CodeName; Crimson Hare by wolfd890
Disclaimer: I do not own HP, and do not make any sort of mulla by writing.
A/N: Welcome to another one of those plot bunnies in my head clawing to get out. It won't have much in the way of humour, but the plot is 100% original. Seriously, I can smell the rubber burning that's how hard I've thought about the plot. There is no beta for this work, but If you're willing and able there are approx. 80k words after this chapter. As always please point out any mistakes you find and I'll endeavour to correct them.
Also, if you recognize the first phrase in the description then you get a gold star ;)
Happy reading.
Paris. The City of Light. Love it or hate it, the place had an undeniable charm that drew people from far and wide, like a moth to the flame. Its narrow cobblestone clad streets were steeped in centuries of history, both good and bad, but mostly the latter. It had persevered through wars, plagues, and revolutions, many events that often ended rather poorly for its inhabitants. The city may have borne witness to some horrible things, but its people loved it dearly none the less. It continued shining in its entire splendor.
Of course for every monument, Grand bridge, or imposing palace there were dozen if not hundreds of…shall we say, less pleasant places. Simply two sides of the same coin. It was the nature of things, and Paris was bound by them, just like any other city in Europe, or anywhere for that matter.
It was in such a setting that this story begins. With the pull of a cigarette, and a fleeting, tiny orange glow that winked out a moment later. Even from across the street one couldn't have picked up on it, so thick was the fog. It reminded the man enjoying the vice of his old home, loathe as though he was to be reminded of it.
Accompanying the fog were the damp and cold, the latter being unseasonably so for early Summer. With a silent sigh the blue tinted smoke escaped from between his lips, mixing with the water vapour hanging like a wet, heavy blanket around much of the Capital.
Of course no respectable member of society would be moving about this part of town, especially at this hour. Good thing he wasn't here to meet anyone respectable then, he thought with a grin.
"You're early." A male voice stated from the shadows to his left in French. The sharp clicking of shoes on the rounded cobblestones echoed loudly through the street. "Oui" he greeted back in the same tongue, pulling a thick manila envelope from his overcoat. "I'm sure you appreciate the courtesy of not being made to wait out here any longer than need be."
The man wordlessly accepted the envelope, trusting the contents were to his satisfaction. Judging by the heft they were. A single key was pressed into the smoking man's hand, along with a whispered set of words.
"Gare Du Nord Train Station, West Wing, First Floor."
A nod of gratitude followed, though it went unseen by the already retreating figure. He stood there for a few moments longer, savoring the last of the Tabaco before finally flicking the lit butt towards the ground.
He'd always liked trains.
Ten years ago…
Click click, click click.
The repetitive sound and accompanying vibrations carried from the steel wheels up through the carriage, lulling him into a near hypnotic trance as the High speed train zipped through the picturesque landscape. They were somewhere between Lyon and Torino according to the small screen hanging over the center isle, but to be honest it didn't matter.
It was early evening and the sun was low in the sky, bathing everything in a warm yellow glow. Deep shadows streaked across lush, green meadows and patches of woodland. In the distance a single stubby peak of a village church bell tower stood, silhouetted against the sparrow blue sky. The light was doing marvelous things to the scenery, and everywhere one looked there was a profound beauty that artist's from centuries past would have been inspired by.
Click click, click click.
His eyes were beginning to grow heavy. It hadn't been a particularly strenuous day, though he was beginning to understand what people meant when they said travel can be exhausting.
"Listen closely my boy" the gravelly voice of his mentor, friend, and adopted father in all but name pulled his attention from the sights and sounds beyond the large glass window of their train carriage. He forced himself upright, the movement serving to pull him out of the fog that had settled in his mind.
He used to hate being called that, back when he was living with his Aunt and Uncle. But coming from the kind, grandfatherly man next to him it sounded completely endearing. Funny how that works. As always the child dedicated his full attention to the lesson, whenever they may present themselves.
Quite odd for a boy of one and ten, but then again he'd never known the distraction of toys and games like most children had. But more importantly he'd learnt long ago that the man sitting across from him was unrivaled in his craft, considered far and wide to be the best.
And if he wanted to honour the boastful claim made on the first day they'd met then hard work was going to be required.
