HARRY POTTER AND THE UNFORGIVEN
HARRY POTTER AND THE UNFORGIVEN
A Sixth Year Harry Potter Fanfiction
BY
Jayiin Mistaya
"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus."
...never tickle a sleeping dragon
COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter. Those rights are held, exclusively, by JK Rowling, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here possessing legal rights to the aforementioned books and/or trademark.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: As usual, I apologize for my tardiness – work and home are making it hard to get things written and edited.
Please remember I don't have an official beta-reader right now, so will be rife with mistakes.
Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. Remember, the more reviews I get, the faster I post.
And feel free to email, IM, PM or otherwise contact me to harass me to post. I enjoy talking to my readers.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Elusive Evan for making me continue to post this and for constant moral support, being a great sounding board and being one of the best friends a guy could ever ask for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Finding Gracie
To say Drake Stevens had no idea what to expect working with Mad-Eye Moody would be an understatement. It was, if nothing else, educational.
As soon as they left the gym, Moody cast a rapid-fire series of 'notice-me-not' and conversation muffling charms, scanned for listening and tracking spells or talismans and other forms of scrying, and then proceeded to wander about Little Whinging for two hours.
Neither man said anything as they wandered, but both were attentive and observant, but what they were looking for was different.
Drake was looking around the sleepy little town where the Boy Who Lived had grown up, trying to see what it would tell him about the boy he had to find and Moody was watching Drake. Though aware of the scrutiny, the Hit Wizard tried to ignore it.
After two hours had passed and neither of them had shown signs of being poly-juiced or being followed by Death Eaters or reporters, Mad-Eye grunted. "Good. Let's get out of sight and report in. Undersecretary Weasley is waiting. We'll Apparate to the MLE office."
Drake blinked. They were going to report to the Minister's Undersecretary? The closest he'd ever been to that level of brass were the mid-level dignitaries he'd met abroad.
"Right then," he said, his voice a bit higher pitched than he would later admit.
They ducked into a side street and Apparated, re-appearing at the Apparition point in the MLE office. Moody's apparition was nearly silent; Drake's was not.
He's the best for a reason, the Hit Wizard admitted to himself.
To Drake's chagrin, Moody had noticed too. "Too loud. Slow down your magic. Re-appear slower. Better control, less noise."
Drake just nodded. How in the hell am I supposed to slow my magic down?
Not that his noise mattered. There were always two guards watching the apparition point. Moody ignored them, but Drake nodded politely to both.
They ignored him.
Drake swallowed a sigh and followed Moody to the Undersecretary's office. Or so he thought.
Instead of a Ministry office, he followed Moody into a large, open room filled with cluttered desks, map tables, wall charts, harried people and what looked to be absolute chaos.
No one was still. Paper airplanes whizzed through air filled with the tidal waves of sound that can only come from a hundred simultaneous conversations. Voices droned over the sounds of quills scratching, owls hooting and Ministry house elves popping everywhere with drinks, supplies and the occasional squeaked message. Ministry staff rushed about to and fro, dodging each other, the airplanes and the elves with varying levels of success. Sweat, stale coffee and ink scented the air with the aroma of a bureaucratic battlefield.
In the center of it all was an unassuming redhead dressed in better-than-average maroon robes. Impeccably groomed, poised, and surprisingly calm, he orchestrated the chaos with a firm hand that showed he knew exactly what was going on. He was talking to a black-haired man wearing bright white robes, occasionally pausing to issue an instruction or answer a question.
Moody made a beeline for the redhead and everyone got out of his way – man, elf and airplane alike. Drake followed in his wake, but had to do more than his fair share of dodging, as he wasn't shown the same courtesy.
As they approached, the white-robed man nodded once to the Undersecretary and strode off purposefully. The Undersecretary watched him leave before turning to Moody, a polite but sincere smile on his youthful face. "Auror Moody, you're back sooner than I expected. You have something for me?"
"Lockhart's a stupid tosser and tainted the crime scene. I can't trace Potter or the muggle from there." Moody pitched his voice to carry only to the redhead and Drake, but a few people nearby slowed to eavesdrop.
The Undersecretary wasn't impressed with the eavesdroppers. He shot them a sharp glance, and they all found an urgent elsewhere to be.
"You can trace the muggle, then?" The Undersecretary asked, plucking an airplane out of the air and unfolding it.
Drake frowned. Why wasn't the Undersecretary more worried about Harry Potter?
"Aye, but I'll have to do it the hard way. I've re-assigned Stevens over there from Squad Four to me." Moody grinned, pointing at Drake. "That way one of your people is on hand to make sure I behave."
The redhead shrugged. "No need. I know you won't betray oath to the Ministry, no matter where your loyalties may mistakenly lie. Take him if you want him, but I trust you to do your job." He ignored Moody's scowl and turned to Drake. "Drake Stevens, is it? I've read your file. You've done good work in the past and I know you'll do just as well now. I'm Percy Weasley, Junior Undersecretary to the Ministry of Magic and this," he gestured to the room with his free hand, "is our Command Center for dealing with the war."
He offered his hand to Drake, who shook it. "Thank you, Mister Undersecretary."
"You're welcome. What's your report?" He didn't wait for Drake to answer before producing a quill from his sleeve and jotting an answer on the note. He refolded it and threw it back across the room.
"We arrived to find the Death Eaters subdued and bound. Potter and McAllister were already gone and Auror Shacklebolt was on scene. He turned over scene authority to Auror Lockhart and left. There are wards around the scene we can't take down – anti-apparition and magic detection buffers, at the least. We interrogated the Death Eaters and found a possible origination for the strike. Auror Lockhart sent Squad Six to investigate. We have no word from them."
"They're dead, then," Moody said sharply. "A single squad sent to a Death Eater base wouldn't survive to report back in."
Percy frowned. "I have to agree with Auror Moody. Auror Lockhart should have reported and waited for instructions. Please continue, Hit Wizard."
Drake swallowed hard. "Yes sir. The Death Eaters and Auror Shacklebolt reported Potter vanished after casting a Patronus Charm. Apparently, his corporeal Patronus took him away in some kind of silver light. Our best theory is accidental magic – some kind of forced Apparition through the wards. Aurors Shacklebolt and Lockhart ruled it self-defense."
"I'm inclined to agree," Percy said as if the words tasted bitter. "I imagine he would transport himself somewhere he felt safe. He couldn't get to Hogwarts. Auror Moody, have you had any word from your 'contacts' about Potter's whereabouts?"
"None," the Auror admitted grudgingly. "I haven't been in touch with any of them. I'd have heard word if Potter were dead or missing, though."
"Don't bother, then. I doubt you could tell me where he is, anyway," Percy waved off Moody. "I'll speak to my own contacts about it." He sighed in frustration. "Damn."
"Sir?" Moody asked.
