I have not, do not, and will never own Harry Potter or its characters.

Please forgive any small mistakes or errors, because I'm sure there will be some. Onward.

Johnny is a chemist's boy
Johnny is no more
What Johnny thought was H20
Was H2SO4

It was a cool morning in autumn, crisp as the leaves he treaded upon on the pavement, dry as the wind that brushed the hair by his ears. He walked with the smooth elegance of one who knew how to hide, to slip past throngs of people in such a way the eye seemed to slide away, dew on a leaf; secrets swirled cloudy in the macabre hills of his mind, treacherous as the hawthorn wand in his pocket, yet he felt no alarm. He had never been caught, and as far as he was concerned, he never would be.

And, even if he were, an Unspeakable never spoke of what they did. The name in itself said as much, and its weight carried enough prestige and power to keep others' noses out of the little business he could claim to have.

An inaudible sigh escaped pale, thin lips. As much as he enjoyed his job, it had the unfortunate tendency to blow his social life into oblivion. He tried to remember the last time he had conversed with someone, gray eyes blinking once, and his mind fell short. His shoulders sank with a depressive weight, burdened with the knowledge that the revelation came without surprise.

Still, he walked on, calm and serene yet hesitant and hidden, and the muggles around him paid him no heed. He recalled a time where a lack of attention would have irked him to the point of vocalizing his frustration, somewhat fondly but mostly with a sense of embarrassment. In a world such as this, the only way to escape and be forgotten was to hide behind normalcy, to have a bland everyday life where no one ever thought to look.

It worked, at least for the moment. He feared the day a pureblood family would discover just what the Malfoy boy had been up to for all of these peaceful years. Of course, what they would learn would be almost absolutely nil, given the nature of his job; but then they would draw conclusions, and in the years since the war, those conclusions have never been all too complimentary. Never for him. He was, after all, the son of a man whose name brought a silence that hummed with tension and fear, both of which remained carefully hidden under a blank mask.

He arrived at the Ministry after locating the appropriate telephone booth and dutifully listing his name; he'd dilly-dallied on the surface long enough, and in any case, he didn't have much else other than work nowadays. He took the time going down to reflect how irrevocably broken he was, when he had nothing better to do than go to his job and come home to a small, empty flat. The war left some in tatters, others with sharp cracks, but most, like him, with scars that would never fade, no matter how invisible they seemed.

He collected a copy of The Daily Prophet upon entering the Ministry and scanned the headlines as he made his way towards the hall of many doors, as he called it. The Chosen One was the first thing his eyes rested upon, and he didn't read the rest in full at the mere mention of him, instead returning his attention on getting to his office. The circular platform on which he stood seemed to remain still as the doors rotated silently around it, and by now he knew which to enter, reaching out to turn the knob and slipping into the door's cool, dark grasp with a susurrus of fabric. He tucked the paper into a fold of his coat and placed one hand on the wall, fingers gliding on the rough stone as he navigated in the darkness.

He arrived later than he liked despite his best efforts, and he devoted his time to his work as he ignored the words he had read earlier, refusing to acknowledge them with the petulance of a child. Well, why not, he thought. Let him be a child sometime – let him be a prissy teenager about the fact the Boy Who Lived was in the newspaper. There was no one to stop him, after all, now that he was an adult. Though… since he was an adult, he should not let an age-old grudge prevent him from reading the rest of the paper.

(He hated being logical sometimes. Life would be so much easier if he didn't have to concern himself with anything except items driven by self-interest.)

Thus, during his decided lunch break, where he settled himself in the atrium to take solace in the hum of human activity, he picked at his food with the paper lying flat before him on the table. After some hesitance, he lifted the light pages and read the article detailed on the front page; he congratulated himself wryly on being a mature adult as he did so.

The Chosen One to Refuse to Become an Auror

It has been confirmed that Harry Potter will not, in fact, be joining the ranks of the Aurors, much to the shock and dismay of much of the wizarding world. In an interview given exclusively to a select few reporters, Mr. Potter, known for being one of the most powerful wizards alive, gives reasons for his choice – an odd one, given his previous claims of pursuing the career.

"I'm tired," he told the Daily Prophet. "All of my life, I've been living with the pressure of succeeding or being responsible for the deaths of billions. I'm tired of that. I don't want to fight anyone anymore."

When asked about what he was thinking of doing, he only said one word: "Healer." It is widely known that becoming a healer requires at least three trying years in specialized schools, so it was asked when he was planning on becoming one. "I already am one," he replied, "I attended the appropriate school two years after I left Hogwarts. I've worked in a hospital in London for the past year."

He also revealed that he did not talk to the media at the time in order not to disrupt his education, which is why no one has known of his intentions until now. It should also be noted that while he specified he worked in London, no one is certain which hospital he is working in. Several have speculated that [turn to Page 7]

Draco Malfoy didn't turn the paper to Page 7 as requested. Instead, he looked at the thoughtfully-provided picture of Harry Potter, sitting behind a table with his hands folded in front of him and the scar hidden behind dark bangs, and wondered why the person who had been hideously hopeful, good and strong in years past looked so very defeated when he met Draco's gaze.

He turned to Page 7 when the Potter in the picture didn't look away from him after a few seconds, feeling disconcerted, and one of the lines caught his eye.

"When they offer an Auror job – which they will, there's no question – I will refuse. No one will change my mind."

It seemed even after all of these years, Potter still retained some of his old naivety. Draco couldn't restrain a snort at the other young man's thinking, for if he really wanted to help people, he should try to catch the ones causing the problems and injuries in the first place. He then reflected, slightly belatedly, that that was precisely what everyone wanted him to do, rather than what Potter himself wished.

