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

Summary: The Devil went up to Birmingham, he was looking for a soul to steal, though he was in a bind all he could find were brummies too dumb to strike a deal...

Midnight Blues

Part III: Murder is My Employment.

13.) The Doorway, Pt. 3
or,
Guy Walks into a Spy Agency...

June 12, 2005

"I honestly can't even believe you're suggesting this," says Hermione with incredulous anger practically choking her tone.

"What?" I ask, testing the circular green orb attached to a long strap. "It's true and this thing is bloody fucking hideous."

"The Devil did not win the contest," she argues, looking for all the world like I've just kicked her puppy. "Johnny fiddled American bluegrass, the right way, not that sawing piano bass, bowstring-burning, ear-splitting tragedy the Devil did! It's just not even a comparison!"

"Jesus, Hermione. It's just music," I try to pacify her. "And the Devil did beat Johnny, his part was much more impressive, any drunk fiddler in a colonial tavern could do the same as Johnny. And I don't want any of these eyes, what are we even doing here?"

Ron shrugs from the corner. "Beats the hell out of me, but Fleur was adamant about you getting a Mad Eye. She thinks that the eyepatch is too impractical."

"I'll take slightly impractical over looking like something out of Lovecraftian wet dream," I retort casually as I look at the Mad Eye once more when it's on my head. "No. No. This won't do. I like my eyepatch. I'm keeping my eyepatch. Anyone who wants one of these is an idiot."

Hermione scoffs in a midly scandalized tone. "Harry!" She admonishes. "Moody wore one of those!"

"Aye, and he was a top-notch auror. But m'afraid he was also a right ugly cunt, am I right, Ron?"

Ron leaves his expression completely blank, which is truly a credit to someone as hot-tempered as Ron. "You're not wrong," he eventually agrees.

"Besides," I continue. "Why should I give Merlin's flaming arsecheeks if Fleur wants me to get this bloody eye? She's my best mate's sister-in-law. Not exactly the type to boss me around."

"Hey mate," replies Ron with his arms raised. "Take it up with her. She and Hermione apparently have plans for you this weekend. You have a hot date." I turn to Hermione, only to find a demure smile upon her lips. I glare at her, she stares back obstinately. I sigh, she shrugs. I roll my eyes, and she giggles, the insufferable swot.

"Merlin, I hate it when you two do that," Ron starts. "So, what were you and Hermione eye-shagging over?"

"Eye-shagging?" Hermione repeats with a sneer that might have actually made Snape proud, "You're such a tosspot, Ronald. We were just debating whether I should get Harry out of his date. I decided not to."

"Great," I groan. "I have a Frenchwoman and friggin' Emma over here trying to set me up."

"Emma? Who's Emma?" Ron asks, looking confused. His question is answered by glares from the both of us:

"Read a fucking book once in a while, Ron," I shake my head at Ron's inveitable 'Oi!' response and toss the Mad Eye to Hermione. "This store is making me sad. How about we do something that doesn't make me want to commit harakiri?"

Hermione sighs. "Fine. But you have to promise me you won't tell Fleur. She can be very insufferable when she feels people aren't on task, especially tasks she's spent some time developing."'

"Sounds like someone else I know," drawls Ron as he makes to stand. Hermione makes to retort. See, I've spent enough time around Hermione and Ron that I've become a bloodhound, of sorts. I have a keen sixth sense for whenever a Weasley-Granger fight is to break out, and I suppose, if I live to have children, they will, too. So, as you might imagine, I see this coming from a mile away and realize that bickering won't do, it won't do at all.

"Children," I drawl, pushing them apart and heading towards the door, where I give the storekeeper an awkward nod. Hermione is the first to exit, and we follow her lead.

Diagon Alley has had an odd few years since the war. It has grown, and at the same time shrunk: I see the same buildings, the same types of stores... the only difference is that they're run by different people. Dead men can't do much by way of sales, after all. Perhaps the only thing that I feel has truly changed the place is that it no longer holds the wonder it once did for me. Everywhere I step, I see the ghosts of dead people, people who once trod down these very same streets, and now all I hear are whispers of the past.

They say this place holds hope that we can rebuild, but I've seen the evil in men, and I know Voldemort is nowhere near the worst. This place isn't hopeful, it's just existing, a reminder of every time I've failed, and how much worse it can get.

I've always hated coming back to this place.

"Oi, Harry!" Calls out Ron, "You wanna check the Quidditch Shop? They've got a new model of the Nimbus."

"Huh? What? Oh. Ah... let's just get our stuff and get out of here. I'm tired and we really shouldn't keep dumping Lauren off onto your parents, Hermione." I say, feeling both guilty at Ron's downtrodden look (we don't get to hang out much these days since he moved out) and unspeakably glad that I don't have to spend much more time in Diagon Alley.

"I'll have you know my parents love having Lauren around. It's like being grandparents for them. And I want to get some books," says Hermione with steely gaze, daring us to make fun of her for it.

"Great, let's go," I say, not even challenging her. As we make our way to Flourish and Blotts, one of the stores that did happen to make it out of Voldemort's reign of terror, I let myself a lag a bit behind Ron and Hermione. They're so caught up in an argument about shoes, of all things, that they don't even notice that I've disappeared by the time they reach the bookstore.

I turn down an alleyway and head to one of the more unsavory parts of the town; not quite Knockturn Alley, but close enough. It has the Whitechapel vibe and everything. A nice thing about having recently been maimed and growing a beard is that fewer people recognize you even if you are a quote-unquote celebrity, so when I enter a pretty shady looking bar, no one bats an eyelash.

I order a whiskey, but what comes to me is a sickening yellow color instead of my preferred amber. I try not to retch at that, and nearly fail, until I move the offending drink out of my line of sight, on the other edge of the table. Only two other people, not including the bartender are in the dump, so we all turn to check when the door opens and in walks a brunette. The other men in the bar make no pretense of hiding their stares at her; I'm made of a bit sterner stuff, so I pretend to look away and surreptitiously stare back every chance I get.

