Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome back to the third chapter of 'The Family Peverell'. I'm happy to say that the story is starting to become quite popular! I promise this chapter's gonna be a big one in scope, so as always remember to Read and Review, and I hope you all enjoy :)
Above the swirling clouds of the North Atlantic cradled by a Boeing 747, Peter Bianchi tapped his foot against the floor and grimaced as he stared out onto the Atlantic as the growing green of British soil drew closer upon the horizon. Christ, he needed a smoke. Damn bureaucratic airline board members were trying to ban inflight smoking across the board, even in First Class. They had tried it back in '84 with poor results, but now they were pushing for a universal ban on flights shorter than two hours to take effect by this time the following year. Even Congress was intervening to get the ban legislated.
Fucking politicians. Bianchi thought as he lit up a camel in protest.
Bianchi looked over across the aisle at his son, smiling as Enzo poured over the documents Michael had given them. At sixteen, Lorenzo was becoming a handsome young man and a heartthrob for giggling young girls. But what Peter was most proud of was his son's intelligent and studious mind, encouraged by himself to be the best of the best. Enzo would have the best opportunities ahead of him, and Peter would do anything to ensure that he obtained them.
Peter turned his gaze from his son as he mulled over the words Michael had spoken to him. It seemed that in his old age and loneliness Michael had felt nostalgic for his familial roots and reviewed the records of his brother's descendants. From there he discovered that one of Sonny's great-grandchildren had been orphaned at a young age, and out of an obligation to his brother's memory wished to offer the child a place in his house.
Unfortunately, it seemed that the boy had been placed with the family of another one of Sonny's granddaughters, and for reasons unknown, there was some bureaucratic red tape in place that made it impossible to get their home address outside of the United Kingdom. As such, Michael had asked Peter to travel to London to obtain the necessary family documents so that Michael could negotiate a transfer of custody.
Of course, while Peter had been more than willing to provide this favor for his old Don, he insisted on postponing the trip until the summer of the following year so that his son wouldn't have his studies interrupted. Thankfully Michael wasn't in any hurry and agreed without complaint, seeing it as an opportunity to prepare the villa ahead of time and book a flight and hotel for the Bianchis with all expenses paid.
Now a day after the Fourth of July weekend, Peter and Enzo found themselves flying over the Atlantic. They would land at London Heathrow where they'd then take a taxi to the Savoy in central London near the Thames riverfront where they held a reservation. They'd settle in and head out the next day to a Revenue Office where they had an appointment to go over England's tax records for the home address of the Dursley family, with a car that would be provided for them by a London rental company who would have the vehicle available by the next morning. From there it was just a simple matter of driving out to wherever they lived and delivering Michael's proposition. It was an in-and-out, clean-cut kind of deal that left Peter Bianchi feeling somewhat lethargic.
Peter was pulled out of his thoughts as a ping come through on the intercom before the voice of the flight attendant came through, "Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins. Thank you."
Peter looked over at his son and nodded, watching as his boy began to pack away their papers into the briefcase he had brought along with them. Peter leaned back in his seat and waited for their descent and smiled at the thought of the simplicity of their task, confident that they would be out of the country before the end of the week.
-/ↀ\-
Driving to the office of Inland Revenue was a simple matter, as the building was located at 100 Parliament Street less than a mile south of the hotel where Peter and Enzo were staying. The only hurdle was learning to traverse the godforsaken backward road layout of the United Kingdom. As far as Peter was concerned the whole country was out of their fucking minds to drive on the wrong side of the road, and the less said about the actual layout of the streets the better.
Hell, even the steering is on the wrong side. Peter thought with a grumble as they pulled up to the entrance of the Revenue Office. After they parked Enzo stepped out of the side door and stared up in awe at the towering monolith of Big Ben, the gothic cloak tower standing a block across the street. Smiling at his son's curious enthusiasm he managed to guide him to follow him into the towering oak doors of the Inland Revenue.