"You know and I know Potter's safe wherever it is your people have him, Auror, but that's not really good enough. I'll have to assign people to look for him until I can get a confirmed location." He shook his head. "That's my problem. You concentrate on finding McAllister and once you know what she saw, Obliviate her."
Drake coughed. "With all due respect, sir, I doubt it will be that easy. She killed five of the Death Eaters. Without magic."
Percy actually looked surprised. "A muggle – an old woman – killed five Death Eaters?"
"That's what the evidence points to," Drake said.
Percy looked back at Moody. "What's your next move, then?"
"Let her go, at least for awhile. The Death Eaters will be after her to finish the job. They attack her, we'll have more of them, possibly higher ranking than the peons we caught this morning."
The Undersecretary frowned again. "I'm not sure that's necessary."
Moody laughed harshly. "They'll come after her whether or not we Obliviate her. I say we let her lead us to more of them."
Still frowning, Percy sighed. "No. She's not to be used as bait. Instead, I want you to track her, find out what her relationship with Potter is, and then Obliviate her."
Moody and Percy met eyes and neither said anything for a long moment as the tension built.
Drake felt sick to his stomach as he realized what wasn't being said. Percy was willing to sacrifice McAllister to the Death Eaters.
Finally, Moody nodded.
Drake watched the interchange carefully, becoming more and more aware he was in over his head.
It was well-known Mad-Eye Moody supported Albus Dumbledore over the Ministry, and obviously the Undersecretary didn't like it. So why assign him to this?
Apparently, Moody had the same questions Drake did. "Why me, Weasley? You know where I stand."
The Undersecretary narrowed his eyes at Moody's familiarity. "I do. I also know you swore an oath to the Ministry when you became an Auror. I'm counting on you to keep that oath, Moody. You're the only one who can track the woman down. She's a threat to the Statute of Secrecy and we can't afford that right now. Do your job. Don't play the old man's games and I can minimize the difficulties for Potter. Play fast and loose with me, and I promise you Potter's life will be much harder once he's found." He held up a hand to stave off whatever Moody was about to say. "I have no intention of making things harder for him, but any irregularities and the Minister most certainly will, at least until Potter agrees to cooperate with us."
"Fine. Your rules, then, Weasley," Moody growled.
"Thank you, Alastor," the Undersecretary said with a politician's smile. "I'll send a team to bring the prisoners to the Ministry. You're cleared to find McAllister. You're dismissed."
Drake had to admit he wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of using the muggle woman as bait for a Death Eater trap, but he also acknowledged the Death Eaters would be after her, one way or the other. Obliviating her didn't sound like the best idea.
She can obviously take care of herself. Maybe we could work a deal with her? She keeps our secrets and we let her keep her memories?
Drake thought about asking Undersecretary Weasley about it, but the Undersecretary had already turned away from them to deal with the flight of paper airplanes zooming about his head and shoulders.
Moody motioned Drake to follow him out.
- 0 -
Okay, so today is officially the worst day of my life.
Gracie sucked on the end of her cigarette and wondered at herself. How had this become the worst day of her life?
Because they took the kid. Her stomach burned with anger. They shouldn't have taken her student. They should have stuck with her. Whoever 'they' were.
They're good. I've got to give them that. She blew out a streamer of smoke. They'd disappeared Duncan easily enough.
Once she'd started thinking clearly again, she'd suddenly realized Duncan hadn't been there – which was odd, because no matter how early she got the gym, Duncan was already there.
She'd gone to Duncan's flat to find he wasn't there, either. Along with everything in his flat. She'd checked with the building office, only to find out that as far the office knew, Duncan McAllister had moved out several days prior to the attack and his flat was now up for rent.
Which, of course, made no sense, as Gracie had been there just two nights before to have dinner and talk about their respective students.
The office had given her the phone number Duncan had left with them. To her surprise, the number had been good. After talking with Duncan, Gracie was fairly sure he thought she was crazy. The worst part was that she was starting to wonder if he wasn't right.
She'd found a payphone and called him as soon as she'd left the building office.
"Gracie! Good to hear from you! How's running the gym by your lonesome?" Duncan had been in a rare good mood.
"Duncan! What happened to you this morning? Why are you in London and why does your building think you moved over a week ago?" Gracie had been frantic for answers.
"Gracie, what the hell are you talking about?" Duncan had been confused and a bit worried the old lady was finally going senile. "Why would I be in Little Whinging anymore? I sold you the gym weeks ago, opened this new place in London. I only stuck around Little Whinging long enough to get you started with the Dursley kid's training, you know that." His voice was placating. Maybe she had just been worried about training Dudley on her own? She wasn't a boxing coach, after all.
The conversation had gone downhill from there, with Duncan getting more and more worried about his aunt. Finally, Gracie had to tell him.
"Look, Duncan, my student, Harry Potter, he's gone missing. Kidnapped, this morning."
"Harry Potter?" Duncan muttered. "Only student o' yours I know is Dursley. Good bloke. Wish I could keep him on m'self, but he'd never move to London, I think. This Potter kid was kidnapped, you say? Talk to the police, not to me! Great good god, woman! You, of all people, should know that!"
Gracie had assured him she had already talked to the police. That yes, she of all people knew better than that. She'd politely declined his offer to come back down to Little Whinging until Harry was found and hung up. She got the feeling if Duncan came to see her, she'd find herself locked in padded room very quickly.
Gracie was a trained investigator and wasn't given to jumping to conclusions, but she figured it was logical that whoever had attacked the gym had engineered Duncan's move and memory loss.
Even if that were technically impossible to do.
It further stood to reason that they'd done so to keep him out of the way. But they had tried to kill her. Why?
The kid. They wanted me dead because I'm close to Harry.
It was that sudden understanding that had inspired her plan to find whoever 'they' were and find Harry Potter. Because if she found Them and found Harry, she might find out she wasn't crazy.
It further stood to reason that if They were real, They were going to come after her again. She was a loose end. She'd seen Them, she'd seen what They did, and she knew They'd done something to and with her student. So she wasn't going to make it easy on Them. They were going to have to come to her on her terms.
First things first. Get noticed.
So she'd gone to the police station and reported Harry Potter missing. It had been a bit hard to report masked thugs with zap-sticks torturing and kidnapping her student and possibly her nephew so she'd left that part out. But the Inspector assigned to her case obviously thought she was crazy because there wasn't a single record of Harry Potter anywhere in the system. Apparently, her student hadn't ever existed. But the Inspector had taken the case out of professional courtesy. Her credentials from Scotland Yard got her that much respect, at least.
She'd gone from the police station back to the gym. She had stuck to her training and had approached the gym obliquely, keeping out of sight and observing from across the street first.
And for some reason, she'd had to concentrate entirely too hard to look directly at it. Every time she thought about it, her mind seemed to wander – only her anger and her fear and years of intense mental discipline had allowed her to concentrate.
