Running On Air

Chapter 1

A/N: Eventual Harry/Draco

The colour of the bones almost matches the summer-scorched grass pushing between the vertebrae. The ribs bend like stalks of wheat, permanently bowing to an invisible wind; the finger knuckles look like sun-bleached pebbles.

"Five or six years."

The man offers the statement without raising his eyes from the skeleton. Harry shifts restlessly under the high sun. It's too hot, he thinks, especially this late in the summer. His robes hang off him, heavy and damp with perspiration, unmoved by the slight breeze. The other man — small and bespectacled, with a neatly cropped salt-and-pepper beard — gives no indication of being affected by the heat. He wears the ivory-coloured robes of the post-mortem division and somehow, the pale colour gives the illusion of coolness and shade.

A camera clicks; the sound of the shutter echoes across the field. Both Harry and the other man turn. The photographer — a tall, broad-shouldered witch with an aristocratic nose — gives them a look.

"I've got another job at three, Butterworth," she says. The man — Butterworth — gives her an irritated look.

"I'll perform the spells, then we'll be out of your way," he says tersely. The woman waits, hand hovering impatiently over the shutter release button.

Butterworth performs the spell. Numbers waver above the skeleton, as if caught in a shimmering heat-wave. "Five years," he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice. He likes being right.

Harry shifts from one foot to another. The hair at the nape of his neck is curling damply as perspiration beads across his skin.

"Month?" Harry asks, wishing he could leave already, retreat back to the soothingly cool halls of the Ministry. Butterworth flicks his wand.

"Between January and April."

Harry sighs. Butterworth bristles.

"The longer they've been dead, the less accurate the spells are. I can't give you anything better than that."

Still...it's close enough to suit Harry's current case.

"Could be Fenwick," he says. "He went missing March 2001. Found his broom not far from here. Might be a match." He doesn't get his hopes up, though; too many failed matches have taught him caution.

"We'll get a sample and take it back to the department," Butterworth says. "Let you know in a week."

"That's short." Harry's surprised. Cold cases rarely get priority.

Butterworth shrugs. "Been a slow month. You can leave if you want. I'll collect the sample and Glassbrook here will finish photographing the scene. Rest of the team will be along soon."

"Thanks."

Harry Disapparates with a pop.

When Harry was a fresh-faced Auror, twenty years old and eyes sharp with eager enthusiasm, a white-knuckled grip on his wand and a mind clear as sunlight, he thought he knew exactly what his job was. Saving lives and saving people through tangible work: footsteps racing along alleyways and hexes darting like frightened rabbits, skin-bruising tackles and flashy counter-spells.

He was good at that part. Very good in the field. But, as his supervisors explained cautiously, he was not good at the investigative side of it.

"That's what the detectives are for," Harry had argued, and his supervisors had all swapped expressions before saying that a Head Auror — just for example — needed to have a mind carefully honed to the subtle intricacies of each case. People skills, they agreed, was what a Head Auror needed. Not just raw strength and skilled magic.