It is no easy endeavour to become a Master Hit-Wizard.
The training to do so is fiercer than the flames of hell. The strongest of witches and wizards are broken down to blood and bone and back again.
That which emerges is not the same as that which went in.
The habits of a finely honed weapon never truly fade away, are only regulated to the subconscious upon retirement. Still they wait, an ocean of destruction waiting to be unleashed upon the unwary.
The clamor inside his head beats a familiar din. It is unending, a steady thump accompanying his every step. In its place has been quiet for so long now, but today the feeling is welcome.
It is the heartbeat of a warrior.
And he hungers for vengeance.
Today he stalks the streets of the lower alley, the little known cavern beneath Diagon proper deemed the 'Underbelly' by those in the know. Its homes and shops seem to leer from their foundations, grim facades bearing a chilling resemblance to a Hogsmeade beset by war. The inhabitants of this dismal place eye his tall form as he strides the sodden ground, unkempt brows raised in surprise and suspicion.
In the underbelly, appearance is key. To dress conspicuously, robes too high quality or shoes to clean, especially in these parts, is asking for trouble. Here, on the outer parts of the cavern, petty crime runs rampant and those deemed 'high-brow' are prime targets.
To dress conspicuously is bad, but to dress dangerously is worse.
Even Hit-Wizards, as competent as they are, disguise themselves before entering the Underbelly. A few petty criminals with wands are an annoyance best avoided when on a mission.
But today, Harry does not dress conspicuously, or even dangerously. Instead, he dresses to die. He goes without a glamour, distinctive green eyes and lighting bolt scar announcing to all his identity.
Not everyone in the underbelly hates Harry Potter. But enough of them have been affected one way or another by his tenure as a Hit-Wizard that the prospect of revenge, no matter how foolhardy, is enticing. A group approaches him from the far end of the street, two burly backed men led by a spindly woman. Wands drawn, they stalk towards him casually; ugly sneers warping otherwise plain faces. They sweep towards each other, an unstoppable force on a collision course with an immovable object.
Only the force is not unstoppable.
And the object is more than immovable.
Perhaps if the trio had sensed the danger that hung even heavier than usual about the Underbelly, sensed their impending doom in the form of the infamous man striding towards them, they could have earned a fate more merciful. Instead they march unknowingly towards slaughter.
The time for mercy is long past.
Harry does not slow as he approaches the group, only flicks out his holly wand towards one of the crumbling houses that line the walk. A shingle off of the decrepit building loosens itself from the roof, flying through the musty air and piercing the bulky man on the left. He staggers, sinking to his knees on the lonely path. Before his comrades can stop to offer him aid, they are rendered equally helpless, one cut down by the lid of a rusty dust bin, the other dispatched by a loose brick. They lay together, a crumpled pile of bodies and blood. The people who live along the walk make no attempt to approach them, apparently deciding that this shall not be the hill to they die on. The three are offered no avail, nor will they be.
No help comes to the Underbelly.
Harry continues on, loafer clad feet plodding the sodden ground. He encounters no more trouble on his journey, unsurprisingly. News spreads fast in the Underbelly, especially to those in power.
Which means his presence will not be a surprise, thankfully.
Madame Midnight does not appreciate surprises.
As he strolls deeper into the Underbelly, the abodes grow nicer. The path under his feet becomes more intact, missing stones giving way to perfectly paved sidewalks. The houses are painted bright colors, with flourishing gardens bearing all sorts of magical plants. The suspicious looks are constant, however. They grow even more wary, if possible.
There is no petty crime here. Instead, those who live here engage in 'white-robe crime', defrauding the ministry or running illegal smuggling rings. A fair few of these people know him by stride alone, and the ferocious glares that peek out from silk curtains belie the upscale nature of this neighborhood.
About halfway into his walk two wizards melt out of the shadows and set out after him. They take care not to approach him, and for all intents and purposes appear to be coincidentally going the same way as he.
Harry knows better.
There are no coincidences in the Underbelly.
He does not acknowledge their presence, only squares his shoulders in preparation as they enter the next sector of the city. There are no houses here, only the feel of very ancient and malevolent magic. The invisible tendrils curl around his body, seeping into his skin like poisonous fog. They welcome him back, sneer greetings into his ear with sarrchine toxicity.
There are many things he misses about his job, but this part of the Underbelly, rife with the most vile of wizarding criminals, is not one of them. He frequented these parts as a Master Hit-Wizard, consorting with masterminds and murders alike to put away those that caused more trouble than the Ministry was comfortable with. For so long this place was his home, a place where he could completely give into the dangerous creature the war fashioned him into.
