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.
A/N: Credit needs to go to my woefully under mentioned, but awesome beta: Andromalius. My shit wouldn’t be half this awesome without his criticism and praise. A thanks also goes to Ozzeh for fixing my grammar mishaps as well. Cheers if you can catch the nod to Barb's work. The Dresden shout-out should be pretty obvious. The Supernatural one – not so much.
Chapter Seventeen
Skeleton Hunt II
Depravity came in every flavour imaginable.
Pimps, prostitutes, pickpockets, convicts, undercover Hit-wizards, drag queens of every size, shape, and species. Cat fuckers, baby fuckers, paedophiles and exhibitionists. Flashers. Dark Wizards. Tweakers high enough to fuck a dragon and try to piss on the remains. Merlin only knew that there were enough crazies drifting in from the housing Projects on Cryptic Alley to fill the Painted Rose to the brim on a Thursday evening.
The pub on Knockturn Alley catered to wide range of patrons: thrill seekers, black market dealers, junkies from the cheap housing located behind the shops of Knockturn Alley and the occasional off-duty manual labourer just looking for a pint and company for the night.
So when the dark-haired young man sauntered in, Annie didn't think much of him beyond his quick smile, long legs and whether or not he'd be interested in meeting her behind the bar on her break. She marked him as a thrill seeker because he didn't have the hungry look of a dope-dreamer, or the oil-slick manner of a dealer casing for a sell, and he certainly wasn't dolled up enough to be one of the whores out mincing around for clients.
Annie looked the young man over again, noting the torn denims, plain grey-green robes and scuffed boots that had seen better days. Didn't seem to be from the nouveau rich that rose to power in the years after the Dark Lord's fall. Wasn't a pureblood either; he lacked the stiff, over-powdered snobbery of the pureblood nobility that stopped by the shops at the mouth of the alley where it joined with Diagon.
He was a half-breed of some sort. Had it stamped all over his features, if the hypnotic hum of power in the air around him didn't give it away first. She turned away to keep from watching the lines of his throat work as he swallowed.
She knew his kind. Psychic predators through and through. Like always recognized like, she thought, glancing down at the gloves covering her hands to hide the paper-thin webbing between her fingers. Annie hoisted a heavy tray of tankards over her head and slipped through the noisy patrons to a group of regulars at the front table.
By the time she'd finished, the young man had already been to the bar and was making his way to the back of the pub.
The door opened, admitting another crowd of people. One man broke off from the group, catching her eye in the way everybody else seemed to ignore him.
Annie raised an eyebrow. That was one hell of a Notice-Me-Not charm. She’d have been just as clueless as everyone else, if not for the legacy of her mother’s blood.
The young man from earlier waved the newcomer over to his booth in the back.
There was a certain resemblance between them, both tall and dark-haired, something similar in the breadth of the shoulders and the shape of the nose – half-brothers, maybe – but the newcomer was rougher around the edges with heavy shadow on the jaw, his grey eyes a little too intent. He wasn't dressed any worse than his companion, threadbare robes clean and mended. Still good-looking, but way, way too thin and ragged to be healthy.
This other man, he reminded her of someone, but damned if she could figure out whom.
Annie picked up a damp rag and wandered over to the spare table near them. The clinking of the glasses in her hands almost drowned out their conversation, but she could hear enough.
“How's home, sweet home?” the young man asked, voice brushing over Annie's skin like velvet.
His companion chuckled, low and hoarse. “Mother is still a screaming bitch. Being rendered in paint, and not flesh, hasn't curbed the force of her personality one bit.”
The younger of the two snorted, rolling rings of condensation into the table with his beer. “Pleasant company.”
“She died a few years after I...” He trailed off, licking at the chapped spots of his mouth, eyes turned away from his companion in an almost guilty gesture.
The young man nodded. “Right.”
His companion reached a shaking hand out and wrapped it around the heavy tankard. “She's been quite vocal about me showing up again after all these years,” he said after drinking deeply. “Not sure whether she should scold me or praise me.”
“Peter's gone.”
His eyes were older than James' ever were.
James' dark double watched him from across the table, expression as implacable as a marble statue. “Did you hear me? Peter’s gone. His trail went cold in Cairo – I won’t be able to do anything ‘til he pops his head up again.”
All of the fury and betrayal Sirius felt at the sight of Wormtail sitting on the young Weasley’s shoulder in the faded newspaper photograph was gone.
No, not gone.
Diminished.
Because sitting in front of Sirius was something far worse than Azkaban – a thin veneer of pleasantness lying over violence just barely reined in. Ravenous, but not sure what would appease that maddening hunger for more. More blood, more death, more power. Never enough, never satisfied.
God, what had Harry done to himself?
“Gone,” Sirius croaked, mouth dry with apprehension and keenly aware of the green eyes fixed upon him. He took a drink, rolling Harry's words around in his mind. Gone, as in Wormtail had left as soon as he caught wind of Sirius' escape. Frustrating beyond belief, yes, but Harry was staring at him like he expected more. More what? Anger? Sirius didn't have the energy to spare on useless gestures of fury; he was barely keeping afloat as it was.
The muted amber light from the bar cast a warm glow over the table. Aside from the crazies and its location on Knockturn, the Painted Rose was actually an attractive spot for a drink. He'd been too worried about being caught last time he'd visited to truly appreciate its ambiance.
A laugh caught in his throat and he swallowed it back before it could escape. Here he was drinking with his thirteen-year-old godson with the gut-level knowledge that somewhere, somehow Harry had transformed himself into a stone-cold killer and he was reminded less and less of Regulus or Narcissa or Bellatrix and more of what a young Voldemort might resemble.
The last time he met Harry, eight out of nine men had lost their lives in an assault lasting less than five minutes.
He wasn't afraid. He was too exhausted to be afraid and the only thing left was an ugly mix of shame and guilt. So Sirius squared his shoulders and charged into the fray with all of the damnable Gryffindor recklessness he could muster. And if the sharp scent of ozone wafting off of his godson made his skin crawl, the tale-tell sign of dark magic, then Sirius was careful not to let it show. He wasn't sure when Harry had become so wrong, but Sirius was sure it had begun with his decision to switch places with Wormtail.
“That rat-bastard!” he snarled, surprising both himself and Harry with the amount of venom that slid out; low and savage, and a lot more honest than he’d intended.
Harry reached and grasped his wrist, startling the hell out of Sirius, Lily’s eyes burning phosphorescent green in the hazy candlelight.
“I will hunt him down for you.” He tilted his head and stared at him, intent and almost fervent, something cold and merciless watching Sirius from within. “You got to promise me though, that'll keep your head down. There's too many people on the lookout for you.”
Sirius’ insides knotted into a ball of ice in his belly.
Hunt him down.
For you.
Sirius hadn't missed the subtle emphasis.
'Like you did to those men that night on Privet Drive?' he thought.
He was reminded for a moment of a cat his mother had kept around the house. A lean, sleek-looking creature, all bright eyes and shining black fur, it had a habit of catching rats in the garden out back. It would maul them to the point of senseless squealing, tails ripped off, limbs shredded, bodies broken and bloody, half-dead, but still twitching. The cat, Caliban, liked to leave them hidden around the house so that an unsuspecting wizard might put a bare foot down on one in the dark hours of the morning, cooled, slimy blood squishing up between his toes. The sly beast possessed more than a passing fondness for Sirius, leaving him all manner of presents scattered around his rooms.
