CHAPTER 3

Nymphadora Tonks was having a long day at the office. It was the end of the week, and while half of the Auror office staff were home for the weekend, she was hunched in her cluttered cubicle—the one that she barely ever used except to drop off evidence or file reports or drink a shot of rum at the end of the day—and furiously scratching away with a quill.

For the very reason that she and her peers rarely did office work, their warren of cubicles was situated in a rather dated wing of the ministry. The high, wooden rafters overhead were pinned and stapled with all sorts of trophies from old cases—from the Ministry break-in just a few weeks ago, to the famous Amsterdam Dragon-fighting rings in the sixties. The room—which they called the Arena—was large, almost cathedral-like, but with the dim, smoky atmosphere of an old pub more than a place of business.

Tonks had been thrilled with the place when she first joined the ranks. This was a side of the Aurors that no one else got to see—the pool table and the dart boards in the back, the loft over the front entrance where the coffee and break-area was, the row of stone-block fireplaces in the back for discreet comings and goings, and the golden shafts of sunlight coming in near the roof, where the owls came in. There were more offices on the balcony-like ring above the ground floor, and little staircases and support beams everywhere. Big doors on the far side of the Arena led to training areas and armories and a small hospital. The Ministry had its own dedicated hospital wing of course, but this one specialized in the sorts of injuries that only Aurors seemed to be able to acquire. Everything was built out of darkly aged wood, like an old lodge, and Tonks loved the feeling of history and pride that seemed to permeate every corner.

But just now the echoing ceiling reminded her too much of gym class, and the old smell of cigar smoke was giving her a headache. Merlin, how she hated expense reports!

Tonks was many things—talented, ferocious, courageous, and mighty fine to look at, if she did say so herself—but she was not organized. A rough pile of receipts and lists was crowding the surface of her old desk, and she had been staring at them, unmoving, for several minutes.

She eyed her wand, sitting innocently a few inches away, and considered setting fire to the whole thing.

Before she could solidify the bloody-minded idea, a distant screech caused her and several of her peers to look up. A brilliant white owl darted through the high windows, and banked over the field of cubicles.

Tonks straightened, thinking the bird looked familiar. That was Harry's owl! Standing quickly, and jostling her desk as she did so, she called, "Wotcher, Hedwig!"

The snowy owl swooped straight for her, skidding to a landing in the midst of Tonks' pile of receipts. Tonks might have scolded the big bird if Hedwig hadn't seemed so agitated.

"What is it, girl?" she asked, and the owl offered a leg, to which a rolled up note was attached.

She hastily took it and unfurled it, looking pleased before her brow furrowed slightly. "What's going on, bird?" she asked the owl without looking up. "He says it's no big deal, but you don't seem to agree… and this is Harry, after all."

She pocketed the note and grabbed her jacket. Hedwig made to take off, but Tonks said, "Come on, girl, you'll get there faster with me." After a moment of consideration, the owl flapped up onto her shoulder, biting her gently on the ear as if to say, 'I trust you, now…'

Tonks was only too happy to put her expense reports off again, and anyway, the whole idea of Harry sending her a note asking for help… well, everything about it screamed 'unusual.' And that last bit about saying hello to Dumbledore… as she breezed through the archway out of the arena and into the more conservative front offices, and on into the main halls of the Ministry, she decided she would do that first. Harry wouldn't have mentioned it if it weren't important, she reasoned.

She knew Dumbledore was somewhere about today—he'd had an appointment with the Wizengamot earlier, and from Ministry gossip, she had gathered he would be having an appointment with Fudge. The public outcry against the Minister, while gratifying, had also been rather shocking after the events of the previous few weeks. Voldemort returning had been like whacking the beehive, and suddenly everyone wanted a piece of everyone else. The Auror's office had been run ragged, not only with the frenzy of reports about Death Eater activity, but now there were copycats and vigilantes and small-scale riots and accidents… Needless to say, the Ministry was in an advanced state of disarray.

Tonks rubbed the nape of her neck in anxiety, making her short, violently pink hair stand up. No sense in whinging—she couldn't do everything. They just had to take things one case at a time.

