CHAPTER FIVE: House of Shattered Dreams
The days after Christmas passed by so fast for Harry, and now, it is the day before New Year. He has been busy at the Auror Department, preparing for the reopening of Auror classes in February, sorting the new batch of trainees, holding meetings with the Senior and Junior Aurors, and rechecking the security plans for the arrival of Salem Academy students.
Harry, as Head Auror, is expected to only meet with different division heads in the Ministry, delegate tasks to his subordinates, hold strategic meetings with them, oversee all the work and missions, and write and collate narrative, budget and strategic reports of his division. Apart from these, Harry also likes to work with the other Aurors. This is why he sometimes heads missions and joins the dangerous raids. It's not just to increase manpower; Harry does not like staying in the Ministry trading pleasantries with other people of position while his men are in the heat of the real battle.
In his opinion, though, the most hateful thing that a Head Auror must do is dealing with reporters. Nosy, pouty, red-lipped, eye-shadowed, shrill-voiced reporters who glare at him from the other side of his desk when he refuses an interview for the front page of the Daily Prophet— just like what this one is doing right now.
"Parkinson," he sighs, for the fourth time, "I can't disclose our department's plans for the exchange program. This is a Confederation matter. I can't answer your questions." He tries to sound placating, tries to keep himself from snapping at his former Hogwarts schoolmate. Really, he does.
Pansy Parkinson has matured into an acclaimed, sensationalizing reporter who takes after Rita Skeeter, from her controversial, and twisted headlines to the crocodile skin shoulder bag. Only, she seems to be more obsessed with Harry than the retired blonde journalist has ever been. She visits him in his office every Thursday, trying to get the "Chosen One's opinion on the latest juicy bits of the wizarding world," in her tight, black, long-sleeved blouse, Slytherin green pencil skirt, and brightly-painted nails.
Harry notices that they are bright yellow this week as she tucks her dark, sleek hair behind her ear. She pouts her extra-glossed pink lips and leans forward. "But Head Auror Potter," she whines, "of course this is a national concern. The Ministry will let in Muggle lovers in one of our country's best and greatest schools. Parents need reassurance."
"Well, I suggest you ask for an interview with Terry Boot, then. He's the head of the Education Innovation and Communication Division," Harry says, professionally ignoring Parkinsons' poor but blatant attempt to look sensual.
She grins mischievously and flutters her eyelashes. She looks at him through her long, mascaraed lashes as she makes a show of writing a note in her planner. "Well then, if you refuse to comment and appease your fellow parents in the wizarding world, maybe you can just tell our curious citizens about your reunion with your ex-girlfriend, Ginny Weasley? That article about the two of you hugging in Diagon Alley is a rave."
Harry, who only reads the Prophet's News section because he's the Head Auror, never peruses the Society Pages. He feels slightly miffed that they will interpret even an innocent hug with his best friend's sister, his former schoolmate, as something malicious. "I haven't seen her in seven years. I'm happy she's back, in a very platonic way."
Parkinson's eyebrows shoot up. "You didn't plan to meet her there?"
"No. Why would I? I was just out with the twins," Harry replies, and stops in time from cringing when a predatory grin is plastered back on her face.
She stands up, still grinning, and says, "Well, I'll be back next Thursday, Head Auror Potter. I need to brew an antidote for something that's obviously cooking. I suggest that you call Mr. Malfoy-Potter after this. Is he reading the Society Pages? Maybe. Well, ta ta."
She leaves his office, and Harry, bewildered, stares at the closed door. He stands up, checks that he still has more than fifteen minutes before his next appointment, and goes to the Floo room connected to his office.
He crouches on the thick, soft rug in front of the fireplace, sticks his head into the emerald green flames, and calmly states, "Living Room, Potter Chateau!" He knows that the boys and Draco will be having their brunch in the living room, watching a Muggle, animated movie that Percy insists on watching for the nth time.
After the very uncomfortable sensation of his head spinning in his shoulders, Harry opens his eyes and sees the soft creams, blues, and greens of the family living room. He calls out, "Draco, love? Boys?"
