Stumbling to his feet, Harry arrived at the alleyway of a busy street and looked around. It was fairly isolated, with only the soft winds filling his ears. Carefully, he approached the end of the alleyway and leaned against the corner of it to observe his surroundings. He waited for any Ministry worker that seemed oddly dressed. Wizards always had a habit of queer Muggle outfits. They could never pull it off unless they were Muggle-born.
Of course, they weren't the only ones. Harry, himself, looked rather suspicious as well. But years of disguises had prepared him for the challenge. His messy hair was light brown tonight. His glasses were dark and dim to where his eyes wouldn't show. He was dressed in a light green jumper and dark brown trousers that seemed fitting for the chill winter air.
But he knew that he needed to change into Wizard clothes. It wasn't actually an original look. In fact, he had gotten the idea from one of the Daily Prophet articles that featured a young man at about his age that had been recruited for the Auror Office. But the young man had apparently been so brilliant that the Head Auror had given him permission to skip Auror training. Harry had taken the appearance with the hope that would gain entry into the Auror office where, he knew that, Ron Weasley worked.
Suddenly, Harry jolted.
There, at the end of the alleyway, was an individual with polka-dot light lilac coat and a bowled hat on top. He seemed very strange, glancing around warily. Harry immediately took cover. He ducked behind a parked car and waited until the figure crossed his path before he took action.
"Stupefy," he whispered.
He caught the man before he fell. Glancing around, he dragged the man into an isolated corner before he started to look through his belongings.
He knew it was wrong to steal. But what choice did he have?
As he expected, he rummaged through the man's rucksack and found out that was a wizard. He sighed in relief when he realized that the man was also an Auror. He pulled out the chestnut-colored robe and cloak from his rucksack and pulled them on. Then, he gently adjusted the man's position to look like he had just been sleeping against the wall before he turned to walk away. With a deep inhale, he tentatively exited the alleyway. Glancing around, he noticed that there was a large body of people walking down to a sort of underground entrance. He followed the crowd with wary feet. He made sure that no one was following him before he entered.
It was the most bizarre thing that he had ever seen in his life. There was almost a hundred people lined up in the bathroom. How anyone could get any privacy was beyond his knowledge. Harry followed them, feeling rather stupid. But soon, he realized that there was a certain rhythm to it. It was almost robotic.
Step in. Shut door. Flush.
It didn't seem like anyone was actually using the bathroom. In fact, as Harry looked around, he realized that there were some men dressed in long robes. Feeling bewildered, he tapped the shoulder of the bloke in front of him.
"Oi," he said, trying to stifle his confusion. "How does this work, exactly? Does this lead to the Ministry?"
But the man looked back and smiled.
"Oh, are you new around here?" he asked good-naturedly. Harry slowly nodded. "Don't worry there, son. Just step on the toilet and flush, and you'll find yourself in the Ministry in no time."
"Thanks."
As Harry reached to the place, he did as he was told. Sure enough, he arrived at the fireplaces but stumbled helplessly on the landing.
"Never got better at this," he muttered, brushing soot off of his robes. But as he heard the rush of flame, he stepped aside and allowed the man behind him through before he looked around. He needed to find Ron Weasley. That he meant that he needed to find the Auror Office. He looked around and found a large map beside the fountain that told him that it was at Level Two. Breathing deeply, he tried to stifle his heart racing as he treaded down the Atrium to find a lift.
The gravity of the situation finally hit him, as he moved past the throng of Ministry workers. He realized how utterly dangerous this was. To walk in plain sight in the center of the Ministry, even though he was disguised. He didn't belong here. He didn't belong with these ordinary people. He was a criminal. He was a threat to them. And by choosing to help Arthur Weasley and the Order, he was basically risking the lives of innocents by being here. He could very well hurt them. He could very well kill them. Voldemort could posses him at any time, any place until he did.
Or even worse . . . If he was caught . . . If they, in fact, discovered that he was Harry Potter . . .
The Dementor's Kiss.
Clearing his thoughts, he entered the lift. The door had almost slammed shut when someone's staff suddenly blocked it. Harry looked up. To his horror, he realized the two men that offered him dirty glances before they entered together.
It was the Malfoys. Lucius and his son, Draco.
"Can't hold a lift for a gentleman?" sneered Draco. He gave Harry a disgusted look before he turned his back.
But Harry regained his composure. He repressed the urge to turn both him and his father into bubotuber pus for what they had done to him in the past.
"Draco Malfoy," he said coolly. "Never thought I'd ever hear your dulcet tone here in the Ministry." He didn't care if he was giving himself away. He was too furious that they were allowed to work in the Ministry despite being known worldwide as Death Eaters. Hell, they were even part of the Inner Circle for Merlin's sake!
But the two whipped around, their faces curled into snarls. With their expressions, Harry assumed that they thought he was Muggle-born.
"Not surprising that you know who I am," sneered Draco. "You must know of my reputation against Mudblood-lovers like yourself. Isn't that right, Marcius?"
Harry blinked.
Marcius? Oh, right. That was the Auror's name.
"You mean the reputation of being the most spoiled prat in the Ministry?" said Harry savagely. "I'd say you earned it."
Draco looked furious. But his father held him back as the lift opened up.
"Come, Draco," said Lucius, shooting a disgusted look at Harry. "It is not wise to waste your breath on filth like this."
Harry glared.
"Oh, don't worry," he said angrily. "Where he's going, he won't have any breath to waste."
He pointedly ignored the appalled looks of the Malfoys before the doors slammed shut. He was trembling with fury. How many Death Eaters were here in the Ministry? Why the Hell was the Ministry foolish enough to keep them here? Shouldn't they be in Askaban? If they wanted to arrest Harry for his crimes, why the Hell weren't the other Death Eaters getting punished? They were as bad as he was.
Why arrest him, and not the others?
Shaking his head out of his thoughts, he exited the lift. Though his anger overruled his fear of being caught. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was probably the most dangerous out of them all. He reminded to be extra careful around here. Suddenly, footsteps echoed across the circular room. Harry quickly ducked behind a Gargoyle as the footsteps grew louder. He realized that it wasn't just one person but several others. His heart raced when he realized . . .