She arrived at the Minister's offices and strode by the harried looking receptionist without slowing down. Tonks frowned, both pleased and disturbed by the lack of resistance. With a cursory knock—she didn't much care about the Minister's opinion, after all—she pushed open the door.

Fudge looked up in surprise, obviously in mid-sentence, and a familiar tall, heavily robed old man turned in his seat to see what the disturbance was. Albus Dumbledore took her in with an easy smile and a spark in his brilliant blue eyes. "Ms. Tonks."

"Professor," she returned with an answering grin and a slight nod.

Dumbledore's eyes shifted, and he blinked. "Is that Harry's owl?"

"It is," Tonks replied, pulling out the little note and waving it. "He wanted me to tell you hello, from him." Dumbledore leaned forward to take it when she offered, and he read it with a growing frown.

"Albus, if you don't mind—" Fudge began in a rather affronted tone.

Dumbledore stood, effectively cutting the Minister off. "My apologies, Cornelius," he said benignly. "I'm afraid we'll have to conclude this business another time. Something rather important has come up, and it requires my immediate attention."

With that, the tall old wizard took Tonks by the elbow and steered them both out of the room. The office door shut behind them, silencing any protest from Fudge, and they were striding down the corridor. Hedwig was having trouble keeping a grip on Tonks' shoulder, they were walking so fast. "Don't you think that was a bit overboard, Professor?" Tonks asked, grinning broadly. Fudge was such a ponce.

"Not in the least," Dumbledore said, favoring her with a glance. "Harry has a talent for understatement, and I can't recall the last time he actually asked someone for assistance. I am concerned."

Apparently Dumbledore also had a talent for understatement. From what Tonks could see, 'concerned' didn't cover half of it. They practically flew to the nearest fireplace, and Dumbledore wasted no time to cast a handful of Floo powder in before saying, "Arabella Figg's!"

They stepped into the whirling green flames.

Tonks stumbled out into a heavily laced and upholstered sitting room that smelled of cats and jasmine. Hedwig, who apparently liked Floo even less, squawked and took flight. Tonks had barely taken two steps before Dumbledore took her arm and they disapparated.

It had been a long time since she had been so utterly disoriented. She'd never floo'ed and then apparated so quickly (how did Dumbledore get his bearings so fast?), and she was reeling when they appeared in front of Number 4, Privet Drive. "Bloody Hell," she muttered, giving the wizened old man a dirty look.

Dumbledore wasn't listening. His eyes had gone hard, and the air around him fairly sizzled as he stared at the house. Tonks finally took in her surroundings as the old man strode forward with purpose. Her jaw dropped. The front windows had been busted out, and glass and pieces of wood littered the lawn. The right side of the house sagged a bit oddly, and from what she could see of the inside, it had been ripped apart.

After a moment of gawking, she hurried after Dumbledore, who hadn't even needed to open the front door, as it had already been blown off its hinges and now rested in a rather large hydrangea bush.

"What the hell happened here?" Tonks breathed, looking around as they stepped inside. It looked like a whirlwind had come through—every door had been opened, every bit of furniture smashed, odd bits of things and papers littered the floors. Perhaps most shockingly, what appeared to be an entire bedroom had dropped down onto the living room, ceiling and all.

Evidence of spell damage showed up here and there, and Tonks dug out a pair of Tracers. They appeared at first glance to be a simple pair of antique flight goggles, except for the tiny dials on the sides, and the water trapped between the lenses. It wasn't any normal water, however—it was water taken from very special volcanic geysers, and when one cast the proper incantation and looked through them, it was possible to see the faint traces left over from spell-work.

She slipped them on and activated them with a tap of her wand, and the vision made her sputter in surprise. "There was a major battle here!" The aftereffects of spells glowed in bright, furious blooms, thin tracery, wide swaths—the floor appeared to have suffered some unusual effects—and violent slashes. It was as if someone had taken neon glow-paint and proceeded to trash the place. Overlaid on the physical destruction, it was a jarring effect.

Dumbledore simply nodded distractedly, and Tonks wondered if he could see all of this without the Tracers. She gazed up at the second story through the massive hole, and muttered, "This is what he calls a little problem?"

