[A/N: Thank you to Calamity Owl for beta-reading this chapter!]


Hermione's session with McGonagall the next day went well, and the Headmistress even offered to assign her a weekly paper on some aspect of Transfiguration theory that she'd submit by owl. Something about the light that offer kindled in Hermione's eyes must have warned the older woman what she was getting into, because she quickly specified that the paper should be no longer than one foot of parchment.

Hermione nodded politely. She'd been meaning to practise writing smaller and neater letters with the quill anyway, and this would be an excellent excuse to do so. She spent the remainder of the afternoon practising basic Transfiguration, then after a light supper continued reading Transfiguration theory and practising a bit more. By the time Harry staggered out of the floo at about half past midnight, she had a meal of toad-in-the-hole (she cheated and used a frozen one she found at the nearby convenience store), some brown gravy, and vegetables.

"There you are!" Hermione said. "You didn't respond to my owl, so I had this done about forty minutes ago and I've just had the oven on the half-mark to keep everything warm."

He stared at her for a moment.

"Harry," she said carefully, as if confronting an injured pet, "what's wrong?"

"Another one," he replied.

Five swift steps brought her from the top of the staircase and into the floo room where she pulled him into her arms. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "I had to help the muggle coroner do her write-up. I haven't eaten anything since lunch and I've been on my feet since 5:00. I'm so tired I'm angry about it, like, I'm mad at the whole world, even you for no reason at all, but I'm so hungry that my stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself, and every time I close my eyes I see that twisted corpse with that awful look on its face."

Hermione hugged him more tightly. "Eat first, then," she said. "Will you come downstairs?"

"I…can't," he said.

"Yes, you can." Hermione rubbed circles on his back. "We'll eat together and it'll be OK, I promise."

Harry nodded and let her lead him downstairs. She'd already set the table, so it was the work of a moment to put the food out and serve them both. He was still staring at his plate when she sat down to join him.

"Please eat," she asked gently.

He nodded and fished mindlessly at his food for a moment with his fork.

Hermione switched her fork to her left hand and reached out with her right to take his free hand. He closed his eyes and gripped her hand tightly, and she sat there silently with him till he opened his eyes again and released her hand.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I try to avoid Cruciatus cases, but they needed someone who could work with muggles on this one."

"I understand," Hermione said. "Even if I didn't, you never need to justify yourself to me, Harry. You're always going to be the bravest person I've ever met."

He shook his head. "You don't owe me anything for what happened with the ritual."

"Ritual?" Hermione fought down how awful she felt for him just then and did her best to force a smirk. "I was talking about how you swept my room and the loo for spiders at Grimmauld Place. Facing down giant magical spiders for a girl is pretty much the dictionary definition of heroism."

Harry paused for a moment, confused, before he began to chuckle in spite of himself. "Thank you. I needed that."

She smiled back and dug into her food, and couldn't stop her smile from growing when he did likewise. They ate in companionable silence for the next fifteen minutes, not talking again until they were both done.

"Thank you for dinner," Harry said when they'd finished. "I'll get the dishes."

"Nonsense," Hermione replied. "After your day, I'll handle it."

"You cooked, though."

She shrugged. "You can do some extra cooking some other time, then. I'm not keeping score."

A treacherous little voice in her head piped up, "That's not how flatmates work and you know it."

Hermione did indeed know it, and she didn't care.

"What if he just wants a flatmate?"the voice asked her.

She chanced a glance at Harry. He was resting in his chair, his head leaning back and his eyes closed. "I don't care what he wants,"she thought. "What he needs is someone to look out for him like he looked out for me. Now shut up. I need to do the dishes."

Hermione scrubbed the dishes, left them to dry, and was putting away the leftovers before Harry finally spoke up again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I faded out there for a minute. I could have cleaned all of those with the wave of a wand."

"It's not like that took me long,'' Hermione said. "You can teach me that Charm some other day. Right now, let's get you to bed. Are you off again tomorrow?"