They sounded familiar.
" . . . need to watch yourself, Dad," said a concerned voice. "At this rate, you might need to see a Healer about that bladder of yours–"
"Oh, that won't be necessary," added another voice hastily.
Harry's heart nearly stopped when he heard the voice.
Could it be . . .?
Carefully, he cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and peeked up from behind the Gargoyle. What he found was absolutely mind-boggling.
No bloody way.
At the entrance of the hallway, Ron Weasley and his father stood, apparently having a rather animated discussion. They looked casual and normal, but it disgusted Harry beyond measure. He thought that the Weasleys were mourning the loss of their father figure. He thought that they were actually concerned about him. He thought that they knew how terrible of a danger that he was in.
But they didn't.
They didn't know that the man that they had been living with for almost two weeks was a bloody imposter. They didn't know that the real Arthur Weasley was nearly on his death bed. They didn't know that he was bloody paralyzed from the waist down. Harry felt the familiar hot, boiling anger pulsing at his insides. No wonder Arthur had losing his hair at a rapid rate lately.
With the greatest effort, he stifled his temper enough to not try anything rash, though the urge was beyond tempting. But he couldn't get caught. He needed to stay alive. He needed to save the Order. There were almost a hundred lives at stake.
Shaking his head, he focused on the conversation.
"Really," added the Arthur imposter hastily, avoiding his son's narrowed eyes. "Don't worry about me. If it gets worse, I'll see a Healer about it."
"Sounds fair," muttered Ron. But he didn't look convinced.
"Well, I'll be in my office if you need me," he said, waving a hand dismissively. He scurried off without a backwards glance. "Take care, son."
As Arthur left, Ron sighed. He still looked concerned. But he turned back to tread down the hallway. Harry followed close behind him. But Ron kept glancing back to look behind him. Almost as if he sensed that something was off.
But Harry couldn't reveal himself just yet. It was hardly private enough. To his dismay, however, Ron was not choosing a private place at all. Instead, he turned left and chose to enter into a large area with hundreds of cubicles lined up in the center of the room. Harry felt his heart racing at the sight.
There were so many Aurors . . .
But as soon as Ron stepped in, he was swarmed by almost a dozen people demanding his attention. Harry didn't know how long it would take to answer all of their questions. He felt his Magic draining just keeping the Disillusionment Charm for that long. He looked around for a hiding spot when he suddenly stopped. One of the offices near the walls had the sign "Head Auror" plastered on it.
Casting one hasty glance at Ron, who was a bit too occupied at the moment, he made sure that no one was paying attention before he turned the knob. He noticed that it was locked, but a simple "Alohomora" did the trick. To his relief, he discovered that the Office was empty.
Stepping inside, he disabled the Disillusionment Charm and glanced around. It seemed rather neat and simple, but there was a large cluster of parchments scattered across the desk. Knowing that he didn't have much time, he slowly approached the desk before abruptly halting in his tracks. To his surprise, he realized that he was looking at his own self – or rather, a picture of his older self plastered across a Daily Prophet article titled "Undesirable Number One."
But how the Hell had they gotten that picture? He had never shown his face ever in any of his missions, or during his duel with the Aurors. Those that caught a glimpse of him didn't have time to take a picture this accurate of him. Sure, they had images of his younger self. But they had never caught him when he was older. Even back in the Ministry, Dumbledore had blocked him from the crowd. They couldn't possibly have taken an isolated picture of him, not without Dumbledore near him.
Frustrated, he sifted through the various parchments. He grew desperate. Something wasn't right. Something didn't make sense. First, with the Malfoys. Then, the Arthur Weasley imposter. Then, this picture.
And he found the answer.
He stopped when he found two files with the names of Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. It was their criminal records. He glanced down and noticed that they detailed smaller things, such as breaking school rules, barging into houses without a warrant, or even wounding a seemingly innocent suspect. But as he reached the end, he noticed that they had a large red "X" over their respective files. He also found other files, such as Nymphadora Tonks, Harper Narsfish, Bimini Bane, and several others that were also similar.
With his heart pulsing madly, the parchments dropped out of his fingers and onto the floor. But he didn't care. It was as if the world was crumbling right under his feet.
He couldn't believe it.
No. No. No.
He glanced around at the large shelf of files near the desk. They were arranged in alphabetical order. He traced his finger along the shelf until he arrived at the "P" section.
And he found it.
He bloody well found it.
With shaky hands, he pulled out the file of the young boy that couldn't possibly have been him and looked it with a sense of dread in his heart.
It wasn't the Death Eaters.
It was never the Death Eaters.
He looked at the file blankly. It was titled "Harry Potter" on the top. It seemed that Arthur Weasley's capture had been both a blessing and a curse to him. He almost feared the results. Would it change anything if he knew the truth?
But he needed to know.
With the greatest courage that he had ever conjured, he opened the file and looked inside. He found images of his dead aunt and uncle as well as several images of the home in question, including the crime scene. But suddenly, his breath hitched in his throat. At the end of the files, a small slip of parchment was tucked carefully beneath the flap. It was almost as if the person had deliberately tried to conceal it. To his horror, he discovered that it was his death certificate. His hand trembled violently as he read it.
Harry James Potter
Born: July 31, 1980
Death: June 14, 1996
Place of Death: Little Whinging, Surrey. Number Four, Privet Drive
Time of Death: Unknown
What the hell was going on? He wasn't dead! They had articles of him in the Daily Prophet, didn't they? But . . . no. He had only just appeared in public, after his fiasco in the Ministry. Had they thought him dead before?
But then, he studied the images again. As he examined them all side by side, he realized that there was some discrepancy. First, it was the fact that he had never died in Privet Drive. Not to mention, there was never a body there. So, why did they put that in there? Secondly, the dates on the images of his dead aunt and uncle were different than what was reported in his death certificate.
