It's Friday and that means update time! Thanks everyone for your enthusiastic responses to the prologue. Without further fanfare let's move into the next chapter. Enjoy.
Harry reappeared in the hotel room riding an adrenaline high, the likes of which he hadn't felt since his first successful heist. He'd done some impressively stupid things in his relatively short life, but this easily took the cherry on the cake. Sure she was cute, but to reveal himself like that to a Police Woman, and a magical one at that, was bound to make his life much harder down the road.
He briefly wondered which agency she worked for. Unfortunately the thief didn't have much of a chance to reflect on his less than stellar life choices as his eyes locked onto a single, sealed envelope waiting for him on the end of the Bed. One he did not recall being there when he'd left.
It looked as though it had been written with an old fashioned ink well and feather, the handwriting clearly addressed to him, his real name no less.
'Merveilleux', he thought, head tilting back to look at the ceiling, not meaning it in the slightest.
Inspector Granger stood in front of the crystal figurine, her wand moving in slow, circular motions as she cast every known diagnostic charm in her considerable repertoire on the not insignificant trinket. The man, whom she now assumed was the Crimson Hare, was long gone. She hadn't been good enough to keep him contained. The failure, her first, left a bitter taste in her mouth. Of course up until today there had been no reason to believe he was an Utilisateur Magie.
She shook her head. The excuse rang hollow.
Replaying the fight-, no it hadn't been a fight at all. He'd played with her, dodging and deflecting her best non-lethal spells with ease, but never once returning the favor in kind. Almost like he didn't want to use magic.
Come to think of it, no traces of residual magic had ever been found around the locations he had targeted. It was one of the things she tested for, in case the French Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed to be involved.
She genuinely wondered why. A great many of the items linked to him would have been much easier to take with its use. Though his reasons were unknown, it told her he had notable skill, and nearly unlimited potential should he chose to use his gift in the future.
Inspector Granger narrowed her eyes. It would also make the victory of capturing him that much sweeter. Refocusing on the task at hand, she completed her initial diagnostic. As with the others this example of the thief's calling card held no magical traces, save for the pedestal, which he'd clearly transfigured using the marble floor as a base material.
The transfiguration, while not overly difficult, showed a hint of skill, the reliefs on the capital, the top neck of a traditional column, showing delicate floral patterns that took concentration to get right.
The Rabbit though. It was not transfigured, yet nearly identical to the half dozen others sitting in evidence boxes in the storage facility at Europol's French Headquarters.
Someone had to be making these for him. They were exquisite pieces, extremely delicate, made from tinted lead glass. Chemical analysis had revealed nothing of the material's potential origin. It did not match any of the current manufacturers active today, in Europe or elsewhere.
Her cellular buzzed. It was McLaggen. The man was relentless. Putting the phone away, Hermione was about to head back to check on her men when the tip of her boot impacted something hidden under the thick carpet of pedals. With a gentle gust of wind from her wand the object revealed itself.
It was a Matchbox. Picking it up it the word 'MINOS' could easily be read in classical Greek letters. The address was there as well, in a smaller, more legible font. She blew the remaining petals around to ensure she hadn't missed anything else.
When nothing came from the action she returned to the scene of the first skirmish, radioing her officers in the van to have some regular Paris uniforms cordon off this newest crime scene. Hermione would have to leave the tedious work of cataloguing and photographing evidence to her people in the coming days.
Flipping open her phone the police woman sent a rare message with the name and time of the restaurant to her annoying, if harmless stalker. She had an impromptu dinner reservation to keep.
The young thief allowed the letter to slip from his hand upon seating himself in the room's comfortable chair. So they'd found him. He frowned, an expression at odds with his usual easygoing attitude.
A faint set of dark lines on his forearm drew his attention. Bruises, no doubt from the ropes that had briefly bound him at the station.
Summoning another mini bottle from the nearby table, he swiftly cracked the seal and tipped the contents into his waiting mouth, not even bothering with a glass this time.
This was getting complicated.
15 years ago;
The young boy stood close to the group of children similar in age to himself, but made sure to stay in the back and out of sight of any eagle eyed adults. The sky was a dull gray and the faint roar of the nearby water crashing against the shore could easily be heard, mixed in with the excited words of those around him. He'd never been to the sea before. It smelt… salty?
His stomach growled loudly, churning painfully, not unlike the waters below. Harry hoped the noise around him was loud enough to mask its protests. He couldn't risk looking for food right now.
It had been two days since he'd run from home, taking his chance during a rare opportunity when ordered to weed the garden. In those two days he'd travelled quite a bit, usually like this. Blending in, tagging along with unaware families, always out of sight of the adults.
Before long he'd made it to the southern coast, sustaining himself with bags of crisps and chocolate bars stolen from corner stores. He'd never had either, and they were delicious.
The large group, which he learnt was on a field trip, chattered animatedly at the prospect of crossing the channel. Inside Harry felt much the same, though for wholly different reasons. In his mind, leaving England meant a better chance at not having to go back to the Dursleys.
And he couldn't go back. He just couldn't! Small fingers brushed over the tender skin of his upper arm, a large yellowish green welt hidden underneath his dirty clothes. He'd rather let the swirling dark waters below claim him than go back to that house.
