Days After Death

It’s Seamus who pulls both Lily and Harry into work at four in the morning, but Ginny is the first one to wake up, funnily enough.

“Harry,” she says, gently rousing him, “Harry, the furnace is yelling for you.”

She’s been somewhat compliant with him ever since she told him she’s friends with Luna again. They haven’t properly talked about it yet– it was such a short argument, one would think they were arguing over their favourite colours and not their ex-best friend.

“I don’t understand,” Harry had asserted. Fred was his dear friend, but he was her brother.

Ginny had simply said, “I just missed her.”

There was no ‘just’ about it. Harry missed her too. He used to be unable to sleep with the worry that one day he might be tasked to go arrest Luna himself. He would construct mental contingency after contingency on the basis that Luna may not get clean, where she would do something more drastic than desecrate a dead boy’s memory in front of his family.

But Harry had been having a dreamless sleep, and when Ginny had woken him, the first thing he had perceived was her scent and her body warmth. Her voice didn’t grate as it would have if she had woken irritated by the loud Firecall he heard a moment later, yelling for him.

“Seamus,” Harry swears, breathing into his pillow for a moment, hoping it will swallow him.

“Better go wake Lily,” Ginny murmurs. She runs a hand to smooth out his hair, and Harry hums at her touch. She stops too quickly and he’s immediately mourning it. “You know how cranky she gets in the morning.”

Lily is annoyed, but Harry doesn’t have to wake her. After running downstairs in his pyjamas and telling Seamus to bugger off so his wife can sleep, Harry goes to Lily’s room to find her roughly brushing her hair.

“This better be good,” she snaps.

“There’ll be many mornings like this where you’ll have to get in early,” Harry says.

“Fantastic. Why couldn’t Seamus just send an owl?”

“Last time an owl was sent your mother accidentally hexed it,” Harry grins at the memory. The owls usually peck Harry awake with a letter of importance attached to its leg, but that night, it had mistakenly targeted Ginny, who had awoken disoriented and defensive. Half-asleep, she had pulled the wand out from under her pillow and flicked it in the general direction of the nuisance. She had felt terrible after realising what she had done, but Harry couldn’t blame the Ministry if they were hesitant to send any more again.

By the time they make it to the office, Hermione is already there, exchanging rapid whispers with Seamus. It could’ve been midday, from how put together she looks. Harry thinks she’s the only witch in the whole Ministry who would bother to look stately at four in the morning.

Lily falls into step behind Harry as if by default. It’s not like she knows firsthand the protocol for these types of mornings, but she knows they’re not common enough for it to not be a big deal.

“Seamus,” Harry says, breaking the two up. His voice sounds rough with sleep, so he clears it. “For once, it wasn’t the Minister calling me in.”

“Seamus owled me too,” Hermione responds, making Harry startle. Hermione usually started her days early, especially during an ongoing investigation. She rarely ever left the office. “We’ve arrested someone.”

Here, Harry turns to Seamus. There are dark canyons under his eyes, and his lips are dry. Though he looks alert, Harry can tell from the sag of the rest of his body that he’s exhausted. Did he sleep in the office too? Since when was that something that happened?

“It’s the German,” Seamus says, and Harry snaps out of it. He’s on the job now. “Becker. The one that snuck in from France to Dover on broom.” That wasn’t unusual. Wizards who couldn’t make sense of the Channel Tunnel and couldn’t get their hands on a Portkey or Floo station would simply ride out under disillusionment charms. “Turns out you were right. He was a dealer– part of the Owls. Andy and I arrested him right after the two of you stepped out for the day in Sheppey East seven hours or so ago. You know, that place has a pretty chunky Squip population, so we thought if he’d go anywhere from Dover, he’d go there. He’s been in custody for a while, but we were both knackered and so Andy went home not too soon after.” Seamus hesitates here. “I thought I’d stay for a bit.”

Harry glances at Hermione and finds her frowning slightly. He knows that look because he knows her.

