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 Fifteen
Skeleton Hunt
There was a Faerie Queen sitting beside the Thames River.
The scent of wild flowers and balmy summer air hung over the wharf, as otherworldly as the being herself. Ivy crawled through the aged wooden slats of the bench and an array of brilliant orange and pale pink flowers had sprung up through the cracks in the concrete around her legs, which ended in a delicate pair of hooves like those of a deer.
She wore butter-yellow, the gown falling loose and filmy around her calves. A belt of golden links shaped like leaves was draped over her hips, studded with topaz and tiger's eye. Over this, she wore a short jacket of a rich, russet-toned velvet embroidered in green and gold along the sleeves and lapels. Her hair, a pure white like a dove's feather, brushed her shoulders in wild, unbound curls. Her green eyes flickered gold as she watched the figure make his way to her, peach-coloured mouth firm and unsmiling.
He bowed at the waist. “My lady, Titania.”
“Sit,” she murmured and despite her neutral expression, her voice was warm and familiar. “Tell me, what news do you bring?”
The figure settled beside her, leaning forward and bracing his elbows against his knees. He swallowed before answering. “Rumours that Mab gave up a part of herself to bring him back are circulating. Considering who I heard it from, I'd say that there was more than a little truth to the matter.”
The Summer Queen inhaled sharply. “Truly, her insanity increases.”
He hummed in response, gazing out over the water. “Maybe so. And maybe not. She did pick Harry. For all that he has become a dangerous wild card possessed of a chilling amorality and a dire lack of conscience, he is very much aware of his shortcomings. In the end, he will aspire to do the right thing. And I think because of that duality in him, Harry succeeds where so many others fail.”
“You believe him to be ruthless yet tempered by mercy,” Titania murmured, white curls rustling as she tipped her head to the side like a curious bird.
The man turned to her and nodded. “He poses something of a conundrum, but yes.”
Her eyes were wholly gold for a moment before fading back to green. “Then for your sake,” she said. “I hope Mab's gamble proves lucrative.”
“Gamble?” the man replied, surprised and somewhat wary.
The Faerie Queen smiled, her soft peach mouth turning wry. “Mab is fond of using individuals like him in her opening gambits.”
The man's brows lifted incredulously. “This has been done before?”
“Not quite like this,” Titania said lightly. “Never quite like this.”
“Huh,” said the man, turning to look out over the water. “Should I warn Harry that -”
He glanced back at the bench. The Summer Queen was gone; weeds surging up around the cracked cement, her garden of colourful flowers vanished along with their creator. The stench of river-water and dead fish assaulted his nose once more.
The man sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Lord,” he said softly. “What fools we mortals be.”
The day after Divination class was difficult. It was bad enough that he'd slain four dementors, driven by desperation or not. Add in running poor Trelawney out of her own classroom screaming in terror and people began to feel a little uneasy around him.
Charms and Care of Magical Creatures passed without much fanfare. Thankfully, Draco hadn't done anything stupid during Hagrid's class. He just eyeballed the Hippogriffs cautiously and kept himself surrounded by his cronies at the back of the padlock. There'd been a moment where Harry was worried about Buckbeak's skittish behaviour; the beast's orange eyes had rolled white at the edges when Harry came near and only his quick reflexes prevented Buckbeak's fierce claws from tearing his arm open. He'd kept his distance from the creature after that.
Ron flew on the Hippogriff instead and had been quite pleased with himself until he realized how odd it was that the creature had tried to attack Harry. Hagrid was a little bewildered by Buckbeak's behaviour, but his cheerfulness returned after Harry had joined Ron and Hermione at his cabin for tea when class was over.
Dinner was quiet and tense at Harry's portion of the Gryffindor table despite the efforts of Oliver and the rest of his friends. With all of the happenings of the past two days, concerns about Sirius Black seemed to have fallen by the wayside.
Harry stirred his soup half-heartedly, feeling the events of the last few days drag on him like weights. He wasn't used to being tied down like this, wasn't accustomed to being confined in a cage and watched like an animal.
'I've got to get out of here tonight. Couldn't even last a damn week without using the timeturner. Wormtail, you bastard! Why won't you show your fucking face!?'
Hermione watched as Harry picked distractedly through his food, composing her question in her head, trying to find a way to phrase it without antagonizing her friend and failing miserably.
'Harry, you've avoided talking to me long enough...'
Oh yeah, that wouldn't sound accusing at all.'Harry, I'm worried about you...'