She followed Dumbledore up the stairs—he obviously intended to check Harry's room first, though she thought they both knew there was no one in the house. All the doors on the second story had been blown in, as if whoever had combed through the house—it certainly looked like they had been searching—hadn't had the presence of mind to operate a doorknob. Dumbledore came back from his search, his usually benign countenance stony. "We need to find Harry," he told her, and they went back downstairs.

"We need to find out what happened here," she replied, ripping off the Tracers. They weren't doing her any good in this place. Sudden frustration gripped her. "How could this happen! This house is warded up under more layers than bloody Shangri-la; it's hardly even on the map, and there are more people watching this place around the clock—!" She forced herself to stop, putting her hands behind her head and containing her anger.

"Someone has compromised the security," Dumbledore agreed, moving toward the kitchen. "Someone very high up. It's obvious Harry didn't go without a fight. He should have been detected for underaged wizardry at the very least."

"Bloody hell," Tonks muttered again, pacing. Something flashing caught her eye. Ah, just a magnet. She looked away, and then looked back again. That sure was a distinctive magnet. If she really thought about it, it looked kind of like… Snuffles.

She gasped, and reached for it, before snatching her hand away at the last second. Rookie mistake, she chastised herself. Couldn't hurt to be too careful if you wanted to keep all of your limbs. Quickly, she ran a set of detection spells, looking for traps or curses. It was clean; a simple transfiguration. While Dumbledore looked on, she tapped it with her wand to release it, and it 'popped' into a note. It had apparently been written with great haste, because she could barely read it. Aloud, she recited:

"Surname,

Was entertaining a really familiar looking houseguest. He was acting odd; the whole time he's been here, he hasn't had anything to drink, and it's been more than two hours. Unfortunately, his friends showed up, and I had to split. He might've gone with them. We didn't get much chance to talk (he seemed to have some remodeling in mind) but it got me thinking about where I used to sleep when I was a kid. Decided to clean out some of the spiders today, and I think they missed me. Hopefully they have enough company now.

The Blah who Blah"

She looked up at Dumbledore, blinking. "Where did he learn to talk like that?"

Dumbledore's gaze went distant as he thought. "It would seem he has a knack for subterfuge." His blue eyes sharpened as he looked at her. "There's someone else here."

Tonks nodded. "Or at least there was. Sounds like Harry subdued him." She smiled fondly. "That's our boy."

They both lapsed into a tense silence as they considered the letter. Spiders… Where he used to sleep… They'd already checked his room, so that was out. Tonks didn't know Harry well enough to decrypt his message, but Dumbledore seemed to catch on immediately.

He was already moving toward a little door under the staircase, and she followed a step behind, an unpleasant notion curling in her gut.

The Headmaster released the catch, and they each leaned against the wall to either side, wands ready, as the little door quietly swung open on its own. They waited a few seconds, but there was no movement inside. Tonks gave the old man a weary grimace, and he twisted to poke his head in the door. After another moment he slumped, and turned back. "It seems our quarry has already departed."

Tonks straightened. "He's dead?"

Dumbledore cocked one brow in a decidedly McGonagall-esque expression. "Gone."

"Damn." Tonks leaned in. Her pink eyebrows rose as she digested the sight of the dusty shelves, bits of cleaning supplies, and a raggedy mattress tucked away in the dim space beneath the stairs. Surely not, she thought, feeling a sick wave of emotion. She might have turned away then if it weren't for instincts born from years of breaking down crime scenes. There was something about that cot. The mattress sat perfectly straight, while the wire frame beneath it sagged.

"Professor," she murmured, calling the old man back before he could move off. She stepped into the little cupboard, and with a building anticipation, lifted the mattress. She yelped and jumped backward, bumping into Dumbledore who had peered in behind her, which caused her to shout again, flail sideways, and knock down several shelves of cleaning agents and little toy soldiers. "You!" she shouted, pointing at him, and then pointing at the shape under the mattress. "That… you! He—what—"

"Ms. Tonks, please calm yourself!" Dumbledore soothed, putting up his hands. "What is it?"