The images of his aunt and uncle read August 18, 1996. But his death was reported as June 14, 1996.
Something wasn't adding up.
That meant that he had been captured before his aunt and uncle had been dead. Harry looked at the images more closely. He had experiences with dead bodies, and he knew right away that those bodies looked fresh. Almost like they had just died. They weren't as pale or even as wrinkly as older bodies did. Their fingernails weren't as blue as old bodies did, which meant that his aunt and uncle had been killed months after his capture.
So, why kill them?
Did someone set the scene up? To make it look like Death Eaters had been responsible for the crimes? Who the hell was he supposed to trust now?
This file was a plain out lie from the beginning to the end of it.
Were the Aurors responsible for his capture, then? If they were lying about him, were they the ones that turned him in? But why? Weren't they supposed to be fighting Dark Wizards? Was Harry really that much of a threat in his teenage years? And wasn't Privet Drive guarded by the Fidelius Charm? How did they know the address? Or, in fact, the exact details of the home . . .
And here, he thought Voldemort was bad.
Utterly trembling with fury, he furiously stuffed the file into the Mokeskin pouch around his neck. With a furious cry, he kicked a side table with glassware ornaments on the top and let it smash to the floor.
He didn't even care if anyone caught him.
But the muttering outside reminded him of what – or who? – he was supposed to be after. He was supposed to be helping the Order. But he didn't even know who needed saving or who didn't anymore. Did Weasley know? If he knew . . . If he had known . . . God. But he couldn't have. Judging by the "X"s around his files, he must be the next target, right? Not to mention, he was also threatened by the fact that he was an Order member.
Harry couldn't blame him.
But as the muttering grew louder, Harry suddenly realized that there were people approaching. Hastily, he ducked behind the desk, ready to cast the Disillusionment Charm before the door slammed open.
"That Weasley can't tell the difference between a cat and a hare – " said one exasperated voice.
"Well, at least we're rid of him . . ." replied the other.
Knowing what they were talking about, Harry grew furious. Carefully, he wound his way to the side of the desk and pointed a wand at the door.
"Let's hope so," said, what sounded like, the older male. "Remember what happened last time? Skived off without a single wou –"
But the door slammed shut behind them.
They startled.
"What was that?"
They drew their wands, but Harry had yet to reveal himself. As they approached the desk from the sides, Harry ducked towards the front. His wand positioned at the older male. As the other man got too close, Harry bolted to his feet and shouted:
"Stupefy!"
As the man fell, however, Harry caught him and used him to shield himself against the other man. The two Stunning Curses hit him both square in the chest. But Harry threw him at the other man, causing them both to collapse into a tangle of limbs. He then approached him and stunned him for good measure. As his adrenaline effaced, his heart sank as he looked around at the now messy study. He reckoned that he should start being a little more subtle in the future.
Disregarding the thought, he approached them, knelt down, and flicked aside their robe sleeve.
Merlin's beard . . .
"The Dark Mark," breathed Harry, a sense of dread in his heart. "They're Death Eaters . . ."
Someone in the Ministry was a bloody traitor.
But who was it? Was it someone under the Imperius Curse? Was it that Arthur Weasley imposter? But no. It can't be. He had only just become a spy. But who was it, then? Was it the whole lot of the Ministry? Was it only a pretense – a façade that the Ministry put up to justify their actions? But, at least, he got one conclusion out of today.
The Ministry was siding with Voldemort all the way.
He didn't know how long he stood there. But suddenly, he snapped his head up, slammed the door open, and bolted down the corridors. He didn't care if he was caught. He didn't care even about Ron Weasley at the moment. Quite frankly, he didn't give a damn about anything at the moment.
That is, except one thing.
Once again, he took the lift and snapped harshly at the workers to get to his destination. They muttered in soft whispers and offered strange glances. But as soon as the lifts opened, he bolted down the corridor and into the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. As soon as he arrived, he slowed down and ducked his head. He struggled to suppress his anger. He looked around the names of the offices, ignoring the bewildered stares that he was getting. But finally, he found it at the nearest end of the corner.
To his relief, he found that it was unlocked and slightly ajar as well. He entered and hid in the large vase near the bookcases. He waited patiently for the subject in question to enter. At the sound of the door creaking open, however, he snapped his head up, his chest boiling with rage. He found the Arthur Weasley imposter entering and waving at someone behind him.
"Oh, don't you give a hoot about me," said Arthur. Though Harry could detect a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I'll be fine. Good luck, son."
Resisting the urge to throttle the man, Harry watched as the man cast a wary glance outside. He then locked the door, leaned back against it, and exhaled. With an eerie snort, he maneuvered around his desk. He then ducked his head to rummage through the drawers. His movements were frantic and desperate. Almost as if he was looking for something.
Seizing the chance, Harry warily approached him from behind. With a wave of his wand, he disabled the Disillusionment Charm. In one move, he whipped the man around, caught him by the scruff of the neck, and slammed him hard against the wall.
The man looked alarmed.
"Who are you?" demanded Harry, ignoring the man's wince. "You're not Arthur Weasley." But a wave of emotions crossed Arthur. Or, that is, the Arthur in disguise. Harry caught his look of unease before it vanished. But he didn't need to proof to know that this man was an imposter.
"That is a serious accusation," said Arthur, clearly unsettled. He struggled against the grip of the younger man.
"I'd like to see you deny it," snapped Harry.
"Who do you think you are?" barked Arthur. Harry caught him throwing a hasty glance at his wand. "Unhand me at once!"
Harry threw the man with all his might against the bookcases. Parchments and books fell onto the man. Arthur groaned and rubbed the back of his head. But Harry didn't care. Instead, he summoned the man's wand and cast a Silencing Charm on the room.
"Arthur Weasley is locked up in a cell in Riddle Manor," snapped Harry, removing his disguise. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
The man's eyes widened. He looked up at Harry with a startled look.
"Potter!"
"So, you're the spy, aren't you?" said Harry angrily. "You bloody well ranted on me, didn't you?"
