From Headline to Deadline (HP)
TITLE: From Headline to Deadline
RECIPIENT: lyras, who asked for, among other things, emphasis on plot rather than sex, Ginny kicking arse, saving-the-world-Harry (Ginny counts, right?), Ginny the Quidditch professional (I went with Ginny the Quidditch correspondent rather than Ginny the Quidditch player), Harry the Auror, adventure, and strong imagery. I hope this fits the bill. :-)
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: ~ 8,900
SUMMARY: A story Ginny's working on for the Daily Prophet turns up some unexpected results.
NOTES: Due to a terrible case of writer's block, only the first half of this has been beta'd, so please don't hesitate to point out any errors even if said error involves a plot hole big enough to drive the Knight Bus through. Thanks to arasnaem, jheanne, and attilatehbun for their feedback and keen eyes, and most of all to r_becca for hosting the Changing Seasons exchange in the first place, for being there when I needed a sounding board to bounce ideas off of, and above all else for being the ultimate Harry/Ginny cheerleader.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
"Potter, would you come in here a minute?"
Ginny looked up from her desk in the newsroom at the Daily Prophet to see Odoacer Thornspillar, the sports editor, beckon her into his office. "Be right there, Ace." She re-read the paragraph she'd just written, then tapped the carriage on her typewriter with her wand, releasing the piece of parchment containing her latest byline and sending it sailing down the corridor to the copy editor's desk. Her assignment for the day now complete, she tucked a pencil into the loose bun she always wore in the newsroom and went into Ace's office.
He had three clippings laid out before him. Two of them were hers; the third had been written by a stringer in Ireland, reporting on Kenmare's match against Wimbourne the previous weekend. A wad of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum the size of a Snitch was wedged in his cheek, making him look as if he'd just had dental surgery, and he was drumming a pencil on the edge of his desk.
"I know that look, Ace," Ginny said, leaning her hip against the corner of the desk. "What's on your mind?"
Shoving his gum to the other cheek, he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "Read these articles for me, and tell me if anything strikes you as odd, willya?"
"Just read them?"
"Yeah."
She read the dispatch from Ireland first. Nothing seemed unusual: Kenmare had won, 460-320, after a match that lasted nearly six hours; both a Kenmare Chaser and a Wimbourne Beater had been penalized for jinxing each other mid-flight; one of the referees had proposed marriage to the Wimbourne equipment manager before the entire stadium; and another Kenmare Chaser had been seriously injured when her broom snapped, sending her tumbling nearly forty feet to the ground. The article didn't provide details of her injuries, but said she'd been rushed to the local hospital and was in guarded condition.
Next Ginny picked up the clipping of her write-up of a match two months before between her former team, Holyhead, and Tutshill. It had been Gwenog Jones' first outing as the Harpies' new coach, and Ginny had made that the focus of her coverage. However, there'd been the unfortunate incident when Tutshill's Seeker, intent on the Snitch, collided with a goal post and his broom had virtually disintegrated beneath him. He'd been spared injury thanks to quick reflexes that enabled him to grab the goal hoop in time. Ginny'd managed to snap a photograph of him hanging from the hoop as a teammate ferried a replacement broom to him, though not in time to prevent the Harpies' Seeker from beating him to the Snitch.
The third article was a profile she'd done on Quimbley McLaggan, a seventh-year at Hogwarts and Gryffindor's current Keeper and Captain, who was such a hot prospect for the fall roster that wands had been drawn over which team would get to offer the first contract. In the end the squabbling had all been in vain, because McLaggan had announced, in the midst of the interview, that he was hanging up his broom. He'd been contemplating the move for some time, he confided to Ginny (and the Prophet's readers), but the deciding vote had been cast when he witnessed his Slytherin counterpart's broomstick separate from the tail in mid-air during a scrimmage (one that, apparently, involved just the two of them, on the pitch after dark). Ginny'd written, "I reckoned him for a goner," McLaggan says, his voice cracking as he clutches at Flint's hand, "and all I could think about as I watched him fall was how Quidditch would never be the same." She'd prudently left out the bit about the two lads snogging as though their lives depended on it right before her eyes.
She set down the clipping and folded her arms over her chest. "Well?" Ace asked around his wad of gum. "Notice anything unusual about those articles? Anything... in common?"
"Other than being about Quidditch?"
His perpetually bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Other than that, yes."
Ginny rubbed at her temples as she called to mind what she'd just read. After a couple moments' thought, she raised her head. "Erm… yeah. They all had something about a broom mishap." Her voice went up a little at the end, as though she wasn't quite sure she was remembering correctly.
She must have done, though, if the look on Ace's face was any indication. "I knew my star correspondent wouldn't let me down," he said.
"Get stuffed," she said with a grin. "I've worked here too long to fall for idle flattery." She picked up the clipping closest to her. "So what's your angle? Why the fuss?"
He tossed the pencil he'd been holding across his desk and dropped all four legs of his chair back to the ground. "I want you to look into what you so delicately call ‘broom mishaps.' My bunion tells me there's a story in there somewhere."
Ace had a bunion on his left foot that he swore flared up whenever he stumbled across a hot tip that could lead to an investigative report. No one else in the newsroom believed in the magical lead-detecting properties of his bunion, but since he was the boss they all humored him. And, truth be told, they had produced a few good stories thanks to his "hunches"; Ginny'd even won an award from the Worldwide Wizarding Press Syndicate three years ago for an exposé she wrote on the role of bribes and kickbacks in determining World Cup final sites after Ace's bunion had got so inflamed he'd been confined to his bed for a week.
"Broom mishaps are a Sickle a dozen, though. What makes you think these are any different?"
"I was hoping you'd ask that," he said, his eyes glinting. He waved his wand at the file cabinet behind his desk, causing a drawer to open and a file folder to extract itself and fly across the room to land on his desk. He picked up the file and held it out to her. "As it happens, all three of those brooms were Hovernaught WASH-4s."
She couldn't contain her gasp of surprise. "But they're supposed to be -"
"I know. But you know how I feel about coincidences, and three incidents of catastrophic broom failure go beyond the county of coincidence to land dead in the principality of pattern." He indicated the file. "I've gathered everything we've printed on Hovernaught over the past year, but you may find it necessary to go back farther. Either way, though, I think that's where your story is, so that's where you should start."
~ * ~
Harry Apparated just outside his garden gate to find the house dark, save the lamplight emanating from the kitchen window. If he stood on his toes and craned his neck, he could see Ginny from behind, seated at the table, her head bowed over a piece of parchment, her quill moving rapidly. It was not an unfamiliar sight, for Ginny had a talent for throwing herself into her work whenever a particular story caught hold of her attention, losing track of time to the point that she'd even forget to eat. He was much the same way; the passion for the work they did-she as senior Quidditch correspondent for the Daily Prophet, he as head of the Aurors-was one of many things they had in common.
Harry let himself in and carefully closed the door behind him, but so intent on whatever she was doing was Ginny that she didn't even raise her head. He came up to her and bent over to kiss the top of her head. "So what injustice in the world of professional Quidditch has Thornspillar got you going after this time?"
He straightened just in time to avoid what would undoubtedly have been a painful collision between his nose and her head. "Harry! I didn't hear you come in." She turned in her seat to smile at him, but then the smile turned to a frown. "Blimey, what time is it?"
"A little gone eight. I'd have been home an hour ago, but Draco Malfoy came in to file a report about vandals targeting his house just as I was leaving, and I thought it best to look into it myself."
Her eyebrow quirked. "Yeah?" she asked, her tone prompting him for details.
He shook his head in remembered amusement and crossed the kitchen to fetch the teakettle. "Some kids threw Bundimun spawn at his windows while he and his wife were entertaining. When he went outside to chase them off, one hit him dead in the center of his chest. He must have come straight to the Ministry, because he still had stains all down his robes." The kettle having been filled, Harry tapped it with his wand to heat the contents. "He smelled as if he'd gone for a swim in troll piss, too. I reckon those robes are a complete loss." He leaned against the counter, facing Ginny, and folded his arms. "When was the last time you ate?"
Ginny looked off into the distance for a moment before answering. "I had a pear around mid-morning. You?"
"A sandwich at lunch."
"Good thing the kids are at Hogwarts, or they'd be gnawing on the furniture."
"On the other hand, if they were here, we'd neither of us go all day without eating."
"True." She got up stiffly and went to the pantry. "I think there's leftover ham and... yes!" She lifted out a large wedge of cheese in triumph. "Do you have any objections to another sandwich for supper?"
"I'm so famished I could eat three or four. Don't forget the horseradish."
"Got it."
They got all the necessary fixings for ham and cheese sandwiches laid out on the counter in relatively short order, and soon they were both seated at the table with loaded plates and steaming mugs of tea. Harry wolfed down one complete sandwich and was halfway through his second before he spoke again, the edge now finally off his hunger. "So what are you writing about?" he asked, trying to read what Ginny'd spread across the table top from an upside-down angle. "Looks like it's to do with brooms?"
She nodded and pointed to a letterhead he recognized. "It is," she said, swallowing. "Hovernaught."
"Really?" He reached out and slid the document she'd indicated closer so he could read it. It was a press release announcing that Hovernaught would be the exclusive broom provider to the Irish national team. "Huh."
"Huh?" she echoed.
"Yeah." He took another bite of his sandwich, chewed carefully, then washed it down with a swig of tea, taking his time as he considered the best way to respond. "We're looking into them as well."
"Are you now?" She sat back from the table, both hands cupped around her mug, her interest as plain as the freckles on her face. "That can't be a coincidence." Harry shrugged noncommittally. "Can you tell me why you're investigating them?"
"We're not. At least, not at present," he added in response to her questioning look. "Right now we're just following up on some information that was passed along to us. Nothing official."
Ginny's brown eyes studied him as she blew across the surface of her tea. "Which means you're not going to tell me anything about it."
He dug a bit of bread from between his back teeth with his tongue. "Nope."
"You're a terrible tease, Harry."
"Sorry?"
"Telling me that you're 'looking into' Hovernaught, but refusing to say anything more about it? That's just cruel."
"Oh." He drained the last of his tea. "It was unintentional, I swear. It just slipped out."
"Mm-hm."
With a wave of his wand he Banished their dirty dishes to the sink, where they landed with a clatter, then got up and came around to lean over Ginny, propping his hands on the table on either side of her. "Uh-huh. It was a momentary lapse of reason. You know how being close to you makes me go all soft and wobbly," he murmured into her ear.
Her eyes were sparkling with mischievous humor when she turned towards him. "Oh, no, Harry, I don't think going all soft and wobbly is your problem at all." Her gaze flicked meaningfully lower before she lifted her chin to kiss him.
