Chapter Nine

Dark Tidings From a Dark World

Harry and Dan were headed to the café on the Ministry's ground floor for lunch when Kingsley poked his head from his Head Auror office and asked to speak with them immediately. Harry genuinely liked Dan Waverly, who had two kids at Hogwarts, and he was planning to use their lunch hour to share his concerns over what Zacharias Smith had brought to his attention about the new Potions professor. Instead, he sighed and entered Shacklebolt's office. Kingsley never did this unless it was important.

"There's been a murder," the grave man said immediately after they closed the door.

Harry and Dan both stood up straighter.

"It looks like Dark work to me," the large Black man continued, looking at Harry.

Harry took a seat. "Let's have it."

Kingsley didn't waste any time, not even waiting for Dan to sit before explaining. "It was reported to the Muggle police this morning. As you know, we've been staying in contact with their Ministry pretty regularly the past ten years, and they let us know when they've got something odd."

Harry and Dan both nodded impatiently; everyone knew that.

"They can't figure out how he died, so my first thought is Dark magic. I've asked in the office and identified the victim as a wizard with Dark leanings, one who was too cowardly to join the war and has always maintained a low profile."

"Name?" Harry asked.

"Tyrell. He has a son, Thomas Tyrell, about nineteen years old. He had him privately educated, which tells me something already."

Harry nodded, and Dan made a sour face. Private schooling usually meant instruction in subjects better left unstudied.

"The son has disappeared. I want you to inspect Tyrell's body and determine cause of death, then head over to the home to look for clues about the boy's whereabouts."

"Is it more likely that he was taken, or that he ran?" Dan inquired, his fingers steepled together.

Harry liked the sound of this not at all, and he knew Kingsley's answer before the man even gave it. "Likely ran. Neighbors say he was an extremely odd boy, and one of them named him as a likely suspect in his father's murder."

Sometimes Harry hated his intuition. This was not going to be a fun afternoon.

---Break---

Harry went into the house first, wand in hand, and checked the foyer before waving at Dan to follow him in. Their trip to the morgue had confirmed what he had already suspected—the man had died by the Avada Kedavra curse. Harry had been mesmerized by the man's face. The expression frozen on it was so unexpected that it had taken him five minutes of staring to figure out what he was seeing. He was seeing pride. Whoever had killed Tyrell, the man had been proud of. This confirmed for Harry beyond all doubt that it was the son, Thomas Tyrell, who'd done it. His father had probably taught him the spell himself. Harry wondered if the man had known the boy would turn his newfound knowledge on him, but didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to get into the house and find the boy as soon as possible.

He and Dan decided their best bet was Thomas' room, so they found it quickly. As soon as Harry stepped foot in the room, he knew what they had in store for them this afternoon.

"My god . . ." Dan mumbled, rubbing his hand over his close-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.

Harry turned around abruptly. "Be right back, Dan."

"Where are you going?"

"Fireplace in the parlour. I have to tell Ginny I'll be home late."

---Break---

The conversation with Ginny hadn't been particularly enjoyable, what with having to explain he was investigating Dark murder, but Harry was still more reluctant to end it and reenter Thomas Tyrell's bedroom. Dan was currently taking the opportunity to firecall his wife and tell her what Harry had just told Ginny, and Harry was irrationally hesitant to start searching the room without him. He just stared at the walls.

Clippings from the Daily Prophet papered the walls—the same article over and over. Dark Lord Defeated, the headline ran. Harry Potter Saves Wizarding World. And red ink scribbled out furious insults across every clipping. Wanker. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Sucked. R.I.P. Voldemort. Long live the Dark Lord! There was a picture of nineteen-year-old Harry, looking half-dead and shell-shocked, staring at the camera with hollow eyes. In some pictures, with no eyes, they'd been torn out. In some pictures, with red ink drawn over his throat. That was six years ago now. Harry could still hardly believe he had lived to see twenty-five, not when Ron had died at eighteen. Apparently someone else couldn't believe it, either.

Dan came back in, and stood in the doorway just behind him. He stared for a long time, then finally let out a low whistle. "Harry, I hate to tell you this, but I think someone's carrying a grudge against you," he quipped weakly.

"Thank Merlin this stayed out of the Muggle news," Harry replied. "And our news, for that matter. Oh, shit, go back to the fireplace and get hold of Kingsley. Tell him no reporters. Keep the press out of here, no matter what. I don't want this getting out and panicking everyone."

Dan nodded and hurried back to relay the message.

