Just a few quick heads-up before we get into the excitement, friends...

WARNING: This story, as I'm sure you can guess from the title, is rated M, for mature content of the adult kind, violence, and bad bad language. There will be EXTREME PROFANITY and EXTREME HOMOSEXUALITY in it. And no, I shall never apologize for either.

This particular story will be a mystery of the most bloody kind and WILL have graphic violence and WILL feature character death (although I promise that nothing fatal shall befall either Harry or Draco on my watch, you have my word). There will also be a somewhat (extremely) unnecessary amount of angst. (Still no apologies.) If you don't like excessive drama or complicated relationships or jealousy tropes or exorbitant amounts of woe, I'm afraid this story is not for you. But if you happen to like all those sorts of fun things, I dedicate every ounce of angst in this story to you :)

To help further the angsty drama along, there is also—don't kill me!—an Original Male Character. I got tired of attempting to recycle the same tertiary character names and decided to just create my own! I do hope you like him, I had a lovely time creating him. I did also have a bit of fun with coming up with names for random side characters, as well. Sue me. (Please don't.)

And lastly, there is a final heartfelt warning of EXTREME USE OF POETRY contained in this story. I'm serious. I tried my hardest, but I was unable to reign in my obsessive passion for all things poetry and Emily Dickinson, which I shall now be unselfishly sharing with you all. It's all out of love, I assure you.

(I would like to take this time to apologize profusely for my sincere inability to apologize in a genuine manner.)

And with that last final anti-apology, I do believe those are all the warnings I have at this time, so with no further ado, let us begin...

AMONG THOSE KILLED

Chapter 1—Measure Every Grief

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes-
I wonder if It weighs like Mine-
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long-
Or did it just begin-
I could not tell the Date of Mine-
It feels so old a pain-

I wonder if it hurts to live-
And if They have to try-
And whether-could They choose between-
It would not be-to die-

I note that Some-gone patient long-
At length, renew their smile-
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil-

I wonder if when Years have piled-
Some Thousands-on the Harm-
That hurt them early-such a lapse
Could give them any Balm-

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve-
Enlightened to a larger Pain-
In Contrast with the Love-

The Grieved-are many-I am told-
There is the various Cause-
Death-is but one-and comes but once-
And only nails the eyes-

There's Grief of Want-and grief of Cold-
A sort they call "Despair"-
There's Banishment from native Eyes-
In Sight of Native Air-

And though I may not guess the kind-
Correctly-yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary-

To note the fashions-of the Cross-
And how they're mostly worn-
Still fascinated to presume
That Some-are like My Own—

"I Measure Every Grief I Meet"—Emily Dickinson

oOo

Harry Potter looked different.

That was the first thought that floated through Draco's dazed—well hardly dazed, more like surprised—mind, startling him into freezing. He hadn't seen Potter in over three years. Not since the trials, the ones that had decided Draco's fate, the ones that had left him a nervous wreck, the ones Draco tried to forget he was indebted to Potter for speaking at. But that had been a different Potter than the one that stood before him now. That Potter had been thin and wiry, with a certain presence, sure, but nothing overwhelming. That Potter had still had ridiculous hair and awkward glasses, as well as a swift temper, angering quickly and prone to giving furious speeches.

This Potter, however, stood tall, with a quiet confidence and a hushed aura of power that instantly drew Draco's attention. The ugly glasses from his youth were gone, replaced by thin black frames that seemed to cast a certain dangerous glint to his eyes—eyes Draco was certain had never been that green. The bony prat from his childhood had disappeared, replaced by this new attractive version, iron muscles that Draco was convinced had never wrapped Potter's skinny frame before were straining beneath tight crimson robes—Auror robes. Draco had a history of dealing with Aurors, even three years after being acquitted. But at the sight of the robes stretched tight around Potter's upper body, his mouth went dry and he was quite sure he had never had a reaction like that to the uniform before.

The only thing that remained somewhat the same about the man was his hair, sticking everywhere in unruly tufts and hanging low over his forehead, covering his famous scar, even longer than last Draco had seen it, but unlike in his younger days, it now only served to make him look dark, dangerous, arousing. Beautiful.

At the sound of a quiet cough from the dark-haired Auror, Draco realized he had been staring for too long, in wide-eyed surprise at the changes in the man standing before him. Quickly schooling his features into a neutral expression—thank Merlin for all the childhood practice—he raised his gaze from Potter's firm chest to look him in the eye, heart hammering and throat feeling parched.

"Potter?" he asked, tone sounding nearly bored, belying the frantic pounding of his heart. What was this? How was he affecting Draco like this? Was he casting some sort of spell, exuding some of the power that Draco could practically feel rolling off of him in delicious waves? At the thought, he gritted his teeth. How dare Potter use magic against him like that? Turning his own body's reactions against him? How dare he show up on Draco's doorstep, looking so powerful and self-assured?

Well, Draco simply wouldn't fall for it, no matter how much he longed to reach out a finger, just one finger, and stroke the bundle of pectoral muscle that he could see bunching and flexing beneath those lovely robes as the man shifted his weight and crossed his arms, frowning at Draco as if expecting a warmer welcome than the one offered.

