Well, I'm back. Hope y'all liked the last chapter, 'cause here's the next.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter & Associates do not belong to me. Dee does (see, y'all found out) and so does Sean (keep yer britches on).
Chapter the Second
Harry woke up so early the next morning that the sun hadn't even risen yet. At first he had no idea what had roused him, but a second later he recognized the sound of something scratching at his bedroom door. He rolled out of bed and landed silently on the floor, then quietly made his way over to the door and pressed his ear against it.
"Damn twerp," he heard Dudley's voice hiss bitterly. "Wizard or not, he's gonna get it this time for tellin' on us!"
"Yeah," he heard one of his cousin's cronies hiss back.
Harry's heart began to pound. Dudley had told them...? He couldn't believe it! Maybe they had all been drunk again when he had spouted out that tidbit of so important information. This could ruin his life as a wizard! If any of Dudley's friends told only one other person, and then that person told one other person...things could get very complicated very quickly.
But first things first. Harry moved back from the door toward his table lamp beside his bed and switched it on, counting on the bullies' stupidity to not notice the light suddenly emitting from underneath the door. Then he got down on his knees and reached underneath his bed to lift that so- useful loose floorboard, and retrieve his wand beneath.
However, he hadn't counted on his cousin and his friends to open the door very quickly. Still vulnerable half beneath the bed, his door burst open and five various sized shapes came in.
With the reflexes born of a true Seeker, a position in the wizarding game of Quidditch, Harry closed his hand around the familiar wood of his wand and flung himself to the side, retracting his arm, pointing his wand and opening his mouth to curse the lot of them all in the same movement.
However, neither had he counted on his enemies moving as fast as they did. One boy leaped on top of Harry, blasting the breath from his body and squashing him against his hard floor, not to mention banging his head against the bed frame hard enough to make spots swim in front of his eyes. He felt his fingers loosen involuntarily on his wand, and felt too the fingers of someone grabbing it, likely his cousin. In those first seconds, Harry realized that he was overmatched.
Harry Potter, rising sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, who had made his way past numerous magical obstacles within mazes twice, who had braved the Forbidden Forest more than once, who had faced down Voldemort, most feared wizard of all time, more than once—and one of those times as a baby—...was going to be beaten by a few Muggles.
With that thought in mind, Harry drew in a deep breath—well, as deep as he could with Fatso on top of him—and let out a shout as loud as he could, and accompanied it with a fist that sunk into someone's flesh. He hoped it was Dudley's.
By God, he wasn't going down without a fight!
Unfortunately, Harry found himself not only overmatched, but overmatched by his cousin, a boxing champion, and his friends, all of whom seemed high on something. To top things off, he seriously doubted that he would get any help from his Aunt or Uncle, and Hedwig was out hunting. She wouldn't be back any time soon.
He was on his own.
With that additional thought in mind, Harry let out a feral growl and with a mighty heave and a quick squirm, he got out from underneath Fatso and straightened...just in time to take a fist to the face. He staggered backwards, hands reflexively going to his face, and fell back onto his bed. That probably saved him from the full force of the fist that plowed into his stomach, but it still hurt. He rolled onto his shoulders, pushing away the pain, and shot both feet out, connecting with the chest of the person stepping forward. The next thing he knew, three people piled on top of him and they all rolled off the bed, knocking something over. Fists were flying; Harry felt the impact of knuckles on his arms, legs, shoulders, and torso. He let his fist into someone's mouth and scraped his own knuckles against that person's teeth, and jerked his knee into the groin of someone trying to pin him. That one fell away with a groan, probably out for the count, but two others took his place, and someone grabbed his hair, yanking painfully. Harry was vaguely aware of voices shouting, one of them his own, as the ball of fighting flesh continued to slide across the floor with Harry at the bottom.
Then came the gunshot that broke them up.
Harry found himself abruptly released as bodies scrambled up, but Harry lay stunned for a second. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, but the sudden finished left him dazed. He rolled over toward the door and stopped, unable to really believe what he was seeing.
Desiree McKnight stood there, dressed in only in a tank top and running shorts that bared her midriff. One hand was on her hip, and the other held a black, deadly-looking gun that was pointed straight up. She was scowling at them all, and Vernon and Petunia were huddled behind her in their night clothes.
"Now," McKnight said peevishly, "What in hell's bells is going on here?"
Harry rose from the floor and all six boys stood quiet, leveling her with belligerent, defiant looks. For a moment, Harry could've sworn he saw her lips twitch as if with a smile.
"All right then," she said pleasantly, "You." She nodded at Harry. "Come on; you're sleeping over at my house for now. You," she nodded at Dudley, "Keep away from my car, and that goes for the rest of you as well." Her eyes slowly went from the face of one boy to the other, finishing with Harry and lingering there. "Now you'd better show up bright and early to clean my car, and then we're going down the police station to have a nice little chat with the chief. You." Her eyes hardened on one squirming boy; Harry looked too, and didn't recognize him. "Give me your knife." She held her hand out expectantly.