He is not the same man he was than.
An end to the walk is finally in sight. The only house visible on the street looms large, an opulent manor that seems to leech despair into the air around it. It is well maintained, expansive grounds neatly trimmed, pristine exterior glistening. Still, something about the house is off, a sense of foreboding that intensifies with every step towards the oak door. Harry does not falter, strides past the open door and into an elegant wood-paneled foyer. Several people crowd the hall, all clad in midnight blue robes emblazoned with a double 'M'. They do not look at him outright, seem to ignore his presence, but Harry was not titled a master at his craft for nothing. These people are highly trained killing machines, and every iota of them is tensed in preparation to end his life should he so much as sneeze.
It's almost funny, how normal this all used to be for him.
The sentries who accompanied him on his journey to this place sweep past him, nondescript clothing melting into the blue robes of their counterparts as they venture further into the house. Harry follows them nonchalantly, emerald eyes memorizing the layout of the house as he leaves the entry hall.
He'll be of little use to anyone trapped in the Underbelly for the rest of his life.
The men lead him to a central courtyard, lush foliage partly concealing a white bench underneath a gazebo of fire tipped roses. The tiny flames sprouting from the petals illuminate the face of a gnarled woman, oak cane suspended in the air beside where she lounges. Her hair is streaked with pure white strands, as if splattered with paint. Her eyes are completely black, somehow zeroing in on Harry despite their inability to see. Behind her are a group of seven sapphire robed witches, stone gazes trained past Harry. The sentries disappear, and Harry is left alone with the most dangerous woman in all of the wizarding world.
Stepping forward, Harry draws a small glass vial from the pocket of his muggle pants. The maroon liquid inside moves sluggishly, darkening to black as Harry extends his hand to the old woman in front of him. Her eyes do not follow him, and the bottle hangs between them until a liver spotted hand reaches to grab it. The woman considers it, swinging the timorous container back and forth before pocketing it. Behind her, one of the witches fidgets minutely, but Harry, already on edge from the Underbelly takes careful note of it.
The clamor hightens.
The woman stretches out a wizened hand again, proffering its veiny back to Harry. Carefully, he lifts it to his mouth, preparing to complete the ritual that will hopefully bring him one step closer to finding his son. At any other time, he might laugh at the irony of the most feared wizarding mastermind indulging in such a muggle ceremony.
At any other time the clamor in his head would not be deafening.
Perhaps if Harry were a little more desperate, remembered a little less about the times the racket inside his head has kept him from an untimely and gruesome death, screamed out a warning alarm at unseen danger; he would have ignored the ear-splitting noise in favor of kissing the Madames hand. Perhaps if Harry had been trained a little less, danced with death fewer times; he would have thrown caution to the wind and done whatever it took to get his son back.
Maybe if he were a little less Slytherin, he wouldn't have been able to tell that the wrinkled old woman sitting in front of him was in fact, not Madame Midnight.
As it is, a Harry hardened by war and work knows better. Knows that Madame Midnight does not hesitate, knows that despite unseeing eyes the woman follows all movement, no matter how minute. Harry is well aware that the guard women who stand behind the Madame at all times do not fidget, because nervous fingers mean a battle hardened soldier itching for her wand, mean beams of death and destruction radiating from every ounce of her being. They do not fidget, unless given a reason to.
Harry knows that he has given them no such reason.
Studying the small hand within his own closely, he takes careful note of the liver spots that dot the spindly appendage. They are a deep brown, round as pennies upon the woman. Under the light of the roses them seem almost sinister, as if goading him into making a fatal mistake.
To treat anyone in the Underbelly with the deference accorded to only Madame Midnight is regarded as treason.
Down here, their is only one punishment for a traitor.
Death.
Harry releases the falsey aged hand he holds softly. The old woman starts, turning to the left of Harry, unknowingly confirming his suspicions. He laughs loudly, reaching out to grab the hand of the sentry behind the woman on the bench, kissing it happily. He steps back to the center of the courtyard, relaxed despite the seven wands pointed directly at him.
The clamor has quieted.
Slowly, the woman on the bench rises, snatching her cane from the air with a withered arm. She hobbles towards him, black eyes set above a fierce snarl. She halts in front of him, white streaked hair seeming to crackle with fire in the light of the garden. One wilted hand rises to grip his cheek, hard.
"Do you realize what you have done, Harry Potter?" Her voice is quiet, it's ferocious rasp radiating about the room. Still Harry smiles, waggling black eyebrows at her playfully. She hisses at him, sharp nails drawing blood as she tightens her hold on his face.
