Cosa Nostra

02. Meetings Of Various Sorts.

There's something about being a murderer that makes you wonder. If the tables were turned, what would you do? I found myself wondering this same question as seven figures appeared in the VIP lounge, garbed in the blackest of robes and pale white masks upon their face.

The people in the lounge that were trained reacted with speed just under mine. Charlie's gun was halfway out, his fellow associate quickly pegging in the five digits to the weapons vault. Vanzetti had slammed his fist underneath the table, no doubt hitting the small emergency alarm that lay inside. The Hawks had their hands in their coat, withdrawing their semi-automatics with trained precision. I recognized the glint in their eyes -- loyalty and bloodlust.

Myself? I was fast. My hand was already gripping the curved dagger inside of my jacket pocket. I pushed Vanzetti down besides the couch the second his fingers pressed into the emergency button under the table.

Gunshots echoed in the room. Tens and hundreds of bullets being unloaded rapid precision -- earsplitting noises filling the airs as the smell of smoke cluttered the air. Shells riddled the floor, small metal cylinders that lay disposed and forgotten. I flicked out my left hand, channeling my pure will into it. I stared at them with a pitted, furious gaze. No one came into my territory and fucked around.

I like to think I'm a big boy. I don't cry during romance movies, I don't get frightened when I'm staring down the barrel of a gun. But when you see ten full grown and trained men staring deftly at the scene unfolding in front of them, a pang of fear hits you no matter how hardened you are.

Every bullet that had fired from a gun laid suspended in air, each unable to reach their mark because of a thick, bronze orb that encompassed each and every figure inclusively. My brain stopped working for a moment as two questions plagued me.

What the fuck was this? That was question one. I had heard of some Zen monks in Tibet being able to stop a bullet from impacting their skin, or Buddhist monks being able to break metal with their bare hands. This was something else, the bullets hadn't even touched them. Their rods -- wands? -- were directed in front of them, glowing the same bronze as the shield in front of them. Their leader -- a crazed, unmasked woman with a gaunt face -- smirked maliciously and raised her wand above her head.

Question two: How the fuck did they do that? I had been right, there were more people like me. But what was this? This wasn't like anything I had done before. This was far past any level of expertise that I had achieved after countless hours of labor every day. I felt my mouth go dry as my eyes watched the scene. Time seemed to slow down while the woman raised her wand, her mouth moving in an ancient branch of Latin.

“Avada Kedavra!” she hissed. A twisted coil of putrid green light left her wand tip and leapt towards Charlie. A sharp gust of wind followed her bolt of energy, howling inside the small lounge. Curtains shook from the magnitude of the light, candlelight flickering in the dark room.

Charlie fell dead. There was no unconsciousness or shock-induced arrest about it. I could see his eyes lose all color and purpose, his mouth opened in a pre-emptive warning shout. I had seen people die before, I had seen their eyes lose all focus and will. Charlie was no longer among the living.

The room sprung into action again. I shoved Vanzetti down behind the couch further and darted forward, dagger in one hand. I felt fury like nothing I had ever felt before. I wanted to kill them, I wanted to show them who exactly was the better trained warrior.

I rapidly upturned the coffee table, providing a temporary bastion of defense. Jets of light raced forward over the ramparts and battered against the table, leaving scorch marks the size of fists in the walls and floor.

I heard screams of the girls in the room, running out and abandoning the drunk men that lay in the chairs that would become their death beds. The fire alarm sounded somewhere within the club and masses of people began to move quickly towards the doors.

A man's voice shouted something -- a lance of crimson fire pierced through the air, scorching the very moisture in the air around me. The flames conflagrated the leather couches -- I could feel the heat licking against my face.

I dove to the side, seconds before the table I had been hiding behind burst into eerie green flames. Tumbling to the side, I raised my left hand -- palm out and fingers spread -- and felt the familiar power of my will flow through my body. I used it and all the energy around me to push my will forward -- a raw force of kinetic energy.

