"What do you mean you failed?" Malfoy demanded.

Snape could only lift his hands helplessly. "I was thrown out of the inn before my interview. Dumbledore is refusing to reschedule. Lucius… what do I tell him?"

Malfoy had his hands on his hips and he started to pace. He looked worried. "We must give him something, Severus. If you don't…"

"What? What will happen if I don't?"

"Nevermind. We'll think of something. Give me a moment."

Snape hesitated, and then said, "There is something… Something I overheard."

Harry hadn't touched the pensieve since Snape's posthumous trial. It was almost sacrilegious, rifling through the memories of a man long dead. But this was important. He had to know… He lingered on the memories that he had let pass too quickly that first time, during the battle, examining each one for some sort of clue about his father.

He hadn't wanted to admit it at first. He wanted it to be some sick joke, an artistic flight of fancy, but he couldn't shake off that gut instinct. He'd done a little digging in old Auror records during the time of the first war, and was immediately struck by a series of murders that had been labeled Death Eater attacks despite their peculiarity and the lack of the Dark Mark. There had been at least six victims, all young men. Most had dark hair, were tall and thin, and lived in and around Knockturn Alley where they had been killed and their bodies dumped. The last victim alone had been something of an anomaly: lighter in colour than the others, middle class, from Edinborough. He had been killed at the Hog's Head Inn and Harry might have discarded him if not for the fact that he had been sexually assaulted and his throat cut. It fit the killer's modus operandi.

Your parents would have gone into hiding not long after this last victim was killed. It would have been difficult for your father to sneak away long enough to– some dark, errant thought whispered through Harry's brain that he ruthlessly crushed before it could be completed.

"Such sloppy detective work," Harry murmured as he had flipped through the files. Anyone with eyes could see this wasn't the work of the Death Eaters. There was nothing to be gained politically from these deaths, some of the victims were even labeled Dark themselves. Whoever did this wanted to satisfy some sick, sado-sexual urge.

Harry tried to tell himself that there was a war on, the Aurors were stretched thin, many had lost their lives… and then Harry saw the name of the lead Auror on almost every case: James Potter, James Potter, James Potter.

The memories Snape had left behind were numerous, but brief. Almost as if he wasn't sure what Harry would find most useful and wanted to include as much information as he could. His father didn't appear in as many memories as Harry thought he might have, considering the lasting damage he had left on Snape. Maybe Snape figured Harry didn't need to know all of that, his first priority stopping Voldemort after all, maybe it was too painful to dwell on, or maybe… maybe his father had done things that not even Snape had wanted to burden the son with.

The memories floated by, and Harry found himself in Dumbledore's office.

Snape looked tired and worn, and he slumped a little in the chair across from Dumbledore, not long after Voldemort's return.

"He asked me to come upstairs. Alone," Snape said.

"What did he want?"

Snape shot Dumbledore a sharp look. "You know what he wanted."

Some time passed, maybe a year later (Fifth year? Harry thought), still in Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster behind his desk, but this time Snape was standing some feet away.

"It's happening again," Snape said. His voice was a strange mixture of both terror and awe. "Look."

He pulled up his robes just high enough to show his boots, and then… he started to float. He hovered there, about a foot off the ground. It wasn't quite the feat of flight Snape had managed to pull off before the Battle of Hogwarts, but it was a start.

"I've never been able to do that before," Snape said and let out a short, hysterical laugh.

Harry pulled himself from the pensieve with a frustrated growl. He wasn't going to find any answers here. For the first time in his life, he wanted to hear what Snape had to say about his father. He wanted him to say he was a bully, that he was arrogant and cruel and selfish, but please let that be the worst of it. Don't let him be a killer.

Harry returned the pensieve to the Ministry archives, his thoughts still turning the problem over and over in his head. Maybe he was focusing on the wrong thing. Getting answers from Snape had always been like pulling teeth, no reason why that should change now that he was dead. Maybe Harry should focus on the painting itself.

He contacted Florette Lantier, the artist's niece who had provided the paintings for the exhibition. She took him to her uncle's studio, a little, rundown place in Knockturn Alley. "He could have gotten a better place, he had the money," Florette said as she showed him inside the garret apartment. "But Uncle Claude was always very particular. He said he liked the light."

The apartment was rather sparse. A few chairs, a bed and table and kitchenette. Harry thought he recognized the sofa from one of the man's paintings. Most of the space was dedicated to his studio. "I bought a book on important Wizarding artists of the modern era," Harry said as he made a slow circle of the room. "Your uncle was in it. So were most of his paintings. Except the one he did of a murderer and his victim."

