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CHAPTER VIII - MODERATO

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The pain was unimaginable. Ron felt as if his own heart had been ripped out and a flood of tears ran down his cheeks as uncontrollable sobs shook his entire body.

"Weasley?" Padma called in an urging voice. "Weasley! Ron! Look at me."

The healer turned the chair he was sitting in so that she was facing him and her blurred form appeared through the salty tears that clouded his eyes.

"That's it, look at me," she repeated softly. "It's all right. You're at St. Mungo's. Just breathe. Focus, these are not your emotions, these are Harry's."

The Auror knew that, but they could just as well have been his own, he felt no difference. Guided by Padma's calm voice, he closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure by taking deep breaths and then slowly releasing them. Gradually he felt his body relax and the sobs finally subsided.

"Merlin, Harry," he murmured with a trembling voice, turning to his still sleeping friend. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Had this really happened to him? It seemed absurd. How could he have suffered so much without his friends noticing?

"I didn't see anything," Ron continued, wracked with guilt. "I didn't see anything at all."

"You didn't see anything because that's what he wanted," Padma said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault, Weasley."

When the latter turned his head towards her, he noticed that her eyes were reddened; the memories they had just seen had obviously not left her indifferent either. Suddenly, the faces of Hammond and Sternwood appeared in his mind and a wave of fury swept through him.

"It's all those bloody bastards' fault," he snapped through clenched teeth. "I'm not going to let them get away with this."

Without another word, the young man got up and hurried out of the room. Ignoring the curious looks of the carers and patients he passed on his way, he hurried down the stairs and then towards the chimneys of the main hall of St. Mungo's.

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"Mr Robards is in a meeting," the secretary informed him in a monotone voice. "Come back later."

Ron looked at his watch and sighed. Annoyed, he decided to wait in his office. As he walked through the door, Olivia, Cecilia and Desmond turned to him in perfect sync.

"Ron!"

"Weasley!"

"Boss!"

Their surprised voices all rang out at the same time and Ron gave them a tired smile.

"Are you coming back to work?" Desmond asked excitedly.

"No, not yet, Desmond. I'm just passing by. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, fine!" the young recruit said, giving a thumbs up. "I'm perfectly recovered!"

"That's good to hear," Ron nodded before looking up at the large board on which the elements of the current investigation were displayed. "Have you found out anything about who attacked Harry?"

"No, nothing, nada," Olivia replied with frustration. "The search is at a standstill. It's like we're chasing ghosts."

The young woman stretched in her chair and ran her hands through her curly hair. Beside her, Cecilia twirled a feather between her fingers thoughtfully.

"Say, Ron," the latter said nonchalantly. "The boss implied that you were working on a special project. Can you tell us more?"

All eyes turned to him, suddenly very attentive.

"Sorry, it's absolutely top secret, I can't talk about it," he replied, frowning, clearly uncomfortable. "And why did he tell you about it? It was he who made me promise not to say anything."

"He has a weakness for Desmond's mother's cakes," Olivia said with a sly smile. "All you have to do is offer him a baklava to break down his defences."

"To break down whose defences?" a gruff voice suddenly interrupted. "You're not talking about me, I hope."

The four Aurors turned their heads as one. Robards stood in the doorway, his face impassive and his hands in his pockets. "Ronald?" he continued, gesturing to the man. "They told me you were looking for me. Has something happened?"

From the tone of his voice, the Auror guessed that he meant "with Harry?". As he was about to answer, a sudden doubt gripped Ron. What if Robards was in league with Hammond? Could he really trust him? His heartbeat quickened and his resolve wavered momentarily. It wasn't him. It wasn't his thoughts. This kind of panic had never happened to him before, and he remembered what Padma had told him about the transference after a dive. He managed to pull himself together.

"Is everything all right, Ronald?"

"Yes," he assured him hastily. "Yes, everything's fine."

"Then follow me to my office."

As soon as he had finished his sentence, Robards turned and Ron followed him, followed by the curious looks of his colleagues.