The paper was abandoned on the table when he gathered the remainder of his meal and swept away from the atrium, intent on returning to his work that he had left half-finished. A foolish decision on his part, really – in his line of work, leaving something undone could end in an untimely explosion – and he quickened his stride, secured a position on a lift down, found his door and arrived at his office.

Fortunately, he'd left the liquid bubbling gently at a simmer, a state he knew was one where it was for the most part stable. His next hypothesis to test required to have it boil, though if he was being completely honest, why he wanted it to boil had yet to find reason in his mind. Nevertheless, he fanned the fire with his hand as he extracted his wand from his sleeve, whispering a little spell that caused the flames to grow slightly larger.

He watched in eager trepidation as the pinkish liquid began to froth and bubble more furiously, common sense trumped by overwhelming curiosity. Would it become a solid, or would it behave as water behaved and simply evaporate? If it did, would the fumes be scentless or heady like mead, and would they cause light-headedness or nausea? If it did not, how should he dispose of it, should the experiment be a failure? More importantly, if anything he produced might have some sort of use, how would he gain approval to test it on a subject – ?

A small part of his mind was unsurprised when the mixture instead blew up, sending shattered glass three-hundred and sixty degrees around. He managed to cast Protego in time in order to avoid the bulk of the shards – he was ashamed to admit this sort of occurrence wasn't exactly uncommon – and he winced when the pink substance, hissing with heat, splattered against his shield and slowly dropped to the floor. He watched with morbid fascination as the stuff liquidated part of the tiles at his feet before disappearing, leaving miniature black craters all over the floor of his workplace.

He wasn't thrilled to clean up after himself, but it wasn't as if anyone else would do it for him. He pointed his wand at the first crater, murmured a few words of a spell of his own creation, and wagged the tip around in a bored effort to mop up the blackness. This was probably why no one ever dared approach him, not even other Unspeakables, he thought to himself, as he continued to waggle his wand in the air, looking for the enchanted mop he kept handy. His methods were questionable at best.

Which was to say, while he was very, very good at his job and extremely proficient when it came to analyses of unknown mixtures, he often went through destructive and dangerous processes in order to figure out just what exactly was in them and what exactly they did. Everyone wanted to know how he went about his work, but at the same time, everyone was afraid when he left the Ministry for home, covered in soot or sporting a shredded work robe or with blood drying on the cheek of his thin, angular face and bits or pieces of stuff worked into his clothes and hair.

Still, this was the third time in a week he'd successfully blown something up. Actually, not just something; this was the third time in a week he'd successfully blown up the same pinkish liquid, in three different ways. Perhaps I should work on a new project and file this one for later? He shook his head at the thought, absently flicking his wand more vigorously as the black spots began to fade, no, no, he couldn't let this one go unfinished. He was far too curious what else would trigger the pink mixture, for it was showing properties and oddities he had never seen anywhere else.

He exited his office only after realizing it would take longer than ten minutes to get everything clean, navigating his way back to the atrium and to the lift leading back up to London. He ignored the looks other wizards and witches gave him with the ease of long practice, even if they were slightly more pointed for he was leaving hours before he normally departed; however, in his opinion, given everything that occurred in the time that had passed, he figured it couldn't hurt to take a day off.

He was out grocery shopping, of all things, when he ran into an old schoolmate. Unsurprisingly, said schoolmate had a pretty little lady draped over his arm – Draco traced her curves with his eyes from a distance and remarked to himself about her long, smooth black hair, but, as always, found himself uninterested. At this point he didn't bother musing about it anymore; he'd come to terms with most likely being single his entire life.

Blaise, it seemed, had the opposite idea in mind, at least in the amicable sense. "Malfoy!" he called loudly from the produce aisle, and Draco twitched, ducking his head as other patrons looked over and hastily sidestepping to hide behind the cart with the watermelons. It was a weak venture and doomed to failure, and indeed, within a few seconds he found himself face-to-face with the other Slytherin, whose voice lowered to its normal level as he asked, "How've you been?"

"Zabini," he said, tucking his shoulders down in an effort to huddle in on himself and make him invisible, "If you have any respect for me, would you please keep it down next time."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Apologies." Blaise gave Draco a small smile, dismissing the woman on his arm with a flap of her hand. She departed, giggling, returning to the shopping cart down the way, and Blaise only spoke once she turned the corner and was out of sight. "I haven't seen you in ages, Draco. Where've you been?"

"Doing secret stuff," Draco replied lightly, keeping his tone neutral even as he felt nauseous in his stomach. "Very secretive business. Classified. Can't talk about it, you see – it's top secret."

"Don't be a smartass," Blaise said just as lightly, but with an irritated bite in his words that promised death. Draco clapped his mouth shut to stop his mouth from jabbering on. "Draco, you haven't spoken to any of us in years."

"Only two." Blaise straightened slightly, a warning look in his eyes. Draco considered the other man to be one of his better friends, but at the same time, Blaise was taller and more built than he was, perfectly capable in taking him on in a fight. Not that they would fight, considering they were in a seedy old grocery store, and it wasn't as if they could start dueling, either, but the thought was there. "Sorry, that was stupid. I… " He flailed about a bit mentally, then finished, one side of his mouth curling down at the flimsiness of his words, "Haven't gotten around to it."

"That's the worst excuse I've heard from you, and you've come up with some pretty miserable ones." Draco winced, silently agreeing with the observation, and Blaise continued on with a curt nod. "You could have at least replied to one of our owls. I only found out you lived around here because someone at the Ministry mentioned that 'Malfoy's exploded something, again'."

