The Matchmaker

TanninTele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

VII:

The Accomplice

Stakeouts were easy.

Stakeouts were something Tom could do. He could lose himself in the narrowed, single-minded focus of monitoring an individual; tracking their every action and seeing each step as an indication of guilt.

The girl was painfully easy to track. It was a weekday and most civilians returned to their tripe, trivial routines; wake up, get dressed, go to work, have a meal or two, return home. He expected Ginevra Weasley's day to be like any other.

She was still at her mother's house in Ottery St. Catchpole - a ramshackle home that might be considered cozy or quirky,although Tom certainly wasn't the leading expert on these things. He waited in his car at the end of their very long road, parked behind a tree. His windows were tinted and, although it might be overkill, Tom also wore a pair of sunglasses.

He cradled a cup of coffee in his hands. Notes, files and documents were strewn across the dashboard, his observations and his slowly-growing profile.

While watching a small, turquoise Ford Anglia rumble its way down the road, he spotted two heads of vibrant red through the open window. He put his car into gear, and after waiting the obligatory sixty seconds, slowly crept his way after the Anglia.

The car ahead of him emitted little puffs of black smoke, it's back wheel slightly wobbly. Peering closer, he could tell the back taillight was out, too. "Call it a fixer-upper all you want," Tom muttered to himself. "That damn vehicle is a safety concern."

Remembering his days as a rookie, when he would pull people over for the slightest infraction, Tom suppressed the urge to turn on his flashing lights. He refrained.

"You're supposed to be incognito," he reminded himself, taking a final sip of his now-empty coffee cup. He tossed the trash into the back seat.

Tom followed a few cars behind the Ford Anglia, nearly losing it on the highway as it sped up. He eventually caught up to it as it pulled up beside a tall, wide office building. Eyes catching on the large sign plastered to the building's glistening shell, Tom sank into his seat.

"Bugger," he muttered, and flawlessly parallel parked against the curb.

He was hoping it wouldn't come to this.

Ginny, he recalled from his research, was a sport's reporter for London's frontier yellow press. The Daily Prophet was a blemish on quality journalism and Rita Skeeter was its nefarious queen bee - but damn if she didn't have good sources.

The Ford Anglia pulled over beside the front doors. A heeled shoe stepped onto the concrete, followed by a long, freckled leg donned in a flattering pencil skirt. Ginny was a rather attractive woman. She had a sunny complexion and a veritable mane of healthy orange hair pulled into a braid. A leather bookbag was slung over her arm, held protective against her side. Her peach-colored blouse caught the wind, a ribbon fluttering over her shoulder as she gave her father a soft, thankful smile.

Despite the smile, her eyes were hard.

Something seemed oddly familiar about her. Was it those shrewd brown eyes or was the way she held herself - confident, like an animal on the prowl?

Tom frowned to himself and grappled for his laptop on the passenger seat beside him. He sent Tonks an instant message, and she gave him access to the Daily Prophet's inner security camera feeds.

Tom settled in for a long, long day.

A sharp rap came at the window. Tom resisted a violent flinch. He lifted his head from the computer on his lap and was faced with a blur of acidic green. He slammed the computer shut, wondering how he missed the queen bee herself approaching him.

The woman's outfit was, in a word, atrocious. The pantsuit might be considered sophisticated or haute couture, if it hadn't been the color of a ripe lime and trimmed with red, making her appear like a Christmas ornament. The blazer's plunging neckline revealed pale breasts powdered with make-up. Tom resisted a slight gag as she pressed herself against the glass.

Rita Skeeter blinked owlishly at him, her curled, false lashes batting together behind cat-eye glasses. Tom lowered himself into the seat, hoping against hope -

"I see you in there!" she sang out. "Might as well come out before I call the police," Rita recommended, before pausing. "Unless this is the police?"

Tom hissed beneath his breath and quickly shoved all his papers out of sight. Pushing up his sunglasses, for a bit of anonymity, he lowered the window with a dull whir.

Rita leaned down to beam at him. Her red lips were stretched in mocking facsimile of a charming smile. "Ah! What a lovely face," she purred. Around her neck was a professional camera, and as she moved to snap a picture, Tom's hand darted out to cover the lens. "Don't be camera shy, dear."

"Don't," he warned. With his free hand, he removed his badge and flashed it. Tom ensured she could hear the jangle of handcuffs in his pocket. "No pictures, no comment, nothing. This is an official police stakeout, and you - " Tom frowned. "How did you even know I was here?"

"Detective Tom Riddle," Rita sighed. In the smoggy lamplight, her bleach blonde hair glowed, the curls stiff with hairspray. "Let me say. For an esteemed detective, you're not particularly low-profile."

With a jolt, Tom shoved open the car door and backed Rita Skeeter to the curb. He slammed the door behind him with a foot, flashing her his badge. Again. "Detective Chief Inspector Riddle, thank you," he said with gritted teeth. "If you're going to insult me, at least be precise about it. Come here,"

Grabbing her by the elbow, thumb digging into a pressure point, he dragged her into a nearby alley. "If you wanted time alone with me, Tommy, you could've asked," she said coyly, tripping over her heels.

Scanning the area for any eavesdroppers, Tom let her go. He covered his face with his hands and released a sharp growl, facing the wall. "You're a nuisance at the best of times, Rita. Unfortunately for you, this just so happens to be the worst of times. I'm going to ask you one more time. What do you know?"

