Chapter 7: Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon

"Peter!"

Neal's voice rang clear across the hospital floor. Peter turned as Neal rushed toward him, oblivious of the somewhat disapproving (but still appreciative) stares of the night nurses. His normally immaculate clothes were wrinkled and his hair even more ragged than his usual 'it's-called-tousled-not-messy!' style.

"Are you okay?" he asked, finally reaching Peter so he didn't have to shout.

"Yeah," Peter replied. He had been taken to the hospital with Elizabeth. After a thorough examination and a stern command to stay in bed for a couple of hours, the doctors discharged him. Fair enough. He only suffered a few scratches and survived past the normal time frame that shock would set in. The less people who fussed over him meant the more people who could help Elizabeth. "How did you know?"

"Alex."

As if that explained anything at all. Peter didn't feel like pressing the issue. He knew that Neal would only dance around the right answer if he thought Peter would disapprove. And if he did tell a straight truth without any Neal embellishments, then Peter probably would disapprove. Such is life.

"How's Elizabeth?" There was genuine concern in Neal's voice, but also hesitation, as if he was broaching on a sensitive issue. Peter deduced the nurses hadn't told him anything. He filed that away in the back of his mind as quite possibly one of the first times Neal Caffrey's charm failed him.

He offered Neal a wan smile. "She'll be fine. The force of the explosion propelled her into the table. She has a concussion and a couple of bruised ribs but thankfully that's the worst of her injuries. The doctors are keeping her overnight for observation."

Neal's brow furrowed in confusion. "And they won't let you in to see her?"

Peter shook his head. "Not until she regains consciousness."

"They expect us to sleep out here all night?"

Peter nearly smiled at the mild outrage in Neal's voice as he eyed the wooden chairs with disdain.

"You don't have to stay," he began as Neal rolled his eyes.

"Please," he drawled, "as if I would let you tear your hair out alone?" He settled himself into a chair beside Peter, grumbling a bit as he shifted to find a comfortable position.

This time Peter did smile. "Thanks, Neal."

"You feeling up to telling me exactly what happened?"

Peter shrugged. "Might as well. I've been going over it a dozen times in my mind. It was an explosion. Nothing else it could be. Only it was more central, rather than spread out like an explosion usually is."

"Like a targeted explosion?" Neal suggested.

"Possibly. What's on your mind?"

Neal thought for a moment. "Construction worker, maybe? Don't the demolition teams have access to blasts that focus the force on one area? Isn't that how they bring down buildings?"

"Possibly. Could also be a demolitions expert in the military."

"Military?"

"Ex-military?"

"I'll buy that. Moz would love it."

"I'm sure he would."

They sat in silence for a long while until at last a doctor came over and told Peter his wife had regained consciousness and was asking to see him. Neal waved him away while he picked up a magazine to read.

The inside of Elizabeth's hospital room was bright and cheery regardless of the late (or was it early?) hour. Despite being in a profession which forced him into danger nearly every week, he had had very few brushes with death and thus very few accurate pictures of a hospital. Gone were the days of drab green walls and shiny white linoleum tile floors. Sleek hardwood floors now lined the hallways and Elizabeth's room was decorated in a vibrant patchwork of oranges and yellows. There were green accents, but not the sickly mint green normally associated with hospitals. Slashes of dark green interspersed through the other colors gave him the distinct impression he had walked inside of a blooming flower.

Peter hated it.

Okay, he wasn't being entirely fair. He probably would have appreciated the color scheme a bit more if his wife wasn't lying underneath that disgustingly cheery blanket, deathly pale but beaming a huge smile at him.

"I'm glad you're okay," she said before he could even open his mouth.

Great. What was he supposed to say to that? 'Me, too'? 'Good to see you finally regained consciousness'? 'Sorry I nearly got you killed'?

"How are you feeling?" Ugh. As if that was better. He winced but Elizabeth chuckled.