"People are a thief's greatest asset, whether unwittingly or otherwise. The purpose of this trip is to meet with an old friend, but it is also to gain hold of a missing puzzle piece."
"A puzzle piece?" the boy repeated.
"Hmmm" the man rumbled in affirmation. "A puzzle piece of the mind." His index finger travelled to his temple, tapping it gently.
"Said piece could easily have been acquired through a simple phone call, and with the assurance that it would have not been a problem." He paused for a moment to gaze out of the window. "But then we wouldn't have had the opportunity to experience such a wonderful train ride."
The boy smiled and his guardian chuckled.
"However the true purpose of this visit is that friends, true friends, appreciate when others go out of their way for them. Remember that Harry, and should you ever find yourself in trouble there will always be a safe port nearby to shield you from the storm."
The man he'd just interacted with certainly wasn't on Harry's friend list, though the small but kind gesture of being early might one day pay off. Who knew?
Walking away from the encounter the young man passed underneath an amber streetlight, illuminating his handsome, youthful features to a camera lens some distance away.
Though the orange light and haze from the weather made it difficult to tell for sure, he had short, dark, and above all messy hair. He seemed of average height, though the large overcoat made it difficult to determine build.
The narrow street soon merged into a larger, well-lit boulevard. Nearby a street sweeping crew moved about slowly, the two coverall clad men spraying down the filth that accumulated over the weeks since this area had last seen such a service.
The man moved towards a wide set of stone stairs that led to the lower walkway by the river, moving silently and at a brisk pace. Turning immediately he ducked under an archway supporting the southern edge of the bridge. This area had seen a fair share of city funds over the last few years, revitalizing the river shore and allowing access to Seine.
From afar both sides of the underpass were visible, and his pursuers were not concerned about losing him. A minute passed, then two. After the third the two men moved up, making sure to keep alert and out of sight.
Yet apart from a snoring bum lying on a cardboard mat the underpass was empty. There were no doors leading to the underground, which could often be found in such places, and the man didn't look like he'd willingly jumped into the frigid waters for a swim.
"La Vache, he got away." One of the two cursed, not pleased in the slightest. The other simply sighed at his vocal partner. "All right, let's mark this one as a possible Utilisateur Magie."
They glanced at the bum again, briefly entertaining the idea that it might be their man in disguise. The dirty street person, for all intents and purposes seemed oblivious to the two men standing less than a meter away.
"C'mon, let's get out of here. Merde, the Boss is going to be pissed."
The cold, damp space grew silent once more, save for the snores from the passed out drunk. Fifteen feet above Harry James Potter, formerly of England, undid the sticking charm on his back, allowing himself to be pulled towards the ground. He landed with no sound, and took his time straightening out from the deep crouch following the landing.
'Well then, wasn't this interesting' he thought to himself. Not five minutes after starting this venture and he was already attracting the attention of les autorités.
Excellent.
Pulling a little black stick from his coat he silently flicked a warming and cushioning charm at the less fortunate man resting by the wall. As an afterthought he deposited a fifty franc note in his pocket. With a near silent crack the Wizard disappeared.
Then and only then did the last remaining person of this odd little encounter stir. The grime covered face morphed into a heart shaped one, framed by pink shoulder length hair.
A pleased grin formed on her pretty face. "I finally found you, kiddo."
Three weeks earlier:
The setting was an elaborate if dated looking office, were that date sometime in the eighteen hundreds. Strange artifacts and oil based paintings could be found aplenty. An ancient looking man with snow white beard was dozing in a high backed wooden chair. The piece of furniture did not look comfortable, but the man did not seem to mind. To his left an impressive avian with orange plumage sat on a brass rod, its intelligent eyes transfixed on the small bowl of treats on the desk.
It was going over the risk/reward scenario of making a run at the bowl when a light pecking echoed through the otherwise still rooms. The tapping was enough to wake the man, and he quickly identified the source of the disturbance.
Too tired for pleasantries he let the postage own inside and offered up the bowl his familiar had been eyeing, much to its displeasure.
The brown bird carried a single white envelope, unmarked and unaddressed.
Of course the man hadn't reached the impressive age of one hundred and thirty-two by carelessly opening up unknown mail, though there was a time in the distant past when such naivety could still be found within him. It truly was distant though. With but a gesture of his hand the piece of stationary gently floated from the windowsill to the desk.