"Perhaps, in the years you have been away, you have forgotten the rules of the Underbelly. Even so, surely you remember the punishment for traitors?" Her snarl morphs into a wicked smile, black eyes trained on his nose. "But, in the spirit of forgiveness, we shall grant you one last chance to prove yourself. Do not fail us, Harry Potter." The same unnaturally spotted hand appears in front of him, stretched out invitingly.
The clamor is back, screeching now.
A compelling charm. How wonderful.
Harry squares his shoulders, jade eyes narrowed in concentration. Madame Midnight is no Voldemort, however, and it is not long before the urge to kiss the hand passes. Instead, Harry, thoroughly enjoying himself, extends his own hand, shaking the other one firmly.
The woman in front of him rears back, preparing to strike. Before she can, the fidgety sentry speaks up.
"That is enough, Hilda. He has not been deceived." The woman disappears with a 'crack', appearing again in front of them. She unsheathes a dark wand and taps Hilda on the head, than herself. Hilda reverts to the blue robes of a sentry, long nose twitching in disgust as she considers Harry with now misty grey eyes. The real Madame Midnight takes on her original appearance, black eyes now locked directly into Harry's green.
She smiles.
"Harry Potter. Always interfering with my best laid plans, weren't you?" She takes the vial from Hilda's now outstretched hand and considers it carefully. "Basilisk blood, eh?" She chuckles softly. "Then again, I'm not surprised. You always were one to spoil my fun." How she manages to discern what the vial is without looking, Harry does not know.
He isn't sure if he wants to.
"But alas," She waves away her sentries with a flick of her aged hand. Only Hilda hesitates, shooting Harry one last glare before filing out of the courtyard. The Madame turns, beckoning Harry to sit next to her on the bench. ",You are not here to reminisce on old times. You want your son." She gesticulates vaguely. Harry notes the the liver spots on her hands, natural now, irregular and varying in size. She notices his gaze and smiles wryly. "Even I have never quite been able to get the gemini charm to work on such a minute detail of organic matter. Difficult work, that is." She considers the vial in her palm, humming to herself before turning back to Harry.
"You believe James was taken for revenge. Perhaps someone from the Underbelly bitter from your exploits down here. And who wouldn't be? You put some of our most noteworthy people away, locked up those we thought would cause the Ministry terror for years to come." At his raised brow, she shakes her head. "Of course, I understand. You did your job, even to the detriment of some in the Underbelly,"
Before she can continue, Harry interrupts incredulously. "You object to me having put away murderers? People who did awful, awful things to innocent peo-" The Madame raises one hand. "Do not interrupt me Harry Potter." Her black eyes consider him carefully. "No matter how powerful you are, you will die here if I should decree so." Harry nods, concealing a small shudder. Madame Midnight is not a woman to be trifled with. Seeing his acquiescence, she continues.
"I understand the Yin and Yang of our world, Harry Potter. You must keep the worst of the dark from tainting the light, and without the dark, there is nothing to make the light what it is. We are all necessary, in the grand scheme of things. Even so, the wizards and witches you used to capture were not just criminals, or murderers, or smugglers. They were people." She plucks one of the roses off of the gazebo, cradling the fire flower in the palm of her hand. "Each one of those people supported the Underbelly, employed its poorer residents or sponsored the opening of new establishments. And every time you sent one of them to their doom-" She smothers each one of the flames in turn, leaving the extinguished flower in her palm. "-those people are left unmoored, bereft of yet another support system." She crushes the flower suddenly, opening her hand to allow its decayed form to drift to the ground.
"We are equal in this world, Harry Potter. Some of us less so than others." She stands, oaken cane further smushing the flower on the ground. "Your son was not taken for the reason you think. All in the Underbelly know of your prowess. None of my people would be idiotic enough to take your child. That would only result in your wrath. No," She turns back to him. "Your son was stolen by someone close to you. Someone who does not want revenge, someone who knew about your distaste in aurors and about James' magic sensitivity." She snorts at Harry's startled glance despite not being able to see him. "Of course I am aware of your son's little problem, Harry Potter. Even accidents in St. Mungos are not outside my realm of knowledge."
She beckons Harry towards her, pressing a blue token into his hand when he reaches her. It is small and round, emblazoned with a silver double 'M' much like the robes her servants wear. "A token," she whispers conspiratorially even though they are alone. "No one will approach you on your journey back. Wouldn't want you to perish before you could repay the favor you owe me now, would we?" Her laugh is cold and mocking, leeching the warmth provided by the flowers from the room. She hobbles out of the courtyard, cane thumping the ground steadily. Before she disappears from sight, she pauses; drawing a curious gaze from Harry.
