Rated M: this chapter contains medical experimentation on a child, pain, and humiliation.
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Chapter Two: Loss
Harry felt numb.
Hours ago, his life was perfect. Now he was sitting all alone in St. Mungo's waiting room, head in his hands, blood crusting on his Healer's robe. Hermione was in surgery, James was sedated, and the twins were in a drugged sleep as well after their traumatic experience. Kreacher was bundled in a conjured sheet back at the safe house while muggle police crawled over Asphodel Cottage. Their refuge from the world, their safe, happy home, had been invaded and violated and Harry wanted to throw up or scream just to be able to feel something.
But he felt nothing right now.
He had been forbidden from seeing his family until the Healers were finished working, on account of his hysteria. While at the house, he had tried casting detection spells for his youngest son, but Severus Albus seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. His kidnapper may have fought like a muggle, but he had been carrying some dangerous and powerful dark magical objects to cloak his presence and break through the wards the way he had. Harry couldn't reconcile in his mind any wizard who would fight like a muggle … except maybe a squib, but then they would have to be in league with someone who could enchant their objects for them.
Harry still had many enemies. Even though he'd chosen to become a Healer and had retreated as much as possible from the public eye, there were some Death Eaters and sympathizers who had escaped justice. So far, none of them had been able to find where he lived, (because he had chosen a muggle neighbourhood on purpose) but Asphodel Cottage was no longer safe.
After he got his wife's patronus, (he'd been in surgery) he had to find another Healer to take over what he was doing. But as he ran to the floo, suddenly his wife and three of his children had popped into existence, leaving the taste of his house elf's magic in the air. Healers came running, James was babbling and bleeding from a shoulder wound, the Twins were crying and clinging to him, and Hermione was unconscious and soaked with her own blood. Harry was finally chased off by the competent, (read: not panicking) Healers and he flooed home, noting that Severus and Kreacher were still missing.
His elf was dead. Again, another elf had given his life for Harry, or for those he held dear. His heart felt like it had been carved out with a dull knife. Now, he might lose his wife and their unborn child and he might never see little Sev again. He was waiting for the owl to arrive with an ultimatum, a demand … But would he be able to offer himself in exchange for his son if Hermione … died, and left their three other children orphans? A painful sob clawed its way out of his throat and the ache, the dull pain in his chest, exploded. The numbness, the shock, was wearing off, leaving behind a sharp pain the likes of which Harry had never experienced.
The waiting room door whispered and someone walked toward him … two someones. Harry glanced up, wiping his eyes, and was shocked to see Neville. He was apprenticing under Professor Sprout to take over for her in a few years, and Harry was surprised he'd heard something already and had come to see him. The man behind him was, of course, Ron, in full Auror robes and sympathy on his square face.
"Mate," Ron murmured, grabbing his oldest friend and dragging him into a firm hug. Harry burst into fresh sobs, clinging to the broad shoulders of his best friend in desperation.
Neville gently gripped Harry's shoulder and stood there for him while he cried his heart out. None of them said anything, and Ron and Neville didn't ask questions. They just stayed there for him and Harry released the grief and fear and numb horror that were poisoning his soul.
When he was a bit more composed, (a very long fifteen minutes later) Neville silently handed him a hankie and then hugged him too. Harry sighed heavily and patted his friend's shoulder gratefully before he sat back down.
"The Aurors are going over Asphodel cottage with a fine-tooth comb now," Ron said quietly. "Do you …? Are you ready to give a statement?"
Harry shrugged and took another deep breath, this one rather shaky. He closed his eyes and ran through some of the occlumency exercises he had been able to pick up. On account of his guilt about the failed lessons from Snape in his fifth year, he had tried to take up occlumency again. Hermione wasn't half bad at it, of course, but Harry couldn't get past the relaxation and focusing exercises. He was just too emotional for true occlumency, their teacher had told them.
"I …" Harry started hoarsely. "I was on duty here … sometime after midnight Hermione sent me a patronus, said a muggle was somehow breaking into the house and she wanted to meet me at the safe house. I took a few minutes stabilizing my patient and getting another surgeon to finish … And then I ran to the floo. But I was only a few feet away when Hermione, James, Lily, and Rose suddenly appeared in front of me."
"They apparated in?" Ron asked, letting a quill and scroll record what Harry was saying.
"No," Harry murmured. "Kreacher sent them in. I … didn't know elf-magic could do that, actually. I thought it worked like side-along apparition …" Harry trailed off and shook his head. He blew his nose into Neville's hankie and his friend silently handed him another one. Harry threw him a grateful, but weak, smile, and wiped his face again. He knew he looked awful, but he really didn't care anymore.
"So what was their condition when they arrived?" Ron asked gently, getting them back on target.
"James was trying to talk, but he was in a lot of pain … and covered in blood." Harry shuddered. "He'll be okay, I think. He got shot in the shoulder and lost a lot of blood, but he should be fine. The girls were okay, I think, just traumatized and hysterical." Harry swallowed hard and rested his arms on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. "Hermione might not make it," he whispered brokenly. "She … was shot several times and suffered magical backlash from some of her protection shields. I think she lost … lost the baby." Harry choked up and couldn't speak any longer. Neville gently rubbed his back as he fought another wave of tears. Harry was grateful for his thoughtful friend, who may not know what to say most of the time, but he certainly knew how to be a comforting presence.
"So what did you do after that?" Ron asked.
"I … left them to the Healers and flooed home, because I couldn't see Sev and Kreacher was missing, and James kept saying something about him getting shot and Sev getting grabbed … I found Kreacher, but I … I couldn't save him. He told me the muggle took Sev and I needed to go after him."
"Did you?"
"I couldn't find them," Harry said, desperation filling his voice. He gripped his hair and shuddered with grief. "I cast locating charms, point me … even some that I really shouldn't be knowing. They've disappeared off the face of the earth, as far as magic's concerned."
"The Aurors were saying the same thing," Ron sighed, running a hand over his red hair, which he kept cropped short these days. "Whatever … whoever … it was, he had some powerful warding runes attached to his person, prevents us from getting a clue about who he was or where he's taken Sev." Ron hesitated and then said softly. "Additionally, if the man's a true muggle, and if Sev is really a squib … there's next to no chance that magic could find either of them. I'm sorry, Harry. You know we'll do our best … but would you like to get the muggle police involved?"
