Cosa Nostra

03b. An Empire, Lost.

I pushed open the two large, white oak doors to the main dining hallway of the mansion and grimaced with nostalgia. It was a room of refined taste, with a singular long white table running a sizable portion of the room. A fine chandelier hung above the table, its crystals reflecting a spectrum of colors over the white tablecloths and walls. Each table setting was manufactured with identical precision; a fine, ceramic plate with identical silver utensils and crystalline goblets. Candles were placed between each setting, for more of the couth, nighttime meetings. 

The table housed every influential figure in the Vanzetti family. Vanzetti used to sit at the head, I sat by his right side while his closest brother sat on his left. After the initial triumvirate of power, the table would position itself in order of receding power -- going from brothers, to cousins, to more and more distant relations. 

The oldest son of each family was expected to sit behind his father, observing the mannerisms so that he too, would one day take his father's place in the family. Wives of men varied in their location -- some of the more influential wives sat next to their husbands, but the majority of them resided in the adjoining room where the children would stay. Children that ranged from newborn age to the precipice of adulthood, all of them were considered babies in the family's eyes.

All except for me.

Maybe that's what made this so hard to do. I had built this empire, alongside Vanzetti from my inception into its fold back in 1985. My blood and sweat went into every brick, and now some group of magical anomalies were breaking my ten years of toil. The unity that the Vanzetti family had proclaimed on the streets and penthouses of London would fall.

And it would fall, not because of the superior intellect or capability of the opposition, but simply because the opposition had black robes and little wands. They could infiltrate any base, kill any leader. We were weak and outclassed in spades.

I moved around the table slowly, pensively. My next course of action would define where the family went. I don't think it's fair to sacrifice an army against an enemy that they have no chances of defeating. Let's admit it, I got lucky. The family would begin to decay, brothers would quarrel for leadership and ultimately, there would be nothing left for me to recover when these wizards were done with me.

Without Vanzetti, our leader was gone. 

I walked forward and traced the outline of the head's chair with the barest of fingertips. I didn't love my father, I don't do big-time emotions like that. But it's like an army losing it's king, you feel the loss even if you were only a foot soldier. The fabric of the chair was soft and I imagined  the illusion of him sitting in the chair as he had only a fortnight ago. His back rigid and composed, only the faintest flecks of gray showing in his dark hair. For him the gray was never a weakening factor, it defined him as the man he was. 

“Excuse me, Master Harry, the guests are arriving” spoke a soft, old voice from my left.

 I turned my head slowly to see Williams, the resident butler to the Vanzetti household. He was a tall, aging man with gray hair that was well kempt and a closely trimmed moustache. The wrinkles upon his face were becoming more pronounced -- much more pronounced than those he held when he would chase me around the house as he had in my youth. 

I was rebellious, it wasn't my fault the house had shiny things. Was it?

“Thank you, Williams. Send them in directly,” I said monotonously. Williams gave a short bow before departing, leaving me alone in the room once again.

Black sedans pulled up to the house, each unloading men, women, and often several small children. The children seemed carefree of the world around them while the parents held grave expressions. I watched them carefully before moving back to the head of the table and pulling the seat out slowly. My mind strained to remember how exactly Vanzetti did his job, just how he held himself and exactly what he said for every situation.

People flooded into the room through the adjoining foyer, some of them gave me solemn expressions before they sat, others were confused to see me at the head of the table. Once the room was filled with its various members I stood, they all followed suit. I made the motion relaxed and confident, as if it was but a second nature to myself.

I gave the party a sweeping glance and slowly sat down. The others echoed my actions, as did the scrapping of chairs against the hard, wooden floor. 

I could feel the soft material of the chair around me and I suddenly felt as if I had been placed in a position of power. The seat was just that, a chair comprised of four pegs and loaded with enough cotton to kill a small child but it was more, a symbol of power. I had accepted a responsibility. 

I was the leader now.

A leader is one who can unify his people under one goal, who is strong enough to know when to fight and kind enough to know when to save his people. 

I'll let you figure out which one this was. 

“How's business?” I asked the table, my tone calm and focused. A murmur of assent met my words, the most loyal members of their family inclining their heads to me in a subservient fashion.