She'd closed her eyes and summoned the void, building her mental defenses one by one – the same mental defenses she'd learned as a teenager, when her first boyfriend had made a hobby out of finding ways to slip her various forms of recreational pharmaceuticals. She'd forced out any thought but the one she was focusing on – looking at McAllister's Gym. Even then, it had been one of the most difficult things she'd ever done.
The effort had left her on her knees next to her bike, gasping for breath – but she could see the gym and the people milling around inside.
She had no explanation for why she'd had to fight so hard to just look at the gym, though. Unless she really was going crazy.
Once she'd pushed past whatever it was keeping her from really seeing the gym, she'd seen him standing there. He wasn't much to look at; middling height, middling weight, brown hair and brown eyes. But he was dressed in a dark gray robe and was holding a zap-stick in his right hand.
Then right in front of her eyes, another man appeared out of thin air without so much as a sound. The new man had been dressed in a ragged blue cloak, and had a wooden leg. He was the very definition of 'grizzled' and radiated intensity and power.
And there had been something about him, about the entire situation, that was disturbing familiar, but every time she tried to call up the memory she knew was there, it skittered away like water rolling off a window.
For a moment, she had considered charging across the street and doing rude and violent things to people until someone told her what had happened to the her student and her nephew.
But she hadn't. Her common sense won out. She wasn't sure there was any way she could take that many of them – and if they were associated with the black robes she'd fought earlier, she was fairly sure they'd be ready for her.
So she'd lit another cigarette and snapped a few pictures and headed back to the police station to tell the Inspector what she'd seen. She wasn't sure if she had been surprised or not to find out They had already been to the police station, because no one there remembered her coming in.
Gracie had left the police station and gone to get the film developed. An hour and a half later, she'd discovered the pictures showed nothing more than the front of the gym.
Even more proof she was in over her head.
She'd gone back to her flat and scoured it with bleach, grateful she'd kept the hardwood floors instead of carpet. She'd worked with gloves on and her hair tucked down the back of her shirt and she'd removed every sheet, blanket, piece of clothing, dish - everything and anything that a competent forensics team could use to identify her and she'd tossed into trash bags and thrown away in dumpsters several kilometers from her flat. Everything else she needed, she'd taken with her. The only traces she'd bothered to leave were traces of Harry. It didn't matter because They already had him.
She knew all the tricks. As far as she was concerned, they'd have to resort to throwing bones and looking in crystal balls to find her.
Her next stop had been the bank. She'd checked on several things – and yes, she owned the gym. She hadn't touched the money in the gym account, but she'd withdrawn all of her own money in cash.
She'd flashed her old Scotland Yard badge – the one she'd been given when she retired. It was meant as a keepsake and wasn't really official, but the bank tellers didn't know that. A few pointed questions later, and she'd learned where Vernon Dursley lived and worked.
She'd gone to 4 Privet Drive and watched from across the street. She saw a shell-shocked Dudley Dursley walking up to it in the company of a tall, weathered man with graying hair wearing a surplus army jacket. The two parted ways, Dudley walked inside, and the man waved his zap-stick in the air and vanished with a pop of displaced air.
By that point, Gracie was convinced she wasn't going crazy.
Her next step was obvious. The Dursleys knew some of what was going on and she was going to find out what they knew.
- 0 -
Draco Malfoy watched impassively as the young woman writhed in mid-air, the Cruciatus Curse working its terrible magic on her.
But she didn't scream.
Voldemort held the spell on her longer than Draco would have thought it possible for anyone to keep from screaming, but somehow, she did. She twisted and convulsed as the spell did its appalling work; faint whimpers and moans escaped from her clenched jaws, along with a trickle of blood running out the side of her mouth.
"Impressive, isn't she, Draco?" Voldemort turned his head to face the boy standing at his right side, simultaneously holding both the Levitation Charm and the Cruciatus Curse on her. "That she suffers so much, yet does not scream? Such...perseverance is worthy of a reward, don't you think?"
Draco's grey eyes watched her, his face a mask hiding his own exhaustion; he hadn't slept in almost two days and his mind was fogged by fatigue. He would not show weakness before the Dark Lord. To do so opened the way to madness and death.
Silently, he wondered if he had the fortitude to endure what the girl endured and not scream out, and he knew when his time came, he wouldn't hold out nearly as long.Still, if he had anything to say about it, it would be a very long time before he was in her place.
"Perseverance does not change her failure, my lord," Draco answered calmly. He had not failed the Dark Lord in any task he had been set. He had
Stood beside the Dark Lord at the Standing Stones. He had fought at his side, and the Dark Lord had been pleased.
Yet, Draco knew success was a deceptive trap. The Dark Lord was subtle and quick to anger and Draco seen the price paid by those who were arrogant enough to believe they could not fail.
"Most certainly it does not." Voldemort whispered, a dry, raspy sound that made the hair on the back of Draco's neck stand on end. "Tell me, young Malfoy, if it were your father in her place, would you counsel mercy?"
Draco smiled a smile that had no emotion behind it. "My father would not be in that position, my lord. He would hardly refrain from screaming."
Voldemort released the spells, and the woman fell to the ground, landing in a heap at his feet. He peered at the boy. "Mayhap you underestimate your father, but you avoid the question."
Draco steeled himself and did something that later, when he was rested and had time to think about would have him shaking in fear.
He met the Dark Lord's eyes.
"I would not presume to offer counsel, my lord."
The other Death Eaters gathered – the few remaining of the Dark Lord's inner circle – and those few of power and daring who had accompanied the Dark Lord to the Standing Stones fell silent.
The Dark Lord smiled. "And why, young Malfoy, would you forbear to offer counsel?"
Draco didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He stared into the Dark Lord's glowing red eyes and knew he was being weighed. Measured. Tested.
"You are the Dark Lord. I am not even a Death Eater. What counsel could I offer, and what presumption would it be for me to believe I should?"
The Dark Lord turned away from Draco and put an almost fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. "It is true you are no Death Eater, yet you have served me well. Unlike others."
His gaze fell on the girl's crumpled body.
He kicked the woman in the ribs. "Stand, and receive judgment."
Slowly, painfully, the woman stood. She held herself as erect as she could, refusing to show weakness, though it was obvious her limbs were trembling. She tried to stand with dignity, despite the tattered and bloodstained robes she wore – the same robes she had donned that morning for her mission. She had been stripped of her mask and her wand.
Draco remembered his thoughts at the Standing Stones and suppressed a smile. He had been right. They had failed.
The Dark Lord was not pleased.
The woman looked slowly around herself and realized she was standing in the center of a circle of hooded, masked figures. Her eyes swept the room until they fell on the Dark Lord and the boy standing next to him. Like the Dark Lord, Draco was unmasked.
The girl met his eyes for a fleeting moment. If she saw sympathy or pity there, it didn't register on her face. He wondered what she thought, to see a schoolboy unmasked at the Dark Lord's right side.