"Well, to a trained eye, you're being a bit obvious. You rented a vehicle with tinted windows, no plates - and," she admitted reluctantly. "I saw you pull up hours ago from my office." Rita flapped a hand toward the ninth floor of the Daily Prophet building. If Tom squinted, he could see an ugly floral curtain wisping in the wind through an open window. "No one exited the car for hours. A little suspicious, no?"

Tom grit his teeth. He knew for a fact Rita wasn't nearly that clever; she always had an inside source. "Who told you?"

Rita batted her eyes innocently. "Don't think I could figure it out on my own, huh, Detective? Afraid someone might trump you in investigative skills?" Unimpressed and refusing to rise to the bait, Tom waited. "Alright, don't look at me like that. In this instance," she paused, put-upon. "I did have an informant, yes. This morning I received a fax from - you know, I'd really love to tell you, but there are shield laws and such," she shrugged a bird-like shoulder. Tom fought the urge to wring her neck. "It told me someone from the station would be staking out my place of work - you have a suspect here, don't you? One of my colleagues? That makes it my business."

"Incorrect, Ms. Skeeter. It's not your business. Although, it could be if I decided to arrest you for obstruction of justice - "

Rita's eyes flashed, and her saccharine demeanor showed a crack. "You and your boys are always threatening me with that," she pulled back. "But you never seem up to the task. It's almost as if you all know that I've solved most of your cases for you - " Tom opened his mouth to protest.

"Or, at the very least, pointed you in the right direction. I could help you, Riddle," she pressed herself against him, desperate enough to proposition herself. Tom drew himself back, hitting the grimy wall. "And you could help me. A little tit-for-tat."

"Now why would I do that?" Tom humored her. "What could I possibly give you that your informant," he spat the word. "Cannot?"

"Well, you're not just Head Detective anymore, are you, Tom? Can I call you Tom? Of course, I can. You're a survivor, Tommy - you lived through the Matchmaker and have insights that even Ginny Weasley," her nose crinkled. "Can't give me."

Tom stiffened. "What do you know about Weasley?"

Rita blinked, baffled. "Well, she's a survivor too, isn't she? A 'match'," her lips curled in an ugly frown. "The girl works at a damn news corporation and won't give me the time of day! Although, on second thought, that may have to do with the party at Doge's where I called sports news the bull-headed, brainless jock strap of journalism," she mused, tapping a sharply pointed nail on her bottom lip. "Point is, we have little respect for one another. But why do you care? Is all - this - " Rita waved a general hand over the car and Tom's suspicious behavior. "Is this all about the missing little girlfriend?"

"No."

"It is!" Rita was overjoyed. She bounced on the heels of her tall, spiked shoes. "I knew something was suspicious about her. After Weasley was kidnapped by the Matchmaker, she missed work for a month on trauma leave. Her girlfriend goes missing, and she barely seems affected! Almost as if - "

"She's trying too hard to be normal," Tom murmured.

"Oh, yes, this is going to work brilliantly. We're practically finishing each other's sentences!"

Blue eyes narrowed. "What else do you know about Weasley?"

"Well, I know a fake cry when I see one," her eyes sparkled behind cat-eye glasses. "Human Resources called Weasley down to ask about her well-being, and I just so happened to be walking by. She acted distraught enough, didn't want to be questioned, but - that's just it, she was acting. Weasley's good at that; she was completely unqualified for her position, just out of school, but acted confident and suddenly she's getting all the best interviews!"

Tom, annoyed, tried to pivot. "Focus, Skeeter. She's our leading suspect, but we have little proof as there hasn't been a body - "

"You want proof, huh?" Rita scrambled for her purse, where she pulled out a glossy keycard. "Come with me, then," She snapped the purse closed. "I'll find you some evidence, and in thanks - I suppose you'll just have to owe me a favor. I have a thought," she started sauntering away, heels clicking. "My coworkers will be green with envy once I've published a once-in-a-lifetime interview with Detective Chief Inspector Riddle, Broken-Hearted Victim of the Matchmaker!"

"I'm not - brokenhearted - " He started weakly. Conflicted, Tom stared at her swaying back for a good thirty seconds before letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Where are we going?" He said, easily catching up to her with his long strides.

"Weasley's office, of course," Rita said.

Tom opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him sharply as they reached the glass front doors. They entered a large lobby, decorated in monochrome. The walls were plastered with blown-up copies of old newspapers and black-and-white images of celebrities. Tom recognized The Beatles, Princess Diana, Margaret Thatcher and - Tom winced - Gilderoy Lockhart. The man smoldered down at him.

Thumbing the elevator button, the doors slid open and they stepped inside. Rita flashed the key card over a scanner and with a beep, the doors closed. They slowly rose up to the tenth floor.

"Where did you say we were going?" Tom whispered furiously. "I don't think I heard you right. We're going to the office she's in right now?"

"Don't be silly," Rita said, calm in her territory. "She's interviewing some woman athlete over dinner. Gwenog Jones, don't suppose you've heard of her?" Tom did, barely recognizing her as some famous football player. She rolled her eyes. "Yes, apparently it's the interview of the year. Jones rarely allows for private correspondence with the press, and out of all the journalists, she just had to choose Weasley."

