Do You Still Believe?

Never gonna stop
Never stop anything at all
Remember what we do
Re-live the lives we put in the sky
-- A Skylit Drive - City on the Edge of Forever
-o0o-

Harry awoke at six that morning, and as soon as he'd gotten dressed, made his way to St. Mungo's. The staff were expecting him, and they let him through to Hermione's room with no questions asked. They'd learned the hard way that asking things like "How are you today, Mister Potter?" and the like were a good way to get their heads bitten off.

It was still hard for him to see Hermione like this. He sat just inside the door of her room while she stared out the window, unmoving.

"Hello, Hermione," he said as pleasantly as he could when the silence became too much for him to bear. "Ron's doing fine. I'm sure he'd want to know how you were doing if he could be here." There was no reaction from his old friend; he hadn't been expecting one any way. He talked to her for a few more minutes, telling her about what he'd been doing with the last year of his life. She barely blinked as he spoke.

When he was through, he pulled a book out of his pocket. "I think you'll like this one," he informed her, and started reading. It had started nearly five years before, when he realised she had nothing. None of the mind-healers had ever been able to get through to her, and eventually they'd given up. Harry had no hope of succeeding where the best healers money could buy had failed, but it didn't stop him from making the attempt.

Reading took him the better part of the day, and his throat was dry and hoarse when he finished. "I'll come back next year," he promised as he stood, and let himself out of the hospital. Hermione hadn't moved an inch in the entire seven hours he'd been there.

-

It was never easy for him to see his friends - Ron's icy cold grave, and Hermione's unblinking motionlessness - but it was his last link to a happy life. Not even Luna was enough to drag him out of his shell; she simply hadn't known him well enough. Now, though, there was Malfoy to contend with. Only a year, he reminded himself. The next time he went to see Hermione, he could tell her that his time with the ferret was up, and his life was back to normal. Hopefully by that time, he'd be able to tell her that he'd solved the case, and the murders had been stopped.

In order to do that, however, he'd need to work on them; solve them. The sooner the better.

Although it was technically his personal day, he'd already done what he needed to, and he apparated to the scene of the last murder, Fliven. The body had been removed, and the room largely cleaned. The Ministry had been slowly picking through the artifacts found in the home, readying them to be resold or kept in the bowels of the Ministry's basement. No one wanted to buy anything that had belonged to a murdered man, nor a house where someone had been killed, but after enough time had passed, the public memory would forget and newer and better things would take it's place.

Harry seated himself in the place where the body had been found, shivering unintentionally as a sliver of cold passed through his skin. He closed his eyes and tried to recreate the murder. Tortured unmercifully with dark magic for hours before he was killed with a knife, he thought. Why is that important? What are we missing?

Dark magic could keep the body alive throughout tremendous amounts of damage. The killer wanted it to be personal. Why though? What could these people have done to deserve the deaths they'd been given? Fliven was a hermit for the most part; Harry didn't think he'd had any contact with anyone besides his aunt in years. And even she had been doing it as a sort of reach-out, intending to reestablish a connection with him. The last victim, a girl whose name Harry couldn't recall offhand, had been the exact opposite. She'd been a social butterfly, always attending this party or that, or hosting her own. No connection there.

The only solid thing holding the case together was the use of dark magic, which was untraceable unless they had the wand, and the fact that it was purebloods with little to no family left. Dammit, Harr thought. Who could it be?

His magic leapt out of his skin suddenly, surrounding him. It took forms and shapes - furniture, the way it had been arranged when he and Malfoy and Luna had arrived to look at the body, and a single other person - Rafe Fliven. Fliven's magical body moved about the house, doing odd chores, dusting, listening to the wireless.

A second body appeared, but Harry could make nothing out of it. Shorter than he and Fliven, but no gender could be discerned. The person wore dark, shapeless robes, and covered their face with a dark mask. No Death Eater remnants, then, he decided. Fliven was stunned, and the torture began.

He'd seen a great deal of death and torture in his line of work, but this was among the worst he'd ever witnessed. It was silent; for that he was grateful. But it had not been an easy death. It had lasted for hours, and Harry sat through every minute of the re-creation, watching for some sign or clue.

Finally, the perpetrator dropped their wand, drew a knife from a sheath on their belt, and leapt upon Fliven's body, stabbing over and over again, long after Fliven was dead. Even through the flecks of blood flying from the blade, Harry could see markings worked into the metal, and an odd twist about the hilt. Combined with the reverence with which the killer had drawn it from their waist, he felt certain that the knife was important in some way.

Finally, their rage expended, the killer stood up and retrieved their wand, spelled themselves clean, and then walked out. The magic faded, leaving the house looking new and fresh again.