"Mind if I come in, Malfoy?" He gazed around the large doorframe pointedly and Draco stepped aside silently to allow him entrance.

As Potter crossed the threshold and shut the door softly behind him, Draco had the sudden urge to hex something. Hadn't he just promised himself not even two minutes ago that he would not allow himself to be swept up in any sort of spell of Potter's, and he had let the man into his home without so much as a single protest? Was Draco well? Should he seek out a Healer, perhaps? But Potter started speaking and the low timbre of his voice pulled Draco's attention away from his thoughts.

"Look, Malfoy, this—" Whatever else he had been about to say was cut off by a raised palm from the blond.

"Surely you don't expect me to receive company in the foyer, do you?" he drawled, shaking his head. It seemed that this newfound attractiveness Potter had somehow achieved had not managed to include any sort of social etiquette. He has spent the last ten years in the company of uncouth Gryffindors, Draco reminded himself wryly. Well, at least for the time that Potter was here, Draco would attempt to impart correct behaviors and proper social niceties on the man. It was about time someone did so, considering the amount of time the other man spent in the spotlight.

At his question, Potter glanced around in confusion, as if trying to figure out why this location would not be an appropriate one to hold a conversation in. "Follow me to the parlour, Potter." Normally he would have led him to the drawing room, but he wasn't sure if Potter wanted the reminder of where his best friend had been tortured by Draco's mad aunt.

Beckoning, Draco turned and led the way, attempting a nonchalant sort of strut, but he was not sure if it was coming across as relaxed as he would like it to appear. The two men did not exchange another word until they were both seated in large plush armchairs in the next room, Draco sipping at a glass of amber liquid, ice clinking gently around the rim as he raised it to his lips. Potter had politely declined his offer of a beverage, staring at the fireplace impassively as Draco took his time preparing himself a drink. Leaning casually back in his chair, Draco sipped his brandy and raised one eyebrow, permitting the Auror to finally speak. His lips twitched into a small smirk at the sight of Potter obviously refraining from rolling his eyes.

"Right, well," he began, pushing his glasses higher up onto his nose and fidgeting with the hem of one sleeve. Was he nervous? Despite the trepidation Draco still felt toward the spontaneous arrival of the Wizarding World's Saviour, he found himself intrigued. What had brought the All-Powerful Auror and Vanquisher of Evil knocking on Draco's door, looking so gorgeous and apprehensive?

"We've had a recent rash of crimes," he spoke quietly, inviting Draco to lean in toward him, resting one elbow on the armrest and raising an eyebrow in invitation to continue. What did Potter's work have to do with him? "Violent crimes," he continued, voice taking on a quiet anger as if speaking about the violence in plurals was difficult for him. His mouth opened to say more, but he closed it again and took a deep breath.

"How does any of this pertain to me?" Draco wondered aloud when Potter seemed to be struggling for words.

"The first victim was found nearly four months ago, but the length of time between attacks seems to be growing less and less each time." When Potter spoke, it was in a calm voice, as if reading his words from a file, startling Draco with how quickly he was able to reign in any emotion. The Potter he had known in school had never had any luck with controlling his anger. But this new Potter was apparently full of surprises. "They've grown increasingly brutal," he continued in the same calm manner. "And the attackers have become much bolder. The last crime was committed just outside of Diagon Alley."

"Who was it?" Draco felt curiously strange, numb almost. Potter didn't need to say it. He knew. He knew without explanation exactly who the intended targets were.

"We've identified the pattern in the attacks," Potter continued quietly, ignoring Draco's question.

Suddenly, the blond was on his feet, with no memory of standing. He shook his head frantically, not wanting Potter to finish his sentence. It would be horrible, Draco just knew it. Whatever Potter had come to say, it was something Draco did not want to hear, and he regretted living anywhere that Potter could track him down so easily. Because whatever Potter was about to say was about to change his life forever, and Draco was certain that it was not in any way he would like.

"Malfoy…" Potter was on his feet before him, reaching out an arm to steady the other man. "Draco…" And it was his given name from those lips that made Draco freeze and force himself to calm, even though the sound of his name only added to the feeling of dread settling heavily in his chest.

"Who was it, Potter?" Draco's voice was the barest slither of a whisper. "Who died?"

Potter's eyes burned with regret as a single name fell from his lips: "Pansy Parkinson."

The air whooshed out of Draco's lungs in a painful rush. Pansy? No, Potter was clearly mistaken. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Pansy was fine, Draco had spoken to her only two days ago. They had gone out, they had gotten drunk, he had dropped her off at her flat with a kiss to her forehead, promising to floo in the morning with hangover potion and breakfast. They had eaten breakfast and read the Daily Prophet together, fighting over the gossip section and being embarrassingly catty. She had tried to set him up on one of her million "brilliant"—and oftentimes disastrous—blind dates, he had refused, she had made a snarky remark about him being depressingly single, he had called her an interfering cow, kissed her on the cheek, and flooed away to the spinning sight of her familiar smirk.