Stepping inside they were met with a huge lobby with workers passing to and fro, managers giving orders to underlings, while secretaries run off for needed documents. Bianchi ushered Enzo over to an appointment booth, where a woman in business dress managed a phone while jotting down notes.
"Excuse me, miss?"
"One second, love," The woman held up her finger to wait, idly nodding her head as she filled out a form dictated to her over the line. After a few minutes, she hung up and shuffled the papers aside, looking up at the two men.
"Inland Revenue, how may I help you?"
"We have an appointment with one of your tax auditors, Miss Taylor I believe?" Bianchi fished for confirmation. The woman nodded, recognizing the name of one of her senior workers.
"Alright one moment, I'll call up to see if she's ready for you." Picking up her line phone she tapped a few numbers and held the handset against her ear and shoulder, sharing a few words with the person on the other line.
A moment later she hung up the phone and looked up, writing up a slip and handing it to them, "Miss Taylor's office is on the third floor in the Hall of Records." The woman pointed over to her right, "Use the flight of stairs and make a right when you reach the third floor, go straight down and make a left at the first junction, She'll be in office number fourteen."
"Thank you." Bianchi gave her a polite wave and moved toward the stairway, leading Enzo up to their next destination. By the time they reached the third floor, the density of people moving about had increased in both number and the feeling of excitement, with multiple workers navigating around them like ants navigating a jungle floor. Making the appropriate turns as instructed, the two Bianchis came to the office of Margaret Taylor. Wanting to make their presence known, Peter knocked on the door.
"Come in!"
Opening the door, Peter and Enzo were greeted by a semi-messy office with papers and files strung about haphazardly, though it had a sort of organized chaos to it as everything seemed to be grouped together based on color and type. On her desk, open files and half-filled-out paperwork took up the space that hadn't been given to the random trinket or family photo, and the hulking casing of a Dell Turbo IBM running on the latest Executive Program.
Sitting at her desk was Ms. Taylor, who didn't acknowledge them right away as her pen danced across a paper on her desk. An open window behind her illuminated the room, painting it in the warm glow of the morning summer sun.
Looking up from a form she was signing, Ms. Taylor smiled and rose from her desk chair, walking around the desk to greet them, "Ah, Mister Bianchi, it's good to meet you." She said politely, shaking his hand.
"Likewise. This is my son, Lorenzo." Peter introduced his son.
"How do you do, Miss?" Enzo asked, taking her hand to shake.
"Fine, thank you for asking. Please, sit." Ms. Taylor said, gesturing them forward into the room as she took her seat behind her desk. Once they had made themselves comfortable, she spoke again, "Americans, right? What brings you to Inland Revenue today?"
"Our employer is wanting to reconnect with relatives who settled in England back in the early fifties. Seeing that he's getting up in years I'm guessing the old man is feeling sentimental." Peter offered the explanation Michael had provided him with humor. Ms. Taylor raised her brow in curiosity.
"May I ask how close?"
"Grandchildren of his late brother." Peter offered.
Ms. Taylor paused, then asked, "And do you have the name of the family you are looking for?"
Peter nodded, "Dursley. Vernon and Petunia Dursley. From what I understand Petunia is the one who holds a blood relation." He explained, hoping the information would make it easier for the woman to look up the file.
"Well, I'm certain I can help you, give me one second while I pull up their information on my computer." Ms. Taylor began typing the information into the search filters, scrolling through various articles of information for the desired files. After about a minute of searching the woman began to frown, her eyes peering over a paragraph of text, "Hmm."
Peter picked up on her frustration in interest, "Is something wrong?"
"Says here that their personal info was sealed over a month ago due to an ongoing police investigation. Let me see if I can bypass that by looking at our records." She punched in a new set of commands, going through the tax histories of a list of people before finding the file they were looking for. Ms. Taylor paused as she read over the information, blinked, then began to scroll through the document in confusion, "That's odd."
"Pardon?"
