Thanks all for the response.
Many thanks to wolf550e for helping me correct the brief Russian. If anyone can help me correct the Polish, please send me a pm. I'm very grateful for assistance with regards to language (even English – mistypes are the bane of my writing career).
There is no excuse for the lateness of this chapter- I hope the content makes up for it. It was not easy to rewrite and I've had to make restructuring an art.
Happy New Year via the Christian calendar.
Cheers & Peace, G.L.
Professor McGonagall sat alone in her chambers.
Still she could not sleep.
Over and over in her mind, she saw the events of Christmas Eve – they did not stop. Indeed, when she closed her eyes they only seemed to roll faster and clearer than before.
Harry Potter of her house?
Harry Potter, the murderer.
Harry Potter of her classes?
Harry Potter, the equal of vampires.
Harry Potter, the son of James and Lily Potter?
Harry Potter taking a bullet...
Minerva McGonagall was not an easy woman to shake up. She'd seen a lot of happenings in her life, from growing up in an orphan in Arinagour; as an academic and Ministry employee; as a teacher from '56; during the War... not many things would make her stop in her tracks.
Not many things could actually make her lose sleep.
She could not believe what she'd seen of the young Potter. He'd never ceased to surprise her – from his appearance on the first day to his excellent performance in classes – but the most recent revelations had made her doubt almost everything she thought herself to know.
But, the thought wrenched itself from her clouded psyche, he is still my student.
She shook her head, rubbing her eyes, trying to maintain her composure for her own sake if no-one else's.
I don't even know if he's still alive, she reasoned. I saw him shot – he and that Chinese gentleman I recognised briefly... the ex-student. Chai? No... Chow, or something like it.
She stood abruptly, knocking her cup and saucer off the arm of the chair. They landed on the stone floor – the cup smashed but the saucer didn't. Tea with brandy splashed in droplet laces under her desk.
On instinct she raised her wand – although she hadn't realised she had it in her hand – and pointed it at the mess – the broken china and the saucer still clattering.
Without thinking, she transfigured it where it was instead of vanishing it... she could feel it. It happened quickly but she could feel every strand, every particle within it, changing... that was her skill. That was her natural gift for transfiguration. The shards of china and the liquids and all of it moved as one entity, thinned out and forming colour, bending and becoming softer, writhing amongst the other pieces like a pile of snakes, until...
A teatowel.
She closed her eyes, physically restraining herself from swaying on the spot, surprised she wasn't smiling.
What do I need to do? She asked herself with her eyes closed. I need to head to St Mungos and check that Severus is properly recovering. I need to check in on Professor Quirrel in the dungeons. I need to... to go and see Albus.
I need to make some sense of everything, but that is a lower priority.
She sniffed, straightening her back, but something caught her eye – the teatowel she'd just transmogrified.
Sickened, she stared at it – a black and white and red depiction of what she saw in the bathroom of the restaurant.
Harry Potter's silhouette standing over the bathroom attendant.
"Oh, for goodness' sake," she muttered, vanishing the whole thing with a sweep of her wand.
Straightening her robes out, she set her jaw and walked towards the fireplace.
"Hmm?" Taye said, with a frown as Malfoy Senior. "Dead?"
Harry sighed, snapping, "Yes. He was killed at that restaurant thing."
"The IRA attack?"
Harry eyed him.
"You honestly believed it was IRA?"
"Of course not," Taye hissed, suddenly with a short South African bite. "It was the fucking Marksmen again, as always, but why was Mike there?"
Harry didn't answer, too weary to go into detail. He moved to the slumbering fireplace.
"I was assured," Taye said, "that the Marksmen were not involved in this little job. Mike was finished with them. Why was he there, brat?"
Harry looked at him again – when you looked closer, you could see some of Taye behind the cosmetics. Minor tells to be sure, but they were there – especially when he scowled in such a petulant and nervous way.
"Stop making such a stupid face," he said quietly, looking away once more. "If someone looks closely they'll see it isn't him. I wish you'd let me magic you into him, for Christ's sake..."
Taye spat a gobbet onto the dusty floor of the tavern's private chamber.