"I don't know," Harry whispered faintly. "I just … if they send demands or ransom notes or whatnot … what am I supposed to do?"
"Call the Aurors," Ron replied at once. "Better yet, call me directly. We won't let you go through this alone. And if they send you a note demanding you give yourself up or something stupid like that, you promise me you won't go all hero-mode and try to do it alone, got it?"
"What if … what if they threaten my boy?" Harry whispered brokenly, more tears sliding down his face. "Why would anyone take my younger son, anyway? Why?"
"I don't know, Harry," Ron murmured. "But we'll do our best and we'll help you, alright mate? You don't have to go through this alone."
Harry nodded. Ron clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Lav says you can crash at our place, if you want. My place is warded tighter than a Gringott's vault, thanks to my curse-breaker brother. The girls will probably love it there. Diamond and Ruby miss their god-cousins."
"Thanks, Ron," Harry whispered. "I … I'll think about it."
"Great," Ron grinned, though anybody could tell it was forced. "I'm afraid I've got to get back. Thanks for the statement, mate. And don't worry, we'll find Sevvie and that piece of shit that took him."
Harry nodded silently and Ron squeezed his shoulder one last time before he left. Neville sighed next to Harry and nudged him.
"Hey, he's right you know," Neville murmured. "You're not alone, Harry. You never are. I'm staying right here as long as you need me."
"Thanks, Nev," Harry whispered, wiping more tears from his cheeks. "Won't Hannah worry, though?"
"She's the one who told me to stick by you like glue," Neville confessed, his cheeks slightly pink. "So, have the Healers told you anything?"
Harry shrugged and sat up straight, stretching his aching muscles. Neville suddenly drew his wand and silently cleaned Harry's blood-stained robes. Though he was tired, Harry smiled gratefully at his friend, and marveled again that although Neville had been clumsy and uncoordinated back in school, he was now confident, competent, and capable of so much. His thoughtfulness exceeded that of everyone Harry knew; except his wife, of course.
"Hermione's in surgery," Harry said quietly. "James is sedated, but they already took care of his shoulder wound. The girls are sleeping in the children's ward."
Neville nodded and opened his mouth to say something else when a woman Healer stepped into the waiting room.
"Mr. Potter?" she asked quietly.
Harry jumped to his feet and the woman beckoned him to follow. When she tried to stop Neville from joining them, Harry assured her that he was a trusted friend and he wanted him along. The Healer nodded and led them toward the hospital recovery rooms.
"Mrs. Potter is out of surgery," she said as they walked.
"How is she?" Harry demanded. "Did it go well? Is she stable?"
"As far as we can see, it went well and she's quite stable. She should recover within the week."
They walked on in silence until they reached Hermione's recovery room. Harry barely felt his friend at his side. He only had eyes for his wife in the bed. She looked frail and small under the white sheets. Her brown hair tumbled in damp, tangled curls around her face where the Healers had washed the blood off her. Monitoring spells blinked softly in the air above the bed, declaring her stable and sleeping to Harry's trained eye. But there was a set of monitors missing. His heart in his throat, he turned to the Healer who was still in the room with them
"The … the baby?" Harry asked her softly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," she replied even more quietly. "He … was already gone by the time we worked on her."
Neville wrapped his strong arm around Harry's skinny shoulders in silent support. Harry was glad of it, because his heart was breaking and if he had been alone, he would have sunk to the floor, too weak and grieved to go on. He wept silently, leaning against his taller friend, and wondered what he had done to deserve this tragedy. He had lost two sons today, and he could only pray he didn't lose his wife too.
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Young Severus was terrified. He could not see, he could not speak, and he could not move. But he could hear. The fellow who'd kidnapped him was really weird. The way he talked was so unnatural he had a hard time understanding anything. The guy called himself 'The Asset' and called Sev 'The Target'. He carried Sev and ran like the wind and now they were in a cold place that echoed. The guy put him down on the floor that felt like concrete and moved around a bit, locking a door and going through what sounded like a pile of supplies. He tried to take off Sev's gag once, but Sev started screaming as soon as he could and the guy stuck the bad-tasting cloth back into his mouth after ordering him to be silent several times. Sev was thinking he would probably not yell if this thing was taken out of his mouth again. He was terribly thirsty and the gag was making him want to vomit.
Now he could hear the man talking to someone who wasn't in the room. He tried to take deep breaths like Dad taught him, but it was dreadful. He was too scared to breathe evenly and his whole body was shivering with terror.
When his kidnapper suddenly picked him up off the cold floor again, he yelled, or tried to, and squirmed desperately. He thrashed and fought, and he sobbed through his gag until the man put him back down. He curled up and cried, soaking his blindfold. He wished dad would come.
Several minutes passed and his kidnapper stopped talking to the other fellow. He moved around a little more, grunted softly in what sounded like pain, and Sev wondered if maybe he was treating his cuts. His own pajamas still smelled like the chap's blood.
"The target must get up," the weird man suddenly said. Sev stiffened in fear, realizing that his kidnapper was talking to him. He felt hands grab his bare feet and he whimpered until he realized that he was just being untied. His hands stayed bound, but now he could wiggle his feet and maybe even get up. His gag was pulled out of his mouth, and Sev waited, but those hands did not take off his blindfold.
"My dad's gonna kill you," Sev mumbled, shivering with fear. "You better let me go."
"Irrelevant," the man grunted. "Stand up."
"No," Sev boldly retorted. He opened his mouth to yell for help but a hand clamped painfully down on top of his mouth.
"Be silent," the man growled in his ear. "You will get me disciplined if you do not follow orders."
Disciplined? Sev thought in confusion. Mum called punishments 'discipline', but adults didn't get disciplined, did they? But despite his confusion, he nodded slowly and the guy took his hand away.
Sev choked back some more tears. "I'm thirsty," he whimpered.
"I am not permitted to water you," the kidnapper grunted. "Stand up."
