Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Summary: Harry. Ron. Tracey. Siberia. Hozhen.

Midnight Blues

Part II: Among Thieves

6.) The Identikit
or,
Being Ron Malkovich

"Face it, Harry, you know I'm right."

Ron smirks at me, an odd sight, given that his hair is an Aryan blonde and his eyes are blue-green; his cheeks have gone rose red and his lips are starting to turn blue. This is Philipp Braun, gay hitman and alter-ego for Ron in this little mission of ours.

Today, and for the next three days until we return to England, I am Jürgen Müller, brown-haired, blue-eyed, gay assassin extraordinaire. The beautiful woman to my right is Hilde Müller, my sister, the fixer, known as Tracey Davis among thieves.

And we are all cold; apparently no heating charm ever invented can combat the harsh cold of the Siberian winter. We wear thick, fur-lined robes and thick, fur-lined cloaks atop them, and even warmer clothing underneath it all. And yet, despite using a drying charm every thirty seconds, water seems to swell right back into my boots, seeping into my socks and leaving my feet soggy and pruney.

"No you're not right. You're having a giggle. I'm not one of those... those things."

Ron laughs loudly, a grating sound that reminds me of a hyena amid the swirling wind. "Come on, you have a funny beard, you dress like a lumberjack, you listen to weird music—"

"—Muggle music is not weird music!" I have to yell over the wind for Ron to hear me.

"Are you a muggle?"

"No?"

Ron nods as if that means something. "Then muggle music is kind of weird for you." He says. "Besides, you listen to weird muggle music, even by muggle standards. You like artsy movies, you eat and cook pâté and quiche, everything about you is so... so..."

"I am not a hipster."

"Keep denying it, you're only proving it by action."

"Fuck you, Ron."

"Come on, Davis. What's your opinion?" Ron calls upon the expertise of the chestnut-haired woman standing on my right side. Tracey looks up, her cheeks as flushed as ours, and looks between us:

"He's got a point, Potter," she says, but quails upon hearing me growl. "That's not to say it's a bad thing! Women love sensitive men."

"I'm not having this conversation," I grunt, glowering at the distance. We've been inside the anti-apparition wards for fifteen minutes now and there's still no sign of Hozhen's little factory of hate, but Tracey assured us that was normal, and that we'd see this particular Dark Lord's hideaway. "We do this right, we should be back home tomorrow afternoon."

"And we can deal with that other job of ours," Ron agrees. Tracey steps ahead of us to give us space to talk, but Ron and I stay quiet, both of us likely ruminating on the consequences that could arise from the newest addition to our fracturing family.

That morning Ron had come to move his things out and we took in Lauren dawned bright and awkward. Hermione, still in a mostly drunken stupor, had fallen back asleep after a supremely uncomfortable fifteen minutes of her eyes ricocheting between myself and the door to her room, as if to ask me to go speak to Ron for her. I tried that odd supersensory ability that the three of us share in which we can understand each other without speaking and 'told' her to do it herself; at which she let out a little sigh and curled up on the loveseat, facing away from me, which was the most polite way to express her displeasure.

Ron had returned to the master bedroom, packing slowly, as if reminiscing about the time he had spent in this little flat. That left Lauren and I at the kitchen table, each staring the other down. At first glance, I had likened her to Hermione, with only minute differences, but now I could see a whole plethora of differences. Lauren's light brown eyes were far closer to Ginny's cinnamon brown than Hermione's mocha-colored eyes, and her hair was several shades too dark and nowhere near thick enough. She had a button nose like Teddy when he wasn't morphing, a soft jaw, and a shy personality similar to Victoire, Bill and Fleur's daughter. And she was short, very short, even for her age.

But rather than compare her to people I know, I tried to find something to say. The girl, however, beat me to it:

"When can I go back to Mr. and Mrs. Rigby's?" Her mild Scottish brogue was tinged with childish innocence, completely unaware of the danger she was in.