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"Merlin, Ronald… David Hammond and Claudius Sternwood. Do you have any idea what this entails? This case is a bigger mess than I could have imagined…," Pacing up and down, Robards ran a hand over his face in a tired gesture. "What about Bogdan Vasilyev? Did you see anything about him?"

"No, nothing," his subordinate replied, shaking his head. "Sasha, on the other hand. Or Aleksandr. I'm sure I heard Hammond say 'Aleksandr Vasilyev'. Do you think there's a family connection? He clearly said 'son of a criminal', yet no son was ever mentioned in our records."

"Yes, wait a minute," Robards said, digging into a file on his desk and pulling out a sheet of paper with a satisfied exclamation. "There it is. Vasilyev did lose his son a few years ago. The Muggle police had filed the case as a suicide and no wizarding authority wanted to get involved. That was in 2003."

"That's right," Ron agreed. "But that information should have appeared in our reports…"

"I have an idea why it was omitted," his superior replied. "Director Hammond has access to all the files. Deleting some of the contents is not a big risk for him."

"Speaking of him… What are we going to do? We can't just—"

"Let's not rush into anything," Robards cut in. "We have no idea who his men are at the Ministry, or how many of them there are, or even how far his influence extends. And above all, we need concrete evidence and witnesses. Like Harry. His memories won't be enough for the Wizengamot, so it's vital he wakes up." The old Auror paused, then put his hands flat on his desk and looked Ron straight in the eye. "For now, we keep this to ourselves, increase security at St. Mungo's and keep a low profile."

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The low murmur of conversations filled the room with dark wood panelled walls. It was almost full; everyone present was dressed in sober robes and suits, reflecting the general mood. Harry stepped in among the guests, who were quick to give him a critical look at his unkempt attire and haggard expression. They knew. They all knew it was because of him.

The young man walked to the back of the room where, in front of a small altar, was the half-opened coffin, surrounded by impressive wreaths of flowers. Sasha laid there, with his eyes closed, covered with a layer of make-up to hide the colour of his face and a bible tucked under his chin. He would have hated it. Harry knew that he had run away from his family and their strict orthodox tradition years before; he had often wondered how his father managed to reconcile his faith, his magic and his criminal activities.

His attention was caught by a noise in the assembly and his gaze accidentally fell on the man in question. Bogdan Vasilyev. His mane of elegantly arranged silver hair was the same colour as his impeccably trimmed beard, identical to that of a czar from the beginning of the previous century. His dark wizard's robe, worn over a black shirt, was fitted to perfection. There was an undeniable air of nobility and dignity about him. While he appeared to be in the midst of a solemn discussion with an elderly witch, he looked up and his eyes suddenly met Harry's.

Before he could realise what was happening, the young man was violently pushed and slammed against the wall and the Russian's forearm crushed his windpipe painfully. Harry tried to free himself and his hands tightened around the arm in vain. Vasilyev applied a little more pressure against his throat, effectively cutting off his breathing, before releasing his hold ever so slightly.

"How dare you come here, Auror?" the criminal roared with uncontained fury, his R's rolling under his tongue and betraying his strong Russian accent. "You've come to admire your work? Is that it? Are you satisfied?"

Each of his questions was punctuated by a push of his arm. "My son!" he shouted, his voice almost breaking. "Is dead! Because of you!"

Harry tried desperately to shake his head, his hands still clutching Vasilyev's arm; tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he didn't look down and held the Russian's gaze.

"My fault…" he breathed with difficulty. "My fault… I know… But… Just to say… Goodbye…"

"Say goodbye?" the criminal hissed. "Do you expect me to believe these ridiculous words?"

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Harry felt the familiar pressure of legilimency in his mind. Instead of resisting, he let his mental barriers collapse and allowed Vasilyev access to his memories. He wanted to show him. Show him the truth; how much he had loved Sasha, how guilty he felt, how desperate he was.

"I'm not... lying to you," the young man added stubbornly.

A moment later Vasilyev's arm dropped and Harry almost fell to the ground. Leaning forward, he put his hands to his neck and coughed as he tried to catch his breath.

"Get out of my sight," the Russian muttered, almost imperceptibly, before raising his voice. "Out. OUT!"

