Episode #1: Particles in Solution, pt. 1
Episode number and title: #1: Particles in Solution
Episode writer: blamebrampton
Episode editor(s): raitala
Episode summary: Harry Potter might murder his boss. Draco Malfoy would kill for some meaning in his life. Kingsley Shacklebolt has a whole filing cabinet full of victims looking for two slightly testy champions.
PROLOGUE
Harry squinted into the setting sun, relying on reflections from the glass-fronted buildings on both sides to show the patch of distorted space that was the Disillusioned Æthelbert Farrell. Under his breath he muttered his own stream of spells to keep himself from the eyes of Muggles below - and Muggles around and above, he supposed, given all the windows.
Farrell had been on the lookout for them in Diagon Alley. Someone had alerted him, whether it was one of their own people or one of the insiders from Farrell and Co. - who Ron thought they had turned, but there might have been regrets - he would find out later. Harry had no doubt Farrell knew he was being pursued, but whether or not he could see through Harry's defences was another question.
He had told Dawlish that it was a stupid plan to outsource the Ministry's spell research, but the Head Auror had coldly informed him that he didn't require administrative advice from his Deputy and … Harry left off his familiar 'Why My Boss is Crap' rant to haul his broomstick upwards and follow Farrell into a sudden, steep climb.
High above Canary Wharf they soared, up past the architectural flourishes and bristles of concealed aerials that crowned the skyscrapers. For a moment he could make out the shape of a wizard crouched on his broom in the shimmering air against the bright gold clouds - it broadened, turning, and Harry wheeled to one side to avoid the smoothly thrown hex.
So he was visible to Farrell. Fine. Harry didn't wait to spin upright before aiming his wand. Farrell was growing more solid by the second, all disguise sacrificed in favour of what Harry assumed would be a complex web of shields. He didn't try to get past them, but put his faith in brute force. 'Deprimo!' he shouted, and a blast of wind exploded from his wand.
He could see the moment at which Farrell lost his grip on his own wand - all disguises disappeared in an instant and Farrell came sharply into view, arms wheeling frantically as he grabbed after his wand, too late realising that he was also separating from his broom.
Harry leaned into his Firebolt, urging it forward to cover the distance the spell had blown Farrell. A whispered Accio wand brought the twig of ash close enough for Harry to snatch it from its fall, he tucked it inside his robes. Gravity asserted itself on Farrell before his broom, one meaty foot caught in the Cleansweep's ornate brasswork footrest and dragged a startled Farrell upwards. The man had the good sense to stop kicking at that point, and looked almost smug for a brief moment, until he realised that the spells levitating and propelling the broom now required wandless magic on his part. From the look on his face, wandless magic was not one of Farrell's strengths.
Harry timed it carefully. Just as the Cleansweep gave out, he drew level and muttered Incarcerous. Ropes twined out from the end of his wand, wrapping snugly around Farrell and his broom. A medium-strength hover charm followed, and saw the corrupt entrepreneur rendered both harmless and balloonlike.
Give him his due, he wasn't going quietly. 'This is Auror harassment!' Farrell shouted. 'My lawyers will sue the Ministry down to its last knut! After all my company has done for you people, this is outrageous behaviour!'
Harry tugged on his end of the rope until Farrell was only a few feet away. The shouting decreased in direct proportion to the proximity.
'There are no actual defensive spells on the vests you sold to my department,' Harry said, as quietly as he could three-hundred metres above the busy city. 'I have two team members in St Mungo's. You have a secret account in the Goblin Bank of Willendorf into which all of your research budget for the next three years has been ferreted. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the Wizengamot, because, sunshine, you are well and truly nicked. Are we clear?'
Farrell, exhibiting the first piece of good sense Harry had seen out of him since he snake-oiled his way into the Minstry nine months previous, shut up.
They had drifted downwards as they spoke, and the top floors of Canada Square were nearing again. Harry briefly tossed up the logistics of Disillusioning the two of them, and decided that he would rather do a spot of mental physics. He Apparated them straight into the Ministry's Atrium, appearing over in the quiet bit behind the memorial fountain where there was almost always more than enough space to kill all your speed and land safely if you came in flying.
There was this time, too. It would all have been perfectly fine, had they not appeared in direct line of sight behind a row of photographers just as Head Auror Dawlish was announcing that the rumours of problems with the Ministry's private research contracts were nothing more than the sort of gutter journalism one expected from Muggles.
Harry could hear him reach the crescendo of his speech: 'Over the course of this year, Æthelbert Farrell has shown himself to be an inspiring inventor and just the sort of entrepreneurial Wizard to lead this Ministry forward into a new age of public/private partnerships …' Only the tide of photographers tracking the floating Farrell away from him stemmed the flow of Dawlish's oratory. Harry watched as, inevitably, his boss turned around to focus on the source of the disturbance.
A lesser wizard would have stuffed his landing under that sort of scrutiny. Harry swung one leg across his broom and dropped lightly to one foot, jogging a few steps until he killed his forward momentum. Casually swinging his Firebolt over one shoulder, he towed a compliant Farrell over to the nearest lift, which arrived as if on cue. In the distance, he could see Dawlish looking for words, ones Harry was sure would be shouted at him later. But later would come soon enough.
He reached forward and pressed the button: Level Two.
********************************
Level Two: Episode One
Particles in Solution
None of Kingsley's personal assistants were littering the Minister's outer office at 7.45 the following morning. In fact, as Harry stomped grimly in from the corridor, there was only one other person in sight: Draco Malfoy, sitting quietly on the waiting bench, reading the latest edition of Granger's Notes on Wizarding Jurisprudence. They exchanged nods, which they had been doing for years now, and Harry continued, stomping less obviously, into Kingsley's office.
'Did you know about this?' he asked, closing the door behind him with one hand and holding up a sheet of parchment with the other.
'Do sit down, Harry. Cup of tea? Biscuit?' Kingsley had been ignoring interrogations, rants and tirades from all comers since 1998, which was one of the cornerstones of his success as Minister.
'Kingsley, Dawlish is shafting me. Doesn't that bother you?'
'Try one of the jammy dodgers. Mabel Erpthwaite from the Wizengamot made a batch on the weekend. They're delicious.'
Harry wondered if there were a school of leadership that predicated itself on defusing moments of tension with sweets. And why his life was full of its devotees. He took a biscuit anyway and sat down in the chair opposite Kinsgley, tossing the parchment onto the desk between them.
'Cold Case Department, my arse. He's sidelining me so that he can get on with running the Aurors as his own personal fiefdom, regardless of how many idiotic mistakes he makes. Do you have any idea how much the fandango with Farrell has cost us?'
'Two hundred and forty-seven thousand Galleons,' Kingsley said calmly, chewing on a biscuit. 'Most of which we are in the process of recovering.'
'He hasn't even had the balls to tell me about it himself. Just a memo and a short announcement in the Prophet,' Harry fumed.
'I think you're missing the opportunity here,' Kingsley said.
'Opportunity?' Harry picked up the memo and read: '"John Dawlish is pleased to announce the promotion of Harry Potter from Deputy Head Auror to Head Auror, Cold Case Division. This new initiative is designed to investigate cases which have remained unsolved for five years or more. It is expected that Auror Potter will have great success in this new role, applying the rigour and insight that have seen him achieve one of the highest clear-up rates in Auror history in only seven years with the department. The Cold Case Division will be located outside the main department, but will be able to draw on our resources as necessary."
'Translated: I'm going to stick Potter in a closet again, because that will be hilarious, and I'm also going to stick him with cases he can't possibly solve, because I'd like to distract attention from the fact I'm a jumped-up twatface who wants to go back to running the Auror department however I feel best on the day without any critical oversight, save what small amount Shacklebolt can manage from a distance. And because he is my most successful Auror, I'm going to pretend it's a promotion rather than the dead-end sidelining that anyone can see it really is, so if he complains in public, he'll look like a banana. And he can have a stapler that works if he is a good boy and keeps quiet about it.'
Kingsley smiled and inclined his head. 'I thank you for the acknowledgement that I at least attempt some oversight within the Ministry.'
'You know what I mean.' Harry sank back in his chair.
'And I say again, you are missing the opportunity.' Kingsley opened a large drawer and pulled out a stack of black files, with a smattering of blue amongst them. 'Look here. Rebecca Winterbottom, found dead in a field at Trent Bridge, March 1995. No leads. Marlene, Harry, Lizzie, Pete and Emma McKinnon, all killed in their family home, 1981, we know it was Death Eaters, but no-one has ever paid for the crime. Edward Flyte, disappeared November 2001, no sign of him since. All these people deserve justice, Harry.'
Kingsley pushed the stack of files across the table towards him, and Harry unwillingly began to leaf through the top sheets.
'And then,' Kingsley continued, 'there's this one.'
This file was slimmer than most. 'Sirius Black' was printed neatly across the top of it. A photo was held beneath the label with a Sticking Charm. A young man in casual clothes, looking for all the world as though he was about to speak blinked up at him.
Younger than me, Harry thought, concentrating on breathing. He stared at the cardboard folder.
'Accused of killing twelve Muggles,' Kingsley reminded him.
'You know he didn't do it,' Harry managed.
'I do. As do you. It's a terrible shame Peter Pettigrew died before he could make a statement in front of the Wizengamot.'
'But everyone knows,' Harry protested weakly.
'Many people do,' Kingsley allowed. 'But don't you think it would be a marvellous thing if it could become an official position?'
Harry looked at him through narrow eyes.
'I've even managed a small staff for you,' Kingsley added.
Harry brightened. 'Ron?'
Even before Kingsley shook his head, Harry knew what was coming.
'One of our finest young Unspeakables.'
Harry didn't even sigh.
'He's been sorely under-utilised with the Auror Department's outsourcing policy. I think it will be a nice surprise for him.'
Harry looked up. 'You haven't told him?'
'I did think that I should check with you first,' Kingsley said.
Harry's eyebrows lifted. 'Can I tell him?'
'Can you do it nicely?'
Harry gave up and laughed. 'You'd better tell him.'
'So you're in?' Kingsley smiled at him.
'You knew I would be the moment you showed me that file.'
'I'll ask Mr Malfoy to join us, shall I?'
Harry watched as Kingsley moved outside to talk quietly with Malfoy. He didn't mind it being Malfoy. Not really. Ron was going to do his nut, but Malfoy had been down in Mysteries for the last five years and as far as Harry knew, no-one had a bad word to say about him. They crossed paths now and then, most often in the Golden Hind, the gay bar Harry had taken to hiding out in after a month in which no fewer than three middle-aged witches had physically flung their daughters at him in the Leaky. It was as much for the poor girls' sake as his own.