"You tried to get an interview, huh?" Tom said, amused.

"I'm not a sports journalist," she sniffed. But yes, Tom took that to mean. "Personally, I think little Ginny has a crush on Gwenog - and once you've seen the shrine she has in her office, you will too," Rita leaned close, conspiratorially. "Moved on a little fast, don't you think?"

Tom's brows pressed together before clearing. "I don't have time for your ridiculous water cooler gossip," he snapped at her. "Get to the point."

Rita pouted. "Point is, her office is empty, and I take that to mean free for public viewing."

"You mean prying?"

She huffed. "I mean gathering evidence, detective," she said innocently.

"Oh - so this is your process then? Breaking into places you don't belong, bothering cops, sneaking pictures - " he nodded at her chest, where the camera hung.

"This isn't a tell-all, detective! Don't spoil it. You can read all about my process in my upcoming autobiography. Rita Skeeter: Fly on the Wall."

Fitting, that she'd compare herself to a bug.

"Speaking of cameras, you can use mine." She unlooped the camera from around her neck. "You can work a Nikon, yes? Any evidence we find, there's your proof."

"Poisoned fruit from a poisoned tree," Tom murmured, inspecting the camera. "I don't need it. Anything I find will be useless without a warrant, anyways."

"Why bother with a warrant when you have a witness willing to lie for the 'greater good'?" Rita arched a brow, stepping out of the elevator. "I'm an excellent actress. How else would I have gotten into so many of your crime scenes?"

Tom had nothing to say to that.

Phones were ringing and keyboards were clacking. A series of cubicles were filled with restless reporters, varying from sports to crime journalists. Posters and signed autographs were plastered across the walls. "It's dinnertime," Rita told him from the corner of her mouth. "They should all be leaving soon. Try to look busy."

Tom nodded and cleared his throat. His posture shifted as he followed her through the newsroom. He straightened his back, fixed a smug, arrogant smirk on his features. His suit jacket, plain and unbuttoned so not to track suspicion, helped him blend right in.

They passed one computer playing a live game of rugby. A reporter, necktie loose and shoes off, had his feet on his desk and a box of Chinese food in his lap. Cheeks filled with food, he cheered, snapping his chopsticks together as a goal was made.

"Layabouts," Rita sneered, rolling her eyes. "Come on."

She led him into a short hall and stopped at a tall white door; the name on the placard read G. Weasley.

Rita carefully manhandled Tom so he was leaning on the wall beside her. "Stand here," she said, entirely serious. "You're my shield. Pretend like we're talking,"

"We were talking," Tom murmured. "But you kept stopping to be dramatic."

"Drama is my forte, love. The readers eat it up," she told him knowingly, taking out her keycard. Carefully, she slotted it between the doorknob and the frame.

"This is illegal," Tom made sure to inform her. "And you're doing it wrong."

She blew a blonde curl out of her eyes and batted her long lashes. "If you think you can do better, detective," she purred, wiggling the card back and forth. "By all means."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her.

"Last chance to back out," Rita reminded him. "Do you want the evidence or not?"

"I want it."

"Good!" she said, just as the lock clicked. She opened the door for him, suddenly all chivalrous. "Ladies first."

Sparing one last glance back at the busy newsroom, Tom slipped into the office, one hand on his badge. For the greater good, he reminded himself.

Rita shut the door behind them with her elbow, wise enough not to leave fingerprints on the knob. "Try not to touch anything," Tom told her, dragging out a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket. He inflated the gloves, warming them, before slipping them on.

"It would help to see," Rita said blandly, using her fingernail to flick on the lights.

Tom blinked, suddenly assaulted with green. The walls were covered head-to-toe with Holyhead Harpies posters, with green and yellow accents. Even the drawn curtains were decorated with the Holyhead Harpies symbol - a claw. "Someone . . . is clearly a fan."

"Gwenog Jones is the Harpies' captain," Rita stared jealously at a signed photo of the sharp-faced, brown-skinned woman. "Interview of the year," she said again, despondent.

Shaking his head, Tom purposefully glided over to Ginny's desk. It was messy, at first glance, littered with papers and pens and a gleaming silver stapler.

But tipping his head, Tom saw a pattern; the mess was purposeful, but everything clearly had its place. Paperwork was placed closest to the rubbish bin, finished articles were beside the framed photo of Ginny and a brood of redheads and her current projects were by the desktop computer for research. Something was wrong, but Tom couldn't quite figure out what.

It's just like yours, he realized.

There was no personality. Beside the Holyhead Harpies obsession and the obligatory family photos, there weren't any personal effects. Not a single stress ball, encouraging poster or even a bobble-head.

Tom considered the computer. Everything around it was strictly professional; a calendar, a notepad, an address book, the phone. Her computer was solely for work. Tom doubted they'd find any personal information stored in it, but he decided to check her emails at the very least. Tom shifted the mouse.

The screen flashed, asking for a password.

He frowned and began looking under the keyboard and in drawers. Real life wasn't like the movies, Tom sighed. People normally don't leave out convenient clues to their password on post-its.

Kneading his forehead, Tom tried to recall Ginny's case file. "What's most important to her?" he murmured. Tom snorted. "The Harpies and herself, obviously."

