Author's Note: This fic was written for hd_holidays on Livejournal and it ended up being close to 50K, but for some reason it feels much shorter. Not sure how that works. I fell madly in love with the original characters in this, from the Aurors to the pipefitter, so I keep thinking about it with something resembling warm fuzzies. I hope you all like it as well. HAPPY HOLIDAYS, regardless of what time of year it is now! *loves you all*

Saturday, November 3, 2006

Tremaine was drunk. Not so drunk that he couldn't walk, of course, but drunk enough that leaning on Angelique and Paul greatly assisted his coordination.

"Where are we going?" he asked, possibly for the third time.

"The Seabreeze Club, you gormless wanker," Paul replied and gave Tremaine a jab with his elbow. "Did that last vodka tonic kill the last of your brain cells, then?"

"You say that like Tremmy had some to start with." Marcy laughed and Tremaine scowled. He hated that bloody nickname. He was not overly fond of Marcy, either, but she was Angelique's friend and needed to be tolerated.

"One does not become a partner in a law firm without having a high level of intelligence, Mar-Mar," Tremaine countered.

"You're a barrister?" Paul asked, eyes goggling. Angelique erupted into a fit of giggles. Tremaine approved of her laughter—it made her breasts jiggle in a most becoming fashion. "I didn't know! I am honoured to be in your illustrious presence! How does one address one of your esteemed greatness?"

"Shut up," Tremaine said with a laugh. "Although I don't mind if you prefer to call me—"

"Lord Blowhard?" Paul suggested.

"Counsellor Cockamamie?" Angelique asked at the same time.

Tremaine snorted. He could always count on his friends to keep him from getting a big head. "That's Counsellor Cock-a-mighty to you, woman."

The others fell about laughing and making jokes, but Angelique squeezed him tighter with a suggestive-sounding, "Well, that it is."

Tremaine gave her arse an appreciative squeeze and made to comment, but the air suddenly seemed twenty degrees colder. Paul's breath made a cloud when he laughed.

"Blimey!" Marcy cried. "Why is it so bloody cold here?"

"I'll bet it's a ghost!" Paul said in a hushed tone. He hunched his shoulders and formed his fingers into claws. "Or a…demon."

"That's not funny, Paul," Marcy said and punched at him with a fist. She missed when he danced away with a laugh. "Come on, let's get to the Chelsea. I've got the willies."

"I thought we established that Tremaine has the willy," Paul said, but Tremaine noticed even he quickened his pace. The cold seemed unnatural and disturbing. Tremaine didn't believe in ghosts or demons, but something in his primal brain had begun to scream.

"Let's go," Tremaine said and walked faster. Angelique jogged to catch up.

"Maybe it's aliens!" Paul shouted dramatically.

It startled a laugh from Tremaine, even though he wished Paul would shut up. Something wasn't right. Despite the alcohol in his blood, he suddenly felt stone cold sober.

"Oh god," Angelique said, and then darkness joined the cold, as if stars and streetlights and house lights had been swallowed up. "Oh god, no…"

"What?" Tremaine whispered as the cold seemed to sink into his bones, chilling him to the marrow. A feeling of pure hopelessness overcame him, mingling with despair and sudden, absolute sadness. He thought he heard Angelique screaming, but the sound seemed very far away and small. Something cold clamped around Tremaine's wrist, icier even than the air that turned his gasping breath into a cloud of fog. He could see nothing.

A putrid odor assailed him, smelling of death and decay; it wafted over his face like freezing air in a charnel house, and yet he could summon no energy to pull away. He couldn't breathe; whatever it was seemed to draw the very air from his lungs. As Tremaine's thoughts spiralled into blackness, he thought he felt something terrible clamp over his mouth.

Kissed by death, he thought dimly. Kissed by death kissed by death kissed by—

Wednesday, November 8, 2006

Harry's footsteps rang in the cold white corridor as he walked briskly after the white-clad man. The smell of antiseptic was strong and Harry struggled not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of hospital, which seemed to be the same the world over, whether British or Scottish, Muggle, or Wizard. Cleaning fluid and something Harry's brain helpfully tried to suggest was the scent of infirmity and illness penetrated his nasal passages.

Harry glanced at the man next to him to see if their surroundings bothered him, but, as usual, his features were an impassive mask. Harry forced his own face into an expression of polite interest as he turned his attention back to the Muggle doctor walking before them.