This time, Sev obeyed. He stifled a sob as pins and needles stung his feet, but the man helped him up. One hand was soft and normal, but the other one was hard and cold, like metal. The hands guided him to stand with his back against a concrete wall and then left, but Sev could tell that the man was standing next to him now. They stood that way for several minutes before Sev's legs tired and he tried to sit down. The man grabbed his arm and jerked him back up before he was halfway down.
"I'm tired!" Sev wailed, starting to cry again. "I want to go to sleep!"
"You will sleep at the compound," the gruff voice growled at him. "Stand at attention and wait for retrieval."
"You talk weird," Sev spat, too tired and achy to even think about being afraid. He slumped back against the wall, but didn't try to sit down again.
"I talk as I have been trained. You are disrespectful. If you do not control yourself, you will be disciplined."
Sev shivered at the way the man said 'disciplined'. It made him choke on fresh tears. Once he gulped them back down, he asked timidly, "Who are you? What are you gonna do to me?"
"I am the Asset," the man replied woodenly. "My mission was to retrieve you and keep you contained until the extraction team arrives. My mission is completed and I will have nothing more to do with you."
"Why'd you kidnap me?" Sev whimpered softly, biting his lip. "I didn't do anything."
"I had a mission."
"Damn your mission," Sev spat, cringing as he waited to be punished for the bad language like he would at home. But the man didn't even react. The boy wondered if maybe he would be 'disciplined' later when the 'extraction team' came. Last time James went to the dentist he had to get a tooth extracted. Sev wondered if he would get something extracted too. He shivered in terror and pressed his back against the cold wall. He almost missed the soft whisper of the man beside him before silence wrapped around them both.
"Yes, damn my mission."
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Alexander Pierce stepped out of his expensive car in the bank's narrow parking lot, donning sunglasses in the bright glare of Washington D.C's summer. He was dressed smartly in suit and tie and carried a briefcase in his right hand. nobody would think anything was out of the ordinary: just one more man in a suit doing business at a bank. His bodyguards surrounded him as he stepped into the shadow of the columns. No one would be able to guess, watching him and his security detail, that the impressive building was only a front for Pierce's true purpose. He passed the security guard at the door with a nod and marched to a back room where another pair of bodyguards subtly saluted him before letting him through. Alexander was early today, but he was sure that his presence would be welcomed rather than not.
Another door like a padlocked cage opened to an elevator and Pierce descended into the earth. When he stepped out into the correction room, he was greeted by the sight of medics pulling the Asset out of the Chair after a lengthy session. A pair of guards grabbed the man's bare sweat-slicked arm and dragged him away to the correctional cells. They nodded at Pierce and he nodded back, passing through the room to the other one. Those guards knew their job, and when they finished pounding obedience back into that idiot's skull they'd put him back into his cryo-freeze chamber until they needed him again.
The boy was waiting in the room beyond, strapped to a table and flanked by two masked doctors. Dark brown eyes met his, wide and terrified. The child was naked, and had obviously been struggling against his bonds for awhile. His wrists and ankles were red and raw from his squirming and he was panting and sweaty.
"Let me go!" the boy yelled, his voice hoarse from shouting.
Pierce smiled and walked up to the table, casually dropping his hand on the boy's arm. As he'd calculated, the child froze at his touch and shivered with horror.
"I've been really eager to meet you," Alexander said gently, smiling benevolently down at the boy on the table. "You can call me Handler Pierce. You're Severus, right?"
The boy slowly nodded.
"These doctors just want to give you a quick exam and a couple shots to make sure you're healthy, alright?" the Hydra head smiled. "Can you be a good boy for me and behave?"
"L-let me go, please," the boy whispered faintly. Tears brimmed in his chocolate-colored eyes. "I w-want to go h-home, please sir," he pleaded. "I'm … scared."
"I know," Pierce said with a smile. "But don't you worry. Soon, you won't want to go home. We're going to do great things together, my boy. I promise."
He turned away from the terrified child, giving his bare arm another possessive pat, and nodded at the doctors.
"Begin the first series of injections," he ordered them coldly, his grandfatherly tone completely gone. "Monitor his progress the whole way and send me a message when you've given the last injection."
"Yes sir," the first doctor murmured.
"Hail Hydra," the other added, a fanatical light in the eyes behind his thick glasses.
Pierce nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave. The boy strapped down to the table let out a wailing scream as the door closed behind him and the Hydra head smiled to himself. Soon, the first Summer Soldier would be born. It would be glorious.
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Sev struggled uselessly as the doctors swabbed his arms and chest with alcohol wipes. Tears dripped down his face and wailed pleas tumbled out of his mouth so fast he didn't even know what he was saying. He wanted Dad, or Mum, or even James. He wanted out of here. After a long night in which he was passed from one pair of hands to the next, rode in several muggle vehicles, and was only given one sip of water and one stop for the toilet. He was exhausted and almost too terrified and tired to fight when they arrived and he was thrown into a cold room like the concrete place he and the Asset had stayed in. He was woken up some time later, his hands were untied, and he was given a very small amount of water, but no food.
The first time his blindfold had been removed, the men had taken all his clothes too and forced him to take a cold shower that left his teeth chattering. They dragged him kicking and screaming into this room and strapped him down on the cold table before the doctors came and started poking, prodding, and scanning him. Then that creepy old man had come in, all white teeth and cold snake-like eyes and a nice suit like Grandpa Granger wore sometimes. He knew something bad was going to happen, but he didn't even have accidental magic to help him. He was helpless.
The first needles entered his skin, one in the crook of each skinny arm. Sev shuddered and whimpered, biting his lip in pain. Another pair of needles entered his skin on his chest just above his ribs and that stung worse. He yelled in pain and begged them to stop, but the doctors didn't even look at him. They attached tubes to the needles and Sev watched them fearfully. They murmured to each other before turning on a strange little machine that the tubes were connected to. A pale blue liquid began rushing up the thin tubes and suddenly, it was gushing into his skin. Sev's eyes widened and his whole body stiffened. His mouth opened but he couldn't even scream. Fire was flying through his veins, filling his body, and it hurthurthurt so bad he couldn't cry, he couldn't move, he could only howl in his own head.
The pain reached a level where Sev could finally let out a hoarse scream. He screamed and screamed until blackness took him and blessed relief followed.
