Other Waters
by Mad Maudlin

3.

"The house in question," Kingsley said, "is located on its own island a quarter a mile southeast of the Isle of Lewis." He pointed to a map with his wand; a tiny dot somewhere in Scotland lit up dramatically. "It's got three floors, fourteen rooms, and is listed as currently being owned by Mr. Quintillius Branch of Aberdeen."

He banished the map; underneath was a large photograph of a moldy, rambling mansion with a single dead tree in the front garden. Harry lowered the cup of coffee he'd been nursing and examined the image from his seat in the back row. Could Ron be behind one of those broken windows, buried within the crumbling, ivy-choked walls?

"Mr. Branch could not be located," Kingsley continued, "and naked-eye observation would suggest the place was abandoned. However, the Pest Control board tells me there's been a massive increase in the number of nuisance creatures within a five-mile radius—magical creatures that would be drawn to magical buildings. Which suggests there's something more than a Muggle-repelling charm or two at work in the area."

Williamson cleared his throat. "What about wizards and witches in the village, then? Have they seen anything unusual?"

"A slight increase in travelers," Tonks said, "which wouldn't be specifically unusual if more than half of them didn't match descriptions of known or suspected Dark Arts enthusiasts. They haven't exactly been coming in buckets, but they've been around—just passing through, allegedly."

"Theodore Nott 'passed through' three days before we caught up to him," Kingsley said, with only the slightest glance in Harry's direction. "He's the only one the village innkeeper said showed an interest in the Branch House. But he claims to have been inside the house and seen a laundry list of Dark activity in progress, as well as more than a few Death Eaters at large." That caused a mumble through the room, but to Harry's frustration, Kingsley didn't say anything more, particularly about any alleged prisoners.

"If the place is inhabited, they're keeping a very low profile, Dark or not," Tonks said. "Everyone in the village—Muggle and magic—is positive that the house and grounds are deserted and have been for years."

"So for the time being," Kingsley said, "we're going to stick to ground-level surveillance of the site, and the innkeeper has agreed to the insertion of an agent on his staff to monitor any new visitors to the town—that'll be Stokes. Calhoun and Williamson, you two are to look into the identity of Mr. Branch. Everyone else is on passive stake-out for the time being; you can get those assignments from Tonks. Come to me if you have any further questions."

Harry lingered at the back of the room while, listening to Tonks shout out names and hand out scrolls with complete assignments. He did a quick head-count of the room: not counting Stokes, Calhoun and Williamson, there were eight other Aurors assigned to the project, which was a pretty large detachment if Kingsley honestly didn't believe Nott's story. Then again, it was just like Kingsley not to half-arse anything, even a sketchy lead from an untrustworthy source. Eight other Aurors also left someone as the odd one out, unless Tonks was taking part in the surveillance, and having five teams of two doing a stake-out just didn't seem like a practical schedule. Unless...

Harry's fingers dented the paper coffee cup as answers clicked into place. He planted himself next to Tonks and waited for her to call out his assignment.

She didn't.

"What about me?" he asked her when she had handed over the last scroll in her arm. "What am I supposed to do?"

Tonks hesitated, then said softly, "Harry, I'm sorry—"

"Am I partnering with you, then?" he said, crumpling the empty cup in his fist.

"Potter," Kingsley said from behind him, "let's talk about this in private."

Harry gestured around the conference room, which had rapidly emptied as the rest of the team set to work. "How much more private can you get?"

Tonks grabbed Harry's shoulder and squeezed it, not to restrain him but as a gesture of support. "Harry, look, we wanted you to know that the investigation was moving forward, but—"

"But you don't think I'm objective enough to handle it," he said.

"No," Kingsley said, "I didn't."

"You signed off on my certification, you swore me in yourself—"

Kingsley put up both hands. "Harry," he said, "this isn't a statement about your qualifications. Every Auror has to recuse himself from a case from time to time, when it gets too personal. Our world's too small for it not to happen."

"This isn't too personal!"

"I don't think you have the perspective to make that judgement."

Harry exhaled loudly and took a step back, but repressed the urge to storm out this time—barely. The calmer parts of his mind recognized that they shouldn't even be communicating with him about this; both regulation and custom dictated that every team or individual's work stay fairly self-contained, or at least need-to-know, for the duration of a case. They were trying to accommodate him; he could at least do the same. "How long do you think you'll maintain the stakeout?" he asked, certain that if his voice were any leveler he could balance an egg on it.