The man sneered. His features shifted. It seems that the effects of the Polyjuice Potion was wearing off. His red hair fused into coal black. His blue eyes became a light grey color. Harry recognised the man as Antonin Dolohov.
"You can thank the Order for that information," smirked Dolohov, rising to his feet. But Harry quickly strode across and wrapped his hands around the man's throat.
"I'll thank them if you tell me where they are," said Harry quietly, holding the man against the wall. But the man looked both irritated and amused.
"Oh, I can't tell you that," smirked Dolohov, his eyes gleaming. "But I can tell you where they're going. Down in the dirt, that's where."
"Tell me where they are," warned Harry. "or you're going down first."
"Hah!" scoffed Dolohov, his eyes glistening from Harry's tight clutch. "You've got nothing on me, Potter! You haven't even a wand to threaten me with."
"You mean this thing?" taunted Harry, removing his wand from its holster. "I'd thank your Master for lending me one."
Dolohov paled.
"What the bloody – ?"
"Go on," threatened Harry, his wand leveled at the man's chest. "Tell me where they are."
"Does it matter where they are?" sneered Dolohov. "Death will come to them individually. Let's just say that the next Order meeting will never take place. After midnight," he breathed, a gleeful look in his eyes. "They all will lie in the pool of their own blood."
But Harry's mind was racing. He released the man and conjured ropes to wrap around his hands to keep him against the wall. He then paced and paced across the lengths of the room in thought. If there was no Order meeting, then they didn't have to be together. That meant that Voldemort wasn't targeting the Order Headquarters. And if he wasn't after the building, then . . .
"They must wearing something similar," said Harry absently. He whipped around and glared accusingly at the man on the floor. "You . . . You're tracking them, aren't you?"
"It seems that the Master's Right Hand's got brains as well," said Dolohov grudgingly, wrestling with the ropes around his wrist.
"Must be strange talking to someone who's got one," scorned Harry. "What were they using?"
"I'm afraid I lack the brains to answer that, Potter," answered Dolohov idly. "Must be the consequence of being Arthur Weasley for too long."
Harry glared. His chest was boiling, his eyes blinded with fury. The fact that they had left a man paralyzed without his family's knowledge disgusted him beyond measure.
"He's a better man than you," he said coldly.
Unable to control himself, he conjured whatever hatred that he had stifled against the Death Eaters for the entire week, whatever frustrations that he had gotten from his trip in the Ministry, and cast the Cruciatus Curse. He felt the rush of satisfaction watching the man writhe and scream on the floor. Even though he wasn't possessed, he didn't feel an ounce of regret. In a way, it was mercy compared to what the Death Eaters had done against the prisoners.
But as soon as he lifted the Curse, the man broke into hysterical laughter.
"Opting for Dark Magic," he wheezed, lifting himself up. Though the effort was difficult since his hands were still tied up. "You've really changed, haven't you, Potter?"
Harry shot him a dark look. "With almost a hundred people on their death beds –"
"And Dumbledore –" cut in Dolohov, smirking.
"– you think I'll take it lying down?"
"They were dead, anyway," spat Dolohov. "Their faith in the greater good would've killed them."
"And your faith in your Master will you," said Harry firmly, his wand pointed at the man. "And I'd thank him for giving me the strength to do this."
"I'll tell him you're supporting the Order," said Dolohov nervously, in a fruitless attempt to look intimidating.
"Even you're not that thick," scoffed Harry. "You think I'll let you go? You've seen what I've done before, haven't you?" He flicked aside his robe sleeve from his arm to reveal the Dark Mark. "Go on, tell me where it is."
Dolohov looked panicked.
"You wouldn't dare –"
"Wouldn't I?" challenged Harry, his wand hovered over the Dark Mark on his arm. "Tell me where it is. You wouldn't want to let your glory go, would you? Tell me where it is, or I'll claim it all for myself. I'll tell him it was me. He won't know the difference."
"You?" sputtered Dolohov, eliciting an uneasy laughter. "Hah! The Chosen One. Crippling the Order. He'll never believe you."
"We'll find out, won't we?" challenged Harry. He brought his wand towards the Dark Mark, seriously intending to call Voldemort here and inform him of the man's betrayal.
"Stop!" shouted Dolohov.
"Where is it?" commanded Harry, his wand dangerously to the Dark Mark. But the man looked alarmed and started wrestling wildly with the ropes.
"Potter –"
"Where the hell is it?" Harry bellowed.
"It's the coin!" cried the man, holding up his hands in defeat. "It's the bloody coin!"
"What coin?" said Harry impatiently.
"On the desk," shouted Dolohov, pointing towards the desk. "That bloody coin that the Order use to communicate."
Harry offered him a suspicious look. He charmed the man with a sticking charm on the wall before he walked up to the desk.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
Harry lifted up the coin and studied it from under his glasses. It was a small, yellow coin that looked about the size of a Snitch. But Harry noticed that there were tiny inscriptions on the top. With his poor eyesight, Harry squinted and leaned in to read the word.
DEHTA
"There is a charm placed on it," explained Dolohov, sounding oddly gleeful. "At midnight, the letters will rearrange themselves to spell a word. If that requirement is met, violent spasms will be produced to any person holding the coin until . . ."
"Death," Harry breathed, his face paler than usual.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost evening. As he did, however, the letter "A" shifted beside the "E." Harry knew that the word would be fully spelled at midnight. But he still didn't know where the Order was. In fact, he didn't think that he could ever know. They were probably protected by the Fidelius Charm. He only had a few hours now. He needed to act fast before it was too late.
But suddenly, a thought crossed Harry.
"How did you bypass the Fidelius Charm?" he asked, his voice sounding distant.
Surely Dumbledore would suspect it if one of his members somehow became barred from entry? When he didn't receive an answer, he turned to glare accusingly at the man. To his irritation, the man looked smug. Harry almost felt disgusted by the look that he was giving him.
"Same way we did the first time," smirked Dolohov, his eyes gleaming.
But Harry didn't need an explanation.