“What happened to the boss?” asked one of the younger members softly. My eyes swiveled to meet the voice: a young, shaggy haired individual that sat almost half a table away from me. He flinched.

A silence gripped the table, heads turning to me with various expressions; some were curious, others were mournful. News traveled fast in the Vanzetti family, I expected people knew of his death within an hour.

“Nicolas Vanzetti was killed last night,” I said with only the barest hints of emotion. “He was assassinated at his club, a crossfire that was unexplained and unavoidable.” 

Murmurs broke out among the table for a brief second -- muttering of brief condolences or threatening plans of vengeance. Some of the more aggressive men gripped the edges of the white tablecloth, their knuckles turning white under the pressure. 

“We should whack the sonofabitch that did this!” shouted one of the members of the table, slamming his fist down onto the table. Plates and cutlery rattled, the young man's eyes burning with vengeance.

The edges of my lips twitched in amusement. 

“He's been taken care of,” I responded coolly. “He went for a swim with the fishes last night.”

The younger man flushed lightly and returned his gaze downwards, content to stare at the serviette placed on his plate before him. 

“This is getting out of hand. People are trying to push into our ground, like that rat faced guy from a month ago,” said one of Vanzetti's nephews, Thomas, disparagingly. “Almost clipped you, they're getting better every time.” 

“Rat faced? You mean that old wrenchman?” asked a new voice, brow furrowed as he struggled for a name. “Richie McGee? Stout fellow, bit big teeth, wisps of hair?”

My eyes narrowed at the new voice, a mid-aged man with dark, black hair only a few seats away from myself. He was an uncommon figure, only attending a few family meetings. I didn't even know his name.

“I hope you do not mean to tell me that two members of this family have been attacked due to your reticence,” I said softly, with the malice of a thousand swords. He quailed in his seat, eyes frantically searching around the room.

There is a reason I am -- was -- Vanzetti's son. I inherited the better half of his traits. 

He nodded slowly, gingerly. “I - I didn't know, honest. No one ever told me nothing, just that you were attacked by some guy. I swear,” said the man quickly, his eyes wide with fright. He twisted his hands in his lap, showing all the signs of bona fide anxiety.

“I believe you,” I said kindly. “If you would be so kind to elaborate, your presence might be useful.” 

“Ye-yeah, of course,” he stuttered, pulling nervously at his white collar. “Rich was a new guy, offered some information on other gangs for a few months last year and then joined up. Low time guy, went missing two months ago -- we thought he was iced or something.” 

Ah. 

For months they had known where we were. Where Vanzetti would frequently local, who he trusted and who he didn't, how he played his game and how I played mine. Effectively, they knew where to get to me, how to get me, and had the guile to execute their plans with equal efficiency.

They had touched the family -- tainted it. If there was one spy among my ranks, how many more would there be? Call me paranoid, but how many of the people sitting at this table were truly my allies?

I nodded slowly and allowed the member of the family to be relieved of my gaze. He sagged in his seat, taking shallow breaths of relief. Reflexively, my hand reached underneath my table as I “scratched” my leg. In reality, I had relocated the revolver underneath my pant leg to my side pocket. 

A moment of silence ensued as several of the waiters brought in the catered food, all in shining metal platters and set them down at various points over the table. Goblets were refilled and wine was poured into a second pair of glasses; heads turned to me in expectation as I raised a small wine-filled glass.

“In the memory of Nicholas Vanzetti. May the future generations find good health and prosperity,” I intoned, recalling Vanzetti's old luncheon toast. A murmur of agreement spread before everyone drank to their health. I let the liquid touch my lips but didn't take a sip.

Call it excessive caution but after having my life threatened, I don't like to risk poison. 

Forks and knives competed with platters for a few moments while I looked over the people in front of me. I needed a regent, someone who I could trust to lead capably in my absence. My eyes fell on the one person I felt I could trust, over and above all others.

Bobby Vanzetti.