He nodded.

"Good. Up with you, then." She helped him out of his chair and led him up to his bedroom. "Goodnight, Harry," she said when they were at his door.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he said, and she waited until he closed the door behind him before going downstairs to her own room.

The next morning was mostly overcast, but warm for the end of September. After a quick shower, Hermione settled in on the sofa to get back to her Transfiguration practice. After her study of theory the previous day, she was now feeling confident about turning matchsticks into pretty much any similarly-shaped item of any composition. She'd cycled through all of the common metals, plastic, and even eggshell, and she had just finished admiring her work with the last when Harry came downstairs around 9:45.

"Good morning," he said as he walked into the room. He'd clearly showered, but mere water was incapable of keeping his gloriously messy black hair down. "Wait, what is that?"

"Eggshell," Hermione said proudly. "I think the Transfiguration worked all the way through."

"Nice work!" he said. "You're picking that up a lot faster than I did."

"You'd probably pick it up a lot faster now, too, you know," she replied.

He smirked. "I wouldn't count on that. Anyway, have you had breakfast yet?"

"No, I've just been studying," Hermione said.

"You didn't have to wait for me."

She shrugged. "I know, but we ate so late last night that it's taken me awhile to get hungry."

"Well, I'm in the mood for a little fry-up," Harry said. "Interested?"

"Definitely." Hermione began to rise from the couch, but a gesture from Harry stopped her.

"I'll take care of it," he said. "You made dinner last night."

"It was nothing," Hermione said. "It was mostly frozen food."

"It was perfectly timed," Harry said. "I'm not sure I would have eaten last night without you and I would have woken up feeling like shite."

"Language," Hermione said automatically.

Harry grinned and continued. "Instead, I'm awake and feel more rested than I have in days. So just keep working and I'll let you know when breakfast is ready."

"Thank you." Hermione couldn't fight the smile that spread across her face as she sat back down.

Breakfast was delicious, as Harry's cooking usually was, and afterward he insisted on cleaning up himself. Hermione tried to argue until she realised Harry had already done half of the dishes with magic while they were discussing it. At that point, she just gave up and asked him to teach her that Charm once she was ready.

Once the dishes were done (Hermione decided not to look too closely at how clean they were, or possibly sneak down and clean them again later by hand), Harry wanted to get right to work on his case file, but Hermione put her foot down.

"With the exception of our ice cream outing and a trip to the grocery store, I've barely left this house all week," she said. "In addition, this case hasn't been great for your mental health and we just had a huge breakfast. You and I are going to have a nice walk before we throw ourselves back into our work. Deal?"

"Deal," Harry said. "You're right. Let's get some fresh air and a new perspective on our problems."


After showing Hermione how to Disillusion and carry her wand on an outing, Harry took her on a long walk along Regent's Canal, a beautiful old waterway that passed a block north of his house and ran all the way through London. The leaves were only just starting to turn on the old London plane trees that leaned over the canal, and puffs of steam occasionally rose into their branches from a few of the houseboats parked along the canal as their owners (probably) made tea. The sun regularly poked through the clouds above them, casting the whole scene in a brilliant golden light as wonderful as it was rare in the London fall. The frizzy brown strands of Hermione's hair sparkled in sunlight caught between them, constantly drawing his eyes back to her even as he took in the rest of the glorious day around them..

They meandered westward along the canal and at some point he offered Hermione his arm to help her over a rough spot in the path and they never quite let go again. He had no idea what Hermione wanted out of whatever insane relationship they'd fallen into, but he was very sure he had enough power over her literal life at that moment that he didn't dare ask anything of her. Having someone to walk with, arm-in-arm, down the old towpath on a beautiful fall afternoon would have to suffice, and right then he hardly wanted anything more.

Maybe just a bitmore.

An hour later found them at the old canal gate of Victoria Park. "Shall we stay on the path or visit the park?" Harry asked.

