Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

– CHAPTER FIVE –

Hunting Death

Neville slowly peeled his eyes open. Alice's tiny chest rose and fell rhythmically against his; she was still fast asleep. He would give anything to stay at home with her: to talk to her, to laugh with her, to protect her. Things any ordinary father should do. But he was no ordinary father.

Reluctantly, he untangled himself from her and sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. Almost noon. Almost late.

'Wake up our sleeping princess, will you, Flamey?' said Neville, his voice hoarse. With one swish of its wings, the toy dragon lifted itself from the covers and began nuzzling its head against Alice's cheek.

Neville got up and performed his morning ritual in record time: shower, shave, teeth, robes, breakfast for two. He was peering at the morning's Daily Prophet over his cereal when Alice finally shuffled into the kitchen.

Neville smiled at his bleary-eyed daughter. 'Morning, sleepy-head. Come and grab your breakfast.'

'I thought you were on holiday?' said Alice sulkily. Neville grabbed her and helped her onto the high kitchen stool.

'It was a day-long holiday, honey. Eat up quick: Auntie Andromeda's expecting us any minute now.'

Alice scowled at her breakfast. 'No-one else's dad works as much as you ...'

He stroked her hair reassuringly and said, 'One day, you'll understand why daddy works so much. Are you looking forward to going to the zoo today?'

Alice brightened up. 'Oh, yes! Teddy said we're going to see real dragons! And Victoire said there's a sphinx! Is it true Uncle Harry once battled one?'

Neville smiled. 'Well, he didn't technically battle the sphinx. He's bested his fair share of dragons, though.'

'Wow ...'

'C'mon, missy, let's get you off to Grimmauld Place.'

He summoned his car keys and followed Alice out of the kitchen, through the narrow corridor and into the hall. All along the corridor were small, unmoving portraits of those he refused to forget: his parents, his grandmother, Hannah, and now Luna. Others might feel uncomfortable walking down this corridor, but he did not care. If he did not remember his loved ones, who would?

The door opened on to a paved drive. Opposite their semi-detached home was a hall of residence from the local university. After nearly a decade with the Unit, he had become far too paranoid to live in a wizarding area. Perhaps when he retired ...

He shielded his eyes from the sun and glanced up and down the small road. None of the neighbours were around; judging from the number of empty drives, they had decided to make use of the sunshine.

Neville unlocked his car and got in on the driver's side, while Alice jumped into the passenger seat. With a sad smile, he remembered the first time he had devised the Apparition system around the house.

'I really don't understand why we need all these precautions,' said Hannah. 'Most of the Death Eaters are locked up in Azkaban now. I'm sure we can take off the Anti-Apparition wards at least.'

'Yes, most of them are in Azkaban. Once I'm sure all of them are locked up, I'll have Bill bring the wards down.' Neville smiled. 'Until then, this is our only Apparition point. Constant vigilance!'

'And I thought Professor Moody was paranoid …'

'Great man, Mad-Eye; best Auror the Ministry's ever seen.'

'Maybe so, but he didn't have a family, Neville.' She placed a protective hand on her bulging stomach. 'We can't raise a child like this.'

He placed his hand on top of hers. 'I know, darling, I know.'

'What's wrong, daddy?' said Alice, snapping him out of his reverie.

'Nothing, honey. Have you got everything?'

'Yep!'

When he was sure the car was secure and no Muggles were watching, he placed the keys in the glove compartment, took Alice's hand and Disapparated.

A split second later, they appeared on the top step of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Almost subconsciously, Neville scanned the road for any suspicious activity, as well as possible avenues of escape if wizarding transportation was cut off.

'You do realise that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named isn't two doors down.'

Neville spun around, hand instinctively going to his wand. But it was only Andromeda, haughty and handsome as ever. Her resemblance to the woman who had ruined his life never failed to startle him.

'You do realise he's not going to rise from the dead and kill you for using his name, don't you?' he retorted.

'Indeed,' she said. 'How are you, Neville, dear?'

'I'm as well as can be before a twelve hour shift.'

Andromeda smiled. 'I can imagine,' she said, though they both knew that, as a Black, she had never worked a day in her life. She shifted her heavy-lidded eyes down to Alice. 'Alice, dear, Theodore is waiting for you in the drawing room.'

'Thank you for having me, Aunt Andromeda.'

Andromeda smiled and placed her hand on Alice's head. 'It's an absolute pleasure, dear girl.'

With that, Alice tip-toed past Mrs Black's portrait and bounded up the stairs.