"Much better, actually. My head hurts a bit but that's about all. What happened?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know. Some kind of concentrated explosion."

"You were the target?"

"Maybe. Seems likely, doesn't it?"

"Because of your current case?"

"Possibly." Peter didn't voice his other concern: that someone from his past was taking revenge.

"Well, just find them for me, okay?"

"What?"

Elizabeth leveled a glare at him, looking more menacing with the bandages wrapped around her forehead. "You are going to continue working, right?" Her tone implied he didn't have an option.

"Don't be..." he paused, about to say 'insane' but thinking that with her present evil-eye expression that wasn't the best choice of words to use.

Thankfully, Elizabeth hadn't lost her wits when she lost consciousness. She supplied the words for him. "...Absolutely correct? If you think for one moment that you, one of the best agents in the bureau, is going to just rest here while our attacker roams free, you've got another thing coming, mister."

Peter gulped. That had been exactly what he was thinking. Aside from the 'roaming free' part. After all, he trained a good team. "Elle," he began.

She didn't let him finish. "If I could get out of this bed and track down that person myself, I would! Honey, there are many things you are very good at. But if there is one thing you are absolutely useless at it is moping around doing nothing."

Peter knew she was right, but still felt he had to defend himself. He opened his mouth.

"No," Elizabeth cut in. Peter snapped his mouth shut. "The best thing you can do for me right here, right now, is find those people who tried to kill us."

Us. As if she was a target all along. Perhaps she was. But he wasn't going to leave her unprotected lying helpless in a hospital bed while he scoured the city.

"Fine," he relented. "But I'm going to post an agent outside of your room."

She smiled. "I figured you would. Now get out of here."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Is there anything you need before I go?"

"No, I'm just going to get some sleep," she said.

"I'll stop by in the morning," he promised as he left. "I love you, hun."

"I love you, too. Now get going."

Still sporting a goofy grin that his wife was okay – better than okay – he headed over to join Neal.

"My turn?" he joked, setting down his magazine.

"Let's get going. We have work to do." Peter glanced down at his bare wrist. The EMTs had taken his watch. Not that it mattered; the blast had busted the crystal face. "What time is it, anyway?"

Neal looked at his watch. "Almost three in the morning. You should get some sleep. I can tell you're not completely healed."

"I'll sleep after we catch this guy."

Neal rolled his eyes. An expected response from Peter. "At least sit for a moment. I wasn't kidding about it being my turn. I want to say hi to Elizabeth for a moment."

"Fine, but make it quick." Peter settled down into the uncomfortable chair and angled himself so the wood didn't dig into that painfully tender spot on his back.

True to his word, Neal sauntered back over within minutes. "I'm ready," he said.

"That was fast." Peter struggled to his feet.

"I just gave her my regards and told her that Mozzie might be stopping by later."

"Mozzie?" Peter questioned as they moved down the hall.

Neal shrugged. "Depends on when he gets the message. I left one on his cell phone but he doesn't tend to keep his cell phones on his person at night."

Peter always wondered why someone as paranoid as Mozzie would carry a cell phone in the first place. After all, he always spouted off one wild conspiracy theory after another and the GPS tracking unit on a cell phone certainly would rank high in Mozzie's book of conspiracies. Yet it was obvious Neal could contact him as needed. Peter knew Mozzie carried a cell phone. But he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Wait a minute... did Neal just say...?

"Phones? Plural?"

Neal grinned. "Does this surprise you?"

"It surprises me Mozzie has a cell phone in the first place. Let alone more than one."

Neal pushed open the door and held it for Peter. "He believes the more you have the harder it is for the government to find you."

"Like a needle in a haystack."

"More like a needle in a pile of identical needles. But let's go. You're crashing at my place for now."

"It's technically the government's place."

"Do you want somewhere to sleep tonight or not?"


