Disclaimer: Chances are if you missed the disclaimer in the first chapter, you're skimming this fic and probably missing more of the story than you think.

A/N: The Ballad of Ira Hayes was written by folk singer Peter La Farge. It's been performed by Johnny Cash as well as Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger and several bluegrass/folk artists.

Thanks again goes to 13thadaption. You're awesome. I hope you know it.

Chapter Twenty-four

Smuggler's Blues

part B

Ximon's coffee tasted like children crying.

Whatever senses an Old World dragon possessed, taste clearly wasn't one of them. It might have been brewed with arsenic and rat droppings for all Harry could tell. He gagged down another mouthful; wondering whether 'facial numbness' came under the title of symptoms or effects.

Ximon tossed Harry a small silk pouch. "I am told this will be of some value to you – more so than any semblance of coin."

The Dealer settled back into his armchair across from Harry's in the drawing room. Yet more of that spare, chrome-edged aesthetic gave the room all the warmth of a refrigerator box.

Frowning, Harry cupped the pouch in his palm and ran his fingers over the jagged shape within, sharp points snagging on the thin fabric. It hummed on a similar frequency to the Bells, buzz-saw resonance biting at his fingertips.

He opened the bag and a long, needle-thin shard of violet crystal rolled into his hand.

His memory prompted him with a hand-inked sketch of the Sharr crest; the opposite page detailing a slender object the size of a pen; hooked at one end with its inner edges filed razor sharp; the other end decorated with whorls and notches etched into the cylindrical length of metal where it merged into the crystal shard, its facets continuing the notched pattern...like...a...

Key.

It was a key.

'The hell is Strome up to?'

"From my personal collection," said Ximon, sounding less than pleased.

The shard felt like a chip of ice in his palm. It let out a ringing chime and Ximon's eyes flared gold in response.

Harry curled his fingers around the shard. "What would a dragon need with a Sharr Key?"

Ximon sipped his drink. "What would a Sharr be doing missing one?"

Missing one? Well shit, how many were there?

Rubbing his fingers over the thin pouch told him it wasn't entirely empty. Inside, was a crisp slip of cardstock with a law firm's name and address printed in sharp black font. On the opposite side was a handwritten date and time.

"Tell Strome this squares the favour between us."

Harry slipped the crystal back inside the pouch. "I'm sure it will."

"For your troubles," said Ximon, depositing the mokeskin bag onto the low glass table. It settled with a heavy enough clink to tell Harry that it contained a sizeable amount of money, most of which should have gone to Strome. "I would consider the rest of my life to be sublime bliss if I never saw you again."

"Agreed," Harry muttered, grabbing the mokeskin bag as he left.

The drive back was a relief. If he ever needed a holiday, there were plenty of pretty islands dotting the Mediterranean that didn't have nearly as many crazy locals.

Crossing over a short bridge, he watched the early dawn turn the ocean into a gaudy splash of egg-yolk yellows and grapefruit pinks. Humid and heavy; the morning air held a sweat-sticky haze that spoke of cloudy days, but no rain to ease the heat.

Sirius was still snoring when he got to the house; though at some point, he'd woken up enough to open one of the windows for fresh air.

Turning into the breeze, Harry caught a ripe whiff of his own sweaty t-shirt. He gagged.

Shower, then breakfast.

The tile beneath his bare feet was wet and the mosaic of bug-eye fish had been hexed into tiny shards of porcelain. Harry muffled a laugh. Dropping his pile of clean clothes onto the counter, Harry eased off the ring holding his glamour in place; green tarnish streaking the skin on his finger.

There was no hot or cold water, just lukewarm. Also, most of the shampoo was gone. As was the soap. Goddamnit Sirius.

From the tile floor came a small 'ping-ping-dink' rattle and roll of cheap metal. Over the drizzle of the shower, he could hear the ring clatter against the baseboards by the door.

It was missing when he stepped out of the shower.

Throwing on his clothes, he tossed the spare towel over his head under the pretence of drying off. "Hey Sirius have you seen my – "

Harry looked up into the eyes of his double.

And then Sirius took the ring off, glamour sliding down around him like a falling curtain. He held it up to the light, examining the runes etched onto the inside of the discoloured band.