"And thank god it took you that long," Draco muttered with a sigh, and before Blaise can ask about the side comment he said more loudly, "What were you doing at the Ministry?"

"I can't tell you that," Blaise shot back, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, and Draco grumbled. It was obvious the other wouldn't tell him the answer until Draco himself told Blaise what had been going on in his life; a fair trade, he supposed, but not one he could take advantage of without serious repercussions. "The better question is, why didn't I see you there?"

He considered all the responses he could give and decided to go with the truth. "I can't tell you," Draco said, tone firm, gut twisting in knots.

Blaise frowned at him, disapproving but not insulting. "You can't or you won't?"

"I'm an Unspeakable, Blaise," Draco explained, noting that the woman Blaise had brought with him was pushing the cart towards them, a smile on her lips. Best wrap this up. "I'm not allowed to. I'm sorry. The things I do aren't supposed to be – "

"It's all right." The former Slytherin raised both hands in a pacifying surrender gesture, and Draco fell silent. "I get it. It's just, you know."

"What?" Draco asked, more curious than annoyed when Blaise did not continue his thought. The woman was nearing the aisle, still some distance away, but she would no doubt interrupt this so very insightful conversation soon enough. He was almost eager for that moment, right up until Blaise spoke again.

"We were worried about you."

Something cold settled in his stomach, and it chilled him to the bone. It took several times before Draco could form the words. When he did, his tone was cutting, and guilt only made his words colder. "That's adorable, but unnecessary. I don't need anyone's help."

"But you're just isolating yourself. You haven't made a blip on the radar for years – everyone expects you to make a fuss about how your father's a wanted man and that he's missing. Even the newspapers are writing about your complete lack of presence. Why aren't you doing anything?"

Draco did not reply.

"And no one knows where you live, or what you do – it's as if you've just disappeared. And you've always been a bit of an attention sort of guy, but you haven't ever tried to let your voice be heard, on newspapers or whatever. Why? What exactly have you been up to for all these years?"

"If you were me, you'd understand why I wanted the public to forget who I was," Draco responded darkly, holding onto his plastic basket full of goods in a white-knuckled grip.

"Blaise, darling!" the woman called, and Draco quietly thanked any sacred deity that was listening for her intervention as his friend turned to speak to her.

"Just a moment!" Blaise pivoted on one foot to look at Draco. "At least respond to the owls we send, would you?"

Draco said nothing, and Blaise sighed as he turned and walked to his lady friend. The blond watched silently as they check out, and Blaise cast him one last glance before they exited the store; only then did he return to his perusing of the broccoli heads, and he did so with a heavy heart and a distracted mind.

"A thousand pardons, but you'll have to come with me."

A few days after the Unintentional Grocery Store Meeting, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh through gritted teeth. He took a few deep breaths in this position before his hand fell to his side; he had the feeling that he wouldn't like what this young man wanted with him.

"I can't at the moment," he said calmly, after a few moments. He couldn't see the eyes of the person opposite him, hidden under a baseball cap and hoodie combination, which he couldn't help but notice was rather ill-fitting attire considering the man's tall, lanky form. "If you come back tomorrow, I should be available."

"A woman's dead in what is an apparent murder, and the Minister suggested you could help."

Draco felt a flash of alarm sear through his mind not at the former statement but rather the latter. What was the point of being called an Unspeakable if someone else went on to describe the minute aspects of his work? Even if it was the Minister, and even if it wasn't the first time this had happened. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a bell was ringing – this young man's voice was intensely familiar, but how? He couldn't know unless he got a clear look at the face.

Then he inwardly laughed wryly at his own priorities. Clearly, a woman dead was more important than his personal security… at least in theory. He certainly didn't feel that way.

"I don't see how I can be of any help," he said at last, feeling his left hand instinctively shift to where his wand was tucked into the pocket of his jeans. The young man across him tracked the movement and tensed slightly, and Draco immediately forced his hand to relax. He couldn't afford to make a scene, not when he'd worked so hard to remain hidden. "It is most likely in your better interests to seek another with a different… skill set."

There is a pregnant pause before the young man spoke again. When he did, his tone was puzzled and, if Draco wasn't mistaken, a little surprised. "Why do you say that?"

"If I could speak of my job, I might explain it. As that is not an opportunity I can take, I will simply have to ask you to return later." He moved back, put his hand on the knob, and he wasn't blind to the flicker of quiet shock on the young man's face. "Good day." The man stuck his shoe between the door and its frame as he attempted to close it, and Draco wordlessly threatened to slam it on his foot, opening the door slightly wider and tapping it against his sole.

But then he said in a loud whisper, "Harry Potter himself will be examining the body." Draco paused, eyebrow raised, door still open because of the man's shoe, and the stranger said with a tone of both reverence and defensiveness, "It's true."

There was a long minute where Draco struggled with himself, common sense wrestling with his curiosity – not a rare fight, actually quite a frequent one that his innate inquisitiveness consistently won. He then pulled the door open a little wider and was consequently disgusted with himself when he asked cautiously, "He is a coroner? Last I heard he was simply a Healer."

He was met with a long silence. Then: "I hope you understand that if you refuse – which you still can – you're passing up a chance to meet him in the flesh."

Draco stared at him for a long time. The man stared back, though at his chin rather than his eyes. Something clicked in his mind, after a few seconds, a little oh, and now he understood why his voice was so familiar.

"Weasley, I figure," he said at last, despairing about both the redhead and himself as he stepped out of his flat and closed the door behind him. Sadly enough, he had been caught hook and sinker by that last statement. "I can't find it in me to even pretend I'm surprised at this point."