His chest boiling, Harry marched over to the man, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and narrowed his eyes. No way was he letting the man go. He would even the risk the possibility of selling himself out to Voldemort if only to bring a bit of justice for Arthur Weasley.
"I know what to do with you," he said quietly.
Dolohov simply shot him a wary look.
Ten minutes later, Harry checked both ways along the hallway before he turned the corner. He noticed that there was a group of four wizards wearing dark robes, just like him. Deciding that that was his best option, he lingered close behind them. But they didn't notice. They seemed to be so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't see the hooded man behind them. But finally, he entered the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
Carefully, he extracted himself from the group. To his relief, there didn't seem to be anyone that noticed him. But he noticed that there was a receptionist where inquiries can be submitted. The receptionist, in question, seemed to be having a heated discussion with a man who was wrestling with a fluttering Doxy. He reminded Harry unpleasantly of his Uncle Vernon. The creature screeched rather unpleasantly and beat the man repeatedly over the head with a wooden ladle. This act, however, continued to frustrate the man.
"Madam!" the man cried indignantly, batting away the Doxy. "My house is positively infested – ow! – with these vile–ow!–nasty–ow!–creatures. I beg you. Ow! See to it–ow!–that they are exterminated!"
But the woman looked outraged.
"We can't possibly hope to exterminate them, good sir," she said, her patience effacing. "The venom that they produce is an essential ingredient to the Wiggenweld Potion, which can wake comatose patients and even the ones placed in the deepest bewitched sleep. What you are asking, good sir, is pure madness!"
"Madness, is it?" roared the man, his eyes bulging. "I assure you, Madam, that I have three children that–"
"–will benefit from the Doxy venom should they ever, Heaven forbid, fall into an enchanted sleep," said the woman flatly. "Next!"
"Madam!"
"Next!" she shrilled.
With one last huff, the man threw a final glare at the woman before he left, the Doxy still beating him over the head. But Harry was rather grateful that the man had gotten her so flustered. She was so furious that she almost didn't pay him much mind. Instead, Harry tugged open his cloak and uncurled the ferret from the cloth. Furtively, he disabled the Silencing Charm on it. Then, he approached her with the animal wrestling against his grip.
But Harry didn't spare it a glance.
"Excuse me," said Harry, lowering his hood. The woman shot him an irritated but studious look. "I've got a bad case with a ferret."
Her features softened, and she showed a modicum of concern.
"State your case," she said stiffly. Suddenly, a Quill and a parchment rose in the air, the former hovering ready to start scribbling.
"Well," said Harry, trying to sound casual. He reached into his cloak to pull out a cotton material, though the effort was difficult with the ferret squirming madly in his hands. "It's a bit wild, you see. Been giving that Weasley – is it? – a hard time every chance it gets."
Finally, he unwrapped the cotton material to reveal a rather bloodied shirt. The woman flinched back, her hands snapping to her face before she reached up to take it.
"Oh, goodness!" she exclaimed, her frustrations forgotten. She examined the material carefully, and Harry tightened his grip around the ferret. "Oh, dear, dear. Oh, well. I think that's enough to warrant a bad case. Yes, yes. I think so."
"Yeah. I mean, look what it's done to me."
To further exacerbate the situation, he tugged back the sleeve of his robe from his left arm to show her his scars. The woman looked faint.
"Oh, dear, dear," she said faintly, shaking her head. "Definitely a bad case." The Quill that had been scribbling furiously suddenly stopped. She leaned to scribble something herself before she turned back to Harry with a stern look. Harry felt the ferret float of his hands. Trying not to feel too smug, he watched as she trapped it in an enchanted cage and placed a large "X" around it. But the ferret now was beyond desperate.
But Harry didn't care.
Sure, he had lied about his scars. He had, in fact, gotten those scars from Voldemort, not from the ferret. But at least one of the Death Eaters had gotten what he deserved.
Born a ferret. Always a ferret.
But the woman spoke. "Well, then," she said, scowling. She was shuffling through her parchments, her nose wrinkling in thought. "Rest assured, Mr. . .?"
"Marcius."
"Marcius," she nodded politely. "That this feral animal will no longer have a place among us civilized people."
Harry looked suspicious. "You'll take it down?"
"Yes," she replied. Though her eyes narrowed, suspicion written all over her features. "Is there an issue, Mr. Marcius?"
"Not at all," added Harry hastily. He shot the ferret one last look before he turned to the woman. "Thanks."
She smiled. "Do avoid ferrets in the future, won't you, Mr. Marcius?"
"Sounds simple," he muttered, irresistibly thinking of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. But the woman simply raised a brow, a hint of suspicion on her face.
"Sorry?"
"Oh, nothing," he added hastily. He then promptly turned on his heels, weaved through the crowd, and shouted back. "Thanks."
And he was off.
He knew what he had to do.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Then I told him off," said Ron, his feet perched up on the desk. "Showed him how bloody thick he was. You'd think a bloke that age would've deflated his head a bit."
"Oh, yes," said Hermione, her Quill hovering over her parchment. She shot Ron a withering look. "And the best way to deal with someone like that is by showing how macho of a man you are."
They were sitting in Ron's Auror's office. Hermione was sitting at the desk, finishing her paperwork. Ron, however, sat on the armchair at the side of the desk, his feet perched onto the desk, his hands tucked behind his head. He looked almost smug. So engrossed in their discussion, they hardly noticed the figure that snuck into the room with an uneasy feeling about him.
"Exactly," nodded Ron. "Finally someone gets it."
Hermione sighed. "Oh, Ron," chided Hermione, shaking her head and reaching for a mug on the side of the desk. "You're so oblivious."
He grinned. "Well, that's why I married you, isn't it?"
"Oh, so I'm just your flaw examiner," huffed Hermione, raising an eyebrow from above her mug of coffee. "that's all I am to you?"
Ron raised a brow. "Did I say that?"
"You most certainly were implying it!"
"Er – Ron?" asked Neville nervously, lingering at the doorway. He looked almost ready to flee the room at the slightest hint of commotion.