"The park," Hermione said. "If I recall correctly…" she led him through the wrought-iron gate and into the park itself. "There it is! Every Sunday afternoon they have a market here."

"Did you need anything?" Harry asked.

"Of course not," Hermione said. "Who goes to a market because they needsomething?"

Harry blinked.

She sighed. "You are such a boy. The joy of these markets is that you never know what you'll find."

"I suppose I do need a new sock supplier," Harry mused.

"I won't tell Allison that Socks Guy is cheating on her," Hermione said.

Harry was so surprised he stumbled on his own feet, but Hermione caught him and kept him from falling. "Tell me she doesn't actually call me that."

"Allisondoesn't call you 'Socks Guy,'" Hermione said. "Everyonecalls you 'Socks Guy.'"

"Oh, Merlin." Harry put his free left hand over his face. "I'm never going to leave the house again."

"I quite like that nickname for you." Hermione tapped her right index finger on her lips in mock thought. "Hmmm…do you suppose Suewould like it, too?"

"I know where you sleep, witch," Harry growled.

Hermione cackled evilly. "Come on," she said. "This market closes relatively early and it's only open on Sundays. Let's see what they have."

They browsed the market for another hour. Harry found nothing interesting and was a bit bored, and Hermione found nothing interesting and enjoyed herself immensely. On the way out, they stopped at a knitted goods stall and Harry picked up a pair of gaudy Guy Fawkes' Day socks decorated with little sequined fireworks explosions. As he turned away from the stall, one of the women working there whispered to the other, "Is that Socks Guy?"

"Oh, God damn it," Harry muttered. Hermione laughed so hard she nearly fell over.

The walk back home was just as lovely, though Harry spent much of the time grumbling about inane nicknames and the people who used them. It wasn't until they were back home and settled into the living room that Harry allowed himself to think about his case again. What he wasn't expecting, though, was Harmione to scoot over next to him on the couch.

"Can I help?" she said. "I know how much stopping this guy means to you."

"I wouldn't mind some help," Harry said. "You might want to skip the photos of the corpses, though."

"You're probably right," Hermione said. "Let's focus on figuring out where this person might strike next. What do you have so far?"

Harry pulled out an A4-sized map of the UK and pointed to four dots. "So far, the killer has struck in Rugby, Crewe, Wolverhampton, and Narborough. They seem to pick on lone men who are going to or from bars or pubs, take them back to a hotel either voluntarily or through use of the Imperius Curse, and then torture them for an hour or so before killing them with what's probably an Ennervating Curse."

Hermione shivered. "That sounds like a horrible way to die. Do you know why those cities were chosen? Also, where's Narborough? I've never heard of it."

"No, and it's just southwest of Leicester," Harry replied. "We have no clue how this person is choosing targets or where they might hit next."

"Hmmm…" Hermione bit her bottom lip and stared at the map. "This looks familiar. I'm forgetting something important, I know I am."

"You can stare at this for a bit if you like." Harry passed her the map. "I was going to look over the photographs of the corpses and see if I've missed anything."

She took the map and her eyes lit up. "I think I know what's happening!" She jumped to her feet and put the map back on the coffee table. "I'll be back soon. Start planning how you or others could catch them if you knew what city or town they'll attack next and could be there waiting."

He blinked. "Um…sure. Are you going to tell me what you have in mind?"

"Not yet. I want to make sure I'm on the right track." She grinned impishly, as if at a private joke. "I'm going to go get a reference book, but I should be back in an hour or so. See you soon!"


Sure enough, Hermione walked in about an hour and ten minutes later while he was flipping through a booklet detailing some of the secret and restricted magical artefacts to which the Aurors had access. "I'm sorry I took so long," she said, "but I wanted to make sure this was what we needed."