~ * ~
Ginny flipped through her notebook as she waited in the reception area at Hovernaught Enterprises, reviewing the notes she'd jotted down prior to coming here. The receptionist looked up from her magazine and pursed her brightly-painted lips at Ginny in bored disapproval. "I told you, Mr. Asherton will be a while," she said in a pronounced twang. "He's a very busy man."
"That's quite all right," Ginny replied evenly. "I'm in no hurry. I can wait all day, if I have to."
The receptionist pushed her lower lip out a little more, sighed dramatically, then closed her magazine and stood up. She carefully smoothed the wrinkles from her robes and patted her hair to be sure it was in place, then exited through a door nearly hidden in a recessed area, her hips swaying widely as she tottered out on heels so high it made Ginny's feet hurt just to look at them.
Ginny waited until the door had completely closed, then slipped around the receptionist's desk to see what she could find. The magazine turned out to be the annual Broomstick Edition of Quidditch Illustrated, its cover showing Javier Vargas, the devastatingly handsome young Seeker for Peru's national squad, astride a Hovernaught WASH-4, of all coincidences.
Ginny knew it wasn't a coincidence at all, however, as Hovernaught had been aggressively pushing the WASH-4 ever since company founder Woodrow Asherton had unveiled it at the International Wizarding Athletic Leagues' symposium the previous summer, even going so far as to equip select teams with a full complement in exchange for endorsements. The Peruvian team, which had won the World Cup last year, was among those to benefit, as were several of the top-ranked teams in the British League, among them Kenmare and Ballycastle. In fact, there was a half-page photo of Kenmare's Beaters with their WASH-4s on page twelve. No, there was no doubt in Ginny's mind that Asherton intended to make Hovernaught the leading producer of elite racing brooms, and that the WASH-4 was his means of attaining global domination of the market.
She'd come to this conclusion after poring through the dossier of clippings, press reports, and other materials Ace had given her with the assignment. She'd have loved to have been able to discuss it with Harry, even before he'd let slip that the Aurors were looking into Hovernaught as well-he'd often been a good sounding board whenever she felt overloaded with information and needed someone to help her mentally sift through it all to identify the truly salient facts-but he'd proven remarkably adept at eluding her queries. That in itself disproved his claim that there was no official inquiry underway, which Ginny intended to follow up with when she was through here.
Apart from the magazine, the receptionist's desk was disappointingly unforthcoming. There was a diary as well, but appointments were indicated only by initials. All the same, Ginny waved her wand over the log and then tapped it on her notebook, recording the information for later review. She then swept her wand over the desk for a quick peek inside-the drawers, unsurprisingly, were securely locked-but spotted nothing more than a supply of letterhead and matching envelopes, a few quills and ink bottles, and a collection of fingernail polish bottles that would have her niece Lucy drooling with envy.
At the sound of voices Ginny scurried back around the desk, making it to the nearby window just in time to make it look as if she'd been gazing out at the rain that had been falling steadily for the past three days as the door opened and Woodrow Asherton emerged. "Mrs. Potter," he drawled, coming forward with his hand outstretched, "I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting so long."
Asherton had been one of the best Keepers in the world until a horrific accident ended his career when he was still in his early twenties. His rehabilitation had taken years, and even now he walked with a pronounced limp. In his prime he'd been a sight to behold, straddling a broom with his muscular thighs, his astonishingly long arms and hands that were rumored to span over a foot and a half when his fingers were spread to their fullest extent reaching for the Quaffle. Permanently grounded, however, his deeply bowed legs, comically short in proportion to his arms, and uneven, pigeon-toed walk made him look ungainly and awkward.
"No need to apologize," she said. "I understand you're very bus--"
"You played for Holyhead, didn't you?" he interrupted. "Chaser, 1999-2004, am I correct?"
Ginny smiled and nodded. "I'm ver--"
"I looked up your profile in Who Was Who in Quidditch. I make a point to know these things. In a business like mine, you always have to be not one, but two steps ahead of the competition." Ginny's eyebrows went up. "But enough about me. No doubt you're here to do a profile on the WASH-4." Before Ginny could confirm or deny this, he was steering her through the door he'd entered from, leaving the receptionist and her carnelian pout behind.
With his hand at her back, Asherton guided Ginny at a rapid pace through a warren of narrow corridors, stopping every now and then to wave his wand at a locked door, scarcely stopping for breath as he touted the WASH-4's superiority to every other broom in existence from the dawn of time. Ginny found herself unable to do much more than listen and try to make approving sounds at the right moments; fortunately, she'd read all the promotional literature already, and so nothing he said was new.
Finally he came to a stop before yet another locked door, this one guarded by two hulking wizards. If they weren't former Beaters, Ginny thought, then she was a Veela.
A high-pitched droning sound like the buzzing of a hive of angry bees could be heard from the other side of the door. Ginny reached into her bag to grab her camera, but before she could get to it one of the guards had confiscated her entire bag and the other had taken her notebook and Quick-Quotes quill. She immediately drew out her wand, but Asherton forced her arm down.
"I'm sorry," he said with all the sincerity of a manticore. "You'll have to leave any recording devices here. Beyond that door lies the heart and soul of Hovernaught Enterprises, and I have far too many enemies to run the risk of any valuable trade secrets leaking out, even inadvertently."
"Don't you think you're being overly cautious?" Ginny asked. "I'm only doing my job, and you did invite me back here, after all."
"Well," Asherton said, spreading his hands wide, "free publicity is free publicity, and a writer of your caliber and reputation can only mean good things for my business. Now if you'll follow me, please." He nodded to the security wizards, who, in unison, cast a spell that opened the door for Ginny and Asherton.
Ginny found herself on the ground floor of what could only be described as a broom factory. She was familiar with the concept of mass mechanized production-the Industrial Revolution hadn't completely bypassed the wizarding world-but she'd not imagined it on such a scale, nor had she ever dreamed it could be put to use for making brooms. Broom construction had changed little over the centuries, with master craftswizards taking months to build a single specimen, training up apprentices as they went along. Consequently, broom-making had become the sort of trade distinguished by a few families, the techniques and lore being passed down from generation to generation. By going into the broom-making business of his own accord, Asherton, whose mum owned a pawn shop in Knockturn Alley and whose father was unknown, had established from the outset that he was a renegade. Until now, though, Ginny'd had no idea just how much of one he was.
"Would it be conceited of me to remark that you look impressed?" he asked.
"Impressed isn't the half of it," she confessed. "I don't even know where to begin."
"You should be pleased to know that you're the first reporter I've allowed into my inner sanctum."
His pride and delight was undeniable, but Ginny found it utterly misplaced. If her father were here, Ginny knew he'd be overcome with rapture at the sight of all those machines busily assembling brooms, but she found it rather disturbing. In truth, the more she looked around, the more what she saw sickened her. The individual care and attention that went into the construction of a broom was, to her, almost a sacred thing, not to be profaned by something so crass as mass production.
She made a few mental calculations and reckoned that Asherton was producing approximately one broom every two minutes; using traditional methods, it typically took four to six months to craft a broom. If he kept at it, at this rate he could render nearly every broom maker in the world obsolete within a couple of years. Once he'd cornered the broom market, what next? How much longer, Ginny wondered, before wands were produced on assembly lines as well?
Grinning broadly, Asherton flung his arms wide. "You are looking at the future of the wizarding world. By the end of the current Quidditch season, before the World Cup tournament begins, Hovernaught will have manufactured enough brooms that anyone who wants will be able to purchase one for less than a fourth of the price the basic Comet goes for."
Ginny looked at him in bewilderment. "Sorry?"
His eyes gleamed feverishly. "Think about it, Mrs. Potter. The WASH-4 is not only the favored broom of many of the world's top Quidditch players, it's also the safest and most durable, and once it hits the open market, it'll be the least expensive." Ticking off each item on his fingers, he continued, "Prestige, reliability, and affordability: add them up, and you have success beyond your wildest dreams."
"But..." Ginny paused to gather her thoughts. "They're not reliable."
"What?"
"The WASH-4s aren't reliable, not by a long shot."
"What are you talking about?"
Her anger rising, she turned on him. "I'm talking about Niamh Connolly, and Lloyd Jenkins, and Tony Flint," imitating his gesture from before as she ticked them off. "They were fortunate enough to escape permanent injury when their brooms broke apart in mid-air. But what about the next time? What do you think will happen when someone who's never played a Quidditch match in her life but purchased one of your brooms because Javier Vargas, who she fancies, flies a WASH-4, suddenly finds herself a hundred feet in the air, straddling a useless stick of wood? What happens when the beds at St. Mungo's are filled with witches and wizards naïve enough to trust--" She extended her arm to encompass the factory. "--that this is in any way superior to the way brooms have been made since the Middle Ages?"
She slammed her hands down on the railing that stood between them and the factory floor. "How can you think of selling your brooms, knowing they're not just unreliable but bloody death traps, to hundreds of unsuspecting people? Have you even considered the reputations that will be ruined because of these so-called endorsements you've tricked out of players like Vargas?"
"Mrs. Potter," Asherton said, his voice tense with the strain of maintaining a façade of congeniality, "those accidents, while dreadful, were simply three random unconnected mishaps and do not indicate that the WASH-4 is an unsound broom. I give you my word, it's hardly anything to get so worked up about. As for the endorsements, you don't believe Vargas is so dim-witted as to promote a product he doesn't have complete confidence in?"
"'Random unconnected mishaps?'" Ginny spat. "What about the others, then? How do you explain them?"
His face turned ashen, and Ginny knew she'd hit her mark dead on. "What others?"
"The others you've managed to cover up."
"You're bluffing."
"Are you so certain? Do you want to take that risk?" As he took a step towards her, she drew out her wand. "If you know what's best for you, you'll think very carefully before your next move."
His face now quite florid with anger, Asherton glared at her before saying in clipped tones, "I don't think I'll be granting you that interview after all, Mrs. Potter. It's time you left the premises."
~ * ~
Harry looked up from his desk at Auror headquarters and saw his wife striding towards him, a purposeful and determined look on her face. "All right, love?" he asked as she swept past his assistant with little more than a cursory greeting and came into his office. His smile faded when she closed the door behind her. "I wasn't supposed to meet you for lunch today, was I?" He racked his brain, trying to remember what he might have forgotten to do, or had inadvertently done. Ginny rarely closed the door to his office unless he was in trouble for something.
"Harry darling," she said, slinging her bag into a chair and perching herself on the edge of his desk, crossing her legs, "I really need to know what's up with Hovernaught."
"What's up - oh." He'd been momentarily distracted by the sight of her fine, slim calves and a glimpse of bare thigh peeking through a gap in her robes. "Nothing's up with Hovernaught, I told you that already."