Bobby Vanzetti, younger brother to Nicholas Vanzetti, was a man who rivaled his brother in almost every feature. Dark hair, piercing eyes with a slightly smaller frame than Nicholas. Small flecks of graying hair were appearing on the tips of his trimmed beard and the sides of his loosely cut hair. Bobby was warmer than Vanzetti had been -- he was more of a family man; less experienced as a leader but still the Don of his own branch of the family. He was a man who could rule with a strong fist if needed, but he preferred to live in a time of peace.

The consigliore of Nicolas Vanzetti -- a man who I had worked with my entire life. I almost trusted him with my life, and that was just about as far as I went in respect. I don't trust anyone with my life, except for maybe myself.

But even that's debatable.

I raised a small fork and lightly rapped it against my glass, the tinkling sound echoing clearly over chatter. All movement stopped with precision, eyes turning to me in expectation. 

“As of later today, I will be undertaking one last assignment given to me by Nicolas. I do not how long I will be gone, but I will be back within a year” I lied smoothly. I hoped this would take a year -- after all, there didn't seem to be many of them to go around.

A murmur rolled through the crowd, some curious remarks and a few snorts by the younger, less enthused members of the family. It was the young ones, the Young Turks, that I worried about. Kids that were rambunctious and incapable of leading, but cocky enough to try to make a push for it. 

And by all rights, it was a prime time to do so. The family was temporarily weakened, power could be supplanted if the proper courses were taken. Lucky for me, none of these kids were smart.

“Who's gonna be the new Boss then?” asked one of the Young Turks. Predictable.

“I am leaving the full responsibilities to Bobby Vanzetti until I return. He will act as my regent, I expect him to have the same respect you showed to Nicolas and myself,” I said slowly, powerfully. A murmur of assent moved through the crowd.

All except for one.

“Why don't we get some new blood? Even when the Boss was alive we started to lose ground!” called a voice. I couldn't help but chuckle at the inexperienced.

“If you led the family, Matthew, what would you do?” I questioned softly. The most recent made man, Matthew, looked startled for a second before he puffed out his chest a bit.

“Well, I'd definitely regain territory that we've lost. Same way the Boss did it, beat down the opposition,” he said rambunctiously. My lips tugged up at the corners, an amused smile.

“And that is why you will never succeed,” I responded without malice. “You don't know the world, kid. Learn before you try to lead.” 

The kid comment got to him; it always got to the new guys. He frowned and furrowed his brow before bowing his head. I inclined my head in a minor concession -- he had taken defeat well.

I took a sweeping glance over the party in front of me. The Vanzetti family, the closest people to me in my fifteen short years of existence. People that I could trust, perhaps not with my own life, but with other tasks. And for now, my business was concluded with them. The family would wait for me; they had shown their loyalty today.

And that's all that I needed to reassure me. 

“The funeral of Nicolas Vanzetti will be held after lunch. Please, do enjoy,” I said, gesturing to the assortment of foods in front of me. 

I mulled over my decision, I had done what a true leader would do. I had kept the family out of this, putting myself in a foreign location to keep them safe. I would come back, I knew I would -- when I did, I would be stronger. I would be ready to lead, ready to win. 

As plates clattered with the overture of metal, my eyes found themselves staring blankly outside. How fitting, it was a cloudy day when Vanzetti found me, and it would be a cloudy day when he was given back to the earth. 

- - -

The funeral for Nicholas Vanzetti was a quiet affair, family only. Thick raindrops poured down over the crowd while some of Vanzetti's closer family members stood to give their eulogies. The rain matted my hair, forcing it to fall stick to my head in small, flat formation. Thunder boomed in the distance, vague lightning bolts piercing through the sky at random intervals. 

I could smell the faint dew hanging in the air from the morning and could taste the moisture of the air on my lips. Swift wind pushed against my face, my jacket billowing in response; the wind howled through the small trees that existed in the backyard of the Vanzetti family mansion. A portly priest stood upon a pedestal and overlooked the casket that held the late Nicholas Vanzetti. His words filled the air, but they were barely discernable amongst the savage torrent of wind. 

“Nicholas was always a friendly, ambitious man who sought to carry out his goals,” said the priest with the faintest trace of emotion in his voice.