Kingsley shrugged. "Maybe a few days, maybe weeks—it depends on what we gather and if anyone tips their hands."

"Not that we're expecting Lestrange to waltz out and start de-gnoming the back garden," Tonks said, "though it would be a nice change of pace, wouldn't it?"

"And in the meantime?" Harry asked.

Kingsley patted his shoulder in a fatherly sort of way. "We'll keep you posted."

-/--/--/-

If the preceding days of uncertainty had been painful for Harry, the ones that followed were absolute torture. Kingsley's steady thoroughness, the same trait that had shielded Harry throughout his training, was maddening to deal with from the outside: he wouldn't give more than vague hints about what, if anything, the investigation was uncovering, on the grounds that it was "too soon to tell." This was more or less the same reason Harry had kept silent in front of the Weasleys, but on the receiving end he found it frustrating beyond belief, and every time they spoke he had to bite his tongue to stop himself begging for even a scrap of more concrete information.

It wasn't quite the same degree of obsessive distraction of earlier in the week, however, and he was able to plod through his transcripts in all their mind-numbing glory. In fact, they were actually helpful in a twisted sort of way—they gave him an excuse to hang about the office even during his official off hours, which meant a chance to overhear something, anything about the investigation. He worked solidly through the weekend, catching on everything he'd missed and then some. Sunday night found him in his cubicle, rocking back in his chair, staring at a transcribed conversation about the care and feeding of Knarls.

His eyes kept crossing—he hadn't slept more than a few hours all weekend—but he soldiered on, trying to remember everything he'd ever learned in Care of Magical Creatures in case he was missing some kind of secret code. He was starting over at the top of a page for the third or fourth time in an hour when Kingsley stuck his head in the cubicle, knocking once on the edge. "I expected you to be long gone already," he said.

"No rest for the wicked," Harry mumbled. "Did you need something?"

Kingsley didn't answer this; instead he stepped into Harry's cubical and learned casually against the wall. "How are the transcripts going?"

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Do Knarls have a particular preference for stewed earthworms?"

"You know, I really couldn't tell you."

"That makes two of us."

Kingsley stood and watched him in silence for a few minutes; Harry turned back to his desk, but he could still feel the eyes on back of his neck. Finally the other man spoke: "I want you to be honest with me, Harry."

"All right."

"Are you confident—absolutely confident—that you can maintain your objectivity under any circumstances?"

Harry's heart sped up, and he licked his lips. "I'm not fifteen anymore, Kingsley."

"That's not what I asked."

Harry turned in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Yes. I'm not going to lose my head just because of...just because it's personal."

"Are you absolutely positive?"

"I learned that lesson a long time ago."

Kingsley nodded slowly, and folded his arms. "The Branch House is loaded with concealment charms, and we detected some powerful jinxes around the grounds. We're also pretty sure they've been stealing provisions from shops in the village; the greengrocer and the butcher both show signs of powerful and repeated Memory Charms. We've got Improper Use of Magic in on the case and we'll be going into the house tomorrow night, after dark."

Harry took a deep breath before he spoke. "'We?'"

"This is not a rescue mission," Kingsley said softly and slowly, staring into Harry's eyes. "The primary objective is capture and detainment of suspects, secondary is recovery of evidence."

"I understand that," Harry said quickly, "but suppose—"

Kingsley held up one hand for silence, and after a beat he said, "In the event we do locate any non-combatants on the site—you and Calhoun will be responsible for evacuating them to a safe zone. Am I clear?"

Harry managed not to smile, but only just. "Crystal, sir."

"Good." Kingsley started to leave, but paused in the corridor outside Harry's cubicle. "We're meeting in Stornoway tomorrow at noon to go over the final details. I expect you to be prompt—you've got quite a bit of catching up to do."

"Thank you," Harry said, trying to put more feeling into the word that he could fully express.

Kingsley hesitated a bit, then nodded. "You're welcome."

-/--/--/-

Harry had to take a sleeping potion that night to make certain he wouldn't be useless during the raid; his dreams were filled with muzzy images of Ron and Ginny and Hermione and Sirius that fled almost as soon as he woke. He went into the office for the morning and accomplished absolutely nothing, and at precisely quarter to twelve he met Tonks and Williamson at the lift to Apparate up to Scotland.

