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SIYE Time:21:21 on 28th March 2024
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Friends and Foes
By Northumbrian

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Category: Post-Hogwarts, Post-DH/AB
Characters:All
Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Comedy, Drama, Fluff, Romance, Tragedy
Warnings: Mild Sexual Situations, Violence
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 176
Summary: Harry and his friends finally know who killed Ginny and Luna's classmate, Colin Creevey. It is 2001, and the search has been ongoing for a year. Will those final few foes who escaped justice at the end of The Battle ever be brought to justice?
Hitcount: Story Total: 56291; Chapter Total: 4604
Awards: View Trophy Room






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7 Chelsea Girl, Soho Gang

Bobbie Beadle used her teeth to tear the Sellotape. Dropping the roll of tape onto the base of her locker, she bent down and carefully taped the large manila envelope to the underside of the shelf. Satisfied it wouldn’t fall, she then hung her uniform on the bar beneath it. She closed the locker door and padlocked it. The envelope wasn’t well concealed, but a police station locker room was secure, wasn’t it? She looked warily around the empty room.

Scolding herself for her paranoia, Bobbie slipped the locker key into the pocket of her jeans and straightened her crop-topped t-shirt. Picking up her jacket and shoulder bag, she again looked around the locker room. It was still empty. Satisfied that she was alone she transferred her can of pepper spray into her bag, making sure that the second envelope was still there. Picking up her baton, she wrapped it inside her jacket. She’d be in trouble for taking the spray and baton out of the station, but she didn’t care. She’d suffered eight days of cruel jokes at her expense. Now she was angry, but she was also a little frightened.

The post mortem examination of Daniel McCoy had discovered that he was dead, but nothing more. Apart from the obvious, that he wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t beating, he was in good health. No heart disease, nothing at all to indicate cause of death. As the duty doctor had said at the scene, he’d simply stopped being alive.

Bobbie felt responsible. She had failed to prevent the killer from escaping. The mysterious Mr Potter and his friends knew something, but what? Detective Chief Inspector Abberline had been right … bloody spooks!

A couple of days after the incident, Bobbie had spoken at length to Detective Inspector “Gorgeous” George Godley. He’d offered to show her Godley’s gift to women. The oily old lecher had the worst chat-up lines she’d ever heard! She’d had to work really hard to get the information she’d wanted. Eventually, in desperation, she’d agreed to go on a date with him. Tonight! She wasn’t going to go of course. She had a much more important job to do. She was going to sit in her car all night, just as she had the previous evening.

She thought back to her conversation with DI Godley in the station canteen. He’d sat much too close to her and put his hand on her leg. It had taken all of her willpower not to smack him, but it had been worth it. Godley had allowed Bobbie to see the evidence SOCO had collected. He had also told her about his interview with the house owner’s son, Justin Finch-Fletchley. Godley had described the young man as a “curly-haired toff”, but Bobbie now knew that he was more than that. He was a friend of Potter’s!

Finch-Fletchley had flown in from Romania the day after the burglary. He’d brought his family’s very expensive barrister into the station with him, even though all he was doing was making a statement. The barrister had provided a carefully prepared written statement and had advised his client to refuse to answer any of Godley’s questions.

According to Godley, Finch-Fletchley had a nasty burn-scar on his right arm. It was, according to Finch-Fletchley, the result of an accident in Romania and it had nothing to do with the case. That was the only question the young man had answered. According to his statement, and despite Potter’s insistence at the crime scene that some things had gone missing, Finch-Fletchley’s statement indicated that nothing had been stolen.

Finch-Fletchley’s statement, combined with the post mortem results, made depressing news for Bobbie. Nothing had been stolen from the house and the dead man had not been murdered by any means known to the pathologist. The following day Godley had put his detectives back on other duties. There was no case and, according to the whispers and rumours now circulating around the station there had never been a case. No murder, no robbery, nothing, just a stupid young beat-plod finding a corpse, panicking, and making up a ridiculous story. But Bobbie Beadle knew what she’d seen, and she wasn’t going to give up.

Harry Potter! It was an ordinary, almost forgettable name for an extraordinary young man.

‘Who was the gorgeous bloke chatting you up? Did you get his number?’ she’d been asked by one of the other female constables when she’d got back to the station.