I walked forward, slowly passing through the rows of garden chairs that had been aligned for the event. The black garbed crowd didn't notice me moving down the side aisles, they were far too enraptured by the words of the priest.

“He was a man who put family and friends above all else, doing whatever he could to protect them.”

I watched from a distance as they began to lift the casket off the ground and lower it into the six-foot hole. Six feet underneath earth, dirt, rocks and next to where his wife lay. Her tombstone was marked with the usual, I remembered her well. Alice Vanzetti was someone who had been close to me, a woman who was warm and caring in every aspect. She respected the business, played her role dutifully, and of course, prayed for Nicolas' and my own soul every night. 

“He will be missed.”

The casket was lowered into the wet dirt, water cascading into the grave down the short slopes. I walked the last few steps and stood over it, on the right side of Bobby Vanzetti. The wooden casket was ornate, with a deep oak shade finished with traces of silver. Some of Vanzetti's mistresses stood huddled together near one side of the grave, handkerchiefs dabbing their eyes incessantly.

I looked down at the grave and took a single rose from inside my coat pocket and dropped it on top of the casket. Bobby similarly withdrew his own and let it drop into the hole, just to the right of my own. Gravediggers began to cover the casket rapidly, flecks of dirt flying through the air before the ground became too muddy. 

“He loved you,” said Bobby softly.

 The younger Vanzetti brother held a serious, piercing expression as the casket was slowly covered with mounds of dirt, the bleeding red of the flowers slowly disappearing underneath earth. 

I said nothing. I wasn't sure what to say; it was possible that he loved me but we were never father and son. There were never any trips to the local amusement parks or to the circus, with Vanzetti it was all business and family. I was expected to learn from him, to become stronger and move through the family ranks to one day lead the family. 

“He may have not shown it often, but he would always talk about how proud he was of you.”

I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked down at the grave apathetically.

Bobby placed a hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly, “Good luck kid. I'll hold the spot until you're ready.”

He departed shortly after, leaving me staring at the covered grave by myself. I mulled over my thoughts, what I would do next, and how I would live the rest of my life.

For the first time in my life, I felt a little empty; without purpose. I was always used to following Vanzetti, moving in his very footsteps since I had joined up. Now, I had to act on my own and make my own decisions to move onwards in life. 

I withdrew the semi-automatic that Vanzetti had passed me the night before and made sure the ammunition was secured. I tossed the gun into the mound of dirt, much to the surprise of the gravediggers and watched it blankly.

“For the demons that we'll both fight in hell,” I said softly.

I turned away with a flourish of my coat walked through the thick raindrops that fell against the backyard's pavilion. I could feel rainwater seeping through my clothing; taste it mixing with sweat as it cascaded into my mouth. I vaguely registered seeing some of the robed people -- the Order of the Phoenix was it? -- trailing behind me at a reasonable pace. 

My feet led me back into the house and into the closest study. A room of plain design, garbed with soft rugs and oak floor. A roaring fireplace was carved into one of the walls, its flame burning brightly and wood crackling pleasantly. A soft, burgundy fabric couch lay behind the fireplace, two singular chairs on each side. I stood in front of the fire and let the warmth envelop me while several other figures entered the same room behind me.

“Hello, Harry” said the old man peacefully, Dumbledore. He had the good will to wear black for the occasion, yet golden keys and swirls adorned his robes magnificently. He stepped forward so that he was standing within range of the hearth -- I noticed his robes were dry.

“Mr. Dumbledore,” I returned equally. My eyes were locked with the dancing flames as they licked the lumber, scorching the blackened embers.

The old man took a few steps closer to me, so that he was standing next to the fire. His beard hung loosely from his chin, trailing halfway down his chest before it was tied off with a small ribbon. 

“I do hope you are prepared to answer some questions?” I stated more than asked. 

“I believe you are owed that extravagance. Ask any question and I will answer it to the best of my ability,” said Dumbledore calmly, rubbing his gnarled hands in front of the fire. 

“Then the first question is perhaps the most obvious: Why were Vanzetti and I attacked?” I asked, rotating my head to watch the wizard next to me.