When Harry caught wind from a posted division in the Southernmost region of England of a suspicious individual, he didn’t suspect much. Usually drug rings, when they were so rampant, were local. But the Looking Owls had originated mainly in Germany and expanded with small branches into England, and even though he never had much evidence to suspect that this drug circle expanded borders to the heart of the gang since the German Minister hadn’t brought up many concerns about ethromorphis dealing in his country, Harry knew enough about organised crime to know both the concepts of borders and Ministers were null to them.

So he sent out a tail and called it a night. He didn’t expect an arrest, although it was in Seamus’ and Andy’s jurisdiction to enact one without his say-so. It wouldn’t be grounds for hesitation to admission.

“Did you already interrogate him, Seamus?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

He thinks Seamus secretly hates that Harry’s his boss now– he consistently forgets there’s a hierarchy, and when he’s reminded of it, he’s irritatingly bitter.

Now he’s scowling, which tells Harry all he needs to know.

“Well,” Lily pipes up, “what did you find?”

The three adults turn to her, and she blinks at them owlishly.

“What?” she shrugs, gesturing at Seamus. “It had to have been good if he brought us in here.”

Well, Harry supposes, that’s true.

Seamus gestures for them to follow him to the desk. There, he retrieves a notepad with scrawled ink on it, and he gives it to Hermione, who scrunches her nose at it.

“Shattered?” she repeats. “And 'E.A.' What are those?”

She sounds tired and endlessly annoyed.

“Shattered E.A.?” Lily repeats, face clearing.

“It’s a code,” Seamus says grimly, as if he’s announcing the end of the world. “The Owls are planning something.”

“What?” Hermione mutters.

“Wait a minute,” Lily says. “Wait. Just a– I know that from somewhere.” She thinks for a moment, then clicks at the revelation. “It was in that paperwork I did about a month ago! Of the four recovered victims, two of them had some variation of that word in their inventory. One had a diary with that as a trademarked title. Someone else had a bottle with their bottle reading ‘Shattered’ only for the name tag. There were so many peculiar items that I simply never made the connection between them.”

Hermione turns to Harry, hand on her hip.

“You haven’t been doing the paperwork?” she asks, and he glares at her.

“You never thought to bring this up?” Seamus presses Lily.

“I was given fifty pages of bullshit to comb through on each ethromorphis victim since May,” Lily fires back, defensive. She’s talking very fast, which is how Harry knows she might be feeling more ashamed than she’s letting on. “You try catching that in between a room full of flamingo-themed bathtubs, a broken freezer with nothing but religious porn in it and a life-size sex doll of Dolly Parton. And I am not exaggerating! The paper called her that!”

Harry puts a calming hand on Lily’s shoulder, who seems more distressed that the sex doll in question was Dolly Parton than anything else, as Hermione narrows her eyes at Seamus.

“It’s not just her fault– this whole team was supposed to be looking through the paperwork,” she spits, silencing the three of them instantly. “From now on, I expect this to be followed.” She levels this towards Harry, who has long learned when to pick his battles with Hermione, and when to just admit he’s in the wrong.

Maybe seeing their boss bowing his head to Hermione wakes something up in Seamus, because suddenly he’s shuffling like he’s on the verge of blurting something. Harry remembers how he used to struggle to sit still in Potions, always twitching to add some other oil (or too much of the same) to the cauldron despite instruction, and having it consistently blow up in his face. It never stopped him from doing it again, and again, and again.

Dean had been there every time, helping Seamus laugh it off.

Harry frowns at that.

A decade or so ago (is that really how fast the time passes him by?), Harry remembers when Dean used to come into the office and deliver Seamus home-cooked lunches whilst they were still warm. Everyone had teased him for how spoiled he was, but Seamus had called everyone jealous, which, in truth, they were. Dean was a great cook. But Harry also recalls how Seamus clocked off before five every night because Dean didn’t like his husband working too late.

He hasn’t done that in a while. He tries to imagine Dean being comfortable enough with Seamus deciding on a whim to stay in the office overnight to preside over a suspect. Seems like something Harry would do instead.

“Spit it out, Seamus,” Hermione rolls her eyes, accustomed to his attitude too.

“That German detainee has been using too,” he says. “Heavily. It made interrogating him hard, as you can remember with Civers.”

