The first thing he saw when he awoke, was a chubby face and huge bright eyes inches from his own. She was so close to him, her soft breath so disregarding of his personal boundaries, that she appeared to be looking down into his eye sockets. Indeed, one of her miniature fingers pushed up his eyelid, unwilling to wait on him to do it himself. More drool than moisture, glossed her open lips, as they were stuck apart in wonder. She only reverted to drooling if something fascinated her, and clearly, the sight of her father, medicated beyond waking, was the perfect opportunity to study how he was put together. When he smiled at her aggressive examination, the light in her dark eyes switched to high beam. She leaned closer and assaulted him with light touches of cold and slimy wetness that only someone who loved her could not be upset about. Harry accepted what passed for kisses from his two-year old daughter.
Behind her, Draco waited, sterling and immaculate in his suit, unsmiling. He wore an expression of resignation as Iece got her way.
"I kept her off of you as long as I could," he said. Behind him, rows of beds and green marbleized wallpaper told him he was in a hospital of some sort. Military-grade canvas served as walls on either side of him, and garish, paint-by-numbers still-life oils, attempted to add cheer to the clinical sparseness of the room. It looked more like a medical tent than a sturdy building.
"Da-dee! Opey eyes." She bounced on him.
"They're open. I'm awake, Sweety." He inhaled her and pretended that her short arms wrapped around him as tightly as he held her. Through his paper-thin hospital gown, he felt her heartbeat flutter. Inwardly, he laughed because she didn't smell like a child. She smelled like Draco. She was full of clean, adult fragrances that hinted of how closely Draco kept her by his side. It was simply more convenient to bathe the both of them at the same time. As a result, Draco's excessive toiletries and tidiness contaminated her. He'd been meaning to talk to Draco about it, but right then he realized that it was an oddity that perfectly expressed how enveloped and protected she was. Even the black satin ribbons in her white hair matched the lining of Draco's lapel. She was happy and healthy, showing no signs of allergies, so he'd let the talk go for a while longer. Besides, if they were getting a house elf, Draco wouldn't have to multi-task like that anymore.
A sudden jolt had his spine going straight. He barely had time to register that it started in his shoulder before it gripped him a second time. He pulled back from Iece and looked at her. Her eyes searched his in wide wonder. She giggled, showing tiny teeth, and touched her finger to his cheek. An electrical shock sent his head turning sharply away. He looked at Draco.
"That's new," Draco supplied his unspoken question. He watched with half-lidded interest as Harry suffered a third jolt.
"Iece. Stop that." Harry took her hand away. "Where'd she learn that?"
"It seems, the first thing a new house elf teaches a child now a days, is self-defense. No matter how young. She can shock the hell out of you."
Which she demonstrated on cue. This one was painful enough to have Harry rubbing his chest where she'd put the charge into him.
"Stop, Iece! That's not funny. We don't shock Daddy." He looked at Draco. "How do you make her stop?"
"Our particular house elf seems to think that she will stop just because her father orders her to. That doesn't work so well. You have to tell her she can't have ice cream. And mean it."
"That's ridiculous. Ouch!" Harry chased after the offensive finger and cupped her entire hand in his. "That's not nice, Iece. You're not to do that."
Her tiny teeth left imprints in her bottom lip as she caught him with her other hand and planted a shock to his neck. "Ouch! That actually hurt." He rubbed his skin. He lifted her and sat her down, out of her arm's reach on his knees. "Iece, no ice cream for you. I mean it."
"What kind of an elf teaches a child this? What did you do?"
Draco gave her a minute to crawl all over Harry and do her worst before rising and gripping her under her arms. He lifted her back into his lap and folded her outstretched arms against herself. When she started to pout and squeal, he bent to her ear.
"Nicee, we've discussed this. Harry needs to rest. Be a big girl and Jipsy will give you ice cream."
Iece immediately retracted her bottom lip. "Is kweem?" Her eyebrows lifted.
At the mention of the stranger's name, an audible pop sounded behind Draco's chair, and a tiny figure appeared at his shoulder. The way Draco rolled his eyes and suppressed whatever criticism was making his mouth tight, he spoke to the figure without turning.
"No, Jipsy, that was not a summons. I was just talking to Nicee about you. The summons will always be internal."
"Master Nicee summons, Sir. Her ice cream awaits."