One of the black robed figures was blown off his feet, into the wall with a sickening crunch. I snarled and threw the dagger in my right hand, by the blade and not the hilt. A small, predatory smile of satisfaction graced my features as the blade lodged into his chest, right where his heart should lay.

I could feel my energy ebbing away faster now. The short impulses of sophisticated power was never light on the body -- it always took more than I intended when I used it.

“Leave him,” said the woman with a loathing expression, eyeing the dead man. “Get me the boy.”

That's when it really began. We had traded one man for one, both sides were pissed. They were playing to kill, I was playing to kill and protect. I considered myself at a disadvantage.

Regardless of the situation, I smirked. Disadvantages made it worth the while.

The remaining Hawks split into action, diving behind whatever bastions they could find and reloading their guns with new ammunition. Stevey Sparks ran into the room with concern etched into his features before it changed into rapid understanding. He withdrew the .357 Blackhawk from his boot and unclipped something that I couldn't see from his belt.

I looked back over to Vanzetti's body to see the man leaned up against the couch, protected for now. He reached into his pocket and withdrew two small semi-automatics. He quickly passed one to me and I caught it deftly, unclipping the safety and holding it in my right hand.

“Now, now Muggles we only want the boy. Hand him over and none of you shall be harmed,” said the woman. I risked a glance over the edge of the loveseat that I was hiding behind. Their bronze orbs still fully enveloped their bodies, leaving no signs of weakness.

“Who are you?” yelled one of the Hawks.

She let out cackling laughter. “I am the servant of the Dark Lord, foolish Muggle. A man of power beyond your comprehension. Give us the boy, and you will all live tonight,” she said and licked her lips delightfully. A wolf preparing for the meal.

I looked to Vanzetti who instantly began making hand signs. I nodded shortly, he was formulating a plan way ahead of my own thought processes. He raised a finger to his lips and gripped his gun in both hands. I rubbed the condensation off my hands and onto my pants, letting out a slow breath, trying to keep quiet.

We were used to hostage situations like this, there had been attempts all through my life. It didn't matter if this weird super-woman got me or not, everyone would die.

“What is more valuable Muggles? Him? Or your life?” asked the woman again. She spoke with a seductive sophistication that must have been perfected from years of use.

I kept my breathing steady regardless of my heart rate. Remember what I said about liking disadvantages? I like a disadvantage -- maybe one against two in a fire-fight. I don't like fighting six guys with super-powers and magical wands. Wands that work.

“No? Very well. You should know that there's only ten chairs muggles. I'm sure it won't take too long,” she said wryly. I heard a crackling of energy through the air before the couch to my side was pulled out of the air, revealing the Hawk that stood behind it.

“Crucio,” she muttered, flourishing her wand. A crimson bolt of energy left the tip of her wand and impacted the man nearest me. Energy  traveled through his body, coursing through every neuron that he possessed.

I had heard people scream before. I've heard dying screams, pleading screams, fearful screams, even screams of joyous surprise. I had never heard a scream of such pain and such terror in my fifteen short years of existence.

Hawks were strong men; their qualifications were extensive and they were trained to be the best, trained to keep family secrets and to die protecting Vanzetti. The Hawk next to me was reduced to a crying, sniveling man in under a second. His body rolled on the floor back and forth, slowly and slowly approaching fetal position while his eyes held complete pain and terror. She must've kept the pain on him for almost a minute until he could no longer scream.

“Nine to go,” she whispered, breaking the eerie silenced that had veiled the room. I could hear her lips practically suckling the words, her tongue moving languidly around each syllable. The Hawk she had touched was trembling and weeping. A grown man like that never cries that easily.

I turned to Vanzetti and watched him with exasperation. Vanzetti is one of the strongest men I know; he was a man who could walk in front of an army and still think he had good chances. The expression he held would stay with me forever, I knew it would.

Where once a strong, proud man stood, only a weak boy remained. His face was pale and dull, almost lifeless. I could see his grip loosening on his gun, muscles relaxing throughout his body. His jaw was set half-open, tongue loosely held.