From there he cast an array of detection based spells that could determine everything from poison to compulsion, and every nasty little thing in-between.
Satisfied it was safe to handle, he sliced open the top with his favorite letter opener. Inside was a small piece of parchment and a newspaper. Despite the note being the logical thing to read first, he couldn't help but notice that the paper was of French origin.
Opening the folded piece of stationary it read;
Page 7, bottom most column
N.F
Hmmm, he knew his old friend didn't like to write, but this was getting ridiculous. Well, it had been some time since he'd indulged himself with anything written in the French language. Perhaps this was a good opportunity to brush up on it.
Unfolding the Le Monde he was reminded of how novel it was to read a muggle publication. His brain was expecting to see movement, and it was distracting when there was none. Skipping the crossword he focused on the page in question, and nearly choked on a sweet he'd been sucking on for the last thirty seconds.
After a mildly painful coughing fit he scrutinized the still photo closely. The likeliness was uncanny, but of course he couldn't be sure. The article below was about something wholly unrelated, but it did provide a location.
The Petit Palais Museum in Paris.
He leaned back into the chair, both fatigued and exited all at once. If it was really him, then it would be the first solid lead in almost fifteen years! He checked the paper again. Yesterday's issue. Excellent.
He made a mental note to send his old friend something extra special this Christmas as thanks, before sitting back down and subconsciously began stroking his beard, something he often did when trying to work through a problem. And this one was bound to be tricky to navigate.
But what an unexpected stroke of luck! It seemed he was simply passing by in the background as the picture was taken.
Pulling a blank piece of parchment from the desk drawer the elderly man scrawled out a quick note before handing it over to Fawkes.
"Please deliver this to Auror Tonks right away. It seems we have an urgent new assignment for her."
An identical copy of the same newspaper rested on a nigh black polished table of a richly decorated and spacious study. The hand crafted piece of furniture separated two men, one of which was sitting, while the other kneeled.
"My lord, the transfer has been made. The informant has been silenced."
A snake, previously unseen, slid from under the floor length curtains and up one of the chair's legs. The hooded man swallowed, heart rate elevated and perspiring as he reported.
"What of the buyer?" the man hidden in the shadows hissed. His outline could be seen in the hearth fire's light.
The kneeling man slowly reached into his pocket, retrieving the slender vial containing a milky substance. Hand shaking he offered up the memory without being prompted to do so, and more importantly keeping his mouth shut. He knew better than to make small talk now. The Dark Lord's orders were clear. Identify the would-be buyer for an object his master desired. The agent had done just that, and now he had delivered it post haste.
The vial floated away and into a waiting, pale colored hand. Head down the messenger waited, not daring to rise, or even look up until dismissed.
"Tell the Rat to continue shadowing our… person of interest."
The man silently recalled a brief prayer for the poor sod who'd managed to attract his master's attention. From the chair a brief glint of teeth could be seen, making him wonder if he'd accidentally said it out loud.
"You are dismissed." The same hand waved.
He bowed lower, face now close enough to make out the individual grains of the dark hardwood floor boards. "By your leave my lord."
He waited for the door to click shut, lovingly caressing the smooth, scaly skin of his familiar. With but a mental prompt a spinning disk of liquid appeared, and the contents were tipped inside.
With more than a little disgust he landed in the, damp, wet streets of Paris. The Rat emerged from a curb side storm sewer grate and scurried down the sidewalk, its behavior mimicking that of an actual rodent perfectly.
How fitting.
The rodent led him to the two men as they completed the switch. Pausing the memory he leaned in close as the location was revealed.
Gare Du Nord Train Station.
The lack of light meant the two were nothing but humanoid shaped shadows. He followed the key's recipient, and paused the memory once again when he passed under a streetlight.
Oh how the gods of fortune must smile upon him, he mused, mood lifted to such a degree that he actually laughed.
Two petite yet solid hands slammed into the rich hardwood desk top with enough force to shake the large, ornate sneakoscope, causing it to jingle musically, though not in the way they remembered.
You see, the owner of the device never revealed its purpose to her subordinates until it actually became active. Only then did they become aware that no form of deception within the office's four walls was possible.