So I'm only moderately surprised when she plonks down next to me. She's sort of short, with tanned skin and cheekbones that could cut diamonds, all leading to a feminine chin. The woman turns to me, a spark of recognition in her mocha eyes, and smiles. Her smile grows when she places a hand on my thigh and begins rubbing. I thought this was a bar, not a whorehouse, but I suppose I can enjoy it until she asks me to pay.

Her hand rubs up higher, and she leans over, lips nearly caressing my ear. "Hey stranger," Tracey's voice comes out of her mouth, which is enough to make me jump away like a scalded cat:

"Merlin!" I exclaim. "Don't do that!"

Tracey just grins. "Why ever not? Did you like it?"

"Sure, yeah. Right up until the moment I found out it was you metamorphisizing yourself," I defend.

"Metamorphisizing?" Tracey just shakes her head. "I heard you had fun with the Lady Malfoy. Thought I might try my hand at it."

I raise an eyebrow. "You heard wrong. We merely had a drink and talked. No hands involved. But for the drinking." Tracey looks deep into my eyes, as if trying to discern something:

"Wow, surprisingly you're not lying," she says after a long moment. "I would've lied if I were you. Narcissa Malfoy is hot-to-trot."

"Is this your weird way of admitting you're a lesbian to me?"

"Oh, you wish," the brunette replies with a saucy wink. "Also, you're wrong, because I'm not 'metamorphisizing', in the parlance of Dunce Potter, this is me without using my metamorph abilities. How do you say, 'au natural'?" Really? No morphing at all? She's actually reasonably pretty when she isn't cloning other people's faces, even if she does look a bit like she could pass for Hermione's sister. But I can't help but throwing in a jab to make up for our awkward greeting:

"I thought your last name was Davis, not Granger," I drawl, and get the immediate and oh-so-satisfying 'how-dare-you!' scoff. It's made even funnier because the only other person who does that scoff as well as Tracey, is Hermione.

You know, maybe they don't hate each other because they're so different, but they, in fact, hate each other because they're actually really simil—

"No," interjects Tracey.

"What?" I ask, surprised by her non-sequitur.

She gives me a piercing look and says in her most annoyingly blasé fashion: "No to whatever you were thinking. I can see the cogs spinning in your tiny little lizard brain and I don't like where they're going. Now, are you going to tell me why I'm here but for a fake handjob?"

"We're waiting for someone," I reply, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "He wants to meet here! For some godforsaken reason."

"Not Draco-bloody-Malfoy? Oh, God I bloody despise him," Tracey moans, "how are you two even friends, I thought you hated each other?"

Another voice cuts across our dialogue. "I bloody thought so too until Saint Potter showed up at my doorstep a year ago asking for 'information'. And I'm not even going to ask why you're here, Davis." I look up to find the source of Draco's voice and nearly bust a gut laughing when I do. He's dressed like neo-noir reject: a whitish-gray trench coat, a fedora, and a three-piece suit underneath.

I sincerely hope someone eventually tells Malfoy that fedoras are hugely out of style, or that the way of blending into a crowd is by not dressing like a complete and utter pillock.

"Whatever, Dick Tracy. We've more important things to talk about, like your next job." I say, folding my arms over the table.

Malfoy looks confused at the Dick Tracy jab, but quickly covers it with a haughty one. "So, Saint Potter comes grovelling to me at last. What does my favorite customer need of me?"

Tracey immediately casts a privacy charm around the three of us, that we might be able to speak more freely. "Oh, thank you," thanks Malfoy insincerely as he sits across from Tracey and I. I pull out a shrunken folder and cast the counterspell; when the folder reaches full size, I toss it over to the blonde:

"This man, Olaf Mikkelsen," I start, "has disappeared from the home the Americans gave him after defecting from Yugoslavia during the seventies. He's wanted for murdering several Soviet Aurors."

"If he's a murderer, why was he given asylum, and why do the Americans care about him?" Asks Draco, turning the file and noting the picture of an elderly, moustached gentlemen, stooped from age and plagued with cataracts.

"I'm not sure myself," I reply, "my contract's to find him, not ask questions. You'll get fifteen percent of my commission if you locate him and don't ask too many questions."

"Fifteen percent?" Draco scoffs, flush with his brand of aristocratic, impotent rage. "I've found kittens for more than that! I didn't become the best information broker in England by netting fifteen bloody percent! Forty percent, no less."

"20. Take it or leave it."

"30."

"25. Final offer, and you know that's the best deal you'll get from anyone." I extend my hand and wait for him to accept. Draco makes a show of thinking about, before finally taking my hand and shaking it:

"25 percent. No less than that."

I wink. "Wouldn't dream of it. After all, what are friends for?"

"Search me," the blond retorts, lightning-quick. He looks around and gives Tracey a pearly smile: "Cheerio, you two." He clacks the the folder twice against the table, shrinks it, puts it in his pocket, and stands to leave. When we're sure he's gone, Tracey shoots me a sideways glance:

"You'd better be sure of this, Potter," she whispers lowly, even though we're already in a privacy bubble. "If Malfoy doesn't pan out, Greenwich'll be spitting."

I scoff, and reach for the putrid shot of whiskey I'd forgone. Smiling, I knock it back. It tastes like battery acid (don't ask how I know what battery acid tastes like). Trying to hold back the pucker, I freeze the smile on my face: "But if it does work out, we find ourselves a Magical Theorist. And if it doesn't, all we have to do is ice Malfoy. I'm hoping personally."

"Right," snickers the brunette. "Kill the only heir to the prestigious Malfoy fortune? Please, the Wizengamot's run by people who've made fortunes off bribes from Malfoy Senior and are waiting for the apple to turn into the next tree. Neither Greenwich nor Boris would get it past Shacklebolt."

"True enough," I reply. "And what of Chamberlaine and Blood Mages? Do we have a lead on what they're up to?"

"Nothing solid. With the cock-swaggering between America and Russia, they seem to be biding their time somewhere in Asia. They'll pop up soon, and maybe we'll finally gather whatever the bloody hell it is they're about..."