"I knew you'd never tell me the truth. And I knew – I knew – if I was going to prove anything, I had to catch you in the middle of a lie. I just didn't expect it to be this." The ring pinged off the wall with the brassy 'ding'. "You're not impersonating anyone at all. You're not even my godson."

Harry knew it was his real face Sirius was looking at; the hungry one that lurked beneath that false veneer of youth.

"Sirius – "

"So whose face are you wearing now?"

Harry swallowed. "Mine."

"Really." Sirius' lip curled into a sneer. "For some odd reason, I find that hard to believe."

"No," Harry said on a soft exhale. "This is me."

"Then where is my godson?"

"Ah, yeah, about that," said Harry, searching for a stalling point.

"Where is my godson?"

"I..." Harry felt his mouth trying to work around the words choking him. "I'm right here," he said, voice thin and strained.

"Who are you?" said Sirius, expression strained with an ugly combination of disgust and confusion.

"Harry. Just Harry."

"Strome called you Master Sharr."

"It's... a nickname?" Harry tried, wanting to kick himself in the face as soon as he said it.

"No, Hal is a nickname for Harry. Sharr is a different name entirely."

His mind was as blank as a fucking canvas. "I have no idea what to tell you."

Anger drew Sirius' thin face into austere lines. "Why did he ask if your nephew knew what you were doing?"

Harry's jaw worked, sound dying in his throat. "I – "

"Who is your nephew?"

"I don't – "

"Is it Harry? Is that how you knew enough to convince me to trust you?"

"Sirius, will you just stop for a moment – "

"Where is my godson?" Sirius roared.

Harry felt light headed, as if his brain had disconnected from his body; arms too heavy to lift, to reach out and capture his mind before it flew too far away.

"I don't know where to begin," Harry bit out. "Just give me a moment, will you?"

"Why, so you can come up with a better lie? Something that might possibly cover up necromancy, dark magic and murder-for-hire?"

"Dark magic?" Harry barely recognized that savage rasp as his own voice. "You raw, fucking hypocrite."

Sirius was livid with anger, spots of red appearing high on his cheekbones and forehead. "Don't," he hissed, jabbing a finger at Harry. "Don't you dare."

Unsteady, Harry braced himself against the doorframe as he watched Sirius pace the room.

"Since when does a thirteen year old join the mob and have military experience?" said Sirius as he passed by, wild-eyed with fury and knotting white-knuckled fists into his hair. "How fucking absurd! I had all of the evidence in front of me and I ignored it each time. I was so desperate to believe you. So stupid!"

"It's not the mob, Sirius. Don't exaggerate. The wrong sort of people could take offence at that."

"As opposed to the wrong sort of people you're tangled up with right now? The ones, who through your involvement with them, now have easy access to my godson?"

"For fuck's sake, the kid you've got in your head doesn't exist!" Water dripped into his eyes and Harry ruthlessly slicked it back out of his face. "There's just me! Only me! There's only ever been me."

"Then explain to me how you came to be..." He made a short, sharp, violent gesture towards Harry. "This. This thing that preys on people."

Harry crossed his arms. "So you do believe me."

"I..." Sirius exhaled, hands visibly shaking. "I don't know what to believe. Everyone who's come in contact with you calls you a liar."

"Strome's a Truthteller," Harry said with a shrug. "Everyone is a liar to him. From the little white lies we tell ourselves in the mirror each morning to the whoppers we make up to get out of a speeding ticket. It's kind of a game. Our currency, really. Each time we meet, I have to tell one truth about myself."

"Then let's make it our currency, too."

Harry stifled a flinch.

"Answer me this: Why would he ask about your nephew?" Sirius snarled when Harry began to reply. "Don't even think about opening your mouth until you've got something resembling the truth to say."

Somewhere off in the distance was the hum of traffic; normal, mundane, and worlds away.

"My mother was a Sharr," Harry murmured into the lull. "One of the last. She was born Lily Aideen Sharr and – "

Harry licked his lips, throat going dry as he considered his options. "After the death of her father, my grandfather, she and her sister got lost in the system. They were adopted by a Muggle couple who gave them the name Evans."