Caliban disappeared a year and three months after he'd first arrived in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The animal had spent an entire night in the bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom, chasing a fat, pregnant mouse around and around in the fancy claw-footed bathtub. Walpurga Black woke the next morning to find the mouse's remains smeared up one side of the tub and down the other, its tiny pink babies hanging half-chewed out of the mouse's open belly. The cat vanished a day later as such creatures did not belong in a distinguished and civilized pureblood household.
Sirius' head must not have been screwed on right because an image of Harry stalking across the dirty floor on his hands and knees flashed before his mind's eye, sticky blood dripping down his chin, Pettigrew's shrieking animagus form dangling from his bare white teeth.
Harry went still.
For moment, Sirius worried that he'd said some of that out loud.
“Miss,” Harry said to someone behind Sirius, his tone light and flirtatious. “Would you mind?” He smiled, holding his empty up in the air and shaking it.
“Right away, sir!” chirped a sweet feminine voice from the booth behind them. Sirius flinched, startled at how close she'd gotten without him noticing.
Harry set the bottle down and pushed it to the side. “Sorry 'bout that. She'd been cleaning the table for a bit too long and was starting to make me uncomfortable.”
“I know a good silencing spell...” Sirius began, not sure if he should be encouraging Harry's paranoia or escaping out the back door before fur started flying everywhere.
His godson shook his head. “Better not to, actually. It would draw more attention than it would deflect.”
“How are you going to find him?”
Harry shrugged surprisingly wide shoulders. “Where there's a will, there's a way.”
Sirius tugged a hand through his still too-long hair, wondering if this was the point where he began to tear it out. “Yes, but where would you even begin to look for him? He's a rat, for Merlin's sake. The only thing less noticeable is a gnat!”
Smiling, Harry accepted his fresh beer and offered the pretty Selkie two Sickles in return. “Then I guess I'll have to get an extra big fly-swat,” he replied, eyes fixed on the sway of the girl's hips as she walked away. Harry fit the edge of a plain silver ring on his left thumb under the lip of the bottle cap and flicked it off, lid bouncing off the front of Sirius' dark blue robes.
Harry grinned at him, sharp edges of his personality hidden once more under the façade of the playful rogue. “But I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark and say that he's headed for Eastern Europe.”
“Why there?”
“Because that's where Voldemort is,” said Harry, casually blithe as if he was stating simple fact and not something that dumped Sirius' entire world on its head.
“He's still alive?” Sirius was unable to keep the utter horror he felt from his voice. The world tilted sideways as he grasped at the edges of the table. “Dear God, No! I thought Lily had taken care of him!”
Harry's gaze swivelled towards him. “Lily did what?”
There wasn't a threat in those words. There didn't need to be. The rising smell of thunderclouds and tar in the air around him was a thousand times more unnerving than a declaration of intent to harm; Sirius needed no reminder of what Harry was capable of.
“She said she had found something that might work against him,” Sirius replied, wobbling in his seat. “She asked me to steal a few books from the Black library at Grimmauld Place. Whatever she was working on – it wasn't good.” He shook his head, struggling to remember what she had asked of him and failing. “James and her fought for weeks about it. I remember you, though. I took care of you after James went to work and Lily would collapse for the day.”
The intensity of Harry's stare hadn't lessened, but the dark magic swirling through the air around his godson had settled, less like an avalanche ready to tumble down on Sirius' head and more like the unhappy grumble of snow settling against the mountainside on a wet day.
Sirius swallowed, Lily's weak Obliviate beginning to shake loose from his memories. “Before they went into hiding, I remember that she disappeared with you. Vanished for a whole week. James thought Lily had taken you and run, but she showed up again, dressed in white furs even though it was the middle of summer. You were different as well. Bigger and you were walking, too. I was very surprised when you started talking right in the middle of dinner. Not very articulate mind you, but I could tell what was being said.”
His godson had propped up his chin on the palm of his hands, mood now completely calm. “There was something else.”
“Yes,” Sirius agreed. “You were covered in these marks – runes, but nothing I could recognize – they were shiny like opals, cold blue-white opals.”
Harry's expression darkened, but he said nothing.
“They faded after a few hours,” Sirius continued. “And didn't show up again as far as I know, but James watched you constantly after that. He had a hard time putting you down even when you fussed and squirmed; it was like he was afraid you were going to disappear again. The next day, they went under the Fidelius Charm and...”
Harry glared at the tabletop for a full minute before meeting Sirius' eyes. “Those marks,” he said as he pushed the sleeve of his robe up. “Did they look anything like this?” He laid his bare left arm out on the table and Sirius watched in amazement as pale, opalescent runes glittered to life on the thin skin of Harry's wrist.
Sirius licked his chapped lips. “Yes.” He didn't want to pry any further, but his insatiable curiosity prodded him for more. “Where did those come from?”
His godson smiled, baring straight, white teeth, canines unsettlingly sharp. “Probably from the same place as the originals.”
He knew he had pushed his luck far enough. At thirteen years old, Harry possessed enough presence to cow the Pope into compliance and a stare that could freeze Niagara. Sirius kept his mouth shut.
For a minute.
“What happens after you catch Wormtail?” Sirius contemplated chewing his tongue into a bloody pulp the next time he got the urge to open his mouth and ask asinine questions.
His godson rubbed a hand over his face; skin drawing tense and tight around the bones of his face. “Well, for one thing, I'd like to find out who chased him out of Cairo.”
Sirius paused at Harry's words. Took an idle sip of his drink and glanced at his godson over the rim of the tankard.
“No, it wasn't me,” Harry said with a self-depreciating grin. “Wormtail had left not an hour before I got there and I doubt he's going to show up anywhere in human form for the next month. I want to kick myself for not using the Time-Turner sooner, but I didn't dare use it twice when I'd already used it to flip back to that time.”
'How the hell did you get your hands on a Time-Turner?' lay on the tip of Sirius' tongue. He swallowed the question back down along with all of the other burgeoning queries crowding his throat.
“The place was trashed where the bastard had been staying,” his godson continued. “Dead body on the front doorstep, building stinking of dark magic and garbage and his rooms were almost completely destroyed.
“And get this,” Harry said, pointing a finger at him like a Muggle gun. “One the residents saw Wormtail's buddy as he was leaving. Described him as tall, thin, and yellow-haired, very pale with light-coloured eyes and freckles. They said that the man looked strange, had a serious case of the cuckoo crazycakes and possessed an involuntary twitch that looked a bit like a sneer.”
The fuzzy memory of an old case file James had worked as an Auror drifted to the fore of Sirius' mind. “I know him,” he said. “I can't tell you who it is, but I know I've encountered that description before.”
His godson watched him thoughtfully; face blank of everything save mild concern. “If you remember anything else – ”
“I'll let you know,” Sirius assured him.
Harry reached into a battered-looking rucksack Sirius hadn't noticed before and pulled out a slim volume bound in dark leather. “I recovered this from the remains of his flat. Does it look at all familiar to you?”
Sirius took the book. He couldn't read the worn, embossed cover. The words had been rubbed away by countless pairs of hands and the only thing left were the ornate curls of the first and last letters of the title. There was the heavy thunderstorm smell of dark magic on its pages; the book’s plain leather bindings were marred on the corners with something that looked suspiciously like old blood.
The title page was ripped out as well. But from what Sirius could tell as he flipped through the hand-inked pages, the book seemed to be a history and record of famous dark artefacts, full of theories, rumours and lovingly recreated drawings of the fabled objects.
“This is one of the books I lent Lily.”
Harry let out a huff of soft laughter. “Mind if I keep a hold of it for a bit?”
Sirius shook his head and handed the book back. “Not at all. I'd wager that Lily was the first to read it in over half a century. Help yourself – I'd only dump it back in the library and forget about it.”
