Harry Potter and the Lady Thief (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)

Chapter 53: Dancing on the Edge

London, Ministry of Magic, December 16th, 1998

The bloody thieves had escaped again! And that damned Black was hindering the investigation! John Dawlish wanted to curse out loud as he walked from the Atrium of the Ministry towards the lift, but that would set a bad example for his young partner. He entered the lift and sighed as soon as the doors closed.

“It wasn’t your fault that the thieves escaped,” Bathilda said.

He snorted. “I know that. And Bones knows that. And even Fudge knows it. But that doesn’t matter. The thieves escaped from a force I commanded. And that makes it my fault.”

“But there was nothing else you could have done!” the young Auror exclaimed, shaking her head.

John smiled against his will - she was so earnest, almost naive. “I could have gathered more Aurors to chase them instead of letting Potter and Weasley handle it, and I could have had more of the area covered in Anti-Apparition Jinxes.”

“But… more Aurors would have hindered each other because they would have been disillusioned while chasing after the same target. They might even have cursed each other by mistake since they would have been unable to tell friend from foe.” Bathilda shook her head. “None of us were trained to fight in a big group. And we needed the Disillusionment Charms so the muggles wouldn’t notice us.”

“You’ve been talking a lot with Potter and Weasley, haven’t you?”

She blushed but was saved from answering by the doors opening to Auror headquarters. “We started at the same time, and most of us take our breaks together,” she replied as they left the lift and headed to their office.

A glance confirmed that she looked as worried as she sounded. He chuckled. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. For all their arrogance, Weasley and Potter were trained by Moody - they know how to fight.” If only Moody hadn’t taught them his attitude as well. Bloody loose cannons.

Bathilda nodded, smiling shyly. “And the female thief escaped Harry even though he prevented her from apparating!” she added as they entered their office.

John grunted. “She lured him there. There’s no way Potter could have managed to keep her from apparating. Not at the speed they were going.” Anti-Apparition Jinxes didn’t cover that much space. No, the thieves had planned that.

“But… what for? Johnson and Brown haven’t found any traps.”

John grinned. “I don’t know - yet. But this was a set-up. Trust me, I can feel it in my gut.”

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. He didn’t mind - she’d come round once he gathered more evidence. Provided, of course, that he wasn’t removed from the investigation by Bones. He sighed again. “I’ll go and inform Bones and Scrimgeour. Get started on the report.”

“Alright!” She smiled at him, doing her best to cheer him up as he nodded at her and left their office.

Sometimes he felt as if he didn’t deserve a partner like her.

*****​

“...and based on the speed of the thieves’ brooms, we can safely assume that they were using Firebolts. Auror Potter, who had the longest contact with the thieves, agreed with that conclusion. I’ve given orders to check the recorded sales with Spudmore.” John doubted that the thieves had made legal purchases, but you never knew.

“I see.” Scrimgeour nodded. “And you remain convinced that Potter’s pursuit of one of the thieves was a set-up by them?”

John nodded. “The other thief managed to clear the area covered by Anti-Apparition Jinxes in less than a minute, and those were cast by half a dozen Aurors. The thief Potter was chasing would have been able to outrun his jinxes in the same time frame.”

“But according to the Aurors at the scene there were no signs of a trap,” Scrimgeour said.

“That doesn’t mean anything. These thieves have demonstrated exceptional skill in Curse-Breaking and stealth,” John said. He knew this was a set-up. “We only saw two of them. I wanted to search the house for the third thief, but Black refused to give us permission. Aurors Potter and Weasley are searching the house.” Probably.

“That’s not unexpected. By all accounts, the intruders were detected before they could break through the wards.” Bones spoke up for the first time since John had started his report. “A similar situation to the attempted break-in at Longbottom Manor.”

John shook his head. “The thieves robbed two Old Families. At Davis Manor, they were prepared for us and escaped easily. And they would almost certainly have been aware that Bellatrix Lestrange was discovered when she approached Black’s house, so they must have been prepared for that as well. The missing third thief is the key to this; I’m certain.”

“Well, if anyone is in their house, Aurors Potter and Weasley will find them,” Scrimgeour said.

John refrained from scoffing. Potter and Weasley were good, but they were not perfect. And they were too arrogant to catch these thieves. “We should search the house with a larger force. Two Aurors are more easily fooled than a dozen.”

“If Black refuses to let them search his house there’s nothing we can do,” Bones said.

“And it’s not just Potter and Weasley - Black and his wife, as well as Potter’s girlfriend, will support them, won’t they?” Scrimgeour added.

This time, John scoffed. Civilians. Black might be a master of dark curses, but that didn’t make him an Auror. And his wife was French - cut from the same mould. And Granger was a thief herself.

He blinked. He hadn’t seen either Black’s wife or Granger there.

Bones’s question interrupted his train of thought. “Is that all?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. “The investigation is just starting - we’re still collecting all the reports and going through the evidence we secured.”

“Good. I’ll inform the Minister. With Potter, Weasley and Black involved so closely, I don’t think there’ll be consequences for this failure.”

John nodded, but he wasn’t as optimistic as Bones. Black hated the Ministry and especially the DMLE, and Granger shared those sentiments.

He shook his head as he walked back to his own office. Neither Granger nor Black’s wife had been at home. Black had claimed they were in France, but… Black couldn’t be trusted. He might have been innocent of the crime of which he had been accused, but John knew the man had done a lot of shady things in the conflicts with the Dark Lord. And he had taken Granger under his wing - a convicted thief - and paid her debts. She claimed to have been framed, but John knew better. No one who was innocent acted like that witch. She had been working for Dumbledore in that whole affair as well.

What if… He stopped for a moment, holding his breath.

What if this whole attempted robbery had been planned by the Blacks, Granger, Potter and Weasley to fool everyone else? What if they were the thieves? Merlin’s balls, it all made sense! It explained how the thieves could fool the entire Auror Corps while robbing Old Families’ manors! It was a conspiracy!

He turned around, starting to walk back to Bones’s office, then stopped. No. He couldn’t tell Bones or Scrimgeour, either. They wouldn’t believe him. Not without proof. To accuse a member of the Wizengamot of robbing Old Families - and one of the richest wizards in Britain as well… He’d be ruined. Or worse.

No, he had to investigate this himself. Find evidence. Expose the whole plot and bring them to justice. Bathilda could… No, he couldn’t even tell her. She was too close to Potter. And she was too naive - Potter would realise that she knew even if she didn’t say anything. And Moody, who might believe him, was still in a coma in St Mungo’s. Unless Moody was part of this as well - he had worked for Dumbledore, hadn’t he?

John closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. He would have to do this alone.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998

“Yes, I’m alright,” Harry Potter repeated, smiling at Hermione’s face in the enchanted mirror.

She frowned, though. “Are you really?”

“Really. I wasn’t hurt.” He shook his head.

“You have a tendency to downplay your injuries.”

“You can ask Ron if you don’t trust me.” He laughed at the scowl that caused.

“I’m just worried. You ran off in the middle of our talk, and I didn’t hear anything until you called me.” She was still looking upset - or annoyed - more than reassured, as far as he could tell.

“No one got hurt. Not even the thieves,” he told her.

“Did you catch them?”

He grimaced. “They escaped.”

“Again?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Yes, they did. They had a head start, though.”

She looked a little doubtful. “Who discovered them?”

He wanted to roll his eyes. “Sirius noticed that Crookshanks was hissing at the air above the house.”

“Oh! Crookshanks spotted another intruder?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted.

“First he discovers Lestrange, and now the thieves! He’s such a great cat! Isn’t he, Harry?” She was beaming at him.

“Yes, he is a great cat,” Harry admitted. And an even greater pain.

“Is he with you?” she asked with a wide smile.

He blinked and glanced around. The orange furball was lying on the windowsill. “Yes, he is,” he replied, suppressing a sigh.

“Oh, can you hold the mirror so he can see me?”

Harry Potter clenched and bared his teeth as soon as he turned the enchanted mirror towards the fat cat. Crookshanks ignored him, of course. He also didn’t spare Hermione more than a bored-looking glance, but she didn’t seem to care.

When he heard Hermione coo at her pet, he closed his eyes. “There you are! You’re such a great cat! And such a vigilant guard! Harry will reward you for this with a special meal!”

“I will?” Harry replied before he could stop himself. He flipped the mirror back to face him and winced at Hermione’s expression.

She huffed. “Yes, you will! It’s the least that he deserves!”

“But aren’t you returning in time for dinner anyway?”

She nodded. “Yes. But you rewarding him will improve your relationship. He senses that you don’t like him, and this will help remedy it,” she added with a sniff.

“I’m feeding him every second morning,” Harry retorted, “and it hasn’t helped his attitude.”

“As hungry as he is when I get up, you probably don’t feed him enough.”

There was no use fighting this. Not when she was in this sort of mood. “I’ll get him some treats,” Harry said.

“Good.” She nodded, then bit her lower lip. “Are you going to be in trouble because the thieves escaped again?” she asked in a lower, softer voice.

“I don’t think so,” he said, trying to sound confident. He had done his best, after all - no one else had come as close to catching the thieves.

She scoffed. “Sirius can settle matters if they try to blame you.”

“I don’t think that’ll be needed,” he said. He hoped it wouldn’t.

She wet her lips with her tongue. “So…”

“So…”

“I’ll wrap up things here with Jeanne, and we’ll be on our way home.”

“I’ll have to head to the Ministry,” he said.

“We’ll meet at dinner, then?”

“Yes.”

Both of them were smiling at each other as the enchanted mirror faded.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 16th, 1998

“...and once we finished the search of the building without finding any sign of intrusion, we returned to the Ministry,” Harry Potter finished his verbal report.

Dawlish narrowed his eyes at him. “No sign of any intrusion? The wards of the vault were not disturbed?”

“We found no sign of any intrusion,” Harry replied. He wasn’t about to reveal any details about his home - that was none of the Ministry’s business.

Dawlish pressed his lips together. “I see. And the thief you were pursuing managed to escape using Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder - the same powder they used in the Davis robbery.”

“Yes.” Harry clenched his teeth. “I sent conjured animals into the affected area to trigger any traps, but by the time I entered it myself, the thief had already escaped. Probably through the sewers.”

“Probably?”

“I was watching the escape routes before I entered, but she might have escaped while I was inside.”

“She?” Dawlish leaned forward. “I thought the thief was disillusioned during the entire chase.”

“I recognised her voice when she ordered the thieves to split up when we rushed at them,” Harry replied. “She was the thief I encountered at the Davis robbery.”

“The one who escaped you.” Dawlish stared at him.

“Yes,” Harry spat out.

The other Auror leaned back.

“It doesn’t sound like you could have stopped her,” Bathilda said, looking up from the parchment she had used to take notes.

“Indeed.” Dawlish nodded. “Unless you had a Hand of Glory.”

“Those aren’t easy to come by,” Harry said. Rather dark, too. And disgusting - who would want to carry a mummified human hand round with them?

“A number of Old Families might have acquired one in the past,” Dawlish said.

“The Blacks didn’t,” Harry replied, narrowing his eyes at the implication.

“Was anyone else present in the house during your search?” Dawlish asked, looking up from his notes.

“Apart from Kreacher, our house-elf, no. Both Hermione and Jeanne - Miss Granger and Madam Black - were in France, in our new holiday home,” Harry said.

“Your girlfriend, or so I heard.”

Harry gritted his teeth at the tone. “The details of our relationship are private.”

“I see.”

No, he didn’t. Harry glared at him. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Not at the moment. Thank you.” Dawlish nodded. “I’ll get back to you if there’s anything else.”

Harry nodded sharply and left the office. At least the git hadn’t brought up Hermione’s conviction this time.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 16th, 1998

Hermione Granger wasn’t waiting in the entrance hall for Harry to return from the Ministry. He was fine, after all, and if she closed her eyes, she could still smell the horrible stench of that sadistic concoction he had used against her. Instead, she was sitting in her room, reading the latest of Malfoy’s proposals for the next session in the Wizengamot - this time about the ‘obvious need to implement stricter standards for promotions in response to the lowered hiring standards’. It was an obvious ploy to favour purebloods for promotion - well, obvious if one knew what all the ‘familiar with Wizarding Britain’s society’, ‘well-versed in etiquette’ and ‘undivided loyalties’ selection criteria meant to a member of an Old Family.

She scoffed, then frowned. Part of the reason she was in her room and not in the study was that each time she breathed loudly, snorted or otherwise drew attention to her nose, the stupid dog snickered. As if her ordeal had been funny!

She huffed and put the parchment down. Sirius wouldn’t have trouble blocking that proposal - it was a little too blatant. He would just have to point out that even with new employees, one should focus on their performance, especially in these ‘trying times’. She grinned - even the Old Families were aware that nepotism could be their ruin now. But despite that, Sirius would have to spend time and gold dealing with this drivel - which is what Malfoy probably wanted all along. Well, thanks to Bulstrode and Davis, gold wasn’t a problem.

She frowned. Between the crisis with Gringotts and the loss of the fortune of two Old Families, with a number of businesses’ assets tied up in court due to Davis, the economy should start being affected. On the other hand, most of the gold had been sitting around gathering dust. She should look into this - although she wasn’t certain if the Ministry was actually tracking any relevant statistics, apart from tax revenue. Not that she had any experience with economics either - although that, at least, was something she could easily remedy by studying the appropriate textbooks. Once she had the time.

Sighing, she closed her eyes, rubbed her nose and tried to focus on her work again. If she prepared a list of arguments to counter the proposal, Sirius would have an easier - and probably cheaper - time dealing with the wavering idiots in the Wizengamot. Now… She licked her lips and started making notes. Mentioning that dangerous criminals wouldn’t be caught by Aurors more concerned with etiquette than duelling was an obvious opening line. Pointing out that adding vague criteria made it easier to sabotage careers to spite a rival was a logical argument, but wouldn’t sway people who considered that the proper way of doing politics. Which was the majority of the Wizengamot. But leaving it out would be dishonest and make Sirius look stupid or callous. And that might backfire once the Wizengamot was reformed.

A knock on the door interrupted her. “Yes?” she called out.

“Hermione?”

Harry! She jumped up and quickly cast a cleaning charm on her house robes. “Come in!”

She hugged him before the door was fully open and was kissing him before it closed again. His arms around her, his warm body pressing against hers… she felt good.

Then she remembered the chase, the stench and her lies, and tensed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as they separated.

“No,” she lied. Nodding at her desk, she added: “Just the latest attempt by Malfoy to add more discrimination and nepotism to the Ministry.”

To her surprise, Harry flinched slightly at hearing that. She cocked her head sideways. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head. “No. Just Dawlish trying to find someone to blame for today’s failure.”

That git! She scowled. “He’s trying to blame you?” Of course, the idiot would!

Harry shrugged. “He agreed with Bathilda that I couldn’t have stopped the thief, but he still wanted to find any mistakes I might have made.”

“Well, did you make any mistakes?” Hermione asked. He had almost caught her, after all - if he had gotten a little luckier with just one Stunner...

He sighed and sat down on her bed. “Apart from missing with my curses?”

She joined him, putting one hand on his shoulder. “Yes.” It wasn’t selfish - he wasn’t hunting them, after all, but Crouch.

She felt him shrug, very slowly, under her hand. “I haven’t been able to analyse it in detail with Ron. I’ll have to do that once Ron has finished telling Luna everything she can’t use in an article. But… anything I could have done would have endangered the Statute of Secrecy. Maybe if I had conjured birds to block her…”

She pressed her lips together. Birds? Crashing into her? That might have worked. She loathed the stupid animals even more for that. “Wouldn’t that have had a high chance of seriously hurting the thief?”

“If I had hit her with a Stunner at the speed she was flying, she wouldn’t have fared any better, I think.”

And yet, he had cast at her. She frowned - she couldn’t help herself - and tried to cover it up. “Wouldn’t that have endangered the Statute of Secrecy as well?”

“She was disillusioned. I could have covered up a crash with a fallen street light or something.” He grinned. “Besides, the Obliviators are good at handling such things. I’ll get her next time.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “I thought you were investigating Crouch.”

“Well, I don’t think Dawlish will catch the thieves, and once Ron and I have caught Crouch, we’ll probably replace Dawlish.”

That wasn’t something she wanted to hear either. Fortunately, Jeanne called them to dinner before Hermione had to think of something else to say.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 17th, 1998

“What happened? I managed to escape as planned, but you let Potter chase you through half of London before losing him.”

Hermione Granger frowned at her tutor’s implied accusation. “I didn’t let him chase me - I couldn’t apparate. They had covered the whole area in Anti-Apparition Jinxes. I tried multiple times, without success.”

“That’s not possible,” Mr Fletcher retorted. “I had no trouble apparating as soon as I had left the vicinity. To single you out, they would have had to predict your route perfectly - and then they would have done the same to me.”

“I know that!” If she were in her other form, her fur would have bristled. “But it’s what happened - I was blocked from apparating. And since there was no one else around, and they didn’t block you, it had to have been Harry who was doing it.”

Mr Fletcher scoffed, but didn’t contradict her. “Potter would have had to be on Dumbledore’s level to keep casting so many Jinxes while chasing you - and casting Stunners at you at the same time.”

“Well, he was personally trained by Dumbledore,” Sirius cut in. “Who knows what tricks he learned? He didn’t destroy Voldemort with spells you learn for your N.E.W.T.s, did he?”

Hermione had a well-founded suspicion about what Harry had used to destroy Voldemort. Blood magic. But that wasn’t something she’d discuss with anyone. However, Sirius had a good point. “I underestimated Harry. That won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” Mr Fletcher grumbled. “He almost caught you twice - and third time’s the charm. You better find out what he can do.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She had escaped from Harry twice already, and she would continue doing so! But she wouldn’t cheat and spy on him. At least not as Hermione - she already felt guilty enough keeping her secret from him.

And besting him in a fair competition felt too good to spoil it!

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 25th, 1998

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Joyeux Noël!”

“Open the presents!”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at Sirius’s outburst, but smiled anyway. He didn’t even make a token effort to rein in his exuberance. Just like a dog, really. She giggled at that, earning her a smile from Harry and a brief suspicious glance from Sirius before he continued summoning the presents.

She caught Harry looking at Remus.

“I’ve checked them. They’re safe.” The man nodded.

“I would never mar such a joyous occasion with cheap pranks!” Sirius lied as he started to hand out the gifts.

Hermione smirked when saw the dog’s expression upon realising that the presents were actually safe - she had checked them herself. And dealt with Sirius’s pranks - both the obvious decoys meant to fool Remus as well as the actual prank spells. Really, as if she’d let him turn Harry into a dog!

He should be glad that she had refrained from pranking him in retaliation. She smiled sweetly in response to him frowning at her, then opened the gift from her parents first. As soon as she pulled the wrapping paper away, she had to stifle a gasp. Enid Blyton’s collected works!

“As expected - more books!” Sirius commented, ignoring the elbow Jeanne poked into his side.

“Of course!” Hermione replied, blinking a few times.

“Enid Blyton?” Harry craned his neck. “Aren’t those books a little…” He trailed off, but she knew what he meant.

She smiled. “I had all of her series as a child. My grandparents bought me one series each summer. And now I have them again.” With these, her book collection, lost with her home after Malfoy framed her, was completely restored.

“Ah.” Harry wrapped his arm around her waist and briefly pulled her against him. He understood. “Don’t worry - we’ll get Crouch, and your parents will be able to return.”

She nodded, feeling a slight pang of guilt at having sent them away in the first place - and at not feeling too guilty about that. If Crouch weren’t still a threat, she would be celebrating Christmas with her parents. But she would want to be with Harry. She sighed as she carefully set the box with the books down next to her feet and started on unwrapping her other gifts.

Remus’s gift was a rare book on Arithmancy - copied, as he explained, from Hogwarts’ restricted session. She thanked him profusely and didn’t mention that she had made her own copy a few years ago, thanks to Dumbledore granting her access to the library over the summer.

Jeanne’s was a matching set of robes, shoes and underwear made by Francois Baletiers, one of Paris’s grand couturiers. Very expensive and, as Hermione discovered when she pulled the garments out of their enchanted box, very sexy. She didn’t have to fake her blush.

Harry’s was a pair of books. A glossy, signed copy of ‘Seven Championships’ by Filius Flitwick. And a small, thin booklet, ‘A quick guide to combat for Storm Wizards’ by Hans Balzer.

“Moody translated it himself and made annotations,” Harry explained when she looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “He wanted to give it to every new Auror, but the Ministry opposed it - apparently, no matter how insightful they were, texts written by Grindelwald’s best combat instructor were deemed unsuitable for British wizards and witches.”

Ah. That Balzer. The name had sounded somewhat familiar. “Duelling and combat,” she said, “is there something you want to tell me?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Well… I thought you’d like some useful and interesting new books?”

She snorted. Harry wasn’t subtle. But he meant well. And he cared so much… She leaned over and kissed him before opening Sirius’s gift.

She blinked. And stared. “A Firebolt?” she asked, looking at the dog. She already had one!

He grinned at her, though she saw that it was slightly forced. “Now you and Harry have matching brooms. The fastest on the market!”

She caught him glancing at Harry, who was looking slightly embarrassed, and understood. “You told him to buy one for me?”

“You need the best broom available,” Harry replied. “And I merely made a suggestion when he asked me what you’d like.”

She forced herself to smile. Harry meant well. And he obviously thought she’d need the broom in case she had to flee from Crouch.

But he would want to fly with her, and she would have to put on an act on the broom or risk him recognising her flying style.

And, of course, Harry would want to put the information contained in his gifts into practice. Which meant more sandbagging.

Not that Harry knew any of that - he just wanted the best for her. She couldn’t fault him for that. Sighing, she leaned into his side and watched him unwrap her own gift - a complete collection of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories.

And giggled when he frowned at her and asked: “Are you trying to tell me something?”

*****​

Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, December 26th, 1998

“Here, Hermione! Our gift for you!” Luna beamed at Hermione as she handed over a gift wrapped in paper which glowed in all the colours of the rainbow. Harry Potter didn’t have to use his glasses to know it was a book. By now everyone knew that the witch preferred books to almost any other gift. He was certain that an old, rare book would have impressed her more than the Firebolt Sirius had given her yesterday.

But a Firebolt could carry her to safety whereas an old book wouldn’t save her if Crouch attacked her. Not even an old book on duelling or fighting - Hermione wasn’t hopeless any more, but she wouldn’t be able to defeat the likes of Crouch any time soon. Which was the reason Harry had urged Sirius to buy her a Firebolt. A lecture on how spending ‘exorbitant amounts of gold on gifts defeats the spirit of Christmas’ was a small price to pay for Hermione’s safety.

“The latest edition of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’? Thank you!” Hermione’s smile matched Luna’s, Harry noted.

The blonde nodded happily. “It’s even better than the latest edition - I’ve added corrections and annotations! You’ve got a unique edition!”

Hermione blinked, then checked the book and froze for a second.

Harry craned his neck - indeed, almost every page had had notes added to it in Luna’s handwriting.

“Thank you, Luna. I’ll treasure it!” Hermione said.

Harry saw that Hermione’s smile was a little forced, but Luna didn’t seem to have noticed - she was still beaming at her. He was happy - the witch meant well and had obviously spent a lot of time and effort on her gift.

Ron nodded. “The original was great, but recent editions have failed to add the latest research and observations. Scamander has grown a little complacent.”

Luna pouted. “They just don’t want to acknowledge The Quibbler! Even though Daddy was the first since Newton Scamander to observe Three-leafed Pygmy Dryads in their natural habitat!”

Hermione frowned. “Really?” she asked as she flicked through the pages until she reached the creature’s entry.

“Yes! Newton only observed the main variant, but didn’t describe the yellow-leafed variant!” Luna nodded several times. “I wanted to glue a picture we’ve taken on to the page, but Ron said that would be too much.”

“You’ve got pictures?” Hermione leaned forward.

Luna nodded once more and pulled out a thick envelope from her pocket. “Pictures of all the animals we observed!” She handed a stack over.

Hermione held up a picture. “This is you and Ron camping.”

“Oh, yes.” Luna nodded. “But there’s a Hiding Humper behind the tent - if you wait long enough you can spot his shadow when he moves!”

“We totally missed it,” Ron added, putting his arms around Luna, who leaned into him in response, “until we went over the pictures afterwards.”

There was a moving shadow, Harry Potter thought, though it could have been a leaf or one of the tent’s flaps twisting in the wind. He handed the picture back after another glance at Ron and Luna holding each other in front of the tent.

A year ago, he’d have been jealous of their obvious happiness. And ashamed of being jealous. But now he was with Hermione. His girlfriend, even though they weren’t using that term.

But they cared for each other, and that was all that mattered at the end of the day.

*****​

Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 27th, 1998

Harry Potter couldn’t help feeling a little jealous as he watched Ron and Luna dance in the middle of the ballroom in Greengrass Manor. His two friends looked happy together - happier, in his biased opinion, than most of the other couples surrounding them. If Hermione were here… He sighed. She wouldn’t be happy here, surrounded by the the very people who had tried to destroy her life. He knew it, he understood it, but, seeing his friends dancing together, he still wished she were here.

He took a sip from his glass. Pumpkin juice wasn’t the most posh choice of drink at a ball, but he wouldn’t drink alcohol while technically on duty, and the only other non-alcoholic option would have been Butterbeer - and that wouldn’t be posh enough for the occasion. And while Harry didn’t care about the host family and their friends, he didn’t want to damage Sirius’s standing among the less bigoted members of the Wizengamot by playing the uncouth, muggle-raised half-blood. Of course, according to Hermione, Butterbeer wasn't completely non-alcoholic anyway.

That he had arrived without a date was as far as he could go - Sirius’s friends and allies would understand that Harry wouldn’t risk rumours of him dating someone else, and Greengrass’s cronies would have to swallow the pointed hint at the fact that Harry was only present because he had been ordered to be by Scrimgeour.

Which was true. Otherwise, he’d be in France with Hermione, Sirius and Jeanne. Probably visiting Jeanne’s family. A much more appealing prospect than standing guard over the Yule Ball in Greengrass Manor. If you could call it standing guard when he wasn’t even out patrolling the wardline or checking the hallways. On the other hand, Dawlish was out there.

He let his gaze wander over the crowd filling the ballroom. He didn’t know many of the guests. Not personally, at least - he knew the names and faces of the various Wizengamot members, of course. But not many of their younger relatives - few of the guests had been at Hogwarts with him.

But there was Bathilda, standing at the corner of the buffet, head almost swivelling round as she kept looking at every entrance. If she tried any harder to look like a guard she’d have to keep her wand drawn. He grinned and walked over, grabbing a canape on the way. “You know, you’re not exactly blending in,” he said after casting a privacy charm.

“Our duty is to guard the ball,” she replied, briefly glancing at him.

“Without making it obvious,” he said. “At least that was what Scrimgeour told me twice in person.”

Bathilda sighed and turned her attention to him. “You know why he said that.”

Of course, Harry knew that. “Would I make a scene?” he asked, grinning.

That earned him a frown. “You would - if you could blame someone else.”

“Touché,” he admitted. “Speaking of someone to blame - where’s your date?”

“Theo’s dancing,” she replied, nodding towards the dance floor.

Harry saw Nott with Greengrass and frowned. “He’s left you standing here, hasn’t he?”

“I can hardly expect him to sacrifice his evening just to keep up appearances.” She was frowning again. “It was nice enough of him to volunteer as my date.”

Harry doubted that Nott would have found a better date anyway. “Still, that’s both unprofessional and impolite.”

“We have danced together. And I expect that we will dance together once more before the evening ends,” she retorted.

Harry scoffed. “After he’s danced with every daughter or granddaughter of an Old Family, I suppose.”

“He isn’t like that,” Bathilda shot back. “And wouldn’t you dance with your friends?”

Harry glanced at her. “I wasn’t aware I had friends here. With a few exceptions.” Among which Draco Malfoy, whom Harry could spot dancing with Parkinson on the other side of the room, definitely didn’t number. Fortunately, Malfoy had avoided him so far - just like in their last years at Hogwarts.

“Oh, you!” Bathilda scoffed. “Everyone knows the Greengrasses aren’t your favourite people, but they’re one of the Old Families, and at least half the guests are friends of your godfather!”