"The hell with your magic, little prick that you are. They're fuckin' goblins anyway, eh? They'll know sooner or later," he said, and Harry felt him turn away again. "Bastard – I've come out of character now – that's the only thing that's going to keep them believing, at the end of the day, no? And Mike killed in an attack on or by the Marksmen, mm? This just gets better and better."
"Just glare imperiously at anyone staring at you," Harry said, rubbing his forehead. "What time is it?"
"We're overdue – because you're fucking late and the chinky's fucking dead and I've been sitting in this fucking wizard shit-end of no-fucking-where for three hours. Where are the keys?"
Harry stopped dead, eyes widening.
There is no just God, he decided.
Taye was silent for a few moments.
"Oh – oh, right – let me fuckin' guess, eh? You haven't got the keys? Or better yet – Mike had the keys, and they've been blown to kingdom fucking come, eh?"
Harry stared, speechless, into the empty fireplace.
Taye continued, his voice rising, shouting, "Maybe the Marksmen were looking after the keys, eh? Maybe that's what this all was about – maybe that's where this whole thing was going to go wrong from the fucking start, eh?"
"Stop shouting," Harry instructed vaguely. His face creased into a frown as he turned to Mike, asking, "Are you drunk?"
Taye span towards him, his Malfoy robes whirling.
"What?" he spat.
"Are you fucking drunk, Taye?" Harry asked, the hairs on the back of his neck raising.
"Drunk?" Taye said, leering. "That's relevant, uh? Of course I'm drunk, you little fuck – I haven't done a job sober in thirty years. It helps me concentrate, and calms my fucking nerves, which is great in the case of some little arse-fucking child involving the fucking Marksmen in a - "
Before he could finish, Harry was upon him, striking his neck.
Taye hissed and his fist lurched up to meet Harry's chin as he buckled – Harry was knocked backwards slightly, taken by surprise, but managed to lift a leg and kick Taye in the stomach as he went down.
A suppressed shot went off by his waist and he jolted away from the heat of it – Taye had pulled a gun from somewhere in the robes.
As he went down, with a flailing leg, Harry kicked the gun from Taye's grip – almost. Taye held on, barely, and rolled with the force of the blow on his hand, the silencer-fitted handgun going off once more and the blowback forcing the weapon back into Taye's palm.
Harry, on his back, lashed out with his legs, trying to restrain his art in the heat of the moment, trying desperately to hold himself out of his centre.
Taye's free hand grabbed Harry's clothing as he tried to roll free and the wizard sensed the handgun coming around once more. He lurched awkwardly forwards, off of his back and into a seated position, forcing the extended barrel away from his face as it went off yet again, striking at Taye's latex-disguised face with his other hand, no longer caring about the disguise's validity.
Some fingers dug into the nerve-knots in his shoulder and Harry felt his legs go numb – he realised as he was pummelled that he was the only person holding the gun, though it was by the warm silencer itself – he couldn't reach his other arm around to grasp the handle.
Harry tried to think as he wrestled and grappled with a stunned but very capable killer on the floor of the Leaky Cauldron... if he tried to flip the gun into his hand and didn't catch it, he'd drop it. Holding it as it is would allow Taye to grab it again at will. Flinging it away would surrender any advantage of holding it. Using his Art..? He'd probably pass out and be murdered unconscious.
Act, Shujin, he told himself furiously, exhausted and frustrated.
Despite the torn latex hanging over his eyes, one of Taye's hands found Harry's windpipe and the fingers pinched purposefully.
Harry lurched backwards, his arm coming down and swinging the gun handle-first into Taye's nose.
To his surprise and despair, Taye was once again only stunned, and after a brief moment pitched forwards, blood not-quite-yet pouring from his nose, tumbling onto the lighter, weakened Harry and grabbing the handgun.
Harry tried to get his mind into gear – tried to focus – as he used his elbow to pummel Taye's face some more.
"Stupid fuck," Taye screamed gutturally, spittle covering Harry's face. "In Botswana, at your age, I - "
Harry never got to find out exactly what Taye did in Botswana – at that exact moment, stilling their contest completely, the fireplace exploded with green flames.