She plopped down on the couch next to him and held out a pair of thick booklets with the titles "CrossCountry Trains" and "West Midlands Trains." "Those towns and cities you listed aren't connected in any special way except by these two train lines," she said. "Oh, and there's something I need to explain to you. Have you ever read any modern academic urban history books?"

"Um…"

Hermione correctly deduced he meant "Urban history is an academic discipline?" and continued, "It's a truism of human urban development that people in all times and places don't like to commute more than about forty-five minutes to work. London, New York, Ancient Rome, commuting patterns are the same in each. So I took a guess that included serial killers and plotted out what train stops are well under an hour from each of those locations and came out with these."

She pointed at Rugeley and Lichfield. "It doesn't matter that much, though, because we're not going to know who the serial killer is until they try to kill again. To that end, we need to guess where they'll attack next. So I calculated which other stops are an hour or less from those towns. They haven't hit anywhere in Birmingham yet, which doesn't surprise me because my guess is that it's too close to home and they don't want to draw attention."

"It was Narborough that tipped me off, you know," she added. "It just didn't fit until I realised the Midlands are absolutely shot through with train lines and one must go through there. Anyway, if you look at train stations for cities and towns large enough to have a bit of nightlife and that are a minimum of twenty but no more than fifty-five minutes from Rugely or Lichfield, you have these." She pulled out a bit of parchment and started scribbling. "My money's on Derby, though. They seem to prefer larger cities to smaller ones. I mean, they might hit Winsford, I guess, but I still suspect Derby." She paused. "Harry? Is something–"

"You're brilliant," Harry said. "Stunning. Amazing. Life-saving. Mind-blowing. And now I'm out of adjectives. Help?"

She blushed.

"Seriously, I think you've blown this case wide open. Lichfield even has a small Wizarding community, and the nearby magical forest in Cannock Chase has caused all kinds of near-breaches of the Statute of Secrecy over the years. We've been looking for evidence of a wizard or witch travelling to or from the attacks magically, but it didn't occur to us that they might use muggle transit. That makes sense, though, since they'd know we could track Apparition residue." Harry rose to his feet and started gathering everything up. "Sue's on shift right now, but she's probably just doing paperwork since Sundays are usually pretty quiet. I'll show her this and we can start planning how to catch this person next Saturday. Thank you. I won't be gone long, and I'm going to make you a fantastic dinner for this."

"You don't have to–"

"I don't care!" He gave her a quick hug and headed for the floo. "This is fantastic. I can't wait…damn it."

"What is it?" Hermione asked as she rose to her feet.

"I can't tell anyone about you, so I can't give you the credit you deserve. My superiors are going to think I came up with this." Harry gestured at the list of towns and cities as he spoke.

"You're welcome to the credit," Hermione said. "I was just trying to help you."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't offer to let you stay here just so you could do my work for me. You're brilliant and deserve to be recognized for it."

"I'll sleep better knowing you've captured this serial killer. That's reward enough for me." She paused and grew slightly pale.

"Is something wrong?" Harry asked.

"I…I just realised I've put you on a collision course with a serial killer," Hermione said. "Do you have to…hunt this person yourself?"

"Yes, but I won't be alone," he said. "Don't worry, though. I'd faced more dangerous opponents than a bully who only targets muggles before I passed my O.W.L.s."

"Reference points, Harry!" She stamped her foot for emphasis. "It is not an appropriate response to an expression of concern about you hunting down an honest-to-God serial killer to say 'Don't worry, I faced more dangerous things when I was a child.'"

Harry scratched his head awkwardly. "I wasn't trying to worry you."

"I know, and that makes it worse!" Hermione's tone softened. "Just be careful, please."

"I always am." He did his best to shoot her a confident smirk.

She raised her eyebrows, crossed her arms, and stared at him.

"OK, OK, I'll try harder," he said.

"Thank you," she replied.