Acquaintances would be a more correct description, Harry thought. Or allies of convenience. If they knew what Sirius and Hermione were planning… He snorted, then schooled his features and ended the privacy charm as he spotted one actual friend headed towards him.

“Hello, Neville,” he greeted him. “Lavender.”

“Harry! I’ve been looking for you for a while,” the wizard smiled broadly, then looked at Bathilda.

“Neville, Lavender - this is Bathilda Meringworth. We’re colleagues. Bathilda - Neville Longbottom and Lavender Brown. We were in Gryffindor together.”

“Hello!” Lavender beamed at the witch. “So, you’re covering for Nott, Harry?”

“Pardon?” Bathilda frowned.

Neville grimaced. “Sorry. Lavender noticed that you arrived with Nott, but haven’t spent much time together.”

“Not enough to be a romantic couple,” Lavender cut in. “And if you were here as friends, you’d be chatting together with others more often. And you’ve been looking around with a more serious expression than Harry.”

“Sorry,” Neville repeated himself. “She’s convinced that you’re undercover Aurors.”

“Well, she’s right,” Harry said. “Do you think I’d be here if I hadn’t been ordered to attend?”

“You could be here for political reasons,” Neville replied. “To make contacts and friends.”

Which was probably what his grandmother had told Neville. Harry shook his head. “Do you think Sirius would send me if he wasn’t going to bother attending himself?” Neville’s grimace told him that his friend thought so. Probably another result of his grandmother’s influence.

“He’s visiting his wife’s family, isn’t he?” Lavender asked, leaning forward.

Harry had a brief flashback to Hogwarts’ rumour mill. “Yes.”

“And Hermione is with them, right?” Yes, Lavender had the same expression as when she had spread the latest news in their house.

“Yes,” Harry said.

Lavender nodded, as if that had been a great revelation. “I knew for years you’d end up together, you know. Ever since you dumped Parvati for her.”

“I didn’t dump Parvati for her,” Harry corrected the witch. “Parvati wanted me to break off my friendship with Hermione.”

Lavender nodded. “As I said.”

Harry frowned at her, but didn’t bother trying to correct the witch. “So, are you a couple?” he asked instead.

Both nodded and Neville even blushed slightly.

“You make a nice couple,” Bathilda said.

Harry glanced at her. He had heard her sound more convincing when defending Dawlish’s latest stupidity.

“Thank you!” Lavender either was a much better actress than Harry had thought, or hadn’t picked up on Bathilda’s lack of honesty.

Neville, though, was wearing the same expression he wore in the Wizengamot when talking to Malfoy. Quite protective of Lavender, was he?

“Oh, there you are!”

Harry turned around. Luna was all but dragging Ron towards them. “Hello, Harry! Neville! Lavender! Auror Meringworth!”

And Bathilda’s polite smile grew even more forced while Ron looked slightly embarrassed.

Luna was unfazed, of course. “Isn’t it great of the Ministry to order their Aurors to attend the ball? We wouldn’t have been able to attend otherwise! All the food, the music, the dancing - no wonder Ron likes being an Auror,” she said, apparently without taking a breath, as she leaned over and started filling a plate with food. Harry noticed that she wasn’t wearing her dirigible plum earrings, but quite tasteful silver earrings in the shape of snowflakes.

“Weren’t we supposed to keep this a secret?” Bathilda asked, glaring at Ron.

Harry’s friend shrugged. “She figured it out herself - she’s a great journalist, you know.”

“And it wasn’t as if it was a big secret,” Luna added, then stuffed a shrimp into her mouth. “It’s all Harry’s fault, anyway,” she added after swallowing.

“What?” Harry stared at her.

“You wouldn’t be here, without Hermione, unless you were ordered to attend,” she explained. “Oh, delicious!”

Faced with Bathilda’s frown, Harry shrugged. It wasn’t his fault.

“It’s a great party. Have you seen the gardens? They’ve covered them in Warming Charms!” Luna suddenly pouted. “And then they went and added wards against animals, so all the poor animals outside can’t come in and escape the cold! Isn’t that cruel?”

“It’s for security purposes,” Bathilda said. “So criminals cannot send conjured animals into the manor.”

“And so all the animals in the forest have to suffer because of a few bad apples?” Luna shook her head. “That’s not fair!”

“I don’t think the guests want to share the gardens with all the animals of the forest,” Neville said. “Most of them would eat the plants, too.”

“Plants grow back,” Luna retorted. “And the animals wouldn’t hurt anyone - it’s not as if there are dangerous animals in the forest.”

“Unless someone conjures dangerous animals. Like venomous snakes,” Bathilda said with a sniff.

“They can be handled with a bezoar.”

Just when Harry thought the argument would grow heated, the band started another song and Luna perked up. “Oh, our favourite! Come, Ron! We have to dance!”

Harry resisted waving when Ron was dragged off to the dance floor. Instead, he handed Bathilda a glass of fresh juice. That earned him a smile.

“Oh, look - the rumours were true; Smith found a witch for the ball,” Lavender said. “Poor thing.”

Harry turned around. There was Michael Smith, talking to Malfoy, with a witch on his arm. “Poor thing?” he asked.

“I heard she’s a recent emigrée from Québec. Rich, last of her family and absolutely naive. She probably has no idea that he cheated on his last girlfriend,” Lavender went on.

The witch did look… Harry wouldn’t call it naive. Honestly happy to be here, perhaps? She was striking, with a tanned complexion that perfectly set off her long, blonde hair.

“Her dress’s French,” Lavender said. “Madam Malkin’s would never have such a risqué decolletage.”

She sounded quite jealous, in Harry’s opinion. Like Parvati had sounded when talking about that American witch. With good cause, in this case - the dress fit the witch like a glove, and she had the figure for it, too.

He briefly wondered if he should keep an eye on the couple, in case Smith started to bother his date.

Then he wondered why he thought that.

*****​

There’s Harry!, Hermione Granger thought once she had spotted him. He was standing at the edge of the buffet, talking with Neville, Lavender and that female Auror friend of his, Meringworth. Didn’t Meringworth have a fake date of her own? If she weren’t playing the role of the naive, friendly Marie Levesque, she would have frowned. That Auror needed a clawing if she was trying to seduce Harry!

And Smith needed a lesson as well, she added to herself when she saw towards whom the pureblood ponce was steering them: Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson!

“Michael! So nice to see you!” Malfoy said with his snotty smile while Parkinson nodded with a rather vapid expression - the typical hanger-on. The witch would probably smile and nod if Malfoy introduced her as a minion.

“Good evening, Draco. Pansy.” Smith nodded at both. “Marie - may I present to you Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, dear friends of mine.”

“Enchantée,” Hermione said, her pleasant smile growing just slightly wider at the brief frown that crossed the two purebloods’ faces when they were introduced to her, and not the other way around.

“She’s from Québec,” Smith added. “She had to leave after the recent unpleasantness.”

“Oh!” It was impressive how quickly Parkinson recovered from the slight, fake compassion replacing fake politeness. “You’re a refugee from the war?”

“Emigrée,” Hermione corrected the witch. “I left after I lost my entire family. Sold the manor, transferred the vaults - I didn’t want anything to tie me to a country that ’ad cost me so much,” she added.

Malfoy’s eyes widened for a moment - he must have realised that she was both the head of her family and rich - if the fact that she was dressed in the latest robes from Paris’s most expensive couturier hadn’t clued him in already. Parkinson was a little slower on the uptake, but Hermione didn’t miss how the witch’s smile froze for a moment before her pug nose wrinkled in a faint sneer. “How sad! You lost your entire family?”

“To dark curses, yes,” Hermione said. Seeing Smith’s eyes light up at that, she didn’t have to fake her shudder.

Malfoy nodded in apparent sympathy. “My father fought in the war against the Dark Lord. He faced the Dark Lord himself and was almost killed by a dark curse. He did prevail, though. Without him, the war would have been lost.”

Hermione had to struggle not to dispute those lies. Harry and Dumbledore had defeated Voldemort! With an effort - she hoped her hesitation would be attributed to Levesque’s tragic past - she asked: “Oh?”

“Oh, yes. My father risked his life spying on the Dark Lord, discovering his weakness and luring him into an ambush. Each time he met the Dark Lord, he was facing the Unforgivable Curses!”

Hermione shuddered once more, remembering her own brushes with dark wizards and witches. Or vampires. She felt Smith’s arm tighten around her waist. “Enough of those dark tales,” he said. “This is a ball, after all. We should dance!”

Hermione nodded with apparent eagerness. Dancing was much more preferable to talking to Malfoy and Parkinson. Or discussing the Dark Arts with anyone.

And Smith, for all his disturbing fascination with the Dark Arts, could dance, as he now demonstrated. Hermione didn’t make any missteps which she would have had to blame on unfamiliarity with British dances, but she wasn’t on his level. Which, she told herself, helped maintain her cover. Cats were graceful, but they also didn’t dance that often.

A song later, Smith was steering her towards the buffet again - although not towards the corner still occupied by Harry and Meringworth. And Ron and Luna, Hermione noted with slight satisfaction. Instead, Smith introduced her to the host, Balthasar Greengrass, and his wife, Mirabel.

This time, Hermione curtsied - Marie Levesque was a guest, an emigrée and lower-ranked than a member of the Wizengamot.

“You’re from Québec?” Greengrass asked.

“Yes, sir,” Hermione answered. “I emigrated after my family died in the recent war.” That would prevent further questions into her past - unlike Parkinson, the Greengrasses would be too polite to pry. “I’m planning to start a new life in Britain - we ’ave distant family ’ere. France is a possibility as well, of course.”

“Britain is a land of opportunity,” Smith said, a little too quickly - he almost cut off the host, Hermione noticed. Though, judging by the smiles and glances the Greengrasses exchanged, they didn’t take offence.

“Indeed.” Greengrass inclined his head.

“But what about those ‘Death Eaters’ I ’eard about?” Hermione asked with wide eyes. “Aren’t they still a danger?”

“There’s only one of them left, and he won’t last much longer,” Greengrass said. He sounded confident - but Hermione knew how many Aurors were placed around the manor. “The others have already been killed by the Aurors.”

She couldn’t resist. “And those thieves?”

That made Greengrass frown slightly. “They aren’t that dangerous. If our best Aurors were not focusing on the last Death Eater, they would have been arrested already.”

His wife nodded. “They were lucky to escape so far - they managed to rob two manors, but failed twice and had to run with their tails between their legs.”

Those were planned deceptions! Hermione forced herself to nod in apparent agreement. “I see.”

“And France is, honestly, not a good place to live,” Madam Greengrass added. “Unlike Britain, it is a monarchy. The current Duc d’Orléans is a decent man, but who knows if his successor will be as adept at governing? France is always just one step away from a revolution.”

Smith nodded. “The French are belligerent. Britain is much more peaceful - we’ve learned our lesson in the last war, while the French didn’t. They are far too aggressive.”

“There ’asn’t been a revolution in France in centuries,” Hermione pointed out. Not counting the muggle ones, of course.

“Then there’s bound to be one soon,” Smith said. “They’ve been harbouring criminals as well - they refuse to cooperate with our Ministry so we can’t prosecute them.”

She blinked. “You mean those thieves are French?”

“That would certainly explain their audacity,” Greengrass said.

As they left the Greengrasses to talk with other guests, Hermione hoped that she hadn’t inadvertently drawn attention to Jeanne as a suspect. But even with her padded catsuit, Jeanne was both taller and curvier.

A few minutes later, she found herself alone at the buffet while Smith dealt with a call of nature. She eyed the food with a snort - for all their remarks about France, the Greengrasses certainly didn’t seem to eschew French cuisine.

“Miss Levesque?”

She turned to find herself facing Malfoy again. “M. Malfoy?”

“Did Michael leave already?”

Hermione didn’t have to fake her surprise. “Bien sur que non!” she exclaimed. “’E just had to step out.” What was Malfoy insinuating?

“Ah.” Malfoy nodded, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I was merely concerned that he might have committed a faux pas.”

“A faux pas?”

He nodded again. “He did cheat on his last girlfriend, you know. It’s why we were surprised he found a date for the ball.”

So that was the little backstabber’s angle. “’E did?” she asked, moving her hand to her lips with a gasp.

“Oh, yes, he did. It was quite the scandal, actually - in our circles.” Malfoy smiled in what he probably thought was a comforting manner. “I wanted to let you know, in case he strayed again.”

And he probably wanted to sabotage Smith’s possible marriage to a rich foreign witch, who would be easier to take advantage of than a witch with close ties to other Old Families and who would rely on her husband’s advice. “I… I see.” She nodded, a little shakily. “He didn’t mention anything.”

Malfoy’s smile slipped a little. “It might have been an oversight - he was probably too overcome by your beauty. Please don’t mention it to him, lest he misunderstand my intention.”

As close as Malfoy was, and with how his eyes strayed towards her bust every few seconds, Hermione doubted that she misunderstood his intention at all. But Parkinson would probably believe that Malfoy had only acted to sabotage Smith’s relationship. Typical. “Thank you.” She slowly, hesitantly nodded.

As soon as Malfoy turned away, she glanced at the corner where his father was talking to his allies and cronies. The elder Malfoy didn’t seem to be paying any attention to his son, but that could be an act - unlike his son, Lucius Malfoy was quite gifted at intrigue.

But Hermione didn’t have time to deal with this. She had to proceed with the plan’s next step. As soon as Smith returned.

Where was he, anyway? She looked around, then froze.

Harry was headed her way.

*****​

“Excuse me for a moment,” Harry Potter told Bathilda, “I have to check something.”

“Ah, OK,” she replied as he was already turning away, headed towards the young witch who had come with Smith. The witch had looked rather disturbed during her brief chat with Malfoy, and the way she froze when she noticed him walking towards her wasn’t a good sign either.

Harry smiled at her as he bowed with a flourish. “Harry Potter, at your service.” It was a slight breach of protocol, to present himself like that - but then, leaving your date alone instead of with friends was a worse faux pas.

She curtsied in return. “Marie Levesque. Enchantée.” She had a husky voice, in addition to her striking appearance, he noted. A round face - but then, she had a curvy figure. A moment later, she blinked. “’Arry Potter?”

He was tempted to answer ‘the one and only’, but smiled instead and nodded. “Yes. You might have heard of me.” His fame might be of use, for once.

“Of course! The Boy-’Oo-Lived!” She nodded, smiling.

She wore heavy makeup, Harry noted. It suited her, though. “You’re French?”

“Québecois,” she corrected him.

He nodded. That explained the slightly different accent from Jeanne’s - practically every French wizard or witch he had met had had the same accent after seven years at Beauxbatons. ‘Court French’, Jeanne called it - no one wanted to sound like an uneducated provincial witch in France, or so she claimed.

“Do you… wish to dance?” she asked.

Now it was his turn to blink. He had only planned to check on her - who knew what Malfoy was up to - but now… He nodded and held out his hand to her. “Indeed.”

She took it, and a moment later, they were on the dance floor.

Not a moment too soon, either - he spotted Smith glaring at him from where the wizard had left Miss Levesque.

“I couldn’t help noticing,” Harry said, leading them into the midst of the dance floor, “that you looked a little shocked after Mr Malfoy talked to you.”

“Ah…” She hesitated a moment.

“I’m an Auror,” Harry said.

“Oh. It wasn’t… ’e just informed me of a rumour. A private rumour,” she added before he could pry.

“About your date’s recent affair?” Harry took a guess.

That earned him a frown. “Does everyone know about this but myself?”

He couldn’t resist. “Yes.” His smile earned him another frown. “I take it Mr Malfoy warned you not to trust him?”

“Yes.”

The git probably had ulterior motives, but Harry couldn’t prove it. “Wasn’t his girlfriend with him?” he asked instead.

“No…”

He could see from her expression that she had come to the same conclusion. He nodded with a wry grin as he led her into the next song. Whatever Malfoy was planning, she would no longer be an unsuspecting target.

*****​

Hermione Granger knew she shouldn’t be dancing with Harry. She shouldn’t even be talking to him - she had taken great care with her disguise, using heavy makeup and cheek inserts to change the appearance of her face, not to mention the padding in her dress, but no disguise was perfect.

But she loved every moment on the dance floor with him. The thrill of the danger she was courting only added to the exhilarating feeling. She did control herself when Smith cut in, though - she had a plan to execute, after all.

A plan which was delayed for a little longer, now, since Smith led her through several dances in an obvious attempt to upstage Harry - even though it was quite widely known that Harry was in a relationship. But then, Smith would probably cheat on her in Harry’s place.

Finally, though, they were back at the buffet, and Hermione sighed in quite an obvious way. “I need a drink, I believe,” she said. “I enjoyed the dancing very much, but it left me a little thirsty.”

“Understandable,” Smith told her, with a wide smile, as he snapped his fingers, ordering one of the servers carrying a tray full of slender wine glasses towards them.

Hermione took one, drank it quickly, then grabbed another. “Oh… I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just so thirsty.”

Smith’s smile grew wider. Of course, he wouldn’t have missed that she hadn’t eaten much - the inserts in her mouth which changed the shape of her cheeks made eating a hassle - and two large glasses of wine on an empty stomach would have left her quite tipsy, if not for the potion she had taken beforehand.

And as she expected, he proposed getting some fresh air in the gardens. She agreed, of course, and took care to lean more strongly against him as he led her outside. And then acted as if she didn’t notice how he was leading her away from the other guests enjoying the gardens.

“It’s remarkably warm for the season,” she said, once they were sitting on a bench in an artificial clearing.

“Warming Charms, my dear,” Smith replied. “Not everyone can be expected to cast them themselves.”

Especially after imbibing copious quantities of alcohol, Hermione thought. And it would be terribly embarrassing for the Greengrass family if a drunk guest passed out in their gardens and died from exposure. She nodded and took a deep breath, then leaned back on the bench, arching her back as she stretched.

And while Smith’s eyes were glued to her chest, a flick of her wrist had her wand slide into her hand from the enchanted holster inside her glove.

“Stupefy! Obliviate!”

It took her less than a minute to bind, paralyse and silence the wizard and stash him inside a dense bush. And two minutes to change into her catsuit.

Five minutes later, she was back in the manor - through a window on the first floor.

*****​

 

Chapter 54: Slipping Away

Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 27th, 1998

Her family’s Yule Ball was a success. Daphne Greengrass hadn’t expected anything else, of course - when the Greengrasses committed to something, they succeeded. The best musicians gold could buy. The most exquisite food - even if it was French. And at least, she noted as she glanced at her younger sister, Astoria seemed fond of the buffet. As, it seemed, were most of the guests - all of whom, of course, had been carefully chosen.

She took a sip of champagne, the slender glass feeling almost weightless in her hand, and let her gaze wander over the ballroom. It was a gathering of the Old Families and their most esteemed acquaintances. And, unfortunately, Aurors to guard the ball against attack. She frowned. At least the Ministry hadn’t picked unsuitable wizards and witches for the task - with a few exceptions.

“Look at Weasley, Tracey!” she whispered, nodding towards the redhead on the dance floor. “To think he would be so crass as to bring Lovegood to our ball!” Potter, at least, had left his mudblood girlfriend at home. That would have been a scandalous affront - Granger, at the Greengrass Yule Ball! Lovegood was at least a pureblood, although of the lowest social standing. Not that the Weasleys were much more respectable, but at least their Head had achieved some influence in the Ministry.

Her best friend shrugged. “Potter and Weasley are the only Aurors who’ve had any success in fighting Crouch and the Lestranges.”

Daphne glanced at her. Tracey had been rather quiet during the ball; a pale shadow of her usual witty self. A year ago, at the last ball, Tracey would have made a comment about Weasley’s lack of breeding. But that had been before those despicable thieves had robbed Davis Manor and ruined her life, just as they had ruined Millicent’s.

To see an Old Family reduced to such poverty was abhorrent. To see two fall into ruin, without the criminals responsible for the atrocity even being caught, was inconceivable. Daphne’s best friend, forced to live like a member of a common family - even some cadet branches of other Old Families were now richer than the Davises! And some of those low-brow leeches who had been only too glad to take advantage of the Davises’ vault were even trying to profit from her friend’s misfortune by making vastly exaggerated claims!

Daphne drew a deep breath. She couldn’t let her temper take control of her. A pureblood witch of good breeding didn’t allow that to happen. If Tracey was able to bear her tragic fate with dignity, then the least Daphne could do was not make a scene and remind her friend of it during the ball. She would stand by her even as others abandoned her friend.

Like the Malfoys. Once more, Daphne had to struggle to control herself. She loathed that family. If only she hadn’t been involved in that plot to get the swotty mudblood expelled! But at the time, it had seemed like a good idea - and her parents had agreed. Couldn’t let a mudblood show up proper wizards and witches, after all. But then Malfoy had turned out to be a spy for Dumbledore, and Daphne’s family, together with Tracey’s, had ended up indebted to him when he used his influence to clear them of any suspicion of supporting the Death Eaters - even though the Greengrasses hadn’t actually done anything for the Dark Lord.

She gritted her teeth - she couldn’t help it. The Old Families were supposed to be equal, ruling Britain according to their traditions. They weren’t supposed to be beholden to anyone, least of all the Malfoys.

“Speak of the devil...” Daphne whispered as she saw Draco and Pansy making their way towards her. She saw Tracey tense up and reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand.

“Daphne! What a wonderful ball!” Draco’s smile was as wide as it was fake. “Of course, all your family’s past Yule Balls have been memorable events.”

“Indeed.” Pansy didn’t even bother hiding her snide expression. “After all the unpleasantness of the last few months, it’s very soothing to see that some things remain the same,” she said with a glance at Tracey.

Daphne squeezed her friend’s hand again in response to Pansy’s thinly-veiled barb. “Thank you,” she replied, inclining her head.

“I must thank you.” Pansy nodded. “After all those Wizengamot sessions I had to attend with my father, it feels good to relax among friends.”

“Oh, yes!” Draco sighed. “I’m doing all I can to support my father in his struggle to prevent Black from ruining our country. It’s the least an heir to an Old Family can do, wouldn’t you agree?”

“All you can do - as long as you can avoid Potter, right?” Tracey said, with a hint of her old viciousness. Daphne was glad to see that she wasn’t just accepting Draco and Pansy reminding her that, with her family ruined, she wouldn’t be able to succeed her father in the Wizengamot.

Draco narrowed his eyes and sneered at her. “I don’t bother to mingle with my inferiors.” He lifted his chin and offered his arm to Pansy. “Let’s go dancing.”

Daphne nodded at him as he left - it wouldn’t do to be impolite - before glancing at her friend. Tracey was tense, breathing through clenched teeth. That was a very bad sign. Daphne sniffed. “I wonder if he’s dumb enough to believe that Potter’s inferior to him.”

Draco hadn’t been talking about Potter, not exclusively, of course, but Tracey slowly smiled. “I can’t tell. He’s certainly stupid enough to believe his own lies, but he’s also too much of a coward to actually cross Potter. Or Weasley.”

“Crossing Weasley means crossing Potter. They’re best friends,” Daphne said. She smiled at her own best friend, letting her know without words that she’d do the same for her.

“Thank you,” Tracey whispered, and, once more, Daphne had to fight to keep her composure.

*****​

Scaling the walls of Greengrass Manor had been easy. There was a lot of ivy to provide foot- and handholds - it was poison ivy, as well as a nasty magical variant of it, but nothing that would get through Hermione Granger’s enchanted catsuit. The windows weren’t a challenge either - the alarm charms and locking spells were slightly outdated, but not old enough for the power that came with age to compensate for the lack of complexity. It only took her a few minutes to disable them and then thirty seconds to open the window with her tools.

Which didn’t mean she could take it easy, of course - she only had a limited window of opportunity to pull off the entire heist; even Smith’s friends would grow suspicious if he stayed out in the garden too long. But neither could she afford to be hasty.

Balanced on the windowsill of what seemed to be a sitting room - rarely used, she thought, since there were no newspapers or books around - she took a look at the floor with her detection spell active. She couldn’t spot any spells on it. She still held her breath when she stepped down on to it, ready to jump back, out of the window, at the slightest threat.

Nothing. She quickly made her way to the door. There was an alarm charm on it, but nothing else. Probably a way to let the house-elves know that they could go and clean up after whoever had used the room. She disabled it - temporarily - and quickly cast a Supersensory Charm to listen at the door. No footsteps. No talking. Just the faint sound of the ballroom’s music from the other side of the manor. Perfect.

She opened the door slightly and peered out, then slipped out into the hallway. According to the notes she had copied from Greengrass’s shop, the vault was in the basement. And the entrance to that part of the basement, located behind a massive door in a hallway on the ground floor, was heavily guarded - she had passed the three guards standing in front of the door when Smith had led her from the entrance hall to the ballroom. With the number of people passing through the hallway during the ball, it would be nigh-impossible to knock those guards out and deal with the spells protecting the door without anyone noticing either her or the missing guards.

Fortunately, Hermione had an alternative. She didn’t head towards any of the stairs leading down to the ground floor, but away from them - to the large room with the wide balcony on the southern side. As expected, that door was no challenge either. From what she had found out, the Greengrasses used this as a living room, which meant they wouldn’t put up with complicated spells that made entering and leaving a hassle.

Once more she opened the door just wide enough to peer inside. Clear. Smiling, she slid inside and closed the door again. This room looked and felt used. Newspapers covered the side table, a book - on Quidditch - was left on the main table, and there were records stacked slightly haphazardly next to the gramophone. Heavy drapes covered the windows and the glass door to the balcony - it wouldn’t do to let the Auror guards outside peer into the living room of an Old Family, even if that made a thief’s work easier.

Smirking, Hermione quickly cast another Supersensory Charm, then started to rap her knuckles against the walls. The wall to the east had a large hollow space inside - the tunnels the house-elves used to come and go without being seen. And since they’d be serving meals to the Greengrasses here…

Hermione changed, then sniffed the ground until she found the spot that smelled most of food and elves. There weren’t that many ways to hide a secret door, and she knew most of them. Opening it from this side was a little trickier than expected - apparently, the Greengrasses expected their house-elves to leave the doors open while doing their work in the room, unlike the Blacks - but nothing a trained thief couldn’t handle.

A few minutes later, she was padding on all fours through the narrow tunnels. All of the elves would be busy serving the guests in the ballroom, so none of them would be in this part of the manor. She’d have to be careful when taking the hidden stairs down to the cellar, though - the way some of the guests were drinking, the elves might have to fetch new bottles often tonight.

But she was a graceful cat, a master of stealth. No two-legged rat would notice her! She still took the southern stairs, not those closer to the kitchen, of course - a smart cat didn’t take too many risks.

The cellar smelled like wine and dust. She wrinkled her nose while she peered around. At least the floor was clean - her paws wouldn’t leave tracks. Nor would her feet.

She crouched and thrust her wand arm and head inside the door here, casting a quick alarm charm on the stairs inside the wall. It wouldn’t do to get surprised by a house-elf fetching more wine. Then she closed the secret door and approached the wall on the other side, behind the shelves holding wine bottles. The wall between the wine cellar and the stairs leading down into the vault - which were behind the door guarded by the three wizards upstairs.

Hermione squeezed behind the big - and empty - wine barrel in the corner and ran her gloved hands over the wall. Massive granite stones - using her enchanted chisel to burrow through would take too long; even if the elves fetching more wine didn’t spot her, someone would notice Smith’s absence. The mortar holding the stones together, on the other hand, wouldn’t be a problem…

A quick Silencing Charm later, her enchanted tool was digging away, pulverised mortar falling into the enchanted pocket she had stuck to the wall below it. She refrained from tapping her foot as she waited. Minutes passed. Her alarm charm didn’t go off - no elf was coming down. As soon as the chisel had opened a gap above the stone, she pulled out a small periscope and stuck it through. No one was on the other side. No one visible, at least. But even with a Supersensory Charm, she didn’t hear anyone breathing either. Nor could she see any floating markers. And she would bet that Greengrass trusted his spells and the work of the Curse-Breaker he had hired more than his guards - especially after the Bulstrode heist.

Nodding, Hermione set the chisel to completely freeing the stone, keeping an eye on the spiral staircase on the other side. Even when the stone was completely loosened and dropped half an inch, she saw nothing move on the stairs. No ambush, then.