'Holyhead' he tapped into the computer, before shaking his head. He deleted it, and instead typed 'Gwenog'. The screen shook with an error message. Two tries left. He glanced around her collection of photographs. He recognized the Pyramid of Giza standing tall behind a family of red-heads. In the photo, she was young, cheeks flushed and freckles prominent. She was leaning away from her mother's possessive grip, however, her smile painfully wide . . . almost forced.

"Skeeter," Tom spoke absently, scanning the other picture frames. "Are there any photos of Luna Lovegood over where you're snooping?"

Rita didn't even bother defending herself.

She was standing beside a bookshelf, her sleeves pulled up over her hands as she flipped through a memoir, signed by Bulgarian athlete Viktor Krum. "Hm? Oh, no. Just pictures of Jones and a few other athletes. Although . . . " her brow quirked up in glee. She shoved the book away and reached down to rifle through a rubbish bin. She hissed, pulling her hand out quick as she cut herself on a glass shard. "She broke a frame." Biting a red lip, Rita gingerly removed a photograph, shaking off the broken glass. "I'm guessing the blonde is Luna?"

Tom moved to peer over Rita's shoulder. The picture, was indeed, of Ginny and her missing girlfriend. They were college students at the most; Ginny was donned in overalls and a fraying braid, while Luna was angelic in a white sundress. Her hair was adorned with a crown of purple and yellow wildflowers, her smile fond and dreamy. "She was beautiful," Tom murmured. "They were happy. Why break the picture?"

In the background of the picture, although Tom was careful not to let his expression show it, was a blur of dark hair and green eyes, playing ball with another red-head. Ginny, Luna, and Harry. All connected - Harry had mentioned her in the coffin, hadn't he?

Tom pursed his lips.

"It was recent," Rita suggested. "It was on top of the other rubbish."

Tom turned it around, hoping for a date or a name. He was sorely disappointed. "Maybe she did move on," Tom said, slipping the photo into his front jacket pocket. "But would she have had time to change her computer password?"

Recharged with hope, Tom sat at the computer and spread his gloved fingers across the keyboard. Most computers require a password six-digits long, or more. Simply 'Luna' was out. 'Lovegood', he carefully typed, pressing enter. The screen buffered for a moment, before beeping out an error message.

"Unfortunate," he said. "Only one try left."

Inspecting the calendar beside him, Tom had a sudden thought. He flipped through the past months, hoping to chance upon two words. He cycled through the entire year, before flipping back to the months prior. January . . . February. Tom sat back, pleased. Luna's Birthday! It read, with a heart drawn in red pen. The thirteenth of February. Tom did some quick math in his head and guessed her birth year.

He typed into the password box the first variation of the dates that came to mind. 110281.

Closing his eyes, Tom pressed enter. The computer released a pleased hum.

"Got it, then?" Rita asked him, perching on the desk beside him. "Oh, yay," with her hip, she accidentally nudged aside a pen jar. It rattled precariously on the edge before clattering to the ground, pens flying across the carpet.

Tom scrunched his nose at her. "You're cleaning that up so she doesn't notice."

Rita flapped a hand at him, jumping off the desk. Fixing her skirt, she crouched down to gather the fallen pens. "Find anything?"

"Not much," Tom murmured, retinas reflecting the bright resolution. Two tabs were open; one for her email and the other -

"Check her email, first," Rita peeked up. "I want to see if she was invited to Bertha Jorkin's baby shower."

Rolling his eyes, Tom brought the mouse to the Inbox (178). "She's been a little distracted lately, hasn't she?" He scrolled down, eyes darting from one subject line to the other. She only opened one, he realized. URGENT: Interview Raincheck?the subject asked.

"She got an email from Gwenog Jones' publicist," he realized, dread settling in his stomach. "They're rescheduling the interview for another time; Gwenog had a bad reaction to sushi at lunch. So if Ginny's not with Jones, where is she?"

A more recent email, sent by the London railway, answered this question.

It was a receipt for a one-way train ticket to Cornwall, scheduled for tomorrow at seven in the morning. Tom checked the time at the bottom of the computer. It was nearing five in the evening.

She was making a break for it.

"U - um," Rita said, voice muffled. She sounded ill, voice uncharacteristically wobbly. "Detective? Is . . . is this the sort of proof you're looking for?"

Blinking, Tom glanced down beneath the desk. Rita had been digging through Ginny's bookbag, the flap open in her lap. Rita flipped through a journal - a diary, rather - engraved with Ginny's name in gold letters. Her pale features were screwed in an expression of disgust as she lingered on one, particular page.

"What did you find?" Tom asked, bending to see.

With shaking fingers, Rita lifted a small clump of - something - by the long nails of her thumb and forefinger.

It was a chunk of tangled, flaxen hair - streaked with blood. "It - it was pulled out by the scalp," Rita said, eyes crossing as she stared at it. "I can see some skin."

"Careful now," Tom said softly. Rita's throat was bobbing, as though she was about to hurl. He reached toward his pocket, pulling out an evidence bag. "Put it inside. Try not to get any of your DNA on it."

Nodding tremulously, Rita dropped the hair into Tom's open evidence bag. Lifting it into the light, Tom twisted the bag this way and that, mouth set in a grim line. "That's awfully damning," he murmured. "I suppose we can call my hunch a success, then."

