Disclaimer: Chances are if you missed the disclaimer in the first chapter, you’re skimming this fic and probably missing more of the story than you think.
Chapter Ten
La Marche des Sans Nom
Connor Blackwood was the kind of man who wasn’t above using his physical presence to intimidate people.
Being 6’5 and over fourteen stone worth of hard-earned muscle, Connor presented a handsome and imposing figure to people more used to respecting magical power than physical power. Most wizards, being both lazy and vain, were particularly susceptible to Connor’s brand of intimidation and he well employed that in his surroundings. In sharp contrast to Shorner’s crowded office, Connor’s was spacious and attractively arranged, dominated by a large opulent desk behind which were a series of wall-to-ceiling windows. It gave the impression to the viewer that Connor was some sort of benevolent deity, fearsome in his wrath and gentle in his assurances, backlit by scenes straight from the mythical Eden of religious conviction. Shorner, being well versed in Muggle art and culture, knew that Connor had ripped the idea straight off of Da Vinci’s Last Supper.
In short, Connor Blackwood was a dick. Not that this was news to anyone, but Shorner’s vague thoughts of this meeting ending in a bloodbath began to feel like a sobering premonition. Or at least it might have, had the whole thing not been so damn ridiculous. Two alpha males in one room and suddenly everything was a testosterone-fuelled contest of wills. Shorner resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Playing the insidious demon to Connor’s munificent godhood, Harry stood in the middle of the room; feet braced wide, hands held behind his back, dressed in unmarked black fatigues, a slight curl to his lips which could be anything from derision to amusement. Instead of softening his features, the light threw him into harsh relief, eyes glowing a vivid optic green beneath heavy lids, lending a sinister aspect to his normally mischievous smirk.
Shorner knew the expression to be a bluff. It was his game-face, the one that said ‘Do your worst’. He was coming to understand that it was an unconscious move on Harry’s part, this reaction of seemingly total fearlessness towards the world.
It was also one of Harry’s few tells of nervousness and anxiety. Shorner hadn’t spent four years as an agent profiler for nothing.
From his corner of the room, he could sense Connor’s rising discomfort and felt vaguely amused by its source. It was not that he thought Harry was de-fanged by the legalizing of his actions or by him sharing a very intimate, very agonizing part of his life’s history – not in the slightest. He did, however, believe Harry to be a far more rational individual than what Connor was making him out to be. He was a veteran field agent, not a half-crazed Azkaban escapee.
Harry tilted his head. Connor folded his arms. Harry shifted in place. Connor chewed the inside of his cheek. The staring contest continued.
Shorner smothered a smile at the downright comical picture the two of them made. If it walks like a cliché, talks like a cliché, then it probably was a cliché. But the notion fit; he almost expected tumbleweeds to roll across the floor, a spaghetti western tune playing in the background while Connor drawled on about ‘this town not being big enough for the two of them’. He puckered his lips to whistle the theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly before he caught himself.
“You are Hadrian James Sharr, 28 years old, born on November 16, 1965 to Artimis Sharr and Bree Verall?” Connor inquired, breaking the silence. A lesser man might have thought Connor had won the contest by the smug expression and the authoritative tone in his words. Shorner knew better.
Harry didn’t even blink. “Yes sir,” he replied.
“You don’t look anywhere near thirteen or twenty-eight.”
“Experimental Magics cooked up an aging potion with an extremely slow molecular breakdown. I don’t know how they created it and considering what it tasted like, I’m not sure I want to. My guess is that with the added hormones as I get ‘older’, it fucks with its alkalinity levels, speeding the process up a notch. Makes it a bitch to keep track of my reflexes.”
Connor flipped a page in Harry’s file and glanced over at Shorner. “An aging potion? That’s all?”
Shorner shrugged. “The simple solutions are usually the best. Less that can go wrong.”
“I gather that’s all I’m going to get out of you,” he replied dryly, the old joke between Experimental Magics and their field counterparts popping up once more.