I need to feed...
The mantra rolled through his head continuously as he watched the doorway from the corner of the street.
It was an overcast day but Saevus was taking a risk – the weather was predicted to clear up. He didn't care though – he was becoming obsessive.
I need to feed...
For an entire day he'd hunted the mark – the boy – Shujin. For an entire day... Christmas day. When he should have been tormenting his family, he was out non-stop, searching for some trace of where Shujin had gone after vanishing from his grasp.
Now, he'd found him. He'd watched him from the bridge earlier on – he'd followed carefully, trying to catch him alone, wondering all along... had the venom caught him?
Was he beginning to turn..?
I need to feed...
He wouldn't put it past little Shujin to have somehow escaped that fate, but still – his teeth had sunk into him and he'd injected his curse without a doubt before the boy had disappeared.
Are you yet my slave, boy? He asked.
It was a good sign that he was alive – many mortals are not strong enough to sustain vampirism, and succumb to the curse as though to a serious fever... before they turn completely they are dead. Age is irrelevant – the required strength is in soul.
...and in potential.
I need to feed...
If he had not turned, Saevus would not try again. He swore that to himself – if it had failed once it would surely fail again anyway... no, he knew he'd had his chance.
Now the only fate that awaited him was death.
I need to FEED...
He groaned, leaning against the window he was next to, legs almost caving in with the weight of the curse... with the agony of unquenchable thirst...
He craved the boy's blood – little had ever been craved in a deeper or more perverse way. It was not the same desire that would drive Greek pederasts after young boys... it was not sexual, although the primitive lust and ultimate satisfaction would no doubt be similar... no, it was a deeper, more arcane and simple craving, and more powerful for it.
He, a being of darkness and death, would sup on the nectar of a strong, good, heartfelt and meaningful life...
Unable to bear it anymore, he turned and staggered across Diagon Alley to the shadows of Knockturn on the other side. He had to feed, or he'd go insane with frustration and either tear into the magically-crowded Leaky Cauldron in a frenzy, or go irreversibly demented right there on the Alley itself.
Feeding off of some lesser being would sustain him for the moment, and would unfortunately temporarily destroy his hunger, but he couldn't time his Urges – his curse controlled him, not the other way around.
Saevus would have to try to save the boy until he really, really felt it again... only then would Shujin know the sheer horror of a Vampire's respect.
The flames turned green with a loud whoosh, and Minerva McGonagall landed in the room.
Poppy Pomfrey jumped out of her chair with a start, unused to someone such as the Professor intruding in such a drastic and discourteous manner. The parchment she was reading drifted off of her desk.
"Professor!?" she exclaimed, trying to regain her composure.
McGonagall looked around the office, eyes tired and looking quite dishevelled, only half-heartedly dusting herself off.
Quirrel was fine – he had been interrupted while repairing his charred purple turban, his head smooth and healed properly, muttering to himself quietly. She'd offered to check his head again for him but he assured her it was just a graze and going back to the way it was very nicely. As tempted as she'd been to, she didn't tell him he should have been on his feet and fighting for longer if it was a mere graze...
Snape was conscious and very unhappy in his St. Mungo's accommodation. Speaking to the healers had confirmed he would be out and fighting fit that evening despite the lacerations to his lung, which was healing sufficiently quickly, and also confirmed that she could safely collect his memory of the evening for Albus' perusal and comparison.
After evading the curious Aurors outside the door of the chamber she'd managed to; she held the small, glass vial of silvery Thought in her right hand and her wand in her left.
"Apologies, Poppy," she said with a perfunctory smile. "I didn't mean to intrude. Is the Headmaster still here?"
Flustered, the matron muttered an affirmative and bustled over to the doorway, for some reason slowing a little as she got closer. Minerva stood back and allowed her to open the door for her, then stepped through after her, and like Poppy, for some strange reason she found herself wanting to turn back...
There was a beat of heart-stopping confusion until Poppy's cry was distinguishable from Minerva's only in pitch.
"Albus?" the transfiguration teacher breathed after the chorus, as Poppy rushed over to him.