"We've no idea what the house looks like inside," she admitted as they made their way down a rutted village lane in the general direction of Stornoway. "For all we know there's another fifty rooms added by magic. It's definitely not on the Floo, though."

"We mapped the grounds, though," Williamson said. "At least we won't be walking into any curses on the way in. Well, not too many."

Harry asked, "Did Nott say anything about the interior of the house?"

"Not much, other than the bit about it being lousy with various and sundry evil people," Tonks said, cocking an eyebrow at him. "But even if he had said anything, I'm still not totally ready to believe him."

Harry looked away from her. He shouldn't get his hopes up. He wouldn't.

It was much colder on the island than in London, and Harry wished for a heavier cloak as they hiked into town, taking an indirect route to the pub to avoid the suspicions of the Muggle residents. Harry thought he'd have trouble concentrating on the briefing, but now that he was finally involved and doing something, he found it to be a welcome distraction. Nagging questions still popped into his mind briefly—what if they didn't find Ron? What if they did?—but it was easy to push them aside when he had maps to memorize and strategy to consider. The Branch House wasn't that large, but it had multiple exits, and there were several outbuildings that had to be searched and secured on the way in, as well as a garden gone to seed that might still conceal a hidden passage out.

"Move as quickly as possible," Kingsley said to the mixed group of Aurors and Enforcers taking part in the raid, "and try to preserve any evidence you come across."

"Meaning don't touch anything that looks evil," Tonks added.

"Injured and any noncombatants you find inside should be evacuated as quickly as is both possible and safe," Kingsley said. "Aurors Potter and Calhoun are in charge of that process. The evacuation site is located on the northwest corner of the property, as seen here..." He pointed with his wand to a large chart of the house and grounds, lighting up a circle near the island shore. "We have a handful of Portkeys to St. Mungo's on hand in the case of serious injury, but I don't want to have to use them. Remember, wands up, and don't hesitate to respond with extreme force if necessary."

The briefing carried on for most of the afternoon, after which they Apparated in small groups to the village nearest the Branch House. It was tiny, picturesque and had more vowels in its name than Harry felt comfortable pronouncing: the house was clearly visible from the shore, looming large in the waning light. Harry picked out the important areas of the low scrap of dry land it sat on—the outbuildings, the low spots, and the evacuation zone...

"We're waiting until after nightfall," Tonks told him as she popped up behind him. "You might as well get something to eat in the meantime."

"I'm fine," he said.

"You sure?" she asked with raised eyebrows.

"Just ready to get this over with."

The waiting was the worst part, as the sun crept down over the other side of the island. A few people did buy food in the village; Stokes was still posing as a temporary cook at the inn and got them discounts on sandwiches. Harry stayed near the staging area, an alcove where Kingsley had prepared a small fleet of enchanted rowboats. He reviewed the strategy in his head as he watched the house disappear into shadow, until the sky grew dark and a quarter moon sailed overhead, the lamps in the village square came on, and finally, finally Kingsley gave the signal to set out.

Harry leapt into the nearest of the little boats, cold ocean water slogging into his shoes; once it was filled to capacity they launched themselves and glided forth. It was hard to gauge speed and direction in such deep darkness, and if Harry hadn't been able to hear the water streaming by against the sides he might've doubted they were moving at all. After a scant few minutes, though, his boat beached itself on the stony shore, and he leapt out and quickly felt his way up a slope into his position, just a few yards from the house.

The building was dark and silent, and looked for all the world like an abandoned, moldering wreck; the dead tree he'd seen in the picture had lost a large limb that lay rotting in the weedy, rolling turf. Harry squinted to make out the lay of the land before him—perhaps two dozen yards to the front step, all of it treacherous footing, and not just because of the terrain. There were jinxes laying in wait for the unwary between here and there, though Kingsley had given them all maps to review that marked the most heinous, or at least the ones the surveillance teams had been able to detect. Harry would have to zigzag his way to the door and probably blast it open, though if it was protected any spells he used might well just bounce back on him—blast his way into the house, and from there, not even Kingsley really knew—

Golden sparks blossomed in the sky over the house, on the other side of the island, the signal from Williamson's team. Blue sparks soared up from Harry's right. Green. Red.