"I have their file, but it won't display any personal information such as a home address, place of work, or anything. Hold on, there might be something…" She began typing again, moving the cursor to click on a link before nodding in triumph, "Alright, for some reason our system can't find the Dursley home address. However, it does show that Vernon Dursley's sister, a Miss Marjorie Dursley, resides just outside Godstone Village in Surrey."
"Can we get an address?"
"That won't be a problem, let me just make a printout for you." Ms. Taylor stood up from her chair and approached the door, "If you could give me a few minutes, I'll go and get your copies."
As the door closed, Peter glanced over to his son and saw in his eyes that Enzo was thinking along the same lines as he was. What the hell did we walk into? They both thought as they shared a look. The Dursleys being involved in a police investigation was not what they had expected, but it did complicate matters. Not so much that they couldn't handle it, but both men knew that their job just got a lot harder. The Bianchis could only hope that this Marge woman could shed some light on what was going on.
The door opened again as Ms. Taylor stepped into the room with a printout in her hand, handing it over to Peter without delay, "There you go, I'm sorry I couldn't give you want you came for, I hope I've been able to help you gentlemen today?"
Peter shook his head, "It's no trouble, Miss, you've done enough I promise."
"Is there anything more I could help you with?" She pressed, feeling as though she hadn't done much at all. Peter waved her away and gave her a pleasant smile to reassure her.
"No thank you, Ma'am. You've been more than helpful." Peter signaled for his son to get up as he stood from his chair, reaching out for the office door, "Good day to you, we'll see ourselves out." He said as he motioned Enzo through the door, all the while grumbling in his mind for all the trouble this was turning out to be.
-/ↀ\-
The countryside of Godstone was not unlike the rolling hills of the Midwest back home in the States, with spattered patches of green fields packed between vast stretches of trees. As they drove through the English farmlands, passing the occasional barn house or pond, Peter would lean over to ask Enzo which turn on the road to make as the teen reviewed the map of the area they had picked up from a gas station along the way.
"It should be up ahead," Enzo said idly, looking up from the map while Peter nodded his head to show that he heard. The rented Austin FX4 turned, kicking up dirt as it went.
"There it is. Four-thirteen, West Wetherby." Enzo pointed up the road to a country house closed off by a heavy iron gate. A business sign hung above the entrance with the words 'Marge's Purebred Bulldogs' engraved in wood, while the house stood about two-hundred yards further in. Fortunately, the gate was open so they drove right in, parking next to the front porch.
Getting out of the car, Peter and Enzo stepped up to the front door and took a moment to look around. The house was in the shape of a barn, though decorated in a fanciful way that gave a vain air to the two-story building. A large garden surrounded the house with finely trimmed rose bushes and orchid beds strewn between trees of beech and black alder.
Peter knocked on the door before stepping back, waiting with his hands behind his back for someone to come to answer. Both men heard, and consequently felt, the thunderous steps of a heavyset person hurrying down a flight of steps from within the house and came lumbering to the door, yanking it open in an angry huff.
"Who is it?" The woman said, snide and indignant by their presence. Peter and Enzo took only a moment to take in her large appearance, her beefy hand clasped to her sides as her face purpled in her irritated state, revealing a small mustache that became more pronounced by the second.
"Are you Maregrat Dursley, ma'am?" Peter asked, choosing to ignore her tone to get the conversation along. The woman scoffed in annoyance as she leaned against the frame.
"Yes, what of it?"
Peter smiled and introduced himself, "My name is Peter Bianchi, I'm here to ask you a few questions about your brother."
"My-?" The woman began to question before drawing herself up and anger danced in her eyes, "You're the Press, aren't you? American, too. Insensitive bastards the lot of you, I've given my statement to the constables and the reporters, and now you yanks are coming to snoop around? Why can't you just leave us alone?!"
Caught off balance by the vitriol thrown at him, Peter was quick to ease her, "Ma'am, I assure you we're not with the press. My client asked us to come out here to track down some distant relations."
"Well spit it out, then. What do you want from me?"