"No. No, no, no." Tension strained Draco's demeanor. Harry watched in suspense, not sure what to make of it.
"Nicee is a child, she is not your master! We've discussed this."
The little person's conviction did not waver. "She makes the proper summons as you make it. Your daughter has learned to imitate you, sir. She may be too young to speak like you, but she plays your voice in her mind. I will not be held accountable for tricks that only she is capable of. But I will correct her. There will be no ice cream."
Harry tried to put his eyes back into his head and keep his mouth shut as Draco's face reddened. Whatever was going to play out, he wasn't missing it.
Jipsy didn't talk like any elf Harry had ever seen. Not only did she carry her own authority, she was fully dressed in what appeared to be a purple velour jump suit and white fluffy house slippers that were so furry they could easily be mistaken for cats sitting on her feet. She didn't have the long ears that he remembered on Creature and Dobby. Hers were short, pointed back, and pierced decoratively with jewelry he could only assume was crafted by elves. There were rings of gold, a few gemstones, but also dangling carved and painted things that resembled something muggles carried on key chains. Painted corks? In fact, her bald head dangled with a spray of trinkets that jiggled when she made her point.
"She will have less success of trickery as I adjust to your magic."
"Sir." Draco corrected her.
"Sir." She added brusquely.
Harry grinned. "Having some trouble?"
Draco shot him a look. "Nothing that can't be worked out. We are Jipsy's first committed family. Though she's plenty experienced in the service, she has never bound herself to one family before. My mother tells me this is quite normal and I'm lucky to have an elf who is practically a blank slate of loyalty."
"Doesn't sound like she wants to be loyal." He'd have to remind Draco that Iece was none of Narcissa's business.
"She's proud, that's all. She's a different breed and generation than Dobby. She practically insisted that I choose her."
Jipsy peered at Harry, leaning away from Draco's shoulder. "The child needs me, Sir. While I do not bow and scrape to prove my loyalty, you will know it by my care for her." Jipsy's large brown eyes intensified, as if there were a deeper meaning to this message.
Draco added, "The contract is probationary. Binding won't take effect till after one year. If we find her performance satisfactory and we have not released her - "
"Or I have not released my masters…"
"If she learns to not speak over me -"
"If Master Malfoy learns to speak accurately, I shall not need to correct him."
The way Draco closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, Harry wondered if the two could actually come to blows. He hadn't seen Draco make such a mature attempt at patience since the trials. He did great with Iece, but with adults he considered to be stupid, he regressed to the Draco Harry remembered from school.
"If she's still with us in a year, the contract will automatically upgrade itself to life-binding."
"Pardon, Master Potter. I insisted on the amendment. It in no way implies my loyalty will be compromised. It's just that the members of the Potter-Malfoy family, are aligned to a volatile arc of magic. Your lines have joined against tradition, and therefore opens new blood-magic into this world. It may throw Jipsy off. It may throw both masters off. But Jipsy is here to tame it all the same. I outbid all others to serve the Potter-Malfoy House. I have bound myself to no other masters for this reason."
Harry had a bothersome thought. He asked Draco, "If Iece can mimic your summons, doesn't that mean she's reading your mind?"
Jipsy answered before he could. "She's two. Pardon, Sir, but the only thing in his mind that holds any meaning or comprehension for her, is ice cream. The rest is out of her scope and her reach. As she grows, she will see more. But only in so far as it is of interest and relevance to her. I have many disciplines to help you both in this matter."
Draco too, appeared to reflect on this. He seemed appeased by the elf's assessment that his thoughts were more complex than a two year-old's.
Harry had questions, but a series of insights left him at a loss for words. He liked the way Jipsy talked. He liked that she could stand up to Draco. He wasn't sure if her reasoning was sound, but at least she had some ability to reason. But things were happening too fast. How had Draco managed a contract so soon? And was she implying that she'd known the job would come to her in a form of precognition?
Before he could tackle any of this, he asked, "What day is it? What happened to the train?"