"Daddy!" There is a sound of excited footsteps and then Percy is sitting in front of him, holding a medium-sized glass bowl of what looks like his Frooty Loops and blueberries. "Hello, Daddy. Papa let me eat my cereals and fruits because I finished my peas and my celery soup and my broccoli." His nose scrunches distastefully, but cutely, at the mention of his vegetables.
"Really?" Harry chuckles. "Well, I should reward you, too, don't I?"
"Hurray!" Percy beams at him, and sets aside his bowl to lean forward on his arms to Harry's face. He whispers, "Will you buy me the Skittles again, Daddy?"
"If that's what you want, my little prince." Thank Merlin that Percy isn't spoiled even if we indulge him every now and then, Harry thinks, looking at his youngest son fondly. Just then, Score flops down behind Percy and waves.
"'Lo, Dad." There's a hesitance in his eyes that Harry does not miss.
"Score, where's your Papa?" he asks, Pansy's 'advice' starting to niggle uncomfortably in his mind.
Score shrugs, pulling Percy closer to him. "Well, he's at the apothecary with Al; he says that there's a large rush order of Sleeping Draughts for St. Mungos that he wants done with."
Scorpius' words 'he says' clues Harry about his son not really buying his Papa's reason. He doesn't, too. His husband never accepts large rush orders of Sleeping Draughts from anyone. The thing is addictive; Draco always requires Ministry clearances and thoroughbackground checks on clients who try to acquire potentially harmful potions before accepting orders. The fact that the former prince of Slytherin (now Harry's, thank you very much) has lied so badly to his sons makes Harry definitely worried now.
"Score, what happened? Is it something in the Prophet?" Harry asks, holding on to his composure, even if his hands are curling into fists in the thick carpet. Something dangerous like fury flashes in Scorpius' eyes that he almost looks like a younger Harry, only with the pale, blonde hair, and heterochromic eyes.
"Lil, can you go to the kitchen and ask Winky to make for me some of her ham and cheese sandwiches? Then you can go put in the movie that you like while you wait for me," he says calmly so that their little prince does not notice anything. Harry feels proud that Scorpius, despite getting his Gryffindor-ness, can hold in his emotions so smoothly like Draco. The pride is brief, because whatever Draco's reaction has been this morning must be so serious that Percy should not hear it. It makes Harry want to run to his husband.
"I want to watch Olaf, Score. Can I?" Percy asks, getting up on his feet.
"Yeah, sure. Let's watch Frozen," Score replies, handing him his snack bowl. "And you can tell Winky, too, that I let you have extra fruits from the pantry. But," he holds an excited Percy's shoulders to stop his bouncing and says, "you should eat some of the sandwiches, too, even if they have pickles."
"Okay!" shouts Percy happily. He turns to Harry and blows him a kiss. "Daddy, I'll go watch Olaf! Please come home early, later. I love you! I'll miss you!" He blows him two more kisses then runs out of the living room, shouting excitedly for Winky.
Harry chuckles at Percy's fondness of a talking snowman, and then turns to Scorpius. "What happened?"
His son sighs, and then says, "Well, Papa does not read the Society Pages of the Prophet anymore, right? Apparently, they thought that it will be amusing if they make a huge special out of your meeting with Ginny more than a week ago. The headline reads 'New Turns and Chances for Hero Harry Potter and New Beginnings with Heroine Ginny Weasley,' he makes apostrophes while saying the headline contemptuously. "Papa shouldn't have known about the stupid article, but people have to rub it into his face. They sent him Howlers, Dad. Howlers. Howlers that did nothing but laugh at him and say that they will have fun watching Ginny Weasley take what she really deserves that a Death Eater scum like Papa stole."
Harry isn't sure if Score sees how pale he has become with anger, no, fury, through the flames, because he says, "I know, Dad, I know. It's just good that Dobby apparated Percy out of the kitchen after seeing the Howlers. They were even charmed so they can't be destroyed."
"What the fuck—" Harry feels so angry that he is already past swearing while in a conversation with one of his sons.
"Yeah. Papa acted like nothing happened, of course. After seeing the article from today's newspaper, he suddenly said that he has to go to the apothecary and we should look after Percy. We do know how Papa feels when people throw horrid things like that to him. He tries to hide it from Jamie, Al, and me, but we know that he can be insecure sometimes. He does not blame you for the article, by the way. It's just that he feels guilty for even doubting you and himself, after all you've given him, Dad. It's just so painful that he thinks he has to deal with it on his own, you know? That's why Al followed him to the apothecary to make him go home, instead of brood in a dark laboratory alone."