The lads in the Hind had cheerfully checked him out - every time he walked in if truth be told - but were not only more circumspect (and blessedly parent-free), they were more supportive, too. When the Prophet had splashed a headline wondering if Ginny Weasley had ruined him for women forever, no fewer than twelve of the boys had contacted the paper to point out that it was exceptionally unlikely he'd changed teams, since none of them knew anyone who had slept with him. That sort of loyalty couldn't be bought.
Harry was fairly sure that Malfoy had spent that whole day laughing quietly, but knew for a fact that Benjy Williams, the Puddlemere United Seeker who was regularly seen heading off with Malfoy at the end of a night, had been one of the twelve.
Ironically, he had just that week decided that he wasn't averse to a spot of experimentation, but he could hardly sully such a beautiful gesture, and he'd spent all his drinking time since being impeccably well behaved. If wearing tighter trousers than had previously been his wont.
Kingsley returned, Malfoy a few steps behind. Harry had quite a good joke halfway to his lips, but the grim look on Malfoy's face killed it. Instead, he nodded again.
Malfoy returned it. 'Potter. Shacklebolt tells me he wants us to work together.' He took the seat opposite Harry's moving it slightly away.
'The new Cold Case Division,' Harry said. 'Dawlish has set it up. Kingsley wants us to tackle unsolved crimes and see if we can't bring a few people who've been getting away with it for years to justice.'
'I am hoping that you can help Harry with the technical aspects of the project,' Kingsley said. 'I know you've been doing remarkable work down in Mysteries and thought you'd like a chance to put some of your theories into practise in the field.'
'You're talking as though it's a real department,' Malfoy observed.
Harry paused.
'It is a real department, Mr Malfoy,' Kingsley said. 'I've found you offices and am having a sign made even as we speak.'
Malfoy raised an eyebrow in a manner that bespoke hours of practise in front of a mirror. 'So it's not just a punishment for Potter?'
'It's that, too,' Harry said before Kingsley could perjure himself.
'And you want to haul me out of Mysteries to add credence to a scheme that will only last until the Prophet can prepare its "Our Harry is Being Hard Done By" special and run an interactive poll that asks the readers who they prefer as Head Auror: the Saviour of the Wizarding World or a grumpy old haggis of a man with the smooth political touch of a sturgeon?'
Harry found it hard not to laugh.
'You are missing an opportunity here,' Kingsley began.
‘An opportunity for a two-hundred per cent increase in quarterly budget?’
‘Fifty,’ Shacklebolt replied.
‘But with access to additional staff.’
‘With access to the Minister’s private archives.’
‘And with authority to use experimental spells and technology as I see fit?’
‘Authority to use them as they are appropriate to the cases and with a full guarantee on your part of safety to all those affected by them.’
Malfoy paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘And working with Potter, not for him.’
Harry nodded even before Kingsley did.
‘And approval for calling him whatever name seems appropriate at the time?’
‘Could I stop you?’ Kingsley asked.
‘No.’
Harry rolled his eyes and tossed Sirius's folder back onto Kingsley’s table. Malfoy glanced down at it. 'All right,' he said. 'I'm in.'
********************************
Their office was on the MLE level, but away from the main Auror offices. Kingsley had not been joking about the sign, an overalled wizard was screwing it to the door as he led them down the corridor. He opened the door, revealing two medium-sized rooms and a kitchenette.
'You can expand the rooms as you need them, I thought Mr Malfoy could use one as a laboratory,' Kingsley said.
Malfoy was already investigating the space. 'The back room, I can install a fumigation system for my cauldrons and we should be able to contain any blasts more thoroughly there. I'll need half the front room for my reference library, but we can make space for a desk and some files for Potter.'
'Possibly a coat rack?' Harry suggested sarcastically.
'For robes. Good idea. I'm assuming we can use the main Auror holding cells when we start bringing in miscreants?'
'Certainly,' Kingsley said.
'Marvellous. Can I bring in my lab fittings from Mysteries?'
'Of course.'
'And are you going to get a desk for Potter?'
'Naturally.'
'And a chair?'
Harry stopped his drifting around the room and looked back at Malfoy, strongly suspecting a joke.
Kingsley replied, perfectly straight: 'Two chairs, possibly three.'
'Thank you, Minister. If you can see to that, I imagine we can get down to work.'
Harry had to work to keep the smile from his face. 'Have you had breakfast, Malfoy?'
'Only tea and toast.'
'You're two ahead of me. Cafeteria?'
'Bring the files?'
'Yes, do. Kingsley, do you need us?'
Kingsley smiled at them. 'I do, actually. But we can set up the office without you. Go and eat.'
The cafeteria had been the most popular part of the Ministry rebuild after the war. It combined the best traditions of dubious British cuisine with comfortably stuffed armchairs and architecture that went heavily in for panelling and alcoves. As a result, it was popular as an ad hoc meeting space for those who wanted quietness, in addition to being a reliable venue for a quick egg and chips before work.
Malfoy secured them one of the prime corner tables while Harry availed himself of plates of toast, scrambled eggs and mushrooms, and as many beverages as he could fit onto the tray.
'I didn't know if you wanted tea, coffee, juice or hot chocolate …' he explained himself as he tried to fit things in around the papers Malfoy had spread out.
'I'll take the tea and the juice,' Malfoy replied, reaching for the same, and taking one of the plates, too.
Harry arranged the remainder and leaned the tray against the wall behind them. 'So,' he said. 'What do you think?'
'I think you'll put up with me until you can come up with a suitably subtle plan for getting rid of Dawlish and taking control of the Auror Department. After that I will be sent back to Mysteries with a slightly but permanently increased budget - always assuming the two of us haven't killed each other before then.'
Harry could feel his eyes widening.
Malfoy stopped. 'Oh, you meant about the case. I think it's exceptionally frustrating. Obviously Black was framed by Pettigrew, but most of the witnesses are dead, those who aren't were tramped all over by the Committee for Muggle-Worthy excuses. And there's no point hunting down any of them: the whole team died during the war. As did most of the Aurors who attended.'
Malfoy turned the file around so Harry could see it, and sure enough there were fine green lines drawn through many of the names, with dates of death beside them.
'What about the Muggles? Surely they took names?'
'Yes, but not addresses. And the crime scene photographs are frankly rubbish.'
'Bugger.'
'Exactly.'
'There's one piece of good news.' Harry said, scanning down the paper. 'The Muggle Liaison, William Bustamant. Still alive, and there's an address for him.'
'So we start there?'
'I would think so.'
Malfoy chewed his toast thoughtfully. 'Or is “we” just you? Are you planning to have me sitting in the office doing all the work that requires brains while you go gallivanting about? Or were you thinking I should gallivant with you and then do the thinking in the afternoons while you do … whatever it is you do?'
Harry refused to rise to the bait. 'In my experience, it's always good to have two people in on any interview. One needs to be asking the questions at any time, but the other can observe subtle reactions from the interviewee that might escape the officer who is concentrating on what is being said.'
Malfoy gave Harry an odd look, as though he were surprised to have received a civil answer. 'That sounds reasonable. In that case, I think we should contact Mr Bustamant this morning. The note on the file says that he's a Squib as well as a policeman, so that should make things easier.'
'He's probably retired,' Harry said. 'This was all twenty-five years ago.'
'Then he's more likely to be at home. Eat up. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll know if we're on a plausible case or a wild goose chase.'
Harry grinned at the rhyme, Malfoy looked embarrassed as he realised it.
'So it's really just the two of us in this department?' Malfoy asked between sips of tea.
'For now. I imagine we'll be able to bring more people in once we start dealing with larger cases.'
'Which will require us to succeed with this one?'
Harry shrugged. 'I don't know. Kingsley clearly thinks we can, but none of these cases would still be open if they had simple solutions. There was a lot of political goodwill towards all members of the Order of the Phoenix just after the war: I would have expected that this would’ve been looked at back then, which means it was put into the too-hard basket.'
'Neither of us were here then,' Malfoy pointed out. 'I'm cleverer than the average Ministry employee, and you're more tenacious.'
'Nicest thing you've ever said about me, Malfoy,' Harry said with a grin.
'Simple observation. Listen, if this all goes horribly wrong - because really, it is all about Dawlish shitting on your career - I don't want to go down with you.'
Harry wasn't offended. In fact, Malfoy's straightforwardness was refreshing after seven years with the Aurors, where obfuscation was the official language. 'You won't. Kingsley's put you here for three reasons. I think he must have known that the Sirius case would appeal to you as much as it does to me, and you have to admit, it's a public relations coup having the two of us working together, but mostly, I think he genuinely believes you are very good at your job. I think that Kingsley just expects the two of us to excel, based on our past records. If I cock up, you'll just go back to Mysteries. Probably with a slight increase to your budget, yes.'
'Right.' Malfoy looked his tea for a moment. 'So it's that simple, is it? We're the best and brightest and it will look good for the Minister if he can get us to play nicely together and clear up his outstanding cases.'
Harry nodded. 'I think it is.'
'Harry!'
Ron was waving at him from over near the teapots.
Malfoy followed the voice and frowned. 'Ah. That would be my signal to trot off and pick up a few supplies. See you back at the office in fifteen?' He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. 'How much do I owe you for breakfast?'
'Nothing,' Harry said. 'It's on me.'
'I'd rather pay,' Malfoy said. 'It's not as though we're friends.'
Harry reminded himself that he had been optimistic about this being a new start in his dealings with Malfoy, less than an hour ago. 'We're coworkers. You can pay next time.'
Malfoy thought for a moment, then nodded. 'All right. See you shortly, then. Weasley, good morning.'
Ron mumbled something in reply and waited until Malfoy had taken a few steps before he opened his mouth.
'Don't say it!' Harry forestalled him.
Ron made a hand gesture that indicated he considered Malfoy a keen seeker of masturbatory pleasures instead. Harry ignored him.
'So what the hell is going on, mate? Hermione and I tried to get you at home this morning, but Kreacher said you'd already left. It's an outrage. What are we going to do about it?'
Harry swallowed his toast. 'For now? Nothing. Or, more to the point, everything.'
Ron looked at him. 'Buggery bollocks. You're off on another of your crusades, aren't you? Harry, they're pairing me with Robards. You can't just … Oh crap. I know that look. You are, aren't you. Right. Tell me all about it.'
********************************
The edited version of the morning took somewhat less than fifteen minutes for Harry to tell Ron, so he was back at their office just before Malfoy. Kingsley's people had done a good job: there were two plain desks, a row of filing cabinets and two walls of bookshelves neatly jigsawed into the front room. In the back room, a long table dominated the space, with a stone sink and taps at one end and a spry man installing an extractor fan in the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls of this room, too, and several of them were already covered in cauldrons, chemicals and flasks of herbs and other ingredients.
