A/N: This is my first time writing anything to do with either Harry Potter or Witch Hunter Robin, but I just couldn't get the idea out of my head, and, although I've seen the two series combined in some fanfics, I really don't think anything I've read has done either of them justice. Thus, this is a paltry attempt to do just that. Be warned, I've only read the HP books once, so more than likely I'll be working off of the movies more than the books.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in the anime Witch Hunter Robin, and I'm not sure who does. I just know it's not me. And I also don't own any characters in the Harry Potter books. They all belong to J.K. Rowling who is—in my opinion—one of the most fantastic storytellers in all literary history.
Thicker Than Blood
Chapter One
The only sound was the repetitious clunking of the large grandfather clock in the corner. The old man sat in his high-backed chair, his fingers steepled and blue eyes intense behind his small spectacles. A woman, seemingly as old as he, sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
"Are they certain?" she suddenly asked, her voice shaking.
"Yes." His voice was calm.
He leaned forward and picked up a thick piece of parchment that lay on his desktop. The black script on the parchment was visible in the sparse light.
"How could this have happened?" the woman wrung her weathered hands, her graying hair shining in the candlelight as she shook her head from side to side. "We haven't been in danger like this for decades. Hundreds of years. Not like this."
"Yes."
"Well, how are we to respond to this threat, Albus? We must do something."
The old man sighed and set the parchment down again, looking up at his old friend.
"What do you suggest, then, Minerva?"
The old woman pursed her lips and straightened in her chair.
"Since we are all in danger, I suggest that we take steps to protect ourselves."
He cocked his head, wispy gray hair shifting on his shoulders.
"This is the safest place in England for us," Minerva said. "We should gather everyone here."
"Everyone? That would be a tad bit crowded, don't you think?"
"I suppose. At least the children, then. The ones who are incapable of protecting themselves."
"Incapable, Minerva?"
"You know what I mean, Albus," she scolded slightly. "Imagine the consequences if those—those creatures located that horrible Dursley family, if they found Harry."
The old man sighed.
"From what I've heard of them," Minerva continued, "they're dangerous, vicious, brutal. We'd never see him again, and we'd all be lost. You of all people know how important he is."
"Yes, Minerva, I know, but we must remain calm in this situation."
"Calm?"
"Yes, calm," he nodded firmly. "We are well hidden here. No outsider has found this school in many centuries, and whatever else these hunters may be, they are outsiders. Even the Ministry—who sent us this warning—agrees on that."
"Yes, Albus."
"I agree with you, Minerva," he stood, his shining robes falling around him. "Send the owls calling all the students back, but don't mention why we want them here."
"I've a mind to think, Albus, that some of them may not relish spending their summer here."
"Some, but not all," he patted her shoulder.
She smiled and hurried briskly from his office. Slowly, the old man returned to his desk and lifted the parchment again, his eyes scanning over it once more.
Headmaster Dumbledore:
A dangerous situation has arisen concerning a Muggle organization called the STN. Word has reached the Ministry of a plan intended to detain and possibly exterminate members of the magical community. We at the Ministry are working to curtail this assault before it occurs, but as the headmaster of such a find establishment as HogwartsSchool of Witchcraft and Wizardry, we thought it most appropriate to allow you to take the proper precautions regarding your students.
Most sincerely,
The Ministry of Magic
The old man set the parchment down again and sighed heavily, glancing at the bright red bird that perched beside his desk.
"We've got trouble this time, haven't we, Fawkes?"
The bird cooed softly and tilted its red-gold head.
Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair and leaned back.
"So," he murmured, closing his eyes, "we come to it again."
The phone rang, chiming stridently in the silence that filled the office. Her lithe, white fingers lifted the telephone to her ear, and she murmured softly into the receiver. After conversing for a moment, she transferred the call to another secretary and returned her gaze to the computer terminal at her left. Her fingers had just settled on the keyboard when the office door banged, and her employer sauntered toward her desk.
"You work too much," the handsome man shrugged off his coat and smiled at her with flirtatious blue eyes. "Why don't you come and get a coffee with me, no?"
His young secretary smiled but shook her head and turned back to her computer screen.