On the floor of the hospital wing laid Albus Dumbledore, unconscious, and bleeding from his temple where a gunshot had grazed him months before. His robes were crumpled and in a few places torn, and his pensieve was on the ground next to him, cracked and broken down the middle, the memory all evaporated.
As Poppy began to cast furious diagnostic charms on the prone Headmaster, McGonagall looked at the mess that was the rest of the room – the site of a very serious and very deadly duel; the floor was scorched, the windows broken, half of the beds and bed-curtains were destroyed or mangled, and a few had been piled into the middle in what was now nothing more than a burnt husk.
Confused, McGonagall closed her eyes and tried to get her bearings. Still frowning, she turned towards the open door into the matron's office and reflexively cast her own diagnostic charm.
Not quite an Imperturbable Charm... no - a Suppression Charm, she registered. A very, very powerful Suppression Charm... the rest of the castle could have been ripped away by tornado and Poppy wouldn't have even realised. So it was Mr. Chow who cast the one in the restaurant in London that stopped Albus and the aurors from apparating in...
She closed her eyes once more and shuddered, wondering just who on Earth young Harry Potter had got himself mixed up with.
And yet, somehow, things were beginning to make some sense.
Alright, her well-ordered but heavily-tried mind began. Top priority – where is Chow? He somehow bested Albus – most likely took him by surprise. Next Priority – Albus himself. Finally – until the Headmaster is fully recovered, I need to take it upon myself to find Harry Potter.
She nodded briskly and turned back to the room, for the moment ignoring Poppy and the still Headmaster. Her sharp eyes, so often tested in the classroom, soon found something... a small velvet pouch.
She tried to summon it and, for some reason, it didn't work – as she moved closer she discovered why.
It was the Headmaster's Floo Pouch – he wore it inside one of his sleeves. It was resistant to summoning and magical detachment, but... yes, she saw as she reached it.
The small, golden cord has been cut, she told herself. And the pouch is empty. That explains the pyre in the middle of the room – Chow used it to escape.
She cursed under her breath. It was hard enough to track a registered Floo Network firecall... this would be almost impossible.
Unless he Floo'd to a registered fireplace address..?
She knew she'd be using some of her own pouch very soon, but first –
"Madam Pomfrey," she said, the volume of her voice seeming almost disrespectful. "How is he?"
On her knees, the nurse leant back, wiping her palms on her gown and shaking her head fretfully.
"From the looks of it he's been cursed badly – a botched version of the Coma Curse first of all, presumably to no effect on its own, but combined with a Stunner too? He'll be out for – for..." she seemed to struggle to say it, but soldiered on, finishing with, "out indefinitely, maybe. Until the caster undoes it or – or dies himself."
McGonagall couldn't believe her ears.
"He could be unconscious indefinitely?" she whispered.
"It isn't certain – botched curses can be horribly unpredictable," Pomfrey finished lamely, almost on the verge of tears.
"Merlin, I – he - " McGonagall gaped before regaining her sensibility with a swallow. "Poppy – inform the faculty immediately – if there's anything else that can be done for the Headmaster at a better suited facility, move him to St. Mungo's... if it's as hopeless as you say, treat him as best you can here."
She marched back towards the office, shoving Snape's memory vial into her pocket and fumbling for her Floo Powder.
"Minerva!" Poppy screeched from behind her. "Why am I informing the faculty? What shall I say!?"
"Because for the moment I am acting Headmistress – that is, until the aurors and I find Mr. Chow."
"Fuckin' 'ell, you're as bad as each otha', ya know."
Harry narrowed his eyes, still not looking at Mike.
"Alright, resented, but," Taye said jovially, "how in the good fuck are you alive, eh, chinky?"
"Taye – pu' tha fuckin' gun down."
"Oh, no," Taye replied, laughing slightly. "You've got maybe three of four more questions before the gun gets lowered, brau."
"Fuckin' A," Mike growled. "I'm alive, as I said, 'cos the portkey the old woman gave me for you, Shujin, stayed in my 'and when I saw ya weren' there. Speakin' o' which – I'm jus' as fuckin' surprised to see you walkin' about, mate."