Without leaving him time to react, men grabbed him roughly. As they dragged him out of the room, the young man tried to get one last look at the face of the man he loved.

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There was now almost no respite between the different memories; they were blending together, leaving Ron and Padma barely enough time to process what they were seeing.

Sitting on the floor in the dimness of the living room with his back against the wall, Harry held a half-full bottle of FireWhisky. So now, he was an alcoholic as well as a freak. That voice whispering viciously in his ear wouldn't leave him alone. A useless junkie. A pathetic excuse for an Auror.

"Shut up," he moaned, hitting his temple with his palm.

He was the undoing of all those closest to him.

"No. That's not true."

Yes, it was. His parents, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Dobby, Sirius, and so many others. All dead because of him.

"Shut up!" the young man shouted, throwing his bottle against the opposite wall.

It shattered with a crash and the shards of glass added to the various vials scattered around him. Harry's mouth twisted into a sob and a long wail escaped his throat.

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The next memories came in quick succession, almost all identical to each other. Every morning, after too short a night of arguing with ghosts that only he could perceive, Harry was dragged out of bed by Kreacher. The elf would push him unceremoniously into the shower and then force a bowl of porridge in front of him at the table. When he got ready to go out and passed the large mirror in the hallway, he would look at himself and force a smile on his face that would fool even the most observant of his colleagues.

At work, his mind was occupied with the ongoing investigations. Harry had an amicable relationship with his two team-mates, two middle-aged wizards who regularly invited him to come and watch the quidditch matches in the pub with them, and when he declined, they would simply say 'next time'. There was never a next time.

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The large podium had been set up in the centre of the main square, right in front of Gringotts, and David Hammond was holding his annual speech, praising the hard work of the magical law enforcement agencies and the Department of Magical Justice in general. During his pompous monologue, the cloudy sky finally cleared and the timid March sun began to shine on the colourful crowd gathered to hear him speak.

Several speakers followed him, none of whom were less than effusive in their praise of the Director of the Department. Soon it was Harry's turn to address the crowd. Slowly, with a big smile plastered on his face, he took the stage, feeling the piercing gaze of the man of the moment who was scrutinising his every move. No misstep would be allowed. The Auror stepped to the middle of the platform, took a deep breath and then began his speech, his voice amplified by a Sonorus.

"Good morning, everyone," he began. "It is an honour to be here today…"

Speeches were not his forte, but he had made enough of them over the past ten years to know how to keep them as succinct and effective as possible. The young man touted the remarkable merits of the leaders of the Wizarding World, praised Hammond and his incredible management of the Department, commended the heroic actions of his colleagues, thanked the audience for its unwavering support.

"... And so, I hope we will continue to serve you to the best of our ability," he concluded. "Thank you all!"

Amidst the applause, camera flashes crackled. Harry waved to the crowd and then stepped down from the podium to the cheerful tunes of the band. His gaze was blank, and he did not hear the compliments of the wizards he passed on his way. Hammond, the wizards who had spoken before him, the crowd cheering him on, the world in general, all of them, yes all of them, inspired only a deep sense of disgust in him.

"Look at them, Sasha," he muttered. "Look at them congratulating themselves as if they deserved it. Their hands are covered in the blood of the innocent and they act as if nothing had happened…"

Anger followed disgust, insidiously clouding his already troubled thoughts. Aimlessly, he wandered the packed streets of Diagon Alley, clenching his fists with the irrepressible urge to destroy something.

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Harry had no idea how long he had been walking. When he finally became aware of his surroundings, he realised that he had long since left Diagon Alley and was standing on a quay by the Thames. In the twilight, the menacing shadows of the large warehouses around him stood out. The temperature had cooled considerably in the absence of the sun and the young man shivered. While looking around, he tried to find his bearings, without success. Mocked by the gulls, he shrugged his shoulders and prepared to disapparate. Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass and angry voices echoed not far from him, obviously coming from an alley hidden behind one of the warehouses. With nothing better to do, he let his curiosity guide him and approached.

Six men were surrounding another, with little doubt as to their intentions by the sight of the various weapons in their hands; iron bars, broken bottles and brass knuckles. The lone man, whose features were difficult to discern in the dark, had his fists raised, ready to strike.

