(no subject)
Title: Night Without the Day
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (upcoming chapters), Ron/Hermione, past Fred/Angelina/George, George/Angelina, Fred/George, various others
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Language, drug use, violence, slash
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: 10 years after the war, the DE trials are just drawing to a close. For Draco, Ron, the Weasley clan, and many others, life is just getting back into place. But when Harry Potter returns from a self imposed exile, haggard, emaciated, and withdrawn, he brings him with a mission to face a new threat, forcing open a Ministry Coverup that's made victims of not the living, but those who were supposed to have been dead.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Authors Note: Sorry this has been so long in coming! My computer broke, and school has started again. I've been writing this long hand, and decided to try to get a chapter up before classes start. Yes, this is going to be a finished fic. I'm just having trouble finding the time to actually get to it at the moment XD Thank you to everyone who poked me. Especially nelehug :D ♥
Chapter 3: Lysol
When choosing between two evils, I always like to try the one I've never tried before.
Mae West
Harry barely managed to avoid bumping into Draco when the blond stepped into the lift. Pulling his invisibility cloak tighter around himself, he cursed his lack of attention and stared at the back of the blonde’s head. He really needed to stop letting his mind drift. Just because he was invisible did not mean he was not solid, and the last thing he needed was an old rival finding him creeping around the ministry when he was technically not even supposed to be back in London. The dark haired boy had no desire to interact with the stupid git-not when he couldn’t even escape him in Montreal. His face was everywhere. The new leader of pureblood society. The epitome of the innovative youth. The world’s most eligible bachelor.
Yeah. Eligible because no witch in her right mind would tolerate him and his smelly face long enough to even get his money in a divorce. Ugly...stupid bugger with his ugly stupid...face.
Though he had grown up, Harry reluctantly conceded. It seemed the magazines had most assuredly not done the male justice. Cloud colored hair had been trimmed to the en vogue length of just-short-enough-to-always-appear-in-need-of-a-trim-and-freshly-shagged, or whatever the name of it was. His skin was tanned, body the epitome of masculine health dressed in a suit that probably cost twice as much as the modest flat Harry rented in Canada. Blue eyes, glittering and heavy with thought, were shrouded by lashes that Harry had never quite remembered being so thick or long, and pearly white teeth chewed a full lower lip in thought. He seemed oblivious to the not-empty elevator, and a long, bony digit hesitated a moment over the button as he noticed the glowing dot for the third floor. Harry held his breath. He had forgotten to use his privacy code to put it out of service-he himself had been too caught up in mulling over his lot in life like some dramatic child.
Draco glanced around himself, and Harry felt a moment’s pause as a gaze the color of a perfect dawning sky slid over him, warming him like a tangible touch. It was a curious reaction to have, and one that he easily brushed off as being directly linked back to the fact that Harry was, on the best of days, sex deprived. It was a sad day when a male that was near thirty and could count with one hand the number of times he had sex. Dating one’s own palm tended to do strange things to the mind. Like make a Malfoy look attractive.
Though Harry had always had a fondness for tanned, blond things...probably the reason he hadn’t moved to L.A. Too much eye candy on surfboards, or riding brooms, their hard thighs clinched around them, sometimes dressed in the current team colors for the Foul Mouth Falcons of Silver and Green, suddenly reminding him of the way those colors looked on Draco’s body...
Bad thoughts bad thoughts bad thoughts!
Seeming to dismiss the pushed button as the work of a mischievous visiting child or a mistake, Harry watched blond shoulders shrug as full lips turned down in a pout and Draco slapped the nob for the ground floor. Relaxing as he seemed free and clear from being detected, Harry bit his cheek and shifted carefully closer to the door, readying to make an escape as the lift began to move.
“...bleeding stupid Weasley,” Malfoy groused, tugging at mused strands and glowering at the closed doors as if it held the answers to the universe. The words piqued Harry’s interest, but was unable to listen to anymore personal diatribe as the item creaked to a halt. Using the announcement of the floor as means of covering up the sound of his movements, he made his exit quickly as he could, hoping to go unnoticed. He was oblivious as the invisibility cloak brushed against Draco’s legs, causing the other man to jump and look around suspiciously before the doors clattered to a close, shutting off the two old rivals from each other once again.
Harry sighed with clear relief, breath lost amidst the shouting and talking in the crowded hallway. He was getting careless, and that was something no one could afford. Holding the sandwich bag from the cafeteria in a death grip, he quickly made tracks back through the Hallway and into the Department of Mysteries. He chose his door from the circular room, and soon was descending down a flight of rotating steps to a glowing space lit only by eternal wizarding flames, the tables covered in a seemingly endless film of dust. The Record Room for the Cursed. The place he had spent most of the night and all of the day, having been unable to sleep after his cryptic meeting with Fred. Settling down onto the table that had become his veritable prison, he pulled out the tuna sandwich and looked irritably down at the paperwork.
If they had told him, when Kingsley approached him for this position, that he would be spending a majority of his time reading through crumpling old files and researching in a library that was more mites than magic, he would have passed up the job, no matter how tempting the idea of complete anonymity and being removed from the public eye was. This was the sort of work more suited for someone like Herm-
No. No. Best not to think on his friends. Not when he couldn’t see them again.
Instead, he sipped at his bottled water, feet tucking under himself, scuffed trainers settling under his thighs as he got back to work. No lunch breaks were allowed; not with Kingsley breathing down his neck demanding an answer as to the migration of cursed, and the ministry heads in a tizzy over what they perceived to be the biggest threat since Voldemort. So a few species classified as “predators” had moved back to the wizarding world. Vampires did it all the time, Harry thought. But vampires took blood. Cursed? Cursed survived off of the one thing that all magical beings feared being taken. Magic. The extent of their ability wasn’t known, but it was believed that a cursed being lived off of the powers of normal magical folk, and that if they drained them completely, they would take not only the source of their abilities, but their soul. It was why they were so closely monitored, and why the ministry acted as they did.