Mr Harry Potter had made an impression on a couple of the female officers who’d been at the crime scene. Bobbie was prepared to admit that he had a pleasant, fresh-faced and boyish charm. He was the sort who many women found fanciable. The quiet confidence he exuded, coupled with that tousled, slightly rumpled, just-woken-up look were what did it. He was the sort of man a lot of girls found attractive; more attractive than he would ever believe or understand, or so it had seemed at the time. But that hint of shyness had probably been an act. He’d been clever enough to fool her.

She remembered every word of her conversation with Mr Harry Potter. ‘We’ll do our very best to bring the killer to justice,’ he’d said. Killer! Justice! He’d looked and sounded so sincere that she had actually believed him! Then, two days later, the case was closed.

What was she trying to achieve, she wondered? She was chasing spooks. According to everyone, doing so was a dangerous and possibly career-ending move. But what she’d discovered made no sense at all. It hardly seemed possible! The envelope hidden in her locker contained photocopies of everything she’d found. If she didn’t come back, someone would find them when they emptied it.

If she didn’t come back! Was she being paranoid?

Picking up her bag and jacket Bobbie ensured that her baton was well hidden inside the jacket sleeve and strolled out of the Belgravia Police Station. She nodded to the custody Sergeant as she left.

‘Hot date tonight, Bobbie?’ he asked, grinning. She ignored him. Gorgeous George had apparently been boasting before the event. He’d be disappointed.

Cheyne Walk was only about a mile from Belgravia Nick. Walking there would be easy, and as the afternoon rush was in full swing, it would probably be quicker than driving. Unfortunately, it was possible that she would need her car. That part of Chelsea was a residents-only parking area, which presented another problem.

Still wondering whether she was doing the right thing, she drove out from the Police Station onto Buckingham Palace Road and inched her way towards Chelsea Embankment. When she reached Cheyne Walk she drove slowly along the narrow, tree-lined street and pulled into a residents parking place, it was the only thing she could do.

This was her second day here. A curious resident had questioned her the previous evening. She had showed him her warrant card and had told him that she was working. She would be in trouble if he checked up on her, but she was in trouble already. She’d broken a lot of rules recently. She’d run a DVLA check on two sets of index plates and carried out several person-checks without due cause. At her recent visit to a local newspaper office she had pretended to be on duty and on an active investigation. She wasn’t. It was simply one more misdemeanour, but they were stacking up. Even so, if she could deliver a result to Abberline all would be forgiven. She hoped!

Bobbie settled in for a long night. The previous night had been completely unproductive, with no sign at all of her secondary target, the only one she’d managed to track down.

After an hour spent watching the overly effusive antics of wealthy Chelsea residents with their designer shoes, bags, and dogs, Bobbie was bored. She decided she needed a drink. Because she was reaching into her glovebox for her bottle of water, she almost missed them leaving. They were out of the building and getting into the car when she straightened up. It was fortunate that he was there too.

The girl with bushy brown hair was almost hidden behind a BMW X5. Fortunately tall ginger-haired bloke with her was easy to spot. Bobbie peered past the gleaming BMW. Had the girl never thought of buying a hair-straightener she wondered? She sternly reminded herself to keep her mind on the job. She’d found Granger, and Weasley was with her. She wondered if they were living together.

Bobbie hastily threw her water bottle into the passenger floor well and started her Ka, which was the definitely the oldest and cheapest vehicle in the street. The bright red Mini she’d seen at Belgravia Mews pulled out from the kerbside and drove off. Granger was driving. That was not surprising, as it was her car. Bobbie had managed to trace the girl through the car’s index number, which she’d noted when at the crime scene. It had given her the name and address of the registered keeper: Hermione Jean Granger, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. It was an exclusive and very expensive address.

Granger had apparently used her real name at the crime scene. Abberline had told her that spooks never used their real names. That seemed odd; but she’d heard Potter say, “You’re not strictly on our staff,” when he’d been talking to her. A check of the electoral register had revealed that Granger’s occupation was listed as “civil servant.” A twenty-one year old civil servant should not, in Bobbie’s opinion, be able to afford a penthouse flat in Chelsea.

