A/N: Yes, I know. It's been 6 months and 20 days. And my beta fell into a crevasse. Anyway, here's the 18th chapter, unbeta'd -- insert generic apology for the linguistic mistakes here. Hope you will enjoy it nevertheless; I personally have no idea what to think of that chapter.

The synopsis of the story is still available at my 'Homepage' link; I've continued it with a summary of chapter 17, which I also copy and paste here:

Harry and Daphne have been living in the Isiame city for over a week now. Sao, the second-in-command of the city, treats Harry like a messiah come to finally rebuild the Isiame nation. Harry, however, is still torn between his magical origins and his newfound Isiame ones. Daphne doesn't approve or understand his reluctance. While they argue over the issue, Harry suddenly realises that many recent events -- such as the shooting of Ron, Luna and the Healer, and the way Chloe Greengrass pushed him into her sister's arms -- caused him to easily embrace the Isiame cause; the coincidence is such that he suspects they were orchestrated by Isiames to rally him to their side. When he tells her that, Daphne panics and charms him to sleep, then secretly goes to interrogate the Chief Isiame Eunice.

Later, Harry catches them in full then appears that Chloe Greengrass was working on Sao's orders when she arranged Harry and Daphne's encounter; Sao was also the one who had Harry's friends shot. Furious against both Daphne and Sao, and fearing Chloe got her information about him from Lance who had a brief liaison with her, Harry leaves the city at once to deal with his ex-colleague. On his way he has to take more instructions from the Head Auror, Robards, in the Three Broomsticks. During the meeting, Robards offhandedly tells him a story about his father James, which Harry disregards. However, remembering that he saw in his dreams James picking up the sword of the former Headmaster Pallas, he sends the waitress Romilda to ask Pallas's portrait what became of that sword.

Ever since he left the Isiame city, Harry lost his sense of touch again; he also feels sick as though he were in withdrawal.

*****************************************

Chapter Eighteen – The Black Hole

Behind his freckles Ron had always been pale, of that milky paleness characteristic of redheads. Now, he looked grey against the snow-white sheets of St Mungo’s. Even his lips were discoloured, and his freckles had the sickly look of dull-beige pockmarks. 

In contrast, the flaming red hair looked almost obscenely healthy, like a huge, flamboyant parasite starving the face of its blood supply. Far from being tangled or too long, it was neatly cut, clean, and more thoroughly combed than it had ever been when Ron was awake; it was even parted in the middle, on either side of a white, unnaturally straight line. From the moment he had laid eyes on the comatose man, Harry had been fighting the urge to reach out and rumple his hair.

“You can talk to him, you know,” Cho Chang said in that falsely cheerful voice that was peculiar to Healers. “Of course we can’t tell for sure, but it’s very probable they can hear people around them.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “I’ll call you if anything happens, okay?”

For a second, Cho’s face clearly displayed that she thought highly unlikely that anything should happen—but then it was gone, to be replaced once again by her gratingly bright smile. 

“Of course, of course,” she trilled. “Ring the silver bell on the bedside table. I’m on duty this afternoon.”

“Great. Thank you,” repeated Harry.

She didn’t insist and left the room, a somewhat disappointed expression on her face. Harry vaguely wondered what she had been expecting before shrugging it off and returning his attention to Ron’s bed.

While Luna had merely looked as though she was sleeping, Ron looked like a corpse—again, save for his hair. Remembering Cho’s recommendation, Harry tentatively called his name, before feeling utterly silly and falling silent. He let his eyes wander around the room, pensively taking in the get-well cards and fresh flowers covering every inch of the bedside table, the book lying on the floor next to the headboard—was someone reading to him aloud?—and the hundred little signs left by friends and family visiting his best friend’s bedside. 

A small pang of envy went through Harry. He knew the feeling well: he had experienced it many times in his teenage years, when Ron went back to the Burrow while he stayed at Privet Drive where the Dursleys treated him like a smelly, ugly dog that might go rabid any moment. At the same time, shame clenched his stomach. He had spent more time in that hospital than any Auror he knew, and yet he had never taken the time to visit. 

Harry leant forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, and pushed his glasses on top of his head to rub at his face with both hands. He almost wished he had not come. All he was doing was making him feel even worse; as if the fever and nausea weren’t enough. His physical condition had deteriorated a little further since he had left the Three Broomsticks in search of Lance Colman, and it showed no signs of improving any time soon. 

Harry let out a breath. He had found Lance without too much trouble, which was fortunate: the scene that had followed had been unpleasant enough on its own. In typical Lance fashion, his co-worker had chosen to answer his enquiries with sarcasms, shrugs and changes of topic. That was nearly a confession in itself, as Lance was only ever frank and straightforward when he was in a position of strength; Harry’s precise and very direct questions made him deeply uncomfortable. Within two minutes Harry was certain Lance had, indeed, babbled to Chloe Greengrass—but because of Lance’s eternal evasiveness, he had no idea how much damage had been done.

It had infuriated him. In normal circumstances he might have been able to play Lance’s game and drive him into a corner, but his physical discomfort made it hard for him to remain composed, and he had quickly lost his temper. He now suspected that was all Lance had been hoping for, given the eagerness with which he had thrown himself into the argument. Eventually Harry had stormed out of a ravaged apartment, leaving Lance lying on the floor, stunned and clutching at a broken leg. 

And now—what?

Harry released his face, roughly pulling his glasses back on his nose in a terse, aggravated gesture, and stared at Ron’s face as though he could give him the answers he needed. But for all the response he got, his best friend might as well have been carved into marble. Harry felt an absurd burst of resentment towards him, sleeping peacefully in a bed while he, Harry, was yet again supposed to struggle alone to solve everyone’s problems.

He needed a moment to force his temper back under control. It was ridiculous; Ron had not asked to be shot, in fact he had been trying to help when that had happened. And now he was the one needing Harry, not the other way around… 

Harry got to his feet, his eyes still attached to Ron’s closed ones, wishing against reason that those eyes would open and Ron would talk to him—and that he would find out that nothing had changed, that the war had never occurred, and that he was just in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, waiting for Ron to recover from a Bludger to the head. He was tired, in more senses than one, and he couldn’t even afford to rest.