Harry awoke early the next morning to an owl screeching outside of his hotel window. Groaning, and shielding his eyes with one hand against the painfully bright sunlight, he stumbled over to the window. Fumbling around for a few moments, the owl still screeching at him impatiently, he finally located the latches and clicked them open. The window slid upwards with nothing more than a soft hiss.

The owl, a medium sized tawny variety, swooped inside, circled around the room for a moment, and dropped a letter, just so that the point of which bounced perfectly off of his head.

"Ouch!" Harry exclaimed, rubbing his head. "I'm sorry," he told the owl. "Maybe next time you should hoot louder."

With an offended screech, the owl dove at Harry, who ducked to avoid the sharp claws. The owl zoomed out of the hotel room. With a sigh, Harry closed the window after the irritated bird and bent to pick up his letter. He wasn't surprised the owl didn't stick around for refueling on a bowl of water and some owl snacks. Official post owls were trained not to accept food or drink from anyone other than their handlers.

He scanned through the parchment. It was from Justin, stating his department head had received a complaint about wizards working intimately with Muggles. Fortunately, his boss grew up in a family of Muggles himself and dismissed the letter, passing it off to Justin with a word of caution to be careful. Justin, in turn, relayed the message to Harry.

We should tread lightly from now on, Justin warned halfway down the page. The complaint was anonymous but most certainly originating over the concerns that this horn will be obtained by the Aurors and destroyed. It's a veiled threat, one perhaps we shouldn't take so flippantly. I suspect there's a wizard with strong clout to be behind this. It even affected my supervisor! I don't know why they would hide their identity from us, but it's apparent our Minister knows who this wizard is. Perhaps you could reconsider destroying the horn and instead hand it over to be researched. It holds some magical charms that have been lost to the wizarding world through the ages. I'll attempt to contact you during lunch, since I know your Muggle team meets early. Please keep my concerns in mind, and do be careful out there.

Harry tucked the letter into the pocket of a coat so he didn't forget to show it to the other two. Someone sneaking in the shadows trying to stop the team from acquiring the artifact? If Harry was back in England, he would strongly suspect Lucius Malfoy of involvement. Not only did the man detest Muggles but he considered himself to be above most other wizards. Despite their stumbling block several years ago with Voldemort, the Malfoy family remained one of the most influential and prominent wizarding families in England.

Mulling over that, Harry made a mental note to ask Justin if there were any families like the Malfoys. The not only letter implied such a hierarchy existed in America but it also sounded like such a family was causing havoc at the American ministry. Harry wondered why. Unless, of course, they were involved. As he pulled on his Muggle clothes, he thought about the connection to the horn. Perhaps a rich wizard hired someone to steal the horn for them. A Muggle like Eric Vinson. Harry shook his head, dismissing the thought. If this family was anything like the Malfoys, Harry had a hard time believing they would go directly to a Muggle. He thought harder. What if Vinson was at the end of a chain? If there was a rich wizard running the show, they could have hired a middle man wizard. Someone like Mundungus Fletcher. Dung would have no problem hiring a Muggle to do his dirty work. It made sense. Vinson was a Muggle lackey but his boss was only a middle man. They needed to follow the chain of command to the top.

He met a bleary eyed Hermione and a grumpy Ron outside. "What's going on?" he asked.

"I was up most of the night translating those runes," Hermione explained. "I guess I kept Ron awake, as well."

Harry chuckled, knowing Hermione's penchant for talking aloud when she was thinking. "You could have slept over in my place."

"I thought she would be finished soon," Ron said.

"What did you find?" Harry said. He poked the button for the lift.

Hermione withdrew her notebook. "It's a series of charms, like Justin had thought. They're written in a really old language, so the prose was difficult to translate. But basically, it states that no witch or wizard may touch the horn unless it is voluntarily and with a clear conscience given to them by a Muggle."