Harry's heart clenches in his chest. He fights the expletives that threaten to roll out of his tongue and just asks, "You do know that I love your other father and I'll do anything for all of you, right?"
Scorpius smiles and rolls his eyes. "Duh, Dad. Of course, we do. Remember what Al and I said more than a week ago before that Ginny arrived? The wizarding world should see that no two people have fallen in love with each other as deeply and greatly as you and Papa."
"I haven't forgotten, Score."
"Yeah. That's why you should propose to him and marry him again. We should make it as grand as possible. Rub it in their faces that Harry Potter is smitten and devoted, and those who are against it are nobodies who should just stuff it."
Harry thinks of the red, velvet box he's hidden in his small safe in the office. Somewhere Draco will never think of looking into. "I have to go to your Papa."
"That, you should," Score says. "Make things okay for him again, Daddy. Tell Papa we're want to show him that we love him again and again."
Harry chuckles. "Look after your brother."
"Duh. Of course." He rolls his eyes, but smiles. "You look after Papa. Bye, Dad. Love you."
Then, he is gone. Harry smiles at his son's rare declaration of affection, and pulls out of the fireplace. He ignores that familiar, but still so uncomfortable, spinning sensation.
First, he'll settle some matters in the department. Then, he'll proceed to Diagon Alley. To propose to Draco.
Calliope and Hunter, despite serving internships in some Muggle institutions, are not attending any university. When Cal has asked Amber Babbie a ride to the University in her Audi, she has been talking in code. She has been, actually, asking to be picked up from the Project's Main HQ by Amber's twin, Ether. Now, she and Hunter are kipping at the Babbies' flat in London for a week now, poring over maps, print-outs of data, and reports of spell research.
All these files are from a private database that she illegally maintains; it contains copies of all the contents of the Intercept's and Clandestine's data vaults. The database is designed like a Muggle compact hard disk, but is made up of platinum and silver. Hunter calls it their Magnum Opus, or the Standard, because it is the stuff of dreams for Wizarding information management operations and systems.
It functions like a Pensieve, but so much more; stored in it are records of all the research studies ever done in Intercept, minutes and Records of all the meetings conducted regarding the Project, profiles of the people working for the Project, reports of missions and operations by Shadows and Agents, and, most importantly, triplicates of intelligence data digitally and magically nicked from Muggle criminal organizations, governments, and research facilities. The Standard responds only to Cal's magical signature; even if someone has broken into it, he or she will be lost in the ocean of data. The young Clandestine is also the only person who knows the indexing system of the Standard, very different of that from the Intercept's.
Right now, it is shrunk into a pendant around Cal's neck, having already provided the data they will need for modifying Operation Tripping.
"I almost forgot how much fuss the British wizarding public is putting up with Harry Potter," Hunter says above Cal. He's sprawled on the soft leather couch reading The Daily Prophet; he's announced his exhaustion and apparent revulsion of data half an hour ago.
Cal, who is sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, looks up from the Muggle hit men profiles she's been reading. "It's funny, isn't it? I really don't know what good they're getting from it."
"Uh, money? Amusement? A pastime?" Hunter replies absentmindedly, apparently immersed in the article that Cal cannot see.
She shrugs, arranging the piles of paper into folders. "I was referring to the people, stupid. I don't understand why they can't just leave the Head Auror alone. It's bordering on hero worship, and it's disturbing. I'm not undermining what he did to the wizarding world—even if it's to Britain, who can say that the lunatic wouldn't have brought his doom to US?—but it's been twenty years, right?"
"You should say that to them," Hunter replies, looking at her seriously. "We did not experience war, Cal. At least, not that kind of war; goodness knows we're in the eye of another one starting. But you know people have always felt the need to worship something. Harry Potter is powerful. People will have to idealize and think they own him. Even Muggle power-hoarders are after him."
"Well, what is the article about?" Cal asks a little too enthusiastically, not wanting to talk about an upcoming war. As far as she is concerned, she does not want things escalating to that. She thinks of the Intercept and all the people who are relying on her instructions and deduction. A teenager can't ever be ready for that kind of responsibility and accountability.
