17. Something Harry Potter, to celebrate the release of Deathly Hallows

Just to warn you, this one is over TEN THOUSAND WORDS LONG. Longest short story I have ever written.
Good luck!
And Happy Birthday to Carolina, who this is dedicated to.

17. Something Harry Potter

“Merciful Merlin, when will this woman stop talking?” Thought Harry, taking a sip from the glass of water in front of him. He was well on his way to falling asleep, which would have been embarrassing.

“...and furthermore the Minister for Finance needs immediate confirmation of the result of the vote held at four-fifty-two during the last meeting on the subject...”

Next to him, Ron groaned and slid further down in his chair. His paper had a few notes on it from the beginning of the meeting, but was now covered in doodles, each of them more boredom-induced than the next. He looked about as awake as Harry felt.

“When Shacklebolt made us Heads of Department,” he grumbled to Harry under his breath, “he never mentioned Miss Drowning in Boredom over there.”

Miss Downing-Bertram was indeed so very, very boring. She was the Associate Secretary for Inter-Departmental Independent Cooperation, ASIDIC, which made sure everyone was up to date with new Ministry policies and regulations, as well as directives that needed to be maintained, without having to resort to long memos and... Well, Harry wasn't actually too sure what is was that she did, apart from talk at them until they fell into a stupor.

“Probably didn't want to frighten us,” he replied, trying very hard not to fall asleep.

“I swear, as soon as Shacklebolt gets back from his meeting with the Minister for Magic of Botswana, I'll be checking if we can send someone else to do this for us.”

“One of the juniors?”

“Yeah, maybe. Or one of the temps, or trainees. Just, not us. We're busy men!”

There was a knock on the door, and everyone in the room turned to see who they could congratulate on their timing, all hoping to be called away from the meeting.

“Yes?” Answered Miss Downing-Bertram.

The door opened to reveal a short, dark man in scarlet robes.

“Yes!” Ron exclaimed, “Aurors!”

Thank you, Merlin.

Some of the other attendees groaned.

The young man looked for Harry and nodded, “Murder, sir. Coordination is needed.”

“I'll be right there, Brian. Go and get the teams ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

He could feel Ron practically bouncing up and down in excitement next to him.

“Miss Downing, as you have heard, we have a murder on our hands. Would you like us to send someone else to attend the meeting or can we expect copies of the minutes?”

Miss Downing-Bertram has a displeased look in her eyes, and pursed lips, “If you must go, then do so. I will send copies up when we are done.”

“Thank you, Miss Downing. Ron.”

Ron shot up and almost ran out the door, grinning at the others.

Harry had almost shut the door when Ron said, “So long, suckers!”

Harry quickly shut the door and pulled him down the hall, “Ron! You can't go around saying things like that!”

“Pfft,” Ron shrugged, “What is she going to do? Tell the Minister?”

Harry shook his head, “Still. It's not nice.”

And just like a child, Ron stared at the floor and mumbled, “Neither is she.”

“Honestly Ron, you're an Auror, not a ten-year-old!”

“And you're my colleague, not my wife.”

They stopped at the lift and got in.

“I was rather channelling Hermione, wasn't I?”

“Yeah,” Ron pressed the button, “but hey. Who do you think has been murdered.”

“I don't know, but it's someone high-profile, because I'd told them not to disturb us. And Brian didn't mention names or locations. He's doing well, isn't he?”

“I think so.”

They reached the Auror Department just as the MCU people (Medical Crime Unit – the magical equivalent of Forensics) got there.

The entire Department was bustling around in a more hectic manner than usual.

“Hey, Harry, what happened?”

Sheila was the head of the MCU, an extraordinary Mediwitch who had decided she didn't want to work in a hospital when she could work out in the field with the Aurors. She had basically invented the position and she was very good at what she did.

“Don't know yet. Where's Carmichael gone?”

His best Homicide detective.

“Here, sir!” he popped his head around the corner, “We're almost ready to Portkey to the destination, sir. Two minutes.”

“Why all the secrecy?” Asked Sheila, “Are we not qualified to know? We are going to be examining a body, aren't we?”

“One minute, Sheila! One minute is all I ask!” Came Carmichael's voice from around the corner.

Brian almost walked into her as her rounded that same corner.

“Sorry ma'am, didn't see you there!”

Harry folded his arms together, “What do you know, Brian?”

“We got an anonymous call telling us there had been a murder at the Daily Prophet, which we ignored,” because they got calls like that every few days, and they were never true, “then the editor called ten minutes ago and said the same thing. So we came to get you.”

“Alright, good.”

What felt like the whole Department stood still as Carmichael came back, “Ready.”

He passed round a rope, so that everyone going could hold onto a part of it.

“And three, two, one!”

The sensation of being pulled from behind his navel didn't make him nauseous – taking them regularly had lessened the feeling, thank Merlin.

They arrived outside the Daily Prophet building and walked in a beat later, after getting in order. A secretary met them in the hall and led them to the editor's office.

“Ah, the Aurors! Finally.”

Thomas Singh, editor and owner of the Daily Prophet, was waiting for them just outside his office.

“I have been waiting for half an hour!”

Harry took the lead, “We're very sorry, sir, but we were in the middle of a meeting, but we are here now. Who is the victim?”

“Rachel Doyle,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “my secretary.”

On the desk Mr Singh was sitting at was a pink quill.

“Was this her desk?”

“Yes, it's hers.”

Harry looked at Ron, who nodded, “I've got it.”

“Sir, where is the body?”

“In here.” He stood up to open the door and there she was.

She was lying on the floor, blood on her shirt but nowhere else, eyes frozen open, mouth closed.

Her clothes were smart, clearly a work-place outfit, but her coat was on the floor behind her, and she was holding her scarf in a hand and she had comfortable shoes on – it looked like she had been about to leave.

Harry turned to Sheila, who was saying something to one of her team, “Check her mouth.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

The sketch artist started doing his job.

“You found her?” Harry asked the editor.

“Yes, when I came in half an hour ago,” He sighed as the MCU got closer and examined the body, “I shouldn't have left her to stay late last night.”

“You were the last person to see her?”

“I think so,” he said, “I left at eight last night, as I always do. We generally leave at the same time, but last night she said she had something to finish.”

Harry pulled out a notebook and a pencil and wrote everything down, “Did she usually meet people at the office?”