"Kn-kn-knife?" he stuttered.
"Cut the bullshit," she growled, "and just give me the damn thing."
Slowly, and looking at all his buddies first, he bent over and extracted a wickedly serrated blade from the army boots he was wearing. With a sour look on his face, he placed it in McKnight's hand.
"Good." She nodded at him, then at Harry. "Now come up." She turned away, taking it for granted that he would do as she said. There was no need for her to worry, and Harry had a feeling she knew that. He didn't want to spend a moment longer in that room, even though leaving right then meant leaving his stuff. But he didn't really mind.
He followed her out the front door and across the brightly-lit lawn from the stars and moon, Harry starting to limp from hurts making themselves known. She led him into the house next door without a word and into the kitchen, where she placed the gun down absently on the table and flicked on the lights. Boxes filled the room; Harry suddenly remembered a moving van from a few days before, and the For Sale sign that had been out in front before that.
"Sit," McKnight said, moving toward one of the boxes and opening it, searching for it. "I'll just fix you up, and then you can bed down any where you want, though I wouldn't suggest staying on the first floor."
"Fanks," Harry said, voice muffled by both the hand towel she had given him to mop up all the blood seeping from his nose and the said nose stuffed with blood.
"No problem. Believe it or not, I'm used to it."
"Law enforthment?"
"Yeah, well, actually, that was really a rather white lie," she replied, wincing as she sat down across from Harry with a bottle of some clear liquid and band-aids. "I've been on leave for the past couple of months while they—my superiors—investigate a rather questionable case I was working on. In other words," she added dryly, "they've as good as fired me. These things can take up to two years to fully investigate, you know."
Before Harry could so much as nod in some sort of reply, the doorbell rang. Instantly McKnight went on alert, her eyes and face hardening. She scooped up her gun and rose, stalking around the table. Harry watched in fascination, turning in his chair to watch as she rose on her toes to look through the peephole to see who was out there. Not recognizing who was out there, she stepped back, reached out and flipped the lock, and stepped back even more, leveling her gun on the person standing there.
"Who are you?" she demanded, just as the other asked, "Where's the boy?"
"Mooby!" Harry exclaimed, rising from his chair, recognizing the man standing there. McKnight lowered her weapon. "Moody?" she asked curiously.
"Yeah," he growled back, scowling at her, "Who're you and what're you doing with the boy?"
"I've heard of you," she said, ignoring his question, "You're the Aurorer."
His eyes narrowed. "How'd you know?"
"Easy," she replied, "I'm with M.I.C.O.C.A."
"Ah." Moody's face relaxed—as much as he could, at any rate—and Harry actually saw the ever-vigilant Aurorer let down his guard. Harry was baffled.
"Wif what?"
"M.I.C.O.C.A." McKnight turned to him. "Magi's International Collaboration Of Criminal Activities. The wizarding world's version of the Muggle Interpol."
"You're a withard?" Harry stared at her.
"Witch, if you want to be technical," she replied with a slight grin.
"What happened to him?" Moody asked, staring at Harry in his pj's.
"Fight with some Muggle boys," McKnight said casually, turning back to Moody. "I'll take care of him, and he'll be here for the night." Her voice was utterly confident. Harry couldn't really blame her. If Moody relaxed around her, she was either extremely good or M.I.C.O.C.A. had an even greater reputation than that of the Aurorers.
"Do you know who he is?" Moody was asking.
"No idea."
"Harry Potter. Heard of him?"
"Potter, Potter...oh, yeah, that little kid what defeated what's-his-face, Lord Something-or-other." She waved a hand negligently. "Why?"
Moody stared at her, and so did Harry. The Aurorer shook his head in disbelief.
"Lord Voldemort," he supplied a bit dryly, "The most powerful and feared wizard in Europe. He's risen again, and is gathering Death Eaters and dementers."
"What're Death Eaters?"
Harry opened his mouth—to say what, he didn't know. But Moody was shaking his head. "Never mind. You'll find out. Just keep a sharp eye on the boy."
"Sure thing. Oh, I'm Desiree McKnight. You can call me Dee. Pleasure meeting you, Moody." She shifted her gun to her other hand and stuck out her now-empty one. Moody took it and they shook, exchanged good-byes, and he left, leaving Harry in the care of a relative stranger.
"Couthn't you be lyin'?" Harry blurted without thinking as McKnight re- entered the kitchen. She gave him an amused look.
"Darling," she drawled, "Absolutely no one claims to be M.I.C.O.C.A. unless they are actually with it."
"Why?"
"Because...they usually end up dying."