February 15, 2005

One day in China and I was already going mental. After my little job for the pirates, I found myself treading down the unfamiliar streets of Shangri-La. The ruckus of the earlier day had died down and even the late-night dwellers were on their way back to their bunks until dawn. The streets were utterly empty.

And that was why a sound of rustling followed by a high-pitch metallic twang emanating from a nearby alley surprised me. I don't like surprises, even to this day, because they never seem to bode well for me. But, if it was someone trying to ambush me in the alleyway, hopefully I could kill them (or, at the very least, incapacitate them) before they could become a pain in the arse at a later, more critical stage of the operation.

So, with a wand in my right hand and the flintlock in my left, I started down the alley where the noise had originated.

All around that I could see was fire from the lanterns on the main street sneaking into the alleyway and shadows, long shadows. It was out of one of these shadows that a white-cloaked figure emerged. The robes were etched into my memory and the feminine shape of the body underneath it needed no introduction; I raised my wand, keeping a strong reductor at the tip of tongue as I addressed her:

"Hannah."

She reached to her hood and slowly pulled it down, revealing that silky blonde hair and luminous green eyes that once entranced me so. "Harry. Why are you still here?"

"You know me," I replied cheekily. "I don't tend to take orders well. That spear is mine."

"No it isn't," Hannah insisted firmly. "The spear is not yours and you are not taking it; you don't need it. We do."

I sighed, Hannah always was stubborn. "Look, either way this story goes, I end up with the Spear. It can be taken somewhere safe, where it won't be used to enslave an army of mercenaries. The only thing that changes in either version of the story is how much trouble you want to give me."

"Go home," she said, striding towards me; I let the reductor loose, aiming just wide to keep her back. She didn't heed it as the spell blasted the edge of a building. "You won't hurt me, Harry."

"Someone pays me enough, I will," I bluffed. "And the contract is... substantial."

Hannah reached out, stroking my cheek with the pads of her fingers. "Hm. Money. You always act as though that's the bottom line. But I know better: deep inside, there's an honorable man in you."

I, in response, jabbed my wand into her throat and the flintlock into her gut, pulling back the safety:

"No, there isn't," I scowled. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Wallace never showed up after our tussel in Siberia," she shrugged in response. "I had to assume he went to Point B, and lo and behold, I find a mangled body there. Very muggle. Very brutal. That's your particular brand of savagery if I've ever seen it before."

"Well, to be fair, the poor bugger did manage to go and splinch himself. I did him a favor in killing him. But it doesn't answer the question as to why you're here. Are you here to kill me, or caress my face a moment or two longer?"

Hannah laughed at that. "Why not both?"

I leveled an annoyed look at her:

"Neither, darling," she reached up and pecked my lips with her own. "I'm here to convert you."

"Convert me," I repeated in a deadpan tone, partly disbelieving, partly dazed at how soft her lips were.

"You want to steal the spear from Chamberlaine; perhaps you've already even figured out who he his, if sources concerning your employer are to be trusted. I'm here to show you that leaving the spear in Chamberlaine's hands is a far better alternative to handing it over to the Magical SIS."

"And why should I bother coming? I don't particularly make a habit of trusting blood mages, regardless of our personal history."

Hannah didn't look the slightest bit perturbed by that. "Do you trust me, Harry?"

"No," immediately escaped my throat, like a cough torn from it; that hit Hannah, and she looked away for a short moment, before facing me again with a new fire seemingly smoldering in her eyes:

"You did once," she began. Of course I trusted her once, before she faked her death. "Let me restore that trust we once had," she continued.

On one hand, I didn't want to walk into a trap, and I barely even knew the woman standing before me, so different was she from the one I loved that I didn't believe I could trust her. On the other hand, this was a personal meeting with the man who seemed be behind everything. Now that was a tempting offer; even now, I'd still take it if I could. There's that old saying about keeping your enemies closer than friends, and right now, Hannah, Chamberlaine, and the rest of the Blood Mages were the enemy. At the very least, I could report what I knew to Boris for a little extra gold if I could.

So I looked very deeply into her eyes, hoping to find any hint of deception, but I knew I wouldn't. She seemed utterly earnest in this one regard, and that's what frightened me the most: she seemed devoted to this cause, enough even to try and convert me to her side. She never would, but I couldn't let this opportunity go to waste.

"Lead on," I agreed at length, but kept my weapons trained on her. "But if I even think you're playing me, you won't live long enough to regret the mistake."

She kissed me again. "Believe you me; you will never have to fear any harm from me." She tried to pull away, but I kept my grip firm upon her and pulled Hannah back into my arms. As I lowered my mouth onto hers, I drummed my fingers across her back in a practiced pattern. A simple but nearly undetectable tracking charm with that carried up to six months and has a nearly unlimited range. If she wanted to play seduction with her kisses, I could do it as well.

Same rules apply.

After that kiss, Hannah held me by the hand and led me to the building I had hit with the reductor. She cast a sticking spell on her feet, and then mine as she proceeded to walk up the length of the two story building:

"Using the rooftops will get us around town much quicker," she said by way of explanation. "Guard patrols key in on apparition attempts past curfew; we'd be caught if we tried it the regular way. So long as you follow me, we should be able to avoid the guards and find our way where we need to go."

I nodded and also climbed up the building, stopping side-by-side with Hannah. "And where is it that we need to go?"

"Why, Governor Tseng's manor, of course," she replied simply, and then she took off.

Hannah was a capable guide; she'd always been capable as long as I'd known her, stretching back even to our Hogwarts days together. It was a quiet, mostly peaceful jaunt through a beautiful city until she ruined it:

"Ron's still working with you then, is it? How's Hermione?"

Another annoyed look. I came to Shangri-La hoping to get some answers from Hannah, and to hopefully bring her back, but now that I'm here, I barely even want to look at her, let alone talk to her. She seemed to take the hint and quieted, but I couldn't help but jab at her. I mean, after all this time, after all she'd done, you'd excuse me that one sliver of bitterness:

"Why does it matter? You never cared about them anyway."