"Straight to the point. We were hoping that you could at the very least provide the hope address of your brother and his wife, we've been having trouble narrowing it down with the proper authorities." He explained as pleasantly as he could.
Marge snorted, "Fat lot of good that'll do you, but if it'll get you off my property…"
The Dursley woman retreated back into her house, leaving the two men to mill about on the porch. A few minutes later Marge returned, shoving a piece of scrap paper into the elder Bianchi's hands.
"Here! It's all there on that paper. Now if you would please leave, I'll have no more of this business."
"Thank you." Peter looked over the paper before folding it and shoving it into his inner suit pocket. Feeling a stroke of curiosity overtake him, Peter decided to try his luck by asking one more question, "Ma'am, I don't mean to press, but I know that the police are involved with your brother. I would like to know why."
"You think my brother-!" Marge swelled up like a pufferfish, ready to unload on them to give them exactly what she thought of their perceived accusation, but was cut short as a tiny voice pierced through the conversation.
"Aunt Marge?" The tiny voice asked unseen from behind the woman, causing her to turn in its direction, "Who are they? Why are they askin' about daddy?"
As the rotund woman turned her body, Peter and Enzo were able to get a good look at the child addressing his aunt. The boy looked to be around seven, with dirty blonde hair, sunken eyes, and a fidgety look about him. From the way the skin hung some his face and somewhat oversized clothing, Peter reasoned that the boy had once been severely obese but had gone through a long stretch of weight loss that hadn't come from a regiment of exercise.
"Dudley?" Marge said softly, looking down at the boy who clung to his aunt in nervous fear, looking up at the two men as if they might do something to harm him at any moment.
"Miss?"
"Get out! Get out, I say! I'll not have you upset my nephew any longer! I'll call the police if you bother us again!" She screamed angrily at them, pulling the boy back into the house with her before slamming the door in their faces. Peter stood on the doorstep entranced by the frame, frowning as his eyes danced around in thought. The two looked at each other in perplexion, taking one final glance at the house before walking back to the car.
Just as Enzo was about to get in, Peter tapped the car roof to get his attention, "Hey, get the case out of the trunk, would you?" He asked as he threw the keys at his son who caught it effortlessly. The boy stared at him in confusion.
"You think we'll need them?"
Peter nodded his head, "Yeah. Something about this whole thing's got me on edge. Better safe than sorry."
Enzo blinked but nodded, walking to the back of the car to unlock the trunk as Peter began to pull off his vest. Enzo grabbed a pair of shoulder holsters from the trunk, handing him one before taking off his vest as well, strapping the holster tightly around his torso.
He then reached inside the trunk and pulled out a brown leather briefcase from inside, dialing the lock on the laches before lifting the lid and producing a pair of Browning BDAs from within, handing one to his father as he strapped his own securely in place.
-/ↀ\-
Driving through the outskirts of Little Whinging, Enzo couldn't stop help but glance at his father with worry. While the man, Peter sat silently in the passenger seat most of the forty-minute drive through Surrey countryside, Enzo could see beyond it to gauge what his father was thinking. He presented an outward appearance of calm, yet there was a slight tension in the corner of his eyes that did not go unnoticed by his son.
If Enzo was being honest, the whole matter wasn't sitting well with him, either, well aware that his knuckles had gone white as they gripped the steering wheel tighter than what was necessary. He wondered what Mr. Corleone would think of all the difficulties they were going through to track down his great nephew, or if he had known yet decided not to divulge it to them. He doubted it, yet was it not said that Michael was like his father who was omnipotent like God?
Enzo was pulled from his thoughts as they passed the city limits of Little Whinging. The small suburban town was an outskirt residential area to the moderate industrial district of Greater Whinging, built to offer affordable housing after the end of the Second World War. Their car cruised through the highway exit into the suburbia, snaking its way through the sea of identical housing standing on every street.