“Thanks.”
Harry glanced at his watch, prompting Sirius to ask, “Not that I'm ungrateful for what you're doing, but let's be honest here: how long will it be before Pettigrew is in custody of the Aurors?”
“He's a wily little bastard,” said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. “Might be one month, might be two. Might be tomorrow afternoon. I don't know. I've devoted all of my spare time to running him down, but I don't have a lot to show for it.”
'That's comforting,' Sirius thought, wondering if he should be trusting a task so important to his murderous thirteen year old godson. Not like he had much of a choice in the end.
“My next step,” said Harry. “Is to ask... a colleague of mine a favour. One of his grunts is a real whiz with tracking charms. I recovered some blood from Pettigrew's flat so I run a fifty-fifty chance of tracking down either him or our new friend. I'm guessing if I find one, I'll probably find the other close by.”
“And then after that?”
“I turn him in to Madame Bones, clear your name, restore your assets. And after that... well, that's up to you. What do you want to do with your freedom?”
He said it like he hadn't expected anything from Sirius, like it was only a simple question. Sirius knew better. Nobody went as far as Harry did for nothing. Not an orphan working to clear his godfather's name.
Did Harry want him to be his guardian? Merlin! Just the idea alone chilled his skin worse than if he'd taken a dip in the North Sea. If this was how Harry was at thirteen, than how bad would he be at fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? Twenty?
The more he thought about that night, the more Sirius came to realize that Harry hadn't been cruel. Cold and callous, yes. Not cruel. Efficient. Driven. Damn all that got in his way. He'd been sending those that came after him and Sirius a message: Fuck with me and I will fuck you over. And maybe, just maybe, you might live to regret that.
Bellatrix would have tortured the squad leader. Harry hadn't. He'd gotten his information and left. End of story.
Harry wanted acceptance, wanted a family that wouldn't treat him a shitty as Petunia and her ilk.
God help him, Sirius didn't want a damn thing to do with the boy.
He managed to smile, grappling with self-hatred at the rising hope on Harry's face. “I think I'd like to reconnect with my godson and maybe be a family again.”
Harry smiled. It was smaller, but no less bright than the fierce hunter's grin of before. This one was genuine, happy and trusting, reminding him that above all else, Harry was still his godson. Sirius felt a sick twist of regret in his stomach at his deliberate deception, both hating and doubting himself and not sure which was worse.
Tatarus, the pub that hid the entrance to the black markets, was located at the end of a series of run-down flats right next to the remains of a Roman aqueduct. Someone had charmed the aqueduct to run with fresh water, a trickling stream falling into a wide flat cistern below. A heavy curtain of ivy hung from the aqueduct, green vines tumbling down onto the side of the squat, little pub. Hidden under the leaves were a series of tiny, mewling mouths, sharp teeth stained brown with sticky poison. Half of the vines were tinged a rusty red; some drunken schmooze had already wandered into the serpentine tangle of ivy, the rustling vines winding themselves around a limp hand as it disappeared from view.
Yellow light lit the cobblestones as the door to the pub swung open, spilling a shabby-looking wizard out onto the street. Not breaking his stride, Harry stepped over the moaning form and into the pub.
Seventeen small, round tables were haphazardly arranged through Tatarus' front room, Harry's head almost brushing the low ceiling. Packed full, the noise damn near beat out the smell for intensity. Dodging drunken patrons, Harry made his way over to the bar, trying not to step on too many trailing robes.
The bartender sneered at his approach and straightened the little gold spectacles sitting on the end of his flat, feline nose. The goblin's name was Ripper, and he was the ugliest son of bitch Harry had ever seen. Tufts of sandy brown hair grew out of his pointed ears like bushy pigtails and a long scar passed from the end of his eyebrow up into the spiky fur covering Ripper's scalp. Great, golden plugs hung in his ears like those of the Mayan rulers of old.
Black eyes regarded him balefully as Harry removed a wrapped package the size of his fist from the rucksack.
“I'm looking for Strome,” Harry said calmly, laying his left hand on the counter.
Ripper dropped the rag he'd been wiping the bar with in a heap over the package. “Yeah? What do you want with him?” he grumbled. “Make it quick cuz'. I've got customers waiting.”
“Just an old colleague looking for a drink and a bit of company,” Harry replied.
The goblin's eyes flickered down to the spider-shaped scar on the side of Harry's hand. “He's upstairs.” Ripper glanced over Harry's shoulder before leaning closer. “Watch yourself. He's been in a right foul mood today,” said the goblin.
Harry nodded and stepped back, an irritable witch jostling him as she pushed past him to the bar.
The same stairs that led to the limestone caverns of the black markets also went to the private rooms upstairs.
A square table crammed into the corner held the only light, a fat candle burning low, wax melting in a wide puddle around the base. Shadows crawled over the heavy buttresses of the ceiling and through the grimy window, Harry could see the moon sitting low and near full in the sky.
The vampire was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, this is appropriately dreary,” Harry muttered. The raised hairs on the back of his neck told him the vampire was still in the room. “I thought you hated clichés, old boy.”
“I do,” said Strome from behind him. “Why you feel compelled to make me into one, I will never know.”
Harry frowned. Strome rarely played tricks like this. “I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about, but I'll assume it has something to do with your pithy temperament tonight,” Harry replied, walking over to the table and dropping into the other chair.
Strome's dark eyes shone like orange lamplights in the gloom, tapetum lucidum reflecting the faint ambiance from the candle-flame. “What do you want?” he said remaining motionless, aggression writ in the stiffness of his shoulders.
Julius Strome was a class A grouch, but never this skittish. In fact, Harry could remember being smacked upside the head more than once when he was younger for mouthing off to Strome.
“I'd like to make some money,” said Harry, realizing that Strome had every intention of attacking him if he didn't get down to business soon. Reaching down into the rucksack, Harry withdrew a package as long as his forearm and quite a bit thicker. He cut the ties holding the oilskin closed and carefully unrolled the cloth to reveal the dull, ivory gleam of a Basilisk fang, a much larger version of what he'd handed the goblin.
The vampire drew closer to the table, a thin, dishevelled figure dressed in black, his sable hair loose from its ties like he'd been running his hands through it all night. He looked as gaunt as Sirius and just as ragged. “Get out,” said Strome in a low rumble of displeasure, ire twisting his handsome face into a fanged snarl.
Harry moved his hand to drape over his left arm, ready to draw his wand if needed. “Why are you angry?”
Strome pinned him with a dark glare. “Do you know how often I have arrogant fools like you claiming to have real Basilisk remains? I would let you gut me, mount me and bugger me in my own blood before I'd let you sell me this drivel.”
The Basilisk tooth sat between them like a bullet between two gunfighters. The pub's tumultuous patrons crowed rowdily beneath them and the sounds of breaking glass told Harry that a brawl had broken out.
“Why don't you test them, Julius?” Harry ground out irritably.
“Why don't you make it worth my time, Mal?” Julius replied using a mocking note on the name Harry had given him their previous meeting. Something in the way the vampire bared his teeth, flicker-quick like a predator, set Harry's nerves on edge.
He smiled back, wrapping an iron fist around the flyaway edges of his temper. “It's Mr. Greene today. I can cut you in on the profits if you like,” said Harry lightly. “A nice round number, no? Maybe 20% and for you to keep an eye on who you sell them to? I'd hate for something this powerful to end up in the wrong hands.”
“Flattering, Mr. Greene. But I will need more than money if I am to swallow this bullshit, hook, line and sinker.”
Harry damn near growled in reply, pleasant smile becoming strained. “What else could I possibly entice you with?”