“You’ll wake up soon, I’ll make sure of it,” he said to Ron, and once more, the sound of his own voice resounding in the dead room made him feel rather stupid. 

It seemed all was said. Harry threw a last, mechanical glance around the bedroom, filled with presents from Ron’s daily visitors. Then he reached down and mussed Ron’s too-neat hair.

***

Lost for ideas, Harry Apparated to the graveyard of Godric’s Hollow. He had not been there in months. More than anything else the small cemetery was a symbol of his lonely years, a place he used to go to when he felt closer to the dead than to the living. 

Now the dead haunted his thoughts again, and by a bizarre twist of fate many of them were buried where he stood. Gryffindor, slayer of Queen Cassiopeia’s servant. His mother, the last Knight of Isiames. And—

James Potter, born 27 March 1960, died 31 October 1981

And also his father.

Harry crouched next to the grave and ran a thumb over James Potter’s name. The marble was probably cold enough to burn, but of course he couldn’t feel it—not anymore. It was strange, how he hadn’t thought once of his father until Robards had brought it up. He should have been intrigued by James picking up Pallas’s sword; in fact he had been, at the time, but the Song of the Trees had barely ended that the memory had faded into the background. The idea Harry had of James Potter simply didn’t belong in the murky world of Isiames. He seemed too spontaneous, thoughtless, self-confident, happy, in other words too devoid of any mysterious quality to fit in the picture.

Harry traced the P of ‘Potter’ with a finger that the cold turned blue. Rich and loved, only child, popular at school, good student and Quidditch player; in the end, winning over his wife probably had been the only conflict James had ever had to go through. Even Voldemort’s first reign hadn’t been a conflict. The good thing about Voldemort is that he made it simple for you: either you fought him, or you joined him. You could not stay neutral. 

So Lily truly was James Potter’s only trial… A wry smile stretched Harry’s lips. That trial had been even more difficult than he originally thought, since apparently, she had got him kicked out of the Aurors’ training programme. 

Which was odd.

Robards was right: a wizard with James’s talent would not have been kicked out in a time of war, especially not for something as ridiculous as a duel for Lily’s honour. He would have been punished, yes—there were tales of rogue Aurors that found themselves posted to Greenland—but not fired. Not unless he had committed a crime… Had he killed his opponent? But no… Robards would have mentioned it…

Come to think of it, Harry couldn’t quite recall what Robards had said exactly; probably because he had been too sick and too impatient to listen. 

Well, it seemed even rash, arrogant James held his share of mystery after all… Although it remained to be seen whether his getting fired was relevant at all in the big picture. For all Harry knew it might just be an isolated fact—bizarre, but with no link whatsoever to Pallas’s sword. 

Harry’s eyes dropped to the name carved right under his father’s; a doubt suddenly froze his train of thoughts. James’s duel had been about Lily. 

He reached out again, this time brushing his fingers against his mother’s name. Was that the link he was looking for? 

The marble shone wetly wherever it had been spared by the dark-grey lichen, hard, smooth and impenetrable to Harry’s enquiring gaze; a dead stone tiredly reflecting the light of an invisible sun, bleak and white. 

 

And—purple.

Harry snatched his hand back just before a spell impacted on his mother’s name. A detonation slammed against his eardrums, his nose filled with a smell of burning rubber. With a startled gasp he jerked backwards, stumbled, fell heavily on a blanket of rotten leaves; the second purple hex flew a couple of inches over his head.

Harry rolled behind the beech tree that stood beside his parents’ grave. Wand in hand, he crouched behind the trunk and took aim—and the tree groaned and swayed as it was hit by another spell. Lumps of snow fell from its shaken branches, hitting Harry’s shoulders and head with sad, wet sounds. 

Harry angrily wiped the worst of the snow from his glasses and fired back with a simple Stunner, in what he guessed was the shooter’s direction; but before he could hear his spell make contact, a tiny pop of Disapparition was echoed by the marble graves.

Harry swore and turned on his heel again, leaning his shoulders against the tree trunk to prevent any surprises that may come from behind. He didn’t think his attacker—whoever he was—had gone away. Disapparating from one spot to re-Apparate only a short distance away was a classical tactic to destabilise an opponent.

Harry started circling the tree, always keeping his back to the trunk as he carefully scanned his surroundings; but the graveyard was absolutely motionless. Instead of relief, uneasiness settled in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t have been that easy. It never was.

He frowned as he realised he had not heard his opponent Apparate again. Was he gone for good? Or had he managed to mask the Apparating pop? No, that wasn’t possible… If he could stifle the noise, he wouldn’t have let Harry hear him Disapparate in the first place… 

He wouldn’t—unless he wanted to confuse Harry or lure him into believing the danger had gone. Have him relax his watch. 

Then hit him from a spot he wasn’t watching.

Harry glanced aside at the beech tree he leant on.

Without thinking he threw himself down. The snow around him shone purple again; another detonation rang painfully into his skull. Snow and frozen dirt exploded outwards, obscuring his vision for a couple of long, interminable seconds.

When he was able to see again he already had a shield ready—and he had not fully stood up that two hexes hit it hard in the middle, sending him a couple of staggering steps backwards. His attacker sent curse after curse from his perch in the branches of the beech tree, which stood completely still whereas the entire graveyard shook with the exchange of magical blows.

He Froze the tree, Harry thought in a remote corner of his mind. That’s why I didn’t feel it when he Apparated into it.

He had bigger worries, however, than an immobile tree. His shield was weakening under the blows, and his wand smoked in his hand as he fought to maintain his defences; they would not hold for long if the other man kept up that infernal pace. With desperate haste he dropped the shield, fired two random curses as fast as he could manage and entered the battle.