At first, Bobbie had tried to trace Potter’s motorbike. She’d been elated when she’d run the index number and found that the registered keeper was Harry James Potter of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Islington. She’d gone straight there after her shift the previous Thursday. But her trip had been in vain, as there was no such address. Eleven and thirteen existed, but not twelve. Disappointed, and wondering whether MI5 had a list of plausible but fake addresses, she had tried tracing Grangers Mini instead.

She almost lost the Mini at the traffic lights at Chelsea Bridge Road. They had turned left from Royal Hospital Road and Bobbie was forced to speed through the lights on amber. She couldn’t risk losing them at the next set of traffic signals, so she decided to move closer. It was risky, but she had little choice.

Soon she was back in familiar territory; Sloane Street, not far from her nick, her beat, the scene of the crime. Her heart began to race … the scene of the crime … surely they weren’t? No, they drove on.

They drove through Knightsbridge and into Piccadilly. At Piccadilly Circus the Mini turned into Soho and slowed down to a crawl. It was obvious that they were looking for somewhere to park.

The Mini pulled into a space and Bobbie drove slowly past, not daring to look at the car or its occupants. Just ahead of her, a white van was pulling out. She accelerated, and swerved quickly into the fortuitously vacant space. She parked badly, as she was concentrating on her mirrors, and watching to see where the young couple were going.

They were walking towards her, hand-in-hand, and she got her first good look at them. He wore tan chinos, a white polo shirt with red trimmings and a brown leather jacket. She wore a short white skirt, a red paisley print blouse, and a white cotton jacket.

Bobbie locked her car doors and grabbed the pepper spray from her shoulder bag. As they approached her car, she turned her head away from them. Looking over her shoulder, she attempted to straighten her car in the bay. When she looked back they had crossed to the opposite side of the street. They had, it seemed, walked past her without a second glance. She sat and watched and waited; she’d get out when they were a little further ahead.

Weasley and Granger stopped outside an Italian Restaurant; Antonio’s, according to the illuminated sign above the door. Bobbie cursed. Why was she wasting her time with this? They were going out for a meal together, that was all. This was simply confirmation that they were a couple. Although the way they’d held hands when they were at the crime scene had been a bit of a giveaway.

They did not, however, go into the restaurant. Instead, Granger waved at someone. Crossing the road towards Weasley and Granger were another couple, and the male was Potter. He was wearing black casual trousers, a green T shirt and a motorcycle jacket. He was unmistakable. Did he never comb that hair?

The girl at Potter’s side had long, vibrant red hair, and Bobbie recognised her, too. She inhaled sharply, wondering how big the conspiracy was. Bobbie watched the redheaded girl carefully. The girl was smaller than Granger, only a little over five feet in height. She was stunningly pretty, and carried herself like an athlete. The knee length dark green leather coat she wore was open, revealing a short and low cut green dress.

The two couples smiled at each other and began a conversation. The male Weasley said something which made Potter’s girl clench her fists and step forwards threateningly. Potter tried to calm her down.

As she watched the altercation, Bobbie cursed herself; she should have brought a camera. She pulled out her mobile phone and hastily took a couple of photographs. As she did so, Potter looked straight at her; she’d been spotted!

A black cab sped past, blocking her from Potter’s sight.

As Bobbie watched, Potter turned away and guided the angry red-head onto the pavement. Bobbie breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been wrong, he hadn’t seen her after all; he’d seen the speeding taxi. He was now talking to his friends, his back to her. Ron Weasley opened the door and ushered the others inside, he held the door open for a long time. He still seemed to be baiting the redheaded girl, who Bobbie knew was either his sister, or a paternal cousin. Eventually, however, the two redheads followed the others into the restaurant.

Bobbie wondered what to do. Now that she’d found Potter, she didn’t want to lose him. Should she risk going into the restaurant, or should she wait outside and try to follow him home? The angry part of her wanted to confront him now. But realistically, she needed to be patient, to find out more.

“Auror Office,” Bobbie had checked that out too. They might claim to be part of the Home Office, but no-one she’d spoken to at the Home Office knew anything about them. Bobbie had pulled in every favour she could and all she’d discovered was that their work was authorised by Number Ten.

Suddenly uneasy, Bobbie checked that her car doors were still locked. These kids seemed to work for the Prime Minister's Office and they could stop a murder enquiry in its tracks. This was big!