Harry noticed that his own spare red Auror robes were on the coat rack, and that his work broom was tucked behind it, just as Malfoy returned, laden with a large box and a stack of scrolls tucked under one arm. A leather work-coat and formal black Unspeakable robes were attempting to slide off the top of the box, Harry stepped forward and caught them.
'Thank you,' Malfoy said, not ungraciously. 'If you could put the robes on the rack, I'll take the coat into the laboratory.'
'I'll do it,' Harry offered, and did. Malfoy placed the box carefully on the table before stowing the scrolls. Harry draped the coat over the back of the tall-backed chair in the corner, noting the scorch marks and stains that showed it had known hard use.
From the box, Malfoy pulled three sets of goggles, which he lined up on the corner of the table, then a face-shield and a set of earmuffs.
'Do things explode often?' Harry asked.
'I'll reinforce the door. And no, not that often. Moderately often. On the low side of moderate. Usually only when I'm experimenting.'
'I'll bear that in mind. Are you good to go?'
''I'll just grab these,' Malfoy said, snaring a row of small glass vials held together by leather thonging from out of the box. He went to tuck them into the pocket of his working robes, but stopped at Harry's frown. 'What is it?'
'We're going to interview a Squib, who lives in the Muggle world …'
'No robes?'
'No robes.'
Malfoy nodded, and reached inside the box again, drawing out a leather satchel that looked sufficiently like something a bike courier would use to pass muster. He tucked the vials inside it and unbuttoned his working robe. 'Is this shirt all right?'
'It's fine, but you'll need a coat to look professional. Just something light, it's meant to be hot today. I usually just transmogrify my uniform and then change it back later. Saves time.'
Malfoy nodded, and touched his wand to his robe with a whispered incantation.
'Maybe something a little less ornate?' Harry suggested, altering his own clothes as a demonstration.
Malfoy nodded and followed suit, creating a black wool jacket that covered him neatly from neck to hip.
'That's good. Here, you'll need this. We use Muggle IDs whenever we have a crossover case. So if you end up in Muggle custody for any reason, insist on having the Ministry of Defence called in. Their top brass know about us.'
Malfoy looked at his card and nodded. 'So, do we Apparate? Or do we have to go by train?'
'Trains to Bedfordshire take too long. We'll Apparate and then just walk the last. He's in Barnfield in Luton, and the map says there are gardens nearby. They should provide enough privacy. As long as we don't cock it up and appear in the middle of the college, we should be fine.'
'Have you been there before?'
'Once. I can side-along you if you haven't.'
Malfoy frowned.
Harry met him halfway. 'We do that a lot in the Auror Corps. It's just practical if one person knows the area better than the other. Better than Splinching.'
Malfoy nodded. 'Fine. Do you normally leave the Ministry first?'
'Merlin no,' said Harry, taking hold of Malfoy's upper arm and Apparating the two of them to Bedfordshire.
They appeared in a quiet council garden, with no-one in sight. Harry had copied the map of the area onto a page of his notebook, and led them quickly down two neat and tree-lined streets to the last known address for William Bustamant.
According to the brief notes in the file, Bustamant was a Squib, whose younger sister had attended Hogwarts from 1974 to 1980. He had joined the Metropolitan Police in the mid 1970s and had been a promising Detective Sergeant at the time of Sirius's arrest. The Auror in charge of the investigation had left a note praising Bustamant's competence and efficiency. It also noted that he had been on the scene only shortly after the explosion had taken place.
Harry had half-thought Bustamant's house would be in one of the post-War developments, but the address was a pleasant detached brick dwelling near the River Lea. The garden was a mix of flowers and vegetables, with pots of chilli and okra bathing in the late-July sun. The paved path to the front door was neatly swept and edged with patio roses in a riot of reds and oranges.
The door opened before either of them had a chance to knock. A medium-height young woman with dark skin and a darkly suspicious look greeted them. 'Yes? What is it?'
Harry held his card out to her and kept his back militarily straight. 'I'm Harry Potter, this is Draco Malfoy. We're from the MoD. We were wondering if William Bustamant was still at this address?'
She peered at his card, then at the one Malfoy submitted for investigation. Twice she flicked between the photos on the cards and their faces. 'Special Forces …' She looked more closely at Malfoy's coat, then his boots. Only now in the bright sunlight could Harry see they were both embroidered with black silk. 'No you're not.' She leaned back into the house and shouted. 'Dad, there's two men here. They're Funnies.'
Harry managed not to roll his eyes. The slang for Wizards had caught on among those who came across them professionally - usually paramedics, members of the armed services, the Metropolitan Police and most local police forces - except for the Welsh who couldn't be bothered with politeness and called them the wackos. For the most part the people who used the word had no idea that wizarding Britain existed, only that there were people and events that could not be explained, and that were hidden from normal channels by government sanction. Harry suspected that half the stories of aliens living amongst us had come about through rumours that began with an Auror and an MoD ID card.
A tall man appeared in the doorway behind the young woman and looked out at them.
'Mr Bustamant?' Harry guessed. 'I'm Harry Potter, this is Draco Malfoy. We're here about the explosion in Hackney in 1981.'
'Let them in, Iris,' William Bustamant said.
The woman stepped outside and waved an arm graciously to indicate they should enter. Harry noted she put herself in a perfect position to tackle either of them should they cause any trouble. She had police written in large metaphorical letters above her head, and in literal ones on the stab vest that was hanging up just inside the doorway.
William Bustamant was tall and somewhere around sixty, but he walked with a slight limp, which slowed down his otherwise vigorous stride. 'My daughter doesn't think that people should bother her aged father now he's retired,' he told them, leading them through the main part of the house and out into a sun-filled kitchen filled with the fragrances of fresh bread, spices and vinegar. A middle-aged woman with an utterly splendid profile was sitting at the table. She looked up at them in surprise. 'This is my wife, Elizabeth,' Bustamant said. 'These two gentlemen are from the Ministry,' he informed her.
'You're them?' she asked. 'William's sister is one of your lot. And my uncle and cousins.'
Harry shot a quick glance at Malfoy. His eyes were wide, but he was otherwise containing his reactions well.
'We're here to ask your husband for his help on a case he investigated back in the early 1980s,' Harry replied noncommittally.
'You weren't even born then,' said the young woman - Iris - who had followed them through the house.
'We were, actually,' said Harry. 'Mr Bustamant, would you have some time? It should only take half an hour or so.'
William Bustamant nodded. 'But not here. I'm assuming we can't go to your offices?'
Harry frowned. In theory, Squibs were exempt from the Statutes of Secrecy, for obvious reasons. But in practise …
'We'll go to my office,' Bustamant said, opening the back door.
Iris took a step forward. 'Dad, you don't have to. Or I can come along.'
'They're not here to cause any harm, pet,' Bustamant said with a smile. 'It's a professional visit, and I've always had time up my sleeve to help out you young ones.'
Iris did not look impressed, but she sat at the table with her mother and left them to follow Bustamant outside.
'She's a DI, you know,' he said. 'Ten years earlier than I was. She's staying with us until my knee finishes healing, wouldn't let any of the other three do it, despite it being a long commute for her. You can't blame her for being suspicious, trouble does tend to follow your lot.'
Harry kept silent, and was pleased to see Malfoy had the sense to do the same.
Bustamant led them down a gravel path to a well-made timber shed, past what looked like a small market garden. 'Elizabeth wins prizes for her pickles and chutneys at every show,' he told them. 'My mother and her mother both left her their recipe books, full of old Kittitian versions of British food. The WI think it's exotic, even though we're second-generation and it's half Mrs Beeton, but Bedfordshire is less cosmopolitan than Shoreditch was. I grow whatever she wants. It's a good way to spend my retirement, out in the sun, getting some exercise, with a shed.'
He held open the door for them. The area just inside did resemble a traditional potting shed, with stacks of small pots, cloches and frames alongside bags of compost and sulphate, tools hooked to the wall in practical order. But then came a wide doormat, for scuffing off the dirt, apparently, then two sofas, a small television and fridge, and a bookshelf crammed with a mix of books: gardening, mysteries and crime.
'My office,' he announced. 'Care for a cuppa?'
An electric kettle stood on a tray atop the fridge, with cups, teabags, sugar and honey.
'Black and one, thanks,' said Harry, who didn't need it, but accepting a drink always smoothed over the start of any conversation.
'White, if you have milk,' said Malfoy, following Harry's lead.
'Proper milk,' Bustamant replied with a wink. 'If they ask you, it was low fat, right?'
Harry was pleased to see Malfoy nod conspiratorially, even though he would bet he had no idea what Bustamant had meant.
'So,' said Bustamant, switching the kettle on. 'That "gas explosion" has finally come back to haunt me. I knew it would. Everything about that was wrong, but none of your lot wanted to listen to me.'
Malfoy shot Harry a surprised expression, one Harry suspected he mirrored.
'That man they took in, he wasn't right. He was laughing. Kept saying they had it all wrong. I think he'd been hit in the head, I was going to check him for a concussion, but before I could, your lot had him down on the ground and cuffs on, then whoosh, out of there.
'I thought at the start it was a weird one. I was just around the corner when it all happened, on my way back from a fatal MVA. I could hear the shouting, so I went to turn into the street and just as I did, the blast hit, and it was like something out of a war - huge hole in the road, awnings down, people blown through windows. Can you pass me the milk? It's just inside the door.'
Harry did as asked, then accepted his mug of tea in return. Bustamant joined them on the sofas.
'I thought it was the IRA. There'd already been two attacks that month. That's why I wasn't worried about that man your lot went after: he wasn't the type. Posh, English, just standing there in the debris. He looked as though he was in shock, I think there was blood in his hair, but I didn't have time to look at him closely, I had one man who'd had the top of his arm sliced through and I had to get a girl to hold it shut - she was marvellous, didn't flinch. Then there was a boy who'd been thrown against a wall, we used towels from the haberdasher's to keep his neck rigid. One woman had her foot half blown off and I didn't even notice her for the first seven minutes. She made her own tourniquet from her scarf and a bit of one of the awnings. Got a stranger to tighten it for her. He just did what she told him. She said she'd been a Guide and remembered her first aid. We got her and the bleeding man into the first ambulances, the second lot were there only a couple of minutes behind.
'Then your lot came in. They went straight for that tall man. No rights, no questions, just knocked him off his feet. I shouted at them, came running over, warrant card out. Their top chap went to stop me and that's when I saw the robes: red, with the embroidery. I'd seen them earlier that year when Mary, that's my sister, was going out with one of your lot, and I think I just said, "Aurors. I should have known," and his attitude changed completely, and suddenly I was part of the team and we were going to make sure no-one had seen anything that would upset them.'
Bustamant shook his head. 'It wasn't right, what we did. They were shocked and confused and we meddled with their minds.'
Harry nodded. 'If it helps, I've found that people are usually relieved when they have a simple explanation for something that seems inexplicable.'
