Teamwork is essential – it allows you to blame someone else. – Author Unknown

"Are you lost?"

Draco remembered when that same tone used to issue from his lips.

"Just looking for the men's room," he replied as equably as he could manage. Under the circumstances, and under the witch's scathing glare, it wasn't much.

"I'm sure there's one in your own department," she said, moving as though she wished she could block him, but didn't have the proper authority. "You know - back there? Where they keep you under guard?"

One needed to know when to pick a battle, and Draco knew that this wasn't his time. Not over restrooms, anyway.

"Right," he snapped back, just to get the last word, and spun on his heel. Witty retorts seemed to have failed him, as of late.

The new Ministry of Magic statue in the front hall (redone for the third time) now featured a bland witch and wizard smiling in harmony and in equal power with a centaur, a mermaid, and a house elf. (The goblins had requested to be left out of this new arrangement. The centaurs were still divided about the entire issue. The merpeople would never know.)

Draco Malfoy shouldn't have been noticeable against all that gold and rushing water, but he knew the signs. Knew them since his first year at Hogwarts, actually, though he hadn't minded the attention then. Craved it and sought after it, then. Here though, the shifted glances, the blank stares, the sudden frowns - he knew his status among these people, and it wasn't good.

Wouldn't have even had to go down as far as Magical Maintenance and pass by this place if it wasn't for those stares at lunch hour. The silence when he entered a busy break room was quite a deterrent. As a trainee in his department, it wasn't like they were assigned offices or desks, or even a chair (until they'd proven themselves worthy), so a working lunch was out.

Not that he wanted to eat with them, anyway. Better no company than bad company.

A quiet alcove with a bench, he'd found, suited his needs adequately.

People seemed to think that he'd been humbled, and while it was true - he'd been humbled into the dirt - few seemed to understand exactly when such had occurred. Most assumed that he'd had to reevaluate his priorities after the Dark Lord's death, when the war was won. Few knew that the moment he'd truly had to come to grips with his status in the world was far before the war got serious.

"Young Malfoy!" the high, cold voice sounded across the hall.

Draco felt the blood drain from his face, and with his aunt's hiss to stand up straight nipping at his ear, he stepped forward before the cloaked figure, his pulse beating hard in his ears. "My Lord?" he rasped, disgusted at the quaver in his voice, but unable to help it.

"Young Draco Malfoy," the voice continued, as if it were the most amusing thing in the world. "Are you of age?"

"No, my Lord."

"Scion of a disgraced line, it would seem. Well, I think I might have the right task for you to prove your manhood. Your father cannot act, but continually disgraces himself - and me - time and time again. Perhaps he did not have the proper motivation…Narcissa!"

Draco's heart dropped into his shoes. There was nothing he could do but watch as his mother stepped forward, beside him. She dared not touch him where Voldemort could see, but he felt the support in her presence.

"Come forward, Narcissa," Voldemort murmured. "Next to me - generally the part of your sister, no?"

Narcissa moved forward, and if there was hesitation in her step, Draco could not see it. As she drew near to Voldemort, he twirled his wand, ever so casually, to aim at her throat.

"Draco, I have a task for you," Voldemort said easily. "I need someone with access to Hogwarts to do this for me - and do it well. Succeed, and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest imaginations. Fail…" and here, the wand poked Narcissa's pale throat, leaving a scorch mark across her pearly skin. "…and the Malfoy line must end here. Your mother will stay here with me - insurance that you will perform with…proper motivation. I daresay this task will prove a greater test of your skills than any…what are they called now? OWLs?"

A chorus of sycophantic laughter joined the Dark Lord's shrill howl. Draco strained to hear anything over the buzzing in his ears.

Draco had known exactly what his position was in the world at that moment.

His connections with people of status were mostly gone, and he could not find it within himself to walk around the wizarding world with an apology in his step. His pride would let him take this change in status and earn what respect he could - but it would not allow him to grovel. He was what he was - this far and no further.

It was with relief that he passed through the doors into the Magical Law Enforcement Department, right into the grudging toleration of his division. He was greeted by a small man whose thick, bristly moustache and shiny bald head gave him the appearance of a friendly sea lion, pushing his way through a row of desks to reach him.

"Malfoy! Back early! That's good, I need someone to go out with me on this case!" Odo Oddsbodds bounded to his side, a dynamo of energy despite his deceptively portly stature, lime green porkpie hat perched jauntily over his bald head. "Breaking and entering at a shop in Diagon Alley! Time to put those skills to work, my boy!"

Despite his irritating habit of calling Draco "boy" or "lad," he didn't really mind Oddsbodds that much. The wizard was an accepting sort, and cared more about his work than he did about inter-office politics. There was nothing grudging about Oddsbodds, unless it was when the evidence couldn't point him in the direction of a possible suspect.

He often got the feeling that Oddsbodds regarded him as a student of more than investigations.

They were in a pub in Ottery St. Catchpole, examining the blood spatter-patterns on the rough wooden walls. The pub was oddly quiet, the air a nauseating blend of sour beer, sweat, cheap perfume, tobacco, with an nauseating undernote of vomit. An ugly brawl, he'd gathered, between a Pureblood and a Muggleborn, both of whom had endured much during the war, both of whom were now recovering in St. Mungo's. Either that or Quidditch rivalries – but really, what did it matter at this point?

