Harry hoped whoever controls the fates didn't screw him over for not getting the hell out of Dodge when he could because stepping into Mme. Deauxville's apartment while her body swayed gently in the warm afternoon sun was one of the stupiest things he had ever done in hindsight.

Okay, he admits it; he is a bit of a dunderhead, but he did leave the front door ajar because while he might be ignoring his Slytherin gut telling his brain to leave, he would still leave himself an easy escape route just in case he needed one, and knowing his luck he probably would.

It took what seemed to be hours to travel the seven steps needed to cross the short hall. Harry sidled around the ash circle, unwilling to disturb it, unwilling to touch the body. Surely she couldn't have survived being strung up like that? Surely the lack of movement was indicative of death? Harry had seen a lot of dead bodies by this point, so he felt pretty confident that she wasn't living anymore.

"Poop," Harry said, falling into his habit of censoring himself because of being around his godson Teddy so much. He set the case down carefully on a beautifully embroidered antique chair before he shuffled forward, careful not to touch anything as he stopped directly in front of the body, his toes just brushing the outer edge of the ash circle. He took a deep breath, pushed down the horrible feeling that he shouldn't be doing what he was about to do, and leaned forward to feel for a pulse on Mme. Deauxville's neck.

" Non !"

Startled by the man's voice behind him, Harry jumped just as he reached for Mme. Deauxville, sending him plummeting toward the body, his arms cartwheeling madly. He yelped even as he tried to twist away from her, but it was a hand on the back of his shirt yanking him backward that kept Harry from plunging into the circle.

" Ne la touchez pas !"

"Huh?" Harry blinked at the sudden appearance of a tall, dark, handsome man. "I'm . . . uh . . . sorry, non me parlez French."

"British?" the man asked, his nostrils flaring as if he smelled something.

"Yeah," Harry answered, he looked from him to the body, then back, the realization flashing through his head that he was alone in an apartment with a stranger and a dead body, which probably meant that he was . . .

"I didn't kill her," the stranger said quickly, evidently reading Harry's mind before turning away to look at the body.

Harry used this moment to examine him. He was not exactly an idiot—if he found himself in a room with a murder victim, the big, tall, dark-haired, extremely handsome guy dressed in black who positively reeked of danger and who mysteriously popped up out of nowhere is naturally going to be on the top of his Potential Murderer List. Which meant Harry had to get himself and the dragon statue out of there before Mr. Killer decided to enjoy a double-header.

Harry grimaced just as the man turned back to him. Something flashed deep in his dark green eyes. "Are you unwell? You aren't going to vomit on me, are you?"

"That wasn't on my list of planned activities for the afternoon, no, but if you really insist, I suppose I could try for a hairball or something." Harry sarcastically drawled, putting on his best Draco impression.

The man's head tipped to the side for a moment as he examined Harry from toes to nose. "I've never completely understood some people's humor. That was supposed to be a joke, yes?"

Again with the reminder that Harry would never be a comedian."Yes, it was." Oh, brilliant, Harry, just brilliant. Here he is trapped in a room with a murderer in a foreign country, and all he can do is make jokes when what he needed to be doing is running away as fast as he could. Draco would be yelling at Harry and his lack of self-preservation at this point.

Harry took a deep breath and edged toward the chair that held his case. The stranger then moved backward a step, effectively blocking Harry off from the exit. Irritation started to rise in his gut. It quickly became clear that Harry needed to distract the handsome green-eyed murderer so he could escape.

The man's eyes glittered darkly at Harry in a way that simultaneously made him nervous and made him want to throw himself on the man. Maybe Draco was right and Harry did need to get laid. "Ah. Yes. A joke. I thought that is what it was."

Distraction, Harry. Don't get caught up in a pair of pretty eyes, not when they likely belonged to a cold-blooded killer. "Um. I was just going to check and make sure Mme. Deauxville was really dead." He closed his eyes for a moment, aware of just how damning that sounded. "That is, I wanted to make sure she wasn't still alive. Not that I want her to be dead, you understand. I just want to make sure that she's not. Oh, crap, it's all coming out wrong."