Draco leaned forward. "That's what everyone wants to know. You've been out for two days, and it took them two days to find you. You were thrown clear. Not a scratch on you, but your clothes were a mess. Burned and falling off you. You were saturated with healing magic and tested positive for skeletal and tissue restorative substances. There were thirty-one survivors. It's like someone treated you all and put you back to be found. The Ministry doesn't know if the train explosion was due to deliberate attack, a possible assassination attempt on you, or if it was just a left-over spell from the war. The area is known for un-detonated traps left by villagers and Voldemort's supporters alike. People lose limbs just going for a stroll. The more remote places were heavily impacted by the war. They're pretty uptight about outsiders there."
Harry did his best to digest this news. He scanned his body for pain, finding mostly stiffness from lying still. "But it was Snape. I saw Professor Snape. Clear as I'm seeing you. I've been in this room two days?"
Draco went tense. Not because of the mention of Snape, but because it indicated unseen trauma to Harry's brain. "Yeah, mostly. The Ministry can't hush this up. Too many people were killed too publicly. Seventy-one passengers, to be exact. Seeing as how you're okay, we didn't want you at St. Mungo's, with all those reporters hanging around. This is an old hotel basement in Dunwallen, about thirty kilometers from the derailment. Refugees from surrounding villages were brought here during the war. The tour's still on but the opening parade and ceremonies are postponed while the Ministry investigates and the muggles bury their dead. It's being called muggle terrorism to suppress rumors. That's what the Irish Republic and European Unions are saying as well."
"Shit." Seventy-one people. That sounded like an attack. That sounded like terrorism. But why would Snape show up out of no where and risk being seen?
"How could Snape possibly know I would be in the middle of an attack?"
"Harry, Snape is dead. If you were thrown from the train, you could've had a head injury."
"Which Snape healed."
"Even if he's somehow alive, why would he be in the middle of this? How would he know you were one wizard on a train full of muggles?"
"That's my question, exactly."
"That would put him at the scene of a crime and make it look like he had something to do with it."
"But he saved me. He stepped out into the open. If he wanted me dead, he could've left me there."
Draco pulled Iece closer against him. "Listen to me. That sounds crazy. You saw Snape die. I saw his body. You've glossed over his flaws and deified him ever since you learned the truth about him and Dumbledore. When that train derailed, you were as good as fucking dead. Your brain created what it needed to see. I don't know who put you back together, but it wasn't Snape. Villagers are good at hiding magic in those parts. That's how they survive. They have all kinds of bullshit folklore about evil spirits hurting muggles and good witches making them proper again. The explosion got everyone's attention. Magical people in the vicinity would've combed the woods to try to help survivors without being singled out. Just be grateful you're alive and don't mention Snape's name to anyone. He still has enemies just like you do. Even if there was a shred of truth to it, you'd better not say a word. People will go there looking for him."
With that, Draco drew a long velvet, black bag from inside his coat and tossed it onto Harry's bed. Before Harry could reach for it, the wall partition split for Minister Banks and his entourage.
"I thought I heard conversation in here. You're awake, Harry, thank goodness! Draco's presence has been vigilant by your bedside. So much so, we have dubbed him the 'Warden'. I can only hope you're up for a visit and are able to answer a few questions regarding your ordeal. I have a tent full of anxious aurors just waiting to question you, but I must get the story from you first."
Aside from his staff, several reporters and two photographers walked in with him. Their flashes went off, immediately inciting offense in Harry. Draco was quick to take out his wand and flick it at Iece's head. "Deflectere!"
Immediately, she turned her head and Harry could only see her profile. But when he leaned, trying to catch her face to see exactly what Draco had done, all he saw was her turned head. The visitors had her climbing Draco's chest and clutching at his coat. Another flash went off, lighting up her hair.
"Draco, what the hell." Where was her face?
"She's all right," Draco assured. "Those rags keep trying to take pictures of her. They don't care that she's only a baby."
The spell was a protective measure. No matter which way Iece was sitting, any angle made it look like she had her head turned away.
The Minister rushed over to Draco and the baby. "This little one, I don't get to see enough of." He fixed his fingers to grab her cheeks, but couldn't seem to find her face. "You boys can trust your Minister. Now where is that cutie pie under all that angel hair?"
As his fingers prodded, the resulting pop cracked into the room and Harry saw him quickly jerk his hands back to himself. He and Draco looked at one another. If the sound of that shock was any indication of the strength of the voltage delivered to Banks, Harry felt sorry for him and had no adequate words of apology. Draco looked smug, letting the Minister's retreat speak for everyone in the room.