It wasn't much of plan, but Harry was determined to see it through. He didn't know much about the countries apart from that there were many, and that travel between them was easy relatively easy.
Sure enough, no one bothered him as the large group boarded under the semi watchful eyes of their chaperones. It helped that one of the boys was being difficult, and therefore attracting the bulk of their attention. Once aboard he moved away, eager to find a hidden place for the duration of the trip. It was windy and cold, causing him to shiver involuntarily. The baggy shirt he wore did nothing to keep the chill away.
Hunkering down into a ball helped a little. It gave the wind less to pull at. The ferry ride was three hours. It felt much longer than that.
Harry didn't stick around his Hotel room after finishing the drink. If the English could find him here, then there was a good chance the less savory group after his head was able to do the same. After all, they'd somehow done so at the Train station. While checking out the young man was already creating a mental compilation of the hotels he hadn't tried out yet, the top of the list reserved for, ironically, La Réserve.
A minute later he was strolling down the Avenue Montaigne, the event bustle fully in swing. Perhaps he'd visit the Greek place near-. He groaned, stopping mid step as he realized something else. This alias was pretty much done for.
Figuring he could stick to cash for the food and a single, harmless befuddlement charm on the Hotel concierge, he refocused his attention to the note left behind in the locker. Without breaking stride he pulled the piece of parchment from his pocket and unfolded it, reading its contents at last. It contained two numbers, a date and a time.
48°38'09.9"N 1°30'41.0"W
Thursday, Sunset
Grumbling at the levels of paranoia this seller was displaying, he made a now necessary detour into a souvenir shop and honed in on the map carousel. Most were of the city, but there was also a National road atlas there that would hopefully supply him with what he needed.
The price bordered on the absurd, but he handed over the Francs without complaint. Instead of leaving through the front entrance however, the young man slipped out the back, just in case someone had followed him from the hotel.
An hour later Harry was sitting in a booth at Minos Greek Soulvaki Cuisine with the map spread out over the blue and white table cloth. His lamb would be another twenty minutes, giving him plenty of time to place the coordinates he'd been supplied with.
The pencil tip hovered over the paper, and was soon joined by a ruler. One vertical and one horizontal line later gave him his answer.
Mont Saint Michel. City of the Books.
An odd place to complete this particular transaction, though perhaps not. His prize was a book of sorts. He chuckled at the meeting place but quickly turned pensive once more, absently tapping the soft eraser back against his temple in thought.
Clearly multiple groups had known about his late night meeting with Jacque Rene. It seemed unlikely they were after the same thing as he, meaning they were after Harry himself. The letter tucked away inside his coat all but confirmed this theory.
They could cause problems for him in the future, if Harry was foolish enough to allow himself to be followed.
That left the question of how they'd picked up on his whereabouts. The timing between him reaching out through his father's contacts about the book and his subsequent loss of anonymity could not be ignored.
He sighed. Hopefully they could make the switch at the Abbey. He was eager to begin work on his prize, and be rid of the quite frankly morbid painting he'd liberated from Petit Palais. Just carrying it on his person was unsettling.
The meal arrived shortly later, forcing him to tuck the documents away. He was looking forward to the trip. It had been a while since he'd traveled via car.
Never would she have thought that her hunch would pay off so quickly, the young woman thought to herself whilst sitting in a darkened booth at the back of the establishment. A single glass of wine rested on the table, and to any curious patrons she looked like a student reading a book. Glamours were never her strong point, not having need of them, but it was a passable disguise that would stand up if not overly scrutinized.
Cormac would be here shortly. She'd warned him not to draw attention to himself, and in so doing placed immense trust in him. But the benefits potentially outweighed the risk, partially because two people eating out together drew less suspicion from someone like a Master thief, such as the one she was watching over her reading glasses.
Not three tables away sat the man she now knew to be the Crimson Hare, pouring over a road map with nary a worry. How could he be so carefree and never have slipped up before? The man hadn't even changed his appearance since their encounter at the Station a scant few hours before. She'd been confident it wasn't his real one, but now Hermione wasn't so sure.
He wasn't facing her, making her next task all the easier. She wouldn't try to apprehend him again, at least not here and not now. This was a golden opportunity to figure out his next move, to make sense of the madness.
Why had he met with Rene? Was it to set up a sale for the painting he'd taken? What had been in that locker? And why would he require a road map now? Her overabundant curiosity had often landed Hermione in trouble before, until she'd found the perfect outlet for it with Europol.
She'd catch the Crimson Hare, in time.
For now though she was satisfied with being able to follow his movements. From under the table she guided her wand, levitating a small tracker of her own design and floating it over towards him. It went unnoticed by the other diners, and dropped noiselessly into one of the smaller pockets of his overcoat.
The tracker was charmed to burrow itself into the fabric, so unless he somehow lost the Jacket she'd know of his every move from now on.
The delicate task complete, Hermione pulled a hard cover art book from her bag and began sketching his profile from the angle she was limited to.
Cormac found her soon after and quietly seated himself, but not before giving her a chaste peck on the cheek. She let it slide as to not make a scene. The Brit was smart, she'd give him that. Pulling that move at any other time would have resulted in a slap and a sore cheek at the very least.
"While this was not quite what I had in mind, I'm still pleased at the outcome, even if you are paying more attention to another man at the moment." He greeted, seating himself as though he'd done so many times before.
