"And so, fellow peers, it is clear to see that the wording of motion #42B3W is not only cantankerous, but fundamentally flawed, and if falls to us as champions of the good people of the wizarding world to-"
Above the balding man huffing his way through a spirited tirade against the minutia of some law or other would normally be a congregation of statuesque wizards and witches. On any other day, these powerhouses would be conferring in quiet corners, beginning blood feuds and birthing alliances all in the same heavy breath. Ordinarly, the heart of the wizarding world rings out its tremendous beat within these marble walls.
Ordinarly, the centermost seat of the chamber is occupied by a raven-haired man.
Today is not an ordinary day.
Instead, the sand colored chair lies untouched, the recipient of suspicious glances from the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, its usual occupant conspicuously absent. Unknown to those within the chamber, their young colleague, one Harry James Potter, finds himself rather preoccupied with matters far more important than the particulars of motion #42B3W. Instead, he runs like a man possessed, bounding and leaping his way through molasses moving people and missives alike. He whirls up flights of stairs and down tortuorous halls, sure feet pounding the tiled ground in a staccato rhythm.
Those who are witness to his mad dash cannot help but compare it to the days just after the war's end, when dark wizards ran rampant and raids were conducted on every corner.
It is an eerie sight.
The man is fazed not a whit at reaching the dead end that is the atrium. Without slowing down he spins elegantly on one loafer clad foot, winking away from the marble tiled room in an instant. He reappears outside of a stately house, bolting up the gravel lined drive to an oaken door bearing a gilded letter 'P'.
Poised to attack, he nudges open the door. Stepping inside wearily, wand tip glowing a menacing red, Harry scans the foyer left in disarray by unseen intruders, emerald eyes assessing every nook and cranny. Pressing his back flat against the cream colored walls, he slinks toward the winding staircase stationed in the center of the room.
A sickening thud, like that of a skull hitting a hard surface, sounds from above.
Moving silently, Harry steals up the stairs. Shuffling past strewn clothes and shards of glass from broken photographs, he pauses at the top of the stairway. Further down the hall, standing guard outside a periwinkle blue door is a bearded wizard. Next to him lies the grey haired body of a stout woman, bleeding profusely from a head wound. Only the slight undulation of her chest assures Harry that his son's nurse is alive. The man, well-worn grey robes stretched tight around his portly middle, raises a swishy wand in Harry's direction, and is cut down by a swathe of sickly red light before he can finish enunciating a cutting curse.
Stalking forward into the room, he raises a hasty shield against the 'bombarda' aimed at his legs. Summoning the changing table from where it rests against a sky blue wall, he banishes it towards a scar-faced man; who, while managing to duck the diaper covered surface, cannot avoid the stake that had previously made up the back of a now dilapidated rocking chair. The cutting curse of a long haired woman rips a gash through his violet wizengamot robes and down his abdomen. He ducks underneath a copy of the "Tales of Beedle the Bard" banished towards his raven haird head, and in his brief moment of distraction, the woman hurries to guide a lanky man out of the window.
The sharp cry of terror sourced from the blonde haired tot bundled in the man's arms jolts Harry out of his stupor like a lighting bolt.
Scrambling down the trellis positioned just under the window, he sets off after the pair scuttling across the palatial grounds of the manor. Twisting and turning around beams of scarlet light, he hurtles after the two, careful to avoid hitting the bobbing blonde head of the boy still visible over the man's thin shoulder as he returns fire.
As they approach the property line of the house, he grows desperate. Should the captors make it to the edge of the wards, they will be able to apparate away, taking with the them the fragile scion of House Potter. Mouth set in a determined line, he allows himself, just for a moment, to slip back into the clamor that used to be his constant companion. Slowing to a stop in the field behind the house, green grass just brushing his knees, he returns to the mindset of the famed hit-wizard he used to be.
Kill. Defend. Kill.
Emerald eyes glowing fiercely, he transfigures a rock ahead of the duo rapidly fading into the distance. The stone glows red hot, before growing to form a low wall, only about a foot in length. The man, still clutching the child in his arms for dear life, barely manages to clear the wall, slowing down just in time to leap over it and continue running. His partner, however, is not so lucky, and careens full force into the barricade, tumbling over it and landing face first into the soft dirt below. In the seconds she takes to lift herself from the ground, she is downed again, this time by a glowing purple spell. Suddenly gnarled hands raise to inspect a face now decrepit, felled by the hands of time in an instant.
Kill. Defend. Kill.
Stalking forward he advances towards the now panting man still pursuing the ward line. The toddler in his arms wriggles weakly back and forth, trying in vain to free himself. Harry raises his wand again. Tracing an obscure path through the cloudless sky, he watches in cold amusement as hundreds of winged blue creatures descend from seemingly nowhere, converging on the narrow man in an insurmountable swarm.
Kill. Defend. Kill.
Almost instinctively, the man raises his arms to defend himself, letting the small child nestled within them fall to the grass carelessly. Instantaneously, Harry banishes the pixies, green eyes widened in concern for the boy on the ground. The strange man, no longer plagued by little scourges, frowns in confusion, seemingly wondering at why the blonde was not immediately retrieved by his father with a simple summoning charm.
Seeing Harry, sprinting to collect his child, comprehension dawns across his face. He heaves the boy back into his vice grip.
"Slow there, Potter." The man growls, wand raised towards not the father, but the son. "You're going to let the both of us go nicely, now, or I'll have to do a little magic on the little one now, won't I?" He nods triumphantly when Harry lowers his wand hesitantly. "That's it now, slow n' steady." Back towards the approaching forest, he steps slowly towards the edge of the field, nearly spluttering in disbelief when Harry does not attempt to follow.