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Sev woke in his concrete room on a hard cot made out of plastic, covered with a thin blanket. He was still naked, shivering with cold despite the blanket, and his arms and chest ached fiercely where the needles had gone in. His body tingled painfully like a foot that fell asleep. He slept again, only waking when a medic came to inject something into his sore arm. He whimpered, but was too weak to fight or scream. He wished he had magic so he could maybe sense Dad coming for him. But sadly, he was nothing but a stupid squib and he couldn't do anything to protect himself.
After the medic left, he fell asleep again, waking up when two guards came and dragged him back to the room of horrors. Sev started whimpering the minute they were in, and soon he was screaming and fighting as hard as he could. The men strapped him down, laughed at his struggles and tears, and the two doctors came in. After the guards left, the torture began all over again. Sev cried and begged but they didn't even look at his face while they put more needles into his stomach and legs this time, pumping him full of blue fire. He screamed himself into unconsciousness again, wondering if these people were trying to kill him.
The cycle repeated so many times Sev lost track of it all. He woke in his cell, a medic came and checked on him, gave him an injection in the arm, and then left him to sleep. Guards woke him, dragged him back to the torture room, and strapped him down while the doctors slid needles under his skin, poured blue liquid into his veins that burned his body like fire and drove him into darkness. But after a few sessions, Sev realized that it wasn't hurting quite as much. That is, the first wave of agony was no longer paralyzing, only extremely painful. It still caused him to scream and scream, even though now his wails of agony were soft croaks against his abused throat. It took longer for him to drop into the sleep of relief.
The day finally arrived when Sev screamed until the pain lessened and didn't lose consciousness. He lapsed into soft croaking whimpers and realized that all of the blue liquid was finished pouring into his body. His skin and flesh and everything underneath tingled with stabbing pain but it wasn't like being lit on fire inside anymore. He was tired, covered in sweat, panting for breath through lungs that felt like they were being stretched apart, but strangely enough he felt stronger than before. The doctors, even under their masks, looked pleased. They ran beeping scanners over him, peered into his eyes with little light-beams, and pulled the needles out of his flesh, wiping the drops of blood away from the tiny pricks.
It was the weirdest thing, Sev thought. He could feel those little spots where the needles had gone in start to tingle fiercely. The doctors looked even more pleased as the poked and prodded and pressed on the boy's muscles and bones. Sev moaned softly in pain, darkness clouding his vision. His throat was tingling too and he had a strange feeling he'd be able to scream just fine soon. Was he healing really fast now? That was weird. He wasn't even magical.
"Tell Secretary Pierce," one of the doctors said softly, his eyes glowing maniacally. "Tell him that our little Soldier has passed Stage One. Result: successful."
"Ready for Phase Two," the other doctor murmured, moving to unstrap the boy from the table.
Sev shivered in horror and wondered what other tortures were planned for him.
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Asphodel Cottage still didn't feel the same, (and probably never would) but Harry and Hermione agreed that nowhere else felt like home. They'd intruded on Ron and his family for a month and it was too stressful to stay there any longer. Ron's son Diamond and daughter Ruby were a little wild, on account of their parents being rather permissive.
Hermione and James were physically recovered, but the whole family suffered from nightmares and depression. Getting away from the stressful life at the Weasleys' would hopefully help. Harry was back at work, but only part-time, and he was only doing check-ups and coma patient work, since he was too distracted for delicate jobs like surgery. The Aurors hadn't been able to find Sev or his kidnapper, though they tracked down the warded items the man had carried. They had been destroyed by fire near an abandoned bunker that had been dug out by the British Military during World War II in case of a Nazi Invasion. The muggle police didn't have any more luck, and in fact they seemed to think they were making some of the stuff up. Dead ends everywhere, and Harry couldn't stand it.
The Healers had been able to retrieve the remains of the unborn baby, who had died from shock, and the child was buried in the family plot in Godric's Hollow. They named the baby Charlie Harold, after Harry's grandfather Charlus and Harry, of course. After grieving for that loss, the family was more than ready to return home.
It was empty and dusty. Hermione's parents had already arranged for people to fix the broken windows and clean the blood off the floor and everything, but that was weeks ago by now. Kreacher's funeral had been held the same day as little Charlie's, though they went and buried their loyal elf at Shell Cottage, with Bill and Fleur's permission, so he could rest beside the other elf to give his life for Harry and his loved ones. Dobby's grave had grown into a garden over the past few years, and a lot of freed elves made it a tradition to visit the spot and leave behind a single sock. Apparently, it was supposed to be an omen of good luck to find a good home the way Dobby had.
Now the lonely little grave had a neighbor, and a small, rough headstone reading:
KREACHER – LOYAL ELF
Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for his friends
It wasn't enough, Harry felt, but he could do nothing more. His family was broken and he had no idea how to fix it. What was worse, the Daily Prophet somehow learned of the tragedy and exploited as only Rita Skeeter knew how. The rumours flying around now had so distorted the truth that a great many people now thought the Potters had been performing some illegal dark ritual that had somehow backfired and caused their youngest son to vanish. The rumours had such strength that Harry was actually arrested and interrogated at the Ministry until Ron managed to make the idiots back off and stop harassing the Potters.
But rumours have a way of sticking around. It was worse than the way things had been for Harry in his fifth year and he was sick to death of the fickleness of some people. At least his oldest friends stuck by him and his family in their grief and bewilderment: Ron, of course, and his family, most of the Weasleys, Neville and his family, Luna, and wonder of wonders, Draco Malfoy.
After the loss of his family fortune, Draco had been forced to face the fact that he would likely have to work for a living. He found a surprisingly good job as an investigative reporter for an up-and-coming newspaper that might eventually surpass the Daily Prophet in popularity: The Magical Times. It used a simple, no-nonsense approach to the news that already surpassed the Prophet in substance and quality, and it was rather shocking to Harry when he was given a copy of the paper at the hospital one evening and read a scathing expose about the horrible way the 'Potter Kidnapping' was being handled by the Ministry. The cherry on top was the author of the piece. He signed himself Draco Greengrass, but he was obviously Malfoy, especially since he'd married Asteria Greengrass some years ago and apparently had a son now, close to Sev's age.