Her throat was dry. She glanced at the restaurant entrance and then checked the street; it was deserted. Deciding to wait Bobbie settled back in her seat. Suddenly thirsty, she reached down onto the floor into the passenger floor well and began to scrabble around for the bottle of water she’d thrown there.

She was still scrabbling for her water when there was a click. Her car doors unlocked themselves and the passenger door opened. A hand reached in and picked up the bottle. As she straightened up in shock, Potter stepped into her car and sat next to her. She fumbled for her pepper spray.

‘I gave you a phone number,’ he said conversationally. ‘Well, I gave it to DI Godley; but you seem to be pretty clever, I’m sure that you could have found it. If you wanted to talk to me, you could have simply picked up a phone.’

Bobbie Beadle glared at him. He looked down into the still open glove box.

‘Corned beef sandwiches. Ron hates corned beef.’ he observed, ‘You’ve brought food and water. You’re prepared for a long night.’

‘What?’ she spluttered; finally finding her voice. She was annoyed with herself for being spotted, and for not seeing him approach.

‘Sorry,’ Potter said. ‘Frankly, I wasn’t expecting to see you ever again. I don’t know what to say and I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. I thought we were being very clever and careful. But you’ve found us and managed to track us to one of our favourite restaurants. You have no idea how much the Daily Prophet would pay you for pictures of us here.’

‘What?’ she said again.

Now she was furious with herself for failing to ask a sensible question, and for allowing him to take control of the situation. He was babbling, talking nonsense, trying to confuse her; she found the spray in her pocket and readied it. But Harry Potter kept his hands stretched out in front of him, where she could see them. He made no hostile move. Turning to face her, he looked her straight in the eyes. His eyes were as amazing as she’d remembered; bottle green, clear, and honest. With an effort she tore her own eyes away from them.

‘Why not join us?’ he asked, ‘When Ron told me that he’d spotted you I suggested that he ask for a table for five instead of our usual table for four. I’m sure that you must have a lot of questions for us, otherwise why go to all this trouble? And I’ve certainly got a lot of questions for you.’

He kept his hands up, palms towards the dashboard. Bobbie didn’t speak, because she didn’t know what to say. She had succeeded in tracking him down. Of all the grim and potentially dangerous outcomes she’d imagined accompanying success, an invitation to dinner from her quarry hadn’t been something she’d planned for. Her handcuffs were in the door pocket.

‘You could handcuff me I suppose,’ Potter said, startling her by the way he second guessed her. ‘But what would that achieve? You can’t arrest me, I’ve done nothing wrong. A civilised discussion over a good meal is the best way isn’t it?’ He was almost pleading with her.

‘I’ll pay for your meal. You can even bring your handcuffs, and that spray thing, with you if it will make you feel safer,’ he offered.

He had a charming, and disarming, smile Bobbie realised. And those bright green eyes really were so open and sincere. Damn him, he was doing it again, making her believe him, believe that he was honest.

‘Is this a trick?’ she asked, finally finding her voice. The corners of his mouth twitched, and his eyes creased. For some reason he found the question very amusing.

‘Trick? No, no tricks,’ he said. He continued to look into her eyes and politely asked, ‘Police Constable Roberta Beadle, would you like to join my friends and me for a meal?’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But I’m keeping this.’ She showed him her pepper spray. ‘So don’t try anything.’

‘I won’t,’ he said seriously.

Bobbie should have been reassured. Unfortunately she wasn’t, as he didn’t sound even slightly worried by her threat. He stepped out of her car, closed the door, and waited politely for her to get out and lock up.

‘How did you sneak up on me, and unlock my car?’ she asked.

‘Magic,’ he replied, smiling.

She snorted dismissively. They walked in silence towards the restaurant.

‘We’ve been coming here for years,’ he told her when they reached the door, ‘I’d hate to have to change restaurants. Beppe wouldn’t be happy either.’

He held the door open for her, but she wasn’t that stupid, she wasn’t going to let him get behind her.

‘You first,’ she ordered. He shrugged and walked upstairs ahead of her.

The restaurant was bright and cluttered with pictures, posters and maps, all of Italy. Just in case customers were still in any doubt, il Tricolore, the Italian flag, hung proudly behind the bar. Harry Potter nodded politely to the waiters and bar staff. It was obvious that he was well known to them. His friends were sitting at a round table covered by a green cloth. The table was set for five, and the two redheads were still arguing.