"We here in the Underbelly are no fools. If we were to truly exact revenge on you, we wouldn't touch your family." She continues her slow stroll back to the main house, leaving Harry to wonder as her last words revervate around the courtyard.
"We would kill you first."
The second Thursday of every month is an unremarkable one for most of the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron. They shuffle in after work, grabbing a pint at the bar and striking up mundane conversation with the other customers before heading home.
Perhaps if any of the regulars on Thursdays were proficient at recognizing 'notice me not' charms, this particular Thursday wouldn't be so unremarkable.
As it is, none of them take notice of the gaggle of people who populate the large table at the back of the dusky room.
The table, already beset by several extending charms, struggles to contain the multitude of people sat around it. At one end is Kingsley Shacklebolt, bald head somehow glistening in the dim light of the pub. At the other is Harry Potter, scars upon his cheek from the day's exploits still red and raised, dark bags under his eyes a stark contrast to the bright grin on his face. The table is weighed down with copious amounts of fried food and ale, and the din of conversation puts up a fierce fight against the powerful silencing charm enclosing the place. Harry rolls his eyes at Kingsley, gesturing towards the others with his pint. Kingsley chuckles in return, standing up and clearing his throat to gain the attention of the other occupants of the table. Unsurprisingly, it does not work. Shaking his head at Harry's guffaw, Kingsley slams his hands down on the table.
In unison, ten heads swivel to look at the Minister.
"Now that everyone's been more than satiated," Kingsley gives a pointed glance to one of the redheads at the table. Ron flames a firetruck red, dropping the fry headed towards his maw with a gulp. Harry hurriedly coughs to cover his laugh as Ron flashes him a betrayed glare. Kingsley continues, doing his best to ignore the men in front of him.
"We're here for a reason." The light atmosphere of the room is gone in an instant, replaced by worried determination. "One of our own has been wronged, and everyone in this room is going to play a part to fix that. Several of you-" Kingsley nods towards seven of the people. "-are Hit-Wizards. Some of you are dear friends with a penchant for causing mayhem." Kings makes eye contact with the other three. "Either way, this operation is completely off the record. We don't need some slimy opportunist at the ministry catching wind of this and booking us all in violation of some of the Ministry's newer laws. Harry-" Kingsley sits down, gesturing towards the other man at the end of the table. "-has some new information. Hal?"
Harry stands, green eyes taking in everyone around the table. That their monthly get togethers have been turned into a war council of sorts seems an inevitable outcome; the unavoidable result of gathering eight professional warriors and four battle hardened heroes together during peace times. Many of the faces he recognizes from Hogwarts, older now- high end of twenty year old faces beset by ghosts of war.
He knows he would see the same on his own face if he looked into a mirror.
"Friends," Harry begins, usually jovial attitude replaced by a somber facade. "As some of you may know," He sends Draco, seated beside him, a sly glance. "I went down to visit our friends in the Underbelly today." The table erupts in laughter. "I'm sure they we're happy to see you, Hal!" Neville hollers from his place near Ron. Harry winks in return. The men, although less familiar with the Underbelly, know enough to understand the likelihood of Harry being warmly received by the criminal hive are slim to none.
"Alright, alright." Harry beckons them to hush with his hands. "I ventured up to the Madame's place, and she relinquished some...interesting information." Barely constrained hopeful gazes shine back at Harry. "Well, what'd she say Hal? Did she know where James was?" Susan Bones is the first to articulate the feelings of the room, small hands tapping the table with excitement. She does not come often to these meetings, her presence tonight being at the request of Kingsley.
Harry scratches his head absently. "No, Sue; nothing that wonderful. But," He continues, looking around the table. "She did say that no one in the Underbelly had him. Didn't exactly give me a suspect, but narrowed down the parameters, that's for sure." The council nods in understanding. None question Madame Midnight's words, not even those not strictly in-the-know. Madame Midnight, for all her 'illicit' dealings, is always truthful in what she chooses to reveal.
But then again, are lies of omission not lies all the same?
Draco pipes up next to Harry. "That's good then." He intones, pawing his scraggly beard in thought. "The Underbelly and all its offshoots would take us months to evaluate. But that does change out predicted motive…" He trails off in thought.
Anthony Goldstein chimes in. "Well, it would have to be someone with political connections. That new bill was no matter of inconvenient timing. Perhaps someone on the wizengamot? It explains why they would get Smith to do their dirty work, take suspicion off of them." There are a few nods from around the table at the young Hit-Wizards suggestion, but Harry is not convinced.