"Clear conscience?" Harry said. The lift arrived and they stepped inside. Ron pushed the button for the ground floor. His finger lingered over the other buttons for a moment before pulling away with a regretful sigh. Harry smirked. Ron still couldn't get over his absolute fascination with Muggle devices.

Hermione shrugged. "That was the closest translation I could find. Ron thinks it means the person can't be acting under dishonest means."

"Like hiring a Muggle to steal the horn and hand it over to them for a large sum of money," Harry said, beginning to understand. "Oh! That reminds me. Justin wrote to me this morning." Harry dug the letter out of his overcoat and handed it to Ron. Ron quickly scanned it and passed it over to Hermione.

"Do you think this Darius fellow has the horn now?" Ron asked, falling into step with Harry as Hermione read the parchment.

Harry shrugged. "Beats me. Seems like a solid lead, though. If Vinson really stole the horn on behalf of a wizard and then got killed, it would make sense that the horn is now with Darius."

"I wonder if Wade Talmon is a wizard," Ron mused. "It would explain a few things. And with what we now know about the horn, it's obvious that a wizard killed Vinson. He got blasted away by the anti-wizard charms on the horn when he tried to reach for it."

Hermione huffed an irritated sigh. "I already told you a wizard killed Vinson. Avada Kedavra is the only logical explanation for his death."

"We don't know that Talmon is a wizard," Harry began. "Peter wants to believe his story, and to be honest, so do I. If he was acting, he did a spectacular job."

Ron frowned. "Is there a way we can check to be sure?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Aside from just dropping by his place and asking him some very pointed questions?"

Ron grinned widely at him. "I haven't crashed a wizard's home in months. You know I love doing that."

Harry shook his head in amusement. Aloud he said, "We'll have to see what the Americans have planned for us today."

It turned out, they had a lot planned. When the three arrived at the FBI building, the upstairs office staff scurried around at a clipped pace. No one made eye contact. The air practically hummed with the frantic pulse of the floor.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, staring at all the agents flitting around. Several gathered outside of the lifts. Harry got the distinct impression they were headed anywhere but there.

"Let's find out, shall we?" Hermione replied in her usual no-nonsense tone. She headed across the floor to Peter's office. Most of the team gathered in the conference room next door. Peter paced the tiny room, his long strides covering three paces across, five paces down, before repeating the mindless pattern. The glaring sign that something was Definitely Wrong to Harry was the lack of any kind of nonchalance on Neal. The man never strolled without the casual elegance of leisure, even when hurried. He never strayed far from a charming smile on his face, fake or genuine. In the brief span of time Harry had known Neal, the one thing the man did not do was display worry on his face or body language.

Right now, Neal Caffrey was worried.

Harry could tell by the agitated tapping of the thumbs against the table, the way Neal slouched so low in his chair he could slide out of sight in a few more centimeters and the way the coffee mug remained untouched at the farthest point of his reach, still filled to the brim with dark liquid that did not steam. He looked so much like a child sent to a time-out that Harry very nearly suspected him to be the cause of all the tension in the FBI building. Except Jones and Diana had adopted similar poses.

"What is going on in there?" Ron muttered. Harry looked at him in slight surprise. "What? You try living in a family of nine and not knowing what body language means. Every time Mum would get a note about Fred and George she would start to swish her wand in this one particular manner. Ginny and I learned quite early to hide at the sight of that distinct flick or risk getting caught up in her anger."

Harry never thought of it that way but Ron did have a point. "Let's go in and find out," he suggested.

Ron blanched. His freckles stood out against his white skin. "You really sure you want to?"

"Come on, we're wizards," Harry whispered the last part. "We can handle a few irate Muggles, right?"

Ron gulped but didn't reply. Harry took that opportunity to push open the door and enter. Four pairs of eyes settled upon him. Harry immediately felt self-conscious and attempted to smooth his hair.

"Er, good morning?" he offered timidly.

"About time you got here!" Peter barked at them. Harry jumped at the sudden change in demeanor. "You think we've got all day?"