Finally, Harry turned to him – he looked absolutely terrible.
"Don't say anything yet, Mike," Harry said, stalling him. "What books did you buy me the other day?"
"You wha'?"
Harry stared at him blankly.
"Uh – the tattoin' ones yer mean?"
Harry nodded, frowning, thinking.
"Ok," he said. "When did you buy the bird?"
"The - ? Mar? Uhm... few days 'fore I gave it to ya..."
"Which was when?" Harry pressed, daring to hope.
"Fuck, Shujin – don' remember tha date, mate, but i' was when I dropped ya off fer school."
Harry nodded, relieved.
"Thank fuck," he said bluntly. "Taye, it's him."
The South African, his latex face left in tatters, had not yet cooled towards Harry.
"It's him?" he echoed, before inhaling deeply. "It's him? Are you fucking mad, you little bastard? I know it's fucking him, brau, of course it's fucking him- I'm not a fucking idiot, eh? Its Mike Fucking Chow eh, no problem, we all go back and sit dandy, eh? No - fuck you, you chinky cunt and you miniature fucking psychopath, it's not all great! Eh, Mike? Tell me, is it all great, eh? Or should I ask you why you're fuckin' about with Marksmen, eh brau? How about that? Maybe I should ask a question or two about who the fuck this little bastard is, eh? Comes in here, in on it all, tryin' to run the fuckin' show, eh?"
For a few seconds after Taye had finished, there was silence.
"Taye – put the gun away, mate?" Mike asked delicately. "Wha' the fuck you doin' wiv a fuckin' piece anyway? Wizards don' carry guns, do they, ya daft cunt? Not 'less they're Shujin."
Harry shrugged as the attention was suddenly on him again. He was still eyeing Taye's outstretched pistol, silencer swaying in time with the irate South African's breathing.
"Oh – fuck, I forgo' 'n' all..."
Mike held out a burnt, charred bundle to Harry who took it without hesitation – sure enough and to Harry's immense relief, within it was his wand (blackened and warped from the explosion) and his shrunken trunk.
"I didn't think I'd get these back," Harry said honestly, in a moment of sad reflection. "Bloody hell. I'm pissed off about Nobunaga's sword. The Marksmen are definitely getting higher on my to-do list."
Taye's attention had been caught, Harry then noticed, making eye contact with him.
"Whose sword?" the South African asked delicately after a moment, looking from him to Mike. "I know you didn't just say Nobunaga, brau..."
"Er yeah, he did," Mike said gently. "He knew him – recently. After... after everything."
"Well anyway - thank you, Mike," Harry said quietly, cleaning off his wand and eyeing Taye silently, wishing he had the magical strength to wipe him out of existence.
"S'alright. Was also kinda hopin' the keys a' still in tha trunk, mate," Mike said, and then suddenly snorted a laugh. "Oh yeah – when I came to, righ', Dumbledore's sittin' huddled ova' it, tryin' ta figure it ou', and 'e's so absorbed in i' he don' notice me grab yer wand – I actually got a fuckin' curse off 'n' all before 'e realised i was there!"
In a second, everything had gone quiet.
"What?" Harry asked faintly, staring at his trunk, blood pulsing through his eyelids. "He was fiddling with it?"
At almost the same time, Taye asked, "You duelled Dumbledore?"
Mike looked between them.
"Er – yeah..?" he said, frowning. "Wha's tha problem? 'E didn' 'ave it up or nuffin Shujin, an' even if 'e's charmed it 'e ain' gonna be monitorin' nuffin soon, mate."
"You outdueled Dumbledore?" Taye asked again, frowning. "Uh – how?"
"Wha' d'ya mean, 'how'? 'Ow d'you fuckin' think, Taye?" Mike said, sounding genuinely confused. "'E's just anotha' wizard, mate. An' despi' wha' everyone seems ta fink, I ain' actually too bad meself."
Something isn't right, Harry knew, still staring at the trunk in his hand. Dumbledore wouldn't lose to Mike Chow. Not unless it was...
"Christ," Harry said. "It was – he – fuck."
The others stared at him. Taye finally lowered the gun.