That seemed to just annoy her: "No, I didn't, but you did. That was important to you, and I knew it."

I sighed, there was no way to faze her for more than a few seconds, it seemed. "Ron might be back home with his brothers already, or he might be back in Siberia, looking for me. Hermione's hopefully fine in Birmingham. I don't know, haven't talked to her in about three weeks now. Longest I've gone without at least writing to her since we met. Even in America, I'd sit and write her and Ron a letter every few days."

"She's probably worried sick," Hannah agreed.

"Maybe," I replied and focused on rooftops and shortcuts to a large and looming manor, built on the crest of a cliff overlooking the sea. A large, iron-wrought gate with very western gargoyles guarding each side of it was flanked by two yellow-coated guards. Both men looked different, somehow, more severe than their counterparts in the city proper. I assumed that they were part of the Governor's personal guard, if nothing else. Still though, I found that incredibly odd, this was the Governor's home, as Hannah had said, and I was too distracted at the time to notice, but why would Hannah bring me here to speak to Chamberlaine? Did our ghost stay here, instead of somewhere else?

We left the rooftops about two-hundred feet from the gates, where the most opulent of civilian housing ended. Hannah seemed to grow more bold in this section of the city: rather than hiding on rooftops or flitting from bush-to-bush, she stood and walked proudly to the two men guarding the gate and motioned for me to follow, in plain sight, mind you:

"Step aside," she said in a tone that brooked no argument when stopped by her, and the guards only too happily fell over themselves to get the gate opened quickly for Hannah and I. Being predisposed to sneaking and not being seen, I felt vulnerable when the guards gave me a wary look, and I adjusted my hood further, making sure it shadowed my face

A dirt road path, though much cleaner than the ones I'd seen before, winded its hard-packed way up to where the Governor's house stood like a silent nightwatchman. Still too far to make out individual details, I surmised the manor was garishly large and overly Western in design, the Governor's house was easily of the ugliest and most inauthentic things I saw in China, though it might have been considered pretty in the Spanish countryside.

There was a lot of brush on either side of the path, good for sneaking through, which I took note of as we passed another group of guards and went across a small bridge running over a weak stream. Rows and rows of what looked to be plants, though I couldn't determine what kind, were planted ahead. Again, good for cover, but it also took on an interesting note: this place was some sort of plantation, so farmers to tend to the crops had to be around during the morning and afternoon, and that would make it twice as difficult to get through during the daytime. So, nighttime would be a better option if Chamberlaine did indeed stay at the Governor's villa and had stored the the Spear somewhere there.

Still, though, there was the possibility that Chamberlaine was only using the Governor's home for a meeting place (likely to arrest me), and that the Spear was in another area of the city, or a different place altogether.

There were three guard outposts on the premises that I could see: one at the south end of the compound, near the gate Hannah and I had entered; one at the west corner of the compound, by a forest that may have very well led back to the mountains, so that wasn't much of an option, and one by the villa itself, probably for last-line defense. That meant my surest bet of not being discovered was either climbing up a large guard wall from East, where I could still see the rooftops of some of the wealthiest citizens of the city. Not an ideal path, but then again, this was never meant to be easy.

"What are you thinking about?" Hannah suddenly interrupted, looking over to me in what might be construed as concern. I couldn't very well say 'I'm thinking of ways to sneak into the compound', so I merely shrugged and said the first bullshit thing that came to mind:

"You ever think about words?" I asked, cringing at the sound of my own stupidity. "Like how if you repeat them over and over again, they get more and more alien?" Hannah furrowed her brows for the slightest moment, and then broke into a slight smile.

"No, Harry," she said, shaking her head, "I don't."

"Oh, well... it's a funny thought. Next time your bored, repeat the name Bob aloud several times. That should entertain you for about five minutes."

Hannah shook her head once more. "I think your being a little generous with the time. However, that doesn't matter, you should climb up the stairs." She pointed to a pretty but out of place Spanish Villa, which must have been the same home I criticized moments earlier. Layered with Spanish tile roofs, and yet more guards standing watch atop them. Underneath them, lining the space between brick and roof, was a long band of marble-cut reliefs: of cherubs and seraphs, and of great myths both muggle and wizard. Thick emerald vines spread down the smooth stone facade of the house, interrupted every so often by baroque windows down to the earth. I had to re-evaluate my earlier judgment: it was quite a handsome manor, though it was no less out of place than it had been ten minutes earlier.

The stairs Hannah led us to was an ingenious piece of architecture: jutting out from the door of the manner and splitting into two opposing stairways, the full thing looked like an oblong 'T'. What's interesting about these stairs is that show the house is built slightly above ground, and there's often a hidden door built into the sides of the stairway that often leads to a secret basement area. It was common for most wizards in the middle ages to use it, particularly when they and the goblins were at each other's throats. Most wizards used it as an armory during those days. For others, it led to their very own treasury, hidden away from the goblin bankers.

Most people wouldn't notice, but, in my studies of goblins (when I wanted to wrangle my fortune back), I saw it quickly. I even saw the outline of the door. Hopefully it was pressure activated, and not magically activated.

At the top of the stairs awaited a man I'd hoped to never see again unless I was personally driving a stake through his fucking heart. Robards smiled that ugly, frightening smile once more and clapped my back when I reached him:

"It's good to see you again, Potter," he greeted jovially. "Infiltrating a Dark Lord's compound, surviving torture, and killing a Dark Lord to go country-hopping, and so, so much more! You are a credit to England."

"Ah, don't worry, it comes natural, mate," I replied as I brushed past him. Robards made for another jab, but Hannah gave him a cross look:

"Shut up, Thomas. Follow me, Potter," her tone sounded formal now, perhaps the Blood Mages still didn't know the extent of our relationship. As we walked toward the doors, they opened, seemingly of their own accord, and led into a well-lit foyer that seemed to stretch on into oblivion until it stopped at the foot of a man in formal red robes.