She took a larger than usual sip of her glass and shot him a look that promised pain. McLaggen got a look at the guy, who'd even nodded politely as he passed. He seemed like your regular every day bloke, though most would at least use a comb every once in a while.
"With my case over and done with I was thinking; would you be open to the idea of me working with you? I mean, this stakeout excluded."
Hermione put down the pencil, pretty much finished at that point and simply using it as an excuse to avoid exactly this sort of conversation. She only allowed it because the background noise in the dining area was sufficient as to not blow her cover.
"Look Cormac, you're very sweet." She pursed her lips. "But as I said earlier. This can't work. I'm happy for you that you're getting out of England-." She was no doubt referring to the worsening situation there. "But please, don't do it on my behalf."
The rejection took the wind from his sails, and also made her feel awful for having to be the one to do it. In a rare moment of weakness she offered up an olive branch.
"I'll allow you on the team if you can pull your weight. Having another wand would be beneficial and it would give you some good experience should you wish to continue on at…the organization." She was careful not to say 'Europol' within earshot of the very man they were hunting, noisy restaurant or not.
The offer mollified him somewhat. "I appreciate the opportunity." Then one side of his mouth lifted as a thought hit him. "I suppose barging into your office is out of the question now, isn't it."
For the first time that night Hermione felt amusement. "Not unless you wish to sort through and Label Mountains of evidence for your first month."
"Duly noted."
The Hare's food arrived a scant five minutes after, by which time she'd fully shaded in the sketch. It would join the single picture in her file. If he was foolish enough to keep using this face then he'd attract the attention of every law enforcement official in Europe before long.
After a scrumptious meal Harry made his way back to the hotel by normal means. The walk aided digestion and also helped him plan the steps to come.
The letter he'd found in the Hotel room was weighing heavily on his mind. Both his adoptive father and he were quite aware of Harry James Potter's fame. As such steps had been taken to shield the then young boy from any who would wish him harm.
Owls could not trace his location, even to this day. And yet this letter had found him. As for its sender? Well, he couldn't think of a good reason why one of the most well-known men in Wizarding society would want to reach out to him. One thing was for sure, the man knew far more than he had any right to.
And he was using that information as leverage to request a meeting. A meeting he could ill afford to ignore, Harry thought, stepping around a street performer. A few loose coins found their way into the open instrument case, earning him a mumble of gratitude.
Then there was the attempt on his life by the man in the mask. Was he just an imitator, or the genuine article? Considering the Chief Warlock of Magical Brtain's Wizengamot knew his identity, he had no doubts that members within the Dark Lord's ranks would have access to that same information. It was no secret that they had infiltrated the legislative body of the island nation long ago.
The cat then was out of the bag, it seemed.
In hindsight his impromptu plan to reveal himself to les autorites was ill timed with these new players vying for his attention.
Then of course there was the reason for his being in Paris to begin with.
The grotesque looking painting in his pocket would be his payment for a one of a kind item. Yes, it was a book. More specifically, it was the Manuscript of the last Lady Sly. It was mentioned by another author who'd penned a very insightful guide on Parcel magic, and was long thought to be lost.
Using his adoptive father's contacts Harry was able to determine the last known owner of the book, a nobleman by the name of Dorian Gray. The then young Gray purchased it, along with the rest of Lady Sly's extensive library upon her passing in 1822.
Then, before Harry could contact any potential relatives, a stranger penned him a note stating the Manuscript he was looking for was in his possession. The letter had found its way to him through the same contact whom he'd made the initial enquiry to.
The cost of course, as mentioned previously, was the Painting he'd stolen from Petit Palais, in addition to any expenses deemed necessary by the seller to protect his identity.
That had been the payment to Rene, whom he likely wouldn't be using again in the future.
He briefly considered the possibility that this mysterious seller was responsible for his newfound notoriety with the British Magicals, but couldn't think of a logical reason for him or her to do so. Not with the art piece already in his possession.
Regardless of how they had found out, he must now proceed with the utmost caution. The game had become several orders of magnitude riskier. He could no longer afford to ignore the most useful tool at his disposal.
It was getting late but he knew the Magical district of Paris was always open for Business. Perhaps it was time to purchase a backup wand and some spell resistant garments. After all, one could never be too prepared.
The street musician eyed the haul in the guitar case that had managed to accumulate in the last fifteen minutes, and wondered if she hadn't gotten into the wrong career. After placing the letter Dumbledore had given her, she'd followed Potter out of the hotel.
He had wisely abandoned the room, but Tonks (don't call me Nymphadora) had been an Auror for nigh a decade now, and easily managed to keep an eye on him from afar. He checked into another Hotel after a fun fifteen minute tracking exercise that would have left even her strictest instructors impressed. Not long after entering the opulent establishment he re-emerged, heading down the busy street.
Posing as a middle-aged man wasn't the most pleasant disguise, but it served her quite well, as did her observations while inside Minos.
One, the kid knew his food. The meal was superb. But it looks like she also had competition, in the form of a young, pretty brunette sitting alone in one of the dark booths. She'd even brought another person along, probably to avoid drawing attention.
The girl wasn't half bad, but Tonks could tell she wore a glamour and managed to get a good look at her through a pair of Moody modified Omnioculars while in the restroom.