'But they can do that for themselves. And they do. There's no call for anyone to mess with their heads.'
'I agree,' Malfoy said, to Harry's surprise. 'But we are a nervous community. You have to understand that over the course of history, a lot of our sort have suffered at the hands of …'
Bustamant finished the sentence for him. 'People who were scared, or jealous. Who didn't understand because no-one explained anything to them.'
Malfoy nodded, soberly. 'Yes. And they can be vicious.'
'True,' Bustamant agreed. 'Now, you tell me the rest of the story.'
Harry kept his expression carefully blank.
Bustamant leaned forward. He was a physically imposing man, but his body language spoke reasonableness and containment. 'If there wasn't more, you wouldn't be here. I spent thirty-seven years in the Met, young man, I know how things work. I've given you a full and clear statement. If you ask, I'll dig out my notebook for that time and provide you with my written record. In return, I would like you to do me the courtesy of explaining what the hell went on that day.'
'There was a war,' said Malfoy.
Harry frowned at him, but was roundly ignored.
'One of us, a madman, set out to amass enormous personal power, and murdered his way towards it. The night before the explosion, he …' Malfoy flicked a look at Harry. 'He attacked a young family and killed most of them. He, too, was apparently killed in the process. Emotions were running high the following day: the family had been a central part of the war effort, and it was thought one of their friends had betrayed them.'
'The tall man,' Bustamant guessed.
'Yes. His name was Sirius Black. It was thought he caused the explosion while attacking another friend, a man named Peter Pettigrew.'
'The one he was shouting at.'
'That's right. Since then, evidence has come to light that strongly suggests Pettigrew was the source of the explosion and that he intentionally framed Black. Black spent years in prison and died before his name could be cleared. Pettigrew is dead, too. We were hoping you could put us in touch with the witnesses who survived so that we could have a go at reconstructing the crime scene.'
'But how will that help? They had their memories changed.'
Harry answered this time. 'We may be able to reconstruct their original memories, depending on what spells were used.'
'Spells …' Bustamant shook his head. Harry realised it was the first time any of them had referred directly to magic. 'Will that harm them?'
'No,' Malfoy assured him. 'What I plan to do won't change a thing, it will just give us a clear record of what they saw, whatever is still stored in their memories.'
'All right.' Bustamant stood up. 'Let me find my notebook. I took names and addresses of about fifteen people that day. We should be able to find some of them at least. Iris can help if we need it.'
Harry gave Malfoy a small smile. Technically, he should have reprimanded him, but Squibs really and truly were a grey area, so technically he might not be in breach of anything, and Bustamant had responded well to Malfoy's honesty.
Bustamant was rummaging behind the fridge. Harry stood up and realised there was a small safe secreted away beneath a pile of magazines. It was open, and filled with black-covered notebooks. Bustamant found the one he was looking for and locked away the rest.
'October to December, 1981,' Bustamant said. 'I can scan the pages for you.' He looked at both of them. 'Or you have some magic thing that lets you do that, don't you?'
'Yes,' Harry admitted, taking his wand from its pocket inside his coat. 'Do you want to show me which pages we should be looking at?'
Bustamant flicked through the book filled with neatly pencilled print. A column was left free down the left hand side of every page, with notes added into it at intervals. Harry admired his method. It was similar to the one he used himself, and probably learned from a similar source. Harry's style of Auroring had not been what Dawlish and others within the Ministry had been expecting. He wasn't sure if they thought he'd just shout 'Expelliarmus' whenever confronted with a bad 'un, but he had worked hard all through his fifteen months of training to develop as full and thorough a set of skills as possible. Where others waited around for a case to reach a crisis where they would be able to Apparate in and grab the bad guys mid-evil deed, he started most cases trawling through paperwork and seeking to establish connections.
While many preferred the quiet knock on the door in the dead of night, Harry was more the loud statement of arrest in the full light of day, so everyone knew what was happening, and why.
He had two secret advantages. A childhood filled with his Aunt and Uncle loudly decrying his innate criminality had meant that he was well known to the local Plods who had one and all kept a close eye on him as a boy, and also one and all declared that he was all right, really, and that if he studied hard he'd get into university and never need see any of that lot again. From them he had learned the benefits of listening, and of passive policing, where merely standing around somewhere obvious meant that most crime didn't happen. Constable Stebbins, who had been a frequent school visitor and very keen on the topics of road safety and stranger danger, had once told a class of fascinated ten-year-olds that a policeman's best friend was his notebook. Harry had found this to be true: merely pulling his notebook out had a dramatic effect on people's willingness to assist. And if yours, like Bustamant's, was full of as many details as you could gather, then in a later period of quiet reflection, it was amazing how much use you could get out of it.
And then there had been DI Frank Burnside, the best character on Uncle Vernon's favourite television show and one who shouted loudly enough to be heard even through the cupboard door. Harry had pinched many of his best lines over the years, and lived for the day he would arrest a gang and be able to declare: 'They've got a combined tonnage of six, which is coincidentally also their average IQ.'
Bustamant came to a stop in his flicking. 'Here. And up to here. The phone numbers won't be any use to you; they've all changed since then, but some of them may be at the same addresses.'
Harry nodded, and touched his wand to the pages, then to his own notebook, transferring the information exactly.
'That's a neat trick,' Bustamant said. 'Now, do you have telephones, or computers, or any way of finding out whether these people are still alive and where they live now?'
'No,' Harry admitted. 'What usually happens next is that I approach the MoD liaison with a list, then they go through their channels, then in a few days, they get back to me.'
Bustamant shook his head. 'Things were faster than that even in the Seventies. Sit back down, lad. We can do better than that.'
He reached beneath the sofa and pulled out a silver rectangle, which Harry recognised as a laptop computer. 'BT to start,' said Bustamant. 'We'll throw in the name and address, and if they're still there, the phone company will give us their new number.'
It involved a little fiddling, but at the end of ten minutes they had four matching names, addresses and numbers from the list. Malfoy was perched on the arm of Bustamant's sofa, watching intently as the typed names disappeared and were replaced by information spewed forth from a distant database.
'We could never make this work in the Ministry,' he told the ex-policeman. 'Too much magic, it interferes with the power these things run on. But we're idiots if we keep letting the MoD take days to get back to us.'
'They probably have a few dozen forms they need to fill in before they can do anything,' Bustamant said in fairness. 'There are all sorts of ethical considerations when it comes to privacy in the official sphere, but a lot of the general public don't give a damn about any of that. Iris was telling me they have a thing called MySpace now where they even put up when they're going on holidays, for the convenience of your local house-breaking professional.'
The three of them shook their heads in agreement at the stupidity of far too many British civilians.
Bustamant closed the computer. 'But you have somewhere to start, now. Mary Dacre, John Lumley, Thomas Wentworth and Anne Russell. I remember her, she was the woman with the foot. You should start with her: astonishingly clear-headed. Lumley was one of the shopkeepers, your lot spent a lot of time with him, he might be good, too.'
'Thank you,' said Harry.
'Oh I'm not doing this for free,' Bustamant said. 'I want you to come back and tell me what happened. Let me know if all those people are all right. Reassure me that I didn't stand by while your lot scrambled their minds.'
Harry recognised the look on Bustamant's face. He, too, would give anything to know that his own involvement in the wars hadn't caused any collateral damage. But while he came with a long list of dead, from his parents to Ted Tonks, Dobby to Colin Creevey, Bustamant did not.
'You could come with us,' he offered. 'The interviews might go more smoothly if you were there.'
Now it was Malfoy's turn to look surprised. Harry was perversely pleased to be on the receiving end of his glare.
'And it would give you a chance to see that our methods are uninvasive,' Harry continued.
Bustamant looked at him thoughtfully. 'This is the fifth or sixth time I've crossed paths with your lot,' he said. 'And the first in which any of you have offered up any information.'
'A new Ministry for new times,' Harry said, parroting Kingsley's slogan only a little ruefully.
'Your own version of Operation Countryman, I'm guessing,' said Bustamant. 'And neither of you have any idea what that means, do you? Not to worry. I would very much appreciate joining you if it is possible.'
'Good. So, do you need anything?'
'Jacket, walking stick, wallet and phone. Your friend could probably do with plainer clothes if you plan to convince anyone you're really with Counter-Terrorism.'
'I'll fix it outside,' said Malfoy. 'Away from your technology.'
'Good man. What do you plan to tell them?'
'We thought as you did,' Harry said. 'IRA. Say that we've received new information that leads us to believe it was another attack and that we're trying to see if we can bring about a prosecution.'
'Plausible,' Bustamant agreed. 'So, let us return inside to explain to my understanding wife and slightly fierce daughter why I will be spending the day on an outing with the two of you.'
Harry was pleased to see that Malfoy's jacket and shoes were unadorned by the time the reached the house's back door. He was less pleased to see that Iris Bustamant had an extendable baton tucked beside her newspaper on the table, but it did speak well for her as an affectionate daughter, so he pretended not to notice.
'I am heading out with these two,' William Bustamant announced as he led them in.
'Not by yourself, you're not,' Iris muttered.
Elizabeth left the room and returned with a sturdy walking stick and a tan canvas jacket. 'Do you need any extra money for lunch or taxis?
Bustamant took them and kissed her cheek. 'No, I'll be fine. I can catch the train home if I have to. If my knee plays up, I'll call you from the station and you can pick me up.'
'Take your phone.'
'I'm just getting it now.'
Iris Bustamant stood up and went after her father. Although she didn't even bother to glare at them, Harry noticed that she had the sort of build that spoke of many hours in training. Probably throwing people and things, given the look of her upper arms and speed of her stride.
Harry couldn't hear what they were saying in the other room, but from the 'It will be fine' and 'You need to get in to work, you are cutting it fine even for an afternoon start' that Bustamant called behind him as he returned to the kitchen, he could offer an educated guess as to the conversation.
'All right, gentlemen. Shall we go?'
Harry thanked Mrs Bustamant for her hospitality, and was pleased to see Malfoy do the same. 'You are more than welcome here,' she said, smiling. 'Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' said Harry, aware she was taking their names for the record.
'I will see you later, when you return William.'
'Yes,' said Harry, emphatically.
Bustamant chortled all the way out the front door. 'I see you have the right attitude to dealing with wives.'
'Never, ever get in their way,' Harry said fervently. 'Same for mothers. Same for every woman over forty who's not a homicidal psychopath.'
Bustamant stopped and looked back at him.
'Don't ask,' Harry said.
The fragrances of the front garden hit them afresh as they walked outside. Malfoy caught up with Bustamant. 'You said we should start with Anne Russell. Downs Park Road?'
'It's what I would do. Where's your car?'
'No car,' Malfoy said, grinning. 'Are you up for an adventure?'
'No car …' Bustamant looked at them both. 'You're not going to…'
But Malfoy already had.