"Bollocks. It may not be a proper investigation yet, but I know you're looking into them."
He leaned back in his seat, his forearms draped loosely on the armrests. "You sound rather sure of yourself."
"I am," she replied with a slight toss of her head.
"What makes you think we are? Or maybe I should ask: what makes you think we ought to be?"
She clucked her tongue. "Oh, no, no, no, Harry. You won't get me to give up what I know that easily."
Something about the look in her eyes gave him pause. It was the kind of look she usually reserved just for him. Yet even though she had planted the tip of her foot enticingly between his thighs, Harry sensed that a shag wasn't what she had in mind. She'd clearly discovered some information about Hovernaught-the sort of information that newspaper reporters depended on-and he reckoned she'd come here hoping he'd be able to confirm it. Possibly he could, but he wasn't about to tip his hand.
"Sorry, Ginny. You know I can't give out anything about an ongoing investigation."
"So then there is an inquiry."
He sighed. "No. As I said last night, it's merely a very unofficial follow-up on a tip we received." What he wouldn't let on was that he was expecting a report from the two Aurors he'd sent out on that very task any time now. Given the nature of the information in the tip, the investigation would likely be made official then, and he'd have to call a meeting with the Minister of Magic and the heads of several Ministry departments. He was looking at a very long day.
Her sigh echoed his. "You're being very cagey, Harry Potter."
"I have principles to uphold, Ginny Potter. Surely you can respect that."
"Merlin's beard! It's not as if I'm some weekend stringer or Rita Skeeter wannabe looking to earn a quick few Galleons and some notoriety."
"That's beside the point. You know I don't discuss open investigations with anyone outside Auror Headquarters. Can you imagine what a nightmare it would be if word got out before we'd completed our inquiry?" He grimaced. "The Minister of Magic would hand me my arse on a silver platter."
She scoffed. "You could fly to the top of Big Ben and announce to all of London that Kingsley keeps a pair of fluffy purple slippers beneath his desk, and he wouldn't bat an eye." She pulled back her foot and hopped off Harry's desk to lean forward, resting her hands on his arms and giving him a tantalizing glimpse down the front of her robes. "Have you stopped to consider that I might have information that you might want for your investigation?"
He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on her face. "I've got that impression. I could compel you to share it if there were an actual investigation and I thought it necessary."
Her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. "It seems to me that it would be much more sensible and mutually advantageous if we shared information, don't you agree? If we... worked together?"
Harry leaned his head back and chuckled. "I'd sooner re-live detentions with Dolores Umbridge and her Blood Quill than enter into a partnership with the Prophet, even if that partnership would be in the person of my own wife."
Her responding snarl caught him by surprise. "You insufferable bastard. I'm trying to save lives here, and you're preaching to me about your high and mighty principles!"
"Save lives? Bloody hell, what are you on about?"
"Simply because I work for the Prophet doesn't make me the enemy!"
A glance over her shoulder alerted him that their raised voices had been noticed outside his office, so he picked up his wand and cast an Imperturbable Charm before saying anything else. "When did I ever say that it did?"
"You just compared working with me to detentions with Umbridge!"
Harry spluttered in disbelief. "That's got nothing to do with you, Ginny. You know what I think of the Prophet. I'd feel the same way if you were a complete stranger."
She took a quick step back to avoid his outreached hand and crossed her arms over her chest, anger flashing a warning signal in her eyes. "Get your head out of your arse, Harry. The Prophet's not the enemy either."
"No, they're just a mob of meddlesome imbeciles who'll stop at nothing to bollix up my life, all for a plum headline," he snapped back, his anger rising. "Or did you forget about the mess your mates caused with the story they printed about --"
"You can't blame me for that!"
"I don't blame you, but I'll be buggered if I'm going to chance it happening again." He took a deep breath and released it through his nose, trying to calm himself down. "Look, it's not that I don't trust you. But situations such as this must be handled carefully, especially at the outset. If Asherton were to suspect we'd given him so much as a second thought, he could make it extremely difficult to find out what we need to before we can move forward. And, as I've said several times already, there's not even an official investigation taking place. This could turn out to be nothing. If the Prophet were to run a story that we investigated Hovernaught and didn't turn up anything, there are a lot of people who would be more than happy to make my life very unpleasant."
Ginny stared at him fiercely for a long while. Her color had returned to normal, but he could tell that she was still very angry with him. She'd calm down eventually, he knew, but in the meantime he'd have to weather the storm.
"Fine," she finally said, grabbing her bag and slinging the strap over her arm. "If that's the way you're going to be, then have it your way, Harry. Just let me tell you one thing before I go."
"What's that?"
"If what I've learned today is any indication, your 'unofficial' inquiry will not turn out to be nothing."
~ * ~
"D'you mind? You're dripping all over my lunch." Ron looked up at Ginny from his Cornish pasty. "Blimey, you're a sight. The rain still hasn't let up?"
Ginny hung her cloak on a nearby hook and slid into the booth opposite her brother. "Didn't you see the new shower Hannah's installed right outside? I reckoned I'd give it a go before I came in." She ignored the scowl he gave her. "Yes, it's still raining, just as it has been for days now."
"I hate this time of year."
"Welcome to England in late March, Ron. It's been this way all your life, isn't likely to change any time soon."
"I'm thinking I should start spending spring in Greece. Leave in February, come back in May... it could work. George can handle the shop without me for a few weeks." He sneezed violently.
Ginny signaled the barmaid, indicating she'd like the same thing Ron was having. "Yeah, and Hermione'll have you sleeping on the settee the rest of the year to make up for it."
Ron sat back from the table and wiped a smear from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "You're probably right." He pushed his plate away and picked up the pint glass of butterbeer. "So what's got your knickers in such a bunch you offered to buy me lunch today?"
Her lunch having materialized as he was speaking, Ginny pierced the crust with her fork and speared a chunk of potato. "I need your help with a story I'm working on." She glanced up and waited for his signal to continue, then leaned forward and explained in a low voice, "There's something dodgy going on with Hovernaught."
"The broom maker?" She nodded. "Hugo's got his heart set on one of those WASH-4s for his birthday."
"Don't do it, Ron. Get him any other broom but one of those."
The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he scrutinized her. "You said they're dodgy?" Her mouth full, she murmured in the affirmative. "Dodgy how?"
"Can't really say yet. But you know how everyone's touting them as the safest brooms anyone's ever made, as totally indestructible? What I've found suggests that's a load of tosh."
Ron let out a low whistle. "I can think of a lot of people who'd be very unhappy to hear that."
"Tell me about it."
"What d'you need my help for then? You're the one with all the Quidditch connections."
She finished chewing a piece of meat and swallowed it before answering. "Turns out, the Aurors have taken an interest in Hovernaught as well."
His eyes grew wide. "The Aur - Harry?" She nodded. "How'd you find out?"
"He let it slip last night. I don't think he meant to, and he's been trying to shrug it off as no big deal ever since, but he's trying too hard, y'know what I'm saying?" Ron indicated his agreement. "Subtlety's never been his strength."
"Not when it comes to you, that's for certain," he said wryly. He drained the last of his butterbeer and set the glass down carefully, aligning the edge with the design on the beer mat. "I really hope you're not about to ask me what I think you're about to ask me."
"I need to see the Aurors' file on Hovernaught."
He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Dammit, I was afraid you were going to say that."
"I only need to see it, Ron. Fifteen minutes, thirty tops."
"No."
"I won't even take notes."
"No."
"I just - I need to know why they're looking into Hovernaught, what tipped them off."
"Did you hear me? I said no. N-O. Absolutely not."
"Ron, please. You're my only hope. You've got connections there, you can call in a favor. Harry's being all noble and ethical and uncooperative."
He snorted. "Odd, that. I wouldn't have expected it of him." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. "It's not like you to do something like this, Ginny."
She looked down at her lunch, avoiding his gaze. "I know. But... I wouldn't be if I didn't have to, if I didn't think it was important."
"What do you reckon Harry knows?"
"Dunno," she said with a shrug. "I don't even know if he knows anything I haven't already found out for myself."
"Bloody hell." He scratched at the side of his neck. "I have to say, I don't like this one bit. I don't fancy the idea of you sneaking around behind Harry's back."
"For heaven's sake, Ron, it's not as if I'm cheating on him."
"Don't even joke about something like that," he said sharply. "Harry trusts you, and he trusts me, and I'm not keen on either one of us breaking that trust for any reason. For Harry, trust is trust."
Ginny wadded up her paper serviette and threw it on her plate, then leaned back with a groan. "Yeah. I know."
Unable to meet Ron's gaze, she looked instead at the rivulets of rain that streaked the windows. Beyond the dry shelter of the Leaky Cauldron, passersby scurried back and forth, heedless to all cares except the pelting rain. That could change by midsummer, when the WASH-4 became publicly available, at a price anyone could afford. She couldn't fault Asherton for his business sense; who wouldn't want to own the same broom as Javier Vargas, or Gwenog Jones, or the Irish national squad?
It was his methods that bothered Ginny most. She was all in favor of progress, but progress for the sake of profit? Stripping broom production of all individuality, so that they were all interchangeable? And, what was worst of all in her mind, to take an inherently flawed product and sell it on the cheap was a moral outrage. Maybe no one had died yet, as far as she'd found, but that would very likely change unless someone put a stop to things - unless someone prevented Asherton from selling his flying deathtraps to hundreds of unsuspecting people.
The table legs scraped at the wooden floor as Ron got up. "I'm sorry I can't help you, Ginny. Hopefully you can get what you need some other way."
She gave him a small smile. "Me too, Ron." Then, taking a breath, she added, "Don't tell Harry I asked, all right?"
"Of course not. Just don't ask me to do something like that again."
"I won't."
~ * ~
Harry listened to the report from the Aurors he'd sent out to follow up on the Hovernaught tip with increasing disbelief. "You're certain about this?"
"Dead cert, guv. Believe me, I wish I could say I'd made it all up."
Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. "Bloody hell."
"What d'you reckon we ought to do next?"
"Nothing yet. I need to talk to the Minister first. This is going to require extreme delicacy."
"You got that right, boss." She handed him her written report. "Everything's there - names, contact information, statements."
"Thanks," Harry said glumly, accepting the report. "I'll need to brief everyone first thing in the morning, so make sure they all get the word to be on time."
"Right, guv." The Aurors left, closing the door to his office behind them and leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
No wonder Ginny'd been so adamant earlier. She hadn't been joking when she said this inquiry wouldn't turn out to be nothing. The involvement of a high-ranking official of the Department International Magical Cooperation guaranteed that it was a right bloody mess. As for the rest... nothing he could do about it except what he'd been charged to do.