“No, not that I know of. She kept her private life very separate from her personal one. She was a wonderful secretary, very good at her job.”

“I see. Sir, we're going to have to talk to your employees. This may disrupt the usual work flow, but it is necessary.”

Sheila and her team had done what they could while at the scene. She looked at Harry and made a gesture in mid-air. She wanted to take the body to the morgue.

“And we're going to be taking Ms Doyle with us.”

“Of course,” Mr Singh ran a hand through his hair, “of course.” Harry nodded to Sheila, who Portkeyed the body and the MCU out of there, “This is terrible, terrible. Who would want to kill Rachel?”

They always asked Harry the same question, so he would give the same answer.

“We don't know, sir, but we are going to find out. Have you contacted her family?”

Mr Singh sank into his chair, behind his desk, “She never spoke of any. Her next of kin for hospital emergencies is a friend from the office, in Billing, Martha.”

Harry saw Carmichael nod and leave the office. He would interview Martha.

“None at all?”

“She never mentioned any. We got the impression she had estranged herself from them for some reason.”

Harry jotted more notes down – independent, left family.

“I see.”

“Harry?” It was Ron, “I think we have something.”

“Thank you, Mr Singh, for your cooperation. We will be in touch.”

Ron was waiting for him just outside the door.

“We found her day planner,” he held up a plain black diary, “her last meeting for yesterday is at nine-thirty p.m., with or at FrGit.”

Harry frowned, “What?”

“F-R-G-I-T. We don't know what it is. Could be a restaurant, or a really bad nickname. We're cross-checking everything with similar names to see if she just missed out a letter.”

“Good. What else?”

“I sent Brian and a couple of the juniors to her flat, we'll see what they come back with, and Carmichael and his team have started on the interviews, beginning with Martha Watterson, the closest thing our victim had to family.”

Harry suppressed a yawn. He was more tired than he had thought he was.
“As soon as Carmichael comes back, send him to me.”

“Will do. Are you going back to the office?”

“Yeah, I need coffee. Can you deal with everything here?”

“Of course.”

“Great. When you're done, come to my office and we'll go down to Sheila together.”

“Go and get your coffee. I'll see you later.”

Harry had to fight another yawn, “Yeah. Ok.”

He got back to the Auror Department wishing his job didn't involve so much paperwork. He had been dealing with evaluation forms until late last night, which meant he hadn't got enough sleep and his body was now making him pay for that.

He got two coffee from the staff room and made his way back to his office sipping the first one. He got the feeling today was going to be a long day.

He wrote the initial report for the case and waited for Ron to come back.

He and Carmichael walked in together.

Ron motioned for the homicide detective to speak first, “Well, we've interviewed all of the employees and they all describe her as lovely, willing to help and sociable, none of them remember her mentioning family, love interests, or even friends outside of the office and Martha Watterson was of practically no use. She and Rachel had been fighting during the past few days, so she didn't know what Rachel was up to. On the other hand, she knew what F-R meant. It stand for “French” in her personal shorthand.”

“French? As in, French cheese and wine?”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry leant forward in his seat, “Let me get this right. Rachel wrote in her diary that she was meeting a French git?”

Carmichael shifted slightly awkwardly, “When you put it like that sir, it seems silly, but it's what she wrote.”

“Right. Well, keep an ear out for French people involved. Good work, keep it up.”

“Yes, sir.” Carmichael recognised this as his cue to leave.

Ron raised an eyebrow, “People are crazy.”

“Yes, they are,” agreed Harry, “let's go.”

Sheila was waiting for them when they got down there. She always managed to anticipate when they would get there, but Harry had get to figure out how.
“What have you got?”

Sheila waved them over to the autopsy table.

Ron wrinkled his nose – not matter how many bodies they saw, he still wasn't used to the smell.

“She was healthy, for the most part, but she recently changed from being a meat-eater to a vegetarian, as there is a slight lack of iron in her blood-work. Her last meal was fresh egg pasta with roasted peppers and goat's cheese, she drank red wine, and had chocolate profiteroles for dessert.”

“That's interesting, Sheila, and shows us the marvels of modern autopsies, but how did she die?”

“Impatient as always, Ron,” she reprimanded, “but justified, I think. She was drowned.”

Harry blinked, “What?”

“She was drowned. I found residue on her skin and a bigger concentration of it on the inside of her lungs which indicate chlorinated water, and bruises on her neck and shoulders which show she was pushed down. After she was drowned, the killer pulled her out, dried her with a charm – you can see the effects of the magic here and here – and took her back to the office, probably not thinking there would be chlorine left on her lungs. I also checked her mouth,” she glanced at Harry, “and one of her teeth is chipped. She swallowed a silver cuff-link – up-market but not custom-made.”

Harry nodded.

“Time of death?”

“Between eleven thirty and midnight.”

Harry smiled at her, “Excellent.”

“So now we need to search all pools close to her flat to find some clues?” Asked Ron, shoulders sagging slightly at the prospect of boring grunt-work.

“No. Her last meal was so specific and familiar, that I checked the menu of the Muggle restaurant my husband took me to last week. She ate there.”

So off they went to the restaurant to find out while Carmichael's team searched her flat .

The owner, a man of clear Mediterranean descent but with the most London accent Harry had ever heard, gave them access to the security tapes without fuss.

Rachel had walked in at nine forty-five with a big man in his fifties, who the owner recognised as “Monsieur Desmarais, a connoisseur of fine wines and an excellent tipper, even if quite loud” who the Department had found out was the extremely wealthy owner of the French equivalent of the Daily Prophet, as well as a dozen other things. One man, many, many pies.
He was known for his rather hot temper, and the owner confirmed this when he told them that “the Monsieur” had got angry with his date and shouted for a while, before apologising to the room and quietening down again.

It seemed rather straight-forward – he had taken Rachel out to dinner to butter her up, perhaps to get her to convince Mr Singh to sell out, and she had refused his advances, so he had raised his voice.

Ron had found the address of the hotel he was staying at, but when they had called, Mr Desmarais' “personal assistant” had told them that he though he had agreed to speak with them, they would have to bring their own interpreter, because he spoke no English.

Which had lead Harry to go down, with a heavy heart, to the Interpretation and Translation Department. He didn't want to do it, but he had to ask the Head for a favour.

And the Head was likely to make him squirm before he agreed to the request.

The Head greeted him as Harry walked into his office.