"I don't know, kid," I replied, voice gruffer than I intended. "You might be here awhile."

She nodded several times, though I was not entirely sure she really understands how long 'awhile' may be. Then again, I'm not sure how long 'awhile' will be, either. Boris has assured me that for every month I have to hold onto the girl, the money I receive increases by two-hundred fifty galleons. If I have to. But surely to fuck I won't, right?

A long silence followed that strained my vision and scratched at the inside of my skull. Lauren seemed to be unencumbered by the silence at first glance, choosing instead to kick out her feet from the (one after the other) in the way children are often wont to do; it was the only indication that she might be uncomfortable as well. If only to keep myself from going insane at quiet, I stood, and asked:

"Do you take tea?"

Similarly happy to break the silence, Lauren nodded vigorously. "Mhm. English Breakfast!"

"Ah, I'm an Earl Grey man, myself," I started as I looked for the teapot. "But Ron and Hermione both love English Breakfast; I'm sure there's some around here."

When I found the tea packets, set up the cups, and put the water to boil, I returned to the chair across the table from the girl's. "So, Lauren... is there a second part to that name or shall I call you Miss Mystery?"

Lauren giggled at my terrible joke, just like Teddy or Victoire might have done. I've always liked that about kids; the whole world is hilarious to them, bad jokes and all:

"Cunningham," she corrected me primly.

"Cunningham?" I repeated, and Lauren smiled. "Lauren Cunningham. It's a nice name. Was that your real parents' last name?"

The brown-haired girl did a shy, sort of half-shrug. "I don't know; it's what Mrs. Rigby said my name was. I don't remember anything before Mr. and Mrs. Rigby. And Alan."

"You knew Alan?" I asked with surprise, and more than a little pity tingling at the base of my skull.

"He found me."

She fidgeted and looked away; I could tell this was an uncomfortable topic for her, so I steered clear of it. It's actually rather a shame about this Alan bloke; aside from his drug-addiction, he seemed to be a generally good chap. But that's what Blood Mages stand for, erasing every bit of good in the world, one heinous act at a time. And I can't say I'm much better.

It made me sick to my stomach.

"So, Miss Cunningham," I smiled gently, trying to quell the roiling of my gut, "I'm going to be busy the next few days, but I want to make staying here as easy as it can be on you. What would you like to do your first day here?"

She mulled it over for a moment, bringing a small hand to her chin in a thinker's pose. Just as she opened her mouth to answer, she stopped and yawned widely; vainly trying to cover her mouth with her hand, Lauren looked up at me in mortification when she finished. I just laughed:

"You can sleep, if you'd like" I replied. "We haven't got an extra bed, but I'm sure—"

"—She can use Hermione's bed," answered Ron, leaning on the wall leading into the hallway. "Doesn't look like Herms is going to use it." He jabbed a finger in the direction of the loveseat, where Hermione lay, practically passed-out. He lifted off the wall and softly treaded toward Lauren, introducing himself. "I'm Ron Weasley; pleased to make your acquaintance."

Lauren wrinkled her nose in an attempt not to laugh, and turned back to me, whispering, "He talks funny."

"He lives funny," I replied conspiratorially, garnering a giggle from the girl and an exaggerated howl of indignation from the redhead:

"Oi!" Ron mock-cried.

It was a shame we left so quick after, and now I'm stuck in the middle of a blizzard in bloody Siberia. One round of golf with the good doctor, the world's most uncomfortable dinner, and a shitty night's sleep later and here we are. At least Tracey's here, so there's a bit of eye-candy to take my mind off throttling Ron. Hipster my arse.

Just as all hope is lost and I become convinced that we'll have to amputate my feet, there's a shimmering in the distance. The howling winds and and hellish snow suddenly slacken and a great forest rises above us, as if a millenia's worth of nature's work was shortened to fit into a few paltry seconds. Suddenly, I feel a lot warmer. Ron lets out a slight whoop and even Tracey doesn't resist cracking a smile at the large expanse of green.

