Hello!

A thousand apologies for this long pause, I didn't imagine it would last so long ^^' . Let's just say that work and real life obligations caught up with me. I haven't given up rewriting this fanfic and I intend to finish it as soon as possible, even if I'm sometimes discouraged by all the flaws of my prose and the plot...

Thanks to all of you who keep reading this story, I wish you a good reading!

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CHAPTER X - AFFANNATO

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Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

He was running. Each of his steps against the asphalt echoed in the totally deserted street. He was running to try to escape them, panic urging him to speed up. Behind him he could feel them, almost touching him, trying to grab him, to hold him back; they wanted to hurt him. Suddenly the ground gave way beneath his feet. Submerged in icy water, he struggled to surface. More and more hands came up from the depths and grabbed his legs, pulling him relentlessly back into the darkness. As he struggled with the energy of despair, the cadaverous features of the inferi appeared before him and he screamed. Water rushed into his mouth, his throat and his lungs. He was suffocating. His vision was already beginning to blur as his face emerged from the abyss and…

… Ron woke up with a shout, drenched in sweat and his heart pounding. The young man sat up hastily on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over his sweaty face, taking his time to get his bearings.

"Ron?" Hermione questioned in a half-sleepy voice as she sat up beside him.

"A nightmare," he reassured his companion, as much as he reassured himself. "It was just a… nightmare…" he added, trying to calm his breathing.

At the touch of Hermione's hand on his shoulder, his body stiffened, before gradually relaxing under her comforting touch. After a few minutes, Ron allowed himself to be completely enveloped in his wife's soothing embrace.

"You haven't had one of these in years," she murmured, concerned.

Ron didn't answer immediately.

"It wasn't my nightmare, Mione…"

"You mean… Harry? How can you be sure?"

"In mine I always saw Fred or monstrous spiders. Always. Here, there were inferi. I never saw one, but I know they were. I was so scared. I felt completely trapped, and I thought I was going to…"

An uncontrollable shudder ran through him at the memory of the creatures' faces. Hermione tightened her arms around him a little more.

"These memories… What he feels, what I feel… I don't know how much longer I can go on, Hermione. I know it's the only way to get the answers we're looking for, but his thoughts, they're getting darker and darker, chaotic… I can hardly recognize our Harry, and it terrifies me."

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Standing in front of the full-length mirror in his room, Harry finished dressing. Bogdan had insisted that he'd dress appropriately when representing his mentor personally on "business", and so the young man had purchased a number of simple but elegant three-piece suits, all tailored to him. On this particular evening, he had chosen a classic steel-blue ensemble, complemented by a black, all-cashmere coat that reached just above his knees. With his hair slicked back and his scar hidden by a camouflage spell, his reflection, looking older than his twenty-five years, seemed almost alien.

Harry left his room and made a quick diversion to the bathroom. From a small cupboard he took out a vial containing a vision potion, which he drank in one gulp; he gagged at the vile taste. It would correct his eyesight for a limited period of twelve hours; although he still preferred to wear his glasses rather than drink it every day. Once he was satisfied with his appearance, he went down the stairs and towards the fireplace.

On the ground floor there were no lights on. Every night, whether he went out or not, the young man made sure that the house was plunged into darkness at a fixed time, asking Kreacher to turn off the lights if he was away. One never knew who might be watching him, and he didn't want to arouse suspicion around him, so much the worse if one thought he had no life, it was always better than the reality. Using the floo network, he appeared in the office of the Trans-Siberian, and from there he disapparated to his final destination.

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Located on the edge of the capital, the entire area was under construction and the skeletal structures of the buildings being built stood out against the light-polluted sky of the surrounding city. Entirely deserted, it was an ideal place to take care of some business in complete secrecy.

Harry apparated directly on the desired floor of one of the unfinished towers. He walked through the future corridors, which were simply made of concrete and metal bars, in which the sound of his black oxfords echoed eerily, and approached a room. From the doorless opening, he took the time to observe the scene before him.

A man, who had obviously been roughed up a bit, was tied to a chair, illuminated by powerful Lumos that forced him to squint to protect himself from their glare. Behind him, the absence of walls gave an impression of emptiness while offering a view of the city in the distance, from which the sounds of traffic could be heard continuously in the background. Around the prisoner stood four wizards, including Aslan, who smiled slightly as he finally caught sight of Harry.

"My friend!" the Russian greeted him, spreading his arms to embrace him. "Always late, aren't you? I thought we would start festivities without you."

"I don't know what you mean," the Auror replied, unperturbed. "And who's our guest tonight?" he asked, nodding towards the prisoner who was watching him without betraying any emotion.

"Ah, our new comrade is not just any guest. This is Simon Brewster."

"Brewster, as in David Hammond's personal secretary?"

"In person."