********************************
CLICK HERE FOR PART TWO
Episode writer: blamebrampton
Episode editor(s): raitala
Episode summary: Harry Potter might murder his boss. Draco Malfoy would kill for some meaning in his life. Kingsley Shacklebolt has a whole filing cabinet full of victims looking for two slightly testy champions.
PROLOGUE
Harry squinted into the setting sun, relying on reflections from the glass-fronted buildings on both sides to show the patch of distorted space that was the Disillusioned Æthelbert Farrell. Under his breath he muttered his own stream of spells to keep himself from the eyes of Muggles below - and Muggles around and above, he supposed, given all the windows.
Farrell had been on the lookout for them in Diagon Alley. Someone had alerted him, whether it was one of their own people or one of the insiders from Farrell and Co. - who Ron thought they had turned, but there might have been regrets - he would find out later. Harry had no doubt Farrell knew he was being pursued, but whether or not he could see through Harry's defences was another question.
He had told Dawlish that it was a stupid plan to outsource the Ministry's spell research, but the Head Auror had coldly informed him that he didn't require administrative advice from his Deputy and … Harry left off his familiar 'Why My Boss is Crap' rant to haul his broomstick upwards and follow Farrell into a sudden, steep climb.
High above Canary Wharf they soared, up past the architectural flourishes and bristles of concealed aerials that crowned the skyscrapers. For a moment he could make out the shape of a wizard crouched on his broom in the shimmering air against the bright gold clouds - it broadened, turning, and Harry wheeled to one side to avoid the smoothly thrown hex.
So he was visible to Farrell. Fine. Harry didn't wait to spin upright before aiming his wand. Farrell was growing more solid by the second, all disguise sacrificed in favour of what Harry assumed would be a complex web of shields. He didn't try to get past them, but put his faith in brute force. 'Deprimo!' he shouted, and a blast of wind exploded from his wand.
He could see the moment at which Farrell lost his grip on his own wand - all disguises disappeared in an instant and Farrell came sharply into view, arms wheeling frantically as he grabbed after his wand, too late realising that he was also separating from his broom.
Harry leaned into his Firebolt, urging it forward to cover the distance the spell had blown Farrell. A whispered Accio wand brought the twig of ash close enough for Harry to snatch it from its fall, he tucked it inside his robes. Gravity asserted itself on Farrell before his broom, one meaty foot caught in the Cleansweep's ornate brasswork footrest and dragged a startled Farrell upwards. The man had the good sense to stop kicking at that point, and looked almost smug for a brief moment, until he realised that the spells levitating and propelling the broom now required wandless magic on his part. From the look on his face, wandless magic was not one of Farrell's strengths.
Harry timed it carefully. Just as the Cleansweep gave out, he drew level and muttered Incarcerous. Ropes twined out from the end of his wand, wrapping snugly around Farrell and his broom. A medium-strength hover charm followed, and saw the corrupt entrepreneur rendered both harmless and balloonlike.
Give him his due, he wasn't going quietly. 'This is Auror harassment!' Farrell shouted. 'My lawyers will sue the Ministry down to its last knut! After all my company has done for you people, this is outrageous behaviour!'
Harry tugged on his end of the rope until Farrell was only a few feet away. The shouting decreased in direct proportion to the proximity.
'There are no actual defensive spells on the vests you sold to my department,' Harry said, as quietly as he could three-hundred metres above the busy city. 'I have two team members in St Mungo's. You have a secret account in the Goblin Bank of Willendorf into which all of your research budget for the next three years has been ferreted. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the Wizengamot, because, sunshine, you are well and truly nicked. Are we clear?'
Farrell, exhibiting the first piece of good sense Harry had seen out of him since he snake-oiled his way into the Minstry nine months previous, shut up.
They had drifted downwards as they spoke, and the top floors of Canada Square were nearing again. Harry briefly tossed up the logistics of Disillusioning the two of them, and decided that he would rather do a spot of mental physics. He Apparated them straight into the Ministry's Atrium, appearing over in the quiet bit behind the memorial fountain where there was almost always more than enough space to kill all your speed and land safely if you came in flying.
There was this time, too. It would all have been perfectly fine, had they not appeared in direct line of sight behind a row of photographers just as Head Auror Dawlish was announcing that the rumours of problems with the Ministry's private research contracts were nothing more than the sort of gutter journalism one expected from Muggles.
Harry could hear him reach the crescendo of his speech: 'Over the course of this year, Æthelbert Farrell has shown himself to be an inspiring inventor and just the sort of entrepreneurial Wizard to lead this Ministry forward into a new age of public/private partnerships …' Only the tide of photographers tracking the floating Farrell away from him stemmed the flow of Dawlish's oratory. Harry watched as, inevitably, his boss turned around to focus on the source of the disturbance.
A lesser wizard would have stuffed his landing under that sort of scrutiny. Harry swung one leg across his broom and dropped lightly to one foot, jogging a few steps until he killed his forward momentum. Casually swinging his Firebolt over one shoulder, he towed a compliant Farrell over to the nearest lift, which arrived as if on cue. In the distance, he could see Dawlish looking for words, ones Harry was sure would be shouted at him later. But later would come soon enough.
He reached forward and pressed the button: Level Two.
********************************
Level Two: Episode One
Particles in Solution
None of Kingsley's personal assistants were littering the Minister's outer office at 7.45 the following morning. In fact, as Harry stomped grimly in from the corridor, there was only one other person in sight: Draco Malfoy, sitting quietly on the waiting bench, reading the latest edition of Granger's Notes on Wizarding Jurisprudence. They exchanged nods, which they had been doing for years now, and Harry continued, stomping less obviously, into Kingsley's office.
'Did you know about this?' he asked, closing the door behind him with one hand and holding up a sheet of parchment with the other.
'Do sit down, Harry. Cup of tea? Biscuit?' Kingsley had been ignoring interrogations, rants and tirades from all comers since 1998, which was one of the cornerstones of his success as Minister.
'Kingsley, Dawlish is shafting me. Doesn't that bother you?'
'Try one of the jammy dodgers. Mabel Erpthwaite from the Wizengamot made a batch on the weekend. They're delicious.'
Harry wondered if there were a school of leadership that predicated itself on defusing moments of tension with sweets. And why his life was full of its devotees. He took a biscuit anyway and sat down in the chair opposite Kinsgley, tossing the parchment onto the desk between them.
'Cold Case Department, my arse. He's sidelining me so that he can get on with running the Aurors as his own personal fiefdom, regardless of how many idiotic mistakes he makes. Do you have any idea how much the fandango with Farrell has cost us?'
'Two hundred and forty-seven thousand Galleons,' Kingsley said calmly, chewing on a biscuit. 'Most of which we are in the process of recovering.'
'He hasn't even had the balls to tell me about it himself. Just a memo and a short announcement in the Prophet,' Harry fumed.
'I think you're missing the opportunity here,' Kingsley said.
'Opportunity?' Harry picked up the memo and read: '"John Dawlish is pleased to announce the promotion of Harry Potter from Deputy Head Auror to Head Auror, Cold Case Division. This new initiative is designed to investigate cases which have remained unsolved for five years or more. It is expected that Auror Potter will have great success in this new role, applying the rigour and insight that have seen him achieve one of the highest clear-up rates in Auror history in only seven years with the department. The Cold Case Division will be located outside the main department, but will be able to draw on our resources as necessary."
'Translated: I'm going to stick Potter in a closet again, because that will be hilarious, and I'm also going to stick him with cases he can't possibly solve, because I'd like to distract attention from the fact I'm a jumped-up twatface who wants to go back to running the Auror department however I feel best on the day without any critical oversight, save what small amount Shacklebolt can manage from a distance. And because he is my most successful Auror, I'm going to pretend it's a promotion rather than the dead-end sidelining that anyone can see it really is, so if he complains in public, he'll look like a banana. And he can have a stapler that works if he is a good boy and keeps quiet about it.'
Kingsley smiled and inclined his head. 'I thank you for the acknowledgement that I at least attempt some oversight within the Ministry.'
'You know what I mean.' Harry sank back in his chair.
'And I say again, you are missing the opportunity.' Kingsley opened a large drawer and pulled out a stack of black files, with a smattering of blue amongst them. 'Look here. Rebecca Winterbottom, found dead in a field at Trent Bridge, March 1995. No leads. Marlene, Harry, Lizzie, Pete and Emma McKinnon, all killed in their family home, 1981, we know it was Death Eaters, but no-one has ever paid for the crime. Edward Flyte, disappeared November 2001, no sign of him since. All these people deserve justice, Harry.'
Kingsley pushed the stack of files across the table towards him, and Harry unwillingly began to leaf through the top sheets.
'And then,' Kingsley continued, 'there's this one.'
This file was slimmer than most. 'Sirius Black' was printed neatly across the top of it. A photo was held beneath the label with a Sticking Charm. A young man in casual clothes, looking for all the world as though he was about to speak blinked up at him.
Younger than me, Harry thought, concentrating on breathing. He stared at the cardboard folder.
'Accused of killing twelve Muggles,' Kingsley reminded him.
'You know he didn't do it,' Harry managed.
'I do. As do you. It's a terrible shame Peter Pettigrew died before he could make a statement in front of the Wizengamot.'
'But everyone knows,' Harry protested weakly.
'Many people do,' Kingsley allowed. 'But don't you think it would be a marvellous thing if it could become an official position?'
Harry looked at him through narrow eyes.
'I've even managed a small staff for you,' Kingsley added.
Harry brightened. 'Ron?'
Even before Kingsley shook his head, Harry knew what was coming.
'One of our finest young Unspeakables.'
Harry didn't even sigh.
'He's been sorely under-utilised with the Auror Department's outsourcing policy. I think it will be a nice surprise for him.'
Harry looked up. 'You haven't told him?'
'I did think that I should check with you first,' Kingsley said.
Harry's eyebrows lifted. 'Can I tell him?'
'Can you do it nicely?'
Harry gave up and laughed. 'You'd better tell him.'
'So you're in?' Kingsley smiled at him.
'You knew I would be the moment you showed me that file.'
'I'll ask Mr Malfoy to join us, shall I?'
Harry watched as Kingsley moved outside to talk quietly with Malfoy. He didn't mind it being Malfoy. Not really. Ron was going to do his nut, but Malfoy had been down in Mysteries for the last five years and as far as Harry knew, no-one had a bad word to say about him. They crossed paths now and then, most often in the Golden Hind, the gay bar Harry had taken to hiding out in after a month in which no fewer than three middle-aged witches had physically flung their daughters at him in the Leaky. It was as much for the poor girls' sake as his own.