Intrigued, Harry wrote to Draco, thanking him for his support of the truth, and asking if he'd like an interview. Harry realized he was being rather Slytherin as he sent off the owl, and Hermione actually laughed when he confessed his sneaky scheme. Not only was his offer a sort of 'thank you' to Draco, (what reporter wouldn't salivate at the thought of an exclusive interview?) but it was also an invitation to talk. Harry wanted more information on this, and since Ron couldn't talk, and he wasn't an Auror, he really would like to know how much this investigator business had uncovered for Draco. Plus, he just wanted to put their stupid schoolboy rivalry aside and start over. From what he'd been able to see, Draco was a good writer, a thorough researcher, and was not really concerned with people's opinions, especially since they thought of him as scum anyway on account of the tattoo on his arm.
Harry was shocked when Draco accepted the invitation, but he almost fainted when the pureblood snob actually offered to meet in a muggle café. Hermione just smiled and told her husband that he wasn't the only one who had changed over the years.
Harry could only nod dumbly and wonder what he'd gotten himself into.
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He was nervous. Why in the world would Harry Potter be nervous about something stupid like an interview with an old childhood rival? He was standing across the street from the suburban café Draco had named, but he was getting cold feet. He took time off work for this. Hermione was home with the kids and they were fine. He had all the time in the world and a list of things to talk about in his pocket. So what was the problem? He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful way Hermione had fixed it for him. He was just about to gather his Gryffindor courage and march over there when he sensed someone stop beside him.
"You know," a somewhat familiar male voice murmured. "I'm not really craving tea and sandwiches today. I know a pub nearby with some excellent fish and chips."
Harry jumped and turned, trying hard not to let his jaw drop.
This ... was not how he expected Draco to look.
The man's silvery-blond hair was short and styled to look carefully tousled and windblown, nothing like the perfectly styled, slicked-back look of his childhood. He was wearing dark muggle sunglasses on his pale, pointy face, and his tall, trim figure was dressed in a casual muggle suit of a soft gray color that complimented his hair and complexion. His jacket was unbuttoned to reveal his white button-down shirt, his hands were in his pants pockets, and his shoes were a little scuffed on the toes. All in all, if Harry had bumped into this guy in the muggle world, he'd have assumed he was a dapper university student, not a wizard from a snobbish pureblood family.
Draco Malfoy smirked, (oh there it was), and stuck out a slender, pale hand. "Shocked, Potter?"
Harry actually chuckled a little as he shook Draco's hand. "A little," he admitted. "Muggle clothes really suit you."
"Of course they do," Draco sniffed haughtily. "Would I wear them if they didn't make me look flattering?"
"Vain as ever," Harry smiled.
"Naturally," Draco nodded. "So: tea and sandwiches? Or Alcohol and junk food?"
"I actually prefer fish and chips, myself," Harry answered cautiously. "I had too many sandwiches growing up."
Surprisingly, Draco answered easily enough. "The pub it is then," he spoke decisively. "Follow me; it's just a few blocks over." The dapper man sauntered off down the sidewalk, and after a moment of stunned stillness, (Draco? Walking a few blocks voluntarily?) Harry hurried to catch up with him, not feeling quite as dapper in his plain black trousers and maroon button-down shirt.
"Merlin's sake, Potter," Draco suddenly drawled, giving him a look over the top of his sunglasses. "You look like you've just been to a funeral. I know you own lighter colours than that. What's with the somber look?"
Harry fidgeted and then shoved his hands in his pockets. "I wear dark colours when I'm in a dark mood," he said quietly. "I'm sorry if I've messed up some dress code I didn't know about."
"Relax, Potter," Draco sighed dramatically. "I'm not picking on you. My godfather was the same, except he always was in a 'dark mood' as you put it. So, he never wore anything but black. I don't think he owned anything that wasn't black, actually. Just … dark colors make you look pale. You look downright ill."
"I am," Harry admitted, not looking at Draco as he felt an embarrassed flush traveling up his neck. "I haven't really slept or eaten much in the past month. I'm sure you can guess why."
Draco nodded, but thankfully, said nothing. They crossed the street at a crosswalk, skirted some crowds near a row of quaint shops, and ducked into a dim, cozy little pub called The Lion's Den. Harry chuckled as they sat down in a booth and nodded at the lion's crest above the fireplace.
"So … Gryffindor vibes appeal to you?"
"No," Draco grimaced as he whipped off his glasses. "But I thought the atmosphere would put you at ease."
"Very Slytherin of you," Harry said graciously.
Draco smiled and slipped his sunglasses into his coat pocket. "Thank you," he replied with false bashfulness. "I really try, you know."
A waitress came by and took their orders, and Harry observed the place while they waited and Draco perused a muggle newspaper, (oh the irony).
"Draco …" Harry suddenly spoke up, and then paused, because he really wasn't sure what to say.
The silvery gray eyes that rose to his suddenly flickered with sardonic humour. "Not Malfoy?" he asked lightly.
"I'm sorry," Harry muttered, his face heating up. "Mr. Malfoy, I mean. I didn't mean to be so forward, really. I'm just …" He trailed off in surprise as he realized Draco was laughing. He was chuckling, folding the newspaper, and shaking his head.
"Really, Potter," Draco chuckled. "I don't care what you call me. I've been called so many names in my life by now, I don't really have a preference, so long as I know you're addressing me. Merlin knows being insulted is better than being ignored, anyway."
"I don't know about that," Harry muttered, memories of the insults and cruel words of the Dursleys ringing in his memory. The days when they ignored him had been some of the better days of his life. Besides that, his experiences with the slander of the wizarding world taught him that being ignored was way better than listening to people tell lies about you.
"Yes, well; I suppose a Malfoy would rather be insulted and noticed, than ignored and forgotten," Draco nodded, with remarkable understanding. "But you'd prefer to be ignored, is that it?"
"I spent most of my childhood pretending to be invisible," Harry answered quietly. "Entering the wizarding world was a huge shock. I … I had no idea what to do. I really didn't mean to insult you the way I did on the train. I just … didn't want to be friends with somebody who reminded me of my cousin."