'Before you go,' said Andromeda, 'I must confess I'm worried about Harry.'

Neville shot her his best reassuring smile. 'He's deep in mourning; you know how he loved her.'

'Yes, but he has not so much as written to Theodore in over three weeks. It strikes me as rather odd considering how seriously he takes his duties as godfather.'

'Just give him time,' said Neville, 'I'm sure he'll come round. Thanks so much for looking after Alice today. I'll pick her up as soon as possible.'

'There's no hurry, she's a joy.'

After bidding Andromeda good bye, Neville turned around and Disapparated.

He appeared in the Atrium, beside the refurbished Fountain of Magical Brethren. He did his daily ritual of tossing a Sickle into its depths before moving on his way.

One of the only upsides of the dreaded noon-to-midnight shift was the fact that he missed the rush of nine-to-five workers. The Atrium was practically empty: the only sounds were the trickle of water from the Fountain and the echoing thud of his shoes against the varnished floor. Even the security stand was empty; Eric, the watchwizard, had probably gone on his lunch break.

Neville passed beyond the golden gates briskly, choosing, as always, the lift second to the left. Hardly anybody used that lift. In any case, he would only be going up four floors.

'Level Four: Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,' said the cool, female voice as the lift lurched to a halt.

On instinct, Neville cast a Bubble-Head Charm. On the best of days, the Department stunk of excrement; on the worst ... Neville shuddered. He had asked Bogand for a transfer, but the Head had refused for 'security reasons'. Following the war, Shacklebolt had decreed that all Ministry employees would, at least once a decade, transfer to another department for six months. This was meant to foster cross-departmental learning and prevent stagnation. Unfortunately for Neville, Unspeakables were not exempt and he was forced to pretend to work with dragons.

Neville briskly marched to his office. On either side of the wide, bright corridor were huge, magically reinforced cages. They housed everything from tiny doxies to gargantuan erumpets. A squat wizard with a pinched face was hurrying the other way, looking extremely worried.

'Everything alright, Mockridge?' said Neville.

'Please tell me you've seen a group of Nifflers come this way.'

''Fraid not.'

'Damn, Scamander's gonna kill me ...'

Finally, Neville came to the door to his 'office'. There was no handle, only a small groove. He put the tip of his wand into it and placed his other hand beside it. A moment, then a script etched itself into the wood:

Enter, Neville Longbottom.

The door, however, did not lead him to the small shabby office that anybody else would have been met with. Instead, it was a spacious room carved out of gleaming white marble. Light streamed in from a false window and danced across everything, from the glass cabinets to the polished mahogany desk.

The centrepiece of the room was on the far side of the wall. Guarding the two corners were two magnificent Nundu statues at least twice Neville's height. They were solid marble. Between them, they supported a glittering, silvery map of the world made of argo. Though there were no longer any reliable texts on the mysterious, exhausted substance, Neville suspected it was the same material contained in Pensieves.

The map was littered with hundreds of dots: most were minuscule and a dull grey; some were the size of large city provinces and flashed orange intermittently; and one, which completely obliterated Wales, was an angry red. Neville remembered, with a smile, his induction to this office.

'What's that?' said Neville, awe-struck.

'That,' said Bogand, his self-satisfied smirk wider than Neville had ever seen it, 'is the culmination of all our work. All those hours you and the other analysts put into research and lead-chasing is represented in Modric's Map.'

'Who's Modric?' asked Neville, tentatively closing in on the map.

'Modric is the genius who created this. You may know of his other invention, the Pensieve. Well, that was very much a by-product of this project of his. Of course –' Bogand's tone became derisive, 'his name isn't mentioned anywhere in the history books.'

'So … this is connected to The Knowledge?' said Neville. He placed a palm on stomach of one of the Nundus. It sent a cold shiver down his spine; partly due to the temperature of the marble, partly because of the tinge of fear he felt, even from a replica.

'Very good,' said Bogand, 'it took Potter a little longer to work that one out.'

Harry had been promoted a year before him. They had come up together: both started off as little more than paper pushers, much to Harry's chagrin. All they did was background checks and, if they were lucky, they got to plant tracking charms. As they rose through the ranks, they began doing next-of-kin interrogations and scene investigation. Everything they did went in to a cauldron-like Pensieve in the Unit foyer known as 'The Knowledge'. They were never told where the memories went, or how they were used: secrecy existed not only between the Unit and outsiders, but also between the rungs of the ladder.