"What's the motive though?" He asks the room at large. "I don't think I've done anything to tick off anyone on the Wizengamot all that much." Kingsley hums in agreement, bags under his eyes illuminated by the low light. "Have we thought about any rivals? The Auror department, perhaps? Rumor says you're thinking of making a comeback to the Hit-Wizard squad. We all know Robards would do anything to prevent that, St Mungos bound or not. He'd have the resources to pull off a heist on Potter Manor, with his wife's recent promotion and all. Say-" Kingsley's puzzled frown turns to a sly grin. "Are you coming back Harry?"
The table laughs, drawn out of their somber discussions with the inside joke. Harry glares at the older man playfully. "Wouldn't you like to know, Shacklebolt." Harry teases. "We all know you kicked up a right fuss after I left."
With that, the table returns to its deliberations, pondering over motive and means until the early morning. Slowly, the people file out, Ron and George gone back to their homes, followed by Neville and Anthony, than several of the Hit-Wizards. Harry leaves Susan and Draco to chat, approaching the bald minister still sat at the end of the table.
"The Mrs. keeping you up at night, eh?" Harry jokes, taking a seat beside the older man. Kingsley waggles his finger at Harry. "Your mind is so firmly up a gutter, I don't know how you see." He mutters, eyes closed. He looks even worse up close, exhaustion evident in the set of his brow. Noticing Harry's worried gaze even from behind closed eyes, he speaks softly. "Don't worry about me. A little dreamless sleep and I'll be right as rain." He stands carefully, weight unevenly divided between his legs. "I'd better head home." He claps one hand on Harry's shoulder. "We'll find your boy, Potter. Don't you worry." With that, the man limps out of the room. Harry stands as well, tugging on his black hair in frustration until a warm hand reaches up to stop his own.
"Hey there, stranger." Susan Bones smiles sadly, still clutching his callused hand within her own. "Lot's happened since we last saw each other, huh?" Her brown eyes twinkle despite the dim lighting. Usually tempestuous rust colored hair is constrained by a careful plait.
He can't help but compare it to the ones he used to practice on her.
That was a long, long time ago.
"S-Sue!" He stutters pathetically. "I-It's been what, a decade since we last saw each other, huh?" In a desperate effort to regain his cool, he ignores her quiet chuckle and leans against the table.
His posture is unnatural and uncomfortable, and only serves to make Susan laugh harder.
Swell.
Draco, wonderful brother-in-law that he is, comes to the rescue. "Hal and I had better get home, Sue. It was nice seeing you!" The blonde man waves with one hand as he bustles Harry out of the room with the other. It is only when they are outside the Cauldron that he stops.
And promptly slaps Harry upside the head.
"What is it with you and redheads, Potter?" Draco asks incredulously. "It's like you lose half your brain cells when you're around them- and you don't have many to spare!" Harry glares at the other man. "Look who's talking Malfoy." He mutters childishly. "I married a blonde, much like you did, might I add."
Draco scoffs. "At least I don't forget my wife whenever a certain someone is around…" The Hit-Wizard trails off knowingly. Harry halts in his path, left spluttering. "K-knock if off, Malfoy. Sue and I have history, that's all."
"Whatever you say Potter!" Draco calls from his place further down the sidewalk. Muggle London has ground to a halt this time of day, bright lights illuminating empty sidewalks and closed storefronts. Harry hurries to catch up to the still strolling Draco, drawing close to the other man in silence.
"There was something you weren't telling us tonight." Draco says after a little while. Harry does not startle, unsurprised that the other man is able to read him so well.
"Midnight said that James was taken by someone close to me. Someone who didn't want revenge, who was close enough to know about his sensitivity. I figured that anyone in there could have done it, they all fit the parameters. Didn't seem wise to let any of them know about it." Draco nods in understanding, fiddling with the collar of his coat.
"What about me? Surely I am the most likely suspect out of everyone there." Harry turns to his brother-in-law, one eyebrow raised. "Did you do it?" He asks, seemingly unconcerned about Draco's answer. Draco answers without hesitation. "Of course not."
Harry nods, continuing his walk down the avenue. The blonde follows, confusion evident on his face.
"So what did you find out?" Harry only chuckles at the other man's question. Still, he continues. "Well? I know you, I wouldn't be standing here if you thought it was me. What do you know?" Harry pauses, drawing to a stoic stop on the sidewalk. He whispers a silent spell before turning to Draco.