Eventually, they pulled off the parkway street of Magnolia Crescent onto Privat Drive, slowing down as they moved up to Number Four. The street was quiet save for the sound of lawn sprinklers watering the grass from the hot summer sun.
Peter and Enzo stepped out of the car and looked around, feeling distaste for the bland sameness of each house on the street that gave off a uniformed conformity that men such as they abhorred. Peter glanced around and grimaced, noticing a few nosy housewives peering over garden rails and lawn hedges, thinking themselves conspicuous.
"Nice neighborhood," Peter spoke with a grunt, giving a sarcastic wave to one of the women who ducked away out of embarrassment for being caught. As they walked up to the house, they came across a 'for sale' sign planted in the grass, which Enzo pointed out.
"They don't waste time, do they?" Enzo snorted at that as they moved up to the door, Keeping a lookout for nosey pedestrians while his father picked at the lock. After a moment his skill won out and the door unlocked with a click, allowing the two to push inside the house. Entering they were met by a barren hallway leading to a door to a living room space and a revolving door to the kitchen at the end, alongside a staircase that led up to the second floor.
"I'll check upstairs, you take the ground floor," Peter spoke after a short moment.
Enzo watched his father stride up the stairway, leaving him standing in the living room taking it all in, noting the distinct smell of cleaning chemicals in the air. He pondered how the house must have looked to require it to be completely bleached.
Unknown to his father, as he preferred to keep it to himself, Enzo had a passion for criminal science to which he devoted the time he was allotted outside of his school projects to self-study. He knew his father would few it pointless to his ambition for his son to become a lawyer, but Enzo saw it as a valuable asset to have to defend his future clients in a court of law to have a fundamental understanding of the process of gathering evidence.
Those skills he had picked up proved useful as he combed through the living room, surveying the edges and corners for any sign of things out of place. He cursed the fact that the house realtor had gotten to the property before they did, as much of what could have proven useful in piecing together what had happened had been carried away by the cleaning crew.
Despite that, there were a few discernible clues left, noting a pattern of claw marks intended in the lower half of a section of the wall near the hallway, almost as though someone had dug their nails deep into the plaster. On another wall, higher toward the ceiling, Enzo could follow the indents of new plaster that had been set in a scattershot pattern of holes, which he likened to the aftermath of a shotgun blast.
Frowning Enzo left and moved into the dining room and kitchen, which were connected to the living room by one joined open space. Much of both rooms were the same as the first, gutted to make way for new appliances and fixtures to satisfy the needs of the new homeowners.
A hand landed on Enzo's shoulder making him jump, calming when he saw it was his father.
"Did you find anything?" Peter asked.
"Other than some scratch marks on the walls, no. You?"
"Nah, the upstairs has been totally cleaned out. This place has been a total bust." Peter frowned, throwing several curses under his breath for the time they had wasted. "We'll have to go back to the revenue office?"
"Yeah looks like it. Shit." Enzo looked away in annoyance.
Peter smiled at his son, giving him a pat on the shoulder, "We'll find him. Wanna go for a late lunch? I'm starving."
"That sounds good, dad. Hope it's better than that weird porridge crap they severed at the hotel." Enzo grumbled. Peter laughed at his son's distaste for British cuisine, following his son back through the hall.
As they walked passed the stairway, Peter gave an idle look to the side and paused, taking a closer look at a cupboard door under the stairs. He hadn't thought to pay it any mind, except for the peculiar sight of a lock installed on the door frame.
"Dad?" Enzo had come back, wondering why his father hadn't followed him outside.
"Why'd they put a lock on here?" Peter wondered to himself, running his finger against the frame.
"Maybe to keep their kid out of the cleaning products?" Enzo offered a theory.
Peter shook his head, "With a slide lock?"
Enzo paused, looking at the door now, taking in the sight before nodding in agreement, "Yeah, that doesn't make sense." He looked up at Peter and shrugged, "Might as well take a look, right?"
