Chapter Text
There was a cornish pixie on Turner’s hair.
Harry almost reached out his hand to swat it away for him, but he blinked, and it had disappeared. Feeling slightly disturbed, he downed the mug of coffee he’s been nursing, wondering if he’s been hallucinating, before he could do something as embarrassing as slapping their air over his superior officer’s head.
He had a late night, just barely closing the case of a magical kleptomaniac, who had been plaguing Sheffield for the better half of a year. All his recent cases were in some faraway city, where the local magical administration was never competent enough, even in a city like Sheffield. He’s sure they’d give him a break if he asked nicely, but Turner’s tone when he’d requested for Harry specifically, made it so that he couldn’t bring himself to back out now.
Although Harry could hardly complain; it had been an interesting enough case. Maybe one of the most he’s had, that wasn’t related to Voldemort in some way.
They were almost done rounding up the remaining Death Eaters, after all these years.
Merlin, was the meeting room always this warm? Harry could do with a well-deserved break and fall asleep right here, on the hard ministry table. His head started to droop.
Ron nudged him slightly, as Turner pinned up a map of London on the board. “Wake up, mate.”
Harry didn’t have the heart to retort anything, as he picked up the case file that had been distributed to him. He skimmed through the reports, and furrowed his eyebrows. A serial killer case. Four victims. Four muggle victims, with their still portraits, all in the outskirts of London. Why in the world were they assigned to the Ministry of Magic, then? The victims were seemingly unrelated; Amanda Huang, Richard Schubert, Alexis Neuman, and Everett Meyers. So far, all of their modes of death has been—
“I’m sure you’ve all realised, by now,” Turner said mildly, but his voice was clear over the asphyxiating silence in the meeting room, “that this is no normal serial killer.”
No shit, Harry thinks, as he started at the black on white serif font, printed so starkly under the victims’ names that it felt like they were mocking him;
Cause(s) of Death: The Killing Curse*, Avada Kedavra.
—
“Our current theory,” Turner says drily as he pins up the photos of the muggles onto the map of London with a wave of his wand, “is that this is either the work of an uncaught Death Eater, or a Voldemort Copycat—”
“— or You-know-who himself, ey?”
Harry shot out of his seat before he could stop himself. “Ri– Voldemort’s dead, and you know that. Or maybe you don’t, seeing as you’re still too afraid to use his real name, Mr. Kane.”
Kane— the one who threw that unnecessary comment— raised his hands up in a placating manner. “I know, I know, calm down… I know you killed him yourself, with that wand in your pocket… it was just a joke.”
“A bloody horrible one, that is,” Harry muttered, so lowly that only Ron could hear, as he sat back down. The temperature in the office seemed to have lowered by a few degrees. He doesn’t bother correcting them that it was Malfoy’s wand that had dealt the final blow. Not that many people knew of that. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron’s grimace, as he lightly kicked him under the table.
Git, he mouthed silently.
He still hadn’t returned Malfoy’s wand to him. It just never really came up. He was always saddled with work and more work. Malfoy had gone suspiciously silent and never asked for it back. Come to think of it, he hasn’t heard anything at all from Malfoy, after he covered for them at the Manor.
Harry recalls Lucius having died in the final battle; but his wife and son weren't there with him. They may not have been in England at all. Maybe they escaped to some safehouse abroad, to enjoy their life like always, Harry thought a little bitterly. Malfoy’s always been a fucking coward.
Turner cleared his throat. Harry was almost sorry, but then realised that Turner was probably unable to feel the awkwardness. “As I was saying. We arrived at that conclusion due to the Dark Mar that persisted in appearing at every crime scene, either on the victim’s belongings, clothing, or on their bodies, which you can see on page 7.”
“Why was this reported so late?” Ron asked, “I get it’s all muggles. But wasn’t there some sort of spell tracing on the Unforgivables, now?”
“There was indeed, Auror Weasley,” Turner pinned an illustration of the Dark Mark onto the whiteboard, ever-oblivious to half the room cringing. “But, see, there was no Trace. No evidence whatsoever pointing to the identity of the killer. The effect of the Killing Curse is… well, rather a medical mystery, impossible for Muggles to accomplish. Although it was negligence on our part that we hadn’t noticed until the death of Meyers.”
“But the Trace—”
“Was only possible through the tracing of registered wands,” Kane explained, with an infuriating smirk on his rather punchable face, “which you, as an Auror, should know about. It is also impossible to place a Trace on wandless magic on adult wizards.”
Ron ground his teeth silently. Turner looked at Kane with a frown, which is rather the closest to a glare anybody can get out of the man, and he backed down. Bloody self-righteous tosser.
“In any case, we’ll be sending four of you out to inspect the crime scenes and surroundings further— in pairs, of course,” Turner said, rather pointedly, to the lone wolves in the room. “The rest will be going to gather information on some related personnel. For the four Aurors who will be going out for fieldwork; I chose you because I know you have been involved in the last war with Voldemort. This is a rather delicate case, and I expect you to keep this a secret; for now, at least.”
Harry already knew he would partner with Ron, and he glanced surreptitiously to the other two Aurors; Ernie Macmillan and Dean Thomas. Two of their former schoolmates, who had fought in the war with them. Macmillan had only officially joined recently, but he was doing surprisingly well, especially with Dean. Though Harry wasn’t really surprised with the both of them becoming Aurors; they were both rather enthusiastic about Dumbledore’s Army.
He’d been begging for more exciting cases for ages, but now Harry was starting to regret it.
—
“Kane should pull that bloody stick out of his arse for once!” Ron growled, the moment they’d been dismissed to their office, after they’d sorted out any leftover administrative matters.
Harry read through the case file thrice and let Ron rant on. It left a horrible aftertaste in his mouth each time.