It's not to be said, however, that we have stepped into a much warmer area. The dirt is still cracked and frostbitten; the air is still bone-chilling enough without the help of the northern wind. We didn't break through the wards, so Hozhen has let us in. Knowing we have stepped within Hozhen's territory, the byplay between the three of us flitters away to a heavy, unsettled silence. Ron looks as though he's bursting with a million things he wants to say, and Miss Davis merely looks thoughtful. It is an impressive work of warding, and I can tell Tracey is just as worried as I am about how well the Lance itself is guarded if this is Hozhen's opening act.

Have I mentioned how bizarre it feels to be doing something this stupid with Tracey instead of Hermione? Given that this Hozhen fellow has been called 'Dark Lord' by a great many people in the post-communist eastern bloc, I can only pray Miss Davis is a suitable substitution for our Herms.

The forest itself does not seem so different from the expansive ones in Northern England and Scotland at first glance, but I soon realize no British forest is this dense or this alive with wild and exotic fauna. Croaking and chirruping comes from every corner of the forest, but our modified trio continues along the narrow path through the forest, unmindful of the sounds of nature.

A large clearing, filled with pale moonlight, indicates we are almost out of the forest nearly ten minutes after we first stepped among the gnarled trunks and branches. I look to Ron, who nods, keeping his wand close at hand; and to Tracey, who gives a flirtatious smile and decides to take point:

"Remember, brother," she emphasizes slowly, in a perfect Berliner accent. "We're here on business; so if you and Philipp can keep your hands off each other for the time being, it would be much appreciated."

I cough, trying to settle into my own role, and reply, "You needn't worry about me, Hilde."

Tracey sneers; she thinks 'Hilde' is an odious name, so I try to call her that every opportunity I get.

But, I'm being tangential here; there's only one person worth worrying about on this entire trip, or we'd spend the whole of this little 'party' in a small corner room paralyzed with fear. Hozhen. And, as if it knew I was thinking about him, the forest opens up as a veritable fortress shoots up from a cliff face I had not seen before we entered the forest. It's a huge, hulking thing, Hozhen's little hidey-hole: a large, dome-like structure sits in the center, surrounded by four granite towers, all of these are ensconced within high siege walls, on peak of a small mountain. Boris had said this piece of premiere property had once belonged to a family on the magical half of the Russian aristocracy, but I wasn't quite expecting this.

At the base of the peak, atop which Hozhen's abode lurks, is a long, winding staircase cut into the rock. It's at least another ten minutes of climbing, at which Ron groans:

"Ah, my mortal enemy: stairs!" He grumbles under his breath in his typical Devonshire accent, earning him both an elbow in the side and a severe look from Miss Davis. Ron turns to say something, but the look from Tracey stops him dead in his tracks, after which she gives both of us a haughty look and slides past me to take point once more.

Suitable substitution, indeed.

"Women," is Ron's only lament.

The climb up the peak is horribly tiring, the stress of walking up at least a thousand steps combined with our trek through the snow and the forest is enough to wind me a little bit. Tracey looks utterly beleaguered, far more so than I, slogging up one foot at a time. Ron, too, looks like he would rather be doing anything else other than climbing up this peak.

Finally, we reach the top and immediately walk smackdab into two guards standing watch outside a monolithic granite gate with some sort of mural etched into the face of the stone. Both of these guards wear fur-lined cloaks not altogether different from our own, but, oddly, they wear enchanted goblin-mail underneath their capes and carry spears, swords sheathed at their sides.

Really? It's the twenty-first century. We have these amazing inventions called 'firearms' that rendered swords and spears obsolete about 300 years ago. And, prithee, let's not even speak of wands, which have always been more useful than those sharpened bars of steel.

"State your business!" One of the two calls out in a deep Russian accent.

Tracey, of course, takes lead, and says, "We have been invited to see the great Hozhen."

"Invitation?" The same guard asks, extending an open palm to the brunette.

