London looked as it always did from hundreds of feet above; a mass of yellow stars twinkling below him, basking in the light of the silver stars above. His hair blew across his face as he rode in, streaking noisily across the sky. Sirius' old motorbike was undoubtedly his favorite mode of transportation. He flew directly over the city, looking for an ideal landing spot near his East Side home.

He had lived alone since the end of the last school year, neglecting both Godric's Hollow and Grimmauld Place as possible bases, and opting instead for a room above one of the East Side's many pubs. It was a tiny, miserable, flat located on a tiny, miserable street, which was overrun with ferocious gangs, debilitating drugs, and enough petty murderers to fulfill any person's nightmares. It was, to Harry, the perfect atmosphere from which to gain the motivation and frame of mind to carry out his missions.

A dark square of grass, which the city of London called a park, provided Harry with ample cover to safely land the motorbike, and he rode it through the streets to get home. The flashing streetlights and thudding music from the windows of the apartments along the way, supplied an almost elliptical mood, and Harry rather despised it. It made him feel more violent, more outcast, more strange. 'Disturbingly silent, elliptically violent', that's how Lee Jordan had described Harry during their last encounter, which was rather a more frequent event then either of them had expected. In fact, Lee had become Harry's primary confident, and probably the individual who knew and understood most about what Harry was doing.

Lee had lived in London's mean streets his entire life, and although Harry had never realized it at Hogwarts, it had rubbed off on him. He was a well known figure in this neighborhood, a young menace to society, the kind of young buck who was disturbing the natural progression of criminal activity in the city. Lee had no relation to any prominent member of London's underworld, nor did he have any sort of connection through jail or mutual friends. He was simply a mysterious figure who would disappear for months at a time before reappearing as suddenly as he had left. His reputation was not one of being a strategist, or a gambler, or even as a good fighter, but rather as a lunatic. He had no fear. He would attack men three times his size, or challenge full gangs on his own. And he would win. Without magic. He would simply fight with such ravenous delight that it was intimidating to anybody, no matter what their size or numbers. Lee was a threat to the well being of many, and was treated with wary respect by all who crossed him.

It was, thus, a shock when Harry arrived at the pub and, upon seeing Lee sitting in the corner, embraced him like a friend, and even inspired in the lunatic a sort of reverence. The mysterious control that Harry had over Lee had resulted in Harry's being well respected himself, if not well-liked. He did not speak to many people, and was undoubtedly viewed as being a very strange and disturbed young man. It was rare to see a young man, still in his teens, walking through the dark alleys in snappy new suits, smuggling guns out of the pub in his overcoats, vanishing, it seemed, into midair if one looked the wrong way. His hair was still untidy, but often hung loosely around his face, and his complexion was very pale, almost ghostly. His dark clothing, the lightly pin-striped suits, the blood red shirts and the black silk ties all made him look even milkier, and when he stood in the dark, his head seemed to float in the air. He walked slowly, but with purpose, his long stride helping him to glide effortlessly through the masses of ordinary folk dressed in grey. The lightning scar on his head glared angrily at any one with whom he spoke, and seemed to become more inflamed every day. Harry was, quite often, a frightening site to behold.

As he approached the pub, which appeared to be quite full, despite the lateness of the hour, his mood of violence and anger had not yet passed, and he considered taking some time before entering, to cool his head, to calm his nerves. Fatigue had been slowly descending upon him like a heavy blanket though, and he doubted whether he could maintain control of the vehicle for any longer. He steered the black bike around the building, and into the vacated lot at the back where it was normally kept. After muttering a few anti-theft charms, he circled around to the front of the bar, took a deep breath and entered.

The air, of course, was impossible to breath, infested as it was the smoke from innumerable cigarettes and cheap pipe tobacco. Scarce few people had noticed his arrival, which was as Harry preferred it; he easily lost his temper with the drunks in the tavern. He moved silently through the mass of brown cloth caps, a streak of black lightning through the smoky gloom, before stopping at the bar. The bartender, and landlord, Simon, glanced quickly over at Harry as he stood casually beside the door to the stairs. It was clear that Simon had something to say, because he made a frantic wave at Harry in the most inconspicuous way possible. Harry noticed and grudgingly obliged. He liked Simon. The rent he paid he charged was cheap, and he often supplied Harry with a free drink on a slow day. A tip had been laid upon the bar, which Simon collected rapidly, before turning to Harry. He leaned in close so as to avoid shouting.