Bloody useful things. Of course she spent far too much time ogling men on the 'sans clothing' setting with the things, and this time was no exception. She was surprised that little Harry was packing a muggle Pistol, and a quite uncommon one at that, from what she was able to deduce at this range.
Her father was a bit of a military buff and had books on the subject. She may not have been an avid studier but the detailed pictures made distinguishing this particular one easy. It was an old C96, often referred to as the Broom handle Mauser.
She didn't spot any reloads on his person, so they were either kept them in one of those expanded pockets he favored, or the more likely reason was that the thing was modified magically.
My, my, what a naughty boy. Tonks was beginning to like this assignment more and more. Of course she'd jumped at the chance to go to Paris. But the kid was proving to be much more interesting than she'd initially thought.
Assuming correctly that he was going to head back to the hotel room, she took her leave as he finished his meal and apparated down the street. A few minutes later Tonks was playing 'Leaving on a Jet Plane', using her ability to change vocal chords to sucker a few more quid out of the passing crowds.
After he passed, she guided her transfigured ladybug onto his coat, where it found a secure spot underneath his collar and changed back.
She didn't like copying the girl in the Restaurant but had to admit the move had been pulled off perfectly. Unfortunately she couldn't risk the same maneuver while she was still watching, hence the disguise.
As an afterthought she tagged the Brunette and her date with another bug as they rushed by. Packing up, Tonks continued to whistle the song as changed directions towards the entrance of Paris's magical shopping district, discreetly keeping her distance.
It had been some time since he'd visited the alley and decided to make the most of it. Figuring he may need to visit a few more magically exclusive enclaves in the near future Harry purchased some standard robes, terrible as though they would be to wear. The middle aged witch taking his measurements had been far too liberal with her hands during the fitting if he was being honest.
Tomorrow morning he'd visit his mentor, and hopefully sweet talk the man into letting him borrow one of his cars. They were exquisite if a little too old for his liking. But he did not mind the occasional trip in one.
Thirteen Years Ago;
The many hundreds of bodies moved in tandem, jostled around by the twists and turns of the Subway car they were riding in. A boy, no older than eight, wearing an old fashioned flat cap and a big coat that almost fell to his knees, positioned himself for the big one he knew was coming up between Alma Marceau and Iéna metro stations.
The number nine line was in dire need of refurbishment, and the cars moved laterally a lot more than on many of the other lines. It meant that during rush hour the scores of people crammed into the cars were practically guaranteed to crush each other.
The silver cars jolted with a loud screech, and the almost overlooked boy was pushed face first into the heavy coat of a man two heads taller than him.
With a feather light touch the hand darted into the big, unsecured pocket. At the next stop he exited, making his way up to the surface, eyes instantly drawn to the massive metal tower just across the river.
The now empty wallet was left one of the payphones lining the stone wall. With any luck a gendarme would find it and the owner wouldn't need to lose any more francs replacing identification cards.
Harry felt a lot of bills in his pocket but wasn't stupid enough to look at their denominations until completely sure that he was alone.
Moving at the same pace as the dozens of Parisians rushing to work he pulled another two similar moves on people who either looked like their coats were expensive or, in one case, a very snobby sounding woman who was berating her assistant.
His French was still not so good, but he could get by easily enough. The old man who was renting him the room for one hundred twenty-five francs a month certainly had no issue understanding him. Not when Harry had paid in cash and early every time.
After buying some pastries from a often frequented bakery, he managed to relieve some tourists of what he hoped was most of their spending allowance. The deed done, he sat down on one of the many, many benches in the Champ de Mars.
It had been a good morning, he concluded, idly pulling a bag of bird seed from his pocket and throwing some on the ground. The pigeons were on the ball, just like he was, he thought with amusement.
"Pardon, but is this seat taken?" The boy hadn't noticed the man approach, but shook his head regardless.
"I see we share a hobby, my young friend." The man's gloved hand went into his pocket and for a moment Harry worried he may be a police man pulling out a set of handcuffs.
The seeds scattered in front of them, and the boy relaxed.
"No one should have to go hungry", Harry said, watching them peck up the easy meal.
"Wise words indeed. But did you ever consider that those you take that money from may end up just that?"
Damn it, he was a policier after all!
Looking for a good exit route that would make his speed handicap less pronounced, he prepared to run.
"Fear not, I am not here to arrest you. In fact, one could say that I to, support myself as you do, though perhaps not on such a small scale."
Harry's head whipped around. "You're a thief? Like the ones in the newspaper?" Harry was of course referring to the stolen Van Gogh paintings from Holland a few short weeks ago. The heist was well covered throughout Europe, and to a pick pocket seemed like a logical step up once he was older.
"Something like that." The man chuckled. "But you know, those institutions, they have insurance. So the thief, while robbing the public of some very fine art, did not in fact hurt anyone other than a large, very rich business that makes most of its money from everyday people who will likely never require those particular services."
That made sense, in a roundabout way.
"So ask yourself, who is really the thief here?"
He bobbed his head up and down, understanding.
"Do you come here often?" Harry asked, throwing another handful of seeds when the stares of a hundred eyes became too much.