When a cursed rose from the dead, they were taken at once to the Department of Mysteries. From there, they were branded, informed of what they were, and sent out of country after signing a contract to not return for an extended period of time. It was designed to protect the families of the cursed ones, as well as to prevent them from trying to turn family members, as they had apparently tried to do in the early 1700’s.
If they ever acted up, their brand would inform the ministry as to where they were, and Harry would go assess the situation. He was a Regulator-a person who went out and performed checks on the living dead, ensuring that they were behaving according to their contracts. If he determined they weren’t, another person was sent out, simply with the title of Exterminator, who killed the person the only way they knew how. With fire.
It was typically something that put Harry on the outs. No one amongst the Cursed was openly willing to communicate with him, and because of his knowledge on who actually lived and who actually was dead, he was excommunicated from the wizarding world to prevent him from ever the careful treaties between the Ministry and these creatures and opening up the possibility to a war. He had gone from being different by being a savior to being different by holding the knowledge that his friends didn’t need to suffer, but that he couldn’t help them. Any of them. It was miserable. It wasn’t...it wasn’t what he had fought for.
Lost in his own self pity, almost tossed aside a file before an oddity registered. Sitting up straighter, sandwich being shoved off to the side, he flipped it back to the first page and squinted at the careful print in the dull light to make out the name and details. Ophelia Bones. Killed in the early 1970’s by Death Eaters, she had risen a short time after. Her husband, Edgar Bones, had remained deceased, and she, alone, had been sent out of England in exile with nothing more than a brand on her body and the clothing she had been buried with. Things had gone normally for her-she had fallen in with the Romanians, who claimed most of Eastern Europe despite their name, and who Fred himself had run with. She worked with them as a seamstress and teacher and seemed to cause no trouble.
Until early 2004. Without any explanation, beyond all ability for reason, she had fallen off of the radar. The intensity of the spells, Harry knew himself, made it impossible to remove the brand and the tracking charms, which in itself would have caused a tiny panic amidst the Ministry Officials. Her whereabouts remained unknown into the mid part of 2007, where she reappeared in Nepal. There was no notes on how it happened or what had occurred between those times, or how her demeanor had been. There was no information on who had gone to her, or what they had seen, only a simple word that ended the file. Exterminated. It was accompanied by a gruesome image of a burned body writhing under a fiend fire, as well as a small taped baggy of ashes for proof. There was no information under the “Reason” heading for her death. Simply the one word.
While the ministry did many things Harry couldn’t bring himself to ever approve of, they had never, in all of his knowledge, killed a Cursed without reason. And the timing, he knew, fit with the beginning of the migrations. Perhaps not to England, no, those didn’t come for a few years after, but at least out of the Romanian area. The Romanian Clan had been far reaching, over most of Eastern Europe, into the Eurasian borders why they conducted business with the Lotus Clan of China. But in 2007, they had begun to gather together like prey being circled by a predator, a mass number huddling in the small country of Croatia, and then they fled.
There were nearly four thousand in the Romanian Clan. And if they were sticking together, then they had just seen the beginning influx of cursed, and Harry knew the Ministry would never tolerate it.
Grabbing the Bones case file close to himself, food forgotten, he quickly made his way out of the Ministry. He needed to contact Fred. He needed to find out what happened to Ophelia; he needed to find out what had the predators of wizards running like they were the prey.
Ashing his cigarette, Theodore took one last, long drag, inhaling until he tasted filter through the nicotine as the cherry burnt the cotton. Making a face, he flicked it to the ground and let the smoke pour from his nostrils like a dragon breathing out, his partner’s presence beside him a warming presence in the uncannily brisk night. Picadilly Circus was quite a sight to behold after hours. It was condemned amongst the wizarding world as offering too many cruel delights for the magical youth to refrain from. Drugs, sex, and rent boys, all hidden in the shadows, all pretty beyond belief. It was a place where many disenfranchised Death Eater offspring had found their way after the war had ended, carrying the shame of their parents and with nowhere else to go.
Glancing down a familiar alley, he felt goose bumps rise on his flesh as he recalled the last time he himself had been there. Running a Narc bust with four other aurors before he switched to Dark Crimes to take over Potter’s spot. He could still remember facing off with Parkinson in that house, smelling of drugs and sex and urine, and how skinny she had looked with the rubber band still tied tight around her bony upper arm...
“You good with this?” Ron’s voice wrapped around him with the comforting familiarity of present times, shaking off the memories like drops of chilled rain, and he found himself nodding without a thought.
“Yeah. Just hate the muggle side,” Nott stated, lips tilting down in a frown, attractive features morphing into an expression of displeasure. Blue eyes rolled as the redhead bumped their hips together.
“Then let’s get this over with. I’m about as comfortable as you are right now.”
The line to get into Steam and Whistle was long and disgustingly strange. The outfits ranged from modern muggle, to fashionable wizard, to a strange take on western wear combined with technology. Stalking past the group, Theo’s fingers itched to grab his wand or light another smoke, but instead he reached for badge, flipping it open to the doorman in tandem with Ron’s revealing of his own.
At the flash of the metal, the large doorman had no choice but to step aside, allowing the aurors in past the groans of the patrons. Inside, a thick smell of clove cigarettes and strong liquor assaulted the nose while a blaring cello and electric violin accompanied the voice of a wailing female with pink dreadlocks on stage. The entire place was donned with brass and glass-an antique feel mingled heavily with modern. It at once made Ron feel dizzy, but he grit his teeth and followed his red robed companion through the throngs of people toward the bar.