"You mean to tell me you lost our first solid lead on Crimson Hare in the last three months? I should fire you for incompetence!" the shrill, and young voice shouted in French, causing the nearby staff outside the office to cringe and whisper a silent prayer for their colleges currently getting chewed out.
"Mademoiselle please, we followed procedure to the letter! He moved out of our direct line of sight and simply disappeared!"
Both briefly glanced at the device again, glad it remained silent. Little white lies were so common that people tended to weave them into everyday conversation, sometimes without even being aware.
"He?" she asked, her voice now calm. Oddly enough the change in volume only served to agitate them more.
"Oui Mademoiselle." He produced a crisp head shot of the suspect, taken when he was moving under the street light. They'd had the wherewithal to visit the development studio first and at least bring her what little information they'd been able to gather. The brown haired Woman studied the image for almost a minute, curious at first. But her beautiful features soon turned into a frown.
"What of the other. Have you identified him?"
"Jaque Rene." Her subordinate immediately supplied, glad to be moving past the unpleasant news from earlier. "The second team tracked him to his apartment and is standing by. We are awaiting your instructions."
"Bring him in for questioning." The Woman ordered, still looking at the picture.
"Right away!" They both stood and saluted her before beating a hasty retreat.
Inspector Hermione Jean Granger continued to lean over the still shot, a single strand of hair that had found its way out of her tight bun hanging loose. She ignored it. There was something familiar about this man. He was young, perhaps enough to have attended school with her. Her officer's preliminary report suggested possible Magic user. That would certainly explain how he'd given them the slip so easily.
They were muggles, although competent ones. Even if it didn't seem like it most of the time. She mentally chastised herself for thinking like that.
Her gaze though never left the picture. She was sure she'd have remembered him if he'd gone to Beauxbatons… her eyes widened in recognition.
Moving towards the computerized workstation her slender fingers blurred over the keyboard, accessing Europol's internal databanks with her personal user code and pulling up security footage files.
The Petit Palais Robbery.
It took her twenty minutes of watching footage from a certain camera, but finally struck pay dirt. It was a ten second window, but the man in question actually made it easy for her. He walked into its field of view, and proceeded to look right at the camera up above the mob of people and smirked. Actually smirked.
She froze the shot, and compared it to the image on her desk just to be sure.
Of course having near perfect memory helped, but there was a reason she had achieved such a prestigious position at such a young age. She was meticulous, smart, and above all, driven.
A deep seated hatred for thieves helped immensely of course, focusing all that energy and wit and sheer intelligence into a crime fighting package that made even her co-workers step back from the intensity.
Her superiors allowed her a great deal of operational freedom, because she got results. The office had multiple Inspectors like herself, each with their own teams. In her six months working for Europol's property and priceless art theft division she'd locked up no less than two dozen people, including Italian National Leonardo Notarbatelo and his gang, a mere two weeks after they'd done what was thought impossible and robbed the Antwerp Diamond Center in Brussels.
Of course personal reasons would do that to you. And it didn't get much more personal than senselessly losing your younger sister to a botched robbery attempt while on vacation with your parents.
Thieves.
In her mind they were every bit as despicable as murderers and rapists. And she would make sure every single one of them was locked up, magical or otherwise.
The Raven haired man appeared in a modern if plainly furnished hotel room a stone's throw from the Arc de Triomphe. The location made this particular room quite expensive, but the view more than made up for it, or would have were it not foggy.
He shrugged off the bulky overcoat, revealing a sharply dressed and slim figure. He haphazardly kicked off his shoes and sighed in delight as the cool air soothed the stifling heat around his feet.
They were new and needed to be worn in. Walking over to the mini bar he cracked open one of the atrociously expensive hard liquor bottles and poured the contents into a chilled glass.
With an unbuttoned collar he sank into one of the chairs, wand still in his holster and a pistol butt peeking out from underneath one arm.
He sipped on the drink, savoring the stillness and, oddly enough the poor flavour of the amber liquid.
"Urgh, sacrebleu." He muttered with a grimace, preferring the French word over his normal English. There was just something wonderful about swearing in that particular tongue. Of course with the amount of travelling he did Harry was fluent in German as well, with a smattering of Portugese and Spanish whenever work drew him over that far.
