Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Summary: Cause hope, boys, is a cheap thing.

Midnight Blues

Part IV: The Flying Dutchwoman

17.) The Shoulder of Orion, Part I
or,
Song of Norway

A. Harry

Oh, this is just perfect.

"Hello again, you lot," I greet with forced politeness as Tracey practically shoves me toward the group of black-robed Aurors. "I was hoping we'd get someone a bit more..."

"You won't get anyone more qualified than us, Potter," one of them growls, Kenton, if I remember correctly.

"Dutch," I continue, paying no mind to the talking head. "Someone a bit more Dutch."

Tonks, standing just to this side of Kenton, shakes her head in annoyance. Daphne, ever the stoic, eyes Tracey and I impassively.

"Agent Davis," Shepard says smoothly, the imposing man stepping up from behind his lackeys. "And where were you, Weasley?" He asks Ron, who comes up behind us, with a withering look.

"I was with them," Ron replies insincerely, "pardon me for being worried about Ambassador Granger, I mean, she is only my best friend who some psycho has put a hit out on."

"Be that as it may, you have a place to be, and, at the moment, it's not with her. See that it doesn't happen again."

Ron shakes his head and I send him a sympathetic glance before folding up my arms and eyeing up the Auror-Commander. "Nice to see you're still a colossal prick."

"Nice to see you're still wasting space."

"Funny, say that to me when you actually accomplish something other than being a drain on Ministry resources."

Given the way his last few cases have gone, according to Ron, Shepard is somewhat gracious in not rising to the bait and leaving it alone. In other words, I beat him, and he's too busy nursing his wounds to bite back. Is it childish and cowardly to be giddy at kicking a man while he's down? Yes, it is. But I don't care. I never do.

"Behave, Harry," Tracey warns lowly.

"Fine," I sigh, "so, what are we doing?"

"We're headed to a safehouse," replies Shepard, all business now. "One of the mercenaries you and Madame Granger dropped actually made it out alive, managed to arrest his momentum and land relatively safely."

"Relatively?" Asks Tracey.

"Relatively, if you consider that his femur shattered in five places," answers Ron. "And that we haven't yet healed it."

"Good," I reply, "gives us something to put pressure if he doesn't want to give up who gave him the contract."

"I reasoned similarly," says Shepard, not particularly enthused to be operating on the same wavelength with me.

"The Dutch Aurors already had a go at him, and you're going to torture him?" Tonks questions with arched brow. It seems that even after all this time, Tonks hasn't really come to terms with what I actually am, and while I'm not too distressed about people being disparaging of my life choices, it would do me very well to not have to listen to people moan about it all day.

Seriously though, stop, I already get enough lecturing from Hermione.

"I'd rather not," I say in the understatement of the century. Tonks may not believe it, because she's a pious, holier-than-thou Auror type who thinks only they can save the world, but my time as a captive of torture-specialist Thomas Robards has given me quite a bit of perspective of on systematic torture. It's barbaric and it's disgusting. Which seems like a pretty standard observation. But sadly, in a world where people think blood purity is all that matters, it's unfortunately sometimes necessary. I'd rather not torture anyone, so I can sleep easier at night if nothing else, but I won't shy away from it if I have to.

"I'm sensing a 'but'," Tonks says, crossing her arms.

"But he tried to hurt one of my best friends." I continue. "He had every intention of killing her. For that alone, he's lucky I won't tear his fucking heart out and feed it to him the moment I see him."

B. Ron

You know something? I consider Harry Potter to be my brother, same as Bill and Charlie, the twins and even that prat Percy. In some ways, even, Harry's more of a brother than my actual brothers. Still, regardless of how I usually feel about him, sometimes... most of the time... all of the time, really, Harry deserves a slap.

Like right now.

He smiles smugly, which given the eyepatch, makes him look like an even bigger git than he already is: "What, Ron?" He asks, playing dumb. "Why's that a problem?"

"You know very bloody well why it's a problem, you twat," I grunt lowly so my eavesdropping colleagues can't hear us, but since Tracey sticks to Harry like pubic lice does to a backalley whore, she listens in on the whole thing:

"I thought you and Granger broke up, Weasley. What's gone up your arse, then?" She asks, with a grin to match Harry's own. Seriously, these two should just get it over with and have a shag already, I've never met two people more disgustingly perfect for each other.

"Every once in a while Tracey makes a solid point. This is one of those times," Harry says. "It shouldn't matter whether I snogged Hermione or not; she's your ex. I could have bent her over the hotel desk and it wouldn't make a lick of difference."

Ugh. That is easily one of the most disturbing mental images ever conceived.

"That's not the point," I return, crossing my arms as we cross a street and head for a dilapidated old building, likely some sort of abandoned Dutch council house, at the city limits.

"Look mate, I was trying to save our lives. It worked, didn't it?"

I have to concede the point there. Still, Harry snogging Hermione makes me gag a bit, not because I've still got a torch for Hermione or anything, really, but it's like, by the transitive property, Harry and I've kissed now.

Harry, like a bloodhound, seems to sniff my unease out easily enough. "Oh, Christ, you're such a goddamn homophobe," he says with an annoyed sniff.

"No I'm not! You just shouldn't be stringing her along," I accuse.