"…third case this week. It is completely baffling." The doctor halted at a closed door with a nondescript plaque that contained the notation 4G within a plain white border. "I hope your presence does not hint at something…" He leaned closer. "Government-related."

"That is what we are hoping to determine, Doctor," Harry said, maintaining the same low tone used by the man. "We need to rule out the involvement of certain, shall we say, anti-government elements."

The doctor peered up and down the corridor to make sure they were not overheard, and then he whispered, "Terrorists? Do you think it's possible?"

"Anything is possible," Draco said, "But very rarely plausible. It is our job to rule out the implausible and sift through the remaining possibilities to find the actual cause. Which would be easier if we could get on with our examination." The doctor straightened at the dry words and his lips pulled into a thin line.

"By all means," he snapped and opened the door.

"Must you be a complete arse?" Harry muttered as he passed his irritating partner.

"Must you spend all day chatting inanely with Muggles? I would like to get this over with and get out of here."

Harry scowled, but schooled his features back into a calm mask before meeting the eyes of the doctor as he approached the bed. The man had a medical chart in hand and began to flip through the papers, reading aloud.

"Margaret Snead, age 29, resides at 45 Oakesdale Drive, Pembroke. Employed as a sales clerk at Norton's Fine Footwear and Handbags, 774 Farnley Way. No health issues prior to the day before yesterday, other than having her tonsils removed at age 15 in a routine surgical procedure. Heart and organ functions are normal. Everything seems to be in perfect working condition, except that she has no brain function whatsoever."

Harry nodded, trying to maintain a professional façade when confronted with a young woman who was, for all intents and purposes, dead. Her body still functioned, but it was an empty shell, devoid of life. Harry had seen too many similar sights lately.

"When did it happen?"

The doctor looked at Harry's partner and then raised a brow. Harry bit back a comment when he saw Malfoy holding a bright green quill over a leather-bound journal.

"Interesting pen," the doctor commented.

"Family heirloom," Malfoy replied. "When did it happen?"

The doctor shook his head, obviously not best pleased with Malfoy's brusque manner. "She was brought in on Tuesday night. So far all attempts to stimulate brain activity have failed. Despite all treatments applied, she remains comatose."

"According to the Mug—police report, she was walking home from a party with a group of friends on Brighton Street, shortly after one o'clock in the morning. They claimed that the air temperature suddenly dropped, and then Margaret stiffened and fell to the pavement, thrashing. Despite her friends' attempts to revive her, she simply lay still and became… as she is now. Is this correct?"

"To the best of my knowledge," the doctor replied.

"And this case is similar to Tremaine Johnston and Bethany Billingsley, also in this hospital?"

"As far as we can tell, the symptoms are identical, as was the sudden onset of their conditions. One moment they were walking, the next they were prone and had no brain activity."

"There are several more cases in other local hospitals, is this correct?" Malfoy might have been talking about garden herbs or potion ingredients for all the emotion in his tone.

"Seventeen cases that I am personally aware of," the doctor replied.

Malfoy nodded and tucked his quill into the journal. "Thank you, Doctor. Potter?" Without waiting for Harry to respond, Malfoy left the room.

"I'm glad he's not a physician," the doctor said dryly. "Lovely bedside manner."

"Yes, he is… something else. Thank you for your help, Doctor. We will let you know if anything comes to light."

"I'm sure you will," the man replied dryly.

Harry turned and hurried after Malfoy, catching him at the polished metal lift doors. Malfoy said nothing, simply stared at the doors until they opened. Two white-clad employees and a Muggle dressed in street clothes stepped out, leaving the lift empty. Harry and Malfoy got on.

"What do you think?" Harry asked when the doors shut.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Harry bit his tongue. Malfoy had an annoying habit of answering questions with questions. Of course, he had dozens of annoying habits, but that one displayed itself several times a day. "Yes, I was just asking your opinion. It's dementors, isn't it?"

"Very good, Potter. It's almost as if you've learned to think for yourself."

Harry's fingers twitched, itching to slide his wand from his wrist holster and hex Malfoy with something unpleasant. He entertained himself for a moment or two thinking of Malfoy with egg-sized boils, or permanent baldness, or perhaps blowing up like a giant balloon, the way Harry's Aunt Marge had done so long ago.