He took a sheet of parchment and scribbled a hasty note to Ginny, apologizing briefly for what a git he'd been earlier and hinting at more the next time he saw her, then sent it on with the owl perched by his window. His first priority taken care of, Harry grabbed the Hovernaught reports and headed downstairs to see Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Several hours later, feeling as though he'd just done a full course of Auror training and none too thrilled about what lay ahead, Harry arrived home. The rain that had been falling steadily for days had finally stopped; the sky above him was clear and bright and the air smelled pregnant with the onset of spring. Harry's immediate concern, however, was with the darkened state of his house; no matter how cross she might be with him, Ginny would still have left a light on even after she'd gone to bed. The only possible explanation was that she'd not been home herself yet. While it would have made more sense to wait for her return, Harry needed to see her. He could make a few educated guesses where he'd most likely find her, and so, concentrating on the first place that came to mind, he turned on the spot and Disapparated away.
~ * ~
Ginny gave the carriage roller a quick turn so she could read the last sentence she'd written. The newsroom at the Daily Prophet was dark and quiet at present, but in a few hours' time it would soon return to life, the air hazy with smoke and burned coffee and sweat and farts and old socks. Normally she'd be right in the thick of it, finding inspiration and comfort in the clacking of typewriter keys, the drone of voices, and beneath it all the steady, reassuring rumble of the press. This time, however, she decided she needed solitude to gather her thoughts and the luxury of time to choose her words carefully while writing this article.
Despite the fact that she spent most of her time writing up Quidditch matches, Ginny was no stranger to more hard-hitting news - the "real stuff," as the Prophet's executive editor liked to call it, usually when he was trying to convince her to transfer from the sports desk to the news desk. She'd never written anything quite like this, however, and she wasn't sure how it would play out. Ace had probably reckoned that Asherton was simply using shoddy materials or poor workmanship to make his brooms, and expected her story to be a straightforward confirmation of his hunch. He likely would never have guessed that Asherton's plans were far more ambitious.
Then there was the issue of Asherton's investors. His injury had left him bankrupt, so that he had investors at all was of no surprise to Ginny. What did surprise her were many of the names she kept seeing over and over, among them Ministry officials, Quidditch team owners (Oh, Oliver, she'd thought with a groan at the sight of Wood's signature on a promissory note, you fool!), well-respected businesspeople, and even Draco Malfoy's name was on the list of Hovernaught's board of governors.
There was one person, however, whom Ginny hadn't been able to identify, and that bothered her more than anything else. She didn't object to the idea of a silent partner-after all, Harry had been a silent partner in her brothers' joke shop since he was nearly fifteen-but the measures taken to conceal the identity of Asherton's made her very uneasy. Speculation was far too risky without definitive proof. She'd been careful, then, not to tip her hand too far when writing up her story, choosing instead to focus only on what she had evidence for. The rest she'd have to trust to Harry.
Satisfied with what she'd written, Ginny tapped the carriage to release the parchment, which she placed on top of the notes she'd gathered on Hovernaught, slipped the file in her desk drawer, and was just about to lock her desk so she could go home for a good long soak in a bubble bath when she heard the scrape of shoe leather on lino and felt the jab of a wandtip between her shoulder blades.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to take that from you," Woodrow Asherton said.
Ginny sucked in her breath through her teeth, making a hissing sound like an angry cat. She glanced to her right - her wand lay just out of reach, where she'd set it down after removing her story from the typewriter. She could make a lunge for it, but there wouldn't be time to hex Asherton before he'd disabled her.
As if reading her mind, he leaned over to pick up her wand. "Suppose I'd better take this as well." His hand moved out of her range of vision, then returned a moment later. "The file now, please, and don't make any sudden moves."
"You're an arse, Asherton," she growled as she did as instructed. "An arse and a bloody fool to boot. There's no chance in hell you'll get away with this."
"What makes you so certain of that?"
"I've got a very good memory, for starters. I can piece the story back together and have them run it on the front page along with the extra detail about you threatening me."
"This is presuming you'll still be around in the morning to re-write it."
Ginny's spine grew rigid. "You're no killer," she said in a low voice, desperately hoping he couldn't hear the quaver of fear.
"Desperate men are capable of anything, Mrs. Potter. D'you know what it's like to lose everything? I do." He leaned close to hiss in her ear, "I don't intend to let it happen again just because some brash, mouthy tart couldn't keep her nose out of my business."
"What then, Asherton? Suppose you do... do away with me, and the story I wrote about your crap brooms never goes to print. You don't honestly think you can go about your business as if nothing's happened."
"That's because I don't plan to. You've ruined my plans, but not me. I'll simply pick up the pieces of what's left and disappear."
"You'll wha - Oh." She turned her head to the side so that his face entered her peripheral vision. "You've been picking the pockets of your 'investors,' haven't you."
"The beauty of a scheme like mine was that, after the initial outlay, there wasn't much in the way of overhead."
"I suppose not, with only a handful of employees and substandard materials bought on the cheap." She let out a derisive laugh. "That explains why I kept seeing references to the secretary of the International Magical Trading Standards body. Y'know," she continued after a pause, "one your disappearance is discovered, it won't just be Aurors looking for you. I imagine most of those investors are going to be baying for your blood."
"They can bay all they want, they'll never find me." He grabbed Ginny by the arm and lifted her to her feet. "Any more than they'll find you."
Briefly Ginny considered struggling, but then decided to wait and keep alert for a more advantageous opportunity. For the moment, at least, Asherton still had the upper hand. As she let him lead her out of the newsroom, she thought to ask, "If I'm to disappear, d'you mind telling me who your silent partner is?"
"Ludo Bagman."
"Lu -" She stopped short just as Asherton whirled around, yanking her closer and holding his wand at her throat. "Harry!" Her heart soared at the sight of her husband emerging from the shadows, his wand aimed unwaveringly at Asherton, a fierce look on his face. "Bagman? How d'you - What are you - Wh -" A muttered spell from Asherton Silenced her. She wasn't afraid, though, not with her brave, valiant Harry here.
"So where is your old dad then, eh, Asherton?" Harry asked, moving closer. Ginny gasped. "I know the goblins would love to get their hands on him. Nearly thirty years' worth of interest he owes, I imagine."
"He might have managed to pay it to, if your lovely wife here hadn't stuck her nose where it didn't belong."
"She wouldn't have had cause to if you'd not been building brooms you knew were grossly inferior, then lining a few pockets to spread misinformation about how they blew all the safety standards out of the sky." He continued his calm, relentless approach, forcing Asherton to move backwards. "How long did you reckon you could go on before people started noticing a pattern of broomstick-tail separations? How long did you think you could pretend everything was all right before someone was killed as a result of your greed?"
"Three more months would have been sufficient."
A brief look of confusion crossed Harry's face, but it didn't slow his advance. Ginny knew that sooner or later Asherton would either have to take a chance and look over his shoulder, or risk being backed against a desk. When that time came, she was prepared to act.
"Why three months?" Harry wanted to know.
"Because in three months the WASH-4s would have gone up for sale to the public, and every tosser with two Sickles to rub together and dreams of being the next Javier Vargas would've been pissing themselves to get one. And I would have been with my dad, where not even you could find me, Potter, watching the Galleons pile up."
"And the bodies? What about them?"
"They'd be your problem, not mine."
Ginny recognized the righteous fury that darkened Harry's eyes and tensed, preparing to throw herself out of the line of fire. "Now," she mouthed, willing him to look at her. "Don't mind me, do it now!"
Just as Harry raised his wand a little higher, however, Ginny felt the back of her foot connect with something. Without stopping to think what it might be, she hooked her ankle around it, forcing herself into a stumble, and grabbed on to Asherton in a feint at trying to regain her footing, throwing him off balance. The tip of his wand seared white-hot against the tender skin of her neck, causing her to grunt in pain, but she clenched her teeth against it to pull him down with her.
"Stupefy!" rang Harry's voice throughout the newsroom, and Ginny felt her ankle give way as the dead weight of Asherton's unconscious body shoved her down to the floor.
~ * ~
The newsroom at the Daily Prophet was a hive of activity. Several of Ginny's colleagues, unsure what to make of their place of business providing the next day's lead story, stood clumped together in groups of two and three, casting curious glances in Harry's direction. Asherton had already been taken away, but several Aurors remained behind, gathering evidence and awaiting further instructions from Harry; it wasn't every day that their boss' wife was also their chief witness, and they weren't certain how to proceed. The mediwitch who'd been summoned to attend to Ginny's injuries was packing up her kit as she gave Ginny instructions on caring for the wand burn on her neck, and Minister Shacklebolt was holed up with the Prophet's executive editor. None of them mattered, however, as Harry only had eyes and a care for Ginny.
"Help me stand, please?" she asked him once the mediwitch had left, lifting up her hands.
Harry hauled Ginny to her feet and didn't let go, pulling her right into his embrace and pressing his face into her hair. "Oh, Ginny," he groaned. "I --"
"I know," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I was so scared. You arrived at just the right time."
He pulled back to frame her face with his hands. "I'm so sorry about the way I was earlier. If I'd known, if I'd had any idea --"
"You still wouldn't have told me anything."
"Probably not," he admitted with a rueful grin. "But I might've warned you off."
Her smile mirrored his. "And I'd've completely ignored you and gone after the story anyway." Her warm brown eyes looked searchingly at him. "Is Ludo Bagman really Asherton's father?"
Harry nodded. "Bagman never publicly acknowledged him, of course, not even before he got into trouble with the goblins."
"Ah," she said. "One of those."
"Yeah, I reckon you're familiar with the type of situation."
"It's a hazard of life on the road and being surrounded by fans willing to do just about anything to get close to you. Fortunately I had the good sense to marry you right out of Hogwarts."
"You always were a clever one."
By way of response, Ginny drew his head down for a deep kiss. When they broke apart a few minutes later she said, "Let's go home, Harry. I'm utterly knackered. All I want to do is take a bath and go to bed."
"I think that's a brilliant idea. I'll join you; they've got the situation well in hand here." He placed his arm around her waist and led her out of the newsroom and into Diagon Alley. The puddles left behind by the spring rains reflected the light of a quarter moon that hung high above.
"Rain's finally stopped, I see," Ginny said. "'Bout time."
"Yeah." Harry drew her close for another kiss. "I think we should both take tomorrow off from work, have a lie-in, spend the day together. What d'you say to that?"
"I say I'm the luckiest witch in England." She let him take her by the hand and lead her down the alley. After a few yards, however, she stopped. "Harry?" she asked.
"Yeah?"
"How'd you make the Bagman connection anyway?"
He sighed. "You know I can't talk about an ongoing investigation, Ginny."