"I actually met your cousin on a story once," Draco drawled. "And we are nothing alike."
"I don't know about that," Harry grinned, feeling strangely delighted that his two childhood bullies had met, however weird that it sounded. "You were both spoiled brats who picked on me for years before you learned better, got married, and ended up in terribly surprising jobs."
"You mean you never expected your cousin to become a social worker?"
"Just as I never expected someone like you to become an investigative reporter for a newspaper," Harry tossed back.
Draco laughed lightly. "Point taken."
"So how'd you get the job? I had no idea you could write so well. I was impressed when I read your last article."
"So you said in that long-winded letter of yours," Draco muttered, but he looked pleased. Their drinks arrived and he took a sip of his warm, foamy alcoholic beverage with a sigh of pleasure. He licked the foam off his lip with an air of habit and fished in his coat pocket for a notebook and a fountain pen.
"You were lying," Harry accused with an amused smile. "You do come here a lot, don't you?"
"Don't tell my father," Draco replied with an arched eyebrow as he set his pen and book down. He raised his mug to drink on it, and Harry knocked back a drink of his plain whiskey in solidarity.
"You've changed, Malfoy," Harry said thoughtfully, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. "I'm sorry I never looked you up before this."
"So am I," Draco confessed. "But years passed and then I had other things to worry about besides social calls. And speaking of surprising careers, I don't think anyone was more surprised than myself when I heard you'd decided to become a surgeon, of all things."
"Thought I was a shoo-in for the Auror department?" Harry guessed.
"Me, and everyone else," Draco shrugged. "You should've seen my father when he heard the news."
"Apoplectic with rage?"
"More like shocked to silence; a rare thing indeed, or you don't know Lucius Malfoy."
"I just wanted to do something that helped …" Harry started and then trailed off before he got the courage to keep going, keeping his eyes on the glass in front of him. "I didn't want to spend my life doing something I hated just because everyone else expected me to do it," he said quietly, amazed that he was talking about this for the first time to someone who wasn't a friend, or his wife. "I wanted to help people, sure. But not through fighting. I was sick and tired of fighting. I turned to healing, mostly because … I wanted to fix the things I did wrong. Make up for my mistakes." He glanced quickly at Draco, who had a strangely nostalgic look in his gray eyes.
"My godfather was a good man," Draco said quietly instead of answering. "He taught me a lot, and most of it I didn't listen to until it was too late. One of the things he taught me was that only I can live my life. If my father's trying to live out his ambitions and dreams through me, that's his problem, not mine. He … told me to do what I felt was right, and not to give a damn about what anybody said." Draco stopped and laughed drily before he sipped his drink. "Turned out he was following his own advice a little better than I thought."
"Your godfather sounds like a great mentor," Harry said carefully. "I would've given anything to have someone like that in my life when I was a kid."
Draco burst out laughing. Harry was slightly hurt and bewildered, especially once Draco started to bang the table with his hand and wipe tears from his eyes as he laughed and laughed. Harry sighed and rolled his eyes, gesturing to a concerned waitress that they were fine, and sipped his burning liquor while waiting for Draco to get a hold of himself.
"I'm, sorry," Draco gasped, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief before fussily folding it back up and tucking it back into his coat pocket. "I do apologize, but the thought of you and my godfather exchanging soul-deep conversations is truly a funny one, I assure you."
"I don't see why it's so funny," Harry huffed stiffly. "My godfather was Sirius Black, remember?"
"My godfather was Severus Snape, so there," Draco threw back with a satisfied smirk When Harry's mouth fell open, the pureblood chuckled again and shrugged as he took a long pull from his mug. "So now you see why it's so funny," he added.
Harry swallowed hard and suddenly thought of the yellow, wrinkled letter he kept tucked into his photo album, and knew he ought to have recognized the advice already. It was the same advice Snape had given him. Thinking of Snape made Harry remember that to Draco, and everyone else, he was dead. But Harry knew he was alive. Would he be willing to help locate a Potter? And his namesake on top of that? Harry suddenly wondered why he'd never thought of it before. But could he trust Draco to keep such a thing quiet? Probably not. He'd have to think about it later. For now, he would pursue this lead as far as it would take him.
Suddenly, their food arrived: two baskets of fried fish and potato wedges, still piping hot. Draco called for a pickle and when the waitress scurried off, Harry nervously fiddled with his napkin.
"It's not so funny," he said quietly, picking up a chip to wipe off most of the salt. "We didn't really get along in school, of course … but that was my dad's fault, mostly. He was friends with my Mum."
"That's right," Draco said thoughtfully, breaking one of his fish fillets in half and dipping it in tartar sauce. "I think my father might have mentioned that detail a few times."
"Really?" Harry snorted, wiping his greasy fingers and suddenly finding it funny that Draco had a passion for such a messy (undignified) muggle food.
"Father was Professor Snape's Prefect for a couple years," Draco explained. "So he would have known him well enough, as well as whoever his friends are. From what I understood, my godfather really didn't do friends at all. Your mother and my father might have been the only friends he ever had."
Harry shook his head. Trying to think of Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, and Lily Evans all interacting at some point just made his head spin, especially because he could barely picture Snape as a boy without the memories he'd seen in the pensieve, and he could only picture Draco as Lucius.
"We're way off topic," Harry sighed, dragging a fish fillet through a small cup of malt vinegar. "I thought this was supposed to be an interview?"
"I thought you just said that because you wanted to chat," Draco objected with a sly smile. He popped a mouthful of fish in his mouth and chewed. "You've got promise as a Slytherin, dear boy, but you'll have to work a bit at the subtlety."
"So what's the notebook for?" Harry asked, foregoing table manners since Draco seemed to think it was fine to talk with his mouth full here.
"Notes," Draco replied cheekily, washing down his food with a gulp from his mug.
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. He shoved his basket of food aside, propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "I know my son isn't dead," he said in a low voice. "He was kidnapped and now he's being hidden so well that not even the Aurors can find him."
"Or maybe the Aurors don't want to find him," Draco suggested darkly, also shoving his food to the side so he could put his notebook in between them.