Before they could reach it to begin interrogating the tender, a meaty hand settled onto Ron’s arm, the owner from the commercials studying the two men as he placed himself sturdily in front of them.
“Can I help you?” he asked above the noise, pointed nose wrinkled in thought and displeasure.
“Yeah,” Nott replied. “We understand you had a meeting here.”
“We have many,” came the easy answer, the rotund face slipping into a placating smile. “I’m afraid you gentleman will need to be a bit more specific.”
“How about a meeting with a certain wizard by the name of Harry Potter?” Ron pressed, lips tilting down into a frown.
Dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief, the owner flickered his tongue in an almost serpentine manner, gaze skittering about the club.
“Forgive me. I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” Theodore drawled, unimpressed, quirking a brow. “Because we have a very reliable source that claims you do.”
“In fact,” Ron continued, “that same source told us he was here last night, and you took him personally into a backroom.”
“That’s a crime, you know. And grounds to search this place.” Theo rested a hand onto a full shoulder, squeezing the flesh under the suit. “Impersonating someone of such regard as the illustrious Mr. Potter-“
“-plus all the reports of suspicious packages coming in? One call and we could have both muggle and magical Narco units all-“
“Please, sirs,” the man quickly interrupted Ron as he spoke, pressing his palms together in a motion of supplication before his face. “I believe this would be discussed best in private.” Pulling away from Theodore’s hold on him, he reached out to seize the elbow of a passing waitress, lips moving against her ear as he whispered instructions to her. She gave a strange look to Nott and Weasley before skittering away, and the two Aurors followed the owner as he waved for them to come along, leading them to a room marked Employee’s Only.
It reeked of a smell that Theo knew right off was some high quality grass and a strong cleaning agent. It made his eyes water and his throat feel dry from memory of what it had been like to smoke it in school. A large, hand carved desk was freshly polished and reeking of lemon scented cleaner, and around them, paintings of daylight scenarios hung heavy on the wall. One drew Ron’s attention, reminding him eerily of the way Bill and Fleur’s cabin did in the early dawn hours, putting him immediately on edge.
“Please, wait right here,” the owner urged, looking uneasy. Before either could respond, he was gone, bustling out through a door spelled to blend in with the wall.
“Do you smell that?” Theo murmured, nostrils flaring as he touched his fingers along a gilt edged frame. Nodding, Ron brushed a hand through close trimmed red hair and moved closer to the painting that so resembled his brother’s home.
“Yeah...pot and the Lysol lady. Hey-doesn’t this remind you of Bill’s place?”
“I guess. Been years since I’ve been there.” Theodore waved it off, hands tucked behind his back as he walked the perimeter of the room, reminding Ron of a lion stalking its cage. “This place reeks of dark magic more than Voldemort’s discarded tampons. It’s giving me the jeebies.”
“If the magic wasn’t giving me the jeebies, your metaphor did,” Ron stated dryly, face screwed up in an expression of disgust. “Really, Voldemort’s tampons? Did you have to bring it to the level of used tampons?”
“Yup. Just to see that face you’re making right now. It’s so precious, Ronnie-kins. Makes my insides all a-fluttery.”
The hidden door burst open, a surprising whoosh of air and noise signaling the arrival of the large owner again. This time, he was followed closely by two others who appeared even more interesting than the occupants of the club. One possessed lank red hair that hung around his face in heavy clumps, as if it had been styled into some intricate design before he fell asleep on it and sent the strands eschew. A pair of dark goggles rested over his eyes, his face hidden in the collar of a feathered ankle length jacket and a cloth dust mask over his mouth, obscuring him from view as he dropped heavily into a couch at the side of the room. Tucking long legs up to himself, clutching a cane in a desperate gloved hold, Ron found himself unable to fully look at him, his own gaze slipping off of the male like hands trying to find purchase on an oiled bit of metal.
But if the rag tag copper was someone that was impossible to focus on, the even stranger figure whom followed was a magnet. A black turtle neck and black dress slacks hung on a wide form, arms tucked into elbow length laced up gloves that rested pleasantly on the polished desk and legs that were encased on knee high lace up boots. Staring at them from the spot where his face should be was a kabuki mask tilted into an expression of peaceful neutrality with blue paint around the blackened eyeholes. A skintight, ebon hood hugged the shape of his skull, assisting in keeping every inch of his body covered, revealing not even a hint of race or age. Settling down into the full backed leather chair behind the table, he made a motion through the air, obscure and confusing.
“He asks that you please be seated,” the owner urged, moving to stand at the back left of the masked man. Ron and Theo exchanged a curious look before complying.
“Could you take off the mask, mate?” Ron urged, not enjoying the anonymity of the scenario one bit. Just as the owner opened his mouth to speak, one glove covered hand lifted to silence him, the silent male giving a small shake of his head to still any arguments. He carefully took hold of the latches under the hood, slipping the protective covering off to reveal the mess beneath.
It took all the careful training the two Aurors had to hold back their reactions at the site that was revealed. Completely mangled by scar tissue, the man looked more monster than human. His nose had melted closed, his lips completely gone, mouth nothing more than a gaping slit in a sea of gnarled flesh. Eyes, an amazingly clear and beautiful brown, were the only humanoid items that remained, peering out from under hairless, thick, and withered red lids that twitched and stretched the flesh of his forehead painfully with each stuttering attempt at a blink. What may have once been attractive features were nothing more than a mound of white and pink burned scar tissue.
Theo pursed his lips to hold back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, and Ron gripped the arms of the chair, neither able nor wanting to protest as the male seemed satisfied that they had taken their fill of his terrible visage and reapplied the hand crafted disguise. Still, what had been seen could not be unseen, and with each blink, Ron swore he could make out the horrible, painful image on the backs of his eyes.