"Lily Evans? That's what you're going to play? You expect me to believe James married a misplaced Sharr?"

"It sounds far-fetched – "

"It sounds ludicrous."

"Sharr's already my name. I just decided to exploit it."

"And you thought that because you were born to it, you had to become it?" said Sirius.

Harry exhaled, slow and shaky, struggling for a better hold on his temper. "You're a bit late to the party on that account, too. I was casting dark magic long before I knew where I came from."

His godfather shook his head. "It's not some looming inevitability. You have a choice – "

"Oh come off it," Harry hissed. "Only yours can be the right one? Don't give me that trite self-righteous bullshit – I am not obliged to carry the burden of your moral values. I can't afford to!"

"Why not? Why are you exempt from morality?"

"I'm not! This isn't even fucking about that. I got sucked into a situation where I couldn't see any way out other than to fight fire with fire or roll over and die."

"So you became an errand boy for a black market kingpin? Why? Why would that fix anything?"

"Don't you dare judge me. You haven't been here," Harry growled.

"Strome lent you out to be used as a weapon." Sirius looked near tears. "How does a teenager get involved with that level of violence?"

Harry bared his teeth. "Easily. You get broke, you get hungry, you get desperate."

"And there was nobody else to turn to? You decided to choke on your own pride rather than ask for help?"

'Because I wanted vengeance more than I cared about my own autonomy. I'd heard the prophecy and thought I was going to die. Might as well take as many with me as I could. I've sold my soul to the devil twice over now,' he didn't say. 'The only reason why Strome cut me loose was because I'd become a liability to him with the Ministry breathing down my neck. I won't be half as lucky with Mab.'

There was something bitter about the person he started this for being the one to condemn him for it.

"I didn't think anyone would give me help," Harry murmured. "I thought I'd been cut loose to sink or swim and no-one was offering me a hand, save to pile on more responsibilities. Yeah, I got angry. I got violent. I got in way over my head and I fucking well know I made a shitty deal with my life – you think I'm unaware I've made stupid decisions?"

"I think you're an addict."

Harry stopped.

His godfather sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair before gesturing to Harry. "I think you spend as much time lying to yourself as you do to the people around you. I think that's the only way you can live with yourself."

"What would you know about living with consequences?" said Harry before he could think better of it.

"I'm probably the only person you know who does."

Harry flung the towel twisted in his grip back into the bathroom before stalking over to the kitchen. The tap spattered the basin before running clear and steady; not bothering with a glass, Harry stuck his head under the stream and drank.

His mouth still felt spit-dry, throat parched and burning when he swallowed.

Something nudged his arm.

Looking up, he found Sirius presenting him with his wand, end first. "Take it back," he said.

Harry blinked, wiping water from his chin with his forearm. "But it worked for you."

"A bit too well, I think."

"What do you mean?"

"Your appetite for destruction far outstrips my own," said Sirius, releasing the wand.

Harry caught it before it could hit the ground.

"My appetite?" he asked, a little irked by Sirius' rudeness. "Or your fear of your own?"

"We are not talking about that – "

"And why not exactly? You've clearly helped yourself to my faults – "

"You – " Sirius interrupted. "Is your tendency to provoke people deliberate or can you just not help yourself?"

Harry continued talking right over him. "– Let me help myself to a few of your own. How about denial? You're so willing to condemn me over my use of dark magic when it was you who used the Imperius Curse on one of your fellow Reds – "

"I think I'm beginning to understand what your friend Archie meant about lacking self-control," Sirius muttered.

"Who are you to lecture me on self-control? Your entire life is one great big ode to a lack of self-control. You spent your entire Hogwarts career bullying those you saw as 'deserving targets' – nearly killed one of them using one of your best friends as the murder weapon, bang up decision making there – ran away from home when you should have been looking out for your little brother, you goddamned left him to the mercy of your family's bullshit racist propaganda, don't think I don't know about Regulus' suicide – "

It was a damn good thing that Sirius' temp wand was a piece of shit.

Because the spell that scorched a ragged gouge in the wall should have taken Harry's head off.