His knees quivered and buckled; he could feel bile rising up in his throat. How could anything happen to Pansy? How could Draco have allowed anything to happen to Pansy? She had to be fine—she was always fine. Always there. Always there for Draco, with a glass of brandy and a bitchy remark. Who would indulge in juvenile gossip with him now? Who would make snide remarks about passers-by with him? Who would stumble through his Floo, pissed off her bloody arse, at ungodly hours of the night? Who would talk about men with him and swap scandalous stories? Not that Draco had had a juicy scandal in a while, but next he did, who was he supposed to turn to? Who would brush his hair and tell him he looked lovely, then turn around and call him a slag? Who would drag him on all-day shopping sprees and force him to model all his new purchases for her? Who would be his best friend now?

There was an odd keening noise rending the air, and it wasn't until he heard Potter attempting to hush him that Draco realized the sound was coming from him. When his legs had failed to hold him up, Potter had caught him and maneuvered him into an armchair. He was leaning over Draco, firm grip on the blond's upper arms, staring at him intently—eyes so green, so close, so concerned.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he murmured, voice burning with sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

"Tell me it's some sort of sick joke," Draco begged, refusing to believe it. It simply could not be true. This was some elaborately cruel practical joke that the man was clearly playing on him. "You got me, I fell for it, congratulations, you tricked me into proving I have a heart. Weasley can come out from under the Invisibility Cloak now." He glanced around as if expecting copper hair to suddenly appear laughing from midair. Or maybe what he was really looking for was Pansy's vicious trademark smirk as she tumbled gracefully through the fireplace, clearly in on the joke. Where was she? Why would she keep Draco waiting like this? She was the last person he would describe as patient—how was she still keeping herself hidden?

But the look on Potter's face, so earnest and pained, quenched any deluded hope Draco might have convinced himself to give into. "No, Draco, I wish it were. I'm so sorry." His words were sincere and pitying and it was the latter emotion that Draco latched onto, allowing it to cement into a rage that steadied him, gave him something to focus on. He would not be pitied by Harry Potter.

"How did she die?" Draco's voice was quiet, even quieter than Potter's had been when he had begun explaining the reason for his visit, but there was a cold fury that laced it until his words sounded splintered and sharp, like ice cracking. The flames in the fireplace flickered and dimmed, burning down to nothing but the embers, which pulsed and glowed with a dangerous energy.

At the question, Potter dropped his arms from their hold on Draco and straightened, shaking his head. "We're not quite sure yet," he responded, avoiding the blond's eye.

"Tell me, Potter," Draco demanded harshly. He had to know. He had to know everything. Most importantly, he had to know who to track down. He had to know who was to pay—because somebody would pay. The least he could do for the girl he had known his entire life was to avenge her death in the most savage, merciless way he knew how. His mind began flicking through possibilities, attempting to come up with the most horrific retribution he could possibly imagine, which, being the son of Lucius Malfoy, was a staggering number of options.

But Potter only continued to shake his head, as if he knew exactly what Draco was thinking. "No, not now," he said gently. "Once I know more, I will let you know. But I didn't come here to discuss the details with you."

With a start, his earlier words came back to Draco, punching a hole through the thick barrier of grief surrounding him and causing his eyelids to slide shut. We've identified the pattern in the attacks. The pattern in the attacks. Multiple attacks. Pansy was a targeted victim, and not the first.

"Who else has died?" His voice was weary, already certain he knew the motive behind the crime. He knew exactly why Potter was there.

"Theodore Nott was the first victim." The voice came from farther away and Draco's eyes snapped open to find that Potter had retreated several paces, sitting in his original armchair and gazing at Draco with slight reservation, as if expecting him to lash out in his grief.

At the name, Draco felt his insides sinking, as though gravity had increased its hold on his organs and was dragging them painfully through his body toward the earth. "Theo is dead?" There was a lifeless feeling creeping through his veins, numbing his body into place. Draco hadn't seen Theo in over a year. For a time after the war, most of the graduating Slytherins had found themselves ostracized by the wizarding world, keeping in even closer contact with each other as a result. But as time passed, most of the group had pulled away, until Pansy was finally the only one that he still kept in regular contact with. He didn't even talk to Greg anymore.

With a sharp pang, Draco's eyes shot back to Potter's face. "Who else?" How many of his friends had been killed without his knowledge? How had this been going on for months without Draco knowing?

Potter fidgeted with his hem for a moment and Draco wondered if he was always this flustered in murder cases or if it was because he had attended school for years with all of the victims. "We figured out they're targeting all of the Slytherins in our year." Potter sounded uncomfortable and Draco had to fight the urge to leap from his seat and shake the names from his sympathetic lips.

"Who else, Potter?" Draco demanded. Now was not the time for games or evasive words. He needed answers so he could begin exacting vengeance.