Be sure to check out all the great fics and illustrations other people have produced ( master list here)!
RECIPIENT: lyras, who asked for, among other things, emphasis on plot rather than sex, Ginny kicking arse, saving-the-world-Harry (Ginny counts, right?), Ginny the Quidditch professional (I went with Ginny the Quidditch correspondent rather than Ginny the Quidditch player), Harry the Auror, adventure, and strong imagery. I hope this fits the bill. :-)
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: ~ 8,900
SUMMARY: A story Ginny's working on for the Daily Prophet turns up some unexpected results.
NOTES: Due to a terrible case of writer's block, only the first half of this has been beta'd, so please don't hesitate to point out any errors even if said error involves a plot hole big enough to drive the Knight Bus through. Thanks to arasnaem, jheanne, and attilatehbun for their feedback and keen eyes, and most of all to r_becca for hosting the Changing Seasons exchange in the first place, for being there when I needed a sounding board to bounce ideas off of, and above all else for being the ultimate Harry/Ginny cheerleader.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
"Potter, would you come in here a minute?"
Ginny looked up from her desk in the newsroom at the Daily Prophet to see Odoacer Thornspillar, the sports editor, beckon her into his office. "Be right there, Ace." She re-read the paragraph she'd just written, then tapped the carriage on her typewriter with her wand, releasing the piece of parchment containing her latest byline and sending it sailing down the corridor to the copy editor's desk. Her assignment for the day now complete, she tucked a pencil into the loose bun she always wore in the newsroom and went into Ace's office.
He had three clippings laid out before him. Two of them were hers; the third had been written by a stringer in Ireland, reporting on Kenmare's match against Wimbourne the previous weekend. A wad of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum the size of a Snitch was wedged in his cheek, making him look as if he'd just had dental surgery, and he was drumming a pencil on the edge of his desk.
"I know that look, Ace," Ginny said, leaning her hip against the corner of the desk. "What's on your mind?"
Shoving his gum to the other cheek, he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "Read these articles for me, and tell me if anything strikes you as odd, willya?"
"Just read them?"
"Yeah."
She read the dispatch from Ireland first. Nothing seemed unusual: Kenmare had won, 460-320, after a match that lasted nearly six hours; both a Kenmare Chaser and a Wimbourne Beater had been penalized for jinxing each other mid-flight; one of the referees had proposed marriage to the Wimbourne equipment manager before the entire stadium; and another Kenmare Chaser had been seriously injured when her broom snapped, sending her tumbling nearly forty feet to the ground. The article didn't provide details of her injuries, but said she'd been rushed to the local hospital and was in guarded condition.
Next Ginny picked up the clipping of her write-up of a match two months before between her former team, Holyhead, and Tutshill. It had been Gwenog Jones' first outing as the Harpies' new coach, and Ginny had made that the focus of her coverage. However, there'd been the unfortunate incident when Tutshill's Seeker, intent on the Snitch, collided with a goal post and his broom had virtually disintegrated beneath him. He'd been spared injury thanks to quick reflexes that enabled him to grab the goal hoop in time. Ginny'd managed to snap a photograph of him hanging from the hoop as a teammate ferried a replacement broom to him, though not in time to prevent the Harpies' Seeker from beating him to the Snitch.
The third article was a profile she'd done on Quimbley McLaggan, a seventh-year at Hogwarts and Gryffindor's current Keeper and Captain, who was such a hot prospect for the fall roster that wands had been drawn over which team would get to offer the first contract. In the end the squabbling had all been in vain, because McLaggan had announced, in the midst of the interview, that he was hanging up his broom. He'd been contemplating the move for some time, he confided to Ginny (and the Prophet's readers), but the deciding vote had been cast when he witnessed his Slytherin counterpart's broomstick separate from the tail in mid-air during a scrimmage (one that, apparently, involved just the two of them, on the pitch after dark). Ginny'd written, "I reckoned him for a goner," McLaggan says, his voice cracking as he clutches at Flint's hand, "and all I could think about as I watched him fall was how Quidditch would never be the same." She'd prudently left out the bit about the two lads snogging as though their lives depended on it right before her eyes.
She set down the clipping and folded her arms over her chest. "Well?" Ace asked around his wad of gum. "Notice anything unusual about those articles? Anything... in common?"
"Other than being about Quidditch?"
His perpetually bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Other than that, yes."
Ginny rubbed at her temples as she called to mind what she'd just read. After a couple moments' thought, she raised her head. "Erm… yeah. They all had something about a broom mishap." Her voice went up a little at the end, as though she wasn't quite sure she was remembering correctly.
She must have done, though, if the look on Ace's face was any indication. "I knew my star correspondent wouldn't let me down," he said.
"Get stuffed," she said with a grin. "I've worked here too long to fall for idle flattery." She picked up the clipping closest to her. "So what's your angle? Why the fuss?"
He tossed the pencil he'd been holding across his desk and dropped all four legs of his chair back to the ground. "I want you to look into what you so delicately call ‘broom mishaps.' My bunion tells me there's a story in there somewhere."
Ace had a bunion on his left foot that he swore flared up whenever he stumbled across a hot tip that could lead to an investigative report. No one else in the newsroom believed in the magical lead-detecting properties of his bunion, but since he was the boss they all humored him. And, truth be told, they had produced a few good stories thanks to his "hunches"; Ginny'd even won an award from the Worldwide Wizarding Press Syndicate three years ago for an exposé she wrote on the role of bribes and kickbacks in determining World Cup final sites after Ace's bunion had got so inflamed he'd been confined to his bed for a week.
"Broom mishaps are a Sickle a dozen, though. What makes you think these are any different?"
"I was hoping you'd ask that," he said, his eyes glinting. He waved his wand at the file cabinet behind his desk, causing a drawer to open and a file folder to extract itself and fly across the room to land on his desk. He picked up the file and held it out to her. "As it happens, all three of those brooms were Hovernaught WASH-4s."
She couldn't contain her gasp of surprise. "But they're supposed to be -"
"I know. But you know how I feel about coincidences, and three incidents of catastrophic broom failure go beyond the county of coincidence to land dead in the principality of pattern." He indicated the file. "I've gathered everything we've printed on Hovernaught over the past year, but you may find it necessary to go back farther. Either way, though, I think that's where your story is, so that's where you should start."
~ * ~
Harry Apparated just outside his garden gate to find the house dark, save the lamplight emanating from the kitchen window. If he stood on his toes and craned his neck, he could see Ginny from behind, seated at the table, her head bowed over a piece of parchment, her quill moving rapidly. It was not an unfamiliar sight, for Ginny had a talent for throwing herself into her work whenever a particular story caught hold of her attention, losing track of time to the point that she'd even forget to eat. He was much the same way; the passion for the work they did-she as senior Quidditch correspondent for the Daily Prophet, he as head of the Aurors-was one of many things they had in common.
Harry let himself in and carefully closed the door behind him, but so intent on whatever she was doing was Ginny that she didn't even raise her head. He came up to her and bent over to kiss the top of her head. "So what injustice in the world of professional Quidditch has Thornspillar got you going after this time?"
He straightened just in time to avoid what would undoubtedly have been a painful collision between his nose and her head. "Harry! I didn't hear you come in." She turned in her seat to smile at him, but then the smile turned to a frown. "Blimey, what time is it?"
"A little gone eight. I'd have been home an hour ago, but Draco Malfoy came in to file a report about vandals targeting his house just as I was leaving, and I thought it best to look into it myself."
Her eyebrow quirked. "Yeah?" she asked, her tone prompting him for details.
He shook his head in remembered amusement and crossed the kitchen to fetch the teakettle. "Some kids threw Bundimun spawn at his windows while he and his wife were entertaining. When he went outside to chase them off, one hit him dead in the center of his chest. He must have come straight to the Ministry, because he still had stains all down his robes." The kettle having been filled, Harry tapped it with his wand to heat the contents. "He smelled as if he'd gone for a swim in troll piss, too. I reckon those robes are a complete loss." He leaned against the counter, facing Ginny, and folded his arms. "When was the last time you ate?"
Ginny looked off into the distance for a moment before answering. "I had a pear around mid-morning. You?"
"A sandwich at lunch."
"Good thing the kids are at Hogwarts, or they'd be gnawing on the furniture."
"On the other hand, if they were here, we'd neither of us go all day without eating."
"True." She got up stiffly and went to the pantry. "I think there's leftover ham and... yes!" She lifted out a large wedge of cheese in triumph. "Do you have any objections to another sandwich for supper?"
"I'm so famished I could eat three or four. Don't forget the horseradish."
"Got it."
They got all the necessary fixings for ham and cheese sandwiches laid out on the counter in relatively short order, and soon they were both seated at the table with loaded plates and steaming mugs of tea. Harry wolfed down one complete sandwich and was halfway through his second before he spoke again, the edge now finally off his hunger. "So what are you writing about?" he asked, trying to read what Ginny'd spread across the table top from an upside-down angle. "Looks like it's to do with brooms?"
She nodded and pointed to a letterhead he recognized. "It is," she said, swallowing. "Hovernaught."
"Really?" He reached out and slid the document she'd indicated closer so he could read it. It was a press release announcing that Hovernaught would be the exclusive broom provider to the Irish national team. "Huh."
"Huh?" she echoed.
"Yeah." He took another bite of his sandwich, chewed carefully, then washed it down with a swig of tea, taking his time as he considered the best way to respond. "We're looking into them as well."
"Are you now?" She sat back from the table, both hands cupped around her mug, her interest as plain as the freckles on her face. "That can't be a coincidence." Harry shrugged noncommittally. "Can you tell me why you're investigating them?"
"We're not. At least, not at present," he added in response to her questioning look. "Right now we're just following up on some information that was passed along to us. Nothing official."
Ginny's brown eyes studied him as she blew across the surface of her tea. "Which means you're not going to tell me anything about it."
He dug a bit of bread from between his back teeth with his tongue. "Nope."
"You're a terrible tease, Harry."
"Sorry?"
"Telling me that you're 'looking into' Hovernaught, but refusing to say anything more about it? That's just cruel."
"Oh." He drained the last of his tea. "It was unintentional, I swear. It just slipped out."
"Mm-hm."
With a wave of his wand he Banished their dirty dishes to the sink, where they landed with a clatter, then got up and came around to lean over Ginny, propping his hands on the table on either side of her. "Uh-huh. It was a momentary lapse of reason. You know how being close to you makes me go all soft and wobbly," he murmured into her ear.
Her eyes were sparkling with mischievous humor when she turned towards him. "Oh, no, Harry, I don't think going all soft and wobbly is your problem at all." Her gaze flicked meaningfully lower before she lifted her chin to kiss him.
