Interior of Unknown Cave: 1975

Maybe it was the cold surrounding him, or slimy, crusted fingers biting into his arms and legs as they gripped seemingly every part of his body, or maybe it was the pulling, the ominous feeling of sinking. Whatever it was, where his mind was once a confused blur of images, a kaleidoscope of horrible memories fleshed together in an incoherent mesh of dreams, now a clear sense of urgency flashed there. He was aware his eyes had been open, but unseeing. Now, as if just waking, he saw clearly the grisly sight of the naked dead bodies floating around him with their unrelenting arms and hands encircling him.

Regulus forced himself to look up. The vague glow the soft light of the night cast on the surface of the lake was dimming by the second as he sunk further and further. Desperate screams for help were stopped by the water and only clouds of bubbles escaped from his opened mouth, mocking him as they floated away to safety.

He was going to die, he realized belatedly. Terror ran through him when the truth hit, almost as horrifying as the inability to breathe.

Had he merely acknowledged the fact that it wasn't the worst possible death, that he had been an aid, however miniscule, to the hopefully inevitable fall of that bastard, Regulus might have been able to let his imminent death play out as it was meant. He wasn't foolish enough to believe he was capable of fighting off a flock of inferi intent on drowning him, and had he merely been the 16-year-old boy he'd always been up until now, he would have let things go.

Fortunately, the remnants from whatever effects Voldemort's potion had on him still tinged the edge of his vision. He had done his research and thought he knew what drinking the concoction would do to him. But these weren't his memories or his nightmares. Oh yes, they were terrifying and at the same time heartbreaking, but they weren't his, at least he didn't think they were.

But that soft voice, speaking the foreign name that he somehow knew referred to him, urged him to live on. He remembered those delicate hands, appearing elegant despite the callous forming around the palms and fingers from repeated weapon handling, the ritual happy but reserved smile that boy saved only for his returns from missions away, and the hair that the alter-ego of him would wait every night just to watch the boy unbind from the familiar bun because it would always fall in the same familiar pattern. Because familiarity was all Zabuza, the cold-blooded killer, had in his life.

If I could, I would want to go to the same place… on the other side… as you.

That last thought spurred him into action. Haku wasn't here, and he sure as hell wasn't going died without Haku by his side.

Wish magic was a common occurrence among children of the wizarding community, but the phenomenon usually tapered off by the time most children were about eleven or sometimes twelve, and depending on how magically inclined the child was, maybe even thirteen. Anything later and the incidence would be considered a miracle. Apparently, reanimated corpses make for a good motivation in the miracle department. He didn't know what inspired the spontaneous display of magical control that ensued, once he decided he'd rather live, but it was most likely due to the potion induced hallucinations.

Regulus was quite sure he'd never seen a spell which caused water to spike outwards from the caster like an angry icicle porcupine, skewering anything within a ten feet radius. It was a pity he didn't have anymore time to admire his handiwork, but the frozen staffs of ice only managed to buy him some time before the army of corpses not yet turned into shish-kabob were quickly closing in to get a handle on him again.

Kicking hard on the solid objects around him, mostly sticks of ice and inferi, he took off in a burst for the surface, but not without taking some sadistic pleasure at the writhing forms still attached to the ice. He broke the surface and gasped for breath, pushing away a bought of panic when he realized the enchanted boat was long gone to the other side of the cave, the side with the exit, and apparently, the inferi had dragged him pretty much straight down. Which left him practically in the same spot he was before drinking the potion, meaning he would either have to swim his way out or find some other way.

Vaguely, he recalled learning from a particularly macabre-loving relative that inferi had a weakness against fire. Then again, that same relative also failed at casting a cutting spell through her own opened mouth and ended up dying from uncontrollable bleeding in her head five days later. He remembered the gruesome sight of her swollen head and questioned the feasibility of advice coming from that particular family member, but fished around in his cloak for his wand anyway, just in case. It proved fruitless. He must have dropped the damn thing already.

There was no choice left, he had to swim.

Regulus balked at the impossibility of the situation, but the Zabuza mindset was not ready to give in just yet. If he could down a group of bandits and decapitate their leader without even the use of his arms, then he could certainly out-swim a bunch of corpses with a perfectly healthy body. Anything else would be a complete embarrassment, and he wasn't willing to face anymore setbacks, especially after the mess he'd made fighting against the Copy-cat bastard.

Besides, he wasn't known as a demon for no reason.