"Tracey Davis was next." He sounded curiously regretful. Was he faking regret for Draco's sake? Had he always cared about the Slytherins this much? Or did he only care now that they were no longer breathing? "Millicent Bulstrode was found a few weeks after." He paused and Draco was terrified to hear the next name. Would it be Greg? Blaise? He had never befriended Daphne, but he certainly did not want to hear about her murder. "Then Pansy was discovered yesterday."

An interesting wave of both heart-wrenching sorrow at the reminder of her death and intense relief that the list was at an end crashed through Draco's body. "So you're here to what? Save me?" They had sent Potter himself to the Manor to speak with him; clearly, they were taking this seriously—which could only mean that the brutality of the crimes had not been exaggerated. "What about the others?" Were Greg and Blaise safe?

"I'm actually here about both those things," Potter admitted. "The victims haven't been chosen in any particular order that we can find, so our plan for the time being is to round up the remaining Slytherins until we can get more answers on who's behind it. But we're having trouble locating Zabini and Goyle."

"But why now?" The question fell from Draco's lips in one soft breath. "The war is over, we've paid for our sins. We're still paying for them. None of them even had the Mark."

"This sort of misplaced vengeance doesn't follow reason, Draco," Potter responded just as softly. "It's blind and mindless and doesn't care for logic. But I won't allow anything to happen to anyone else."

For the briefest of moments, Draco felt comforted, special. Harry Potter wanted to protect him? Three years ago he would have been annoyed, but now he felt oddly okay with having the brunet near. But then the situation once more slammed heavily into his chest, driving the air from his lungs.

"You can't promise that, Potter," Draco whispered. The Auror could not stay near him at all hours, could not spend all his time watching over the blond. No matter what the papers said or Potter may have believed, he could not protect everyone from everything. He could not protect Draco from this scorching hatred, consuming anything that stood before it in a fiery path of destructive loathing. It had already taken so many of his friends—some of whom he had known since birth. It would not hesitate to devour Draco as well.

"I can and I am," Potter responded stubbornly, and Draco wanted to smile but with the next heartbeat, he was once again swept away in the hollow, empty feeling that echoed through him. Remaining as silent as the painful throb in his chest, Draco simply inclined his head.

"Do you know how to get in contact with Goyle or Zabini?" the Auror asked, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. It was a casual enough move, but one that automatically drew Draco's attention to the other man's firm biceps, flexing appealingly beneath his sleeves. If Pansy had been there, she would most likely have had something crass and obscene to say about the man.

With a sharp jab of hurt, Draco realized that he would never again hear another one of her crude innuendos or inappropriate jokes. That wicked sense of humor—so unique to her, so endearingly bitchy—that she had possessed was gone forever. It had been stolen away and Draco was determined to see the thief pay. And suffer. He was extremely focused on the suffering aspect.

"Draco?" The single word was accompanied by a touch, just the lightest pressure atop his knee as Potter leaned across the short distance separating them to lay a hand on Draco's leg.

And all Draco could think in that moment was a bemused Harry Potter is touching me voluntarily. For the first time in his memory, Harry Potter was touching him in a way that was neither violent nor done out of the necessity of a life-threatening situation. He was touching Draco out of concern. Potter was worried about him, it was splashed all over his face. Maybe his promise really was genuine.

"I'm sorry, what?" Draco shook his head lightly. The touch had distracted him and he had completely forgotten Potter's original question.

The Auror smiled a tiny, sad smile. "Do you know how to get in contact with Goyle or Zabini?"

As Draco pondered the words, Potter's hand remained a warm comfort on his knee. The question was more difficult than he would have liked to admit. When had he last spoken to either Greg or Blaise? It was shameful, but he honestly was not sure where either of them had ended up. Blaise, he had lost contact with for obvious reasons—their breakup had not ended well and they had both decided to keep their distance. Draco had only a vague idea of where to begin looking.

And Greg, last he heard, had left the country, now residing somewhere in Germany with his mother's relatives. His mother, however, still lived in their old home. Greg's father had died in Azkaban and his mother had been placed under house arrest. Even after her sentence was served, she was never seen leaving the house, choosing instead to have their one remaining elf continue to run all of the errands for her. She would be the only one left in the country that Greg would have any contact with. It hurt that Draco was no longer on that list, in a way that he had not truly noticed until that moment.

"Possibly Greg, but Blaise might prove to be difficult," Draco answered slowly. There was a twinge of loss as Potter moved his hand and sat up to peer at him.

"How long do you think it would take to track them down?" Potter wondered, slipping into the same business-like tone he had adopted earlier when first speaking about the attacks.

Draco shrugged. "With Greg, if he is where I believe him to be, it shouldn't be too difficult. But Blaise and I have not kept in touch for several months."

For a moment, Potter looked as if he wanted to ask about the reasons behind that but managed to refrain. "All right, then. Should I wait here for you to pack your things?" He stared at Draco politely, as if the blond had any hope of making sense of that question. Why should his things be packed and why the fuck did Potter think that was something he would do himself?

"And why is that, exactly?" He had been hoping for a drawling sort of disapproval, but the words sounded more confused than anything to his own ears.

"Well, the safe house has been readied for you, so we'll get you there and then we can find Goyle and Zabini." Potter sounded confident, as though already assured that Draco would go along with his stupendously idiotic plan.