And now she sounded like a bleeding heart. Long proven to be the surest thing to drive Harry away.
'Harry, what happened in divination class? One moment Trelawney was fine, but the next...'
She could hear it already: Needy, nosey, know-it-all Hermione who had to micromanage everything.
'Harry, you scare me so badly that sometimes I dream about you tearing me apart with your bare hands and when I think I wake up, I find you standing over me with blood smeared up to your elbows...'
She grimaced and ran a hand through her hair. Hermione didn't know where these dreams were coming from. Something had wormed its way into her subconscious and no matter how much she cared about her friend, nothing could shake the notion that Harry was Dangerous with a capital D.
Harry was still Harry, but something in him had warped irrevocably over the summer. It was just enough to catch her off-kilter when she least expected it; she'd look over at him and find him staring over someone else, a glitter in his eye that promised rage and violence, that sticky stormcloud smell rising in the air. It had only happened once when one of the older Slytherins had knocked shoulders with Harry in the hallway betweens classes. The boy had smirked and called out 'Sorry!' very unapologetically over his shoulder. Ron was all up in arms about it, but there was a chilly note in Harry's expression that shouldn't have been there.
It was enough to cause her skin to crawl and a shiver run up her spine.
Hermione ducked her head and tried to catch Harry's eyes from where they were staring at his plate. “Harry,” she said softly.
He jerked like he'd been startled and stared at her over the rims of his glasses, green eyes gleaming sharp and bright under the fringe of his eyelashes. His hands tightened around his utensils, muscles jumping rapidly in his forearms. There were shadows in his face, and it seemed like it actually took Harry a moment to remember who was sitting across from him, he was so deep in thought. There was something in the way he was sitting that reminded her of a predator, something big, big like a jungle cat curled low to the ground and ready to pounce. It was something in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head and the total focus of his attention that spoke of barely leashed control.
Uh oh...
Hermione's stomach cramped with nervousness. “Are you okay?”
Abruptly, the mood seemed to fall away from Harry like a second skin. “Yeah, I'm good, just dreading Snape's class tomorrow.” He smiled and leaned over like he was sharing confidential information. “I didn't exactly get a chance to work on potions over the summer.”
There was another thing that bothered her. The way he kept deflecting all of the questions directed at him with seemingly important information, but never really giving anything away.
Hermione gathered up her courage. “Could I talk to you, please?”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“Alone, preferably,” she amended.
He frowned, worry creasing his features. “Is something bothering you?”
Her heart warmed and a little of the fear dissipated by that statement. “Not exactly,” she said wryly. Ron was well engrossed in a discussion with Seamus and the twins. Good, no chance of interruption from him. She was quite fond of her other friend, but emotionally, Ron acted all of about nine-years-old. He hardly ranked as the most mature individual she knew. “I'd rather talk about it somewhere else, if you don't mind.”
“Sure,” he replied, nodding his head. He stood from the table and waited for her to gather her books together.
“Thank you,” Hermione murmured, apprehension beginning to settle back in.
Harry shrugged. “No problem. Hey Ron,” he said, snapping his fingers next to the boy's ear to get his attention.
Hermione cringed. 'Oh please don't, Harry! I don't want him to hear this. I don't think he can handle it.'
Ron jerked his head back from Harry's fingers and nearly slammed his brother in the face with his skull.
“Oi! Watch it!” Fred bellowed, rubbing his nose.
“Sorry Fred,” Ron muttered, scowling at Harry. “What do you want so bad you had to do that?”
Harry grinned. “Hermione and I are headed out, we'll meet you back at the tower later.”
Ron looked confused. “Why?”
“It's girly talk time,” Harry replied with a lisp. He grinned at Hermione and continued on in his normal voice. “I could make a joke about it being that time of the month, but then she’d stop speaking to me for a week.”
The redhead rolled his eyes as the twins snickered. “You have fun with that.”
Oliver Wood, who had overheard them, snickered into his food at Harry's pronouncement. Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek, tension twisting too tight in her gut for her to laugh at their antics.
She quietly followed Harry out of the Great Hall and up a few flights of stairs before recognizing where she was. “This is where Dumbledore hid the stone!”
Harry smiled warmly at her. “Yes, I thought from the tone of your voice, you wanted some place private.” He gestured up at the cobwebs hanging from the rafters and the layer of dust over the floor. “Also, there's this.”
He stopped in front of a door next to the hallway leading to where the stone was hidden their first year. One unlocking spell later, the door opened to reveal an unused classroom.
Hermione was impressed despite herself. “How did you find this?”