‘It’s your first away win in three seasons!’ the girl snapped angrily. ‘And we only lost because the Bats' new signing, Claire...’

‘You can dissect the game later, Ginny,’ Harry told her firmly.

The girl glared at Bobbie. ‘Sit here,’ she ordered, pointing to a seat between herself and the Granger girl. Why?, Bobbie wondered; is it because they are not going to let me sit next to their boyfriends, or do they think I’ll feel safer sitting between two girls?. She needed a plan, she would try to be friendly.

‘Ginny,’ Potter began, ‘this is PC Roberta Beadle …’

‘Perhaps you’d all better just call me Bobbie,’ she said politely. Harry smiled that nice, open, smile again.

‘Bobbie,’ he continued, ‘this is my girlfriend …’

‘Virginia Weasley,’ she interrupted, trying to impress.

They all looked startled, but the girl snorted angrily and shook her head.

‘Wrong! Ginevra!’ she said. ‘But everyone calls me Ginny.’

‘Still,’ Potter said, gazing at Bobbie in admiration, ‘that’s impressive, you’ve got to admit. She’s a Muggle and she’s found you two,’ he nodded to Weasley and Granger. ‘And tracked you to me, and she knows your last name, Ginny.’

Muggle? Bobbie wondered. She knew that the Secret Intelligence Services had their own arcane slang, but … Muggle? She’d seen that word before somewhere, she realised.

‘She guessed,’ Ginny snapped sarcastically. ‘She heard you call me Ginny and simply guessed that I was Ron’s sister.’

‘I did not!’ Bobbie found herself replying angrily. ‘You went to school together, all four of you. So did the guy whose house was burgled … Finch-Fletchley. You all went to a boarding school in Scotland!’

That announcement, Bobbie was pleased to see, shut them all up.

The Granger girl was astonished, Ron Weasley swore under his breath, Ginny Weasley looked ready to attack. There was fire in the red-headed girl’s eyes. Harry just laughed. He reached across the table and squeezed his girlfriend’s hand and she began to calm down.

‘You are good. Very good!’ he said. ‘I’m glad I invited you to join us. Let’s order. I can see that we’ve got a lot to talk about.’

He looked up and the plump and swarthy waiter who had been hovering attentively scurried over. Harry and his friends ordered in good natured confusion. Harry ordered an expensive bottle of red wine, a Reicioto Della Valpolicella and a glass of orange juice for Granger, who was driving. He persuaded Bobbie to accept an orange juice too.

Bobbie looked at the menu. The restaurant was expensive. She began looking for the cheapest items, but Potter immediately realised what she was doing and reminded her that he’d offered to pay. She shook her head.

‘Never mind, Harry’s offer,’ said Ron, grinning. ‘I want to know how you knew we were at school with Justin. I’ll tell you what! I’ll pay if you can name three more of my schoolmates.’

‘Colin Creevey, Dennis Creevey, Jack Sloper’ she replied promptly.

Ron’s jaw dropped; his friends looked astonished, and then burst out laughing.

‘None of them were in my year,’ Ron protested.

‘Don’t you dare try arguing, Ron! Just pay up,’ Ginny Weasley told her brother. He grinned sheepishly.

‘Harry’s right, very impressive! Just order what you want,’ said Ron. ‘Then we can discuss how you know so much about us.’

The waiter took their order and left. Bobbie suddenly found herself the centre of attention. The two young men opposite her leaned forwards. The two young women at her side moved closer, and Bobbie felt trapped. Ginny Weasley seemed to pick up on her concern, and moved away.

‘Sorry, Bobbie, we’re not trying to intimidate you,’ Ginny apologised. She smiled at Bobbie. ‘I apologise for my behaviour. I had a bad day on Sunday, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. We’re all a little on edge, because you’ve managed to find out so much about us. Please tell us how you did it.’

‘You can start by telling us how you tracked us down to this place,’ Harry suggested.

Bobbie looked at the four, and began the story of her investigations. She told them of how she’d taken the numbers of the motorbike and the Mini when they’d arrived at the crime scene, and how she’d used them to find the registered keeper’s addresses. They all laughed when she said she’d discovered that Harry’s address was fake, but that Hermione’s was real. They refused to tell her what was funny.