A brilliant flash of teeth flared in a grim smile, and at last his gaze was met and held with the blue eyes of Potter's best friend, slightly obscured by tufts of red hair. "I'm just surprised that it took you so long, Malfoy," he said, and his tone, previously neutral, had changed, with the words frosting at the edges. "Believe me, I wasn't thrilled to know you were the one to go to when I heard about it."

"That makes two of us," Draco murmured, though for his ears alone, and he obediently followed when Weasley began to walk. Where they were going, he did not know; he never bothered exploring London aside from how to find his way to the Ministry, and he didn't bother checking the muggle news this morning for crime. What wizard did, in all honesty? "Though I'll be truthful, I don't see why you could not have sent someone else in your place."

"Please. None of them would actually succeed in convincing you." Weasley turned his head to cast a quick glance at him, and Draco felt his mind recoil at the sheer scorn on the redhead's face, though he did not react physically. "Because no one knows you like we do."

He felt one eyebrow rise to his forehead again and began, careful, "We being – "

"Me, Harry, and Hermione, yes," Weasley said shortly, and Draco sensed that this would be best time to shut up, which he did without further ado.

He then trailed behind in silence, marking each right or left turn in his mind and making vague attempts to remember the names of the streets they pass. It would be good to learn where Potter was working, he supposed; Rita Skeeter would have a field day with it if he were to leak the location anonymously. Then again, that would likely incur the wrath of Potter's friends, and so he decided that perhaps he should merely best remember how to get there and then keep it to himself.

Weasley eventually headed down an alley and disappeared around the edge of the building on the right; when Draco turned the corner, a crime scene ballooned into view, marked off with yellow caution tape and complete with the usual spectators and the tired police officers murmuring, "Nothing to see here, carry on, nothing to see." He felt faintly surprised that there were muggle cops intervening, and was glad he refrained on carrying a work robe per usual; he already stuck out like a sore thumb with his platinum blond hair and gray eyes, and there was no reason to be even more conspicuous.

His eyes were drawn to the epicenter of the scene, where a strange liquid would no doubt be located (why else would his expertise be recommended?), and despite himself a small smile worked its way onto his face. He did so love a new project, especially in the midst of another he was struggling to finish. "What are we looking at?" he asked Weasley, forgetting in the moment that he should not let any emotion, most especially eagerness, filter into his voice. He realized his mistake too late when the redhead glanced over, both eyebrows raised over Draco's tone, though he didn't remark upon it.

"Hit by a driver drinking far too early in the morning, as far as the muggles know," Weasley replied guardedly after a few beats had passed. "The body's already been taken in to Harry, but Hermione figured you'd want to see the crime scene first."

"And she'd be right," Draco murmured, silently awarding the muggleborn kudos in his mind. He completely disregarded the tape to duck under it, despite such behavior being against all of the stealth code he'd adopted over the past few years, and the protests of the police and others who didn't really matter fall on deaf ears. "Private investigator," he told them convincingly, flipping his I.D. out of his pocket. He used it on the rare occasion that magical elements were involved in muggle crime – indeed, this wasn't the first time the Minister had sporadically assigned him to investigations – and now seemed as opportune a moment as any. (The enchantment on the badge helped some, he had to admit.)

As he had hoped, they left him alone, though not without suspicion, as he knelt on the ground to examine the exact point of impact. Weasley didn't join him, and Draco was grateful for it.

Much of the stain coating the rough street was dark with the telltale brown-red of dried and drying blood. However, there were splatters here and there of what had probably been a sickly, glowing green; Draco recognized the mixture on the spot, having dealt with it several times beforehand, though he had given it no official name nor published any official reports – it was filed away as 'glowy green stuff' in his mind and notes. He had determined that the substance, strangely viscous yet fluidly malleable, coated the lungs and trachea, became much like glue when in contact with heat, and ultimately resulted in asphyxia when consumed.

He frowned as he poked and nudged the remaining stuff he could see into a small vial made just for an occasion such as this, his wand hidden in the palm of his hand, and then he gracefully rose to his feet and backtracked to where Weasley stood impatiently.

"A rather unfortunate way to die, really," he told the redhead once he was close enough, ducking under the tape, remaining purposefully vague while pocketing the vial once again with a smooth slip of his fingers. "Painful, and also clearly murder."

Weasley raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "And how could you know that?"

He couldn't help the cold smile, baring his teeth at the former Gryffindor besides him. "I have my ways, mister Weasley, not that I could ever speak of them. As I have said already, it comes with the job description."

"Ah, yes, of course. Forgive me for being an ass and asking a question you'll be forced to answer in, oh, fifteen minutes." He was given a mock bow for his trouble, to which Draco said nothing. "Let's go."

Draco nodded, his silence irritating enough given the bite in his words earlier, and Weasley set his jaw, grinding down on words that would be no doubt insulting. When the redhead broke into a light jog, a humorous image given his baggy sweatshirt, Draco remained close behind, watching streets and pedestrians walk by with the airy indifference of one thinking of something else.

It hardly surprised him that Harry Potter had chosen a smaller hospital rather than working at the one a few kilometers away; while that one was better known and had high approval rates, they would instantly use Potter's fame to their advantage. Then Draco blinked, wondering just when he had bothered looking at a map and memorizing the location of that particular hospital. Probably when he had first started his job, when he had thought it would be in his better interests to have at least an inkling of how to get there. Ha. Like that would have helped him any, especially if they had made him sign in.

