what Hit Wizards do?"

"Not when Bloodies are behind it, now up you two get," Tonks orders.

I shrug lazily. "Don't feel like it, Tonks."

"Yeah, I really need to have a shit all of a sudden. Any chance I can use the bog?" Ron questions with a lazy grin.

"Fuck off, Weasley; you can hold it," Tonks growls, causing both Ron and I to jump in surprise:

"You kiss your son goodnight with that mouth?" the redhead exclaims, looking surprised.

"Shut up and come on," interrupts another voice, which belongs to Daphne Greengrass.

I survey the dour blonde, about to bite out a scathing retort when I see Auror-Commander Shepard in the distance, glaring at us. Ron gives me a look that screams 'Abort!', so I close my mouth and signal Greengrass to lead the way.

Greengrass traipses to Tonks, sighing. "Signs of Blood Magic all over the place. Dark stuff."

"Who's this?" I ask, surveying a black-haired, brown-eyed corpse that looks vaguely familiar, as if I have seen it in a newspaper somewhere. It's raining outside and we're somewhere just outside of muggle Edinburgh.

Tonks looks up from a puncture wound between the third and fourth ribs. "This lovely lad here is Alan Rigby."

"Rigby?" Ron questions. "As in Z—"

"Zacharias Rigby?" Greengrass smirks. "Right-o there, Weaselby."

All three turn to me expectantly.

"Erm... Not that I don't think confusion is wildly entertaining, but can someone explain to me as to why I should know this Rigby bloke?"

"No one ever told you?" Ron asks, furrowing his brows at me. The way he says 'no one' with that Kentish inflection all but confirms that he thought Hannah would have told me before she died.

I shake my head.

Ron shrugs, looking from me to Tonks and back. "Well this whole sad story occurred while you were in the States, so I guess it's not surprising that you're a bit out of the loop."

"Zacharias Rigby is a high-ranking member of the ICW," Greengrass explains before Ron can speak. "He's known for his heavily anti-Magical Creatures outlook and, coincidentally, hates Blood Mages just as much. Alan Rigby would be his estranged son, a wizard living in muggle Edinburgh, and by all accounts, a skag addict. We got our dark detectors in here and the place absolutely reeks of blood magic."

"So... what? They kill his kid to to teach him a lesson, or something?" I ask as Greengrass brings a fist under her chin a perfect thinker's pose:

"No," she shakes her head, wild blonde curls fluttering outward. "At first glance it looks like that, doesn't it? But the dossiers we've collected tell us these people aren't doing this just to teach the man that Blood Mages aren't to be trifled with."

Both Ron and I recall their call for a free magical state in which all creatures could live together in harmony.

"That so-called 'free state' of theirs?" Ron questions, having cottoned on quickly.

Tonks laughs hollowly. "Yeah, probably. I want you two-" she points at Ron and I, "-to start working on the flat. Canvas it, see if you can find any blood that doesn't belong to Rigby, anything at all that can lead us to a killer. Greengrass, Kenton, Barrett, I want you to determine the way the battle went-" Tonks indicates the wrecked flat we stand in and the Aurors stand at attention. "-and write up a full report by tomorrow morning."

Ron barely restrains his grin, eyeballing an annoyed Kenton jovially. The Auror glowers back, which merely encourages Ron; it appears as though Ron has made it his personal mission to be an all-around prick to the guy since our less-than-stellar first meeting. Before the redhead can do anything else, however, I grab him by the forearm and drag the git to the far wall of the flat.

"Yeah, we get you don't like him, Ron," I say, "but play nice for now."

Ron nods grudgingly and whispers the incantation for the black light spell, searching the wall for blood spatter. I do the same and move along the opposite wall, expecting nothing, since the body is on the other side of the room, but it never hurts to check, right?

Several seconds later, I hear Tonks's voice call out:

"Potter, Weasley, get over here."

We trek back to Tonks, who is being crowded by Greengrass, Kenton, and Barrett. As we come up behind them, Greengrass moves out of the to show me what they're all gaping at. I merely raise an eyebrow at what I see: Rigby's shirt has been taken off and his body's been flipped over onto the stomach. What's interesting about this are the deep lacerations in his back, a message as if carved by knife:

BRING US THE GIRL

That's all it says. Understandably, no one really knows what the killer's talking about.

"Who the fuck's the girl?" Ron asks the question that's on all of our minds.

"That's the million-galleon question, Ron," responds Tonks, staring, transfixed on the angry red words carved into the man's back.

A/N: Finally got some time to write! Short, set-up chapter, but it is what it is, I suppose. It's un-beta'd, so forgive any errors I might have missed in my own proofreading. TKoL's taking a back seat to MB right now, mainly because I want to do a rewrite for some of the woeful earlier chapters of TKoL. I want to finish MB before February and start posting rewritten TKoL chapters next March, which will be a tall order, but I'll try!

Chapter Notes:

Skag is UK slang for heroin.

Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass are not friends in this fic; they are acquaintances due to having been in the same House.

Also, 'Ammunation'. Felt it was appropriate what with Grand Theft Auto V coming out soon.

Next chapter: The Aurors visit Zacharias Rigby, a woman tasks Harry and Ron with an odd task, Harry hosts a dinner, and the boys leave for Siberia.

Thanks for reading!