"'Arry, son," he began, "I just wanted to let you know, that bloke wiff the dreadlocks is in your room. I let 'im in. I knew 'ee's your mate, and 'ee seemed to need an urgent word. Musta been, say, fifteen minutes ago, all right?"

"Yea," Harry replied, "Thanks Simon. I'll see you in the morning."

"Rent's due, son. Don't you fuckin' forget, mate!"

And with a jaunty wink and swift smile, Simon swept off to serve yet another drink to one of the regulars.

'An urgent word with Lee?' thought Harry. He had no idea what this could be about; Lee had never requested an audience of him before, as they usually met in the pub. The stairs creaked as he climbed them, and, upon reaching the top, Harry had some trouble finding the knob of his door in the pitch blackness of the hallway. He opened it, and immediately drew his handgun, for the first thing he caught sight of was a long smear of blood which extended from the corner where the wall met the floor to the middle of the room. He had only opened the door about six inches, and slowly pushed it the rest of the way, his gun held steadily beside his impassive face. It had slowly become nature to draw his gun before his wand, seeing as the majority of the men he had killed so far had been surrounded by a load of bullet slinging cronies. The hinges scratched and squeaked as they opened, but Harry had already let his gun fall to the side of his body; Lee Jordan was sitting in Harry's only armchair, beaming at him. Two badly battered bodies lay at his feet; indeed, he was using them as a footstool.

"Allright, 'Arry?" said Lee, his white teeth glinting in the rooms pale light as he spoke, "I've just 'ad to straighten these two fuckers out, mate. Seems like they 'ad the brilliant idea to kill you. Was gonna wait in 'iding for you to enter the room, they was, and then Jack-In-The-Box, open fire the moment they saw your eyes. Wasn't expectin' no black man though!" He turned his face towards the floor, at one of the bodys, which was bleeding profusely from the right eye socket.

"Was you?" he yelled, "Was you, you stupid fucking wanker? Anyways, 'Arry! 'Ow was your evening mate?"

Harry was dumb struck. No matter how many times he had seen Lee openly display his vicious nature over the course of the summer thus far, Harry was not prepared for him to talk lightly about to murders he had just committed in Harry's living room. He seemed to notice Harry staring at the corpses.

"Don't you worry 'bout them, 'Arry. They got what they deserved, they did."

"If you say so..." Harry shook himself out of his daze, "Yea... Yea, sorry Lee, you're right of course. I'da killed 'em too, I suppose. Perhaps maybe not as violently, thats all."

"Well, that's just the way I do fings, innit?" said Lee, a touch of defiance in his voice. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and exhaled, sending a dense cloud of billowing smoke flowing slowly from between his barely opened lips. He looked very comfortable in Harry's chair.

"Listen Lee," Harry began, finally breaking the silence, "Why was it you wanted to see me? Simon said it was urgent."

"Oh, fuck me, right!" Lee responded, "Yea, right, well see, I was talkin' to Fred and George see. I dunno what's the big deal exactly, but it's summink to do wiff a wedding. They was wonderin' where the fuck you was, is all. Told 'em I'd pass on the message. Want you to go to the Burrow, if'n you likes of course."

Harry had nearly forgotten. Bill's wedding. The few days of peace he had wanted to spend with Hermione and Ron. He would have to rush. With a quick glance at Lee, who was leisurely smoking his cigarette, Harry spun on his heel, the jacket of his suit flapping behind him as he streaked out of the room.

"Lock up when your done in here, right?" cried Harry over his shoulder. Lee coughed his acknowledgment. "Oh, and," Harry continued, "Who sent them?"

"Who?" asked Lee in a raspy voice.

"The fucking assassins!"

"Oh. Er, they said 'oo it was. Er...Snape! Yea, that's it, fuckin' Snape! You oughtta kill 'im 'Arry."