A/N: Well that was long. Hope you enjoyed it. Might not go on for much longer, so don't anyone get yer hopes up.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter & Associates do not belong to me. Dee does (see, y'all found out) and so does Sean (keep yer britches on).
Chapter the Second
Harry woke up so early the next morning that the sun hadn't even risen yet. At first he had no idea what had roused him, but a second later he recognized the sound of something scratching at his bedroom door. He rolled out of bed and landed silently on the floor, then quietly made his way over to the door and pressed his ear against it.
"Damn twerp," he heard Dudley's voice hiss bitterly. "Wizard or not, he's gonna get it this time for tellin' on us!"
"Yeah," he heard one of his cousin's cronies hiss back.
Harry's heart began to pound. Dudley had told them...? He couldn't believe it! Maybe they had all been drunk again when he had spouted out that tidbit of so important information. This could ruin his life as a wizard! If any of Dudley's friends told only one other person, and then that person told one other person...things could get very complicated very quickly.
But first things first. Harry moved back from the door toward his table lamp beside his bed and switched it on, counting on the bullies' stupidity to not notice the light suddenly emitting from underneath the door. Then he got down on his knees and reached underneath his bed to lift that so- useful loose floorboard, and retrieve his wand beneath.
However, he hadn't counted on his cousin and his friends to open the door very quickly. Still vulnerable half beneath the bed, his door burst open and five various sized shapes came in.
With the reflexes born of a true Seeker, a position in the wizarding game of Quidditch, Harry closed his hand around the familiar wood of his wand and flung himself to the side, retracting his arm, pointing his wand and opening his mouth to curse the lot of them all in the same movement.
However, neither had he counted on his enemies moving as fast as they did. One boy leaped on top of Harry, blasting the breath from his body and squashing him against his hard floor, not to mention banging his head against the bed frame hard enough to make spots swim in front of his eyes. He felt his fingers loosen involuntarily on his wand, and felt too the fingers of someone grabbing it, likely his cousin. In those first seconds, Harry realized that he was overmatched.
Harry Potter, rising sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, who had made his way past numerous magical obstacles within mazes twice, who had braved the Forbidden Forest more than once, who had faced down Voldemort, most feared wizard of all time, more than once—and one of those times as a baby—...was going to be beaten by a few Muggles.
With that thought in mind, Harry drew in a deep breath—well, as deep as he could with Fatso on top of him—and let out a shout as loud as he could, and accompanied it with a fist that sunk into someone's flesh. He hoped it was Dudley's.
By God, he wasn't going down without a fight!
Unfortunately, Harry found himself not only overmatched, but overmatched by his cousin, a boxing champion, and his friends, all of whom seemed high on something. To top things off, he seriously doubted that he would get any help from his Aunt or Uncle, and Hedwig was out hunting. She wouldn't be back any time soon.
He was on his own.
With that additional thought in mind, Harry let out a feral growl and with a mighty heave and a quick squirm, he got out from underneath Fatso and straightened...just in time to take a fist to the face. He staggered backwards, hands reflexively going to his face, and fell back onto his bed. That probably saved him from the full force of the fist that plowed into his stomach, but it still hurt. He rolled onto his shoulders, pushing away the pain, and shot both feet out, connecting with the chest of the person stepping forward. The next thing he knew, three people piled on top of him and they all rolled off the bed, knocking something over. Fists were flying; Harry felt the impact of knuckles on his arms, legs, shoulders, and torso. He let his fist into someone's mouth and scraped his own knuckles against that person's teeth, and jerked his knee into the groin of someone trying to pin him. That one fell away with a groan, probably out for the count, but two others took his place, and someone grabbed his hair, yanking painfully. Harry was vaguely aware of voices shouting, one of them his own, as the ball of fighting flesh continued to slide across the floor with Harry at the bottom.
Then came the gunshot that broke them up.
Harry found himself abruptly released as bodies scrambled up, but Harry lay stunned for a second. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, but the sudden finished left him dazed. He rolled over toward the door and stopped, unable to really believe what he was seeing.
Desiree McKnight stood there, dressed in only in a tank top and running shorts that bared her midriff. One hand was on her hip, and the other held a black, deadly-looking gun that was pointed straight up. She was scowling at them all, and Vernon and Petunia were huddled behind her in their night clothes.
"Now," McKnight said peevishly, "What in hell's bells is going on here?"
Harry rose from the floor and all six boys stood quiet, leveling her with belligerent, defiant looks. For a moment, Harry could've sworn he saw her lips twitch as if with a smile.
"All right then," she said pleasantly, "You." She nodded at Harry. "Come on; you're sleeping over at my house for now. You," she nodded at Dudley, "Keep away from my car, and that goes for the rest of you as well." Her eyes slowly went from the face of one boy to the other, finishing with Harry and lingering there. "Now you'd better show up bright and early to clean my car, and then we're going down the police station to have a nice little chat with the chief. You." Her eyes hardened on one squirming boy; Harry looked too, and didn't recognize him. "Give me your knife." She held her hand out expectantly.