‘Finish your story, and once you have, I’ll answer your questions,’ Harry told her.

‘You can’t,’ Hermione hissed worriedly. ‘You can’t tell her anything, Harry!’

Harry shrugged unconcernedly.

Bobbie continued to talk. She had been very busy and had worked very hard over the past week. She had wanted to tell someone for days. Admittedly the people she’d been investigating would not have been her first choice, but they were interested and excited, and she found their excitement rubbing off on her.

The names and addresses had given Bobbie enough information to check driving licences with the DVLA, the Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency, and the driving licence information had given her dates and places of birth. She told Harry that, if he was using his own name, then he’d been raised by his aunt and uncle, the Dursley’s. She told Hermione her parents’ names, and that they lived in the village of Itchen Worthy near Winchester. She then told them that neither Harry nor Hermione had gone to secondary school, but both had gone to a boarding school in Scotland.

Bobbie then announced that there was no-one in the country with the surname Weasley. They didn’t exist, hadn’t been born and hadn’t gone to school. Ron laughed so much that he spilled red wine down his white shirt. Hermione looked at him in despair.

‘There are times I wish that were true,’ she said in exasperation, and Bobbie found herself laughing with the rest of them.

After finishing her starter, lentil and porcini mushroom soup, she continued her story. ‘When I couldn’t find anything out about the Weasley’s, I tried Fenella Gray, but she doesn’t exist either.’

She turned to Harry. ‘I remembered that, when you were at the crime scene, it seemed that you knew the house owner, Justin Finch-Fletchley, so I checked him out. He was down for Eton, but he didn’t go. Instead he went to…’ Bobbie stopped and looked at her audience.

‘A boarding school in Scotland,’ they chorused, smiling. Bobbie was disconcerted. She’d expected denials, bluffs and prevarication. Instead they just sat and listened, and agreed.

‘I couldn’t find out whether it was the same school, not then. But it was a coincidence worth investigating, so I did.’ Bobbie continued.

‘How?’ asked Harry.

‘I was lucky,’ she told Harry, ‘SOCO had already bagged and tagged some items from the living room before you arrived.’

Harry groaned and shook his head. Ginny gave him a confused and questioning look.

‘SOCO: Scenes of Crime Officers,’ Harry explained to Ginny, ‘I’ll need to remember about them, the next time something like this happens. They photograph and catalogue the scene of any crime and they also take away evidence.’

‘I looked through the evidence and found this,’ she pulled a photograph from her shoulder bag. ‘This isn’t the original; we had to give that back to Mr Finch-Fletchley.’

‘Muggle…’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew I’d seen the word before …’

She handed the copy of the photograph to Harry. While the photo was passed round the table she began to eat her main course. The tension was making her hungry.

The photo showed three teenagers: thin, curly-haired Justin Fitch-Fletchley was flanked by two much shorter youths. Written on the back were the words “Oops, missed the train! Colin Creevey, me, Dennis Creevey at the inaugural meeting of the Muggle-born Freedom Association — 2nd September ’97.”

‘Colin,’ Harry began.

‘Died three years ago, May ‘98, I know,’ Bobbie continued. ‘Fortunately for me, Creevey isn’t a very common surname. I managed to tracked the names Colin and Dennis Creevey to an address in northern England; then I started phoning local papers and looking at their websites. I told them I was investigation a missing person’s case and that I was looking for anyone called Creevey who had gone to a private school in Scotland. I soon found a local paper which had some information on the Creeveys. They had gone to a local school until eleven then … well, you know the rest.’

‘I was off work Saturday, Sunday and Monday so I drove north and called in to the local newspaper offices. They were very helpful. I decided not to talk to the Creevey boy’s parents, because I didn’t want to reveal myself, but the newspaper offices gave me these.’

She reached back into her bag, pulled out a manila envelope identical to the one she’d left in her locker, and handed it to Harry.

‘These are copies too, so don’t think destroying them will help you.’ She waved her fork threateningly as she continued to eat her salmon with green pea sauce.

Harry shook about a dozen photographs, and a newspaper cutting, from the envelope.

‘Local boy dies hero’s death,’ Harry began reading the newspaper cutting. His friends fell silent and looked sombre.