The lads in the Hind had cheerfully checked him out - every time he walked in if truth be told - but were not only more circumspect (and blessedly parent-free), they were more supportive, too. When the Prophet had splashed a headline wondering if Ginny Weasley had ruined him for women forever, no fewer than twelve of the boys had contacted the paper to point out that it was exceptionally unlikely he'd changed teams, since none of them knew anyone who had slept with him. That sort of loyalty couldn't be bought.
Harry was fairly sure that Malfoy had spent that whole day laughing quietly, but knew for a fact that Benjy Williams, the Puddlemere United Seeker who was regularly seen heading off with Malfoy at the end of a night, had been one of the twelve.
Ironically, he had just that week decided that he wasn't averse to a spot of experimentation, but he could hardly sully such a beautiful gesture, and he'd spent all his drinking time since being impeccably well behaved. If wearing tighter trousers than had previously been his wont.
Kingsley returned, Malfoy a few steps behind. Harry had quite a good joke halfway to his lips, but the grim look on Malfoy's face killed it. Instead, he nodded again.
Malfoy returned it. 'Potter. Shacklebolt tells me he wants us to work together.' He took the seat opposite Harry's moving it slightly away.
'The new Cold Case Division,' Harry said. 'Dawlish has set it up. Kingsley wants us to tackle unsolved crimes and see if we can't bring a few people who've been getting away with it for years to justice.'
'I am hoping that you can help Harry with the technical aspects of the project,' Kingsley said. 'I know you've been doing remarkable work down in Mysteries and thought you'd like a chance to put some of your theories into practise in the field.'
'You're talking as though it's a real department,' Malfoy observed.
Harry paused.
'It is a real department, Mr Malfoy,' Kingsley said. 'I've found you offices and am having a sign made even as we speak.'
Malfoy raised an eyebrow in a manner that bespoke hours of practise in front of a mirror. 'So it's not just a punishment for Potter?'
'It's that, too,' Harry said before Kingsley could perjure himself.
'And you want to haul me out of Mysteries to add credence to a scheme that will only last until the Prophet can prepare its "Our Harry is Being Hard Done By" special and run an interactive poll that asks the readers who they prefer as Head Auror: the Saviour of the Wizarding World or a grumpy old haggis of a man with the smooth political touch of a sturgeon?'
Harry found it hard not to laugh.
'You are missing an opportunity here,' Kingsley began.
‘An opportunity for a two-hundred per cent increase in quarterly budget?’
‘Fifty,’ Shacklebolt replied.
‘But with access to additional staff.’
‘With access to the Minister’s private archives.’
‘And with authority to use experimental spells and technology as I see fit?’
‘Authority to use them as they are appropriate to the cases and with a full guarantee on your part of safety to all those affected by them.’
Malfoy paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘And working with Potter, not for him.’
Harry nodded even before Kingsley did.
‘And approval for calling him whatever name seems appropriate at the time?’
‘Could I stop you?’ Kingsley asked.
‘No.’
Harry rolled his eyes and tossed Sirius's folder back onto Kingsley’s table. Malfoy glanced down at it. 'All right,' he said. 'I'm in.'
********************************
Their office was on the MLE level, but away from the main Auror offices. Kingsley had not been joking about the sign, an overalled wizard was screwing it to the door as he led them down the corridor. He opened the door, revealing two medium-sized rooms and a kitchenette.
'You can expand the rooms as you need them, I thought Mr Malfoy could use one as a laboratory,' Kingsley said.
Malfoy was already investigating the space. 'The back room, I can install a fumigation system for my cauldrons and we should be able to contain any blasts more thoroughly there. I'll need half the front room for my reference library, but we can make space for a desk and some files for Potter.'
'Possibly a coat rack?' Harry suggested sarcastically.
'For robes. Good idea. I'm assuming we can use the main Auror holding cells when we start bringing in miscreants?'
'Certainly,' Kingsley said.
'Marvellous. Can I bring in my lab fittings from Mysteries?'
'Of course.'
'And are you going to get a desk for Potter?'
'Naturally.'
'And a chair?'
Harry stopped his drifting around the room and looked back at Malfoy, strongly suspecting a joke.
Kingsley replied, perfectly straight: 'Two chairs, possibly three.'
'Thank you, Minister. If you can see to that, I imagine we can get down to work.'
Harry had to work to keep the smile from his face. 'Have you had breakfast, Malfoy?'
'Only tea and toast.'
'You're two ahead of me. Cafeteria?'
'Bring the files?'
'Yes, do. Kingsley, do you need us?'
Kingsley smiled at them. 'I do, actually. But we can set up the office without you. Go and eat.'
The cafeteria had been the most popular part of the Ministry rebuild after the war. It combined the best traditions of dubious British cuisine with comfortably stuffed armchairs and architecture that went heavily in for panelling and alcoves. As a result, it was popular as an ad hoc meeting space for those who wanted quietness, in addition to being a reliable venue for a quick egg and chips before work.
Malfoy secured them one of the prime corner tables while Harry availed himself of plates of toast, scrambled eggs and mushrooms, and as many beverages as he could fit onto the tray.
'I didn't know if you wanted tea, coffee, juice or hot chocolate …' he explained himself as he tried to fit things in around the papers Malfoy had spread out.
'I'll take the tea and the juice,' Malfoy replied, reaching for the same, and taking one of the plates, too.
Harry arranged the remainder and leaned the tray against the wall behind them. 'So,' he said. 'What do you think?'
'I think you'll put up with me until you can come up with a suitably subtle plan for getting rid of Dawlish and taking control of the Auror Department. After that I will be sent back to Mysteries with a slightly but permanently increased budget - always assuming the two of us haven't killed each other before then.'
Harry could feel his eyes widening.
Malfoy stopped. 'Oh, you meant about the case. I think it's exceptionally frustrating. Obviously Black was framed by Pettigrew, but most of the witnesses are dead, those who aren't were tramped all over by the Committee for Muggle-Worthy excuses. And there's no point hunting down any of them: the whole team died during the war. As did most of the Aurors who attended.'
Malfoy turned the file around so Harry could see it, and sure enough there were fine green lines drawn through many of the names, with dates of death beside them.
'What about the Muggles? Surely they took names?'
'Yes, but not addresses. And the crime scene photographs are frankly rubbish.'
'Bugger.'
'Exactly.'
'There's one piece of good news.' Harry said, scanning down the paper. 'The Muggle Liaison, William Bustamant. Still alive, and there's an address for him.'
'So we start there?'
'I would think so.'
Malfoy chewed his toast thoughtfully. 'Or is “we” just you? Are you planning to have me sitting in the office doing all the work that requires brains while you go gallivanting about? Or were you thinking I should gallivant with you and then do the thinking in the afternoons while you do … whatever it is you do?'
Harry refused to rise to the bait. 'In my experience, it's always good to have two people in on any interview. One needs to be asking the questions at any time, but the other can observe subtle reactions from the interviewee that might escape the officer who is concentrating on what is being said.'
Malfoy gave Harry an odd look, as though he were surprised to have received a civil answer. 'That sounds reasonable. In that case, I think we should contact Mr Bustamant this morning. The note on the file says that he's a Squib as well as a policeman, so that should make things easier.'
'He's probably retired,' Harry said. 'This was all twenty-five years ago.'
'Then he's more likely to be at home. Eat up. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll know if we're on a plausible case or a wild goose chase.'
Harry grinned at the rhyme, Malfoy looked embarrassed as he realised it.
'So it's really just the two of us in this department?' Malfoy asked between sips of tea.
'For now. I imagine we'll be able to bring more people in once we start dealing with larger cases.'
'Which will require us to succeed with this one?'
Harry shrugged. 'I don't know. Kingsley clearly thinks we can, but none of these cases would still be open if they had simple solutions. There was a lot of political goodwill towards all members of the Order of the Phoenix just after the war: I would have expected that this would’ve been looked at back then, which means it was put into the too-hard basket.'
'Neither of us were here then,' Malfoy pointed out. 'I'm cleverer than the average Ministry employee, and you're more tenacious.'
'Nicest thing you've ever said about me, Malfoy,' Harry said with a grin.
'Simple observation. Listen, if this all goes horribly wrong - because really, it is all about Dawlish shitting on your career - I don't want to go down with you.'
Harry wasn't offended. In fact, Malfoy's straightforwardness was refreshing after seven years with the Aurors, where obfuscation was the official language. 'You won't. Kingsley's put you here for three reasons. I think he must have known that the Sirius case would appeal to you as much as it does to me, and you have to admit, it's a public relations coup having the two of us working together, but mostly, I think he genuinely believes you are very good at your job. I think that Kingsley just expects the two of us to excel, based on our past records. If I cock up, you'll just go back to Mysteries. Probably with a slight increase to your budget, yes.'
'Right.' Malfoy looked his tea for a moment. 'So it's that simple, is it? We're the best and brightest and it will look good for the Minister if he can get us to play nicely together and clear up his outstanding cases.'
Harry nodded. 'I think it is.'
'Harry!'
Ron was waving at him from over near the teapots.
Malfoy followed the voice and frowned. 'Ah. That would be my signal to trot off and pick up a few supplies. See you back at the office in fifteen?' He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. 'How much do I owe you for breakfast?'
'Nothing,' Harry said. 'It's on me.'
'I'd rather pay,' Malfoy said. 'It's not as though we're friends.'
Harry reminded himself that he had been optimistic about this being a new start in his dealings with Malfoy, less than an hour ago. 'We're coworkers. You can pay next time.'
Malfoy thought for a moment, then nodded. 'All right. See you shortly, then. Weasley, good morning.'
Ron mumbled something in reply and waited until Malfoy had taken a few steps before he opened his mouth.
'Don't say it!' Harry forestalled him.
Ron made a hand gesture that indicated he considered Malfoy a keen seeker of masturbatory pleasures instead. Harry ignored him.
'So what the hell is going on, mate? Hermione and I tried to get you at home this morning, but Kreacher said you'd already left. It's an outrage. What are we going to do about it?'
Harry swallowed his toast. 'For now? Nothing. Or, more to the point, everything.'
Ron looked at him. 'Buggery bollocks. You're off on another of your crusades, aren't you? Harry, they're pairing me with Robards. You can't just … Oh crap. I know that look. You are, aren't you. Right. Tell me all about it.'
********************************
The edited version of the morning took somewhat less than fifteen minutes for Harry to tell Ron, so he was back at their office just before Malfoy. Kingsley's people had done a good job: there were two plain desks, a row of filing cabinets and two walls of bookshelves neatly jigsawed into the front room. In the back room, a long table dominated the space, with a stone sink and taps at one end and a spry man installing an extractor fan in the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls of this room, too, and several of them were already covered in cauldrons, chemicals and flasks of herbs and other ingredients.
Harry noticed that his own spare red Auror robes were on the coat rack, and that his work broom was tucked behind it, just as Malfoy returned, laden with a large box and a stack of scrolls tucked under one arm. A leather work-coat and formal black Unspeakable robes were attempting to slide off the top of the box, Harry stepped forward and caught them.