Seeming to recover first, Theo cleared his throat and spoke in a tone rife with control from his pureblood heritage, “What happened?”
“I come from Romania,” the large man said, translating as the masked figure began to speak in what they had deduced must have been sign language. “There is a civil war there between the wizards. I happened to have been a supporter for the current losing side. They captured my village and they doused my body in flame many times over to try to make speak and turn over my comrades for their tortures.”
“Dear Circe,” Nott breathed, looking to the black covered eyeholes of the mask and then to the owner translating for them, back once more to the tortured frame. “And you lived?”
“If you can call this living. I cannot speak, I cannot eat, I cannot have sex. I have nothing left on me to distinguish what I was. I live in constant pain...” The fingers trailed off, frozen, before slowly folding, shoulders heaving in a slow and soundless sigh. Ron licked dry lips, trying to force his mind back on track, the heady scent of lemons seeming to get stronger, causing his pulse to pound painfully between his eyes. Nodding over toward the quiet male off to the side, he glanced over to him, his headache only increasing when he moved his gaze and tried in vain to focus on him. He fucking hated the smell of lemons.
“What’s his story?” Weasley asked.
“My son,” the masked one replied, fingers weak as they moved. “He cares for me.”
“And his get up?”
Hesitating, the scarred figure turned to face the quiet redhead, a silent message seeming to pass between them both. Finally, another heave of shoulders.
“They pulled off his jaw and cut out his tongue for speaking up against what they did to me. He is ashamed by his appearance.”
As if on cue, Fred shifted, sinking in to himself and turning his gaze to Vincent. The male was handling it splendidly, as was the front-man they used as “owner” of the club. He just needed to keep quiet...just...keep quiet...
He turned his stare back to Ron, glued onto his brother in desperation, willing him to look over and recognize him despite knowing that he could not. It would put all of them at danger if Ron did, but he couldn’t help but wish. Wish that the spell they had put up on him would break and Ron would take him in and recognize who he was. Wish that his stupid little brother would throw his arms around him and drag him back home before he could protest, letting him see his mother and brother again...wish that he could go home, just one more time, and see his mother smile at him as she fixed a homemade hat on his head and cupped his cheek...
The pain of the memories of his loved ones echoed through him hollowly. He let his lashes flutter closed and gripped his own elbows hard enough to bruise. He wasn’t high enough for this. He couldn’t handle this pain by himself. Temperance had always been George’s strong suit. Fred was terrible on his own.
“Why was Harry Potter here last night?” Theodore’s question was blessedly back on topic, away from conversations involving fake torture or lies to keep the two from figuring out what they shouldn’t have. And just like the perfectly trained liar the ex Slytherin was, Vincent lightly and with a mock exhaustion waved their worries away, slumping back heavily into the seat with all the weight of an old man crumpling under a lifetime of pain. While not terribly far off track, it was normally Fred’s place to look so weary and animated. Vincent, his strange friend and hired guard, was always the one to stand in silent support from the sidelines. Always the one to carry him back to his room when his memories of his brother, alive and suffering without him, became too much, and he snorted until his body convulsed and his immortal body was forced into shut down to repair the damage he inflicted on it.
“Harry is a good man, but he could take lessons in discretion,” Vincent signed, words given voice by their translator. Brushing something off of his gloves, Vincent paused to dramatically touch over his heart, shifting with clear discomfort. “Harry has many contacts, as do I. We work together to pass on messages between refugees, and assure that they are kept safe. Sometimes, we hire Mr. Potter to work as an escort for our groups, or to deliver important items or notices of death to loved ones. He is very good at what he does, and has a very good heart.” Fred was proud of Vincent for the lie-of course the tales of Civil War were true. The chaos of the country had provided Fred and others like him a good opportunity to sneak in and remain unnoticed, as the local authorities would be too busy worrying about their own species than to notice another. And for coming up with this on a whim, well, even Fred in his accomplished lies was impressed. Despite having come off as always painfully dull in school, the old lackey of Draco Malfoy proved more and more to have a brilliance to him to rival most.
“How long has this been going on?” Ron pressed, sounding suspicious, rubbing at the bridge of his nose between his eyes. It made Fred a little worried. The spells around the place could have a terrible effect, and Ron had always been a pussy when it came to magic being used against him. How he had managed to save the wizarding world, Fred would never know.
“A very long time,” Vincent replied cryptically, once again waving away their question with the arrogance of an old and esteemed businessman. Theodore appeared ready to press, but with a sudden swell of his chest, Vincent began to wheeze, a terrible, horrifying, animalistic noise emitting from the burned and melted vocal chords. It was a terrifying, wailing cough that shook the large form like a leaf, and the two aurors, caught by surprise, leapt to their feet, wide eyed and pale, and Fred knew from his own experience that they were imagining the monstrous visage that lay beneath the clothing and the expression his twisted face would be making to accompany it.
“Please!” their front man exclaimed, the heavy roll under his chin rippling as he spoke, rushing forward to press a hand to Vincent’s back. “Our Lord is very old and his health is not well. This is all too much for him. You should go, please. He needs his rest!”
To elaborate the point, Vincent hacked again, rasping and snarling, wet and nauseating. It was, as Fred liked to call it, his secret weapon. It was the only noise the burned man could still make, and it sounded every inch the dying creature.
“O-of course,” Theodore whispered, swallowing hard and clasping at the back of his chair.
“Just-first,” Ron demanded, chin up, lips tilted in a determined expression. Fred couldn’t help but feel proud at his little brother’s strength. “First, I just need one thing. I need you to tell me how we can reach Harry Potter.”