"You want to make sure there is nothing you can do for her," the dark man said neutrally, his voice—a sexy blend of an English accent and something that sounded vaguely Germanic to Harry's ears—oddly flat. It sounded just the way you'd expect someone to speak if he suspected you of being a deranged killer.

Harry groaned. "Sorry, don't you think one of us should . . . you know, check her? To make sure she's not just gravely wounded?"

He looked back at the body. Harry looked, as well. "You don't believe she's really dead?"

Harry had to admit he had a point. The body was too still, the heavy silent atmosphere of the apartment almost smothering in its intensity. He knew without even thinking about it that there were only two living beings in the apartment, and the body that hung by her hands wasn't one of them.

The man cocked his head again, then whirled around and closed the door that was still standing ajar. Fear flared to life with the movement. He was going to kill him! This was Nagini all over again, except this time he didn't have Hermione there to help save his ass from his own stupidity. He considered going for his wand but he knew that France's statute of secrecy was even stricter than Britain's. He did not want to have to explain to Draco why he ended up in Auror custody when he was meant to be delivering the aquamanile.

Harry must have looked funny while he debated his options on attacking a muggle because the man's lovely dark green eyes narrowed. "What is the matter with you?"

"Me? Nothing's the matter with me. I'm fine. Although now I come to think of it, I have a horrible memory problem. I can't remember what people look like. Or sound like. Or the things they said to me, or anything. So anyone who was worried about what I might have seen or heard would really have nothing to worry about at all. Because of my memory problem. It's permanent, too."

He gave Harry a long, curious look, then made an annoyed noise and let go of Harry's arm as he squatted down to study the ash circle. "I told you I didn't kill her. I'm not going to harm you. Your fear of me is senseless."

What is it about scorn of any sort that makes one's bravado fire up? Harry abhorred any kind of condescension. Harry's chin lifted at the arrogant tone in his back-to-being-sexy voice. "Yeah? Who said I was afraid of you?"

"I can smell your fear. What do you make of this?" And wasn't that statement just super creepy on its own?

He gestured toward the ash circle making Harry glance toward it. "It's an ash circle, inscribed with the twelve symbols of Ashtaroth. What does fear smell like, exactly?"

The man frowned at the circle but didn't touch it. "Sexy."

Harry blinked a couple of times. (Like that was going to make him think better?) "What?"

The man then straightened up and turned toward Harry, and once again he was very much aware that he was alone in an apartment with a dead woman and a mysterious man who was much too handsome for his peace of mind. "It brings out the predator in me."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Harry's eyes widened as the man leaned toward him, his eyes a mesmerizing green, several shades darker than his own bright green shade, that seemed to suck him into their cool depths. There was something about the man that made every atom in Harry very much want to explore the dark sinfully gorgeous stranger intimately, regardless of the fact that he might be a murderer. "Oy!"

The man's lips quirked. He looked back toward Mme. Deauxville. "Is this circle closed or open?"

Harry looked down. It looked whole. "Looks closed to me. Um, who are you?"

His gaze flickered around the room. "I might ask the same question of you."

"You might," Harry said, watching as the man gave the circle a generous berth. He stopped on the other side of the body, in front of a gold-and-scarlet couch that matched the two other chairs in the room, frowning down at it. "But I asked first. So, who are you? Not that you have to tell me, but I expect the police are going to want to know, so I thought you might just want to practice your alibi on me."

He gave Harry another one of his impatient looks, then reached into the breast pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out a wallet, flipping it open to flash an official-looking identity card at him. "Drake Vireo. Interpol."

Interpol? Harry thought incredulously. "Interpol? The one that's like the international Scotland Yard? You're a detective?"

"Of a sort." He started to close his wallet.

"Wait a minute," Harry said, carefully skirting around the circle and Mme. Deauxville. "I didn't just fall off the stupid wagon. I want to see that up close." No way would Harry let a muggle murderer deceive him.

He waved it toward the couch as Harry moved over next to him. "If the circle is still closed, how did the demon escape?"

