Chapter Five - Assistance

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, his head and brain aching with fatigue. Leaving the Ministry for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's had been the best thing, of course, but that didn't stop the long hours of a Healer's day from being just as exhausting as chasing down the last of the Death Eaters. It was also less likely to induce the same adrenaline rush that had made the Department of Magical Law Enforcement such an exciting place to work.

Still, he was a Master of Death. He much preferred to be preventing it, rather than inflicting it.

Between his reputation as a war hero and Rita Skeeter's scathing biographies, reception of Harry Potter, Auror, had always been a mixed bag. More often than not, his presence on an Auror squad had endangered his comrades, usually much more than the protection he provided. He found that his main objective, on any assignment, was to protect people, and when that had occasionally extended to keeping a captured Death Eater from dying of their Auror-inflicted wounds - well, some of his fellow Aurors weren't particularly content with that. Ron never had a problem, of course, but Ronald Weasley was one of Harry's best friends, and understood better than just about everyone how much a death - any death - meant to Harry.

He could look Death in the face, and accept it for what it was, but he was duty-bound to do something about it, no matter the cost.

The cost, it turned out, had been higher than he'd anticipated. The friends he'd made at the Ministry - at least, the ones who were relatively well-positioned - hadn't been particularly cordial to him since the incident with the Lestranges. One of the last raids that Kingsley Shacklebolt had spearheaded before being elected Minister for Magic, at the end of a months-long manhunt for two of Voldemort's fiercest supporters, had come to a close in a ramshackle little place in the back of nowhere, when one spell or other had set the place on fire, trapping Rabastan Lestrange inside. Harry had insisted, quite correctly, that the man should be retrieved from the flames. If he died, they'd have lost their one good lead in finding his brother, Rodolphus. He could also have set up the blaze himself, to fake his death and make another escape. But that wasn't what had concerned Harry when he'd heard the man's panicked screams, and he'd realized that Rabastan, in that instant, was facing his own death. He cared nothing for the case, the law, or the just imprisonment of one of Voldemort's most evil henchmen. No one deserved to die that way, no matter what crimes they'd committed. He couldn't let that happen to anyone.

Harry had always been as rubbish at hiding his feelings as he was at lying.

He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had shown compassion for a Death Eater. For a man who'd tortured countless people, and killed who knows how many more, all for the cause of blood purity, in the name of the darkest wizard who ever lived.

He didn't blame them for not understanding. But that didn't make the cold shoulders any easier to live with.

...oooOOOooo…

Hermione let out her breath in one swift gust the moment the tent flap closed behind her. Sirius's return had stirred up far too many old memories for his presence to be a comfort yet, and there had been too much to take in about this day already - at least if she was trying to do it alone.

Thankfully, she didn't have to.

She pulled the trunk out from under the table, jiggling the thick metal latch. With a heave she lifted the lid, and fished around in one of the many pockets sewn into the side of the lining. She had applied Undetectable Extension Charms to most of them, but one she had kept unextended. She slipped her hand into it, and pulled out a small, shiny oblong.

The spell itself was relatively simple, but it had taken years to perfect the disguise. Talking to a makeup compact in public was simply too out of the ordinary for the two-way mirrors to be usable anywhere there were Muggles about. The advent of smartphones had changed all that. Muggles were now thoroughly used to seeing other people talking to someone's face on a rectangular screen; the only challenge had been to transfigure the spelled mirrors to look like one of these sleek technological wonders. Hermione pulled her treasure out from its place of honor in the trunk, and whispered gently onto its surface: "Harry."

Moments later, a familiar face appeared: a slight man in his thirties with erratic black hair, which was showing the first hints of greying at the temples, and not quite covering a jagged scar on his forehead. He looked tired, and concerned. "Hi," he said, rubbing his eyes briefly as he adjusted a pair of thick-framed spectacles on his face. His eyes focused behind the lenses, and a look of concern creased his face. "What's wrong?"

Sirius is back. The words sounded so strange in her mind that she couldn't so much as form them. She went with the lesser of the afternoon's two oddities. "I need your help," she said, focusing on the more immediately pressing matter. "I've had...a visitor, and he's wounded. He looks like he's been shot...with something."

"Muggle, or magical?" Harry said, then backtracked. "No, wait, person first, then the thing that injured him."

Hermione frowned. "I think he is magical, but something, maybe this injury, is draining his magic."

"Wait," Harry said, peering at her closely, "if he's a wizard, why haven't you brought him to St. Mungo's?"

"He's magical," she said, "but he doesn't seem to know about the Wizarding World. It's...it's odd. You'll just have to see him, I can't explain.