Strome's lips curled. “I'm rich, immortal and good-looking. I sincerely doubt,” he said, looking Harry over. “ - that you possess anything worth my time.”
Harry kept his expression carefully neutral. “I'm sorry, are my tits not perky enough for you?” he said, struggling to keep his voice bored and blank of the fury coursing through his veins. He couldn't remember Strome ever being this difficult before. Prickly and ill-tempered – sure. But not hateful. And certainly not this close to outright hostility.
The vampire's expression flickered with disgust. “Your crudities are not amusing.”
“And neither is your shitty disposition. You are not my only option, Julius.”
Silence reigned again. When Strome made no move to explain himself, Harry gathered the Basilisk fang back into its cloth bundle and turned away from the table.
A strong hand clamped down over his left wrist. Heat and pain scored his skin and Harry nearly passed out at the shock of foreign magic coursing through him.
He wrenched his arm away, dropping the pack at his feet, fang rolling away with a clatter. The spider-shaped mark between Harry's thumb and forefinger shone a vivid red and black in the dim lighting of the pub.
Anger twisted Strome's features before washing clean. “Where did you get that mark?” His voice was low and deep and it shook with rage.
“What the fuck, Strome?” Harry stared incredulously at him. “Is that what this is about?”
The vampire bared his teeth at him. “It has my signature all over it,” he hissed, an orange spark flaring to life in his eyes. “Where did you get that mark?”
Harry had stupidly forgotten Strome's gifts of Truthtelling and the answer tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. “You gave it to me.”
Strome's nostrils flared and Harry prepared himself to go toe to toe with an old friend.
Then the sable-haired vampire stilled, breathed deep, and sat down in his chair with a sigh.
“I would know if I had met you before,” said Strome, tone even and smooth, eyes emptying of bloodlust, that hungry black rage sinking back beneath their surface. “And I sincerely hope that you wouldn't believe me fool enough to buy your half-baked story, Hadrian Sharr.”
Harry tried not to swallow his tongue. He stared flatly at the vampire and didn't move. “Word travels quickly.”
Strome's mouth curled into a smile that didn't reach anywhere near his eyes. “That it does.”
Harry let out a slow breath, composing himself for another tangled web of half-truths and insinuations. “I was sixteen when you gave me the mark. Some might say it was too young, but for the times I was living in, I wonder if it was too late. Never did me much good, always got me into more trouble than it did out.”
Which was true enough. The black markets held a wealth of information – for the right price. At the time, there were enough dark artefacts left over from Grimmauld Place that Harry hadn't truly considered the price of the information. It was only when he ran out of options that he started taking miscellaneous jobs from the people he owed money to; not that he cared too much about it then, not as long as Death Eaters were still dying and Harry could keep picking them off.
A very slippery slope indeed. It was probably one of the people he'd worked for that had betrayed him to the Ministry; an early morning knock on his door by a squad of Aurors and then suddenly he'd been one of England's most notorious serial killers. Which was the whole damn reason why he'd gotten dragged into the DoM's Special Forces in the first place. It hadn't stopped him from killing Death Eaters, but the Ministry had slept easier knowing they held the other end of his leash.
Harry felt sick just thinking about it.
Strome made no move to speak; he stared back at Harry unblinking, dark eyes giving nothing away. It was the oldest trick in the book, making an opponent carry the entire conversation in hopes of them dropping more information than they intended.
“You would not have known me as Hadrian Sharr,” Harry continued, meeting Strome's stare as he built high walls in his mind, dancing circles around the compulsion Strome projected. “In truth, I was as exactly as I appeared – young, stupid, and desperate. I'm sure that if you could remember me, you would probably be very pleased with how much you've made off my ignorance.”
The vampire blinked, long and slow, a wide smile beginning to stretch across his face. He laughed. “You are full of more shite than a politician on election day, Master Sharr. That is a very good story, but still, a story.”
Harry got up from his chair, furious at himself for giving so much away for nothing in return. He should have learned his lesson the first hundred times it happened. Too fucking trusting.
“Sit, I didn't mean that in anything but jest.” Strome reached down by his chair and picked up a bottle of firewhiskey. “I can tell you are young by how hot your blood runs,” said the vampire, taking a drink.
Eyeing Strome warily, Harry picked up the discarded fang and sank down into the chair.
The vampire seemed amused. “I will accept your story – for now. But each time we meet, as I am certain this will not be our last, I want you to tell me at least one truth,” said Strome, holding up his index finger. “One truth about yourself. No misdirection, no lies, no weasel-words. I will know if you are trying to guide me astray.”
“Why?” Harry asked incredulously. “The first thing you taught me was misdirection. Said that I was too honest.”
Strome shook his head. “There are a thousand easier ways in which you might access my domain.” He held out a hand, gesturing for Harry to extend his own.
The second thing Julius had taught him was how to read eyes. Body language could be masked. But if you knew what to look for, it didn't matter how good you were – the eyes gave it away every time. The vampire's eyes were cautious, assessing and under it all was the insatiable curiosity that led Strome to create such an extensive underground information empire.
Harry extended his left hand. The vampire took it and pulled an odd pair of onyx-rimmed glasses from his pocket, looking much like a studious young scholar with those curious spectacles perched on the end of his nose, not out of place in a library or classroom. Strome murmured something low in a tongue Harry didn't recognize and colour flooded into the mark. The vampire nodded to himself as he studied the tiny black widow etched into Harry's skin.
Strome sat back in his chair, cool and calloused fingers releasing Harry's hand.
“There are a thousand easier ways to access my domain,” he repeated, tucking the glasses away. “You've managed to go about it the long way around. This mark is no secret shortcut, Master Sharr.”
“I'm assuming you'll elaborate on that,” Harry replied with a curl to his lip, expression mulish as he rubbed at the still vividly coloured mark.
“You carry my personal, self-made identification spell and yet you know nought of what you bear? If I trusted you enough to bestow this little gift upon you, then I was grooming you to be one of my spies.” The words were quiet and cool, almost without inflection and Harry knew from the sound of the vampire's voice, Strome was winding up into his sales pitch.
“My cat's paw. My eyes and ears into the world, my hands when I could not acquire what I desired. Plausible deniability is a beautiful thing. You could go where I could not and no questions would be asked.”
Sitting back from the table, Harry crossed his arms and studied the vampire's guileless face. Over four hundred years of experience made Strome a frighteningly believable actor. “You meant to make me into a thief.”
“A great thief.” The vampire smiled, not an ounce of guilt showing on his mien. “What better to do with your skill at changing faces; at slipping through the shadows unseen? Work as an Auror?” Strome laughed. “You would have been miserable. Paperwork and desk jockeying is not for you. A mercenary? You are too crafty – your talents wasted as an aimless killing machine. A soldier? You are too fiercely independent. You will never be content to live as somebody else's blunt little instrument.”
Harry tried not to laugh. For someone who was so adept at reading people, Strome was way off his game today if he though Harry was interested in buying his PR bullshit. “And nobody else but you would be good enough to serve?”
He'd never been so stupid as to naively believe the vampire was helping him out of the goodness of his heart. But this was bugfuck crazy even for Strome. 'Course, the vampire probably had Hadrian Sharr's Ministry file squirreled away somewhere, his skills and attributes well memorized. Hard to lie to someone who knew 'you' better than you did.
The vampire scoffed. “Don't be insulting. This is a business relationship, not a military institution. I benefit, you benefit, and we all go home happy.”
Harry wanted to press the heel of his hand into the throbbing pulse between his eyes, to scrub at his face and shake his head until the pain went away.