He quirked a smile at that. “Sorry, Connor. Against company policy.”
Connor hummed deep in his throat, turning his attention back to Harry. “It says here you are also a dark magic sorcerer and as being well versed in Animation and few other esoteric arts. I found no records of you attending Hogwarts or any other establishment. In addition to your training with Special Forces, where did your education come from?” He was digging for something, but Shorner wasn’t sure what he was looking for. It sparked a nervous twinge inside of him before he reminded himself that Harry’s real story was far more improbable and fantastical than the tale they had spun together.
“A little here, a little there. Some of it I learned from my sister and a few of her acquaintances, but most I picked up on my own. Figured out what worked and what didn’t and in those days, it wasn’t very hard to find practical applications. There was always Death Eater scum lurking in the background,” Harry said breezily, something dangerous glittering in his eyes as he calmly wove together truth and fiction. “Considering how many ‘disappeared’ and were never accounted for in the first place, I don’t think you’ve missed them a whole lot.”
Connor’s jaw tightened in annoyance. “How did you kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”
“I didn’t.”
Shorner gritted his teeth and sank into the chair at the back of the room. ‘Leave it to Harry to fuck with his chances of getting away with murder.’
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, just how badly do you think that went?” Harry asked cheerfully.
Shorner smacked Harry across the back of his head as they walked through the brightly lit hallway.
“I’ll go out on a limb and say that was a good 8.5.”
“If you ever try that again, I’ll be the one to put the final nail in your coffin. Tread carefully around here, Harry. You’re not the only one who will go down if this thing falls to pieces.”
The dark haired man glanced over at him, thin crescents of luminescent green studying Shorner from the corners of his eyes. “Why are you so worried about Blackwood?” he queried, waiting for a group of chattering employees decked out in the dark navy of Field Surveillance to pass in the other direction. “What do you know that I don’t?”
Shorner stopped walking. “For all your savvy, Harry, I’m surprised you can’t see it.”
Harry turned and faced Shorner, face unreadable.
“He fears you. It’s as simple as that. He fears for his position, he fears for retribution and he fears your name. You carry a lot of weight, political and otherwise. And Connor has far too many skeletons in his closet to sleep well while you are around,” Shorner licked his lips. “It probably doesn’t help that you also put his second in command into the permanent residence ward at St. Mungo’s.”
Harry laughed under his breath and it was a humourless sound of something like a snake’s hiss. “Considering that Crevan was part of the reason why Blackwood ended up having to eat baby food for the rest of his life, I thought it was a fitting end.”
He choked on the words bubbling in his throat, feeling broadsided in the face of Harry’s revelation. “What? No, just no. Crevan’s an easy-going bloke. He’s been friends with Connor for years, since they both began working here. I may not like him that much, but that doesn’t sound like him. He couldn’t have done that by his own volition.”
Harry looked away, expression tight and brittle around the edges. “I’m sorry, Archie. I wish I had something other than bad news for you,” he said with no trace of the smug confidence he’d worn in front of Connor Blackwood. “War changes people. And it doesn’t bring out our best qualities.”
“Are you sure he would have done the same thing this time around?” The question slipped out of his mouth before he could fully understand its ramifications.
“No, but now I know for sure,” Harry replied unabashedly. “Admittedly, Blackwood was a bit of a joke in my time. But he apparently kept things running smooth around here, and when he took a sudden retirement to the St. Mungo’s vegetable ward, it started a cascading series of disasters. I’m fairly sure that Scrimgeour’s rise to absolute power came out of that whole crisis.”
None of this felt right. None of it was right. It was killing the criminal before he even committed the crime and there was no integrity in that. He wasn’t stupid enough though to believe that Harry was in it for something as trite as justice, but it didn’t sit well with him that Harry could and would kill at will, whom and when he wanted. It felt too much like he was playing God. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Shorner began understand just how little he knew about Harry; the ease with which they interacted and the passiveness with which he’d accepted Harry’s story still unnerved him. A profile and a few emotionally charged conversations did not tell one everything they needed to know about a person.