"It's just gossip about Harry Potter meeting up with his ex-girlfriend from Egypt in a bookstore," mutters Hunter. He turns the paper around so Cal can see the large headline spanning the whole spread, and a picture of Harry Potter and a ginger-haired woman hugging. There were smaller photographs of them talking on the couch, showing the occasional touches from the woman.
"That's Ginny Weasley, huh," she says incredulously, remembering Snoop reports about Fifth meeting with the woman during his work-free days. She calls them Snoop reports because they're relatively insignificant, but necessary, reports about the actors in the Project. Only the Clandestine can access the Snoops, so Hunter does not know about Fifth's amour toward the "heroine."
"What?" he asks.
"She's Fifth's lover, apparently," Cal answers nonchalantly, standing up and stretching. Though their reinforced privacy wards are up, she prefers to speak in code. Ether Babbie, though a very trusted friend of theirs, is still a Shadow, and there are things that he is safer not knowing about.
"Fifth?" Hunter snorts. Then he mutters, somewhat bitterly, "Figures that he'll be bisexual."
Cal's eyebrows shoot up at her best friend's slip of tongue. "Hunter? Did that… that git ask you out?" she asks incredulously. Sure, Fifth is a handsome guy, though a little older than them, and he is also outspoken, loud, the life of the party, and good at charming people. He also has to be a brilliant wizard, or he will not be part of the Council. Still, though, he is the least of the Five and Chair is starting to have suspicions on him.
Her Hunter, on the other hand, is studious, observant, and sensitive. His sharp tongue and cold, condescending demeanor makes him one of the most intimidating figures in the Intercept, next to Cal. Nothing, she's always believed, can faze or unsettle her best friend. That's why the Clandestine is surprised when her best friend's cheeks and neck turn red and he looks away. "Funny to think that there is something that the Clandestine doesn't know," he sneers.
She raises both of her hands apologetically. "Well, sorry, if I trust you so much I no longer read Snoop reports about you," she says, trying to placate his embarrassment. She moves towards the couch and sits near his head. Instantly, Hunter shifts up so he can rest his head on her lap. He hums when she starts playing with his soft, strawberry-blonde hair. "Oh, Hunter. When?"
"Five months ago, after we found out about the interest in Ambiguous. He told me he liked me and though I am younger than him, he is willing to work it out, take things slowly," he whispers, removing his glasses and placing them on the table. He holds onto Cal's knees and squeezes. "I refused him, though."
Something in Cal breaks for her best friend. "Because you had to."
"Yes, because I had to. I had to," he repeats more firmly, his grip on her knee starting to hurt. "That was the time both of us sensed that Chair is starting to suspect him. We know how wide Fifth's networks are; I cannot risk being exposed to those while with him. I'm closest to the Clandestine, for heaven's sake. I had no right to take that risk for a relationship, Cal. You know that."
"Of course, I do, and I'm proud of you," Cal took his free hand and gripped firmly to tell him she is with him, and, mission or not, they have time to discuss this. Hunter always puts work first; Cal is willing to put him first for a time like this. "What you did is hard, and I'm so proud of you, Hunter Robinson."
She feels Hunter shake his head. "I had to do it. But…" There is a pause that Cal lets him have because he deserves it. When he speaks again, his voice is small and soft. "I can say now that I did the right thing. Not just for the Project, but for myself, too."
"You really like him," Cal marvels at the revelation. She looks down on her lap to stare at Hunter's eyes, as bright, clear, blue, and breathtaking as a spring morning sky.
He smiles at her pathetically. "He said that he was willing to wait. That there was no pressure."
This is the reason why Cal has never permitted herself to have fantasies about romantic relationships. People are capable of lying and doing terrible things. Her time as a Clandestine, privy to the darkest and deepest secrets of powerful people, magical or not, has opened her eyes to the fact. No, the reason she's been okay with accepting her position in Intercept and keeping to herself, is that people can easily change their minds about you. One day, they can be spouting love songs and unconditional acceptance, but they can also be turning their backs on you the next.
Just like what Fifth has done to Hunter. It's difficult to find someone who'll stick with you whatever, whenever. Still, she does not want to fuel Hunter's hurt; so, she will never tell him how Fifth has been meeting with Ginny Weasley for four months.
