"It's her," Ron croaked, eyes flicking between the two houses – Martha Berkins' and the missing man's from MCU. "Harry! Harry, do you understand?! She's been coming to the Ministry for– Oh, sweet Merlin, over a year now? And who did we put in charge of her case?! Bloody hell!"

Harry nodded sharply. "Rawlings," he whispered. "Rawlings was heading her case. Rawlings, who ran away... Fuck!" He lifted a hand to run his fingers through strands of tousled hair. He couldn't believe it – it was so obvious – and yet no one, including them, hadn't been able to put the facts together until they were literally staring them in the face.

Martha Berkins had descended from her porch, and was slowly making her way towards them, following a snow cleared path. Watching her turtle-like approach and hastily returning the wand to his holster, Harry put everything he knew into context.

1. Martha Berkins lived next to an empty house that had once belonged a member of MCU. A person that had been, in all likelihood, murdered by either Yaxley or Dolohov.

2. For the past year, Mrs. Berkins had been complaining that someone was stealing food and other basic necessities from her residence.

3. Due to her history of miscellaneous and trivial allegations, no one had taken her seriously, and the case had been handed off to Rawlings. Rawlings, who was tied into this whole scheme and hadn't made any progress on the case in over a year.

...Over a year.

It all made sense now: where Yaxley was hiding, why every auror was running ragged without a single thing to show for his effort. The MCU personnel had fallen through the cracks in the aftermath of the war; no one had followed up, and their files had been lost in the Ministry. The house had stood abandoned – anyone could have moved in.

He wasn't certain, of course – you can't be one hundred percent certain in anything as an Auror, but it all folded into one neat little picture.

And that meant…

"He's here, Harry." Ron swallowed, clenching his fists. "It's where he's been hiding all this time – right under our noses."

"Should we alert HQ?"

The redhead hesitated, tracing his tongue over a pair of chapped lips. Molly would go bonkers if she saw. "He already had Rawlings on payroll," he said cautiously. "What if we just end up tipping him off? He'd run, and we'd lose him for good."

Old Mrs. Berkins was inching closer, and Harry made a snap decision.

"Just me and you then, partner," he said with a boyish grin and a twinkle in his verdant eyes. "Just like old times."

"Just like old times," Ron echoed, giving him a punch on the shoulder and then focused, because Mrs. Berkins had wandered into hearing range.

"It's about time," she was muttering crossly. "Thirty trips to the Ministry! A simple lack of respect, I say! Why in my day, I remember–"

"Mrs. Berkins!" Harry smoothly cut in. "My name's Mr. Potter, and this is my partner, Mr. Weasley. We're from the Auror Department, and we were hoping to–"

"I know that, boy," Martha acidly interrupted. "I'm old, not stupid! I can see the badges on your cloaks! I swear–"

"Mrs. Berkins, if I may," Ron said, "but can you tell us if the house next to yours is currently occupied?"

Martha paused, pursing her lips. "No," she answered with a glare. "Nobody's lived there since that Ballingtop fellow went missing, oh, must have been several months after the war. Don't know what happened to him. Worked for the Ministry I heard, some muggle issues. Strange little man, he was. Always kept to himself. No family. But I hardly see how this has anything to do–"

"So, you've seen no one living in that house for several years, correct? No comings or goings? No lights on in the evenings?"

"That's what I said, young man! Are you even qualified for your position? It's rude to interrupt, you know; my mother would always say that–"

"HARRY! BY THE TREE!"

Harry jerked his head, and heard it: the high-pitched whine of a incoming spell. His hairs stood on end, heart ramping up into overdrive. Grabbing Mrs. Berkins by her robes, he dove down into the street. A bolt of emerald light flashed by his nose, singeing the edge. Momentarily blinded, he hit the ground, gasping as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, and the bridge of his glasses cut into his skin. Mrs. Berkins fell nearby with a sickening crack and started to wail.

Somewhere to the side, Ron was shouting out stunning and binding spells, sending them in the direction of the empty house.

A second curse came flying towards Harry. He rolled to the side, hearing its frenzied whistle as it hit a heap of snow to his left. With a vengeful hiss, the frozen water sizzled, instantly turning to vapor.

Harry's wand was out in the next second. He was still lying prone on the ground, the snow on the lawns rising a foot or more above his head. It was a deceptive field of cover; instead of protecting him from enemy fire, it was just obstructing his view. Another spell ripped right through it, burning away snow and boiling concrete.