But he didn't dare show any weakness in front of Strome. The vampire would seize upon the opportunity to manipulate Harry into giving him what he wanted – whatever he wanted. Strome always did play his cards close to his chest.
“Why do you want me to work for you – ”
Strome gave him an offended sneer.
“Work with you,” Harry amended, knowing he was way too old to be rolling his eyes at Strome's ridiculous antics. “Why do you want me to work with you, so badly? What can I possibly offer you that you can't obtain from somebody else?”
“How much of your story was unadulterated truth?” the vampire countered.
“Everything I told you was true – I simply didn't tell you all of it. When you came across me, I'd just lost the last of my family and I was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. Which you should already know since you've read my file,” Harry replied, straining to clear his voice of the irritation bubbling so near the surface. “I wanted revenge. I wanted to hurt Voldemort the way he'd hurt me, strip away everything from him, his followers, informants, sympathizers, and assets.”
Harry licked at the chapped spot on his lip where the skin was beginning to split and grinned, laughter slipping out in a soft, scoffing huff. “You were my best option.”
“Why?” asked the vampire. “Out of all your, no-doubt, extensive options, why would you choose me? The lowliest of the low – a smuggler and a thief?”
“You demanded the least sacrifice,” Harry replied, turning Strome's past actions over in his mind. 'You weren't another megalomaniacal douchebag with a shitty childhood and delusions of grandeur – you've always had your own agenda – but you didn't want a servant or a mindless drone,' he thought.
“You found me wandering around on Knockturn in a daze. Remarked on how lucky I was not to have been killed for my stupidity. At the time, I was flying higher than a kite on a pretty potent mix of absinthe and morphine – I don't even remember how I got my hands on that. I'd just killed for the first time. Didn't even know what to do with myself afterwards.”
Raising an eyebrow, the vampire replied, “And it was as simple as you say? Me, stumbling across you by accident?”
Harry was startled into laughter. “I mistakenly believed you wanted to eat me. You laughed and said that I would make a poor meal for even the starved and desperate.” He shook his head. “This was such a long time ago. Long enough that my memories are starting to become blurry. I only knew you for a little over a year. After that, I lost contact with you and all of my other informants until just a few months ago.”
“Now that I doubt.” Strome leaned forward, bracing his forearm across his knee. “I would never let such a promising student out of my sight for that long.”
Harry shrugged. “I was arrested.”
“And spent over a decade in Azkaban,” said Strome, a mocking note entering his voice. “Do share with me, Mr. Black, all the details of your miraculous escape.”
The skin on the back of Harry's neck went cold. “That's not funny.”
“Of course it is. You simply hate being laughed at, which tells me a lot more about yourself than anything you've shared so far.”
Harry couldn't help the derisive sneer that crossed his face at the vampire's taunting jeer. “At the time of my arrest, I had a standing warrant on my head for forty-eight accounts of culpable homicide, destruction of personal property, use of the Unforgivables, aiding and abetting known criminals – there were a few other things, but those are the ones I remember. Forgive me for failing to let you know about my change in plans.”
Strome smiled. “Guilty as charged?” the vampire drawled.
He refused to feel cowed by Strome's sneering sarcasm. “All that and more.”
“Reckless, incautious, and careless.” The vampire clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “I'm disappointed in you if that was all you could do with my teachings.”
“I was sixteen,” Harry bit out, leaning forward in his chair and planting both hands on the edge of the table. “I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. My technique has improved since then.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” purred Strome. “If any of the rumours surrounding your sudden... re-appearance are true, then we need to have a little talk about your methods.”
Gritting his teeth, Harry continued. “I didn't get back in touch with you because I was conscripted into Special Forces. Our association would have hurt both of us.”
“Then why have you chosen to contact me now? I have no interest in being caught up in the Ministry's sweaty grasp.”
“I have a new handler,” Harry said with a shrug. “He's given me a lot more freedom than usual. I'm not fond of the situation, but this way I can still sneak about under the Ministry's nose with their own permission.”
“Why do I not remember any of this?” Strome narrowed his eyes at Harry. “I don't like having my mind poked and prodded, my secrets wiped from memory.”
Harry shook his head, feeling agitated and exhausted with all of the old memories being stirred from their slumber. “I can't tell you that.”
“Can't? Or won't?” Strome said with what could have been a smile if it weren't for the derision in his voice.
“Won't,” Harry replied unabashedly.
Strome's mouth flickered into a frown before it replaced itself with his usual smile, the kind of smirk that was so slippery, a used-car salesman would turn green with jealousy. Harry could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen that smile directed towards himself.
“You are the most honest liar I've ever met, Master Sharr,” said Strome. The vampire bowed at the waist from his chair. “It would be my honour to work with you and your... resources,” he said as he spotted the basilisk hide peeking out of Harry's knapsack. “I can only hope to do the best I can to help you in return.”
Harry despised being mocked and the opportunity to dig under the vampire’s skin was too tempting to ignore. “Well,” he drew out, affecting a dim note in his voice. “I could use a new pair of boots.”
Strome's snake-oil salesman smile grew strained. “You have a complete, well-preserved pelt of one of the most invaluable beasts on the market and you want a pair of shoes.”
“I can tell you’re not impressed,” Harry replied, an insouciant smile spread ear to ear.
Nostrils flaring, his smile turning into a grimace, the vampire bit out, “Give me three weeks to find you a buyer. I'll see about drafting a poisoner for turning the teeth into usable ingredients. Where do you wish me to deposit the profits?”
“My Gringotts accounts are still being monitored by the Ministry. I know you have several accountants on your payroll – ”
Strome interrupted him. “For an extra ten percent, I can set up a secure vault in the Swiss branch, no questions asked.”
'Gotcha.'
“Five percent,” Harry retorted. “At ten, it'd be cheaper to ask the Malfoys' solicitor for a favour.”
“Make it seven and I'll be happy to throw in an alias that will let you ghost through the Ministry's dragnets, sight unseen.”
“Full paperwork?” Harry asked.
Smugness radiated off the vampire. “Everything you'd need to start a new life.”
“Done.” Harry had no intention of using an alias with Julius Strome's strings attached to it, but he'd gotten the anonymous account needed to slip by his invisible watchers. The vampire could think what he wanted about the rest.
“You know, I never asked why you chose a spider for your mark,” Harry said as he emptied the knapsack out on the wooden table, a quarter of the basilisk's remains from the Chamber of Secrets spread across its worn, spell-scarred surface.
Strome's amicable smile never changed. “I am, but a tiny arachnid, clinging to the webs of time.”
“Why the black widow then? If I remember my lore correctly, she's been used as a symbol of death in the wizarding world since the early 1500s.”
For a moment, something ancient and hungry stared out at Harry from Julius' gaze, eyes flaring wholly orange and animalistic. When the vampire spoke, the words rang out slow and heavy with age, a sense of dustiness and a patient, ever-vigilant malignance making the air sit thick in Harry’s lungs, lead weights attached to every breath he took. “Master Sharr, I've been around for a very long time. There are few who know death better than I.”
The weight of Strome’s words followed Harry down the stairs.
Nothing like having a 600 year old vampire tell you that your methods sucked, your ambitions sucked, you sucked, and that you failed at life in general to keep you humble.
Irony sucked fucking donkey dick.
She also had a really shitty sense of humour.
Which is why when Harry realized he'd picked up a tail, he found himself recognizing the persistent motherfucker.
Sandy-haired, and of average height, Morticus could have been handsome if it weren't for his unfortunate beak of a nose. He had the rolling stride of someone well at ease with his own abilities and the steady light in his cornflower-blue eyes spoke of his long years of experience. Dressed as he was in nondescript greys and blacks, it was almost impossible to pick him out of the shadows of Knockturn Alley.