He had never seen someone fight so fast. The curses weren’t particularly dangerous in themselves, but they never stopped coming, trying to force Harry into an exclusively defensive stance he knew he couldn’t afford taking. The incantations blurred in his mind and he had trouble drawing all the required movements precisely and completely. His adversary kept the upper hand with derisory easiness while he, Harry, struggled to keep up; in such conditions there was little room left for creativity, and he tended to fall into a pattern of spells, always the same, that made him dangerously predictable.

He was aware of all that and he was starting to panic. Two zigzagging curses had missed him by an inch. His cloak was completely burnt away on one side. The ground between the tree and himself shook as coloured lights burst back and forth, crossing, colliding, exploding in showers of sparks. The air was full of the acrid scent of burnt clothes, of hissing sounds, whistles and detonations that left him with a constant buzzing in his ears. The mess of snow and dirt slowly melted into slippery mud under his feet. He wasn’t fast enough.

His opponent’s aspect only served to unnerve him further. His medium-sized figure was robed, cloaked and hooded in a bland, unremarkable grey, and he sat back against a slowly ascending branch of the beech tree in an almost nonchalant posture. His arm switched and flicked and waved without rest, his wrist bending this way and that as though absentmindedly. And still a flurry of curses came out of his wand with no discernable pattern, all precisely aiming at Harry—a static, easy target from his vantage point, desperately struggling to keep the pace.

Harry forced himself into motion, shooting then jumping back, then aside, then aside again, over the graves and behind them, in a kind of clumsy dance punctuated by the spells he fired at the beech tree. His aim went completely wild at first and the graveyard filled with the dull sound of curses impacting the marble tombs. Several hit the tree, but not a single twig did so much as quiver: the Freezing Charm was holding fast. Harry skidded to a halt and fired a Binder at his opponent’s head. The thick ropes rocketed forward, twisting and hissing like hemp-made snakes, only to be disrupted in midair as the wizard in grey cast his first shield since the beginning of the encounter. 

Gradually, a subtle change occurred between the two duellists. The fight didn’t feel so frenetic or uneven anymore. The pace hadn’t slowed at all, but Harry’s adversary was compelled to follow the young Auror’s dance across the graveyard—if only by straightening and twisting his body around—and had lost a bit of his lead. Harry, in turn, was gaining ground; his heart beat fast but steadily, his moves were more efficient and more precise, his head clearer, free of the panic he had felt earlier. He was getting into the rhythm at last.

A Blasting Curse finally shattered the charm encasing the old tree in ice, and it creaked and groaned, its branches swinging as though taken in a wild wind. The wizard in grey dodged another Binder, met a Slashing Spell with one of his own and blocked a Whirlwind with a shield—then jumped to the ground with insolent grace. He did not slow down for a second to catch his breath, firing instead two Stunners and another spell smelling of burnt rubber. Harry dived and rolled aside behind an imposing granite tomb; the two Stunners hit the stone with loud, dull noises, while the third spell chimed like a clear bell. 

“What’s that spell again—I’m sure I know it,” Harry breathed out.

A quiet snort answered him, sounding much, much closer than what he expected. Harry lifted his head and blocked an Inky-Hood at the very last second, before scrambling to his feet, a Whirlwind already shooting out of his wand.

“No way he could run this fast,” he said aloud, over the wailing sound made by his Whirlwind; for some reason, fractioned thoughts seemed to tumble from his mind to his mouth of their own accord. He added two Slashing Spells and a Confounding Charm for good measure. “Apparated.”

His opponent emitted a kind of grunt. Harry’s Confounding Charm did not seem to have any effect whatsoever on the precision and speed of his spell-casting. 

“What’s the day of the week?” the stranger suddenly asked, in a confused, absentminded tone.

Ah, so the Charm had had some effect after all.

“Wednesday,” Harry replied without thinking, then carried on with two muttered incantations; it was a few seconds before the pitch of his opponent’s voice struck him and he blurted out, “Wait a second—you’re a woman?”

His last two spells were brutally deflected and hit the ground with a detonation that shook the old graves. Two balls of fire flew roaring at his head; a powerful jet of water put one out, but the other was barely deflected and came dangerously close before crashing to the snowy ground with a hiss of vapour. Harry smelt singed hair.

“No need to get annoyed,” he said with a broad gesture. In the wake of his wand appeared a dozen of iron nails that tore through the air toward the witch in grey. “You've got a hood on. Confringo!”

A tall stone cross exploded with the strength of a small bomb, adding chips of stone to the nails hurling towards the witch’s face. It was a full minute before Harry’s ears stopped ringing.

“You always talk so much when someone’s killing you?” the witch asked.

“Always nice to know who’s trying to do you in—Avis!”

Six tiny, sharp-beaked birds shot from Harry’s wand and dived towards the witch with angry screeches.

“…Though I still have… no idea who the hell you are,” he added in two low, painfully expelled breaths, speaking more to himself than to her. 

“Believe it or not, Potter…” The witch conjured a large cage that closed around the six birds with a snapping sound. “It’s nothing personal.”

“Oh good,” Harry panted. A precisely aimed spell shattered the cage, sending the birds screeching again at the woman. “You had me worried for a minute.”

“I’m just providing a service. Nassa!”

An immense net sprang into being, wheeling around at nauseating speed as it spread in the air in front of Harry. In a flash of panic, his wand blurred into five Slashing Spells extending in all directions—and pieces of the net fell around him, uselessly grasping the ground, some of them binding tightly the little birds he had previously conjured. The smell of burnt rubber assaulted his nose again and he fired two Stunners, narrowly deflecting the purple spells.

“Ahh,” he said as they settled back in the fast-paced duel. “Hired wand.”

“Well spotted.”

“Nice… I was worried I had yet another enemy…”

The howling of another Whirlwind cut short the conversation for a minute. 

“Who’s paying you?” Harry yelled.

“Professional secrecy, Potter… I’m sure you understand…”
   
Harry fell quiet and focused on the fight; the spells they used were getting increasingly brutal, and he felt the mercenary was as eager as himself to end it all. But none of them succeeded into taking the upper hand—and Harry was tiring.