Harry had heard of him, and of the fact that he personally represented his superior in some of his affairs outside of the Ministry when the latter was unavailable.

"Your men have got hold of an invaluable source of information, Aslan. He can tell us a lot about the Director's activities and contacts."

"Da," Aslan sighed, though he looked annoyed. "Unfortunately his loyalty is greater than survival instinct. He refuses to say anything despite eeh…encouragement."

"What about Legilimency?"

"He is occlumens. But I know that every man has weaknesses and you, my friend, will make him talk."

"We'll see about that right away."

Under Brewster's still impassive gaze, the young man turned his attention to the latter's personal effects, which lay on a small table. He grabbed the leather wallet and silently began to rummage through it, not really knowing what he would find useful. His nimble fingers pulled out various cards, papers and receipts from the case, letting them fall to the floor as he went, until he found a photograph. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see the man's body stiffen slightly.

Bingo.

Releasing the wallet in a disinterested gesture, the Auror approached the prisoner, the glossy piece of paper between his fingers.

"Is that your wife?" he asked, his tone feigning curiosity.

His gaze lingered on the captive man more intently; forty years old, paunchy, his lilac shirt wrinkled and bloodstained and… Was that tomato sauce?

"What's she doing with a guy like you?" he wondered as he crouched down in front of Brewster and looked from him to the picture. "You know what?" he added with a mirthless smile. "I think maybe I should pay her a visit."

The man remained silent, but his hands tightened into tight fists, turning his knuckles white.

"I'll go to your house and tell her I found this wallet in the street," Harry continued. "Like a good Samaritan I'd give it back to her, and she might invite me in and offer me a drink to thank me…"

"Don't you dare hurt her!" Brewster suddenly exploded, unable to contain himself any longer.

"Hurt her?" the Auror replied with a look of mock surprise. "Oh, but I have no intention of harming her."

The latter then leaned forward so as to whisper into the prisoner's ear, his cruel smile still in place. "If you behave, I might even show you my memories afterwards."

Then, without waiting for an answer, Harry stood up and turned on his heels, heading for the exit. "I'll keep this, as a souvenir," he said, holding up the picture between his index and middle fingers.

No sooner had he taken a few steps down the corridor than he could hear Brewster's anxious calls echoing through the walls. "Wait! Come back! I'll tell you what you want to know!"

Scrolls and a quill were placed before the captive behind whom Harry positioned himself, one hand clutching his shoulder in a threatening gesture.

"You write here the names and weaknesses of your master's men. You forget one or you lie, and you and all your lovely little family will be killed in cold blood, or worse. Do you understand?"

Brewster nodded frantically and then began to blacken the paper without delay.

"Good man."

You are no better than those you seek to destroy.

That voice —that annoying voice— which screamed its disagreement from deep within himself, was becoming easier to ignore every day and he knew it wouldn't be long before he silenced it completely.

I do what needs to be done.

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Harry walked hastily up the street to the Trans-Siberian. He was late, which in itself was not unusual for him, but the cause was. On that beautiful but cool May morning, Hermione had just given birth to her and Ron's daughter, little Rose, and Harry had immediately gone to St. Mungo's to meet her before his appointment with Bogdan. In all fairness, she was the most beautiful baby in the world, and the happiness of his friends still warmed his heart as he reached his destination.

Outside the restaurant, the Auror noticed a man who seemed to be waiting there. He stood motionless, his expressive brown eyes riveted to the closed door of the establishment, apprehension visible on the features of his handsome face. Adjusting his cheap grey suit, he looked resolute and motioned towards the entrance before shaking his head while muttering inaudible words and then, after a second's hesitation, he turned around and looked ready to run away. Then his eyes met Harry's.

The latter walked past him without a word, watching him warily, and entered the restaurant. As the door closed behind him, the young man could feel the stranger's gaze following him, and only moments later, three knocks sounded. Harry, already on his way to Bogdan's office, turned to see one of the staff open the door and the man in the suit introduce himself while awkwardly pulling a piece of paper from his pocket.

"Is there a problem, Harry?"

Bogdan's voice startled the young man, who looked up sharply at the Russian.

"That man," he replied, once his surprise had passed. "Do you know who he is?"

"My new prosecutor," his interlocutor replied. "Harvey Crown is retiring, I need someone else to take care of Muggle affairs. We have an appointment with him at eleven."

"He's early, it's a quarter to," Harry commented, looking at his watch.

"And you should have been here at ten o'clock sharp," the Russian retorted neutrally.

"I had an emergency early this morning."

Bogdan simply grunted, then beckoned the stranger to come closer and follow him and Harry into his office. Once they were all settled, he began the introductions.

"Christopher Reilly, is that right?"

"Yes, sir, that's correct."