"Oh, you mean The Lucky One," Florette answered brightly. "Uncle Claude never exhibited that one. I didn't even know it existed until I found it hidden in a closet."

"And he named it The Lucky One? The guy didn't look that lucky to me."

"I think the title is supposed to be ironic," Florette laughed.

"And you don't know anything more about it? It's history?"

"No, I'm sorry. Were you looking to purchase it?"

The idea of that painting hanging in his house turned his stomach. Harry's slow circle came to a stop in front of the window. He looked out at Knockturn Alley, at the garbage left lying in the gutter, the impoverished people shuffling through the muck and grime. The Ministry was never going to do anything about this place. These people would never receive any help. They had been violated and murdered and the Aurors had swept it under the rug.

Harry's eyes fell upon a little cemetery across the street and his heart stopped. He had a perfect view of it. He could see every headstone and broken light. It was where the first victim had been discovered, Marius Sweet. Claude Lantier lived here when it happened. Had he watched everything from this window? Had he seen the killer murder that poor man and done nothing but paint a picture of it?

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry snapped when he caught his eldest pulling out the invisibility cloak from its hiding spot in the back of his wardrobe.

James pouted. "I want to take it to Hogwarts with me."

"That's not going to happen. Hand it over, James."

It was an accessory to a crime. The half-painted figure of his father looming over Snape, the silvery lines pooling at his feet… What else could it mean? And as Harry watched James fling the cloak to the ground in a fit of childish anger, he was determined it would never again be used for such evil acts. James was a boy, an impatient, reckless boy who would probably abuse the cloak's power.

"You said you would give it to me one day," James said.

"Yes. One day. That doesn't mean today. It's your first year, I'm not letting you run around Hogwarts with an invisibility cloak."

"Why not? You did."

"I was also being hunted by an immortal, Dark wizard. If a dark wizard ever decides to make you his arch-nemesis, then I'll give you the cloak."

James stomped out of the room. Harry sighed and shook his head. He placed the invisibility cloak back in its hiding spot, grabbed a coat, and yelled downstairs, "I'm meeting Draco for lunch, see you in a bit."

"Alright, have fun," Ginny called back in a sing-song voice that told Harry just how little fun she expected him to have with Draco Malfoy of all people.

Harry apparated to an upscale restaurant. The host raked his eyes over his jeans and worn Muggle coat, but said nothing to the Saviour of the Wizarding World, merely led Harry to a table where Draco was already waiting.

Draco rolled his eyes at the sight of him and sneered, "Honestly, Potter, you couldn't bother to dress up a little?"

"Draco, after all I've been through, you're lucky I'm even bothering with trousers." Harry picked up the menu, saw that everything was in French, and dropped it back down on the table with a huff. "Do you have to work at being this pretentious or does it come natural?"

"Natural. You've met my parents."

"Order for me. Nothing ridiculous, just a normal meal."

"It wouldn't hurt to broaden your horizons, you know."

"Maybe I would have experienced more as a child, if I didn't have to, oh you know, defeat Voldemort as a teenager."

Harry was very proud of Draco when the other man didn't even flinch at the sound of his name. "When are you going to stop using that as an excuse?"

"Never."

The waiter came and Draco gave him their orders. Harry waited until their food had arrived, and then, he kind of blurted out, "I think my father was a serial killer."

Draco paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Alright. Why tell me?" He asked as he set the fork back down on his plate.

"Well, your father also killed a bunch of people–"

"Fuck you, Potter."

"–and you were close to Snape."

Draco peered at him. "Is this about that painting?"

"Yeah. I've… found out a few things. I think it might be based on a real incident. The evidence is all circumstantial, however. I was hoping you might be able to help me. There might be more evidence, a clue maybe, locked up in Malfoy Manor or in the Slytherin dungeons. Something."

"And what then?" Draco asked. "What if it's true? What if saintly James Potter really was a serial killer?"

Harry swallowed. "Then I expose him. Give closure to the victims' families."

"Your father was martyred. He's practically been canonized. No one will thank you for ruining their image of a war hero."

Harry shrugged. "Nobody thanked me when I forced the Ministry to exonerate Snape. I don't do the things I do for thanks."

Draco tipped his glass at Harry. "True enough. Alright, I'll help if I can."

Harry gave him a tight smile. He dreaded the truth, but he knew he wouldn't stop until he found out what had really happened all those years ago.