Morticus Calloway was a Death Eater. He also worked for the Department of Mysteries.
Morticus was too much of a loose cannon to be recruited into Special Forces, too quick to shoot first and ask questions later. Special Forces liked a thinking man's serial killer. Mort was the kind of guy who did better under exact orders rather than a flexible set of guidelines and goals. Not exactly the kind of guy who thought for himself – too straightforward and inflexible to changes in his environment. He did what he was told, nothing more, and nothing less.
He did, however, work for Mission Operatives as an agent – which explained why he was so damn hard to get rid of last time around. The man was already on the inside and able to stay one step ahead of Harry until the Ministry fell.
By the very fact that Mort was here, Harry knew someone else had sent the crazy SOB after him.
Notgoodnotgoodnotgood…
Harry took a sharp left turn down a narrow alleyway that opened up into a different, much more crowded area of Knockturn. Slipped past a series of candle-lit stalls decorated with shrunken heads, chicken’s feet and dangling snake skins, painted bone-charms by the handful packed into shallow baskets next to potions in radioactive greens, violets, and reds scattered across the countertops; he fell into step with a cluster of scruffy day-labourers just beginning to feel the touch of inebriation. A small, round mirror hanging from one of the stalls showed Mort’s sandy-hair bobbing through the crowd behind Harry at a steady pace.
The cobblestone pathway widened a bit and began to slope downhill as it reached a circular courtyard at the end of the street. Preparations for the upcoming Sabbat of Mabon at the Fall Equinox were in full swing. Harry pulled the hood of his robes over his head to hide the distinctive shine of his hair and continued to follow the crowd around the stagnant fountain in the middle of the courtyard. Unlike the Ministry’s ode to pureblood ideals, this one was a tier of three simple stone bowls, more of the same toothy ivy choking the last trickle of water from the fountain.
Murky water rippled and a thing with spines like a porcupine and a dorsal fin like a sea serpent writhed near the surface.
Mort was still following him. Harry briefly considered pushing Morticus into the fountain and taking off during the ensuing chaos.
Rounding a cart piled high with apples, he quickened his pace towards a small, wrought iron gate pinched between two tall brick tenements out of the way of the festivities. The gate was easy enough to hop over and finally out of sight, Harry took off down the dark narrow path at a dead sprint.
Knockturn Alley rivalled Daedalus’ Labyrinth for random chaos and complexity, three thousand years of dark magic steeped into its bones. Its streets and walkways changed faster than the famous staircases of Hogwarts’ hallowed halls. One moment, you might be walking down a wide, cobblestone street in the mid-morning rain and a left turn later, you’d better run as fast as fucking possible as the dark alleyway collapsed into nothingness behind you, a murder of crows screaming their glee to the night sky above. So when Harry popped back out onto the main street from the narrow walkway, he wasn’t that surprised, hoping that the path decided to deposit Morticus elsewhere.
It hadn’t.
He was never that lucky.
Across the busy street was a clothier’s shop, the front display swathed in velvet the colour of spilt wine. Harry was through the door, bell jingling merrily, past the racks of elegant wizarding couture and out the back before the startled saleswitch had time to shriek.
The back door led to a series of narrow stairs winding around between a tall, moss-covered wall and the wrought-iron bars of someone’s tiny garden. His boots tap-tap-tapped the stones in rapid stutter-steps as he hurtled downward, skidding slightly at the turns.
Move it! Move it! Move it!
The steps ended in the tall face of a building, a sheer, implacable wall of stone looming above him. Somewhere behind him were the steady sounds of footfalls.
Harry didn’t stop to think. Casting a quick disillusionment charm, he grabbed hold of the metal drainpipe, strong fingers finding firm handholds in the stout brackets as he hauled himself upward.
Mort rounded the corner just as Harry reached somebody’s second-story window. Harry stifled a grunt as he swung himself over to the window ledge, perching like a gargoyle on the edge of the sill, one hand braced above him to keep from tumbling out of the frame.
Blue sharpshooter’s eyes scanned the small alley. Mort had his wand out as he turned in a slow circle, the end glowing chartreuse green as he directed it over the surrounding area.
Harry had never before regretted not learning how to disapparate more than now. He’d never needed it before he died, not with all of the trace networks and anti-apparation barriers in place. It’d been suicidal to even try those last seven, almost eight years of the war. Now, though, now with the beginning drizzle of ice cold rain and the steady regard of the DoM agent below, Harry really fucking wished he knew the trick of flinging oneself through space and time.
He needed to move before the sill became too damp to crawl out of.
Mort began to back out of the alley, mouth pinched into a dark frown.
Pulling a small knife from his boot, Harry wedged the thin blade into the lip of the window. Most windows in this area of Knockturn were of the simple pin and slot variety. Given enough leverage and the window would simply pop out of the frame and fall to the floor. It was a damn good thing that logic wasn’t a strong point with most wizards or Harry would have been fried by the multitude of wards placed on the windowpanes to prevent breakage and burglary.
Senses humming from the warded glass, Harry jiggled the blade, pushing the knife further under the window.
The rattle of metal on metal must have caught Mort’s ears, because Harry watched Mort’s reflection in the window whirl around, eyes furious and damn near spitting sparks.
Spellfire splashed off the top of the windowsill.
“Fuck it!” Harry snarled and forced the blade down, popping the window from its frame. The glass shattered against the floor, wards glittering and beginning to form spindly red fingers to grasp at Harry’s robes. The smell of burnt cotton wafted up where the fingers touched cloth, the wards dispelling his disillusionment charm. Harry dove through the opening as a killing curse soared over his head.
Tucking himself into a ball, Harry hit the dusty floor in a controlled roll. As soon as his feet touched ground, Harry was through the bedroom door. Cobwebs and musty carpet greeted him on the other side, everything washed out from the murky haze peeking through the windows. Harry ran to the end of the hallway, placed one hand on the banister and jumped.
The whump of impact throbbed through his shins and calves, Mort’s wordless snarl following his descent. Knowing the way an operative’s mind worked, Harry blasted open the front door, the heavy oak swinging violently on its hinges, and took off for a side room.
Not clever enough, because just as he leapt for the door, a heavy weight came down on his back. The rotted frame splintered under their combined bulk, spilling them out into the room beyond.
Harry hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, a cloud of dust rising from the moth-eaten rug. Instinct registered movement and Harry rolled out of the way of the incoming curse.
They’d ended in a library of sorts, towering shelves filled with mouldering books and knickknacks. Harry didn’t dare take his eyes off of Mort, but from what he could tell, whoever previously owned this collection had a serious fetish for old school Muggle medicine. Elaborate depictions of internal anatomy decorated the walls, making him feel like he’d stumbled into Frankenstein’s sitting room. Harry recognized the framed pages of human dissections from the Fabrica, muscles flayed from bone rendered in black ink, Rembrandt’s painting of a group of curious Dutch scholars huddled over an open corpse, and the hyper-detailed print of The Clinic of Dr. Gross and the brightly lit realism of The Agnew Clinic.
Surgical tools were piled on the corner desks, a glint of silver seen through the choking layer of dust. Mort didn’t quite flinch, but Harry caught the brief moue of revulsion as it crossed the operative’s face.
“Why are you following me?” Harry asked, keeping a careful distance between him and the operative.
“Why aren’t you fighting back?” Mort replied, keeping a wary eye on Harry’s crouched form.