"Born in Cork in 1977, exemplary schooling, then law studies at Cambridge, valedictorian," the Russian recited before pausing to observe his interlocutor. "A faultless record so far. It was afterwards that things got tough. A first job at the New Scotland Yard, but, unfortunately, you are not kept. A succession of professional failures followed, before Harvey Crown took you under his wing. Any particular reason for these setbacks?"

"Oh, um…" Reilly seemed to shrink in his chair under the questioning gazes of the Russian and Harry. "Let's just say that it turned out that my acquaintances were not to the liking of my employers. At all.

"Acquaintances?" Harry asked, frowning.

"The IRA?" the Irishman replied uncertainly. "Oh and um, a few visits to the bookies when I lost my first job. My debts piled up and things soon got out of hand. Without Harvey, I—"

"Who do you owe money to?" the Auror interrupted.

"Brick... Brickwall?"

Harry winced involuntarily; he had heard of Brickwall's reputation. Opposite him, Reilly's face showed a similar expression.

"Brickwall, I can make it my business," Vasilyev intervened, interlacing his fingers under his chin. "If you are willing to work for me, we can agree on the settlement of your debts. Crown personally recommended you, did he tell you what we were doing?"

"He told me enough. You're part of the Vory V Zakone. I also know that you are… I mean, you're magicians?

His gaze shifted from Harry to Bogdan as he said this.

"We are wizards, yes. Did Harvey tell you about that too?"

"A little bit, mostly to warn me not to be surprised. But I knew about Magic before, some of my uncle's family by marriage are magical. I think. I don't really have any contact with them."

"Will that be a problem?" Harry questioned.

"No, not at all," Reilly replied eagerly. "Absolutely not."

"Good, because working for us, you and I will often be dealing with each other."

"Can I count on you, then, Christopher?" the Russian asked, holding out his hand.

"You can, Mr Vasilyev," the prosecutor replied, shaking it.

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In the great misty forest, the carpet of dead leaves dampened their footsteps, and only the sound of condensed water droplets falling from the dreary-coloured foliage and crashing to the ground reached them. The heady scent of wet earth and decaying plant debris filled the humid air. Moving cautiously forward, Harry, Paul and Aslan, wands in hand, scanned their surroundings for any movement.

The two Aurors were similarly dressed, cargo trousers and warm jacket, high-top shoes, all in black. Aslan, on the other hand, had opted for a different style, more akin to an English lord on a hunting trip: a dark green tweed cap and jacket and brown trousers with high dark leather boots.

A frightened pheasant suddenly flew off as they approached, startling all three of them, before disappearing into the thicket.

"He is Muggle, he couldn't have gone far," Aslan whispered nonchalantly.

"If you'd been watching him like you were supposed to, we wouldn't be traipsing after him in the middle of the woods," Paul hissed quietly.

"The call of nature, my friend, can't be resisted."

The loud crack of a broken branch sounded a little farther into the forest. The three men looked at each other and then hurried towards the source of the noise. At last they saw him, the man they had been chasing for minutes and who was desperately trying to escape.

"Stupefy!" Paul shouted, raising his wand with an exaggerated movement, deliberately missing his target.

The jet of light crashed into a tree trunk just above the runaway, sending a spray of glowing sparks around him.

"Where are you going, my friend?" Aslan called out to him in an almost friendly tone. "Come back!"

That's enough. We've wasted enough time as it is.

"Cruraligo!" Harry incanted.

The restraining spell wrapped around his target's legs and the man fell to the ground with a cry of shock. His grey suit and tie were now covered with dirt and various plants, his dyed hair with a grey root stuck to his forehead with the sweat and humidity. Terror distorted the features of his dirt-stained face as he frantically tried to free himself from his invisible bonds. As the three wizards approached, he dropped to his back and stopped struggling.

"Why are you doing this?" he cried with a touch of hysteria in his voice. "What do you want from me? I haven't done anything to you!"

Paul crouched down beside him, pulled a photograph from his inside jacket pocket and placed it in front of the man, almost forcing him to squint to look at it.

"Do you recognise this? Hm?"

"No! No! I don't know what it is!"

"Oh? Isn't that you in this picture, though?" Paul commented, as if addressing a young child, pointing to a figure in the photo. "Look closely."

"In the midst of a discussion with one of our old acquaintances, the dear Claudius Sternwood," Harry added, stepping forward, then tilting his head to one side with a falsely curious expression, he continued. "I wonder what you two have been talking about."

"It's a set-up!" the man defended himself vehemently. "A fake photo! It wasn't me!"

"You're playing us for fools now, Badland!" Paul snapped, pressing his wand against the man's ribs with force. "A fake photo?"

"It's not what you think! I didn't tell him anything! I swear to you! Please!"

"So our warehouse in Aberdeen seized by Ministry just after this chance meeting is just coincidence?" Aslan asked in a naive tone. "Ah, probably like the arrest of our comrades in Birmingham. Sovpadeniye!"