"Only a woman would take it that way," muttered Ron.
Hermione's eyes flashed. "Oh, well-spotted!" she said irritably. "Maybe if you didn't have the emotional range of a teaspoon, you would realise when you were being insensitive."
"Well, maybe if you told me what ruffles your feathers," Ron shot back, shooting out of his armchair. "I wouldn't have offended you!"
Hermione was outraged. "I wasn't offended!"
"Yeah, all right," said Ron offhandedly, throwing his hands in the air in dramatic exasperation. "Whatever floats your boat."
"It most certainly isn't you!" shrilled Hermione, crossing her arms over her chest. Her work was almost forgotten, sprawled across Ron's desk.
"Er–Ron."
"If only Harry was here."
"Harry would know his place!"
"Just what are you implying, woman?"
"You heard me, Ron!"
"Ron!"
With collective jolts, they both whipped around to find a grim-faced Neville standing against the doorway. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a stiff prey ready to leap at the slightest hint of danger. But they smiled warmly at him as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.
"Oh, hello, Neville," greeted Hermione, smiling warmly. It was almost as if she hadn't just been ready to make feathers out of her husband.
"Blimey, Neville," grinned Ron abashedly. "Didn't see you there, sorry."
Neville gave a weak smile. "It's all right," he shrugged. "I'm easily missed."
"No, you're not," said Hermione firmly, returning her attention to her parchments. "Don't talk about yourself like that."
"Yeah," said Ron, a cheeky grin on his face. "Not many people've got the spunk to barge into Ron Weasley's office without an invitation."
"They don't need an invitation, Ron," said Hermione exasperatedly. "It's not as if you're the Minister of Magic."
"You're right," replied Ron, holding his chest out proudly. "I'm better than the Minister."
Neville laughed. "You sure have a better ego."
"Oi, watch it!" barked Ron, throwing a playful punch at the other man. Neville simply leaned away, smiling. "I'll report that."
"I'll hold you to that," muttered Neville, throwing a hasty glance at his watch. "Well, ready to depart?" He turned to Ron with a raised brow.
Ron shrugged.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
"Oh, do be careful, you two," said Hermione anxiously, greeting them at the door. "Don't try anything reckless!"
"What are we?" asked Ron, an eyebrow raised. "Children?"
But Hermione remained anxious, and Neville hurried to settle her worries. "What Ron's trying to say is," added Neville hastily, shooting a wary glance at Ron. "We'll be fine, Hermione."
To his relief, she smiled. Though there was still a hint of unease in her expression.
"Good luck."
They exited the office. As soon as Hermione shut the door, however, Ron shot Neville a half-exasperated and half-amused look.
"Barmy, that one," he muttered. He yelped when he received a not-to-affectionate elbow to the side by Neville.
"She's worried about you," said Neville, stepping past the hallway with Ron trailing him. "Show a bit of gratitude, will you?"
"Telling her to stop worrying isn't a sign of gratitude?"
"You could've said it differently."
Ron grimaced. Then, he straightened into a pose reminiscent to his wife – his hand over his heart, his eyes wide and full of pity, his lips pouting.
"Hermione, darling," he gushed, his voice high-pitched. Neville doubled-down with laughter. "My heart aches to see you in such a grievous state. Be a dear and tone down the anxiety, won't you, Hermywobbles?"
Neville grinned. "Hermywobbles," laughed Neville, wiping tears from his eyes. "I reckon she'll have a fit if she hears that."
"But she'll stop worrying, won't she? She'll be too distracted for that," said Ron proudly, his chest pumped. "See? Told you I can be sensitive."
"Fair enough," muttered Neville, defeated.
They turned the corner where they came across a large section of cubicles that the lower-ranked Aurors, or even the new recruits, used. Those that were admitted to higher ranks like Ron and Neville often had their own offices.
"Aren't we supposed to be leaving?" asked Ron, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He noticed that Neville was poking around the cubicles. As if he was looking for someone.
"We've got a new recruit," said Neville simply. A piece of parchment floated out from his robes and in front of his face. "Name's Barty Marcius. Robards says he's ready to join the field. Says he's got enough experience for it."
Ron groaned. New recruits were often a headache to deal with.
"Could've fooled me," muttered Ron. Though he pointedly ignored the glare from Neville. "Constant vigilance," he added tauntingly.
Neville scowled.
Despite his irritation, however, he resumed his search for the young Auror. But Ron noticed that he was slowly growing frustrated. He kept circling back to the same cubicle over five times. To their bewilderment, the cubicle looked rather messy, almost as if there had been some squabble around it. Various parchments were scattered across the floor, the drawers of the cabinets were open and lopsided, and some files and Daily Prophet articles were torn in some edges. But even then, Ron, too, grew irritated.
Unable to contain himself, he asked:
"Well?"
Neville huffed and glanced at his parchment for almost the fifth time. Then, he turned to the cubicle in particular with a frown on his face.
"He's not here," concluded Neville.
"Let's just ditch him, why don't we?"
"No!" cried Neville. "Robards said –"
"Who cares what Robards says?" exclaimed Ron, throwing his hands in the air. "We've got a whole village in trouble. We haven't got time to deal with a new recruit's lazy ars– "
"Looking for me?"
Ron and Neville startled. They whipped around only to find a tall, chestnut-robed man with a similarly colored cloak behind them. He was fairly young, almost Ron's age, with scruffy brown-hair. His glasses were slightly dark and dim to where they couldn't see his eyes. Ron wondered if the man was blind with those type of glasses. What startled Ron, however, was how deathly pale the man was. He genuinely wondered if his skin had ever seen the sunlight.
He couldn't resist asking.
"Are you the lazy arse recruit?"
From beside him, Neville shot him a glare. But the other man's lip simply curled in faint amusement. "Barty Marcius," he stated flatly, holding his hand out in greeting.
Ron grinned. He rather liked the man's cheek.
"Ron Weasley," he said, shaking the man's hand. Then, he jerked a thumb in Neville's direction. "And this is my partner, Neville."