~ * ~
Ginny flipped through her notebook as she waited in the reception area at Hovernaught Enterprises, reviewing the notes she'd jotted down prior to coming here. The receptionist looked up from her magazine and pursed her brightly-painted lips at Ginny in bored disapproval. "I told you, Mr. Asherton will be a while," she said in a pronounced twang. "He's a very busy man."
"That's quite all right," Ginny replied evenly. "I'm in no hurry. I can wait all day, if I have to."
The receptionist pushed her lower lip out a little more, sighed dramatically, then closed her magazine and stood up. She carefully smoothed the wrinkles from her robes and patted her hair to be sure it was in place, then exited through a door nearly hidden in a recessed area, her hips swaying widely as she tottered out on heels so high it made Ginny's feet hurt just to look at them.
Ginny waited until the door had completely closed, then slipped around the receptionist's desk to see what she could find. The magazine turned out to be the annual Broomstick Edition of Quidditch Illustrated, its cover showing Javier Vargas, the devastatingly handsome young Seeker for Peru's national squad, astride a Hovernaught WASH-4, of all coincidences.
Ginny knew it wasn't a coincidence at all, however, as Hovernaught had been aggressively pushing the WASH-4 ever since company founder Woodrow Asherton had unveiled it at the International Wizarding Athletic Leagues' symposium the previous summer, even going so far as to equip select teams with a full complement in exchange for endorsements. The Peruvian team, which had won the World Cup last year, was among those to benefit, as were several of the top-ranked teams in the British League, among them Kenmare and Ballycastle. In fact, there was a half-page photo of Kenmare's Beaters with their WASH-4s on page twelve. No, there was no doubt in Ginny's mind that Asherton intended to make Hovernaught the leading producer of elite racing brooms, and that the WASH-4 was his means of attaining global domination of the market.
She'd come to this conclusion after poring through the dossier of clippings, press reports, and other materials Ace had given her with the assignment. She'd have loved to have been able to discuss it with Harry, even before he'd let slip that the Aurors were looking into Hovernaught as well-he'd often been a good sounding board whenever she felt overloaded with information and needed someone to help her mentally sift through it all to identify the truly salient facts-but he'd proven remarkably adept at eluding her queries. That in itself disproved his claim that there was no official inquiry underway, which Ginny intended to follow up with when she was through here.
Apart from the magazine, the receptionist's desk was disappointingly unforthcoming. There was a diary as well, but appointments were indicated only by initials. All the same, Ginny waved her wand over the log and then tapped it on her notebook, recording the information for later review. She then swept her wand over the desk for a quick peek inside-the drawers, unsurprisingly, were securely locked-but spotted nothing more than a supply of letterhead and matching envelopes, a few quills and ink bottles, and a collection of fingernail polish bottles that would have her niece Lucy drooling with envy.
At the sound of voices Ginny scurried back around the desk, making it to the nearby window just in time to make it look as if she'd been gazing out at the rain that had been falling steadily for the past three days as the door opened and Woodrow Asherton emerged. "Mrs. Potter," he drawled, coming forward with his hand outstretched, "I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting so long."
Asherton had been one of the best Keepers in the world until a horrific accident ended his career when he was still in his early twenties. His rehabilitation had taken years, and even now he walked with a pronounced limp. In his prime he'd been a sight to behold, straddling a broom with his muscular thighs, his astonishingly long arms and hands that were rumored to span over a foot and a half when his fingers were spread to their fullest extent reaching for the Quaffle. Permanently grounded, however, his deeply bowed legs, comically short in proportion to his arms, and uneven, pigeon-toed walk made him look ungainly and awkward.
"No need to apologize," she said. "I understand you're very bus--"
"You played for Holyhead, didn't you?" he interrupted. "Chaser, 1999-2004, am I correct?"
Ginny smiled and nodded. "I'm ver--"
"I looked up your profile in Who Was Who in Quidditch. I make a point to know these things. In a business like mine, you always have to be not one, but two steps ahead of the competition." Ginny's eyebrows went up. "But enough about me. No doubt you're here to do a profile on the WASH-4." Before Ginny could confirm or deny this, he was steering her through the door he'd entered from, leaving the receptionist and her carnelian pout behind.
With his hand at her back, Asherton guided Ginny at a rapid pace through a warren of narrow corridors, stopping every now and then to wave his wand at a locked door, scarcely stopping for breath as he touted the WASH-4's superiority to every other broom in existence from the dawn of time. Ginny found herself unable to do much more than listen and try to make approving sounds at the right moments; fortunately, she'd read all the promotional literature already, and so nothing he said was new.
Finally he came to a stop before yet another locked door, this one guarded by two hulking wizards. If they weren't former Beaters, Ginny thought, then she was a Veela.
A high-pitched droning sound like the buzzing of a hive of angry bees could be heard from the other side of the door. Ginny reached into her bag to grab her camera, but before she could get to it one of the guards had confiscated her entire bag and the other had taken her notebook and Quick-Quotes quill. She immediately drew out her wand, but Asherton forced her arm down.
"I'm sorry," he said with all the sincerity of a manticore. "You'll have to leave any recording devices here. Beyond that door lies the heart and soul of Hovernaught Enterprises, and I have far too many enemies to run the risk of any valuable trade secrets leaking out, even inadvertently."
"Don't you think you're being overly cautious?" Ginny asked. "I'm only doing my job, and you did invite me back here, after all."
"Well," Asherton said, spreading his hands wide, "free publicity is free publicity, and a writer of your caliber and reputation can only mean good things for my business. Now if you'll follow me, please." He nodded to the security wizards, who, in unison, cast a spell that opened the door for Ginny and Asherton.
Ginny found herself on the ground floor of what could only be described as a broom factory. She was familiar with the concept of mass mechanized production-the Industrial Revolution hadn't completely bypassed the wizarding world-but she'd not imagined it on such a scale, nor had she ever dreamed it could be put to use for making brooms. Broom construction had changed little over the centuries, with master craftswizards taking months to build a single specimen, training up apprentices as they went along. Consequently, broom-making had become the sort of trade distinguished by a few families, the techniques and lore being passed down from generation to generation. By going into the broom-making business of his own accord, Asherton, whose mum owned a pawn shop in Knockturn Alley and whose father was unknown, had established from the outset that he was a renegade. Until now, though, Ginny'd had no idea just how much of one he was.
"Would it be conceited of me to remark that you look impressed?" he asked.
"Impressed isn't the half of it," she confessed. "I don't even know where to begin."
"You should be pleased to know that you're the first reporter I've allowed into my inner sanctum."
His pride and delight was undeniable, but Ginny found it utterly misplaced. If her father were here, Ginny knew he'd be overcome with rapture at the sight of all those machines busily assembling brooms, but she found it rather disturbing. In truth, the more she looked around, the more what she saw sickened her. The individual care and attention that went into the construction of a broom was, to her, almost a sacred thing, not to be profaned by something so crass as mass production.
She made a few mental calculations and reckoned that Asherton was producing approximately one broom every two minutes; using traditional methods, it typically took four to six months to craft a broom. If he kept at it, at this rate he could render nearly every broom maker in the world obsolete within a couple of years. Once he'd cornered the broom market, what next? How much longer, Ginny wondered, before wands were produced on assembly lines as well?
Grinning broadly, Asherton flung his arms wide. "You are looking at the future of the wizarding world. By the end of the current Quidditch season, before the World Cup tournament begins, Hovernaught will have manufactured enough brooms that anyone who wants will be able to purchase one for less than a fourth of the price the basic Comet goes for."
Ginny looked at him in bewilderment. "Sorry?"
His eyes gleamed feverishly. "Think about it, Mrs. Potter. The WASH-4 is not only the favored broom of many of the world's top Quidditch players, it's also the safest and most durable, and once it hits the open market, it'll be the least expensive." Ticking off each item on his fingers, he continued, "Prestige, reliability, and affordability: add them up, and you have success beyond your wildest dreams."
"But..." Ginny paused to gather her thoughts. "They're not reliable."
"What?"
"The WASH-4s aren't reliable, not by a long shot."
"What are you talking about?"
Her anger rising, she turned on him. "I'm talking about Niamh Connolly, and Lloyd Jenkins, and Tony Flint," imitating his gesture from before as she ticked them off. "They were fortunate enough to escape permanent injury when their brooms broke apart in mid-air. But what about the next time? What do you think will happen when someone who's never played a Quidditch match in her life but purchased one of your brooms because Javier Vargas, who she fancies, flies a WASH-4, suddenly finds herself a hundred feet in the air, straddling a useless stick of wood? What happens when the beds at St. Mungo's are filled with witches and wizards naïve enough to trust--" She extended her arm to encompass the factory. "--that this is in any way superior to the way brooms have been made since the Middle Ages?"
She slammed her hands down on the railing that stood between them and the factory floor. "How can you think of selling your brooms, knowing they're not just unreliable but bloody death traps, to hundreds of unsuspecting people? Have you even considered the reputations that will be ruined because of these so-called endorsements you've tricked out of players like Vargas?"
"Mrs. Potter," Asherton said, his voice tense with the strain of maintaining a façade of congeniality, "those accidents, while dreadful, were simply three random unconnected mishaps and do not indicate that the WASH-4 is an unsound broom. I give you my word, it's hardly anything to get so worked up about. As for the endorsements, you don't believe Vargas is so dim-witted as to promote a product he doesn't have complete confidence in?"
"'Random unconnected mishaps?'" Ginny spat. "What about the others, then? How do you explain them?"
His face turned ashen, and Ginny knew she'd hit her mark dead on. "What others?"
"The others you've managed to cover up."
"You're bluffing."
"Are you so certain? Do you want to take that risk?" As he took a step towards her, she drew out her wand. "If you know what's best for you, you'll think very carefully before your next move."
His face now quite florid with anger, Asherton glared at her before saying in clipped tones, "I don't think I'll be granting you that interview after all, Mrs. Potter. It's time you left the premises."
~ * ~
Harry looked up from his desk at Auror headquarters and saw his wife striding towards him, a purposeful and determined look on her face. "All right, love?" he asked as she swept past his assistant with little more than a cursory greeting and came into his office. His smile faded when she closed the door behind her. "I wasn't supposed to meet you for lunch today, was I?" He racked his brain, trying to remember what he might have forgotten to do, or had inadvertently done. Ginny rarely closed the door to his office unless he was in trouble for something.
"Harry darling," she said, slinging her bag into a chair and perching herself on the edge of his desk, crossing her legs, "I really need to know what's up with Hovernaught."
"What's up - oh." He'd been momentarily distracted by the sight of her fine, slim calves and a glimpse of bare thigh peeking through a gap in her robes. "Nothing's up with Hovernaught, I told you that already."