Harry swore. It had been an exercise in futility; he was now several hours into the night, physically exhausted, and no further along than he was when he'd started. He staggered out of the house and Apparated back to his flat, falling into bed without bothering to do more than kick his boots off and leave them where they fell.

-o0o-

Draco stood outside Potter's door, wondering if he should knock or simply walk in. Years of his mother's training in manners, however, prevented him from simply entering into someone else's house uninvited, and he knocked several times. When there was no answer, he suddenly feared he'd open the door to find Potter's tortured and bloody body on the living room floor, and he pressed the door open.

The fact that it was unlocked scared him even more, and he entered slowly, his wand drawn and ready. A quick search of the tiny apartment revealed only one closed door, and no body. The door was Potter's bedroom, and once more he balked at simply waltzing in. Finally, the fear that a bloodbath awaited him on the other side, he turned the knob and the door swung open. Potter was lying on his bed fully dressed, clutching his pillow like a lifeline. His glasses were on the floor beside the mattress, and his hair fluttered with every exhalataion.

Draco leaned against the door in relief, letting out a heavy sigh. Potter's wand was in his hand immediately, and Draco found himself pinned under a petrificus spell. "It's just me," he bit out through clenched teeth. Potter blinked at him blearily for a moment, and then rooted around for his glasses.

"Malfoy?"

The spell fell away, and Draco returned his wand to it's holster on his arm. "You're late," he said, as if this was the only reason he'd been snooping around Potter's apartment on a Friday morning.

Potter fixed him with a dark glare. "Why are you here?"

"You're never late," Draco said breezily. "Shacklebolt was afraid we'd find you in pieces somewhere, especially after Littlewood found your secret out. I wouldn't be surprised if it's splattered across the Prophet's front page by now."

The glare intensified. "Littlewood what?"

"Would you like some tea?" Draco asked cheerily, suddenly afraid for his life. No one knew he was here; if Potter wanted to do away with him, they'd never find his body.

Without waiting for a response, he ducked out of Potter's bedroom and made himself busy in the kitchen. Deliberately, he let the cupboards crash closed and the mugs clink onto the countertops, releasing the nervous tension he'd been feeling since arriving on Potter's doorstep.

"Christ Malfoy, you're making enough noise to wake the dead," Potter mumbled from the door to the kitchen. Draco looked up at him quickly as he set the kettle on the stove to boil. Potter was leaning against the door jamb, his shirt unbuttoned and barefoot. It seemed horridly indecent to be here in Potter's flat first thing in the morning, and for him to be barefoot of all things. He realised there was an un-Malfoyish flush to his cheeks, and he dug the tea out of the cupboard before dropping a bag into the mug while the water heated. He'd also found, in his search for the teabags, a jar of instant coffee, unopened. He opened it now, inhaling the scent of ground coffee beans with a brief smile that almost managed to make him forget where he was.

"Is there any particular reason you're here so early?"

"It's not early," Draco pointed out, but before he could continue, the kettle screamed piercingly. He took it off the heat and poured it into the two mugs, preparing his coffee and Potter's tea at the same time. "It's not early," he repeated. "You're late for work. I have a perfectly legitimate reason for being here. We were afraid we'd find you in a pool of blood."

"Because Littlewood found out." Potter's tone was arch, and if not for the quick look at his expression, Draco would have been ducking behind a shield charm. His eyes were neutral however, a complete contrast to the bitter resentment in his voice.

"Before you blame me, Shacklebolt did it himself. He forgot to close off his floo before he talked to me, and she overheard us when she called to complain about werewolves." He took in Potter's scowl, and hastened to add, "She's full of it, of course. I think she just enjoys disrupting the routine."

Potter rubbed at his forehead absently as he accepted the mug of tea Draco held out to him. "Joy," he muttered under his breath, and downed half of it in one gulp. "As you can see, I'm neither in pieces nor drowning in my own blood. Get out. I'll be in shortly."

Draco debated the merits of staying versus doing as he was told, and decided that it would help his cause if he acquiesced now. It would go far to be on more peaceable relations with his partner, even if it were only short-term. "Very well," he said with false gaiety. "See you in half an hour." He drank his coffee quickly and let himself out of the apartment before Apparating back to the Ministry.

-o0o-

Harry felt considerably better after his shower and breakfast consisting of another mug of tea and a few slices of toast. He hadn't quite meant to confront Malfoy in the kitchen looking as ... relaxed... as he had, but he'd been on his way into the shower when the strange thumps and thuds emanating from the kitchen had distracted him. Although he'd never admit it aloud - he barely acknowledged it in the relative privacy of his own thoughts - seeing the stunned look on Malfoy's face as he took in Harry's state of dishabille made the accident worth it.

Indeed, the look on his face as he strode through the foyer on his way to the DMLE could almost be mistaken for pleasant.