"Please. Tell Vasilyev that I—"

"I won't tell Bogdan anything," Harry interrupted him. "Because you know what I think, Badland? I think you're lying to us. That you sold information to Hammond. That you're a traitor. And you know what I do to traitors?"

Slowly, a smile broke out on the Auror's face, his previously cold and inexpressive eyes widened slightly, his dilated pupils betraying the excitement that was building inside him, the pleasure of seeing this man squirm in terror at his feet, of being able to make him pay for his treachery. He raised his wand and the echo of his victim's scream reverberated through the forest.

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In the huge arena, the shouts of the excited crowd increased as the race began. The ground shook with the impact of the hooves of the ten gigantic abraxans as they galloped across the oval track to take flight. The laps followed and soon it was the last one; Harry turned his attention from the competition to Chris Reilly, sitting on the edge of his little blue seat, his fists clenched white-hot, focused entirely on the race above him.

The winged chestnut he had bet on, Tenor of the Pommel, crossed the finish line a wing's length ahead of his rivals, and cheers filled the space. Chris stood up briskly, arms raised, fists still clenched, and spun around with an expression of genuine joy on his face, making Harry smile in turn. The latter had invited the prosecutor to attend the Abraxan race, even though it was illegal, and overrode the fact that he was a Muggle who didn't exactly belong there.

Over the past year, being in frequent contact because of their work at Divco, as well as their involvement with Vasilyev, Harry and Christopher —call me Chris, Harry— Reilly had quickly gone from colleagues to friends. The young Auror enjoyed the sense of lightness he felt in the company of the older man, which allowed him to put aside the harshness of his daily life for a moment.

"Wait here, Harry, I'll go and get my winnings now," Chris said as they made their way out of the arena and through the crowd.

Turning his head to answer his friend, Harry didn't see that the man walking in front of him had stopped and accidentally bumped into him.

"Oy!" the man exclaimed as he turned around, an ugly look on his flushed, obviously drunken face. "Can't you watch where you're going, runt?"

The stature of the man, two heads taller than him and twice as muscular, did not impress Harry, who held his gaze defiantly. "You'd better watch out, you don't know who you're dealing with, troll face."

"Who do ya think you are, midget? You think—" he suddenly paused and glared at the young man. "Wait a minute. I know ya. You're the Auror who arrested me brother!"

The bully's bursts of voice were beginning to attract curious looks from the surrounding onlookers.

"Auror? Me? Pah! You're out of your mind."

More people gathered around them; he had to find a way out of this situation before it got out of hand.

"It's definitely ya, I'm sure, with the scar and all. You know what, this is just perfect. Without your Ministry buddies to help ya, I'm going to beat the shit out of ya just like ya deserve."

Not if I fuck you up first, mate. Never mind the audience gathered around us.

Harry prepared for the fight, his wand ready to slip from his holster at the appropriate moment, when six men as unfriendly looking as his opponent suddenly appeared at his side. Was he really willing to risk his neck for these morons? Probably not. Too bad. After a second's hesitation, the young man looked up over their shoulders and let out an alarmed exclamation, pretending to raise his arms in surrender. With a single movement, the seven companions immediately turned around, alert. Taking advantage of their momentary distraction, Harry turned and ran as fast as he could. He passed Chris, who was returning from the bookie's shop pocketing his money and who looked at him with a confused expression.

"Chris, run!" the Auror shouted without stopping. "Quickly! Run!"

The large, empty buildings of the industrial estate in which the arena had been set up flew by as they raced along, and Harry could hear the enraged shouts of their pursuers behind him, growing ever more distant. A small, hidden alleyway suddenly appeared, nestled between two factories, and he dashed into it, grabbing Chris's arm as he went, and the latter crashed into him with a oumph, cut off in his tracks. Panting, they stood as still and silent as possible and waited for the thugs to pass. When the danger was over, Chris stepped back slightly and rested his head on Harry's shoulder, one of his arms against the wall right next to Harry's head.

"This is the sort of evening I usually spend with Aslan," the Auror breathed, shaking his head. "Merlin, I've become like him."

"I never signed up for this," the prosecutor replied. "Do you want me dead or what?"

"Well, thirty is a good age to die," Harry replied ironically.

He let his head fall back against the brick wall and closed his eyes, then laughed. He hadn't laughed like that for so long it made his ribs ache and his eyes water. Chris stood up and looked at him, puzzled at first, then, as if infected by his friend's glee, he too began to laugh. After a few moments, Harry opened his eyes and their gazes met.

In the darkness of his thoughts, which almost engulfed him, Christopher's presence appeared to him as an outstretched, saving and luminous hand, grasping his with a strength that prevented him from sinking completely. Without saying a word, the Auror brought his hand to the back of the prosecutor's neck, then drew his face towards him and sealed his lips against his own.