"Bollocks. It may not be a proper investigation yet, but I know you're looking into them."
He leaned back in his seat, his forearms draped loosely on the armrests. "You sound rather sure of yourself."
"I am," she replied with a slight toss of her head.
"What makes you think we are? Or maybe I should ask: what makes you think we ought to be?"
She clucked her tongue. "Oh, no, no, no, Harry. You won't get me to give up what I know that easily."
Something about the look in her eyes gave him pause. It was the kind of look she usually reserved just for him. Yet even though she had planted the tip of her foot enticingly between his thighs, Harry sensed that a shag wasn't what she had in mind. She'd clearly discovered some information about Hovernaught-the sort of information that newspaper reporters depended on-and he reckoned she'd come here hoping he'd be able to confirm it. Possibly he could, but he wasn't about to tip his hand.
"Sorry, Ginny. You know I can't give out anything about an ongoing investigation."
"So then there is an inquiry."
He sighed. "No. As I said last night, it's merely a very unofficial follow-up on a tip we received." What he wouldn't let on was that he was expecting a report from the two Aurors he'd sent out on that very task any time now. Given the nature of the information in the tip, the investigation would likely be made official then, and he'd have to call a meeting with the Minister of Magic and the heads of several Ministry departments. He was looking at a very long day.
Her sigh echoed his. "You're being very cagey, Harry Potter."
"I have principles to uphold, Ginny Potter. Surely you can respect that."
"Merlin's beard! It's not as if I'm some weekend stringer or Rita Skeeter wannabe looking to earn a quick few Galleons and some notoriety."
"That's beside the point. You know I don't discuss open investigations with anyone outside Auror Headquarters. Can you imagine what a nightmare it would be if word got out before we'd completed our inquiry?" He grimaced. "The Minister of Magic would hand me my arse on a silver platter."
She scoffed. "You could fly to the top of Big Ben and announce to all of London that Kingsley keeps a pair of fluffy purple slippers beneath his desk, and he wouldn't bat an eye." She pulled back her foot and hopped off Harry's desk to lean forward, resting her hands on his arms and giving him a tantalizing glimpse down the front of her robes. "Have you stopped to consider that I might have information that you might want for your investigation?"
He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on her face. "I've got that impression. I could compel you to share it if there were an actual investigation and I thought it necessary."
Her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. "It seems to me that it would be much more sensible and mutually advantageous if we shared information, don't you agree? If we... worked together?"
Harry leaned his head back and chuckled. "I'd sooner re-live detentions with Dolores Umbridge and her Blood Quill than enter into a partnership with the Prophet, even if that partnership would be in the person of my own wife."
Her responding snarl caught him by surprise. "You insufferable bastard. I'm trying to save lives here, and you're preaching to me about your high and mighty principles!"
"Save lives? Bloody hell, what are you on about?"
"Simply because I work for the Prophet doesn't make me the enemy!"
A glance over her shoulder alerted him that their raised voices had been noticed outside his office, so he picked up his wand and cast an Imperturbable Charm before saying anything else. "When did I ever say that it did?"
"You just compared working with me to detentions with Umbridge!"
Harry spluttered in disbelief. "That's got nothing to do with you, Ginny. You know what I think of the Prophet. I'd feel the same way if you were a complete stranger."
She took a quick step back to avoid his outreached hand and crossed her arms over her chest, anger flashing a warning signal in her eyes. "Get your head out of your arse, Harry. The Prophet's not the enemy either."
"No, they're just a mob of meddlesome imbeciles who'll stop at nothing to bollix up my life, all for a plum headline," he snapped back, his anger rising. "Or did you forget about the mess your mates caused with the story they printed about --"
"You can't blame me for that!"
"I don't blame you, but I'll be buggered if I'm going to chance it happening again." He took a deep breath and released it through his nose, trying to calm himself down. "Look, it's not that I don't trust you. But situations such as this must be handled carefully, especially at the outset. If Asherton were to suspect we'd given him so much as a second thought, he could make it extremely difficult to find out what we need to before we can move forward. And, as I've said several times already, there's not even an official investigation taking place. This could turn out to be nothing. If the Prophet were to run a story that we investigated Hovernaught and didn't turn up anything, there are a lot of people who would be more than happy to make my life very unpleasant."
Ginny stared at him fiercely for a long while. Her color had returned to normal, but he could tell that she was still very angry with him. She'd calm down eventually, he knew, but in the meantime he'd have to weather the storm.
"Fine," she finally said, grabbing her bag and slinging the strap over her arm. "If that's the way you're going to be, then have it your way, Harry. Just let me tell you one thing before I go."
"What's that?"
"If what I've learned today is any indication, your 'unofficial' inquiry will not turn out to be nothing."
~ * ~
"D'you mind? You're dripping all over my lunch." Ron looked up at Ginny from his Cornish pasty. "Blimey, you're a sight. The rain still hasn't let up?"
Ginny hung her cloak on a nearby hook and slid into the booth opposite her brother. "Didn't you see the new shower Hannah's installed right outside? I reckoned I'd give it a go before I came in." She ignored the scowl he gave her. "Yes, it's still raining, just as it has been for days now."
"I hate this time of year."
"Welcome to England in late March, Ron. It's been this way all your life, isn't likely to change any time soon."
"I'm thinking I should start spending spring in Greece. Leave in February, come back in May... it could work. George can handle the shop without me for a few weeks." He sneezed violently.
Ginny signaled the barmaid, indicating she'd like the same thing Ron was having. "Yeah, and Hermione'll have you sleeping on the settee the rest of the year to make up for it."
Ron sat back from the table and wiped a smear from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "You're probably right." He pushed his plate away and picked up the pint glass of butterbeer. "So what's got your knickers in such a bunch you offered to buy me lunch today?"
Her lunch having materialized as he was speaking, Ginny pierced the crust with her fork and speared a chunk of potato. "I need your help with a story I'm working on." She glanced up and waited for his signal to continue, then leaned forward and explained in a low voice, "There's something dodgy going on with Hovernaught."
"The broom maker?" She nodded. "Hugo's got his heart set on one of those WASH-4s for his birthday."
"Don't do it, Ron. Get him any other broom but one of those."
The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he scrutinized her. "You said they're dodgy?" Her mouth full, she murmured in the affirmative. "Dodgy how?"
"Can't really say yet. But you know how everyone's touting them as the safest brooms anyone's ever made, as totally indestructible? What I've found suggests that's a load of tosh."
Ron let out a low whistle. "I can think of a lot of people who'd be very unhappy to hear that."
"Tell me about it."
"What d'you need my help for then? You're the one with all the Quidditch connections."
She finished chewing a piece of meat and swallowed it before answering. "Turns out, the Aurors have taken an interest in Hovernaught as well."
His eyes grew wide. "The Aur - Harry?" She nodded. "How'd you find out?"
"He let it slip last night. I don't think he meant to, and he's been trying to shrug it off as no big deal ever since, but he's trying too hard, y'know what I'm saying?" Ron indicated his agreement. "Subtlety's never been his strength."
"Not when it comes to you, that's for certain," he said wryly. He drained the last of his butterbeer and set the glass down carefully, aligning the edge with the design on the beer mat. "I really hope you're not about to ask me what I think you're about to ask me."
"I need to see the Aurors' file on Hovernaught."
He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Dammit, I was afraid you were going to say that."
"I only need to see it, Ron. Fifteen minutes, thirty tops."
"No."
"I won't even take notes."
"No."
"I just - I need to know why they're looking into Hovernaught, what tipped them off."
"Did you hear me? I said no. N-O. Absolutely not."
"Ron, please. You're my only hope. You've got connections there, you can call in a favor. Harry's being all noble and ethical and uncooperative."
He snorted. "Odd, that. I wouldn't have expected it of him." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. "It's not like you to do something like this, Ginny."
She looked down at her lunch, avoiding his gaze. "I know. But... I wouldn't be if I didn't have to, if I didn't think it was important."
"What do you reckon Harry knows?"
"Dunno," she said with a shrug. "I don't even know if he knows anything I haven't already found out for myself."
"Bloody hell." He scratched at the side of his neck. "I have to say, I don't like this one bit. I don't fancy the idea of you sneaking around behind Harry's back."
"For heaven's sake, Ron, it's not as if I'm cheating on him."
"Don't even joke about something like that," he said sharply. "Harry trusts you, and he trusts me, and I'm not keen on either one of us breaking that trust for any reason. For Harry, trust is trust."
Ginny wadded up her paper serviette and threw it on her plate, then leaned back with a groan. "Yeah. I know."
Unable to meet Ron's gaze, she looked instead at the rivulets of rain that streaked the windows. Beyond the dry shelter of the Leaky Cauldron, passersby scurried back and forth, heedless to all cares except the pelting rain. That could change by midsummer, when the WASH-4 became publicly available, at a price anyone could afford. She couldn't fault Asherton for his business sense; who wouldn't want to own the same broom as Javier Vargas, or Gwenog Jones, or the Irish national squad?
It was his methods that bothered Ginny most. She was all in favor of progress, but progress for the sake of profit? Stripping broom production of all individuality, so that they were all interchangeable? And, what was worst of all in her mind, to take an inherently flawed product and sell it on the cheap was a moral outrage. Maybe no one had died yet, as far as she'd found, but that would very likely change unless someone put a stop to things - unless someone prevented Asherton from selling his flying deathtraps to hundreds of unsuspecting people.
The table legs scraped at the wooden floor as Ron got up. "I'm sorry I can't help you, Ginny. Hopefully you can get what you need some other way."
She gave him a small smile. "Me too, Ron." Then, taking a breath, she added, "Don't tell Harry I asked, all right?"
"Of course not. Just don't ask me to do something like that again."
"I won't."
~ * ~
Harry listened to the report from the Aurors he'd sent out to follow up on the Hovernaught tip with increasing disbelief. "You're certain about this?"
"Dead cert, guv. Believe me, I wish I could say I'd made it all up."
Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. "Bloody hell."
"What d'you reckon we ought to do next?"
"Nothing yet. I need to talk to the Minister first. This is going to require extreme delicacy."
"You got that right, boss." She handed him her written report. "Everything's there - names, contact information, statements."
"Thanks," Harry said glumly, accepting the report. "I'll need to brief everyone first thing in the morning, so make sure they all get the word to be on time."
"Right, guv." The Aurors left, closing the door to his office behind them and leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
No wonder Ginny'd been so adamant earlier. She hadn't been joking when she said this inquiry wouldn't turn out to be nothing. The involvement of a high-ranking official of the Department International Magical Cooperation guaranteed that it was a right bloody mess. As for the rest... nothing he could do about it except what he'd been charged to do.