“Potter! Welcome to my Department, I suppose. How can I help with whatever the Aurors are up to?”

Harry sat down in the chair opposite Malfoy's desk, as the man put his pen down and steepled his fingers together, surveying Harry over the top.

“I need an interpreter to come with me to a suspect's house.”

Malfoy nodded, “So you need someone discreet.”

“The suspect is French.”

“Discreet and French-speaking.” He repeated.

“We cannot alarm him, so he shall not be informed of his status as suspect.”

“Understood. Who is going to question him?”

“I am,” said Harry, “I think it will be easier to deal with if we get him to speak to someone with power within the Auror office, someone he will be less compelled to lie to.”

“And you would like all the information to stay with me and the interpreter?”

“Correct.”

Malfoy nodded, “I can do it.”

“What?”

He seemed to be on a roll today. Any more exclamations using that word and he would turn into a question himself.

“The information is delicate, is it not?” Harry nodded, “So you need someone discreet. Like me. French is one of my languages, and if we don't use someone else from the Department, you don't have to worry about information leaking out to the general public.”

“Ah.”

Yes. Well. He supposed that could work. He hadn't thought it would be that easy.

Maybe Malfoy was trying to trick him.

“Alright then. We leave from the Auror Department at one.”

Harry got up.

Malfoy stood up also and walked him to the door, “Excellent. See you then.”

Ron was waiting for him with information when he got back upstairs.

“We searched her flat, but we got nothing useful.”

“So what do we know?”

Ron grinned, “We managed to find her family. They live in Bristol.”

Now this was good.

“They own a swimming pool business.”

Potential suspects. Excellent.

“Ok, good. Do we know why she left?”

“According to her brother, their father used to drink and beat them, so she left. The mother insists that those are all lies.”

“Dark past, new start.”

“Right. The father is dead now, though, so that rules him out.”

Harry hated when Fate presented him with a logical choice and then threw it out the window.

“Of course. Right, make sure the brother has an alibi and ask him about her personal life, maybe she kept in touch with him.”

“Already on it, Carmichael's team is still interviewing them.”

“Excellent. Make sure they stay available so I can go over his notes and then interview them when I get back from dealing with Mr Desmarais.”

Harry motioned them to the staff room. He needed more coffee.

“I found us an interpreter.”

Ron made a face, “I don't know how you can stand going and asking the git for stuff.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said, pouring himself another cupful, “he's the Head of Interpreting. I didn't have much of a choice.”

“So who's coming with us? Is it that French girl with the dark hair? She was nice last time.”

And had worn a see-though top as well, but Harry chose not to comment on that.

“Nope, sorry, we've got Malfoy.”

They walked back to their office.

“Malfoy! But he's the Head!”

“Exactly. This is a high-profile case, and we know that the information won't filter down and out into the media if it's Malfoy.”

“Did you ask for him to do it?” Asked Ron suspiciously, “Because you and Malfoy have been bumping into each other quite a lot lately...”

Harry shot him a bored look, “Really, Ron? You're asking me if I spend time with Malfoy voluntarily?”

Ron looked a bit sheepish, but still grinned at him, “Right. Ok. So you and Malfoy are going to this bloke's suite at one?”

“That's the plan.”

At twelve fifty-three, Malfoy was there. In his office. Holding a notebook and a silver Muggle pen.

Malfoy. In the Auror office. Without having been accused of something.

Ron looked uncomfortable with the fact that Malfoy wasn't flanked by Aurors.

Harry almost shook his head at him, but at least neither of them had said anything bad out loud. Yet.

Maybe this could work.

“Hello, ferret.”

Or not.

Malfoy sighed, “Weasley, aren't we getting too old for this?”

Ron smiled at Malfoy and, to Harry's great shock, held a hand out, “Perhaps, but it is a wonderful memory. I hope we're not going to turn into our fathers though.”

Malfoy shook it, “Quite. You do realise that ferrets and weasels belong to the same family, don't you?”

“As are we, if you far back enough.”

Harry couldn't believe his eyes. What the hell was happening?

“What?”

Oh, there was the word again. He really needed to stop that.

“What, what?” said Ron, “We're being nice to each other.”

“Civil, even. I would think you would approve of our trying to get along.”

“Umm, yes.”

There was a pause as he absorbed this.

Ron held out an old Muggle pocket watch, “Here you go. It leaves any moment now. If you need me when you get back, I'll be with Carmichael.”

Harry nodded, “Great. I'll see you later.”

Ron left the room backwards, waggling his eyebrows at Harry while Malfoy checked the time.
Harry belatedly wished he had had more coffee.

“You're all very efficient up here.” Noted Malfoy.

Harry gave him an odd look, “We sort of have to be, you know. Murders don't solve themselves.”

“Obviously,” Malfoy held the pocket watch out between them, “I just thought you would be less organised. Your handwriting is still a bit sloppy, and that is usually an indicator of an untidy mind.”

Harry didn't know whether to take that as an insult or not.

“Well. I am. And it is.”

He put a finger on the watch and Malfoy smiled.

“I'm glad. That will make things much easier.”

Harry was about to ask what it would make easier when the Portkey activated.

“This isn't Diagon Alley.” Murmured Harry, taking in the bright white buildings around them.

“Well observed, Potter,” said Malfoy, smirking as he looked around, “This is Exception Ally, the posh district of Magical London – I suppose it is only natural that you've never set foot in it.”

Harry made a face at him behind his back, feeling quite pleased with himself despite the childish nature of the action.

Malfoy turned back to him, “Which hotel is he in?”

“L'Eh-toil Ruge.”
“L'Étoile Rouge, of course,” he shook his head and pointed them in the right direction, “Desmarais, where else?”

“You know him?”

“Know of him. He was one of my father's French contacts, a very distant cousin of some sort, I believe.”

“Well, all I know is he refuses to speak English, so your French had better be good.”

They walked into the lobby.

“Potter, I am an interpreter. Not only did I go through vast amounts of language training, but I have glossaries and synonyms in my head at all times. My French isn't just good, it is native.”

“Alright, keep your hair on,” Harry walked up to the reception desk and pulled out his Auror identification, “Please inform Mr Desmarais we're here to see him.”

The pretty little receptionist bounced to the pad of paper next to her, “At once, Mr Potter.”

She wrote a few words, folded it four times and let it go. It zoomed off, up a staircase.