He made no move to come toward us, instead letting Hannah and I do all the work, walking until we were practically face-to-face with him. Short, squat, and with graying hair, the man stared back at me, wearing a smile on his face:

"The Hero of England," he remarked with an air of amazement. "We often hear of your exploits, and I was quite keen upon meeting you, Harry Potter. I must say that I expected someone a bit... cleaner than you."

At his side stood a fully-armored body guard. And I mean fully-armored. The only thing I could compare it to was a Chinese version of the armor I so often see in Samurai movies whenever Hermione's in the mood for Kurosawa (Ron doesn't do subtitles, unfortunately). He wore a helmet and a face mask, so I couldn't see his face, but the man exuded danger. It would be best to take caution.

"And I expected someone taller," of course, I couldn't be too cautious.

"Ah," said the man with something approaching a smile. "Perhaps you have us confused, Mr. Potter. I am Governor Tseng—" there was a flash of blinding white light, so bright that I had to look away, "—I am Richard Chamberlaine."

The voice that returned was British-accented, not to different from my own, in fact. When I looked up again, I saw a man who didn't look too different from myself as well. He had black hair, pale skin, and ice-blue eyes, and looked to be in his early thirties, but that could mean anything if he were a wizard.

"So Governor Tseng and Richard Chamberlaine are one in the same?" I asked, to which I received several nods, both from Hannah and Chamberlaine.

"Come, here's no need for that silly glamour," Chamberlaine pointed at my face, still under the brown-haired, blue-eyed spell. "I've unmasked myself, as can you, am I correct in assuming so?"

"I prefer it the way we are," I answered quietly.

"Such a shame," mock-lamented the elder man with a handsome smile.

"Why am I here?" I asked, quietly assessing the ways I could escape the clutches of the Blood Mages if I had to.

"I want to pay you," said Chamberlaine. "For doing China a service in ridding us of that Dark Lord Hozhen. And, if I can convince you to drop your search for the Lance of Longinus, I'm willing to pay you whatever you ask, within reason, of course."

"My clients are paying me quite a lot of money to find that spear; you'd have to offer over 15,000 galleons. And even then, who knows? I might do it anyways."

Chamberlaine arched an amused eyebrow. "Would you now?"

"I did make a contract with them," I bluffed, "Breaking contracts with a client is like breaking a promise to your son: it reverberates." Grade-A bullshit, I know, but I had to give the appearance of fighting their bribe if I wanted my plan to work out.

"I thought that didn't matter to people like you."

I clucked my tongue. "A man must have a code."

"Ha-ha. And just what is it that could cause a man to overlook his 'code'? Just for this one moment? I wouldn't want to be responsible for murdering a hero, after all."

"Two things: how much are you willing to pay and what do you plan to do with the Spear?"

"You said 15,000. That's quite a lot of gold, but it isn't something I can't handle. In fact, I do believe I should reward you extra for the danger. How does 17,000 galleons sound?" I nodded graciously at the offer, so Chamberlaine's pockets were deep if he didn't even care about price. "And let's just say I'll be keeping the Spear safe. In Chinese hands."

"All that for a mind-controlling spear? That doesn't even work on everyone? You governments waste your money on interesting things."

"Maybe we do, but we don't pay people to question our motives."

I raise up my hands in mock-surrender. "Point taken."

"And if you take our money, we expect you to have left by tomorrow morning. And don't expect help from us getting past the shipyard. That mess with the pirates is your own to deal with, am I clear?" I tried to stamp out my surprise at Chamberlaine already knowing what happened with the impounded pirate's ship, and mostly succeed at not letting it show. Swallowing, I nodded my assent.

"No more games then?" Asked the black-haired man.

"No more games," I agreed, feeling for my tracking charm on Hannah, and I was happy to see it was still there. "Same rules apply."

I smiled at their misunderstanding of the phrase.

June 13, 2005

"Regardless of what Chamberlaine is up to, we have to focus on Mikkelsen. The others will come in due time," Tracey nods sagely.

I nod and make a show of checking my watch. "Well, Ron and Hermione, taken as they are with each other, are bound to have noticed my absence by now. I should be going."l

"Fancy a little company?" She asks.

"Don't particularly care. Hermione might, though."

Tracey huffs at the injustice of it all. "Unbelievable. I've tried bloody everything! That woman is impossible to please. How did you ever manage to get her respect?"

"I jumped on the back of a troll for her," I shrug, playing it off cool as I stand, motioning for her to follow.

"And what do people who aren't insane do to become friends with her?"

"Well they don't light her clothes on fire, for one," I jab, "and why do you care so much anyway? If Hermione doesn't like you, she doesn't like you. Why're you trying so hard?"

"Well, you're my partner now, aren't you? I should get to know your friends," she pauses suddenly as we turn out the bar and make our way back to Diagon Alley. "And I was doing Granger a favor by burning her clothes. She clearly looks better now. And you can tell she loves it."

"Well, she has been spending an inordinate amount of time on her looks, but I assumed it was for her new boy-toy."

Tracey skewers me with an 'are-you-stupid' look. "Or, maybe, deep down below that layer of lame-arse swot and big-shot war hero, she's every bit the girly-girl."

We turn back onto the Alley and make our way to Flourish and Blotts, where doubtless Hermione and Ron still are.

After our little Sunday trip with Ron and Tracey (Hermione was peeved, naturally), we split off from the two and return to our flat. Every other day, Hermione and I make sure to enter our flat from the front entrance of the building, to make sure we aren't piling up on our muggle mail. Today, after our trip to Diagon Alley, I have shrunken bag stuffed full of books in either pocket (Herms raided the store), and Lauren holding onto my hand as Hermione flips through the mail.

"Bill, bill," Hermione mutters to no one in particular, sifting through the mail, "the rent is due in two weeks, Aunt Gillian, phone bill... there's one for you."

"Me?" I ask. This may come as a surprise, but I don't have very many muggle friends, and the few that I do have live across the Atlantic. "Who's it from?"