He took a sheet of parchment and scribbled a hasty note to Ginny, apologizing briefly for what a git he'd been earlier and hinting at more the next time he saw her, then sent it on with the owl perched by his window. His first priority taken care of, Harry grabbed the Hovernaught reports and headed downstairs to see Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Several hours later, feeling as though he'd just done a full course of Auror training and none too thrilled about what lay ahead, Harry arrived home. The rain that had been falling steadily for days had finally stopped; the sky above him was clear and bright and the air smelled pregnant with the onset of spring. Harry's immediate concern, however, was with the darkened state of his house; no matter how cross she might be with him, Ginny would still have left a light on even after she'd gone to bed. The only possible explanation was that she'd not been home herself yet. While it would have made more sense to wait for her return, Harry needed to see her. He could make a few educated guesses where he'd most likely find her, and so, concentrating on the first place that came to mind, he turned on the spot and Disapparated away.
~ * ~
Ginny gave the carriage roller a quick turn so she could read the last sentence she'd written. The newsroom at the Daily Prophet was dark and quiet at present, but in a few hours' time it would soon return to life, the air hazy with smoke and burned coffee and sweat and farts and old socks. Normally she'd be right in the thick of it, finding inspiration and comfort in the clacking of typewriter keys, the drone of voices, and beneath it all the steady, reassuring rumble of the press. This time, however, she decided she needed solitude to gather her thoughts and the luxury of time to choose her words carefully while writing this article.
Despite the fact that she spent most of her time writing up Quidditch matches, Ginny was no stranger to more hard-hitting news - the "real stuff," as the Prophet's executive editor liked to call it, usually when he was trying to convince her to transfer from the sports desk to the news desk. She'd never written anything quite like this, however, and she wasn't sure how it would play out. Ace had probably reckoned that Asherton was simply using shoddy materials or poor workmanship to make his brooms, and expected her story to be a straightforward confirmation of his hunch. He likely would never have guessed that Asherton's plans were far more ambitious.
Then there was the issue of Asherton's investors. His injury had left him bankrupt, so that he had investors at all was of no surprise to Ginny. What did surprise her were many of the names she kept seeing over and over, among them Ministry officials, Quidditch team owners (Oh, Oliver, she'd thought with a groan at the sight of Wood's signature on a promissory note, you fool!), well-respected businesspeople, and even Draco Malfoy's name was on the list of Hovernaught's board of governors.
There was one person, however, whom Ginny hadn't been able to identify, and that bothered her more than anything else. She didn't object to the idea of a silent partner-after all, Harry had been a silent partner in her brothers' joke shop since he was nearly fifteen-but the measures taken to conceal the identity of Asherton's made her very uneasy. Speculation was far too risky without definitive proof. She'd been careful, then, not to tip her hand too far when writing up her story, choosing instead to focus only on what she had evidence for. The rest she'd have to trust to Harry.
Satisfied with what she'd written, Ginny tapped the carriage to release the parchment, which she placed on top of the notes she'd gathered on Hovernaught, slipped the file in her desk drawer, and was just about to lock her desk so she could go home for a good long soak in a bubble bath when she heard the scrape of shoe leather on lino and felt the jab of a wandtip between her shoulder blades.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to take that from you," Woodrow Asherton said.
Ginny sucked in her breath through her teeth, making a hissing sound like an angry cat. She glanced to her right - her wand lay just out of reach, where she'd set it down after removing her story from the typewriter. She could make a lunge for it, but there wouldn't be time to hex Asherton before he'd disabled her.
As if reading her mind, he leaned over to pick up her wand. "Suppose I'd better take this as well." His hand moved out of her range of vision, then returned a moment later. "The file now, please, and don't make any sudden moves."
"You're an arse, Asherton," she growled as she did as instructed. "An arse and a bloody fool to boot. There's no chance in hell you'll get away with this."
"What makes you so certain of that?"
"I've got a very good memory, for starters. I can piece the story back together and have them run it on the front page along with the extra detail about you threatening me."
"This is presuming you'll still be around in the morning to re-write it."
Ginny's spine grew rigid. "You're no killer," she said in a low voice, desperately hoping he couldn't hear the quaver of fear.
"Desperate men are capable of anything, Mrs. Potter. D'you know what it's like to lose everything? I do." He leaned close to hiss in her ear, "I don't intend to let it happen again just because some brash, mouthy tart couldn't keep her nose out of my business."
"What then, Asherton? Suppose you do... do away with me, and the story I wrote about your crap brooms never goes to print. You don't honestly think you can go about your business as if nothing's happened."
"That's because I don't plan to. You've ruined my plans, but not me. I'll simply pick up the pieces of what's left and disappear."
"You'll wha - Oh." She turned her head to the side so that his face entered her peripheral vision. "You've been picking the pockets of your 'investors,' haven't you."
"The beauty of a scheme like mine was that, after the initial outlay, there wasn't much in the way of overhead."
"I suppose not, with only a handful of employees and substandard materials bought on the cheap." She let out a derisive laugh. "That explains why I kept seeing references to the secretary of the International Magical Trading Standards body. Y'know," she continued after a pause, "one your disappearance is discovered, it won't just be Aurors looking for you. I imagine most of those investors are going to be baying for your blood."
"They can bay all they want, they'll never find me." He grabbed Ginny by the arm and lifted her to her feet. "Any more than they'll find you."
Briefly Ginny considered struggling, but then decided to wait and keep alert for a more advantageous opportunity. For the moment, at least, Asherton still had the upper hand. As she let him lead her out of the newsroom, she thought to ask, "If I'm to disappear, d'you mind telling me who your silent partner is?"
"Ludo Bagman."
"Lu -" She stopped short just as Asherton whirled around, yanking her closer and holding his wand at her throat. "Harry!" Her heart soared at the sight of her husband emerging from the shadows, his wand aimed unwaveringly at Asherton, a fierce look on his face. "Bagman? How d'you - What are you - Wh -" A muttered spell from Asherton Silenced her. She wasn't afraid, though, not with her brave, valiant Harry here.
"So where is your old dad then, eh, Asherton?" Harry asked, moving closer. Ginny gasped. "I know the goblins would love to get their hands on him. Nearly thirty years' worth of interest he owes, I imagine."
"He might have managed to pay it to, if your lovely wife here hadn't stuck her nose where it didn't belong."
"She wouldn't have had cause to if you'd not been building brooms you knew were grossly inferior, then lining a few pockets to spread misinformation about how they blew all the safety standards out of the sky." He continued his calm, relentless approach, forcing Asherton to move backwards. "How long did you reckon you could go on before people started noticing a pattern of broomstick-tail separations? How long did you think you could pretend everything was all right before someone was killed as a result of your greed?"
"Three more months would have been sufficient."
A brief look of confusion crossed Harry's face, but it didn't slow his advance. Ginny knew that sooner or later Asherton would either have to take a chance and look over his shoulder, or risk being backed against a desk. When that time came, she was prepared to act.
"Why three months?" Harry wanted to know.
"Because in three months the WASH-4s would have gone up for sale to the public, and every tosser with two Sickles to rub together and dreams of being the next Javier Vargas would've been pissing themselves to get one. And I would have been with my dad, where not even you could find me, Potter, watching the Galleons pile up."
"And the bodies? What about them?"
"They'd be your problem, not mine."
Ginny recognized the righteous fury that darkened Harry's eyes and tensed, preparing to throw herself out of the line of fire. "Now," she mouthed, willing him to look at her. "Don't mind me, do it now!"
Just as Harry raised his wand a little higher, however, Ginny felt the back of her foot connect with something. Without stopping to think what it might be, she hooked her ankle around it, forcing herself into a stumble, and grabbed on to Asherton in a feint at trying to regain her footing, throwing him off balance. The tip of his wand seared white-hot against the tender skin of her neck, causing her to grunt in pain, but she clenched her teeth against it to pull him down with her.
"Stupefy!" rang Harry's voice throughout the newsroom, and Ginny felt her ankle give way as the dead weight of Asherton's unconscious body shoved her down to the floor.
~ * ~
The newsroom at the Daily Prophet was a hive of activity. Several of Ginny's colleagues, unsure what to make of their place of business providing the next day's lead story, stood clumped together in groups of two and three, casting curious glances in Harry's direction. Asherton had already been taken away, but several Aurors remained behind, gathering evidence and awaiting further instructions from Harry; it wasn't every day that their boss' wife was also their chief witness, and they weren't certain how to proceed. The mediwitch who'd been summoned to attend to Ginny's injuries was packing up her kit as she gave Ginny instructions on caring for the wand burn on her neck, and Minister Shacklebolt was holed up with the Prophet's executive editor. None of them mattered, however, as Harry only had eyes and a care for Ginny.
"Help me stand, please?" she asked him once the mediwitch had left, lifting up her hands.
Harry hauled Ginny to her feet and didn't let go, pulling her right into his embrace and pressing his face into her hair. "Oh, Ginny," he groaned. "I --"
"I know," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I was so scared. You arrived at just the right time."
He pulled back to frame her face with his hands. "I'm so sorry about the way I was earlier. If I'd known, if I'd had any idea --"
"You still wouldn't have told me anything."
"Probably not," he admitted with a rueful grin. "But I might've warned you off."
Her smile mirrored his. "And I'd've completely ignored you and gone after the story anyway." Her warm brown eyes looked searchingly at him. "Is Ludo Bagman really Asherton's father?"
Harry nodded. "Bagman never publicly acknowledged him, of course, not even before he got into trouble with the goblins."
"Ah," she said. "One of those."
"Yeah, I reckon you're familiar with the type of situation."
"It's a hazard of life on the road and being surrounded by fans willing to do just about anything to get close to you. Fortunately I had the good sense to marry you right out of Hogwarts."
"You always were a clever one."
By way of response, Ginny drew his head down for a deep kiss. When they broke apart a few minutes later she said, "Let's go home, Harry. I'm utterly knackered. All I want to do is take a bath and go to bed."
"I think that's a brilliant idea. I'll join you; they've got the situation well in hand here." He placed his arm around her waist and led her out of the newsroom and into Diagon Alley. The puddles left behind by the spring rains reflected the light of a quarter moon that hung high above.
"Rain's finally stopped, I see," Ginny said. "'Bout time."
"Yeah." Harry drew her close for another kiss. "I think we should both take tomorrow off from work, have a lie-in, spend the day together. What d'you say to that?"
"I say I'm the luckiest witch in England." She let him take her by the hand and lead her down the alley. After a few yards, however, she stopped. "Harry?" she asked.
"Yeah?"
"How'd you make the Bagman connection anyway?"
He sighed. "You know I can't talk about an ongoing investigation, Ginny."
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