Not a minute later there was a reply, which she caught with a practised hand. Harry wondered about asking her if she had ever been a Seeker.

“He is waiting for you. Suite 2, topmost floor. You can take the lift on the left.”

“Thank you.”

Let it never be said Harry Potter wasn't polite.

The lift announced the top floor with a ping! and let them out.
A woman with a clipboard was waiting for them. She introduced herself as Adrienne, “Monsieur Desmarais' personal assistant”, let them into the suite and motioned for them to sit on the sofas.
The suite was divided into different rooms, and the living room part of it that they were in was bigger than Harry's office at the Ministry – which was rather large, considering he shared it with Ron.

A large man in his late fifties walked out of another room with a smile as fake as his tan.
He shook Harry's hand vigorously, “Ah, Monsieur Potter, merci d'être venu. Comment puis-je-vous aider?”

Malfoy whispered to him, “Mr Potter, thank you for coming, how may I help you?”

Harry nodded to him and spoke directly to the rich man, as Malfoy had told him he should.

“Monsieur Desmarais, thank you for your cooperation. I am here to ask you a few questions and this is Draco Malfoy, the interpreter you requested.”

Draco relayed the information as Mr Desmarais nodded and shook Malfoy's hand as well.

Harry pulled out his trusty notebook and pencil, “Where were you last night between nine thirty and midnight?”

Malfoy was very good at his job, Harry had to admit. Never a moment's hesitation, not even a pause to think of a word, just a nod and delivery.

Harry could admire that. He sometimes had problems with speaking only English – he didn't think of Parseltongue as a language he knew, because it didn't have grammar in the same way as English did, it was so much more instinctual.

“From nine thirty to just past eleven I was with Miss Rachel Doyle. I picked her up from outside her office at nine thirty exactly, then we went to the Dutchess, a really excellent restaurant, and had our meal. I dropped her at her home before eleven fifteen and by eleven thirty I was back in my suite.”

“Can anyone confirm this?”

“The owner of the restaurant will most likely remember me, and I know the hotel has security cameras around the place, so I will be on those.”

While Draco was good at what he did, Harry did not like not being able to follow what Mr Desmarais was saying. He sometimes shifted slightly, or looked to the left, or rolled a shoulder backwards, and Harry didn't know what to associate the body language with. Body language could give a lot away.

“Why were you having dinner with Miss Doyle?”

“She was very pretty. I had come to the office a couple of days prior to talk about business with Mr Singh, a wonderful man, and she was his secretary. So young for someone with so much responsibility. Secretaries are so undervalued – I don't know what I would do without Adrienne, she is exceptional. But Rachel, she was like an angel sitting at her desk, just waiting for the right man to whisk her off her feet. So I wanted to see if I could be that man.”

“How very French”, thought Harry.

“The owner of the restaurant you went to, The Dutchess, remembers you raising your voice at Miss Doyle over the course of your meal. What happened?”

Mr Desmarais looked uncomfortable.

“We had a disagreement on the merits of the newspaper being sold, but we worked it out. Besides, I am not buying the Daily Prophet.”

Now that was interesting.

“You aren't?”

“Not that this should be of any interest to the Auror Department, but no. I am not. Mr Singh no longer wishes to sell.”

“I see. And how about your assistant?”

“Adrienne?” he seemed surprised, “She was in her own room, I believe. It is next door. But I don't know for certain – I gave her the night off. If I was not working, why should she be?”

Harry scribbled the last little note down and put his notebook away.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Desmarais. Please do not leave the country until our investigation is finished as we may have further questions.”

Mr Desmarais seemed only too happy to see them out.

After more handshakes, they were escorted to the lift by Adrienne, who smiled mischievously at Malfoy – Harry frowned, this was not professional – and told them that if they wished to contact her boss again, they should call her first.

On the way down to the ground floor, Malfoy turned to Harry, “Did you learn anything useful?”

“Yes I did. Why, was something he said wrong?”

“Not wrong,” said Malfoy, “just not the complete truth. You must have noticed his body language.”

“Of course I did, I'm an Auror.”

“He was very uncomfortable with your questions. He's clearly a rich man who owns the tabloids and therefore has never really needed to control his own reactions.”

Harry agreed.

They went back to the reception, where the receptionist smiled too-widely at them, and Harry asked to see her superior.

She got him, and Harry checked if there were security cameras in the hotel (“Naturally. We need to ensure the safety of our clients.”) and asked for the security tapes to be sent to the Auror Department as quickly as possible.

Back at the Ministry, Harry bid Malfoy goodbye, but got stopped by him before he could go back up to his office.

“I want to help.”

“Excuse me?” Said Harry, which was only half a step up from “what”.

“I want to be a part of this investigation.”

It took Harry a moment to process the request. He didn't think Draco had ever been on this side of an investigation before.

“I know it seems strange, but I might be able to help. Give you a non-Auror perspective on things. And I would be able to translate if some French documents came up.”

Harry brings his eyebrows together, thinking.

“And it would mean that I was always around when you needed me to interpret, you wouldn't have to Floo me or find me if I wasn't at home or in the office.”

Harry tugged at his robes.

“It's alright with me, but we have to ask Ron. He's a Head of Department too, you know.”

“Of course. Not a problem."

Turns out it really wasn't. Ron had agreed that having Malfoy's different perspective might be useful and that being able to contact him without problems was definitely something worth having.

And since Harry was leading the investigation, he should stay with Harry.

Harry found he didn't mind so much. As he waited for Carmichael to come and get him, he started to get to know Malfoy a bit. He wasn't the boy who at fourteen had made badges that flashed “Potter Stinks” at people because he'd thought it was funny, he was an adult now. They had both grown beyond that.

It helped that they hadn't spoken in years as well.

After he had filled him in on the case and its details, they began to talk about their personal lives.

He learnt that Malfoy lived in London's fashionable West End, that he enjoyed going to the theatre, that he made really good coffee and that he had been thinking about making peace with him and Ron for a while, but Ron had got there first.

“Why? You never liked us!”

“I felt we should get over it. We all work at the Ministry, and it was likely we would have to work together at some point, so I thought I should give it a try.”

“I'm impressed Malfoy. I'm not going to lie, I always thought you and Ron had an enmity that would never be resolved.”

Malfoy gave a bark of a laugh and shook his head.