"The return address is in Crawley," says Hermione as we pass through the lobby and hit for the lift. "Not but a brisk jog from my parents'. Do you want me to open it?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Hermione does so. She opens up a meticulously typed letter when Lauren tugs on my pants. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter! What's a cavity?"

"Huh, a cavity?"

"Yeah, Mr. and Mrs. Granger wouldn't let me have a candy bar because of them," says the girl, looking curious.

I sigh and take a look at Hermione, who seems enraptured by the letter. "Your parents are being bad influences."

"They did the same thing to me," Hermione says without looking up. "You learn to live with it."

"Well, Jesus, now we know why you're so much fun," I snark, earning enough Hermione's ire for her to glare a moment. Lauren giggles from below, and I turn back to address her. "Well, candy bars have sugar in them. And if you have too much sugar, it makes holes in your teeth. And they hurt. You'd have to go to the dentist."

Lauren arches an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Hermione (I really shouldn't leave the squirt around her for too long). "Then what about tea?"

"Tea?"

"Lots of people put sugar in tea! You put loads!" She points an accusing finger at me.

Hermione glowers at me over the letter. "So that's why we're always low on sugar! And that's why you always ask the pretty neighbor for it."

"Me? Never," I feign innocence, exchanging grins with Lauren. "Besides. I don't drink tea. I drink whiskey. Like a man."

"Now look who's being the bad influence," snips Hermione as she finishes the letter, with something like astonishment written over her face. I notice the look and send her a questioning glance:

"What is it?"

"It's from your Aunt," she says, handing the scrap of paper off to me. "She wants to apologize. And to have dinner."

What? "You're taking the piss."

"I'm not, actually," she says, equally surprised as I am.

I peek at the letter:

"Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well. We've been searching a long time for you, and we never knew if you survived. It was surprising when I met a dentist couple that seemed to know you and where you lived."

"I wonder how that came about," I say, "and why your parents never said anything about it."

"They probably didn't think anything of it," shrugs Hermione.

"It's been a long time..."

"And then she goes on into the apologies: we shouldn't have treated you the way we did, I should have been more faithful to my sister, and so the band played on," Hermione snorts at the last.

"...Dinner sometime. Our home phone number is attached below. I do hope you'll call.

Petunia Dursley."

The lift takes us up to our floor, and as we get off, Hermione asks the question: "So? Are you going to go?"

I shrug. "Don't know. Don't particularly want to. Not a whole lot about the offer makes sense."

"Human beings, from a logical standpoint, don't make sense. And, maddening as it is, not a whole lot about anything makes sense, if you think about it," Hermione murmurs philosophically. "I really hate that."

"Well, if nothing makes sense to you," I start, as I unlock the door and turn on the lights to our flat; I flourish my arms like a circus showman. "Can I offer you a clean, well-lighted place?"

Hermione's grin is infectious as we enter the flat. "I take your point. Pretentiousness aside, you should mend fences," she says, as she usually does, dispensing sage advice. "You should bring Lauren along, too. Show you've grown some."

"A party?" Lauren meeps from below, both of us smile indulgently at the girl before returning to our debate:

"Right. Mend fences. Show up there, unmarried, with a child in tow. That'll go over real well." I scoff, and Hermione seems to scoff back at my cynicism.

"You're such a pessimist. Fine, do you want a wife to save you from the big, bad Dursleys?" Hermione asks, a smile playing at her lips.

"Are you offering?"

"Maybe," Herms says demurely. "I do so want to have a conversation with your Uncle Vernon."

"Sending canaries at him is not the answer," I drawl.

"Oh, ye of little faith," Hermione chides. "Allow me to come and you shall believe."

I escape the Dursleys' offer and Hermione's proposition by burying myself at work the next day, a Monday. Work. What a strange and wonderful word. It fills me both with unspeakable joy and inconceivable dread. The job is an interesting one, even if it is mostly pouring over case files and code from other countries, but the company more than makes up for it. Tracey, of course, is nowhere near as bad as I pretend; there are two guys, Jensen and Sterling, both of them are avid Quidditch fans. It's nice to talk about things other than national security in what might be the most secure building in all of Magical Britain.

The boss man's a good chap, too, but I've been told not to get too comfortable with the cushy desk job; Tracey and I are, first and foremost, field agents. And I can sense we'll be on the move soon, even as I go over the notes written by Unspeakables and the like on our newest obsession.

Our current job is to find the Norwegian Magical Theorist who ended up in Yugoslavia who defected and now has disappeared. Now, I loathe Draco Malfoy with every fiber of my being; no matter if he saves the queen, opens a charity, and marries and angel, he'll always be a bastard. You can spray air freshener on filth, but in the end it's still filth.

That being said, he's effective. No two ways about it. He'll find out where the man is and then some.

As if reading my mind, Tracey interrupts: "This Malfoy thing had better work, Potter. I'm not sticking my neck out for you."

"Don't worry, Davis, my method is my method is my method," I drawl back, only to find myself looking back at the brunette's confused expression. "Right, Pureblood. Never mind then. It'll work out, trust me."

Besides, I'm not worried about the Norwegian, Malfoy will find him; I'm worried about what might be Chamberlaine's next move, China was only a minor setback from whatever they plan on doing, and the devil's work certainly needs doing, it seems.

Still, though, it's good to get back to work.

Even if I am the Ministry's bitch, now, I've gotten myself a salary, a relatively stable job and home, and the Minister of Magic himself owes me a favor or two, as per our agreement when I signed on:

May 2, 2005

"So then what?" Boris questioned, his voice no longer the gravelly Russian accent, but sounding more South Welsh, if I could place him anywhere. "You put a tracker on one of the Blood Mages, took the payment for finishing off Hozhen, and then what?"

"And then I left; there was no sense in looking a gift horse in the mouth and there certainly wasn't any reason to attempt to steal the Lance, especially without any backup," I replied.

Boris eyed me stoically, saying nothing.

"I followed the Bloodies to China out of sheer anger," I said, sighing. "It didn't take me long to realize that I was outclassed in every respect. Alone, I wouldn't be able to do much of anything, so I thought, 'make a tactical retreat, live to fight another day an' all that'."