The man takes the final step over the ward line, and promptly disapparates, blonde haired boy in tow. Harry falls to the ground where he stands, a steady racket beating against his skull. No matter how hard he closes his eyes, he cannot shake the image of his tiny (too tiny, always too tiny) son, emerald eyes identical to his own staring mournfully back at him.
Today is anything but ordinary.
If you asked someone who knew her to describe Daphne Potter nee Greengrass, they would tell you she is best illustrated with one word.
Tempestuous.
She is a whirlwind of her own making, a hurricane that leaves all who witness her in awe.
The best place to witness the storm that is Daphne is, by far, on the third floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Here, she leads the plants and poison ward with pinpoint precision, white robes aflutter as she bustles from room to room, administering antidotes and reversing death like the angel some liken her to. Some time ago, she fluttered about the Mental Health ward in a similar fashion, assessing damage and prescribing smiles as if her life depended on it. She had been working up the nerve to transfer when a certain green eyed hit-wizard stumbled into her life.
Everyday since than, she rejoices when they do not meet in a tiny room reeking of antiseptic.
Ordinarily, Daphne would be in fine form on the third floor. She would waltz from room to room, checking charts and vitals and tongues, humming muggle showtunes over a gurgling cauldron one minute, only to stitch back together an esophagus torn apart by a particularly ornery magical plant the next.
Today is not an ordinary day.
Instead, Daphne fumbles from room to room, double and triple checking the same chart over and over. She spills hot coffee on her pristine robes and explodes a cauldron while making a simple pepper-up potion.
Something is very, very wrong.
She just can't put her finger on it.
She is almost relieved when the workday ends and she hurries home to find her husband in the living room, for once not surrounded by copious piles of paperwork.
Or at least, she would be, were her living room not currently populated by a contingent of grim faced aurors.
Masking her confusion with a megawatt smile, she steps further into the cream colored room, bypassing the violet robed wizards to stand beside her solemn faced husband.
"Hal, what in Merlin's good name is going on?" She hisses while looking towards the aurors, brilliant beam still affixed to her face. Harry doesn't meet her eyes, instead leading (more like dragging) her to one of the only armchairs left standing in the battered room. Absently, Daphne wonders if a duel took place in her previously immaculate home. He sits her down gently before falling into the chair next to her, callused hands coming up to cradle his head.
Something is very, very wrong.
Still, she doesn't know quite what.
From within the bundle of aurors steps forth a tall platinum blonde, high end dragonhide heeled boots sinking into the soft carpet as he walks. Daphne's smile falls from her face. Normally a visit from her brother-in-law would be no special occasion. He would annoy Daphne, and bemoan Harry leaving him all alone on the Hit-Wizard task force, before eating their food and leaving without so much as a 'thank you'.
But today is not an ordinary day.
Instead, Draco is the picture of professionalism, grey eyes crinkled in sympathy as he recounts the story that rips Daphne's heart to pieces. He does not trade joking barbs with Harry as he comforts his broken wife, blood soaked shirt becoming further irreparable with her tears. He refrains from purposely using technical jargon only Harry would understand to annoy his sister-in-law as Daphne scrambles to comprehend the world that was only minutes ago perfect.
Her baby is out there in the world, lost and alone and so, so defenseless
At least she's figured out what's wrong.
When Harry and Draco step away from the nearly catatonic Daphne, he does not hold back from embracing the man. The hug he returns is weak, though better than nothing. Short of finding his missing child, this is the best Draco can do to help him.
He is not surprised when Harry pulls back, face set in a determined stare. He leads him to a richly appointed office, barely giving him a moment to seat himself before he reverts to the Hit-Wizard Harry he is proud to call his brother-in-law.
Harry paces across the oak floor. "There are several people with motive to do this." He starts, tugging and twisting his black hair in thought. (Draco had tried relentlessly to get him to stop the habit when they were on the force, to no avail.) "Countless people from the underbelly of the wizarding world would sell their own mothers for a chance to get back at me. I've made more than a few enemies in the wizengamot, not to mention the people who stand to gain should House Potter go extinct. Then you have your 'reformed' death eaters, and-"
Draco holds up a hand to stop his monologue. This is where they excel. Having been partners since they began the rigorous training to become Hit-Wizards, Draco knows where Harry is going before he gets there.
"From your story, it sounds like they knew about James' magic sensitivity. They didn't stun him while they were taking him, and they threatened to use magic in order to get away." Harry nods in understanding, continuing Draco's train of thought.
"They were sent by someone who knows James, or at least suspects there is truth to the rumors about his...problem." Harry adjusts his glasses absentmindedly. Draco winces. 'Problematic' is one way to describe the bothersome magical hole in the wall of his nephew's heart. Because of its proximity to the volatile central magical reserve located in his chest, the tiniest bit of magic done around or on him could overwhelm the magical pathways throughout his body, killing him instantly.
The amount of people who know the specifics of James' condition is limited. Unfortunately for them, information that sensitive is a hot commodity in the seedier parts of the wizarding world.
Draco stands from the plush office chair. "I'm going to floo Tori. We'll likely be up all night, and Daphne's in no mind to take care of herself." As he steps back into the hallway and starts towards the still crowded living room, he catches sight of a photograph downed in today's madhouse.
From behind the fractured glass ordinarly wave a flour-dusted Daphne and a chortling Harry. The crack in the glass runs between them, cleaving right through what used to be the image of a tiny blonde haired boy.
Today is not an ordinary day.