Harry outright laughs at that: "Stringing her along? Do you ever listen to the shite that comes out your mouth? Do you honestly think anyone could string Hermione along, let alone me of all people?"

I sigh, conceding yet another point. Have I ever told you how much I hate arguing with Harry? He's like Hermione on amphetamines: at least she's relatively nice about it; if Harry smells blood in the water, he'll fucking attack you until you're a quivering mess:

"Yeah, you're right. But still, it's a bit... weird, isn't it?"

"Right, sure it is, you're just jealous," another voice interrupts before Harry can respond, as Shepard barges through a long-forgotten rusty iron door at the entrance of the block of flats. Daphne Greengrass, my girlfriend's sister and the owner of the voice, happens to have caught the last bit of our conversation.

For the last bloody time, I am not jealous. Hermione may shag like a succubus on ecstasy but at least I'm not in a blazing row every twenty minutes with Tori, which is absolutely worth the cost.

"And why are you here then? To sniff at 'The Chosen One'?" I retort as we pass through a dingy lobby where at least three Auror Teams, Spanish, Dutch, and French, respectively, do little else but faff about. We pay them no real attention beyond the passing nod of the head and turn toward a what appears to be a small closet.

Daphne pinkens at my little jab and speeds up while Harry casts a confused glance in my direction.

Does he really not know?

Oh my God, he doesn't.

"What? You don't know?" I ask as we pass through the closet door, the space behind which magically widens into a deep, winding stairwell. "Tori showed me one of Daphne's old Transfiguration journals. She used to doodle pictures of you and her snogging back when we were at Hogwarts: 'Daphne Potter', complete with little flying hearts."

Harry looks back and forth between myself, Greengrass, and Tracey. "Daphne Greengrass fancied me? Really?"

"True to life," I murmur lowly. "She was really embarrassed about it when we found out."

"But she was such a twat to me back during the MacMillan job."

"Well, yes. I think she was pulling your ponytail. You know, be mean to deflect from the fact that you're in love and all that other stupid shite girls do."

"Love?" Harry says, looking thoughtful.

"Well, lust, more like. I can't gather how anyone would love something like you. Regardless, she's into you."

Harry grins, shark-like. "Daphne Greengrass fancies me and here I am faffing about with you lot. Why do I waste my time with you?" He asks, before scampering down the stairs to Daphne's side, whose blush steadily grows as he whispers something in her ear. Merlin, what an irresponsible twat.

Tracey shakes her head at her partner's antics and lets out a great big sigh. That sigh usually means one of two things in my humble experience: she is either very tired, or very jealous.

"Chin up, Tracey-lass," I say, "he'll shag you one day."

She scowls and flicks my ear. Hard.

I rub the offended auricle soothingly. "Merlin, take a joke, will you?"

"Tell me a funny one, then," Tracey huffs and speeds ahead, leaving me in the dust.

C. Hermione

Oh, it's all such a bother, isn't it?

So, to recap my wonderful day, I've been nearly kidnapped, shot at, went on a high-speed broom chase, broke my leg, was sexually assaulted by my best friend, and had a punch-up with some poor man. Yes, my day's been spectacular, thank you.

Harry Potter, the man who saved me from the kidnapping and the catalyst of every other bad thing that has ever happened to me, and Ronald Weasley, my other supposed best friend, have taken off god-knows-where whilst leaving me alone in the all-too-capable-hands of an old Russian man who happens works for the English government, for reasons I cannot possibly fathom. I love them both dearly, I do, but sometimes I stop and wonder what on earth could have possessed me to strike a friendship with those two utter prats.

Then I remember: it was because I had no other friends. And I still don't really have any other friends, now that I consider it.

Good Lord, I'm a bit pathetic, aren't I?

But, I shouldn't stray from the point, should I? Boris, Harry's much lamer version of M, has decided to take it upon himself to escort me to a block of council houses where he has assured me I will be perfectly safe until Harry and Ron return. Given the day I've just had, you'll excuse my skepticism, won't you? But, again, I'm straying. It's an ugly basement that I've been confined to: it has unfinished, dusty floors, dark gray concrete walls, and a single bare table under a similarly single flickering light. A flight of rickety stairs lead up from the basement and into the abandoned complex, which I can only imagine is even more unwelcoming than this grimy little dungeon.

Hideous. Truly.

My distrust pays off when the door to the basement opens, and more than one pair of feet traverse down the stairs, which groan and creak like an arthritic old man at the unwanted weight. Again, given the day I've had, you will excuse me for tensing up, and surreptitiously readying my wand for the possibility of this safehouse not being quite as safe as Boris had promised.

So then, imagine my surprise when a team of aurors including Tonks, followed by a pretty blonde and a shock of unruly black hair reach the bottom of those stairs. My surprise grows even greater with the introduction of a glowering Tracey Davis and a Ronald Weasley who seems to be fondling his ears.

He's always been embarrassed of them, I haven't a clue why. It's not like anyone really notices how big they are.

Okay, Hermione, time to get things under control. Clearly enunciate, and ask what Harry and Ron are doing here already, it can't have been more than ten minutes since we last saw each other.