“How much?” he desperately called.

The witch’s wand slashed the air diagonally, sending two bolts of lightning speeding at him. He deflected one and ducked to avoid the other.

“My pay’s good, thanks for worrying,” she said, but there was a strained quality to her voice that hadn’t been there before. Harry had to conjure a shield to stop her next spell; if he didn’t find a way to stop the duel soon, he would lose the pace and be reduced to erect shield after shield—precisely what he had avoided at all costs since the beginning of the fight.

“That good?” he insisted.

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He saw her hand start the complex motion of a Confounding Charm and started the counter-curse at top speed, stopping her just in time.

“You hesitated,” he pressed on. “The money can’t be that good.”

“Believe me, it is. I’m not cheap,” she replied through gritted teeth.

“Prove it. How much?”

An explosion sent large chunks of marble flying toward Harry, exposing at the same time the deep hole the broken slab had protected. Harry caught every piece with an Expulsion Charm; the mercenary cried out and dived to the ground as the sharp-edged stones flew right over her head.

“Five thousand Galleons,” she yelled back.

“Double it!” Harry shouted over the noise.

The last piece of marble rebounded on the frozen ground and went to roll into a crater.

Then nothing moved again. The only sound was the two fighters’ heavy breathings and Harry’s heart hammering against his ribs.

“I’ll… double it,” Harry repeated as he struggled to catch his breath. “I have the money for it… and enough connections that no one will come investigate.”

“Not even your Head Auror?” the mercenary shot back, her wand still pointed straight at his chest.

Harry shook his head.

“Not even him.”

For a few unbearably long minutes, his proposition was met only with suspicious silence. After their furious duel the quiet was pressing on Harry’s ears like a physical presence; it was that stuffed, cotton-like silence that always went with soft snowfalls. Flakes drifted past him to land delicately on the ground, as though patiently trying to cover the damage they had done—the torn-open graves, the ground pierced with jagged-edged craters, the burnt bushes and uprooted small trees…

Then the woman in grey dropped her wand.

“You have a deal. But if you don’t pay me, I’ll have to kill you.”

“Perfect,” Harry wheezed out. “A death threat. I can live with that.”

A quiet snort came from under the grey hood. “Fine then… Well… I wouldn’t say it was a pleasure to meet you… but it was entertaining enough.”

“Yeah,” grumbled Harry, finally straightening up and turning to the ravaged graveyard. “Entertaining is the word… You’re not breathing hard at all…”

“It was a nice warm-up,” said the mercenary with an affected nonchalance that made Harry want to curse her head off. “What are you doing?”

“Repairing the damage. What does it look like? Accio!”

The largest piece of marble landed at Harry’s feet; he repaired the slab in two tired waves of his wand and Levitated it back over the open grave.

“Why?” said the witch.

“Don’t think the dead deserve a little peace?”

“No. They’re dead. Bags of bones.”

“Figured. Don’t get in my way then.”

The mercenary snorted again. “I won’t get in your way unless you fail to pay, Potter. I’ll just give you a Gringotts account and I’ll be gone.”

“Just like that?” Harry said, incredulous. “I pay you ten thousand Galleons for—”

“—not killing you,” she completed. “You’re a fair fighter, but you’re a baby. You’d have gotten tired. Made a mistake. I’ve been fighting for years, you can’t win against me.”

“Wait—”

“You’re more fun than my previous employer though, so I sincerely wish I don’t have to visit again. Pay on time.”

“Hold on,” Harry snapped. “What would you say to fifteen thousand Galleons?”

She tensed immediately; Harry could almost feel her suspicious gaze piercing him through the narrow slit of her hood.

“You can’t pay that much,” she said. “I accepted your first offer because I know you’ve got some money, but even you don’t have that much. Don’t try to mess with me.”

“I never said I’d be the one to pay all of it,” said Harry. “I’ll give you ten thousand Galleons, and your first employer can give you the five others.”

“The five thousands were for bringing you back to her place for a fun séance of questioning, Potter. You’re begging for a Cruciatus Curse?”

So it was a woman.

“Not really,” he admitted. “But what if you brought me back to her and got your money, but—ah—forgot to take away my wand?”

“That’s—” 

She paused. Harry held his breath.

“—not ethical at all. But rather tempting.”

Harry fought not to snort as the hired killer mentioned her ethics, but did not quite succeed.

“Don’t mock, kid, I can still change my mind,” the mercenary snapped. “Now if you’ve finished playing in the dirt, we can go. I don’t have all day.”

***

One thing was certain: in terms of paranoia, the hired wand could have given Madeye Moody lessons. She insisted on Apparating to various locations all over the country in case Aurors would have gotten the chance to ‘tag’ them—and while Harry could only admire her caution, he persisted in thinking appearing in the middle of a stinking swamp was entirely superfluous. By the time they finally reached their destination, he was aggravated enough to wonder if he shouldn’t have just let her win. It would have been faster and much more efficient, not to mention considerably cheaper.

His annoyance flew out of his mind as he looked round to see the dark, haughty form of Malfoy Manor silhouetted against the blank sky. 

He needed a few seconds to realise what that meant; truth was, with everything that had happened, he had completely forgotten Narcissa Malfoy wanted him dead. 

Two fingers snapped under his nose. “Wake up,” the mercenary said. “Hide your wand wherever you want and cross your wrists behind your back.”

Harry threw her a look.

“You came up with that deal,” the woman pointed out. “So now, you can either trust me or walk away.”

“Well, I know what I wanted to know,” said Harry, nodding towards the manor. “And things aren’t as complicated as they could’ve been. If you don’t want to take any more risks, you can walk away now, and you’ll still get the ten thousands.”

“You’re going to try and get in there?”

“None of your business anymore.”

“Yes, it is.” The mercenary rolled her eyes. “If you get in there, you have a good chance of getting yourself killed. And I won’t get paid by either party. So pay up now, and I’ll go.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Harry said tensely.

“Then you’re stuck with me.” She looked him up and down coolly, as though appraising him. “I’ll make sure you come out of it alive. And I’ll collect my fifteen thousands.”