“Which one to reveal next…” she mused. A whip like crack sounded in the air before the couch next to Vanzetti was torn asunder. The leather was ripped from its sides as if cloven in two. The Hawk behind it raised his gun and took aim.

The woman flicked her wand and the gun flew out of his hand, landing a few feet away from me.

“No, no, no,” she chided. “That's not playing nice at all.” Her robes bristled again and I saw the man get pulled forward as if by an invisible force.

He lay upon his knees in front of her, eyes blazing in defiance. She raised her left hand to his face and trailed a fingernail down the length of his cheek. He shivered and the same convulsion ran through my own spine.

“One chance, Muggle,” She spat the word. “Tell me where he is.”

The Hawk bowed his head slightly, I saw the smile curving upon his lips. “Family comes first.”

She snarled and violet energy pooled at her wand tip. She traced the tip across his throat as one would a dagger. The effect was the same, his head was immediately dismembered and his body was left forgotten. The woman's eyes glittered in mirth as she looked upon the destruction in front of her -- the blood that now spattered the tiles of the floor and the head that rolled away. His eyes were still open, blank with acceptance.

I caught Spark's eyes out of the corner of my vision. My gaze met his and he nodded in solemn understanding before he jutted his head towards Vanzetti. I nodded shortly; family came first. The most important person to get out of there was Vanzetti. Without him, the family would fall. A man cannot stand without his head.

“Who will be the next one, muggles? Which of you will chose life over death and tell us where the boy is,” snarled the woman.

I suppressed a scowl, she was killing the Hawks off one by one for pure sport. She could've easily discovered my hiding spot but she wanted them to suffer. She enjoyed it.

When I killed it was just for business. Some guy that was going back on his word, some guy failing to deliver a shipment, a snitch, a thief. This woman was unstable, she killed for fun.

I looked towards Sparks again and he held a small flash grenade in his hands. My eyes widened, that would be our chance to escape. I nodded shortly and turned to Vanzetti. My father's face was set in stone, colder and harder than anything I had seen before.

I quickly rubbed my eyes with my pointer finger and thumb to clear the dryness that had accrued. Embers faintly licked the tiles around me, trying to spread its conflagration to anything that it could. My gaze slowly turned to the emergency backdoor behind where Vanzetti's chair should've been, only a few meters away from the man himself. The only problem was that there was a direct line of sight between the woman and Vanzetti.

“The next one then?” she prompted. I heard her footsteps moving around the room in slow, graceful steps. Her black robes swished with every movement, a wraith in the dark room.

I could hear her breath behind me, just over the seat of the couch. I jerked one last glance towards Sparks and he caught my understanding. He switched the flash grenade to his right hand and held it at the ready. I nodded and tightened my grip on the gun that was in my hand.

“Let's see who's here,” said the woman slowly, meticulously, a faint childish tone in her voice.

I heard the fabric rustle before I moved. I darted out into the open, my gun readied while Sparks got out from behind his seat. Several of the remaining Hawks caught the plan and jumped up, guns in their hands that were poised and ready.

The flash grenade that was in Sparks' hand arched through the air while my gaze met the woman's. Her eyes widened slowly before her lips settled into a small smirk. I think one part of her liked seeing me as I was, a gun raised and poised to kill. She lived for the rush, just as I did.

I slammed down on the trigger three times. Three subsequent bullets flew through the air while the grenade came closer still. I could see the rivets on my bullets as they left my gun, traveling through the air towards her chest.

Her eyes grew in anticipation before she moved faster than anything I had seen before. Her wand was up before my finger had pulled down on the trigger. By the time I had unloaded the first bullet the bronze orb enclosed her once again. Bullets met her bubble of protection and paused against it, losing all momentum before clattering to the floor.

My eyes found the flash grenade to see it moving slowly through the air, as if traversing through a viscid fluid. She simply raised her wand and flicked it again -- the grenade went off. Her eyes weren't facing it however, mine were.