Shorner’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth together. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Harry. But, stop and think. Are you fighting a war that hasn’t started yet on the assumption that fighting it will prevent it? I’m not quite sure of your reasoning here.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Whoa, whoa, hang on a second. What the hell are you talking about? ‘Cause Crevan, he fucked a lot of things up before he took out Blackwood. Magical artefacts, files on old cases, agent profiles and personal histories, money – you name it. It disappeared when he disappeared. He’s a fucking coward, Archie. He turned tail and ran right when the war was starting to get bad. Blackwood caught wind of him wanting to defect and when he confronted Crevan, the little bastard took him out.”
Shorner crossed his arms and regarded Harry through a narrowed gaze. Harry stared back, eyes as smooth and deep as a forest lake, something almost alien lurking in their depths.
“May I help you two gentlemen?” Madam Mallard’s crisp tones reverberated off the corridor’s walls, interrupting their confrontation. Her expression suggested that she’d had a close encounter with a very sour lemon, and it had done nothing to improve her temperament.
Harry smiled at her, lids half-shielding the green of his irises. “No Madam. Just a disagreement between two old friends.”
He rolled his eyes, half at Harry’s abrupt turnabout in personality and half at the fact he knew this wouldn’t be the last time they’d have this conversation.
Madam Mallard sniffed. “You’re blocking the hallway. Please take your dispute elsewhere.”
Kicking Harry in the shins, Shorner ignored his indignant yelp and inclined his head respectfully towards the aging Head of British Wizarding Security. “Pardon us Madam Mallard; we were just leaving.”
Dodging the short-tempered woman, Shorner pushed Harry forward in the direction of the DoM’s archives.
When they were out of earshot, Harry spoke, “Ah, the esteemed Madam Mallard. That bitch has an ego the size of Siberia and about the disposition to match. Believe me when I say she will not age gracefully or with diplomacy. And you’re abusive.”
“You know you love it,” Shorner drawled. “How come you never give me the ‘come hither’ smile? Don’t I mean anything to you?”
“Aww, Archie, do you feel bereaved? As much as you may be a woman, you’re still an ugly bastard at heart.”
“Arse,” Shorner laughed as he pushed open the door to the DoM’s collection of records. He followed the short flight of stairs to below ground and the room opened up into a stark, white expanse of black filing cabinets fanning outward in perfect rows. Spotlessly clean and organized to the point of anal retentiveness, the room would not have looked out of place in a Muggle supercomputer facility. He pulled open one of the filling cabinets that held field agent records and crammed Harry’s well-modified file in between Shatz, Michele and another agent long lost to obscurity.
“She died in here.”
Shorner glanced over his shoulder at Harry. “Who?”
“An old girlfriend of mine. She bled out right about there,” he pointed to a spot a few steps to Shorner’s left. “The Ministry fell that day. I got the news from Ron that Death Eaters had invaded and I came to help. A lot of good I did here; you had to pull me away from her body. I’d gone into shock.”
Shorner blinked and gave Harry an overexaggerated scowl in an attempt to lighten the sudden pall cast over the room. “Could you possibly be anymore depressing to be around?”
The younger man shook his head and grinned, recognizing the ploy for what it was. “You know what they say – depression is anger without enthusiasm.”
“And you would know all about that wouldn’t you?” Shorner replied sardonically, digging through his robes’ voluminous pockets for an elusive metal chain.
Harry snorted inelegantly. “Damn straight. I was an angsty son-of-a-bitch as a teenager,” he said, a wide grin on his face as Shorner began searching through his front trouser pockets. “Keeping looking you’ll find it.”