These guys look like they're having fun. Why don't we get involved?

"Yeah, why not?" Harry agreed.

Without further thought he walked towards them.

"Hey!" he called out loudly to get their attention. "Nice night for an ambush, isn't it?"

"You'd better keep going on ya way, bruv," one of the thugs said.

"Ah, I don't think that's possible," the Auror replied, continuing to approach. "See, the thing is I think I've completely lost my way." he said innocently. "Say, six against one isn't very fair."

"It's none of your bloody business, mate," another man retorted, pointing his iron bar at him. "Now get lost if you don't want to eat metal."

"Hoho," he laughed and held up his hands. "Now that I'm here, it's kind of my business."

To tell the truth, whether it was his business or not, the young man didn't care, just as he didn't give a damn at what these men were fighting about. He just wanted to lose himself in the adrenaline of a good fight, to finally feel something, anything. His opponents were obviously Muggles, so he wouldn't be using magic, and that was actually better this way.

"Why don't we even things out a bit, heh?"

Without giving them time to react, Harry grabbed the iron bar pointed at him. The brute holding it was pulled towards him and the Auror took advantage of his surprise to deliver a hard punch that sent him to the ground. The lone man took advantage of their inattention to strike. The fight began in earnest. Harry dodged a fist towards his face and landed a kick in the sternum of his attacker. Quickly his mind cleared and his instincts took over. Dodge, strike, parry. A smile unconsciously appeared on his lips as he let his rage flow; each impact of his fists against the flesh of one of the attackers was accompanied by a feeling of intense satisfaction.

A brutal blow with an iron bar to his upper back suddenly knocked the young man to the ground. A kick to the face followed immediately and made his ears ring for a moment. As he tried to get up, he noticed that the other man was in a similar position. Their eyes met and the latter let out an expletive in a foreign language.

"Ah," he said with a contrite look. "It was fun while it lasted."

His hand had slipped into his pocket as he spoke and suddenly several men appeared. Flashes of red and green light shot out and instantly all the attackers collapsed in front of Harry's wide eyes. A wizard? Was that guy a wizard too?

The man stood up and dusted himself off as if nothing had happened, as if his face was not covered in wounds or blood. He then approached the Auror and held out his hand with a broad smile.

"Spasibo, friend!" he said, looking at his interlocutor. "That was good fight!"

Surprised, Harry grabbed the offered hand and let the man help him up. He winced at the movement and put his free hand to his side. Probably some bruising. The Auror's gaze went from the man in front of him, to those on the ground, to the wizards standing around them.

"You're brave, I like that," continued the man. "It takes courage to engage in such unequal fight. Although you could have used this," he added, pointing to the wand sticking out of the holster on Harry's forearm.

"What about you?" Harry retorted, pulling his arm back. "Why didn't you use magic, either? Why were you fighting Muggles alone with your bare hands?"

"So many questions! You are very curious for passer-by who fights strangers for no reason. But wait…"

Without warning, he murmured a Lumos and then brought his wand close to the young man's face, who squinted at the sudden brightness.

"Aaah, I recognise you! You're Auror! The one who invited himself to funeral a few months ago!"

"Were you there?" Harry gasped, frowning. "You know Vasilyev?"

"Da! Da! You left strong impression on Bogdan! I remember well now."

"And who are you?"

"Ah, forgive me! I forget good manners. I am Aslan."

By the light of his wand, Harry could clearly make out his features. He was middle-aged, with dark hair pulled back into a bun, a few loose strands reaching his ears, a short beard and dark eyes. His pleasant face was decorated with a scar that ran along his temple, to which was added an array of more or less recent bruises.

"What's your name, Auror?"

"Harry Potter."

"Neveroyatnye! Harry Potter!" Aslan repeated excitedly, tapping him on the shoulder. "By Rod! Oy, Koyla!"

He waved to one of the wizards, who came over quickly, and they exchanged a short conversation in Russian. Koyla nodded and then walked away before disapparating with a crack.