Malfoy turned to look at him and his eyes narrowed at the sight of Harry's probably not-very-pleasant smile.

The doors opened and Harry marched out of the lift, pushed through the Muggles crowding the hospital entrance, and walked towards the car park. Malfoy had no trouble keeping up; he had long legs and a fast walk. The car park was several levels of concrete and metal, with stairwells accessible by heavy doors with peeling paint and the spray-painted marks of taggers.

Harry entered one of the stairwells and stopped on the landing. He waited until the door shut behind Malfoy. "Dementors, but how do we prove it? Anders isn't going to just take our word for it." Harry was not a particular fan of Artemis Anders, the Head of the Auror Department. The bastard was a stickler for the rules; he refused to make a move without mountains of evidence, and was also responsible for assigning Draco Malfoy as Harry's temporary partner.

"What a pity that the Head Auror won't take the Saviour's word for it," Malfoy murmured as he pulled out his wand. "Think of all the paperwork it would save."

"Look, Malfoy—" Harry's eyes were on Malfoy's wand. It was new, of course, since Malfoy's old hawthorn wand resided in Harry's old school trunk, shoved away in the attic at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. That one would never bow to Malfoy's will again; Harry would make certain of that. This new one, however, was a curiosity. The wood was very pale, almost delicate-looking, straight and unadorned but for a green leather grip wrapped in silver wire.

"Never mind, Potter," Malfoy said. "In the absence of empirical evidence, the preponderance of proof must therefore lie with the weight of the circumstantial."

Harry said nothing, he merely frowned at the knowledge that when Malfoy was not saying something annoying or sarcastic, he was generally spewing out words that made no sense at all. Grey eyes met his and Malfoy sighed dramatically.

"It means we keep talking to people and if they all give us identical feedback—in this case, pointing to dementors being the culprits—then Anders will have little choice but to acknowledge that we did our jobs and that our hypothesis, even with your input, is the correct one. Now, where did that last attack take place? Not Ms Snead, but the one prior to that. Johnston."

"The Seabreeze Club. Johnston and his friends left the club and were walking to another pub up the street when Johnston collapsed."

Malfoy reached out and clamped his hand on Harry's bicep with a nod. "Take us there. I have a list of Johnston's friends. We can start with them."

Harry ignored the commandeering tone and Apparated them to West Brompton.

They appeared on the roof of the building directly across from the jazz club. It was a large edifice of glass and brick currently undergoing renovation, so any straggling builders would be easily avoided. Malfoy let go and started for the stairwell immediately; he pulled out his ledger and flipped it open.

"The girlfriend lives close by. Angelique Watson. Have you spoken to her?"

"No," Harry replied. "Hansom took her statement. He said she was belligerent."

"Most Muggles are," Malfoy said dryly and then cast Alohomora on the closed door before opening it and starting down. The street was quickly reached and Harry was careful to lock the ground floor door when they exited, since he knew Malfoy wouldn't bother. The club across the street was open for business, jazz music already blaring from the open windows.

"I doubt she's inside," Harry said, leaning close to Malfoy. "Her boyfriend is in a vegetative state in hospital. She's most likely at home."

"All right. She lives right around the corner." They strolled down a quiet street lined with squat brick and mortar flats. Christmas lights twinkled in many windows, and blinked from random trees and bushes. They passed several apartment buildings and rounded a corner.

Harry shot surreptitious glances at Malfoy, who looked better in Muggle clothing than Harry had expected. The Ministry's Muggle Liaison Office had wardrobe consultants for all missions requiring Muggle contact. Harry would have felt fine wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but Parkins had insisted that jeans were not appropriate attire for Muggle authority figures. Therefore, he and Malfoy were identically dressed in black trousers, white shirts with thin black ties, and black suit jackets. Harry thought Malfoy looked bloody amazing, although he would be hard-pressed to admit that aloud even under Veritaserum.

Malfoy stopped at a wrought-iron gate and pushed it open with a rusty squeal. Harry dragged his thoughts away from his casual admiration of Malfoy's physique and concentrated on their mission. Malfoy's long index finger skimmed the list of names on the plaque next to the number pad, stopping at Johnston. He used his pinkie to gingerly press 659, as if Muggle germs might rub off on him if he used too much pressure.