“Well, while I don't think I'm ever going to be Godfather to a Weasley child, I don't see any reason he and I should not be civil. We are grown ups now, Potter, that is what adults do.”

“Look, if we are going to put our school days behind us and I am going to be seeing you every day, you're going to have to call me Harry. Hearing you call me Potter sets me slightly on edge. No one calls me Potter. Harry, yes, sir, yes, but not Potter.”

“Harry then. Which means you will probably want to call me Draco.” He sighed, but Harry could tell he was joking, “And you will only see me during the rest of this investigation – I do have my own department to run, you know.”

“I know.”

Carmichael knocked on the door and let himself in, “Sir. Whenever you're ready.”

Harry introduced Malfoy to the detective.

“Oh, we've met,” said Malfoy, shaking his hand, “at the trial for the Panagos case, I believe.”

“Yes, of course, I can't believe I forgot,” Carmichael looked at Harry, “he was the interpreter, because the wife didn't speak any English, only Greek.”

“You speak Greek?”

“And this is why I shall be taking you out for coffee later, Harry,” said Malfoy, “because I know so much more about you than you do about me, and that's just not the way friendship works.”

Carmichael led them to one of the meeting rooms as Harry explained who they were going to see.

“Finally!” exclaimed a short man with brown hair, standing up and looking furious, “I've been waiting all day!”

“Terribly sorry for the wait, Mr Doyle, we were out speaking with suspects in your sister's murder.”

That quietened him down for a moment.

Malfoy sat in one the chairs as Mr Doyle sat back down. Harry took a seat next to Malfoy.

“I've already been questioned by your man over there,” he said, pointing to Carmichael, “I don't understand why I need to be questioned again!”

“We're just going over our facts, Mr Doyle. Where were you last night between ten thirty and midnight?”

“I was at home, in Bristol.”

“Can anyone confirm this?”

“My mother. I took her in after Dad died, so she lives with me now.”

“I understand. It must have been very difficult for you when your sister left.”

Mr Doyle shrugged, “It was alright.”

“You said your father used to beat Rachel?” He prompted.

“Yeah, he did. But only when he got drunk, and he never put a finger on me or Mum, so she doesn't believe he did.”

Harry did not like the way this man shrugged off the abuse his sister had been through.

Malfoy spoke before Harry could formulate his next question.

“So he beat her.”

“Yeah.”

“And you did nothing?”
Malfoy's tone was incredulous.

“Nah, if you ask me she deserved it. Mouthing off, being rude and disrespectful. She got what she asked for.”

Malfoy's face turned cold.

“Harry, I have to go. I will speak with you later. Goodbye.”

And he walked out.

“He's a strange one, isn't he?”

Harry didn't quite know what to say to that.

“Yes, he is. How long had it been since you and your sister had been in touch?”

“She didn't write much. She send Mum a Christmas card last year, said she was keeping alright.”

“And that's it?”

“That's it.” The brother confirmed.

“Do you run the business now that your father is gone?”

“Yes I do,” he said, grinning and showing off a gap in his teeth, “Why? Do you need a pool?”

Harry gave him a fake smile, “No, thank you-”

The man interrupted, “Because you'd get a discount, being an Auror and all.”

“No, thank you,” Harry repeated more forcefully, “but I need to know what chemicals you put into your pools.”

“Of course, of course, I can get you a sample in two hours.”

“Three samples,” said Harry, “and Detective Carmichael here will come with you to collect them. Have a good day, Mr Doyle.”

Carmichael opened the door for him and nodded. He would make sure the samples were real.

Harry decided to stop for a cup of coffee before he went back upstairs, where Malfoy was likely waiting.

Sadly, the pot Malfoy had brewed had been finished, and this had been made either by Ron or by Brian, because it wasn't as strong as he liked it. Ha also snagged a chocolate biscuit, on the basis that they were usually finished by the time that he got to them.

He found Malfoy waiting for him in his office, sitting in the visitor's seat at his desk, angrily scribbling notes onto texts.

Harry watched him for a moment.

“You walked out.”

Malfoy slammed his pen down and turned to look at him with a disgusted look on his face.

“I'm sorry, but I just... I couldn't stand it. Nobody deserves to be beaten. Nobody. And to have her own brother turn his back on her like that? No wonder she left. She must have wanted to forget she was ever related to them.”

Harry took his own seat opposite Malfoy.

“I know. He was a nasty piece of work. At least you managed to stay polite.”

“Did you not?”

“Oh, I did. But I also got him an Auror escort back home to collect chemical samples. We'll get them in the morning.”

“The morning?”

Harry checked the clock, “It's almost six, Draco.”

“Is it?” Malfoy checked for himself. “Wow. I hadn't been paying attention to the time. The day goes so much quicker when you're not pondering which type of formality to use when translating.”

Harry drank a long gulp of coffee, “No offence, Draco, but your job sounds really boring.”

Malfoy laughed at that, “It can be. But despite the various forms of formality, I find it really satisfying when I get a document right. Back when I started, I did simultaneous interpreting, which is still my favourite.”

Harry was confused, “Simultaneous?”

Malfoy laughed again, “How about I explain over dinner? It's unlikely we're going to get anything done before tomorrow, isn't it?”

Harry considered this.

Carmichael would be back with the samples by eight, then they would have to go down to the lab for testing, which could take up to ten hours if they didn't have the right potions in stock, and since there were three samples, it would probably take them longer.

And he was starting to get hungry.

“No, it's not likely. Alright then, let's go grab something to eat.”

Harry finished his coffee and stood up, grabbing his coat.

Draco put his papers into a briefcase and miniaturised it so it would fit in his pocket.

“I have to warn you, Harry, that I'm quite picky about food.”

“So no pub then?”

“A pub is fine – I was just worried you were going to suggest some God-awful Muggle fast-food chain. A friend once took me to one. You almost had to wade through oil just to get past the doors. Never again.”

Harry laughed and laughed. He would have to take Draco to Burger King at some point, just to see his reaction.

They ended up in a tiny little Wizarding gastro-pub that Draco recommended for its service and food quality.

Harry ordered a burger with onion rings and was surprised when Draco ordered fish and chips. He was even more surprised when he offered Harry one.

“Isn't that what friends do?”

Harry cautiously poked one with his fork.

“So we're friends now?”

Draco shrugged and pinched an onion ring from Harry's plate, “I don't know. Would you like to be?”