The Minister tampered his surprise with professional courtesy. "Well, I see you boys have started her training young. Good for you. A beautiful witch can't have enough spells in her arsenal to keep the boys away."
That awkward comment destroyed Draco's remaining patience. He handed her to Jipsy. "Take her to the Grey Estate. I'll join you shortly."
Harry knew that was code for one of the Malfoy properties in Holland. Before he could protest, Draco spoke over Vector Bank's interruption. "I have business there and my parents are legally warded out since it passed to me. If you'd take an interest in your own properties, she could go where you wanted her to go. This is not the time or the place to fight me on this."
Another flash went off in their faces, along with the Minister's laughing assessment of their domestic dispute. Harry let his silence tell Draco that he was right. He wouldn't argue this time. It was only a matter of time before Iece had her face on the cover of some gossip rag. He couldn't fight it forever, but he could protect her childhood.
"Take her."
He'd never bothered to look into the real estate left to him by his father or his God-father. He knew Gringott's held all the documents, but his first priority after the war had been mental stability. He was so used to doing without servants and mansions, he wasn't eager to unearth a past riddled with the murders of his family, no matter how much money lay strewn on its path. He could teach Iece to live without all of that. That was one blessing that came out of his hell with the Dursley's.
He never realized the pressure put on Draco to maintain his family's wealth and to rebuild its status at all cost. Draco lost sleep calculating his next move in a network of old money that called him family and regarded Lucius' dishonor as a black mark for which his son would have to atone. They were an invisible people, a part of society that sat outside of it and decided banking policies, trade infrastructure, and who among nobility, would become royalty, all for the sake of keeping a world-engine going. Money was only a decoy, to keep the unenlightened working and fighting for their various causes. Can't have the cattle restless. The average person had to wake up with a reason to fight another day. Real power was not about money. It was about knowing what an illusion money was, and Draco had inherited the burden of maintaining that illusion. Harry knew, he did it for his mother, who would not let him cast Malfoy pride aside entirely.
That's as far as Harry wanted to venture into that dark, lawless abyss. Draco was taking care of his sister and doing right by Harry. As long as he was, Harry would give him room to move.
Since coming to know Draco, he'd realized he'd been prejudiced against rich people. He never thought of himself as rich because his first eleven years of life had been engrained with watching the Dursely's pinch their pennies and openly blame him for being a drain on their resources, as if he could help needing to be fed and clothed. Even when he got his vault, his sense of abundance and lack, had him suppressing the guilt of having it, and not being able to share it with Ron and his family, who would've been insulted by the handout. Family bonds made poor people suffer to stick together. Draco made him realize that family bonds did the same to the rich, who could afford to keep their suffering hidden. Nobody got out of the battle between being loved and being free.
He let Iece go without the good-bye squeeze he so wanted to give her. Jipsy popped out of sight.
The eyes that Harry turned on the Minister and his crew, were not friendly. He knew that wouldn't matter to Bank's ambition, and his expression would only sell more copies of The Prophet. Before Banks could sink his teeth in, three new faces emerged into the room, led by the mediwizard Harry recognized as his doctor, Avi Rankar, whose tone was sharp.
"This is a sickbay! Please do not accost my patient for your political agenda, Minister."
Banks raised eyebrows was the only sign of his offense. Extra grease slicked his smile until it reached to his ears. "Beg pardon, Doctor. I answer to the masses. I am all that stands between tens of thousands and the answers as to why this community has suffered a most grievous attack. Mr. Potter must be questioned sooner rather than later, as the public has already waited days without news."
Avi stepped up to him, while his assistants hung back. "It's up to me to assess if my patient is stable enough to be interviewed. It is up to the aurors waiting outside, to get his statements. And it is up to you to stay out of our way and let us do our jobs."
The Minister bowed slightly. "Fault me if you must. I am only guilty of rushing restoration to the wizarding community. The sooner we have answers, the sooner Mr. Potter can get on with the tour. I do not apologize for my methods."
"And I ask only that you take your people out of here, not apologize." To aid his position on the matter, Avi was joined by two more figures wearing security stripes affiliated with CIUM. Central International of Unified Magic.
The man to Avi's right spoke up. "Minister, muggles were involved. This is their rescue. This matter cannot be quarantined within the wizarding community. You must step aside. The agency was put into place to handle these matters far more effectively."