Blood was pounding in his ears, and then he felt a warning tingle on his skin. "Protego!" he screamed, and felt the impact of a slicing hex tear into his shield. It drove him back, sliding his body over the ground.

"Hold on, Harry!" Ron yelled, and then cursed as a well-placed incantation caused him to dive behind a tree. He screamed out several spells of his own, bombarding the place where the enemy magic was coming from in a scattered pattern. This gave Harry a brief respite, which he used to quickly glance at the old woman next to him.

Mrs. Berkins' wail had devolved into whimpers. She was exposed, unable to move with one of her legs jutting out at an awkward angle. Harry lifted his body into a crouch, keeping up the protective charm as he scampered over to her.

"Mrs. Berkins!" he hissed, fumbling with his other hand in the pocket that held Auror essentials. Among them was a special piece of fragmented stone that served as a portkey. Every registered auror had one. In times of need, they could activate the stone, and it would transport them to the other half of the magical artifact – kept in the Ministry – allowing for a quick escape. "Mrs. Berkins!" Harry repeated, retrieving the stone and pushing it into her grip. "Breathe! This will take you to safety! You'll be alright, ok?! Mrs. Ber–Martha! Listen to me!"

Using her first name seemed to work. The old witch blinked, a grimace of pain twisting her lips, but she managed to turn her face towards Harry.

"I'll have your badge for this!" she hollered suddenly. "You broke my leg! I'll write to the Prophet! I'll complain to the Minister! I'll–"

Another spell hit Harry's shield, splashing across the domed enclosure in a sparkle of vivid emerald droplets. Each one was filled with a deadly acid. One slid down onto an exposed portion of the old witch's robes, dissolving the fabric, and the woman shrieked. Harry grunted, doing his best to ignore her shrill cries, until he felt the magic in the artifact respond.

"This will take you to the Ministry!" Harry yelled, activating the magic in the stone. "You can write your complaint there! Now: on 3… 2… 1…!" The portkey whirred, heating up the air and sucking Mrs. Berkins' body into a twister, which promptly disappeared with a pop. Harry, no longer burdened with a civilian, dashed over to the tree that Ron was hiding behind. Ron covered his movements with several bursts of magic.

Panting, Harry landed next to him, tucking his limbs behind the thick oakish trunk. "He's moving towards the house," Ron puffed, as a dislodged branch fell next to them. The tree shuddered periodically, large bits of bark and wood being blasted away.

"Why hasn't he Apparated?" Harry gasped, pressing his back into the tree, but then realized the answer. "Shit! He's got something there!"

"Probably evidence incriminating to his connection in the Ministry or maybe even a link to Dolohov!" Ron guessed and then peered over the edge of the trunk. "IMPEDIMENTA!" he yelled. "STUPEFY!"

Harry saw the direction of his blasts – towards the house's porch – and added a few of his own. A shroud of blackness sprang up near their point of impact, swallowing the magic whole. A dark form moved within, quickly advancing towards the front door. Black robes in black dust – a familiar sight, one Harry had wished to never see again.

"We've got to intercept him!" he yelled. "If he destroys whatever he's after…!"

Ron nodded, shouting, "Call it in! We can't afford to lose him! Cover me… NOW!"

Harry jumped to his feet, his wand extended, bursts of light tearing into the darkness, ripping away oily clumps. Ron dashed forward, sprinting over the snow-covered lawn and jumping into the affected area head first, being careful to steer clear of his partner's spells. Harry took off after him, one hand still gripping the wand, the other reaching to press into his badge, fingers sweeping over the grooved metal in an intricate pattern.

The badge flashed once, twice, and then warmed to his touch. At this moment, alarm bells were going off in the Auror bullpen, signaling that a member of their department was in need of immediate assistance. His location would be tracked within minutes, and then a strike team of Aurors would apparate in.

He didn't have the time to wait for their arrival.

His feet burrowed into the snow, leaving a deep path as he ran over the lawn and up the porch steps. The shroud of darkness had dissipated, several strands still lingering near the ground. The door had been blasted in, revealing a foyer with exits to the left, right, and a staircase ascending to the second floor. Sounds of battle could be heard from above.

Harry leaped over the debris in the entranceway and bounded up the stairs, automatically marking the places where offensive magic had scoured the walls, leaving wide gashes weeping with plaster, dust and insulation. "Expulso! Endara!" he heard someone's voice bellow and cringed.