Harry sucks in a breath. He had gone to check on her at Mungos yesterday, but she had been moved to a rehabilitation facility in Denmark. Harry told the Healers there that the Ministry needed to have her in closer quarters for surveillance and investigation purposes, but they told him, quite frankly, that she needed to recover in private, away from anything to do with ethromorphis, including the case. Meaning Civers was untouchable until she could get clean.

Still, Harry had sent a request through their Danish embassy to get clearance for Civers. Nothing about that tattoo on her arm could make him rest knowing she could have potential ties to Voldemort. Nothing.

He had yet to hear back from them.

“But he did say the code was for carrying out whatever project they’re working on,” Seamus continues. “This whole ethromorphis plot falls under that.”

“So those two dead users were with the Owls too, that means,” Lily says.

“Most likely.”

“Alright,” Harry says, thinking. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright.”

“Shattered,” Hermione muses. “E.A. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Seamus admits. “But he’d use it somewhat interchangeably, so I don’t know if there’s a difference. He admitted to meeting with some people in the country to pay off some ‘shattered’ tolls, but then he’d tell me he was ‘E.A.’ from the Owls during the early hours of the interrogation when he was trying to deny any connection to them. He never explained it to me. He started to speak German. Probably should’ve waited until morning so we could have some sort of translator, but he looked so exhausted by the time we brought him in, I just knew he’d crack with something if I kept pushing. And before you ask, no, he didn’t give me any names of anyone he may have met. He said he couldn’t remember them.”

It’s disturbing how their only connections to the Owls so far have been users. Has this been done on purpose? To manipulate their own members’ minds for the greater success of whatever project they were carrying out? The thought is so disgusting that it seems realistic.

“You were here all night?” Harry asks instead. “You’ve been questioning him for that long?”

Seamus shrugs.

“On and off. Wanted to give him breaks where he thinks he’ll get a night’s sleep, and come back and chip away at him some more.”

Hermione frowns, “Did you feed him at least? Detainees still have their rights.”

“Yes,” Seamus rolls his eyes at her. “He’s sleeping soundly now too. I didn’t interrogate him for six hours straight or anything.”

“How long?”

“In total? Four.”

“You’re pushing it and you know it.”

“We’ll have to figure out what this code means,” Harry says, bringing the conversation back, “maybe comb through that inventory again. All that paperwork.” Hermione nods in approval whilst Seamus squeezes his eyes shut as if the very thought of it is giving him pain. “We need to stay on top of this before any of the Owls find out we know what we do. Lily, please call the rest of the team in.”

Lily blinks rapidly, pointing to the door.

“You mean, like, Firecall… or Owl them?” she asks uncertainly. She’s been so well-adjusted in the department that Harry forgets she’s still quite new to her job. Maybe she feels awkward rousing her coworkers in the dead of night.

Hermione, luckily, places a hand on Lily’s forearm.

“Come on,” she says, “I’ll show you how.” She turns to look at Harry then. “I’ll focus on trying to decode the acronym. I’ll call in some translators if you need them. Just work with the suspect, and try not to get him shipped to Denmark this time.”

At this, she leaves, Lily in tow.

Harry and Seamus are left alone, awaiting the rest of their team.

And without thinking, Harry asks, “How’s Dean?”

The shock and suspicion are so apparent on Seamus’s face that it surprises Harry.

“Why?” Seamus shoots back, immediately on the defence.

Harry shrugs in a way he hopes is placating to the other man. Although the reaction seriously unnerves him.

“I just haven’t spoken to him in a while, so I was wondering,” Harry says.

“He’s fine.” Seamus is crossing his arms as if trying to physically close himself off.

“I remember he used to pack lunches for you.”

“Yeah, well, he got busy.”

“He’s fine with you staying out late then?”

“No offence, but what the fuck are we talking about?” he snaps. “There’s a prime detainee that’s given us a leg up on this case, and instead you’re interrogating me about Dean.”

Harry frowns.

“I’m not interrogating you.”

But now that he has the thought in his mind, he’s looking Seamus over with a detective’s eye, and he sees that his nails are curry-stained from the microwaved dinner he had last night here, if the empty boxes on the desk are anything to go by. He sees, quite shortly after, that Seamus isn’t wearing his wedding ring.