After long moments of listening to a tinny ringing sound through the speaker, a voice issued forth with one word: "Yeah?"

"Ms Watson?" Malfoy asked, leaning close to the speaker. "I am Agent Malfoy of the London Special Services Police. Agent Potter and I would like to have a word with you regarding Tremaine Johnston."

There was a long silence and Malfoy looked at Harry with a vaguely worried expression. Harry reviewed Malfoy's words, but he seemed to have got them right. There really was a London Special Services Police Force, specially created by the Muggle Prime Minister to deal with magical affairs, although few people other than the Prime Minister knew what the division entailed. Their Muggle-issued identification cards and papers were authentic and valid.

"Come on up," the voice said finally. "I'm in 25." A buzzer sounded and the door latch clicked. Malfoy pushed the handle down and dragged open the metal door. Harry followed him inside. Malfoy ignored the lift and went for the door marked Stairs, ascending three floors easily.

The door to flat 25 was ajar, so Malfoy pushed it open. Angelique Watson stood in the centre of the small room, smoking a cigarette. The room was filled with smoke, but she only glared at them and blew another long puff into the air.

"Tremaine wake up yet?" she asked in a dull tone.

Harry shook his head and she looked away.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." She made a sardonic noise and gestured towards a sofa covered in a striped fabric. The furnishings looked expensive, but the flat was a mess. Books, magazines, papers and envelopes lay scattered over every surface, half-burying items such as unwashed plates, bowls, and glasses. Harry pushed aside several magazines on the sofa to make enough space to sit. Malfoy looked as if he would rather be AK'ed than sit down. His journal and quill reappeared.

"Can you tell us where you were when Tremaine Johnston collapsed?"

She turned to glare at Malfoy and Harry blinked when he noticed the other side of her face. A huge birthmark covered most of her right cheek. It was a deep reddish colour and looked almost like a handprint. "I already went over this with the cops. Don't you have the bloody police report?"

Malfoy gave her a cool look that Harry found impressive and wished he could mimic. It had not cowed the doctor at the hospital, but Angelique looked away before dropping into a chair across from Harry. She stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the table.

"We prefer to gather our own information," Malfoy said.

"Fine. Whatever. We were at the Seabreeze Club celebrating Marcy's engagement until after midnight. We got tired of the music and decided to walk to the Chelsea to try and get some free drinks out of Barbara. She works there and she has a thing for Tremaine." Her voice, which had been a steady monotone, caught at the name, but she paused for only a moment and continued. "Had a thing. We were all a bit drunk and joking round, laughing like loons. Paul was being a card and making Tremaine laugh." Angelique smiled wanly at the memory and her eyes brightened with a wet sheen. "We were nearly there when it got cold. Like, really cold. We all stopped and were freaking out a bit. Paul screamed something about ghosts and aliens and that set Tremaine off laughing again. The stupid bastard."

Harry caught Malfoy's eye for a moment. The laughter fit their theory; dementors would have been drawn to the laughing, happy group. Malfoy's quill made scratching noises in the silence.

"And then Tremaine collapsed and that was it." Her voice went casual and Harry looked at her sharply. His Auror instincts were pinging.

"Did you notice anything other than the cold?" Malfoy asked. "Nothing else unusual? No shadows? Movement? Anything at all?"

"What do you mean by shadows?" she asked.

"Don't be afraid to speak," Harry advised. "Even if it sounds… crazy. We are just looking for information."

"Crazy," she repeated, "Like… dementors crazy?"

Harry drew in a shocked breath. "You know about dementors?"

Angelique scowled. "I knew it. You two are bloody wizards, aren't you?"

"How do you know about wizards?" Harry countered. He glanced at Malfoy, who shrugged.

"I went to that stupid school in Scotland," she muttered.

"Hogwarts? You went to Hogwarts?"

"That's the one." She sneered. "I thought it would solve all my problems. I was so happy when that bleeding owl brought that letter. I was going to go off and learn magic and everything in my shit life was going to be wonderful." She shook her head. "Fuck that."

"What happened?" Harry asked, shocked at her venomous tone.