"Pleasure meeting you, Barty," said Neville warmly, likewise shaking the man's hand. A hint of a smile appeared on the young man's face.
"The pleasure is mine," he replied politely.
But Ron froze. Why did that sound so familiar? Come to think of it, something about the man seemed strangely familiar. The politeness, the tone, the mannerism. He pinned the man with a suspicious stare before he decided to let it slide.
For now.
"Well, now that we've got the formalities out of the way," said Ron, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get the bloody Hell out of here."
The other two nodded.
"Right."
They followed Ron out of the Auror Department, down the corridors, past the throng of Ministry workers, and into the lifts. As they stood there, however, Barty felt the need to fill in the silence.
"So, where are we headed?" asked Barty rather casually.
"Robards didn't tell you?" asked Neville, frowning. But Barty shook his head. "I s'pose he expected us to fill you in – "
"Fraisdaill Village," interjected Ron, rocking on his heels. "That's the Death Eater's next target. We've already sent three teams there to hold them off in case things get all botched. They'll be waiting for us, I think."
Barty nodded.
"It's got a high Muggle-born population," continued Neville, stepping out of the lift. "And it isn't exactly your everyday village. It's –"
"Floating on thin air," interjected Ron, grinning widely.
As they reached the Atrium, he deliberately charmed one man's shoe laces to untie themselves, which caused the man to fall face flat on the floor. He snickered but stopped when Neville shot him a glare.
"What?" asked Ron indignantly. "He was being a git to Dumbledore."
"It was justified the first time."
"Second time's the charm."
"Come off it," said Neville, an eyebrow raised. "Will it change anything?"
But as Ron opened his mouth to retort, Barty interrupted.
"How d'you float a village on thin air?" asked Barty, bewildered. The other two looked startled by the interruption. They had almost forgotten that he was here.
"Levitating Charm," said Ron simply. He couldn't tell the man's mood since his eyes were concealed, but he could tell that he was still confused. "It isn't just one bloke's work. Loads of wizards kept the land floating. It's been there for decades."
"Well, that's about as far as we know," said Neville, craning his neck to look past the crowds. "It was actually a part of land at first, but a chunk of it broke off into the water when Grindewald and his followers split the land in half –"
"Why would they do that?"
"A part of it was filled with Dark Wizards," explained Neville, though Ron was looking bored. "But the other was just ordinary. Fraisdaill Village was actually the whole chunk of it. But when Grindewald came along, he wanted the whole lot of them on his side. But they wouldn't have it."
"So, he split the land?" asked Barty.
"He split the land," nodded Neville.
Barty shuffled on his feet. It was clear that he was still confused.
"I don't understand," he said slowly, absentmindedly scratching his head. "Why Levitate it, then?" But Neville shot him an exasperated look.
"Didn't you hear a thing that Robards said?"
Barty fidgeted.
"Sorry."
"It wasn't exactly about Grindewald this time," explained Neville, looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. "When the part of the village split off to float in the sea, it was the Thunderbird that botched everything up. You know what a Thunderbird is, don't you?"
Barty shook his head.
Neville gave him a exasperated look. Ron nearly called him out for being a Hermione, but he wisely decided against it.
"It's almost like a Pheonix," said Neville. "But different. For one, it's bigger – "
"As big as a dragon–" added Ron.
"Yeah," nodded Neville. "The hint is in the name. It makes storms when it flies. That is, if it think it's in any danger."
"They . . ." said Barty, sounding uneasy. "They didn't try to . . . attack it, did they?"
"They needed to eat," said Ron, looking sympathetic. He could hardly go a day without food. "Why limit yourself to only the fish in the sea? Seems a bit brainless, if you ask me."
"So, the Thunderbird caused the storm?"
"That's right," nodded Neville. "It almost drowned them. But one of the wizards there thought up a clever idea to get anyone who knew how to cast the Levitating Charm to float the land out of the water's reach. It took almost a hundred wizards to float it out of harm's way. But it's been there ever since. Neat, isn't it?"
"With or without Voldemort in the picture?" asked Ron dryly. Neville twisted his lip in disapproval and shook his head.
"You know what I mean, Ron."
"Are we Apparating there?" interjected Barty, but Ron gave him a strange look. He couldn't believe how many questions he asked.
Neville shook his head.
"No, it's guarded –"
"You a flier, Barty?" asked Ron, a grin on his face. "Not scared of heights, are you?"
Barty's eyebrows furrowed. He looked almost irritated.
"Never," he said simply. Finally, they arrived at the fireplaces. Neville entered first. "I mean, I haven't flown in a while. Might be a bit rusty, come to think of it."
"Don't slow me down," warned Ron, punching the younger man affectionately on the shoulder.
Barty's lip curled.
"We'll see."
Ron snorted. He gave a rather roguish grin before he entered into the fireplace.
As soon as he arrived, he found himself in a rather dim wooden home, with the heads of house elves and Thestrals plastered against the walls. It was a rather dingy place with aloft planks and dim, floating candlelights that illuminated the room. The place reeked with the smell of pigs, dirt, and wine. As he looked across the room, however, he found a large counter with several bar stools at the front. The beer from beside the barman was practically gushing out onto the floor. But it never reached the ground.
But he startled at the sound of fireplaces. He heard a faint curse and looked down only to find Barty stumbling to his feet. When he noticed Ron and Neville looking at him, he gave a wince.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I was never good with Floo-travel."
"Best get used to it, mate," said Ron, waving a hand absently. "Most Aurors use Floo-travel to get to their missions. Don't want you all sick on us, do we? Just Neville's burden enough." He smirked. But Neville shot him a half-hearted glare.
Barty muttered something that Ron didn't hear.
"What's that?"
"Oh, nothing," added Barty hastily.
Ron gave him a strange look. But Neville interjected.
"Best let Bane know we're here," said Neville, moving to the burly barman. "Robards said he's got our brooms ready."
"Brilliant," grinned Ron.