Harry grinned, noting how Mort avoided looking him directly in the eye, choosing instead to stare at the bridge of his nose. Someone had informed him that Harry was a talented Legilmencer, which gave away more than the operative thought. Training against Legilimency should have been standard procedure – and was when Harry was initially recruited – but standards seemed to have gotten lax in the mellower years after the First War. Good to know Mort was still on the up and up.
“I don’t have to, shithead,” Harry remarked conversationally. “You’ve been throwing out Killing Curses all willy-nilly which means within the next thirty seconds, this place is going to be crawling with Aurors.”
From the next room over came a resounding crash and the words: “This is the Ministry of Magic! Drop your wands on the ground now and put your hands behind your head!”
“Coward!” Morticus spat.
Three things happened at once. A burly, red-robed Auror appeared in the doorway and fired a stunner at Mort, who ducked, while throwing another Killing Curse at Harry. A hastily summoned bust from one of the bookshelves intercepted the curse, marble shrapnel exploding everywhere. The Auror was dead within a breath, a Columbian necktie smiling red and wet on his throat.
A long heavy oak table sat in between Harry and Mort. While the operative’s back was still turned, Harry stood, and in the same movement, kicked the table such vicious force that it slammed into Mort's ribs.
Mort stumbled with a snarl, elbowing striking the table hard enough to throw his aim off, green light flashing past Harry.
Too slow.
Harry snatched up a pair of books from the floor, flinging both at Mort, who blasted the first from the air, but wasn’t fast enough to catch the second. It clipped him on the side of the skull; just enough to knock him back a step, one hand reaching out to brace himself on the table.
Way too fucking slow.
Side-stepping a concussion hex, Harry darted towards the operative, jabbing his wand at the bookcase behind Mort.
The operative never saw it coming.
The bookcase folded in half, the sides coming together with a snap and crunch on Mort’s wand-arm.
Mort howled, his lips peeled back in a grimace of pain and fury. The bookcase exploded.
Harry ducked the wooden shrapnel, ash clouding the air and fired off a pair of evisceration hexes into the mess. Green light flashed out of the haze, scorching the floor at Harry’s feet.
Three quick strides took him round the length of the table, footprints smeared into the filth on the floor. Through the dust, Mort scrambled to his feet, the trilling murmur of a healing charm falling from his mouth.He'd gotten Mort's wand-arm. Special operatives were trained to be ambidextrous, but suffering a broken hand in a non-practice environment was a rare injury and everyone had their natural preference.
And field medicine was only so good. The bone would still be fragile. Pale blue light arced towards Mort, painting the rubble around him with ice as the operative scurried away. Harry slapped the bone-breaker out of his path with his wand, Mort’s hex ricocheting away into one of the bookshelves with the shattering tinkle of some porcelain knickknack. Green light flashed past Harry again, a second killing curse hidden in its wake.
A trio of surgical instruments flew up to intercept the curse.
They detonated in a blast of shrapnel flying off in all directions, steel edges red and sizzling as they bounced off of Harry’s shield. He banished the metal shrapnel at the operative, now close enough to seize Mort's wrist before he could get another spell off. Harry twisted the wand away from him, striking the operative across the temple with a series of quick rabbit punches, and broke the hand again for good measure.
Mort tried twisting out of Harry’s grip, tried hauling Harry’s bulk over his shoulder and onto the floor, but Harry was bigger this time, a lot bigger than when he last encountered an operative and Mort was too disoriented to dislodge him. The small blade was in Harry’s hand again, light as a feather and razor-sharp.
Then it was in Mort’s gut, blood gushing hot and wet over Harry’s hand.
More loud voices in the other room, footsteps coming down the hall…
Mort gasped, broken hand flailing at the air.
It didn’t take much to dislocate his trapped arm, body beginning to flop like a landed fish in Harry’s hold, blade sinking in deep enough that Harry could feel where warm flesh split open around the weapon. He yanked the knife out, wound yawning like a little red mouth.
It didn’t take much to kick Mort’s knees out from under him.
It took even less to place one hand under his jaw, another behind his head and twist.
The slight click of Mort’s neck breaking was too quiet to catch over the sound of Aurors apparating in.
Harry was through the window and running down the adjacent alleyway before the Aurors even reached the old library.
Self-defence was hardly a crime.
The Portkey dropped him a healthy mile into the Forbidden Forest’s outer boundaries, not far from one of the many passages into Hogwarts.
Harry lay sprawled on the damp cushion of dead leaves, dazed from vertigo as he watched the night sky swirl above him.
He counted his breaths in and out, in and out, deep and thick, little puffs of condensation misting up in front of his mouth, more than aware of the heady thrum of blood in his veins. What was left of the adrenaline rush had turned into a sleepy languor running under his skin; too warm in his heavy robes, he felt light-headed and somewhat buzzed.
Leaves crinkling in his grasp, Harry tilted his head back, eyes closed and arms flung wide to stop the tremor of the ground beneath him. Opening his eyes would cause his vision to swim and would generally be a wasted effort.
God, he hated Portkeys.
Instead, he lay there, almost insensate with dizziness, trying his best to listen for other predators.He should have felt afraid. The copse of trees surrounding him were dense, packed thick with oaks so old it would take three people to wrap their arms around the trunks, the knotting branches intertwining close enough to deter most of the forest's larger inhabitants. There was a perfect circle in the centre of the grove that he'd only spotted due to luck and a keen eye while flying overhead in his scouting – why he'd chosen this location in the first place.His breathing calmed and he rolled over onto his hands and knees with a sigh, wet leaves clinging to his robes. Harry brushed them off and gazed around, rolling his shoulders to relieve a crick in his neck.
A sickle moon sat high in the night sky, lending just enough light to see the trees. The woods were lonely and old, time and his voyages through Hell taming the sinister nature of the trees to something pensive and subdued. Their shoulders slumped with age, their heads bowed in apology, the branches drooped more than he remembered of his jaunts through the Forest in his schoolboy years. They were less like angry talons reaching for him and more like ordinary trees, unconcerned with the transient nature of humankind.
Something skittered across the dead foliage on the ground, something small and probably furry and Harry glanced up with disinterest. A pair of eyes blinked back at him, the copper shine of a night-dwelling animal’s gaze glittering like tiny lamps in the distinct lack of light.
“Shoo fly, don’t bother me,” Harry murmured, sitting back on his heels. “I wouldn’t make a very good meal for you.”
“Mrrrow,” agreed the animal. It slunk toward Harry, purring as it butted its head against his knees. He scratched it behind the ears, recognizing the little brown calico as one of the cats he’d stumbled over a few times in Gryffindor tower.
Harry stood, keeping a wary eye on the cat weaving in and out of his ankles. “Trip me up, cat,” he muttered. “And I swear to God, I will skin you and wear your carcass as a hat.”
The cat purred, keeping pace at ankle-level as Harry slipped between the trees and climbed over thick roots and rocks. He followed the subtle arrows he'd marked the trees with toward the shard of rune-covered granite marking the passage under the Forbidden Forest. Grunting, he shoved the heavy stone aside, the dull scrape of stone on stone louder than he expected. A dark hole opened up in the earth.
Harry lit his wand and dropped through.
Eleven feet down, his boots touched stone. Harry rolled with the impact, coming up into a tall cavern that was once a part of the emergency evacuation route out of Hogwarts. The passage itself had been blocked off by a cave in since Grindelwald’s era, but the entrance was a functional drop spot.
Neatly folded on a stone outcropping were his Hogwart’s uniform, the holly wand, a pair of glasses, and the beaten metal ring with his “Harry Potter: Clumsy student and part-time hero” glamour attached to it.