Again, he crouched up against the rocky walls of the cave and kicked off. It was then that he noticed the slight flaw in his plan. Healthy body, yes; trained and prepared for strenuous activities, no. As he struggled to ignore the screams of his protesting muscles, Regulus recalled all those times he'd sat through lectures on proper conducts expected from his class, unkempt appearance ranked highest in social taboo, which meant rough-housing and other muscle building activities of that category was considered a rare delicacy for children of his circle.

Well, except for his estranged brother. Oh how he wished he'd participated in the tumble plays with Sirius and his friends. But then, his involvement wouldn't have been accepted by either side of his family. His brother sure wasn't open to much involvement with his 'pure blooded bigot' of a little brother, and his mother wouldn't let such a transgression against their House traditions go without punishments. Either way, if he did what he wanted he'd lose, so he might as well win the acceptance of his mother than none at all.

He sure was regretting it now; beating his feet and trying to keep his arms in rhythm with the strokes made him realize how sluggish his movements really were. At the same time, down below he could make out the ghostly gray figures slowly making their way towards him. Adrenaline kicked in, and he got another jumpstart on his flailing limbs.

Considering all the factors piled against him, it was quite a feat to have passed the midway point before the first cold touch of a decomposing hand clamped down on his ankle. Instinct kicked in and he jammed his other foot into the weak joint of the inferi's elbow, simultaneously breaking it; the grip loosened immediately, though more from the disrupted nerves than any real pain.

But he wasn't safe yet. When one foe was dislodged another replaced it, and another, and another. Regulus was surprised how efficiently he was able to execute maneuvers after maneuvers, breaking each of the grasping hands and arms around him, but at the same time he couldn't help feeling frustrated, couldn't help but realized he should be able to do all this faster, so much faster. At the same time, the mob around him was growing thicker, and despite his best efforts he felt himself slowly dragged further and further away from the surface.

"Fucken hell." He thought, "This isn't happening."

He regretted it. Why had he come here? He was sixteen; it wasn't his job to go and take on a freaken Dark Lord. He was fucken sixteen!

So what, another part of him argued. That bastard deserved it, and even in this dire situation he couldn't help but feel a bit smug that for all his planning and ingenious plots, it was a sixteen year old boy who figured it all out. Memories flashed around him again, and he stared at the two opposing set of memories, and the stark contrast peaked at a glaringly clear picture of each: at twelve, Regulus was laughing and waving good-bye to his friends as he got off the express to go home for summer, and again, at twelve, he sat in a bloodied field where the bodies of all his classmates lay scattered around him, blood seeping into the soil from their numerous wounds. Wounds that he'd put there. And he smiled.

Regulus didn't know what this was, an illusion, or something more? He just didn't know

But he did know one thing: he didn't want to die. He really, really didn't.

His lungs burned from lack of air, and the bodies piled up around him. What can he do?

And then it appeared, floating strands of black hair filled his vision, and he turned slightly to stare at the face of the dead girl. So different, but the hair was so familiar in its length.

He stared for a moment, and then the dam broke. The rage that bubbled up was so magnificent in its strength, it all but consumed him. How dare this monster mock him, how dare it mimic beauty it had no rights to imitate. He screamed, not caring at the noiselessness of it, not caring about the water filling his mouth, he just reached forward, ignoring the grips on his arms, grabbed a chunk of the hair, and yanked. The scalp ripped away surprisingly easily.

But he wasn't satisfied. Grabbing the nearest corpse, he bit into it, tore at it, letting go of his mind and giving into his basic killing instinct. The water turned a murky purple as the rotten blood reluctantly oozed into the water from the dismembered limbs.

He didn't know what happened during the haze of anger, but one second the bodies were all he saw, and the next, the world was clear and he was free. Pushing upwards, no longer caring about anything except getting as far from this place as possible, he burst through the surface and broke into a mad swim.

When his head slammed into the wall of rocks, he didn't acknowledge the pain, just the unbearable need to get away. He climbed out of the water, coughing up the water from the lake when he was finally out. As he shivered from the cold air, he stood looking out from the mouth of the cave. In the distance, he could make out the small boat with a little elf rowing away, so far away.

Water dripped from his matted hair, down his face and from his nose.

It took a while for him to realize, some of the droplets were tears.