My idiot body, however, decides to point and shout. "What are you doing here!?" I gasp like an utter buffoon.

Well, at least I enunciated clearly.

Ron's the first to respond, bless his soul. "What are we doing here? What are you doing here!?"

"Boris brought me here!"

"Why the bloody hell would he bring you here!?"

"How would I know? It's not like you two tell me anyth-!"

"Children," Harry intones, raising an arm up for silence as he pulls away from Daphne Greengrass, her cheeks a lovely pink tinge from whatever he had been whispering in her ear.

Has he been flirting with her? Here? Now? God, he really is the most irresponsible cad in the world!

"Technically, Boris isn't wrong. Given the fact that Aurors are milling about the complex upstairs, this place probably is the safest for you right now, Herms," Harry pauses noticeably.

Have I ever said I absolutely loathe that nickname?

"Though I haven't the slightest clue as to why we decided to split up, then," he continues with a murmur. "Now, where is this fine gentleman I'm supposed to speak to?"

"Room to your right," growls a tall man with a military cut and a severe expression, perhaps the Shepard figure Ron is always complaining about. "Go through there and enter the room with the one-way mirror."

Harry pretends not to acknowledge the Auror, instead he keeps his eyes on Ron, Tracey, and I, and winks. Or well, I think he winks. It's rather difficult to tell with him.

But, I digress. He winks, or possibly winks, and then he's drifting through the rusted steel door into the next room with that phantom-like glide of his. Without really knowing what I'm doing, my feet seem to move of their own accord, carrying me behind Harry and through the door as well. I find him standing next to another similarly rusted door situated next to a window, the one-way mirror that the Auror was speaking of, and gasp at what I see inside.

It's one of the men that attacked us. He's beaten, bloody, but alive, if alive's really the word for it. And he's tied to a chair. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what Harry's been called in for.

I wince at the man's face: it's been utterly mashed in it. It looks like one half his face is lower than the other, like a stroke victim who happened to be caught in mortar fire. I have to wonder how this happened, we certainly fought him, but this is a very calculated, very brutal beating. Could it have been one of the Auror Teams that did this? Or perhaps Harry's MI-7 friends?

I look over to Harry, who whistles lowly at the bloodied man. "Jesus Christ, he looks something out of Guernica."

I choke.

"That's an awful thing to say, Harry Potter!" I try to reproach, but I fail miserably at remaining straight-faced, even though we are talking about a man who has just been brutally beaten by Aurors. I shake my head and any thought of ill-timed humor away, it's horrible of me to laugh at this. Harry and Ron have been bad influences. "How... What happened to him?"

"Well, it sure as hell wasn't you or me," Harry says, bringing a fist to his bearded chin. "Looks like the Aurors got first crack at him. Apparently it was the Dutch, according to Tonks... Jesus, I guess prisoner's rights isn't really a thing in the magical world, is it?"

"I've been trying to propose cleaner and safer facilities for prisoners to the Wizengamot, but nothing like this happens in England, I can assure you that," I reply.

"The Dutch don't strike me as a particularly violent people," Harry remarks offhandedly, "unless we're talking about tulips. No telling what they'll do then."

The Dutch and their tulips, of course. But they most certainly can be violent, and not just for flowers. Unless...

"Harry?" I ask haltingly.

"Hmm?"

"It couldn't be the ICW that did this, can it?"

"It could, but it honestly doesn't matter," Harry says, raking a hand through his ebon mane, "I still have to find out why this bloke was so intent on abducting you."

We both stare at each other, and then chuckle lightly. I must admit, there's something darkly amusing about the fact that an entire team of mercenaries nearly blew up a building to kidnap me, of all people! Why would anyone want to kidnap me?

"I'm sure it was all on the up-and-up," in anyone else's company, a joke might be a bit tasteless, but quite apropos in the presence of someone as uncouth as Harry. "I'm positive it was a pleasant place they were to take me. Maybe a nice restaurant?"

"Zagat rated?"

"Why, of course. Anything else is an insult."

"Well, a nice place to me involves a cup of tea and a blowjob," Harry returns, his awe-inspiring oafishness yet again on display, "I'd rather hope that's not where they'd take you."

The implication is not lost on me. Merlin, I know he's supposed to be my best friend and all, but, sometimes, Harry is the world's most complete knob. It doesn't help that this joke is a desiccated corpse of a horse by now and he still keeps beating at it with a stick.

"Though, it really makes you wonder if rape porn is legal in the wizarding world," he muses lightly.

I cannot even bring myself to be surprised at the filth that comes out of Harry's mouth anymore. "You are an awful person and I am going to wash your mouth out with the biggest bar of soap I can find when we get home."

"Kinky. I always knew you were into the rough stuff," he leers at me and waggles his eyebrows, "woof."

"Why am I even friends with you."

"I mean, you walked right into it. It's sheer masochism, really. Yet another piece of evidence supporting the conspiracy that Hermione Granger is secretly a BDSM queen."

Ron follows in at that exact moment before I can send Harry recoiling with a suitably biting retort, and a rather mortified expression is upon his freckled face:

"What on earth are you two talking about?"

"Hermione's idea of fun," Harry says quickly; I make to swat his arm, but he dodges the blow easily, "about to head in and work on the bloke you lot brought in."