There was a part of Draco that felt sorry for her, because he knew what the girl didn't. Her mission had never stood a chance of success. Potter was too well guarded, to say nothing of the boy's own skills or his remarkable survival instinct.
Her fate, either at the hands of Potter, the Ministry, the Order or the Dark Lord had been sealed when she had been ordered to accompany the others, no matter that she had been the most junior of those sent. Now, she would pay the price that inevitable outcome. Her loyalty in returning to the Dark Lord was being repaid in pain and most likely death.
Such is the path to power.
Most of those who had gone with her to deal with Potter had been under the Imperious Curse, Hypnosis Charm, or some other form of mind control. Relatively few real Death Eaters had been risked, though all who were sent had been given the Dark Mark.
Three groups of real Death Eaters had gone. The first group had confronted Potter in the gym, backed up by the mind-controlled slaves; most of those Death Eaters had already been liberated from the Ministry. The second, and largest, group had been tasked to follow Potter if he escaped. No one from that group had been heard from. The third group, her group, were the youngest and newest Death Eaters and were sent to deal with the muggles. Three of them had dealt with Duncan McAllister. Normally, he would have been killed, but Lord Voldemort hadn't wanted to draw the attention that killing a muggle celebrity, however minor, would have attracted. The remaining six were to deal with Gracie McAllister.
In their defense, they had had kept Gracie McAllister from interfering, though she had survived. Voldemort had ordered her killed, just to hurt Potter.
Everything had gone wrong and the Dark Lord had learned of it in the worst possible way, because at least one of those sent to deal with Potter had revealed that most crucial piece of information: where the Dark Lord was hiding.
Lord Voldemort had returned from the Standing Stones to find Aurors and forensic wizards searching the beautiful mansion Voldemort had taken for his own.
The Aurors were now dead – Draco had killed two of them himself. Voldemort had acted swiftly, moving to a back-up location and contacting one of their agents to release the captured Death Eaters, none of whom remembered informing the Ministry of anything.
Draco wanted to shiver at the memory of the Dark Lord's brutal Legilimency attacks on the liberated prisoners. If they had betrayed the Dark Lord, he would have discovered it.
Finally, late in the evening, after having searched for her Lord, the woman had returned to report, and the Dark Lord was punishing her failure.
She stood before him, somehow still proud in what Draco assumed were the last moments of her life.
"Do you know where you are?" Voldemort hissed the words, taking a step closer to her, his face almost touching hers.
"No, my lord." Her voice shook, but she spoke strongly.
"This," the Dark Lord gestured around him, at the stone walls, floor and ceiling, all lit by the flicker of torches. "is where I now abide, instead of the mansion you departed from this morning. Do you know why I abide in a cavern beneath the ground instead of a mansion?"
"No, my lord." Her fear was obvious; it was obvious she wanted to look away from the Dark Lord's eyes, but his will was stronger. She would look away only when he allowed her to.
"I am here because you failed," he whispered, but everyone could hear him; it was a small magic that he needed no effort, no wand to cast. "You failed and our location was compromised, so I must abide in the cold and the damp. Some of the others, I can understand. Potter is a formidable wizard and his allies are strong.
"Your task was simple. Six of you. All you had to do was kill one muggle woman. Your compatriots are dead. You are not."
Draco could almost feel her pulling herself back together. Her anger was an almost palpable thing.
She's got backbone. It's going to make her death hurt a lot more than it would have, but she's got backbone.
"No, my lord, I am not." She spoke slowly, her voice still respectful, still fearful, but the anger pushed her to heights of courage Draco would never have suspected. "The muggle Gracie McAllister was immaterial. The rest of my team – my friends – died at her hands to give the others the time they needed to capture Potter. Once the muggle had overpowered them, it became clear that as the weakest of the group, I could not take her. I went to assist the others, but they had already lost Potter."
Voldemort paused and smiled. "You are correct. But you still failed to kill the muggle. She has seen magic – and worse, she has seen Death Eaters."
The implication was clear. She should have died trying to kill Gracie McAllister instead of running away like a coward.
The woman brushed her dark hair over her shoulders, her dark eyes shining fervently. "The woman is important to Potter and she obviously cares about him. We can use her, my lord."
Draco knew desperation when he saw it. The woman – Kate. Kate Bradshaw – knew she was a dead woman standing. Her only chance was to bargain for her life.
The Dark Lord was correct. She was most impressive. Even to the last, she refused to give up.
If only she'd felt the same resolve fighting the muggle.
Voldemort stalked in a circle around her. "Yes. I can use her to get at Potter. Do you believe that thought had not occurred to me?" His smile grew as he savored her fear, her anxiety.
The Dark Lord whirled and faced Draco. "Tell me, my young apprentice,"
Draco felt gooseflesh rise as the Dark Lord spoke. There was meaning there Draco didn't dare hope for, didn't dare believe, "of your thoughts concerning their mission."
For the second time that night, Draco met the gaze of the Dark Lord. He knew the Dark Lord could see his thoughts. He knew the Dark Lord would know the truth of his thoughts before he spoke. "They were doomed to failure."
Hesitant, shocked whispers raced through the room at Draco's pronouncement.
The Dark Lord was not happy with what Draco had to say, but the expression on his face made it seem he was pleased with Draco himself.
"You have served well today, Draco," Voldemort repeated. "You fought at my side against the Druids. You killed two Aurors. Are you implying you could have succeeded where others failed?"
Draco exercised every shred of will he had not to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. I won't grovel anymore. Not to him. Not to my father. Not to anyone. I'm through being a simpering little coward.
"No, my lord. I would have failed as readily as they." It was an easy admission to make. No matter how his skills had grown over the past year and more, he knew he was no match for the likes of the Order. And as much as it galled him to admit it, he probably wasn't a match for Potter.
He certainly hadn't been a match for the Weasley girl. He still seethed with shame over that defeat, and the punishment Pettigrew had meted out for it.
Even his killing the two Aurors had been an easy thing; he'd cast the Killing Curse while they'd battled Death Eaters.
"Why, my young apprentice, do you think failure was assured?"
It was the second time the Dark Lord had used that particular appellation. Draco felt a chill of both anticipation and fear run through him. He felt giddy with the possibilities, but he forced it down, using every shred of his will to control his emotions.
At Hogwarts, Draco gave in to his impulses. He said what he wanted, did what he wanted and didn't care about the consequences. More often than not, he came out on top. He knew he couldn't afford that here, no matter how much he wanted to sarcastically mock the assembled Death Eaters and their stupidity for not seeing what should have been painfully obvious.
But he couldn't stop all his amusement from coloring his words. Who would have known the tactics he used to bait and trap Potter at school would elude some of the greatest Dark Wizards of the age?