When magnesium strips are ignited, the heat causes a drastic chemical reaction to take place. The result is a disturbing amount of pure light that can cause temporary, and sometimes even permanent, blindness. I rolled to the side and attempted to shield my eyes from the overwhelming light. The grenade exploded before I had the chance, wiping out my vision alongside it.

My head throbbed and my ears rung from the short detonation of the flash grenade. I could hear the screams of those around me and the rapid rustling a fabric from not only the woman, but from the troupe that lay behind her. The gunshots around the room felt suppressed and blocked by a thick sheet of lead.  

I ducked into a corner and covered my head, moving to the image of the lounge as I remembered it. I closed my eyes tight and tried to will my vision to return to itself. I felt the flow of power through my veins as it traveled through my body and into my eyes.

My vision began to clear, slowly at first and then more rapidly. I blinked furiously and rubbed at them viciously to expedite the process. I achieved a hazy semblance of vision that would be enough to get the job done.

I glanced around the rubble of the room, and what appeared was more than surprising. Every Hawk was down, Vanzetti was nowhere to be seen, and yet battle still went on.

The black-robed figures now were locked in pitted fights with crimson-robed figures. Their eyes stayed sealed on each other, bursts of light spitting forward from each of their wand tips at amazing speeds. I heard some Latin phrases being yelled back and forth, especially between some strange, scarred man with a fake eyeball and the woman that had been standing over me.

My eyes scanned the room and landed on Vanzetti, sprawled on the floor only a few feet from the exit. He had a nasty laceration across his hamstring, an inch wide and half a foot in length.

I stood up and swiftly moved across the room, stealth was no longer an option. The windows shattered around me as particular potent jets of lights collided in midair, dissipating in shimmering sparks of power. I saw Sparks' dead body on the floor and swept up his gun , pulling the hammer back. Conflicting lights illuminated my face, shades of crimson, violet, and green rushing behind me.

“Get out of here,” I growled to Vanzetti. He stared up at me as if I was his guardian angel and nodded shortly, trying to hobble towards the emergency escape.

“Don't let them escape!” roared one of the dark robed figures over the crackle of electricity in the air. I cocked my head towards the direction of the voice and found myself staring down a jet of crimson light.

The next thing I knew was pain. A lot of it. My body was on fire, thousands of hot knives pressing into my skin and peeling away every ounce of flesh that I possessed. I couldn't breathe; my lungs constricted and the only noise that came from my throat were screams. My eyes watered; something inside of me wanted to break down and just let go --

The pain lifted after a few terse seconds, leaving me gasping for air and cringing from the sore nerves that now racked my body. I looked back at my target to see him on the floor, arms and legs bound together, unable to move.

I raised my gun.

This time there was no shield to protect him, no woman to save him. The bullet flew true through the air and pierced his skull. Gray matter erupted out of the other side of his head.

I'm glad we decided not to carpet the lounge.

“Rabastan!” yelled another man. I flicked my gun back to him and pulled back on the hammer again, aiming it at his heart.

His gaze was as furious as mine. Maybe that had been a relative of his? Good riddance. He snarled and raised his wand towards me as I took aim at his head.

There was one thing that I learned in the short span of a few minutes. The black robed imitation of an old white supremacy movement couldn't make a bronze orb and shoot a green light at the same time. I knew that the green light meant dead, not go. I saw the words of his green light-thing form on his lips, his nostrils flared as he did so. The same putrid light gathered at the tip of his wand.

“Avada Kedavra,” he snarled. The coil of green energy snaked through the air while my bullet left my gun. Let's get a few things straight right here, I don't miss.

My bullet made contact just as the jet of green energy left the tip of his wand. The light slithered toward me in a serpentine fashion, moving far faster than I could readjust my weight and move out of the way. I deftly felt the recoil of the gun in my hand; this was the end.

At least I went down swinging.

I closed my eyes and prepared for the inevitable. Maybe there would be a nice tunnel of light at the end. Maybe I should start praying like all those other guys did, I might just go to Heaven. I could hear the roaring of wind accompanied with the light as it streaked towards me. Maybe there was a tunnel after all.

