OVERTURE

Chapter 1

He'd had an odd feeling that morning when he woke up.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; just another overcast, chilly day in the outskirts of Hogsmeade, a small town in Scotland. Harry went through his morning routine, trying to shake off the feeling that something was wrong. It was the sort of feeling you get when you forget something but can't quite tell what it is.

And so he ignored it. He had breakfast and finished reading a copy of Dueling, Unbound by Genie Johansson, which he had borrowed from Hogwarts' library. He caught up on his correspondence, fed his tawny owl and polished his wand, eyeing the many notches and deep scratches on it with annoyance. The feeling lingered in the back of his mind.

Harry was pouring milk to his tea when the doorbell rang, and even though such things were rare, he was not the least bit surprised. He waved his wand at the door and took a seat by the kitchen table.

A tall, good-looking man stood in the doorway. He was young, as far as wizards go, perhaps fifty and change. He had graying black hair that was parted in the middle, sharp features and a short, round nose. His hand was halfway to the doorbell. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his face, but was masked quickly with a polite smile.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Minister."

"Mr. Potter." The man nodded, eyes taking in the inside of the house. "May I?"

"Please."

The current Minister of Magic stepped inside and closed the door. Harry's kitchen looked humble compared to the man's bearing and clothing. He was dressed in the finest cloak Harry had seen in a while, a silver-coloured long garment embroidered in gold with precise, complicated patterns stitched on the sleeves, hem and collar. It reminded him of Dumbledore.

"Take a seat, Minister. Tea?"

The man hesitated, but sat down opposite Harry and tried to look like he was comfortable there. "Yes, please. Thank you."

So polite, Harry thought as he poured hot water for the Minister. What will it be this time? Public appearance? Endorsement? Running a second term?

Harry smiled. At least he enjoyed refusing these requests. "What can I do for you, Minister?"

"I don't believe we've met before, Mr. Potter," he began at once, sounding remarkably more confident. Harry sipped his tea. "My name is Franklin Boot II, elected Minister of Magic on… Do you keep track of recent events, Harry? May I call you Harry?"

"I do."

The Minister shifted uncomfortably. He cradled his cup of tea, which remained untouched.

"I have, ah, wanted to meet you for a long time, of course," he continued, slightly less sure of himself. "I understand my predecessors never quite established a working relationship with you, not since, well… Since you quit the Ministry –"

"I never quit the Ministry," Harry interrupted, looking intently at Boot, watching his reaction carefully. "I was encouraged to abandon my position as Auror Instructor."

Though Harry's tone didn't change, the Minister went very still. He abandoned any pretence of drinking his tea, set the cup down on the wooden table and frowned.

"I don't necessarily approve of some decisions made in the past, Mr. Potter," said the man. He sounded tired now. "I only took the position two years ago. Your unfortunate circumstance happened well before my time, as you well know."

"Of course," Harry replied reasonably. "But you're here because you want something from me. Just like the others before you."

He sighed. "Yes, yes. Of course. But I'm not looking to have your forehead plastered all over my re-election campaign posters, Mr. Potter. I'm not here for personal gain. I was given to understand that this would matter to you."

The Musician, the serial killer, Harry thought. Wouldn't be the first time they call me for such things.

Harry resented it, but knew perfectly well why the Minister was sitting stiffly on his kitchen chair. He had been expecting it. Admittedly, he hadn't expected the man himself to come. In Harry's experience, a lesser political affiliate currying for favour would be appointed to deal with such things.

"It's a start," Harry agreed. "Though I suppose you won't pretend that solving this little problem will have no impact on your campaign."

A flash of irritation passed through Boot's face. It was gone quick enough that he wouldn't have seen it had he not been looking for it. Harry was pleasantly surprised.

Before the Minister could respond, he said, "You're not here of your own choice, are you?"

It threw the Minister off track. He grimaced and lapsed into silence for a moment.

At last, he spoke.

"Not entirely, no. And no offense to you, Mr. Potter. I'm sure you're delightful company on a Sunday afternoon." He smiled apologetically. "But on the political body, well... You're like a splintered wand, you see. Useful, but impossible to rely on."

Harry found himself liking the man. Politicians, as a rule, were hard to like, but Boot had a blunt sort of mannerism that was refreshing. Of course, odds were it was premeditated as part of his strategy to persuade him to lend his assistance. No doubt the man's nephew, Terry Boot, who had attended Hogwarts with Harry, was behind the insight into Harry's character. Still, at least he'd gone to the trouble of actually thinking about how to persuade him.

"Alright, Minister," Harry said, smiling slightly. "You don't want me next to you while you give your speeches. You don't want endorsements. You're not here to attempt to bribe me. I don't think you want me on the Wizengamot to be your radio, either. You have my attention. What do you need?"

And here it comes. Three, two, one – wait for it...

"I want you to find the Musician and kill him."

Harry frowned. He hoped he'd misunderstood, but a part of him knew he hadn't. The way the Minister spat out the words gave him pause and, for the first time since Boot had stepped into his kitchen, he was thrown off track.

"Excuse me? Surely you meant capture."

The Minister stared at him through flat eyes. "No."

