Flyboys

Harry Potter sat at a vacant desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. By all rights, he should have been on Level 10 in the Ministry's Detention Area, but his arresting officer—a woman at least five years his junior and aptly named Seize—was apparently of the opinion that breaking protocol was preferable to locking up the saviour of the wizarding world.

And perhaps it was, though there would have been fewer stares on Level 10. The lift ride from the Atrium to Level 2 had been made in unendurably tense silence, and whispers had spread in their wake as she'd walked him, handcuffed, through the department's halls. Her version of restraint at the desk was a weak Temporary Sticking Charm applied to the seat of his chair. Seize leaned over and tapped her wand against his wrists. The cuffs disappeared.

"Thanks."

She could barely meet his eyes. Embarrassed, probably, that she'd had to arrest him in the first place. He considered trying to comfort her—it was protocol, after all—but thought better of it. Further conversation might make her faint or puke.

"Well, I suppose I ought to..." Seize grinned at him, gestured with both thumbs to a nearby office, and clicked her tongue.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Er, rather, someone's gotta know you're here."

After a nervous laugh, she walked away, leaving Harry to stare at his damaged knuckles and contemplate his most recent mistake in peace.

The sound of efficient footfalls interrupted his reflection. Hermione Granger turned the corner, looking like a politician on a warpath.

Which, he supposed, was entirely accurate.

"What did you tell them?"

"Hi, Hermione. I'm fine, thanks for—"

She cut him off with an inpatient gesture. "What. Did you. Tell them."

"Nothing." Harry sighed. "They picked me up right after it happened. I'm pretty sure Seize saw the whole thing. She worked security for the match, and—"

"Not another word."

"But I can explain—"

"You don't need to explain, because they can't just arrest you for—Malfoy."

"Granger."

Harry craned to look over his shoulder. Seize had returned with her boss, who looked characteristically smug. A prickle of annoyance, weak and tired from overuse, caused Harry to bite his tongue. There was just something infinitely annoying about Draco Malfoy.

"What is Harry doing here?" Hermione asked.

"Officer Seize picked him up after the match. She said he was instigating a public riot."

Harry's brow furrowed. "I wasn't instigating—"

"And did Seize inform him of his rights?"

The young officer flushed. "Yes. Yes, ma'am," she corrected.

Draco smiled, entirely satisfied. "I believe you'll find all the appropriate protocols were followed."

"Except that you've arrested Harry bloody Potter, and it's already made the Prophet's front page!" With a twist of her wrist, Hermione pulled the latest edition from the ether, slamming it onto the desk with the shush of paper. There, on the front page, captured in slow-motion black and white, was a snarling Harry, elbow cocked back to throw a punch.

Draco tsked. "Sloppy form, Potter. We should sign you up for a self-defence course."

"His form is not the problem here." Hermione closed the distance between herself and Draco. "This is an election year, and the last thing I need—"