Then, they approached the barman and huddled around him. The people around the bar were giving them dark and suspicious glances, as they were made of Flobberworm of some sorts. Ron repressed the urge to glare back at them. Instead, he and Barty stepped back and let Neville do all the talking.
"Oi," whispered Neville, pointedly ignoring the stares from the other members of the bar. "Bane. You got our message, didn't you?"
But the man narrowed his beetle-black eyes. He glanced around for a moment before he leaned his large, bulky frame on the counter.
"In the back," he said, his voice drummed. He tilted his head pointedly towards the broom shed behind the counter. "Good luck."
Finally, they reached the broom shed. They each picked up a broom before Ron felt the need to interject. "I wouldn't be surprised if they charmed our broomsticks to throw us off," He muttered absently. But Neville shot him a frown.
"Why would you think that?"
Ron looked outraged.
"Did you see how they were staring at us?" he cried, almost defensively. "They looked fit to murder." But as if addressing a petty child, Neville sighed.
"Look, I know they're not the best type of people," he said firmly. "But you can't just assume that they're all bad."
"What d'you mean?" asked Barty. "Is this the part of the village that Grindewald was in?" But the other hurriedly shushed him down.
"Watch it, will you?" hissed Ron, leaning forward to whisper. "You can't mention him around here. He was captured, remember? You know, the whole fiasco with Dumbledore."
"Oh," said Barty, sounding guilty. "Sorry."
"Right," nodded Neville. "Let's get going."
Together, they took their brooms and stepped out of the bar. As soon as they stepped out, Ron got a glimpse of the village from a relatively elevated perspective. The village was on uneven ground, with sloping green hills that rose and fell depending on which part of the village one was in. Despite its bright green lands, however, the atmosphere was rather bleak and humid. It was rather misty that it was hard to distinguish who was walking several feet in front of the other houses. The residents were reticent and reserved. Their houses remained locked, and little interaction was done throughout the village.
But then, he squinted into the distance and found a large blob floating in the sky above the large body of the sea. Despite the mellow mood of the village, he rejoiced at the sight.
"There!" he shouted, drawing the attention of the other two. "See it? That large black blob in the center. That's where we're headed."
"Right," said Neville, though he sounded a bit wary. "Let's get going, then?"
Ron grinned.
"Scared, Neville?" he teased. He laughed when Neville's face turned a bright green color. "Look, if anything goes wrong, just look down, all right?"
"That's helpful," muttered Barty at Ron's side.
"That a challenge, Barty?" threatened Ron. "I'll have you know that my sister is the captain of the Holyhead Harpies."
Barty raised a brow. "What's that got to do with you?"
Ron snorted. Before anyone could think, however, he grabbed his broom, soared into the sky, and saluted down at the other two.
"Bloody cowards!" he shouted down.
But he was almost knocked off of his broom when something suddenly whipped past him into the sky, made a loop, before hovering beside Ron with a hint of a smile on his face.
It was Barty.
"Bloody Hell!" Ron exclaimed, an impressed look on his face. "You call that rusty?"
Barty shrugged.
"It's been a while since I've flown," he muttered, sounding faintly uncomfortable. But Ron ignored it. Instead, he looked down again.
"Come on, Neville!" he shouted. "You're holding us up!"
But Neville was still looking nauseous. He kept throwing wary glances at the village in the sky. He seemed troubled by the distance and the height.
"Why don't you climb with one of us?" Barty suggested, and Ron nodded in approval. He zipped down and offered Neville a hand, which Neville accepted.
"All right, then."
As soon as he settled, they were off. They soared high above the village, the wind zipping across the robes, their hair. The jagged edges of the hill side was even more apparent at that distance. Finally, they reached the water's edge and the smell of the sea overwhelmed their senses. The majesty of the waves crashed – wave after wave. Curling and furling before crashing and crashing. The setting sun caused ripples of yellow and red in the sky. At the height that they were flying, they almost reached the clouds. It was amazing how strong that Levitating Charm was.
But they hardly paid any attention to the scenery. In fact, Ron was a bit too distracted laughing and making stupid moves with Barty to notice anything. He knew that he was making Neville more sick by making sharp dives and complex loops. But he would never admit that Barty outshined him by a landslide.
But as Barty pulled out of a spiral loop, Ron moved and sidled beside him.
"Ever played Quidditch, Barty?" shouted Ron over the roaring winds.
But Barty shook his head.
"Never got the time for it!" Barty shouted back.
But Ron looked startled.
"You should give it go!" he said, his broom rising higher and higher, "If you weren't an Auror, I might have even suggested professional Quidditch!"
But Barty stayed silent.
But finally, they reached the village. They had to maneuver through large pillars shaped with arches to enter. At the top of the arch, however, was a figure etched onto the surface. It was a large bird that looked almost like a Pheonix with large wings outstretched. It seemed to be changing colors. But a large inscription gleamed across it.
Fraisdaill Village
Barty and Ron threw knowing glances at each other before they zipped past the archway. Finally, they arrived at the –
Village?
What the Hell was going on?
As they landed, with Neville doubled down vomiting, they looked up with utter bewilderment on their faces. The large, metal doors at the entrance were hung ajar. But the air was bleak and dreary. It was almost as if someone had turned off the sun as soon as they had arrived. The village was misty and foggy. An icy feeling crossed Ron, and the feeling was mutual judging by the way Barty was glued to the spot.
As they looked down the trail down the double doors, they realized with dread in their hearts that there was no one there. Not a soul breathed. Not a twig snapped. Not a bird fluttered.
There was no doubt in their minds that something was wrong.
Something was terribly wrong.
A/N: I take a lot of ideas out of DC (mainly Sandman and Batman). By the way, I honestly think that, if push comes into shove, Harry would very well use the Cruciatus Curse. He did in the OOTP, also DH. But I think he would only do it if it's justified, and not because it feels good. It's funny. He has the same personality type as Rorschach from Watchmen. They often let their anger get the better of them.
Special thanks to Magical Witch for such kind, kind reviews. You kept me writing, so thanks a lot.
Reviews help. Thanks!