Taking that as his cue, Peter unlatched the lock and opened the door to peer inside, having to squint in the darkness. Finding a cord hanging from a lightbulb he yanked on it to turn on the light, smiling as the inside became easier to look around. As it was a small, claustrophobic space, Peter had to hunch down to get into reach his head in properly, and like the rest of the house, it was barren of any items.
Sighing, Peter began to move his head out of the cupboard when his eyes caught sight of a line of scratches made into the edge of a piece of floorboard at his feet. Bending over, he placed his hand against it, and to his surprise that it was loose he pulled out a pocket knife to pry it from the floor.
Peter found his efforts rewarded when he removed the wood, finding tucked away underneath in a secret place was a brown leather book that had begun to collect dust.
"Enzo, take a look at this," Peter called his son over as he got up with the book in his hands. Enzo took one look at it with a raised eyebrow.
"A kid's journal?" He questioned.
"Yeah, under a floorboard in the cupboard." Peter pointed down to the loose board he had removed,
"Why the fuck would someone hide a journal in the cupboard of all places?" Enzo thought out loud, looking between the cupboard and the journal, which had a strip of masking tape on the cover with the name 'Harry's' crudely scribbled onto it.
"Looks like it belonged to our kid." He commented, watching as Peter flipped through the pages.
"Yeah, looks like it. Listen to this…" Peter had stopped on a page and began to read from its passages, "...Uncle Vernon's got me working to the bone with all the new chores this summer. I won't be surprised if I'm doing all the work around the house by the time I'm 10. But that won't matter soon. Met Saul today at the park, brought the parts we needed. Saul says the barn's almost ready. I hope so, I'm tired of this house. I'm tired of these people…"
"Sounds like he found himself a friend," Enzo muttered.
"Looks like he needed one," Peter grumbled back.
"What's this barn he's talking about?" Enzo inquired.
"Probably a shanty house they found to hang out without being bothered." Peter continued to read through to the next page, pausing in the middle of a paragraph as his eyes bulged in surprise, "Oh hell."
Enzo frowned, "What's wrong?"
"...the winters are worse here than the summer, we'll have to snatch some canned food to last it out. What we can't steal we can shoot, thankfully there's plenty of rabbits around for that…"
"Fuck me, the kid's got a gun?" Enzo exclaimed while PEter seemed to compose himself.
"It's probably a pellet gun," Peter speculated, closing the journal, "I think we're done here."
"Did he write where it's at?" Enzo asked as he followed his father through the front door.
"Kid drew up a map and a description of the place, shouldn't be hard to go from there. Get in the driver's seat, I'll tell you where to go." Peter ordered, throwing the journal to his son as he jogged to the passenger door. Enzo ran behind him and around the car, getting into the car as quickly as possible. Soon they were driving away from Number Four Privet Drive, leaving the streets of Little Whinging Behind.
-/ↀ\-
It didn't take long for the Bianchis to follow the clues in the journal to a remote area a few miles outside of Little Whinging. The claustrophobia of modern suburbia gave way to the openness of lush countryside, smooth asphalt replaced with dirt backroads in the light of the late afternoon sun.
"Turn here," Peter grunted out the instruction as he poured over the boy's journal, doing his best to familiarize himself with the kid's personality coming through the pages. Enzo did as his father instructed and drove off into a canopy of trees that had taken over the road, slowing down to ease the bumps that jostled the car. After about five minutes of driving, they came to a stop in a clearing, cutting off the engine as they looked ahead.
Before them, obscured by a thick treeline stood an old abandoned barn settled on the other side of the clearing, lopsided and leaning to the side due to years of neglect. The wood of its walls was grey and rotting, held together by rusted nails and strand rope. Despite appearing abandoned, there were signs of life that suggested it was currently being occupied, notably the sound of a soldering tool echoing from within.
"Stay here," Peter said as he unbuckled himself. He was halfway out the door when Enzo grabbed him in protest.
"Wait, hold on-!"
"No! Stay here and watch the car." Peter left no room for argument as he pointed his finger in Enzo's face, " If I'm not back in five minutes, you get to play backup."