Tonks knocked down several brooms and another shelf trying to extricate herself from the mess while simultaneously reigning in her moment of wild confusion. She took a deep breath and said, "Professor, I… I don't think you're going to like this." Resignedly, she levitated the huddled shape up and out of the cupboard, and watched as Dumbledore's eyes widened.

"Oh dear," he murmured when Tonks lowered the figure to the floor. It was uncanny, seeing two of the same person in one place. The Dumbledore on the floor looked slightly diminished with his odd suit and battered appearance, which made the Dumbledore standing over him all the more threatening. "Polyjuice…" he began, but trailed off with a faint shake of his head.

"Harry's note said he's been here for more than two hours, with no drinks," Tonks finished for him. That ruled out the potion fairly decisively. She found herself impressed with the kid all over again. How had he even known about the potion?

Dumbledore looked more angry and disturbed by the moment. He crouched over the mirror image of himself, staring into the identical blue eyes, and asked softly, "What is this?" The threat laced in his words was unmistakable, and Tonks felt the hairs raise up on the back of her neck.

"At least we can be glad Harry didn't think he was really you, Professor."

The Headmaster closed his eyes for a second, as if terribly pained. Then they snapped open and he waved a hand over the imposter, who immediately slackened, though the ropes remained. "What have you done with Harry?"

The other Dumbledore gave a rasping laugh. "I'm the one tied up here, old man. You might want to ask what my friends did with him."

Tonks clenched her jaw, and only Dumbledore's raised palm kept her from lunging at the bound man. "What did you plan to do with him?"

The imposter laughed a little harder. "Oh please try and make me tell you."

"Who are you?"

The imposter's wizened face split into a wide grin. "What a silly question. I'm you, aren't I?"

Dumbledore remained icily calm. "Who are you working for?"

"Your mum," the imposter barked with a slightly hysterical cackle.

The Headmaster stiffened. Tonks noticed something, then. There was a bulge in the imposter's pinstriped jacket, barely visible beneath the tight coils of rope. It jogged her memory, calling to mind a case they'd taken when she first started as an Auror. "Professor," she interrupted. He turned that piercing gaze on her, and she faltered, before pointing. "Check inside the front of his jacket there."

The imposter lost his expression of smug amusement as Dumbledore yanked the ropes down with a surprisingly swift tug, and pulled aside the front of the jacket. A rectangular shape rested beneath the pressed white shirt, and Dumbledore pulled it out sharply, eliciting a hiss from the imposter.

It was a small, rounded metal flask, attached to a complicated looking assembly of knobs and tubes. As he pulled it out the rest of the way, it became apparent that the needle on the other end of the tube had been stuck into the man's flesh. Dumbledore looked up at her, and Tonks felt a flash of pride that she knew something that the legendary wizard did not.

"Polyjuice drip," she simply, and it was all the explanation required.

And then Dumbledore did something he had probably never done before. He wound back and socked his mirror image in the jaw with a resounding crack.

Tonks gaped. The imposter was out like a light, and Dumbledore stood, still glaring down at the prone figure. "Petrificus Totallis," he muttered, and then glanced at Tonks. "I would appreciate it very much if you did not mention that to anyone."

She just nodded, stunned.

Eyes flashing, he said, "We need to find Harry."

Harry pounded down the sidewalk, lungs screaming. He had long ago crossed the threshold where he should have collapsed into a puddle of panting, drooling goo. But he couldn't stop.

He had no idea how the quad of wizards had caught up with him, or how they continued to keep up. His fatigue-hazed brain surmised they were casting energizing charms on each other in between firing curses at him.

Bloody unfair.

Pretty soon this concrete path would give way to dirt and mud, and he'd been able to duck behind trees, but at the moment all he could do was try to dodge incoming spells and toss up a pathetic shield every once in a while.

But it was almost more than he could manage just to keep his legs pumping. Meanwhile his shields were looking more and more insubstantial, and the hexes were coming in closer and closer.

If he'd been able to watch himself speed by followed by a gaggle of dark wizards, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. As it was, he didn't have the compulsion or the lung-capacity to laugh. Why he'd thought wizards were incapable of chasing him if he ran on foot was beyond him now. Delusions of grandeur, he told himself. It had seemed like a stroke of genius at the time.