"Firstly, you're right. You do have the most motive out of anyone." Before Draco can interrupt, Harry raises a hand. "Who is the executor of my will?" He asks, seemingly out of nowhere. Puzzled, Draco responds haltingly. "I am." Harry nods. "And who is my main beneficiary should I die childless?" Confusion slowly giving way to understanding, Draco breathes out the answer.
"Daphne."
Harry smiles. "Right in one." He says simply. "And should Daphne die childless, Astoria is her heir. Meaning your son-" He strides towards Draco and pokes him square in the chest. "-would eventually inherit the Potter estate. We've established a motive." He sticks up one finger from his free hand. "The Malfoy fortune is still quite substantial, despite the hit from the wars. Substantial enough to sway a few votes on the Wizengamot, I'd say. That's means, right there." Another finger joins the first. "All that's left is alibi." His smile, only minutes ago light and genuine, turns cold under the fluorescent lights.
"From what we learned when we… 'questioned' the one survivor from the heist, their services were purchased about a month ago. November twelfth, to be exact. Do you remember where you were on the twelfth Draco?" Harry steps forward until the space between the men is barely enough for the winter wind to swirl through. "Because I sure don't. In fact, I know where you weren't. As I recall it, Astoria said you were away on 'business' when we came to visit." Harry's eyes are avada kedavra green now, dangerous glimmer sending a shiver down Draco's spine. A third and final, damning finger joins the other two.
"Any Hit-Wizard worth their salt would say you were guilty. It's all right there." Harry's nonchalant shrug looks wrong somehow, an eerie pantomime that sets Draco even more on edge. "But I, family man that I am, couldn't believe it! How could my partner, my brother-in-law, a man I consider family, do something so vile?" The black haired man shakes his head in disbelief. Draco is hard pressed to remember that Harry doesn't in fact believe that he is at fault.
"So I set about poking holes in my own theory. Means and motive were practically irrefutable, so I left those alone." The first two fingers remain resolutely in the air. "So I set about giving you an alibi. I, in my effort to exonerate you, did some less than legal things." His chuckle is insincere. "Traced your magical signature, for one." Harry scoffs at the horrified look in Draco's eyes. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Malfoy. I'm trying to help you, remember?" At this casual dismissal, Draco cannot stay silent.
"Don't get my knickers in a twist? You can't just track people's magical signatures, it's immoral, not to mention illegal! That's the most primitive part of any magical person, you can't just track it like-" Harry groans with impertinence. "Do you want to know what I found, or not?" At Draco's grudging nod, Harry continues.
"I tracked it to Manchester, actually. Quite a while from your house in Suffolk, isn't it? It's funny, actually-" He gives Draco no time to respond before he goes on. "-I tracked it down to a muggle house.. The home of one Emily Thomson, twenty seven years of age, actually." Harry begins to pace, body filled with nervous energy as he explains the events of earlier today. "I'm sure you can imagine my confusion! What was Draco Malfoy doing at the home of a muggle woman, hours away from where he lives? So, I went searching. I asked our friends in the muggle law enforcement for a few records, nothing special. " Harry's pace picks up now, nearly frantic as he whirls about the sidewalk. "I found out a little more about Ms. Thomson, mainly that she lives with her fiance, William Poole, and her two children, Benjamin and Cassiopeia Thomson. Nothing remarkable right? Only-" Harry's walk stutters to a close in front of Draco. His hands shake, fingers twitching with palpable excitement. Draco cannot help but compare this image, the frantic Harry hot on the tail of a particularly difficult puzzle, to the partner he knew years ago, the one who- if perhaps mentally unstable-was happy.
He hasn't seen this Harry in years.
Oblivious to Draco's inner monologue, Harry continues his theorizing, gesticulating wildly. "-I recognized those names. Benjamin and Cassiopeia. But I couldn't quite remember-" He thumps his head with one hand. "-quite where I had seen them before!" His voice is hysterical now, fever pitch reverberating down the deserted streets.
"But! Then, something told me. Motive, Harry! Look at the motive! And what's the motive- the will! And just as you are the executor of my will, I am of yours. And I'm thinking, I'm thinking- why would the children of this muggle woman be in your will? Where would they be? And then, it hits me!" He raises his hands suddenly, startling Draco; still locked in his memories. "The Malfoy family, with all the connections it has, has hundreds of people entitled to some kind of stipend or other. Nearly every Pureblood family does, me included! Of course, hardly anyone ever bothers to look through them all, far too time consuming, of course. But, I'm not purely trying to clear your name anymore, no! I'm genuinely curious now. So I spend hours at Gringotts, pouring over your will, until I finally find what I'm looking for."