Enzo stared at his father, not liking the idea of him going in alone. However Peter had raised his son with a disciplined obedience that left no room for question, so with reluctance, he nodded his head in understanding. Smiling at his son in reassurance, Peter stepped out of the car and carried forward.
As he drew closer, he could pick up on the faint sound of music being played that grew higher in volume with every step he made. He stepped over a bed of vegetables set in a crude but functional garden if the ripening tomatoes in the vines were any indication.
As he peered into the interior of the barn, Peter took note of the dodgy look of the place, feeling as though he would contract tetanus just by looking at it. Rusted farm tools and nails poked out of almost every corner, while old tin cans were thrown around in a pile disregarded and unattended to. Despite that, he was amazed that there were functioning lights and various home appliances littered here and there. He was also met with the song playing at full blast, making him wince at the modern American music.
"...In the still of the night, I hear the wolf howl, honey, sniffing around your door! In the still of the night, I feel my heart beating heavy, telling me I gotta have more..."
The singer's shrill voice rang out from a boombox radio set in the corner at full volume, cassette tapes strung about on top and around it. A boy who looked to be in his early teens sat with his back turned to Peter bobbing his head to the music. Sitting at a workbench filled with various tools, the boy held a screwdriver and a soldering iron fiddling with a gutted-out radio in the process of trying to get it to work. Peter smirked at this, deciding to make his presence known.
"Hey, kid."
The boy jumped and spun around, staring up at him in wide-eyed surprise. His head darted to the side, a move more obvious than he probably intended, as it drew Peter's attention to the gleaming hilt of a snubnosed revolver sticking out of a toolbox. Though he had hoped it was the exaggerated claims of a child, Peter nonetheless had been prepared and was quick in drawing out his own pistol just as the kid reach out to grab the gun.
"Put it down! Slowly." Peter ordered in a commanding tone, the sound of the hammer being drawn back alerting the boy that he had him on the draw. Paralyzed midway through pulling the revolver from the toolbox, he hesitated before lowering the gun down onto the bench, "Good. Back away now."
The boy did as he was told and hurried away, letting Peter move in and pick up the revolver from the box. He examined the cylinder and found all six chambers loaded. Peter released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Though he had been confident it would only be a pellet gun, he was glad that he made it a habit to listen to his gut instincts.
"Right, That's better. Why don't you sit down." He said as he placed the handgun in his suit pocket, keeping his own gun trained on the boy as he sat down on the bench. "Good, you know how to follow orders. Your name's Saul, right?"
"Y-Yes." The boy answered in an accent surprisingly reminiscent of American.
"Alright then, Saul. Now I want you to pay close attention because I won't ask you a second time, you understand?" He said while emphasizing his point with a wave of his pistol, which had Saul nodding along to his words eagerly, "Good. Where's the other one?"
"Sir?" He asked, cautious to remain respectful.
"The kid that's staying with you," Bianchi growled, "Don't try to play dumb, I know you're not the only one living in this barn. So I'm going to ask you again," -Peter emphasized his point by pointing his gun at the boy's head. A bluff of course, but it gave the right impression- "Where is he?"
"Here."
Peter wiped around with the gun in hand, quick to try and gain the upper hand after getting snuck up on. The effort would have been successful, had it not been for the barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun being pointed at his chest.
"I wouldn't if I were you." The boy holding the gun said from the shadows of the barn, obscuring his features from Bianchi. Peter raised his hand in surrender, throwing the pistol away when the boy prompted him to do so with a wave of his shotgun.
"Harry Potter?" Peter asked, prompting the boy to step into the light. The boy was a young lad, fair too young to be wielding anything greater than a water pistol, with scruffy raven's hair that hung unkempt upon his head. Despite knowing the kid was seven, if he hadn't and had to guess he would have said he was five.