What the hell, I'll stare death in the eyes.

I opened both of my eyes and watched the green light make its finishing home-stretch. I was standing stock still and knew that there wasn't nearly enough time to act. A large mass of a body jumped in front of me -- I recognized that dark hair more than anything else.

Vanzetti.

The bolt of light made contact with the man's back. The life passed from his eyes at a point blank range, his features still contorted in warning and defiance. The righteous fury and desire for control in his eyes slowly glazed away. Vanzetti was a man of pride and power, one who sought to keep order in a world of chaos by his own fist. He had made me what I was, he had raised me from just another kid on the block to one of the toughest people that roamed the streets of London.

My Capo di tutti Capi, my Don, my Father.

So naturally, I was pissed.

The man I had shot was still alive, my bullet had only hit the shoulder of his left arm. I walked through the blazing inferno around me, fire licking the furniture and the remnants of battle around me. The woman had disappeared as quickly as she came, as did her remaining troupe. The crimson robed figures were tending to their wounded, some of them debating how to approach me.

The man in front of me chuckled in a low voice. “You don't have it in you to kill me,” he rasped. “You got lucky with the other two but you're the good boy, you can't touch me.”

The dying words of men were always the best to hear.

I cocked back the hammer for what felt like the twentieth time that night -- it probably was.

“That's where you made your mistake,” I whispered, softly enough for my voice to be heard over the crackling embers. “You think I'm a good boy.”

I aimed for just below his waist and pulled the trigger, enjoying the sharp scream that elicited from his mouth. His scream slowly died down into a string of swear words and labored breathing. His eyes held fear now, not cocky arrogance.

“You can't do this!” he hissed. His eyes roamed around to the other robed figures in the rooms. I guessed they were his enemies and obviously didn't want to kill me.

I pulled back the hammer again.

“You see, that's where you're wrong. You think that I care about the law,” I said softly. I raised my gun to his forehead and tapped between his eyes three times.

“Harry,” said another voice. I turned around slowly to see an old man stepping into the scene. He was garbed in soft blue robes strangely adorned with a variety of cosmic symbols. Constellations, stars, patterns of astrology. The lines of age were evident upon his face, yet his posture still remained strong and confident.

“Don't do this,” he said softly. For a moment I debated killing him as well, but that probably wouldn't have been the best idea.

I forced a smile onto my face.

“I like how you think I care what you say,” I said dryly. My finger tensed on the trigger.

“Harry, please,” implored the old man, moving closer to me. “Your parents wouldn't have wanted you to do this.”

I faltered for a moment. Parents? Those were people I hadn't heard anything about in a long, long time. James and Lily Potter, killed in a car accident. I was the only known survivor and their only gift was a jagged scar that marked my forehead.

I threw him a cold gaze and returned to my work regarding the man standing in front of me. His eyes held that arrogance that it did before -- he didn't think he would die.

I was always one to change the outcome of what people thought.

The shell clacked to the floor and the man's body fell to the ground. I heard a sharp gasp from one of the other people there, a hand quickly raised to cover her mouth. For good measure, I emptied the last remaining three shots of my gun into his chest. His body convulsed at each shot but that didn't satisfy me. I wanted more, I wanted to kill him even in death.

“Harry,” said the old man again. His tone was stern and no longer as soft as it was before. “Stop.”

And for some reason, I did. I didn't want to but I suddenly felt very tired, drowsy, and weak -- as if a lead weight had just been placed over my body. My shoulders slumped and the nauseating smell of burning, dead bodies hit me in full force. My eyes swept over the room, tallying the dead officials and men that had stood by me for so long.

There are times in life when even the strongest man wants to cry, and times when the weeping man must learn to keep moving forward. This was one of the latter.

I raised myself into a standing position and took a steadying breath. Things had to keep moving forward, this wasn't a time to sit back and ride out the storm. I placed Sparks' gun inside my coat pocket and ran a hand through my hair. This wasn't going to end well.