"Directly attacking Potter always fails, my lord. No matter how well-planned or how cunning the attack, Potter will win in direct confrontation. It's what he does best. Defeating Potter takes multiple lines of attack, each hidden. You never come straight at him. You never match him on his ground or with his rules."
"It wasn't Potter that defeated us!" A voice from the circle. Draco recognized the Death Eater as one who had been in the group which had attacked Potter. "It wasn't even his muggle cousin! It was the bloody Aurors! Potter cast a Patronus and the next thing we know, we're fighting Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye Moody!"
Draco ignored him and continued meeting the Dark Lord's eyes. "A brilliant plan, my lord."
"Isn't it?" Voldemort hissed. "Tell them."
Draco saw the trap and almost smiled. If he hadn't really figured out what the Dark Lord was doing, if he was bluffing, the Dark Lord would expose his failure to everyone. But if he was right...
"We now know the extent of the protection on Potter. Our other agents have made it impossible for him to return to Privet Drive. He's hurt and he's vulnerable."
"Very good, my apprentice, very good."
A third time.
There were even more murmurs than before, but this time, they were fearful. There was already talk that those who had dared to go with the Dark Lord to the Standing Stones would take places in the inner circle. But for Draco Malfoy to be thrice called the Dark Lord's apprentice?
Voldemort laughed softly and looked at Bradshaw. "You owe Draco Malfoy your life. Killing you would be a waste. You are pure-blood and you are strong. You do not give in to fear, and you seek to please me." He waved his hand. "Very well. Go find me the muggle. Bring her to me."
The woman fell to her knees. "Thank you, my lord, thank you. I will not fail again!"
"No." Voldemort smiled. "You will not. Draco!"
"Yes, my lord?" Draco answered calmly, bowing slightly, as if he had no fear of the Dark Lord's baleful gaze had fallen on him once again.
"You and Wormtail will go with her. Take whoever else you need. We will make this muggle our advantage, not Dumbledore's."
Draco bowed again. "Your will, my lord.
- 0 -
Gracie McAllister's apartment was sparsely furnished and strangely devoid of personal effects. No pictures on the wall. No awards or memorabilia scattered around. The kitchen was clean, gleaming.
There was no sign Potter had been there. No sign McAllister had returned there after the fight.
Kate looked around the apartment, nearly impotent with rage. The junior Death Eaters with her sneered at her as she frantically searched for some sign of where Gracie McAllister had gone.
While she raged, Draco had wandered around the apartment, casting detection charms, looking for bits of hair, toothpaste residue in the sink – things he had never known muggles (or most wizards) to be able to effectively clean. Things that if found in Malfoy Manor earned house elves dire punishment.
The law of contagion, one of the most basic principles of magic, stated that objects connected to each other remained connected even after they separated. By finding something that had once been a part of Gracie McAllister, they could find her.
He'd learned this particular meticulous detective work from Severus Snape. The same methodical precision that made a potions master made a skilled detective.
He wasn't surprised when he found nothing. He was less surprised when Bradshaw found nothing. The only traces they found were of Potter, but they'd already known he had been there.
"Dumbledore's people have already been here," he told her. "It's clean. He has enough Aurors working for him that there's no way we'll find anything that will lead us back to her." He ran a manicured finger along a spotless white cabinet. "Some of her clothes are gone and the rest have been so thoroughly scoured you'll never get enough to trace her. Her muggle transportation is gone. So is her money."
She whirled on Draco, her wand in her hand. "The bloody Order of the Phoenix is not perfect, Malfoy. Neither are you." She gestured sharply at the other Death Eaters. "Go. Interrogate every Muggle in this complex until you find out where she went."
Under white masks, Death Eaters smiled; this was why they had accepted the Dark Mark – the chance to torture, to terrorize. To kill and drink in the screams of muggles falling before their power. They were pure-blood wizards and the world was supposed to be theirs for the taking.
Draco and Peter shared a look.
Kate was letting her emotions control her, just like he once had. He knew better, now. She was letting her fear and anger dictate her actions – but still, it might be worth investigating.
"She might be right you know," Draco admitted. "Someone might have seen something Dumbledore's crew missed."
"Even so," Pettigrew said, "this will attract muggle attention. How many will be dead come morning?"
Draco shrugged. "The muggles will come up with their own explanation. They always do. Besides, the Order won't be able to ignore this. Nor will the Ministry. They'll all know we're after McAllister, so they'll be after her too. She'll be hunted down and flushed out, one way or the other. We already know the Order is using the Ministry to find her. Our people in the Ministry will let us know when she's found. Either way, we'll have her."
Pettigrew looked hard at Draco. "And if we don't?"
Draco stared out into the late night gloom, straining to hear the screams that were just beginning. "Then we try something else. And we keep trying until the Dark Lord tells us to stop."
He held back a yawn. He was still exhausted. It had been this time the night before that the Dark Lord had come from his excursion into Potter's mind.
Once the preparations for the ill-fated mission had been made, the Dark Lord had called for volunteers. He had calmly told them he was going to visit the Standing Stones and add the power of the Druids to his ranks. He had dared them all to follow him, if they had the power and the courage.
Draco had dared. He had dared much since then.
He'd dared stand beside the Dark Lord at the Standing Stones. He'd dared to stand before some of the most powerful Loremasters in England and guard the Dark Lord's back. He'd dared to kill Ministry Aurors.
And the Dark Lord has called me his apprentice. Either he's mocking me or he's offering me the chance to dare more than I already have.
"You are walking a dangerous path with the Dark Lord, Draco." Peter was standing next to him now. "You seek power, but at what cost? You risk much." The rat echoed his own thoughts.
"If I'm not going to risk everything for the chance at power," Draco said slowly, "then why am I a part of this to begin with?"
Draco looked up at the clock – barely after midnight. They had plenty of time. And since she was going to tear apart the complex with or without him, he might as well have some fun with it.
- 0 -
Gray eyes watched the sun rise from behind green-tinted lenses.
Gracie McAllister was waiting.
She leaned against the wall of the bake shop and watched the red-brick building across the street, tendrils of wispy smoke curling away from the red glow at the end of her cigarette.
She had been waiting and watching since three am that morning.
In the hours she'd been waiting, she had barely moved except to light another cigarette as she disposed of the first in the trash can next to her. She'd been getting strange looks all morning, but she enjoyed the attention; it meant her prey would notice her. If there was one thing you could count on the man to do, it was notice when people looked out of the ordinary.
She was a patient woman. Patience was, after all, one of her few virtues. She knew if she waited long enough, the man she wanted to see would come to her.
And so would They. She'd escaped Them. She'd killed some of Them. If Gracie was right about Them, They would come for her. They'd watch her, follow her, even try to kill her.
They were welcome to try. She'd use Them to find Harry. Once she found him and knew he was safe, then there would be time for a reckoning.
Until then, she would wait. Vernon Dursley would come to her eventually.