They entered through the glass doors, silver letters stating Institute of Healthy Bodies and Minds or something along those lines, and were met with a wrinkled, stern-faced receptionist whose expression softened slightly at the sight of Weasley, only to become pinched when his eyes fell upon him.

"Good afternoon," Draco said politely, bobbing his head, and the secretary's demeanor remained guarded, as if waiting for him to go on and, what, insult his ridiculously huge emerald earrings. He resisted that particular urge with the ease of long practice and kept his mouth shut, most likely, he thought to himself, not for the last time.

"He's in the basement," the receptionist said after a few moments of tense silence, and Weasley nodded before beckoning Draco to follow him with a jerk of his head, and when he walked, the other followed, noting the cleanliness and quietness in the wards.

Draco mused briefly on each patient he can see from the window of their doors; most were sleeping and were children or young men and women. He only saw one grown woman and two grown men before Weasley turned to a door and tromped down a flight of stairs. His hood fell as he did so, and he removed the baseball cap from his head as he went, shaking his head slightly as his curls revealed themselves once again. Draco watched without comment, and he was hardly surprised when the other man ran a freckled hand through the red locks.

Weasley stopped with his hand on the knob of one of the doors, one of many in a long hallway, and turned to Draco with what he would loosely describe as a poor imitation of the receptionist's initial expression. "Please don't piss anyone off," he told him, and Draco gave a simple nod; with that, the door opened, and they entered the room, simple and dark and spelling sharply of disinfectant.

A familiar shock of black hair was the first thing Draco saw; the next was a back, belonging to the owner of the aforementioned hair, and even though his face wasn't visible the Slytherin could practically sense the scar on the man's forehead. And speaking of bodies – his eyes lit upon the pale figure lying motionlessly on the flat, metal table, and even from his current distance he immediately scanned the upper torso, of what he could see. Swelling of the throat, he thought, and with that his hypothesis was almost confirmed. The vial weighed heavy in his pocket.

Potter turned, but it was only when Weasley greeted him with, "I got the git to come." Meanwhile Draco bothered looking up only for a second; in the next, he had swept up to the body and bent over the face, carefully skimming his fingers over the larynx and pressing down lightly on the chest. More swelling, and a strange malleability even with skin that had stiffened with rigor mortis, so yes, the glowy green stuff was definitely responsible for this woman's death.

"I should really come up with a better name for that," he murmured as he straightened slightly to extract his wand from the folds of his coat, the other hand removing the vial of the chemical from his pocket. It was time to go about casting a spell to get the green liquid out of the woman's body, and the tip of his wand hovered over the victim's open mouth as he mentally rehearsed the proper procedure in his mind.

"Don't."

Potter's voice cut sharply into his thoughts, and he froze in place, remembering where he was and who exactly he was with in a snap. Still, he took his time to stand back up to his full height – which was unfortunately several increments shorter than Potter's – and turned to face the Chosen One, the one who had saved them all, the Boy Who Lived, Voldemort's bane of existence, so on and so forth.

"Afternoon, Potter," he said smoothly, meeting vibrantly green eyes with his gray ones, and uttered nothing more. There was no reason to explain what he knew until they asked, after all; even better, he should leave them floundering. Now that would be quite a funny thing to watch, after all of these days, months, perhaps even few years of tedium.

Then he blinked. He hadn't had thoughts like this in years.

"Malfoy," Potter greeted, his tone indifferent but tight. Draco disregarded the earlier thought and felt the beginnings of a smirk play upon his face; perhaps not all had been forgiven by Potter after all, all the more amusing if he chose to play his cards correctly. Which, given how stealthy he had been in order to remain low, he always did. "So you made it."

"I would say it is my pleasure, but I'm quite certain it's the opposite for all parties involved, myself included." Draco tapped the woman's face with his wand with a whisper, disregarding Potter's order to stop from moments earlier, and drew his wand away from the body, noting with satisfaction that the green substance followed from her throat without trouble. His voice lowered as he concentrated. "Still, now that I am here, I'll lend you my expertise."

"How generous of you to wait for permission," Potter retorted, sarcasm making his tone drip with scorn. Draco did not respond, as he unstopped the vial and guided the rest of the green into the glass container, and somehow he knew that his silence alone was more irritating than anything else he could have said.

"Look, Malfoy, all we want from you is if you can tell us what that – stuff you just took even is," Weasley said after a tense moment, and Draco barely acknowledged him, just a slight turn of his head in his general direction. He still remained attentively quiet, so the redhead continued cautiously, "We were told, vaguely, that you'd be the best for this sort of thing."

Draco shook his head slightly, because he was pretty sure ten thousand rules had been broken for even hinting what he did exactly for work. "The Minister really shouldn't have done so, but in any case, yes. I do know what this is." He lifted the vial into the light of the fluorescent lightbulbs in the ceiling, and it struck the liquid within with a sickly green color.

He waited patiently until someone asked him what it was and what it did, as he made a show of examining the stuff in the glass container; he'd determined, after a few years of studying his own behavior, that it was the Slytherin in him that enjoyed watching people squirm. Weasley lasted barely five seconds before speaking. "Just tell us what it is, Malfoy."

"Certainly." He was proud of himself when he did not smile as both Potter and Weasley rolled their eyes. "It's a compound that can be created only with a particular kind of charm, thus it is not a natural material in itself." He fingered the now-full vial in his hands. He was certain more of the stuff remained in the woman's system, though he didn't need it, and, while it was in her body, it remained harmless. "It is injected through needles, by swallowing, or through other openings in the skin. I've seen it a number of times preceding today, and I have reasonable suspicion to believe that dark wizards have been employing its use as a weapon."