Tracey reaches into her fur-lined robes and procures one of the three invitations Boris gave us last night. The guard nods, and tells her to move off to the side as he turns to Ron, asking him for his invitation. When Ron provides his, the guard does the same to me.

When all that is said and done with, the other guard, who has remained silent this entire time, taps on the heavy stone gate with his spear. A few seconds of silence pass before the gate shifts open, the ground rumbling as though a mild earthquake has rocked through the area. In place of the gate is a large stone bridge over the mouth of the peak and it's only then Tracey and I realize that the 'peak' is actually a dormant volcano. The foundations of Hozhen's fortress seem to stretch down deep into the darkness of the hole.

Oh my, the campiness is strong with this one.

The guard who took our invitations motions for us to follow him; he leads us across the eerily still mouth of the lava-breather to another great granite slab that might pass for a door to the dome I had spotted in the middle of the complex. To the southeast, southwest, northwest, and northeast are those towers, jagged spires that aim to run the sky through, it seems. And all of them are connected to the centerpiece by those thin stone bridges.

Magic crackles at the air like electricity; it fills every little space and molecule of the air. This lends credence to Boris's earlier supposition that the area is a 'dead zone' for muggles; harsh EM pulses are generated by Hozhen's little base, scrambling radar and satellite imagery above this portion of the country. It's similar to the legend of the Bermuda Triangle; Unspeakables have theorized that a powerful magical site exists somewhere in it and has been responsible for the numerous disappearances within the 'Devil's Triangle', but no one has been able to find it yet.

But, similarities aside, it's entirely irrelevant to the situation at hand.

Once at the door, the sentry, like the one at the first gate, taps on the monolithic slab and it slowly opens as well. Inside is a large, circular ballroom: the high, rounded ceiling is covered in frescoes and geometric shapes, reminiscent of the Pantheon's dome. What makes it even more bizarrely like that temple in Rome, is the oculus at the center of the roof, shining down the soft light of Hozhen's altered Siberian sun. I follow the shaft of light all the way down to the tiled floors and find myself staring at, in all his magnificence...

...a middle-aged Chinese bloke.

And he's entirely the opposite of what I expected. For a man that people call 'Dark Lord', he looks rather affable. I had expected a hulking, bald bruiser with a Fu Manchu or something of the sort, instead, he looks sort of like Cho Chang's dad. He has hair, black and swept back, and dark brown eyes, nearly as unfathomable as Snape's was. He has no beard, let alone something as ridiculous as a Fu Manchu, and stands nowhere near as tall as I expected, standing several inches shorter than I at what I would guess is about 172 centimeters.

And, in a surprisingly affable way, he greets us. "Ah, if it isn't Berliners!" He smiles widely at the three of us. "I am a great fan of your work, truly! And," he turns to Tracey. "You must be Hilde!"

"Yes, I am Jürgen's sister," Tracey indicates me and I nod. "He does not talk much," she whispers. "And this is Philipp Braun, my brother's... partner."

"Hello, your magnificence," Ron says appropriately, only to earn a laugh from Hozhen:

"Please, no need for that! I am hardly magnificent; I am just a man with wild ideas," he waves off the Ron's groveling. I try to keep my surprise to a minimum; Voldemort seemed to revel in his followers' ingratiation, or, at the very least, took ironic amusement from it. Hozhen, however, genuinely seems to be modest. All in all, it's not a quality I'd expect from a successful Dark Lord, who usually take great care to be boogeymen and everything scary.

"That is very modest," I say, testing out my accent. "It is admirable coming from a man of your position."

Hozhen laughs, revealing pearly teeth. "So they say, but I find your partnership even more admirable. A sister does reconaissance," he nods at Tracey, "and the brother and his partner do the rest. Is it true what they say about you two?"

"And what would that be?" Tracey asks, playing the protective sister.

"Are you and Mr. Braun..." he leaves the question purposefully hanging. Ron and I take a look at each other, and both of us, each resisting the urge to gag, take each other's hand:

"Yes, we're very happy," Ron answers, meeting the Dark Lord's eyes, as if to challenge him to say something against our 'love'.