Not only were there at least fifteen other special people out there, but they had all circled around me. I've never claimed to be a genius, but I'd like to think I'm smart. I was a key player in something, and I really liked having all the pieces before I started completing the puzzle.

I turned around and for the first time noted that there others still in the room. The man with the fake eyeball was standing by the door, the eyeball moving rapidly around the room. A small, pink haired woman was a few feet away from him, her wand traveling up and down the lengths of her shin with a soft orange light at the tip. A tall dark man stood next to the old man, both conversing quietly with one another. A few other figures were distributed throughout the room, all of various shapes and sizes.

Half of me wanted to escape and go find one of the other family members and do something. The other, more rational, half of me wanted to stay and try to make heads or tails out of what just happened. I found a medium, leaning against the wall and letting my fate play itself out.

The fires of the room were now extinguished and the club had been vacated. It was late at night; the rest of the city was shut away in deafening silence. The only sounds I could hear were the soft murmurs of the other people in the room, and the throbbing headache that never wanted to disappear.

“Hello Harry,” said the old man soberly. I flicked my eyes up and met his blue eyes, bespectacled by half-moon glasses. A long silver beard trailed down his face, neatly tied at the bottom with a small ribbon. He held himself with a veiled yet powerful strength. Vanzetti used to do the same.

I didn't respond at first. Not for lack of topics, but simply because I didn't know his name.

“My name is Albus Dumbledore,” the old man supplied. Ah. “Those you see around you are my associates, the Order of the Phoenix. The black robed figures you saw earlier are what we call Death Eaters.”

Great. Answers.

“And what are you exactly? You're not human, I'm obviously not human, and they're not human,” I noted, eyes surveying each member of the room.  

Dumbledore smiled half-heartedly. “I daresay we are quite human, just not of the normal kind. Some of us are wizards and some are witches. You, are a wizard,” said Dumbledore.

I raised an eyebrow in piqued interest. I guess it wasn't that much of a long shot though; there had been magic wands during the fight that had ensued, people had died to 'spells', and even I had used a 'spell'.

“Assuming I believe you,” I began, Dumbledore nodded slowly and gestured for me to continue, “why am I targeted? And better yet, how did any of you find me?”

“All worthy questions,” said Dumbledore. “But first, I believe your safety should be our primary issue. There are more people where they came from, few of which will offer you aid.”

I eyed him carefully. That was a line I'd used several times in winning over some politicians. 'I'll save you, just do what I want' type of line.

“And I should trust you, why?” I asked. My hand slipped into my pocket and I deftly fingered my gun. Dumbledore seemed completely unperturbed.

“You have no reason to trust me, Harry, but you have my word that no one here will harm you. Several of us knew your parents, they were wizards as well,” said the old man. Suddenly there was a great desire to know more.

I inclined my head shortly. “There are things that I need to take care off quickly before anything else happens. Business things,” I said.

Yeah. Business. Like which of Vanzetti's brothers would take over the family. In all technicalities, I was now the leader of Vanzetti's group because I was his legal son. Some things I just didn't feel I was ready for. Leading an upstanding criminal family was one of them.

 

Dumbledore frowned. “Every moment you stay in the open there's an increasing chance of danger, Harry. I implore you to come with us, we can keep you safe while I can help you learn about the changing world around you.”

The offer sounded good, I'll admit.

I shook my head. “I have to get going. Call me tomorrow and we can arrange a meeting.” I pulled out a card from inside my jacket pocket and handed it to the old man before beginning to move away.

Maybe I should've stayed and learned what the old man had to tell me. It probably would've been better for me in the long run but I had more important things to do. Order had to be kept, London would fall into another war if it wasn't. My personal gains could be put on hold for a little while.

The old man sighed wearily. “Very well, Harry. I will contact you tomorrow.” He began to walk away with some of his associates behind him, still fingering my contact card.

“I know you'll be at Vanzetti's house tonight. Stay there if you want, but don't get in my way” I warned. I swore I saw a small twinkle in the man's ocean-blue eyes. He simply smiled and kept walking.

I sighed and walked over to Vanzetti's body, standing over it. His eyes were still wide open.