If they were surprised by his knowledge, they did not show it on their faces. "So you're saying that someone made this, then forcibly gave it to the woman," Potter clarified.

"It's possible, though improbable." Draco ignored Weasley when he gives an incredulous sound from the back of his throat, and raised a hand before the redhead can protest further, saying soothingly, "I am simply saying no one would eat this through their own free will, given its color."

Weasley muttered something under his breath, and it was only a glare from Potter that read just a bit longer and then we can kick him out that shut him up. Draco meanwhile pointed to the woman's mouth, to her teeth and tongue. "You can tell by the slight discoloration in her enamel, or by the strange inflation of her tongue, that she consumed it through her mouth, though whether it was without consent or without knowledge if beyond me." He shrugged, unconcerned. "Either way, it is highly suspicious. I would be careful should anyone pursue this case as well."

Weasley then wanted to know, "Why?" Wisely so, as perhaps he was the one who would be investigating.

"I figure that should be fairly self-evident, but in essence, it is quite dangerous." Draco gestured towards the still figure lying quietly on the table. "Fatal, even, as you see here.'

"What does it do?" Potter asked.

Draco was surprised to hear he sounded genuinely curious. He watched cautiously for a moment, but all the Chosen One did was gaze down at the body; he took it as his cue to speak freely. "It causes asphyxia," he replied, and at Weasley's look he explained, "The chemical coats the lungs and throat and acts as glue, effectively causing the victim to suffocate. As I told you earlier, mister Weasley, it is a rather painful way to die."

There was silence while the pair exchange glances, contemplating the information he'd just given them. He stood still, wondering with a sense of dread if they doubted his words. If they did, it would be very possible for them to raise a fuss, which would get attention if Potter chose to complain vocally, and then that would blow his cover – one he'd been maintaining for so long. It would be such a waste to relocate after all of this time, though it wasn't entirely impossible, as there had been that one place down the way.

Perhaps he should have thought this through a bit more thoroughly. If people heard…

"Thank you, Malfoy," Potter said instead, at last, and Draco knew a dismissal when he heard one.

"Should your ignorant minds ever need some insight, do feel free to contact me." Hm, that 'ignorant' had slipped out without a thought; he had to take better care of his words next time around, if there was one. In any case, he tipped an imaginary hat and turned, pushing past Weasley while slipping the vial in his fingers into his pocket once more. He paused at the door, looked behind him, and murmured, "Good day."

He ledt the room and the hospital with a heavy, cold feeling in his stomach. If the media caught wind that Lucius Malfoy's son was currently stationed in London, he would never hear the end of it. That, and the regular death threats and hate mail would stuff his mailbox once more.

"He seemed subdued."

Ron's observation was, naturally, astute. Harry prodded the woman's chest and throat and felt what Malfoy had informed them would be there: an unnatural swelling. He was nearly certain that upon autopsy, the former Slytherin would be proven correct.

"He was." Harry paused to look over at his friend, who was watching the still woman with a quiet absence in his eyes.

"He called me mister."

Harry had found that to be one of the more surprising things, himself; Ron apparently found it unbelievable. "He's changed."

Ron snorted and muttered, "All the better for us, then." The redhead ignored Harry's disapproving glance by refusing to meet his gaze for longer than a brief second. "Don't give me that look. I'm just saying, if his expertise is solid, it will be a lot easier now to rope him into helping us. Not that I want that, of course."

"It's authentic," Harry said, stepping back and debating with himself on how to begin what he'd been trained to do. "His observation, that is. I'm fairly sure he's correct in most regards."

"I trust your judgment," Ron said, and that was the end of it – no other complaints, no grumbled remarks, just a simple statement of belief as his best friend turned to the door. "Do what you have to, Harry."

It closed softly behind the redhead as Harry murmured, "I wish it were that easy."

Another few days later, during which the pink liquid continued to baffle him and he had ignored a grand total of five different owls sent by two different people, Weasley showed up at his door again.

"We think it's the same stuff as last time," he said, and Draco nodded and came along willingly without speaking a single word of assent.

This time Potter was not present when he was shown the body, and he felt a little jolt of – what, disappointment? Fear? – at his absence. Still, when he pressed lightly on the middle-aged man's dark skin, feeling the beginnings of rigor mortis taking place, he identified the presence of the glowy green stuff in the man's chest with ease. "You are correct," he said, and when he was dismissed he realizes those were the only three words he had spoken the entire time he'd been with the other man.

More days passed, more experiments with the pink stuff failed, more owls were ignored, and when at last Sunday arrived he simply got up to change, spread some marmalade on a piece of toast, and then sat on the couch and flicked on the television. Muggle news wove into his ears like a love song sung by a tone-deaf Frenchman, and he leaned back with a sigh as he struggled to summon the will to be productive.

He remained unmoving right up until someone knocked on his door, and then he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the entrance of his flat, peeking through the peephole for a few moments before resigning himself to his fate and opening the door slightly. He blinked stupidly a few times, and it took him all of five embarrassing seconds to realize it wasn't Weasley waiting there this time around.

"Morning, Malfoy," Harry Potter said, and it took almost all of Draco's willpower not to slam the door on the man's face.

He instead opened the door a little wider and said wearily and warily, "Whatever you need, spit it out so I can get it done and return to reveling in the peacefulness that is my flat." As an afterthought, he added, "If you wouldn't mind."

Potter gave him a strange look, most likely due to the half-rude, half-polite way Draco had phrased the request, and then he seems to inwardly shrug as he said, "Ron found something you might want to look at."