Their job was to determine how the fight had happened - witness accounts seemed to be biased in favor of one or the other, with no one agreeing on the circumstances. Assault charges would be filed, undoubtedly - but who was the aggressor - and who was fighting in self-defense?

"But that's all right," Oddsbodds said, squatting down to examine the "cast-off" that had dried into a jagged dark brown spatter on the pub stool. He ran his finger across the bristles of his thick grey moustache. "We can sort it out ourselves. The evidence will speak more clearly than a room full of pub patrons claiming to have been too sloshed to see anything."

He stopped, considering the glowing dartboard, and pointed his wand at it, causing the dot of the bullseye to expand rapidly before Oddsbodds gave a lazy flick of his wrist. "Rigged. I'll inform the manager."

Draco eyed the bloody mess with distaste, taking care where he stepped and what he brushed against. Who cared who struck first? They were both idiots in his eyes. This seemed futile to him - it all looked the same color, and there was no way to be sure whose blood belonged to whom.

"We can figure out how the blood flew, sure," Draco said, squatting down next to Oddsbodds. "But where do we go from there? It all looks the same - this blood could belong to any-" he broke off suddenly, aware of what he was saying.

He risked a glance up, and saw Oddsbodds giving him a knowing glance, before holding up a sample kit.

"We take samples, and work on it in the lab, my boy," he said kindly.

Whatever beliefs he'd held about blood and status - the ones that Voldemort hadn't already shattered during those two years of terror - died that day.

"Do I need anything?" he asked, falling into step with the shorter man.

"Just your wand and your keen mind!" Oddsbodds replied blithely, as they passed through the office. A few people looked up in annoyance at his enthusiasm. Many of them veterans of the Second Wizarding War, they regarded Oddsbodds' fascination with reconstructing the scene of a crime with faint revulsion. They were the ones who actually caught the wrongdoers, after all.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco caught sight of Harry Potter, and thanked his admittedly spotty luck that he saw as little of The Boy Who Lived as was possible, given that they worked in the same department. Potter was bent over a desk, scratching notes on a map, and Draco looked away so as not to get his attention. Potter's hatred he could bear - his pity would have been intolerable. The occasional acknowledgement of the other's existence was fine – along with the knowledge that Potter would always be the Boy who Lived, never the Man. Petty, but satisfying.

Oddsbodds was just about to disapparate when Draco caught his attention. "Sir? Where in Diagon Alley are we going?"

"Dungo's Apothecary," the little man replied, and winked out with a pop like a soap bubble. Draco followed.

Hippocrates Dungo's Chemistry in Diagon Alley was not the most popular chemistry in the area. That special honor was reserved for Pedgog's Potent Potions and Bobbin's Discount Chemistry Shop. Location probably had more to do with it than anything, Draco thought, noting the shop's distance from the hub of Diagon Alley traffic. The shop's decrepit appearance couldn't help matters, either - the shop looked more like a shack than a clean and safe chemistry. There was a layer of hazy grime across the windows, a rain gutter swung listlessly from the roof, the front stoop was missing several bricks, and the thatched roof needed repairs badly, looking rather like Potter's hair on a windy day.

"Was that damage there before or after the break-in?" Draco asked, pointing up at the gutter. Oddsbodds followed his direction and peered up as well.

"Not sure…I generally go to Pedgog's, myself. That's why we ask questions!" Oddsbodds said cheerily, pausing at the stoop to compose himself before using his wand to make the door swing open ahead of them.

Stepping inside, Draco looked around for anything obviously out of place. The interior was just as dingy and depressing as the exterior, smelling faintly of menthol and damp. Most of the bottles of healing lotions and potions on the overcrowded shelves had a fine layer of dust clinging to them, dingy in the bright light of midday. The shop catered more to the ill than to those wishing to stay well, so there was a distinct lack of brightly-colored Vitalius Solutions and health potions, and an overabundance of opaque solutions with dull yellow labels. Even the rack of get-well cards looked pale and anemic in the afternoon sunlight.

Beside him, Oddsbods seemed to be having similar thoughts, judging by his poker-faced evaluation of the store. He cleared his throat gruffly. "Mr. Dungo?" he called out. "This is Investigator Oddsbodds with Magical Law Enforcement. We were called in for the report of a break-in."

There was some shuffling from the back of the store. Finally, an old wizard stepped out, hobbling forward in a stumbling walk as his threadbare green robes rippled around and tangled about his legs. He resembled nothing so much as a turtle to Draco's eyes, watery red eyes, wrinkled little neck poking out of his robes, bald head with taut sweaty skin. He stopped short, seeming to sway on his feet.

"Thank you," he wheezed. "Not sure if they've…if they've…" Dungo broke off, his gaze caught by the light on a shiny set of potion ladles.

"If they've stolen anything?" Draco finished for him impatiently. Oddsbodds shot him a look.

"Yes," Dungo said absently, his gaze still fixed on the shine.