Harry wondered how long he’d be able to keep up this Peter Parker Clark Kent costume change bullshit. As if he could put on the glasses and suddenly become a normal boy again – like the world wouldn’t notice that Superman was just Clark Kent without the red and blue spandex. He felt like the wolf of Aesop’s fable, sewing wool over his fur so that he might hunt among the flock.
“Pelle sub agnina latitat mens saepe lupina,” Harry murmured.
Under a sheep’s skin often hides a wolfish mind.
“Mrow,” came the mournful sound from the still open entrance.
“Goddamnit, cat.”
The feline didn’t look particularly pleased about the levitation charm. But when its feet touched the floor, the cat’s parti-coloured tail went up like a happy little flag as the rock doorway snicked shut above.
“If you didn’t like that part, cat, you’ll like the next even less,” Harry said out loud to the animal.
He stumbled a bit as he switched clothing, still dizzy from the damn Portkey and the cat underfoot wasn’t helping. “Fucking bleeding heart, Potter.”
Harry set his yew and thestral hair wand on top of his old robes, weapons stacked to the side, Peter Parker persona firmly in place. Scooping up the cat, Harry waved his Holly wand over a blank piece of rock, dispelling the mild camouflage charm.
A tall mirror shimmered into existence from the stone, the edges unfinished. He knocked twice on the surface.
The mirror rippled.
He stepped through the quicksilver barrier, the warm, purring bundle in his arms turning into a yowling mass of fur as the peculiar sensation of cold water flowed over them both.
“You’re welcome for the ride,” said Harry as the cat sped around the corner of the fourth floor corridor.
Harry dreams of a sad-eyed Grim sitting on the far side of a snowy field, its fur matted with frost, the sky overhead gone grey and sullen. The animal is a small, black splotch on the monochromatic expanse of the field.
It's quiet.
No wind.
No sleet.
No snow.
Hardly even the sound of ice being crushed under his boots or the slow rhythm of his breathing.
Nothing’s happening – not really.
They're just two inkblots on a blank page staring at each other, shivering in the snow like its fucking penance or something.
When Harry wakes in the morning, it's to a heavy heart and a cold knot in his gut. He'll spend the next hour struggling to remember whom the pair of melancholic grey eyes belong to before giving up on it as just another dream about just another person he never managed to save anyway.
Miami at night was a riot of colour and sound. Neon in sharp cobalts, oranges, magentas and limes lit up street corners, bars, and the gleam of chrome on expensive cars. It was hot, muggy enough that he felt like he was swimming instead of walking through the moist, soupy Miami heat. But still the young and the restless lined up in front of the clubs, sweating disaffectedly in their glamour and glitz.
The sleek, greyhound lines of the 1939 Lincoln Zephyr idling by the curb seemed wholly out-of-place, a ghost of yesteryear amid the boxy ranks of modern vehicles. Its hood curved up into a metal snout, snarling, distorted, baring the shining teeth of its grille, its windows dark eyes fixed upon the road, the motor a low wuffing growl of an animal that breathed steel and fire.
A man in a red chauffeur's uniform opened the door and Julius Strome slid into the deceptively large interior on luxurious leather seats.
“I hear you've made a new friend,” said Jezebel as she ran a casual hand through her short, honey-brown curls. Long-limbed and lovely, the daughter of Julius’ Miami colleague could have walked off the face of an haute couture fashion magazine right into the VIP lounge of the clubs outside without rejection.
Heavy bass notes throbbed up through the floor and seats of the Zephyr.
“He’s a liar,” said Julius, a sneer twisting his face into something less than human as he leaned back into the seat.
“I’m not surprised. Despite your talents of persuasion, honesty is still a rare currency.” Jezebel leaned back into the seat, the blue neckline of her dress slipping low enough to show the glitter of a sapphire pendant on a slim chain.
Julius didn’t show a flicker of interest.
“He lies so much, he lies even when he believes he’s telling the truth. Fed me some bullshit story about finding him when he was a druggie teenager and offering him a job. As if I am that altruistic. As if I am incapable of recognizing the kind of man he is. He would never give up control over his own body like that, not to grief, not to circumstance and addiction – he is the kind of man to whom the world is just another dragon to be tamed and he’ll sling a leg over that scaly bitch’s back and ride her into the ground.”
The car pulled away from the hubbub of the clubs without a shift in momentum, the flash of lights outside the only indication that the vehicle was moving.
“Tried to feed me the concept that he’s indebted to me,” Julius continued. “That he will happily cede control over his own actions to me while using me for his own ends like he thinks I have no idea how quickly he’ll discard me when I’m no longer useful. He’s a regular con-man; pulling rabbits out of his hat with one hand while he robs me blind with the other.”
Jezebel smiled, her glamour charms failing to disguise a mouthful of pointed ivory teeth, or how the passing streetlights skimmed off the leathery shine of snakeskin around the hollows of her cheekbones. “What angers you the most, Julius? That he stole your lines? Or that you wanted to believe them?”
The vampire’s lip curled, but he said nothing.
“Admit it. The idea of having a Sharr for a protégé tickles your fancy.”
"There are easier ways to kill yourself,” Julius muttered irritably.
Jezebel shared a glance with her companion, before turning back to face Strome. “Your history is catching up with you.”
“My history doesn't stink of Deep Winter.”
Jezebel's companion coughed, the sound of wheezing taking over the conversation.
He was an older man of Latin descent, dark hair threaded through with iron grey, heavy lines carved into the corners of his eyes. “The Sharr Family has always been the Winter Queen's closest confidants,” the man rasped. “But your grievance goes deeper than political allegiances. I haven't seen your feathers this ruffled in years.”
A pinched look crossed Julius' face. “He is very young,” he said after a small silence. “And I see a frightening amount of myself in that angry young man. Somewhere, somehow, we have met. We have met, and we were close. Somewhere, somehow, I was tricked into cuddling a viper to my breast.”
Jezebel lifted her hand, drinking from a flute of champagne that had not been there moments before, golden eyes fixed on the vampire.
“You are proud of him,” Jezebel murmured. “Furious and humiliated, but proud.”
Strome shook his head. “His mind wanders the edge of sanity. I'd give him maybe a year before he plunges all the way over,” he said ruefully. “I've never been a fan of insane Dark Lords.”
“He tugs on your shrivelled heartstrings, Julius,” Jezebel mocked. “I think I should like to meet your friend. He sounds like a man of singularly interesting character.”
Her companion coughed again, this time pulling a red silk handkerchief from his pocket, muffling the sound of his laboured breathing in its folds. “Be careful what you wish for, my dear.”
Jezebel frowned, the lovely lines of her face going grey and wilted. “Oh Virgil, your cynicism will drive us all into an early grave.”
Virgil Gomiraiz, a minor lord of the sixth house of the Lords of Magic, lifted Jezebel’s free hand and pressed a paper-dry kiss to the knuckles. He shifted in his seat and a passing streetlight glanced off the golden lapel ornament pinned to his dinner jacket.
In small, exquisite detail lay a black scorpion crossed with a reaper’s sickle rendered in gold filigree on a scarlet background.
“What is your motivation in this?” asked Virgil.
The vampire laughed, low and smug. “Do you know how damnably hard it is to kill a necromancer?”
The words caught the attention of his fellow conspirators tight in its grasp, winding bony fingers of suspicion and curiosity about them.
“Little brother was never content to merely cheat Death, he wanted to own it.” Julius bared his teeth the way a tiger would after a large meal and a mid-day nap in the sun. “Congratulations would go to my new protégé, I suppose, if he manages to accomplish what I have not. After all, there's no shame in being victorious by proxy.”