The staring contest continued, until Boris finally broke it. "It was a good idea, Potter; I sincerely doubt even you would have made it out of there alive. But it begs to ask: you were in China for a day, maybe a bit more if you chose to lollygag. Basil said you never came back to the Lodge after your meeting with Bellamy. You could have been back months ago; what took so long?"

"I ended up joining Bellamy's crew for a more... scenic route back."

Boris smiled. "Pirating. For three months. And you made it back just in time for the Ministry Gala for V-day." V-Day, now there's a term I can't stand. Pretentious, and unoriginal, marking the day I defeated Voldemort, may what's left of his soul rot. I honestly couldn't believe that wizards thought themselves better than muggles when we were ripping off terms they'd already used. "You do know how to make an entrance, Potter."

"No, I don't," I replied. "Because I don't plan on making an appearance at the Ministry Gala, I plan on going home and going to bed."

Boris squinted. "And your gold?"

"I've done a lot of seedy shite, but I won't accept pay for a job half-done," I said, getting up. "You can keep me on until we manage nab the Lance from that bastard. I'll take the pay then."

"I have another idea," said a voice behind me. A familiar, basso tone. I whirled around to our esteemed Minister of Magic and manipulative bastard extraordinaire, Kingsley Shacklebolt, standing by the door, wearing expensive robes and looking chuffed as mint balls to see me.

"Minister Shacklebolt," Boris announced, mildly surprised. "I thought you'd be at the Ministry Gala."

"Yes, you would, but I've never liked parties," returned the Minister. "Especially when our favorite son has returned from hardship and I have an offer for him."

"Oh. Do you, now? And what does the great Minister Shacklebolt require of me? Surely not the ultimatum of finding the Spear or exile from the country, is that right?" I growled. The Minister, for his part, shrugged without an ounce of pity. It enraged me a bit, but in hindsight, I'd have found it stranger if he had shown the slightest inkling of compassion; that just wasn't the kind of man the Minister was: he was more of a 'no-negotiation, no-capitulation' type.

"Nothing so dramatic," said the Minister. "Now that I know we can trust you. I had to get you off your arse somehow, and that seemed the best way."

"Regardless, you owe me a new eye, mate," I replied; Shacklebolt made no indication of having heard me, the tight bastard:

"How about a job?" Kingsley asked, appraising my response. "As far as I know, the Magical SIS pays quite a pretty knut."

As much as I'd have loved to, I didn't want to have to take a blood test, which would immediately out me as a Blood Mage, so I had to be careful: "Thanks but no thanks, chaps. I don't do long-term contracts."

"No blood tests," Shacklebolt interrupted quickly, far too quickly and far too specifically for me to believe he was just saying it. I was about to deny again, but what the hell was the point? Both men in the room already knew what I was and they could have had me hauled away ages ago if they wanted. No need to play coy; just find out what they want, Potter:

"Interesting offer," I answered. "Why?"

"You can hunt, you can fight, you think like a Blood Mage, and you have the wherewithal to run circles around most of the morons out there," said Boris quietly. "And, you happen to use all of those skills for money. Why not make a salary off it?"

"And what's in it for you?"

The Minister actually laughed at that. "The man who felled two Dark Lords, of course! I wouldn't lie and say you wouldn't be a huge asset."

"Sounds like you're dressing this up pretty enough to keep me from seeing that it's just a huge favor to you," I shrugged.

"It is a huge favor to me," replied Kingsley. "I've been trying to get you to work with the Ministry for years, now, and I've only now found the reason as to why you wouldn't. So, I've rectified that. It's good money."

I stayed frozen for what I reckon might have been a minute or might have been ten. My first instinct was to tell Shacklebolt to take his offer and shove it up his arse, but the more logical half of my brain, the part that sounded like Hermione, acidly rebuked me:

Don't you dare leave that offer, Harry Potter! If I hear that you left a perfectly good chance to work a legal job I swear I will hex you to hell and back! What's more pitiable is that I actually did expect that if I didn't take the offer, Hermione would have hexed me when I got back home.

"How many galleons are we talking about?"

"Per year?" Mused Boris. "Standard rate: eighteen-thousand galleons a year, with room for advancement."

"I just made about that much off this one contract and continuing to look after Lauren," I said, playing hardball. "Why would I take that?"

The Minister gave me a hard look. "Because this job wouldn't be as dangerous. That's not to say it won't be dangerous, but you won't be expected to off Dark Lords every year. It's your only option of getting a steady job in the Magical world and staying on to capture Chamberlaine."

I crossed my arms and sighed. This was a Hobson's Choice, in actuality, there was only one outcome to this situation that benefited me:

"Fine, I'll follow you into the depths, Ahab," I agreed at length. "But you owe me one."

The Minister smiled. "More than one. But never-mind that, I'll leave you and Boris to discuss particulars." With a sweep and a flourish of those 300 galleon robes, Shacklebolt exited Boris's Lodge office and we returned to discussing what I'd actually be doing.

June 18, 2005

So, after a week of looking over code and waiting for Malfoy to get his arse in gear, it comes time for my blind date. Or, it would have been time for my bind date had I not called and scheduled dinner with Dursleys today. Hermione isn't particularly chuffed about that, but I tell her to get over it as us two and Lauren pop on by the Granger residence for a little bit of afternoon chat (and to ask Mrs. Granger to keep a few candy bars on hand for when Lauren next comes).

"Wait a minute," starts William, reclining in his chair. "So you two are pretending to be husband and wife and Lauren is your daughter?"

I shrug. "Lauren looks like Hermione; I'm bound to receive the question anyway, I think." Hermione offers me a smile from the corner of my eye.

"But, do you have to be husband and wife? Couldn't you just say you adopted the girl and Hermione's your best friend? You know, the truth? You even brought Lauren in on this? You're being terrible role models." Mr. Granger looks a touch troubled at this dinner. Hermione seems to pick up on why very quickly:

Hermione smirks. "Relax, daddy, there's nothing untoward here. Lauren thinks it's just a bit of fun. And Harry's family is very... very..."