If she removed the stone and changed, she would be able to easily slip through the hole it left… She shook her head. Patience. The stairs behind the wall would be guarded with spells - spells she couldn’t deal with as a cat. She set the chisel to freeing another stone. Halfway through that, a pinging sound in her ear alerted her - someone was coming down the hidden stairs; an elf. Clenching her teeth, she pressed her back against the barrel and lifted her feet up so she was completely hidden. At least the elf wouldn’t be able to detect her with magic.

“Dom Pérignon, Dom Pérignon… where do we have Dom Pérignon? So much French wine… Eckehard, Master Eckehard, he drank good, British port wine, yes, he did. None of this French bubbly stuff, not for him, no! Only good, British wine!”

Hermione clenched her teeth and raised her wand as she heard the prattling creature come closer. She could stun and obliviate the creature if necessary. The risk was acceptable - she doubted that even if the elf suspected something afterwards, they’d dare to bother their employers in the middle of the ball.

“In the barrel? No, no… there! Found the bubbly stuff!”

Hermione closed her eyes, sighing with relief as she heard bottles clink together and the mumbling grow dimmer as the elf walked away. A minute later, her alarm charm went off again - the elf had left. And her chisel had finished. She licked her lips as she lowered herself to the ground. After stretching a little, she flicked her wand, shrinking the two loose stones and creating a hole large enough for her to crawl through - even with her padded chest - if she angled her shoulders.

It was a tight fit, and the edges of the remaining stones dug into her chest and back, but she could squeeze through. Far enough, at least, to have her head and arms inside the stairwell on the other side. Enough to check the stairs for traps and spells.

Of which there were a lot, as she immediately noticed upon activating her mask’s enchantments. It seemed as if each step was covered in several spells. Not difficult spells, but simple alarm charms. It wasn’t a Curse-Breaker’s work, but an amateur’s - the spells reacted to someone setting foot on the steps, not to their mere presence, and they were quite inefficiently arranged and barely layered.

But there were so many that dispelling all of them would take far too much time to complete the heist. They were keyed to an object - probably a ring or necklace. If it were just one spell covering the entire stairs, she would be able to fool it into thinking she had the object, but doing that for every step…

She gritted her teeth. For such a crude method, it was vexingly effective. Any Curse-Breaker would be stymied by the arrangement. But Hermione wasn’t just a Curse-Breaker - she was a professional thief! And she was prepared for such an obstacle.

She checked the walls - Anti-Sticking Charm Jinxes. Clever - but still not clever enough. As her successful break-in had proven, the walls weren’t protected against chisels. Or against climbing hooks.

She quickly - and silently - hammered four hooks into the wall nearby, then used them to anchor herself securely so she could put the shrunken stones back and cover the hole - it wouldn’t do for that stupid mumbling elf to get lost and stumble upon the hole by chance.

Thus secured, she pulled out another hook and a thin rope. The spiral staircase wasn’t very wide, which meant she had to work with some tight angles. Which meant more hooks, but shorter distances. And made it easier to aim.

Not that she needed to aim particularly well - not when she could cast a Banishing Charm strong enough to drive the hook almost all the way through the granite.

A moment later, she had secured the rope and was sliding down towards the next hook on the wall with a smile on her masked face - to think that the very strength of the walls protecting the vault made it easier for her to bypass Greengrass’s defences!

It took six hooks to reach the bottom of the stairs, and four more to anchor herself above the vault door. She was more or less on schedule still - but she had yet to face the biggest obstacle: the wards on the vault itself.

She took a deep breath and started to analyse the spellwork, silently whistling at the sight. Old, powerful and nowadays illegal spells had been layered upon thick stone - and then improved upon during the centuries that had passed since. If Hermione had to analyse the complex interleaved protections that were the result, she’d be still here in the morning.

But thanks to the ward scheme she had stolen from Martin Greengrass’s shop, she didn’t need to do that - she could start on cracking the defences right away. And, even better, the Curse-Breaker had had to alter the layout, changing and even removing some of the more exotic spells, to fit his own work in.

Which pretty much gave her the blueprint to disabling the whole mess. Grinning, Hermione swung down from her spot above the door and started dismantling the vault’s protections.

*****​

“Those thieves wouldn’t still be a problem if the Aurors weren’t too afraid to use dark curses!” Anatole Rosier waved his - fortunately empty - glass around as if it were his wand. “They didn’t shirk from doing what was needed back in the war!”

Harry Potter took a sip from his own glass - more to gain a moment to control his temper than because he was thirsty - after half a dozen glasses of pumpkin juice, the temptation to get something alcoholic was becoming quite strong. “Using dark curses is illegal,” he told the drunk wizard.

Rosier scoffed. “That’s no excuse! No one in the Wizengamot would convict anyone who killed those thieves preying on us!”

“Some of us care about the law,” Harry spat through clenched teeth.

“Hah! You didn’t kill the Dark Lord with a Stunner, did you? Of course you didn’t!” Rosier’s scoff turned into a cough.

“Voldemort wasn’t a mere thief, but a mass murderer trying to conquer Wizarding Britain,” Harry pointed out. “And the legalities were covered by Dumbledore as Chief Warlock.”

“Those criminals aren’t mere thieves - they are enemies of the country! On a par with the Dark Lord!”

“They haven’t killed anyone.” They hadn’t even hurt anyone worse than what regularly happened at Hogwarts when tempers ran a little too high in a duelling class.

Rosier shook his head wildly. “They’ve destroyed two Old Families! They have to be stopped - at all costs! If you do not understand that, then you should let someone who does take over!”

Harry snorted. “I’m not hunting the thieves. I’m on the Death Eater case.”

“What?” Rosier blinked, then tried to drink from his glass before realising that it was empty.

“I was only involved in the recent chase because they tried to break into my home.” He bared his teeth at Rosier. “And I can guarantee you that neither I nor my godfather and my friend held back. We do not suffer fools who attack us lightly.”

“They all escaped, didn’t they?” Rosier looked around, then summoned an elf. “More wine!”

“Yes, sir! At once!” The little creature hurried off.

“They were lucky. Dark curses wouldn’t have changed that.” Apart from the Unforgivables. If Harry had used one of those curses… He buried the thought. “Besides, we drove the thieves off. As did the Longbottoms. Unlike others.”

Rosier huffed. “If you’d killed them we’d all be better off.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m not about to break the law to capture them.”

“Then it’s time that the law gets changed! I’ll propose it in the next session!” Rosier grinned. “Then we’ll see how the thieves fare.”

Harry gritted his teeth, then forced himself to smile. “That’s very brave of you.”

“What?” Once more, the other wizard looked confused.

“Who do you think the thieves will go after once they hear that you’ve proposed such a change?” Harry inclined his head and left Rosier standing there, gaping. As soon as he turned away, his smile vanished.

The bloody fool!

Harry went past the dance floor and stepped out on to the terrace, where he moved to the shadows and leaned against the wall. A drink would be very nice right now - it would certainly help his mood. There was only so much arrogance and ignorance he could take, and Greengrass’s guests had both in spades. Rosier was one of the worst, but not an exception. Not by a long chalk.

He took a deep breath. The cooler air outside was helping him to calm down. Not that it was actually cold, not with all the Warming Charms layered on the manor’s gardens. He frowned as he looked at the maze-like garden in front of him. Despite his, well, warning, Miss Levesque and Smith had taken a stroll in the garden. And hadn’t returned for, by now, quite a while. Harry knew what that meant - he had done the same with Ginny.

But Smith wasn’t him, and Miss Levesque wasn’t Ginny. Perhaps he should check on them - he doubted that the hedges forming the maze were protected against his glasses… He snorted as he discarded the idea. He had no real reason to suspect that anything illegal was happening in the garden. Smith was a git, but that wasn’t illegal. Otherwise, Draco Malfoy would have been in Azkaban for life.

He chuckled at the thought, then tensed when he noticed someone walking towards him. Two people - they probably hadn’t noticed him yet. Greengrass and Davis, he realised, gritting his teeth.

“...and did you see Pansy? Merlin’s staff, she was so rude to Smith’s date, I should… Ah, hello, Mr… Potter.” Greengrass recognised him and froze for a second, followed, a moment later, by Davis.

Harry nodded at them. “Miss Greengrass. Miss Davis.”

He could see Greengrass swallow - she must have remembered what he had said when she tried to flirt with him at Hogwarts - before she politely smiled. “I hope you’re enjoying the ball.”

“I’m here under orders,” Harry replied. Which she was aware of, of course.

“That’s not an answer,” Davis spoke up, taking a half-step forward to stand next to her friend.

“I’d rather not be here, but I’ll do my duty,” Harry said.

Greengrass was clenching her teeth - he could see her muscles twitch - and remained silent, but Davis scoffed. “Like you did your duty in my home?”

“Like I did when I caught Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry retorted. “You might be more concerned about your gold than your lives, but most people don’t share that view.” He nodded at them, not giving them a chance to reply. “If you’ll excuse me - I have to return to my post in the ballroom.”

He managed to refrain from sneering as he made his way back to the buffet but didn’t bother smiling. He should have, though, he realised when he saw Bathilda coming towards him.

“You look stressed,” she said as soon as she reached him.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “I’m just fed up with all the complaints from the Old Families about how we’re doing our job.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I’ve been lucky so far - people aren’t blaming me. But John’s under a great deal of pressure.”

That would explain why Harry hadn’t seen Dawlish inside the manor - the Auror was avoiding the guests. “I thought Bones agreed with his opinion that we did all we could?”

“She did, but not everyone agrees with her.” Bathilda sighed. “He’s been acting a little weird even towards me.”

“Weird? How so?”

She shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it - he’s just more distant, you know? Sending me home while he keeps working late.” She frowned. “I don’t need special treatment; we’re supposed to be partners.”

“At least you won’t get dragged down with him, should Fudge need a scapegoat,” Harry said, trying to console her.

Judging by the glare she sent him, it hadn’t worked.

*****​

Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998

Another flick of her wand, a twist and the last protection spell flickered in her enhanced view, then faded. Hermione Granger felt like wiping sweat from her brow despite the fact that the enchantments on her mask took care of that. Even with the stolen schemes and her preparations, disabling the vault’s protections had been more difficult and more time-consuming than expected. She checked her watch - people might be wondering what was taking Smith so long. But she doubted that anyone would go looking for him. Not yet. They’d probably just make jokes about French witches.

But she couldn’t waste any more time. She adjusted the ropes holding her in the air and bent down for a last check of the floor. No spells there that would react to the vault door opening. Good.

She straightened and twisted until she was no longer facing the vault upside down. It was a solid, massive door - but the muggle lock was positively antique. Without the spells to protect it, it posed no challenge to her. She could even pick it without magic - but that would take too much time. Time she didn’t have.

Baring her teeth in anticipation, she swished her wand, then pointed it at the lock. A moment later, the wheel started spinning, and she could hear the tumblers slide back, followed by the faint hiss of air escaping as the door unlocked.

She reached out, grabbing the wheel on the door, then swung forward and twisted her body so her feet touched the wall next to the door. So anchored, she pulled the door open, then let go and used the momentum to swing inside. Detaching her harness from the ropes, she landed in crouch inside the vault.

And as she straightened, she smiled broadly at the sight of over two dozen trunks and chests. Perfect! Most of them were protected by spells - but these were ordinary, common charms Hermione could have dealt with in her sleep; barely more difficult than one of her first training assignments.

Two spells later, the first trunk’s lid flew open, revealing the gold and jewellery stashed inside. Perfect. She shrank the trunk and sent it flying towards her open, enchanted pocket with a silent Summoning Charm. As soon as it had disappeared into her pocket, she checked her watch again. Twenty-nine seconds. Roughly half a minute per trunk or chest.

She got to work.

A quarter hour later, the last chest vanished into her pocket and Hermione walked back to the vault’s entrance. She was running behind schedule, though she should still be safe enough. But she wouldn’t have time to loot more of the manor.

Clenching her teeth, she put one foot on the wheel of the door and pushed herself up high enough to grab the ropes hanging down from the ceiling. She really wanted to plunder the manor’s library. And the bedrooms.

After fastening the ropes to her harness, she pulled herself on top of the door, then started to climb back up the stairs, hanging from the lines she had installed on the way down. She was certain that she had the vast majority of the Greengrasses’s wealth in her pocket now - but they were bound to have some books she hadn’t read yet. And she didn’t want to merely ruin their social standing - she wanted to humiliate them as she had humiliated the Bulstrodes and the Davises. If only she had more time…

At each hook she reached, she vanished the ropes she didn’t need any more and the hooks left behind, followed by a quick Mending Charm cast on the wall. As she had been taught, she’d leave no traces. Let the Aurors wonder how she had managed to get into the vault!

She reached her entrance point after ten minutes. Two minutes later, she was inside the wine cellar again, the wall behind her repaired. She looked around for a moment. So many expensive wine bottles. French, mostly - and muggle. She snorted. Bloody hypocrites!

Disillusioned again, she stepped over to the secret door for the house-elves, then hesitated. She could steal the wine collection. Or vanish it - it wouldn’t take her much time. But it would be discovered as soon as the next house-elf entered the cellar. And, as her alarm charm had informed her while she broke into the vault, one of them did so roughly every ten minutes.

Hermione bit her lower lip. It would be great if Greengrass were informed of her heist in the middle of the ball by a house-elf. The humiliation that would cause…

No. She shook her head. As tempting as it was, it was too dangerous. Not worth the added risk. The news that the manor had been robbed in the middle of the ball would spread soon enough and humiliate the Greengrasses. It would have to be enough.

She told herself that, repeatedly, as she listened for any house-elves nearby, then changed and rushed up the stairs.

*****​

“I’m going to… patrol the manor,” Harry Potter told Bathilda when he spotted another drunk Wizengamot member headed his way: Nott’s father.

Bathilda snorted. “You owe me for this.”

“Nott’s your friend,” Harry replied, already turning away.

“Theo’s not his father.”

Harry almost turned back to tell her that the only difference was twenty years or so, but the elder Nott was already too close. Pressing his lips together in a frown, he nodded in passing at Abbot and her date - an older Hufflepuff Harry didn’t know - and stepped out of the ballroom through a side door.

There was a guard in the hallway - not an Auror, one of Greengrass’s - moving towards him. Probably to ask if he had gotten lost. Harry narrowed his eyes at her, flashing his badge in case she didn’t recognise him, and the witch backed off. He was an Auror, even though he wasn’t wearing his robes. And he’d rather work than mingle with bigots and drunken idiots. And, despite Bathilda’s opinion, a patrol through the deserted hallways of the manor was work.

Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

Snorting at his own reasoning, he walked past the guard, towards the back of the house. There were too many guards in the entrance hall, where they had installed the Thief’s Downfall the Ministry had so generously and unsurprisingly provided for the event, to bother checking on them. But the stairs leading up to the first floor…

He turned and climbed them, studying the decor as he went. The Greengrasses had kept to a theme, as far as he could tell - green and gold. At least not Slytherin green and silver. Still, it looked a little gaudy to him. Or perhaps he was just biased.

He reached the top of the stairs and looked around. The left hallway led to the guest quarters - Greengrass had shown them the rooms, ‘just in case’. As if an Auror would sleep on the job. Or fool around with someone.

The right led back to the front, and…

Steps to the left. He turned around, wand sliding into his right hand, as he took a step back, using the corner as cover.

The walls were protected against the enchantment on his glasses so he couldn’t see through them, but he had no trouble seeing through the darkness covering that part of the hallway. His eyes widened - Miss Levesque. What was she doing here? Hadn’t she been with Smith in the garden?

The witch seemed surprised when she noticed him, but only cocked her head as she approached. “Mr Potter?”

“Mademoiselle Levesque.”

“Are you looking for the toilettes?” She turned and pointed behind her. “The guest bathroom is the second door on the right.” She turned back and smiled. “I know we’re supposed to use the ones on the ground floor, but there were a number of witches there...” She shrugged, which did interesting things to her cleavage, Harry noticed. “I wanted to be alone for a while,” she finished with a sigh.

“Ah.” Harry could imagine several reasons for not wanting to share a bathroom with other witches after heading to the garden with Smith. None of them were good. “Is everything alright?” he asked. He wanted to ask another question, but this wasn’t an interrogation.

She started to nod, then stopped and took a deep breath. “Michael wanted to show me the gardens. I ’ad drunk a little too much - but not as much as ’e thought I ’ad.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “What happened?”

“’E got… pushy. Impolite. ’E ’ad drunk too much, I think. I slapped ’im and left to… collect myself.” She ran a hand over her robes. “I didn’t want to be seen like that.”

Harry slowly nodded. That didn’t sound like she wanted Smith arrested - but he couldn’t tell if that was because nothing too serious had happened, or because she was aware that nothing would come of it. Not when the heir of a Wizengamot member was accused by a French witch. They also had been in the gardens for a rather long time.

“’As he returned to the ballroom already?” she asked.

“I haven’t seen him,” Harry said. He didn’t think he’d have missed him - but then, he hadn’t noticed Miss Levesque returning, had he?

“Good.” She nodded, a little jerkily. “I think I will retire now.” She held out her arm. “Will you escort me to the fireplace? Or…” She lowered her arm, looking both shy and vulnerable. “I’m not keeping you from a rendezvous, am I?”

Harry chuckled, gently. “I’m only here because I was ordered to as an Auror.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Am I keeping you from your work, then?” Once more she cocked her head.

He shook his head and offered her his arm. “No, no. Aurors are supposed to help foreign visitors.”

She laughed for the first time he could recall, though it felt more than a little forced. She also seemed less relaxed than when they had danced together - and that had been when he had warned her about Malfoy. To see such a beautiful, charming witch in that state, barely holding herself together...Perhaps he should look for Smith. Do a patrol through the gardens. Have a word with the git in private.

Another thought crossed his mind. “Did you hex Smith?”

She looked at him, then shook her head. “I would never raise my wand against the scion of an Old Family.” Before he could push, she added with a sly grin: “But I might have cast a Sticking Charm on the bench. On which he had cast a privacy charm so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

That would explain Smith’s absence. Harry grinned as they arrived at the entrance hall. “I’ll check if he managed to undo the charms.”

She nodded. “Good evening, Mr Potter.”

“Good evening, Miss Levesque.”

After taking another deep breath, she turned and walked away. He watched her step through the Thief’s Downfall - just in case she wasn’t Miss Levesque, or under a spell - but nothing happened. She grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and threw it into the fire, then turned back to him. To his surprise, she waved at him with a wide grin for a moment before stepping into the green flames and vanishing.

Harry blinked. That hadn’t been the smile of a witch who had just managed to keep her composure after having to deal with a grabby date. That had been a cocky, triumphant smile. The smile of a… He took a step towards the fireplace, then stopped. She was gone already. But…

He whirled around and rushed towards the gardens, already dreading what he would find there.

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, December 28th, 1998

As soon as she stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione Granger turned around and threw another pinch of Floo powder into the fire. “Hog’s Head Inn,” she whispered, then walked back into the flames before the bartender had finished greeting her.

The Hog’s Head Inn looked worse than the Leaky Cauldron - old, worn tables, mismatched chairs and benches and a bar that looked as if it had been used as a battering ram at one point, but the bartender was far more attentive - he nodded at her at once.

“Don’t see too many witches like you here, lass.”

Hermione nodded and smiled. “I’m just passing through - I wanted to lose a pushy suitor.” She pulled out a Galleon and banished it to the old wizard. “If a young man asks after me, please tell him that I went back to the continent.”

He chuckled as he pocketed the coin and neither he nor any of the few guests still present at that hour of the night said anything else as she walked to the door. Outside, she took a deep breath of the cold air. That had been exhilarating. She had robbed the Greengrasses during their ball. She had fooled everyone - even Harry! And she had gotten away with it!

She apparated to London.

*****​

Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

Harry Potter ignored the complaint from a drunk guest stumbling out of his way - probably the sister of a Wizengamot member, she was about the right age and Harry didn’t recognise her - as he took the stairs leading from the terrace to the gardens in a few jumps. The witch shouldn’t have been blocking his way up there after he had taken care to avoid the ballroom.

At the foot of the stairs, he stopped and touched his glasses. The walls of the manor were protected, but were the hedgerows in the gardens? He muttered a curse when he realised that they were indeed protected against the enchantments on his glasses.

That would make finding Smith take much longer. Harry would have to personally search the maze-like gardens - and he’d likely stumble on several couples enjoying their privacy there. Even though he was justified - he had sufficient grounds to suspect that a crime had been committed - such encounters wouldn’t be pleasant.

Moody wouldn’t care, of course. But Harry wasn’t Moody. On the other hand, he had to do something.

Fortunately, he could get help. The host was, after all, responsible for the safety of their guests.

Harry grinned as he turned to walk back to the terrace and the ballroom. Let Greengrass draw the ire of annoyed couples.

A minute later, he was making his way towards Greengrass through the throngs of drinking and chatting people. The wizard was talking to a few of his fellow Wizengamot members - Harry recognised Fawley and Shacklebolt when he reached the group. Since they were members of the Wizengamot and Heads of their families, Harry was supposed to wait until they deigned to acknowledge him - you didn’t interrupt the Head of an Old Family. Not in Harry’s position.

Harry didn’t care about that, though. “Mr Greengrass?” he said, interrupting Fawley and ignoring the men’s angry expressions. “I need to talk to you about a sensitive matter that has come up.”

Greengrass frowned, and, for a moment, it looked like he’d blow up at him. But then the man slowly nodded and addressed his peers. “Please excuse me. It seems the Aurors guarding us are in need of advice.”

Harry ignored the men’s chuckling as he stepped away with Greengrass.

“What happened?” the older wizard snapped as soon as Harry had cast a privacy charm.

“I have reason to suspect that one of your guests, Michael Smith, has been attacked by his date,” Harry said. “I met her when she was leaving, and she mentioned that Smith had overstepped the bounds of propriety, or attempted to, and, in retaliation, she had left him silenced and stuck to a bench.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to search the gardens and disturb other guests who are currently enjoying the scenery.” He spread his hands. “Unfortunately, the hedgerows are too tall to find anyone sitting down with a Human-presence-revealing Spell from outside.”

Greengrass sighed. “Smith. Of course.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “There’s a spell on the garden that will point at humans inside.”

Harry smiled.

“My daughter can activate it.”

Harry stopped smiling.

*****​

Argelès-sur-Mer, Pyrenées Orientales, France, December 28th, 1998

Hermione Granger, wearing far more practical and far more subdued robes, and having had her face and skin tone restored to their natural appearance, appeared in front of the back door of the holiday home and quickly entered. She found Sirius and Jeanne waiting in the living room.

“Hermione! ’Ow did it go?” Jeanne asked as she jumped up from the couch and moved to embrace her.

“It went well, of course - she’s not frowning,” Sirius said before Hermione could answer.

She frowned at him for that, of course, then nodded as Jeanne pulled back. “I emptied their vault,” she said with a smile before sighing. “I couldn’t loot their library, though, nor their wine cellar or bedrooms. There wasn’t enough time.”

“Bah!” Sirius said, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Losing their vault will be enough to ruin them. Did you see Harry there?”

“I danced with him.” Hermione bit her lower lip. She shouldn’t have. But it had been too tempting.

Sirius laughed and slapped his thigh. “Oh, well done!” He probably thought that it was a great prank. Well, it was - but she couldn’t help feeling guilty as well.

Jeanne didn’t share his mirth, though. “That was dangerous.” Her tone made it clear that she meant ‘too dangerous’.

“My disguise was perfect,” Hermione retorted. “He didn’t suspect anything.” Until she had grinned at him before leaving. But that had been needed to ensure that the news of the heist broke during the ball, thus causing maximum humiliation for its host. She sighed and sat down. “I hope he won’t get into trouble for this.” To find out that he had danced with the thief he should have been stopping… she clenched her teeth. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t halt her revenge. Malfoy had to be ruined or Wizarding Britain would never have a fair and just government. The corruption was too ingrained.

Sirius scoffed again. “I won’t let that happen. How could Harry have even known that you were a thief?”

“Dawlish might blame him anyway if he needs a scapegoat,” Hermione pointed out. Although if Harry were forced to quit the Aurors, she could finally reveal her secret to him. But he’d hate her for getting him fired.

“Let him try!” Sirius bared his teeth. “He doesn’t have enough support in the Wizengamot for that. Not even Malfoy will back him - certainly not as long as Crouch is still at large. I can get Dawlish demoted, though, if he oversteps his bounds - but I’d rather keep him in charge, or they might replace him with someone who’s actually competent.”

Hermione nodded. Dawlish was a fool. “I’ve already dropped off the loot in a safe house, but I haven’t gone through it yet.”

“Good.” Jeanne nodded. “You checked it for traps, though?”

“Of course.” Hermione nodded emphatically. It wouldn’t do to fall for the same trick they had used to rob the Davises.

“Good!” Sirius leaned forward. “Now tell us everything!”

Hermione smiled and forced her guilt away. She had, after all, pulled off a perfect heist! “I arrived with Smith at eight…”

*****​

Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998

Greengrass had brought Davis with her to the gardens. Harry Potter should have expected that. It didn’t matter, anyway - this wasn’t an investigation. Not yet.

“Alright,” Greengrass announced. “Let’s help our dashing Aurors find a drunken wizard.”

Davis giggled - the witch probably had drunk a little as well - but Harry simply nodded. He wouldn’t get angry at the needling - not when he had his suspicions about what had actually happened in the gardens and the manor.

Greengrass tapped a stele at the entrance of the maze-like part of the gardens with her wand. A moment later, a glowing map appeared on it. She peered at it, then nodded. “There’s a single person in the eastern corner. They’re the only one who’s alone.”

“That has to be Smith then,” Harry said, nodding. He wondered if they had a similar enchantment in the manor - although from what he recalled from Sirius, the various spells there would likely interfere with such an enchantment - his godfather and Remus had good reason to be proud of the Marauder’s Map.

“Unless Smith freed himself and slunk off instead of returning to humiliate himself,” Davis added.

“He’s already humiliated,” Greengrass said. “His date leaving without him, in a huff? After he tried to seduce her?” She laughed. “Everyone will know that not even a French witch could stand him!”

“She’s from Québec, actually,” Harry pointed out.

Greengrass shrugged with a slight sneer. “There’s no difference.”

“My godfather’s wife would disagree,” Harry reminded them that Jeanne was French, “but let’s go and get Smith.”

Greengrass huffed but led them inside the maze.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the corner.

“The bench’s empty,” Davis stated the obvious. “Did he move while we were walking here?”

Harry ignored her and pointed his wand at the corner. “Accio Michael Smith’s clothes!”

A bound form shot out of the hedgerow and came to a stop in front of Harry’s feet.

“Bound, stunned and petrified…” Davis shook her head. “That’s harsher than what she told you.”

“And she hid him so he wouldn’t be found - then went inside the manor. Unseen.” Harry looked at the two witches.

A moment later, Davis gasped. Greengrass took a second longer before she paled. “No! Impossible!”

*****​

“Impossible!” the elder Greengrass snapped, not for the first time, as he stormed towards the heavily guarded entrance to the vault. “She can’t have broken into our vault!”

Harry Potter refrained from commenting. He took in the three guards instead, as they jumped to attention upon noticing their group approaching - though they hadn’t looked like they were sleeping on the job.

“Did anyone enter the vault today?” Greengrass asked. “Anyone, even myself?”

“No, sir,” the apparent leader of the guards answered. “No one entered.”

The older wizard nodded curtly, then looked at the door. “All the spells are still in place, too.” He took out a key. “I’ll check the vault.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Harry pointed out. “Davis was ambushed in his vault.”

That earned him a glare and a scoff. “If what you suspect is true, they have already left. And if not… I assure you that I can handle myself. The defences won’t allow anyone not of my family inside, anyway.” He opened the door, revealing a spiral staircase. “Untouched,” he remarked as he started to descend.

Harry frowned, then sighed and glanced back at where Greengrass and Davis were standing. They had their wands out and were obviously nervous. They also looked rather sober - no sign of their earlier mirth. And Greengrass’s mother had all but dragged the younger daughter, Astoria, away. Ah, well - that wasn’t his problem. He made a point of leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms and watching the stairs.

A few minutes later, Greengrass reappeared. His stony expression told Harry everything he needed to know. He still had to ask. “Empty?”

Greengrass glared at him, then turned his head away without answering. “Daphne, Tracey - you should retire.”

Harry saw Greengrass jerk as though she had been struck, a gasp turning into a shudder. “No.”

“Daphne. Please.”