Bogand fixed him with a steely stare. He was expecting something.

'So,' said Neville, filling the silence, 'my job is to collate all the information and use it to neutralise the target?'

'Precisely,' said Bogand. 'This is the most important job the Unit has. You report directly to me. Your only other point of contact is Potter. Red targets are an immediate priority. You'll work everything else out on your own.'

Neville sighed. Bogand loved to play his games. 'Do I at least get to know who else is working in the Unit now I'm a Director?'

The only answer Neville got was a smirk before he was left alone in the office he had always dreamed of occupying.

Neville recalled his first ever target. It had taken him three sleepless months to track the man down, deep in the Amazon Rainforest, only to find that he was a retired Director employed by the Unit to teach 'fresh meat' everything from blood analysis to protecting politicians. His spontaneous four-month absence from home had not gone down well with Hannah.

Neville glared at his target. It was the biggest, angriest dot he had yet seen; it was throbbing so violently that Neville thought it might explode.

Despite his assurances to Bogand, this one was personal. Luna … if it weren't for her, he would have dismissed his last year at Hogwarts as a fluke: after all, how could Neville Longbottom, the boy with no friends and barely any magic, ever hope to work for the Department of Mysteries?

A year out of Hogwarts, while visiting the Potters in Cuba, he had told Luna of his strange dreams about the Department, about the odd pull he had felt towards the place since the incident at the end of his fifth year. Anybody else would have told him it was silly, or that he was being a fantasist. But not Luna. She just cocked her head to one side and said, 'They want you to work there.' He had not asked who 'They' were. He had just followed his gut and applied. And on the way to the interview, he crashed straight into the love of his life.

Yes, Luna was special.

Neville drew his wand and tapped the large red dot. The Nundu statue closest to him unhinged its great jaw and spoke in a tinny monotone. It was spelled, Neville guessed, to protect the identity of the speakers.

'Target 201 murdered Victim 345 on 26th July 2007 at Victim 345's home in Godric's Hollow. Ministry investigation concludes that Victim 345 was attempting to create a spell that renders Wrackspurts visible. What Victim 345 allegedly stumbled across was an explosive variant of Fiendfyre. However, the Unit's field investigation has concluded that the Fiendfyre traces were applied retroactively. The cause of death, confirmed by Obliviated Muggle experts, was the Muggle explosive known as C4. Due to the careful warding around Victim 345's residence, the Unit's investigation points to Target 201 being a Muggle-born witch or wizard rather than a Muggle.

'Victim 345 had no discernible enemies. However, the husband of Victim 345 has 67 known enemies worldwide. After a series of interviews, the Unit believes that the primary suspect occasionally frequents Knockturn Alley. Little is known about this person or creature; indeed, there is a possibility that it is an urban myth. If it does exist, it is possible that the primary target plans to steal the objects known as 'the Deathly Hallows' from Victim 345's husband. There is a likelihood that, by killing Victim 345's husband, the primary suspect would be able to claim ownership over the object known as "the Wand of Destiny". The true target of the attack was absent from his home, and Victim 345 was collateral damage. We have yet to find conclusive evidence to support this theory.

'Supplied is a copy of the full Ministry investigation, the full Unit investigation, and the case files on all 67 potential suspects.'

Neville frowned. Never had he been given so little information on the primary suspect. At this point, he did not even know this primary suspect was real! Somebody was trying to steal the Hallows ... well, that was nothing new. Even after their best efforts planting rumours that somebody had already won the Elder Wand from Harry, he was constantly under threat.

Victim 345 was collateral damage ...

Neville took a breath and buried his anger with Occlumency. He needed to approach this like he usually would: it would not do for Bogand to take him off the case. The first steps were clear enough: after reading the reports, he needed to confirm the primary suspect. There was no point spending resources chasing a dead end.

Neville spent the next few hours poring over every single case file. None of them fit the profile; none of them would have been able to recognise a Muggle explosive, let alone acquire and set it off. Even if they had put a Muggle expert under the Imperius Curse, every single potential suspect had one thing in common: they would rather die than accept that Muggle methods of killing were more effective than wizarding ones. Frustrated that he did not have a primary suspect, Neville leafed through the investigations, keeping an eye out for clues or inconsistencies. But he found nothing.

Neville decided to do the same thing he did every time there was no solid primary suspect. He strode over to the glass cupboard next to the false window. There were narrowly-spaced shelves filled to breaking point with row upon row of potion vials. And Neville had brewed every last one. If only Snape could see him now. He picked out Veritaserum, Polyjuice and Draught of the Living Death. Next, he went to his desk and opened the drawer; it was far deeper than the outside dimensions suggested. He rummaged around and produced a grey sock.