I closed them.

- - -

I live a structured life. That's how it's been, that's how it will always be. I wake up every morning at the same time no matter what, I eat the same breakfast, and I do the same workout every day. When I was younger Vanzetti told me the workout was to instill character, to make me a man. I learned later that he never wanted me to die -- the workouts were mere preparation for the inevitable confrontation that I would one day face.

Regardless of the death and gloom hanging over me, I pursued the same workout.

That's why my lungs were burning under water, my vision getting pushed to the depths of blackness. I could still imagine Vanzetti's voice from above the surface --

“Keep going Harry. Again.” 

I kept underwater until I felt my head began to pound and I neared the bridge of unconsciousness. I kicked my legs up and found my way to the surface. I gasped for breath and continued to tread water rapidly, my legs moving in scissor-like chops.

The pool-room was one of the most defined in the house. It was indoors, twenty feet in depth at its deepest point. The floor was tiled in fine stone with pillars that mirrored that of the club. Italian architecture, I wouldn't expect anything else from Vanzetti. Above the pool was a skylight, from which I could see the orange sky breaching the heavens. The reflection of light against water shimmered off of the walls, dancing in nonsensical patterns.

I checked the time on a mounted clock on the far north wall; it read just past 8:00. I had two hours to burn before the rest of the family arrived. Maybe an hour and a half before the first members started to drive up the road.

The Vanzetti mansion was on the outskirts of London, in its own niche by the countryside. Security was tight, constantly monitored with guards, other members of the family, and cameras in every direction. Safe houses located within the compound riddles its infrastructure; passageways existed that led to a nuance of tunnels that led out of the compound and some went as far to reach close to London. Vanzetti was almost always prepared for someone to come after him at his home.

It was a shame he overlooked the club.

I pulled myself out of the water and grabbed a loose towel from where I had set it down, wiping my face and still heaving with lost breath. My vision was still somewhat blurred from the training but that was simply a repercussion of the necessary precautions that I had to take to survive. If someone dropped me into a river it would take me two minutes to four minutes to get out, depending on my equipment. I had learned to hold my breath for at least the majority of that.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and began to move forward through the mansion. It was disturbingly empty, but that was to be expected. The house was a status symbol more than an actual living residence. Vanzetti had no family outside of me, his wife had died during the gang war eight years ago.

I entered my private chambers, located only a few doors down from Vanzetti's room and shut the door. My room was of refined taste -- deep shades of emerald drapery decorated the windows, fine cherry furnishings made up my shelves, desks, and bed. A small yet elegant chandelier hung from the center of the room, reflecting small spectrums of light onto the walls.

I rapidly donned a shirt and heard the door creak behind me. My head immediately cocked in that direction and surveyed the door with interest; I had closed it on my way in. I finished up the last buttons of my Oxford shirt and walked over to one of the clothing drawers. I slid it open and dropped my hand underneath a layer of shirts and pulled out a semi-automatic which I tucked into my back pocket. Tasteless, but effective.

I moved to the door with quiet steps and pulled it open slowly and calmly; something seemed to be lurking near the door. Call it a Sixth Sense but I usually have a good feel for dangerous situations, it comes with experience and the unfortunate reoccurrence of such events. I opened the door wide and withdrew the semi from my pocket, flicking off the safety. I heard someone's breath hitch only a few feet away from me.

I slowly brushed my hand through the air, grasping at straws. My hands felt something however, something that was silky and practically hanging in the air. The force backed up slightly as I pushed forward. That's how it continued for a few moments -- I grasped at this force in the air while it seemed to slowly edge away from me.

I flexed my fingers and gripped something in the air. The very air in front of me shimmered and a soft fabric draped away off an object, leaving only a woman with mirthful eyes standing in front of me. I raised an eyebrow and watched her expectantly, my right hand remaining stagnant at my side until I pocketed the gun.

“Wotcher,” she said lightly.

A half-smile quirked on my mouth, “Let me guess, magic?” I asked dryly.