‘On Saturday 9th May the funeral of Colin Creevey (age 16) took place at Wolsingham Church. Colin and his brother Dennis both won scholarships to an exclusive private school in Scotland. “It was a dream come true,” his mother said …’ Harry stopped reading, his eyes glazed in sadness.

‘You know the rest,’ he told his friends. ‘This is the cover story put out by Kingsley, that Colin was killed rescuing people from a fire at school.’ Bobbie looked up with interest when she heard the words “cover story”. ‘There are lots of photographs,’ Harry said.

Ginny looked at the photographs and gasped. ‘There was a photographer from the local Muggle newspaper at the funeral,’ she remembered. ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’

‘So had I, said Harry grimly as he passed the photographs around. He leaned towards Ginny showing her one of the photo’s.

‘You look good in black,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Sweet sixteen and never been...’

Ginny slapped his arm playfully.

‘Look at Luna,’ Ron chuckled as he waved another photo. ‘Great boots!’

‘I’m glad Lavender’s okay now,’ Hermione said looking at another photo.

‘Neville’s staring at Hannah in this one,’ Ginny observed. ‘But she’s arm in arm with Justin.’

Bobbie looked at them. Suddenly they were kids reminiscing about their school days. Bobbie looked over Ginny’s shoulder and found the two photographs she wanted. She pulled them out of the pile and pushed them into the middle of the table. The first showed four youths standing behind a hearse, preparing to carry Colin’s coffin. Bobbie pointed to the youths.

‘Dennis Creevey, Jack Sloper, Harry Potter and Justin Finch-Fletchley, pall-bearers,’ she said.

The second showed a dozen black-clad youths walking from the church yard. Bobbie pointed at the photo and pulled a list of names from her pocket.

‘According to the Weardale Mercury these are Colin’s friends,’ she said. ‘Harry Potter, Virginia Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Anna Abbott, Nigel Longbottom, Fenella Gray, Seamus Finnegan, L. Brown (in wheelchair), Thomas Dean and Laura Goodlove.’

‘It’s a good job you used the names you did,’ Ron laughed, pointing at those incorrectly named. ‘At least we know why you thought that Ginny was Virginia. That’s Hannah, Neville, Lavender … she’s fine now, working with …’

Hermione noisily cleared her throat, and Ron instantly shut up.

‘…and that’s Dean Thomas, and Luna Lovegood,’ Harry finished, ignoring Hermione’s glare.

Bobbie looked at the bespectacled young man in surprise. Harry was looking at her with barely concealed excitement.

‘You did all this yourself?’ he asked, ‘in a week?’

‘Eight days.’ Bobbie said. ‘Eight days with not much sleep.’

‘Why?’

‘Because everybody started making fun of me when the murder investigation was closed…’

‘Closed?’ enquired Harry. ‘When? Why?’

Bobbie told him.

‘So,’ she continued angrily, ‘I decided to try to find out who you were, and why you closed down a murder enquiry.’

A middle-aged couple on the adjacent table heard her outburst, and they began taking an interest in the conversation. Harry noticed; he reached under the table and did something, Bobbie couldn’t see what, but the background noise seemed to change subtly.

‘Muffliato?’ Hermione asked.

Harry nodded.

‘Now,’ he smiled at Bobbie. ‘We can talk freely. A man died eight days ago, during a house burglary. We–well, three of us–Ginny has better things to do with her time–turned up to the crime scene. You believe that we stopped the investigation. Not only that, but it turns out that we all went to school with the house owner. Anyone would find that suspicious.’ He smiled.

‘A man is dead!’ Bobbie snapped angrily. ‘And you know how he died.’

‘Yes,’ Harry nodded.

‘How?’ she asked.

‘He was cursed,’ said Harry quietly. ‘The killing curse, the Avada Kedavra.’
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Sink Into Your Eyes is hosted by Grey Media Internet Services. HARRY POTTER, characters, names and related characters are trademarks of Warner Bros. TM & © 2001-2006. Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions on this site are those made by the owners. All stories(fanfiction) are owned by the author and are subject to copyright law under transformative use. Authors on this site take no compensation for their works. This site © 2003-2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Special thanks to: Aredhel, Kaz, Michelle, and Jeco for all the hard work on SIYE 1.0 and to Marta for the wonderful artwork.
Featured Artwork © 2003-2006 by Yethro.
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