"As if any of that is going to happen," Draco informed him coolly. "I shall be staying here. If you wish to play watchdog, then it will be in my own home."

Potter blinked at him for several moments. "You can't stay here, Malfoy," he spoke slowly. "There is a Ministry-approved safe house waiting for us. The other Aurors are already aware of the location and the situation, we can protect you much better there."

"As if I need your protection," Draco scoffed, ignoring the tiny voice that reminded him of his disturbing new desire to be protected by Potter. "Also, I trust nothing 'Ministry-approved', and after the war and the trials have no desire to place myself anywhere near another Auror." The other man's mouth began opening as if to speak, but Draco continued before he could form words. "I am tuned into the wards and know every centimeter of this property, as well as possess an in-depth understanding of the estate's defenses. I guarantee that I shall be both safer and much more comfortable here than in any hovel you've deemed adequate." As he finished speaking, he crossed his arms and stared at Potter with a defiant expression fixed to his face. When had he ever just given in to the brunet so easily?

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, mumbling under his breath. Draco caught the barest snatches of his mutters, random words such as "same" and "never change", as well as his name and what suspiciously sounded to be a rather impressive array of profanity. He merely kept his arms folded and waited for Potter to look up.

"Fine, Malfoy," he sighed, finally raising those famous green eyes to meet Draco's own. "I'll talk to the others, tell them about the change of location." He stood abruptly, signaling an end to their horrifying discussion. "I want these attacks stopped. I want this person found." His voice was low and threatening, sending a shudder through Draco, as well as the unexplainable urge to cry. God, he hadn't cried in years. But then, Pansy hadn't ever been snatched so viciously from his life before that day.

Potter must have seen the expression because he stepped closer and placed a hand on Draco's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to stop them in time. I'm sorry I couldn't save her."

At his words, Draco felt hysterical laughter threatening to spill from deep within his throat. "You can't save everyone, Potter!" The hand on his shoulder felt suddenly far too hot, the touch now somehow scalding. Draco jerked his shoulder away in one sharp movement, standing and stepping backward out of Potter's blistering grip. "You hated her!" he accused, glaring at the Auror. "You hate all of us!" He was breathing heavily, straining beneath anger that felt like a physical burden weighing him down, one he was struggling to carry.

"I don't, though," Potter insisted, both hands raised palm out in a gesture intended to convey he meant no harm. But Potter had never been on their side—he had hated Draco from the very beginning. That kind of enmity was not something that would just disappear. There was no way Potter was sincere, no way he was there to risk his life protecting a bunch of Slytherins from some deranged, murderous sociopath. There was no way Draco could trust the man or his motives.

At the moment, however, Draco just felt exhausted.

"Please go," he requested weakly, taking another step back and reaching behind him to blindly feel for the wall. Once it was located he leaned against it, willing his knees not to give out this time. Potter took a step forward, most likely to catch Draco yet again, but he looked up and glared at the brunet fiercely, freezing him mid-step. "Just go," Draco said sharply. "I will contact the others, I promise. But for now…" his feeble voice trailed off as the glare melted away and he slumped once more against the wall in defeat. "For now I just…I can't. I need…space. To think. Please." Trying to ignore the fact that he had just used the word please toward Potter—twice!—in his own fucking home, he glanced up into the other man's face.

Potter was biting his lip and twisting his hands together as if fighting simultaneous urges to both blurt out comforting platitudes and rush forward to force his pity onto the blond. Thankfully he did neither, just stared at him with an unreadable glint in his eyes. "All right," Potter finally said. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, is that okay? I would like to go through the Manor's defenses with you."

Nodding lethargically, Draco placed his palms on his knees and braced his weight, willing himself not to be sick before Potter left. The moment the parlour door clicked shut behind him, Draco was calling hoarsely for his only remaining house-elf, who instantly popped up with a bucket, placing it at Draco's feet and patting his forehead with a damp cloth as the blond hunched over the container, gasping and heaving, salty tears dripping down his nose to mix in with the vomit staring up at him sickeningly. Sobs wracked his lean frame, and Draco wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and sleep forever.

oOo

Harry sighed as he stared at the spread of parchment surrounding him, willing something, anything, to stand out, make sense, point him in a direction. Any direction. After he left the Manor, he had Apparated straight back to the Ministry, where he had been determined to find something concrete to offer Malfoy the next day when he returned. The look on his pale face—so broken and desolate—when Harry left had sent a chill down his spine. Even several hours later he was still haunted by it.

But Malfoy hadn't wanted his comfort or his sympathy. The only thing that Harry could offer was the name of the person responsible. Whoever it was, however, was proving to be far too evasive. There was no set time frame, the locations were completely random, the order of the victims appeared to be incidental. Even the magical signatures left at the crime scenes were strange—fractured, somehow, as though different sources of shredded magic had been forcibly stitched together only to rip apart from the sheer fury behind the violence of the crimes.