It was extremely short-lived, however, as the moment he stepped into the Aurors office, he was confronted with an excited Colin Creevey shoving a camera into his face and blinding him with the excessive flash used in Wizard photography. "Creevey," he growled, but the petite blond man simply gazed at him, dazzled.

"Blimey Harry, all this time," he gushed, and fired off another rapid series of pictures. "Just think of what this'll do for your reputation," Creevey continued, unaware of the danger he was in as Harry's wand slipped into his grasp.

"Get the camera out of my face before I break it," Harry warned him once. Generally, having both Seamus Finnegan and Colin Creevey working for The Daily Prophet was helpful to him in his line of work; when he told them to keep something out of the god-awful rag, they listened. But this, he knew, was just too far-reaching for him to do anything about it now.

Fortunately for the sake of his equipment, Creevey had learned when to take a hint, and he reluctantly lowered the camera. "Would you be willing to-"

"No."

"But you haven't even heard me out, Harry!"

"No interviews. No comments. No pictures. No lies," he finished. Then as an afterthought, "and no exaggerations."

"Blimey Harry, what am I supposed to tell them?" Creevey looked uncertain. Harry glowered him into submission. "Very well," he sighed, and let himself back out of the office.

"Blimey, Harry," came the familiar drawl. Harry looked up into Malfoy's face, scrutinising the amusement he found there. "Still got your fanclub, I see," he said, and took a long pull on the mug of coffee in his hand.

"Did you manage to accomplish anything useful while I was out yesterday?" Harry snapped at him, all traces of what might have passed for a good mood gone.

Malfoy had the good grace to look sheepish, at least, or as sheepish as he could get. "Not really, no," he said. "We've had absolutely no new leads."

That was about as distressing as it got, especially when combined with Harry's own failure the night before. He sighed, and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes under his glasses. "Alright," he said, knowing even as the word was coming out of his mouth that the only chance they would have would be to wait until another murder was discovered. He despised the need for more death, especially when he'd seen the perpetrator, all but watched Fliven be tortured and murdered, and there was something tickling just out of sight in the back of his mind, but he couldn't settle it long enough to get a grip on it.

-

Once again, Harry found himself walking up Mrs. Littlewood's drive in response to yet another call.

"Paranoid old biddy," Malfoy muttered, just loud enough for Harry to hear him. He shot his partner a dark look, and knocked on the door. Littlewood flung it open with a bright smile on her face - a stark contrast to the icy scowl she generally wore when presented with him on her property.

"Auror Potter," she exclaimed warmly. "How are you today? Please, come in both of you. Tea?"

It was such a remarkable change from their past interactions that for a moment, Harry wasn't sure how to respond to her. Luckily, Malfoy's years of experience with this sort of social call came to both their rescues, and just as the silence stretched on long enough to become insulting, Malfoy stepped forward with an elegant bow.

"Mrs. Littlewood," he said regally. "A pleasure to see you again, though I'd hoped it would be less dramatic this time. Another prowler you said? And tea would be lovely."

Lovely, Harry repeated silently, quietly horrified by the ease with which Malfoy slipped into the pureblood routines and rituals while at the same time blessing him for them - the Weasley's were in a class of their own when it came to pureblood interactions, and of course, he'd been raised as a muggle. Something seemed off about the elderly woman - she was more energetic than Harry had ever seen her before, and she kept up a steady stream of chatter with Malfoy as Harry looked around at the house. It stank of Dark magic, but several raids by other aurors had turned up nothing in the way of illegal objects or spells. A past partner of his had simply put it down to the heavy weight of centuries of occupation by purebloods less sanctimonious about what sort of magic was considered 'dark' and left off the chase in Littlewood's home.

He noted an open door in a previously blank wall, and his pause mid-stride drew the attention of the other two directly to him. Mrs. Littlewood smiled shyly, almost flirtatiously, and Harry recalled the way she'd responded to Malfoy the last time he'd left the two of them alone. Blood purity was apparently a very strong ideal with this woman.

"That's my collection room," she explained. "I tend to keep it closed off when company's over, especially Aurors, as it tends to make you lot nervous, but I assure you it's all perfectly harmless."

She pushed the door open, and revealed a room full of blades. Multitudes of weapons glinted in the light, made of gold, silver, steel, iron, bronze, and other metals Harry couldn't immediately identify. Some were carved; some had stones set into them. It was clearly a complete collection, and Harry put his suspicions about the knife used in the murder to rest. There wasn't a hint of dark magic about any of them, and there was clearly a place for all of them, with barely any room to spare. None were missing, he decided, looking over the collection. They were packed in so tightly that it would be difficult to remove one without a glaring empty spot left behind in the masses of weaponry on display.