"Go!" Kingsley shouted from somewhere in the darkness.

The sparks shimmered in the sky—oh, the Muggle-worthy Excuse Committee was going to hate them for this—illuminating the terrain just enough that Harry didn't stumble as he ran. Two paces left, turn, three paces, turn, two, five, three—his foot caught the edge of some invisible spell that exploded into a ball of fire, singing his hair. Then he was on the step, with Tonks and Kingsley and four Enforcers behind him. Kingsley pounded the tarnished knocker. "Ministry of Magic! Open up!"

From inside came a scream that was cut off sharply. Kingsley motioned them all back and shouted "Alohomora!" Surprisingly, the door burst outwards with no extra effort, and Harry, as the nearest one to it, rushed inside.

The entryway was dark and reeked of disuse; there were moldy spots on the walls and all the furniture was covered in sheets. He spun to his left automatically and caught only a flurry of movement before a door slammed. He tried to wrench it open, but it had either been locked or sealed from within. "Keep moving," Kingsley called. "They're not leaving the house!"

Harry quickly searched the other rooms accessible off the hall; two were just as filthy and musty as the entryway, but two others had clearly been cleaned up a bit for human habitation. One had a lamp still burning inside, and a table covered in unfamiliar books and instruments. He laid an Imperturbable charm over the lot of them and darted back into the hall, skidding on a loose tile in the grimy floor. In the foyer a pale, sick-looking young wizard only a bit older than Harry leapt out of a cupboard with his wand up, but seemed to lose his nerve when he counted all the red robes in the room. He cast a single spell that sent up more dust than anything and fled, two Enforcers giving chase.

"Potter," Tonks called when Harry began to follow them. "You, Calhoun, with me—we're going upstairs."

Harry glanced around, but Kingsley was nowhere to be seen; muffled shouts and the sound of vicious dueling echoed from deeper in the house. "Who's securing this door?" he asked.

"They've got it from the outside," Tonks said. "Come on."

The creaking old stairs lead onto a dark, claustrophobically narrow corridor lined with closed doors. Harry tested the first one on his left, but it was firmly sealed and wouldn't give; Tonks waved them on. The next door opened onto a room that was empty but for some furniture, shrouded in sheets and shoved against a far wall. A broken window allowed a guttering sea breeze and the sound of fighting on the grounds to filter up, but the ragged, fluttering curtains were the only thing moving. He next tried the door across the hall, and found a Spartan sort of bedroom: an open book lay on a bare mattress, and on an upended crate next to it stood a candle that still dripped with liquid wax. He checked inside the wardrobe, but there was nothing but a few empty hangars and the smell of rot; there were no signs of hidden doors—

"Potter!" Tonks called. "In here, now!"

He found them in a room a few doors up; it was larger than the other two and had an irregular shape with several nooks leading into shadowed corners. It hadn't just been cleaned, it had been well-furnished: a large plush bed was pushed into one corner, and a massive oaken desk stood before the fireplace, which was burning a magical fire sickly gray in color. A few lamps and candles moderated the fire's unnatural light, and also served to pick out in garish detail the bloody corpse in the middle of the floor.

While he and Calhoun covered her, Tonks knelt down and examined the body. She checked the pulse, though even from a distance Harry could tell it was dead; nothing could survive with its head reduced to such a pulp, jiggly bits of brain spilling over the fancy carpet. A cracked wand lay less than a foot away in a puddle of blood. "He's still hot," Tonks said softly. "This happened recently."

"What kind of a hex—?" Williamson asked, but Harry scanned the room and spotted a stout brass candlestick on the mantelpiece, certainly large and heavy enough to deliver that kind of damage if the person on the other end was strong enough. It stood alone and off-center; he looked closer, and found a telltale ring in the dust next to it.

"Wasn't a hex," he said. "But who would—?"

"Shh!" Tonks was peering into the far corner of the room, one of those odd nooks that seemed too small to hold anything useful. She lit her want faintly, and with the light traced a track of blood leading into that corner. Harry immediately came around the desk to cover her; Tonks approached the shadowed corner slowly, but from his position Harry couldn't see clearly what was inside it. Calhoun came up behind her, holding up his wand for better light.

Tonks sucked in a deep breath and stopped short. "Oh, my dear God," she whispered.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Get over here."