"I can't believe this," Harry muttered, looking over the clippings again. "Bugger me." He rubbed his hands over his face, willing the whole thing away while he closed his eyes and focused on the scratch of his five o'clock shadow against his palms. It was still there was he looked again. "Bugger," he said again.

He shrugged his shoulders, as if that could rid him of the crawling sense of dread he was feeling, and refused to sit around waiting for Dan to hold his hand any longer. He strode across the room to the boy's desk and started opening drawers. He found the expected rolls of parchment and broken quills scattered with candy wrappers and dirty mags, the standard fare for a teenaged boy. Dan came in while he was rummaging through the desk, and started looking at the bookcase.

"Harry, there's some nasty stuff here. You wouldn't even find some of this the infamous Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library." He pulled a book off the shelf and opened the front cover. He drew in a choked breath. "Harry."

Harry looked up. "What?"

"This book once belonged to Lucius Malfoy. It's got the Malfoy's crest stamped in it."

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked at Dan. "I'll wager any amount you like that Tyrell stole that or paid someone to steal it when we were clearing out the Malfoy estate."

Dan nodded. "That's a wager I'd lose. I can't believe he'd give this kind of shit to his kid. I wouldn't let mine touch it with a ten-foot pole."

Harry suddenly looked down at what his hand was resting on. "Dan! Got it." He flipped it open. "'This journal belongs to Thomas Tyrell'," he read from the front page. "'Read it and I'll rip out your mother's intestines.'"

"Lovely," Dan said with raised eyebrows.

"There's only one entry," Harry said, his heart in his throat.

"Let's hear it."

"'Tonight, I asked Father the one question about the Dark Lord whose answer he hasn't volunteered. I asked him if it was true that the Great One had discovered a means to immortality. Father said it was ridiculous, obviously so, since that Potter bastard killed him.' You're damned right I did," Harry mumbled, then read on."'But I already knew better. I might have only been eleven, but I remember hearing Father talk to a man named Severus Snape about whether he would join the Dark Lord. I remember Snape telling Father not to worry that Potter would ever harm the Great One, for he had made himself immortal, and I learned from listening that night what a bumbling fool Potter really was. No doubt killing the Great One was mere chance or accident.' You'd like to think so, wouldn't you, stupid kid? Should have known better than to listen to the likes of Snape."

"Harry," Dan admonished. "I want to hear the rest."

"All right. 'But no matter. I told Father I remembered it, and I asked him again if he knew the secret to immortality. Father seemed impressed at my ability to recall, but the only thing he knew was that the Dark One had somehow divided his soul. He knew nothing of how it was done. No matter. I shall discover that on my own. Meanwhile, now I know that Father is capable of lying to me, and does not wish me to achieve my capacity for greatness. He has just made himself disposable to me.'"

Dan coughed. "I guess that answers the murder question, doesn't it?"

"I was wrong," Harry answered, feeling like someone had just scooped out his stomach and left him hollow. His heart was sinking to fill the void. "There's a little more on the next page."

"Well?"

"'Splitting one's soul to achieve immortality is somehow done through killing. I don't know how yet, but Father will make good practice.'"

"Harry? You don't look very good."

Harry put a hand on the desk, feeling dizzy. He'd kept what he knew to himself. He and Hermione both had. They never talked about what Voldemort had done, or explained why it had taken two years to kill him. No one should know this. No one. But now someone did know. Harry had to find this boy before he figured out the rest. What if . . . what if he had Malfoy? Had Malfoy known more than Harry thought he did?

"Harry?"

"No, oh no," he groaned, falling to his knees. The journal fell from his grasp and thunked on the hardwood floor. "Not again."

---Break---

"Harry, you're home," Ginny said with obvious relief, throwing herself forward just as Harry walked in the door.

He put his arms around her slowly, feeling like each limb weighed a hundred pounds. He was exhausted. After a thorough search of the Tyrell home with two other Aurors they'd called in to help, he and Dan had spent two more hours in the office putting together a report and helping Kingsley write out a statement to issue to the whole Auror division in the morning. Harry hadn't eaten since breakfast, and it was practically bedtime. It could be worse. He could be still at the office with Kingsley, trying to figure out what he was going to tell the Minister and when. Harry and Rufus Scrimgeour had not gotten along well, not since their first meeting when Harry was sixteen, and Scrimgeour was constantly on Kingsley's case about Harry's work. He didn't envy Kingsley that job.

"Do you want something to eat?" Ginny asked with her face buried in his neck. "Merlin, I've been so worried."

"No, I can't eat. I'm too tired. I'm sorry I was so late. What a day."