Number 4 Privet Drive, Surrey: 1988

Harry was amused. For one thing, he'd just realized just how comfortable he'd become in his little cupboard under the stairs. It really should bother him more, considering how well he'd adapted to his new living space. Really, for someone who was used to living off the wild, open-aired forests between the hidden villages, the small, dusty, spider-ridden closet should have been intolerable. However, the contrary proved to be true. He blamed his child's body and mind for the load of sentimentality it dumped on him. He just couldn't stop the growing affections he had for the cupboard. It brought with it a sense of belonging and an unbelievable feeling of safety that embodied everything he was denied in his life as Haku.

He chuckled at the thought. What would Zabuza think if he saw him now, all cuddled up in some godforsaken hole with spiders for company? He absentmindedly stroked one of these critters as he waited for the noise upstairs to stop. He perked up when the muffled voices seems to ease off into silence.

Quickly stifling a laugh when the thundering footsteps thumped their way down the stairs and came to a halt outside his door, Harry unlatched it from the inside and eased the door open as quietly as he could manage and poked his head out.

Even in the darkness of the unlit living room, his uncle still cut quite an impressive silhouette against the blue glow of the walls behind him, which was reflecting the light of the moon. It certainly have gotten late, he realized; it was just a testimony to how long those two have been at it. He peeked shyly up at his uncle through the newly chopped bangs.

"Is she still angry, Uncle Vernon?"

If possible, the stormy expression on the man's face darkened considerably at that enquiry.

"You're lucky I don't throw your sorry carcass out on the streets, boy! Nothing but a heap of trouble. I knew we should have left you at the orphanage..." As abruptly as it began, the tirade ebbed off into wistful mumblings as his uncle seemed to be stuck in some righteous preaching only he could hear. But Harry remained undaunted by the threat leering over him, partly due to the fact that he noticed, despite all the anger, Uncle Vernon still kept the volume moderate, as if to appease to Aunt Petunia's absent presence.

"Do you need help setting up the couch?"

The growl erupted again, this time accompanied by some popping veins and a twitching mustache, but otherwise the man ignored him and lumbered off to the offending sofa, giving it a hard kick for good measure before plopping himself down. All the while, he was grumbling incomprehensibly under his breath about Harry. The boy was only able to catch a few words, most of which went along the lines of, "…don't know what the problem is… stubborn brat… couldn't get anything else cut except the bloody bangs…"

Harry couldn't hold back the laughter anymore and slipped back into the cupboard before he completely lost it. The distant rumbling sounds of his uncle's complaints still droned on through the thin wall of his door. That evening certainly proved to be quite educational in regards to a previously unknown and quite volatile side of his aunt's personality. Apparently she can be a bit of a spitfire when a specific piece of her agenda was changed without her knowledge, especially when that piece was something she was rather adamant about. Uncle Vernon sneaking off with Harry to get the boy a haircut was definitely crossing the line, and basically was something she wasn't willing to tolerate.

Of course, that wasn't the whole truth. Unbeknownst to the men in the family, Aunt Petunia wasn't quite as unhappy about the cut as she made herself appear. The look did cover up that hideous scar, something she approved of greatly. However, the fact that Vernon had not included her in this decision irked her to no small extent and she was more than will to dish out the punishment as she pleased. Poor Vernon, but the man had to learn. Besides, it wasn't something a week on the couch wouldn't fix; she would just have to make sure to make Vernon his favorites for breakfast tomorrow, and he wouldn't make a peep about the situation.

Thus, Petunia went to bed with a blissful sense of satisfaction. All things considered, it was quite a productive day.

Vernon, on the other hand, tossed and turned quite a bit on the too-small couch that groaned under his weight. Stupid brat had to ruin his day. No, make that, ruin his life. Just thinking about it made his mustache bristle. If only the brat hadn't come along, he could be enjoying his normal, peaceful, suburban life. But now, on top of everything else abnormal about the boy, he had to deal with this! It made his insides twist with shame just thinking of what the neighbors were thinking. Everyday he woke up, Vernon was faced with the blatant contrast between his strapping young son and that fragile excuse for a boy. Even though he'd only met the Potter man once, he was quite sure that, abnormalities aside, the man was, well, a man! And here was his son. Despite what he thought of his (and he cringed to call them this, even in the privacy of his mind) in-laws, he was quite sure this particular behavior problem would have put their knickers in quite a twist.