"Every Wednesday and Sunday when the clock strikes twelve. On cue the large bells of Notre-Dame Cathedral could be heard in the distance, the crisp, clear tones reaching out some two kilometers to find their ears."
Harry had never had a friend before, other than perhaps the Pigeons.
"I'll find you then, this Sunday." He stated.
The days came and went, and throughout it all Harry began looking forward to the semi-weekly visits with the thief. He also took the man's words to heart, although in a slightly different way than intended. Harry began tailing men, and women coming from Insurance offices. He found they carried a good deal more money than his usual targets, but the pulls were trickier.
That meant more people overall retained their hard earned francs. The man, whom he learnt was called Gaspar, had laughed when he mentioned his altered routine. He also taught Harry how to play chess in the gardens, when the weather was good. Weeks turned into months, and one sunny fall day Gaspar found Harry on the same bench they always met at.
"Hello Harry." He greeted, to which the boy smiled brilliantly. "Gaspar! You're late. It's not like you at all."
The man took off his hat and placed it on the corner of the bench, chuckling.
"Sit down my boy. I fear I have some news."
The smile faltered, replaced by unease. Gaspar sighed, staring ahead. "I fear that my time in Paris is at an end. This will be the last time I shall visit this wonderful park for some time."
"Oh" the boy said, looking sad.
"Which is why I have a proposition for you." The graying man gazed down at Harry, trying to look reassuring.
"Why don't you come live with me? You wouldn't have to work these streets to make end's meat, and could go to school. Perhaps even make some friends."
Harry's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. "You'd really do that? Let me live with you?" He sounded excited, which Gaspar took as a good sign.
"Of course. The house is plenty big enough, far too large for one person in fact. It's in the south, where the winters don't bite so much."
The hug was fierce and unexpected, but welcomed. Harry sobbed into the wool coat, elated that someone would want him, a mere street urchin.
And so, at long last, Harry attained what he desired more than all the money in the world. A Family.
Harry found himself walking along the stone path around the side of a Mansion of a house. Incidentally, it was also his childhood home. If he knew his father, which he did, then knocking on the front door at this time was an effort in futility.
He would no doubt be on the front porch, enjoying the newspaper, a good cup of coffee and the view. Harry had forgone the heavy coat, leaving it and his other clothes save for a small duffel at the hotel. Theoule sur Mer was, if you asked him, paradise on Earth. Rainy old England certainly couldn't hold a candle to this place.
It was a testament to both the area and the relationship with his adoptive father that Harry himself had decided to settle only a few hundred kilometers north, in Switzerland.
He visited often, cherishing every moment with the man who'd no doubt saved him from a life of petty crime. His usual frames were absent, replaced by some very American Aviators. They went well with his hair, if his previous lover's words were to be believed.
The dress shirt he wore had its collar popped open and sleeves rolled up, revealing a sleek wrist watch. The holster hung in its usual place, hidden from view by a notice me not.
"Bonjour father" he greeted, a smile growing on his face. The graying man lowered his paper but did not rise.
"Ahh Harry, it's wonderful to see you. You look well."
The younger man leaned down and gave him a quick hug, before seating himself next to him. The view from the veranda was just like he remembered it, and to be honest would never tire of it. The water practically sparkled in the distance, a sea of diamonds and light, constantly in flux. Early morning was always a magical time to gaze at the Mediterranean sea.
They chatted about nothing of consequence for a few minutes, but Harry could tell his mentor was waiting for him to confess something.
"It seems my efforts to make a name for myself have borne fruit, though in an unexpected way." Was his admission.
"You're referring to the young Police Woman, no?" he chuckled with amusement. "My dear boy, I always knew you to be reckless when it came to the fairer sex, but this one may be a bit more than you can handle."
Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, as if to say; 'really?' It was true that the man he was sitting across was good at gathering information, but the incident had only just happened yesterday evening. He was truly a master at his craft, and the network he'd built would make every intelligence agency in the world either green with envy or pale in fear. Perhaps even both.
"She handled herself quite well during our encounter." Harry admitted, helping himself to some fruit the servant had prepared earlier. "I was pleasantly surprised with her Wand work, and that she was able to locate me so quickly despite my efforts." Harry didn't say best effort. He honestly didn't think he'd be forced to employ such drastic measures considering the chaos that had ensued.
The girl had excellent instincts.
"Her name is Hermione Jean Granger. A lovely name for a lovely girl." He supplied, along with a manila folder.
Harry accepted it with thanks and began with her Europol file. "Quite impressive" he murmured, answering at least one question from yesterday. So she was with Europol, the EU's official law enforcement cooperation agency. A lot of talented people worked for that organization, and she was no exception.
"Oui." The older man agreed. "She will be quite a hand full, but I fear also the most predictable of the entities perusing you."
Now it was Harry's turn to agree. Pulling the letter he'd found from his breast pocket he handed it to his father.
"I found this right after the incident at the train station."
The older man read quietly, and must have re-read it judging by the time it took for him to restart the conversation.
"Hmm, most troubling."
Harry nodded in affirmation. "I've been unable to surmise as to how he located me. There are multiple trackers on my coat that have been added as recently as last night, but nothing prior. To be honest I'm stumped." Harry didn't mention that he suspected his father's contact. To do so would be an insult to the man.
Again the older man chuckled. "I may have an answer to your question." With a small amount of effort he extracted himself from the chair and headed inside.