"I'm disrupting our mission, aren't I? It's tomorrow," her best friend mutters, relinquishing his grip on Cal's knee and reaching for his glasses on the table.
"No, you're not. I'm glad you've got that out of your system, somehow," Cal chuckles, gently prying Hunter from her lap and standing up. "We do need to have brunch now, since we failed to take breakfast because of all our planning. I'll have it ready in an hour."
Cal dispels the privacy wards they've put around the coffee table and couch, and then walks to the kitchen. She looks at the contents of Ether's refrigerator to see if there is something else she can prepare alongside omelets with leftovers. She reaches out for what looks like a pack of bacon at the far end of the freezer when she hears a muffled gasp and running behind her.
"CAL!" Hunter gasps behind her. She turns around and sees the deathly pallor of his face and the sheets of paper crinkling in his clenched fist. "Cal... How can we have overlooked this? This report… This file about the… the anticipated, it's not been sent to be stored in Japan. It's a communication to Japan." He is frantically pacing around the room now. "That… that means that our understanding is wrong and it's not tomorrow, Calliope. It says New Year in Japan. That's today."
"Today," Cal repeats, the color also draining from her face and dread starting to wrap its tentacles around her insides. Her fingers are numb from clutching the pack of frozen bacon and her back is cold from having to stand up with an open fridge behind her, but she does not care. "Oh hell, what a stupendously stupid mistake for us to make."
She's gonna be sick.
"Hey, mate," Ronald Weasley says, leaning on the doorframe of the Head Auror's office. Harry looks up and grins at him. Harry has sworn to himself at the beginning of the divorce of his best friends that he'll be there for both of them, even if it will take years before they'll be able to spend time together.
"Ron, what's up, mate?" he replies, going back to rummaging in his safe for the certain red box. He makes a small sound of triumph when he sees it; he puts it in the pocket of his robes, deciding to look decent when he pops the question to Draco. He motions for Ron to sit on one of the chairs opposite his desk as he settles in his own chair.
"Nothing, I just thought to stop by and say hello after visiting Dad at the Muggle Liaison Office," Ron answers, shrugging. Something tells Harry that something is bothering him, though.
"What's the matter, Ron?" he asks, worried. He can't deny that it is Ron's infidelity that caused Hermione to file the divorce, but ever since the process started last year, the redheaded man has become more and more withdrawn. Harry's heart always breaks whenever he sees how their family has broken apart.
Ron gives him a small, forced smile, "Nothing, mate. Can't I say hello to my best friend?"
Harry cringes when he realizes he hasn't seen nor contacted Ron since Christmas. "Sorry, mate. I've been busy with work, and the kids being home and stuff." He feels like he's tiptoeing around the subject of family whenever he is with Ron now. Harry, after learning that Ron is going out with Lavender Brown, thought that his friend would be feeling a little better. Sadly, looking at the perpetual sorrow in his eyes, it clearly isn't the case.
He feels conflicted; he wants to comfort Ron, to reassure him, but he also wants to be at Draco's side as soon as possible. His discomfort must have shown in his face, but Ron misinterprets his grimace. "Hey, mate, you don't have to feel sorry for me, you know. I like hearing about your kids and… and how good it is between you and Draco. I'm happy for you." There's a pause, then, "Even if Rose is not talking to me, and Hugo's having trouble having sleep."
Harry aches for his best friend and he feels horrible for not knowing how to make him feel better. He says the first thing that enters his mind, "Hey, what do you say about having New Year's dinner with us? You can bring Lavender and the kids, if they want. Draco, the boys, and the elves are sure to cook up quite a storm, and we'll need all the help we can get in eating all that up."
Ron grins, the first real one since Harry's seen him at the door of his room. "That sounds good, mate. Thanks for offering. We'll be there…" He pauses, apparently thinking, then his face brightens up once more. "Yeah, we'll definitely be there. Things are still awkward at the Burrow, so I want to keep my distance for a bit, y'know? Thanks for offering mate."
He stands up and Harry does too. With a sudden burst of inspiration, Harry walks around the table and gives Ron a brotherly hug and thump on the back. He says, "Things will get better, yeah? I know you, mate. You're strong."