The spells used against them were dark, intended to maim or murder. The Aurors could only respond with incapacitating magic; their objective was to apprehend and interrogate Yaxley, not kill him.

There was a passageway that led off to the second floor, but the noises were coming from higher up. The stairs turned and then continued on to the third level. A sharp crash suddenly echoed from above. Ron's form, enveloped in a fiery glow, appeared at the top of the staircase and rapidly tumbled down. Harry yelled, instinctively casting a cushioning charm and then felt Ron's body slam into his, knocking them both into the wall of the second floor.

"Ah.." he groaned, feeling a cracking in his ribs. Ron moaned, and Harry, biting his lips from the throbbing pain in his midsection, quickly scrambled out from underneath his friend's still form and tried to assess Ron's condition.

Ron looked bad. Half his hair was gone, a burn running down from his left temple, over his eye, and then down to his neck. Blood was pooling on the wooden floorboards, dripping down from his robes. Harry didn't see where the wound was. Weakly, Ron opened his other eye.

"Harry!" he croaked, with a grimace that made the wound on his face appear even more hellish. "I'm fine! Really! It's… fuck… superficial. I dodged the most… of it… just a cut on the shoulder… and the face." The redness of his injury was amplified by the paleness of his skin.

"Yeah right, 'you're fine'!" Harry snarled, starting to weave a standard healing charm, but Ron's hand shot forward and grabbed his wrist in a steely grip. "Harry!" Ron growled. "He was trying to set fire to the house! If he… destroys it, he'll apparate away! You–must–stop–him! I'll live, I'll fucking live, I promise you that, but you need to get the bastard!"

Harry glanced to his friend and then up the stairs, feeling torn. Every second was essential.

"I hit him too!" Ron rasped. "Go, before he's gets away. Please, Harry!"

Harry hesitated, and Ron summoned all of his strength to yell.

"GO!"

Harry cursed, shot one last pleading look at his best friend, and raced up to the third floor. There was a short corridor here that led to a closed door. Wand out and heart thundering in his chest, Harry cautiously approached it. A cough echoed from downstairs, but here it was silent.

Harry held his breath and kicked the door open.

There was no one there.

. . . .

. . . .

Grinding his teeth together, Yaxley stumbled into the last room on the third floor, which contained a desk, filled with his papers; several cabinets; and a bureau that held little trinkets – personal items he had collected over the years. One of his hands was pressed to his abdomen, a half-hearted attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

He sent a locking charm at the door behind him and then almost collapsed on the floor. He didn't know how much time he had left.

The wand trembled in his hand, and blood dripped down the side of his robes. The Auror – a Weasley, for you could never mistake those boundless freckles and strands of blazing hair – had managed to shoot out a hex moments before Yaxley's own spell pierced the redhead's defences and sent him barreling down the stairs.

Weasley's spell had missed Yaxley, but ricocheted along the corridor, striking a heavy wooden ornament along the way. The ornament had shattered, shards of needle-sharp wood spreading in every direction like buckshot. Several had ripped into Yaxley's stomach, tearing through his robes, and lodging themselves deep in muscle and meat. The pain had been incapacitating, making him pass out. His period of unconsciousness couldn't have lasted long, however, because when he opened his eyes, he was still in the corridor, and Aurors weren't slamming cuffs on his wrists.

Gasping from the pain, he had forced himself up and staggered into the suite, which led to a set of adjoining rooms.

He needed to get to the last one.

Shuffling towards it, Yaxley had mentally cursed Voldemort, the war, the Aurors, Potter – who could never die – as well as the fucking spells the Dark Lord had bound him with.

He growled, desperation making the notes low and heavy. Shock and despair warred in the confines of his mind. He had no fucking idea how Potter and Weasley had discovered him here. This house was safe – he'd used it as a base of operations for over a year now! How had they found him?! The Granger girl was still missing, Dolohov was concealed in the muggle world, and Yaxley hadn't left a single shred of evidence for the Aurors to follow him here.

Fuck.

He must have gotten lazy, complacent. He'd become tired of sitting here, avoiding public detection, and had left for a stroll. A Merlin-fucked stroll! Once! Just once he had left! And this was the price of his mistake: Apparating back, Weasley had caught sight of his cloak-covered form, leaving him no choice but to engage.