There are times when a guy just has to have a good goggle. This was one of them. Harry stared, goggle-eyed. "What is it with everyone in this country, you're all demon-obsessed or something? What demon? What are you talking about?"

Drake made a tch noise in the back of his throat. It expressed all sorts of annoyance and impatience, with just a smidgen of an implied eye roll. A sound that all Slytherins seemed to know how to do on instinct in the most condescending way possible. "I am asking you what happened to the demon that was summoned by whoever drew the circle. If the circle is closed, as you say it is, then it would be impossible for the demon to leave, and yet the proof is before our eyes."

Harry looked at where he was pointing his wallet. Between the couch and the wall, there was a black smudge on the floor, as if someone had rubbed charcoal on it. Harry looked at it for a moment, then back at Drake, unsure of whether he was totally and completely mad, or if Harry was. He decided that since he'd known the strange man the least amount of time, he got to be it. "You're serious, aren't you? You really think a demon has something to do with this? I'll admit that whoever killed Mme. Deauxville did so in a manner that makes it look like the ritual destruction of a demon, but that doesn't mean that there was an actual demon involved."

One glossy black eyebrow cocked. "Ritual destruction? How so?"

Harry gestured toward the body, pleased that all those years spent on his little side hobby finally had a payoff. Take that Hermione. "The Circle of Ashtaroth beneath her feet with the twelve symbols of summoning, the way the body is hung from her hands bound behind her, and I'm willing to bet if you bend down and look at her chest, you'll find something made of silver piercing her heart. In other words, she was murdered in the style of the first of the Three Demon Deaths, only this woman was not a demon, which really is no surprise, since demons are nothing more than fiction."

Drake looked amused. "You don't believe in demons?"

"I'll take no for five hundred, Alex. Demons don't exist outside the minds of some pretty twisted and confused people."

Drake's nostrils flared again. If Harry weren't so convinced he was stark, raving mad, he'd have admitted to himself that Drake even did a nostril flare well. "Are you trying to tell me that despite the evidence before us, you do not believe that a demon was recently called to this apartment?

Harry pursed his lips, slowly moving away from him. No quick movements; everyone knew that was the key to keeping dangerously mad people calm. Slow and easy was the plan. "Okay, you know what? I'm going to just scoot over to the desk where the phone is and call the police. You can do your detective stuff while I'm calling."

"I've already called the police. They should be here in four minutes. Why do you hesitate to tell me what happened to the demon? Did you have something to do with Aurora Deauxville's death?"

Harry stopped before the desk, trying to figure out whether he could make it to the door without magic before the dangerous man grabbed him. Harry's gaze dropped to the case sitting on the chair. Bloody hell. He wouldn't be able to make it without the aquamanile. "No, I just got here. I'm a courier. I was supposed to deliver a package to her. I don't know anything about demons or who would want Mme. Deauxville dead. But as we're on the subject, just what are you doing here? I assume you aren't here in a professional capacity, because if you were, the homicide squad would be here, too. So, if you didn't kill her, you must have seen who did. She doesn't look like she's been dead too long."

"She doesn't look like she's been dead long?"

Harry pointed to where Mme. Deauxville's arms were bound behind her back. "Rigor hasn't set in yet. If you look at the angle between her arms and her back, you'll notice it's closing as rigor starts to take hold. That means she's either been dead for more than twelve hours, and rigor is wearing off, or it's just setting in, which means she's been dead . . . oh, maybe fifteen minutes. But I don't have to tell you that—you're a cop."

"I specialize in finding lost items, not examining murder scenes," Drake said abruptly. "How do you know so much about the stages of decomposition?"

Harry couldn't tell the man of his experience with dead bodies due to the war. "The Detection Channel. I'm addicted to a reality forensic medicine show on it. It's really interesting. They do autopsies and stuff. Do you know what happens to bones left exposed to the elements?" Thank the gods for Draco making him watch muggle telly on the weekends with him.

"Yes, they turn brown."

"That's right. I thought you said you didn't work homicides?"