Ah, work. It was quite fulfilling, though sometimes the hours were quite odd. Lots of all-nighters, he thought with a smirk, taking another sip.
Of course the pay was excellent. But he wasn't in it for the money, though it was nice. No, he wished to build himself a reputation. One on par with his mentor.
He pulled the key from his trouser pocket and inspected it. And this was going to help him achieve it.
She typed up a short summery of the progress in the case, though perhaps a better word was developments. This wasn't her first run in with this particular thief. He was confident, skilled, and had been active since at least '98.
Hermione looked at the clock and sighed. Ten past nine in the morning. She liked arriving early, mainly because she wasn't allowed to throw up silencing charms around her office.
The other reason was him.
"Knock, knock."
"McLaggen." She greeted wearily. Cormac McLaggen. The English transfer from Scotland Yard. He'd arrived only three weeks ago and through some stroke of bad luck she'd somehow attracted his attention. Perhaps because she was the only Witch in the department.
Regardless, the man arrived every morning around this time, coffee in hand. She'd made the mistake of telling him how she preferred the drink early on, before she'd realized his infatuation with her.
"Here you are." He deposited the cup on her desk and seated himself despite not having received an invitation to do so, just like every other day. He was, of course a wizard, rather tall and well built, with tight, curly blonde hair and a reasonably handsome face.
"Merci" she took a sip one handed, her other typing on the keyboard once more, now pulling the relevant information for her upcoming questioning of Jaque Rene. Before she'd even shed her coat this morning an update detailing the successful apprehension of the man sat waiting on her otherwise spotless desk.
"I think I heard you all the way down in the break area this time," he quipped, referring to her little outburst at her own men last night. The Englishman rotated the picture of her main suspect around to look at. He seemed like nothing special.
"Yes, and you should be wary." She warned. "I may soon do the same to you if you keep this up. Congratulations by the way. I heard you've nabbed your man. Does this mean you'll be returning to England soon?" there may have been a smidgens of hope in her voice.
"Thank you." He smiled, quite happy to receive praise from one of the best and most beautiful Inspectors in all of Paris.
"As for my remaining here, I'm afraid I've taken a liking to…the scenery here." He said, managing to make eye contact at the end. "My transfer request to your division of Europol has been accepted as of today."
"Congratulations" she repeated, growing tired of the word and lamenting her rotten luck.
He flashed her a brilliant smile. "I was thinking, why don't we celebrate? I'd love to take you out for dinner some time."
"Cormac." She warned. "I'm sure you're aware of the regulations regarding departmental relationships."
"Yes of course. Fear not Mademoiselle." She cringed slightly as he butchered the pronunciation. "I simply wish to take you out for dinner, nothing more."
She stared at him.
"I'll consider it."
McLaggen jumped up, all sense of composure lost. "Really?" he coughed. "I mean, that sounds wonderful. I'll sms you this afternoon."
"I said consider!" she nearly shouted, but McLaggen was already gone.
She groaned in annoyance. "Merde, what have I done?"
Jaque Rene was nervous, and rightfully so. Not because he was sitting in an interrogation room with his hand cuffed to a bare metal table. Oh no, he'd been in, and out of this sort of situation plenty of times before, and if he could be proud of one thing it was keeping his mouth shut.
He was a middleman after all. Whether it was information or items, if someone needed to pass a message discreetly and without garnering attention he was your man. The 'was' it seemed was now literal it seemed.
It seemed he would be unable to buy his way out of trouble with this one. But what concerned him was that his business associate was dead, as he'd just been told by the most frightening Woman to ever have the misfortune of meeting.
The worst part was that there were no signs of trauma on the body. That meant them. He really turned pale when it became apparent that Claude, the person whose picture was before him had come to the police to provide information about the meeting between himself and the Crimson Hare.
Rene knew he didn't murder his (former) friend. But did they? The girl. She knew he was a squib. She also didn't seem surprised about the condition of Claude's body. Was she one of them?
"Mr. Rene, I'll cut to the chase." She said, her creamy smooth legs crossed at the knee as she sat opposite of him. Despite the situation he couldn't help but stare, though not for long of fear that she'd notice.