Ron looks at him, his blue eyes shining with something strong akin to gratitude. "Thanks, mate. Really 'preciate it. Say hello to Draco for me. I have to get back to the shop." After another brief flash of a grateful smile, he leaves.
Harry sighs, thinking about how he hasn't been there at all for Ron, and decides to rectify that. His best friend hasn't really been supportive about his marriage with Draco, but his own divorce has made him see the beauty of being with your soul mate, and he's began to respect what Harry and Draco have. He's stopped being cold towards the former Slytherin then, transitioning from civil to warm and friendly.
"Right now, though, I have to comfort and shower my affection on my lovely blonde," Harry mutters to himself somewhat longingly, as he stands up and walks to the Floo room.
"Lyric, can you hear me? Over."
"I can hear you clear and crystal, Valentine. Lyric in position and waiting at Plot eight. Over," Cal mutters under her breath. A very small, diamond and silver microphone is attached on her biggest molar, while the receiver, another diamond, is pierced in the inner fold of her ear. It's one of the Intercept's inventions, used by Shadows and Agents during field operations. Hunter is wearing the same devices, except that his microphone is a tongue piercing.
She's at Plot Eight, a code name for the bookstore in front of Draco Malfoy-Potter's apothecary, where the Muggles will attack. She doesn't have the means in determining magical people from Muggles so all she can count on are the profiles of the Muggle mafia fellows she's been perusing since the beginning of the preparations for this operation. She'll be relying on her memory in recognizing them; since Muggles do not have access to Polyjuice Potions, and prosthetics are a hassle in battle, they will not be able to change their appearances.
"I swear, Valentine, once we're done here, we're developing a Muggle detecting device. Something classy, discreet, and portable. I can't believe no one at Intel has thought about this. Over," Cal whispers under her breath. They're still speaking in code, of course, and Intel, a Muggle computer company, is one of the codes for Intercept.
"Save your geekeries for later, Lyric. Valentine in position," Hunter replies. "One of the sons is in Plot seven. Over."
Cal, who is pretending to read a colored biography of Harry Potter in one of the shelves near the display windows looks up, and sees Hunter hovering near the stand in front of the apothecary, licking at a particularly large ice cream cone. The ice cream gives him an excuse to stop in front the apothecary, since Draco Malfoy-Potter has prohibited food inside his shop.
"Which son? Over," Cal hisses, remembering to turn to another page of the book. She looks at the photograph of an eleven-year-old Harry Potter with his best friends Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. His younger self looks so skinny.
"Your half's amour, apparently. Over." There is a smirk in Hunter's voice. "The bugs anticipated the Phoenix to be alone. What's the plan now, Lyric?"
Albus. Cal's mind is reeling. Operation Tripping is supposed to be an intervention in the kidnapping of Draco Malfoy-Potter. Cal, upon learning about the plans after snooping in one of The Underground's computers in Japan, has thought the Muggles are stupid for thinking they can just abduct an adult, pureblooded wizard.
That has been before they've found out about the Muggle shields against magic, though. They've also found out that The Underground has been developing small guns which, when fired directly in the back of person's neck, can be deadly, as the bullets release electricity that destroys a person's spinal cord. If the dominant magical theories are true, this will disconnect him from his magical core.
The previous plan has been to send ten Shadows and Agents who will monitor Diagon Alley for one month before the attack. There have been sightings of suspicious men in Muggle clothing milling around the apothecary; Cal suspects that these are from The Underground, keeping track of the routine and status of Harry Potter's husband. They are clever though, because the Muggles never sent a spy twice.
On the day of the attack, the Project's men were supposed to discreetly take down anyone suspicious who goes near the apothecary. With ten people trained in silent combat, Legilimency, and mind obstruction spells, it would have been a smooth and quiet operation.
Now, though, it's just Hunter and Cal, and they will have to take a more direct approach in helping Draco Malfoy-Potter. With Albus in the picture, only time will tell if he'll be a helping hand, or another person to save. Cal sighs.
"Valentine, let him be. I need you to look for potential bugs, over," she whispers, looking over her book to look at the road. It's a good thing that there aren't so many witches and wizards in the street. It gives her a clear view of who is wearing Muggle clothes and not. She also sees Hunter give a long lick on his chocolate ice cream cone and arch his eyebrow in Cal's direction.