At the thought of the latest attack, Harry sent a queasy look toward the violet folder buried beneath a stack of parchment. The folder contained the photographs of the various crime scenes, pictures that Harry felt he would never be able to get out of his brain.

Shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the images, he stood slowly, joints popping. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, deciding to take a short break from staring at the infuriating case notes to walk down to the lab and check on any updates.

Squeezing out from behind his desk, he exited the empty office he shared with Ron and began heading down the hall, in no hurry to reach his destination. Several colleagues greeted him as he passed and he returned the greetings half-heartedly, unable to muster up the ability to care much, even when Neville stopped to say hello.

The case was beginning to take a toll on him, after nearly four months of being forced to pick through the remains of his old classmates. Malfoy was right—the crimes seemed to make no sense. Why seek vengeance now, years after the Final Battle, when everyone was attempting to move on? Why seek vengeance on Slytherins and not ex-Death Eaters? As far as he knew, Malfoy was the only one from their year with the Mark, and he was still alive. Not every Slytherin had the Dark Mark. And why only Slytherins from Harry's year?

If Harry was able to establish some sort of motive, it would give him a focal point, something to go off of, instead of stumbling blindly around the evidence. The violence of the crimes suggested it was personal—that the killer had been intimately acquainted with the victims. But given the history and reputation of those particular Slytherins, as well as the nation's distrust and oftentimes outright hatred of the House, they couldn't count on the killer having some sort of established relationship with the deceased, and there were too many people connecting all of the victims to even attempt to pin it down. Most of the Slytherins involved were from old families and had been acquainted since birth.

Sighing, Harry reached the door of the lab and twisted the knob, preparing himself for another dead end. Swinging the door wide, he stepped inside and scanned the room for the familiar shock of platinum hair. As it popped up suddenly from behind a large square table covered in various artifacts, Harry couldn't help but smile.

"Hullo, Caelix."

"Well, look who fucking decided to visit," Caelix greeted, a wide grin stretching his face. As Harry's eyes glanced him over in amusement, he wondered for possibly the thousandth time how Caelix had ever been hired into the Ministry. His hair was bleached nearly white, magenta-tipped bangs cutting across his forehead to cover one eye while the back stuck up in untamed spikes. Harry could not recall ever seeing him in anything resembling a work outfit—instead, he always wore tight jeans and faded t-shirts of Muggle bands the Auror had never heard of, as well as a pair of black trainers so worn out and scruffy that even Harry pitied them. He had more piercings than Harry even wanted to attempt to count—mostly in his ears, but he had a violet hoop circled near the right corner of his bottom lip, as well as a blue one encircling one nostril. He had two multicolored jeweled bars through his left eyebrow, the same one he was raising at Harry's gaze.

"I can't believe Kingsley lets you into work like that," the brunet snorted.

"My brilliance outshines my uncouth appearance," Caelix smirked, stepping nimbly around the table to stand close to Harry. "So, what can I do for you, Auror Potter?"

With the heavy reminder of why Harry had gone to the lab weighing him down once more, he sighed. "I'm here to check on any updates in the Parkinson case, and any of the connecting cases, if you've found anything new."

Already resigned to leaving empty-handed, he was taken aback by the sudden gleam in Caelix's turquoise eyes. "There is something," he confessed, glancing around as though afraid of eavesdroppers. Harry immediately stepped closer, looking down at the table as if the answers were spelled out across its surface. "Now I haven't finished going through everything yet," he apologized, but Harry just waved it off. It had only been a day, after all.

"Just show me what you found, Cae, whatever it is," the brunet insisted, his impatience a chalky coating deep in his throat.

"Are you going to say please?" the other man asked cheekily, hastening to continue at the look Harry gave him. "All right, all right, don't go all Chosen One on me, I'm only fucking teasing, I'm not Voldemort."

Harry smiled. That was another reason he liked the man so much. Caelix was one of the few people able to say Voldemort's name in such a casual manner, something that not even Ron was comfortable doing.

Fighting back a snort, Harry gestured for him to proceed with the explanation.

"All right, so!" Caelix clapped his hands together eagerly, clearly excited to have an audience to explain his work to. "Now the crime scenes as you know have all been left with a fair amount of magical residue." Rolling his eyes, Harry nodded. The residue had been staggering nearly every time, the crime scenes still crackling with Dark magic by the time the Aurors arrived. "So of course, examining the residue was the first priority in the most recent murder."

Harry felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the mention of murder. He had been an Auror for quite a while now, seen so much on the job, and yet this was different. These had all been people that Harry knew, people he had known for years, just there on the edges of his adolescence, but always there, even if he hadn't wanted them to be at the time.

"So what did you find?" he prompted, wanting to chase the morbid thoughts from his brain by focusing on the case.

"The signature was different," Caelix proclaimed dramatically, and Harry had to fight the urge to both roll his eyes again and seize Caelix by the shoulders in order to shake the rest of the answers from him.

"Different how?" Was it a new signature? Was this an opening in the case? Was there more than one person involved? Had they finally slipped up, left something behind?