This was a large, silver-haired man, whose girth was sufficiently concealed behind a tailored navy coat, sporting the insignia of Admiral on his shoulders. His accent could not be tied to one continent. "This is possibly a terrorist act against all allied parties, and is now in the hands of the International Agency between magical and non-magical citizens. Rankar is Harry's doctor, and since Mr. Potter is a magical survivor among muggles, the CIUM, has taken over this investigation. You will have whatever information we see fit to pass on to you, but you have no jurisdiction where this investigation is concerned."
"Ah yes, but Harry is a British wizard-born, and his citizenship puts his case in my jurisdiction."
"Not in this case. Muggles are carrying out their own investigation. We've had to disclose that Harry is a survivor and will be subject to questioning by muggle agencies. These factions do not know about magic, and the CIUM has to make sure that Mr. Potter cooperates without revealing the nature of the magical kingdoms. We are here to facilitate relations in a smooth investigation that does not breech the secrets of our world."
The Minister's smile slid down his face. He shot back, "It took two days to find bodies. Lives could've been saved if wizards were allowed to work magic unimpeded by the CIUM."
"It is policy to let the muggles use their rescue equipment, even at the loss of life. We cannot compromise our world. Their infrared technologies, hydraulic jacks, and cranes will just have to appear to be all that can be done. If they see our magic, we have the burden of obliviating them, which destroys the integrity of relations between magical and non-magical."
"Meanwhile, people are dead who might've been saved with magical skill."
"Most were disintegrated in the explosion. Many tossed for miles. It's a wonder we found Mr. Potter in only two days, let alone alive and barely scratched." The Admiral nodded towards Harry. "It's as if you weren't on the train at all."
By the time Harry picked his jaw up off the floor, he knew that Draco was right. Whatever had taken place in response to the derailment, this was not an atmosphere in which he could casually talk about seeing Snape. The Minister left, red-faced and Draco was allowed to linger as Avi checked him over. He and Avi made a pretense of catching up while Draco hardened his stare, willing Harry to stay in control. Aurors working at the level of the International Alliance of Magic, questioned him first. Then local and regional authorities were given two hours to take down everything he could remember. Draco was asked to leave, but he returned as soon as they were gone.
When they were alone, and Harry knew he was going to be detained at the hotel, Draco drew his attention back to the velvet bag. "Cheer up. You're safe. Your daughter is safe, and I'm told they have adequate room service in the suites upstairs."
Harry pulled a wand box out of the bag. As it came out, a new watch fell onto the bed.
"Needless to say," Draco added, "Your watch and your wand were never found. If you don't like the wand, it'll do till you can get your own."
Harry was trying very hard to say the words 'thank you,' the way they were meant to be said. But the more he looked at his new wand and the replacement watch, the more he resented not having adequate answers. The watch called to him. It had been fastened to his wrist and spelled not to come off. The crash had been violent enough to disintegrate his clothes. His watch should've been melted into his skin. In his mind, a wall of flames rushed up to him.
He regretted being detained for the investigation, for many reasons. The loss of lives couldn't be helped. He was damned tired of death following him everywhere he went and had cried enough over it in his teenage years. He hated that he would miss his first quidditch practice with the Americans, but he'd make up for it. At least, the next few days would give him time to go over every inch of the Ministry's records concerning Snape's death. If he had to, he'd search the place himself, to prove that he did in fact, see Snape in the water's reflection.
Doctor Ash Hastings left the medical area, following behind Admiral Bicksby and Mediwizard Avi Rankar. He pretended to hold only professional interest in their discussion of the young man they'd just left, as they talked ahead of him. He'd always been good at following orders. Not happy about it, but good. Good enough to work his way up to medic in his six-year Army career. Not a soldier, per se, but a damn resourceful field doctor. Two decades on, and he found himself consorting with wizards. Not bad for a Sidney lad, a world away from the sticks and houseboats he grew up in.
Foster's instructions to him, had been very clear. "Keep your head down. Say nothing. Observe. If a witch or wizard senses your interest, they will close themselves off to you. Act as if any magic you see is no cause for concern and you will be allowed to stand in their presence. Those who are in agreement with the discretionary involvement of non-magicals, will be wearing the IA insignia. Do not trust anyone without it."