Ron's reaction is immediate: "Hermione," he beckons with an arm out, "you don't want to be here."

I take a deep breath to let Ronald know exactly who does and doesn't want to be here, Harry comes to my defense. Or, well, sort of to my defense. Regardless, I end up letting the breath out and deflating like a balloon as Harry speaks:

"No," he says, turning fully so he can see us through his functioning eye. "She can stay. You too."

"What?" Ron asks incredulously. "There's no way she..."

I've never understood the obsession these two have with protecting me. Sure, Ron is a freelance Auror and Harry is some sort of international man of mystery, but it isn't like I didn't fight through that war with them. Is it just some ridiculous display of masculinity? To protect the me because I'm a damsel who needs saving? Because I am sure I've proved time and again that I am more than capable of taking care of myself.

"We all deserve to find out why Hermione's been targeted, not the least of all Hermione herself," Harry says, cutting Ron off, before turning back to me. "Only condition is that you stay out here, no matter the circumstance."

"But, Harry..." Ron continues, Harry raises up a hand.

"Ron," Harry says seriously. "Do you trust me?"

Ron swallows, ocean-blue eyes searching Harry's jadeite ones for answers. "I do," he says eventually, swallowing hard.

"Then listen to me."

"Okay."

And that's it, Ron lets go of me, and Harry walks into the room with the detainee. I stare back and forth between the two, somewhat incredulous, but mostly amazed. They trust each other implicitly, with the ease of men who have worked together for decades. This and my mad dash with Harry to the love hotel only serves to remind me how painfully divorced I am from that innate trust they have, and my heart clenches a bit when I realize I will always be on the outside looking in at these two.

It wasn't so long ago when the three of us were inseparable. How did I end up so far from them?

D. Harry

I shut the iron door and push down the heavy latch, locking it behind me. Turning back to the detainee, I see his eyes widen and his breaths becoming quicker and shallower. I raise up a hand, hoping it will calm him down.

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you, unless you give me reason to," I say as I conjure a hard-backed wooden chair to sit opposite the man in the otherwise barren room. I give him a cautious once over: "They didn't use the cruciatus on you, did they?"

He squints at me, unsure as to whether or not it's a rhetorical question.

"You can speak," I say.

"N-no," he replies, almost at once. I have to resist the urge to laugh: this is the power that comes with being known as the man who felled two Dark Lords. Never mind that I was incredibly lucky both times, stories just have a way spiraling into the ether, where they become legends, and further still until they fling themselves into outer space and become myths altogether.

"Good," I say, placing a calm hand on his shoulder. "I know what you've gone through. Personal experience. Though I don't want to diminish what's happened to you. You've been through hell."

The detainee swallows and nods, a strand of bloodied, dirty-blonde hair falling over his eyes. I take care to gently push the fringe back up and tuck it behind his ear:

"You know, it doesn't have to hurt as much as you think. Do you know what I did? When they tried to hurt me?" I ask.

"W-what?"

"I listened to music," and I smile at the man's incredulous look. "No, really, I did. Not physically, per sé, but I have the entirety of Bowie's Space Oddity memorized. Line-to-line, riff-to-riff, it's all in here, carved into my brain like chisel on stone," I tap my temple twice. "On the days where we had a particularly... trying session, it was usually around Letter to Hermione that I began losing consciousness. And it was almost always at the end of Cygnet Committee that I drifted off into the darkness."

I can almost feel Ron and Hermione's eyes boring into my back from behind the mirror.

"But I also don't feel any pain. Nothing at all. I start listening and I'm no longer in a dark room, moments away from death. Instead, I'm a space-age cosmonaut looking down at the Earth from the observation deck of a one-man rocket. The universe is silent. The earth is small, and blue, and so very precious. And then, Ground Control to Major Tom..."

I trail off and meet the eyes of the detainee, who looks more confused than ever, and I mentally kick myself for not realizing it sooner:

"You're a pureblood, aren't you?"

A nod.

"So you have no idea what I'm talking about."

The detainee attempts to try his voice. "Absolutely none."

I nod several times, of course he wouldn't have any idea what I'm talking about. "Alright, then. Forget what I said," I say, reaching out and planting a hand on his shoulder. "Forget everything but one word: Hermione. Then remember why you're here, and what will happen to you if I don't find out why you attempted to kidnap Hermione Granger."

"I'm not going to talk."

"Like I said, remember why you're here in this place. It's a hole in the ground, a black site. Nothing, not even a whisper, comes out of this place. Nobody knows you're here, nobody cares if you leave. All your friends are dead-"

"Because of you!"

I pause, he's right. "Yes," I say, "because of me. And if I feel it, your minutes are numbered as well. So do this favor for me, and take a long, hard look around you, and tell me: do you really want to die like this?"

The man is silent for a very long time.

Finally, he meets my eyes and responds: "No. I don't want to die here."

I smile grimly. "Good. I don't want you to die here, either. The only thing I want to know, is why people are trying to kill my best friend."

The detainee exhales lowly. "Granger was never the target."

"Really?" I drawl, "because I have a broken rib that tells me otherwise."