“Got bored one night before the Basilisk affair during our second year,” he said as he dusted off the teacher's desk and sat down cross-legged on it. “So what's up with you? You're practically vibrating.”
Hermione twitched and she nearly lost her grip on her pile of books. “Ah...” she said stalling for time as she dumped her books onto one of the student desks, heedless of the dust. “I'm not sure how to put it...”
Harry waited patiently for her to find her voice again, chin propped up on one hand.
She folded her fingers together and unconsciously began pacing around the classroom.
Hermione had worn a tread in the dust down a row of the desks before she decided to throw all caution to the wind.
“Yesterday, during Divination, if I didn't know better, I'd say that was a flashback.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Hermione chewed nervously on her lip. “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is commonly defined as profound psychological trauma. It can also include serious physiological and emotional trauma. The symptoms have been diagnosed to include flashbacks, nightmares, irrational anger, hypervigilance, increased arousal and difficulty falling or staying asleep.”
She glanced back at Harry, who hadn't made any move to stop her or acknowledge what she'd said. “Possible sources of trauma include violent assault, kidnapping, sexual assault, war, being a prisoner of war, being a hostage, torture, drug addictions and abuse.”
Hermione crossed her arms in front of her as if she could protect herself from his reaction. “Ah, the disassociation – that's a mental process that severs your connection to your thoughts, emotions, memories, your sense of identity, it's an unexpected disruption of your normal thought processes – the disassociation that follows after the trauma usually predicts Postraumatic Stress Disorder: how much you try to distance yourself from your experiences tells how bad your symptoms will be.”
She stopped talking, not daring to look at Harry. Silence stretched across the dusty classroom and Hermione distracted herself by looking at the sun shinning through the little motes of dust dancing through the air. The windows of this classroom were magical, judging from the sun peeking through them. She was sure that the real sky outside was the velvet black of night.
A warm hand settled on her shoulders and a shriek tore its way out of her throat. Hermione stared back at Harry's concerned expression with wide startled eyes.
“Why are you afraid of me?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown. He searched her eyes with his own and Hermione wondered what he saw there. “Is it because of what happened with the dementors?”
“I don't know,” she replied truthfully.
“I did what was necessary.” He stated it like it was the most logical conclusion to her problem. It was probably the scariest thing she'd ever heard him say; talking about killing things as if she was asking him why the sky was blue and the grass was green. Silly questions for silly girls.
“I... understand that.” She didn't, but there was no way she was telling him that. “But it doesn't stop me from being frightened of you. That you're capable of that.” Hermione wondered if this was the smartest conversation to be having with him considering his potential instability.
He stumbled back in surprise, hand slipping off her shoulder, arm still outstretched like he was warding her off. “Why? I'd hurt myself before I'd hurt you.”
Hermione smiled faintly. “I know that, but it's hard to know it here,” she said tapping her head. “As well as here.” She laid a hand over her heart and watched him curl into himself.
Harry was silently running his knuckles over his bottom lip, eyes focusing on something past her. She didn't dare turn around to find out what.
“You're so different,” Hermione continued. She laughed helplessly and raised arms in a shrug. “And at the same time, you're obviously not, which is probably the scary part and... I don't know how to help you.” Hermione shook her head and frowned. “What happened over the summer, Harry? The man you stayed with, did he... did he hurt you?”
One awful scenario after another ran through her mind. God, she didn't want to think about it, but it was there, same as the part of her that thought dark things of Harry.
“Hurt me?” Harry asked nonplussed, confusion writ in his features. “No more than an intensive training regime requires. I doubt that anyone could lay a finger on me that I didn't want them to.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, clumsiness aside.”
Hermione shook her head. “Then why –”
“The craziness? The craziness of the dementors? Or the craziness of yesterday's Divination class?” Harry finished for her wryly. “Truth is, I did some things over the summer – by my own will, mind you – that haven't sat very well within my subconscious. I'm okay most of the time, but sometimes they catch me unaware.”
“Things?” Hermione asked weakly. “What kinds of things?”
He shrugged. “Just some things I needed to take care of. They probably would have stayed buried for a while longer if the dementors hadn't come through and stirred things up.”
Oh God, what had he done?
“Harry, it sounds like you could use some help,” said Hermione, beginning to put together a very ugly impression of just what things entailed.
Harry caught her eye and held it. “You're doing more to help me than you think. Just by being you, young, sweet and normal, you're doing more to help me than anybody else possibly could.”