Harry wiped the sweat off his brow with a slightly trembling hand. The adrenaline rush of the duel had dissipated and he was back to feeling nauseous and feverish. The longing for the Isiame city came back, so strong that he nearly considered taking the mercenary to his vault there and then, leaving Narcissa to her fate. And then he could go back where he belonged. Did he really fear a simple witch? He wasn’t of her kind; he was much more than a wizard, after all.

He blinked, stunned at his own thought. It sounded jarring—going against everything he’d ever believed—like a foreign body someone had slipped inside his head. More than a wizard? Only minutes ago, he had nearly been overcome by a witch in a fair duel… It was more than stupid, it was dangerously arrogant. What was more, the phrase stirred something in his memory that he didn’t like. Something indistinct, ugly and rotten. 

Harry’s heart quickened in sudden, unreasoned fear. He was losing his mind.

“Fast, Potter,” the mercenary said.

She was right; his nostalgia for the Isiame city was starting to cloud his judgement. There was no time to waste.

Harry slid his wand up his left sleeve, sticking the tip of it between two folded fingers. When he had put his hands behind his back, his right wrist covering his left to hide the visible part of his wand, the mercenary pressed the tip of her wand into his chest; he squeezed his eyes shut.

The spell cracked like a whip against his ears. He just hoped this wasn’t the biggest mistake of his life.

***

The air smelt of wood smoke.

His feet didn’t touch the floor. Nor did any part of his body. 

“I expected you to come back sooner.”

“He’s an Auror. I made sure he wasn’t tagged before I took him back here. It takes some time.”

His neck was bent, his chin resting on his chest. His entire body hung limp.

“Did he put up a fight?”

“Yes.”

A Mobilicorpus… He expected as much, but it made things more difficult.

“Neither of you seem too beaten-up though.”

“You wanted him in one piece, if I remember correctly. Now pay me, and I’ll be on my way.”

There was a pause.

“On the mantelpiece.”

Footsteps edged away. Gold chinked.

“Are you going to count them?” sniffed Narcissa Malfoy’s haughty voice. 

There was no answer. Harry opened his eyes a fraction: a darkened room swam into view, its details blurred by the curtain of his own eyelashes. The only light came from the chimney where a fire died down. A heavy armchair was silhouetted against the reddish glow, and in it sat Narcissa Malfoy, pale and blonde, a clear spot against the dark fabric.  The grey form of the hired wand faced her, barely three feet from Harry’s hanging body. 

The mercenary was holding something, and from the chinking sounds that reached Harry’s ears, she was indeed counting the gold. Harry carefully tested the bond around his wrists; he had barely pulled on it that he felt it loosen. A wave of relief rose to his head, nearly making him dizzy. The mercenary had been true to her word. 

“Are you finished?” Narcissa snapped.

“Yes.”

“Good. You know the way out.”

The grey spot in Harry’s vision drifted away until he couldn’t see it anymore. Then Narcissa’s pale figure rose and drew closer to him. Harry tensed.

“Wait a second,” Narcissa suddenly called towards the door, startling Harry rather badly. “Is he Stunned?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Close the door on your way out.” 

The door shut. Harry heard the mercenary’s footsteps resounding further and further away—but there was something wrong about the sound, something forged, and he had no doubt she was still standing guard behind the door; making sure he survived to pay his debt. 

Narcissa’s white face slid back into his field of vision. She moved slowly, cautiously, and although his mostly-closed lids did not allow him to see the details of her face, he thought he could feel her stare, wide and intense, devouring him. She took several deep breaths; Harry could practically taste her anticipation. As though in answer, his own heartbeat picked up, the muscles in his back tensing uselessly against the Mobilicorpus. 

“Well,” she murmured, standing very, very close to him. He could smell her perfume, makeup, and hair-potion all at once. “I think it’s time for someone to pay…”

Harry’s stomach clenched tightly as he felt himself drop; without thinking he brought his hands in front of him and folded his knees, managing to control his fall into a roll. The floor trembled under his weight. Narcissa’s shocked scream rang, high and shrill, into his ears. In a second he had whipped his wand towards her—then his own voice exploded, high and tense and much louder than himself expected—

“Expelliarmus!”

The world settled again around him. 

He crouched, unharmed, on a rich carpet covering the floor of what looked like a small tea room. His wand was held before him and pointed at Narcissa Malfoy, who had slumped against the far wall in a heap of purple silk and blonde hair; he spotted her wand lying on the floor on the other side of the room. There was no sound at all except his own ragged breathing and the wild beating of his heart. 

Harry cautiously straightened up and, after hesitating for a second, conjured thick ropes that coiled around Narcissa’s ankles and wrists. The action did him some good: he felt he was in control of the situation at last. 

He drew a long breath to calm down and glanced around him in search of the exit. A tapestry-covered door was ajar near the corner closest to Narcissa; if he oriented correctly, the mercenary had walked out that door—and was most likely waiting outside. She would know the way out… However, whether it was due to his lingering nervousness or to the claustrophobic feeling he got from standing in that darkened, stuffy room, the idea of putting his life between the mercenary’s hands again was repugnant to Harry. He had to get ahead of her somehow, and that meant having a plan B. But there was no window in the room and he didn’t trust the chimney to take him to the roof.

A flutter of tapestry caught his eye. Keeping his wand trained on the door, just in case, he backed away until his back hit the wall and scanned the room for an opening. 

And for the first time, behind an armchair that had at first hidden it from view, he saw a hole. It was a black hole opened half into the wall and half into the floor, large enough to let a grown man through. Although Harry couldn’t feel it, the blackness seemed icy-cold, a cold that oozed out of the hole and invaded the room like mould. It attracted him, like a giant mouth sucking in everything around it.

A soft groan made him snap out of his morbid fascination. Narcissa Malfoy was shifting on the floor, struggling uselessly against her bonds and attempting to push her hair out of her eyes. 