“Perhaps the most obvious, but quite complex. We should begin, quite spectacularly where all things start, the beginning,” said Dumbledore, a slight inflection in his tone. “You are the son of --”

“Lily and James Potter. I am aware of this fact, Mr. Dumbledore,” I said with a note of disparagement. The old man's features were unfazed, simply inclining his head in short concession.

“Indeed. What you do not know however, is that your parents were both quite magical. Both were avid combatants against the forces of Voldemort during the First War. They were killed by Voldemort himself, yet when he turned his wand upon you, he was defeated,” said Dumbledore gently, as if speaking to a child.

I raised an eyebrow, “And you think I'm responsible for defeating your Voldemort?” I queried. 

Dumbledore smiled and inclined his head indulgently.

“I'm not the only individual who shares this theory. There are thousands of others who do as well. In our world, you are known as the Boy-Who-Lived, for you lived the encounter with Voldemort all those fifteen years ago, defeating him in the process,” he said softly. “The scar upon your forehead is the marker that is a remnant of your confrontation.” 

I deftly raised a finger to trace the marking on my forehead, jagged in nature and reminiscent of a lightning bolt. It stung lightly, or was it more of a burning sensation?

“So it was revenge?” I asked. Vengeance was tricky to deal with. It meant the man was determined to get my life, willing to go to any lengths to do so, and possessed the skill to get damn close; and he had gotten close twice.

 

“Inexplicably so,” said Dumbledore with a slight frown, “He is, unfortunately, after your life. As you can see, your safety is very important to the world. Come with me Harry, we can grant you safety.” 

I walked forward, fingers lightly tracing the sculpting that had been carved into the fine stone of the mantle. I said nothing for a moment, pensive in thought. 

“Safety is an interesting term, Mr. Dumbledore. For some, safety means hiding in a cave until the rain has ended. For others, it is a sanctuary where life can begin anew,” I said softly. The wizened man inclined his head in thought.

“The cave or the sanctuary can be what one chooses to make of it. A man may journey into the cave and become blind, but only then can he truly see. My offer is a school, Harry, an institution of learning for those of magical ability,” said Dumbledore sagely, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

A school, a rather interesting proposition.

I hadn't expected that, not by a long shot. It was infinitely better than being locked away in a high-security safe house until the war had passed. A school would provide something more; it would educate me on the intricacies of the wizard-world, allow me to hone my abilities. Who knows what would happen inside? I might just find the valuable resources to strengthen my own empire.

“So why protect me?” I asked. “There must be many that are targeted under the reign of Voldemort.”

The old man stroked his silver beard slowly, glancing into the fire in front of us. He was silent for a moment, mulling over thoughts until he turned back to me with an expression of a man who is truly at peace with himself. A man who can go to sleep knowing that he did the right thing.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that serenity doesn't exist.

“Your case is unusual” he admitted slowly. “The first being your age, you are still applicable for schooling within our fine institution. Your parents were also close friends of mine. I must admit, I would dearly like to see a young Potter roam the halls of Hogwarts again.” His eyes became distant in reminiscence for a moment, a small smile creeping into the wrinkles of his face. 

I nodded slowl; it was a surprisingly good and seemingly innocuous offer. I would be kept safe, in a prime position to learn what I needed to learn. My life would be protected, and eventually the threat between worlds would subside. What could possibly go wrong?

“And what of war? Is this war as terrible as you make it sound?” I asked. “What makes him impossible to be stopped?”

A flicker of something flashed in Dumbledore eyes. Not yet surprise, but more of a piqued interest in my tone. He lifted the tip of his half-moon spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath in. 

“Voldemort is a man of many mysteries, Harry. He wishes to become all-powerful as many of this world do; to become immortal. He wants his reign of power to last forever, to spread to the deepest and darkest corners of the world” said Dumbledore, his right hand forming a clutching gesture.

“So he fights for domination? There has to be more than just that,” I responded. I motioned for the old man to take a seat upon the two chairs that rested near the fire. He did so with a thankful incline of his head.

“His true motivations are veiled. From my own knowledge, I believe he wishes to rule the world as he sees fit. He wishes for wizards to reign supreme over muggles and to keep those with the purest of blood and lineage at the peak” said Dumbledore, eyes gleaming in the light that came from the fires.