"It was deliberate," the Malfoy figure finished slowly.
"Er – well, it wasn'..." Mike said, looking at Shujin. "Swear t'ya, mate. I caught 'im by surprise."
Harry was still looking at the trunk, and lowered his wand to it, casting a weak detection charm as best he could.
It didn't show any signs of tampering.
Frowning, already feeling the effects of just that small piece of magic, he tapped it and it enlarged.
"I – it isn't you Mike," he said. "And no offense to you. I saw you in the restaurant. I know you're capable – I'm just confused. He's far too devious... I would have felt it if he did anything directly to it, though..."
Taye wasn't quite so generous in his estimation.
"And yet, you're still you, Mike, eh?" the South African said shortly. "And we have to assume the old savage knows exactly what he's doing – and maybe exactly what we're doing."
Mike was frowning now.
"Ya think 'e let me win," he said quietly, looking almost upset. "Bollocks. Was well 'appy wiv meself 'n' all. Ah well – if 'e did, 'e'll be regretting it tomorrow. Hit 'im wiv a righ' nasty curse 'n' then a good stunner- 'e dropped like a sack o' shit."
Harry tapped out a combination to his trunk and it popped open. Reaching in, he drew out the Gringotts keys.
"I think we need to move quickly," he said quietly. "Taye, you have half an hour to get yourself ready again."
The South African would have loved to argue, insult and question some more, but understood the urgency and, fortunately for Harry, was overconfident in his own abilities and more driven by greed than anything else.
"Alright," he said, before turning to Mike. "You're going to help me, and while you do, we're going to have a little chat about our old organisation, eh?"
"Righ' – you not wan' a drink?" Mike asked, suddenly puzzled. "You ain' worked sober i' thir'y years."
Taye eyed Harry, who was routing through his trunk, ignoring them.
Lacking a response, Mike got up and went to the door.
"Well I need a fuckin' firewhisky."
"Alright – you all know what we're doing. Standard two-by-two tactical sweep and clear – in, secure and through, ladies and gentlemen," the Auror was saying. "I want you to do me proud in front of Deputy Headmistress McGonagall."
McGonagall stood, impatient, waiting for this pointless introduction to be over. She remembered Tristan Rean (now Auror Captain Tristan Rean) from his years under her wing – a Gryffindor, yes, but a natural procrastinator and, despite his skill in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts, born for a lifelong career in bureaucracy. Now just shy of 50 and losing his hair, he considered the fact he was removing himself from behind his desk and leading the team going after Chow a personal favour to McGonagall.
"Now – you all know Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster, Professor, Charmsfellow, et cetera. Most of you were at school under him. The man we're after is responsible for hospitalising him. This is an exceptionally important mission and we're under strict instruction to keep it low profile," Rean added with a wink.
"Right," McGonagall said loudly, cutting over him as he took a breath. "Thank you very much, Tristan. I think it's time to go. Everyone remember this man might be armed with muggle weaponry as well as magic, so be extra careful – he is also crucial to the Headmaster's recovery. Right."
She turned to Rean, who was smiling as beatifically at her and the team as he would were he at a press conference.
"Yes – well," he said as he clapped his hands together. "Yes. Shall we? You two first, I think."
The first two disappeared through the ready flames together. They were unnecessarily at the large, one-way fireplace in the Department of Magical Transportation and were beginning to draw a crowd as the second pair of aurors lined up, wands at the ready.
The flames stayed green for them and even after the second pair was through and the next two lined up, the programmed echo destination (the address a private fireplace in London) kept the tall flames green
Unable to contain herself any longer, McGonagall huffed "Oh, for goodness' sake," and marched through the fire.
She felt her feet leave the ground and held herself still for the simulated, magical sensation of flying, whooshing past light fireplaces in the dark Floo Tunnel until...
A few moments later she whooshed out of a fireplace and assumed a combat position...
...in the Atrium.
It took a moment to register – the crowds of commuters, the puzzled official beckoning them out of the way of the fireplaces, the aurors standing to one side looking uncertain, and finally the huge, garish fountain...
She didn't wait for Rean – she didn't need to.