Drake Stevens watched Gracie wait. He sat on a bench and strummed a guitar, just another bum playing for pence at a bus stop, out early to catch the first crowds. He watched Gracie, and had to admire her style.
She certainly didn't look like a woman fast approaching sixty. She was tall and slender, with whipcord muscles under smooth skin. Her features, too chiseled and too hard for classical beauty, were the features of a woman years younger. Her long, slender fingers seemed ill-adapted to the sort of violence her previous calling had demanded, but her eyes told the tales of that violence.
Steel-gray hair hung to her waist in a thick braid, and she wore faded blue jeans and tall leather boots that matched the well-worn ankle-length black trench coat she hid her cigarettes in.
But it was the glasses he liked the best – dark green frameless lenses that gave her a faintly sinister look. They hid her silver-gray eyes, making it hard to read her, but the lenses' very color drew the eyes of anyone she looked at for too long.
He wasn't surprised to find her there. Not really. Moody had told him where to look.
Moody's instructions to Drake had been simple. "She was in law enforcement. She'll start at the beginning – the Dursleys." The old Auror had ordered Drake to wait outside Grunnings until Gracie appeared, then watch what happened.
Moody was right about where to find her. It was surprising how well the old Auror understood McAllister, because the Ministry hadn't been able to find out much about her – her muggle records were hard to get a hold of, and there were large gaps in what they had gotten.
Officially, Drake's job was to find her, watch her, and figure out where she fit into everything to do with Harry Potter. And once he had, he was to Obliviate her.
Of course, Drake was fairly sure Moody knew where Harry Potter was. He was also fairly sure Moody had no intention of Obliviating Gracie.
He'd had a lot of time to think, watching her wait.
He'd been sitting on the same bus station bench for almost eight hours – but he was a Hit Wizard. His training had been grueling. Though he wasn't comfortable or happy, he wasn't as exhausted as he could have been.
It's a good thing I'm not truly exhausted. If there's one thing I have figured out, it's that you don't deal with Gracie McAllister exhausted.
He remembered the bodies of the Death Eaters outside the Gym. All five were dead: one had a wand shoved through his eye and another's jaw had been half-torn away from his face.
Five Death Eaters. Unarmed. Without magic.
It made Drake shudder to think about it.
Then again, the whole attack made him shudder. Nothing about the attack felt right. Most of the Death Eaters they'd captured had been mind-controlled, and those that weren't were new recruits. Only a few of them had been experienced, and Gracie had killed almost half of those on her own. And why go after the boy in the first place? Surely, You Know Who had to have known Harry was being watched.
Yet, Moody took the attack as matter-of-course.
Which brought Drake back to his theory Moody knew more than he was telling. It was no secret Moody was one of Dumbledore's staunchest supporters, and no one really believed Fudge's proclamation had dissolved the Order of the Phoenix.
He was torn. He believed You Know Who was back. He'd believed it since Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore had first said it, over a year ago. He'd said so, in fact, which had gotten him reprimanded by his superiors. If he were honest with himself, he wasn't sure the Ministry was doing enough to stop the Dark Lord. And in the spirit of being honest with himself, he knew, deep in his gut, that Harry Potter had a major role to play in the coming war. However, like most people he really had no idea how Harry Potter fit into the grand scheme of things.
When everything was said and done, Harry Potter was just a kid. A boy-wizard who had defeated You Know Who before he could properly walk and who just might do again. Of course, if Drake listened to rumors – which he frequently did – Harry Potter had faced You Know Who four more times since starting Hogwarts, and he'd come out on top all four times.
Five-zero, Potter. Good record, especially against the wizard that didn't lose unless he was up against Albus Dumbledore himself.
Which means there's a good chance the wizarding world is in the hands of an old man and a teenager.
It was odd to put that much faith in a kid, but that kid had been through more, beaten more, than Drake ever wanted to imagine.
And Gracie McAllister knew that kid. Had taught him. Hosted him in her home, let him sleep on her couch.
She hadn't known who he was.
It was easy to see why she was the kind of person who could be friends with the Boy Who Lived. There was something about her, something that bespoke of a great deal of strength, the kind of iron will even an attack by Death Eaters couldn't bend, let alone break.
The kind of single-minded determination that led her to stand outside a bake shop for hours and wait for one man.
Drake and Gracie spotted him at the same time. He waddled towards the bake shop, huffing and puffing.
Gracie moved to meet him.
Drake could only admire that kind of spontaneous grace; the ability to go from almost motionless to a fluid step out into the middle of the street, with only the rustle of leather and drifting cigarette smoke.
Vernon saw her and froze like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Where is he?" Her voice was hoarse, harsh, flinty from the hours-long barrage of nicotine and smoke against her throat, but the words were clear. Her intent was clear.
Vernon snorted. "Gone. Good riddance. He's not welcome back. You people can keep the worthless brat."
Something about Gracie shifted, becoming openly threatening. She'd just been intimidating before.
"'You people'?" She asked. "I'm not one of Them, whoever They are. I'm Gracie McAllister and I taught your nephew. You should already know who I am, Dursley, if you were really taking care of the kid. I don't know who those little shit-eating cult wannabes were, but they took him. I heard him screaming while six of them tried to deal with me. They're dead. I'm not." She didn't move, but Drake got the feeling Gracie was circling, waiting for a moment to strike. "But you have reason to be afraid of me, don't you? You're afraid I know."
Her smile was hungry. Predatory. "I was an Inspector, Dursley. I see things other ignore. I saw the bruises on him, Dursley. He wasn't even allowed to shower. Or shave. Or eat."
There was such bitterness in Gracie's voice, Drake was starting to wonder.
What is she talking about? Not allowed to eat? Shower? Shave? Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived. She can't be talking about him! His fingers played over the guitar strings with a bit more emphasis now, the strands of music reflecting his confusion. He'd read the declassified Ministry files on Potter. Everyone in the MLE did, at one point or another. He was supposed to be living in a comfortable, middle-class home, well taken care of.
He had a sinking feeling in his stomach he quickly identified as guilt. It was the kind of personal guilt you get when you see someone who has done something for you suffering. It's the kind of guilt you get when you know you've failed someone utterly, when they had never failed you.
Harry Potter had made himself a martyr to tell them all Voldemort was back, and after he was proven right, he went back to live with the likes of Vernon Dursley.
"And?" Vernon spat back at Gracie. "I tried for years to beat it out of him. I took him in. Fed him. Clothed him. But was he ever grateful? Did he ever care what we did for him? He's not my responsibility any more. He's theirs. You want to know about him? Ask them. If you can find them."
It took all of Drake's acting skill not to openly gape at Vernon Dursley. What kind of life had the savior of the wizarding world led? What kind of monster had Harry lived with?
He was a Hit Wizard, and he felt a great desire to rise up from his uncomfortable bench and demonstrate just what that meant to the miserable muggle being interrogated by McAllister.