“Like you’ve got anything to brag about.” Shorner growled as he pulled a shining silver time-turner from his pocket. “Think fast,” he said tossing it towards Harry. He plucked it from the air much like a professional seeker would a snitch. Shorner continued, “I don’t think I have to tell you to be discrete with this. It’s one of Experimental Magics’ time-turners and it just so happens to be unregistered with no serial numbers or tracking charms.”
“Convenient,” Harry drawled, dangling the device in front of his face. “You know, there’s something I don’t get. If you don’t want me at Hogwarts, why are you helping me?”
“Because it’s easier to convince you to check in with me regularly than to convince you not to go back. Because you have unfinished business there that has nothing to do with the DoM. Because you need absolution. Take your pick,” he said, turning around to head back to his office. If Harry’s smile was suddenly a bit more watery than usual, Shorner carefully ignored it. “If you get me into trouble, they’ll never find your body.”
“Hey! Have a little faith in me, you asshole. I’m crazy, not incompetent,” Harry yelled after him.
Shorner made a rude gesture over his shoulder.
Connor Blackwood flipped through his copy of the young Sharr Lord’s files as he waited for the door to swing shut behind Shorner.
‘Archie’, Hadrian Sharr had called him, which implied a close, working relationship between them. Despite the notoriously bizarre appetites of dark veela, Connor knew it wasn’t from… feeding. In fact, it seemed almost a friendship, one possibly born of many years.
Connor carefully revised his opinion of Shorner. With what he knew now, the man could be dangerous.
Hadrian Sharr, while an arrogant and discomforting person to be around, was a very powerful dark wizard who was both a wilful and clever killer. And, he had apparently been employed for eleven years right under his nose. This was troubling and also, intriguing. Connor pulled out a fresh sheet of cream-coloured parchment.
Lucius, old friend, he wrote. There is something you might find interesting...
“/Everybody knows that the dice are loaded / Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed / Everybody knows that the war is over / Everybody knows the good guys lost/”
The MacGyvered radio tilted precariously on the open windowsill. Multi-coloured wires peaked out from its broken plastic face, Leonard Cohen ringing out from the Muggle station Harry managed to tap into through the Leaky Cauldron’s wards.
“/Everybody knows the fight was fixed / The poor stay poor, the rich get rich / That’s how it goes / Everybody knows/”
Harry riffled through the collection of essays he’d managed to bullshit his way through last night. He snorted softly before tucking the parchment away in the corner of his trunk. Damn it was weird to be going back to school. He stuffed his old robes in on top of his books, being too frugal to have bought new ones when a simple re-sizing charm would work just as well.
Of course, there was also the small fact that Harry was only going to be at Hogwarts for one year. At the end of the year, he’d cite a need for anonymity or security as a reason for leaving and “switch” to private tutoring for the rest of his education. For everything else, he’d just have to wing it. Besides, he was only there to get in, capture Wormtail, say his goodbyes and get out.
He slammed the lid of his trunk shut and swept a pair of robes into an old knapsack. All of his weapons were at a Muggle storage unit, including his primary wand. Aside from his growing arsenal, Harry knew he couldn’t bring his real wand with him. It literally radiated too much dark magic for him to be able to bring it to Hogwarts. Harry sighed and shoved his discomfort to the back of his mind.
On the bed lay a pair of glasses, a ring and a change of clothes. This was all that would stand between him and the persona he would assume.
In the summer before his sixth year, he’d created Harrison Black, the bastard son of Sirius Black. A seemingly shallow and gregarious playboy, Harrison Black was the identity in which he’d acquired access to the black markets and a few other unsavoury places. The persona of Harrison Black also played an important part in his introduction to the dark arts.
Then there was Mal, the name he had used as a special operative for the DoM. Mal was a soldier in the Muggle world for three years before being dishonourably discharged for excessive violence, weapons trafficking, insubordination and whole list of other juicy details designed to make him more ‘appealing’ to the Special Forces program. In all actuality, Harry had no choice about joining the DoM, who were apparently a bit touchy about him killing off non-convicted citizens – even if they were known Death Eaters. Fucking red tape.