Harry suddenly realised he had no idea what he wanted to do with her. Neutralise her, this was certain—he didn’t need more hired killers on his back at the moment—but how? He doubted he could talk her out of it; locking her up quietly in a safe place would be difficult, as she had too many connections, including within the Ministry itself; and given half the Ministry was out to get him, it was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take. 

Could he kill her?

No. 

He was surprised himself at the force of his reaction. There was no reasoning behind it, not even a resurgence of his battered morals, just a pure reflex of rejection. He wouldn’t kill that woman; not like that, in cold blood and in this dark little room, with this gaping hole ready to swallow corpses that would need to be disposed of. 

The mental picture conjured by these thoughts brought his heart to his lips. With an effort of will he shoved the sinister idea to the very back of his mind, lifted his wand, and brought it into alignment with the blonde head. 

She was blinking now, her pale eyes staring up at him, her features blank. He didn’t say anything. He waited until comprehension dawned on her face, followed, briefly, by rage; then defeat.

“You’ve got me here, Potter,” she said. “So kill me.”

Harry silently shook his head.

“You didn’t have so many scruples for my son,” she spat. “Or my husband.” 

“I had no choice,” Harry said. He shook his head again to clear it. He felt sicker than ever.

“I’m not giving you any either. Kill me now, or I’ll have you dead. Today if I can manage it, or in a month, or ten years from now. I will never rest until either of us is buried. Kill me, Potter.” Her mouth twisted in an ugly grimace; rage came back, bringing a harsh glint to her eyes. “What’s the matter? The great hero of the wizarding world hesitates? What’s your problem, Potter—is it that I’m a woman? Why won’t you kill me? Why won’t you end it?”

She struggled more forcibly against her bonds. Her features were distorted, her eternal haughtiness shattered, and the only thing left behind was a woman wild with animalistic fury. Harry’s mind was numb. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t look away from her face—and although he could not remember consciously wanting to do so, he felt himself take a step back. Then another. 

He couldn’t break from the feverish haze. He felt as powerless as in a nightmare. He was losing his mind.

A sound reached to him from far away, another world, another life… A soft, musical chiming sound, so very familiar yet so absurdly strange—a doorbell.

Narcissa threw her head back and laughed, a laughter that sounded like sobs, as desperate and insane as Harry felt. “My guests are here, Potter—I was going to kill you myself, then have dinner with the most famous wizards and witches of our society while your corpse rotted under our feet! And I was going to enjoy every bite of that dinner!”

The doorbell rang again, Narcissa gave a wordless scream in answer, and Harry felt himself backing off. His legs moved of their own accord, his brain was frozen in a stupor, unable to stop him. Narcissa’s struggling form edged away. 

His right heel met the void of the black hole and he swayed, then stilled.

He felt hot and hazy, and as seconds ticked by the world seemed dreamier and more unreal than ever; by now the main thing he was aware of was the void behind him. It exerted on him the same odd attraction he’d often felt when walking across bridges or leaning over a tower parapet. But through the mist and confusion his brain had managed to process something—there was death in that hole!

His robes were taken in the draught and fluttered about him. Something very deep inside of him started screaming in raging determination, refusing to yield to the pull of gravity. Harry’s left arm swung aside and slapped the wall next to him, desperately grasping at the tapestry covering it. 

At the far wall, the door slammed open and the witch in grey burst in, her face grim and her wand held out. She glanced almost distractedly at the screaming Narcissa then looked up to where Harry stood on the edge of the hole; her eyes widened.

Malfoy Manor exploded.

A deflagration louder than anything Harry had ever heard tore the air in halves. The floor rose and undulated under Harry’s feet; he lost his footing and fell backwards.

He fell like a stone into the hungry blackness of the hole. The air was full of screams and explosions, of the rumble of centuries-old walls collapsing, and the growl of fire—fire that was starting to paint the darkness in glowing reds and yellows.

It lasted only a few seconds, before he hit water feet-first with a great splash and it all went quiet and dark again. 

Water.

He was sinking into water. 

The fall—the water—this was Malfoy’s tower, the old tower in which Lance and Harry had fallen once, and where Draco Malfoy himself had met his death.

He was drowning.

Harry’s eyes shot open again. He was drowning. He needed to breathe. His survival instinct crushed the nightmare-filled madness, leaving nothing but the urge to act, to look for air. He swung his arms wildly, fighting the gentle pull of the water, his eyes lifted towards the dim red-gold glow over his head. Air—there was air to be found up there. 

A full minute of frantic swimming went by before he felt his hand pierce the surface; next second he emerged and sucked in an avid breath.

The inside of the tower was alit with the fires ravaging Malfoy Manor. Flames escaped in short bursts from narrow openings in the circular wall—including, most likely, the hole Harry had fallen from. Great chunks of the wall had been blown off, letting out rains of ashes and columns of black smoke that coiled up the neck of the tower. As Harry watched a gust of wind parted the smoke, revealing the roof; it was ablaze.

Harry moved his arms and legs to keep himself afloat. His situation was difficult but not desperate; granted, being trapped in a burning manor was not the best situation in the world, but on the upside he appeared to be in the only place within the manor where the air was still breathable. Nevertheless, the faster he’d get out of there…

He looked round and spotted the small jetty on which he had killed Malfoy, three months before. If he recalled correctly a passage opened in the wall behind it and led up to the courtyard—the only difficulty was to find it. 

He had barely started to swim towards the jetty when a great crack made him look up sharply. The black smoke parted again to let through an enormous beam, swirling and burning as it fell, casting a new, bright light on the dark and dampened walls. Harry dived out of the way.

The beam fell into the water with a loud hiss of vapour; waves from the point of impact threw Harry against the wall, further away from the jetty. He managed to resurface and reflexively looked up—only to see the rest of the roof falling towards him at vertiginous speed, huge masses of flame and smoke hissing and roaring as they dived, leaving no way to escape. 

He heard himself scream, and felt his wand vibrate. The wall of the tower was blown outwards. He saw a patch of white sky.

Then the water rose to meet the fire.