To make matters worse, every time he cast a spell, a bloody owl showed up and dropped a letter on his head. If anyone wanted to track him, they could just follow the trail of envelopes he'd been leaving since Whipple Drive.

"Impedimenta!" he cast over his shoulder, and heard one gratifying shout but didn't bother to look back. "Stupify!" he cast again. Two more owls appeared, pelting him with missives.

There were the trees up ahead! If he could just make it—

A hail of curses streaked past him, but one sliced through the meat of his already dislocated shoulder. It was like being run through with a buzz-saw, and the shock of it almost sent him sprawling. White-hot pain shivered through him, and blood ran from the wound in such quantities that droplets were flying in his face.

God damn—bloody—of all the!—his train of thought rapidly dissolved into a long stream of cursing. What good was that spell? What did they hope to achieve?

He flashed past the first tree, gasping, "Reducto!" as he went by. The trunk erupted in a shower of splinters, and the tree toppled with a cracking groan. More shouts went up behind him, but he dared not hope that he'd escaped.

There was a wide puddle across the path just ahead, from yesterday's storm, but slowing down wasn't an option. He gave everything he had into his burning limbs—just a little bit farther! He was beyond spent, and blackness was creeping at the edges of his vision, but he poured more on until it felt like he was offering up bits of his soul to keep going.

His foot splashed down—but it never hit the bottom. With an abortive shout, he crashed into a puddle that should have only been inches deep. In a spectacular fountain of spray, the water closed over him, and he disappeared.

"What do you mean, I requested a Class A concealment charm to be placed over Number 4?" Albus Dumbledore demanded, well and truly losing his patience.

The cringing man at the service desk for the Magical Detection Office spluttered, "You walked in yesterday and—and—"

"And what?" Dumbledore asked, voice rising into what was nearing a shout. "Do I have the governmental authority to make a decision like that?"

"I—I don't—you're Albus Dumbledore, I thought—"

"It doesn't matter who it is, you fool, you check for clearance! And if that person doesn't have clearance, you don't do anything!"

The young man was practically fainting in the face of the tall wizard's rumbling, crackling anger, but Tonks supposed that Dumbledore had good reason to be angry. Apparently the imposter—who was, at this moment, in solitary confinement and had yet to revert to his real form—had waltzed into the building yesterday and been able to do all sorts of things, simply by virtue of the fact that he looked and acted like Albus Dumbledore.

The Ministry was in a frenzy over the incident, and coupled with the disappearance of Harry Potter, not to mention the return of You-Know-Who the month before, it was like kicking over an ant hill.

Apparently the moment Harry had moved beyond the physical limits of the charm, owls had begun flocking away from the Underage Wizardry Detection sub-offices. Tonks was trailing the eye of the storm, as it were, but kept her distance; she didn't fancy being melted or electrocuted or tossed into a wall. She'd never actually seen the old wizard loose his temper—had never even heard of it, to be frank—but it seemed like today might just be the day.

"Can you track him?" Dumbledore was now demanding, leaning over the harried witches and wizards responsible for the complex detection devices. Members of the Order, Ministry office heads, and messengers between departments were all milling around; even the Minister was there, though he was mostly hovering off to the side where he was out of the way.

"I—yes," the unfortunate witch responded, watching the readings of a large, dark globe, which flashed periodically with pinpricks of light. Another owl took off, envelope in its claws, and the woman cried, "Agh, why does he keep using spells?"

"Because he's being pursued, you stupid bint!" Tonks shouted, unable to contain herself. Christ, these people were idiots.

"Where is he now?" Dumbledore asked urgently.

Someone came by and handed the witch a sheaf of papers, which she consulted before manipulating the device. "He's just—bloody hell, someone stop sending the owls!—he's just outside—good lord!" she exclaimed, cutting off mid sentence.

"What is it?" A dozen people crowded around.

The witch sat back, lifting a hand. "He… He's gone!"

They all crowded closer, watching the now still globe for any signs of activity. Another man came by with a report from the Apparation tracking office, showing a negative. Reports trickled in from all quarters—no Floo, no portkey. Not even a bloody wormhole. There was no magical signature anywhere for Harry Potter. He had well and truly vanished.