Drake scanned the room again like he was looking for something he missed. He also totally ignored Harry's last question, which was fine with him, because he'd rather Drake answered the important one. "I arrived shortly before you did, five minutes at the most. My business with her is none of your concern. She was dead when I entered the apartment."

"Then you must have heard me ringing the bell."

"Yes."

"You didn't let me in!" Harry said, a wee tad bit more petulantly than he would have liked, considering Drake was still the number-one suspect for the murder.

He tipped his head back like he was smelling the air. "Would you have if you were in my place?"

"I suppose not. So, why were you meeting Mme. Deauxville?"

Drake's brows pulled together in a frown as he turned to face me fully. "I think a more important question is why you insist on lying to me. You are a Guardian, and yet you deny the facts. You deny that a demon has been here. I can feel the very air soiled by its presence, yet you deny it?" Drake shook his head, moving slowly toward Harry. "Why a Guardian seeks to lie about something so simple as a demon summoning is beyond me. You will explain yourself now."

Harry took a couple of steps back, toward the desk. "See, this is where you're confused. I'm a courier—I just told you that. I don't have any kids, I mean I guess I have a godson but his grandmother is the one who has custody, but otherwise, no one else for whom I'm acting as a guardian."

Drake's frown deepened. "What?"

"I'm a courier. C-o-u-r-i-e-r. It means someone who transports objects. That's my job, well sort of my job. At least it was. There's no telling how Draco is going to react to my first delivery going to pot like this, but I have a feeling I shouldn't be planning on a raise and a promotion any time soon. Even if this was a favor for Draco."

Drake moved around to the far side of the circle, his eyes puzzled as they watched Harry. "You smell as if you are telling the truth, but you know about the symbols of Ashtaroth. You knew the circle was closed, and not even I can tell if a circle is open or closed. In addition, you are familiar with the rituals for destroying a demon. Only a Guardian would know such things. What game are you playing?"

Harry spread his hands to show Drake that he was innocent of whatever it was he suspected Harry of. "I'm just trying to do my job."

"Which is to deliver what?"

Harry waffled and shrugged, unwilling to tell him. Despite his badge and claims to the contrary, Harry didn't know for sure that Drake didn't murder Mme. Deauxville. The intriguing air of danger that surrounded him certainly made it seem possible, not to mention all that double-talk about demons and their guardians. And then there was his obsession with smelling things . . . reminded him of a certain werewolf, a red flag all by itself. "It's just a small statue. Even if you're not a homicide cop, shouldn't you be, like, you know, examining the body and stuff?"

"I am questioning a suspect," he said, moving toward Harry. The calm part of Harry's mind enjoyed watching how Drake walked, a sort of powerful glide, coiled strength implied, but not obvious in his fluid movements. "A statue of what? What is it made of?"

"Metal. It's of a creature, nothing special, nothing important," Harry quickly lied, but no one had ever accused Harry of being a proficient liar.

Drake's head lifted again, and Harry could have sworn he was scenting the air, just like a werewolf. But this man didn't have the energy or feel of a lycanthrope or even a wizard. "Gold. The statue is of gold."

Fuck.

Harry ran for the chair, just barely beating Drake to it. "You know what? I think I need to see your badge again. You're not doing this questioning thing right at all. You should be asking me my name and where I'm staying and whether I knew Mme. Deauxville and stuff like that, not babbling on about demons and why someone would use the Circle of Ashtaroth to summon one of the demon prince's legions, and what the small, insignificant statue I brought is made of."

"For someone who professes not to be a Guardian, you appear very learned in demon lore," he said in sort of a low growl that sent shivers of mingled thrill and trepidation down Harry's spine. With a move that was too fast for Harry to follow, Drake grabbed his arm and hauled him up to the dark man's chest, one hand clamped behind Harry, the other grabbing his hair and pulling his head back. "Very well. We will play this game as you demand. What is your name?"

Something very much not afraid quivered inside of Harry from being manhandled by such an attractive man.

Double Fuck.