 

A gigantic wave formed itself out of the still water and hit the burning beams, generating torrents of vapour that rose in the air with a piercing hiss. Harry shielded his eyes with one arm. He felt the backwash when the roof finally fell into the water; a second later his shoulder collided with a stone wall.

He opened his eyes. The air was full of vapour and ashes, but a new light fell on the tormented surface of the water, revealing various things, and bits of things, that floated there. His spell had pierced a new opening in the wall of the tower some ten feet above him, where apparently the ground level was. He waved his wand as precisely as he could while painstakingly maintaining himself afloat. A thin cord shot from his wand and fastened itself to the jagged edge of the opening. 

“Someone’s in there!”

The man’s voice so unexpectedly burst into the tower that Harry nearly let go of the rope. There was the sound of hurried feet, then a tall, square figure in the Aurors’ red robes framed itself in the opening. 

“Hey there!” he shouted. “Need help?”

“No, I’m fine!” Harry shouted back. 

“Hold on, I’m gonna Levitate you! Don’t move!”

“Why ask if I need help if you’re going to help me anyway,” Harry muttered. He had half a mind to counter the man’s Charm and climb by himself, but wrote it off as a bad idea. The last thing he needed now was another antagonist.

The Auror’s Levitating Charm wasn’t anything fancy—Harry jerked around a little on his way up—but it had the advantage of doing the job without shoving him into the torrents of vapour still arising from the water. Harry finally landed clumsily on the solid ground, lost his balance and fell. Nothing fancy, indeed.

“You all right?” the Auror asked, sounding considerably relieved his Charm had worked. 

Harry nodded distractedly while casting a look around. His spell had blown a huge hole into the side of the tower, spraying the neat lawn of the manor with chunks of stone. The white winter sky was veiled by thick clouds of smoke that coiled up from the manor. From what he could see, half of the building had been blown to bits by the explosion, and the rest was on fire. He glimpsed at a bloodied body wearing black robes on the lawn, among the rubble, before the smoke rolled before it and hid it again from view.

The Auror chose that moment to practically below in his ear, “Hey, you’re sure you’re okay?”  

Harry started and instinctively leant back. “Yes, thank you,” he said; surprise made his tone scathing. The Auror looked a bit vexed.

“You weren’t answering,” he explained. “I asked you what your name was.”

“Hhng. Help me up,” Harry grunted, holding out one hand. 

It had finally occurred to him what the man’s presence meant. The explosion had been huge. Doubtless a full patrol of Aurors had rushed in to investigate. If he was identified… Well, he still wasn’t sure the Aurors had received instructions to arrest him, but he’d rather not take the risk.

The Auror wasn’t anyone Harry knew, but he looked young and nervous, although he did his best to hide it. After a second of hesitation he seemed to decide that Harry wasn’t a threat to him and seized his hand.

“Wait—whoa!” the Auror blurted out, snatching his hand back. “Your hand!”

“What—” Harry’s voice died away as he reflexively turned his hand to look at it. All over the fingers, palm and forearm, the skin was raw and bright red.

“You don’t feel anything?” the Auror asked, in a voice that climbed an octave in panic.

Harry stared at his burnt hand and arm. The vapour…

“But if you don’t feel pain, it’s a bad sign, isn’t it? Damn it, I… Look, stay there, don’t move, okay? There might be more burns. I’ll get a Healer, okay? Okay?”

Harry looked up. The young man’s eyes darted in all directions, as though he hoped he could call over a Healer without having to leave Harry alone. His weight kept shifting from one leg to the other.

“Hey,” Harry said.

 

“There must be one around. It won’t take long.”

“Who’s your head of patrol?” asked Harry patiently.

The Auror looked at him again; his panicked expression ebbed away as he frowned pensively.

“Auror Tonks,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s likely your head of patrol knows how to deal with first or even second-degree burns. The Healer’s probably busy with people who need their care more than I do.”

“That… makes sense…” The young man’s frown deepened. “You from the Ministry?”

“I worked there for a while,” Harry said shortly. “Look, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I’ve got a whole arm burnt. Could you…?”

“Oh. Sure.” The Auror threw him a last thoughtful look. “Don’t move, I’ll get her.”

Harry had no intention to move. He was emotionally and physically drained out. He recalled these moments in Malfoy Manor when he had—gone insane, in fact. It had been as though every feeling he ever had, every primal reaction had suddenly overcome their normal boundaries; he had reacted to his surroundings ten times more intensely than usual. His reason, his ability to think and take decisions, had been drowned in that weird emotional flow. 

In short, for a few moments he had been one big sounding box for sensations. It had taken a fall into a well to tear him out of that state.

These crazy instants had coincided with a peak in his physical illness. Right before he fell, up in Narcissa Malfoy’s small tea room, he had barely been able to stand; whereas now… He didn’t know if it was connected to his going through icy water, but he no longer felt so feverish and the nausea had left him. 

He wearily took off his glasses to rub at his eyes. He needed to go back to the Isiame city. There, at least, he would be able to think again without having to dread another delirium.

Harry put his glasses back on his nose and looked round with a kind of tired determination. The faster he’d be done here, the better. He would have taken off already, but the young Auror had seen him and would know he had fled; maybe he would even recognise him when the panic wore off. Moreover, Harry was a bit worried about the burns. They were the one injury he didn’t know how to deal with. He’d never quite mastered the technique. 

He was lucky Tonks was the head of patrol. The reason he’d asked for the commanding Auror was that he hoped he would know them; if so, it would be much easier to talk them into taking him to Robards. Tonks, however, was unhoped-for.

He soon spotted her walking briskly through the rubble, the rookie who had taken him out of the tower trotting at her side; he caught her gaze and shook his head ever so slightly. He saw her expression change. For a second he was afraid she hadn’t seen his signal—or worse, that she had seen it but would decide to reveal his identity anyway, in all innocence. 

She halted and sent the rookie off with a few orders. Then she turned on the spot, met Harry’s eyes again, squared her shoulders and resumed her walk at a slower pace. It looked as though she was trying to make up her mind. Harry crossed his fingers into his lap.