Professor Flitwick rocked back on his heels and rubbed his oddly pointed little chin in thought. "Miss Granger, your grasp of Charms theory is such that you could probably pass that portion of the test I give my first-year students before they leave for the Yule holiday. But so far every Charm I've tried to teach you today beyond a simple Lumoshas eluded you, and I simply don't understand it. I have never seen a student struggle so much with their intent."

Hermione sat down on the couch, stared down at the simple wooden box on the coffee table, and rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry, Professor. I really do appreciate you coming here to tutor me and I don't wish to repay you with poor attention to your lessons, but Harry is out there right now preparing to hunt down and capture a serial killer I helped him find. It's my fault that I'm not good enough to be out there helping him and could only give him a lousy vial of potion to help."

"Harry has other experienced Aurors accompanying him," Flitwick said, "and he's seen a lot of danger in his life so far. I doubt there's anything out there tonight he can't handle."

"Yes, he has, hasn't he?" Hermione looked up and something in her glare almost made Flitwick, a former professional duelist, take a step back. Reflected gaslight burnedin her eyes. "The Boy Who Lived," she spat the epithet, "just keeps on living and saving others. Until one day he doesn't and then you'll need a new name for him, won't you? What will you call him then? The Boy Who Did All of Our Dirty Work Until It Killed Him?"

"Miss Granger!" Flitwick drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't all that much but damn it, that had never stopped him before. "Mr. Potter is a grown man and can make these choices for himself."

"What about before that, though?" Hermione's voice was softer now but had just a bit of a rasp to it, like velvet sliding over steel. "Did he choose to fight a dark wizard his first year, some kind of monster he won't tell me about his second year, soul-sucking creatures his third year, a death tournament in his fourth year, a cannibal demon his fifth year, or…whatever it was in his sixth year?"

"More Dementors," Flitwick said automatically. "And no, he didn't. We wouldn't have let him choose to do any of that if we'd known or could have stopped it."

"So what you're telling me," Hermione spoke relentlessly, "is that the lesson he learned in school is that if he doesn't want to see someone murdered horribly, he'd better save them himself."

"I don't think that's fair!" Flitwick said.

"I knowit's not fair!" Hermione replied. "But is it incorrect?"

"No! What do you want from me, Miss Granger?"

"I want you to prove me wrong!" she shot back. "I want you to convince me I'm worrying about nothing and overstating all of this, because otherwise I get to live with the fact that I met someone who's spent his whole life feeling responsible for saving everyone else's, pointed him toward a murderer, and hoped for the best."

"I'm…not sure I can do that," Flitwick said. He was mentally reviewing Potter's tenure at Hogwarts and coming to some horrifying realisations.

"Then help me get stronger, Professor," she said as she rose to her feet. The velvet was gone from her voice now, leaving only steel. "Because one day I'm going to be fighting hisbattles instead of sending him to fight mine."

"I…I will."

Hermione nodded, levelled her wand at the wooden box, and said, "Cistem Aperio" in that same steely tone. The sides of the box cracked and flew back three inches each, and the lid flew up almost to her eye level.

"Yes," Flitwick thought to himself as a grimly satisfied smile spread across his student's lips, "definitely a lioness."


Flitwick walked into the Headmistress's office about an hour and a half later and conjured a pair of Glencairn glasses on her desk before collapsing wordlessly into the old wooden armchair in front of it.

"What happened, Filius?" McGonagall asked. "I thought ye were teaching Miss Granger this afternoon."

"She had some words for me," Flitwick said, "and afterward I glamoured myself and I stopped at a muggle liquor store for this." He pulled out a bottle of Glenfarclas 105 and poured them each a dram. "We need to talk, Minnie."

The elderly Scot raised her eyebrows at the label. "Cask strength, Filius? This is goin' tae be one o' those conversations, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so." He took a sip and shivered at the strength of the alcohol. It wasn't as buffered as the burn of Firewhiskey or as smooth as a more aged spirit, but it was exactly what he wanted right then. "Miss Granger was…displeased at the danger Mr. Potter faced during his schooling, and she not-so-subtly implied that our consistent inability to either protect him or relieve him of the task of protecting his fellow students is the reason he now feels the need to hunt down Dark Wizards for a living."