Yes, the boy was not particularly… flamboyant (Vernon thanked the gods for that small mercy), and half the time, most of his mannerisms were typical proper male behavior. But then there were those times. Like the times he worked in the gardens, a task originally meant as punishment, but he'd somehow turned into a pastime; or when he hemmed his clothing, Vernon was past the point of volunteering to buy the boy clothes if only to stop such feminine activities from happening under his roof; of course it was also that suggestion that led to the monstrosity unworthy of being called pants which Petunia bought. Although he was slightly relieved when he saw the boy was equally horrified to see them; he was willing to count his blessings. Worst of all, though, was the way the boy talked. Boys were brash, they were loud, rowdy, and willing to get down and dirty. Harry always spoke softly and politely. And, maybe there was even worst habit yet: the boy smiled. At the worst possible times.

It was that smile that got Vernon into all this trouble. Disarming smile and then a soft request, it was a deadly combination.

No, something had to be done. Hair and clothing aside, Vernon will turn that boy into a proper man if it's the last thing he did. That settled, Vernon closed his eyes at last and succumbed to a restless sleep, his dreams plagued with images of a twenty year old Harry in a dress frolicking down the streets, dragging a screaming Vernon behind him while the neighbors pointed and laughed.

Dudley, fortunately, was blissfully unaware of turmoil raging below; even the shock from earlier, brought on by his mother's excessive use of expletives was completely forgotten in lieu of the dancing blueberry muffins tempting him to eat them. Nothing like a good dream to ward off the stress of the day.

And all the house was quiet at last, the silence only interrupted once in a while with the varying wheezes and thundering nasal congestions of the different occupants' breathing patterns. Toward the late hours of the night, when the symphony of phlegm-filled snores reached its crescendo, that was the time Harry was waiting for. The sounds alone were impossible to sleep through anyway, which was why Harry picked this late hour to get some of his training done. He didn't have to be all that careful about avoiding creaking doors and floorboards, the present noises would cover anything he could make. Still, he quietly made his way out the cupboard, making a quick detour to the living room couch to check on his uncle.

Taking a quick perusal, Harry was able to determine the man was indeed in a deep sleep, but as he turned to leave, again, his uncle threw a wild swing with his arm. It was only Harry's quick reflexes that made him duck before the arm made contact.

"No… Not the frills… No frills… Ballet…" The man mumbled before turning, and once again commenced to snoring the house down.

He stared at Uncle Vernon, and then laughed silently. He could make a guess at just what the man was fussing about. At the same time, he could not help but give a little mental sigh; even though it was quite a lot of fun to see his uncle taken down a peg or two by Aunt Petunia's mini tantrum, things would have been so much easier had the man stayed upstairs like usual.

He made his way out to the backyard and began the usual stretching and breathing exercises, all the while thinking back over the day's events. Questions he'd managed to ignore for most of the day rushed back and assaulted him. How did they know his name? Why did the man lie about what he saw? Then again, maybe he was just delusional, since most of his claims sounded sincere. What was this hero bit they kept going on about? Harry was pretty sure he heard someone mention the word 'savior' at some point. Most of all, how did these strangers seem to know more about him than he did?

He had no way of answering them now, but he sure intended to find out. And the only way was to go back to that run down shop and see what lay beyond that magical fence. Of course, he needed to figure out some minor details before he went gallivanting off to who knows where. Being recognized was completely out of the question. Too many people knew him, but obviously not by face. So long as he kept the scar hidden, things should go well. Actually, on second thought, a little extra precaution wouldn't hurt anyone.

He paused in his exercise to look at the second story window and tilted his head as he debated with himself. Aunt Petunia probably wouldn't mind donating a few materials to his cause, especially when it's unknowingly done.

With the plans vaguely outlined, Harry finished up the warm-ups and stopped for a moment. Then the real practice began. Gone was the gentle demeanor, the soft-spoken, shy-eyed boy, instead a trained killer now flickered across the yard, dancing with deadly maneuvers.

Poor Uncle Vernon, if only he could see the boy now, the man would surely be able to put aside his worry about the child being too 'fragile'. Of course, he would then probably never be able to sleep again for fear of having his throat slit or some other messy death assaulting him while he snoozed.

Perhaps it was better that Uncle Vernon didn't see what went on in the backyard at night. Yes. Definitely better.

Norrington Grand Hotel, London, 8:00 p.m.

Erik watched the girl saunter into luxurious room, every now and then she would let out a satisfied, if not impressed, sound, which he supposed was her way of expressing her blessing. Not that he needed it, everything was too perfect not to please her, he knew. The décor was all turn of the century artwork, just like how she liked it. Each bouquet and floral furnishing had exactly fourteen roses, just how she liked. Forget how hard that was to set up; how exactly could one explain another's superstition without looking like a complete idiot, he didn't know. But none of that mattered, because this was just how she liked it.