Harry quelled the instinct to glance at the clock, knowing that would probably tip the cranky agent over the edge. At least I know why the FBI agents out by the lifts are jittery, he thought wryly, fighting the urge to shuffle his feet and stare at the floor.

Neal rose to his defense, figuratively and literally. "C'mon, Peter. They didn't know what happened. They're early, too."

Harry exchanged glances with Ron. What had happened?

Peter deflated with a long sigh and Neal, sensing the situation to be diffused, sat back down. "You're right. I'm sorry," he apologized to the three of them. "I was attacked last night. Elle's in the hospital right now. She'll recover with no lasting harm."

Harry blinked in shock, unaware that Hermione and Ron both snapped their gazes to him. Peter caught on fast.

"What?" he demanded. "What's with the looks?"

Harry steeled himself with a deep breath. "I was attacked last night as well."

Silence.

Blissful shocked silence. Four pairs of eyes (six if you count the two wizards) trained on him.

It was too good to last.

"You what?" Peter exploded. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Er, yesterday evening during my tea time. And I didn't say anything because I had figured this was one of your 'American muggings'," Harry said, thinking fast. Years of wheedling out of punishments for late night pranks had ingrained in him reflex story telling. "After all, I was staring rather vacantly at a map near a building. My attacker caught me off guard but escaped before I could gather my wits about me and retaliate."

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, hands on his hips.

"Yeah," Harry shrugged nonchalantly, as if the mere encounter with death were nothing more than a declined RSVP to a party. "Like I said, I warned Hermione and Ron to be extra cautious while walking around but for the most part I dismissed the attack."

"Which is clearly connected to Peter's attack," Jones concluded thoughtfully.

"Let's not jump to conclusions here," said Peter, once more resuming his pacing. "Do we have any solid leads?"

"Just one," Harry spoke up, sensing the perfect moment to segue into his theory. "There's only one person who knows that Agent Burke and I were both investigating something."

Peter caught on instantly, of course. His eyes narrowed. "Wade Talmon. Jones, send over a team ASAP to his residence."

"We need a warrant," Jones began even as Peter cut through his protest.

"Diana, secure a warrant. Jones, you better be ready to move in when I give the word and not a moment later. Move!"

"What about us?" Harry asked.

"The rest of you, with me. We're following Jones once he gets the team together."

"I'm beginning to like this," Neal said with a grin.

"In the van," Peter added. Neal's face fell. "No arguments or you get left behind," he said even as Neal opened his mouth to protest.

Twenty minutes later they barreled down the highway headed to Long Island. Harry grabbed the end of a table as the van lurched dangerously around a curve and precariously righted itself. Hermione and Ron looked equally pale beside him.

"Couldn't we have just Apparated there instead?" Ron whispered. "Blimey! I think my stomach is still at the hotel."

"Don't talk," Hermione advised, screwing her eyes tightly shut, "just concentrate on something."

"What?"

"Anything!"

"How about Quidditch?"

"Fine."

"It's really not so much different than this, is it?"

Right then, the van shot up several inches and Harry could swear they were airborne. The van landed with a jarring thump against the pavement and with barely a screech in the tires, Peter resumed his breakneck pace.

They swerved to the side of the road and screeched to a stop so abruptly that Harry slammed against the metal casing protecting the back area from the drivers. He heard arguing up front but couldn't decipher the words. After a long moment (and some doors opening and slamming shut), the window popped open and Neal beamed at them.

"Sorry for the ride thus far, guys, but it took me a while to manhandle Peter away from the wheel. I trust your travels will be more enjoyable now on."

Peter's voice rang clear from the seat beside him. "If you don't get moving, Neal, I'm taking back over driving."

Neal grimaced. "That's my cue." With one last wink, he snapped the window divider shut and stomped on the gas. Harry tumbled backwards into Ron, who smashed into one of the computer terminals.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," Harry apologized. He righted himself as Hermione repaired the cracked terminal with a wave of her wand.