"Well, for the first three murders,"—Harry wished he would stop using that word—"the signature was jumbled and fractured, like the magic had been broken before the attacks as opposed to breaking as a result of them." Nodding, Harry silently urged him to continue. "We couldn't piece the magic back together, or even determine a source for it. It was as if the magic had been contained within something and unleashed all at once. But this time," the glint was back in the other man's eyes, "there were a few shattered strands I was able to trace back to a single conduit."

Frustration began building within Harry and he bit down hard on his impatience. What the hell was Caelix talking about? "You mean a wand?" Harry felt confused. How else had the crimes been committed? How else was the magic being channeled? "Can you find the wand?" he asked excitedly, but his face fell at the shake of Cae's head.

"It's not a magical signature I recognize or have been able to trace," he admitted, scuffing one frayed black trainer against the floor as though embarrassed by his failure.

"It's all right," Harry said automatically. This was already more than they had that morning. "What else did you find out about it?"

"Well, you might want to take a look at this first." Caelix handed him an olive-colored file, one Harry immediately recognized as the autopsy report. The autopsies were performed in a separate lab located close to the one they were in, but one that only several few, Caelix included, had access to. As far as Harry knew, the autopsies were performed entirely with magic, although that was as much as he knew about the process.

Opening the folder, he quickly began scanning the report, eyes widening in surprise. "She was killed differently?"

Nodding, Caelix tapped the top parchment. "The first three died of blood loss from magically-induced torture. The attacker would tie them up and essentially mutilate them to death, but this latest death was particularly brutal." At the words, Harry's mind flashed back to Malfoy's expression, his reaction even before Harry had informed him of the attack. As if he had somehow known exactly what Harry had been going to say. At the thought, Harry felt sick, but he took a deep breath and gestured for Caelix to continue. "Now, from what I can tell from following the fractured strands I've managed to piece together, it started out more or less the same."

"The Cruciatus," Harry whispered.

"The Cruciatus," Caelix affirmed. "And that went on for what I can only describe as a horrifyingly unnecessary length of time."

Harry felt nauseous. "And that's when it turns different?"

"Yes, at that point, that's usually when the gorier forms of torture make an appearance, such as hacking, slicing, dismembering, those fucked-up sorts of things." The calm tone of Cae's voice barely held back the disgust lancing his words.

"So what happened this time?" Harry didn't want to hear, he didn't want to know, but even if his job did not rely on his learning this information, he still wouldn't have been able to make himself plug his ears.

"Well, that's when things get interesting," Caelix said in a grim voice. "There was another magical strain at the crime scene that I was able to trace to the victim's wand—several shielding charms and defensive spells had been cast, amongst a fair number of offensive curses thrown."

"She fought back?" Harry felt his eyes widen in surprise. None of the other victims had shown any signs of fighting back, even though they had been discovered with their wands not too far from their remains, which were admittedly spread out over quite a distance.

"For a while, at least," Caelix responded sadly. "She was overpowered, however, and her attacker did not take kindly to her attempts at escape."

"The report says she died from burns," said Harry slowly. "He burnt her to death?" As the words left Harry's mouth, his mind flung him back to that day three years ago when he had been surrounded by fire, flames crackling around him, leaping toward him, scorching fingers stretching upwards hotly as he tried to outfly them, choking on thick smoke as he dropped toward familiar blond hair and pulled Malfoy onto the back of his broom—he still remembered the sounds of the Slytherin's grief when he realized Crabbe had not made it out.

"Harry? Harry!" A voice broke through his painful memories, snapping him back into the present.

"Sorry," he muttered, rolling his shoulders and attempting to ignore the strange look Caelix was giving him. "So, he burnt her to death?"

"Well, yes," Caelix affirmed, still staring at Harry curiously. "He used magic to more or less incinerate her from the inside out. It was the magical equivalent of shoving a burning fucking fist down her throat and slowly melting her organs one at a time."

Try as he might, Harry could not fight back the shudder that shook him at the statement. Even though he had never liked Parkinson and she had wanted to turn him over to Voldemort, her death was a fate far undeserved.

"Yeah, it's fucking nasty, isn't it?" Caelix wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Do you think the nature of the attack was changed because she fought back? Or because she had more of an emotional tie to the attacker?" If Parkinson had been killed that savagely for personal reasons, as opposed to simply enraging the attacker with her attempted escape, it would be something to go off.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, P," Caelix patted his shoulder apologetically. "I simply analyze the evidence, not infer motive. That's what you crimsons are for." His words were accompanied by a nod toward Harry's Auror robes.

"Is there anything else you can tell me right now?" asked Harry, and if his voice was slightly desperate, Caelix didn't comment on it.

"At the moment, you're all up-to-date, I'm afraid," he shrugged. "I'll keep looking, though."

"Well, if you find anything, anything, Cae, owl me immediately, yeah? Or just bring it straight to my office."

"But, darling," Caelix smirked, "what would the Department say if they saw me just sauntering in and out of your office whenever I took a fancy?"

"Probably that we were working on a case, you prat," Harry grinned, lightly shoving at his chest with one hand.