The girl swallowed, then nodded stiffly. Harry saw Davis squeeze her hand as the two left, heading towards the stairs leading up to the family’s rooms.

“I’ll inform Auror Dawlish,” Harry said. After telling Ron to come and secure the entrance. “I assume the ball’s over?” They would have to evacuate the guests. Even if it was extremely unlikely that thieves who hadn’t seriously hurt anyone so far would work with Crouch, the manor’s security was compromised. They’d have to check the manor to see if anything else had been stolen - or if someone, thief or Crouch, had set any traps.

Once more his only answer was a glare.

*****​

“They emptied the vault? On our watch? Why aren’t you down there securing the scene of the crime?” Dawlish demanded as he and Harry Potter walked towards the entrance to the vault, past several guests who were leaving. And talking about the heist.

“I’ve left Ron at the entrance,” Harry pointed out. “Greengrass didn’t remove the spells, so we can’t risk going down there without permission - or a Curse-Breaker.” And the Greengrasses were busy checking whether anything else had been stolen. Without Aurors - despite the threat of Crouch.

Dawlish simply rolled his eyes at the suggestion of using a Curse-Breaker to break into the vault. “How could this happen? You saw the thief!”

He had even danced with her. And escorted her to the exit. Harry clenched his teeth. That witch had made a fool of him! He was grateful that he had cast a privacy charm before reporting to Dawlish. “I saw a suspect. We don’t yet know if she was involved.”

“You’ve met her twice before! Chased her! Don’t tell me you couldn’t recognise her!”

“Her body didn’t match the thief’s. Her hair didn’t match, either;” Harry replied. “And she passed through the Thief’s Downfall. Twice.”

“So there are two witches among the thieves then?” Dawlish snorted.

“Perhaps. Or she had a disguise that wasn’t affected by the goblin’s magic.” Harry looked around. The hallway was cordoned off - Ron had conjured several barriers. The guests had to take the longer route through the gardens to reach the fireplace.

“That’s impossible!” Dawlish shook his head emphatically. “Nothing can withstand the Thief’s Downfall. Not even Polyjuice Potion or the Imperius Curse!”

“Muggles have developed several disguise techniques,” Harry pointed out. He wasn’t sure just how good they were - Mission Impossible masks were fictional, or so Paul-the-Ex-Boyfriend had once mentioned in his usual, arrogant manner - but muggles could disguise themselves.

“Muggles?” Dawlish scoffed. “I want to watch your memories!”

“That’s Sirius’s decision,” Harry snapped.

“Tell him to let us watch your memories, then!” Dawlish stopped walking and glared at him. “Or do you have something to hide, Potter?”

What? “I’ve got nothing to hide,” Harry retorted. He hadn’t recognised the thief - but she hadn’t looked like the witch he had chased twice before. It wasn’t his fault!

“Then prove it!” Dawlish snapped. “I want to see what you did with my own eyes!” He turned away. “Weasley! Stop standing around and make yourself useful!”

Behind Dawlish, Harry shook his head. As if Ron could do anything right now, without Greengrass granting them access to the vault. Dawlish should save his anger and rage for the thieves, not his fellow Aurors.

Movement at the end of the hallway drew his attention. His wand rose before he recognised Luna. She was standing there, almost toppling the barrier, and waving her notepad above her head. “Auror Dawlish!” she yelled. “A word for the press! Is it true that you let the thieves rob another house under your personal protection?”

Harry wasn’t sure if he should be wincing or laughing when he saw Dawlish’s expression.

*****​

​

 

Chapter 55: Under Pressure

Kent, Greengrass Manor, Britain, December 28th, 1998

When he was informed of his visitor’s arrival, Balthasar Greengrass toyed with the thought of having his house-elf tell the wizard that he wasn’t home. He didn’t want to see anyone, least of all Lucius Malfoy. And not just because Malfoy still had a fortune worthy of an Old Family while Balthasar had been ruined.

But Malfoy wasn’t someone he could afford to slight. Hadn’t been for years - not since that cursed infantile plot in which Balthasar’s eldest daughter had become involved. So he rose from his seat. “I’ll meet him in the salon,” he said, without bothering to look at the creature, or listen to its response, as he strode out of his study.

A few minutes later, he forced himself to smile and nod when Malfoy entered the salon. “Lucius. Please have a seat. Tea?” It wasn’t quite the time for it, but the niceties had to be observed.

“Thank you, Balthasar.” Malfoy sat down on the armchair facing him as an elf scurried in and set down the tea service.

After tea had been served, Balthasar took a sip and leaned back in his seat. He might be ruined, but he still was the Head of an Old Family. Appearances mattered. “What brings you to my home today?”

Malfoy flashed his teeth in a far too sweet smile. “I wanted to offer you my support in this dark hour.”

Balthasar managed not to sneer or scoff at the obvious lie. He took another sip, then nodded. “Thank you.”

Malfoy sighed. “Who would have thought that these thieves would dare to break into your vault during your Yule Ball? While the Ministry’s finest Aurors were guarding your home?”

‘Finest Aurors’! Balthasar wanted to scoff. Useless idiots would be more precise! Potter had even escorted the thief out, instead of arresting her. He used his cup to hide his mouth and slowly nodded.

“Of course, most of the Aurors were outside, looking for intruders, while the thief entered in the guise of Smith’s paramour.” Malfoy shook his head. “I daresay that French witches won’t be welcome at many manors in the near future.”

“That won’t be much of a loss,” Balthasar said, sneering slightly. “Although I would like to see them try to keep Black’s wife out if they invite him.” He noticed how Malfoy frowned slightly - it was no secret that the wizard had hoped that Black would die without issue so Malfoy could contest whatever will had been made.

Malfoy quickly recovered and smiled at him. “Those who had had to marry French spouses might disagree with that assessment.”

Balthasar didn’t acknowledge the subtle barb. Even with their family ruined, his daughters wouldn’t be forced to seek foreign husbands. Blood still counted that much. “They don’t matter.”

“A bold statement, given your... circumstances.” Malfoy inclined his head.

“We will endure this.” They would. Balthasar wasn’t old - he had decades to rebuild the family fortune so Daphne would inherit his seat upon his death. They still had the manor and the outstanding loans to various kin. And he still had influence in the Ministry - that was worth something as well.

“I admire your spirit. Others would be desperate if they found themselves in your place.” Malfoy sighed again with fake sympathy and thinly veiled amusement.

Balthasar scoffed. “‘If’? Given the demonstrated skill of these thieves, I expect more such robberies.” He bared his teeth at Malfoy to drive the barb home.

The other wizard sniffed. “Some might certainly find that their wards aren’t as impressive as they thought. Others, however, have not cut corners when it comes to the safety of their homes.”

As if he had done that! Balthasar glared at his guest. “They might discover that all their wards and guards won’t be enough. Not even Potter managed to catch the thief.”

Malfoy shrugged in what was - or so it seemed to Balthasar - a rather French way. “The lad underestimated the thieves. Understandably, since they haven’t killed or seriously hurt anyone so far - unlike the Lestranges, whom he caught and killed. I expect that he will take the threat more seriously, and be more motivated to catch them using all available means, now that they’ve humiliated him like this.”

“They escaped him twice before,” Balthasar pointed out.

“It wasn’t his investigation, but Dawlish’s - and they cannot stand each other.”

Balthasar didn’t think Potter was the kind of wizard to deliberately undermine rivals in the manner in which Malfoy hinted, but it wasn’t his problem. Not any more - he had no vault left to protect. “That remains to be seen.”

“Indeed. For now, he’s hunting Barty Crouch anyway.” Malfoy smiled before taking a sip from his cup.

Balthasar shrugged. “Did you merely visit to tell me that Potter will catch the thief?”

“That would be poor form, wouldn’t it?” Malfoy shook his head in apparent disbelief. “No, I came to assure you that despite the unfortunate events that took place last night, you are still a valued member of the Wizengamot.”

Balthasar didn’t bother to hide his sneer now. “Were you afraid that you’d lose another vote? That I might try to make a deal with Black?”

“Of course not!” Malfoy’s smile grew wider. “We both know that you cannot afford another scandal, much less a trial. Not when the fact that your home was robbed while you held a ball will be the talk of our peers for the foreseeable future.”

Balthasar glared at him. “No one will believe that Daphne was the one behind the plot against the mudblood.”

“Won’t they?” Malfoy scoffed. “She started it, after all. But my son wasn’t among those who put forth further claims of stolen goods. I wasn’t among those who profited from the fines levied upon the girl’s family.” He shook his head. “If you went to Black, people would assume he bought your testimony and vote.” In a whisper, he added: “Just as you bought my testimony after the Dark Lord’s death.”

Balthasar clenched his teeth. “We made a deal.” He had paid enough for Malfoy to vouch for him, back when everyone was hunting for hidden Death Eaters, and when a few casual remarks Balthasar had made in the wrong sort of company might have been misconstrued as support for the Dark Lord.

“Indeed, we did. And I expect you to keep fulfilling it.” Malfoy put his cup down and stood. “You will support me when I prop up Potter against the expected complaints and suspicions.” He turned to go - another insult.

Balthasar barely managed to control himself. “Potter loathes you.”

Malfoy stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “He does. But he also takes his obligations seriously. And he has ambitions.”

Balthasar glared at Maloy’s back until the door closed behind his guest. “I hope I’ll see your face when it’s your turn to confront the ruin of your family!” he hissed.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 28th, 1998

Harry Potter took a deep breath as he grabbed a pinch of Floo powder. Today wouldn’t be enjoyable. The Aurors had been humiliated, and they would be looking for someone to blame. And he was the first choice.

“Chin up, Harry - we’ll survive it.”

“Yes, you will! If the Ministry killed everyone who made a mistake, they wouldn’t have any employees left - and certainly no Minister!”

Harry turned his head and smiled at Ron and Luna. “Thank you,” he said.

Luna beamed at him - as usual, Harry couldn’t tell whether she missed or just ignored his sarcasm. Ron grew serious, though. “Sirius won’t let them fire us - or demote us.”

Harry pressed his lips together. That wasn’t as comforting as Ron thought. He didn’t want to depend on Sirius’s influence like that. On the other hand, he didn’t want to serve as a scapegoat, either - it wasn’t as if anyone else had noticed the thief. Neither the guards nor the Aurors. So he sighed and nodded. “I’m still not looking forward to this.”

“Me neither.” Ron turned to Luna and kissed her. “I’ll see you this evening?”

The blonde nodded several times. “Yes! I won’t take long to write my article - I’ve laid it out in my head already,” she added, pointing at her temple, “so we can go eat at that muggle restaurant with the happy food again!”

“It’s ‘Happy Meals’,” Ron corrected her.

“That’s what I said - a meal is food, isn’t it?”

Seeing his friends joke around, Harry wished Hermione were already back from France. “Let’s go - we’re already late.”

Ron snorted. “We did overtime until past midnight yesterday - if they expect us to be back at work at eight, they better pay for our Pepper-Up Potions!” He did step away from Luna, though, and joined Harry at the fireplace. “But you’re right - they’ll think we’re afraid to face them. Let’s go!”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 28th, 1998

The two Hit-Wizards standing guard at the Thief’s Downfall in the Ministry’s Atrium were smirking as Harry Potter and Ron stepped out of the fireplace and approached them. “Keep your wands holstered,” the witch in charge said. “That is, if you didn’t get them stolen while you slept.”

The other Hit-Wizard chuckled. Harry clenched his teeth and ignored them as he stepped through the archway and felt the enchanted liquid run over him. That the grey robes would enjoy rubbing this in was to be expected. He slowly and carefully drew his wand and dried himself, then waited for Ron to copy his actions before continuing towards the lifts.

“They lose their entire force at Azkaban to a single Death Eater and think they can laugh at us for getting fooled by a thief?” Ron scoffed.

Harry suppressed a chuckle as the snickering behind them turned into growling. Hit-Wizards weren’t the brightest wands in the Ministry, and everyone knew it. “Do you want to start on our reports or go straight to Scrimgeour?” he asked as they entered the lift.

Ron snorted. “Let’s see if we can get the latest news from Bathilda before we get summoned.”

Harry nodded. It was Dawlish’s case, which meant they didn’t know what the Auror had heard from Smith, nor what other evidence had been found in their absence. “Let’s check if she’s alone, though.” He didn’t want to run into Dawlish first thing in the morning.

They didn’t run into Dawlish when they entered the Auror headquarters. They ran into Macmillan.

“Potter?” He acted surprised. “Fancy seeing you here, and so early - already back from France?”

“France?” Harry asked, too surprised to hold his tongue.

“Isn’t your godfather in France with his wife? You usually run to hide behind his robes whenever you make a blunder, don’t you?” Macmillan sneered. “Escorting a thief out - did you carry the loot for her as well, hm?”

A couple of older Aurors sitting at a nearby desk snickered at that. Harry clenched his teeth and ignored them. He couldn’t hex the git for that. “I wasn’t aware that they had identified the thief already.” Macmillan was remarkably well-informed about an event that had happened last night and was still under investigation.

“Of course you wouldn’t be aware of the thief!” Macmillan laughed.

Harry wanted to curse the man’s smile off his face but controlled himself. He felt Ron’s hand on his arm. “Let’s go,” his friend said.

Harry nodded and started towards Bathilda and Dawlish’s office.

“Best keep going until you’re gone!” Macmillan called after them.

“Bloody git!” Ron muttered as soon as they were out of earshot. “And the rest think this is funny, I bet.”

Harry nodded. “Nott will be impossible,” he said.

“Bathilda will keep him in line,” Ron said. “I hope.”

The witch in question didn’t look like she’d keep Nott in line when they entered her office - which was, fortunately, missing Dawlish - a minute later. “There you are! Where were you? I’ve been waiting for your reports!” she snapped at them, interrupting Harry’s greeting.

“What?” Ron stared at her, apparently as surprised as Harry at their friend’s temper. “We just arrived - we barely had five hours of sleep.” Searching, or rather, trying to make the Greengrass give them permission to search the manor, as well as checking if anything else had been stolen, had taken a long time.

Bathilda was frowning - and twitching slightly, Harry noticed. Her robes didn’t look rumpled, but… “How many Pepper-Up Potions did you take?” he asked.

“I’m on my second,” she replied. “Why?”

Harry managed not to wince in response.

Ron didn’t. “Blimey - you shouldn’t take more than one!”

She scoffed again. “Everyone - Scrimgeour, Bones, Fudge and the entire Wizengamot - wants to know what happened at the ball. John and I have been working through the night! And we need your report!” She glared at Harry. “You’re the only Auror who saw the thief up close!”

Harry had even danced with her. He forced himself to smile. “So you know that she’s the thief?”

Bathilda frowned. “She’s the main suspect. Smith was obliviated - he doesn’t remember anything after entering the gardens. Why would she do that if she had only defended her honour? John thinks that Smith discovered that she was a thief.”

“She might have wanted to keep him from embarrassing her if she went along with him before he went too far,” Harry said. He didn’t think that was the case, though - he had seen her smile, right before she disappeared in the fireplace.

“She arrived at the Leaky Cauldron and immediately left through the Floo Network again. We got the records from the Floo Network Authority - she travelled to the Hog’s Head Inn in Hogsmeade. And according to the inn’s owner, she was going back to the continent. We checked her room - she left her baggage there - but everything is either transfigured or charmed.”

“Copies,” Harry said. “She did a runner, then.”

“Yes.” Bathilda sighed. “We sent requests for information to Québec and France, but we haven’t received any answers yet.”

Harry doubted that they ever would. Québec was in ruins after their war with Maine, and France… rarely cooperated with Britain in such matters. Perhaps he should ask Jeanne to make some inquiries at the Court…

“I need your reports!” Bathilda repeated herself. “Please,” she added, sounding a little more like her usual self.

“We’ll get started on them right away,” Harry assured her. “But only if you promise not to take a third Pepper-Up Potion!”

That earned him a scowl and a glare, but he insisted.

*****​

Harry Potter hadn’t managed to write more than a rough draft of his report when he and Ron were summoned to Bones’s office. Bones, not Scrimgeour - the political pressure on the Corps must be growing rapidly.

“Guess we should be lucky we’re not meeting Fudge, huh?” Ron said as they approached the Head of the DMLE’s office.

Harry nodded, but he was already focusing on the upcoming conversation. If he didn’t want to rely on Sirius’s influence and protection, he’d have to marshal his thoughts and be ready to defend himself.

And he really didn’t want to depend on Sirius. He wanted to fight corruption and nepotism on his own terms.

After knocking on the door, they heard a sharp “Come in.”

Before the door closed, Bones snapped: “Aurors Potter and Weasley. Finally returned?”

“We were just told you wanted to meet us, Ma’am.” Harry nodded at her, then at Scrimgeour and Dawlish.

Dawlish huffed, scowling at them, but Scrimgeour merely nodded.

“The Wizengamot is in an uproar over this. This is the third time an Old Family’s manor was robbed - and under the very nose of the Auror Corps. The Minister was quite clear that this cannot stand.” Bones laced her fingers together and stared at Harry and Ron. “While you were the first to notice that there was something amiss, Auror Potter, you only did so after the suspect had already left the premises.”

“There was no reason to suspect anything before that point, Ma’am,” Harry replied.

Dawlish scoffed. “You danced with the thief! And you didn’t notice anything suspicious?”

“No, I did not.” Harry clenched his teeth before he could snap that no one else had noticed anything at all.

“Really?” The Auror shook his head. “You stumble upon her leaving the private area of the manor and don’t suspect anything?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Dawlish was obviously trying to turn him into a scapegoat. “Her explanation made sense.”

“I bet it did!” Dawlish scoffed again. “Did you help her carry the loot as well?”

“Auror Dawlish,” Bones cut in, and the man relented. The witch looked back at Harry. “That you not only danced with her but also escorted her to the fireplace doesn’t look very impressive. Especially considering the fact that you encountered her twice before.”

“And let her escape both times,” Dawlish muttered.

“I didn’t let her escape!” Harry snapped. “She got away because she is very agile, very skilled and very lucky.” He turned to meet Bones’s eyes. “Should I have arrested Michael Smith’s date for using a guest bathroom or getting lost in the manor? Or for leaving in a huff? He invited her. Both passed through the Thief’s Downfall, so there was no magical compulsion or disguise. I don’t think the Wizengamot would approve of Aurors investigating and arresting their scions’ partners.”

“A few of them might be in favour of such a policy,” Scrimgeour said, his lips twisting into a thin smile.

Harry snorted. Bones’s frown merely grew a little more pronounced.

Dawlish, though, all but growled: “After she admitted to you that she had assaulted a guest - her date - you had sufficient reason to arrest her.”

“She admitted to slapping him and leaving him stuck to a bench,” Harry said. “That wouldn’t even get a detention at Hogwarts. And if she were the daughter of a Wizengamot member, you wouldn’t have dared to mention that.”

“But she isn’t,” Bones cut in. “And the esteemed members of the Wizengamot are well aware of that fact.”

Harry scoffed. “The law’s supposed to treat everyone the same.”

“And Aurors aren’t supposed to get fooled by thieves,” Bones replied.

“There was nothing I could have done. I only realised something was off when she dropped her act right before she vanished,” Harry said.

“A likely story!” Dawlish snorted.

“It’s the truth,” Harry spat. “And I was the only one to notice anything - no one else did.”

“Because they were busy dancing with their girlfriends!” Dawlish retorted, glaring at Ron.

Ron glared back. “Our orders were to act as if we were guests, mingle with the real guests in the ballroom and be ready to protect them. We weren’t even supposed to patrol the manor. Harry did that of his own volition, and that’s the only reason we even discovered the theft before the ball ended!”

“You weren’t ordered to let thieves escape either!”

Dawlish really was trying to blame them for this, Harry realised. “Once again: There was nothing we could have done differently.”

“Prove it! Show us your memories - of the whole evening - in your Pensieve!” Dawlish took a step forward, and Harry almost expected him to draw his wand.

“Sirius hasn’t yet returned from France,” Harry pointed out. “And it’s his Pensieve.”

“I’m sure he’ll offer us its use as long as it will serve to protect you.” Dawlish’s voice was dripping with contempt. Harry wondered what kind of pressure Bones and Scrimgeour were putting on the Auror.

“We cannot force a member of the Wizengamot to let us use a family heirloom,” Scrimgeour pointed out.

“How convenient,” Dawlish muttered. “And I guess you also cannot control what your girlfriend is publishing in her father’s rag?” He glared at Ron.

“The Quibbler isn’t a rag!” Ron gritted his teeth. “And yes - she does her job, I do mine, both without interference.”

“You weren’t doing your job!” Dawlish exclaimed. “That’s the problem!”

“Enough!” Bones snapped. “Impress upon your godfather the importance of using the Pensieve; this is the first time we got a good look at the thief’s face - and we know she wasn’t disguised.”

“Not magically, at least,” Harry pointed out. “She might have been using muggle methods.”

“Which are inadequate,” Scrimgeour retorted. “I concur - we need to watch your memories.”

Harry nodded. “I can ask Sirius, but it’s his decision.” Although Harry didn’t think his godfather would refuse. These thieves had already tried to break into their home - they had to catch them!

“I think that even though Mr Black has considerable influence in the Wizengamot, not many of his peers would accept a refusal to provide crucial help to our investigation. I doubt that he would be able to keep protecting you under such circumstances.” Bones didn’t show any expression on her face as she met Harry’s eyes.

For a moment, he wanted to throw his badge at her. Show her that he wouldn’t let himself be held hostage so they could force Sirius to hand over the Pensieve. But he managed to control himself and nodded instead. Curtly. “I’m sure he is aware of that,” he managed to say.

Bloody politics!

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 28th, 1998

Hermione Granger flicked her wand and another trunk’s lid flew away, revealing its contents - rows of leather bags with Gringotts’ sigil burned into them. More money! She smiled as she levitated the bags out, then frowned as she started to cut them open - most were filled with Sickles or even Knuts, not Galleons.

“Don’t make such a face,” Mr Fletcher said from where he was checking a chest for poison, “It’s still a small fortune, and that’s only one trunk.”

She huffed. “I would hate to find out that they had hidden a substantial part of their fortune elsewhere.”

“If they did, they were richer than anyone knew,” Sirius said, dropping a bag of Galleons on the pile himself. “And I don’t think they hid their wealth. They were fond of grand gestures, after all - such as the Yule Ball.”

“Which was their undoing.” Hermione nodded. Brought down by their own pride and vanity - a fitting fate for the Greengrasses.

She finished sorting out the coins, then started on dividing the heaps into orderly stacks. She needed to know how much loot she had secured before she could give out the others’ cuts.

“I would ’ave expected some traps in those chests,” Jeanne said.

“There were spells on them,” Hermione said, directing the floating coins with her wand. “But they weren’t enough to stop me.” Or even bother her.

“Quantity may have a quality of its own,” Mr Fletcher cut in, “as the traps on the stairs proved, but barely any over two dozen trunks and chests? That’s not enough to make it count. If they had hired Martin Greengrass to do this, it might have been different, but they didn’t.”

“I would have had his notes in that case and been prepared,” Hermione said. “But I think we’ll have to expect more defences inside the vaults from now on, since we have proven, three times now, that we can get into vaults.”

“Yes,” Mr Fletcher said. With a grin, he added: “Of course, adding more defences and traps to a vault’s interior can also create opportunities to break in - as Greengrass demonstrated, unless you yourself are an expert, you can’t do it yourself.”

Hermione cocked her head at him. “You think they’ll hire more Curse-Breakers?”

“Probably - but seeing as you went through Greengrass’s wards, I think some of them will also look for alternatives.”

Alternatives? Hermione frowned, then her eyes widened. “Dragons, like Gringotts?”

Mr Fletcher chuckled. “Probably not dragons, but other guard beasts are a distinct possibility.”

Hermione nodded. “We’ll have to break into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, then.” And other departments.

*****​

An hour later, Hermione Granger finished vanishing the last empty trunk. All the loot from the Greengrass Vault had been sorted - technically, at least. She glanced at the pile to her left. The artwork would need an expert to appraise it - none of her friends knew enough about art. And since it was stolen loot, they had to be very careful, even when going to muggle experts who’d be obliviated afterwards. She wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t as if they needed to sell the art.

The magic artefacts would need further study - which would take more time than Hermione could currently spare. Even though she was very curious about some of the older items; a few had spells she had never seen on them.

But all the coins had been sorted and counted, and neatly stacked. “Time to divide the money!” she announced.

Mr Fletcher, as expected, held up his hand. “I didn’t do anything in this heist.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You helped with establishing the disguise, checked if the Smiths suspected anything, risked capture in the diversion and did all the legwork for the break-in at the Curse-Breaker’s that got us the schemes. You will take your cut and like it!” she added with a glare and a frown.

Sirius and Jeanne laughed as Mr Fletcher sighed. Hermione’s mentor wasn’t giving in that easily, though - he was worse than her mum and grandmother when they fought over who would be allowed to pay the grocery bill when shopping together during the holidays. “Look, I’ve already got more gold than I need,” he said. “More gold than I can spend - without raising suspicions,” he added when Sirius opened his mouth. “And I have no family to inherit anything. Giving gold to me is a waste.”

“Not giving your fair share wouldn’t be right,” Hermione retorted. He was still putting himself down! “And just because you don’t need more gold now doesn’t mean you won’t need it in the future.”

“You could always donate it to our ‘buy off the Wizengamot’ fund,” Sirius cut in. “Politics are expensive.”

Hermione glared at the dog. Their own cuts of the loot were more than enough to finance their takeover of the Wizengamot - once Malfoy was ruined, at least. They wouldn’t even have to spend Sirius’s family fortune. Not any more, at least.

“And with the way we’re ruining Old Families, there’ll be both a need and an opportunity to invest in businesses soon,” Jeanne added. “We can do a better job than the Old Families as well.”

“People would wonder where a drunkard like me got a fortune,” Mr Fletcher pointed out.

“We can arrange for cover stories,” Sirius said, shrugging. “Use some of the muggle ways, if needed. Or have you invest through us.” He grinned. “No one questions that the Blacks are the richest family in Britain!”

Mr Fletcher didn’t look convinced, so Hermione spoke up again. “If you don’t want the gold, I’ll put it aside in a trunk for you here.”

Her mentor chuckled. “I can’t win, can I?”

She grinned. “No, you can’t.”

“That’s settled then!” Sirius announced, chuckling. “Let’s go upstairs now and act as an honourable member of the Wizengamot. I bet my esteemed colleagues are frothing at the mouth and quivering in their dragonskin boots!”

Hermione cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing.”

“Huh?”

She took a deep breath. “I think we need to tell Harry the truth. And Ron.” Before anyone could respond, she went on: “He’ll be in trouble for this - they’ll look for someone to blame, and he is the most obvious choice.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t want to lie to him any more.” Not when he’d return from work angry and hurt this evening.

Sirius shook his head. “No. They won’t be able to turn him into a scapegoat. If they try, I’ll shut them down. But if we tell him what we’ve been doing, he’ll quit his job. I know him.”

“We’ve escaped from him three times already. That hurt his reputation,” Hermione retorted. “Which he needs for his plans. If you simply spend gold for him, he won’t be happy either.”

“His plan isn’t going to work as long as Malfoy and his cronies are in the Wizengamot.” Sirius shook his head. “All we need to do is finish your revenge, and then we can reform the Wizengamot, and Harry gets to clean up the Ministry.” He smiled broadly.

Hermione clenched her teeth. It wasn’t as simple as that. And what about her career? “So we leave him ignorant? His whole life?” She didn’t want to live a lie. It was already difficult enough not to tell him everything. But she couldn’t betray her friends either.

“He’s an Auror,” Mr Fletcher said. “They aren’t exactly on the side of thieves. Remember what I taught you - don’t tell anyone about your work!”

“He’s our friend first,” Hermione replied. “He wouldn’t arrest us.”

Her mentor didn’t look like he shared her conviction. But he didn’t know Harry.

She shook her head, but before she could tell Mr Fletcher that he was wrong, Sirius spoke up again: “If you feel that strongly about this, I’ll talk to Harry. I’ll sound him out - find out what he thinks about this.”

“This?” Jeanne asked.

Sirius made a sweeping gesture. “Well, the whole politics and Ministry thing. I’m not going to tell him about our heists.” Hermione saw Jeanne and Mr Fletcher relax at that. “I’ll just check whether he’s having second thoughts about his career.”