Enjoyable as the thought was, he didn't think McAllister would take kindly to his interrupting her. So Drake stayed where he was and decided that the next chance he got, he was going to find the people responsible for taking care of Potter (at least, in the wizarding world) and ask them some pointed and uncomfortable questions.
Vernon tried to move towards the bake shop but Gracie shook her head slowly. "You're here. They're not. I'm asking you."
"Pah!" He was turning puce. "Think you're something, do you? Think you can bully me? Frighten me? I've been living with one of them under my roof for near-to sixteen years, and I expect that's been quite enough. Now, if you'll pardon me, I have a breakfast to buy!"
Vernon tried to step around her, but Gracie moved with him – there was no way Vernon could escape from her. She stepped right up to him, her face in his.
"I swore I'd never do this again, Dursley. I swore I'd never become what I was again, because I was better than that. But I've never kept a promise to myself and I've never broken one to anyone else. I haven't forgotten you, Vernon Dursley. When I find him, I'll be back, and then you'll answer all of my questions."
Drake felt a shiver run up his spine. He barely knew anything about the woman, but he did know she was very dangerous, and that crossing her was something you did only after you'd stacked the deck, updated your will, and bought good life insurance.
Vernon laughed, for the first time sincerely amused. "No, I'm safe from the likes of you, because they won't want their precious secret out in the open. Don't blame them, really."
It left a bad taste in Drake's mouth to think that Vernon Dursley was right about anything magical. But he was – as long as there was some small shred of the old blood protections remaining, Harry might need the Dursleys. Moody had explained that much to him.
The Dursleys were protected.
Gracie wasn't.
Moody had explained that, too.
"Who are they?" Gracie asked, desperation in her voice.
Vernon smiled nastily. "They don't exist, McAllister. Go back home. Pretend this never happened."
Gracie shook her head. "I won't. You lied about him...as far as I can find, Harry Potter never existed. No insurance. No birth certificate...nothing. You tortured him instead of nurturing him. But he lives with you and accepts what you mete out, and I'm pretty sure he thinks he has to. That someone makes him. Who are they, Vernon?"
This time Vernon ignored the desperate woman, and stomped towards the bake shop. This time, Gracie let him go. Her shoulders slumped, and just for a minute, she looked defeated.
"Damn."
Drake felt sorry for the woman, but breathed a sigh of relief that Vernon Dursley could be counted on not only to notice something weird, but to deny everything. It made him sick to his stomach to be grateful for anything about Vernon Dursley.
In fact, he was thinking it might not be a bad idea to go get breakfast himself. And ask Vernon Dursley a few of his pointed and uncomfortable questions. Maybe there was good reason his treatment of Harry Potter hadn't been reported to the Ministry, but as no one had seen fit to inform Drake of any such reason, he had no reason not to find out exactly what Vernon Dursley had done to Harry Potter and report it.
He looked up from his guitar, about to stand, and noticed Gracie McAllister was no longer standing in the middle of the street. She was standing in front of him, staring down at him from behind her dark green glasses.
"I don't know you, busker, but I do know you're one of Them. I don't know what you and yours are. I don't know that it matters." She flicked her cigarette into the trash bin. "I'm going to find him. I'm going to find out who and what you are."
Drake sighed. This was why Hit Wizards didn't do surveillance. He wasn't good at hiding in plain sight or being a spy. He was good at the selective and judicious application of violence. His mission briefings usually included the phrase 'acceptable collateral damage.'
He just kept looking at her, waiting for her to go on. Sometimes, it wasn't a good idea to say anything.
She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit a new one. "I shouldn't let you walk away. I should have a long and strenuous conversation with you where you tell me everything you never wanted me to know. But I really can't do that right now."
Drake realized something very obvious. Gracie McAllister had no idea there were at least two factions of wizards interested in Harry Potter. She had only met one faction, and that faction had tried to kill her and – as far as she could tell – had kidnapped her student.
He got the distinct feeling the situation was about to get very complicated and very messy – if it weren't already.
"What I am going to do is let you take a message back to your boss. Tell him it'd be a good idea if someone told me what was going on and gave me the kid back, otherwise I am going to start making myself all manner of nuisance. If I have to find the kid on my own, it won't be pleasant or fun for anyone, least of all your crowd, whoever in fuck you are. And if y'all decide the best way to deal with things is to get rid of me, I'll have to get really nasty."
Drake shrugged. In training, his instructors had told him he had a few options in situations like this. Go for his wand, call for backup, or play nice.
He knew better than to go for his wand. He was good, but this close, Gracie was better. And since he got the distinct impression she really did want to kill him, he wasn't inclined to give her any excuse.
Five death eaters. Without magic.
He didn't have any backup that could get there before she killed him.
Drake decided to play nice. "I'll tell them. I don't know that it'll do much good." He gave her the truth. "Mostly because we don't have him. We were hoping you could lead us to him."
Gracie sniffed disdainfully. "Really now?"
"Really," Drake answered. "There's more than one group of us, you know. I'm one of the good guys, believe it or not."
After what he'd learned about Harry Potter's life, he was wondering if he really was one of the good guys.
She snorted. "Is this where you tell me it's safer for me if I don't get involved, let you do your job and the rest of the bullshit you're supposed to shovel down my throat?"
He held up his hands helplessly. "Pretty much, yeah. I can't stop you though, can I?"
Gracie shook her head. "Not really, no."
"I didn't think so. Instead, I'll tell you to be careful and that anyone in a black robe with a white mask will try to torture and kill you for fun. Just because they can."
She nodded slowly, accepting the advice for what it was. "I'll keep it in mind."
Drake let Gracie turn and walk away; the tracking spells he'd already cast on her would allow him to find her later.
For now, he had to report to Mad-Eye – but he wished he knew who he was really reporting to: the Ministry of Magic or the Order of the Phoenix. He wished he knew which one he should be reporting to.
With my luck, I'm working for the bad guys and the good guys are as clueless as I am.
Moody was waiting for him outside Gracie's flat.
The old Auror's face was grim and his good eye was narrowed. He looked at Drake and motioned him over to the foot of the stairs that lead up to Gracie's flat.
Moody held up a hand. "Listen."
The Hit Wizard fell silent and listened for several minutes, but he couldn't hear anything but the faint noise of traffic on a nearby road.
"I don't hear anything."
Moody nodded slowly. "That's the problem. Muggles are always up and about making noise, running around, doing things, even at this ungodly hour of the morning. And we hear nothing."
Stevens went pale, and Moody simply confirmed what he was afraid of.
"The Death Eaters are following her all right. Unless I miss my guess, everyone in this complex is dead and the Death Eaters are on her trail. If I'm right, this is a message. They're know what we're doing, and they're a step ahead of us."
Drake didn't like the sound of that. "Even if they're a step ahead of us, I don't think they'll find McAllister before she finds them."