Flitwick sighed. "I know Mr. Potter is a grown man now, but I fear Miss Granger has a point. Had he thought more of self-preservation while he was here, he would have condemned a number of his friends to death and I think on some level he knows that." He took another drink and stared at the amber liquid in the glass.

McGonagall shocked him by downing the whole glass in one gulp and placing it in front of him in the traditional wordless request for a refill. As he obliged, she said, "It's much worse than that. I was hoping this knowledge could die wi' me, but I fear I mus' burden ye wi' it, too."

"Worse?" Flitwick asked. He poured her an extra large dram and, as a precaution, topped up his own.

"Aye." McGonagall nodded. "It wasn't an accident. Albus set up some of those risks as tests for the lad, and I fear the attitude ye describe is exactly what he wanted to cultivate in Mr. Potter."

"What?" Flitwick was so startled he nearly spilt his liquor. "How could he? And why didn't you do anything?"

"I didna' learn o' it till Albus wasted away in Mr. Potter's seventh year, and I thought steering the lad into a Quidditch career would rein in his more danger-prone impulses."

Flitwick snorted and took another drink. "Only for Mr. Potter would professional Quidditch be the safercareer option."

"Aye," McGonagall said after matching his drink. "And it still wasnae' enough for him, so he joined the Aurors."

"I just don't understand this," Flitwick said. "Why did Albus do that to him?"

"The daft codger thought the lad was the subject o' some sort o' prophecy and would have tae fight Voldemort again," McGonagall said. "Ironically, he was right, but the battle occurred in the Chamber o' Secrets when Harry was only twelve."

"Merlin!" Flitwick drained his glass and McGonagall did likewise. "That's horrifying. How could Albus have done that to the child?"

She shrugged and held her glass out for more. "He weighed the life o' one lad against the possibility o' a Second Blood War, and Harry lost."

"He certainly did." Flitwick poured them both another generous measure. "Now what, Minerva? We were both complicit in that. How do we make it up to him?"

She took another drink and sighed. "We cannae give him his childhood back, but maybe we can help him see himself as more than just a weapon in a war he won."

"It's worth a try," Flitwick said. "I just hope he doesn't get hurt tonight."

"Why? What's the lad doin' tonight?" Minerva took another sip.

"Hunting down a serial killer," Flitwick said.

McGonagall spat out her whiskey.


"You're on." Boredom dripped from Sue's words as she passed the Unforgivable Detector to Harry.

"Acknowledged." Harry took the detector and settled in for another ten-minute shift staring at it. It was a beautiful old Hennessy & Swansea surveying compass, all brass fittings in a beautiful, battered mahogany box. A gold needle, enchanted to glow just enough to be seen at night, always pointed to the true north (which was fortunate, as Harry had never quite got the hang of calculating magnetic declination). A second, silver needle lay dull and lifeless just below the first one. If it detected an unforgivable, it would glow and point in that direction, with the protractor built into the box's lid having been repurposed into providing the distance to the caster. It only had a range of about four hundred yards, so it wasn't much use unless you knew in advance someone would be casting such a spell, but the DMLE had one staffed at all times in Diagon Alley.

They'd been monitoring the device for over three hours so far, since about five o'clock, and they were closing in on the part of the evening during which the muggle coroners believed the other victims had been killed. Due to the device's limited range, they'd set up their watch on top of the flat roof of the Derby Museum and Art Gallery. It was centrally located among the bars in the city center, which they hoped would ensure they were close enough to the spell to identify the caster before they took their victim back to a hotel and started their torture.