Harry took a swig of his soft drink.

“Yeah. I think we can do that.”

The next day, Harry got to his office earlier than he usually did, but Ron was there before him.

“So,” he said, waggling his eyebrows again, “I hear you and Malfoy went out to dinner last night.”

“We did. And?”

“I was just noticing that, despite the fact that you said you wouldn't spend time with Malfoy voluntarily, you have been doing just that.”

“For Chrissake, Ron, it was a couple of workmates getting a burger in a pub, not a date in some fancy French restaurant. You and I have gone out to dinner millions of times!”

Ron raised an eyebrow, grinning wildly, “Getting defensive, I see.”

Harry frowned, “We're friends. Now stop it, or I'll get Hermione to stop it for me.”

Ron just laughed, “Yes, boss.”

Draco arrived not ten seconds later, to the delight of Ron's waggling eyebrows, and sat down in the seat he had occupied yesterday, busying himself with documents he was editing.

Apparently Kingsley needed to urgently send a letter to the French Minister for Magic and had requested that Draco translate it for much the same reasons as Draco had given Harry to join the investigation.

Harry was getting stuck into writing up more case notes when Sheila came in with the lab results of the chemicals.

“They're not the right ones, I'm afraid. They're the wrong concentration.”

“Damn,” said Ron, “now we really do have to check all the pools in the area near the Prophet.”

He stood up and waved to Harry over his shoulder, “I'll get a team together.”

Malfoy gave Harry an odd look, “Is he always this useful?”

“Yeah. He's a great bloke and he's really good at strategy and getting people to do what he wants.”

“Hmm. No wonder you stayed friends.”

Whatever that meant.

Carmichael walked in looking exhausted, “Morning, Sheila.”

“Good morning. You look terrible, you do.”

Carmichael shot her a dirty look, “Thanks. Rogers and I spent all night going through the security footage from the hotel. They've got about sixty cameras with relevant angles.”

Draco leaned forward in his chair, “And?”

“According to the security tapes, Mr Desmarais left his room at nine fifteen and got back at eleven twenty six.”

“So he can't be our suspect,” Draco looked disappointed, “I was kind of hoping it was him.”

“Amateur,” said Harry, giving him a quick grin to show he was only teasing, then looked back to Carmichael, “What about the PA?”

“She left at twenty to eleven and got back at thirty-two minutes past midnight.”

Harry smiled, “Excellent. Carmichael, find Rogers then go home and get some sleep. Sheila, your services won't be needed by us until we find the right pool, so you should go and do whatever it is you do when you're not cutting up bodies. And if you find Tonetti, send him in.”

They left, Carmichael failing to stifle a yawn.

“Who?” Asked Draco.

“Another Auror. He's in charge of dealing with judges and we need a warrant to search Mr Desmarais' and his assistant's suites.”

“For what?”

“Anything. But a connecting door would be excellent. It would show they were accomplices.”

“You're saying Adrienne did it?”

Harry shrugged, “Maybe.”

“Hang on,” Draco rubbed his forehead with two fingers, “so what you are basically telling me is that the modern equivalent to the butler did it?”

Harry laughed, “Well yeah. It's possible.”

Draco snorted, “Right. Who have we got left as suspects?”

Harry counted on his fingers, “We had the family and the French Git. The family has an alibi and the French Git is being investigated.”

“It just seems easy.”

“Remember that the Git also has an alibi. Merlin, no wonder she called him that.”

“Quite. He was so slimy, but not quite as oily as the brother.”

Tonetti walked in and did a double take.

“Draco?”

“Adriano?”

Why did most of his staff already know Malfoy?

“Do we have a problem, gents?”

There was a moment of silence as something passed between the two. Draco glared at the Auror.

“How is your wife, Adriano?”

“She's doing well. What are you doing here?”

Harry interrupted, “You can talk later. Draco is the interpreter on the case with us. Tonetti, I need you to get a warrant for the suite at the Étoile Rouge that Lionel Desmarais is currently in.”

“For when?”

It was bothering Harry that his employee hadn't looked away from Draco since he walked in. Did he not command the same respect he used to?

“As soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn't move. Draco leaned back in his seat, still glaring, arms crossed.

“Now, Tonetti.”

His eyes snapped up to Harry, who raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

He left, with Harry wondering what the hell had just happened.

“Draco, what was that?”

He shrugged, pretending to go back to his papers but his eyes were unfocused and he was clicking his pen on and off.

“I didn't think.”

“Didn't think about what?”

“I used to know him.” Draco shrugged again, “But he betrayed my trust.”

Harry thought he knew what had happened. It was Tonetti's the accent that did it, he thought.

“Come on, let's get you some coffee.”

“Not unless we're brewing our own,” he replied, “the one you have in the staff room tastes like troll sweat.”

“You would know.” Said Harry, clapping Draco on the back.

“Funny, Potter.”

“Harry, Draco, I'm Harry,” they walked to the staff room, “We're friends now, remember?”

At about one, when nothing else had happened, Draco went back down to his own department to make sure things were happening properly.

Harry was alone in his office writing out case notes and looking over other cases until Ron came back, late after his shift.

“Hey, what took you so long?”

Ron dragged himself into the office and let himself drop into his chair.

“Between public and private, there are thirty pools within walking distance of the Daily Prophet. Thirty.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. We had to visit each one and take samples. Sheila's going through them now.”

“You should go home, mate.”

“Yeah, I just came back to get my stuff.”

He lay back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Ron, you know that if you fall asleep in the chair you're going to wake up tomorrow morning with an aching back. Go home.”

“Yeah.” Ron shook himself and stood up, “Yeah.”

“Right, I'm going to come with you. I would hate myself if you never made it home.”

“Not to mention Hermione would kill you.”

Harry shrugged his coat on, “And there is that.”

“What about Malfoy? You're not having dinner with him tonight?”

Harry couldn't believe it.

“You're falling asleep while standing up and yet you still have the energy to tease me about Malfoy.”

“Of course. What kind of a best mate would I be if I didn't?”

The next morning, Harry went straight down to the lab.

“Sheila?”

“In here!”

She was in her staff room, opening a packet of bourbon creams.

“Did you know they're vegan?”

She offered him one.

“Really?”

“Oh yes. It's odd, but it's true.”

He nicked a couple to take back upstairs with him.

“So I hear you and Draco Malfoy are getting along.”