"I'd like to take you at your word that it's a harmless collection, Mrs. Littlewood, but recent circumstances require me to send someone over to catalogue the collection," Harry said formally. Malfoy glanced at him, startled, and Harry was disturbed to realise he'd forgotten Malfoy was there in the stunning discovery of the blades.

"You could do it now," Littlewood offered. "I'm going nowhere, and I'd be happy to tell you the story of each blade."

"We're here to investigate your reports of a prowler, Mrs. Littlewood," Malfoy interceded, just as Harry's temper was starting to reach critical mass with the woman. She'd been a constant thorn in the DMLE's side for years now, and he disliked surprises of this magnitude.

"So prompt," Littlewood simpered, and then swept the two of them into her drawing room. "Same place," she said. "Just there, by the gate."

Malfoy flicked a glance at Harry, and then went to the large french doors that lead into the garden. "I'll go and have a look," he offered, leaving Harry to the mercies of the harridan.

She immediately offered him tea, which he accepted out of a sense of polite duty. He sniffed unobtrusively, looking for hints of poison or veritaserum, but could detect nothing. Still, he took no more than a tiny polite sip before letting the cup rest on the table and fixing Mrs. Littlewood with a fierce stare. "Mrs. Littlewood," he began. "I would like to apologise if this seems impertinant or rude, but there is no prowler. There are no signs that anyone's been near your gate but yourself in weeks, months likely, and your repeated calls to the Aurors are an unwelcome distraction from the things we should be paying more attention to."

There. He'd said it, and further more, he'd even managed a reasonably friendly tone of voice. Instead of taking offense, as she would have done in the past, he was sure, she simply smiled, albeit sadly.

"Thank you for your honesty, Auror Potter," she said. "It's a rare trait these days. But I am an old woman, and I live alone, and these are dangerous times for a woman of any age to be on her own."

"Clean," Malfoy said, reentering the house only after meticulously wiping his feet outside. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Littlewood." He waited by the door as Harry rose to his feet and joined him. Together, they walked to the Apparation point just outside her fence, and returned to the department to file the paperwork on Malfoy's insistence - "If we do it now, we don't have to worry about it later," he'd argued.

Harry went home at the end of the day and took a long, cool shower. The warming charms on the offices seemed to be malfunctioning, and he'd spent the entire day of paperwork becoming more and more overheated.

The next day, he woke with a raging fever, and wondered if Littlewood hadn't managed to poison him after all. The last thing he wondered before his fiery brain refused to function any further was if he'd finally meet up with Ron and Sirius and his parents on the other side if this killed him, and why that prospect seemed to bother him more than it had before.

-o0o-

kori is listening to: Alexander Rybak - Fairytale

(Okay. Alexander Rybak is my age - 23 - and he's done some amazing things in his life. He's SUPER talented, and his songs have all got a really original, somewhat strange feel to them, by which I mean they sound like pop-folk music.)

Ooooh, cliffie! Totally unexpected on my part (whatever you're wondering right now, I'm probably wondering as well. My muses have complete control of this story; I'm just following directions here.)

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On with review replies!

Mr Spears: Thank you! Yep, took a long break to write a couple novels. (I can't get over my own accomplishment, sorry. XD) But I'm back and better than ever! Thanks for sticking around to read!

yaoiObsessed: Oooh, you left me a nice review~ I love long, questioning reviews like this, because it gives me a chance to look over what you're thinking about it, and what sort of things I should touch on in order to make a more interesting story. I won't reveal anything here, of course, except for the Draco question: he grew up. His family's in a bad way, and he's finally become responsible for his own actions. It doesn't hurt that he wants to help Harry in order to help his own social standing, so he's not gone totally goody-two-shoes, but it's been eight years. Imagining him acting the same spoilt brat he was when we see him in the books speaks of no character development, and I hate things like that. Anyway, thanks for the review! I'll do my best to ensure that this is interesting enough to keep you from dropping it.

thrnbrooke: I couldn't make much of that out, but thank you for reviewing anyway~ ♥ ♥

Yuutousei: Brilliant to see you! You could have reviewed at any time; I didn't limit my anonymous reviews. But I'm glad you're here now. And I am indeed neglecting other fandoms; Bleach and Death Note, specifically. (XD)
Thanks to YOU for taking the time to review! Thank you soo much for the luck~ I think I'll need it, at least in the beginning. I've just got a minor dilemma; I don't mind the people I've met here on AFF knowing that I've written real life books, or buying them (because then you guys can make me happy for the rest of eternity and write me smexy fanfics for my novels, yes? I'm looking forward to my book being published, solely for the reason that people might write fics for it, and then I can review the fic and say, "hey, I wrote that book! Great job!") Ahh, I'm rambling. Your review came at a time when I'm feeling chatty, and there's no one online. Thanks again for reviewing! You made my night~