"Least I can do is to thank you," Aslan said, turning back to Harry. "Even if I'm not sure that the intervention was very useful. Come on! Let me buy you drink!"

Before the young man could even think "what?", his new friend grabbed his arm and they disapparated.

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The Trans-Siberian was a restaurant renowned for its traditional Slavic cuisine and impeccable service. The evening was drawing to a close; the last guests had just left and in the large, empty room, the staff were beginning to clean up, folding the white tablecloths and raising the chairs on the tables. Under the dim light of the large golden chandeliers, Aslan and Harry walked around the tables, their footsteps muffled by the thick purple carpet. At the far end of the room, they came to a large, dark wooden door and the Russian knocked three short times.

"Da!"

The two men entered. The smaller room was reserved for special events, family parties and other gatherings. Decorated in the same way as the main room, with chests of drawers adorned with vases and samovars of all sizes, it had a more intimate feel. Stacked chairs were pushed against one wall and only one table remained in the middle of the room, with four comfortable armchairs positioned around it.

On one of them sat Bogdan Vasilyev. The first buttons of the collar of his white shirt were undone, his sleeves were rolled up over his forearms and strands of his silver hair fell over his forehead; he looked no less distinguished than the first time Harry had seen him. The man looked up from his account book as they approached.

"Ah, Aslan," he said in a deep, warm voice, gesturing for him to sit down before turning his clear gaze on the Auror. "And your new friend, Harry Potter," he added in a more reserved tone.

One drink with Aslan had led to another, and then, without really realising it, the young man had spent more and more evenings in the company of the Russian, even if it sometimes ended in impromptu brawls in dark alleys with strangers. Harry had even occasionally lent a hand in moving goods, making sure not to ask what it was all about. It was an outlet for him from reality; he had fun and forgot his pain for a short while. Finally, Bogdan Vasilyev had wanted to meet him, which brought him that evening to the restaurant the latter owned.

"Aslan never stops talking about you, Potter," he said in a tone that betrayed no emotion. "He's telling anyone who will listen that you saved his life."

"I had no idea he was one of yours, that day," Harry muttered, avoiding his gaze.

"He also tells me that you help him from time to time," the Russian continued without picking up on his comment. "You, the Ministry's favourite Auror, a symbol of righteousness and justice, are friends with a criminal. How come you haven't arrested him yet?"

Harry did not answer immediately. After a few moments of silence, he finally looked up and met Vasilyev's gaze. "Sure, I could have, should have, reported his actions to my superiors. After all, I did know that none of this was legal…"

Aslan turned to him with an exaggerated air of outrage, his hand resting on his chest.

"... But I chose not to," the young man continued, ignoring him.

"Why should I believe you?" Vasilyev asked sceptically.

"I chose not to arrest you because it all seems so futile when men like David Hammond are in power," Harry said with undisguised bitterness.

"You intrigue me, Potter, and have done so since we first met. You publicly support the Director of Justice's policies, yet you undermine his efforts by covering up the actions of my men. Why do you do this?"

"Because of him!" the Auror hissed with venom. "Because of Hammond and Sternwood, and all the other scum that infect the Ministry! Working for them or for you, what difference does it make?"

Ethically, there is a difference. Vasilyev is still a criminal and the Ministry serves the people—

"Silence!" he said unintelligibly through clenched teeth before continuing. "You know as well as I do that it was those bastards that killed Sasha!"

The Russian's gaze hardened and he stood up suddenly. "Aleksandr," he said in a harsh voice. "Tell me Potter, did you know that I was his father?"

"He had told me everything. I didn't hold it against him. After all, you don't choose the family you're born into."

"Did you love him?"

"I loved him more than anything. You know that, you've seen my memories."

"What would you do if you got your hands on those who murdered him?" asked slowly as he approached the young man.

What would he do? Hammond, Sternwood, their satisfied faces filled with condescension appeared before his eyes, followed by Sasha's, smiling, then replaced by his distorted blue features. It was their fault. Their fault. Pain, disgust, anger, hatred, all mixed together in his mind, insidiously infiltrating his thoughts day and night for the past weeks, months. What would he do?

"I would kill them," he answered without the slightest hesitation.