Harry's look was guarded, but only on her account. They'd known each other too long for them to doubt each other. "I'm almost finished here," he said, after a moment's pause. "I'm supposed to meet Ron after shift," he said. "Can I bring him?"

Hermione considered for a moment. "It'll be fine. He might even be able to help. I'll meet you at the wards," she decided. "I have someone else here...someone you'll have to see to believe."

Eyebrow cocked at her cryptic words, Harry gave a nod, that was nevertheless full of misgivings. "I'll tell Ron to meet me there. Sounds like the sooner we're there, the better."

Hermione's expression was cautious too, but there was a gleam in her eyes that Harry hadn't seen in a long time, which could have been hope, or excitement. Or fear. He nodded once more, and with a swift "See you soon," he broke the connection, slipped the mirror in his pocket, and ran for the nearest fireplace.

"Ron Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he said as the Floo powder hit the flames.

Ron's face quickly appeared in the heart of the fire, with an indignant, "What? You're not working late again, are you?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I'm on time for once. Just a slight change of plan. Meet me at home?"

Ron frowned at his friend's lack of explanation, but nodded. "Right. I won't be much longer here. When will you be done?"

"I'll be there shortly - in, say, a quarter of an hour," Harry chimed.

"Right," said Ron, and his face disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

Harry hurried back to his desk, cleared away the detritus of the sandwich he'd gobbled down while tending to this evening's reports, grabbed his cloak and flew back to the fireplace. "Number 12 Grimmauld Place," he said, and vanished with the green flames.

...oooOOOooo...

Hermione met them at the base of an ancient oak, her long cloak pulled tight about her in the late evening chill. Ron and Harry arrived within seconds of each other, Apparating into the small clearing in the surrounding thicket, the closest completely secluded place to Hermione's camping spot. Harry put his hand on her shoulder, giving it a friendly but worried squeeze.

Ron stood back a little, more agitated than his friend. "Hermione," he blurted brashly, "what's going on?"

Her eyes darted back and forth between them. "Someone needs help," she said, "and you're the only two I could really trust with this."

The two men shrugged acceptance of this explanation, and Hermione turned, signaling them to follow her. The edge of the ward was only a few strides away, and once they had walked through, she turned to the two men and told them about the injured man she had found.

Ron gaped at this. "You mean you just took in a strange man, who may or may not be a wizard - who may not even be human?"

"Actually," she admitted, "I'm almost positive he's not human. But who or what he might be isn't easy to determine, and he's not particularly forthcoming about himself."

Harry was looking at her intently, reading his friend's mood, if not her mind. "Clearly you're worried about him," he said, looking Hermione straight in the eye. "Why?" It was a serious question, not a challenge.

Hermione glanced back and forth between them, the two men in the world who'd known her longest, who knew her best. "I worry about this man, Loki, because of his despair. It rolls off him. He is injured, by something that has stolen his powers, and he wants to die, but whatever it is won't let him." Her look of concentration deepened into her habitual frown. "He's like Draco was, end of sixth year. He's driven, but misguided, and subject to a power that is consuming him. And my greatest worry," she concluded, "is that I don't know what this power is or where it comes from. Or how to fight it."

This time Ron spoke up, frowning. "How do you know he's not a threat?"

Hermione shook her head, reaching up to twist one of the short curls near her temple. "He's too injured to be dangerous at the moment. Besides, he has...a very convincing alibi." She bit her lip, hesitating, "Someone else came here with him. Someone I...trust."

The question 'who' was obviously on both men's lips, but she remained mute, face tight with strain, as they passed through the second set of wards. Once they did, the camp popped into view. The campfire had died utterly, the clearing wrapped in shadows. Small sounds of movement issued from the tent, along with a sliver of light. Hermione hung back from her own front door, just for a second, before touching the tent flap. Before she could lift it, it opened from the inside. A man of middling height, face cast into deep shadow, was turned away from the door, saying something to another person inside.

"It's all very well, she's back now, with help for your ungrateful hide, most likely," he chided, before turning to the trio at the door. "I got him indoors out of the chill, and into the light you'd need to check on him. He growled like a grumpy hippogriff, but the bandage looks none the worse for wear."

Ron stepped forward cautiously, giving Hermione a stunned, incredulous look. Harry remained frozen to the spot. Hermione took his arm, carefully watching his face. "It's him," she said quietly. "I didn't dare believe it at first, but...see for yourself."

Harry nodded mutely, and let himself be led into the tent. The glow of a lamp illuminated the small chamber, falling mostly on the cluttered table. A long, lean person was stretched out on the small cot, face turned away from the light, head propped with pillows, shins dangling over the end of the narrow bed.

On a small camp chair nearby, sat a ghost. Or someone who should have been a ghost.