Start at the Beginning
Previous | Current | Next
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (upcoming chapters), Ron/Hermione, past Fred/Angelina/George, George/Angelina, Fred/George, various others
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Language, drug use, violence, slash
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: 10 years after the war, the DE trials are just drawing to a close. For Draco, Ron, the Weasley clan, and many others, life is just getting back into place. But when Harry Potter returns from a self imposed exile, haggard, emaciated, and withdrawn, he brings him with a mission to face a new threat, forcing open a Ministry Coverup that's made victims of not the living, but those who were supposed to have been dead.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Authors Note: Sorry this has been so long in coming! My computer broke, and school has started again. I've been writing this long hand, and decided to try to get a chapter up before classes start. Yes, this is going to be a finished fic. I'm just having trouble finding the time to actually get to it at the moment XD Thank you to everyone who poked me. Especially nelehug :D ♥
Chapter 3: Lysol
When choosing between two evils, I always like to try the one I've never tried before.
Mae West
Harry barely managed to avoid bumping into Draco when the blond stepped into the lift. Pulling his invisibility cloak tighter around himself, he cursed his lack of attention and stared at the back of the blonde’s head. He really needed to stop letting his mind drift. Just because he was invisible did not mean he was not solid, and the last thing he needed was an old rival finding him creeping around the ministry when he was technically not even supposed to be back in London. The dark haired boy had no desire to interact with the stupid git-not when he couldn’t even escape him in Montreal. His face was everywhere. The new leader of pureblood society. The epitome of the innovative youth. The world’s most eligible bachelor.
Yeah. Eligible because no witch in her right mind would tolerate him and his smelly face long enough to even get his money in a divorce. Ugly...stupid bugger with his ugly stupid...face.
Though he had grown up, Harry reluctantly conceded. It seemed the magazines had most assuredly not done the male justice. Cloud colored hair had been trimmed to the en vogue length of just-short-enough-to-always-appear-in-need-of-a-trim-and-freshly-shagged, or whatever the name of it was. His skin was tanned, body the epitome of masculine health dressed in a suit that probably cost twice as much as the modest flat Harry rented in Canada. Blue eyes, glittering and heavy with thought, were shrouded by lashes that Harry had never quite remembered being so thick or long, and pearly white teeth chewed a full lower lip in thought. He seemed oblivious to the not-empty elevator, and a long, bony digit hesitated a moment over the button as he noticed the glowing dot for the third floor. Harry held his breath. He had forgotten to use his privacy code to put it out of service-he himself had been too caught up in mulling over his lot in life like some dramatic child.
Draco glanced around himself, and Harry felt a moment’s pause as a gaze the color of a perfect dawning sky slid over him, warming him like a tangible touch. It was a curious reaction to have, and one that he easily brushed off as being directly linked back to the fact that Harry was, on the best of days, sex deprived. It was a sad day when a male that was near thirty and could count with one hand the number of times he had sex. Dating one’s own palm tended to do strange things to the mind. Like make a Malfoy look attractive.
Though Harry had always had a fondness for tanned, blond things...probably the reason he hadn’t moved to L.A. Too much eye candy on surfboards, or riding brooms, their hard thighs clinched around them, sometimes dressed in the current team colors for the Foul Mouth Falcons of Silver and Green, suddenly reminding him of the way those colors looked on Draco’s body...
Bad thoughts bad thoughts bad thoughts!
Seeming to dismiss the pushed button as the work of a mischievous visiting child or a mistake, Harry watched blond shoulders shrug as full lips turned down in a pout and Draco slapped the nob for the ground floor. Relaxing as he seemed free and clear from being detected, Harry bit his cheek and shifted carefully closer to the door, readying to make an escape as the lift began to move.
“...bleeding stupid Weasley,” Malfoy groused, tugging at mused strands and glowering at the closed doors as if it held the answers to the universe. The words piqued Harry’s interest, but was unable to listen to anymore personal diatribe as the item creaked to a halt. Using the announcement of the floor as means of covering up the sound of his movements, he made his exit quickly as he could, hoping to go unnoticed. He was oblivious as the invisibility cloak brushed against Draco’s legs, causing the other man to jump and look around suspiciously before the doors clattered to a close, shutting off the two old rivals from each other once again.
Harry sighed with clear relief, breath lost amidst the shouting and talking in the crowded hallway. He was getting careless, and that was something no one could afford. Holding the sandwich bag from the cafeteria in a death grip, he quickly made tracks back through the Hallway and into the Department of Mysteries. He chose his door from the circular room, and soon was descending down a flight of rotating steps to a glowing space lit only by eternal wizarding flames, the tables covered in a seemingly endless film of dust. The Record Room for the Cursed. The place he had spent most of the night and all of the day, having been unable to sleep after his cryptic meeting with Fred. Settling down onto the table that had become his veritable prison, he pulled out the tuna sandwich and looked irritably down at the paperwork.
If they had told him, when Kingsley approached him for this position, that he would be spending a majority of his time reading through crumpling old files and researching in a library that was more mites than magic, he would have passed up the job, no matter how tempting the idea of complete anonymity and being removed from the public eye was. This was the sort of work more suited for someone like Herm-
No. No. Best not to think on his friends. Not when he couldn’t see them again.
Instead, he sipped at his bottled water, feet tucking under himself, scuffed trainers settling under his thighs as he got back to work. No lunch breaks were allowed; not with Kingsley breathing down his neck demanding an answer as to the migration of cursed, and the ministry heads in a tizzy over what they perceived to be the biggest threat since Voldemort. So a few species classified as “predators” had moved back to the wizarding world. Vampires did it all the time, Harry thought. But vampires took blood. Cursed? Cursed survived off of the one thing that all magical beings feared being taken. Magic. The extent of their ability wasn’t known, but it was believed that a cursed being lived off of the powers of normal magical folk, and that if they drained them completely, they would take not only the source of their abilities, but their soul. It was why they were so closely monitored, and why the ministry acted as they did.