Hermione nodded. That sounded like a good idea. “But if we tell him, then I want to do it.”

She owed Harry that.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 28th, 1998

“Let’s go home,” Harry Potter said, already flicking his wand to store his paperwork for the night.

“Are you sure?” Ron glanced at the clock. “It’s barely five.”

Harry knew what he meant - they had arrived quite late - just before noon. Arriving late and leaving early didn’t help anyone’s career. But he was fed up. “Yes,” he said. “I want to talk to people who don’t care more for their career than about justice.”

“Bathilda’s still waiting for our reports,” Ron pointed out.

That was true. Harry hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll tell her that we have to head home to talk to Sirius - just like Dawlish wanted.”

Ron chuckled at that and stood, sending his report flying into his drawer with a flick of his wand. “True enough. Do you think we can count dinner as working hours?”

Harry grinned. “It would be funny, wouldn’t it?” And show their superiors that two could play that game. And it wasn’t as if it would matter anyway, as long as Sirius protected them. He pressed his lips together at the thought. “But let’s not do it. We’re better than that.”

“Alright.”

They headed over to Bathilda and Dawlish’s office. The door was slightly open, so Harry knocked and then pushed it fully open. “Bathilda?” She was alone, he noted with both relief and regret. He’d have liked to tell off Dawlish.

Bathilda was at her desk and perked up. “Your reports!” She exclaimed, beaming.

“What are you still doing here?” Harry asked. “And did you take another Pepper-Up Potion?” Or two?

“I was waiting for your reports,” she replied. “And no - I took a nap in the early afternoon. John insisted,” she added.

At least the git looked out for his partner. Or he didn’t want to deal with the trouble it would cause should Bathilda collapse. “Good. But you can go home - we won’t finish our reports today,” Harry said.

“What? It’s barely five!” She shot up, glaring at them.

Harry almost took a step back. “I know, but Dawlish insisted that he wants to see my memories of the encounter with your suspect, which means I need to talk to my godfather.” She didn’t look like she thought that excuse was sufficient, so he added: “And I would rather not talk to him when he wants to retire for the night with his wife.”

“Oh.” Bathilda hunched over slightly, probably remembering the Blacks’ reputation. “I guess that’s true.” She sighed. “And I told John that I’d finish the report today…”

“Blame us,” Ron said. “Everyone does it.”

“Especially Dawlish,” Harry added.

“That’s not right!” She frowned. “Everyone’s under a lot of pressure. No one wants to be the next Macmillan.”

‘Everyone’ probably meant Dawlish. And that meant Bathilda would suffer as well. Harry shrugged. “Well, blame us if anyone criticises you.” Thanks to Sirius, they could handle it - Bathilda couldn’t. “And go home and get some more sleep.” He smiled, then left with Ron.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 28th, 1998

“Letting Dawlish access our Pensieve?” Sirius’s dark expression made it obvious to Harry Potter what his godfather thought of the proposal.

“Bones and Scrimgeour are backing him - it’s the opportunity they’ve been waiting for. Bones hinted that she might tell the Wizengamot that you were obstructing the investigation, should you refuse to help the Ministry,” Harry explained, sliding a little forward on his armchair.

“The Wizengamot won’t stand for it,” Sirius retorted, shaking his head as he leaned back on the couch. “No one wants to set such a precedent. The Wizengamot controls the Ministry, not the other way around.”

“I don’t think that the Wizengamot will stand on principle. Not if they face the loss of their power,” Hermione sitting in the armchair next to Harry’s, cut in. “Besides, Harry needs this to disprove the accusations, right?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s really necessary.” The jealous Aurors wouldn’t let a little thing like the truth stop them, anyway. They were too happy at Harry having at last made a blunder. “But it would help with Bones and Scrimgeour.”

“I can handle them. Malfoy already sent a note - he wants to discuss ‘the recent attempt to deflect the blame for the thefts on Aurors who are investigating more important cases and were just helping out’.” Sirius bared his teeth. “As long as Malfoy is afraid of Crouch and wants you on the case, Bones and Scrimgeour can’t touch you at all.”

“But I don’t want to be known as your protege!” Harry snapped. “And I really, really don’t want to owe Malfoy anything!”

“We owe him payback,” he heard Hermione mutter and nodded at her.

He looked at Sirius. “Please.”

Sirius sighed. “Alright. But it stays here - and just Dawlish. If Bones tries to push for more, I’ll tell her exactly where she can stick her demands! Some people have forgotten that the Blacks were feared for a reason!”

“You should let Bathilda watch the memories as well,” Ron, looking up from his enchanted mirror, added. “She’s a nice witch and working with Dawlish.”

Harry nodded, then winced when he saw Hermione scowl.

“Alright, two people then.” Sirius scoffed. “They really shouldn’t pull you away from your own case all the time, though.”

“That only happened once,” Harry said. “The other times we were involved because it looked like a Death Eater attack.” On their home.

“It shouldn’t happen at all. Crouch is a murderer - the longer he’s at large, the more people will suffer.” Sirius shook his head.

“Why are they attacking you so much, anyway?” Hermione asked.

Harry clenched his teeth for a moment before answering. “I encountered the main suspect as she was leaving the manor and was fooled by her story of how her date had been too forward, forcing her to slap him and stick him to a bench in the garden, so I let her go.”

“And you danced with her before that,” Ron added unhelpfully.

“You danced with the thief?” Sirius suddenly grinned widely. “Was she beautiful?”

Hermione was scowling, Harry noticed with a glance as he stared, then glared at his godfather. Sirius should know better! He shook his head. “She was ‘dolled up’ - you know, revealing robes, lots of makeup, expensive jewellery and complicated hairstyle. She probably needed all that work to look attractive. I only danced with her so I could ask her about what Draco Malfoy had been telling her.”

He glanced at Hermione, but she was still scowling - even worse than before! He probably had overdone his denial.

*****​

“A word, Harry?”

Upon hearing Sirius, Harry Potter stopped short before the stairs leading to the first floor and turned. “Sure.” He glanced around. Hermione was still in the dining room, talking to Jeanne. “As long as you’re not condemning me for dancing with a thief,” he added with a frown. “I don’t know why she was so angry - I said that the thief wasn’t really beautiful and that I only danced with her because of Malfoy!” At least she had calmed down during dinner.

Sirius shrugged but grinned. “Women are one of the great mysteries of our time. Trying to understand them leads to madness.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Are you quoting one of your magazines at me?” One of his magazines from the seventies.

Sirius coughed. “Let’s go to my study.”

“Alright.”

Once they were seated in Sirius’s study - in conjured armchairs at the window - Sirius sighed. “I was a little flippant earlier, about the whole business with the thief. Sorry.”

Harry waved his hand. “Don’t worry.” Compared to the reaction of the other Aurors - or Hermione’s weird anger - Sirius’s jokes had been harmless.

“But I do worry,” Sirius said, leaning forward. “So please tell me: How bad was it at work?”

For a moment, Harry thought of lying. Or downplaying the issue. But his godfather deserved an honest answer to his question. “It’s bad.” He sighed and leaned back. “The other Aurors - some of them, actually, a lot of them - are heckling us. Mostly me, but Ron’s getting his share of it for dancing with Luna at the ball, instead of, say, spotting and catching a thief no one else noticed.”

“Well, you noticed her, didn’t you?”

“Too late to do any good,” Harry said. “And only because she grinned so…” He clenched his teeth. “...so smugly at me right before she disappeared.”

“Ah.” Sirius nodded. “I see.”

“Really?”

“Well, I can imagine it.” His godfather sighed. “But this… heckling. Is anything being done about it?”

Harry snorted. “There’s nothing you can do about it. They haven’t forgotten what happened to Macmillan and this is their opportunity to get some payback. Macmillan is one of the worst, of course.”

“I’m sure I can do something,” Sirius said. “If not through Bones or Scrimgeour, then through some of my colleagues in the Wizengamot. Have them talk to their proteges and relatives about how to treat my godson. We do have a reputation for a reason, you know.” He grinned.

“No!” Harry blurted out, shaking his head emphatically. That was the last thing he wanted: Sirius bailing him out, like Mrs Wilson when Dudley and her son had gotten into a tussle in kindergarten. “I mean, please, don’t do anything like that. We’ll manage. It’ll blow over.” He had gone through worse, after all.

“If you say so.” Sirius frowned. “But I’ll have to intervene with Bones and Scrimgeour anyway - if I don’t, they’ll assume I’ve cut ties with you.”

“What?” Harry stared at him.

“That’s how the game is played,” Sirius said. He shrugged - in a rather French way, Harry thought. “If your protege gets into trouble, you’re supposed to do something about it.”

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up a little. “It’s worse than I thought!”

“That’s the Wizengamot for you.” Sirius snorted. “Everyone at the Ministry is so used to their meddling and intervening, it’s taken for granted - and the absence of any meddling is seen as a message.”

“And it’s not ‘do your duty according to the law’, is it?” Harry snorted.

“Well, Bones would probably do that - if no one else intervened,” Sirius said.

“Which is unlikely,” Harry said, closing his eyes again. The Ministry was a worse mess than he had thought.

“It makes changing anything very difficult,” Sirius said.

Harry looked at him. “You’re not thinking of giving up, are you?”

“Of course not!” Sirius grinned. “But, since you asked, I have to ask: You’re not thinking of abandoning your own plan, are you? Cleaning the Ministry of corruption and nepotism?”

“Of course not!” Harry shook his head. If he let adversity discourage him, he wouldn’t have been able to defeat Voldemort. “Someone has to clean up the Ministry.” And Harry couldn’t see anyone else doing it - everyone else already seemed to be part of the system.

“I’m just asking because if you’re planning to stray from using strictly legal means to achieve that, I’d like some advance warning so I can cover for you.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding,” Sirius said, laughing. “But don’t tell me you haven’t been tempted to stop playing nice - I dream of hexing my esteemed colleagues every time they try my patience. And you don’t want to know what I dream of doing to my not so esteemed colleagues.”

Harry sighed. He didn’t want to lie, but... “Doing so would ruin everything I’ve already achieved.” Which wasn’t that much, he had to admit to himself. But that didn’t mean it was nothing. “You can’t enforce justice with illegal means.”

Sirius frowned. “Technically, Dumbledore acted against the law during the war against Voldemort. The Order wasn’t exactly a legal organisation.”

Harry was all too aware of just how illegal Dumbledore’s actions had been. And his own, of course. “But that was during a war.” An undeclared war, but a war nonetheless. “There was no other way to defeat Voldemort. We’re not at war any more - that excuse isn’t valid any more.”

Sirius nodded, then grinned toothily again. “It would simplify things if we were still at war, though.”

Harry scoffed. “Don’t joke about that.” At least he hoped that his godfather was joking - it sometimes was hard to tell.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 29th, 1998

“Please come in, Mr Malfoy.”

Hermione Granger would have rather cursed Malfoy than greeted him politely, but appearances had to be maintained in the Wizengamot. And that included those of Sirius’s personal secretary. She had to play her role in public if she wanted their plans to succeed.

No matter how much she loathed the man who framed her and did his best to ruin her life - and had barely nodded at her in return as if she were beneath him. Besides, if Sirius could smile at the scum, then she could do so as well. Or better - she had been trained to fool people like Malfoy, after all, and had done so numerous times.

She motioned towards the seat at the wall. “Please have a seat. I’ll inform him that you’ve arrived.” She turned to the door to Sirius’s office in the Wizengamot, next to her desk - a remarkably muggle-like arrangement for such an old office. Indeed, appearances had to be maintained, but a little grandstanding was part of the game as well. Malfoy would be well-aware that Sirius didn’t use his office very often, unless a Wizengamot session took a break, and had only come to the Ministry today because he didn’t want to meet with Malfoy at Grimmauld Place, or in Malfoy’s home.

“He is very busy, I suppose, given Potter’s predicament.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at her, nor even giving the impression that he was addressing her. That irked her as much as the man’s reminder that Harry was in trouble.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she knocked on Sirius’s door. “Your eight o’clock is here, sir,” she announced in her best muggle secretary voice.

“Send him in!” came Sirius’s reply.

Hermione opened the door and turned to Malfoy, her smile growing more honest when she caught the slight frown on his face at Sirius’s tone. Her mood improved even more when she saw him frown again at her following him inside and taking up a position next to the door - behind his back and to the side. Just out of his sight, unless he turned his head.

Malfoy couldn’t protest her presence - not without acknowledging that she wasn’t beneath his notice. But he couldn’t ignore her either - even though he was well aware that she wouldn’t do anything to him. Not here.

It was a small, petty thing, but Hermione loved seeing the man squirm - or, at least, imagining him squirm; Malfoy was much better at hiding his reactions than his son, though he wasn’t perfect.

“Morning, Lucius,” Sirius greeted him. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you, Sirius.” Malfoy’s smile was as fake as Sirius’s as he sat.

“You asked for a meeting to discuss this ridiculous attempt to blame Harry for Greengrass and Smith’s blunders, I understand?” Sirius came straight to the point - rude, but not a true faux pas.

“I wouldn’t call it ridiculous - your godson didn’t grow suspicious until it was too late, despite his close proximity to the thief,” Malfoy said.

“He was the only one to suspect and notice anything,” Sirius retorted. “Blaming him for doing more than anyone else managed seems ridiculous to me.” He bared his teeth. “Of course, I’m well-acquainted with how ridiculous the Ministry’s justice is.”

Malfoy didn’t show any reaction to that barb; he would be used to and prepared for it, of course. “Indeed, though it’s still a little embarrassing.”

“More so for the Aurors and, of course, for Greengrass and Smith.” Sirius shrugged. “It’s not as if the Aurors could be expected to harass the date of an Old Family’s scion.”

“Unless they have sufficient reason to suspect they’re not who they appear to be.”

“Which wasn’t the case here.” Sirius shrugged. “Of course, Smith and Greengrass will try to blame Harry for their own faults, but Greengrass is ruined, and Smith doesn’t have a leg to stand on - Harry might have let the thief go, but Smith’s heir invited her to the ball in the first place!”

“That is correct, but not everyone might see it that way,” Malfoy answered.

“They need glasses, then. Or treatment at St Mungo’s, so they aren’t confunded any more,” Sirius retorted.

Malfoy chuckled at that, though it sounded false. “No matter what, Smith and Greengrass do have friends in the Wizengamot - and influence in the Ministry. Although, should other members with a less biased view of things speak up in your godson’s defence, this whole affair would be quickly buried - as it should be.”

“Members like you?”

“Indeed. I intend to ensure that such petty concerns do not negatively affect your godson’s career.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose.” Sirius didn’t hide his scepticism this time.

“Potter’s the best Auror the Ministry has left. And the most honest, too, according to all I’ve heard.” Malfoy smiled. “Yet he’ll need more support than you can give him to fulfil his ambitions, won’t he?”

Hermione almost snorted. Was Malfoy seriously trying to buy off Harry and Sirius by offering his support?

Sirius shrugged. “He’s still young; who can say what he’ll do once he’s caught Crouch?”

Malfoy nodded. “He’s still learning. But he must have realised how the Ministry works.”

“Oh, he has.” Sirius nodded slowly.

Malfoy smiled again.

Hermione clenched her teeth at the insinuation that Harry would ally himself with Malfoy for his career. Harry wouldn’t do that. No matter how frustrated he might become.

“Well, enough talking about the distant future. We are in agreement then that Harry’s not at fault here?” Sirius said.

Malfoy nodded.

And that was what mattered.

*****​

“It feels like we’re running away,” Ron muttered as they entered the lift.

“We’re not running away,” Harry Potter replied, a little testily - they had gone over this before. “Lots of Ministry employees take their breaks in a café.”

“We generally don’t, though,” Ron said as he hit the button for the Atrium.

“So?” Harry shrugged. “Besides, taking a break in our office is worse.” Macmillan would spread rumours that they spent all of their working hours on a break and Nott would likely try to have Bathilda get them to come to the break room.

“True,” Ron agreed. “I still don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either,” Harry said. “But would you prefer to take a break in the Ministry mess hall?”

Ron chuckled and shook his head. “I still don’t understand how the Hit-Wizards can eat there without puking afterwards.”

Harry nodded. Though he was less concerned about the quality of the food there than about the Hit-Wizards who were using it almost exclusively. Getting sneered at by fellow Aurors was one thing, but suffering the same from the grey robes? He scoffed.

The doors opened into the Atrium, and they found themselves face to face with Bathilda. He managed not to wince. “Hi, Bathilda.”

“Harry? Ron?” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Aren’t you taking a break today?”

For a moment, Harry thought about lying. But not to her. “We are taking our break in Diagon Alley today,” he said.

“Oh.” She looked at Ron. “Are you meeting your girlfriends?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “No, Hermione’s busy working.”

“And Luna’s helping her dad distributing The Quibbler today,” Ron added.

Bathilda huffed. “I’ve already read it. What was she thinking, writing this?” She pulled out an issue and pointed at the headline: Auror Failure Endangering Niffler Population!

Harry struggled not to grin. He had read the article as well, of course.

Ron frowned. “She’s pointing out that, so far, the effects of the thieving spree on magical creatures have been overlooked.”

“She’s claiming that Nifflers will go extinct because they’ll be caught and used to track down the stolen gold! That’s rubbish!”

Harry hadn’t seen Bathilda snarl and sneer before. It wasn’t a good look on her.

“Historically, Nifflers have been used to search for treasure,” Ron replied as his eyes narrowed.

“Not to hunt down thieves!” Bathilda scoffed. “Your girlfriend also claims that Nifflers will find less gold in the wilderness since wizards are keeping better track of their money in response to these thefts! And she blames all of it on us not catching the thieves!”

“Nifflers were used after the Goblin Rebellion of 1752 to track down any gold the defeated goblins had been hiding,” Ron retorted. “There’s historical precedent. And you can’t deny that people are being much more careful with their money. At least Old Families,” he added with a toothy grin.

Harry realised two things right then and there: First, Ron was probably spending a little too much time with Luna. And second, Harry should get Ron away from Bathilda before the two had a falling-out. He stepped between them. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I want to get to Diagon Alley before my break’s over,” he said. “You can talk this out later.” Much, much later, if Harry could help it.

Fortunately, Bathilda remembered that she didn’t have the time to waste discussing Luna’s article either, and Harry didn’t have to literally drag Ron away.

*****​

London, Diagon Alley, December 29th, 1998

As they approached Brandon’s Café - a recent discovery with good tea, better coffee - a rarity in Diagon Alley - and great pastries - Ron was still ranting. “I don’t know what her problem is - it’s not as if Luna mentioned her or even claimed that it’s all Dawlish’s fault. And it’s common knowledge that the thieves have escaped us three times now.”

Harry Potter shrugged. “She’s under a lot of pressure.” Probably by Dawlish, too.

“Just like us,” Ron replied as he opened the door. “And we have it worse… Merlin’s beard!”

“What?” Harry went for his wand before he saw what had prompted Ron’s outburst: The café was filled with wizards and witches in light grey robes.

“We could have gone to the mess hall for this,” he heard Ron mutter.

He shook his head and adjusted their privacy charm to cover for him drawing his wand. “They’re not Hit-Wizards, but foreign auxiliaries.” Mercenaries, mostly.

“They’ve been hired to free more Hit-Wizards for reserve and patrol duties,” Ron responded. “They are under the Head Hit-Wizard’s command. They work with the Hit-Wizards. Sounds like Hit-Wizards to me. And their robes just need to be a little darker, and they’d look like Hit-Wizards.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do you want to look for another café then?”

“Hell, no!” Ron snorted. “Let’s get a table.”

As they walked through the café, Harry noticed that he hadn’t been the only to go for his wand. A mercenary with a nose that put Snape’s to shame and a thick beard - Albanian, probably, if Harry recognised the language he heard from the man’s table correctly - was slowly stashing his own wand without letting Harry and Ron out of his sight as they passed.

It seemed as if at least one of the mercenaries the Ministry had hired were worth their pay if the man had reacted to Harry drawing his wand. Moody would approve.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 29th, 1998

Harry Potter’s mood, already bad after yet another afternoon filled with paperwork and snide remarks, didn’t improve when he finally got home and noticed that both Crookshanks and Hedwig were laying siege to Mr Biggles’ habitat.

At least it looked like it - Hedwig was sitting on top of the terrarium, picking at the latch holding the lid in place, while Crookshanks was sitting in front of it, staring at the snake inside. Neither acknowledged his return.

Harry shook his head and dropped his wand on his desk as he slipped out of his Auror robes. “I’ve told both of you: Mr Biggles isn’t for eating.”

Hedwig turned her head to glare at him for a moment, then renewed her attempt to pick the terrarium’s lock. Crookshanks didn’t react at all.

Harry scoffed. His owl’s jealousy was getting worse - it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t speak owl. “It’s locked with a spell. Unless you can cast an Unlocking Charm. You won’t ever open that,” he told her.

The owl stopped her futile efforts, then turned her head to eye his desk. No, his wand.

“Don’t even think about it!” he told her, picking it up.

“They’re dumb. But what can you expect from a bird?” Mr Biggles commented. “Just because they’ve got claws and wings they think they are so superior!”

“Well, owls eat snakes,” Harry pointed out.

“Not me!” Mr Biggles managed to give the impression that he was snorting. “They can’t touch me in here!”

Hedwig barked and flew over to land on Harry’s shoulder. Smiling, he reached out to stroke her plumage when he felt her beak hit the top of his head. “Ow!” He glared at her instead. “I’m not going to stop speaking Parseltongue just because you dislike it!”

That earned him another peck on his head before the owl flew away to land on her perch.

“Yes! Flee, you feathery fool!” Mr Biggles crowed.

Harry sighed, rubbed his head and sat down on his bed. His colleagues were sneering at him, his pets were making a scene and his girlfriend would be in a bad mood as well, after Sirius’s meeting with Malfoy.

“What a bloody day!” he mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning back until he was half-lying on the bed.

A second later, he felt a heavy weight settle on his stomach and chest, and something hairy brush over his face, slapping his nose. “Crookshanks, get off!” he snapped without opening his eyes.

“Oh, he likes you! See, I’ve been telling you that you just need to be nicer to him!”

He opened his eyes and made a grab for the tomcat’s tail blocking his vision. “Hermione?”

She was standing in the doorway. “Yes. Sirius finally finished his meeting with Fudge.” She walked inside and sat down next to him - and started to pet Crookshanks. Who was still occupying Harry’s torso. And digging his claws into Harry’s skin as he purred. “Such a good cat, you are!”

Harry coughed. “What happened with Fudge?”

“After Sirius and Malfoy talked to him, he apparently was convinced that you’re not at fault at all, and will impress his opinion on Bones and Scrimgeour.”

He closed his eyes and sighed.

“You don’t sound relieved.”

He sighed again. “I’m just sick of Sirius having to bail me out each time something goes wrong.”

“He means well,” she replied. Judging by the purring noise Crookshanks kept making, she hadn’t stopped petting the cat.

“I know. It’s not his fault that the Ministry’s so screwed up. All the Aurors are blaming me. And, to a lesser degree, Ron.”

“They’re just jealous,” she said.

He looked at her. She was frowning, then biting her lower lip. “I want to apologise to you.”

He blinked. “For what?” What had she done?

“For getting angry at you last night over what happened with the thief. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Ah.” He nodded. He still didn’t quite understand why she had gotten so angry, but he didn’t want to pry either. It was probably Paul’s fault. His eyes widened slightly. Had that git cheated on her? Did that explain Hermione’s reaction?

“Harry?”

“Sorry.” He smiled at her. “I just remembered that scene again.” He reached out to squeeze her thigh. “It’s OK. All of us are under a lot of pressure, I think.”

She frowned for a second, then nodded. “Probably,” she said.

After a moment filled with Crookshanks’s purring, Harry chuckled. “So, I guess we will skip asking each other how our days were?”

He saw her scowl for an instant before she nodded with a smile. He had been right, then.

She leaned over, dislodging Crookshanks with a light touch of her shoulder - Harry felt a brief pang of envy at how easily she could drive the cat away without getting scratched - and laid her head on his chest. “Let’s just stay like this until dinner.”

“Yes.”

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, December 30th, 1998

Hermione Granger eyed the dusty floor in the tunnel carefully. It didn’t look like it had been disturbed since she had been here the last time, but she wasn’t the only one who could cover her tracks with a few spells. The wall in front of her, though, didn’t show any signs of tampering either, and the few charms she had placed on it were all still in place.

It looked like the passage Dumbledore had shown her and Mr Fletcher, back before his last fight with Voldemort, was still unknown to others, especially to the Ministry.

She snorted. It looked like - but she had to check, of course. Assumptions got thieves caught - or killed.

Hermione flicked her wand, and a small hole appeared in the wall before her. Large enough for a man of average size like Mr Fletcher to pass through with a little effort. Or for a graceful, lithe cat to comfortably walk through. Well, but for the nasty dust clinging to her fur. She’d have to carefully clean herself afterwards.

The room - if you could call a former part of the storm drains which had been walled off two hundred years ago that - was as dusty as she remembered. That didn’t matter, of course. What mattered was the ladder there, leading up. And the wards on the manhole cover above.

She activated her mask’s enchantment and studied the protections, smiling as she realised that they hadn’t been modified - Mr Fletcher’s modifications were still in place and would provide her with an easy way to enter the Ministry clandestinely.

She could start planning the rest of her next heist now.

*****​

 

Chapter 56: Storm Clouds

Kent, Smith Manor, December 31st, 1998

“Are you feeling better? Did having a rest help?”

Michael Smith had to struggle not to scowl openly at his mother’s question. She was asking after his health, but he knew what she meant: ‘Are you still insisting on not attending our New Year’s Ball?’ He put the buttered scone down and looked at her. “I didn’t sleep very well, Mother,” he replied. “Tossed and turned for the whole night, barely got a wink of sleep.” He wasn’t entirely lying, of course - he had lain awake for hours. And he wasn’t feeling well. Not at all.

Who would be feeling well after they had been utterly humiliated like he had? He clenched his teeth before he started cursing like he had done yesterday. To be duped like a muggle by that despicable thief! She had made him into the laughing stock of British society! He was well aware that everyone was mocking him behind his back, even the scum of Britain - mudbloods, blood traitors and the rabble in Knockturn Alley. Ordinarily, they wouldn’t have dared thinking about disrespecting him, but after this?

“Perhaps more rest would help. Or a visit to St Mungo’s.” His mother raised her cup and took a sip. “You shouldn’t have to miss our own ball.”

He turned his scoff into a cough. Of course, his absence would embarrass her - everyone would know the real reason he wasn’t attending the ball. But he couldn’t face his so-called peers and their mocking, fake smiles. “I would rather not risk making a scene if I suddenly had a relapse,” he said. Not attending the ball - avoiding his responsibilities - was bad, but should he lose his temper and curse Malfoy, or anyone else mocking him, then that would be much, much worse.

No matter how satisfying it would be to see Malfoy screaming on the ground, his smug smile replaced by a rictus of agony as he rotted from the inside… Michael hid his smile with his scone. That was the most powerful dark curse he knew. The most impressive as well - but casting it in public would see him in Azkaban no matter the provocation. Britain wasn’t as tolerant as the Byzantines had been, alas.

His mother had finally understood what he had been hinting at and nodded. “I see. Please get more rest, then.” She smiled at him. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He pressed his lips together. She was trying to console him, but he knew she was disappointed in him - and with good cause. He had brought shame on the family by leading a thief into Greengrass Manor. A wizard of his status and experience was supposed to know better than to be fooled by a common harlot.

Although he couldn’t help feeling some satisfaction that while his lapse in judgement had embarrassed himself and his family, it had ruined the Greengrasses. It was poetic justice that their downfall would be caused, if indirectly, by the fact that no British witch of good breeding had deigned to accompany him to the ball. If they hadn’t been so stuck-up over his meaningless affair, he wouldn’t have been forced to invite a foreigner.

“Where is Father?” he asked, changing the subject. His father usually ate breakfast with them.

“He is looking over our protections,” his mother answered. “We actually need a Curse-Breaker for that, but with everyone in a panic, we couldn’t get a hold of one in time.”

Michael nodded. His father wasn’t a professional Curse-Breaker, but he had excelled in Arithmancy, gaining an Outstanding N.E.W.T.