"Hadrian," Harry said before he realized what he was doing. His body—traitor that it is—thoroughly enjoyed being smooshed up against Drake, fully aware of the long hard lines of his body. After several seconds of numbed bemusement, the sane side of Harry's mind regained control. "Hey! What do you think you're doing? Let me go you prick!"

"You wished for me to ask questions—I am simply granting that wish. Where are you staying?"

"The Hôtel de la Femme Sans Tête. Let go of me!"

"Not yet. Did you know Mme. Deauxville?"

"No, I told you I was a courier. Stop holding me like this. I will report you to your superiors for sexual harassment!"

His eyes narrowed on me. "A Guardian who claims he is not a Guardian, and yet who understands the steps needed to summon a demon. What a puzzle you present me. I believe it is a puzzle worth investigating." Instead of releasing him, Drake buried his head in Harry's neck and drew in a deep breath.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Harry held back a whimper, beginning to struggle in earnest. Harry had a feeling he knew what the strange probably not muggle man was doing, but he was hoping his overactive imagination was just kicking in.

"Memorizing your scent."

"What?" Suspicions confirmed, damn, then Harry realized that it wasn't just his own voice that was echoing around the room—police sirens outside the windows were growing steadily louder.

Drake pulled his face out of Harry's sensitive neck just long enough to give him a look that left Harry's knees weak. There was something different about his beautiful green eyes, so different from Harry's own. The pupils were slightly elongated rather than round, almost like a cat's eye, but not quite as dramatic. It wasn't just his eyes, though. It was the way he touched Harry, the way he spoke, the way he . . . scented him. There was something not quite human or muggle about him that had Harry's heart racing and the little Hermione in the back of his head yelling at him.

With a gentle touch that belied the threat in his voice, he attempted to tuck a strand of wild hair behind Harry's ear and said, "The police are here, Hadrian; thus I must bid you adieu . I do not know for what purpose you are denying the truth, but I advise you to be a bit more circumspect with the French police. They are not known for their tolerance of those who dally with the dark powers."

He leaned forward and brushed his lips against Harry's, the warmth so quickly withdrawn that he was gone before Harry could pull his wits together. Harry's gravestone was going to say 'defeated by lust' at this rate.

"What? Hey! You can't just kiss me! And what do you mean to be more circumspect? Where are you going—? No! Stop! That's mine!"

Harry lunged forward but even with his seeker reflexes it was too late. Drake snatched up the black case holding the gold dragon and spun around, racing out the door of the apartment before Harry stumbled forward three steps.

Unfortunately, the three steps were directly into the ash circle. Instinctively Harry reached out to keep himself from careening into the body. What he grabbed, though, wasn't Mme. Deauxville. It was a silver object that he had suspected had been plunged into her heart, an object Harry hadn't seen because of the way her body was hunched over and Harry's unfortunate lack of height. The cool metal slid easily out of her body as Harry staggered to the side, away from her. He stood staring at the weapon in his hand for one horrified moment. It was long, with a thick curved blade smeared almost to the hilt in blood. He recognized what it was from several of the texts he'd read on demon lore—it was a seax, a medieval single-bladed dagger that was commonly used in the ritual destruction of beings of a dark origin. This seax had a bone handle and appeared to be made of silver. It was said that only silver piercing a demon's heart could destroy it . . . when coupled with the twelve words, of course. Hermione at one point had wanted to acquire one of these to try to use on Voldemort.

"A real live example of one of the Demon Deaths," Harry murmured, the reality of the decidedly unreal situation being driven home by the cold weight of the seax in his hand. Harry was just thinking about making a sketch of the arrangement of symbols so he could compare them with a book back home when noises in the hall had him gawking in surprise. A number of policemen pushed through the door, all talking at once. They stopped and looked at Harry in equal surprise, the look quickly turning to one of profound suspicion as they saw the dead woman next to him . . . and the bloody seax in his hand.

Bloody Hell the Potter luck strikes yet again.

Harry sighed and raised his hands in surrender, the police swarming forward to surround him. Kingsley was going to enjoy this explanation. This was turning out to be the longest day of his life and it had just grown a whole lot longer.

Fuck Draco and his favors.