"I hope you realize this is the one day I do not have to work," Draco grumbled as he stepped out of his house and closed the door behind him. He turned and worked the key in into its hole, locking the door before stepping down the stoop and trailing after the former Gryffindor walking along the pavement.

"Since when do you work a six-day week?" Potter asked, sounding amused. "Back in school, you were always saying your dad could – "

"Let's not bring that up, Potter, unless you want to go through the trouble to find another person with my level of skills." Draco's voice was cold and flat. "Though if that is the case, yes, it would be simply delightful analyze my young self's idiotic pastimes in great detail."

"I wasn't implying – "

"Clearly. Keep walking, Potter, I'm sure neither of us have all day."

It seemed Potter hadn't even realized he'd stopped and turned to Draco, and he quickly spun himself around and hurried his steps to the destination. Draco followed silently, feeling a sliver of guilt for his sharp words but, for the most part, assured that what he had said was fully justified given the situation.

"So." Silence. Draco could hardly believe Potter was trying to make small talk, especially considering who he himself was. "How's, er. How's life going for you?"

"Peachy," he replied, glaring at a crack in the sidewalk.

"Which means?"

"Must you ask?" Yes, he must, and Draco gave in and responded, "In essence, there are morons everywhere I look, and, unfortunately for my diminishing brain cells, there is no escape."

A short laugh echoed his statement. "Typical. You haven't changed at all."

"I resent that. I for one like to believe that I have – how would you say it – mellowed out."

"That's what Ron tells me."

"In much more colorful terms, I imagine."

"Something like that, yes. Mostly he's surprised."

"What, that a Slytherin like myself can realize when he's lost the battle he never should have tried to win?"

"If you put it that way, yeah, kind of."

"Astonishing, that, isn't it."

"He's what one might call a biased source."

"You're telling me. He would kiss your feet if you asked it."

"That's a bit of a stretch, Malfoy."

"Oh, please, Potter. Tell me he wasn't revering you when you first met, I dare you."

"Well, all right, I'll admit that much. But times have changed."

"Yes, for instance, your best friend runs around getting your resident Slytherin to help you out. Certainly a marvelous decision on his part."

"It wasn't his fault. I told him to."

"Case in point, Potter."

"Yes, but the Minister suggested it."

"I am still questioning that. As an Unspeakable, my work is in theory confidential, though I am beginning to see that policy is obsolete when applied to me."

"Welcome to the real world, Malfoy."

"I've lived in it for years."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"At least you don't have to hide in plain sight, Potter. Be happy with what you have." Why had he said that? It had just come out on its own accord; this was why he always had to remain in control of his tongue.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The mood sobered as Draco muttered, "Nothing," in a voice that booked no argument. Potter fell silent, detecting the change in atmosphere, and after a few seconds of silent walking Draco immediately recognized the hospital as it came into view. He has been here so often in these past few weeks, he thought to himself, that he could probably find his way now there without trouble.

"So you said you're an Unspeakable," and it seemed Potter still wanted to talk. Draco ignored the fact he had been conversing quite calmly with him earlier. "That seems kind of the opposite of what I thought you might be doing."

"A lot of what you think is turning out to be wrong, Potter."

"That's usually the case when you're a scientist."

That's true, at least. Draco supposed he and Potter had something in common. "A fault on your part. You are assuming items true without evidence to prove them as such."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Yes, but you do them to a degree where it can be labeled 'stupid'."

"You've barely talked to me for more than five minutes, Malfoy. What would you know?"

"Just because I don't work with people doesn't mean I cannot read them."

"Clearly."

Draco rolled his eyes as they went through the glass doors of the hospital. "Clearly my intelligence is wasted on your people."

"Clearly," Potter countered, "You're not even giving anyone a chance to begin to appreciate it."

The truth of these words shut him up nigh instantaneously, and he saw Potter silently gloat with the verbal victory as he talked to the secretary at the front desk. He fumed for the whole length of the hallway, refusing to look at anything but the floor all the way down to the workspace, and only looked up when they entered Potter's workplace and he could see the body.

There was a difference this time, in that now the head was horribly disfigured, one half of the facial skin dead and rotting, gleaming white skull visible, while the other side showed a wide eye, parted lips and a half head of hair. The remains reminded him of something Draco had seen before, but he said nothing as he drew closer and examined it more carefully. He didn't miss the way Potter flinched when Draco poked the edge of charred skin with his bare finger, noting how it burned at the contact, and then took a small sniff before pulling back.

"Bubotuber," he said. It wasn't hard to find the plant and make a potion from it, if one had access to muggle products and understood magic to the point of being not quite an imbecile. In extremely small doses and when properly diluted, the pus from a boil on the bubotuber plant was capable of removing boils, though the only way to get it besides illegal means was to have it prescribed by a Healer. "Apparently someone decided throwing a cauldron's worth of the plant's pus on this man's face would be the most amusing pastime of the day – night, actually. This is perhaps a day and a half old, if I am not mistaken."

"And if you are?"

"Then you have nothing to go on and you will never bother me again. So please, do find me wrong, I will most certainly be happy to cease coming."

"I figured as much." Draco wondered if he should feel slightly disappointed that Potter didn't rise to the jab as the former Gryffindor went to the other side of the smooth, metal table, gingerly touching a few spaces between the boiled and healthy flesh. "Bubotuber, then. How fast does it react to human skin?"

"Upon contact, the skin will rise in large, painful boils before proceeding to high temperatures, where it will begin to essentially boil itself off the bone and muscle entirely – that's the best way to explain it, really. Too much of a dose will burn through muscle. An even larger dose, you might get to the bone."