Aurors Proudfoot and Savage were in an alley just south of the building below them that would serve as their apparition point, keeping muggles away and ensuring it would be clear when Harry and Sue needed it. In order to keep the perpetrator unaware they were in the area, they'd all swapped their robes for muggle slacks and sport coats hiding dragonhide armour vests (Harry had helped his three Pureblooded or nearly so colleagues select muggle clothing for the mission so they didn't stand out). They also planned to avoid broom travel, since they couldn't hide from other magicals without hiding from each other, too, and more than one Disillusioned person on a broom in the same square kilometre frequently ended in tragedy. Sometimes hilarious tragedy, but tragedy all the same.

About six minutes into Harry's shift, the silver needle lit up. "Showtime," Harry said. "But…"

"What is it?" Sue practically teleported to his side in her eagerness to get more information about their target. The braid crown she normally wore to keep her long hair out of the way on dangerous missions didn't come even a little undone due to the movement, a testament to Sue's skill with the Charms with which she'd made it.

"About two hundred yards due northeast of us." Harry frowned. Most of the nearby bars were within only about a hundred and fifty yards away, and they were either to the west, east, or southeast. What was this person up to?

"Damn it," Sue said. "That's a lot of ground to cover. Let's go."

Harry nodded and they simultaneously apparated to the alley just south of the building. Proudfoot and Savage shot to attention as he steadied himself. (Sue, of course, came out of it perfectly. Stupid Purebloods. He still didn't know how they did it.) He told them what he'd told Sue and they both cursed loudly.

"Are you all M'n'M'ed?" Proudfoot asked, using Auror slang for a Muggle Notice-Me-Not charm. Seeing three nods, he continued, "Good. Jog over there in teams. The bastard probably isn't headed our way, but if you do see anyone notice you, stun first and ask questions later. Oz and I will take the lead and hopefully draw fire if we're spotted. Potter, you're on compass duty. Jog and keep an eye on it for more curses. Bones, keep him from running into anyone and watch his back."

"Yes, sir!" they all said in unison, and Harry and Susan jogged off maybe ten yards behind Proudfoot and Savage.

They made good time jogging up Jury Street and followed it around a bend as it became Cathedral Road. The coordinates the device provided turned out to be a sports bar a couple of blocks north of the old Derby Cathedral, but their quarry was nowhere in sight when they arrived.

"Merlin's pants," Savage said when they arrived, huffing a little from the jog. "Now what?"

"We wait," Proudfoot said.

"I hate waiting," Harry said.

"They'll cast more Unforgivables soon enough," Proudfoot said. "Just keep an eye out. Bones, cover us. Oz, get the list of nearby hotels out. You and I are going to use the Seeking Charm to find the exact distance from Harry's spot to the front door of each one, then we're going to use some trig to figure out what storey our target is on."

"Trig?" Oz asked.

"Fine. I'll use trig. Just hurry up."

The first Unforgivable registered a few minutes later, roughly two hundred feet to the southeast. That could only be the Premier Inn, and if Proudfoot's calculations were correct, they were looking for a room on the third floor.

The run to the inn only took a couple of minutes, but it felt like forever. A quick Confundus ensured the clerk wouldn't prevent them from taking the stairs up, and a few minutes later they were all on the third floor, huffing and puffing. Harry and Sue took up guard positions, watching either side of the hallway from the stairwell door, and the two more senior Aurors started magically scanning the floor.

"Got it," Oz said after about thirty seconds. "Eighth door down the hall on my right is dead silent and shows a perfect blank space on Revealing Charms."

"Good job," Proudfoot said. One thing criminals rarely considered about Silencing Charms is that any normal space created a bit of noise, so a complete acoustic dead zone stood out like a sore thumb if you knew what to look for. "Harry, you breach the door. Sue, your turn to take point on the way through."

She stretched her arms and nodded to Harry. "Let's do this," she said.

They all checked that their footstep silencing charms were still in place and hurried down the hall. Proudfoot and Savage took up positions on the left of the door (the handle side), and Sue crouched to the right of the door. Harry knelt directly in front of it about three feet back and levelled his wand at the door.