Harry blinked in shock. "What do you mean? No … no, you don't understand. Ron Weasley's the second-in-command at the Auror Division. He would know if there was some sort of cover-up …"
"He would know, but could he talk about it?" Draco asked slowly. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Honestly, a lot of things about the case don't make any sense. The attack was odd, there was no ransom note, no demands, and they didn't even return a body to the family. It wasn't a threat, or a personal attack … so what was it?"
Harry shook his head miserably and leaned back in the wooden bench. "I've gone over everything with Hermione and James and … you're right, it doesn't make any sense."
"I was so baffled I turned to muggle sources for answers," Draco went on thoughtfully. He opened his notebook, (which looked like it was magically enlarged) and flipped through it until he reached a page full of sketches and grainy photographs literally transposed on the paper. He spun the book around so he could see. They were copied pages from muggle newspapers and one looked like a secret file from a police dossier.
"Is this legal?" Harry asked in a hushed voice, poking the dossier page.
"For an ordinary muggle, not really," Draco smirked. "For an official police investigator, absolutely."
Harry looked up incredulously, taking in Draco's mischievous smirk and sparkling eyes. By Merlin, the little ferret was downright proud of himself. Harry had to admit he was rather impressed too. He turned his attention back to the pictures and studied the grainy photos. They all showed a tall, broad-shouldered man in form-fitting clothes like those modern muggle soldiers wore. But one sleeve was missing and the exposed arm looked off. Squinting at it, Harry saw that in the sketches, a shaded five-point star was drawn on the upper bicep, while in the grainy photo, there was a dark smudge in the same place.
The secret file page declared him in three simple words.
The Winter Soldier.
"What?" Harry whispered.
"That's what they call him," Draco whispered back apologetically. "There's no real name, not even a suspicion of who the man could be."
"But who is he?" Harry demanded, still whispering.
"He's a ghost, Potter," Draco answered quietly, his voice grim. "He's been credited for more than seventy high-profile assassinations and acts of sabotage in the last sixty years. This picture was taken in 1954, and that sketch was drawn from a sighting in 1969. This photo here was supposedly taken in 1977, and if you'll note the way I put them side-by-side for comparison here, the man looks almost identical to the fellow he was over twenty years before that."
"How's that possible?"
"Perhaps simply saying 'the Winter Soldier' is misleading," Draco suggested thoughtfully. "I mean, it may not really be a single person, but rather a series of trained assassins with the same M.O."
Harry nodded. That made some sense.
"But they would all have to be the same build, around the same age when they're sent out," Draco added, frowning in concentration. "I'm sure there's a simple explanation." He flipped forward several pages in his notebook.
"What's that?" Harry demanded, stopping him on a page full of what looked like copies of police reports.
"This file here was sort of secret," Draco explained, flipping the book so Harry could clearly see the written report with a stamp at the top in Russian. Harry could tell a translating spell had been used on the main body of the document by the odd slant to the letters. "Apparently," Draco murmured, "in the 1990's, an Iranian Nuclear Scientist was being escorted here to Britain by a Russian agent. It was never made public, of course, but an assassin killed the scientist, and he shot right through the bodyguard to do it. She survived, and her testimony pretty much sums up what we know about the chap. He's strong, fast, skilled in all manner of weapons and fighting techniques, typically wears a mask and black combat fatigues, and has a red star on the bicep of his left arm, which is made entirely of silver metal."
Harry felt his blood run cold. That described Sev's kidnapper to a T, if James and Hermione's memories were anything to go by. But if this was simply a specialized muggle assassin, why would he kidnap a small child from a famous wizard's home, guarded by powerful dark runes?
"What makes you think he's the same man who took my son?" Harry asked in a hoarse voice.
"How many muggles do you hear about ho have silver arms?" Draco tossed back in a tone that sounded like he thought Harry was slow. "For that matter, how many muggles do you think could take a cutting curse to the chest and still keep fighting? This man is apparently something other than human. He's been known to take several bullets and still keep fighting if some of these stories are to be believed."
"They could be exaggerated," Harry said softly.
"Maybe," Draco wrinkled his nose slightly in annoyance. "But I doubt it. The newspapers (if anything) downplay his skill and power. The police reports are much more serious, and if MI6 is worried enough to create a full dossier for the chap, he's legitimately dangerous."
Harry shook his head, not understanding most of the implications of what Draco just said. "How is it I grew up with muggles and you're the one who knows more about them now? It's annoying."
Malfoy smiled briefly at the compliment and flipped through several more pages. "It's a mystery, this Winter Soldier. But I think I can tell you beyond a reasonable doubt that he's the one who took your son."
"But why? You said he's a high-profile assassin, not a kidnapper."
"He's an agent," Draco corrected him quietly. "Agents obey orders. Perhaps this chap's main skill set lies in assassinations, but that doesn't mean they won't use him for other jobs if they need. But I'm afraid that this Winter Soldier's history means that your son was targeted, probably shadowed and observed for a time, and then the agent was deliberately sent in to extract their prize and eliminate all witnesses."
Harry closed his eyes. "You've really put a lot of thought into this," he said weakly.
"I've been investigating this since I got the tip-off from my contact in the Ministry."
Harry's eyes popped open in surprise. "Why?"
"Because …" Draco hesitated. "Well, first reason, I was intrigued. I enjoy a good mystery, particularly the ones that let me run amok in the muggle world. Second reason, you named your son after my dead godfather for some bizarre reason and he's just about Scorpius' age."
"Scorpius?"
"My son, and only child."
Harry sighed and messed up his hair again as he ran his hands through it. "Sounds pretty sentimental for you," he said slowly. "You're sure that's the only reason?"
"Well, I do owe you a life debt, Potter. If I save your son, will you consider it paid and let it off my conscience?"
"Like you even have to ask," Harry smiled weakly. "But thank you. Really, Draco. If you manage to pull this off and find out who took my son, I'll be the one owing you."
Malfoy's mouth twitched and he fingered the corner of his notebook. "Well … we have a lead. But I'm afraid that's all I can give you. There are no clues as to who the Winter Soldier is, where he came from, who he works for … nothing. I'm sorry."
Harry swallowed his disappointment and nodded. So this was another dead end, but at least he had a name for his son's abductor now. "Any idea who I should talk to about this?" he asked.