Harry groaned through a mouthful of biscuit, “Oh, not you too.”

“What?”

“Ron keeps saying that we're going out. We've just decided to not be idiots towards each other. Maybe friends, if it's possible.”

Sheila smiled at him, “Well, you're not the only one. My cousin Terry works in the Translation part of his department, and according to him, Malfoy got teased about going out to dinner with you as well.”

“Serves the git right, it was his idea.”

Maybe he should take another biscuit.

Sheila handed him an unopened packet, “Just take it to your office, Harry. Hide it in a drawer and call it your secret stash.”

He smiled at her, “Thanks.”

“You want lab results, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

She put the kettle on.

“They won't be in for at least another hour. I'll come upstairs when they do.”

“Oh. Alright.”

She turned to look at him over her shoulder, “You thought they all happened magically overnight?”

“Well, sort of,” he confessed, “I mean, they do happen magically.”

“Last night my staff worked hours they were never used to. I'm going to have to pay them overtime. You'll get the results when the results are ready.”

Harry blinked, twice.

“Ok. I'll be in my office if you need me.”

“Good boy.”

Draco glided into Harry's office three quarters of an hour later.

“I have real coffee!”

He handed Harry a big mug with the slogan World's Best Boss with the explanation that it was the biggest mug in the Interpretation and Translation Department.

When Harry questioned the slogan, Draco's cheeks went slightly pink and told him that it had been a gift from his employees at Christmas.

He was clearly respected.

“That's really nice of them.”

“It really was.”

Carmichael put his head in for a moment to inform them that they were still waiting on the search warrant for the suite.

Ron trudged in with a frown, chucking his coat on the back of his chair.

“What's wrong?”

“Hermione's ill.” He said.

Well, that explained that. Ron hated not being able to tackle whatever was wrong with his wife.

Draco looked uncomfortable, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Or a biscuit?” Added Harry.

“A biscuit would be nice.”

“Would lab result be better?”

It was Sheila, grinning and holding a clipboard, with Carmichael in tow.

“Definitely!” Said Ron.

“Well, the sixteenth pool you visited had the right concentration of chemicals.”

Ron took out his notebook and went through the list of pools, “Sixteen, sixteen, here. Public pool owned by Muggles, six minutes away from the Prophet offices.”

Carmichael nodded, “I'll see if there are any Muggle traffic cameras in the area.”

“Great. Let's go,” said Harry, “we've got a crime scene to examine.”

“Security tapes?” The owner blinked at them with confusion written all over his face in big letters, a cigar hanging out of his mouth, “Why would be have those?”

The people working at the pool were utterly useless.

“In case someone broke in and you needed to know who that was?” Ron suggested.

“Why would anyone break into a pool? What would anyone steal from here?”

This was a waste of time. They had found the crime scene, but nothing useful.

“This is futile.” Draco whispered to him, “They are clearly incompetent.”

“While I agree,” said Harry, “this is procedure.” He looked to Ron, who nodded, “but we can leave. Ron will deal with it.”

Draco nodded his thank you to Ron.

They Apparated back to the Ministry and took the lift to the Auror Department.

“I don't know how you deal with all the incompetent people you meet. At least in my line of work I tend to deal with intelligent people towards the top of their field and usually I get good grammar too. This is just ridiculous.”

“Working as an Auror isn't just broom chases and duels, Draco, it involves actual police work and dealing with the common folk.”

Draco sneered, “The common folk.”

Harry frowned, “Don't do that.”

“I was joking, Harry!”

“I know. But you look just like your father when you sneer. It looks ugly on you.”

Carmichael was waiting for them when the lift got to their floor.

He waved the warrant at them, “Got it. Took longer than it was supposed to because we had to contact the French legal system, but it's here now. Team is ready to go.”

“What is ze meaning of zis?” Asked Adrienne when they appeared outside the suite, “You do not 'ave an appointment.”

“No,” said Harry, “but we have a warrant, and that is much better.”

Mr Desmarais' reaction was similar.

He burst into an outraged speech as they walked into the sitting area.

“How dare you barge into what I have made my home-away-from-home and search my belongings? What gives you the right?”

“We are investigating a murder, Mr Desmarais, and you are our prime suspect. If you will not let us do our jobs we will have to arrest you for obstruction of justice as well as the murder of Rachel Doyle.”

“What? You have no proof!”

“And that s exactly what we are here to look for.”

Draco almost gleefully translated the little discussion between Desmarais and his personal assistant.
“He just asked her what she told us and she is denying ever having spoken with us.”

“Good. Keep an ear out for what they're saying, I'm going to go supervise.”

Everyone was wearing gloves and handling objects with care. The Auror Department couldn't afford to replace broken objects.

“Sir!”

Carmichael was calling from the bedroom.

“What it is?”

“Polyjuice Potion, sir. With hairs. They look like they belong to the French Git and his assistant.”

“Excellent. Send it off to Sheila.”

He walked back to the sitting room, where Desmarais was keeping a close eye on Harry's team.

“Draco, please be so kind as to inform Mr Desmarais that we have found Polyjuice Potion in his possession.”

“That is not illegal.”

“No, but using it to frame someone else, is. You can either come voluntarily, or I can put you in handcuffs and arrest you. Which will it be?”

Both decided to come quietly.

Harry Apparated them all to the Ministry while his team continued the search.

“What are you doing in your office?”

Draco was standing in his doorway.

“I'm eating biscuits.” Harry replied, waving a bourbon cream at him.

“I can see that. Why aren't you downstairs interrogating the suspects?”

“I'm letting them stew, Draco. All the evidence we have so far is circumstantial, which means that their lawyers could get them out of anything easily, so we're waiting for a little more evidence, too. They're in separate rooms, so they don't know what story the other is cooking up and they will start panicking. Which means they'll end up telling us the truth.”

Draco crossed to his chair and sat down, “That's actually quite clever, Harry.”

“Thanks.” He replied sarcastically, “I do know how to do my job, Draco. They didn't make me Head of Department just because I defeated Voldemort. I went through training and the job years just like everyone else.”

“I didn't say you were incompetent.”

Harry held out a biscuit, “I know. But a lot of people assume that I didn't do anything to get the position. That I just walked in one day and Shacklebolt decided I should be Head.”

“That's stupid,” said Draco, crossing his legs, “that's not the way life works.”

