Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JK Rowling's.

Chapter 21

The Deathly Hallows

14th November, 1998

Harry loved his job. It really was all it was made out to be: interesting, challenging, and always eventful. He even enjoyed the lessons, which were the bane of most of his colleagues' existence. The pay was good even though it was only his first year as a trainee. And to wrap it all up, they were finally making some leeway on the Rookwood case. So why wasn't he happy? Several reasons.

First of all, the Rookwood case frightened him more than it did anything else. Though it wasn't really the case, or even Rookwood himself. It was Lee. The Lee who had once brought a tarantula to Hogwarts, who had commentated most of Harry's Hogwarts Quidditch matches, who had always shadowed Fred and George and been there for their best pranks – that same Lee now scared the shit out of Harry. For one thing, he was pretty sure Lee could beat him in a wizard's duel blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back. Harry had the talent – the feel for a spell, the ability to predict what was going to happen –, but Lee had the dedication and the determination. Were there three D's for duelling like there were for Apparating? Dedication, determination, destruction. Lee had the first two down to a T – or was that a D? –, and he was well on his way to acquiring the third. Because Harry couldn't pull the wool over his own eyes for very long: Lee didn't want to catch Rookwood from any sense of duty or patriotism or whatever. Lee wanted to track Rookwood down to the ends of the Earth, rough him up a lot, and send him straight to Azkaban without trial. Or maybe throw him into that place where the Dementors had gathered since they'd been thrown out of Azkaban.

Second, he missed his friends. Hermione was at Hogwarts and she hadn't written to him once since she'd left. Ron hadn't spoken to him since he'd learnt that Harry was going after Rookwood. That had been over two months ago. Harry missed the companionship, the comfortable blunders, the bickering, the friends that had always been there for him.

Thirdly, of course, there was Ginny. Ginny whom he'd written a thoughtless letter the month before, stating that he missed her, that he hoped she was doing well, and that he wanted to keep in touch. The fact that he and Ginny had never been friends to send each other letters when they were apart – that they had had gone straight from distant acknowledgement to obsession to couple status – was left unsaid. He did miss her, missed everyone really, and was desperate to renew some sort of link with her, despite the rumours in the Prophet, which portrayed the Chosen One's ex as anything between a poor abandoned girlfriend and a scarlet woman. In one particular article Ginny was said to be "having fun" at Hogwarts, and Harry gritted his teeth at the obvious statement the Prophet was trying to implicitly get across.

Ginny hadn't owled back.

The fourth and last thing that ruined what could have been happiness for Harry was the fact that this exercise was impossible. He was good at field work; this type of riddle – a "What would you do if...?" question – was beyond him. "React intuitively" was probably not the right answer.

He glanced over at Lee, who had already finished the exercise – two feet of tight, neat writing – and was scribbling away in a dark blue notebook Harry recognised as his casebook, the place he was supposed to write about Rookwood in. Harry had only filled about five pages in his own casebook – basic information about Rookwood (name, age, place of birth) and about his crimes (date, notable facts), a few false leads. But Lee had to be at least halfway through the notebook. It was open to a page gradually being filled with figures, runes, deductions and question marks.

Harry looked up, saw that the instructor was busy explaining something to Ron – lucky him –, and slowly inched closer to Lee until he could clearly see what was being written. And the sight sent a shiver running up his spine.

At the top of the page was a drawing Harry could have mistaken for a rune if he hadn't known what it really was. A circle and a vertical line inside a triangle. It could have been an eye. It was the sign of the Deathly Hallows.

"Where did you –" Harry started to say.

Lee's head whipped around and he slammed his casebook shut.

"What was that?" Harry asked.

"Nothing important."

He was lying. And Lee was a good liar, excellent even. He could make up the most simple yet brilliant excuses and explain them in such an utterly convincing way that Harry had started to doubt everything he said. This time it wasn't hard to guess the lie; Lee hadn't bothered to even think of an excuse. "Nothing important" had to be the lamest lie ever.

"I know that sign," Harry said. "And I know what it means."

Lee's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"It's true," Harry said. "So if you tell me where you found this..."

Lee looked around almost nervously. "At lunch," he said firmly, and leaned back over his exercise sheet. "You need help with that?"

Harry lied and said no.

Lee put his fork down, drew something from his pocket and slid a photograph across the table to Harry. Harry looked at it and almost threw up his dessert (a too-watery yoghurt).