"For someone comfortably hidden between books, you're very bossy, over," he mutters; even for the high-end sound detecting device, his voice is quiet. Cal bites back a snort and returns Harry Potter's biography back in its shelf. She discreetly moves towards the entrance of the shop, not making eye contact with anyone.
"Moving out of Plot eight towards plot three, Valentine. Over," she mutters under her breath, while walking quickly towards a fountain surrounded with benches. This way, Hunter and the apothecary will directly be in her three o'clock. She'll be able to watch the road directly as Hunter moves inside the apothecary.
"Right inside Plot seven, Lyric. There are only three Bodies present, including your half's amour. The Phoenix is not in sight. Over."
"Got it. View from Plot three is clear. Over." Cal sighs and waits. The Muggles should be arriving any moment now. The people in the streets are thinning as they return to their homes or go to restaurants to eat lunch. She and Hunter have been waiting for over an hour, but there's nothing suspicious has happened. Unless…
"Hu—Valentine, check on the Bodies inside Plot seven. Quickly. Over," Cal orders urgently.
"Gotcha. There's half's amour pacing outside of what must look like a laboratory, an old woman browsing through the Potions books in display. She's a witch, before you ask. I can see her wand. Lastly, there's a small girl looking at ingredients. Barely Hogwarts age—"
Cal hurriedly leaves her post and walks to the shop. Heart beating fast, nerve cells on frenzy and making her head ache, she pulls out her wand. The street is mostly empty now, except… except… As she draws closer, she sees it more clearly. At first, she thought it is a mirage, that it is a residue of magic that she's seen briefly flicker, making the light near the entrance of the apothecary refract. It happens, she knows, especially in place saturated with magic, but now…
She sees it again when it flickers, showing black leather shoes near the road. Above, the aluminum barrel of what looks like a gun appears, aimed at Hunter, or anyone inside the apothecary—
Cal breaks into a run, and points her wand fiercely, though she's not feeling her body. She utters the spell in a calm voice that utterly masks the crazy torrent of emotions inside her.
"Reducto."
Draco hears the explosion outside the shop, and hastily runs out of the laboratory. His knees buckle when he sees the shallow crater in the street, the bits of rock and cobblestone that are strewn across the floor, near the entrance, and the shattered display window.
"Albus? Albus! Where are you?!" He frantically looks around, but his vision is getting blurry around the edges. He's getting dizzy with worry. He hasn't eaten anything at all today, upset as he's been with the damned article in the Daily Prophet. "Albus!"
A loud sound that is similar to a gunshot rips through the air and his heart drops. You're a wizard, Draco. Use your wand, idiot! he thinks. He staggers towards the entrance and whips out his wand, while looking around him for a sign of his son. There is shouting and grunting outside. A girl is swearing and shouting.
Right now, he's no hero. No. Right now, he has to protect his son.
"ALBUS! Where are you?" he shouts, stumbling outside
"Mr. Malfoy-Potter, don't!" Slender but strong arms are wrapped around his waist and stop him from going outside. Draco struggles to free himself. "Calm down. Your son… Albus… he's with me. He's safe. Trust me."
Draco sags in relief. He feels weak; he does not know why, but his legs feel like jelly. Boneless. His head is pounding, and his intestines feel like they're flip-flopping in his gut. He's tempted to sick up, but he has to get to Al. So, he allows the person to half-drag and half-carry him somewhere in the apothecary.
"Mr. Malfoy-Potter? Mr. Malfoy-Potter, what is it? What's wrong?" the voice asks worriedly while he is being placed in one of the couches.
His eyelids feel heavy. His head is spinning, but he can still hear. Albus' voice, though weak, reaches his ears. "Papa. Papa! What's the matter?" Soft hands cover his, and he can smell his third son's familiar scent of apples and peppermint.
"Al—" Draco groans and starts throwing up on the floor.
Somewhere above him, the one who helped them swears. "Oh crap, Calliope needs help."
"I can take care of them here now. I think… I think help is coming." It's Albus' voice. He hears him summon a stomach potion, and then a cool glass vial is being tipped into Draco's lips. He swallows gratefully. He still feels dizzy and weak, but at least the desire to puke is gone. "What's happening to him?"