A pair of copper wire teashade glasses held together with scotch tape obscured vibrant green eyes that reflected a hardness beyond his years. The glasses were obnoxiously large on his thin young face, while his clothes clung to his body with string tied around his torso being a few sizes too large. Over his shoulder hung a couple of dead rabbits from cords tied around their feet, while a leather bag hung from his waist with various tools poking out from its flap.
"How do you know my name?" The boy glared at him with a burning that gave Peter pause, perplexed by the steel in his eyes.
"I've been looking for you," Peter answered simply. Harry, now that he was identified, glared at him with suspicion.
"Are you a cop?" Harry asked.
"I'm a lawyer."
"A lawyer who carries a gun?" Harry pressed with an eyebrow raised in disbelief.
Peter paused, "I'm a defense lawyer." He said as he glared at the boy, daring him to challenge him on his claim. Harry snorted but didn't press, looking over at the other boy.
"You okay Saul?" He asked.
"Yeah, just a bit shaken up," Saul said as he moved over to where he had thrown the revolver, palming it in his hand as he come over and pointed it into Peter's back.
"Get his gun," Harry stated, never taking his eyes off Bianchi for a moment.
"Right," Saul murmured, bending over quickly to recover the pistol before baking away, darting his eyes toward the barn doors, "I'm gonna check outside, make sure no one came with him."
Harry looked as though he was going to challenge this, but after a moment he nodded his head in agreement once he realized the very real possibility that the uninvited 'lawyer' hadn't come alone. Saul ran out of the barn in a hurry, leaving him alone with Bianchi.
"Why were you looking for me?" Harry asked, looking him in the eyes as if searching for any sign of deceit. Peter looked between him and the barrel of the gun, licking his lips as he spoke.
"How about you drop the gun first before someone gets hurt, eh? Then we can talk." He negotiated, trying to ease the growing tension.
But Harry wasn't having it, growing impatient and distrustful from his lack of appropriate answers, "How about you answer the question before I blow your head off?"
Peter at that moment took the time to really get a read on Harry Potter. By every definition of the word, Harry could be described as a runt. Small, scrawny, knobby-kneed, and scared.
"You don't have the guts, kid."
Harry paused, considering what Peter had said, and the man began to feel confident that he had out bluffed the boy. That was until a look of dark anger seemed to pass over Harry's face as a shadow, casting his face in a darkness that remained even as he stepped further in the light, exposing a lightning bolt scar cut into his skin just above his eyebrow, and raised the shotgun right at Peter's head.
"I'm not going to ask you again."
It was then that Bianchi felt that something had changed, a cold fear trickling down his spine. It was neither the gun nor the words uttered by the kid that made him raise his hands in the air on instinct, but his eyes. Those dark, emerald-green orbs held within them a cold haunted resolve darker than the sea. Peter came to the realization that he had misevaluated the situation. This boy, who wasn't even ten years old, wouldn't hesitate to blow his brains out all over the floor.
"Harry?"
The sound of Saul's return broke the standoff between the two only for a moment, but the tension didn't ease, in fact growing worse as Saul was corralled into the barn by Enzo who had Saul firmly grasped by the hair and a gun planted in his neck.
Harry's eyes grew wide in panic and drew the shotgun to point it at Enzo, but that proved to be a mistake. Enzo took the opportunity to capitalize on Harry's movement to toss the pistol he was holding to his father, pulling himself behind Saul to shield himself from the line of fire while pulling the second pistol he had pulled off of the kid, planting it against Saul's temple.
"Put the gun down!" Peter ordered causing Harry to look at him, finally noticing that the man had caught the gun thrown at him and was now pointing it at his back. Not knowing what to do, Harry darted his eyes between the two men who had invaded his space, breathing heavily as his mind tried to decide how to fight.
Peter saw this and shook his head, knowing that fighting could only end one way, "Don't try it, kid."
Harry looked back at him, seeing in his eyes that the man was completely at ease, and came to the same conclusion that he had lost. Realizing this, Harry lowered the gun, uttering a simple word that was released with a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Shit."
-/ↀ\-
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