Harry made to follow but Gaspar insisted he stay and enjoy breakfast. A few minutes and several Croissants later, a folded paper hit the table next to his plate. The picture nearly caused him to choke.
"Merde, I'm such a fool!" he groaned, massaging his brow with two fingers.
This time the old man flat out laughed. "My son, you must have been quite distracted in order to walk in front of a reporter's camera without realizing."
Harry grunted, popping the remnant of the buttery pastry into his mouth and leaning back, studying the picture more closely.
"So the English know I'm alive and in France. And Europol has a picture of me and a list of items I've stolen several feet long."
"So it would seem." The man agreed, though there was no humor there now. "I do not know how you plan to deal with this situation my son, but I do hope you'll be careful."
Harry nodded. "Of course. Yesterday was an anomaly. I do not intend to get struck down by some English terrorist group."
"Good", the man nodded, pleased with the answer. He went back to his paper while Harry decided which way to attempt broaching the most important question of them all.
"So, how's the A110 been running lately?"
The man lowered the paper again and gave his son a knowing look over the rim of the reading spectacles.
The Renauld Alpine rumbled satisfyingly as he popped the clutch and hit the gas. Its blue paint glistened in the high noon sun of Southern France. It was going to be long trip to the Northern coast, but he was going to have a lot of fun getting there.
The Rat had failed him. So had the assassin. Fortunately his minion's incompetence was a quantifiable thing and he'd taken the necessary precautions to safeguard against them. The note in the locker had been copied the same night Voldemort learnt of its existence. It no longer mattered where Harry Potter was, for he knew where he was going to be.
Pressing his wand tip into the flesh of his messenger's forearm he summoned his best. Their loyalty would be rewarded; with a field trip to the mainland.
Inspector Granger was in a foul mood, and the source of it was sitting in her office. The night before she'd called in her surveillance team for two reasons. One was to go over the botched operation at the Train station. Like it or not, she had to report to her Commissaire about the failure, and more importantly the fact that two of her men were in the curse ward of Saint Joseph.
The other, and by far more important one was to have the team monitor Crimson Hare and report to her when if and when he moves again. She expected the latter to take up a large part of her time in the very near future and needed to get ahead of the huge pile of bureaucratic manure that had accumulated in the scant few hours she'd allowed herself some sleep. This needed to be dealt with if the next few days were to unfold smoothly.
The pompous arse claiming to be the non magical liaison to the French Ministry was waiting in her office. To be perfectly honest he probably didn't even know the meaning of the word liaison. The man was a sexist pig and she'd had the misfortune of dealing with him in the past. Even better was that he'd brought a friend, this one an Auror. She'd withhold judgment against him until after deeming the meeting over. And the sooner that happened the better.
The Death Eater was currently being held by Europol, and it would take a transfer document from the Commissaire himself for her to release the perp into their custody. That was not something she could change, nor did she have any inclination to.
Breathing in deeply she paused in front of the frosted glass door and steeled herself for the unpleasant conversation about to commence.
"Monsieur Bisset, thank you for waiting." She greeted, stepping into the room, shoes clicking on the polished concrete. She wore a skirt and matching blouse, conforming to dress regulation in every way. The two men stood and she shook their hands. Contrary to popular belief not all men kissed the back of a woman's hand. Thank God for small mercies.
"Of course Inspector Granger, I'm sure you had a very good reason." His voice dripping with faux sincerity. At least he'd called her by her title this time. It seems her connections with the Delacour family had curbed his attitude towards the young Police official somewhat.
She'd never meant to abuse her relationship with the family in such a way. Hermione had simply vented some of her frustration to her old school friend Fleur in a letter at the time.
'He wouldn't see it that way', she thought as he introduced the Auror to her by name. After that it was all business.
"Miss Granger, I'm sure you're aware of why we are here." Rafael began. She smiled in return. "Of course. After all I was the one who filed the request for information to your Auror department to forward to the British."
"Right." He answered, wondering why she was playing along. Had she already questioned the suspect?
"Then you must know that we have jurisdiction over this man. He committed a class A offence on French soil. You will hand him over to us."
"You are technically correct. However unfortunately for you, I am unable to release him without express written approval from my superior. In order to speed things along I have already contacted him. You should have your man within the hour."
Hermione made to leave but didn't make it past her desk. "You haven't questioned this man, have you?" the Ministry official asked wearily.
"Non, but I will be doing so right now. You're more than welcome to observe."
"I must protest Inspector Granger", he stressed, sounding a good deal more nervous. It was obvious enough that his Auror friend noticed his unease also. "Europol is not cleared to perform questioning of someone as dangerous as this. He could assault your mind with nothing but eye contact!"
"Not to fear Monsiour, I am well trained in the mind arts. You will have your man soon. Until then I can and will do with him as I wish."
She stepped around the agitated man and walked out the door, headed for the holding cells.
"Please Madame", the short and quite frankly plump man had to jog to catch up to her. "I must insist you cease-"
"Insist all you want" she snapped, finally losing her patience. It was clear he was in someone's pocket. The Death Eater in the holding cell must know things. Things best kept secret. She agreed, and had no interest in exposing someone's dirty laundry at the expense of her own safety.