"I don't know. We'll have to examine him, later. I'll just… I'll check on the kid over there."
There are more gunshots outside, shouting, cursing, and explosions caused by spells. Draco tries not to think of how he could have prevented this from happening if he stayed at home and waited for Harry. Instead, he focuses on Albus' hands and murmur, telling him about what he thinks is happening and how he'll never leave his side.
"The boy said that they're people from criminal organizations who want to steal something from Diagon Alley, Papa. Don't worry. I think I can hear Daddy outside, fighting. Everything will be fine—"
"Albus! Stop her! Stop her! She's an enemy—"
Draco does not know what is happening. One second, Albus' calming hands are all over his, and then on the next, they're gone. Al is shouting spells, shouting "No!" and then he's shouting, "Papa!" He sees a burst of red light through his closed eyelids. He hears vials shattering on the floor, but not before he feels bitter cold being plunged in his back. He doesn't know what it is, but it makes his throat constrict, and his chest tighten. He cannot breathe.
He struggles, but the best he can manage is a shuddering gasp tearing out of his mouth. After that, there is only silence and cold.
How can a small box feel so heavy all of a sudden? Harry thinks about this as he runs inside Draco's apothecary, heart pounding in his chest. Just a few minutes ago, he's been battling men carrying guns and wearing clothes that seem to absorb his magic. He's aimed Stunning Spell after Stunning spell on their faces just because a girl around his twins' age told him so. And they worked.
He knows who they are, of course—or where they're from, at least. These are Muggles; there's no doubt about it as they fire bullet after bullet that the girl has kept on blasting from hitting him or any other of his Aurors. He knows they're here for him, or his family; it's not that he's forgotten Ashford's warning. Accustomed to wars and the worst that people are capable of since eleven years old, Harry has taken the threat to heart. He's added wards and detection spells in the shop and their house. He's even avoided going on overseas trips.
When the fight is dying down, and most of the Muggles have been stunned, the girl turns to him and says, "You should check on your son and husband. We'll clean this up. Go." He doesn't even hesitate about leaving it to a teenager.
Now, Harry's heart is beating the way it beat while walking into the Forbidden Forest twenty-five years ago at the Battle of Hogwarts. He cringes at the sight of the rubble in Draco's apothecary, and tries not to think about how excited his husband has been about designing and building the place with him. He slightly slows down, stepping over the rubble, towards the sitting area, where he sees Albus on his knees on the floor, bent over a couch, shaking something. That's not—
Harry's heart clenches, but he ignores it. Unconsciously, he brushes his hand against the small box in his pocket and walks forward, much quicker this time. Albus looks up and he finally breaks down.
"Da- ad… Dad, help Papa, Da-ad," he says over racking sobs and Harry runs to his son, where he's met with the sight of his husband.
Paler than usual, his lips tinged blue, Draco, his love and his life, lies still. No. He kneels beside his son, and takes Draco's limp body in his arms. Holds him against his chest. There's a pulse—weakening, but it's there— and Harry thinks he's never felt anything more wonderful and beautiful in his life. His husband is cold, though; so very cold.
Harry thinks that he should have gone inside first and taken his family away—back at Godric's Hollow, where it's safe. He shouldn't have made sure that none of the Muggles have slipped inside. He should have done more, to protect them all. He's sworn that he can do it—he and Draco together—when he swore he can protect his family, that he does not need Ashford's help.
He should have done more. Protected Draco. Then all of this could have been prevented.
But it's too late to think about such things. "I need to bring him to St. Mungos," he says, lifting Draco up in his arms. "Make a Floo call at home and tell your siblings about what happened."
Albus nods as he gets up and wipes the soot and tears from his face. Harry notices another boy at the corner of the room, his arms bleeding. Beside him is an unconscious little girl, bound by silver ropes. "You should come back; there is so much that you need to know," the boy says then jerks his head toward Al. "I'll help him."
Harry prepares to apparate, but Albus steps toward him and leans forward to kiss his Papa's forehead. Harry presses his lips on his son's forehead and murmurs, "He'll be okay. Just look after one another."
He checks for Draco's pulse one more time, and then, with a crack, he is gone.