"It got worse, that's what happened. See this?" She gestured angrily to the blemish on her face and nodded. "Yeah, I got teased all the time when I was a kid. All the fucking time. I thought I could learn magic and they would all pay for being so mean to me." She snorted. "The arseholes at that school were even worse. Calling me names and backing it up with magic spells whenever they could. The teasing and tormenting was a million times worse than any school here. After three months I couldn't take any more. Wrote to mum and told her to bring me home. Fuck magic. I didn't need it. You can all rot with your magic, for all I care."

Harry thought back to her file. Her birthdate was two years before Harry's; it was hard to believe she had been teased out of Hogwarts only two years before he'd arrived. Harry could not imagine giving up magic. Not for any amount of teasing or tormenting. He had a few unpleasant memories of his own from Hogwarts, namely the Heir of Slytherin incident in his second year, but he would never have turned his back on Hogwarts. He opened his mouth to say so, but Malfoy's voice cut in.

"So, you saw the dementor."

Angelique reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table and shook one out. She placed it in her mouth and was about to reach for the lighter when the end glowed red. Her glance shifted to Malfoy. "Thanks," she mouthed around the cigarette. She took a long drag, pulled the cigarette away between her index and middle finger, and blew a long stream of smoke into the air. "Yeah, I saw it. The bloody thing went straight for Tremaine, fell on his face and started sucking. I tried to stop it, but it was so cold, I could hardly move at all. I didn't have the energy to do much more than scream." She shuddered. "Everything was so dark. None of the others could even see it. I wasn't even sure what it was until later, when it all came back to me. Dementors. They guard the wizard prison, right? The kids used to scare me with stories about them. At Hogwarts."

"They used to guard the prison," Malfoy said, "until they all ran off to join their new boss. At least until Potter, here, killed him. Now they seem to be roaming free, attacking defenceless Muggles."

Angelique looked horrified for the first time. "You can stop them, can't you?"

"We'll stop them," Malfoy said confidently.

"What about Tremaine? Can you fix him?"

Malfoy only shook his head. "There is no cure for a dementor's kiss, I'm afraid." His voice was surprisingly gentle; it was the first time Harry had heard anything close to compassion from his partner.

Angelique rolled her eyes and took another drag from her cigarette. She sneered. "Yeah, that's what they said about my face. I'm pretty sure that was bullshit, but you're probably right about Tremaine." She sighed heavily. "He was a good man. I was hoping..." She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. Harry sensed that she was about to lose it.

"I think we have everything we need," he said gently. "We'll be leaving now."

"If you don't mind, I would like to come back for a signed statement once we have confirmed your story regarding—" Malfoy's words cut off when Harry's fingers dug sharply into his arm. Harry had bolted from the sofa to grab his partner, whose moment of compassion had obviously been a fluke. "Unhand me, Potter."

"I said we will be leaving now," Harry retorted through clenched teeth. "Thank you for your time, Angelique. I am sorry for your loss."

She only nodded and took a pull from her cigarette, staring out the window at the pinkish glow caused by the setting sun.

"Come on, Malfoy," Harry said and towed him towards the door.

Malfoy shook him off. "Fine," he snapped. "Ms Watson, if you don't mind my asking, what House were you Sorted into?"

She answered without turning around. "Ravenclaw."

"Thank you," he said and then followed Harry out the door.

They tromped back down the stairs and down the walk, not speaking until the iron gate closed behind them. They walked back towards the jazz club. Finally Harry shook his head and glanced at Malfoy. "I can't even imagine."

Malfoy glanced sidelong at him. "No chance of you renouncing magic and returning to the Muggle way of life?"

Harry snorted. "Not a chance in hell."

Malfoy actually smiled, a genuine smile that seemed to light his grey eyes from within. Harry nearly stopped walking at the sight of it. "Pity," Malfoy said.

Harry looked away, disturbed by the rush of warmth Malfoy's smile had seemed to ignite. He assumed it was simply a reaction to the astonishment of seeing a human emotion on the prat's face. "Shut up," he muttered. "Should we talk to Tremaine's other friends?"

"Why bother? We need only go to Hogwarts, find a copy of Angelique Watson's Hogwarts letter and record of her Sorting, and we're done. Enough evidence even for Anders' dementia. And we can give him Pensieve memories, if necessary."

"Yeah, fine. I guess we're done for the day, then?"

"We're done. See you tomorrow, Potter."

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

They said nothing more as they returned to the empty warehouse, slipped inside, and Disapparated.

~TBC~