Heart pounding, Harry squeezed between the bed and the bloody carpet until he could see what she was looking at. When he recognized the figure crouched in the wavering beam of Calhoun's wand, he found that for a moment he couldn't breath.

The person—he was at least identifiable as that—was nearly naked and filthy, even discounting the bits of blood and brains that were spattered across his body. His skin clung tight to his bones, and greasy, knotted red hair hung past his shoulders. Scars both old and fresh crawled across his skin, and one curled down the side of his face and left a visible ripple even in his matted beard. He had a thick leather collar around his neck, like a dog's, and a broken piece of chain dangled from the clasp and rattled faintly at it bounced in time with his shallow breath. His fingers—bent, skeletal fingers with grotesquely swollen joints—were clenched around the bloody candlestick, and his eyes were glassy, unfocused, unseeing even as they flicked between Tonks and Calhoun.

"Ron?" Harry croaked out.

The wraith-like figure's eyes snapped to Harry's face. He recoiled and lofted the candlestick as if to strike again, with no sign of recognition, no sign of human thought.

Slowly, Harry took a step closer and knelt down, aiming his wandlight at his own face. "Ron," he said, "mate...it's me."

For one agonizing second, Ron continued to stare: then something behind his eyes seemed to click, and he looked, really looked, into Harry's eyes. "Harry?" he croaked in a stranger's voice, barely audible.

"Yeah, mate," Harry said. "I'm right here."

The candlestick fell to the floor, and for a moment they simply stared at one another in mutual disbelief. Then Ron threw himself at Harry, provoking a yelp from Calhoun; Ron wrapped his thin arms around Harry's neck like a vise and pulled him close. Harry didn't care that Ron was covered in blood, or clad only in a pair of trousers worn down to rags, or that he smelled like he hadn't bathed in three years. For a moment he allowed himself to cling to his friend, feeling the steady heartbeat and the rush of air under his protruding ribs, the warm living flesh stretch taut over the knobby spine.

"Get me out of here," Ron sighed into Harry's ear in a shuddering voice.

"I will," Harry said. He used a severing charm to remove the collar and peeled it away, revealing a wide band of bruised and abraded skin underneath. There were hot, swollen sores on his back and shoulders, too, and the fingers clutching at his uniform robe didn't seem to be bending in the normal places.

"Get me out," Ron said in an urgent monotone, "get me out, get me out, get me out, get me out—"

"Shhh, we're going, okay? We're going now." Harry pulled away and looked for something to protect Ron from the cold, and from the stares he was sure to receive from the others; Calhoun immediately offered his cloak. Harry wrapped it around Ron's shoulders and flipped up the hood, and Ron clutched it tightly, at least one finger definitely shifting as though it were broken. "Come on. We're leaving."

"We'll cover you until you hit the doors," Tonks said. "Make sure you signal yourself on the way out, and mind the booby-traps."

Harry stood and tugged at Ron's elbow; Ron started to stand, but then dropped back to his knees; he was hyperventilating, Harry realized. "Calm down," he said, wrapping Ron's arm around his shoulders. "Deep breaths, mate."

"Get me out of here," Ron whispered again.

"That's what I'm trying to do."

Ron had to lean on Harry in order walk; he had a staggering, limping gait, and Harry wasn't certain if it was due to shock or weakness or injury, or some combination of all three. He pulled Ron's arm around his shoulders and allowed himself only a moment to be startled when he realized how close they now were in height—no more than a couple of inches. Tonks covered their back as they began to pick their way down the stairs, while Calhoun trotted ahead to cover the entryway. It appeared empty for now, but scorch marks on the floor proved that there had been more trouble while they were upstairs. Harry held his wand up with his free hand, both to light the stairs more clearly and be ready in case anyone came out at them, using his other arm to help steady Ron again a potential fall.

They hadn't even made it halfway down before Harry heard running feet come up the passage next to the stairs, just out of Harry's line of sight. Ron whimpered and wobbled, halting them for a moment, as Calhoun leapt around the corner of the banister with his wand up, already shouting a curse. Then the wood beneath Harry's feet leapt inexplicably upwards, there was a tremendous roar and flash, and the last thing he could clearly remember was the smell of sawdust and Ron's bony hands clinging desperately to his arm.