For he had to fight. He didn't want to – if it had been up to him, he'd have disappeared, apparating to safety. But this was where Voldemort's compulsions had kicked in. To them, the highest priority was not Yaxley's life, but protecting the Dark Lord's creation, his virus, and there were certain items in the house that could lead the Ministry straight to Dolohov. Voldemort's magic had seized control, preventing him from leaving until he had confirmed the destruction of everything that had the potential to endanger his unwilling partner. Howling from the sheer unfairness of it all, Yaxley had been forced to comply, which led to the fight on the lawn, in the house, and, finally, here, on the third floor.

His vision had narrowed, going dark, pain stabbing at his wooden splinters embedded in his gut. The desk. He had to burn the letters, the portkeys he had. Then, he'd be free. He could get away, finish this forsaken quest, and find peace on the shores of New Guinea, bathing in the warmth of a tropical sun.

More… just a little bit more...

The door buckled behind him. The hinges protested, creaking like a pair of withered crows. The locking charm held, but barely.

Yaxley raised his wand, forcing it still, and whispered, "Incendio."

Flames shot forth, catching on the curtains and the piles of papers on the desk. A sweltering wave of heat hit his lungs, pools of slippery smoke sliding up towards the ceiling.

The door behind him shuddered again and then exploded inward, catching Yaxley's shoulder with its edge. The impact knocked him to the ground, back against a wall, and he arched an arm over his hip to steady his descent. Tendrils of agony whipped through his body, but he held on tight, aiming his wand towards the opening where the door had been.

Facing him stood Harry Potter.

. . . .

. . . .

Cheeks flushed, Harry whirled his wand into an aggressive stance. Flame was licking the surface of a desk and the western wall, a beast with a famished maw that crackled with every consumed paper and scrap of wood. Yaxley was on the floor, strained, gasping, but unrelenting. He snarled desperately, cursing the auror. Black lightning flashed from his wand, shooting towards the scarred wizard. Harry deflected it, grimacing from a sting in his ribs, and countered the spell with one of his own.

Yaxley summoned a shield; it covered the wounded man, and Harry's magic rammed into it with a righteous howl. It was a continuous stream of energy, forcing Yaxley to keep up his defences. He couldn't move, couldn't dodge, just had to match his opponent, raw power to raw power.

It was a battle he was going to lose.

Immobile, Yaxley's posture resembled that of a coiled snake, wounded, but its fangs still dripping with deadly venom. Harry's magic dashed all around his shield, a mongoose on the hunt. It whizzed and feinted, probing for any weakness, ready to sink its fangs into the cobra's neck.

Yaxley was gasping, his wand barely holding still. He needed to run, but he couldn't Apparate without breaking his cover. The fire was growing, spreading eagerly over planks of dry wood. It bathed the two battle-locked wizards in a hellish light, casting shadow over their contorted features. Yaxley could feel the heat, and beads of sweat poured down his forehead; on his lips, they tasted of salt and despair.

Harry saw this weakness and redoubled his efforts. His mind was locked onto a picture of a girl that had lost both her parents in the Diagon Alley attack. The sucked-in cheeks, the hollow eyes. Her stare had been vacant, lost in the cavernous cacophony of unexpected heartbreak. She was but one of many; of thousands – muggles and wizards – that had been victims of the war. The dead, the wounded. The stacks of bodies covered by cheap Ministry-issue tarps.

They were the ones forever beyond his help.

More images flashed in his mind: Dumbledore falling from the tower; Hermione, lost in the muggle world; Ron, fighting for his life downstairs. The smiling faces of his friends and allies, all of whom were willing to die to keep him safe.

Just as many had.

Blue, oxygen-depleted veins were pulsing on Yaxley's temples, ready to burst. Harry's scar burned. He yelled furiously, reaching deep to channel all the hate and fury he had been taught by those who had denied him a happy childhood. His magic grew, pushing Yaxley's shield back, surrounding him in a glorious, fatal light. The wizard screamed, the energy burning his eyes, weakening his resolve.

The shield faltered, flickering weakly, and then burst apart into tiny fragments. Harry wrenched his wand up at the last moment; his magic slammed into the wall above Yaxley's head, cutting through the wood and rocketing into the street beyond.

Yaxley's back slumped with an air of capitulation. His hand fell to the floor, the wand loose in-between limp fingers.

It was quiet.