"Yeah," Harry drawled out, low and vicious, wondering if this was what being possessed felt like, this total lack of control over what his body said and did. "That's it. There's that temper. The very same half-cocked rage monster that had your fellow Auror cadets shaking in their boots every time they had to team up with you. The very same rash, impulsive temper that landed you in Azkaban for over a decade."

Sharp, biting pain radiated through the left side of his face and eye-socket. Blinking back tears, Harry prodded the bridge of his nose for breaks.

"Rule number one," said Harry, not quite able to look his godfather in the eye. "Avoid punching people with a closed fist. You'll fuck your hands up."

"James would be sick to even look at you."

Harry wiped away the streak of red trailing from his nose. "Damned good thing then that my self-worth isn't contingent on the opinion of a dead man."

"If this is your plan for gaining my freedom," said Sirius, curling the hand he'd hit Harry with close to his chest. "I want nothing to do with it."

"That's nice and all that you want to do the moral thing, but you're forgetting one major problem."

Sirius glanced over, scowl fixed in place.

"I'm not just your ally," said Harry. "I'm your only ally. And until we find Pettigrew, there is no changing that."

"I find your actions despicable. You represent everything I hated about my family."

Harry's lip curled. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know. So you think I'm trash. Fine. Say you do get your freedom, what are you going to do next? Reunite with friends? The all of one friend who hasn't betrayed you yet or been dead and buried for almost thirty years?

"What options do you have left?" Harry continued. "Hide in Grimmauld Place? Skulk around in the shadows and reminisce about the good old days? Hell of a retirement plan, Sirius."

Sirius was quiet for a moment. "Thirteen. Not thirty. Don't exaggerate."

Harry inhaled and let out a gusting sigh. "Yeah. Thirteen, thirty, slip of the tongue."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, voice hushed and rough. "I do too."

"The only reason I'm not leaving is because you didn't kill McCally."

Harry looked over at the pieces of his gun strewn across the kitchen counter top, feeling a tightness around his eyes that hadn't left since the start of this disastrous conversation.

Licking at the drying skin on his lips, Sirius murmured, "Maybe there is something about you that's salvageable after all."

Harry waited until the sound of Sirius' boots on the outside steps died away before throwing one of the mis-transfigured crates against the wall.

Scrap lumber clattered to the floor.

He kept on going until nothing was left but splinters and nails.

Harry dreams of Hurricane Andrew.

The wind buffets the small car all over the road; through damn near horizontal sheets of rain; seatbelt tugging at Harry's chest as they swerve through the storm surge flooding the highway.

Johnny Cash sings on the radio in his quavering old man's voice. Not god's gonna cut you down, but two inches of water in a lonely ditch was a grave for Ira Hayes.

"Call him drunken Ira Hayes," the radio croons. "He won't answer anymore."

Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian, nor the Marine that went to war.

Behind the wheel sits the waterlogged corpse of Lonnie Vargas. Water streams from his clothes, from his waxy flesh; features the colour of a bruise and bloated like Jabba the fucking Hutt. When Lonnie turns his head, empty sockets stare back at him. His words are garbled, gargled, and unintelligible, dirty water dribbling down his chin.

They drive past the wharf, past where there used to be bars and shops and restaurants, the tourist town of Miami, Florida. Past the fancy marinas, exclusive club access only, millions in property damage sunken beneath the murky waters. Past the crumbling remains of expensive waterfront-access hotels, windows broken, curtains flapping in the breeze. Cars tumble end over end, the waters of the storm surge piling them up atop each other; against buildings and bridges and motorway overpasses.

Homes are little more than splinters and strewn trash; pipes jutting up from their raw foundations, while concrete walls stand without ceilings; tin roofing crumpled like used napkins; shingles and wood framing piling up in the road; storm wiping the map clean of structures, street signs, and mailboxes; all those familiar landmarks just a rat maze of rubble and tarmac.

At the end of the road, the sea stretches out in front of them; dark, frothing, and hungry.

The wind-shield wipers swish over the glass like a metronome.

Hush-hush-hush child, it'll be alright.

The car picks up speed now; nose-down into the deluge; water lapping at Harry's chin as it fills the interior.

Deep breath.

The murky brine closes over his head.

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is just as dry. And his ghost is lyin' thirsty in the ditch where Ira died.

Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.