Rita ignored his smug tone. "S - she takes that journal with her everywhere," Rita said, still struggling to swallow. She handed him the diary. "I thought it was her planner."

"You're not wrong . . . " Tom murmured. He pinched the corner of the pages, scanning her entries. "She just plans much worse things in this. If she brings it everywhere, why didn't she take it with her?"

Rita shrugged, still seated on the ground. Tom suspected that her knees were too weak to rise. "If she brought anything with her," Rita swallowed. "The police would've thought she'd run away of her own volition. But if she leaves things behind - "

"We might suspect that she had gone missing, like Luna."

Rita gave a jerky nod. "M - motives aside, this is all you'll need to prosecute her, yes? Does it say anything about Luna Lovegood?"

Tom shook his head, brows furrowed in consternation. "I'm not sure. Her handwriting is atrocious, I'll need my handwriting analysts to look it over."

"I'm willing to come forward as a witness," Rita offered, trying shakily to stand. She leaned heavily against the desk. "I'll - I'll pretend I saw the hair while she was writing in the diary. The puzzle pieces clicked and I called you - an officer of the law," She said, glancing at him hopefully. "Good thing I already had an interview planned between us, right? Otherwise, I wouldn't have your number."

Tom's mouth tightened as he considered it.

"That might work," he said grudgingly. "You'll have you stick to your script."

"Like I said," Rita raised a hand to her face. When she pulled it away she was smiling brightly, albeit shakily. "Great actress. Where is she headed next?"

"Cornwall," Tom said, closing the diary. Holding it sideways, he tried to slip it into another evidence bag, but it was simply too large. The journal was overflowing with notes and photos, crammed between the pages. "She purchased a one-way ticket online."

"Shouldn't have left a paper trail," Rita tsked. "Rookie mistake."

Tom was inclined to agree. "She's becoming desperate. Sloppy. If I can get this to Kingsley before four, we can meet her at the station with the full force of the DLE - " he started confidently, jaw set in solemn determination.

"Oh! Slow down, cowboy, you dropped something," Rita pointed, and they watched as a piece of paper glided it's way down to the ground. It landed beside Tom's foot. "That's . . . that's a photo from my article," she recognized, snatching it up.

In the clipping, Lockhart was standing over an open casket - the bullet-riddled body of his husband had been respectfully omitted from print. "The one from Mundungus Fletcher's funeral."

"Yes . . . 'Honeymoon Turned Deadly,' I recall."

Rita's brows flew up. "You read it."

Tom didn't bother deigning that with a response. He flipped open the diary, slotting it back between the pages. "Why would she have this?"

"He was another match," Rita realized, heels bouncing. "Maybe she was keeping an eye on them."

Blue eyes darted up. "Think about it," he sneered. "She clearly had something to do with Lovegood's disappearance. We have to assume her motive for everything is nefarious."

"Whatever happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?"

"It goes out the window once you find a missing girl's blood-soaked hair on the inside of an unreadable diary. Check this out." Tom pulled out several other sheaves of paper. One after another, out of order and disjointed, the clippings came mostly from first edition copies of the Daily Prophet. The majority had been written by Rita Skeeter, herself.

"She was tracking The Matchmaker's progress," Rita realized, recognizing articles from the first few victims, Grindelwald's trial, the Lockhart's engagement. "She touched this one the most." It was a picture of Ginny and Luna, clutching each other's hands tearfully as they exited the gravesite of their own kidnapping. The ink was smudged and the photo crinkled almost beyond recognition. "What the hell?"

Slashed through Luna's sweet, tear-stained face was a large, messy 'X'.

"She's crossing their faces out," Tom realized in abrupt horror. "Dumbledore. Lovegood. Fletcher. Myrtle Warren - although I don't see how she fits the pattern."

"My god," Rita realized, looking sick. "I got an email this morning from a source at St. Mungos. The girl was admitted after a suicide attempt. She tried to drown herself. It's . . . " the woman raked a hand over her face, expression wane. "She's alive. But the absence of oxygen to her brain left her in a fate worse than death. I sent a draft of an article to our editor, but it was trashed; my imagery was, apparently, too graphic," she grimaced. "Ginny must have seen it." Slamming the diary onto the desk, Tom tore through the pages, searching for one last photo. "What are you - "

"One by one," Tom snarled. "Half of the Matchmaker's pairs are turning up dead."

"That's . . . true. God."

"The Matchmaker's profile is notoriously symmetric. They match a pair of two, complete opposites, placed vertically in a coffin. Ginny's desk - on the surface - it looks messy, haphazard. But there's a method to the madness. It's meticulous and carefully crafted to deceive."

Rita seemed doubtful.

Gesturing vehemently at the desk, Tom elaborated. "Everything is symmetrical, papers on either side of the computer, pencils completely straight. Her books are organized almost painstakingly, and the posters on the wall are slotted together like Tetris blocks. It's apart of her profile; she likes symmetry."

"Her profile?" Rita asked dubiously. "You can't possibly be suggesting - "

"Criminals like to inject themselves into their crimes, experience it themselves. Ginny and Luna were the Matchmaker's first victims; if Ginny is truly as obsessed - as twisted as I suspect, she wanted to relive the fantasy. Instead of traumatizing her girlfriend, again and again, Ginny began to live vicariously throw other pairs. And now that everything's gone to hell in a handbasket, she's escalating. She likely wants to finish what Grindelwald started. By killing Dumbledore, he started a chain of events that's lead . . . to us."