Knockturn Alley was a hot-bed of information and, as such, Neville had a permanent Portkey to the cellar of the most popular Alley tavern, Merlin's Beard. For the past few years, he had been disguising himself as the bartender, a surly man named Hans Moraru. It was what the Unit called a 'complete' disguise: Neville had studied Hans' background and mannerisms so carefully that he could fool the man's mother.

'Knockturn,' said Neville, and he felt a tug at his navel.

The familiar smell of decaying flesh and stale alcohol met Neville's nose as soon as he landed. The only light in the draughty cellar came from a thin sliver at the top of a flight of stairs. Neville slid between the cobweb-covered barrels of Firewhiskey and noiselessly climbed the stairs.

Oddly, there were muffled voices coming from the bar on the other side of the stone door. Usually, the only customers who frequented the tavern at this hour were those who did not wish to be overheard.

Neville reached out to his Imperius link with the bartender. But instead of feeling that empowering sense of satisfaction that came from controlling another man, there was ... nothing. Hans, it seemed, was not in the vicinity. Neville frowned – there were no staff at the tavern; without Hans around, the place should be closed.

Neville, now very much on alert, Disillusioned himself before casting strong Notice-Me-Not and Silencing charms on the door. Slowly, he inched the it open until there was a gap just about wide enough for him to slip through. What he saw stunned him.

Merlin's Beard, once an establishment proud of its disdain for wizarding law, was teeming with Aurors and other Ministry of Magic personnel. Two Aurors were questioning a churlish vampire and a distressed hag; both, Neville knew, were regulars. More Aurors formed a huddle around something in the far corner of the room. Experts from Magical Transportation and Magical Catastrophes were canvassing the pub, but their tetchy spell-work told him that they were stumped.

'How the hell did he just vanish from existence?' muttered a dumpy witch with fly-away hair.

Neville tip-toed past the woman, crept up towards the huddled group of Aurors and looked over their shoulders. What he saw answered why his long-term Imperius had been cancelled. Staring up at the ceiling with glassy, unseeing eyes was Hans Moraru. Beside him were two hags: clear Avada Kedavra cases. But what was odd was the fourth body. It was a squat man he recognised as Mundungus Fletcher, the Alley informant. His body looked misshapen, as if he were a jigsaw puzzle that had hastily been put together. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth, but it was very faintly purple. Neville suspected an Evisceration Hex, but he had never seen one that only tinged the tongue purple. Either he was wrong about the hex, or he was dealing with someone more dangerous than Bellatrix Lestrange. The Ministry report would tell him which one.

With some effort, Neville pulled himself away from the bodies. He had to survey the scene before the Ministry workers contaminated it further. He scoured the area for signs of the perpetrator. Every wizard, no matter how good, leaves traces. That was what the retired Director had told him. Not for the first time, he wished that the Unit was sanctioned by the Minister so he could conduct his sweep in peace. As it was, he was forced to use silent, undetectable magic: a serious cripple considering most detection work produced visible spells. It was also rather annoying having to keep an eye out for bustling Ministry wizards. It would not do for them to crash straight into him.

After a few minutes of searching, he found it. On the floor, practically in the dead centre of the room mixed in with the glass and filth, was a single hair. It was almost invisible to the naked eye. Neville placed a Notice-Me-Not charm on it, just in case, and picked it up. It did not, as he had hoped, belong to human, or indeed any creature that could use magic. Its toughness, as well as the faint golden line running its length, gave it away as an Acromantula hair. It was in pristine condition; it had very recently been dropped. What on earth was an Acromantula hair doing in the pub?

He pocketed it and made for the interrogation, narrowly avoiding a spell from one of the Ministry wizards.

'Ve haff told you Ministry rats all ve know,' spat the vampire Neville knew as Salwin, his expression murderous.

'You understand the position you're in, vampire?' said the taller Auror. 'As an unregistered foreign dark creature, the Ministry of Magic has the right to deport you to any country of its choosing. Have you heard those rumours about the Ugandan Ministry, Bolton?'

'I hear any vampire they find is sentenced to a good staking.'

Neville rolled his eyes. Why they always used rookies for interrogations he would never understand. Just because a task did not involve magic did not mean anybody could do it. If only the Aurors would leave, he could conduct a proper interrogation. Clearly it was the hag who had the information, not Salwin. She was silently rocking in her chair, her eyes wide with terror, as though she was on the verge of being attacked.