"Perhaps you can take us to where the person or persons broke in?" Oddsbodds prompted Dungo, kindly.

"Oh! Yes." Dungo tore his gaze away from the ladles and turned around, walking back into the shop. Oddsbodds gave Draco a reproving glance, and they trailed afterward.

They reached the back of the shop, and Dungo showed them where the doorknob had been blown open. Scorch marks scarred the doorframe. Draco held up a hand to the marks, feeling the echo of anger sparking against his skin. Dark magic – though they could verify that in other ways.

"What kind of wards did you have up?" Oddsbodds said, examining the scorch marks.

"Oh, the usual…" Dungo stared off into the distance, and Draco finally got a clear look into his eyes. They were bloodshot, and so dilated they looked like black holes in his skull.

"Mr. Dungo?" he asked. "Mr. Dungo, are you all right?"

He snapped his fingers in front of the older man's face. Dungo blinked. Oddsbodds looked up, interested.

"Mr. Dungo, how many fingers am I holding up?" he asks, extending three in front of Dungo's bulbous nose.

"…six?" Dungo mumbled, as if he wasn't quite sure of the answer.

"Mr. Dungo, have you been drugged? Have you been hurt?" Draco asked, though he was pretty certain of the answer.

"I don't…"

"I think we need to get you to St. Mungo's, Mr. Dungo," Oddsbodds said briskly.

"Well, all right, then," Dungo said affably. Oddsbodds extended a hand and gripped Dungo's elbow. Draco hesitated for a fraction of a second, then followed his example, gripping the soiled robes around Dungo's elbow, and helped guide him to a sooty fireplace inside the store.

"Just a moment, Mr. Dungo. I'll Floo over with you, but I need to call someone to help Draco investigate." Draco chafed at this - he was perfectly capable of securing a crime scene and doing an initial examination - he'd worked several initial examinations solo so far during his training in the department.

Oddsbodds grasped a bit of Floo powder in one hand, knelt down before the grate, and, throwing it in, shouted "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes!" before sticking his head down into the glowing embers.

Draco scowled - he wasn't aware of any Weasley that worked in the Auror office - nor was he keen on working with any of the ginger brood.

Beside him, Dungo stared off into the distance, drooling slightly, humming what sounded like Muggle jazz.

Oddsbodds spent a few more minutes talking to someone at Wheezes, then climbed back out, brushing soot from his shoulders.

"I think I'll Side-Along with Dungo here and see if we can find out what he's been affected by," he said, turning to Draco, and taking hold of Dungo's elbow again. "I've called in the swing shift trainee to give you a hand inventorying this place. Think you may have quite a job here." Oddsbodds' gaze swung to encompass the entire overcrowded shop.

Draco fought to keep the grimace off of his face. He hated group work – absolutely detested it. As one of the better students in his year, he was highly sought after for homework help, a fact that flattered him until he realized that his work was being used by other students as their own. Malfoys didn't let anyone steal the glory that was rightly theirs.

From then on, he far preferred working by himself, or with lackeys who could pick up the busy work. Crabbe and Goyle submitted to this willingly enough until they'd had to spend a good deal of their sixth year as little girls. The Death Eaters could provide muscle to get him to the tower – everything else he'd been able to coerce or arrange to his liking. He'd chosen Investigations partly because Investigators mostly worked by themselves in the field.

"Mr. Oddsbodds, sir, who..?" Draco trailed off. "Who should I expect?"

"Miss Hermione Granger," Oddsbodds called over his shoulder. "I believe you were acquainted back at Hogwarts?"

Draco nodded jerkily. He'd forgotten that Granger was working in Investigations as well, though because she was on another shift, they rarely ran into each other. Which was as well, he thought. She seemed the type to forgive…but never to forget.

The last time he'd seen her, she was being swallowed up in the embrace of Potter and an untold number of rodent-like gingers after they had both finished up their schooling. With no one to congratulate him, he'd palmed a handful of biscuits from the refreshment tables, charmed his trunk to float after him, and sped down the path to Hogsmeade as quickly as he could move without appearing to run.

It wasn't until he'd glanced back, about to Apparate away, when he realized that this would likely be the last time he'd ever see the place.

He turned back a moment, hands gripping the hard iron gates, sliding down in a loose hold. He'd hated his time here, true. Incompetent teachers, Mudbloods, Perfect Potter, and dangerous creatures in his younger years. Orders to kill, orders to torture, and the betrayal of friends in his later years. A few moments of glory here and there – but overall, an unfortunate place to come of age in. Sometimes he wondered how he would have fared in Durmstrang.

"I'll be back as soon as I am able," Oddsbodds called behind him, leading Dungo out the door and past the wards. "Please fill Miss Granger in on the details. I think she said she'd be walking over."

"Yes, sir."

When Oddsbodds and Dungo finally disapparated, Draco let his shoulders slump, and a long sigh tore its way out of him. Just the way he'd hoped to spend his afternoon. Granger might not have deserved the Mudblood taunts he'd thrown her way during school - but she'd deserved the ones about being a bossy swot.

He wondered idly if there was a painkiller there that he could take before Granger arrived - something to stave off the headache that she would inevitably cause by claiming the case as her own.