Tom nearly dropped the book when he found it. A photo, grainy and taken from afar, of Harry being led to an ambulance after they were found. "Harry," he whispered, almost a whimper.

"I took that picture," Rita said. "Kingsley wouldn't let me get any closer to the crime scene."

Tom, like he tended to, ignored her.

He had bigger problems.

Harry's figure, although distant and nearly unrecognizable, was violently crossed out.

Three times, in bright, red ink.

"I have to - " Tom choked out, frantically shoving the diary and the photos back into Ginny's bookbag. He was certain that the wayward serial kidnapper wouldn't mind him borrowing it. He patted his pockets, ensuring he had the strip of hair. His stomach churned at the thought of Harry, scalped and bleeding, helpless without a savior. "I have to go - there's . . . someone I have to help. Wait - hand me that address book."

Soft pants fell from Tom's lips as he walked briskly away from his car, toward the smattering of apartment buildings on London's west end. The building, made of brick, was crumbling and in disrepair; but the window sills were decorated with gorgeously blooming flowers in overflowing planters.

Tom peered up at the apartment, biting his bottom lip; hard.

"Harry," Tom murmured. He removed Ginny's address book and checked the address. He glanced up again. "I guess this is you."

A sign reading Beware Dog was in the first-floor window.

Taking in a sharp breath, Tom carefully tucked the book away - along with the bags of evidence trapped in Ginny's book bag. Smoothing out his suit, patting at his dark curls, Tom clambered up the front steps.

Almost a second later, after staring at the door, he tromped back down and snatched a handful of yellow and white from the neighbor's planter. Freesia, if he was not mistaken. 'Symbolizing trust,' He recalled his mother's voice, reciting flower meanings from memory as she tended to her garden; black hair tied up into a loose bun, dirt caked on her knees, a garden tool in hand.

Resisting a shudder at the thought of dirt and graves, Tom carefully pressed the intercom button for the first floor. It released a long buzz, before falling silent.

Tom waited, rocking back and forth on his heels, debating just kicking down the door. After all, he did have probable cause that Harry could be in danger. What if, Tom began to worry, Harry was already dead, lying on the floor or bleeding out, and Tom was down here, helpless -

He pressed the button again, harsh and insistent. "Answer, damn it," he swore, wishing he'd gotten Harry's phone number. "Answer."

As if by miracle, the button glowed red.

A harsh rasping sound echoed through the intercom. Heavy breaths, fearful but subdued.

"Harry?" Tom demanded, concerned. His fingers clenched the freesias tight enough that a petal shook loose, fluttering to the ground. "It's Tom. Tom Riddle? Are you alright?"

"Tom," Harry whispered back, fear in his tone. "What are you - " there was a muffled rustle, and Harry's voice choked. "I'm sorry. Now - now's not a good time."

"Harry, let me up," Tom said, his heart was pounding rapidly. "Let me up, now."

"Please," Harry said, although Tom got the impression he was pleading to someone else entirely. "Please, you can't - after everything - "

The call cut off.

Dropping all pretense of this being a casual social visit, Tom rammed his shoulder into the door, swearing beneath his breath as pain flared up his arm. Bracing himself, he threw himself into the frame once more.

The door slammed open, the splintered wood caving in with a crunch. Sparing barely a glance at the damage, Tom followed the sound of a dog's manic barking. He stopped at the first door he saw, a frayed mat welcoming him. As his hand grasped the knob, a muffled crash and a pained cry met his ears.

Tom shoved his way inside and watched in horror as Harry crumpled. Dropping the bookbag, he held his taser aloft. "DLE! Put your hands - " He caught a glimpse of red hair disappearing through an open window, a kitchen knife clattering to the floor beside Harry. "Goddamnit."

Tom darted toward the window and leaned over, but it was too late. She was gone, her heels left abandoned on the sidewalk outside for a swifter getaway.

"Fuck that," Tom swore, dropping the taser onto the couch. It bounced lightly on the cushioned futon, the pattern a garish paisley.

Falling to his knees, Tom gathered his dazed and bleeding friend. He pressed his fingers to Harry's pulse, detecting a weak, but rapidly beating pulse. "Hey," he tapped Harry's cheeks. "Come on, wake up, it's okay," Tom coaxed. "Show me those pretty green eyes of yours."

Achingly slow, slow enough that Tom wondered if Harry needed paramedics, long lashes batted open. His pupils were dilated, the green nearly enveloped by black.

"Wha-? Tom?" Harry tried to sit up. He immediately regretted it, a groan slipping past his lips. "God - what happened?"

"She got you with the knife handle. Knocked you out for a minute."

Harry groaned, pressing his cheek into Tom's thigh. "I thought we were just having lunch. But she - " he struggled to continue, words slurring. He tasted iron on his tongue and raised a trembling hand to his head. "She was acting strange. Am I bleeding?"

Tom smeared the blood away from Harry's eyes. "Don't stress yourself. Your glasses shattered and you're all cut up, but I don't think there's head trauma. Either way, try not to fall asleep - I'm going to patch you up." Stretching to grab a pillow off the futon, he carefully lowered Harry's head onto the cushion. Blood soaked Tom's shirt sleeves.