He had no intention of telling Shorner that he was little better than a convicted criminal himself. But knowing Shorner, the man had probably come to that conclusion already. Special Forces was known for taking in the more malleable individuals of the criminal element and turning them into ‘useful’ members of society.
There was also Spencer Grutton, a middle level Death Eater whose tongue had been cut out by unknown assailants and had a penchant for vicious silent curses. Allen Leighton, Muggle refugee and prisoner of the Dark Lord. Jonathan Bates – a skilled thief and spy. Mark Vendez, Paul Woffard, Fredrick Minks – the list was substantial. Harry often wondered if he shouldn’t have pursued a career in acting.
And now his own name was to be added to the list. Harry knew he shouldn’t be feeling like somebody had shoved meat hooks into his gut; Harry James Potter was no longer his name. It was now a fictional character, a role he’d play just like the rest. He’d sacrificed worse before. But it still hurt.
“Because it is my name,” Harry said out loud to the empty room, the words ringing in his ears. “Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!”
He grinned without mirth, feeling half-mad with the desire to tear his possessions apart and run, far, far away from himself and every Goddamn thing that went with it.
‘Not quite Daniel Day-Lewis, but I do well enough in my own right.’
So there beget the question: who was Harry Potter? A boy? A wizard? An orphan? A stray kid who had more power at his fingertips than he knew what to do with? A person who struggled with that damnable self-hatred born from neglect? Someone who struggled with the fame and notoriety of the position he was suddenly thrust into on top of entering a new world that he had known nothing of?
Well, fuck, when he put it like that…
Shy, he’d have to say. Shy and self-effacing. Not quite timid, but small, small in stature, small in the way he had held himself, in the way he had thought of himself. Harry had tried so damn hard to make himself seem mediocre and just like everyone else.
Funny how people change and yet here he was, face to face with his younger self and not sure of who was looking back at him in the mirror.
Harry shook out the clothes on the bed and pulled on the loose jeans and t-shirt. They were large enough to hide the bulk of his build, but not enough so as to hinder his movement. He slid the ring onto his finger and watched in the mirror as his skin began to change. It was like watching a paintbrush glide down his body, wiping away the worst of the scars and leaving only pale, supple skin behind. The slim, silver framed glasses went on next and then there was somebody else in the mirror, someone who looked much closer to “Harry Potter”.
The ring, the most ingenious part of his disguise, laid a faint Glamour against his skin, surprising Harry with just how young he looked without the myriad of scaring, tattoos and spellburns on his body. They had become such an integral part of his self-image that he felt naked without them.
Glamours, by their nature, were not very hard to cast if one had a creative enough mind to build the image. They were also not very hard to detect and to see through. Most Glamours were tied to the skin; the constant growth and death of the top epidermal layer caused the glamour to weaken as the spell then had to rely on the user’s constant reinforcement. Not only was it tiring, it wasted a lot of magic. And yet, when anchored to a solid metal object, they required little to no maintenance and were virtually impossible to detect. The black markets ran a surplus of cheap metal jewellery cast with Glamours that could be easily manipulated to the user’s preference.
The downside was that they were highly illegal given how many ways they could be abused. The user could end up with anything from a ten thousand galleon fine to ten years in Azkaban depending on the level of transgression. Not that it had ever stopped him before.
Harry pulled on a few more layers of clothing and made a face in the mirror. Time to test it out. With a gesture and a thought, the radio vanished, bathing the room in silence as he closed the door.
He stomped down the stairs in a sort of hunched shuffle, like he wasn’t quite used to his height yet and wasn’t sure where the rest of his body should go. An awkward, “Potterish” motion – much different than the loose-limbed, liquid saunter he normally fell into.
It was a shitty disguise, but it worked its magic well. People only ever saw what they wanted to and Harry didn’t mind using that against them.