"Oh, come, now," the man leaned over her desk, "surely your work can't be that important, eh? You work for me, don't you? I can give you a few hours off. You like espresso, don't you?"
"Yes, sir, but I truly have a great deal of work to do," she answered softly with another smile. "Thank you, though."
She returned to her typing, leaving her employer scowling.
"Maybe next time," he forced a smile and strode into his office, shutting the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, she shook her head and smiled to herself. It was at least the tenth time he had asked her to go somewhere with him. Jean-Claude Marceau was not easily deterred, she was discovering.
I doubt I can continue to refuse his offer, she thought to herself as she picked up an envelope. He'll certainly become curious soon and start asking questions.
She picked up a manila envelope stuffed with papers and slid it into a file drawer.
Questions I can't answer.
She shut the file drawer.
It's just coffee, after all, she told herself. Amon wouldn't mind. She winced visibly as she imagined how her steely eyed warden would respond to such an action. No. He would mind. He would be angry. It is miraculous enough that he allows me to work. I shouldn't try his patience by obviously contradicting our purpose here.
She stared at the computer screen again, the lights of the monitor reflecting in her luminous green eyes.
Our purpose, she thought. Can hiding truly be considered a purpose? Can running for our lives be considered a purpose?
She smiled ruefully.
It must be or else we would not yet live.
The door to Marceau's office banged again, and he strode out pompously, another presumptuous grin on his handsome face.
"I bought you something while I was at lunch," he leaned over her desk again, closer this time than before.
He deposited a package on her desk and smiled.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Open it and see."
Tentatively, she reached for the ribbon that bound the red-wrapped paper. The paper fell away as she pulled the ribbon, revealing a tall, white candle.
"A candle?" she cocked a blonde eyebrow in curiosity.
"Yes," he was still smiling. "Its scent will invigorate you when you burn it."
"When I burn it?"
"Yes. Take it home and think of me often."
She looked up at him and then down at the candle.
You cannot accept this, her mind told her. To do so would only encourage this behavior, and I cannot justify that.
"Mr. Marceau—"
"Robin," he stopped her, "you have worked for me how long?"
"Two weeks, Mr. Marceau."
"Plenty of time for familiarity!" he pounded his chest. "Call me Jean-Claude."
"I would much rather call you—"
"Take home the candle," he took her hand and kissed it dramatically. "I won't allow you to do otherwise."
She sighed heavily and nodded, pulling her hand from his grasp.
"As you wish, Mr. Mar—Jean-Claude," she corrected as his hand lifted in a scolding gesture.
"Good," he nodded. "Now, will you have coffee?"
"I need to finish this report, sir," she answered. "Perhaps another time."
She turned from him and stared pointedly at the monitor, praying with every breath that he would leave.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "Enjoy the candle, my dear." He bowed with a dramatic flair and strode powerfully into his office.
She breathed a huge sigh of relief as he did.
I can't take that back to the apartment, she thought worriedly. When Amon sees it, he'll wonder where I got it. All the money I make goes toward necessities. A fragrant candle is most certainly not a necessity. Perhaps I could burn it quickly. No, then Mr. Marceau will wonder where it went. I would be forced to lie to him to keep him from asking.
She scowled thoughtfully.
Which would I rather do? Break a commandment or anger Amon? She sighed again. Why are decisions concerning Amon so terribly vexing?
The faint scent of blooming roses touched her nose suddenly, and she frowned deeper than before, glancing at the candle. It had been lit.
Stupid, she berated herself, glaring at the little flame on the wick. You were thinking too hard.
She reached to extinguish the candle when Marceau suddenly exclaimed, "Magnificent!"
He burst out of his office and laughed, dancing around her desk.
"You lit the candle! I knew you would!"
"It was an accident," Robin murmured without thinking.
"I didn't know you kept matches in your desk," Marceau ignored her. "Now will you have coffee?"
With a sigh, Robin bent down, shut off her computer, and stood.
"There are many things you do not know about me, Mr. Marceau," her voice was cold. "Good day."
Silently, she brushed past him and walked out of the office, leaving Marceau stunned behind her.
As he returned dejectedly to his office, he did not notice the flame on the wick diminishing as his young secretary moved away from the building.