"If the greatest intelligence operations in the world haven't found him by now, I doubt we can," Draco said quietly. "The presence of dark rune-stones on his person suggest that he can and will work with the magical community. They knew what they were doing when they attacked your family and if all had gone without a hitch, you'd have come home to find them all dead in their beds and your youngest son missing."
"Thank Merlin for Hermione's insomnia," Harry muttered, tiredly rubbing his eyes.
"But you ought to know that there isn't much hope to find him … and even less if your son is … is a squib."
Harry groaned and shoved his glass out of the way so he could rest his head and arms on the table. "I know," he sighed into his arms. "If he doesn't have magic, I can't use our father-son bond to find each other because it would rely on similar magical cores. Luna already explained it to me. But we don't know if Sev's a squib or not. He might just be a late bloomer."
"Yet your spells have had no effect," Draco soberly pointed out. "I'm sorry, but if you got nothing the first three or four times, there's no hope that your son has any sympathetic magic to reach out to yours."
Harry took a deep breath, but he didn't raise his head. He was afraid he'd start crying if he did.
"Look … I know it sounds totally unsympathetic of me, seeing how fond you were of your son, but some might say it was for the best. Squib children were usually killed outright in the old days, but if they lived, they always felt like outcasts and failures. Perhaps it is merciful to just let him go."
Harry growled with rage and leapt up from his bench, itching with the desire to draw his wand and curse the arrogant, bigoted, arsehole. For several seconds, they stared at one another, Harry's green eyes snapping with fury, and Draco's silver eyes looking rather bewildered.
"I was wrong about you," Harry finally whispered. "You're still a damn bigot." He spun on his heel to leave, and threw over his shoulder. "Thanks for dinner and the drink."
He left the pub and didn't look back, making for an alley where he could safely apparate home and cry in peace. The very thought of someone thinking his son should never have been born, of someone telling him to forget about his own flesh and blood just because he didn't have magic … it was so appalling he wanted to throw up. A little niggling thought in the back of his mind told him that he had been a bit unfair to Draco. In his own way, the man had tried to be delicate with his words. It wasn't his fault he'd been raised by bigots and blood-purists.
But Harry's heart was too sore and broken to be understanding right now.
HP~W~I~N~T~E~R~HP~S~O~L~D~I~E~R~HP
A letter arrived at Asphdel Cottage that evening after the twins were in bed. James was doing summer homework in his room and Harry was sitting silently with his wife on their bed. They were grieving in silence together, as they had spent their tears already. The owl that tapped on the window was a familiar eagle owl, regal and aloof. When Harry took the letter, the owl fluffed its feathers snootily and hurtled off without waiting for a reply.
"Draco?" Hermione asked quietly.
Harry sighed and sat on the bed, cracking open the seal and unfolding it. "I wasn't really being fair to him," he admitted. "But … People used to tell me my parents should have gotten rid of me or that I ought to have never been born … and it made me so mad, you have no idea."
"People?"
"Aunt Marge, mostly, Uncle Vernon sometimes … Aunt Petunia once or twice," Harry confessed. Hermione knew all about how he'd been treated by his mother's sisters. It was something he had refused to keep a secret between them, especially since there were a few scars on his body that couldn't be explained by a fall down the stairs.
"I'm sorry, love," Hermione whispered, leaning against his shoulder in silent support.
Harry sighed and reached over to tangle his fingers in her curls while he read the letter in his hands, which was surprisingly short and to the point.
Potter,
Apologies for offending you. I didn't mean in any shape or form that you should completely forget your child or wish he'd never been born. Scorpius had a twin brother. He was a squib. My wife took the baby somewhere when it was obvious he didn't have magic. I never asked what happened to him, but my heart still aches for my son. There is nothing I can do, as my wife is completely in her legal rights to do as she wishes with our squib children. But I wish she had talked to me first. His name was Severus too.
-Draco
A smothered sob choked out of Harry's throat as he dropped the letter on the floor, feeling dreadful for his quick temper and harsh words. So … while Draco had gone about it the wrong way, he had really been trying to comfort a fellow father in the best way he knew. Harry knew so little about pureblood laws, but he knew enough that children and wives were considered property of the husband and father … unless they didn't have magic. Apparently, now he knew that squib children were the property of the mother. Maybe that was why so many squibs made it to adulthood despite the widespread bigotry against them. Few mothers would willingly kill or abandon their children, but it seemed that Asteria Greengrass was totally indoctrinated.
Hermione cried too once she read the letter, and Harry clutched her as they both wept over a mad world that slew its own babies and mocked those who dared grieve for their lost children.
"I'll apologize to him tomorrow," Harry whispered.
"Can I come along?" Hermione asked softly. "The kids wanted to visit my parents tomorrow anyway."
Harry shrugged and kissed his wife. "I'd be glad to have the company," he admitted.
HP~W~I~N~T~E~R~HP~S~O~L~D~I~E~R~HP
This story is a lot different from Avenge, and I can see that reflected in the reviews. Don't worry, when I start Dark World that one will be closer in tone to Avenge 1, so don't read this one if you don't want to. I will explain what is necessary when I need to. I know some of you like this, and some of you hate it, but I'm going to finish it anyway.
BTW, Draco totally stunned me when he insisted on waltzing into this story. I mean really: Malfoy? A newspaper man? But hey, I'm starting to like this new Draco, so hang with me here.
Also, thanks to advice from reviewer M2R, I'm putting this story on the M tag, to be safe. I debated the rating back and forth in my head beforehand and M2R tipped the scales decisively. So, thanks!
And, some reviewers asked if this is a 'Harry as Master of Death' story, and the answer is no, sorry. Frankly, I choose to think that the particular legend of somebody becoming master of death if they unite the hallows is kind of silly. No human being can master death. So in this universe, Harry's still extraordinary, though he's a bit softer because he's spent the last fifteen years as a doctor, not a policeman. But he can still fight like nobody's business, and so can Hermione (when she isn't surprised by gunshots and superhuman reflexes and metal arms). This story won't have them fighting until later though.
Thank you all for reviewing, favoriting, following, and reading!