Cold dread sinks into Harry. Seamus notices him looking at his hand, and stares at it too, trying to find what Harry can see.

“You and Dean are still together, right?” Harry asks, and it’s like he just slapped Seamus in the face from the instant affront that registers there.

“Why? What did he tell you?”

Harry blinks, “I told you I haven’t–”

“We’re still together, obviously,” Seamus interrupts, tone changing. Suddenly, what was once urgent is now condescending, like Seamus can’t believe Harry can conceptualise a world where he and Dean aren’t together. Maybe a few months ago, he would’ve believed it, but this was a world in which Hermione and Ron were in counselling together, Luna and Rolf were divorced (from what Ginny had told him), and Harry and Ginny could barely talk to each other without disappointing the other. “You’re always sending me out on these crazy stupid missions, is it such a big deal if I want to leave my ring in a safe place where I won’t lose it?” Ah, so he caught on too. “Everything’s fine. Dean’s not home, is all. Staying with his mum for a bit.”

Harry raises a brow.

“Is everything alright–?”

“Harry,” Seamus says curtly. “Stop fucking prying. Okay?”

Seamus’ eyes are the particular kind of dark teal that seems almost black in the lighting now. His set jaw is how Harry knows he’s furious at him.

They’ve been coworkers more than they’ve been friends for the past few years. Maybe Harry was once allowed the privilege to ask Seamus about his private life, but that time has long passed.

He can’t be upset at Seamus’ reaction, he knows more than anyone why he’s so defensive about Dean. The quickest way to upset Harry is to touch on sore, open wounds he’d rather not treat either. Seamus and he are the same in that they accept their job as a primary role in their lives, and maybe that’s the issue. Ginny certainly thought it was. Seamus and Harry’s spiralling friendship is proof of putting the job first, after all. But is it the root? And if it is, did Harry care enough to do what he should?

Yes, he thinks. But he even questions the certainty in that. And it makes him feel horribly ashamed.

Before anything can be said, Harry hears a scuffle outside. Nothing extreme, just some yelling from a man and the sharp sound of soles rubbing against polished tiles. Someone sprints past the office, Harry can barely see the man’s figure through the foggy glass of the door. But the second Seamus and him are up from his desk and making their way towards it, Lily slams the door open, looking out of breath.

“It’s Monrow,” she says. “I sent for everyone– I sent my Patronus to everyone and–”

Harold appears beside her next, half his hair still sticking up from sleeping.

“He’s dead,” he says. “He’s been released for seventeen hours, and he’s already dead.”

“Where?” Harry demands, as Andy runs in. From how hard he’s breathing, he would’ve been the one running outside, probably trying to order someone who’s working this early to inform the Minister. His face is red and beaded with sweat.

“Just near the telephone booth on 44th,” Andy says. “I found him– it’s the entry point I take to work every day.”

“Have you told the Minister?”

Andy nods, as white as a sheet.

“Yes, she’s bringing her daughter in to perform an autopsy. Monrow… he…”

“What is it?”

“He had these deep wounds in his chest,” Andy says, gesticulating at his own torso. “It looked like stab wounds or something, I don’t know. I couldn’t see a weapon. Maybe that’s what he died from, though. Maybe it wasn’t magic.”

“Who’s on the scene now?”

“Beatrice. She told me I should come directly in and write up what I saw.”

Harry runs a stressed hand through his hair as Seamus jostles past the lot of them.

“We should get going then,” Seamus is saying. “This is an investigation, officially.”

Harry should tell Seamus to stay back and go home. It’s clear he hasn’t gotten any sleep in what has almost been twenty-four hours, and pushing past that limit on the job would not only be unhealthy for him, it could fuck up the investigation.

But there’s a part of him that knows why he pressed Seamus about Dean in the first place, and no, it has nothing to do with their history. Harry understands him a little too well, and he knows that Seamus’ dismissal of Dean has naught to do with a lack of love, but a painful abundance of it.

They’re both useless without this job.

Someone was dead, and that’s easier to latch onto than what would be waiting at home. Death was easier to reckon with, and a never-ending game of good versus evil was easier to win.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Let’s go then.”