“A muggle?” I asked, perplexed. 

Dumbledore chuckled lightly, “A muggle is another name for a non-magical individual. There are pure bloods, who are born of wizard and witch; Half-bloods who are born of wizard and muggle; Squibs, which are non-magical children of Wizarding parents; or muggle-born children, who are magical children born to muggle parents” 

I nodded languidly, “So what am I? A pure-blood?” I queried. 

“A half-blood,” corrected Dumbledore. “Your father was a pure blooded wizard, but your mother was a muggle-born witch. She was one of the finest of her generation, young Lily Evans.” 

“Interesting,” I muttered to myself more than Dumbledore. “Have there been many battles between the armies of the Wizarding government and Voldemort's forces?”

I felt the lines fall into place between the dots. The missing politicians? They must have been Voldemort's targets. He was slowly deteriorating London from both the magical and non-magical sides. I had heard of terrorist attacks all over the nation, but I had assumed that they were nothing more than that. This war went far deeper than I had originally thought, far past the pretenses of local gangs encroaching on territory. 

The wrinkles on Dumbledore's face became more defined, “There has not been any…substantial proof of his return. He was resurrected using many of the darker forms of magic, and our only knowledge that he has returned is the progressive attacks and some of the Order's own confidentialities” he said carefully. 

Some half of me felt a tinge of respect for this Voldemort. Had it not been for his desire for revenge, we might've shared some good tea-time discussions. He was cunning and knew just how to take down the power in the world. He played both sides of the coin, the normal world and the wizard world. 

“And so the antagonist possesses guile,” I remarked dryly. “What is your plan, Mr. Dumbledore? Will you sit back or will you defeat the enemy before he grows too powerful?”

Dumbledore's face was a resolute mask. His mouth was open, poised to reply.

At that moment, the lightly burning fire within the fire place roared to a new high, flames licking the edges of the mantel. The flames flickered into an eerie green, a color that I had never seen from a natural flame before. A small head appeared within the flame, as if suspended from the top of the mantel itself.

“He's coming, five minutes,” hissed the voice. I made out a shape of a crooked nose and beady black eyes before the elegant emerald flames disappeared, leaving the roaring natural orange of fire. 

The other members of the room were immediately on point, moving rapidly towards the windows to watch the conditions outside. My eyes flicked over to the far window, one that was thinly veiled by gossamer curtains. A looming blackness lingered on the horizon, unlike any storm or cloud I had seen before. A black smog that moved forward through the clouds without any signs of deterring. 

“Less than five. Three,” muttered Tonks, the pink haired witch watching the shadows tear through the sky. 

I felt the temperature in the house drop by several degrees, the looming scent of death coming from the slits in the windows. Waves of sorrow flowed through me, faint whispers of memories that I had forgotten over time came back to lurk on the edge of consciousness. 

“No! Please, I have children!”

“I didn't mean to! I swear!”

I turned to Dumbledore to see the old man serenely gazing outside. He withdrew a pale, elegant wand from the depths of his robes and raised it to the air, over his head. A luminescent white orb formed at the tip, almost blinding my eyes. 

The orb pulsed, and a wave of silver light spread over the house, emanating from every pore of air around me. I felt lifted, motivated to continue as the light washed over me. The air thrummed with an elegant song, a light trill that sounded from the depths of another room. 

Dumbledore turned to me, “Come Harry, our conversation must be temporarily postponed. We will be under assault very shortly, we must move to a safer location,” he said. He sounded unaffected, as if this was another walk in the park.

“What are those?” I asked, my interest piqued. 

“Dementors,” provided Dumbledore, standing, “They are some of the darkest and foulest creatures in the Wizarding world. I hope our dissertation on them can perhaps be delayed for a few moments?”

“Your escape plan, Mr. Dumbledore?” I asked curiously. The old man's eyes merely twinkled as he reached into the seemingly endless supply of tools inside of his robes to remove a small pouch. 