When a cursed rose from the dead, they were taken at once to the Department of Mysteries. From there, they were branded, informed of what they were, and sent out of country after signing a contract to not return for an extended period of time. It was designed to protect the families of the cursed ones, as well as to prevent them from trying to turn family members, as they had apparently tried to do in the early 1700’s.
If they ever acted up, their brand would inform the ministry as to where they were, and Harry would go assess the situation. He was a Regulator-a person who went out and performed checks on the living dead, ensuring that they were behaving according to their contracts. If he determined they weren’t, another person was sent out, simply with the title of Exterminator, who killed the person the only way they knew how. With fire.
It was typically something that put Harry on the outs. No one amongst the Cursed was openly willing to communicate with him, and because of his knowledge on who actually lived and who actually was dead, he was excommunicated from the wizarding world to prevent him from ever the careful treaties between the Ministry and these creatures and opening up the possibility to a war. He had gone from being different by being a savior to being different by holding the knowledge that his friends didn’t need to suffer, but that he couldn’t help them. Any of them. It was miserable. It wasn’t...it wasn’t what he had fought for.
Lost in his own self pity, almost tossed aside a file before an oddity registered. Sitting up straighter, sandwich being shoved off to the side, he flipped it back to the first page and squinted at the careful print in the dull light to make out the name and details. Ophelia Bones. Killed in the early 1970’s by Death Eaters, she had risen a short time after. Her husband, Edgar Bones, had remained deceased, and she, alone, had been sent out of England in exile with nothing more than a brand on her body and the clothing she had been buried with. Things had gone normally for her-she had fallen in with the Romanians, who claimed most of Eastern Europe despite their name, and who Fred himself had run with. She worked with them as a seamstress and teacher and seemed to cause no trouble.
Until early 2004. Without any explanation, beyond all ability for reason, she had fallen off of the radar. The intensity of the spells, Harry knew himself, made it impossible to remove the brand and the tracking charms, which in itself would have caused a tiny panic amidst the Ministry Officials. Her whereabouts remained unknown into the mid part of 2007, where she reappeared in Nepal. There was no notes on how it happened or what had occurred between those times, or how her demeanor had been. There was no information on who had gone to her, or what they had seen, only a simple word that ended the file. Exterminated. It was accompanied by a gruesome image of a burned body writhing under a fiend fire, as well as a small taped baggy of ashes for proof. There was no information under the “Reason” heading for her death. Simply the one word.
While the ministry did many things Harry couldn’t bring himself to ever approve of, they had never, in all of his knowledge, killed a Cursed without reason. And the timing, he knew, fit with the beginning of the migrations. Perhaps not to England, no, those didn’t come for a few years after, but at least out of the Romanian area. The Romanian Clan had been far reaching, over most of Eastern Europe, into the Eurasian borders why they conducted business with the Lotus Clan of China. But in 2007, they had begun to gather together like prey being circled by a predator, a mass number huddling in the small country of Croatia, and then they fled.
There were nearly four thousand in the Romanian Clan. And if they were sticking together, then they had just seen the beginning influx of cursed, and Harry knew the Ministry would never tolerate it.
Grabbing the Bones case file close to himself, food forgotten, he quickly made his way out of the Ministry. He needed to contact Fred. He needed to find out what happened to Ophelia; he needed to find out what had the predators of wizards running like they were the prey.
Ashing his cigarette, Theodore took one last, long drag, inhaling until he tasted filter through the nicotine as the cherry burnt the cotton. Making a face, he flicked it to the ground and let the smoke pour from his nostrils like a dragon breathing out, his partner’s presence beside him a warming presence in the uncannily brisk night. Picadilly Circus was quite a sight to behold after hours. It was condemned amongst the wizarding world as offering too many cruel delights for the magical youth to refrain from. Drugs, sex, and rent boys, all hidden in the shadows, all pretty beyond belief. It was a place where many disenfranchised Death Eater offspring had found their way after the war had ended, carrying the shame of their parents and with nowhere else to go.
Glancing down a familiar alley, he felt goose bumps rise on his flesh as he recalled the last time he himself had been there. Running a Narc bust with four other aurors before he switched to Dark Crimes to take over Potter’s spot. He could still remember facing off with Parkinson in that house, smelling of drugs and sex and urine, and how skinny she had looked with the rubber band still tied tight around her bony upper arm...
“You good with this?” Ron’s voice wrapped around him with the comforting familiarity of present times, shaking off the memories like drops of chilled rain, and he found himself nodding without a thought.
“Yeah. Just hate the muggle side,” Nott stated, lips tilting down in a frown, attractive features morphing into an expression of displeasure. Blue eyes rolled as the redhead bumped their hips together.
“Then let’s get this over with. I’m about as comfortable as you are right now.”
The line to get into Steam and Whistle was long and disgustingly strange. The outfits ranged from modern muggle, to fashionable wizard, to a strange take on western wear combined with technology. Stalking past the group, Theo’s fingers itched to grab his wand or light another smoke, but instead he reached for badge, flipping it open to the doorman in tandem with Ron’s revealing of his own.
At the flash of the metal, the large doorman had no choice but to step aside, allowing the aurors in past the groans of the patrons. Inside, a thick smell of clove cigarettes and strong liquor assaulted the nose while a blaring cello and electric violin accompanied the voice of a wailing female with pink dreadlocks on stage. The entire place was donned with brass and glass-an antique feel mingled heavily with modern. It at once made Ron feel dizzy, but he grit his teeth and followed his red robed companion through the throngs of people toward the bar.