Both of us exchange chuckles. "I'm being serious, we weren't supposed to kill her. Or, at least, we'd get paid more if we didn't kill her. We only started seriously using the killing curse when it became apparent she had Harry Potter as her bleeding guardian angel. It was supposed to be catch and release. Our team picks her up, holds her captive for a day or two, and then we let her go when we get the call. No rough stuff, nothing. Some of the more... unscrupulous of us were a bit disappointed that they couldn't-"

"Mate, I said I didn't want you to die here," I interrupt his train of thought, "don't make me change my mind now."

"Right," the man clears his throat awkwardly, "sorry."

"Apology accepted. But why would you just hold on to her? What on earth does that gain?"

"I don't really know," he blanches at the glare I send his way. "Really, mate! I don't! It's what we were told to do by our employer."

"Your employer? Who might that be?"

"No one but Hans, our leader, and that sniper lass Arbeid knows for sure, but..." and his voice drops very low, barely above a whisper, "...some of the lads have heard it might be Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Bellatrix Lestrange," I repeat dully.

"I swear on me life, that's the rumor."

"Bellatrix Lestrange is a ghost," I say, "no one has seen her for the better part of a decade, since she beat feet away from the Death Eaters. And you mean to tell me she's the one who hired you?"

"Pierre said he heard Hans talking about Lestrange with Arbeid."

"Pierre?"

"One of us, he was French."

"Right," I nod. "I remember him. He's dead. Don't worry, I'll make sure to pour out a pint for him."

"Bully for you, you wanker."

"Just trying to make conversation, mate, Jesus," I return caustically. "Okay, so let's assume for a moment that Bellatrix Lestrange actually did put out the job. Why would she use Ambassador Granger as a decoy, and for what?"

"Like I said, I don't know."

"It's not enough."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Something useful," I reply, wracking my brain for a question that he could answer that might be useful. After a few seconds, a little lightbulb goes off in my head: "Where were you supposed to go?"

"What?"

"Where were you supposed to take Ambassador Granger after you caught her?"

The man stops short, looking flustered. "I-I don't know."

"You don't know?" I ask, drawing out the last word. How the fuck does he not know where he was supposed to take a woman after abducting her?

"I'm being honest," he continues, shaking his head far too vigorously for someone with his injuries. "We were given a portkey. Small, golden necklace. A crucifix. We were supposed to make Granger touch it, and then it would take us wherever it was we were supposed to take her."

I focus in on his heartbeat. Even though it's already beating quickly, there's no discernible spike, nor any obvious expression indicating deceit on his face. Unbelievably, the man is telling the truth, so far as I can tell.

But there's no need to tell him that yet.

"Should I get veritaserum? I'm certain the Dutch have a bit of it on hand," I say lowly, crossing one leg over the other as I lean into the backrest of the chair for a more comfortable, slouched position.

"I'm telling the truth," the detainee grit out, bloodied teeth bared.

"If you say so," I reply. "You need to key portkeys to people to get them to function like what you're saying. That means you need something personal of Ambassador Granger's. Mind telling me how you managed to secure that?"

"I dunno, it wasn't from our group. Apparently came from the employers, or so Hans said. Maybe they broke into Granger's house and stole a lock of hair or something, I don't know."

"That's impossible," I say with a snort.

"How would you know?" he spits back.

How would I know? How would I know? I only just bloody live with the woman? That and the wards set up around our flat were set up by both Hermione and I, and it would take a whole hell of a lot more than your average rent-a-yob to get past them.

Unless, it was while I was in China. Which would mean this was a well-planned stunt. But how could they have predicted all of this? The emergency talks, the involvement of England, hell, even the fact that Herms might even be here... it's all wild guesswork. No, it just doesn't make any sense.

"So you're telling me the only way to find out where you were supposed to take Ambassador Granger, is by forcing her to use the portkey?"

"Clever, isn't it?" the man flashes a bloody smile.

I don't know much, but what I do know is that I want to tear his fucking throat out. I draw myself up quickly and rocket out of my chair, something that causes the bloke to jump:

"Yes, it's so very clever," I say, drawing close to the man so our faces are mere centimeters from each other. "Now, tell me where your friend Hans is. I'd like to pay him a visit."

"I ain't a grass, I'm not telling you anything."

"You've already grassed; I just need a little bit more."

"Eat shit, you miserable bastard. I'm not turning in Hans, not for some fucking mudblood-!"

That transfigured karambit I used on Hermione's trousers back at the brothel is suddenly back in my hands, and the edge is suddenly digging into my friend's throat. I make sure to put just the tiniest bit of pressure on his broken leg, not enough to hurt much, but enough to know it could hurt very, very much. "You've a very simple choice here: his life or yours. You're free to make whichever decision you'd like. Do as you will."

I press the blade a little more firmly into his skin, as if to punctuate my point.

The man looks out wild-eyed and yearning for help, but it doesn't take him long to realize he's all out of friends down here. Slowly, he looks back up and we lock eyes.

"I'll tell you where he is."

I lift the blade off his throat.

"I'm glad we've come to an agreement," I say as I stand up, "wait here a moment."

E. Hermione

I watch in shock as Harry comes out and turns to Ron. "I'm going to get Shepard. Keep an eye on that arsehole; just because he's spilled his guts, does not make him a friend." Ron merely nods in response and Harry shoves open the door to the other room, where Ron's Auror team awaits.