Erik's eye twitched.

But what was she doing? Laughing, of course, delighted when she saw the satin bed-sheets. Not one to deny pleasure when it was presented, she immediately stripped off the thin coat, throwing it on the ground without a second thought, as she flung herself onto the bed, giggling like mad when the bed proved to be just as bouncy as it promised to be.

"Do you like it?" Erik asked. His warm, deep voice seemed to blend into the dimly lit walls, floating gently to caress her. If she had been paying any attention, the sound might have appeared even sinister in the room's lighting.

"Yes!"

Of course you do, you little whore.

Making his way slowly across the room, he settled down beside her.

But such a pretty little thing you are; what am I to do?

With a smile that masked any and all contempt he might have held for the petite figure now resting her head against his leg, he began to stroke the thick hair back from her eyes. They slid closed to his gentle ministration.

Just where does this little lamb think she's sleeping so carelessly?

"Oh, Erik. This is the best anniversary gift, ever." Her breath warmed his inner thigh lusciously when she tilted her head to speak.

Unbidden lust roused him, spurred on by anger and madness, and he gripped the sheet to stop himself from grabbing that little head and shoving it somewhere more pleasurable. He could imagine a much better use for that mouth than talking. With luck, she might even choke and rid him of her incessant, mindless nagging.

Instead he reached over to a box on the bedside table to pick out a chocolate covered strawberry and barely managed to hold back from rolling his eye at her exaggerated gasp.

"Oh, you didn't! Erik, you're such a romantic. It's just how I like them!"

Just how you fucken like them.

He held the little fruit over her lips which match the red almost to the tint. Rather than taking a bite, her little pink tongue slithered out and proceeded to curl over the contours of the chocolate. A slow, careful lick, the tip of her tongue curling again as it came away, looking all that much more like a darling kitty.

Erik petted her head. A much better use indeed for such a talented tongue.

She was so perfect lying there looking up at him with those sensual black eyes, so dark they ate up what little light there was in the room. The lids with the heavy black lashes closed over them and her red lips –

- Red lips pulled back in a giddy laugh as that other man's hand began to loosen the buttons of her blouse. Her white teeth glinting from her opened mouth just before his lips closed over them, and her pale hand with those long spidery fingers gripped –

Her fingers gripped his collar and pulled him down to meet her upturned face. The kiss was deep passionate one, and her little breathy moans increased as he held her to him, trying to mesh their bodies together –

- Their bodies pressed against each other as the pulsing movements swelled in tempo with their rising passion. The harsh breathing and moans of pleasure blended into a wild euphony of sexual energy and from where he stood in the doorway, he too was consumed in that energy. Rage and lust tried to gain control as he watched that woman frolic in bed with another man while he stood still, unable to react to this blasphemy; his knuckled turned white as he grabbed hold the doorframe, imagining instead that it was her white neck.

The white column neck was exposed as she tilted her head back to let him ravish her with his kisses. Of course, he complied, his hand coming up to gently massage the throat as he continued to sprinkle his kisses on it. How small and so frail it was, fitting almost perfectly into his palm. She was perfect, so perfect.

So why did you have to ruin it, you bitch!

He bit down on her shoulder, where the strap had fallen. She gave a small squeal and then giggled. Her hand came up to hold his head and guide him to her breasts.

He had to stop them before it got out of hand, before he lost control. Pushing up and away from the tantalizing form beneath him, he smiled down on her.

"Not yet. We still have one more place to go."

"Aw, Erik! It was just getting cozy." She latched onto him as he got them both into something more remotely resembling a sitting position.

"The quicker we leave, the quicker we can get back to this."

"Oh fine, have it your way." She stood and walked to the door.

"Why don't you head down first, there's something I have to get."

She pouted. "You and your surprises."

He held the door open for her and gave her a quick kiss before she headed out. Making sure not to close the door, he sat down on the bed for a breath. It was a pity things had to come to this. A real pity.

With a sigh, he stood and took another route down to the lobby where the love of his life was waiting for her big surprise.

The Harriston Apartment Complex, London, 12:10 a.m

Loyd Hadley was enjoying a very pleasant dream in his REM cycle when the phone rang. He ignored it, or at least tried to. Rolling over, he pressed the sides of his pillow to his ears, hoping that would drown out that grinding high pitched sound. It didn't, but he didn't expect it to. At least the message finally came on.