Standing shakily, he swiftly approached the kitchen. Tom rifled through the cupboards, hoping to find a first-aid kit. Instead, all he found were chipped coffee mugs and an old set of plates. The table was set with fixings for dinner, two sandwiches half-made and dog food set out. The dog was nowhere to be seen, but Tom could hear the scratch of claws against a door.

"There's a kit in the bathroom," Harry called feebly from the floor. "Could you let Padfoot out, too? He's . . . " Harry shifted. "His barking is going to annoy the neighbors."

"But not the attempted murder?" Tom wondered aloud.

He approached the rattling bathroom door, steady so the dog wouldn't perceive him as a danger. Padfoot had stopped barking for a moment, but the snarls picked up the moment Tom turned the knob. A freakishly large, shaggy black dog darted out at the first chance of escape. His paws clattered against the floor, a whimper erupting from his maw as he spotted Harry on the ground.

"Oof - " Harry exclaimed, weakly clutching at Padfoot's fur. "Calm down, boy, I'm okay. Hush, boy. Hush," he gentled. Still, on high alert, the dog sniffed around the window before collapsing in a pile of black fur at Harry's side. A long, rolling tongue tentatively laved at Harry's blood-stained hands.

"Gross, Padfoot," Tom heard Harry say. "Don't eat that."

Opening the mirror cabinet and gathering an armful of supplies - gauze, a rag, tweezers, a needle and string for stitches - Tom paused. His fingers brushed against an unlabeled vial of a clear, odorless chemical.

His eyes slipped shut. Shaking his head, Tom shut the cabinet and returned to the living room.

Keeping a wary eye on the mutt, Tom wiped the blood from Harry's scalp and began to clean the wound. "This might sting a bit," he said apologetically, applying the rubbing alcohol in light dabs.

Padfoot growled, deep in his throat, as Harry let out a high pitched whimper.

"I don't think it needs stitches," Tom winced in sympathy, using a pair of tweezers to remove a small shard of glass. "Not very deep, but you'll have a small scar."

"At least I'll look distinguished," Harry murmured, humor leaking through the grimace of pain. "Why - why are you here? We haven't spoken since the coffin. I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"I could never forget you."

There was a long silence, filled with Harry's labored breathing and the jangle of Padfoot's collar "That doesn't explain jack shite. Why were you here?"

Although the profanity was uncalled for, Tom pressed his lips together, patient. He stood and went to the kitchen sink, scrubbing the blood from his hands. His finely muscled back was tense, muscles flexing and releasing. Harry sat up, leaning heavily against Padfoot, his fingers curled against the dark fur.

"Why haven't you called the police?" he asked instead, changing the question. His tone was mournful, almost bitter. "That was attempted murder, wasn't it? And you're a detective. It's your duty to catch criminals,"he spat. "Right?"

"She's got a train to Cornwall in the morning," Tom said dismissively. "My men will be waiting undercover at the station to apprehend her. I was just hoping - before they all heard her excuses and scapegoating - that I could hear your side of the story, first."

The boy, pale enough as it was from blood loss, seemed to whiten further. "My side - " Harry swallowed tightly. "You - you mean about the attack?"

Tom decided to go easy on him. "I suppose we can start there first if you're most comfortable," he continued, eyes narrowed. "Although, rest assured, we will talk about the rest later."

All Tom could see was a dark head of hair bobbing up and down in agreement.

"Why weren't you at work, Harry?" Approaching the boy as he would a startled animal, Tom sat cross-legged across from him, blue eyes unwavering. Padfoot acted as a barrier between them, crawling into Harry's lap and lazily watching the tall, imposing stranger impeding on his territory.

"Slughorn let me go. With benefits, but still," Harry buried his head into Padfoot's fur. "I've missed so many days this past month, he hired someone new. Perhaps that's for the better," he said, voice muffled.

"Did Ginny know you were home?"

Harry sniffed. "Probably. We've been avoiding each other since - well, for a while. But sometimes I come home after shopping or walking the dog, and I feel like she's been here. Moved stuff around. Drinken some of my wine. She has a key," he explained. "And this always used to be her safe space. She'd come here unannounced and make herself at home. I allowed it. She was - is - my friend. I never thought she would - "

"Turn on you?" Tom asked, not unkindly. He shifted, noticing Harry's eyes glisten with tears "None of that, now," he sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I can get your statement later. I think - I just think you should rest, for a bit. Your head wound isn't so bad that it would be detrimental, but - " Tom hesitated, taking in Harry's dark-smudged eyes and his trembling, tired limbs. "You look like you could use the sleep."

Harry began to shove Padfoot off his lap. "You'll - you'll stay, right?" he said, unsure.

"The whole night, if I have to. She could come back," Tom added unnecessarily. "Although unlikely, it's better to err on the side of caution." She was on the run, but above all else, she was obsessive. Was Harry still in danger from her? Tom wondered, eyeing the shaking, tired-eyed man. Or was Harry's greatest danger his own psyche?

"Whoa, whoa - careful, now," Tom grabbed Harry under the arms as the boy lurched forward, dizzy. "If I was smart, I'd have a doctor check you for a concussion," Tom's lips tugged into a frown.