"Kn-kn-knife?" he stuttered.
"Cut the bullshit," she growled, "and just give me the damn thing."
Slowly, and looking at all his buddies first, he bent over and extracted a wickedly serrated blade from the army boots he was wearing. With a sour look on his face, he placed it in McKnight's hand.
"Good." She nodded at him, then at Harry. "Now come up." She turned away, taking it for granted that he would do as she said. There was no need for her to worry, and Harry had a feeling she knew that. He didn't want to spend a moment longer in that room, even though leaving right then meant leaving his stuff. But he didn't really mind.
He followed her out the front door and across the brightly-lit lawn from the stars and moon, Harry starting to limp from hurts making themselves known. She led him into the house next door without a word and into the kitchen, where she placed the gun down absently on the table and flicked on the lights. Boxes filled the room; Harry suddenly remembered a moving van from a few days before, and the For Sale sign that had been out in front before that.
"Sit," McKnight said, moving toward one of the boxes and opening it, searching for it. "I'll just fix you up, and then you can bed down any where you want, though I wouldn't suggest staying on the first floor."
"Fanks," Harry said, voice muffled by both the hand towel she had given him to mop up all the blood seeping from his nose and the said nose stuffed with blood.
"No problem. Believe it or not, I'm used to it."
"Law enforthment?"
"Yeah, well, actually, that was really a rather white lie," she replied, wincing as she sat down across from Harry with a bottle of some clear liquid and band-aids. "I've been on leave for the past couple of months while they—my superiors—investigate a rather questionable case I was working on. In other words," she added dryly, "they've as good as fired me. These things can take up to two years to fully investigate, you know."
Before Harry could so much as nod in some sort of reply, the doorbell rang. Instantly McKnight went on alert, her eyes and face hardening. She scooped up her gun and rose, stalking around the table. Harry watched in fascination, turning in his chair to watch as she rose on her toes to look through the peephole to see who was out there. Not recognizing who was out there, she stepped back, reached out and flipped the lock, and stepped back even more, leveling her gun on the person standing there.
"Who are you?" she demanded, just as the other asked, "Where's the boy?"
"Mooby!" Harry exclaimed, rising from his chair, recognizing the man standing there. McKnight lowered her weapon. "Moody?" she asked curiously.
"Yeah," he growled back, scowling at her, "Who're you and what're you doing with the boy?"
"I've heard of you," she said, ignoring his question, "You're the Aurorer."
His eyes narrowed. "How'd you know?"
"Easy," she replied, "I'm with M.I.C.O.C.A."
"Ah." Moody's face relaxed—as much as he could, at any rate—and Harry actually saw the ever-vigilant Aurorer let down his guard. Harry was baffled.
"Wif what?"
"M.I.C.O.C.A." McKnight turned to him. "Magi's International Collaboration Of Criminal Activities. The wizarding world's version of the Muggle Interpol."
"You're a withard?" Harry stared at her.
"Witch, if you want to be technical," she replied with a slight grin.
"What happened to him?" Moody asked, staring at Harry in his pj's.
"Fight with some Muggle boys," McKnight said casually, turning back to Moody. "I'll take care of him, and he'll be here for the night." Her voice was utterly confident. Harry couldn't really blame her. If Moody relaxed around her, she was either extremely good or M.I.C.O.C.A. had an even greater reputation than that of the Aurorers.
"Do you know who he is?" Moody was asking.
"No idea."
"Harry Potter. Heard of him?"
"Potter, Potter...oh, yeah, that little kid what defeated what's-his-face, Lord Something-or-other." She waved a hand negligently. "Why?"
Moody stared at her, and so did Harry. The Aurorer shook his head in disbelief.
"Lord Voldemort," he supplied a bit dryly, "The most powerful and feared wizard in Europe. He's risen again, and is gathering Death Eaters and dementers."
"What're Death Eaters?"
Harry opened his mouth—to say what, he didn't know. But Moody was shaking his head. "Never mind. You'll find out. Just keep a sharp eye on the boy."
"Sure thing. Oh, I'm Desiree McKnight. You can call me Dee. Pleasure meeting you, Moody." She shifted her gun to her other hand and stuck out her now-empty one. Moody took it and they shook, exchanged good-byes, and he left, leaving Harry in the care of a relative stranger.
"Couthn't you be lyin'?" Harry blurted without thinking as McKnight re- entered the kitchen. She gave him an amused look.
"Darling," she drawled, "Absolutely no one claims to be M.I.C.O.C.A. unless they are actually with it."
"Why?"
"Because...they usually end up dying."
A/N: Well that was long. Hope you enjoyed it. Might not go on for much longer, so don't anyone get yer hopes up.