Foster had a way of speaking that made Ash's goal very clear. Do anything to fall short of his instructions, and this would be his first, last, and only chance to move forward in their trust. Foster trusted no one, and he was only awarding Ash with the chance to be useful because he had no one else in just such a perfect position.
"The only survivors were the ones found in Harry's car," the Admiral was telling Avi. "The passenger chart shows that his cabin was private and that his car was supposed to be relatively empty. Only one other passenger booked that car and he never showed. You've seen the injuries. Are they consistent with Harry's?"
"They are. All thirty-one show rapid tissue growth and traces of complex magic, though Harry's treatment is the most complete. It's as if the rest were treated in haste. The most life-threatening injuries were tended to, but secondary wounds were left alone. I don't want to underestimate the locals, but there's no registered wizard on record, within a hundred kilometers of the crash site, qualified to administer such treatment. On the other hand, the area is quite rural and cut off. Villagers are reputed to be self-reliant and very good at minding their own business. That usually means they still have ties to an old network of Pre-Christian Paganism. A skilled witch or wizard could make themselves useful among them."
"But it makes no sense to rescue the dying, remove them from the wreckage and then leave them to be found with Harry. That simply arouses suspicion. Why sabotage the train in the first place?"
"I'm no auror, but that points to an aggressor and an aggressee. Two parties who want to achieve different goals. Someone wanted those people dead, and someone tried to save as many as possible. There's your clue."
"So you don't believe the attack was deliberately against Harry Potter? I have his records, but you're his doctor, you know his history better than I do."
"I would keep him under surveillance, for his own safety. If someone is holding a grudge, they'll attempt to harm him again. But this country has seen a lot of political unrest. Muggles have their own rebellions and civil wars. There could easily have been some overlapping between terrorist demonstrations and surviving Death Eaters. Hell, the presence of an International Magical Alliance that wants to embrace non-magical beings, is enough to cause dangerous underground rallying. My advice as a wizard, is to keep an eye on this tour. If anymore violence arises, I think that will be your indicator that the source lies within the magical community and Mr. Potter is a target."
They had reached the canteen and Ash could no longer excuse his presence. His purpose had run its course. "Will either of you be needing my assistance anymore today?"
The Admiral turned to Ash, as if noticing him for the first time. "No, Doctor Hastings, thank you. You've been a terrific help. We could not have conducted our interviews so smoothly in this community without your help. Yours is a trusted face. Thank you for volunteering your service to the victims. If Doctor Avi has no more need of you, report tomorrow, same time."
Avi Rankar shook hands with the muggle doctor. "Pleasure working with you. Now that I've seen Harry, I'm afraid I'll have to head back to London. He's in good shape, mentally and physically. If you'll just look in on him for the remainder of his detainment, he shouldn't need anything else. And of course, your assistance with the other volunteers, is invaluable."
"I'll make myself available any way that I can," Ash smiled at them. He turned from the eating area, hoping they were thinking the same thing he was thinking. The collaboration between magical and non-magical doctors, was a success. Now to convince Foster. He couldn't confirm if the boy they called Harry Potter, was directly attacked, or if the whole thing was a random act of violence. Foster wouldn't like that, but that wasn't Ash's problem. He'd kept his word. Foster would have to keep his.
Ash was well aware that that was not Foster's real name. That name belonged to the young priest assigned to the local parish two years ago. The same priest slaughtered by political extremist spewing nonsense about 'Death Eaters' and reducing fields of crops to scorched images of skulls and snakes.
Two years ago, for the first time in his life, Ash had faced an epidemic of fear without knowing its source, and wondered if relocating his practice was the right thing to do. Even the destruction of Northern terrorism, hadn't affected him as badly as seeing the bodies laid out week after week, in unfathomable catastrophes, as it had two years ago. The injuries were not typically human. Skulls, still wholly intact but were crushed and concave as deflated soccer balls. No brain matter to be found. No blood, and no marks. Autopsies revealed the absence of entire organs, or arrangements so bizarre, no medical journal would allow for the possibility. He'd actually found a man's heart in his stomach. Twice. Chewed and digested and beginning to enter the large intestine, as if the men were forced to eat themselves and actually survived long enough for the digestion process to begin.