Not that it would help much, in Michael’s opinion. Not against a thief who broke into the Greengrasses’ vault in an hour. “Will we have guards inside the vault?” he asked. It was the obvious solution, in his opinion. The thieves had always fled when they couldn’t fight from ambush. A few guards would, therefore, drive them off.

“Zacharias and Melchior will stand guard in our vault during the ball.”

And they would miss the ball as well. Michael smiled. “Good.”

*****​

London, Knockturn Alley, December 31st, 1998

Most people, when they envisioned a trip to Knockturn Alley, thought of dark evenings, with the Alley shrouded in shadows and the side-alleys barely more than pitch-black holes between buildings, where hags and worse monsters lurked. They imagined looking over their shoulders, anxiously expecting an attack as soon as they showed any weakness.

Michael Smith wasn’t most people. He was the scion of an Old Family - and a man well-versed in the Dark Arts. He strode through the Alley without a care, his bearing telling the riffraff that he was not to be bothered while his cowl hid his face.

After his humiliation, seeing the scum shy away from him felt good. Very good. If only they knew what he could do… no one would dare mock him - or, worse, pity him for having been fooled by a thief. He almost wished that some fool or other would accost him - give him an excuse to vent his anger.

But none did, and he reached his goal, Sarah’s Stash, without the catharsis of a fight. It was better so - he would have had to vacate the premises, had he used his favourite spells on anyone, even in Knockturn Alley - but he was still disappointed. He wanted, needed to hurt someone, something, before his anger and frustration tore him apart.

Scowling beneath his cowl, he entered the shop. Sarah’s message had merely stated that she had found something of interest to him - nothing else. She was very cautious, but she had a knack for finding obscure and illegal tomes, and she had yet to disappoint him.

He looked around in the dimly lit shop for the old witch - there.

“Hello.” She nodded at him with her customary smile, revealing yellow and slightly too thin teeth. Hag blood in her ancestry,

“Hello.” Michael nodded curtly. He had no intention of lingering any longer than necessary. “I heard that you found something of interest.” Dare he hope that it was the Aztec grimoire - translated, of course; the Aztecs Blood Priests hadn’t used tomes but codices, most of which had been destroyed - he had been seeking?

“Yes.” She nodded again, still smiling. Slightly vacantly, he noted. And she wasn’t showing any anticipation of a sale.

He drew his wand and cast a Shield Charm. Something wasn’t right. There! Something moved behind the shelf to his right!

His Reductor Curse tore the shelf apart, sending parts and pieces flying. He was already moving, his next curse - the Gut-Rotting Curse - striking the figure half-hidden in the dust cloud.

The figure didn’t scream. He blinked. How…? Whirling around, he aimed his wand at Sarah, who was still standing there, smiling. It wasn’t her, but who…

A spell slammed into his Shield Charm, shattering it and bowling him over. He rolled over his shoulder and came up with his wand already moving - but couldn’t spot the attacker. Disillusioned! He started to cast the Human-presence-revealing Spell, but another curse struck him before he could finish, and he felt his limbs lock up as he fell to the ground. No!

“Good reflexes, decent curses, but you haven’t been in a real fight yet, have you?”

He didn’t recognise the voice, but the mocking tone… something - a foot - pushed into his ribs and he was flipped over on to his back.

His assailant was a man, rather shabby looking. Large, ugly nose and a thick beard.

Michael had never seen him before. But the man’s smile sent chills down his spine.

“Been dabbling in the Dark Arts, have we?” The man shook his head. “You bought a number of interesting artefacts as well - you show real promise, indeed. But needs must. And I need something from your collection.”

The man’s wand flicked, and Sarah collapsed. Then he pointed the wand at Michael.

“Imperio.”

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, December 31st, 1999

That oaf! That idiot! Entering her home as if he owned it! And at a time when she should be getting ready for the New Year’s Ball! Hermione Granger wanted to hiss and chase him out. Instead, she pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t bare her teeth and nodded. “Auror Dawlish. Auror Meringworth.”

“Miss Granger.” He narrowed his eyes at her, then looked around.

“Hello.” Meringworth smiled, but she was an Auror as well - and working for Dawlish, which made her just another intruder.

“Sirius and Harry are preparing the Pensieve,” she said with a thin smile. Did he expect them to wait for him so he could be greeted as if he were an honoured guest instead of an intruder? She almost snorted. “If you’ll follow me?” She gestured at the door leading to the hallway.

He scoffed but nodded. “You’re part of the family now, huh?” he said as she opened the door.

“Our private life is none of your concern,” she replied with narrowed eyes.

“Of course not.” He scoffed again.

Was he still hung up on his theory that she was a gold-digger or even a black widow? She narrowed her eyes at him again but didn’t deign to respond.

He kept looking around as they walked down the hallway. Nosy, she thought. Like a dog sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. And Meringworth wasn’t much better, although she managed to look like she was merely curious. “Don’t worry about getting lost,” she said with a sweet smile, “We’ll escort you to the fireplace afterwards.”

He glared at her, then showed his teeth. “I’m sure you will,” he said. “You have too much to hide, don’t you?”

“Are you insinuating something, Auror Dawlish?” she snapped. How dare he take that tone with her in her own home!

“Not at all. Everyone has secrets they don’t want to get out, right?” he said, with a mocking undertone that made her want to rake her claws across his nose.

Fortunately - for him! - they reached the door to the living room, to which Harry and Sirius had temporarily relocated the Pensieve.

“Ah, Auror Dawlish. Auror Meringworth. You made it!” Sirius said, acting as if he had had his doubts and was positively surprised.

Hermione grinned at the expression on Dawlish’s face when the idiot realised he was being mocked. That’d teach him to accuse Harry of making a blunder when it was his own fault - as if Hermione was such a clumsy thief that she’d need the Aurors to make mistakes, anyway!

She hurried away, though - she had to make up the time wasted on the idiot and his helper. This was her first ball as Harry’s date, and she needed to look perfect! Or as perfect as her role allowed, anyway.

*****​

Kent, Smith Manor, December 31st, 1998

Hermione Granger was graceful and lithe - like a cat. And experienced; in her guise as Miss Merriweather, she had been the belle of the ball in the past - of this particular ball, at least: the New Year’s Ball at Smith Manor.

But Hermione Granger was known as the slightly clumsy secretary of the notorious Sirius Black and recent lover of the Boy-Who-Lived, and she couldn’t afford to disprove that. No matter how much the snide comments from the gaggle of bigots around Parkinson and Malfoy that she overheard in passing irked.

Especially not when she had danced in another guise - Mlle Levesque - only a few days ago with Harry Potter, as well as Michael Smith, the son of today’s host, and was Britain’s most wanted witch.

And so she had to portray herself as Harry’s eager and pretty, but not overly graceful, date, as well as a debutante, for this ball.

Though, if she was honest, it wasn’t that grating. She did love dancing with him, after all. And she was, after so many years, if not used to the insults and slights, then used to ignoring them - one could hardly work as the muggleborn secretary of a member of the Wizengamot and not learn that particular skill.

The music changed, slowing down - a change of pace she welcomed enthusiastically, as it allowed her and Harry to dance much closer together than before. She almost purred when he gently pulled her towards him.

And she almost hissed when she heard the next comments - they must have drifted a little too close to the group around Parkinson and Malfoy.

“Look at her throwing herself at him! Shameless!” Parkinson spat, a little louder, Hermione thought, than usual.

“What can you expect from a muggleborn who didn’t even finish Hogwarts? We should be grateful she’s not trying to cover herself in mud - muggles do that when they gather to dance.”

Malfoy, apparently, had found a socially accepted way to associate her with mud - although she wondered if his mixing up muggle open-air concerts and dances wasn’t based in actual ignorance instead of merely bigotry. He certainly was dumb and arrogant enough for either possibility.

She felt Harry tense under her hands and bent forward slightly to whisper into his ear: “Let them talk - they can’t do anything to us. We’re here to enjoy ourselves.”

She saw how he forced himself to relax. “Alright.” After a moment, spent moving a little further away from the bigots surrounding Malfoy and Parkinson, he added: “You’re much more forgiving than I am. I want to hex their mouths shut.”

“They’re idiots who are not worth making a scene about and ruining our evening,” she replied. Of course, it was easier to appear magnanimous if you knew that both Parkinson and Malfoy would face the ruin of their families soon enough.

“And it’s a good sign that they are whispering about me,” she added with a smile untouched by the pang of guilt she felt, “instead of about the Greengrass heist.” Especially since Harry breaking the law and attacking Maloy and Parkinson might neatly solve the issue of him still sticking to his plans as an Auror.

He nodded. “I was half-expecting Malfoy to try and needle me, despite his father’s deal with Sirius.” He looked around. “I guess that is why Smith is ‘not feeling well’ instead of attending the ball in his own home.”

She snorted. “Malfoy’s father will have told him to behave - he wants you to owe him. That he apparently thinks belittling me is acceptable just shows how stupid he is.”

“Or how drunk,” Harry replied.

She scoffed. “Those are the same thing.” Only an idiot would get drunk at a ball so soon after the Greengrass heist had shown how dangerous that could be. An idiot - or someone who had realised that the logistics for two such heists happening close together were too hard even for Britain’s most famous thieves. But Malfoy certainly wasn’t that smart.

She noticed that Harry was looking around while trying not to appear to be doing so. “Are you looking for Sirius? He’s on the terrace with Jeanne and Doge, I think,” she said.

“Ah, thank you.” He smiled at her. “But I was looking at Zabini’s date, actually.”

She struggled not to scowl - why would he be looking at other witches when he was at the ball with her? “Oh?”

He nodded. “She’s very beautiful and apparently Italian - I don’t want to be fooled by that damned thief again.”

Hermione’s smile dimmed a little as she realised that Harry would be spending a significant amount of time staring at pretty witches even when dancing with her.

And it was her own fault, sort of.

*****​

London, Knockturn Alley, January 1st, 1999

“Smith really wasn’t feeling well last night,” Ron commented, his voice deadpan, upon entering the shop in Knockturn Alley the Auror patrol had secured.

Harry Potter nodded, staring at the twisted corpse on the floor, then at the half-rotten witch behind the counter. Fortunately, a Bubble-Head Charm took care of the awful stench. It couldn’t do anything about the gruesome sight, but as an Auror, you didn’t let that affect you. Or acted as if you didn’t. Inappropriate jokes were part of the act. Especially in front of the regular patrol, whose members looked more than a little green in the face.

He bent down and waved his wand. “Looks like a variant of the Bone-breaking Curse.” All of the man’s limbs were broken in multiple places and bent along the breaks.

“Yes,” Ron confirmed. Smith had died hard, judging by the expression on the corpse’s face.

Harry nodded at the older witch. “That was a dark curse for sure. A slow one, too.”

“Someone wanted to make it look like they killed each other?” Ron cocked his head. “He hit her with a lethal but slow curse, and she killed him with a curse of her own before succumbing to his?”

Harry nodded and surveyed the shop. It had been looted extensively, but the corpses hadn’t been touched as far as he could tell - even hags didn’t want to eat flesh cursed by the Dark Arts. “To hide the real murderer. Or one of them had an accomplice.”

“That’s possible too.” Ron’s tone told Harry that he didn’t think it’d be that simple. Harry didn’t think so either - this looked and felt like a set-up.

“Bet the wands match the curses used?” Ron grinned.

“Sucker bet,” Harry grunted.

The sound of steps coming closer made him turn around and lift his wand slightly. Just in case. The Auror at the door snapped to attention, but that didn’t mean anything.

“Potter? Weasley? What are you doing here?”

Dawlish. Harry didn’t bother hiding his frown.

“Hi, Harry. Hi, Ron.”

“Hi, Bathilda,” Ron said,

“We’re the Aurors on duty to investigate murders today,” Harry answered, nodding first at Bathilda, then, curtly, at Dawlish. It wasn’t quite punishment detail - Bones and Scrimgeour had admitted, after Dawlish had viewed his memories, that his actions had been ‘reasonable’ - but the change of shifts had been a little too close to the Greengrass robbery to be a coincidence. And ‘reasonable’ wasn’t exactly praise.

“Well, you can stop now; we’re taking over.”

“You’ve got a case already,” Harry retorted. “A big case.” And one with which Dawlish wasn’t having much success, even though he seemed to have escaped censure for the robbery taking place under his watch - the man must have cashed in some favours, in Harry’s opinion - and had also seen Harry’s memories.

“This is related to our case,” Dawlish snapped. “Smith is an important witness in it.”

“Was an important witness,” Ron added. “Unless the Wizengamot has authorised Necromancy and didn’t tell us.”

Harry chuckled at the joke, but he wouldn’t put it past the scared Old Families to do something like that in their panic - it had taken a concerted effort by Sirius, Doge and Croaker to quash the most recent proposal to authorise the Aurors to use the Unforgivables. To think the Head Unspeakable had to point out the corrupting effects of those spells…

“This is no laughing matter!” Dawlish snarled - the man looked ready to draw on Ron, Harry noticed. “I suspect Smith was killed to prevent him from identifying the thief at the New Year’s Ball last night.”

“The thieves didn’t do this,” Harry snapped. They were cocky, cunning and far too competent, but they hadn’t seriously hurt anyone so far.

“And why would you think that?” Dawlish sneered. “Growing fond of them, perhaps?”

“What?” Harry bared his teeth. “Are you crazy?”

“It would explain why they keep escaping you.” Dawlish scoffed.

“Please,” Bathilda said, “let’s focus on the case. We won’t catch any criminals if we fight each other.”

Dawlish snorted but at last held his tongue.

Harry clenched his teeth as he nodded. “It might be connected to our case,” he said. “We won’t know until we’ve investigated further.”

And he certainly wouldn’t let Dawlish take over until then!

*****​

Kent, Smith Manor, January 1st, 1999

Eleanor Smith was quite composed for a witch who had just lost her son. As a member of the Wizengamot, that was to be expected of her, but still… Harry Potter knew Sirius wouldn’t be as calm and polite if Harry had been murdered.

“This is his room,” she said, flicking her wand to open the door. “I trust you will be able to deal with the spells he used to protect his privacy.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned away and started to walk back towards the living room. Apparently, she was more shaken than she showed - leaving the Aurors like that wasn’t something usually done in her circles, Harry knew. He certainly wouldn’t let anyone snoop around in his home without watching them. Far too easy to plant a curse or set a trap. Or rob your vault.

“Well, are we able to handle whatever curses Smith might have used to protect his privacy?” Ron asked, peering through the doorway.

Dawlish, as expected, scoffed. “Don’t tell me that you’re afraid of a few curses.”

“We’re Aurors, not Curse-Breakers,” Harry shot back.

Dawlish huffed, but Bathilda put her hand on his arm, and he remained silent.

Harry snorted and walked up to the doorway. “Entering the room should be safe enough - I don’t think Smith cared to clean up after himself.” Which meant he’d have had to let the house-elves enter.

Harry still checked for spells with his glasses but didn’t find any on the door or the floor. He looked for traps next, but the walls and floor were protected against his glasses. He stepped inside.

“Looks like you’re skilled enough at Curse-Breaking - you’re still alive.” Dawlish snorted and followed him.

“Every Auror should be able to at least spot spells, even if they can’t deal with them,” Ron said. “Every decent Auror, at least, according to Moody.”

“Please.” Bathilda tilted her head and frowned at all of them as she spoke. “Let’s just do our work.”

Dawlish clenched his teeth - Harry saw his facial muscles contract - but the older Auror nodded. “Let’s work on our case.”

“Some spells on the trunk there,” Ron announced, pointing at a polished trunk of dark wood.

“That’s a school trunk - those are probably just the usual jinxes to keep it safe from other students,” Bathilda said.

“Or that’s what a dark wizard would like you to think,” Harry said, taking a step forward to put himself between her and the trunk.

“That’s what Moody would say, right?” Bathilda correctly guessed.

“Yes.” Ron nodded. “There are more spells on the bookshelves and the desk.”

“Figures.” The witch sighed. “So we need a Curse-Breaker.”

“I’ll call Abigail. Abigail Smith,” Harry said. At Bathilda’s expression, he added: “No relation to the Old Family.” Unless Abigail’s ancestors hadn’t been as muggle as she claimed.

*****​

“Basic stuff on the trunk - wouldn’t have needed me for that; won’t touch anyone with a Shield Charm,” Abigail said, flicking her wand at it. “But since I’m here…” She grinned.

Harry Potter nodded. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Bloody Moody,” Dawlish muttered. “Can we get to the bookshelves and desk now? I’d like to get on with my investigation.”

“Your investigation?” Abigail frowned and looked at Harry. “I thought it was yours.”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he explained.

“Ah. Politics.” She nodded with a broad grin that pulled her half-paralysed face into a grimace. Harry and Ron were used to it, but he saw Bathilda flinch. “That’s not a problem in my business. Whoever is alive at the end gets the gold,” the Curse-Breaker went on.

“What?” Bathilda sounded shocked.

“I’m kidding,” Abigail replied. “Mostly.” She peered at the bookshelf, flicking her wand again. “Oh, those are nasty spells. Dark ones, too. This will be interesting.” She got up and checked the desk. “And worse here! Oh, that’s new as well. Not very effective, but original!” She sounded pleased.

Curse-Breakers. Harry glanced at Ron, who shook his head. “How much time will you need?” he asked.

“Mh… two hours at most, I’d say,” she answered without looking up. “Whoever cast these spells didn’t know much about Curse-Breaking.”

Harry nodded. “Alright. We’ll leave the room, then, so you don’t get distracted.” And get a wall between them and the witch. Just in case. Ron was already moving.

They left the room. After a moment’s hesitation, Bathilda and Dawlish followed them.

Outside, Harry rolled his shoulder. “So... two hours.”

“Plenty of time to go back to the Ministry and finish my preliminary report,” Bathilda said.

Dawlish frowned. “I’ll stay here in case something comes up.”

Harry frowned. The git just didn’t want anyone else to check the room without him. Well, two could play that game. He smiled. “I think we can get Madam Smith’s testimony in the meantime.”

“We’ll have to talk to her again as soon as we have more information from Smith’s room,” Bathilda pointed out.

She was correct, of course - but this wasn’t about Smith. This was about Dawlish trying to steal their case.

*****​

“No, Michael behaved completely normally yesterday morning. He told me that he wasn’t feeling well and would have to miss the ball, but there wasn’t anything else out of the ordinary.” Madam Smith’s face showed no emotion, but Harry Potter noticed that she was gripping the handle of her teacup very hard and was trembling slightly.

“Did he say anything about going to Knockturn Alley?” Dawlish asked.

The witch frowned at him. “I just said that he told me that he wasn’t feeling well enough to attend our ball, so, of course, he wouldn’t go out.”

“Of course,” Dawlish said. “And he never mentioned Knockturn Alley or a witch named ‘Sarah Kohlmeier’?”

“Never.” Smith shook her head slightly.

“Did he mention the Dark Arts?” Harry asked before Dawlish could pose another question.

“No,” Smith answered - a little too quickly, in Harry’s opinion.

“Not even in the context of Defence against it?”

“He did talk about it in that context, in general terms.” Smith’s smile seemed frozen. “He was interested in the plight of the New World, which was how this thief managed to gain his trust.”

“Do you think he might have seen or remembered something that could have threatened the thieves?” Dawlish cut in. “Did he ever talk about hunting them himself?”

“No, he didn’t…” Smith trailed off. “But he wouldn’t tell me that, of course - I’d have forbidden him from risking his life. Perhaps…” She trailed off again.

Harry forced himself not to scoff at Dawlish’s leading questions. “Why would he do that?” he asked. “They escaped from the entire Auror Corps; would he really have thought he could succeed where we failed?” If Smith had thought so, he was a worse fool than Harry had thought.

“Perhaps he didn’t trust the Aurors,” Dawlish said.

“I was asking Madam Smith,” Harry snapped. What was the idiot thinking?

“Perhaps we should check if Curse-Breaker Smith is done with the room,” Bathilda said with a strained smile.

“Good idea,” Harry said, rising from his seat. It hadn’t been two hours yet, not even close, but it was better than having a row with Dawlish in front of Smith.

As expected, Dawlish quickly followed his example, and they followed Madam Smith to her son’s room.

“I was about to send an elf to call you; good timing,” Abigail said as soon as they approached the room. “All done here. Whoever cast those spells knew a lot about the Dark Arts, but not much about detection and alarm charms.”

And unless Smith had managed to sneak a dark wizard in to do this, he had been the one to cast the spells.

“He had some dubious friends,” Madam Smith said. “He never introduced them to me; I thought they were simple wastrels trying to abuse his generosity, but if one among them was a dark wizard…”

“Then it looks like he lent your son his library,” Ron said, pointing at the books on the shelves. The recently enlarged shelves.

Dawlish frowned but took a closer look. Then his eyes widened, and he whistled. “I haven’t seen so many illegal books since the Borgin and Burkes robbery.”

“Check the extended desk, too - lots of artefacts!” Abigail added.

“Planted, I am certain,” Madam Smith said. “It would have been easy for the thief to fool my son into sneaking her into his room.”

“If she had access to your manor, perhaps we should check whether anything was stolen.”

“I personally checked yesterday and this morning,” Madam Smith told them, looking as if she had bitten into a sour lemon. “Nothing was amiss.”

“Doesn’t look like the thieves’ work then,” Harry said, shrugging. “And why would she use such expensive books to frame him? There are cheaper ways.”

“To destroy my son’s reputation and embarrass me, Auror Potter,” she snapped. Looking at Dawlish, she added: “Can I trust that you will be handling this case with tact and discretion?”

“Of course,” Dawlish replied.

Harry almost snorted. Another reason not to let the git take the case from him and Ron: They wouldn’t cover this up.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 1st, 1999

“...and the dark curse that was cast with Smith’s wand matches the description of a dark curse in one of the grimoires we found in his room,” Harry Potter said, looking at Scrimgeour. “The page was bookmarked, so it was likely the last curse he learned.”

“From the way you worded it, you don’t believe that Smith cast the dark curse that killed Kohlmeier.”

“It’s a little too neat,” Harry replied.

“It feels like a set-up,” Dawlish added. “Our most important witness, killed by Knockturn Alley scum, less than a week after the robbery?” He shook his head. “That’s no coincidence.”

“We,” Harry said, nodding at Ron, “suspect it’s related to our case. Something was missing from Smith’s desk - something that was very well protected. And in light of Smith’s obvious fascination with the Dark Arts, it is likely to be both rare and dangerous.”

Dawlish snorted. “That doesn’t mean Crouch is involved. It wouldn’t be the first time some foreign dark wizard killed to get a rare book.”

“From the implements we found, Smith was dabbling in blood magic,” Harry retorted. “Like Voldemort was.”

“The Dark Lord and Crouch weren’t behind every dark curse cast in Britain,” Dawlish said.

“Assuming that there’s some unknown foreign dark wizard behind this while Crouch is still at large is irresponsible,” Harry shot back. “There aren’t that many dark wizards who’d dare to do such a thing. And assuming that this is the work of the thieves runs against everything we know. They haven’t seriously hurt anyone so far - even witnesses.”

“None of the witnesses were as close to them as Smith,” Dawlish insisted.

“They could have easily obliviated him before robbing Greengrass’s vault,” Harry retorted. “Killing him days after that makes no sense.”

“Enough.” Scrimgeour raised his voice slightly. “The fact that Smith is a potential link between the robbery and this possible double-murder cannot be denied.” Dawlish started to smile. “However, Auror Potter is correct - this doesn’t fit the modus operandi of the thieves.”

“They disguised themselves as Death Eaters before!” Dawlish snapped. “Who says they won’t go farther?” After a glare from the Head Auror, he managed a “Sorry.” through clenched teeth.

Scrimgeour nodded. “So, you’ll have to work together on this case until you can determine who’s correct.”

Dawlish pressed his lips together and looked as if he had trouble controlling himself.

Harry almost smirked. He wasn’t too happy about having to work with Dawlish, but it was better than losing the case to the biased idiot. And Dawlish’s expression was quite funny.

*****​

“So, which lead will we investigate first?” Ron asked a few minutes later, back in their office.

Harry Potter snorted. It wasn’t as if they had any decent leads - and Ron knew that. The patrols had found no witnesses yet, no informers had had anything to report so far and either Kohlmeier hadn’t kept any records, or the murderer had taken or destroyed them. Harry was betting on the latter. “Let’s send the usual forms to France and Prussia asking for help.” It wouldn’t do any good, but with Dawlish on the same case, they had to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s, or he’d try to use that against them.

Ron nodded. “Imagine if we actually got some help from foreign ministries!”

“Well, if anything hints at a foreign connection, we can investigate in person. And we can ask Jeanne to look into it.”

Ron shrugged. “Her friends didn’t find anything about Levesque.”

“I didn’t expect them to have any success,” Harry replied. “These thieves are British - they know us too well to be foreigners.”

“They could have British accomplices,” Ron pointed out. “If they were all British, why didn’t we already know of such skilled thieves?”

“They might have done less spectacular - easier - robberies,” Harry replied. “Worked up to the Manors.”

Ron didn’t seem convinced. “We don’t know about any particularly skilled but not spectacular robberies before last year, though. Would they really have gone from petty crime to manors?”

That was a good point. Harry sighed. “So they might be foreigners.” Which meant they would need help from foreign ministries. “We might have better luck checking the foreign newspapers for reports of daring robberies than officially asking for information.”

Ron snorted. “Well, the thieves aren’t our case - not our problem.”

Harry glared at his friend. “We’re still Aurors. I’ll tell Bathilda our theory.” She might be able to investigate that - and, or so Harry hoped, occupy Dawlish with something more constructive than trying to blame Harry for everything and demonising the thieves.

“Better wait until tomorrow’s break,” Ron said. “Unless you want to talk to Dawlish again.”

He didn’t. Harry checked the clock on the wall - it was already too late for an afternoon break. “Tomorrow then.”

“Until then - fill out the Prussian and Polish forms!” Ron handed a stack of parchment over to him.

Harry stared at them. They were written in German and Polish, respectively, with spaces left to enter the names of the subjects. You were supposed to write a new letter, using the form as a base, but most Aurors didn’t bother - why should they make such an effort if it never led to anything? He snorted. “Has anyone actually checked these forms? Perhaps there was a mistranslation, and that’s why we never get any useful replies.”

“Percy checked them during a brief internship in International Cooperation,” Ron answered. “Said they were old-fashioned but correct. Apparently Crouch senior did the forms himself - and he spoke every European language.”

Harry frowned. If that ran in the family, Crouch would have an easy time hiding in other countries.

Perhaps he should investigate that angle in France.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 2nd, 1999

“...and even though the situation is not as dire - yet - as to justify authorising the Aurors’ use of the Unforgivables, we have to do something.”

Hermione Granger wanted to roll her eyes at Parkinson’s lies. The man had been among the most fervent supporters of the proposal to let the Aurors and Hit-Wizards use the Unforgivables. In a transparent ploy, Malfoy had proposed a ‘compromise’ to members who were outraged by this - only the Imperius Curse would be authorised.

It had taken a comprehensive explanation of the reasons that the Unforgivables were banned by the Head Unspeakable to bury that proposal, and now Parkinson was acting as if he had never proposed it.

“The Aurors are spread thin in order to guard all of us against the last Death Eater and the thieves, but no war was ever won by defending yourself. What we need are more wands out looking for the thieves,” Parkinson went on. “This requires training and experience, however. Fresh Aurors and Hit-Wizards won’t be of much use in those roles.”

Unless they were Harry and Ron, Hermione thought. Harry had almost caught her - twice, so far.

“And skilled, experienced witches and wizards are neither cheap nor, usually, willing to move to Britain. I, therefore, propose to offer a significant reward for the thieves’ heads.” Parkinson grinned. “This will attract mercenaries and bounty hunters from all over Magical Europe who will hunt the thieves on their own time, with the Ministry’s gold only spent once they succeed.”

Hermione’s sharp hiss was lost in the noise of the chamber’s reaction to Parkinson’s proposal.

“We’re already hiring foreign mercenaries, and now you want to invite even more of them? And have them act without any ministerial supervision or control? Are you mad?” An old wizard - Shacklebolt, she noticed - yelled over the murmurs of his colleagues.

Parkinson sniffed and raised his chin. “The foreign wands we hired have served well so far.”

“None of them have served longer than a few weeks,” Shacklebolt retorted. He’d know - one of his relatives was among the top Aurors in the Corps.