I should have guessed, she told herself furiously. I should have thought of this.
She walked straight up to the face of the puzzled fireplace attendant.
"Uh – uh," the official stammered, avoiding her gaze and remembering his training. "Can – can we m - move it along, p – please, people..."
"Hello Roger," she said as cheerfully as she could muster.
His head lowered as he said, "H – hello, Professor M – McGonagall..."
"Oh, dear, Roger- still stammering?" she tutted. "You used to despise reading for me in class – such a shame. You've a lovely voice when you want to."
He didn't respond, looking bashful. Behind her, she heard Rean enter the Atrium through the fireplace with much gusto and loud enthusiasm.
"Tell me, Roger," she said in a less-grandmotherly-and-distinctly-more-teacherly way. "Can we track those who come through and leave again, hmm? Through these fireplaces here?"
"Um – only the last hundred or so, Professor," he said hopefully, somehow withholding his stutter. "For the last twenty minutes maybe..."
McGonagall closed her eyes and begged the Gods' patience, knowing that Rean's unnecessary involvement had cost her at least thirty minutes.
For a moment, ignoring the world around her, she stood thinking furiously. Suddenly, struck with inspiration, she marched towards the lift at the other end of the Atrium.
A few of the aurors followed her whilst Tristan Rean was busy questioning Roger the fireplace attendant, who had mysteriously regained his stutter.
"I've only just noticed your hand," Harry said. "Another finger's gone."
Mike looked and nodded.
"Hogwar's finest didn' see no need ta fix me up fully, methinks," he said with a crooked grin. "Think me tattoin' days'll be over now, eh. Los' one-too-many fingers ah reckon."
Harry shook his head, trying not to grin, but grateful for a distraction to take his mind off of what they were going into. He'd been trying for one since they'd set off but as yet he'd had no luck;
"Mike – you seen Mar at all?" he asked hesitantly.
The Asian man shook his head, looking concerned.
"I can't get a response from him," Harry said quietly, worried.
There was silence for a short time, with little more to say to that. The journey seemed to be taking an age.
"So wha' happened to ya, Shujin?" Mike asked quietly now that they were alone. "When I saw you'd gone – an' tha vampire..."
Harry sat back and tried to get comfortable.
"I was bitten," he said after a moment.
Mike's face drained of colour.
"Ended up in Poland though," Harry said, shrugging. "They were pretty quick to drain all the shit out of me and apparently all is well."
Mike was silent, staring at him in horror, for almost a full minute.
"Fuck," Mike eventually said. "'N' ya go' out o' magical Polan' alive? S'well as survivin' bein' blown ta pieces 'n' all tha' shit? An' bitten?"
Harry gave a half-shrug, half-nod in response. Mike shook his head in awe.
"Bea's my story mate," he said. "Fuck."
Saevus felt better.
He'd fed.
But something else had happened – something that would once more distract him...
His brother walked out of the Leaky Cauldron into Diagon Alley.
And, even worse, Saevus now could not smell the boy at all... since feeding, and because the sun was starting to peak at odd moments through the clouds, itching and irritating and threatening, his power was decreasing – his smell sense was fading, clouded by too many distractions.
Baring his teeth, freshly polished, he tutted, feeling far more human now than was comfortable.
Even without his sense of smell, however, he recognised his brother by mere sight alone.
Definitely Lucius.
Walking purposefully..?
Where to? Saevus wondered silently. He began to Will him; Look over. Look over at me, Lucius.
He tried as much as he might, using his vampiric prowess and his family connection, but apparently he was weaker than he imagined.
He looked from the shadows up the road to where Lucius was headed. In one hand he held a new cane – a Christmas present? How lovely... – and in the other he held a small, cuboid shape close to his chest like a box.
Perhaps a bountiful Christmas indeed, Lucius, Saevus thought, licking his lips, thinking of his own long-overdue present, all wrapped up in frivolities and silk at Malfoy Manor...
Narcissa...
Saevus grinned malevolently, feeling a little less human and a little more powerful now.
He directed his intent and Will against his sister-in-law, and moved away from the sunlight into the shadows of Knockturn Alley, before apparating 'home'.