That's when he knew the Settlement was finally opening its secrets to him. He could either run, like any sane person. Or, he could stay and try to pass whatever initiation this was. He had come to Ireland after his failed second marriage, because it seemed like the last magical place on Earth. He'd just lost his home and his kids, and he needed healing isolation. He figured the loneliness would either kill him or force him to wake up from a lifetime of trying to make others happy. It simply could not be done. People were so immovably who they were. If full-grown adults had no idea how to live in happiness, what the hell made him think he could promise that to another? People didn't even know what it was. They only knew fleeting moments, and those didn't count. And don't get him started on the whole mythology of love. That was just another misunderstanding people got wrong on a daily basis.
Two years ago, he was scheduled to meet Vicar Ross Foster, at the train station. All he found, was seven massacred bodies in the pouring rain, and a survivor wandering on the moors. The nearest hospital was an hour away by rail. Ash had become accustomed to patching up the locals, but had no head for violence. What passed for law in those parts, were a man's wits and the gun stored under his seat. The stranger's behavior appeared erratic until he realized the man was fighting people who moved too fast in the dark to see. Impossibly fast. It seemed to him that they turned into smoke and mixed with the fog.
He was witnessing the tail end of murder and trying not to become a victim. He left his car, crouched beside it with his pistol, and tried to aim at the shadows in the fog. To this day, he could never be sure of what he saw. To his uncertain eye, the stranger flailed, tossing some sort of short rod around him while being struck by invisible forces. Suddenly, blue streaks lifted out of the rod and splintered like glowing shards, striking out in 360 degrees around the man's body. Solid figures began falling from the sky around him. Ash heard their breath leave them as they hit the ground. He heard ribs crunch and legs break. When the only movement was the lifting fog, and the man stumbling through it, he left his hiding place and followed, afraid to draw attention to himself, yet unwilling to lose sight of the man.
The stranger was obviously limping, obviously wounded and moving with the drag of someone taking their last steps. Ash remembered that sort of fatigue from his military days and he waited for the man's shock to take its course. When he saw him collapse, only then did he dare approach the stranger and shine a light into his face. He could've restrained him and contacted the authorities. He had no idea what side of the killings the man was on. Not really. But the fact that he'd had to defend himself against numerous unnatural attacks, had Ash driving his Land Rover onto boggy, peat soil, to maneuver the man into his vehicle. His flashlight revealed a mid-sized man swallowed in excessive vestments. His silver-grey hair, tied behind his head, plastered wetly over a harassed expression filled with tension behind closed eyes. By the time he'd secured the man with double sedation, and gotten him back to his house, the hair was jet black and Ash could see that it belonged to a man much younger than he'd thought. The dramatic, impossible change, both frightened and fascinated Ash.
Hairs stood on his skin as he hoisted the stranger onto clean sheets and set about examining him for injuries. For some reason, he made sure the shades were drawn, the door locked, and the curtains looking into his home had no gaps. Something about this man, and peeling back the many layers of his coat, cloak, robe, and suit, down to the undergarments beneath, told him he was treading on dangerous ground. He kept is pistol close. He thought the clothes were only dark with rain. Stains revealed the front of the man to be drenched in blood. It ran from wounds at his throat, down the length of his undergarments. Closer examination revealed enflamed lacerations at the throat and multiple punctures. He could've sworn that the throat had been sliced, only the tissue did not open beneath his prying fingers. It made the actions of the man, his ability to fight so effectively on his feet, all the more incredible.
He thought again to the clothes. Only clergymen wore those rows of tedious buttons. That didn't fit with the academic robe. It was as if he'd escaped from somewhere, wearing all the clothes it would've been impractical to carry. The forbidding quality of his features, even in sleep, warned that Ash was violating something, that he was not to be touched. Was this Vicar Foster? His eccentric clothes said, possibly. The tattoo of the skull and snake oozing down his right forearm, said definitely not. There was no identification in his clothing. Only an empty pouch and a decorative stick of some sort.
After he treated the most obvious wounds, he made himself tea and sat in the dark. Authorities were notified and would be arriving at his door soon. He'd already told them he'd rescued a survivor. He wished he hadn't. He told himself that this was none of his business and he'd hand the man over without ever knowing anything more about him. That tattoo couldn't be good. There was too much talk of random attacks committed by people sporting skulls and symbols of death. Even around there, where people were left to peculiar traditions, that lot was a recent disturbance thought to be from up North and not welcomed. News of bombings in nearby towns, had everyone on edge, expecting the worst before it got better. He was lucky to live so far out, but city violence got closer and closer every year.