Moody grunted. "So what'd she have to say after the spotted you?"
"What makes you think she spotted me?" Drake protested.
Moody's magical eyes swiveled over to Drake. "She would have spotted a disillusioned Auror under an Invisibility Cloak."
"Oh." Drake said before launching into an explanation of the morning's events. It only took him a few minutes to relate his conversation with Gracie to Moody.
The old Auror smiled. "Doesn't surprise me. It's why I told you not to try to fight her. There'll be time enough if we need to modify her memories."
Drake gave Moody a long, hard look. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you know this woman."
Moody shrugged. "Maybe I do."
Gracie guided her bike through Little Whinging.
Her confrontation with Dursley had proven she wasn't going crazy. They really were out there and They probably were out to get her. They'd certainly been out to get the kid. It'd also convinced her that Vernon Dursley and his wife were scum of the worst sort.
But she would deal with them later. After she'd rescued the kid. Or taken care of whoever had killed him. Because at this point in her life, Gracie didn't have a whole lot she really cared about. Until Harry Potter had re-appeared in her life, she'd been content to live off her pension, whiling away the twilight years of her life in the back room of her nephew's gym.
Training Harry had woken her up. Reminded her that even if she had retired, there were things she could do to make a difference. As the weeks of training had passed by, Gracie had started to have all sorts of thoughts she'd never considered. Thoughts of going back to London, reconciling with her teacher. Of volunteering to work with troubled kids or something like it. Doing something worth doing again.
Maybe she still could. After she got her student back.
She hadn't slept. She'd grabbed a bite to eat, bought more cigarettes and staked out Grunnings. She'd been gratified to see she wasn't the only one. The grey-cloaked man she'd seen at the gym was sitting on a bus bench, strumming a guitar. He was acting the part of a busker, but was really, really bad at it.
She didn't know why she'd confronted him. She wasn't sure she was glad she had, because all the conversation had done was muddy the waters. Made her unclear who the good guys and bad guys were. Unless, apparently, they were wearing black cloaks with white masks.
At best, she'd managed a cease-fire with one side. At worst, she'd told a whole new group of Them that she was a danger to Them.
She wasn't sure she cared.
All that matter was that They were after her. Apparently, both factions of them.
She grinned. Fine by her. But they were going to have to catch her on her turf and play the game her way.
She needed insurance, in case she was made to forget. She stopped by a coffee shop and got herself some breakfast and wrote a letter. She borrowed an envelope from the shop and went to visit Ken Morrison.
He looked at her strangely when she asked: "Do you remember the kid I came in with the other day?"
"Yeah. Harry Potter or something like that. Skinniest damn teenager I ever did see. Cut you a discount on the price of the kit, too. Figured you were trying to do the kid a nice turn."
Gracie had sagged with relief. They hadn't gotten to everyone. Still, they were dangerous people who didn't seem to care who they hurt or what they had to do to get what they wanted.
"Yeah, something like that. I'm going to need to ask you a weird favor. Probably will be the strangest thing anyone's ever asked you to do."
Ken had shrugged. "Ask away."
"When people come asking you about Harry, pretend you don't know who they're talking about. Pretend that as far as you know, no one named Harry Potter ever existed. And if the kid comes looking for me, give him this." She'd handed him the letter.
Ken had looked at her strangely, but he knew her well enough to know she wouldn't explain any more than she already had. He'd nodded and taken the letter. "If it were anyone else askin', I'd say they were crazy. But for you, I'll do it. What do I say if they ask about the kit I sold you?"
"Tell 'em you don't remember selling a kit to me or me ever having a kid with me."
Ken had nodded again. "All right, then. I get the feeling I won't be seeing you for awhile, then?"
Gracie shook her head. "No. I'll contact you, if I can."
Ken hugged her. "Take care of yourself, Gracie."
"I always do." She left, taking the long way out of the Afternoon Market.
She went back to the gym, and found it gone. Again, she wasn't sure if she was surprise it was gone, or at how fast they'd worked. She'd stood there, astride her bike, across the street from the place that had been her haven for so long.
It was something she'd learned as an investigator – a location was always there, but a place could change. The gym was the place; the building the location.
The gym was gone. The equipment was gone; the windows were boarded over, and the sign was painted over. There was a 'for lease' notice on the front door.
On a whim, she'd gone to a nearby pay phone and called the leasing agent listed on the sign, and found out the building had been up for lease for almost a month. No one had been there since Duncan McAllister had moved out at the beginning of summer.
She almost laughed. Instead, she'd lit another cigarette, climbed back on her bike, and figured that with Harry having never existed and Duncan gone, she was next.
What the hell are they trying to do? Erase my life? Erase the kid's life?
The thought was another disturbing one; not because of their grudge against her – that was easy to explain. She'd gotten in their way, killed a few of them, and had generally gone and made a nuisance of herself.
They were going to have to work pretty damn hard to erase her.
It disturbed her because of what it might mean for Harry.
The kid's tough. She kept repeating that to herself, hoping if she repeated it enough, she might drown out the memories of his screams.
She straddled her idling bike and sucked on the end of a cigarette.
They must think this is going to be easy. Just get rid of one old woman who saw too much.
She could feel the faint stirrings of anger in her guts; true, she'd been angry before, but it was the red-hot anger of someone who's just been robbed or slapped. This was different.
This was the sustaining rage. The cold, creeping anger that drove men insane and small-minded to lifetimes of obsession and petty revenge.
Anger is defeated self.
It was one of the first precepts her teacher had taught her. To follow a path out of anger, to act out of anger would ultimately bring defeat, because anger was fleeting; transitory. It was a state of mind as much as an emotion – and the emotions and desires anger brought with it left when anger did.
"Never give into anger," Master Tal Shan had told her. "Never let it rule you. But never be afraid to be angry."
Her gray eyes flashed as she blew out a cloud of smoke. She had never been a good student, not when it came to the philosophy.
Part of her whispered a silent apology to her Master while the rest of her plotted. Her next move was easy. They wanted to hunt her? They would have to do it on her terms, on her ground.
She glanced out of the corner of her eye and she saw a familiar busker hiding his face from her, sitting at the bus stop across the street.
They were following her. They'd followed her every step of the way, waiting for their moment to strike.
That was fine.
They could follow her to London. Her city.
They could follow her through the deep parts of London no one liked to admit were there; warrens and alleys and places beneath that weren't on any map.
While they blundered around, she was going to go to ground. Re-connect with her old contacts, and start asking uncomfortable questions until someone told her what was going on – because someone in London was bound to know who They were.
First things first: she needed to re-fill her bag of tricks. She glanced at her watch.
I have just enough time to get what I need.
She swung herself back over her bike and kicked it into gear.
It didn't take her long. She stopped off at a hardware store and a chemist and a couple of other, smaller and lesser known shops.
Just after noon, she was on her way to London.
End Chapter
Posted 08-18-08