Harry snorted, bitter, “Unless you read Skeeter's articles.”

“Does anyone still read Skeeter's articles?”

“Unfortunately, there will always be people who believe what they read.”

Rogers came in, grinning, “Got it.”

“Got what?”

“The Muggle traffic cams have Desmarais' car in the vicinity of the pool at eleven thirty-five, and one at the zebra crossing shows him walking her to the pool building at eleven forty. She looks terrified and his wand is pointed at her.”

“And leaving?”

“With her wet and unconscious body at twelve-oh-two.”

Harry grinned evilly, which apparently unsettled Draco, because he shifted in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Excellent work, Rogers. You can either go home and get some rest or stay for the arrests. The same goes for Carmichael.”

Rogers nodded, “Thank you, sir.”

Draco looked confused, “That's it?”

“Oh no,” said Harry, evil grin back in place, “now comes the fun bit. Now we get to interrogate them.”

“Are you sure you don't want a lawyer, Mr Desmarais?”

Monsieur Desmarais' eyes kept glancing left and right, as though searching for an escape route.

The room was brightly lit, with only one door. There was a one-way window behind Harry, something they had copied from Muggle interrogation rooms.

“Je n'en ai pas besoin. Je ne suis pas coupable.”

“I don't need one.” Said Draco, “I'm not guilty.”

Harry stared at the man who had murdered Rachel Doyle.

“You speak English, don't you?”

Desmarais shook his head, “Non. Je le comprends, mais je ne le parle pas.”

“No. I understand it, but I can't speak it.”

“You're lying, Mr Desmarais, to the Head Auror, during an interrogation. I would think again. But you are welcome to have the interpreter stay.”

Desmarais jabbered quickly to Draco.

“I have nothing to do with the murder of that woman, do you know who I am, I will have my lawyers sue you for slander and wrongful arrest!”

“Mr Desmarais, we have proof. We have it on tape that you forced Miss Doyle into a Muggle swimming pool and later left with her wet corpse.”

He gave Draco a moment to translate.

“That is circumstantial. Perhaps she was only unconscious.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Harry, “But she was killed by drowning.”

“Circumstantial and not real proof,” repeated Desmarais, “since you also have it on camera that I returned to my room before she was killed.”

“We found Polyjuice Potion in your room,” Harry continued, “along with hairs that belonged to yourself and your secretary.”

“My assistant.”

“Whatever. We have you in two places at once, which means one of the versions of you that we see is a Polyjuiced person.”

Mr Desmarais rolled a shoulder back.

“Your secretary has confirmed that she took Polyjuice Potion to make it appear as though you were at the hotel at the time of the murder.”

A flicker of a frown appeared on Draco for a moment, but he hid it and conveyed the message.

Mr Desmarais' face contorted, “Cette salope! Je vais la tuer, comment peut-elle me faire ça!”

Draco smiled, “That bitch. I'm going to kill her, how could she do this to me?”

Harry nodded, “Would you like to confess now, Mr Desmarais?”

Desmarais glared at him and spoke directly to Harry with a slightly American accent.

“I killed her. She refused to do what I wanted. I always get what I want.”

Harry signalled to Ron, who was behind the window, “And your assistant?”

“I pay her to be quiet. She took the potion to pretend to be me at the hotel, like she told you. She didn't know what I was doing.”

“Excellent.”

Brian walked in, “Mr Desmarais, you are to come with me.”

He handcuffed the murderer and escorted him out.

Draco let out a huff of air, leaning back in his chair.

“That was a big gamble, Potter.”

“Harry. And what was?” Harry grinned at Draco.

“That. The lie.”

“Oh, Draco. After doing this job for as long as I have – and my I remind you that I have basically been doing this job since I was eleven – you get to know the way people think.”

Draco nodded.

“And it was clear ever since he didn't want us to search the apartment. Finding the Polyjuice and the rest were just formalities.”

“You sly bastard, Harry.”

“Thank you very much.”

Draco leaned closer t him, “Do you want to get some coffee?”

“Sure,” said Harry, getting up and stretching, “Your staff room or mine?”

Draco stood up and smoothed down his robes.

“I was thinking that little coffee shop on the corner.”

Harry's eyebrows furrowed together, “The Muggle one? The Vanilla Bean?”

“That's the one. They make really good coffee.”

“Do you even own Muggle clothing?”

Draco shrugged his robe off to reveal a Muggle shirt and suit trousers.

“So much more comfortable.”

“Huh. Alright then. Meet you by the ground floor statue in fifteen minutes.”

Draco smiled at him and walked to the door, “Alright. Fifteen minutes.”

Harry collapsed back into his chair and leaned back to stare at the ceiling.

He needed more coffee.

“Harry, mate, get over yourself.”

Harry looked over to the door and then back up at the ceiling. It was Ron. He was leaning on the door frame, watching Harry.

“What do you mean?”

“It's just coffee.”

“But it's not. He and Tonetti have a history.”

Ron snorted, “Who doesn't have a history with Adriano?”

“I get the feeling they went out. And then his wife found out.”

“So?”

“So Draco is gay.”

“Or bisexual.” Ron offered.

Harry glared at him.

“It's just coffee. You shouldn't read too much into it.”

Harry noticed that there was a damp spot on the corner of the ceiling.

“What if it's not just coffee?”

“Then you will deal with it if it comes to that. When was the last time you went out with someone?”

Harry didn't reply.

“Exactly. So go for coffee. If only to make a new friend. You don't many of those you can trust.”

“I suppose. I've got you and Hermione.”

“And we'll always be your friends. But the Ferret isn't so bad.”

“Yeah. It's just a drink between friends. I'm reading way too much into this. Besides, he makes really good coffee.”

Harry stood up again, walked out and clapped Ron on the back as he left to go upstairs and change.

“Yeah,” said Ron to the now empty room, “coffee. Because that's the deal breaker.”

Draco was waiting for him at the statue with a frown. His mood lightened when he saw Harry.

“Hey, you're late. I thought you were bailing on me.”

“Why would I do that? I just had a little chat with Ron.”

They walked towards the Floo grates that connected to the outside.

“I have been talking to Weasley during the past few days myself. He's a great guy.”

Harry nodded, “Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself.”

They stopped in front of the right grate.

“See you a in minute.”

Harry stepped through the flames.

There was no one in the hall to witness Draco's triumphant cry.