"This is Loyd Hadley, I can't –"

Whoever that idiot who was calling at bloody midnight was finally hung up and Loyd breathed a sigh of relief. He snuggled in the blankets and prepared to drift away, not without a few mumbled curses about bastards not leaving messages even if they were willing to be up this late. He figured it probably wasn't important and was half asleep when the phone rang again.

Loyd jerked up and kicked his blanket off, cursing all the way from his bed to the phone hanging a couple of feet away. He stumbled over a few nick-knacks on the way and cursed again, this time at himself for not putting on his glasses.

He yanked the phone off its handle and growled into the mouthpiece, "This better be –"

"I need your help." A deep masculine voice came over the line.

"Wha-? Erik? Why the hell are you calling me? Do you know what time it is!"

"Just shut up a minute there. I need help." A chuckle, great, the bastard thought this was funny.

"You know, for someone who needs help, you don't sound all that needy."

"I suppose you'd be an expert in the needy department, right?"

"You know what, I'm hanging up. You can insult me tomorrow after I've had my coffee."

"No! Wait! Come on, I'm sorry, okay? I really do need your help."

Loyd stared at the phone in shock. "Oh my God. What did you do?"

"What?"

"I've known you for years now, and you only said sorry once. And that was when you ran over my snake back in middle school."

"It's nothing like that. Well, not really. I just need you to get rid of something for me."

He felt a headache coming on and rubbed his eyes before finally giving in. Stupid best friend duties. "Oh, alright. What do you need?"

"It's outside your door."

"You came over? How did you even get in the gate? And why didn't you just knock like a normal human being, you bastard!"

"Just figured I'll need you to calm down a bit before I see you again."

"What?"

"You'll see. Just so you know, I trust you, okay? You're my best mate."

"Okay?"

"Just do what you do best; you've always been the calm one."

"What?"

"Bye."

"No! Wait! What?" But the clip of the receiver already answered his protests.

With a sigh, and quite a bit of apprehension, Loyd strode to the door, mentally preparing himself for whatever mess Erik had managed to get him into again. Holding the handle, he ran a hand through his very bad case of bed-head. He figured he should just get it over real quick and yank the door open.

Nothing could prepare him for what toppled in from the door. With a muffled thump, the body fell in and landed face-up on his carpet. Staring up at him was a familiar although purplish-red face. Around the neck wound the girl's own hair, tied into a fatal knot. Her bloated tongue protruded slightly from her opened mouth and the blank look of surprise still marred her features.

Loyd voiced the only possible response.

"Fuck!"

London Police Department

"I'm telling you, sir, she's an adult so there's nothing we can do at the moment. Why don't you call back if she still doesn't come back by tomorrow." The man sitting behind the reception desk droned, again. Why couldn't people ever listen the first time they're told something.

The man on the other line babbled on about his missing girlfriend.

"Yes, I'm sure she's not the type a girl to disappear like this, but I'm telling you there isn't anything we can do."

More babbling, before the man finally gave in, and he gave a silent relieved huff.

"Don't worry, sir, I'm sure she'll show up any time now."

He was finally able to hang up at last.

"Long morning, Jeff?" A uniformed officer walked up to the desk and leaned over for a chat.

"You have no idea."

"What was all that about?"

Jeff sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Some guy wanted to know where his girlfriend is. Anniversary or something like that. If you ask me, he probably just got her the wrong present or something and pissed her off. Sure as hell happens to me all the time. Women aren't anything but trouble."

"Don't let Amy hear you say that or we might be hauling your ass off to the coroner's office one day."

"She isn't going to know as long as you don't breathe a word of this to anybody."

Both men's laughs were cut short when the entrance door rattled open and a familiar figure stepped in. Immediately, they straightened as the man made his way over to them.

Jeff smiled nervously, "'Morning Detective Black."

Author's Note: Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, I actually had a bit of a difficult time writing it and actually, I'm still rather unhappy with it. It's not too much of a cliffy I don't think.

Next time: Harry goes on a little trip.

Special thanks goes to Emerald Falls for taking up the fight against my horrible grammar. My condolences goes to my previous beta, ScathingSarcasm, who had a mishap but from what I've heard, is now on the recovery. Best of luck to ya!

DeppleICk: Haha! Thank you for the lovely notices. I actually didn't get to see the first notice until you mentioned it. My internet spazzed on me a little earlier. But thanks for the motivation!

Also thanks for the comments! They're the chocolate to my strawberry! So... Until next time!