Though Neal started off rocky enough, he settled into a smooth yet clipped pace, with none of the abrupt turns and harrowing dodges Peter performed.

Harry had never been so grateful to see solid ground in his entire life. Not when he first landed after his first Portkey teleport. Not after that that one queasy broomride that ended with him inhaling half the airborne insect population in Britain. Not even after George decided to practice an improvised prank spell combining Wingardium Leviosa with one of his nauseating Skiving Snackboxes. Never than at the moment Neal Caffrey stopped the van and cracked open the doors for them.

Peter had already gone on ahead, barking orders into a walkie-talkie as he shrugged into a thick black vest with FBI emblazoned in bright yellow on the chest. Agents in similar attire swarmed the place, ducking from one concealed hiding spot to another. Harry remembered Hermione mentioning something about that once. The lettering offered itself as a type of target, subconsciously allowing most criminals to aim at the thickly padded (and relatively safer area) of the chest rather than the head or other exposed areas.

"We should really stay in the van," Neal said. He hopped lightly on the floor and sat with his legs dangling below him.

After ten minutes of perimeter sweep, Peter motioned the group to move in. Harry half expected to hear loud gunfire, but the raid was surprisingly quiet. A bird chirped in the distance, breaking the stillness. He soon learned why.

"Empty," Peter said, stalking over to the van at last. "We'll post agents in case he comes back, but there's nothing here to suggest he'll be returning."

"Can we go in?" Ron asked.

"Don't see why not. Might be useful."

As Peter led them to the house, Harry frowned at the carport. Peter caught his gaze. "Already checked it," he told Harry. "There aren't any cars in there, nor is there any evidence there ever were any."

"He was lying."

"Apparently so. Builds more credence to the claim that he might have been the guy Vinson was meeting all along. No fancy cars."

"I remember," Harry said. He cast one last look at the garage before entering the house.

Inside, agents streamed up and down the staircase. Some carried bags of evidence. Waste of time, thought Harry. Talmon wouldn't leave anything behind. From Peter's expression as he watched, it was clear the agent shared the same thought.

Hermione and Ron gravitated toward the tapestries and had their heads bent together discussing something in a low voice. Neal was busy examining a few of the sword collections with obvious interest. Beside him, Peter cleared his throat and went to babysit his consultant. Harry was about to join Ron and Hermione when a piece of paper caught his attention.

The Basch Rose Art Galleria cordially invites you to join in an evening gala to celebrate the opening of our new exhibit.

The date was set for the following evening.

Why would Talmon show up at a gala? Harry thought. Peter stepped over and Harry wordlessly held out the paper to him.

"He's seeking a buyer," the FBI agent said promptly.

Wow, that was a fast deduction.

Neal sauntered over with his usual flair and agreed with Peter's conclusion. "Does that mean we get to go undercover again?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Peter pursed his lips but seemed to seriously debate the question. "I think it's an angle we have to pursue," he finally said.

"Yes!" Neal crowed. "Hermione! Want to go out on a second date?" he called across the room.

Hermione turned to him in confusion, then looked to Peter's exasperated expression. "Another assignment?" she inquired.

Neal beamed. Peter sighed. Harry desperately wished he were anywhere but here.

"I'm not taking any chances this time," said Peter. "We'll all be going."


Author's Note: This is when I got inspired to write Business Trip. Though some of the finer details have changed slightly between some things I wrote in that story and what actually happens in this story, for the most part I wrote it while thinking of this story. In my mind, I treat it as a deleted scene, even though if I were to blend it in as a chapter in this story, I would need to plug up a few minor plot holes.

That's part of the reason I wanted to actually finish a first draft of this story before posting anything. After I wrote Business Trip, I went back to several chapters and tweaked/added things to make everything make sense in the end. That wouldn't have been fair to you readers to change things up after I posted the chapters.