The MCS, the Magical Constabulary Service, had been created in the wake of reforms to the Ministry of Magic. It was an amalgamation of seven sub departments of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, charged with dealing with different parts of essentially the same process. The idea behind it being that because Fudge's administration and the war, small bureaucratic fiefdoms had formed and caused the due process of law to be slowed to the speed of molasses in a cold prairie January, and in early 2006, the MCS was formed to streamline it all. While fighting dark forces was a priority, the emphasis was now put on law enforcement. Training was standardized, and ranking and organization was reformed on Scotland Yard's model. And now it needed to prove itself. Tschida's murder could be considered the first major case where all parts of the MCS would have to work together.

And keep things quiet until they could release an official press statement and let the trial of the murderer speak for itself.

At least that's what Harry hoped. He was fine with the front line, investigative part of his job. Loved it in fact. Loved the chase. The administrative side of being in charge of the MCS, the paper work and its own nascent bureaucracy annoyed him. Several times over the past year, Harry had wished he'd given the promotion to someone else. And now, in one of the meeting rooms in their second floor offices, Harry and the investigative team, along with Kit Stanley, poured over Der Krähennest's notes.

Tschida had left behind a surprising number pages of notes. Quite a bit like the notes Hermione usually took for anything. The team, headed by Ruqayyah and consisting of her partner Eamon, Connie Carter, Natalie MacDonald, Susan Bones and Arjuna Balaji, were on their third pot of coffee and still working out the time line of events when Harry and Hermione came in.

"How's it going?" asked Harry.

"Slow. But we're getting there. Just a lot of stuff to sift through," Ruqayyah said, tucking a lock back under her hijab that had fallen out, "And I'm guessing you want a briefing, Hermione?"

"Robards and Her Ladyship would liked to be kept abreast of this case, so yes, if you don't mind."

"Well what we have so far, and this is just a summery of what Tschida has left behind: So, Fyodor Rodin noticed that Mikhail Zakharov, president of Tsaritsyn-Bayer and a close buddy with Minister Pechenikov, was making trips to London, starting in 1999. Zakharov's also chairs a committee that's in charge of the Wizarding Duma's research and development department, for whatever that's worth. So Rodin noticed all these trips, about fifteen two week trips in 1999 and starts poking around and finds this."

Kit handed Harry and Hermione one of the translated documents, it was a memo from Gringotts regarding a joint account to be set up at their branch in Singapore. To Harry, there was only a lot of financial mumbo-jumbo and the only thing that drew Harry's attention was the name of the other signatory, Kim Hayden. Hermione noticed the name, too.

"Any idea who this Hayden is?" she asked.

"Not yet. Tschida and his colleagues thought that Hayden worked — or still works — for the Ministry," said Ruqayyah.

"I'll get you access to the personnel archives, Ruqayyah. See what you can find. Anyway, what does an overseas bank account mean, Kit?"

"The fact that it's in Hong Kong is suspicious," said Kit, whom despite his 'precious' appearance, he had worked as a tax collector for the Ministry before becoming part of the MCS. "It's a tax haven for both Muggles and Wix. Tax laws are fairly relaxed when compared to England and are … enforced at the Executive Wizarding Council's leisure."

"So a great way to hide money?" asked Harry.

"As long as your in the Council's good graces. And probably by extension the People's Politburo of Wizards on the mainland."

"In other words," said Harry.

"We won't be able to get a warrant to look into the account. But it's not impossible to find a body or two who'll lend a hand," replied Kit, then with a shrug, "I just need the right one."

"Anything else," asked Hermione to the group.

"We need the original autopsy report for Fyodor Rodin," said Ruqayyah.

Eamon said, "We know about his chain smoking, and his son said that there's a heart condition in the family. But, this is now a rather suspicious coincidence that Mr. Rodin should die of a heart attack on the eve of some sort of revelation about the Duma."

"Right, and one that required him to be out of country for it," said Harry, then to Hermione, "We'll need to talk to the DIMC about getting that autopsy report. And get Eddy to go over it to see if there was anything missed by the pathologists the first time."

"And as for Zakharov," said Hermione, "Do we know his whereabouts? He is a person of interest, after all."

"For all we know, he's in Timbuktu right now. But we'll keep an eye out for him, Hermione," answered Ruqayyah, "God willing."

Hermione nodded, "All right then. Harry?"

"Yeah, I guess. Everyone know what there doing?" the team gave a general yes, "Good, I think we'll get to it, then."

There are times when one encounters a person whom they swear they have seen before. That moment when one thinks I've seen you before, but where? Who are you? It was that sort of moment Ginny had when she went to collect the security deposit for the cottage from Lana Winters.

The day was overcast, but the clouds high in the sky, casting the valley in harsh winter light. On the top of the hill, just off the road that lead out of Gwynafon was the cottage. It was low, two stories and made from grey stones and thatch. The doors and window panes a dusty greyish blue.