Hozhen, however, looks mystified. "Fascinating," he says without a trace of sarcasm, "Europe is indeed a fascinating place." Hozhen looks around for the guard that let us in; while he looks away, I snatch my hand from Ron's grasp, and he looks apologetic. "Show our guests to their rooms," Hozhen says to the guardsman, before turning back to us. "I hope to make it a very enjoyable weekend for you all."

"Thank you," all three of us chorus as we are ushered out of the dome by a side entrance.

The doorway leads back to one of the stone bridges, except, at the end of this bridge is one of those towers I had made note of on the way to the dome. We are led up a spiral staircase beyond the door at the end of the stone bridge; after a number of stairs that borders on too many, the guardsman leading us stops turns into a little alcove to the side of the helix, which leads to a circular hallway, lined with many doors.

"You will be staying here," the sentry relays to us as he points to two doors furthest to the right, presumably one for Tracey and one for Ron and I. We nod the man away and Tracey flashes us a smile before disappearing behind her door.

Ron is the first one to enter, leaving me to follow him into a suite reminiscent of a Bavarian tavern: a roaring fireplace is ensconced within thick stone walls, held together by deep brown support scaffolding; the floor is a fine, sanded down stone, soft, almost glassy to the touch, and covered by bearskin near the bed, which is a big one covered in thick furs and downy pillows. But therein lies the problem.

Bed. Singular.

And considering we're in a Dark Lord's lair, I wouldn't be surprised if he's spying on us somehow, so there'd be little sense in separating ourselves, unless we wish to look extremely suspicious. Ron seems to sense my thoughts and throws me a questioning look. In response, I close my eyes and let the magic take hold of me, expanding my senses out toward the far corner of this room for any hexes, spying charms or wards. I come back with several charms and wards, but they're all for our benefit, nothing sinister at all except for the fool who might try to sneak within our rooms.

"Nichts," I say, sticking to German until proven otherwise.

"Ordnung," is Ron's similarly brusque response as he heads to the bed and proceeds to unshrink all of his suitcases. Just as I am about to join him, a soft knocking comes at our door, and, when opened, Tracey saunters into the room in a very fetching, but very casual dress. It seems the long trek hasn't sullied her features one bit.

"So, we've made it in," she says without accent, causing both Ron and I to look up in alarm. The brunette however, merely laughs at our display. "You mercenaries, always so paranoid! Think about it, why would Hozhen spy on over a hundred of the meanest, most storied killers in the world? He'd be asking for a knife in the back."

I can't find any fault in the logic, but the mercenary's predisposition for paranoia is very hard to shake: either I'm much smarter than Tracey, or she is much braver than I. Ron, however, accepts Tracey's explanation with gusto, gleefully returning to his typical accent:

"Alright, so, the plan..." he begins, looking back and forth between us.

Tracey smiles sweetly. "We went over this during dinner last night. Let's just stick that plan and we should all be fine."

I smiled down at Lauren, who looked sleepily contented. "How did you like it?"

"It was really tasty, Mr. Potter," Lauren returned, "almost as good as Mrs. Rigby's."

Ouch, Miss Cunningham, that wounds! I don't cook very often, but when I do, I want to blow people out of the water. But, then again, Lauren is a seven year-old and Mrs. Rigby was the closest thing she had to a mother, so it could have been that odd predisposition of children to think their parents cooking is best speaking.

"I'll take that as a compliment." I told the girl. "Well, I have a few things to take care of with Mr. Boris, after that, we can head back to Hermione's flat and find you some place permanent to sleep."

As if on cue, Lauren yawned once more, cutely reminiscent of herself that morning. "A-alright, Mr. Potter."