"A case you'll solve very soon, I've no doubt about that," said Caelix, oddly serious for once, all traces of his earlier teasing gone.

"Yeah, well, I promised someone I would." Shrugging uncomfortably, Harry shifted the olive folder in his grip and took a step backward.

"Don't be a fucking stranger now, Harry Potter," Caelix called after him, already turning his attention back to the table in front of him.

Ducking into the corridor, Harry clutched the folder to his chest and leaned against the wall, taking several deep breaths before shoving away and walking quickly back to his office. Once inside, he was relieved to see Ron seated at his desk, facing Harry's own across the room.

"Oi! Where you been?" Ron demanded. "How did it go with Malfoy? Got him all squirreled away in the safe house, then?"

Shaking his head, Harry crossed the office to deposit the folder on Ron's desk.

"You got the autopsy report already?" Ron's eyebrows rose as he opened it and began reading.

"Yeah, but Caelix is still sorting through everything else," Harry informed him, resisting the urge to rub his temples.

"Ah, Caelix, what would we do without him?" Ron sighed, tapping one long finger against the parchment he was still scanning.

"Well, it sounds like you would fantasize a lot less, for one thing," Harry smirked, crossing his arms and staring down at the other man in amusement.

"As if, mate," his ginger partner scoffed. "First of all: I'm engaged. To a woman, with female anatomy. And second: Cae's only got eyes for you."

Unable to help himself, Harry threw his head back and laughed. "What are you talking about, Ron?"

The other man responded with a pitying look. "Do you think he flirts with everybody, Harry?"

"He does not flirt with me!" the brunet exclaimed. What was Ron talking about? Caelix didn't treat him any differently than any of the other Aurors.

"Whatever you say," Ron chuckled, dropping the folder onto the desk. "So, what happened with Malfoy, then?"

Crossing to his desk, Harry dropped into his chair and sighed heavily. "God, I've never seen him like that." Just the memory sent a sharp pang shooting through his chest. He had seen Malfoy at several different low points throughout the man's life, but his reaction to Parkinson's death had been different—more painful to watch.

"Didn't take the news well?" asked Ron, twirling a quill between his fingers as he continued scanning the olive folder.

Shaking his head, Harry sighed again. "He also refused the safe house. He's insisted on remaining at the Manor."

"Course he did, the entitled berk," Ron snorted. "Can't fight his nature of making everything more difficult for everyone involved, even when they're trying to help him."

"I think he feels safer there," Harry reasoned quietly, not exactly sure why he felt the need to defend the blond. Maybe it had been the promise he had made earlier to protect him.

"Yeah, Merlin knows why," Ron muttered. "So what's the plan, then?"

"I'm going back over tomorrow to go over the Manor's defenses with him and he's promised to try to track down Goyle and Zabini in the meantime." Harry had no idea if either of them were even still in the country. Wilona Goyle had refused to lower the wards or come out to speak to them and Zamora Zabini had remarried and relocated. The Aurors had been unable to find any remaining family members of either of the two men left in the country.

"Well, in the meantime, we have paperwork," Ron grimaced and made a face at the large stack of parchment to his right. Groaning loudly, Harry levitated half the stack onto his desk and grudgingly began.

What felt like days later, he was throwing the quill aside and climbing to his feet. "Right, I can't do this anymore tonight," he said, stretching his aching muscles. "I need a fucking drink."

"Merlin's saggy fucking bollocks, yes," Ron grumbled in agreement, tossing his quill away from him with a look of disgust.

Making their way up the lifts to the Atrium, they crossed to the Floos and headed through to the Leaky Cauldron. Ron immediately pulled Harry over to a table and ordered for them both. As they sat waiting for their drinks, Harry glanced around the tiny room, automatically noting the exits and observing the people around them.

"Mate, we're off duty, relax." Ron nudged one of the drinks that had just been set down toward the raven-haired man.

Harry picked up the glass and waved Ron off with his other hand. "Is Hermione okay with you coming out with me like this?"

"Christ, I'm engaged, not imprisoned." Ron rolled his eyes. "And if there's anyone she trusts me around, it's you."

"Yeah, well, we'll see how much she still trusts me when I drop your pissed arse off on her doorstep at two in the morning," Harry joked.

Ron grinned and gave Harry a salute with his glass before draining nearly half the liquid.

Smiling back, Harry picked up his own drink and followed suit.

oOo

A/N: Aaand that is the first chapter! I hope nobody was disappointed. At this point in time, I'm hopeful—perhaps to the point of childlike naivety—that I will be updating this story possibly once a week. We shall see. The important thing is that I am remaining optimistic about it all. I'll try not to OD on poetry in the meantime! Til next time, friends!

p.s. in case anybody was wondering, the title of the story is taken from a Dylan Thomas poem, the complete name of which is "Among Those Killed in the Dawn Raid Was a Man Aged One Hundred". At this moment in my life, I'm not putting too much faith in my ability to refrain from ODing on poetry. One day I shall seek help. But until then, I will be spending my free time at my dealer's crack den, more commonly referred to as a "public library".

Later, lovers :)