Harry wasn't the best duelist in the Auror Corps. or the most skilled cursebreaker. What he was, though, was the most powerful wizard in the entire government, so when his Unlocking Charm hit the door, neither three different physical locks nor the powerful Locking Spell holding it closed prevented him from blowing it open so hard that it flew all the way across the hotel room, over the bed, and out of the closed windows on the far side of the room.

"Aurors!" Sue shouted as she charged into the room. Harry charged after her and crossed the threshold just in time to see Marcus Flint shield a non-verbal stunner from Sue. Before Harry could help her, though, a woman's voice roared "Crucio!" and Sue went down screaming.

A red mist descended over Harry's vision and he leapt over his convulsing partner toward the bed. As he flew through the air, he twisted to get a look at the woman who'd used an Unforgivable on his partner. It was Millicent Flint (nee Bulstrode), with a similarly convulsing muggle man at her feet and a look of shocked fury etched onto her face. Unforgivables took most wizards and witches, even Dark ones, a moment to work up the necessary state of mind to cast, but Millicent had probably been preparing to use it on the muggle when Sue burst into the room.

The stocky witch threw up a Shield Charm in time to block Harry's first spell, a stunner, but the sheer power he threw into it shattered her shield and left her wide open for the Banishing Charm he followed it with.

By the time Harry's shoulder hit the bed, Millicent's torso had burst through the wall behind her, dragging the shredded remains of her limbs and skull with it. Marcus roared with anger and, giving no thought to his own safety, launched several curses at Harry, who responded in kind and nailed him with an overpowered Expelliarmus just before he hit the bed and bounced.

Marcus and his wand were already airborne in opposite directions when Proudfoot burst into the room and Harry landed in a crouch on the far side of the bed from the door. Flint hit the wall behind him with a grotesque thud that completely overwhelmed the noise of his wand bouncing into the wall above the bed. Proudfoot had Marcus Incarcerous'd before he hit the ground, but Harry wasn't paying attention to the fate of the disarmed and mostly broken Flint. Instead, he was looking down at the sickly yellow glow enveloping his left ankle and spreading up his leg.

"Damn it!" Harry said. An Ennervating Curse was complicated to cast and not an instant disabler, so most Dark Wizards didn't bother using it in combat. Marcus apparently had enough experience with it to rely on it anyway, though. It weakened you to the point where you couldn't do magic in thirty seconds, rendered you unconscious in a minute, and dead in two minutes. Its main use was mimicking death from natural causes.

"St. Mungo's, now!" Proudfoot shouted.

Harry ignored him and, instead of reaching for the emergency portkey to St. Mungo's that all Aurors carried on missions, reached into his potion pouch. All Aurors carried a set of potions (and a bezoar) for emergencies. Vial positions one through four were always the same (and kept in the same order, so they could find them without looking), but the fifth slot was left empty for whatever special potion might be issued for that mission. Nothing official had been issued for this mission, so Harry had assented when Hermione offered him the only thing she could give him to protect him before he left.

And so, to Proudfoot's astonishment, Harry ignored his order and downed a vial of Wiggenweld Potion.

"What in the name of Merlin…" Proudfoot trailed off as the yellow glow stopped creeping up Harry's leg.

"Wiggenweld." Only Hermione's potion and Harry's adrenaline were keeping him alive at that point, so he wasn't in the mood to waste words as he conjured himself a crutch and hopped over to the still unresponsive Sue. "I'll take Sue in. Can you two handle things here?"

"Aye," the older man said. "Get the hell out of here and tell us later why in Merlin's name you happened to have Wiggenweld Potion on you."

"It was a gift from someone who was worried about me," Harry said. The last thing he saw before he activated the portkey was Proudfoot's look of surprise that someone had worried about the invincible Harry Potter.