All she cared for was identifying the real name of the Crimson Hare, and why he was targeted. Did he steal from the English Dark Lord's followers at some point? Were they here to exact retribution?
She wished he would cease his insufferable prattle, wished she didn't need to include him for the upcoming conversation. But if he really was dirty then the Death Eater's friends would not hesitate to kill her should they suspect she knew more than she should.
Bisset was only here as a witness, nothing more and nothing less.
Confining her questions to her case should keep her out of the crosshairs. Despicable though he may be, she doubted he'd lie to have her silenced. The Auror, if he wasn't dirty as well, was further insurance against such drastic action.
The door beeped loudly when the keycard tapped the pad. The two wizards made to follow but she quickly shut the door behind her, effectively forcing them to watch through the observation booth.
Inspector Granger wasted no time wrapping the man in ropes, securely tying him to the chair.
"Comfortable?" she asked, not really caring for the answer either way. Her Occlumency shields were up just in case he tried anything stupid.
The man stared at her, features devoid of expression.
"You attacked a man at Gare Du Nord train station last night. A man that's of great interest to us. What do you know of him?"
She received no answer.
"Why did you target him?"
More silence.
She sighed. It was always easier if she had some background information to use as leverage for this part. Very well.
She approached him, making sure her wand was securely tucked in its holster. Grabbing a fist full of dirty blonde hair she mashed his head into the stainless steel table with a bang.
"Arrghh!" the Nameless Death Eater roared. In the observation booth the Auror and Ministry Official shared surprised looks.
"Oh good, you can talk. I was beginning to worry you might be a mute."
She tapped her wand over his nose and his clearly broken bone snapped back into place with a grunt.
"Fuck you Bitch!"
She slapped him hard with the back of her hand. "Mind your manners, English pig." She stated calmly. Her gaze founds its way to the distinct tattoo above his handcuffed right wrist.
"The serpent mark. I've heard that it kills its owner if he or she tries to dispel it. Shall we see if that little rumor is true?"
Her wand tip pressed into the flesh of his forearm, and the ink of the tattoo darkened. To the owner it felt like liquid fire was working its way up his arm. He gasped in shock and surprise, so she eased up for a moment to let him reconsider his options.
"Let's try this again." she purred, like a cat toying with its prey. "Tell me, who was the man you attacked at Gare Du Nord?"
He grit his teeth, so she continued pouring magic into his master's mark.
"All right, all right!" he screamed when the searing fire reached his chest.
"Harry Potter!" he gasped, fearing the mark was close to ending his life. "I was to kill Harry Potter."
She eased up, both pleased that her methods had yielded results but also quite surprised at the name he provided.
Well, if this was true then she certainly didn't need to ask him why he'd done it. It was well known that the Dark Lord had been hunting for the last Potter since his rumored resurrection some years ago.
She withdrew her wand from his arm and vanished the ropes. One name explained so much. She glanced at mirrored window and swiftly exited the room, leaving the Death Eater panting hard from the ordeal.
"Granger!" the official all but shouted. "How dare you torture a prisoner! You'll be sent to jail for this!"
"Save your lectures, Bisset. Besides, apart from one tiny slip of my hand I used no spells on him. Observe."
The lit tip of her wand poked his arm like it had before. He flinched at first but felt only a warm, slight pressure from the wood itself.
"What did you do to him?" he asked, puzzlement momentarily winning over outrage.
She shrugged. "I simply poured a little bit of magic into his mark. Nothing more. For anyone such as yourself or Auror Carron here it would not feel unpleasant." she shrugged. "How was I to know it would pain him so?"
Carron remained silent. It was true, besides the physical roughness she hadn't used any direct magic on him. It worried him that she would know the workings of such dark and evil magic enough to manipulate it, but the Auror had little grounds to make an arrest. A stern warning perhaps, but the law was quite vague on how to reprimand someone like her, a Witch, working in Muggle Law enforcement.
They usually didn't break any magical laws.
Besides, it would cause all kinds of headaches for him and his superior should he bring her in. Instead Carron asked a question of his own.
"You only needed the one answer from this man. Surely he would have told you more."
She shrugged. "Perhaps, but my job is to capture thieves. Nothing more and nothing less."
The answer mollified the official, who finally understood what she'd done.
"You play a dangerous game Mademoiselle." He warned, covering up his relief with what would hopefully sound like concern for this brash and reckless young lady.
"I do my job." She snapped back, but forwent the condescending look. No need to antagonize him further. She'd accomplished what she'd intended. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work. I will have my assistant contact you once the paperwork is in place. Good day to you both."
Back in her office she pulled up any and all files pertaining to one Harry James Potter. There was scarcely anything there. No birth records, school information, immunizations. A single hospital visit in March of 1994 for a broken arm, logged with the British National Health Service database. She opened the file. His guardians claimed he fell down the stairs.
Of course she knew more than what was in the official reports due to her being a Witch. The boy who lived is what they called him. The title had been silly then, and it didn't even apply now that he was a full grown man. A full grown man who liked to steal things.
What happened to this boy in order to make him such a competent criminal? Hermione hoped to find out.
The book she'd read about him back when Hermione had first been contacted for enrolment into Hogwarts was no doubt erroneous. She recalled there was some confusion by the staff as to his absence during the sorting on her first day at the school.