"Wow," I murmur.

"He's bloody brill, isn't he, Hermione?" Ron remarks with an easygoing grin. "Didn't even have to hurt the bloke and he got more out of him than the previous interrogators."

"I think that's an understatement," I reply, happy to talk about the effectiveness of Harry's little display in there, while privately worried for his mental health. He's never told us how he was tortured by that awful man in Russia, and this is the first real glimpse I've gotten of it. And Ron's not even fazed by it, as though they deal with it every day.

Oh, my sweet little boys, what have you done to yourselves?

"I just don't know how he does it sometimes," Ron continues over my thoughts, scattered as they are, and runs a hand through his carrot-colored hair, "he does sympathy when he wants, fear when he needs to, and it always works. Just, unbelievable."

"Careful Ronald," I warn playfully as I make mental note that I must speak with Harry about Siberia after we return to England, and not let him wriggle out of it with a grin and a jest as he always does, "you're beginning to sound like a girl with a crush."

"Could you blame me if I was?"

"No comment."

Ron snorts. "Cop out."

"Hardly."

"It was pretty good," Ron says, "except that shite about David Bowie. I hate it when Harry goes on about David Bowie. He's not that good, and he certainly doesn't merit a two-hour lecture about West Berlin and Ziggy Bop." Ron shudders, apparently recalling a memory better left repressed.

"Iggy Pop," I correct, "Also, unwise to say aloud. You know how defensive Harry gets about music."

"Only because he's a bloody hipster."

Before I can question how exactly Ronald Weasley, of all people, knows what a hipster is, the door is wrenched open and in stomps Shepard, his noisy boots a stark contrast to Harry, who drifts in behind the Auror soundlessly. He himself is followed, to my eternal dismay, by Tracey Davis and her annoyingly sultry sway. I know I'm being a bit unfair to the girl and Harry really does enjoy having her as a partner, but I just can't bring myself to like her.

I like to tell myself it's because she went out and burned all my clothes once, but I've long since realized I've a bit of a petty streak when I put my mind to it, and most of my resentment will always come from the fact that she challenged me for highest marks in every class we shared.

Yes, it's wholly pathetic, I know. But I can't change the way I feel, can I?

"In there," says Harry to the Auror. "He's willing to talk now."

"Good," says Shepard as his brows furrow. "I need to find the Russians and the Americans, we can all talk to the prisoner, and then we can plan for whatever's next."

"No more torture," Harry warns.

Shepard raises an eyebrow and stares Harry down for a long moment. "I happen to agree," he eventually says, "but we don't get to make that choice. The ICW will choose what happens to him after we get the information from him. I'm taking the rest of the group with me; Weasley, you wait here and keep an eye on him," Shepard finishes with a pointed look from Ron to the prisoner.

With that, the Auror sweeps out the room, leaving Harry and Tracey to wait with us.

"So what now?" I chance to ask.

"Now we wait," Tracey replies with surprising severity, completely unlike the vapid, overly-flirty airhead persona she often projects. She turns to Harry with that business-like face and I am surprised to see Harry wearing the exact same expression as Tracey speaks. "Did you find out where we're going?"

"Not exactly," answers Harry, "the bloke's got a necklace that acts as a portkey to wherever they were supposed to take Hermione, but the only way to activate it is by having Hermione touch it."

"Meaning we could be walking right into an ambush and do all their work for them."

"Yeah, that's about the gist of it."

"Think we should tell Boris?"

"Of course we should," Harry says and both of them stare at each other expectantly. "Well?" asks Harry. "Aren't you going to go?"

Tracey sighs. "Chivalry truly is dead if I'm to go instead of you."

Ah, there's the Tracey I know and can't stand.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors?" Harry asks hopefully.

"Two out of three," affirms Tracey.

Harry wins the first, Rock over scissors, to Davis's eternal dismay, but she wins the second, scissors over paper. Harry takes the loss a bit more graciously than her, but I know I'm biased. Harry wins the last and I bite back a cheer at his partner's loss. With a sigh, Tracey leans over and brings her hand up to Harry's face and caresses his cheek:

"Just this once, my dear," she says, before she turns to Ron and I, and winks.

Ron looks mystified as Tracey saunters out of the room, presumably to find Boris. "So, are you... together, or what? I can never really tell with you two."

"No," drawls Harry, "I'm only trying to get a date with Greengrass because I want to have a menage-a-trois with her and Davis."

"A whatty-what now?" Ron asks with furrowed brow and quizzical expression.

"So you are trying to win Greengrass's affections, are you?" I say, my earlier suspicions confirmed. "That's great! She'd be really good for you." Much better than Davis, that's for damn well sure.

Harry gives me a queer look and then turns to Ron. "So what's wrong with her, then?"

"Excuse me?" I can't help but feel slightly affronted at Harry's callous dismissal.

"Well, there must be something wrong with her if you like her," Harry returns, "all the women you've ever set me up with are completely demented."

How dare he? "They are not!"

"They are too."

"Are not, what about Cynthia?"

"Are too, Cynthia was a mental case who tried to dose me up with love potions."