Dumbledore reached inside of the bag and withdrew a small handful of what seemed to be finely crushed rocks -- a light powder. He held it in the center of his palm before gently tossing it into the conflagration. The flames turned a similar shade of green and roared even higher, threatening to spill out of the fireplace.

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” whispered Dumbledore clearly. The flames billowed powerfully before settling down again to a reasonable level of fire, surprisingly high for the lack of any cohesive logs in the fireplace. 

I raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“This is Floo Travel,” explained Dumbledore quickly. “Move through the fireplace, if you would. You will find yourself at a safe location. We will be right behind you.” He gestured towards the green flames in a hurried motion.

I watched the flames carefully before stepping forward slightly. The fire didn't feel as hot or as threatening as they had before. Quite the contrary, it was almost cool and dare I say it, gentle. I reached a hand through the fire carefully, testing the waters.

“For Merlin's sake,” growled one of the voices behind me. I felt a gnarled and strong hand push me forward through the flames. I tumbled forward, a scowl upon my face until I was standing inside of the mantle.

A loud rushing noise filled my ears as the world spun around me. I felt myself being pushed away; Green became black as I swam through the fogs of existence.

- - -

I rolled out of the fireplace into another room, soot covering the back of my coat. My eyes were moving instantly, scanning the room carefully while one hand had already found its grip on my gun. I noted the peeling paint on the walls, an assortment of various furniture that seemed to be made of fine wood. Fresh flowers lay in vases across the room -- an effect that did very little to liven the dead atmosphere. 

Only a few lights were lit in the room, the only illumination exuding from the small candlesticks that flickered on desks and tables, and the small torches that hung on the walls. However, the lights seemed to magnify enough to rival those of electric bulbs, as there was a scarcity of shadows in the room.

I turned back to the fireplace, the flames of which were a consistent orange. Flames licked against the stone, burning seemingly off of the air and stone itself. I waited for several long moments, yet the flames never flashed green. 

And so, my lurking paranoia grew.

“A trap,” I mused to myself softly. 

Adrenaline coursed through my systems as my heart beat a little faster. A bit of anxiety kept me on the balls of my feet. Remember those police cars back in London? Well the effect was something like this.

But was it really a trap? The wizard had many chances to kill me already -- at the club, in my own house, while I was sleeping, even during my morning. For all I knew, he could've brought down a meteor upon the Vanzetti estate and crushed me in one fell swoop. 

Besides, Albus Dumbledore didn't feel like the type of guy who would be so ruthless.

Some people exude manipulation and wit, people that will outsmart you even on your best days. Half of those people will lull you into peace and kill you when you least expect it -- usually indirectly. Maybe it'd be your wife that you'd known for many years, or maybe it would be the bodyguard that wasn't exactly on your payroll. That was the type of guy I was.

Dumbledore, sat on the other side of the spectrum. He liked to  hold the cards and propose situations where he would dominate. I'd harbor he was a strong political figure. Take my situation for example, death or go with Dumbledore. Not much of a choice.

Dumbledore's people however, were almost kind, innocent. They were untainted by death; their eyes didn't hold the same feeling of coldness, knowing that you have and can end lives. It's liberating in a euphoric way, but not everyone can relate. 

I took a few cautious steps into the house,  moving through narrow passageways that seemed to be squeezed between large rooms. Portraits hung throughout hallways, singular torches separating them. The artwork depicted various witches and wizards of various sizes and shapes performing an assortment of activities yet one factor remained constant -- the surname, Black. 

I heard the crackling of another fireplace, quickly followed by several roars of wind and flame. I moved slowly, cautiously through the hallways. I soon found myself near the foyer; don't ask how I got there, I don't know myself.

“Hey! Who are you?” called a voice from up a flight of stairs.

 My eyes slowly turned upwards to the juvenile voice, noticing a small congregation of red-headed figures accompanied by one girl that differed from their mean. The other girl had brown, curled hair and was bereft of the freckles that marred the rest of the troupe. 

“A guest,” I replied smoothly. 

This wasn't a trap, or anything of the variety after all. It was merely a safe house for children, not exactly the terms I had agreed to. 

“Are you with the Order?” asked the brown-haired girl carefully.