"Cuntish?"

"Harry!" Hermione admonishes loudly. "But, yes, that. These people hate any sense of impropriety, and they believe all sorts of things improper."

"Adoption, being a wizard, and having friends to are pretty high on that list. Besides, I think Herms wants to go maneater on my uncle for being a shite human being and she lacks the proper 'authority', her words not mine, as my friend." I joke, earning another smile from the brunette but failing to coax one from her father:

"I've always heard that it was bad there, Hermione's mentioned it enough, but how bad could they possibly be?" He asks, standing up to head to the bar and make himself a drink.

"Well, I ended up a hitman, that should tell you something," I grin.

"I've got time to hear the story," Mr. Granger starts. "Would you like a drink, Princess?" He asks Hermione, and turns to me when she shakes her head. I do the same:

"Unfortunately, Mr. Granger, I don't have time to tell the story. We have to be at the Dursleys in fifteen minutes. Maybe some other time?" I ask, earning a nod from the elder Granger. "Shall we leave, Herms?"

Hermione nods as well and calls for Lauren, who comes running from the kitchen, where she has been playing with Crookshanks, Hermione's aging half-kneazle, which is essentially code for a small, ugly, tiger.

We take the short walk to the Dursleys, not but ten minutes by foot from the Grangers and stop outside of a well-sized home, far above what Vernon Dursley would have ever been able to afford:

"Are you sure this is their house, Herms?" I ask, looking at the house with something approaching jealousy coming up in my tone despite my best attempts to stamp it down. There is absolutely no fucking justice in the world if I lost all my money and the Dursleys are living it up in Crawley.

"That's the address they gave us," Hermione returned, looking down at my chicken scratch handwriting on a scrap of parchment paper.

"Alright then," I say, finally containing the green-eyed monster. "Time's a wasting."

We lead Lauren to the doorstep, at which floodlights turn on, shining down on us. Leave it to Vernon-fucking-Dursley to have floodlights installed on the front of his house. What an arse. Lauren turns her head into my pant-leg to shield her eyes and Hermione exhales exasperatedly as we finally come up to the door and ring the bell.

"Your family still seems to be paranoid," Hermione grouses. "Wonderful."

Any further complaining is stilled when the door opens, revealing a face I'd thought I'd never have to see again. Petunia Dursley, with her bottle-blonde hair and her horse-face and giraffe neck. The only difference these days is that a smile is on that face instead of a scowl.

"Harry," she says, looking surprised, and staring at Hermione and Lauren.

"Aunt Petunia," I begin, and decide it's best to introduce the other two: "My wife, and my daughter: Hermione and Lauren."

Lauren waves happily.

A/N: More to come from the Potter-Granger-Cunningham ruse against the Dursleys next chapter. I actually originally entertained the idea of having Ron and Harry go as husbands and Lauren as their adopted daughter just to piss off the Dursleys, but I didn't think either would really want to do that again. Then it was Luna, but she and Lauren don't even look tangentially related (sorry! Still no Luna). Then came Tracey, which would have been fun, but there's been a shitload of Tracey the past few chapters. So, Hermione it was.

The Devil beat Johnny: The song that Harry and Hermione are arguing about at the beginning of the chapter is Charlie Daniels' "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" in which The Devil challenges a fiddler named Johnny to a fiddling contest. If Johnny wins, he gets the Devil's golden fiddle, and if The Devil wins, he gets Johnny's soul. The Devil fiddles a pretty difficult rock-disco number with a band of demons providing guitar and piano and Johnny fiddles bluegrass. Since it's a bluegrass song, Johnny wins. Harry says that objectively, however, The Devil wins on difficulty alone and Johnny wins because of Charlie Daniels' own bias. Hermione, obviously, disagrees.

Literary references: Harry makes quite a few in this chapter. Emma is, perhaps the most obvious to an HP reader: in its most layman's terms, it's Jane Austen novel about a socialite who plays a terrible matchmaker. And given who Hermione's actress is, there's probably ten billion Hermione-centric fics that mention the book in one way or another. 'Ahab' is a reference to Captain Ahab of Moby Dick fame. 'A Clean, Well-Lighted Place' is a reference to a Ernest Hemingway short story of the same name. The lesser known one of the references come from 'my methods are my methods are my methods' and 'same rules apply', referring to Irvine Welsh's villain protagonist, Bruce Robertson, of Filth, who views life as a game and the same karmic, shitty rules apply to everyone.

Galleons: Harry just made bank, if you're wondering. Hence the reason why he said he came into a lot of money last chapter. He made 17,000 galleons off Chamberlaine, and has made it clear that he doesn't intend to follow-up on his agreement, which may net him another 12,000 upon recovery of the Lance, and 18,000 galleons a year for salary, with room for advancement. I believe it was said somewhere that a galleon is equivalent to £4, which nets Harry about £140,000, and since the pounds-dollars ratio was about 1.86 U.S. dollars for every pound in May-June of 2005, Harry banks approximately $260,400 (assuming there's no income tax in Magical Britain and Harry does not recover the Lance) in 2005, to put it in perspective for American readers.

Piggybacking off that, you might be wondering why Chamberlaine allows Harry to leave so easily, and essentially bribes him instead of just killing him like Voldemort would have. Voldemort was a Dark Lord, he was obsessed with power, his first idea to fight chaos would be to fight back with chaos: his first instinct is to crush the opposition. Chamberlaine's first instinct is gently push them aside, or turn them to his own side.

Tracey drops a seeming non-sequitur about America and Russia. It will show up again next chapter.

Thanks for reading!
Geist.

P.S. Hermione's been bumped to tertiary main character because she is actually starting to have a major impact on word-count, meaning she's essentially the third main character.

P.P.S. No, as far as I have planned, this is still not a Harry/Hermione. As of right now, they're just really good friends. If it does end up being H/Hr, and I'm not saying it will, it won't be for years and both persons involved would have to change significantly for each other.