Sirius spoke up, using an Amplification Charm to make himself be heard. “And why should the Ministry offer a reward? Traditionally, such bounties were put up by families.” He grinned. “The Blacks certainly did so in the past, as did others.”

Parkinson glared at him. “If the Ministry puts up a bounty, not only does this offer more control over the foreigners’ actions, but the amount will be larger, therefore attracting more skilled wizards and witches.”

Sirius scoffed in return. “If you cannot afford a decent bounty, then I don’t think you need to be afraid of anyone robbing you.”

Parkinson gasped at the implied insult, and Malfoy rose before the man could stammer out a response. “This is not the time to try and belittle your rivals, but the time to stand together against a menace to us all.” Malfoy nodded at Sirius. “Your own home was targeted, and the Aurors drove the thieves off. Would you really leave others bereft of similar help?”

“Aurors and Hit-Wizards, not foreign mercenaries, helped defend my home,” Sirius shot back. “Do you think hired wands driven by greed will respect our laws? They’ll do what they want in order to find the thieves, no matter who gets hurt in the process. If we do this, we will end up with our Aurors spread even thinner since they’ll have to respond to mercenaries harassing our own!”

“If more of our families are ruined, Britain’s social order might collapse,” Rosier cut in. It didn’t look as if the Chief Warlock was bothering with enforcing protocol today. “If that happens, many more will be hurt - and those same greedy foreigners you fear will descend upon all of us!”

Parkinson nodded. “By offering the bounty through the Ministry, we retain control. Anyone who breaks the law will be denied a reward - that will keep them in line!”

More people were nodding, Hermione noticed. She pressed her lips together. Sirius wouldn’t be able to sway the Wizengamot this time. They’d have to deal with mercenaries soon enough. She snorted. Bounty or no bounty, they wouldn’t catch her anyway - but they might complicate matters. And other people might get hurt.

It couldn’t be helped, though. She was tempted to ask Sirius to propose putting up a bounty on Crouch, to put more pressure on that criminal, but Sirius couldn’t reverse his position like that. Not so quickly, at least. And the Chief Warlock was already calling for a vote.

Well, Harry and Ron could do without more interference from idiots. Dawlish trying to take over their cases was already more than enough trouble. And she owed Dawlish payback for his role in Malfoy’s plot, so she had to do something about him anyway. Perhaps frame him for a petty crime - see how he liked it.

No, she was better than that. And she wanted a more fitting revenge. Now, humiliating him and not only getting him removed from the case but also ruining his career, on the other hand...

*****​

London, St Mungo’s, January 3rd, 1999

The hospital was more crowded than usual, Harry Potter noticed when he and Ron arrived in the entrance hall. Of course it would be - it was Sunday. With all the overtime and irregular working hours, as well as the need to keep an eye on Dawlish to deal with any underhanded stuff, he was starting to lose track. Moody would tear him a new one for such a lapse.

Harry would like that, actually. It would mean that their mentor and superior would be back to normal and not in a coma. A coma from which he had just woken up, according to the message they had received.

He cleaned soot from his Auror robes - they had left from the Ministry, where they had been looking for past thefts related to the Dark Arts, and cleaning them after stepping through the Thief’s Downfall set up in the entrance hall was much more difficult - and took a step to the side when the fireplace lit up behind them.

Another red robe stumbled out of the Floo connection - someone Harry recognised. “Wood?”

Auror Wood - cousin of Oliver Wood - turned to face him. Her left arm was stuck to the front of her robes, and there was more dust than soot on her face and in her hair. “Potter? Weasley? What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Moody. He’s supposed to have woken up today,” Harry replied.

“Got a broken arm - a pair of stupid Prussians didn’t want to come quietly after cursing a hag,” she answered his unspoken question. “One clipped me with a Bludgeoning Curse before I stunned him.” She bared her teeth. “I hope I won’t have to take Skele-Gro. Brad said it was a clean break, but he’s no Healer.”

Harry winced in sympathy. Skele-Gro was very painful and even more annoying. “Well, don’t let us hold you up,” he said.

“Although if Moody’s in a bad mood we might join you,” Ron joked. At least, Harry hoped that his friend was joking.

Five minutes later they were on the fourth floor. “I wonder why they didn’t put him there,” Ron said as they were passing the Janus Thickey Ward. “They said he’d be out for months.”

“Probably easier to keep him safe in a private room,” Harry replied. “Or they have some grace period before they officially give up on curing you.”

Ron nodded. The turned the corner and saw Moody’s door - the two Aurors standing guard made it easy to find.

Harry nodded at them. “Mackenzie, Davis.”

They nodded back. “Potter, Weasley.”

“How is he?” Ron asked, looking at the door.

“He’s still twitching, can’t really move and demanding his eye and leg,” Mackenzie said.

Harry patted his pocket. “We’ve got them here - didn’t trust the hospital to keep them safe.”

“Good. Let’s hope that that’ll shut him up.”

Harry, knowing the old Auror very well, didn’t think so, but he smiled and said nothing. That’d teach them to talk like that about Moody.

Harry knocked - three times - then loudly said. “It’s us - Potter and Weasley.”

“Don’t curse!” Ron added.

Mackenzie and Davis laughed. They must have never entered the room when Moody was awake, Harry realised.

As expected, they were staring at the tip of a wand when they opened the door. A wavering tip - Moody really was still twitching. Shaking would be more precise, Harry thought. But he was glaring at them with his one eye. “P-p-o-t-t-er?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded and closed the door behind them, then - slowly and carefully never pointing his wand in Moody’s direction - cast a privacy charm on the door, then turned around with a sigh.

Convincing Moody that they were who they claimed to be and weren’t bespelled would take some time, with Moody unable to properly cast. The hospital wasn't about to move the Thief's Downfall for them - and Moody wouldn't trust it anyway.

*****​

“...and the thieves used the Yule Ball at Greengrass Manor to break into the manor vault and clean it out. The witch posed as Michael Smith’s date and fooled everyone - even Harry,” Ron said.

Harry Potter winced as Moody shakingly turned his head to glare at him.

“Foo-oo-led y-you?” the old Auror managed to say despite the curse still affecting him.

Harry nodded. “Yes. She completely fooled me - told me Smith accosted her and she left him silenced and stuck to a bench in the garden. And I, foolishly, believed her. Until she smirked right before she vanished through the Floo Network.”

“Loo-ong C-Con.”

Harry was glad that, with his speech impaired, Moody didn’t bother wasting any effort on scolding him. And also felt guilty about that. He nodded. “Yes. She conned him into inviting him to the ball weeks ago, as far as we know.” He saw Moody open his mouth again, and quickly added: “Smith was obliviated at the Yule Ball and murdered on the day of the New Year’s Ball. The murderer set it up as if he and a Knockturn Alley witch - Sarah Kohlmeier - killed each other with dark curses. Dawlish thinks the thieves killed them. We think it’s Crouch.”

“P-p-proof?”

“None,” Ron said. “But Smith was collecting dark books and artefacts, including blood magic grimoires. So we assume the worst - that Crouch is behind this.”

And was now in possession of another dark grimoire.

“G-g-g-good,” Moody stammered. “D-d-d-don’t t-t-t-trust a-a-a-ny-o-o-ne.”

Harry pressed his lips together. To see Moody like this, helpless - mostly - and suffering… He wanted to console the man, but he knew that Moody would hate it. At least Moody’s prosthetics were not affected by the lingering dark curse - this time, it was his good eye that was moving erratically.

“So, how long until you’re back on duty?” Ron asked.

Harry glared at his friend but held his tongue. That was rather insensitive. But making an issue out of it would be even worse.

“M-m-m-months,” Moody snapped.

That sounded like two months at the earliest. Better than what Harry had feared and worse than he had hoped. “We’ll keep you informed about the case until then.”

“G-g-guards.”

“There are two guards around you at all times,” Harry said.

“N-n-n-not e-e-enough f-f-f-or C-c-c-crouch!”

He was right, Harry realised. If Crouch wanted Moody dead, he’d probably be able to get into the hospital. It wouldn’t be easy - they knew what tricks he had used in Azkaban, and had improved security accordingly, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate the last Death Eater.

“W-w-w-woke up.”

Harry nodded. Until now, the Healers hadn’t known if Moody would ever wake up again. Crouch wouldn’t have felt the need to risk his life and plans to deal with a comatose Auror. But now… There was only one thing he could do. “We can move you to Grimmauld Place.”

“G-g-good.”

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 3rd, 1999

Hermione Granger was proud of her self-control. Even in the face of disaster, she didn’t lose her composure and start yelling at her stupid friends. No matter how stupid they were. Bringing Mad-Eye Moody into their home? The most paranoid and most experienced Auror? Whose enchanted eye could see through most things? What were they thinking!

She pressed her lips together and clenched her teeth as she glanced at Sirius. He knew what was at stake and could shut this nonsense down!

“We’ll have to find a trustworthy Healer to treat him before we can move him in,” the stupid dog said. She glared at him, but he ignored her.

Harry nodded. “But we can’t take too long - it’s not safe enough at St Mungo’s.”

“What about using him as bait to trap Crouch?” Hermione said. “Wouldn’t that keep him safe as well?” And out of her home.

Harry smiled at her, though he shook his head. “We don’t have the wands to keep an ambush ready around the clock. Even with all the foreigners freeing up Hit-Wizards, we’re still short of competent people.”

“Yeah,” Ron added. “Most Hit-Wizards didn’t make the cut to become Aurors.”

That wasn’t exactly correct, Hermione knew. The requirements for becoming an Auror were stricter and covered more subjects, but the Hit-Wizards were generally more focused on fighting and chose their careers accordingly. Although they also were, on average, less skilled overall. “I don’t think it’s wise to leave our prison in the hands of foreign mercenaries,” she said. They could be bought, after all.

Of course, that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t take advantage of that weakness, should it become necessary. And, speaking of weaknesses… She looked at Harry. “Doesn’t his eye see through walls?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. It has a very powerful enchantment on it.”

“So he will be able to observe the entirety of the house, at all times?” Hermione frowned at him. Didn’t he realise what that meant?

Apparently not. “Yes. He’ll be able to spot any intruders,” Harry said.

She pressed her lips together to keep herself from blurting out her first response. “That includes the bathrooms and bedrooms, I take it?”

Harry’s smile disappeared. “Err… I think so.”

“Perhaps we should look into protecting those areas against his eye,” Hermione said in a flat voice.

“That’s a good idea. We’ll have to find a trustworthy Curse-Breaker, I think,” Sirius said.

And they’d have to move the loot anyway - Hermione didn’t think they could trust Moody to tell them if the enchantments weren’t working against his eye. The paranoid Auror wouldn’t surrender such an advantage.

If only the stupid dog had stood his ground! But he didn’t seem able to deny Harry anything.

Other than the truth about them, of course.

It really was entirely his fault.

*****​

Devon, Ottery St Catchpole, January 4th, 1999

Harry Potter sat on the porch of The Burrow, Warming Charms keeping the cold at bay, as he looked at the frozen pond across the garden. The white snow covering everything - mostly; it was more of a dusting - appeared particularly bright under the full moon. It would make it hard for anyone to sneak up on the house on the ground - it would be almost impossible to hide their tracks, and even low-flying brooms would disturb it.

They had to get through the wards first, anyway, of course, and that was easier said than done. He snorted. He didn’t doubt that the thieves - everyone knew who you meant if you said ‘the thieves’ these days - could sneak through the wards easily since the protections had to cover too much ground thanks to the Quidditch pitch, but the Weasleys were too poor to be one of the thieves’ targets.

Crouch, on the other hand… Fortunately, the Death Eater wasn’t an expert Curse-Breaker, and Bill had spent quite a bit of his visit to the Burrow further improving the wards. Ron’s family was safe.

Steps behind him made him draw his wand before he realised it was Ron. Ron and Luna.

“There you are!” his friend said, taking a seat next to him. “Hiding from the witches?”

“If he is, it’s a poor spot,” Luna added as she sat down in Ron’s lap. “We could see you from the living room.”

“I’m not hiding,” Harry replied. He wasn’t - not really. “I’m just enjoying the fresh air. Much better than London.”

“Ah!” Luna nodded. “That makes sense. The Bubble-Head Charm can only do so much, after all.”

Ron nodded, though his glance told Harry that he didn’t believe him. “Ginny’s not mad at you any more, you know.”

“I know.” It still felt a little awkward. Especially with Hermione now being known as his girlfriend.

“And Hermione isn’t mad at you either,” Ron went on.

“She looked a little angry, though,” Luna cut in, cocking her head in what looked like an attempt to keep both of them in view while still keeping her cheek pressed into Ron’s chest. Which resulted in her looking at Harry upside down. “But at Sirius.”

“Yes.” Harry wasn’t entirely certain what that was about. He had offered to house Moody for the duration of his convalescence without considering what that would mean for their privacy, so if anyone were to blame, it should be him, not Sirius. Well, his godfather had assured him that he’d take care of the issue. He had also assured Harry that a little exhibitionism never hurt anyone, but that wasn’t something Harry wanted to think about.

At the very least, he now knew that telling Hermione about the spells on his glasses would be a bad idea, given her reaction earlier today.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Luna said, still with her head cocked back as far as possible.

“The sky?” Ron asked.

“The moon. That’s the real curse of werewolves, you know.” Luna sighed.

“Hm?”

“They can’t ever enjoy the beauty of a full moon any more.”

Harry thought that werewolves would disagree with that, but it was a beautiful sight. If only...

The sound of more footsteps behind him interrupted his thoughts, and he turned, ignoring Luna’s sound of protest as Ron twisted around to cover their rear, nearly dislodging his girlfriend in the process.

“Hermione!”

She nodded, then rubbed her arms before casting a Warming Charm. Silently, and without the usual wand movements. If only she were as skilled with Shield Charms… Harry forced the thought away and smiled at her. “Joining us?” he asked.

“The fresh air is nice,” she answered, with a smile of her own.

She didn’t sit in his lap, but she sat down next to him, their thighs touching, and leaned into his side as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“Sorry about Moody,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking.” Though he’d do it again anyway - Moody wasn’t safe in St Mungo’s.

“It’s OK,” she answered, resting her head on his shoulder.

For a little while, they enjoyed the view of the snow-covered garden in silence.

Until Luna spotted what she claimed was a Snow Nargle. The chase lasted ten minutes and utterly wrecked the scenery.

*****​

 

Chapter 57: Muddled Waters

Staffordshire, Stafford, Doxey Marshes, January 10th, 1999

Oliver Spears smiled as he walked along the snow-covered field. The sun was barely up, and few people would be out and about, fewer still braving the cold of the marshes. It was perfect for bird watching. He had already spotted a goosander and a great crested grebe, but he hadn’t yet seen the little egret that lived in the small creek near the old willow.

Movement on the water caught his eye, and he quickly brought his binoculars up. Perhaps… no, it wasn’t the beautiful bird, just a piece of ice that was floating downstream - must have broken off.

And it wasn’t the only piece of ice - lots of broken ice was floating down the creek. He frowned. That was unusual. Had a cow tried to cross the frozen pond from which the creek sprang? They usually knew better.

His eyes widened. What if another birdwatcher had fallen into the pond? He hadn’t heard anything, but… He quickened his steps and climbed the low hill ahead until he could see the pond.

He was breathing heavily as he raised his binoculars once more - he wasn’t growing any younger, after all, and his early morning walks were a little too leisurely to do much for his endurance, even though he took them much more often since his retirement - but he had been correct: There was a man in the pond! But he was standing in the water and didn’t seem to be in any danger of drowning. His mode of dress, though…

Oliver pressed his lips together. He wasn’t one to judge others - more than one acquaintance had called him ‘eccentric’ for wearing his beloved Alaskan fur hat on his excursions from autumn to spring - but he didn’t think colourful bathrobes were proper garments for leaving your home. If the man down there was confused, he might require help getting back to his home. Which, Oliver thought with a guilty feeling, might have orderlies searching for him already.

It took him ten minutes to reach the pond - he didn’t want to risk slipping and falling; his old bones were not as sturdy as they once were - and the man hadn’t moved out of the pond despite the cold - he had even been bending down, as if he were searching something in the icy water. He definitely needed help.

Once he was close enough to be heard without shouting, Oliver cleared his throat. “Hello?”

The man turned around, the ball on his stocking cap whipping up and down as he straightened, and Oliver realised that what he had taken for a white scarf from afar was actually his hair. Up close, the man’s robe looked even worse - a soaked through patchwork of bright, clashing colours.

That he was standing in freezing water while wearing wet, heavy clothes didn’t seem to affect the man’s mood. “Good morning!” He returned Oliver’s greeting with a broad smile. “How may I help you?”

Oliver blinked. He wasn’t the one in need of help - he was sensibly dressed and staying out of the pond. He cleared his throat. “Ah, I was wondering what you are doing here.”

“Ah!” The man’s smile never wavered. “I’m looking for abnormal heat sources.”

“Abnormal heat sources?” Oliver repeated. What?

The man nodded several times, his stocking cap whipping around. “Yes. You see, I noticed that the mosquitoes are breeding - there are lots of eggs in the water - and they usually only do that in spring, when the weather’s warmer.”

“You found mosquito eggs in the water?” Oliver couldn’t quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“Yes. I was looking for an exotic bird in the area when I noticed mosquitoes laying eggs in the water.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a vial. “See? Culex pipiens!”

Oliver took a step closer, carefully avoiding getting too close to the pond or the man, and peered at the vial. The insects inside were house mosquitoes, as far as he could tell. And active. He looked at the man. “You caught those outside?”

“In the marshes!” the man replied. He pulled out another vial. “Here are samples of their eggs. Freshly laid.”

Oliver couldn’t tell mosquito eggs from other insect eggs, but he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt. “I see.” He nodded. “Pardon my manners - Oliver Spears.”

“Xenophilus Lovegood. Pleased to meet you.”

Oliver pointed at the pond. “But if there were hot springs, wouldn’t the water be warmer?”

“Ah.” Lovegood rubbed his chin. “If they expired, the water would grow colder again, wouldn’t it?”

“A localised heat source? Did someone dump something in the pond?” With the marshes being part of Stafford, a few uncouth people used them for dumping their trash, but a working heater, or something that gave off heat… Oliver blinked. “Culex pipiens, you said, right?”

“Yes.”

As a passionate bird watcher, Oliver knew about the various food sources for his ‘prey’. “Their diapause is actually regulated by the daylight cycle, not the temperature.”

“Oh.” Lovegood blinked. “That would be harder to change, wouldn’t it?”

Oliver laughed. “I would say so, indeed. Although…” He frowned. “You might be able to manage it with lamps.” Perhaps - he didn’t know. “But such bright lights would be noticed.” Obnoxious people like Mrs Baker-Bradbury from across the street would have pestered him about it as if he owned the marshes. The old biddy should lock up her cats to keep them from killing innocent birds instead of bothering him with whatever nonsense caught her fancy.

“Hm. That wouldn’t be too hard, I think,” Lovegood said. He was holding a wooden stick in his hand, Oliver noticed, and prodded the vial with it. “But perhaps the solution is simpler. Perhaps the mosquitoes have been… treated with something.”

“Pardon?” Oliver shook his head. “Treated? Like with a pesticide?”

“Ah… yes?”

He frowned. “But the mosquitoes wouldn’t survive in the cold. And neither would their eggs. And that would mean starving birds in spring and summer!” At least those who depended on insects as their main source of food. Who could conceive of such an atrocity?

“You mean this might be an attempt to kill birds?” Lovegood looked as aghast as Oliver felt.

“Not directly, I think,” Oliver replied. “But someone might have attempted to eradicate mosquitoes without considering the effects on the ecology. Short-sighted fools!” Mosquitoes weren’t that bad, as long as you didn’t live too close to water. In Britain, at least.

“I see.” Lovegood nodded firmly. “This is important; people need to know about this!”

“I fully agree,” Oliver said, nodding. “I shall write a letter to The Times. And I’ll inform the Staffordshire Wildlife Trust; they will know how to react to this.”

They nodded at each other and parted ways. Oliver didn’t realise that he had completely forgotten to ask about Lovegood’s garments and residence until he had returned home. Although in hindsight, it was obvious that Lovegood was not a confused man in need of assistance, but merely another, slightly more eccentric, naturalist.

A kindred spirit.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 11th, 1999

Hermione Granger stepped out of the fireplace with a slight stumble and followed Sirius to the Thief’s Downfall, walking, as usual when they were in the Ministry, one step behind him - appearances had to be upheld, after all, especially in politics. And it helped her cover if she was seen as an eager, though slightly clumsy, muggleborn - not a graceful witch who moved like a pureblood through the Floo Network. Even though she loathed the act - to be seen stumbling while a dog didn’t…

She sniffed as Sirius walked through the archway and let the liquid wash over him. The two guards - one Hit-Wizard and one mercenary; the robes didn’t quite match - were more attentive than she had thought - at least the mercenary with the beard was; the Hit-Wizard seemed more relaxed. She glanced at their faces to memorise them - just in case she ever encountered them during a heist. It paid to know which guards were more attentive than most.

And, in her role as Sirius’s secretary, she could unobtrusively study a reasonable number of guards in the Ministry as she came and went.

They waved at her, so she stepped forward, closing her eyes just before the liquid hit her face. She resisted the urge to shake her head as soon as she had passed the magical waterfall no matter how much she wanted to - that would be going a little too far in maintaining her cover. Instead, she calmly dried herself with a quick charm.

“They should really enchant the liquid so that it evaporates without needing a charm,” she complained to Sirius as she joined him.

“It actually does - just not quickly enough for some people,” he replied with a smirk.

“Water evaporates as well, given enough time,” she retorted with a huff.

“See, a little bit of patience is all you need.” He chuckled and turned towards the lift.

She refrained from rolling her eyes as she followed him across the Atrium. Two more guards stood at the stairway. That wasn’t much of a presence for a Monday morning during which a session of the Wizengamot would be taking place. If she were in charge of the Ministry’s security, she’d have a couple pose as visitors - but she had a feeling that the Minister would prefer more visible security, to reassure and impress the Wizengamot. Had Bones overruled him, or were the Aurors and Hit-Wizards stretched too thin already? If they were using mercenaries in the Atrium, handling the visitors, the latter sounded more likely, but that could have been merely an oversight.

Hermione could find out, of course - she could obtain the entire guard schedule. Sirius could act concerned about the Ministry’s security and demand the information - but that might draw too much attention. She really didn’t want anyone in the Auror Corps to associate them with inspecting the Ministry’s security. That might cause someone to suspect her, should her next heist be discovered.

As they were approaching the lift, she noticed an Auror watching them from the stairs. Dawlish. She almost snarled when she recognised him - that idiot had not only thought that she was a thief when Malfoy framed her, he had also been convinced that she was a dark witch who’d attacked Harry. And he was meddling with Harry’s case to cover up his own mistakes.

But why was he standing there, on the stairway, watching the Atrium? Had Bones punished him with guard duty? That seemed unlikely - Scrimgeour had, after all, let him keep investigating the heists despite his blunder.

She kept her face expressionless, of course. It wouldn’t do to let Dawlish know she had noticed him. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether he might be there for her. First the way he’d acted when he visited Grimmauld Place to watch Harry’s memories and now this… did he suspect her?

That would complicate matters. Dawlish was an idiot, but it would be harder to provide an alibi if he planned to keep her under observation - no matter how clumsily it was done.

Perhaps something needed to be done about him.

But they had other things to worry about right now. Like relocating their loot.

*****​

London, Greenwich, January 12th, 1999

“That’s our new secret base?”

Hermione Granger rolled her eyes at the dog’s complaint. “That’s where we’ll be storing part of our loot,” she corrected him. They’d leave the stolen gold at Grimmauld Place with the rest of the Black Fortune. Whether they would also be planning their heists in the muggle building here remained to be seen - she would prefer to do the planning in Mr Fletcher’s flat. That would also help with keeping him more involved.

He snorted. “It looks rather shabby for the gold I paid.”

“That’s the point - no one will suspect anything,” she explained. And Harry didn’t know about this building, so he wouldn’t be able to invite over old Aurors with enchanted eyes to recover from dark curses - she still wasn’t certain she wouldn’t one day find Moody sunning himself by the pool in their vacation home. “And spells will keep out any muggle who tries to break in, anyway.” With a frown, she added: “And it would have been far less expensive if we didn’t have to rush this thanks to you inviting the most paranoid Auror into our home.”

He frowned at her as if it were her fault and not his. “Weak wards,” he commented.

“They’ll be strong enough,” she retorted - she wasn’t a specialist, and neither was Mr Fletcher, but they could put up decent wards. Mr Fletcher had started already, and she’d help out as soon as she had the time. “And they’ll only cover the basement anyway - secrecy will be the building’s best defence.” She scoffed. “Now get moving. We need to finish this before Harry returns from work.”

And they’d need to find a Healer they could trust as well.

She shook her head as she entered the old house. So much trouble just because the Aurors couldn’t even be trusted to protect their own!

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 12th, 1999

Hermione Granger stared at the plans on the table in the basement - a conjured table, of course - the furniture left in the room wasn’t exactly meant to be used for planning. It was also slightly distracting, at least for people with an imagination, like her, but Mr Fletcher had refused to offer his flat for their planning. Although they had planned other heists and missions in his flat before, Hermione couldn’t fault him for that - it was his home, after all, and would have been put at risk by doing so, even if she didn’t think the risk would be particularly great.

But it meant that they’d have to find a new base, or lair, after this - despite her expectations, Harry had already found a Healer acceptable to Moody. Of course, looking up old friends of the Auror whom Moody didn’t completely distrust had greatly expedited that task.

And had forced her to accelerate her own plans. It was quite ironic how Harry managed to disturb the next heist without meaning to. Which meant they couldn’t afford more meddling by Dawlish.

But the heist came first. She pointed at the plan in front of her. “I’ll sneak in through the tunnel, as before. That puts me close to the second floor of the Atrium. From there, I have several ways to reach both the Floo Network Authority and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Mr Fletcher grunted. “Doing both in one night is pushing it. I don’t like it.”

“It’s less dangerous than pulling two separate heists,” Hermione replied. “I would need to find two alibis, and then another for the actual Parkinson heist.” She glanced at the dog; if Harry were aware of their secret, this wouldn’t be necessary.

The dog, though, shrugged with a wide smile. “It’ll be alright - it’s not as if the Ministry’s well-guarded once you’re inside. Wouldn’t want to bother the important people working late,” he added. “Or those having ‘workplace affairs’.” He winked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Not for the first time, she cursed whoever had introduced him to those muggle magazines.

“That won’t let her stroll around safely,” Mr Fletcher retorted. “With Crouch still at large, they’ll step up security at night as well.”

“We don’t know that,” Sirius pointed out.

“We can find that out if we work late at the Ministry this week,” Hermione cut in.

“I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” Sirius objected.

“You haven’t stayed at the Ministry longer than you had to,” Mr Fletcher told him. “You have always worked at home whenever possible. If you start changing that, people will notice.”

“I could leave my secretary there to search the archives or something like that,” Sirius replied.

“That’ll get her noticed,” Mr Fletcher countered.

“I’ll take that risk,” Hermione said quickly. “Doing it once won’t raise too much suspicion.”

“Dawlish already suspects you,” her mentor retorted.

She pressed her lips together. “We might need to do something about him. Discredit him somehow. If he fixates on me, it’ll be harder to pull off a heist.” And she owed him a debt of vengeance.

“We’ll stay in France more often,” Sirius said. “Dawlish can’t do anything there. Other than standing in front of our door and being ignored. The French certainly won’t lift a wand to help him in any way.”

“That won’t make us look less suspicious,” Hermione pointed out. “Quite the contrary, in fact. And if Harry starts to suspect us…” She trailed off as she narrowed her eyes at Sirius.

“He’s harassing Harry as well,” Sirius pointed out. “I don’t think Harry will believe him.”

“Harry’s not an idiot,” Hermione said, a little hotly. “We won’t be able to fool him forever.”

“We just have to fool him for two more heists,” Sirius said. “And he’s hunting Crouch, not us.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She hadn’t agreed to stop doing heists. She hadn’t decided to continue her career, either, of course. But it was her decision, not Sirius’s. “But since our main targets are also targets for Crouch - especially Malfoy - the likelihood of Harry being involved in our heists is very high.”