They were due to depart for Rainham first this afternoon, where the latest murder was carried out, and then they would go to Orpington. Everett Meyers and Alexis Neuman. The office air was suddenly unusually cold, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to cast a warming charm, as he stared transfixed at the reports.
The photos of the crime scenes were not brutal at all. The two newspaper clippings written on the two murders were also completely unhelpful, but there was only so much muggle police could do when it came to magical crimes.
Harry had thought his early twenties would be filled with excitement; with Riddle gone, he could finally enjoy the casual life he’d never been able to have. He would become an Auror and have duels on a daily basis, capturing criminals and bringing them to light.
Now, at twenty-two years old and filled with a sense of numbness from the repetition of his work, day after day, Harry blames Voldemort for making him so excited for brawling.
He had wanted that adrenaline back. The feeling that had kept him on his toes.
It was entirely foolish, quite, because that feeling came pre-packaged with the threat of death, every moment was to be cherished because he wouldn’t know if he’d still live in the next. Harry oughtn’t be so attracted to that kind of life. But maybe it was just something fundamentally wrong with his current lifestyle. He hadn’t had anyone after breaking it off with Ginny. While he didn’t hate the independence and freedom it gave him, he had to admit he was lonely and bored.
Also, Auror work had too much investigative and espionage for Harry’s liking. Too much snooping around, as Ron would put it. But they didn’t particularly have a choice.
Ron jerks Harry out of his thoughts, when asking him what he wants for lunch.
“Rainham after?” Harry asks, half hope, half dread.
“Yeah,” Ron sighed, “Can’t wait to beat the shit out of whoever’s behind this. Fucking noseless reptile still causing trouble even six feet under.”
They appear at the drop-off point with a pop, dressed in inconspicuous muggle clothing, both taking a second to steady themselves from the familiar nausea from apparition. Rainham wasn’t too far away, but it was far enough that would make a single-trip apparition difficult on the lymphatic system.
Harry moved out from the small, seemingly abandoned shed first, and saw that they were at a small clearing by a river. River Thames, most likely. In the distance, Harry can see a few sparse buildings, but more trees than anything else. Well, it was the suburbs.
Ron fished out a map from his pockets, and Harry leaned in to see, and offered to take over navigation, because Ron had a terrible sense of direction.
Everett Meyers, 39-years-old, Male. Lives alone in a lonely corner in Rainham, near the park and an orphanage. No close friends, but sometimes speaks to the neighbours.
Harry groaned at the report. There was nothing useful inside, except for the man’s address, education, jobs, and other trivial information. This just meant twice the work for him and Ron, because whoever made this bloody report didn’t bother interviewing anybody properly.
“He sounds boring,” Ron wrinkles his nose, and Harry is inclined to agree. He was an accountant at a local primary school. Meyers had no known living family— he never married and had kids, and both his parents were dead and had no siblings. He grew up in an orphanage, although it wasn’t the one he lived near to.
As they walked towards Meyer’s house, where he had died, Harry was starting to feel a sort of dread, crawling through his body. It felt as if he had been here before. The slight saltiness of the cold winds felt familiar, the closer they got to Meyer’s house.
The roads looked familiar, but there was one building that caught Harry’s eye.
Wool’s Orphanage, the sign read. It must be the one the report referred to which Meyer lived close. There was a park just in front of it, and there were children playing. He had seen this orphanage before, in a memory, although this time, there were more kids than he could remember, and the high metal railings were replaced by gardens and white fences—
“That’s the orphanage Riddle grew up in,” Harry says.
“What the fuck?” he doesn’t need to turn around to see Ron blanch.
“Sorry, Ron,” Harry didn’t feel very sorry, but he felt like he had to be alone right now— “can you go to see Meyer’s house, first, please? There should still be some muggle police there. Be polite and show them your fake badge. I swear I’ll catch up with you later. I’ll tell you everything.”
His friend hesitated for a little, but he must have seen something on Harry’s face, because he complied.
But Ron hadn’t come here with him and Hermione when they’d gone to search for the horcruxes together; and neither of them had seen Dumbledore’s memory of the orphanage. The building in front of him looked very new and well-furbished. Of course, his mind supplied, he had come here only five years ago. No wonder the roads of Rainham felt familiar. He had walked them before.
He had stood before this building, in this exact same spot, five years ago.
However, Harry distinctively remembered that the orphanage had been torn down to make way for an office building before. Has that changed, too? Or was his memory just faulty?
It was way too cold to be in the middle of the year. Or was Rainham always this cold?
Harry only felt dread, foreboding and ever-present, looming in his mind. His hand felt numb from clutching the wand in his pocket. How he had not noticed this just now escaped him. There was something heavy and horrible resting at the bottom of his stomach.
They didn’t take polyjuice to come here this time, since it was muggle London, and Harry Potter was a nobody in the muggle world. Now he wished he actually did, just so that he wouldn’t feel so squeamish in his own skin.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, half petrified. This orphanage looked nothing like that gloomy, run-down house in Dumbledore’s memories, and if he concentrated hard enough, the fragrance of the flowers from the garden calmed him down, grounded him back to reality.
The sound of children, laughing, talking, snapped him into consciousness, and he extracted his hands from his pockets. They were red and clammy, half-moons stark at the base of his palms. Harry is suddenly self-conscious; he must look rather suspicious, standing for so long in front of an orphanage.
Harry’s suddenly extremely glad he had sent Ron away, as he turns towards the source of the sound to come face-to-face with the one person he never thought he’d see again.
Draco Malfoy stands in front of him, surrounded by a group of rambunctious children. Two of them tugs at his hands, and he smiles indulgently down at them. “We should go inside," he says, "it’s time for dessert.”