Did that mean his relatives hadn't reported him missing?
Unfortunately, while interesting, this new information gave her little to work on. She'd follow up with his former guardians and see how he came to favor France over his native Britain, though she would venture a guess and say the fanatics like the one in the holding cell had much to do with that decision.
There were older files here for his mother but nothing on the father. A pureblood then, meaning his records would be kept by British Ministry, who hadn't digitalized anything yet and weren't likely to in the near, or far future.
With a sigh she began compiling information to add to his file. A file that was growing larger, yes, but that didn't bring her closer to putting the man behind bars.
Tonks frowned as she moved the Omnioculars around the room Harry had checked into last night. It was empty save for a few shopping bags and the coat she'd placed the tracker on. Checking her watch it was now early afternoon. He'd already been gone when she woke, and for a few hours Tonks hadn't been worried, expecting him to simply be out for breakfast.
Now though she wasn't so sure. A quick check confirmed the tracker was still linked to its counterpart in her hand. Where had he gone? Deciding she could only do so much from across the hall the Metamorph shifted into the form of a petite blonde with long, straight hair. She pulled the golden locks back into a messy bun and donned her Chameleon Cloak, letting it morph into a traditional yet conservative French maid outfit whose skirt was perhaps a bit shorter than hotel regulation dictated.
Transfiguring a believable copy of a cleaning cart from her old discarded towels she slipped out of the Hotel Room and down the hall a few meters, softly knocking on the door.
She knew no one was there but kept up the charade anyway. Unlocking the door with her wand she pushed the cart through and closed the door.
After rifling through the bags she placed another tracker on the robes. He'd clearly bought them for a reason. Tonks was rubbish at cleaning charms and didn't even attempt to make the bed. She'd just picked up a pair of underwear and determined them to be boxers when a male voice nearly caused her to scream in surprise.
"My apologies about the mess." He said, arms folded and leaning against the bathroom doorframe with a roguish grin.
She actually blushed at being caught red-handed but dearly hoped he wouldn't suspect her being in his room.
"Je suis tellement désolé" she sputtered in French, one of the few phrases she knew without butchering the language. "I waz unaware you were here. I-I can return later." She switched to what she hoped was an accented version of English, dropping the garment and grabbing the cart with a gloved hand.
He gestured her to stop, causing her breath to hitch.
"Please, I was only grabbing my coat. Do not let my brief intrusion distract you." He stepped past her, one hand gently placed around her midriff as she moved aside. Coat in hand he repeated the move, but paused as his face was mere inches from hers.
"Please leave a few extra chocolates on the bed." She could feel his warm breath on her slightly parted lips. "I very much enjoy them."
He gave her a wink and departed, leaving her frozen in in place. A good ten seconds later she relaxed, sighing as the tension left her.
'Bugger me, this one was trouble.' She thought, replaying the odd interaction in her head. The way he'd interacted with her told her more than the last few days combined. Harry was confident around Women, and those feather light touches had been anything but innocent.
With haste she vanished the cart and checked on the tracker, only to frown when it was still here. Moving into her hotel room she repeated the process and saw it moved with her.
For a moment Tonks erroneously believed he'd snuck into her room without her noticing. Then realization dawned.
"Bloody Hell, you really bunged it up this time." She moaned, checking her pockets. Sure enough, he'd slipped the tracker in there.
"Cheeky Bugger." She growled.
Harry's already good mood from seeing his father earlier that morning improved even further following the unexpected but thoroughly enjoyable teasing of the fake maid in his Hotel Room.
The continuous intrusions of his privacy aside, he was immensely enjoying the game, random Death Eaters notwithstanding.
Let's see if she was good enough to find him again, he thought, patting the folded jacket as he stepped into the elevator. A second later he was gone.
"Inspector!" McLaggen barged into her office without knocking, something she allowed and even encouraged when dealing with time sensitive information. "The target is on the move."
She grabbed her coat and made for the door. In the hallway he matched her pace and continued briefing her, not needing to be prompted.
"Looks like he apparated from his Hotel Room in Paris to a rest area on the A81 between Laval and LeMons."
"A rest area?" she muttered, not understanding why he would chose to go there. By the time they arrived in one of the headquarters' operations room the information had changed yet again.
"Target is on the move again, travelling West at automobile speeds." a female officer stated.
"He's driving?" Granger asked, instantly frustrated with herself at the silly questions. "Right, pull up any camera footage of the location and rewind." She ordered. They needed to know what vehicle he is travelling in in case the tracker fails.
Less than a minute later she got her answer. "Inspector, I have a positive ID. Subject arrived in a blue coupe and walked into the rest room. Several minutes later he re-emerged wearing a dark coat and re-entered the same vehicle.
Another few seconds of tweaking and the image sharpened, revealing the make of the blue car. She snorted in amusement. A Renault A110 Alpine. Despite her best efforts she was beginning to like this guy. His taste in cars was quite good.
"Get me the Police Commissaire of Laval on the line." She muttered, observing as Harry Potter, aka the Crimson Hare seated himself in the classic French car.
A few you have stated that the POV changes too quickly. Unfortunately this chapter was no different. This back and forth will slow down significantly after the next chapter. As always please feel free to leave a review. I appreciate the suggestions and love hearing which parts of the story resonate with the reader.