Harry took a deep breath. "I am not an assassin, Minister, and I suggest you take great care not to imply otherwise. I am, however, willing to hear you out, since you've taken the trouble of coming here all the way from London."

He seemed to be thinking hard about something. Harry thought he looked frustrated and confused. Had Terry painted a different picture of Harry Potter to his uncle?

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Potter," the Minister said. "But first you have to understand that I am not playing around here. If what I say to you today were to fall on the wrong ears, I'd be forced to resign and arrested within hours."

"I understand that. You can speak freely here."

He nodded. "You said you keep up with current events, but I doubt you are up to date with this case. Aurors have been ordered to cease all contact with the press and –"

"I don't mean to come off as obnoxious," Harry interrupted, "but I already know about the three Muggles and the liaison to the Goblins killed last week. It's five Muggles and fourteen wizards total, correct?"

Harry was rather proud of his sources, in many ways. They were virtually impossible to get caught and, even if they – or he – were caught, he knew that as a retired Auror Harry could be told of current cases without breaking the law, though it was highly frowned upon. His sources were untouchable, at least as long as no other laws were broken while obtaining the information.

And the Minister was impressed, though not as much as Harry had expected. But instead of prodding him about the source, Boot exhaled a long suffering breath and said, "Fifteen."

"Pardon?"

"Fifteen wizards," the Minister repeated. "Or rather, nine wizards and six witches. The last one happened early this morning. She was my niece-in-law, Susan Bones."

No, no, no...

The Minister's voice seemed to come from very far away. Harry's eyes were drawn towards the picture of the seven survivors that had been framed and nailed to the wall behind where the Minister sat. He couldn't make out the faces from across the room.

No, no, no...

She would still be in the picture, along with him, Hermione, Terry, Neville, Zacharias and Padma. It was the only picture Harry had heard of in which the occupants moved but never left the frame. The plaque at the bottom read: "Hogwarts Class of 1997".

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry didn't need to look at the picture anymore. He knew what they were all wearing, their expressions, the scratches and cuts that were visible on their arms and faces... They all looked like they would never leave the grounds. But of course they had left Hogwarts. Only Terry, Susan and Harry lived in Britain anymore.

And Susan and Terry had gotten married. Oh Merlin, Terry.

"Are you alright?"

Harry blinked. The Minister now sat to his left, though Harry didn't remember him moving. He'd placed a hand on his shoulder and was squeezing slightly. "Yeah, yeah. I'm... yeah." He swallowed with some effort. "How's Terry?"

Franklin Boot looked his years now that Harry could see him up close; the crowfeet, the laugh lines, the slightly sunken eyes, and that sense of responsibility and duty that seemed to weigh him down. He sounded tired and in pain.

"Not well. Not well at all," Boot explained. He stood up, grabbed the kettle, lit a fire and set more water to boil. He spoke with his back to Harry. "Look, there's something else. I – I don't know quite how to explain this. It's... Sorry, I don't mean to dawdle. It's just..."

The Minister sighed and turned. He rummaged through an inner pocket of his cloak and produced an envelope. Harry thought the day couldn't get any worse, but the sight of the envelope made him break into a cold sweat. Very slowly Boot placed the envelope at his elbow, picked up Harry's empty tea cup and turned to give him some privacy.

Harry picked up the envelope with shaking hands and slit it open.

A picture fell onto the kitchen table. Harry went pale at the sight of it. He felt the hairs on the back of his head stand on end and a horrible swamp of anxiety festered in the pit of his stomach.

Susan Bones, ashen and cold, stared up at him through empty eyes. She was naked but for a thin flannel shirt that had been slashed open to reveal bruised breasts. There, carved cruelly on her abdomen, were the words "Chase me, Potter."

Harry made a choking sound. He looked helplessly at the Minister, and when the man turned Harry understood Boot's reticence to come asking for his help. His nephew's wife was dead. He couldn't let that go unpunished. And yet, she was dead because of Harry, because someone wanted to play a game with him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered.

The Minister nodded slowly. "Tomorrow, my niece's death will be in every paper in Britain and the fact that the Musician left a message for you will be leaked. News is always leaked."

He pushed away from the kitchen counter, placed a fresh cup of tea in front of him and headed for the door. "I'm afraid I have to go," he explained. "There will be quite an uproar when the news goes public. I have to be there." Perhaps he tried to smile in a comforting manner, but it came out rather forced and cold. "Regardless of your choice, Mr. Potter, I thought you needed to know."

Harry stood as well. "Minister, I..."

What was he going to say? That he was sorry? Sorry his niece had had to die because some madman wanted Harry to play a game? There was bitterness and resentment in the Minister's eyes. Granted, the man had played him like a fiddle from the very first moment he stepped inside his house, carefully directing the conversation, dropping the bomb at the very end so as to ensure his assistance; but the cold truth was that Harry Potter had as good as murdered his niece.

So he didn't apologize again. He didn't look the Minister in the eye and told him he would bring The Musician to justice. He didn't promise to look day and night for the man who had murdered his niece. Harry felt the odd feeling he'd been having all morning coalesce into a pit of determination and hunger. He hadn't felt like this since Voldemort had been torn and broken at his feet.

He couldn't meet the Minister's eyes, so Harry looked down at Susan's sweet, bloodied face and said, "I'll kill him."