Ginny guided him to the kitchen table and, with her hands on his shoulders, forced him to sit down. "First of all, you need to eat something. Secondly, I want to hear what's going on while I warm something up."

"I really don't have an appetite. But sit down and I'll tell you."

Ginny didn't sit, but she listened attentively while she fixed him a cup of tea. He related the events of the day, feeling more exhausted with each word and almost too tired to dance around the subject of Horcruxes and what Thomas Tyrell may or may not know about them. Almost too tired. He'd never told her and he didn't mean to change that anytime soon.

He wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic and inhaled the scent of his tea, feeling just a little bit of tension leave his shoulders. He chuckled, feeling surprised that he even had it in him to do so.

"What's funny? This isn't funny."

"No, this is," he said, nodding his head to indicate the tea. "You're a lawyer, not a timid housewife. But here you are, bustling around the kitchen wanting to feed me and make me tea."

"I've been worried," Ginny said with annoyance, then suddenly her eyes widened. "Oh, no, I'm turning into my mother, aren't I?"

Harry shook his head. "No, not quite." He sipped his tea. "Well, maybe a little."

She punched his shoulder, and he chuckled again.

"Daddy!" a small voice squealed, then his arms were full of a happily squirming and godawfully energetic four-year-old. "You're home!"

"Hey there, Crash," he sighed, planting a dutiful kiss into his dark hair. "You're supposed to be in bed."

"I was scared because you didn't come home," Sirius said plainly, sounding unconcerned now. "But you did come home now, so you're okay."

"Yeah, I'm okay," he mumbled. "Let's get you back to bed, Crash." He stood up, groaning as he hoisted the solid little body up with him.

"I'm big-time Crash today. Mummy said so."

"What?" Harry finally actually looked at him. "Oh hell. What happened to you?"

"I was running and I ran into the table," he said cheerfully, squinting up at him with an eye mostly swollen shut and the deep purple-red of a freshly picked plum.

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ginny, who was following them back to Sirius' room, and she shrugged.

"I used up that bruise cream when he fell out of bed the other night. I wasn't going to take him to the hospital for a black eye, and I certainly wasn't going to ask Mum for any. She'd fuss about it for weeks. It'll heal on its own."

Harry sighed. "Yes, I guess it will." He shook his head. "You need to be more careful, Sirius. You're going to really hurt yourself sometime."

"I didn't do it on purpose," Sirius huffed with all the righteous indignation a toddler could muster. "I am more careful."

Harry had to laugh as he tucked Sirius into bed. "Goodnight, son. Go to sleep."

Ginny leaned over and kissed him as well. "Night, Sirius."

"Night, Dad. Night, Mummy."

Harry and Ginny went to their own room, his tea forgotten.

"I worry about him," Harry said as he took off his shirt.

Ginny was folding up her pants and didn't look up, but she sighed, "Me, too. I don't know how to make him understand that even magic doesn't make you indestructible."

Harry crawled into bed with relief shooting through every muscle. "Come get into bed. I could use a good cuddle right now."

Ginny did, curling her back up against his stomach and her gorgeous arse nestled snugly in the curve of his hips. "You had a hard day," she said sympathetically, and wiggled a little closer as he slid his arm over her and rested his head against hers. "I suppose if you don't want dinner . . ."

Harry laughed softly, and nibbled on her neck. "You'll do."

"Hey, you know that tickles," she squealed, writhing and possibly by accident grinding her butt against him.

"Which is erotic now, is it?" he teased, grinding his hips in response.

She playfully smacked the hand he cupped around her breast. "You're exhausted, remember?"

"Yes," he said regretfully, sliding his hand down and resting it on her stomach. "I'm already falling asleep."

"Oh, no wonder you're talking nonsense."

"It's not nonsense. You're beautiful and I would make love to you if I was on the verge of death."

Ginny quieted and suddenly went still. "You have. Our first time was the day you went to kill Voldemort."

Harry closed his eyes and tightened his grip on her. "I remember."

"This isn't going to be like that. Promise me, Harry. Promise me you'll stay safe this time."

"I can't promise you that."

"It doesn't have to be you," she whispered. "There's no stupid prophecy now. You don't have to."

Harry thought about that. Letting somebody else take care of Tyrell. Leaving the dirty work up to someone who hadn't already given so much. But was that how he really thought of himself? The one who'd given so much and deserved some rest? Maybe he'd become an Auror just because it was a sure thing, not because he wanted to protect people. Maybe he was just the cowardly and selfish boy he'd once been.

"Yes, Ginny," he whispered back. "I really do."