It was a man, dark-skinned and in his late forties. He was dead. His eyes were wide open and he was naked from the waist up. On his torso, just over where his heart would be, the sign of the Deathly Hallows was carved into the skin.

"My father," Lee said by way of explanation. "Killed by Rookwood, though I didn't know until – until Katie told me. I got this last week –" he lowered his voice – "from Savage's desk. Duplicated and nicked it. But I can't figure out what it means."

"I'm not sure I'll be much help," Harry admitted, handing the photograph back to Lee. When Lee's eyes narrowed, he added hastily, "I do know what the sign means. It's just, it doesn't make much sense in context. I'm sure of it, though; it's the sign of the Hallows."

Lee cocked his head. "The what?"

"The Deathly Hallows. Do you know The Tale of the Three Brothers?"

"The fairytale?"

"Exactly. The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility are the three Hallows. It's a legend some people believe in. Supposedly the Hallows make one master of Death when he possesses them all."' Harry hesitated. "The Stone and Wand have disappeared, or maybe they never existed." It wasn't a complete lie, was it? "I have the Cloak. And that's all I know about the Hallows – but I don't know why Rookwood would have left that sign. Even Voldemort himself didn't know about the Hallows."

"Mysteries upon mysteries," Lee muttered. He shrugged. "And I thought it might be a clue..."

The bitterness in Lee's tone did not escape Harry.

"Maybe it can be," he said. "It should be fairly easy to track down people who know about the Hallows. From what I know, the tale is passed on by word of mouth – and, of course, Beedle the Bard's story. Rookwood must have heard about it from someone who didn't know who he was."

"That's way too vague."

"Yeah, but I know someone who might know something. Remember Luna Lovegood from school?"

"Of course."

"Well, her father is a believer. We'll check up on him tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah," Lee said, and smiled. "Thanks, Harry."

"Any time."

"The stupid thing was, I was this close to finding a runic meaning for the sign. Can you believe it? I would have –"

The hair stood up on the back of Harry's neck. "What did you think it could mean?"

"I'd broken down the drawing into four basic runes," Lee explained. "This is Hell –" he drew a small c – "this is the verb 'to run' –" a reversed c, next to the first rune – "this is snow –" the triangle – "and this is burn." The vertical line with an arrow at its tip. "See, you get – almost – the sign."

"It does fit," Harry acknowledged. "Almost. But it wouldn't mean anything, would it?"

Lee smiled. "Runes can be read in two different ways, as words or as letters. For example the 'run' rune represents the letter I. Snow is N, burn is T and Hell is W."

He tore another page out of his casebook and showed it to Harry, who recognised it as the one Lee had been writing when he'd caught him. At the top was the sign of the Hallows; right at the bottom of the four letters were arranged in different ways. Wint, Tin W, Twin. The last was underlined twice.

Harry looked up quizzically. "You think Rookwood –"

Lee's jaw was set. "I know about the Hallows thing, but –"

"No," Harry said firmly. "Impossible. It doesn't make any sense. He didn't know about the Battle of Hogwarts before it happened. And why would he target Fred?"

"I know," Lee said. "I didn't understand either. So I suppose the Hallows theory is the right one. Only... I don't believe in coincidences."

"This isn't a coincidence. It's speculation. And besides, you wanted to find something like this. You tried dozens of interpretations before settling on the one you liked best."

"I know," Lee said again, sounding annoyed. "I know." He looked away.

Harry had a gut feeling, and it wasn't good.

"Lee..." he began.

"Don't say it," Lee said warningly.

"Maybe you should just give the case up," Harry said anyway.

"I won't," Lee said flatly, and that was that.

Harry wasn't just scared of Lee. He was worried for him, too. Lee was getting delusional, seeing things that weren't there, obsessing over the case, training until he nearly died from exhaustion. He ate and slept so little Harry didn't know what was keeping him upright. Well, that wasn't quite true. He did know. Lee lived off his hatred, which couldn't be anywhere near healthy.

Depression. Friendship. Anger. Can you see where this is all going? In this fic, I've just taken a few extremes and jumbled them all together: Alicia and her withdrawal. George's depression. Hermione, reaching out to Draco. And now Lee, who lives fuelled only by his hatred.

This is fun.

The first plot I came up with – I mean, the first personal sub-plot, beyond everyone just trying to cope – was Lee's. His best friend died, murdered at the hand of the man who killed his father. And he was out for revenge. Okay, so I used a bit – a lot – of artistic license here. It went with the mood of the story I wanted to write.