Harry places his rough hands on Draco's shoulders, frenetic green eyes meeting reminiscent grey. Harry leans in close, tone quieter if not calmer. "Two names, entitled to a small vault each. Benjamin and Cassiopeia Thomson." Harry tilts back, rocking back and forth on unsteady feet. "So now I know. These children aren't muggles- they have a Gringotts vault! I'm on my way to Hogwarts anyway, tea with Minnie, you see, so I convince her to let me see the mailing list for the next couple years. I'm looking of course, for Benjamin and Cassiopeia! I want to know more- how old are they? Why are you providing for them instead of their parents? How do you even know these people? Do you know what I find on the mailing list Draco?" Harry waits patiently for the other man's answer. He obliges after a pause.
"You found their names on the list for the next couple of years." It is not a guess, but a confirmation. Harry nods excitedly. "Yes! But more than that. I found their full names-something rarely used in the wizarding world, interestingly enough. Do you know what their full names are Draco?" Draco does not hesitate before answering this time.
"Benjamin Abraxas and Cassiopeia Septima." Draco says clearly, with something akin to relief. "You would have found Benj on the mailing list for next year, with Cass on the one three years after that." Harry snaps with excitement. "Bingo!" He says happily. "And you have an alibi. You were visiting your children." Harry peers at Draco curiously. "They are yours, aren't they? Those names can't be a coincidence."
Draco chuckles sadly. "No, they're mine. I met their mom not long after the war really picked up. She was, is a muggle- sweet girl. Kind. She didn't judge or ask questions when we met, just...love. I needed that during the war. Benj was born not long after I met her."
"Oh." Harry breathes, eyes less frantic now. "That's when you defected to the Order." Draco nods slowly, caught up in memories from the war. "I knew if anyone were to find about them, it would be all of our deaths. I figured that if I wasn't doing my best to make sure he grew up in a world where he was safe, I wasn't doing my job as a father." He smiles sadly. "Cass was born a few years later. It was still so soon after the war, I couldn't justify bringing them out to the world in a situation like that. Their mother didn't like that too much, finally left me for a man who didn't have to hide her away. Now I can only sneak away every so often to see them; like they're some kind of dirty secret. I can't even tell Tori!" Draco's voice rises in frustration. "Because I'm so used to protecting them by keeping them a secret, and now if I tell her, it looks like I've been hiding them for some other nefarious reason! I-I just…"
He trails off, exhausted by the late hour and his unexpected tirade. Harry lays one heavy hand on his shoulder. "It must be hard." He utters quietly. "To love someone so much and not be able to tell anyone about them." Draco snorts derisively. "Yeah. It is." The blonde buries his head in his hands. Harry, not quite knowing how to offer comfort, settles for the safe route.
"Tell me about them."
His simple statement draws Draco out of his husk, grey eyes shining brightly at the other man's words. "Really?" He asks, surprised. "You want to hear about them?" Harry only smiles in response.
The two men stroll off into the inky night, one animatedly babbling about the adventures of one reckless boy and a rather precocious little girl. The smiles on their faces are genuine, placed there by a unadulterated love and affection neither have known for weeks.
(Perhaps if they had been a little less bubbly, a little more wary, they would have noticed the pale brown eyes that illuminated the night behind them.)
Daphne Potter is not one to sit around listlessly when trouble comes.
She was not during the Battle of Hogwarts; when she ripped the house crest off of her school robes in order to avoid the evacuation of her housemates and aid in the struggle against Voldemort.
She was not during the fighting; when despite the crackle of deadly spells flying overhead she attended the wounded with a compassion that belied the usual cutthroat ambition of her house.
She was not after the war ended; when she testified against the people who made up her childhood, told a riveted court about the vile exploits they had informed her about doing during the war, oblivious to her disgust.
Daphne Greengrass is no layabout.
Even now, she does not hide away from the world as she so desperately wants to. Contrary to what her family thinks, she has been busy during this time- employing her considerable contacts in a desperate effort to regain her son.. Her days are hazey, from wake up to vomit up the nothing in her stomach to scour through every avenue she can think of to find her child.
The cargo holds under her eyes decry the feeling of fatigue that weighs heavy on her shoulders, like a blanket. She has not seen the familiar white walls of her hospital ward in weeks, she has lost weight, and she would be hard-pressed to recite any of the information her husband has managed to glean since their son's kidnapping.
All she hears is that they have not found him.
Her emotions are a tumultuous whirlwind, keeping all around her at bay as they bound wildly, taking her to fervent hope to studied silence to destructive terror faster than she can note.
Right now, they have settled on anger.
Quiet, seething, anger.