Harry's pants reverberated through the room. The heat was starting to become unbearable, as the fires steadily engulfed more of the enclosed area. Harry heard yells from downstairs; boots pounding on stairs. The cavalry had arrived.

Yaxley was looking at him with a defeated glint in his muddied eyes. Puddles of blood gathered near his feet.

"How did you know?" he rasped. Harry grinned ferally. "Hermione," he said. His wand was trained on Yaxley's chest. "That's right," he added, seeing a look of surprise flash over the older wizard's features. "We found her. She told us all about Voldemort's curse, and the lengths you went to conceal it. The people you killed. We followed their trail right here, to you, and you will lead us to Dolohov."

Yaxley nodded. "The mudblood," he sighed tiredly. "Of course… It all began with her, you know? Just as it will end, I feel…"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?" he spat.

Yaxley looked almost… disappointed. "It means," he replied, fingers rubbing over the wood of his weapon, "that I will not see New Guinea. It means that even after defeating the Dark Lord twice, Mr. Potter, you still lack the capacity to comprehend his plans. You don't have the faintest clue how he operated, and the ways in which he sought to compel his enemies… and allies. You think you can use me to discover The Dark Lord's gift? You are a fool, Mr. Potter. Brave, loyal, but beholden with a rare sort of myopia, unable to see past your own nose. A common trait among Gryffindors, I suppose." Yaxley licked his lips, eyes going dull, as if something was sapping his life energy. "You may triumph over Dolohov or you may not, but this conflict will never cease. You were born into a war, Harry, and you'll never shake its clutches. Just like me. Goodbye, Mr. Potter. I don't wish you luck."

The last words were spoken in a whisper. Harry leaned in to hear, and missed the moment when Yaxley's arm went rigid, darting with lighting speed. The wrist moved on its own accord, pointing the wand back. Harry realized what was happening. "NO!" he yelled. "STUPE–"

But it was too late. The wand was at Yaxley's neck, his eyes dim, lost, and a single word escaped his bloodied lips.

Yaxley's head ballooned, exploding into into bits of brain matter and bone. His headless corpse slumped on the floor, blood gushing out of a severed neck.

Harry looked on, shocked. His robes were speckled with the Death Eater's remains. "Shit," he swore, and then backed away from the body and the heat. He tried to put out the flames with an aguamenti. The spell came out weak, however; Harry's magic was spent from the battle. A pair of Aurors appeared over his shoulder.

"All right there, Potter?!" one of them yelled.

Harry dumbly nodded. He watched as the flames were extinguished, and Aurors flooded the room, cataloging every item. He was led downstairs, a medic squawking over his wounds. His adrenaline had waned, and rusty fatigue sunk into his limbs. It became hard to walk, and he sat down on some stool.

Yaxley's final words were pulsing in his ears with a prophetic vigor. A war he could never shake…

A tremor took his hands. Spots of wetness trailed down his cheeks, and he removed his glasses, trying to conceal this sudden weeping with the palms of his hands. Hunched over, The-Boy-Who-Lived was left alone for that moment, Aurors, forensic specialists, and medical personnel just wandering by.

Harry felt oddly detached from everything, like he was far away, looking down. His scar was aching again, a wound that would never truly heal.

Harry hoped Ron was alive, and that Hermione was safe. He wanted his friends, and he wanted his wife.

His shoulders shook, and he sat there, shuddering, a rock in a lonely sea. He just wanted the bloody war to end.

But he knew that it wouldn't.

I'm on vacation, so the chapters are gonna come a bit more quickly. Yay?

I also managed to screw up the continuity between Hermione/Draco and Harry/Ron. So, there's a bit of a time jump between them. I'll expand on this in a foreword on the next chapter.

I hope I was able to articulate the importance of Martha Berkins, who was, as it turned out, not important at all. At least, directly. :D

I've killed 39 mosquitoes in the past four days, but it doesn't matter. There's plenty more. I must have ambrosia for blood.

And, finally, a little scene adjusted from a movie:

A crowd of people stand before a lit stage. Draco ascends it, microphone in hand. Music starts playing, and he sings.

"Weasley doesn't know, that Hermione and me do it on my broom every Sunday! She tells him she's in church, but she doesn't go..."

Sorry. The melody and the words have been stuck in my head for two days. ("On my broom" is credited to a guest reviewer, as it's so much more clever than what I wrote initially). Original version from Eurotrip.