From the outside, the cottage seemed so still. So quiet. Ginny wondered if there was anyone there at all. Then she saw smoke rising from the chimney and continued up the trail. She knocked on the door and waited. She heard a muffled "Coming," before the door opened, enough for Lana to look out.

"Hey. Um … I'm Ginny … Ginny Potter. I'm here for the…"

"The security deposit. Yeah," said Lana, opening the door, "Come in."

The first thing that struck Ginny about Lana was how tired she looked. Like she hadn't slept in weeks. Dark shadows under her hazel eyes and ashen skin. She was tall, too. Very tall. Closer to Ron or Bill or Percy's height. Her hair was a light sandy brown and in a longish pixie cut, jaw square and honestly she looked like a strong person. Physically strong. But someone who was naturally strong recovering from a long illness. She was much too thin for her frame.

Lana had walked out of her sight, into the kitchen, rubbing her left arm. Ginny was not someone inclined to snoop, she knew better, having grown up at The Burrow, but she felt compelled to look around, just in the living room, she told herself. The decorations were spartan, but what was there was rather eclectic. There was a nazar charm, a blue glass ornament that looked like an eye. It was like the one she had seen in the Hamdan's home. It was supposed to ward off the evil eye.

Ginny continued on, finding an antique Turkish copper bowl, one of those long Greek drinking cups with a pair of painted eyes and Persian miniatures. A framed poster of a woman dressed in black, her mouth covered, with an elaborate, spiked crown on a red and orange background. She held a dagger in her hands, dripping in blood and the bodies of two children at her feet; the title above the woman's head was "Medée". Near that were a few pictures, one with Lana standing in front of a ruined gate with carved stone lions. She looked happy and healthy; the wind in her hair and a smile on her lips. There was another picture next to that one, Lana on a stone wall or fortification. A young woman next to her in a sun dress and a fancy scarf on her head, her hair looked dark brown, but her eyes were covered large sunglasses. On the floor, shelves, the desk and coffee table, there were notebooks and sketchbooks, a box full of pencils, mugs — some half empty with coffee — and ash trays, some empty, some with the ash still in them. A few with a few smouldering cigarettes. These giving the room a very strong smell, and Ginny knew her mother would have had a fit.

And there were books, Ginny noticed; both Muggle and Wizarding. Books on spells, potions, local wizarding history. Muggle books on survival, philosophy, history, what looked like manuals, atlases, a collection with the title Jane's Fighting Ships. Lots of books, magazines and newspapers in several languages and different alphabets, some Ginny had never scene. And there were art books, on the coffee table, in book shelves, on the floor. Again, there were Wizarding artists and clearly Muggle ones without moving pictures. The Muggle ones intrigued Ginny the most. Some where closed, some open, but they were so strange. Geometric shapes in primary colours, compositions that looked like people — at least Ginny thought they looked like people — dark, messy, grotesque paintings of people and some that looked like nothing but solid colour. So strange, Muggles with their art. It barely looked like art.

Ginny's eyes were drawn to a corner of the living room, the window next to it looked over the valley, the fog settling at the bottom of it, completely shrouding Gwynafon. In the corner itself was an easel and canvas. Part of it was painted in a grey, a blueish grey. It hadn't taken any shape Ginny could see, and there was a lot of canvas still showing.

That was when Lana returned. She was holding a small pouch, which Ginny figured had the security deposit.

"Sorry it took that long," Lana said, handing Ginny the purse, "Thirty galleons, as requested."

Weren't your eyes hazel a minute ago? The way the light hit her eyes from the window, they looked a pale grey. Almost colourless. And in that moment, the thought I've seen you before crossed Ginny's mind. But for the life of her, she couldn't place Lana Winters. Maybe at Hogwarts. A quidditch game or at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley.

"Uh, thanks." Not knowing what to do, Ginny glanced at the unfinished painting, "I was just admiring your work. Um, is it … is it of outside? A landscape?"

Lana had a glazed look in her eyes, "No, not really. Maybe. I don't know," she shrugged, looking anywhere but Ginny. "Sort of just came to me."

"Oh," murmured Ginny, then: "I notice that you like Muggle art. Quite different, I wouldn't know how to make of it."

"It's modern stuff. A lot of them were either pushing what art means, or dealing with problems; personal and external," she said, she let herself grab her left arm, messaging it. Her mind was elsewhere.

Ginny didn't know if she should ask about it. The arm. She wanted to know, there was a story about Lana Winters that Ginny needed to know. And then: "You know, Harry and I would love it if you would come down to the main house every once in a while. For supper, drinks, just to talk. I'm home a lot, so just drop by whenever you want."

Lana looked at Ginny. Her eyes still far off. Somewhere else, but she shrugs again, "I'll think about it."