Before they could reach it to begin interrogating the tender, a meaty hand settled onto Ron’s arm, the owner from the commercials studying the two men as he placed himself sturdily in front of them.
“Can I help you?” he asked above the noise, pointed nose wrinkled in thought and displeasure.
“Yeah,” Nott replied. “We understand you had a meeting here.”
“We have many,” came the easy answer, the rotund face slipping into a placating smile. “I’m afraid you gentleman will need to be a bit more specific.”
“How about a meeting with a certain wizard by the name of Harry Potter?” Ron pressed, lips tilting down into a frown.
Dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief, the owner flickered his tongue in an almost serpentine manner, gaze skittering about the club.
“Forgive me. I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” Theodore drawled, unimpressed, quirking a brow. “Because we have a very reliable source that claims you do.”
“In fact,” Ron continued, “that same source told us he was here last night, and you took him personally into a backroom.”
“That’s a crime, you know. And grounds to search this place.” Theo rested a hand onto a full shoulder, squeezing the flesh under the suit. “Impersonating someone of such regard as the illustrious Mr. Potter-“
“-plus all the reports of suspicious packages coming in? One call and we could have both muggle and magical Narco units all-“
“Please, sirs,” the man quickly interrupted Ron as he spoke, pressing his palms together in a motion of supplication before his face. “I believe this would be discussed best in private.” Pulling away from Theodore’s hold on him, he reached out to seize the elbow of a passing waitress, lips moving against her ear as he whispered instructions to her. She gave a strange look to Nott and Weasley before skittering away, and the two Aurors followed the owner as he waved for them to come along, leading them to a room marked Employee’s Only.
It reeked of a smell that Theo knew right off was some high quality grass and a strong cleaning agent. It made his eyes water and his throat feel dry from memory of what it had been like to smoke it in school. A large, hand carved desk was freshly polished and reeking of lemon scented cleaner, and around them, paintings of daylight scenarios hung heavy on the wall. One drew Ron’s attention, reminding him eerily of the way Bill and Fleur’s cabin did in the early dawn hours, putting him immediately on edge.
“Please, wait right here,” the owner urged, looking uneasy. Before either could respond, he was gone, bustling out through a door spelled to blend in with the wall.
“Do you smell that?” Theo murmured, nostrils flaring as he touched his fingers along a gilt edged frame. Nodding, Ron brushed a hand through close trimmed red hair and moved closer to the painting that so resembled his brother’s home.
“Yeah...pot and the Lysol lady. Hey-doesn’t this remind you of Bill’s place?”
“I guess. Been years since I’ve been there.” Theodore waved it off, hands tucked behind his back as he walked the perimeter of the room, reminding Ron of a lion stalking its cage. “This place reeks of dark magic more than Voldemort’s discarded tampons. It’s giving me the jeebies.”
“If the magic wasn’t giving me the jeebies, your metaphor did,” Ron stated dryly, face screwed up in an expression of disgust. “Really, Voldemort’s tampons? Did you have to bring it to the level of used tampons?”
“Yup. Just to see that face you’re making right now. It’s so precious, Ronnie-kins. Makes my insides all a-fluttery.”
The hidden door burst open, a surprising whoosh of air and noise signaling the arrival of the large owner again. This time, he was followed closely by two others who appeared even more interesting than the occupants of the club. One possessed lank red hair that hung around his face in heavy clumps, as if it had been styled into some intricate design before he fell asleep on it and sent the strands eschew. A pair of dark goggles rested over his eyes, his face hidden in the collar of a feathered ankle length jacket and a cloth dust mask over his mouth, obscuring him from view as he dropped heavily into a couch at the side of the room. Tucking long legs up to himself, clutching a cane in a desperate gloved hold, Ron found himself unable to fully look at him, his own gaze slipping off of the male like hands trying to find purchase on an oiled bit of metal.
But if the rag tag copper was someone that was impossible to focus on, the even stranger figure whom followed was a magnet. A black turtle neck and black dress slacks hung on a wide form, arms tucked into elbow length laced up gloves that rested pleasantly on the polished desk and legs that were encased on knee high lace up boots. Staring at them from the spot where his face should be was a kabuki mask tilted into an expression of peaceful neutrality with blue paint around the blackened eyeholes. A skintight, ebon hood hugged the shape of his skull, assisting in keeping every inch of his body covered, revealing not even a hint of race or age. Settling down into the full backed leather chair behind the table, he made a motion through the air, obscure and confusing.
“He asks that you please be seated,” the owner urged, moving to stand at the back left of the masked man. Ron and Theo exchanged a curious look before complying.
“Could you take off the mask, mate?” Ron urged, not enjoying the anonymity of the scenario one bit. Just as the owner opened his mouth to speak, one glove covered hand lifted to silence him, the silent male giving a small shake of his head to still any arguments. He carefully took hold of the latches under the hood, slipping the protective covering off to reveal the mess beneath.
It took all the careful training the two Aurors had to hold back their reactions at the site that was revealed. Completely mangled by scar tissue, the man looked more monster than human. His nose had melted closed, his lips completely gone, mouth nothing more than a gaping slit in a sea of gnarled flesh. Eyes, an amazingly clear and beautiful brown, were the only humanoid items that remained, peering out from under hairless, thick, and withered red lids that twitched and stretched the flesh of his forehead painfully with each stuttering attempt at a blink. What may have once been attractive features were nothing more than a mound of white and pink burned scar tissue.
Theo pursed his lips to hold back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, and Ron gripped the arms of the chair, neither able nor wanting to protest as the male seemed satisfied that they had taken their fill of his terrible visage and reapplied the hand crafted disguise. Still, what had been seen could not be unseen, and with each blink, Ron swore he could make out the horrible, painful image on the backs of his eyes.