"It seems someone is trying to keep this meeting between this man-"she produced another image, this one of the man he'd given the train station key to. "-and yourself quiet. Perhaps they already know you're here in this building being questioned. Perhaps not. It would be unfortunate if they came to the wrong conclusion after we release you, no?"
He swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat in the last few minutes.
"We can provide you with protection." She stopped. "Of course, if you can tell us what it is you gave to this man" she tapped the picture, "and what his next move is."
Yes, his career as a middle man was over. If word got out that he'd burned a client no one in their right mind would use him. Jaque knew he was screwed. If the wand wavers wanted him dead the Muggle Police would be inadequate to protect him. But the Aurors?
The middle aged Frenchman leaned forward, trying to retain an ounce of control of his rapidly disintegrating life. 'Damn you to hell Claude! If you weren't already dead I'd have done the deed myself!'
"If you can guarantee my safety, I'll tell you everything."
Inspector Granger smiled viciously. "Of course Mr. Rene."
"Team One in position." The radio crackled in the makeshift command center, which so happened to be the magically expanded cargo area of a Citroen H Van parked outside the train station. Inspector Granger held a certain fondness towards the ugly corrugated metal clad vehicle. It was something none of the staff understood, but also didn't question.
"Team two in position. No sign of the target."
The dozen or so television screens were directly tied into the station's CCTV system though a single cable leaving the front grille of the vehicle and snaking its way towards the building. The surveillance team had full temporary control, allowing them to pan, zoom, and record directly from the mobile, if somewhat cramped command center.
"Roger that" she responded, keeping the chatter to a minimum. The noon hour emergency meeting following Rene's questioning had mainly focused on the planning side for this operation, meaning orders relayed over the radio were unnecessary. Her team knew the drill. They were good, if perhaps a little green behind the ears. But all had good heads on their shoulders.
Their suspect would hopefully retrieve the contents of the storage locker today, and when he did they were going to nab the guy!
Their mark proved to be a bit of a sadist though, only arriving sometime after seven in the evening and looking supremely unconcerned. She had to admit, observing him through the screen as he walked in main entrance, he certainly knew how to blend in. The two gendarme at the kiosk didn't even give him a second glance as he walked by.
He seemed like any other evening commuter, with a stylish wool overcoat, dress pants and polished shoes.
By the time he'd chosen to finally make an appearance the crowds had lessened considerably, and the workday rush-hour mob had thinned enough for her agents to stick out more than she'd have liked. Undeterred, or perhaps unconcerned, their suspect moved in, locating the locker and opening it without much fanfare.
Before she could order her men to move in though it all went to hell.
Before Harry even walked into the building he was aware of the dinky little van sitting in the express parking stall out front. It looked ordinary enough, though the age certainly didn't help in blend in much. No, what caught his attention was what the mage sight he'd briefly flicked on had revealed.
The thing was covered in magic. At first glance it had space expansion charms on it. While that in itself wasn't terribly uncommon, especially on cargo vehicles, the fact that they were layered with noise dampening and even more strangely, impervious charms on the metal made him take a second look.
A peek through the small, heavily tinted back window showed two women and a man. Two were sitting in front of multiple screens, all showing the stations interior.
'Ah, so they'd picked up Rene.' He smirked, instantly thinking of a good way to deal with any potential repercussions, at least from the occupants inside. There were bound to be more waiting for him in the Station. Making sure he wasn't being watched, Harry pulled his wand and cast a Parsel specific locking charm both on the back and side doors.
With a grin he walked away from the vehicle, slightly anxious but also exited at the prospect of some interference. It was getting boring running circles around les autorités.
With a rough idea in his head he moved inside and towards the West wing. A few people were moving about, but it wasn't crowded. It also made the six men 'casually' lounging around the locker he was here to loot stick out like sore thumbs.
Without further ado he moved in. They didn't react until he'd already inserted the key into the lock.
The locker was empty save for a single folded piece of parchment. He frowned, slightly annoyed at how elaborate this game was becoming. Well, it's not like it happened every day. He could play along.
Or so he thought. Knowing he was surrounded the young Wizard kept his attention split between his task of retrieving the next clue and scanning his surroundings.