She reached his side and crouched so her face was level with his. Her hair was the mousy-brown colour Harry associated with her depressed moments, and she had carefully smoothed her expression into a neutral mask. For the first time Harry felt a twinge of concern. Tonks rarely bothered to hide what she was feeling.

“Well, here you are,” she said, in a monotonous voice that perfectly matched her lack of expression. Harry’s feeling of malaise redoubled.

“Hello, Tonks.”

“Care to explain what this mess is?” She jerked her head towards the smoking ruins.

“I could, but it’d take a while. Listen, you need to call Robards.”

“The Chief? Why—”

“He sent me on a mission,” Harry said in an urgent whisper—why wasn’t she more reactive? “Unofficial. That’s how I got in trouble with the ninth floor—”

“Your trouble isn’t limited to the ninth floor,” Tonks interrupted. “Technically, I should arrest you on direct orders from the Minister.”

“Look, Tonks—”

“Shut up. Unless you can explain to me how Hermione found herself in St. Mungo’s thanks to a spell coming from your wand.”

Harry fell quiet. Tonks’s self-control had slipped a little when she had said Hermione’s name, her voice now vibrated with anger. He took the blow. 

He should have expected it. He hadn’t seen her in months after all, who knew what she had heard about him, what she’d deduced… Her reaction didn’t please him in any way, though he could hardly blame her for it; however it still reassured him, bizarrely. Her apparent lack of feeling had made her look like a stranger. On the other hand, he could deal with an angry Tonks. 

He held out his right arm.

“Can you do something about this? Please?” he said.

Tonks glared at him. Seconds flew by as they silently looked at each other, and Harry fought not to squirm on the spot. He was feeling sick again. 

“You look like crap,” Tonks spat. But she gingerly took his arm and processed to heal it all the same. Harry sighed in relief.

“Would you have asked Hermione that question if I had ended up in St. Mungo’s?” he asked as she worked.

“Don’t try to turn the issue around. Of course I would’ve.”

“That’s good to know. Because—and I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me—that’s exactly what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been faster than her.”

Tonks reached inside her scarlet robes and took out a pot of glass, half-full of an orange substance. She stuck her tongue between her lips as she carefully unscrewed the glass lid.

“Tonks, Hermione and I are investigating the same subject, and because of the ninth-floor’s stand—”

“Stop moving.” Tonks spread the thick orange paste across Harry’s forearm and palm, then meticulously coated each of his fingers in it. “Been doing that ever since I got here, and three are dead anyway,” she muttered irritably. 

“What kind of bomb do you reckon it was?” asked Harry, distracted for a second from his own worries. “Looks like it blasted half the manor away and set fire to the rest.”

“Sticky-Fire bomb, probably.” Tonks wiped her eyes on the inside of her arm, both of her hands being covered in orange paste. “It killed pretty much everyone in the Manor. When Ackerley came to find me, I was just digging up the pieces of Narcissa Malfoy.”

Harry’s stomach turned over.

“I was in the same room as her when the bomb went off,” he murmured. “The floor rose then tore like paper. I’d never seen an explosion that powerful.”

Tonks looked up at him sharply. “How on earth did you survive it?”

“Got thrown through a kind of large window into the tower there…” Harry waved at the disembowelled tower with his free arm. “It was their way of discreetly getting rid of stuff they didn’t want other people to find. Like corpses, probably.”

“You were incredibly lucky.”

“Often am,” Harry said with a weak smile. Tonks didn’t smile back.

“Hey,” Harry said tensely. A sudden thought tied his stomach into tight knots. “You’re not thinking I put the bomb there, right?”

Tonks wiped her hands on the grass; her eyes shunned his. “It—doesn’t sound like anything you’d do,” she finally admitted. “But neither does putting Hermione in St. Mungo’s.”

“Tonks—” Harry abruptly cut off and shut his eyes as the ground pitched and tossed around him. All of sudden the stench of burning became unbearable; bile rose up his throat. He swallowed with difficulty.

“You really do look like crap,” said Tonks’s voice.

“I’m sick,” he croaked out. He reopened his eyes to see his surroundings had more or less stabilised; Tonks’s pale face stood out, still angry, but also confused. Harry even thought he saw concern for him in her gaze, but wondered if it wasn’t only because he desperately wished to see it there. 

“It’s still me,” Harry said in a low, suppliant voice. “I haven’t changed. Look, I can explain everything I did—and when the time comes I can set everything right again. But I have no time now; I need to see Robards before the ninth-floor gets me. It’s important.”

Tonks stared at him with a frown on her face. 

“I know everything I did lately sounds insane,” Harry insisted. “But there’s a point to it. And I’m the only one able to do it, but I can’t do anything from a Ministry cell…”

“Auror Tonks!”

Tonks pivoted on one knee to look behind her. “What?” she called back. 

“We need your help here!”

“Tonks, please,” Harry whispered quickly. “Trust me.”

She rose to her feet, her back to him. “Find Ackerley and take him there!” she shouted. “I’ll be with you in a minute!”

She turned back to Harry, grabbed his arm and pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off. “You’re going to take my Portkey home,” she said, her face inches from his. “You’ll wait for me there. I’ll join you after we’re done here, and we can have a longer conversation.”

She stuck a small object into his valid hand. “It’ll set off in ten seconds.” She looked at him enquiringly. “Can I trust you to do exactly what I said?”

A last chance, thought Harry. She was giving him a last chance. 

He closed his hand around the object and nodded.

Tonks nodded back at him without smiling. She was still staring at him when the familiar hook grabbed Harry behind his navel and the world dissolved in a swirl of colours. 

****************

A/N2: Special thanks to the DLP crowd, especially nuhuh (as usual) and Perspicacity; and ParseltonguePhoenix and JWH. And also Vlad. Sree participated and was strangely unhelpful, I expect he knows this already. I also have to mention Yarrgh from outside the DLP crowd, even though he probably doesn't even remember helping me out since it happened sometime in 2008.