It was flattering thing to say, but it didn't stop her from wanting to run away from him as fast as she could. “You're sure of this?”
“Yes.” He smiled, wide and happy. “Now I don't know about you, but I'm ready for today to be over with.”
Hermione nodded, forcing herself to smile. “Okay, Harry. I'll meet you up at the tower; I have a couple of books I want to grab from the library.”
He left the room, leaving her alone with the dust and her thoughts.
Geoffrey Cotts was an old school chum of Shorner's from his Hogwarts days. Due to his photographic memory and a gift for analysing the raw data collected by field agents, he'd spent seven years in a high ranking position in Field Surveillance for the Depart of Mysteries before setting his sights on politics.
One of the younger and far more radical members of the Wizengamot, Geoffrey was part of the new movement sweeping through the undercurrents of England's social venues. The future was at hand and it was due to the conservative ideals of the old pureblood families that wizarding England hadn't moved past the late Middle ages. Cairo, even with its clash of religious mores and magical history was further into a new century than the U.K.
Cairo was crowded today, heat waves rising up from the streets of the wizarding quarter. Even in the morning hours, the air was dry and it scorched the inside of his throat when he inhaled.
Geoffrey's mixed heritage allowed him to blend in with the locals, something he was eager to do after his failure to correct England's outdated transportation laws. His legislature to legalize flying carpets was shot down once again by Crouch. The man's influence had waned considerably since the scandal with his son, but Bartemius Crouch was as hard-nosed as they came. Between his considerable fortune and the many favours owed to him from the war twelve years earlier, Barty Crouch had his fingers in everyone's pie.
Cairo's biggest public transportation, like most of the Middle East, was based on the flying carpet business. The rugs were surprisingly to produce and the fibres used to make them held enchantments very well. To say nothing of the production costs, which made Geoffrey wonder what Crouch's motives in this were. Somewhere along the line, Crouch stood to lose a lot of money.
Geoffrey flicked his eyes across the bazaar from his comfortable seat at the corner café.
It was the man's suspicious behaviour that gave him away more than anything.
He stood out amongst the bazaars of wizarding Cairo like a sore thumb. Whereas the native inhabitants were of a rich caramel skin tone, this man was obviously Caucasian. Sweaty, sunburnt skin, an unshaven chin and beady blue eyes poked out of his burnoose and Geoffrey hazarded a guess that under his tattered head-scarf, the man was as bald as a cue ball.
Rat-like, he'd call the man. Rat-like, pudgy, and nervous. The short man held a frantic sort of energy about him and was obviously on the run from someone. Debt-collectors, probably.
But something in the man's watery eyes set Geoffrey's teeth on edge. He didn't like people bringing trouble into this part of the world. It was all too easy to start an international incident around here and that was the very last thing he could afford to happen – not even on the Ministry's cushy salary.
Geoffrey stood and followed the man past a trio of black clad dancing girls outside a bar. Sisters, he supposed, judging by their similarities; their silver-belled feet stomping raucously on a blue tiled floor to the sound of trilling pipes, dark gazes flicking over their patrons under heavy lashes. Two stalls down, a wrinkled old wise woman hawked rare potions ingredients at exorbitant prices. 'Rat-man' as Geoffrey had taken to calling the foreigner, took a twisting, evasive rout through the busiest parts of the bazaar.
Scurrying around a slender man dressed in the traditional robes of an Egyptian wizard, Rat-man abruptly stepped off the main road and took a sharp left down a narrow alleyway. Geoffrey cast a small 'notice-me-not' charm and strolled casually past the alley, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The foreigner stopped in front of a door off of the alleyway. Teal blue paint peeled off the door in large flakes revealing the dark red of its previous incarnation and rusted iron bars were drawn over its single window.
Rat-man's head-scarf slipped and for a moment, Geoffrey Cotts saw a man who died twelve years earlier.
Peter Pettigrew fumbled roughly at the lock and shoved the door open, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle the mud and wood frame.
Geoffrey pretended to browse through a stall on the side of the alleyway and waited to see if Pettigrew would show his face again. No such luck. Ten minutes passed with no sign of the previously-thought-dead hero. Geoffrey slipped through a door at the end of the alleyway and Disapperated back to his hotel room.
Picking up the old rotary-style phone, he dialled the number of the one person he knew who wouldn't think he was crazy.
The ring tone warbled on the other end of the line before a groggy voice answered. “Yeah?”
“Shorner,” said Geoffrey, keeping his voice low and as normal he could. “No chance I could get an international Portkey off of you?”