That helped him avoid the bright green unforgivable that smashed into the back of the open locker, punching a ragged hole into the sheet metal.
Wide eyed he stepped aside almost on instinct, his hand moving to the concealed weapon on his side.
Merde, he hadn't expected that! Scanning his immediate surroundings he identified the perpitrator easily enough.
Black robes, white mask. Yeah, he'd seen these guys before. In the newspaper that is. It looks like the fine police men around him hadn't anticipated such a vile attack either, judging from their expressions. Four were going for their service revolvers. Two held wands.
None were aimed at him though.
The Death Eater, if that was actually what he was, didn't have a chance to follow up on the missed shot. The two Wizards in the apprehension team fired red stunners at him, forcing him to shield.
Harry saw the chance for what it was and ran amid the pop, pop, pop of gunfire and the snapping of spells hitting shields, marble, and flesh. It wasn't the way he'd envisioned this situation unfolding, but wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
The Back door of the Citroen blew off its hinges with the force of cannon. The backup team swiftly moved across the parking lot and into the Station, guns drawn, while Hermione Granger disapparated directly into the still unfolding scene the second her feet touched the pavement.
She was livid.
Two of her agents were down. She chose her destination with care, emerging behind le bâtard and swiftly finished the unexpected skirmish with a stunner to the neck.
She didn't have much time to spare, and immediately sprinted in the direction their target had ran towards, shouting orders for the others to tend to the injured.
Damnit all, if he got away she'd hex that masked fool into the next life!
Harry was reasonably sure he'd given his pursuers the slip. The sounds of what was no doubt a pitched battle ebbed as he made his way up the wide stairs and onto the exit concourseway spanning across the multiple rail lines below.
Halfway up he tapped his coat, changing the colour from black to a dark green. A conjured hat and cane instantly made him appear twice his age, at least from afar. Matching the pace of the people around he would bet a galleon that it was just as good if not better than a notice me not.
Of course old man Murphy must have read his mind, as not a second later his shoulder was tagged by an Incarcerous. The ropes wrapped around him like an amorous snake, fixing his arms painfully to his side. Thank the maker he'd retained his wand, just in case. Holding it awkwardly a light cutter tore through the bindings and probably a good portion of his coat, but it allowed Harry to roll to the left, just as a red light splashed over the spot he'd just vacated.
"Arrêtez!" a female voice demanded. The few travellers around moved aside quickly, singling him out without difficulty. As if the old fashioned ropes pooled around him weren't responsible for that anyway.
He could have, no should have just apparated away, but felt compelled to look at the fair creature who'd managed to track him through and despite the sudden chaos. She was to be commended after all.
"Bonjour Mademoiselle, can I help you?" he lifted his hat, grinning madly. She was quite the beauty, with light brown hair and fair skin. Such a shame that expression was so angry looking at the moment.
"You will come with me" she stated, her wand pointing squarely at him.
He chuckled. "A tempting offer indeed, but I'm afraid I must decline."
Her response was an impressive and highly unusual array of spells meant to incapacitate but not harm, he noted. Most Harry was able to avoid, their effects bypassed by fluidly moving, twisting and dodging around. Unfortunately the Persian silk constriction ribbons required a wand to deflect.
"Tut,tut" he waggled his index finger, wand still in the same hand. "Such spirit. You are as beautiful as you are skilled."
His mentor stressed quite often in the past that he needed to give pretty girls compliments, and Harry was happy to state that his efforts had born fruit many, many times over the years.
There was a faint dusting of pink on her cheeks but not much of a reaction. Perhaps he had imagined it? Alas, this time it was not meant to be. Perhaps that made her worth perusing further?
"Enough!" she shouted, renewing her attempts to subdue this infuriatingly mysterious and disturbingly competent wizard.
Partway through the third spell, a body bind, a fierce wind knocked her back. Said wind carried with it a deluge of rose pedals, thousands upon thousands of them.
Hermione was forced to shield her face with her arm before eventually throwing up a shield, fully expecting him to strike back. But then the winds settled, and no attack had materialized. She found herself alone, ankle deep in red.
A football sized red crystal Hare stood atop a transfigured pillar where the stranger had been but a moment before.
"Bon Sang." She muttered, tucking a loose hair behind her ear.