Seeming to recover first, Theo cleared his throat and spoke in a tone rife with control from his pureblood heritage, “What happened?”
“I come from Romania,” the large man said, translating as the masked figure began to speak in what they had deduced must have been sign language. “There is a civil war there between the wizards. I happened to have been a supporter for the current losing side. They captured my village and they doused my body in flame many times over to try to make speak and turn over my comrades for their tortures.”
“Dear Circe,” Nott breathed, looking to the black covered eyeholes of the mask and then to the owner translating for them, back once more to the tortured frame. “And you lived?”
“If you can call this living. I cannot speak, I cannot eat, I cannot have sex. I have nothing left on me to distinguish what I was. I live in constant pain...” The fingers trailed off, frozen, before slowly folding, shoulders heaving in a slow and soundless sigh. Ron licked dry lips, trying to force his mind back on track, the heady scent of lemons seeming to get stronger, causing his pulse to pound painfully between his eyes. Nodding over toward the quiet male off to the side, he glanced over to him, his headache only increasing when he moved his gaze and tried in vain to focus on him. He fucking hated the smell of lemons.
“What’s his story?” Weasley asked.
“My son,” the masked one replied, fingers weak as they moved. “He cares for me.”
“And his get up?”
Hesitating, the scarred figure turned to face the quiet redhead, a silent message seeming to pass between them both. Finally, another heave of shoulders.
“They pulled off his jaw and cut out his tongue for speaking up against what they did to me. He is ashamed by his appearance.”
As if on cue, Fred shifted, sinking in to himself and turning his gaze to Vincent. The male was handling it splendidly, as was the front-man they used as “owner” of the club. He just needed to keep quiet...just...keep quiet...
He turned his stare back to Ron, glued onto his brother in desperation, willing him to look over and recognize him despite knowing that he could not. It would put all of them at danger if Ron did, but he couldn’t help but wish. Wish that the spell they had put up on him would break and Ron would take him in and recognize who he was. Wish that his stupid little brother would throw his arms around him and drag him back home before he could protest, letting him see his mother and brother again...wish that he could go home, just one more time, and see his mother smile at him as she fixed a homemade hat on his head and cupped his cheek...
The pain of the memories of his loved ones echoed through him hollowly. He let his lashes flutter closed and gripped his own elbows hard enough to bruise. He wasn’t high enough for this. He couldn’t handle this pain by himself. Temperance had always been George’s strong suit. Fred was terrible on his own.
“Why was Harry Potter here last night?” Theodore’s question was blessedly back on topic, away from conversations involving fake torture or lies to keep the two from figuring out what they shouldn’t have. And just like the perfectly trained liar the ex Slytherin was, Vincent lightly and with a mock exhaustion waved their worries away, slumping back heavily into the seat with all the weight of an old man crumpling under a lifetime of pain. While not terribly far off track, it was normally Fred’s place to look so weary and animated. Vincent, his strange friend and hired guard, was always the one to stand in silent support from the sidelines. Always the one to carry him back to his room when his memories of his brother, alive and suffering without him, became too much, and he snorted until his body convulsed and his immortal body was forced into shut down to repair the damage he inflicted on it.
“Harry is a good man, but he could take lessons in discretion,” Vincent signed, words given voice by their translator. Brushing something off of his gloves, Vincent paused to dramatically touch over his heart, shifting with clear discomfort. “Harry has many contacts, as do I. We work together to pass on messages between refugees, and assure that they are kept safe. Sometimes, we hire Mr. Potter to work as an escort for our groups, or to deliver important items or notices of death to loved ones. He is very good at what he does, and has a very good heart.” Fred was proud of Vincent for the lie-of course the tales of Civil War were true. The chaos of the country had provided Fred and others like him a good opportunity to sneak in and remain unnoticed, as the local authorities would be too busy worrying about their own species than to notice another. And for coming up with this on a whim, well, even Fred in his accomplished lies was impressed. Despite having come off as always painfully dull in school, the old lackey of Draco Malfoy proved more and more to have a brilliance to him to rival most.
“How long has this been going on?” Ron pressed, sounding suspicious, rubbing at the bridge of his nose between his eyes. It made Fred a little worried. The spells around the place could have a terrible effect, and Ron had always been a pussy when it came to magic being used against him. How he had managed to save the wizarding world, Fred would never know.
“A very long time,” Vincent replied cryptically, once again waving away their question with the arrogance of an old and esteemed businessman. Theodore appeared ready to press, but with a sudden swell of his chest, Vincent began to wheeze, a terrible, horrifying, animalistic noise emitting from the burned and melted vocal chords. It was a terrifying, wailing cough that shook the large form like a leaf, and the two aurors, caught by surprise, leapt to their feet, wide eyed and pale, and Fred knew from his own experience that they were imagining the monstrous visage that lay beneath the clothing and the expression his twisted face would be making to accompany it.
“Please!” their front man exclaimed, the heavy roll under his chin rippling as he spoke, rushing forward to press a hand to Vincent’s back. “Our Lord is very old and his health is not well. This is all too much for him. You should go, please. He needs his rest!”
To elaborate the point, Vincent hacked again, rasping and snarling, wet and nauseating. It was, as Fred liked to call it, his secret weapon. It was the only noise the burned man could still make, and it sounded every inch the dying creature.
“O-of course,” Theodore whispered, swallowing hard and clasping at the back of his chair.
“Just-first,” Ron demanded, chin up, lips tilted in a determined expression. Fred couldn’t help but feel proud at his little brother’s strength. “First, I just need one thing. I need you to tell me how we can reach Harry Potter.”
Start at the Beginning
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