Neville uncorked his vial of Veritaserum. He would have to execute this perfectly, or risk being made. He ordered the battered table next to the Aurors to collapse and, in the distraction, banished three drops of Veritaserum into the open mouth of the distracted hag.

'Bloody place is on its last legs,' said the tall Auror. He turned back to Salwin, whose narrow eyes were fixed on Neville. 'Right, last chance. Tell us what you know about the attack.'

Salwin merely folded his thin arms, but the hag spoke up. 'Everybody knows who did it,' she said in a monotone. Salwin's attention was torn from Neville and drawn instead to the hag. And Neville saw an expression he had never seen on a vampire: fear.

'Who did it?' urged Bolton.

'It floats here and there, they say. The only sign of It is a sudden draught, or the rustling of the leaves. And if It marks you, then you'll surely be killed.'

'If what marks you? Speak its name, hag.'

'It has no name.'

'What do you mean "it has no name"?' snapped the tall Auror. 'Give me a description, at least.'

'They say It has no body … all It is is a voice. If you've been marked, you hear Its voice, your wand shatters, and then you're no more.'

'For crying out loud, give us a name!'

'They call It Death.'

The two Aurors shared an exasperated look: as far as they were concerned, the interrogation was over.

But Neville knew better. He retreated into an empty corner of the pub to think.

Death ... it was an old fear, of course. His grandmother used to say to him: 'Keep out of Knockturn Alley or Death will come and get you!' It was a myth told to children to stop them falling through the cracks of society. The steady number of unaccounted disappearances in Knockturn Alley fed the myth, but they were usually nobodies; friendless, alcoholic warlocks and the like. But Mundungus Fletcher, for all his faults, was a protected Ministry informant and former Order of the Phoenix member.

The biggest problem of all was that Neville had a hunch. He had a hunch that this Death character, the Mundungus Fletcher killing and Luna's murder were all linked. And his hunches were almost never wrong.

He focused on what the hag had told them about Death: 'If you've been marked, you hear Its voice, your wand shatters, and then you're no more.' Neville shuddered; to harm another wizard's wand was an unspeakable act. It was revolting, unheard of. Even the Ministry saved it for the very worst offenders in Azkaban, like poor Hagrid, who they thought had killed an innocent child.

But the Ministry physically snapped the wands. No spell existed that could harm another's wand; it was too resistant to magic. Not that any wand would obey an order to destroy one of its own. Then a horrifying thought came to him. He did know of a wand that could affect another's. Had Harry not repaired his wand with the Elder Wand? And, logically, if the Elder Wand could repair other wands, it could destroy them, too.

'There is a likelihood that, by killing Victim 345's husband, the primary suspect would be able to claim ownership over the object known as "the Wand of Destiny".'

Neville wrung his hands absently. He considered, for a moment, a scenario where this Death figure wanted to win the Elder Wand from Harry. The target would then need to break into Hogwarts, of all places, to get it. It was practically impossible; the wards would immediately sense the ill intent and expel the perpetrator.

Furthermore, the Stone was safe; the target did not have it. He knew that without a shadow of a doubt. He, or It, would need to break into the Unit to acquire it. Hell, they would have to know the Unit existed to even begin to think about breaking in. And even then, how could the target possibly know the Unit had the Stone? Not even Harry knew; Bogand had cited conflict of interest.

Neville froze. Acromantula hair. Of course. The target had tried to find the Resurrection Stone in the Forbidden Forest. But how? The only living people who roughly knew where Harry had dropped the Stone were he, Ron, Hermione, Harry and Bogand. And whoever Bogand sent to retrieve it. There it was; the possibility for the secret to have leaked. Naturally Bogand trusted his hand-picked few, but could Neville? After all, he had never met any of them.

Did the target work in the Unit?

It was a frightening thought, and one he could not dismiss. Not now he knew the target had come across an Acromantula: the only known Acromantula lair in Europe was at Hogwarts. Selling the hairs Hagrid collected was a profitable revenue stream for the school.

Neville collected his thoughts. Even if the primary target had not murdered Luna, he needed to go to Hogwarts immediately and confirm the status of the Elder Wand. The next stop would be the Unit, where he would check up on the Stone, and finally he would make sure Harry still had the Cloak. If any were missing, Neville would inform Bogand that his primary suspect was indeed Target 201.