"Heather?"

"She was into pegging. I'm not."

"Yenna?"

"A necromancer and possible satanist."

Yenna's a necromancer? Since when? How did I not know this? "Gertrude?" I stab wildly in the dark.

Harry makes a face. "Her name was bloody Gertrude!" he sputters indignantly.

"Well, then, who is good enough for you? Who is this perfect bloody woman no one can seem to find?"

Harry shrugs blankly. "I dunno, a young Jane Seymour?"

"Jane Seym-!" I bark indignantly.

"No, wait..." Harry continues thoughtfully over me, "Stevie Nicks."

I... that doesn't even merit a response, and I'm about to tell Harry he can take Stevie Nicks and Jane Seymour, and Stevie Wonder and Jane Fonda for all I care, and shove it, but Ron decides now is an especially appropriate time to break up the row waiting to happen:

"Children!" he chides in a curious role-reversal with Harry.

"Fine then," I sneer, "see if I ever try and salvage your pathetic love life again."

"I should be so lucky," Harry mutters.

What a prat.

Thankfully, Davis arrives with Boris before I can strangle the black-haired menace, and the old Russian provides a welcome diversion from my exponentially increasing need to viciously murder every soul in this room. Jane Seymour! Can you believe the gall of him? He doesn't even deserve Millicent Bulstrode, let alone Jane-bloody-Seymour!

"What!?" Ron brays rather loudly, which brings me back to the conversation at hand.

"Exactly what I said, Weasley, though it doesn't concern you," Boris intones quietly.

"You're barking, of bloody course it concerns me!"

"How so?"

"Harry's not Hermione's only friend!"

What a tender world that would be.

Yes, that was sarcasm. I am actually capable of it, you know.

Boris runs a hand through his silver hair and lets out a laugh. "I'm sorry, Weasley, you seem to be under the impression that I care what you think."

"Well, Harry cares what I think, doesn't he?" Ron says indignantly, eyeing Harry for support. He gets no such thing, instead, Harry simply raises a brow at him, politely and silently telling the redhead to shut up. "You bloody traitor," he mutters mutinously and then falls silent.

"Potter, Davis, meet me outside the building." Boris continues smoothly, as though Ron never interrupted. "I need to speak to you concerning the assignment in Helsinki." I take note of Harry's eye, which narrows at the mention of Helsinki. It burns at me, wondering what happened there.

It burns even more to know that he'll never tell me.

Harry and Tracey form up quickly (Harry surprisingly so, since he's never been particularly good with someone barking orders at him) behind the elder man and follow him out the door, past the other Aurors, and presumably up the stairs, leaving Ron and I to wonder why Boris even came here in the first place.

F. Harry

We're outside and far away from the council flats before Tracey breaks what has become an oppressive silence:

"Helsinki?" she snorts. "What's this really about?"

So, we've never had an assignment in Helsinki. Or, at least, I've never had an assignment in Helsinki; who knows how long Davis has been playing spy. There was the one in Stockholm, but that doesn't count. Either way, Helsinki is a bit of a codeword; it means get outside, and get far away from prying ears.

"Where did you get the suit?" Boris asks quickly, before I can get in a word edgewise.

"I had it," I lie.

"It's coming out of your paycheck," he drawls, and changes tack quickly, "I want you to get the information out of the detainee before the Aurors come back."

"Any particular reason for that? I thought the Minister wanted us to play nice with the internationals."

"I don't trust them," Boris responds quietly. "The American and Russian delegations have been acting strangely since the attack. I can't tell if they're planning something on either side or not, but I don't predict them working particularly well with each other, and I'd rather us not be caught in the crossfire. We're going to capture the mercenary leader first and interrogate him."

"Acting strangely?" Tracey questions. "Strangely, how?"

"Yesterday they were two groups of reasonable diplomats, willing to work tirelessly to fix this incident and put it behind them. Today, they've suddenly become hardnosed and unwilling to listen to anything the other side has to say."

"Well, they were just attacked by a group of mercenaries. They have every right to be a little paranoid right now," I say with a shrug. It's not particularly surprising either side is distrustful, so I have to play devil's advocate here.

"Not like this," Boris returns. "You have to trust me on this, Potter. Did the detainee spill the beans on how to find whoever's behind this?"

"He mentioned a necklace all of the mercs were wearing, all they needed to do was have Hermione touch it and they'd go wherever they needed to take her. But, I don't know, the bloke seemed a bit off his head."

"How so?"

"Seemed to think Bellatrix Lestrange was behind this."

"Lestrange? No one's heard from her in years."

"That's what I said. He still thinks it's her. Claims Hans, their leader, would know more."

Boris nods, taking the information in stride, filing it away in that massive brain of his.

"A necklace?" Boris asks.

"Yes."

"And all of them had it?" He questions.

"Yeah," I affirm once more.

"Get Granger and bring her here. We may need her."

"Aye-aye," Tracey salutes smartly, but I'm not entirely convinced:

"What about Ron?"

"Weasley stays. He's an Auror, or nearabout to that, and they're officially working with the ICW to find out who was behind the attacks."

"He's just as much Hermione's friend as I am," I reply. "He deserves to come."