It is perhaps inevitable that one Harry Potter would stumble into the nest of this viper, half drunk and perfectly ignorant of Daphne's fury. The clamor inside of his head, for all it's prophetic qualities, is not impervious to this danger.
An angry wife.
"Where have you been?" Her voice is quiet, deadly so. Harry, partially inebriated as he is, does not pick up on her tone, nor the rigidity of her body. Instead, he can only grin, well aware that this is the most words his wife has uttered to him in weeks.
"It's Thursday sweetheart. I was with the old crowd-I told you before I left, remember? Hey, are you alright? You don't look so good." Daphne brushes away his apparent concern with one pale hand.
"The old crowd, huh? What, you figured you'd go and get a pint with the boys, pretend everything was a-okay at home? That your only child wasn't missing, and scared, and waiting for you to step up and do something about it?"
Daphne stands abruptly, knocking over a nearby vase in her haste. Harry's previously happy face shuts down, a stern line replacing the smile that had inhabited it only moments ago.
"I don't appreciate the insinuation that I do not love my child, Daphne." His tone matches hers now, cold and unnerving. "Do not presume to tell me how I should and should not search for him- because make no mistake, I am searching for him, and I will continue to do so until I find him. Besides-" He cocks an eyebrow mockingly. "If anyone is doing nothing to get him back, its you. What have you done, other than sit here and cry?" His words have turned callous and unforgiving almost in an instant. This is no longer the Harry Potter who would bottle up his emotions, only to explode upon the innocent and unsuspecting.
No, this Harry has no time to be nice.
"What have I done? What have I done?" Daphne laughs incredulously. "Are you that daft, that you think you can go about gallivanting through the Underbelly and snoop into ministry and Gringott files without attracting any attention? Did you really think you could threaten people in back alleyways and get away scott free? You are not a Hit-Wizard anymore Harry, people know that your more 'illicit' actions aren't ministry sanctioned. You are not invincible!" Daphne's hands twitch, as if she wants to slap her husband. "I spent all day cleaning up your mess- it turns out that it is possible for someone to violate at least ten different privacy laws in one day! Who knew?" Daphne throws her hands in the air and laughs shrilly. Harry tenses, frown deeping at his wife's words.
"You know, I'm really tired of you acting like the world revolves around you Harry. It doesn't. There are consequences for your actions, you have to learn! I know Dumbledore protected you from the worst of them when he was alive, but that doesn't mean you can get away with acting like there aren't any in the real world." Daphne sighs and sinks to the couch, mood swing already pivoting and sending her into the quiet realm of exhaustion. Harry is not satiated, however, and folds his arms petulantly.
"You know, for someone who hasn't seen me for more than a couple of hours in the last few days, you sure don't act happy. I mean, you could learn a lesson or two from Sue. She was sure happy to see me today, although it has been a while- I'll have to rectify that." He walks deeper into the living room, all false nonchalance as he waits for Daphne's reaction.
His only reward is a watery chuckle.
"You're trying to make me jealous, is that what this is? I tell you you're being a puerile and spoiled man-child, and your response is to tell me that you saw your ex tonight? Ha!" Her laugh is sharp and unnatural. She stands and stretches, sock clad feet softly padding the floor towards the stairs. She pauses beside the stoic Harry, eyeing him up and down critically.
Judging from her expression, she does not like what she sees.
"I'm not asking much from you. I'm not asking you to change who you are, or turn this whole thing into a witch hunt for anyone who has ever wronged you. I don't want you to blow to bits anyone who looks at you funny. I just want you to act like a man. That-" She pats his still scarred cheek twice. Her hand is cold and small, cooling his cheeks still flaming with anger. "-is all I want." Daphne continues up the stairs, tiny body quickly disappearing up the large staircase. Her voice echoes down from the banister when she reaches the top, wisps of blonde hair displaced from the sloppy bun atop her head.
"I'll be at St. Mungo's all day tomorrow. Don't wait up for me."
She is gone before he can respond.
He is left in her wake, still stock still where she left him at the bottom of the stairs. It is only the chime of the grandfather clock that startles him, enabling him to traipse down the hall to the linen closet and begin making his bed on the couch Daphne had just evacuated. As he settles himself down to sleep, he is struck by the thought that perhaps his wife is not far off in her estimates of his character.
He dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes.
Unsurprisingly.
He drifts off eventually, green eyes fluttering closed to the soft sounds of early morning. On the mantle, a couple waltz under a starry background, picture frame bound selves oblivious to the trouble their counterparts face.
They are an uncompromising duo, neither willing to give an inch.
This is the unstoppable force.
And here is its immovable object.