“Most certainly not. We are simply involved in a minor affair with mutual goals,” I returned, beginning to walk away from the group of children towards an adjoining door. 

“Oi! You can't go in there! The Order's having a meeting,” whispered one of the boys furiously, a lanky teen who was leaning halfway over the banister.

I turned my head up and eyed him lazily, “I assure you, I can.” 

I pressed a hand against the double doors to the room and was met by a startling crackle of electricity. I jerked my hand back quickly and the door pulsed slightly, a light, soft blue hue. I arched an eyebrow.

“It's locked and warded with charms that the Headmaster put on himself, you won't be able to get in,” implored the brown haired girl from the top of the stairs. 

Luckily, I didn't have to try to open it.

The doors opened themselves, and out came Albus Dumbledore himself at a leisurely pace. His eyes met mine for a moment before he smiled widely.

“Perhaps the young students listening in from above could spend a few moments in their rooms? I daresay it would be quite a good time to freshen up before dinner -- Molly has prepared the most wonderful meal for us all,” said the old wizard. His eyes didn't leave mine during the exchange at all.

A ruffle of feet sounded in response, the students clearing out of the way and into their respective rooms. Some of them whispered rapidly between themselves, each with a note of curiosity. Maybe I was famous after all?

“Mr. Dumbledore, I'm glad you took your time,” I stated wryly. 

“Ah, do forgive an old man's mistake. The guests are often taken to the second fireplace, quite an ingenious development if I do say so myself,” said the old man lightly.  

“You never answered my question,” I noted. “How will you win this war?”

The old man inclined his head and gestured to an adjoining room. He motioned for me to take a chair in one of the three deep brown leather chairs that were positioned in a small triangle. I gladly accepted, and let my eyes roam over the small room, eyeing every lantern located on the walls and the candles that were placed upon tables.  The lights that illuminated onto the walls allowed me to see more of the portraits, one which stared upon me with piqued interest, or veiled contempt. One of those two. 

Yeah, the portraits stared at me. 

“War is a complex thing, Harry,” began Dumbledore slowly, stroking his beard. “It is not a place for young children like yourself. Perhaps you should worry about your upcoming term instead, you will be quite behind your peers.”

I kept a calm mask and allowed him to move conversation in the direction of his choosing. He had a hold on this conversation, there was no contesting that.

“I'm a diligent student, Mr. Dumbledore,” I returned equally.

“Then you will require the necessary materials,” said Dumbledore, “Should you wish to make a patronage to the local market for school supplies, one can be easily arranged.” 

I inclined my head, “That would be beneficial, Mr. Dumbledore.”

The old wizard clasped his hands together, “Excellent. The Weasley family and young Miss Granger are both in need of their own materials. Perhaps it would be best to go together, times such as they are.”

I met his blue eyes for a moment, matching him toe for toe. I didn't especially enjoy the dominance he held in our conversation. He knew far much more than I did about his world, and he was using it to establish my actions.

“I assume I will have the chance to acquire a magical wand there?' I asked.

Dumbledore inclined his head, “Correct, Harry. There is a branch of Ministry-approved wandsmiths within Diagon Alley, Ollivander's, you will be able to purchase one there.” 

“Very well,” I said shortly. “I expect there is available lodging in the mean time?”

Dumbledore smiled benignly, “Of course, Harry, of course. You should know however, that the owner of this property is your Godfather, Sirius Black. He is very much wishing to speak to you.”

I snorted. 

“Family is important to have, Harry,” chided Dumbledore softly. “At least give him a chance, he was very close to your parents. You may just find you enjoy his company.”

To be honest, I didn't care for a Godfather, another father, a mother, or even siblings. Each of them would only keep me down or get in the way in the end. Maybe I had a little bit of bad luck around me, but those who took over the parental figure never ended well. James Potter, killed; Lily Potter, killed; Alice Vanzetti, killed; and of course, Nicolas Vanzetti had died in front of my eyes.

I rose from my chair and began moving towards the door, but stopped at the threshold. I looked over my shoulder, my lips curling into a somewhat cruel smile.

“Just because you offer me safety doesn't mean we're allies, old man. We're two very different people.”

I left without hearing his response.