"Potter, this is not a request, I am your boss, not someone you can order around. Don't let your friendship with Weasley and previous working relationship interfere with the fact that you are M.I.7. and he is part of the Auror Corps."

"So, what, you expect Tracey and I to find this merc on our own? We have no intel. It could be two people against what very well might be dozens. And we might be leading Hermione into a trap? No, I won't do it."

Boris grits his teeth. "Fine. Weasley can come," he says sourly. "Only him, though. And he takes an oath of secrecy once this mission is done and over with, are we clear?"

"Crystal," I reply, before turning on heel with Tracey and heading back in the direction we came.

It's probably all a bit confusing for Ron and Hermione when Tracey and I barge back into that grimy little basement dungeon. Or, well, at least Ron does. He raises a fairly big stink about the fact that he's an Auror now and he's got to be responisble and people are depending on him and it's so boring and I stun him and carry him out.

What? It's perfectly reasonable payback for when he stunned me with the sniper wand I gave him...

Oh, you know what, bore off. You're not my conscience so don't give me that kicked-puppy look.

Hermione, thankfully, is significantly less combative and seems darkly amused, if anything, at the prospect of me stunning Ron and walking right out of the council flats with no one else at the compound any wiser for it. So, instead of having to carry out two bodies, Herms maintains some of her dignity and walks with us, on the other side of Tracey, farthest from Ron's unconscious body and myself.

When we find our way back to Boris, he asks us to all grab onto a small golden trophy he procured from seemingly nowhere. And, instead of waking Ron up and listening to him whine some more about how he has responsibilities, I flop his limp hand onto one of the handles and grasp it with my own as Boris makes sure all of us (especially Hermione) are hanging on. Once sure everyone's touched it, Boris nods, and with a wild jerk and a sharp tug at my navel, we tumble through space and crash land on hard floors barely covered up by cheap, scratchy carpeting. Ron collapses to the ground, Hermione shakes her head dazedly, but Tracey and Boris are already upright. I hate portkeys so goddamn much.

So, it's with a deep, bracing breath that I calm myself, and look up. And when I do, I can hardly believe my eyes.

A/N: This chapter was originally one mega-chapter coming in close to 20,000 words, but it was so bloated and packed with useless information that it became a two-parter over the course of many edits and rewrites. Seriously, this chapter was a gigantic pain in the ass to write, which might be why it's not exactly up to my usual standard of humor, but hopefully you guys still like it. It's practically my own miniature Meereenese Knot (though I'd never dare claim to have the same talent as GRRM), which has led to the rather prolonged hiatus in between the last chapter and this one, as well as the multiple perspectives throughout the chapter. Speaking of which, next chapter will feature no Hermione narration, just Ron's at the beginning and Harry's for the latter half of the chapter, so if you liked getting into her head, well... that's probably all you're going to get. Hopefully the second part to this comes out soon.

Chapter Notes:

Multiple Perspectives: I tried writing this chapter several times from Harry's perspective only, but there are too many characters involved in this arc that having Harry narrate everything just didn't work. Third person was obviously a no-go, since that would be far too jarring to read, especially if you're coming in from reading several chapters beforehand. Multiple perspectives, so long as they were clearly labeled, seemed a good middle ground to me, because these next two chapters were never going to be finished otherwise.

Guernica: A 1937 painting by Pablo Picasso depicting the bombing of the Basque city Guernica during the Spanish Civil War.

David Bowie: Harry is talking about 1969's Space Oddity, Bowie's second album, best known for the titular song. I really, really love the idea of Harry waxing lyrical about Bowie to someone who has no idea what the hell he's talking about. Cygnet Committee is just about halfway through the album, and the imagery of someone passing out from torture to Bowie screaming out 'I want to live!' (which are some of the final lines to Cygnet Committee), was too good to pass up.

Jane Seymour: English actress, who achieved international fame as Solitaire in the 1973 Bond movie Live and Let Die, an adaptation of a 1954 Ian Fleming novel of the same name.

Stevie Nicks: American Musician and widely regarded as the frontwoman for the English band Fleetwood Mac, though "frontwoman" a bit of a mislabel, since Fleetwood was famous for having multiple capable vocalists, most notably Christine McVie, and Lindsey Buckingham notched a few hits himself. Yes, Fleetwood Mac, for the uninitiated, had a woman named Stevie and a bloke named Lindsey in it. It's fantastic, isn't it?

Names: No offence meant to the Gertrudes of the world, but, truthfully, it's a really awful name. If you are, by the power of some unholy pagan curse, a Gertrude, your gypsy parents are bad and they should feel bad.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.

Bonus: Drunk Ideas

2.) Harry's Musical Lecture: There was originally supposed to be a chapter between Bury The Hatchet (Chapter 10), and The Doorway (Chapter 11), which was essentially a long essay where Harry asks and answers the big questions: were The Beatles overrated; is New Order better than Joy Division or vice-versa; why Low and Diamond Dogs are tied for the best Bowie album and anyone who says it's Ziggy Stardust is a mainstream whore; etc. It was inspired by the ridiculous music chapters in American Psycho, only with a much more disaffected hipster-y tone. But, let's be honest, that reference requires a bit too much commitment, even for me, so scrapped it was.