A smile curled on her lips and for the first time I noticed that her hair was a strange -- almost natural -- shade of pink. Upon her heart-shaped face lay two strangely colored eyes, amethyst in nature. Her robes fell loosely around her, concealing some shirt that depicted something called the 'Weird Sisters.'

“Handy isn't it? Invisibility for only a meager price of a few hundred galleons” she said, reaching out a hand to grasp the gossamer material in my own. I kept my grip tight and held onto the material.

“A galleon?” I asked, still fascinated with the invisible-material itself.

“Wizarding currency” she supplied. “There's a few types -- knuts, sickles, and galleons.” As if to prove a point, she withdrew a small handful of gold, silver, and bronze coins from the depths of her robes and presented them to me.

I tilted my head to the side, “Interesting. So is there a reason you're lurking around the house or is this just a strange sport wizards like to play?” I asked. She allowed her grip on the invisible cloth to go lax -- I could barely feel the feather light weight in my hands.

“I could ask you the same question” she said wryly. “I didn't know drowning was considered a sport in England, well, at least it hasn't been for a few hundred years.”

Despite myself, I allowed a small chuckle to pass through my lips. “Imagine that. So I have an invisible security detail?” I asked.

She shrugged noncommittally, “Looks that way, at least until we can get you to a safer location.”

“And would you mind telling me why I need to go to a safe house Miss…?” I trailed off.

“Tonks, just Tonks” she replied shortly. Her hair began to change colors, darkening into a light auburn.

“Does that lovely surname come with a first name?” I asked glibly. Her eyes hardened at my comment and her hair seemed to become an almost deadly shade of crimson.

“Not if you value your life.” She meant to come out as threatening, but her mirth made the threat seem far less venomous that it could've been.  

“I suppose it's a good thing I do value my life then, Miss Tonks. The question still stands” I said, surveying her carefully. The reticence of these wizards were annoying at best.

Tonks seemed to debate a point with herself before she winced slightly. “I don't think I'm the best one to answer that. Dumbledore instructed us only to maintain strict security guidelines around you. Technically speaking, I'm not supposed to have been seen” she said meekly, shifting uncomfortably in her position.

Surprise, surprise.

I forced a smile, “So what do you do for a living? I hope it's not restricted to just watching innocent boys like myself and using that wand of yours” I said lightly. Her left hand deftly rubbed her right forearm -- I noticed a smell, slender cylindrical shape underneath the cuff of her robe. Eureka.

“I'm an Auror” said Tonks with a hint of pride. “We're like the police force, but better at our jobs. Y'know, protecting and preserving peace within the world.”

I nodded, “And the Death Eaters are what?” Her eyes darkened.

“Nasty people. They work for someone who calls himself the Dark Lord -- everyone else refers to him as You-Know-Who” she said carefully, as if being wary to dance around the important details.

“And his real name is what, exactly? The pseudonym must have an original source” I pressed. It wasn't unusual for the shady characters to take false names. I've met people with the stranger names -- Rippin' Richie, Dancing David. There was always a truth in the false names.

She forced something down her throat and let out a small breath, “Lord Voldemort. Most people get a little put-off by it, though. It's not exactly a term you throw around in public, not since the first war” said Tonks. Her tone was pressed -- I knew she was getting to the tip of something.

“The first war? That would mean this guy has done stuff before?” I asked, my interest was piqued. She winced and nodded slowly but said nothing. This was her threshold.

I threw her a half-smile, it was more information than I could've expected. See, regardless of the situation I'm a nice guy -- my gun was kept in my pocket the entire time.

“Thank you, Miss Tonks. Tell Mr. Dumbledore that I'll be available in four hours, after I take care of some business” I said dismissively. I threw the silver material back to her and watched it flutter in the air, barely visible until it was draped over her arm.

She gave me an arched expression, “What type of business does a kid like you do? You're only what, fifteen?” she asked.

I smiled pleasantly and turned around, walking through the hallways at a brisk pace. It was time for a family meeting, and it was never a good idea to be late for those.