I held my hand out to her so that I could take her to Hermione so that she could watch over the girl, and Lauren's tiny one slipped into mine. As I turned, I found myself facing the woman I'd been looking for:

"She seems to have taken to you rather quickly," Hermione commented, looking anywhere but at me. The entire night had been awkward for her; she had come because I needed someone to look after Lauren while I was talking to Boris, but she had been seated next to Ron by the old Russian, who thought they were still and item.

Needless to say, there were a lot of nervous glances and avoidant stares.

I didn't reply, waiting instead, for her to continue. Hermione fidgeted under my gaze, playing with the hem of her dress in embarrassment. This silence continued for thirty seconds before she finally blurted out a far-too-loud "I'm sorry!", which startled me and jars Lauren from her previously half-asleep state.

"For what?"

"For yelling at you," she looked away, "...and for punching you. I wasn't myself."

"Clearly," I said dryly. There were no laughs, in fact, my attempt at dry humor seemed more accusatory than facetious when I thought about it afterward. It deepened the silence to the point where Lauren realized there was something off between the two adults in the room as her eyes ping-ponged between myself and Hermione.

"But," I continued, "You were right. I was being a berk, and you were right to do what you did."

By the way her jaw muscles furiously moved, it seemed Hermione debated something to say: "But it's not going to change who you and Ron are, is it?"

"Can't speak for Ron, but me? 'Fraid not," I put it succinctly and handed Lauren off to her; the girl was still mystified at the adult byplay. A powerful sense of revulsion rose in the pit of my stomach to tell Hermione that neither Ron nor I would change and then dump our charge on her whilst we went off to play thieves with Tracey Davis, but I squashed it down: "Can you hold on to Lauren while I have a chat with Boris?"

Hermione didn't say anything, but wordlessly took Lauren's hand and gave the smaller brunette a reassuring smile. She looked back at me, and shook her head, her eyes filled with an indiscernible emotion: whether it was pain, pity, or disgust was beyond me:

"Of course you won't change," it wasn't an accusation, oddly enough. It seemed more like Hermione was trying to wrap her head around such a concept. "You are a gun. Or, at least you think so."

She turned on her heel and hurriedly walked out the door; the last thing I saw of the two was Lauren's solemn figure waving goodbye at me and Hermione's dress fluttering in the haste she took to escape me. Any chance to dwell on Hermione's words, however, were cut out by a smiling Boris:

"Delicious as always, Harry," he said in that typically gravelly tone I could only associate with the coiffed Russian. "Come along. We'll gather Ronald and Ms. Davis and retire to my office."

We left Boris's resplendent kitchen and found ourselves in the lounge, where Tracey spoke to Hermione about something or another and stopped from time to time to address Lauren, who nodded vigorously. Hermione had a fake smile plastered on her face, lending credence to my earlier fears that she had not gotten over her dislike for the Slytherin. Ron, however, sat far away from the three with three other guests from The Lodge who had come to dinner and he looked distinctly uncomfortable with the proceedings; it wasn't a stretch to say he was relieved to see Boris and I beckon him over.

As Ron reached our side, Boris called Tracey over, leaving behind a put-out Lauren and Hermione, who wore an expression not too different from Ron's when he had left the lounge.

Once in the relative safety of Boris's office, he procured the three invitations we would later use to enter Hozhen's little sanctuary and walked toward a table with a relatively mundane briefcase atop it.

"What, he wants us to RSVP?" Was Ron's amused remark.

Boris ignored him and turned to Tracey and I. "As you know, this... gathering of Hozhen's is to take place all weekend: tomorrow and Sunday. You and Ronald are going as Jürgen Müller and Philipp Braun, the two men you offed for the French late last year."

"And Tracey?" I asked, indicating the raven-haired witch to my side.

"Ms Davis will be going as your handler, Hilde Müller," Boris stops as Tracey mumbles something about hideous names and waits mildly for her to finish. "And, before you ask, yes, Hilde is Jürgen's sister."

"You never told us anything about the poufs' handler. How did you ensure she didn't find out about the party herself?" Ron queried. Boris gave him a sort of 'are-you-being-dense' look and Ron's face suddenly alighted in realization: "Ah," he said, "the usual way, then?"