"Could you go beyond the bone?"

"Theoretically, yes, though at this point I think you are merely satisfying your own morbid curiosity. In any case, you could label it as the cause of this man's death."

"I thought I felt the presence of the green glowing material in his chest."

"You – " Right, Draco, people learn from watching and Potter wasn't a complete idiot, even if he was awfully close to being so. "Well, fine, perhaps the bubotuber was applied after asphyxia. Where exactly did you find this man?"

"Ron had him brought in this morning, and from what I understand, he was found in an abandoned muggle factory, hidden by spells of concealment." An uneasy expression darkened Potter's face. "I personally think it was a murder, but Hermione is the one who figures that type of thing out while Ron and I take care of this."

Draco raised an eyebrow, and then he pieced it together a moment too late. "The three of you run some form of investigation business?"

"Essentially," Potter replied, and Draco mentally slapped his own forehead. That explained a great many things, such as why Potter didn't feel the need to help others as an Auror – he helped in a different way as a private investigator's coroner instead. "We have help from other people to get us some influence in the muggle world, but we've made quite a name for ourselves in the wizarding community."

Potter was giving him a strange look, and Draco realized that he probably should have known what the other was up to, given he was the Boy Who Lived and everyone continued to keep tabs on him, even today. He coughed into his fist to disguise his embarrassment, and then he said in a semi-haughty manner, already turning for the door, "Yes, well, that is – good for you, I suppose. Now can I go or do you have any other questions you want to bother me with?"

"If you put it that way, then yeah, actually. How do you know so much about bubotuber?"

He stilled in midstride when Potter asked the question, pivoting on his feet to face him again with a blank expression. "My job is strictly confidential. What I do is under no circumstance to be shared, regardless of the fact you are Harry Potter himself – "

"The Minister mentioned you're a professional chemist in the eyes of the normal world," Potter plowed on, and Draco sent him an affronted look that was easily ignored as the other continued, "Why are you, of all people, trying to get a muggle science to be equated with magic?"

"Potter," he said, and then he schooled his face into one of stone, "Remember when you said I wasn't giving people the chance to even consider my intelligence?"

"Er, yes?"

"I'm afraid most people, yourself included, do not even try to." The words were delivered without venom, without a trace of emotion, and from personal experience the Slytherin knew that was the best way to indicate to someone they had asked one too many questions.

Naturally Potter ruined it by saying, "What?"

"Oh my god." That's it, Draco thought. I have officially given up. Potter is still as stupid as he always was. "I honestly cannot tell if you are trying to annoy me or if you're actually sincere."

"Nah, I was just trying to get a rise out of you." Potter gabe him an approving glance, as if he'd passed some sort of test. "And you can go now. But one thing before you leave."

"Make it quick."

"Do you think it would be possible for you to perhaps clear your schedule? We'll probably be needing you more after this."

Draco paused by the door, turning the proposition this way and that in his mind. "Perhaps you should talk to the Minister," he said at last, forgetting he was supposed to adamantly disagree in favor of focusing on this latest problem. "I do not imagine that will be difficult, but…" He trailed off as he thought of the research time lost, and then spoke up once more, "Why would you want me, Potter? I imagine I would be your last choice on any list that included the names of any group of people."

"You're the best qualified," he said with a shrug. "I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of this sort of thing." Here he gestured to the charred face, the puffiness of the bare, lifeless chest, and looks him square in the eye. Draco's eyebrows slowly rose into his hairline, as he considered the newfound gravity to the situation.

After a moment he asked, stating it as a fact, "You're suggesting serial murder."

"I'll deny it if you bring it up, but yes, in my professional opinions, these people are all dying in basically the same way."

"Serial murder. As in, a serial murderer."

"Yes. I thought that'd be obvious."

"You are planning on catching a serial murderer."

"I didn't say that."

"It was implicit."

"I stand by the fact that I didn't say it."

"How are you going to even begin to catch a serial murderer?"

"That's where you come in."

He was staring at him with an intensity Draco remembered seeing on his face all those years back, at the final duel with Voldemort. He got the sense that if he refused, pain in the form of an endlessly nagging Weasley would be in his future.

"I imagine our partnership will be far from savory," Draco tried cautiously, in a backhanded way of saying this will not end well no matter how you look at it. "I don't suppose Weasley or Granger will be too fond of my presence."

Potter told him, his tone insightful yet snippy, "Well, like you said, you've mellowed out. If you don't act like a complete jerk then I think we'll be good."

"I'm not – well, not all the time," he grumbled to himself.

"You so are," Potter said, snorting on a laugh, and then Draco exited and closed the door behind him, ignoring the burn of righteous anger (he knew it was embarrassment, but he didn't have to admit it to himself just yet) on his cheeks.

And then, as he left through the glass doors after a glaring contest with the front desk secretary, he realized that was the most he'd ever spoken in years. And, more importantly, to his internal humiliation, it was one of the few times where he hadn't gotten the last word.

This was my NaNoWriMo project that was halfway completed at the end of November and, as it stands, has still yet to reach completion. Since it was written for the sole purpose of my sister's birthday, however, which is today, posting it periodically seems to be the ideal choice to gift it to her on time.

As she has requested, it is Harry/Draco, is nearing and will likely surpass 50,000 words, and will eventually include an egregious amount of dialogue. Happy birthday to you!

... though I'm still not entirely pleased with how this came out, even though I've had it on file for almost half a year.

(As you can probably guess, this is my first venture into the HP fandom - and after this is done, I don't plan on coming back. Too much stuff to remember and research, plus, as a book series, it never appealed to me as much as others.)