'Thank you,' Malfoy said, not ungraciously. 'If you could put the robes on the rack, I'll take the coat into the laboratory.'
'I'll do it,' Harry offered, and did. Malfoy placed the box carefully on the table before stowing the scrolls. Harry draped the coat over the back of the tall-backed chair in the corner, noting the scorch marks and stains that showed it had known hard use.
From the box, Malfoy pulled three sets of goggles, which he lined up on the corner of the table, then a face-shield and a set of earmuffs.
'Do things explode often?' Harry asked.
'I'll reinforce the door. And no, not that often. Moderately often. On the low side of moderate. Usually only when I'm experimenting.'
'I'll bear that in mind. Are you good to go?'
''I'll just grab these,' Malfoy said, snaring a row of small glass vials held together by leather thonging from out of the box. He went to tuck them into the pocket of his working robes, but stopped at Harry's frown. 'What is it?'
'We're going to interview a Squib, who lives in the Muggle world …'
'No robes?'
'No robes.'
Malfoy nodded, and reached inside the box again, drawing out a leather satchel that looked sufficiently like something a bike courier would use to pass muster. He tucked the vials inside it and unbuttoned his working robe. 'Is this shirt all right?'
'It's fine, but you'll need a coat to look professional. Just something light, it's meant to be hot today. I usually just transmogrify my uniform and then change it back later. Saves time.'
Malfoy nodded, and touched his wand to his robe with a whispered incantation.
'Maybe something a little less ornate?' Harry suggested, altering his own clothes as a demonstration.
Malfoy nodded and followed suit, creating a black wool jacket that covered him neatly from neck to hip.
'That's good. Here, you'll need this. We use Muggle IDs whenever we have a crossover case. So if you end up in Muggle custody for any reason, insist on having the Ministry of Defence called in. Their top brass know about us.'
Malfoy looked at his card and nodded. 'So, do we Apparate? Or do we have to go by train?'
'Trains to Bedfordshire take too long. We'll Apparate and then just walk the last. He's in Barnfield in Luton, and the map says there are gardens nearby. They should provide enough privacy. As long as we don't cock it up and appear in the middle of the college, we should be fine.'
'Have you been there before?'
'Once. I can side-along you if you haven't.'
Malfoy frowned.
Harry met him halfway. 'We do that a lot in the Auror Corps. It's just practical if one person knows the area better than the other. Better than Splinching.'
Malfoy nodded. 'Fine. Do you normally leave the Ministry first?'
'Merlin no,' said Harry, taking hold of Malfoy's upper arm and Apparating the two of them to Bedfordshire.
They appeared in a quiet council garden, with no-one in sight. Harry had copied the map of the area onto a page of his notebook, and led them quickly down two neat and tree-lined streets to the last known address for William Bustamant.
According to the brief notes in the file, Bustamant was a Squib, whose younger sister had attended Hogwarts from 1974 to 1980. He had joined the Metropolitan Police in the mid 1970s and had been a promising Detective Sergeant at the time of Sirius's arrest. The Auror in charge of the investigation had left a note praising Bustamant's competence and efficiency. It also noted that he had been on the scene only shortly after the explosion had taken place.
Harry had half-thought Bustamant's house would be in one of the post-War developments, but the address was a pleasant detached brick dwelling near the River Lea. The garden was a mix of flowers and vegetables, with pots of chilli and okra bathing in the late-July sun. The paved path to the front door was neatly swept and edged with patio roses in a riot of reds and oranges.
The door opened before either of them had a chance to knock. A medium-height young woman with dark skin and a darkly suspicious look greeted them. 'Yes? What is it?'
Harry held his card out to her and kept his back militarily straight. 'I'm Harry Potter, this is Draco Malfoy. We're from the MoD. We were wondering if William Bustamant was still at this address?'
She peered at his card, then at the one Malfoy submitted for investigation. Twice she flicked between the photos on the cards and their faces. 'Special Forces …' She looked more closely at Malfoy's coat, then his boots. Only now in the bright sunlight could Harry see they were both embroidered with black silk. 'No you're not.' She leaned back into the house and shouted. 'Dad, there's two men here. They're Funnies.'
Harry managed not to roll his eyes. The slang for Wizards had caught on among those who came across them professionally - usually paramedics, members of the armed services, the Metropolitan Police and most local police forces - except for the Welsh who couldn't be bothered with politeness and called them the wackos. For the most part the people who used the word had no idea that wizarding Britain existed, only that there were people and events that could not be explained, and that were hidden from normal channels by government sanction. Harry suspected that half the stories of aliens living amongst us had come about through rumours that began with an Auror and an MoD ID card.
A tall man appeared in the doorway behind the young woman and looked out at them.
'Mr Bustamant?' Harry guessed. 'I'm Harry Potter, this is Draco Malfoy. We're here about the explosion in Hackney in 1981.'
'Let them in, Iris,' William Bustamant said.
The woman stepped outside and waved an arm graciously to indicate they should enter. Harry noted she put herself in a perfect position to tackle either of them should they cause any trouble. She had police written in large metaphorical letters above her head, and in literal ones on the stab vest that was hanging up just inside the doorway.
William Bustamant was tall and somewhere around sixty, but he walked with a slight limp, which slowed down his otherwise vigorous stride. 'My daughter doesn't think that people should bother her aged father now he's retired,' he told them, leading them through the main part of the house and out into a sun-filled kitchen filled with the fragrances of fresh bread, spices and vinegar. A middle-aged woman with an utterly splendid profile was sitting at the table. She looked up at them in surprise. 'This is my wife, Elizabeth,' Bustamant said. 'These two gentlemen are from the Ministry,' he informed her.
'You're them?' she asked. 'William's sister is one of your lot. And my uncle and cousins.'
Harry shot a quick glance at Malfoy. His eyes were wide, but he was otherwise containing his reactions well.
'We're here to ask your husband for his help on a case he investigated back in the early 1980s,' Harry replied noncommittally.
'You weren't even born then,' said the young woman - Iris - who had followed them through the house.
'We were, actually,' said Harry. 'Mr Bustamant, would you have some time? It should only take half an hour or so.'
William Bustamant nodded. 'But not here. I'm assuming we can't go to your offices?'
Harry frowned. In theory, Squibs were exempt from the Statutes of Secrecy, for obvious reasons. But in practise …
'We'll go to my office,' Bustamant said, opening the back door.
Iris took a step forward. 'Dad, you don't have to. Or I can come along.'
'They're not here to cause any harm, pet,' Bustamant said with a smile. 'It's a professional visit, and I've always had time up my sleeve to help out you young ones.'
Iris did not look impressed, but she sat at the table with her mother and left them to follow Bustamant outside.
'She's a DI, you know,' he said. 'Ten years earlier than I was. She's staying with us until my knee finishes healing, wouldn't let any of the other three do it, despite it being a long commute for her. You can't blame her for being suspicious, trouble does tend to follow your lot.'
Harry kept silent, and was pleased to see Malfoy had the sense to do the same.
Bustamant led them down a gravel path to a well-made timber shed, past what looked like a small market garden. 'Elizabeth wins prizes for her pickles and chutneys at every show,' he told them. 'My mother and her mother both left her their recipe books, full of old Kittitian versions of British food. The WI think it's exotic, even though we're second-generation and it's half Mrs Beeton, but Bedfordshire is less cosmopolitan than Shoreditch was. I grow whatever she wants. It's a good way to spend my retirement, out in the sun, getting some exercise, with a shed.'
He held open the door for them. The area just inside did resemble a traditional potting shed, with stacks of small pots, cloches and frames alongside bags of compost and sulphate, tools hooked to the wall in practical order. But then came a wide doormat, for scuffing off the dirt, apparently, then two sofas, a small television and fridge, and a bookshelf crammed with a mix of books: gardening, mysteries and crime.
'My office,' he announced. 'Care for a cuppa?'
An electric kettle stood on a tray atop the fridge, with cups, teabags, sugar and honey.
'Black and one, thanks,' said Harry, who didn't need it, but accepting a drink always smoothed over the start of any conversation.
'White, if you have milk,' said Malfoy, following Harry's lead.
'Proper milk,' Bustamant replied with a wink. 'If they ask you, it was low fat, right?'
Harry was pleased to see Malfoy nod conspiratorially, even though he would bet he had no idea what Bustamant had meant.
'So,' said Bustamant, switching the kettle on. 'That "gas explosion" has finally come back to haunt me. I knew it would. Everything about that was wrong, but none of your lot wanted to listen to me.'
Malfoy shot Harry a surprised expression, one Harry suspected he mirrored.
'That man they took in, he wasn't right. He was laughing. Kept saying they had it all wrong. I think he'd been hit in the head, I was going to check him for a concussion, but before I could, your lot had him down on the ground and cuffs on, then whoosh, out of there.
'I thought at the start it was a weird one. I was just around the corner when it all happened, on my way back from a fatal MVA. I could hear the shouting, so I went to turn into the street and just as I did, the blast hit, and it was like something out of a war - huge hole in the road, awnings down, people blown through windows. Can you pass me the milk? It's just inside the door.'
Harry did as asked, then accepted his mug of tea in return. Bustamant joined them on the sofas.
'I thought it was the IRA. There'd already been two attacks that month. That's why I wasn't worried about that man your lot went after: he wasn't the type. Posh, English, just standing there in the debris. He looked as though he was in shock, I think there was blood in his hair, but I didn't have time to look at him closely, I had one man who'd had the top of his arm sliced through and I had to get a girl to hold it shut - she was marvellous, didn't flinch. Then there was a boy who'd been thrown against a wall, we used towels from the haberdasher's to keep his neck rigid. One woman had her foot half blown off and I didn't even notice her for the first seven minutes. She made her own tourniquet from her scarf and a bit of one of the awnings. Got a stranger to tighten it for her. He just did what she told him. She said she'd been a Guide and remembered her first aid. We got her and the bleeding man into the first ambulances, the second lot were there only a couple of minutes behind.
'Then your lot came in. They went straight for that tall man. No rights, no questions, just knocked him off his feet. I shouted at them, came running over, warrant card out. Their top chap went to stop me and that's when I saw the robes: red, with the embroidery. I'd seen them earlier that year when Mary, that's my sister, was going out with one of your lot, and I think I just said, "Aurors. I should have known," and his attitude changed completely, and suddenly I was part of the team and we were going to make sure no-one had seen anything that would upset them.'
Bustamant shook his head. 'It wasn't right, what we did. They were shocked and confused and we meddled with their minds.'
Harry nodded. 'If it helps, I've found that people are usually relieved when they have a simple explanation for something that seems inexplicable.'