"I'm not concussed," Harry said, shaking away his vertigo. "Trust me. I've been hit a lot worse."

Tom didn't like the sound of that. He led Harry into the master bedroom. It was decorated in shades of red, almost burgundy in color, with gold accents. Indoor plants decorated nearly every surface, a stack of books on botany, chemistry and advanced mathematics in the corner. "Leftover from uni," Harry grimaced, settling heavily onto his mattress. "I was expelled early on. Very start of my second year. Could you grab me that shirt - draped on the - yeah, thanks."

With a pained expression, Harry peeled off his blood-stained shirt and replaced it with a clean one. Tom averted his eyes, politely ignoring that pale expanse of smooth, smooth skin. The dresser, he noted, had been pushed in front of the closet, blocking entry.

"Why were you expelled?" Tom wasn't even sure why he wanted to ask. He settled himself at the foot of the bed, peering down at the frayed green and red quilt. The colors were muted, more of pale salmon and forest green, so it looked less like Christmas and more . . . homey.

Harry peeled up the bedcovers and slid underneath. "The headmaster had it out for me," he said idly, although his eyes were hard. "Dunno why. But he kept trying to find ways to get me in trouble, from detention to points taken; I wasn't a troublemaker, I was one of the quiet ones. Studious. But then my friend got drunk and crashed a car into school property and I got pinned for it. I was in the passenger's seat. Nearly died."

Tom grimaced at the admittance. "Did your . . . friend get expelled?"

"Yes, and he conceivably got it worse than me. His mum just about strangled him. He's - um. He's how I met Ginny. They're siblings, a year apart. I used to stay with them back before Slughorn gave me a job," Harry smoothed a hand across his face, kneading at his brow. "Ron's a good man. Works so hard, I barely see him. He works in freelance construction now, but he could've been something great, I tell you."

Tom wondered if 'Ron' was the man playing football with Harry in the photo. It burned in his front pocket.

"And you? Could you have been something great."

Harry considered it, leaning back onto a pillow. "Great? No. No, I'm just Harry."

"Well, 'just Harry'," Tom said, with the faintest semblance of a smirk. "I've got to make a call - not the station, I'll save that for the morning. My . . . my mother," he said, unable to lie when staring at those wide, spring green eyes. "She worries."

"That's sweet," Harry gave a tired smile. His words faded into a soft mumble. "You're sweet."

Rolling his eyes, Tom stood and toed off his shoes. As soon as he opened the door to step into the hall, there was a jingle of Padfoot's dog collar, and the massive mutt hopped onto Harry's bed. "Padfoot," Harry groaned. "You know you're not supposed to be up here, boy."

The sounds of Harry's muffled laughter made Tom's blue eyes sparkle like a night sky. Once in the hall, Tom found his belongings. His taser was on the couch, his coat draped over a kitchen chair. Ginny's bag sitting innocuously by the threshold where he'd dropped it. Glaring at the bag, and cursing its owner, Tom grabbed his coat and dug through the pockets for his phone.

Flipping the lid open, he speed-dialed his mother; quietly hoping that she wouldn't pick up. It would be far, far easier just to leave a voicemail. The dial tone rang for only a few moments before Poppy, her voice saddled with concern, answered.

"Tom, dear? You're late for dinner. Your mother nearly had me call Detective Sergeant Shacklebolt again."

"Yes," Tom acknowledged, grimacing. "I apologize. I never meant to worry her. I . . . I'm spending the night with a friend, Poppy."

"Oh!" Poppy said in surprise before her voice turned sly. "Not a lady friend, I suspect?"

"Not a lady friend," he confirmed, amused. "Harry Potter."

"The boy that was - "

" - in the coffin with me." Tom said tiredly. "He's been having trouble sleeping, and I thought I could be of some assistance. I'll be staying for breakfast, as well."

"Uh-huh," she said, tone dripping with amusement. "I'll let your mother know; she'll be overjoyed you're finally dating."

Tom flushed, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. "It's not a date, Poppy."

"Use protection!"

With that merciless, mirthful response, she hung up on him.

"- Poppy!"

Tom, flustered, snapped the phone shut.

Scrubbing the red from his cheeks, Tom began to tear off his blood-stained outer dress shirt and his trousers, leaving him in a white cotton t-shirt and boxers, black socks hugging his lightly-furred calves. Folding his clothes methodically and placing them by Ginny's bag, he re-entered Harry's room, unsurprised to see the boy fast asleep.

In the dark, he looked pale. Almost dead, with his red wound a glaring contrast.

Tom debated pulling up a chair and sleeping upright, until he noticed the conveniently pulled back sheets. The pillow was fluffed and enticing. Swallowing tightly, Tom maneuvered past Padfoot at the end of the bed and crawled onto the mattress beside Harry.

He peered down at the boy, watching Harry's chest rise and fall at steady intervals. Calmed by the soft breathing, the darkened lights and the warmth of another human body, Tom almost felt like he was back in the coffin again. Secure. Alone together.

He settled his head onto the pillow, his nose brushing against the dark, messy curls of his companion. Tom took an imperceptible breath, smelling the tang of blood mixed with a sweet, boyish scent -

His eyes slipped shut.

Even though he was in bed with a criminal, Tom never slept better.

To be continued . . .