Boris, again, did not indicate he heard Ron. "Tracey will have little trouble assuming Ms Müller's identity. It is you two I find myself more worried about."

"Why us and not Ms Davis?" I asked Boris, but kept my eyes locked on Tracey's blues.

But, rather than Boris, it was Tracey who responded, "Believe me when I say all I need is a picture. Which I've already been shown."

She only needed a picture? What did that—oh. When I first saw Ms Davis, I recalled her eyes being green during our Hogwarts days. It wasn't because I had a bad memory, it was because she genuinely had green eyes. I suppose she could have changed more, but you didn't have to change on perfection, did you?

"Ah. That makes sense," I replied. "I can see where we pose more of a problem than a metamorph."

Boris smiled. "Sharp as ever, Harry."

"So? We Polyjuice, be Jürgen Malkovich or whatever his name is for a little while, and we'll be solid," Ron interrupted, seemingly unfazed by the revelation that Tracey was a Metamorphmagus. He would later tell me 'after a while, you stop asking questions'.

"That would be a viable option, if we had any of their hair. Or had been brewing the potion. In this case, we have neither. So, instead, we'll be using this." The Russian indicated the briefcase that had been resting atop the table as he spoke.

"...Impressive. An attaché," Ron drawled.

"Wrong," said Boris, opening it up to a whole plethora of whirring instruments and two syringes. "This isn't just any briefcase. This is what the Japanese call an 'Identikit', and it's the latest bit of very dark magical technology out of the East. It's very hush-hush, because the ICW would have banned this if they'd known what it was: You see, according to magical theory, when a person kills another, particularly through the use of a wand, they carry a bit of their essence with them, through the wand."

It made sense. Like when Cedric, the old muggle, and my parents shot out of Voldemort's wand during the whole priori incantatem thing forth year. They appeared to be real parts of Cedric and mum and dad, with discernable power, rather than simple, illusory shades meant to trick and scare.

"The identikit," Boris continued, "allows the killer to use that portion of the soul to construct an elaborate transformation into the dead man or woman, down to the fingernail for an indeterminate amount of time. It's a magically linked, however, so you need to have killed with your wand, and I know about your preference for muggle weaponry, Harry—"

"—It's alright," I replied, waving Boris off. "I finished the mark with a wand; we should have no trouble with that, at least."

"Good, then we're all set. I will construct the identikit with the help of your wands before you leave tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you and Ms Davis should discuss how you three will liberate the Lance..."

"Right. We find the vault today, scan it for wards; then we figure what to do about them overnight. Tomorrow, we do the hard work and get out," I say, collapsing onto the overlarge bed Hozhen has set up for 'Jürgen' and 'Philipp'.

And get out. It sounds so simple. Get out of the fortress with the help of a mole Boris had planted within Hozhen's guard service. I don't know how Boris managed to do it, but a mole would lead us out Sunday night through a passage he found out of the Castle.

All we need to do is wait for the man to introduce himself. Which, apparently, isn't going to be too long.

"Get some rest," says Tracey with a trace of wistfulness in her tone. "Others are starting to file in; this evening's going to be interesting."

Ron shakes his head. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"You aren't?" Tracey smirks down at both of us for a moment, and then she spins, back toward us, and saunters out of the room. "Enjoy your rest, boys!" She sing-songs out of the suite. I can't help but smile: a Dark Lord's fortress, surrounded by killers, aided by a pretty thief? What more could a guy want?

"You too!" Ron exclaims suddenly as he points at me. "You're enjoying this too!"

"You aren't?" I parrot Tracey, still grinning like a fool.

Ron just shakes his head. "Mental, the both of you. Mental."

A/N: And we're in Hozhen's fortress. Tentatively, the next two chapters will have to do with stealing the Lance (or one mega-chapter, depending on my mood), so prep for that. No chapter notes for this one.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.