'But they can do that for themselves. And they do. There's no call for anyone to mess with their heads.'
'I agree,' Malfoy said, to Harry's surprise. 'But we are a nervous community. You have to understand that over the course of history, a lot of our sort have suffered at the hands of …'
Bustamant finished the sentence for him. 'People who were scared, or jealous. Who didn't understand because no-one explained anything to them.'
Malfoy nodded, soberly. 'Yes. And they can be vicious.'
'True,' Bustamant agreed. 'Now, you tell me the rest of the story.'
Harry kept his expression carefully blank.
Bustamant leaned forward. He was a physically imposing man, but his body language spoke reasonableness and containment. 'If there wasn't more, you wouldn't be here. I spent thirty-seven years in the Met, young man, I know how things work. I've given you a full and clear statement. If you ask, I'll dig out my notebook for that time and provide you with my written record. In return, I would like you to do me the courtesy of explaining what the hell went on that day.'
'There was a war,' said Malfoy.
Harry frowned at him, but was roundly ignored.
'One of us, a madman, set out to amass enormous personal power, and murdered his way towards it. The night before the explosion, he …' Malfoy flicked a look at Harry. 'He attacked a young family and killed most of them. He, too, was apparently killed in the process. Emotions were running high the following day: the family had been a central part of the war effort, and it was thought one of their friends had betrayed them.'
'The tall man,' Bustamant guessed.
'Yes. His name was Sirius Black. It was thought he caused the explosion while attacking another friend, a man named Peter Pettigrew.'
'The one he was shouting at.'
'That's right. Since then, evidence has come to light that strongly suggests Pettigrew was the source of the explosion and that he intentionally framed Black. Black spent years in prison and died before his name could be cleared. Pettigrew is dead, too. We were hoping you could put us in touch with the witnesses who survived so that we could have a go at reconstructing the crime scene.'
'But how will that help? They had their memories changed.'
Harry answered this time. 'We may be able to reconstruct their original memories, depending on what spells were used.'
'Spells …' Bustamant shook his head. Harry realised it was the first time any of them had referred directly to magic. 'Will that harm them?'
'No,' Malfoy assured him. 'What I plan to do won't change a thing, it will just give us a clear record of what they saw, whatever is still stored in their memories.'
'All right.' Bustamant stood up. 'Let me find my notebook. I took names and addresses of about fifteen people that day. We should be able to find some of them at least. Iris can help if we need it.'
Harry gave Malfoy a small smile. Technically, he should have reprimanded him, but Squibs really and truly were a grey area, so technically he might not be in breach of anything, and Bustamant had responded well to Malfoy's honesty.
Bustamant was rummaging behind the fridge. Harry stood up and realised there was a small safe secreted away beneath a pile of magazines. It was open, and filled with black-covered notebooks. Bustamant found the one he was looking for and locked away the rest.
'October to December, 1981,' Bustamant said. 'I can scan the pages for you.' He looked at both of them. 'Or you have some magic thing that lets you do that, don't you?'
'Yes,' Harry admitted, taking his wand from its pocket inside his coat. 'Do you want to show me which pages we should be looking at?'
Bustamant flicked through the book filled with neatly pencilled print. A column was left free down the left hand side of every page, with notes added into it at intervals. Harry admired his method. It was similar to the one he used himself, and probably learned from a similar source. Harry's style of Auroring had not been what Dawlish and others within the Ministry had been expecting. He wasn't sure if they thought he'd just shout 'Expelliarmus' whenever confronted with a bad 'un, but he had worked hard all through his fifteen months of training to develop as full and thorough a set of skills as possible. Where others waited around for a case to reach a crisis where they would be able to Apparate in and grab the bad guys mid-evil deed, he started most cases trawling through paperwork and seeking to establish connections.
While many preferred the quiet knock on the door in the dead of night, Harry was more the loud statement of arrest in the full light of day, so everyone knew what was happening, and why.
He had two secret advantages. A childhood filled with his Aunt and Uncle loudly decrying his innate criminality had meant that he was well known to the local Plods who had one and all kept a close eye on him as a boy, and also one and all declared that he was all right, really, and that if he studied hard he'd get into university and never need see any of that lot again. From them he had learned the benefits of listening, and of passive policing, where merely standing around somewhere obvious meant that most crime didn't happen. Constable Stebbins, who had been a frequent school visitor and very keen on the topics of road safety and stranger danger, had once told a class of fascinated ten-year-olds that a policeman's best friend was his notebook. Harry had found this to be true: merely pulling his notebook out had a dramatic effect on people's willingness to assist. And if yours, like Bustamant's, was full of as many details as you could gather, then in a later period of quiet reflection, it was amazing how much use you could get out of it.
And then there had been DI Frank Burnside, the best character on Uncle Vernon's favourite television show and one who shouted loudly enough to be heard even through the cupboard door. Harry had pinched many of his best lines over the years, and lived for the day he would arrest a gang and be able to declare: 'They've got a combined tonnage of six, which is coincidentally also their average IQ.'
Bustamant came to a stop in his flicking. 'Here. And up to here. The phone numbers won't be any use to you; they've all changed since then, but some of them may be at the same addresses.'
Harry nodded, and touched his wand to the pages, then to his own notebook, transferring the information exactly.
'That's a neat trick,' Bustamant said. 'Now, do you have telephones, or computers, or any way of finding out whether these people are still alive and where they live now?'
'No,' Harry admitted. 'What usually happens next is that I approach the MoD liaison with a list, then they go through their channels, then in a few days, they get back to me.'
Bustamant shook his head. 'Things were faster than that even in the Seventies. Sit back down, lad. We can do better than that.'
He reached beneath the sofa and pulled out a silver rectangle, which Harry recognised as a laptop computer. 'BT to start,' said Bustamant. 'We'll throw in the name and address, and if they're still there, the phone company will give us their new number.'
It involved a little fiddling, but at the end of ten minutes they had four matching names, addresses and numbers from the list. Malfoy was perched on the arm of Bustamant's sofa, watching intently as the typed names disappeared and were replaced by information spewed forth from a distant database.
'We could never make this work in the Ministry,' he told the ex-policeman. 'Too much magic, it interferes with the power these things run on. But we're idiots if we keep letting the MoD take days to get back to us.'
'They probably have a few dozen forms they need to fill in before they can do anything,' Bustamant said in fairness. 'There are all sorts of ethical considerations when it comes to privacy in the official sphere, but a lot of the general public don't give a damn about any of that. Iris was telling me they have a thing called MySpace now where they even put up when they're going on holidays, for the convenience of your local house-breaking professional.'
The three of them shook their heads in agreement at the stupidity of far too many British civilians.
Bustamant closed the computer. 'But you have somewhere to start, now. Mary Dacre, John Lumley, Thomas Wentworth and Anne Russell. I remember her, she was the woman with the foot. You should start with her: astonishingly clear-headed. Lumley was one of the shopkeepers, your lot spent a lot of time with him, he might be good, too.'
'Thank you,' said Harry.
'Oh I'm not doing this for free,' Bustamant said. 'I want you to come back and tell me what happened. Let me know if all those people are all right. Reassure me that I didn't stand by while your lot scrambled their minds.'
Harry recognised the look on Bustamant's face. He, too, would give anything to know that his own involvement in the wars hadn't caused any collateral damage. But while he came with a long list of dead, from his parents to Ted Tonks, Dobby to Colin Creevey, Bustamant did not.
'You could come with us,' he offered. 'The interviews might go more smoothly if you were there.'
Now it was Malfoy's turn to look surprised. Harry was perversely pleased to be on the receiving end of his glare.
'And it would give you a chance to see that our methods are uninvasive,' Harry continued.
Bustamant looked at him thoughtfully. 'This is the fifth or sixth time I've crossed paths with your lot,' he said. 'And the first in which any of you have offered up any information.'
'A new Ministry for new times,' Harry said, parroting Kingsley's slogan only a little ruefully.
'Your own version of Operation Countryman, I'm guessing,' said Bustamant. 'And neither of you have any idea what that means, do you? Not to worry. I would very much appreciate joining you if it is possible.'
'Good. So, do you need anything?'
'Jacket, walking stick, wallet and phone. Your friend could probably do with plainer clothes if you plan to convince anyone you're really with Counter-Terrorism.'
'I'll fix it outside,' said Malfoy. 'Away from your technology.'
'Good man. What do you plan to tell them?'
'We thought as you did,' Harry said. 'IRA. Say that we've received new information that leads us to believe it was another attack and that we're trying to see if we can bring about a prosecution.'
'Plausible,' Bustamant agreed. 'So, let us return inside to explain to my understanding wife and slightly fierce daughter why I will be spending the day on an outing with the two of you.'
Harry was pleased to see that Malfoy's jacket and shoes were unadorned by the time the reached the house's back door. He was less pleased to see that Iris Bustamant had an extendable baton tucked beside her newspaper on the table, but it did speak well for her as an affectionate daughter, so he pretended not to notice.
'I am heading out with these two,' William Bustamant announced as he led them in.
'Not by yourself, you're not,' Iris muttered.
Elizabeth left the room and returned with a sturdy walking stick and a tan canvas jacket. 'Do you need any extra money for lunch or taxis?
Bustamant took them and kissed her cheek. 'No, I'll be fine. I can catch the train home if I have to. If my knee plays up, I'll call you from the station and you can pick me up.'
'Take your phone.'
'I'm just getting it now.'
Iris Bustamant stood up and went after her father. Although she didn't even bother to glare at them, Harry noticed that she had the sort of build that spoke of many hours in training. Probably throwing people and things, given the look of her upper arms and speed of her stride.
Harry couldn't hear what they were saying in the other room, but from the 'It will be fine' and 'You need to get in to work, you are cutting it fine even for an afternoon start' that Bustamant called behind him as he returned to the kitchen, he could offer an educated guess as to the conversation.
'All right, gentlemen. Shall we go?'
Harry thanked Mrs Bustamant for her hospitality, and was pleased to see Malfoy do the same. 'You are more than welcome here,' she said, smiling. 'Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' said Harry, aware she was taking their names for the record.
'I will see you later, when you return William.'
'Yes,' said Harry, emphatically.
Bustamant chortled all the way out the front door. 'I see you have the right attitude to dealing with wives.'
'Never, ever get in their way,' Harry said fervently. 'Same for mothers. Same for every woman over forty who's not a homicidal psychopath.'
Bustamant stopped and looked back at him.
'Don't ask,' Harry said.
The fragrances of the front garden hit them afresh as they walked outside. Malfoy caught up with Bustamant. 'You said we should start with Anne Russell. Downs Park Road?'
'It's what I would do. Where's your car?'
'No car,' Malfoy said, grinning. 'Are you up for an adventure?'
'No car …' Bustamant looked at them both. 'You're not going to…'
But Malfoy already had.
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