“Dawlish is already on shaky ground,” Sirius replied. “After he fails to catch us at our next heist, he’ll be removed from the case.”

“That might not stop him,” Hermione muttered. And he deserved worse.

“Wouldn’t be the first time a disgraced Auror pursued a case on his own,” Mr Fletcher added.

Jeanne looked like she had an idea about dealing with that, but she didn’t say anything. Hermione assumed that that meant she would prefer to deal with Dawlish in a more violent fashion - her friend was French, after all.

Sirius waved his hand, dismissing the argument. “It would be the first time a disgraced Auror dared to harass a member of the Wizengamot. There are few things on which my esteemed colleagues agree, but that we can’t let some disgruntled Auror bother us is one of them.”

He did have a point, Hermione had to admit. “But simply failing to catch us might not be enough to get him removed from the case. We might need to do more than that.”

“As long as you don’t plan to announce the heist in advance,” Mr Fletcher said with a chuckle. The dog and even Jeanne joined him.

Hermione glared at them. She had been thirteen when she had had that idea! She cleared her throat. “I thought something humiliating would be best,” she said with great dignity. Something worse than unknowingly escorting her to the Floo connection, as Harry had done. “And I have a few ideas…”

*****​

There was a rock on top of Mr Biggles’s habitat, Harry Potter noticed as he entered his room to change before dinner. And a few more rocks lay on the floor. He moved closer. The lid wasn’t even scratched - it took more than that to break the reinforced glass. But who would do this? He looked at the snake lying directly beneath the lamp. “What happened?”

“Huh?” Mr Biggles looked up. “Oh, you’re back.”

Harry pointed at the rock above the snake. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Did the rock simply appear there?”

“No. But it did nothing to my home.”

“And how did the rock get there?” Harry asked, controlling his temper. Snakes, even when they could talk, weren’t the brightest animals.

“The owl dropped it. It and the others.”

“Hedwig?” Harry blinked. “She dropped rocks on your terrarium?”

“Yes. Stupid, isn’t it?”

Harry wasn’t quite so sure. If the ceiling had been higher… “I shouldn’t have let her watch those nature documentaries,” he muttered. “The things she picks up…” Sometimes his owl was a little too clever.

“What did you say? I only heard the gibberish you humans sprout at each other,” the little snake complained.

“Nothing,” Harry answered.

“Ah.” Mr Biggles seemed to accept that answer and squirmed a little to reposition himself under the warm lamp.

“Was Crookshanks around?” Harry asked.

“The fat cat? No. Probably didn’t want to get hit by rocks.”

Harry shook his head. At least Crookshanks hadn’t been involved in this attempt on Mr Biggles’s life - Hermione was far too protective of the fat little monster.

Although Harry wasn’t looking forward to explaining to Hedwig that she wasn’t allowed to eat the snake and shouldn’t be jealous. Again.

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 12th, 1999

Harry Potter blinked as he entered the kitchen for breakfast and noticed that there was an issue of The Quibbler next to the Daily Prophet. That was late for the January issue - although he couldn’t remember if, with the holidays, that was normal for The Quibbler. He sat down and filled his cup with fresh tea, then glanced at the Prophet as he reached for some croissants. The front page wasn’t very interesting - another ‘in-depth article’ about the danger the ‘Manor Thieves’ posed to wizarding society which just regurgitated the last few articles about the criminals. An article about the poor victims of the thieves, which was a thinly-veiled attempt to ensure everyone knew that they had been ruined. At least, that was his impression.

He folded the newspaper and dropped it on the table before taking another sip from his cup and spreading some butter on his croissant. Kreacher, of course, huffed - the elf still wasn’t overly fond of foreign, especially French, cuisine - but Harry didn’t feel like eating a scone right now.

Sirius entered, yawned and then blinked. “Where’s Ron?”

“He stayed the night at Luna’s,” Harry answered.

“Ah!” Sirius filled his own teacup. “Good sense of priorities!” He nodded at his own words. “Hermione’s still asleep I take it?”

Harry sighed. “You know her.” His girlfriend - even though she still claimed they weren’t in a serious relationship - loved to sleep in. And hated to be woken up by Harry getting up. Though she did look rather cute when she hissed at him while half-awake.

“Not as well as you do,” Sirius replied with a chuckle.

Harry huffed. “We’ll be moving Moody here this afternoon,” he said.

“That healer checked out then?”

Harry nodded. “To Moody’s satisfaction.”

“Did he make him take Veritaserum?” Sirius asked.

“It’s an effective way to vet someone,” Harry answered. “And it’s not illegal if taken voluntarily.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sirius shook his head. “He’s not going to try and make us take Veritaserum, is he?”

“No. He trusts Ron and me.” Because they could have killed him in the hospital and hadn’t. Harry knew that Moody would have liked to use Veritaserum on Sirius and the others. But the Auror knew how Sirius would react to that proposal. And Grimmauld Place was much safer for him than St Mungo’s even without such assurances.

Sirius snorted. “We fought together in the Order, and he doesn’t trust us?”

“Constant vigilance.” Harry grinned.

“He’ll never change.” Sirius shook his head and grabbed The Quibbler. “And neither will Lovegood,” he added, holding the magazine up and pointing at the cover. “‘Conspiracy against birds’?”

“What?” Harry blinked.

Sirius opened the magazine and skimmed the article. “He claims he’s discovered a dark conspiracy to starve the birds of England by exterminating mosquitoes. Dark curses are used to make the mosquitoes come out of… diapause?”

Harry shrugged. “Never heard that word.” Hermione would probably know, but she was sleeping in, as usual.

Sirius grunted and read on. “Ah, it’s like hibernation.” He shook his head. “Lovegood thinks that a dark wizard is behind it and asks for the Auror Corps to investigate. Apparently, the extinction of Jobberknolls will deprive us of Veritaserum, therefore preventing the Aurors from exposing the dark wizard behind the plot.”

“I’ll ask Ron to investigate.” Harry regretted his joke almost at once - others, like Nott, might heckle Ron over this and make fun of Luna. And that wouldn’t end well.

“He has probably investigated it already, since it’s written by Luna’s father,” Sirius replied.

Harry pressed his lips together. Ron was taking The Quibbler a little too seriously these days. He focused on buttering his next croissant.

“Oh!” Sirius laughed out loud. “The Quibbler also has a new name for your favourite thieves! And has revealed the secret of their success!”

“What?” Harry looked at his godfather. “The secret of their success?”

Sirius nodded. “The thieves have discovered a way to duplicate the powers of Nargles. They can become invisible, fly and cause confusion among their victims and enemies.” He shook his head and laughed even louder. “And that’s why the so-called ‘Manor Thieves’ should be more correctly named ‘Night Nargles’ according to The Quibbler. Hermione will love it!”

Sirius’s tone told Harry that Hermione would loathe it. “I didn’t think she felt so strongly about The Quibbler’s theories,” he commented. At least, not in his experience.

“Oh, I don’t think she does. But ‘Night Nargles’? Can you imagine her using that name when talking about the thieves?”

“No, but she won’t have to,” Harry said.

“Well, I love the name!”

Harry sighed. He just knew this wouldn’t end well.

*****​

Hermione Granger clenched her teeth. ‘Night Nargles’! Who would come up with such a silly name? She had told them they needed a better name, hadn’t she? But no, her choices hadn’t been good enough, and her plan of leaving calling cards had been vetoed, and now they were stuck with either ‘Manor Thieves’ or ‘Night Nargles’! Bland or silly.

She glanced at the stupid dog next to her. She knew which name he preferred, of course.

As if he had read her thoughts, he turned to her and beamed. “Smile, Hermione - we wouldn’t want Moody to suspect that you’re not happy to harbour a hero while he recovers from wounds taken while fighting Death Eaters!”

“He’s not here yet,” she pointed out. And she could play the role of friendly hostess perfectly well. Not that it was her role, anyway. Jeanne was the lady of the house.

“He’ll be here any minute,” Sirius said. “With Healer Corner, Harry and Ron.”

Another intruder who would frequent her home every day. She huffed. “We should have bought a muggle house for him.”

“That was never an option,” Sirius told her. “Not for Moody. He would have been helpless without guards, even with strong wards - and he wouldn’t trust most people to guard him, anyway.”

She huffed again. Which meant Harry and Ron would have had to guard the paranoid Auror. Which was impossible, seeing as they were needed at the Ministry. Even though it would have solved the issue of Harry being caught up in their heists.

This was turning into a dreadful day, she thought before she plastered a smile on her face when the fireplace lit up, and four people stepped out of the green flames. Or, to be more precise, Harry, Ron and the Healer stepped out while Moody fell through and had to be caught by the others.

The old Auror muttered colourful curses, stumbling and shaking as he tried to stand without help, and Hermione felt guilty at seeing how badly he was still doing. He had, after all, been cursed fighting Death Eaters who wanted to kill her and her family and friends.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Sirius said, smiling widely as he approached the old wizard propping up Moody. “You must be Healer Corner.”

“Of course he is,” Moody snapped. “We wouldn’t bring an unknown wizard with us. Frederick, this is Sirius Black, his wife Jeanne and his secretary, Hermione Granger. Everyone - this is Frederick Corner. Good Healer.”

“Welcome to our ’ome,” Jeanne said.

“Can you do your polite chit-chat after you’ve dumped me in my room?” Moody growled. “Hearing any more useless platitudes about my curse makes me vomit.”

Faced with such rudeness in her own home, Hermione’s guilt quickly vanished.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 15th, 1999

“Let’s take a break,” Harry Potter said, standing up. “With Bathilda, I mean.” They hadn’t taken any breaks with her this week yet. It wouldn’t have been fair to drag their problems with Macmillan and the other idiots into her break. But the heckling had grown less throughout the week, and so it should be OK now.

Ron looked up from the old reports he was reading - dating back to the Blood War - and frowned. “Alright.” He stood and stretched. “This is pretty pointless anyway. It’s not as if the Aurors back then had any clue about Crouch being a Death Eater nor did they find any of the Lestranges’ hideouts.”

“It’s not as if we have anything else to do,” Harry replied. “If you prefer, we can swap, and you can sift through those records of Crouch Sr we were able to find.”

“No, thanks,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Any luck with finding a suspicious gap in the records? Or some missing gold?”

Harry scoffed. “If I had, I’d have told you. Crouch either didn’t plunder his father’s estate or was too careful in erasing his traces. I haven’t checked every record yet, though.”

Ron grunted. “We’ll still have to check all the properties. He could be running a double-bluff.”

“Too dangerous,” Harry retorted as they stepped out of their office. “Not his style.” They would have to check the properties anyway, of course, just to cover all the bases.

“He might have changed - losing the Lestranges might have affected him.”

Harry shook his head. “He was fine for over a decade without them. I don’t think losing them changed him. He was a fanatical follower of Voldemort, and even after the Dark Lord’s death he hasn’t acted recklessly.”

“Attacking Azkaban and Gringotts seems pretty reckless to me.” Ron shrugged as they passed the notice board - there was nothing new on it.

“He had careful plans for these attacks,” Harry said. An Auror sneered at him, but he ignored her. Things were slowly improving, but they were far from fine yet.

“Not that careful, though.”

They were still arguing back and forth as they entered the break room. Bathilda and Nott were already there.

“Good Morning, Bathilda,” Harry greeted her. “Nott.”

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Ron.” Bathilda smiled, but it looked a little forced to Harry.

“Potter. Weasley. Not hunting Nargles?” Nott, on the other hand, was smirking.

A glance told Harry that Ron was already clenching his teeth. Harry quickly scoffed. “Really? You’ve been waiting days to use that? That would have been pathetic even for Malfoy.” He shook his head. Nott drew a breath through his bared teeth, as expected, but Harry continued before the other Auror could respond. “Are you really going to ruin our first break this week with your childish insults?”

“Theo, don’t,” Bathilda said. “I’m not in the mood to listen to you bicker.”

Harry smiled as Nott gritted his teeth - the idiot should have learned that long ago. Although Bathilda didn’t look as cheerful as she usually did.

“Dawlish making you do too much work again?” Harry asked her as Ron handed him a cup.

“Ah…” She bit her lower lip, then took a deep breath and shook her head. “No, no.”

“You look a little stressed,” Ron added.

“She’s been like this the whole week,” Nott cut in, glaring at them.

Harry glared back - as if they would have made things better for Bathilda if they had ruined her breaks by dealing with idiots harassing them.

“I’m alright.”

“No, you aren’t,” Ron said.

“I told her that already.” Nott wasn’t letting this go, as if this were a competition.

“It’s nothing,” Bathilda said. “Really.” She smiled, though it still looked forced to Harry. “So, how are you doing?”

“Digging through old records and reports,” Harry said, with an overly dramatic sigh. He wasn’t about to push her during their break.

“And then we have to check out old buildings and properties,” Ron added. “Boring.”

“Reading old reports isn’t boring,” Nott spat. “It’s important.”

“For an archivist, perhaps,” Ron retorted. “But we’re trying to catch a dangerous Death Eater, not a twenty-year-old grammar mistake.”

Harry sighed as the bickering started again.

*****​

An hour later, Harry Potter knocked on the open door to Bathilda’s office - Dawlish was in a meeting with Scrimgeour. “Hey,” he said when she looked up.

“Harry?” She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to invite you to have lunch with Ron and me - in muggle London,” he said.

He watched as she smiled, then frowned. “Oh… I can’t, sorry. I’m too busy today for an extended lunch.”

He made a point of looking at her desk, which was not as thickly covered in parchment as usual for her, then at her.

She blushed slightly and pressed her lips together. He waited. He didn’t even raise his brows - not much, at least. He merely looked at her. He knew her, after all.

She didn’t last a minute. “John’s always asking me what you and Ron are doing,” she said, looking at her desk. “He hasn’t told me what he’s working on, he just has me fetching reports from the archive. About the battle with the Dark Lord, mainly.” She looked up and added in a low voice: “I don’t know what the problem is between you, but I don’t want to be dragged into it.” She shook her head. “And if I have lunch with you, John’ll expect me to tell him all about it.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Harry said.

That earned him a glare. “I’m not going to hide things from him! He’s my partner!”

He held up his hands. “Sorry, you’re right. I should have known better.”

She huffed, but her frown faded. “Yes, you should.”

Harry let her vent a little more before leaving. She needed it, in his opinion - she was too nice for her own good.

But he was frowning when he walked back to his and Ron’s office. Dawlish was even worse than he had expected. Did he really want their case that badly?

And how much further would he go?

*****​

London, No 12 Grimmauld Place, January 15th, 1999

“...and Dawlish seems more interested in what we’re doing than in actually catching the thieves.” Harry Potter shook his head as he finished his ‘report’ to Moody and leaned back on the conjured chair next to the old Auror’s bed.

“He’s trying to get Bathilda to spy on us, the bloody git!” Ron added. “Just because we made him look bad.” Harry’s friend was standing, but he wasn’t pacing any more.

“We’ve been keeping tabs on his investigation,” Harry admitted, “but just to avoid repeating what he’s already done.”

“Or fixing what he’s bungled.” Ron scoffed. “I doubt he could find a lead if it were burned on to his arse.”

Moody grunted. “N-n-not so d-d-d-dumb.”

“Dawlish?” Harry asked, frowning.

Moody nodded - Harry had quickly learned to tell that gesture from his usual trembling. He still had to be stuck to the bed, or he might fall out of it if he had one of his ‘lapses’, as Corner called them.

“He thought Hermione had cursed Harry back in 1995.” Ron shook his head. “The man’s barmy.”

“T-t-trust no-o-one.”

Ron scoffed again, but Harry slowly nodded. “Suspecting her is one thing - though trusting Malfoy and Skeeter isn’t exactly smart - but spying on us? Does he think we’re the thieves?”

Ron laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“C-c-c-could f-f-f-frame y-you.”

Harry didn’t quite gasp, but he drew a sharp breath. “You think he could try to frame us? Is he crazy?”

“It wouldn’t work,” Ron said. “How could he fake any proof that Scrimgeour or Bones would take seriously?”

“I-i-i-ins-s-s-side j-j-job.”

This time, Harry gasped. “Do you think he is one of them?”

“Merlin’s arse!”

“P-p-p-possib-b-ble. C-c-c-constant v-v-vig-g-gilance!”

Harry muttered a curse under his breath. If Dawlish were one of the thieves, then he could plant stolen loot on them - it wouldn’t be enough proof for a conviction, but there would be suspicions, and it would make Ron and Harry look like fools again for letting the thieves plant loot on them. “He might be trying to throw suspicion on us, away from himself. And that way, we wouldn’t get the case once he’s relieved for incompetence.” Or because he sabotaged it deliberately.

“Meaning, someone else gets it,” Ron added.

And unless Shacklebolt and Tonks could be spared from their regular duties, whoever replaced Dawlish wouldn’t be that skilled. Especially if Bathilda were fired together with Dawlish. “No wonder he’s hiding things from her!” Harry exclaimed. “Bathilda, I mean. He might be setting her up as a scapegoat, too.”

“Bloody hell!” Ron gritted his teeth. “The thieves have stolen so much, he wouldn’t need a big cut to be set for life, even if he only warned them of our plans.”

“If he set me up with the witch…” Harry pressed his lips together. The thought made him almost as angry as the idea that Dawlish, of all people, could have managed to fool them so thoroughly. He shook his head. They had no proof that this was true. Not yet.

“But he might just be a typical rotten Ministry employee more concerned with his career than doing his job,” Ron said. “I’ve heard stories from Dad and Percy - he wouldn’t be the first to go that far.”

“But we can’t assume that. If he is working with the thieves, we have to stop him. That means we have to investigate him. And without him noticing.” Harry sighed. “And without Bathilda noticing.”

“You don’t think that she’s one of the thieves as well, do you?” Ron asked, staring at him.

“D-d-don’t t-t-t-trust a-a-any-o-one.” Moody stammered.

“No, I don’t think so.” Harry couldn’t see the earnest witch as a thief, much less as the brazen witch who had played him for a fool. She would have had to keep the act up for years, starting at Hogwarts. “But she might reveal us to Dawlish, even if she doesn’t want to - she’s not the best liar.”

Ron nodded. “And she doesn’t deserve more stress.”

Harry blinked as he had another thought. “He doesn’t have to be a thief - he could also be working for Malfoy, trying to find leverage on us. Or trying to fabricate some.”

“Possible. Doesn’t change the fact that we need to investigate him,” Ron said. “Something’s wrong there.”

“G-g-g-good th-th-thinking!”

Moody’s smile hadn’t been improved by the lingering curse. On the contrary. But it still made Harry feel better. Their old mentor was helping them again.

*****​

Harry looked rather distracted, Hermione Granger noticed during dinner. Ron as well. Or rather, they looked preoccupied with something. She studied them during the main course - entrecôte Café de Paris. First very subtly, then increasingly obviously, until she was openly staring at Harry and he finally noticed.

“Hermione? Is something wrong?”

“That would be my question,” she replied with a frown. She nodded at Ron. “Both of you have been absent-minded during dinner. What’s on your mind?” She pressed her lips together. She didn’t like prying, but she liked worrying about him and Ron even less. And they had a weekend planned in France, too.

“Ah…” Harry trailed off, which was a very bad sign.

She narrowed her eyes at him. Sirius, who had been talking about baby names with Jeanne, was paying attention as well.

Harry sighed. “We didn’t want to ruin dinner.”

“With what?” Hermione snapped through clenched teeth. She could almost feel her hackles rising. Or would, had she been in her cat form.

“You know that Dawlish is spying on us, right?” Harry asked.

“You told us that, yes.”

“He wanted to make Bathilda spy on us as well,” Harry said. “We discussed it with Moody, and we think there’s more to this than just Dawlish trying to steal our case.”

“Or save his assignment,” Ron added.

“What?” Hermione frowned.

“It’s possible that he’s one of the thieves,” Harry said with a serious expression.

“What?” Hermione gaped at him. That bumbling idiot who had helped ruin her life - had helped the attempt to do so, at least - a member of her group? A thief? That oaf?

Sirius snorted. “Dawlish part of the Night Nargles? Be serious!”

Hermione shot him a glare. That wasn’t the name of their group! And he was one to talk about being serious!

“We are,” Harry said with a wry smile. “What if he’s just playing the fool? Moody said he wasn’t dumb, and he is one of the most experienced Aurors.”

“He’d be in the perfect position to sabotage the investigation,” Ron added. “He knows all our plans, he gives the orders to the Aurors on site, he can get rid of any traces they leave, overlook any leads and misdirect our efforts.”

Hermione had to refrain from glaring at her friend. They didn’t leave any traces during their heists! And there were certainly no leads! They were professional thieves. Well, Mr Fletcher and herself. Jeanne and Sirius were amateurs at best. Enthusiastic ones.

“He might have sicced the witch on me,” Harry growled. “To make me look bad and prevent us from taking over the investigation when his bungling gets him removed.”

The dog snickered. When both boys looked at him, he shook his head. “I think that’s a little far-fetched. You weren’t supposed to be in the hallway where you met her, were you?”

“He probably told her to embarrass me should an opportunity present itself,” Harry retorted.

“That presumes that he isn’t just one of the thieves, but actually in charge of them,” Hermione pointed out. “That seems unlikely.” Impossible would be more precise!

“He might have just made suggestions,” Ron said. “But the important thing is that if he’s one of the thieves, he could plant stolen loot on us to divert attention and suspicion away from himself.”

That idiot couldn’t do that! Hermione hissed through clenched teeth before she reminded herself that Dawlish wouldn’t be doing that because he wasn’t part of their group.

Harry must have misinterpreted her expression. “Don’t worry!” he said quickly, “We can prove our innocence - if need be with Veritaserum. But having the thieves plant stolen loot on us would be embarrassing, and probably keep us from taking over the investigation.”

“Ah.” Hermione nodded. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, actually. She bit her lower lip at the selfish thought - Harry and Ron didn’t deserve to suffer like that. “Do you really think he’s a thief, though?”

Harry shrugged. “He might merely be trying to sabotage us to save or advance his own career. But we have to assume the worst.”

“And I don’t fancy getting sabotaged for his career, either,” Ron added with a toothy grin. “Plus, his stupid plotting is hurting Bathilda.”

Harry nodded at that, Hermione noted with disapproval. That was Dawlish’s fault, too!

“So, what are you doing about this?” Sirius asked.

“We’ll investigate him. Carefully, of course,” Harry said. “If he’s one of the thieves, we’ll find out.”

“He wouldn’t have stolen loot himself, would he?” Sirius asked. He was glancing at her, Hermione noted. She knew what he meant.

“That would be very unlikely,” she said. “He would be aware of how stolen goods can be traced.” She wasn’t about to plant stolen loot on Dawlish, no matter how fitting that would be. It would point the man at Harry and Ron - and at her.

But she wanted to do something about the idiot more than ever.

*****​

London, Greenwich, January 17th, 1999

Hermione Granger checked herself with the help of a conjured wall mirror. Her suit, boots and gloves were perfect. No tears, no stains, no specks of dust on any of them. Her hair was covered by her wig - she’d leave no traces, no strands of hair. Nothing a bumbling fool like Dawlish would need to vanish. She frowned at the thought of needing such help and picked up her mask. A quick Polishing Charm later, she checked the spells on it. It wouldn’t do to suddenly be forced to cast and recast all her spells. But everything was fine. And she looked fine as well. Very fine.

“Are you nervous or vain? You’ve been watching yourself in the mirror for ten minutes now.”

She snorted at Mr Fletcher, who was visible in the mirror, standing behind her, before turning around. “I was making sure that I’m perfectly prepared for the heist,” she informed him.

“Ah.” He nodded, but he was grinning. “Don’t be nervous - Sunday night is the best time to sneak into the Ministry. It’s practically deserted, and those who are on duty are generally there as a punishment or because they’re new.”

“I know,” she said, frowning - that was, after all, why they had picked tonight for the heist. Unlike Friday and Saturday night, there were fewer incidents on Sunday night as well, which meant a reduced shift.

He chuckled. “You’ve snuck into the Ministry before - and at a time when people were more alert.”

She nodded. The day Harry had faced Voldemort. The day Dumbledore had died. “Let’s hope today won’t be as dramatic.”

“It shouldn’t be.” He tilted his head slightly. “Unless you’re planning to do something more than we’ve planned.”

“You taught me better than that.” She smiled at him.

He frowned, though. “I taught you better than going for two targets in the same heist as well.”

They had been over this. She grinned. “Breaking in once means less danger of being spotted.”

He grunted in response. “Be careful.”

“Always.”

He scoffed at that, shaking his head. But he was smiling again, and when she walked past him, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

*****​

London, Ministry of Magic, January 17th, 1999

Mr Fletcher had been correct - the Ministry was deserted on a Sunday night, Hermione Granger noted as she looked at the Atrium from a balustrade. It was perfect for a heist. And it meant Harry wouldn’t be calling her since, as far as he knew, she was already asleep in France, and he needed to go to work early on Monday and therefore had returned to Grimmauld Place for the night. And to relieve Ron who had been guarding Moody.

There were two guards in the Atrium, at the Thief’s Downfall. One Hit-Wizard and a mercenary. The foreign wands weren’t yet entirely trusted, then, or two mercenaries would have been stuck with this despised shift.

She silently snorted. Not that it would change much - as far as she could tell, none of them were very competent. Certainly not competent enough to stop a lithe thief from roaming the building as she pleased. She didn’t think that either of the two guards had cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell. Not that it would help them - her spot was beyond the range of the spell.

Grinning, Hermione stepped back from the balustrade and headed towards the stairs. The headquarters of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was on the fourth floor and that of the Floo Network authority on the sixth floor, two floors below. She’d work her way down.

When she reached the stairway, she changed - just in case the guards were more competent than she thought. As a cat, she was practically invisible in the dark hallways of the Ministry, but she carefully checked at each corner before moving down the next flight of stairs. Overconfidence was as deadly for a thief as sloppiness, and the two often went hand in hand, as Mr Fletcher had taught her.

The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was utterly deserted. They didn’t even have a single employee on duty. They probably thought any incident with a magical creature could wait until Monday. Hermione snorted and changed back, then disillusioned herself - just in case there were spells to detect animals left active in the department’s headquarters.

She checked; there were none. Nor were there any protections she could spot. At least not on the desks - the cages for captured creatures would be warded, but those were further back. And of no interest to her.

She was here for their files. Especially the ones concerning personnel and licences for certain families. Such as the Parkinsons.

Seeing a shift planner, with careful notes, next to the desk of the Head’s secretary was a pleasant surprise - that would cut down the time spent rummaging through the personnel files. She quickly noted down who among the department’s staff was currently out for a vacation or a foreign trip, then looked for the filing cabinets.

It didn’t take her long to find them, and even less to find the files she needed - the department’s paperwork was up to standard as well. A couple of Doubling Charms later she had a set of files of her own. And collecting hairs from the various desks took only a few Summoning Charms.

The files covering the licences to keep dangerous magical creatures were a different matter. They were filed according to the creatures involved, not the families or individuals involved. The staff probably knew by heart which creatures the Old Families kept. Unfortunately, Hermione didn’t recall exactly what creatures the Parkinsons kept - back in her first year, she had done her best to ignore the bigoted witch’s bragging instead of paying attention.

Ah, the follies of youth. She shook her head as she started to sift through the alphabetically-ordered files.

She didn’t have to look long before she found a licence for the Parkinsons - for a pack of Crups. She shook her head - of course, the bigots would love muggle-hating dogs. Unfortunately, it was an old licence, dating back decades - apparently family members didn’t have to take any tests when they inherited Crups, only when they bought one - and therefore not too likely that the department would now have additional questions. Not impossible, but not very likely.

She went over the other files until her eyes widened and she almost whistled. The Parkinsons had recently acquired a Sphinx! Those were traditional guardians for treasure, but had fallen out of favour with the advent of Gringotts vaults - goblins were less aggressive towards humans than Sphinxes, and less capricious as well.

A challenge, but a manageable one. Hermione grinned as she copied the files, idly wondering whether the creature could be bribed by offering her the Parkinsons’ Crups as food. She’d have to read up on their behaviour first, though.

Smiling, she was about to leave the Department when she froze. That noise… She activated the Supersensory Charm on her mask and cursed under her breath.

An alarm was sounding two floors above her - in the Auror Office.

*****​