Of course, there were things the locals didn't exactly include him in on. He knew that after five years, he was still very much a guest in their village. They were friendlier with him than they were, but he was not a member of their innermost circles. He didn't mind the distrust. It gave him the opportunity to show respect and wait for them to need him. He might not be one of them, but he was cut from the same stock that needed to live outside the rules and the scrutiny of city neighbors. Abandoned towns and lost villages scattered across the backroads of Kerry Pass, were perfect for disappearing off the map and still enjoying the convenience of television and email.
Around midnight, he got the call that Notting's Way had flooded. The pass was under two meters of stone and earth. Could he detain the stranger safely till morning? He said he could and made a mental note to inject another eight milligrams of benzodiazepine in four hours. It was then that he noticed the fever and gave him an injection of Amoxycillin just in case, for infection. He attempted to dress the man in dry clothes from his own wardrobe, but thought better of it. If he survived the night, it would be more prudent to wait before dressing him. His clothes were evidence and shouldn't be washed. Authorities would want a photo record of the state of his body. He pulled the covers over the man, locked the door from the outside, and went to his sitting room to search the net for images of the tattoo and any information he could find.
There were no exact matches to the image, but there were plenty of news reports that featured crude drawings vandalizing areas of recent attacks. There was even footage of a plume of smoke, in the image of a skull and snake, over the city of London. It could've been a trick of the light, or the process of evaporation, that made one unsure of the image. He decided not to trust the source and moved on. All any article could make of the mark was that it was an unfriendly warning of some occultist group that no one had any information on. Crimes linked it to the death cults currently terrorizing Western Europe.
By the time he closed his laptop, the sun was up and his head was pounding. A moan from the bedroom reminded him he'd forgotten to dose the man on time. He quickly prepared a syringe, placed his pistol beneath the tail of his sweater, and went in. The man was still asleep. He administered the dose without preamble, only relaxing when he pulled the needle out of the vein. Upon checking his bandages, he saw that not only had the man stopped bleeding but the laceration showed signs of accelerated healing. Redness was diminished and the punctures were already scabbed over. Just because he didn't believe what he was seeing, he pulled the covers aside to note any other oddities. What he saw, caused his heart to miss its rhythmic timing, then speed up three times the normal rate. Adrenaline literally reached the tips of his fingers in a split second, making his hands feel bloated and swollen twice their size as he released the covers over the man again.
He stood straight, reminded himself that he was in no immediate danger, and tried to take a full-bodied, one minute series of breaths. He lasted ten seconds before flinging the covers back. Full daylight fell on the man, who lay in perfect form before him. Perfect, except for the shock of no longer qualifying as male.
Last night, Ash had dressed the wounds of the man, his body normal in appearance. No irregularities, no deformities. This morning, what had clearly been there, was no longer. In the place of features any man would've been proud to claim his own, lay the mild shapes of the fairer sex. Accuracy and detail pulled his head close. His eyes strained, squinting and demanding more clarity from his vision than possible. No other features had changed. His physique had not diminished. His face had not softened. His limbs and torso retained its masculine proportions. His thighs and calves jutted with the musculature of a man, including a healthy film of hair. Only that part of him, wasn't playing by any rule set forth under Heaven, or found in Ash's medical library.
Two whiskies later, Ash sat at his dining table watching his hands shake. It was a good feeling, not like jitters before surgery. More like pure excitement. His stomach hadn't knotted itself like this since he was a boy and leaping twenty-five meters into the Pacific Ocean from Mount Martha. It was fear and overwhelming elation all at once, mixing an unstable chemical cocktail in his veins and in his decision-making. Far from sluggish, his mind had reached pinnacles of clarity. He saw how he'd grown complacent between military and marriages. He saw how he'd settled for solitude, in the aftermath of lawyers and loss, instead of claiming his diving spot before any of his friends could get to it. He remembered that feeling. That race to be first. That competition that pumped his summers with meaning. He knew he wasn't nine years old anymore, but he also knew that people were not supposed to live without this feeling. It told them they were alive and flush up against the chance to know something amazing, that no one else knows.
That wasn't a human man in his guest bedroom. Not in the conventional sense. He'd heard things. He'd sat on the fringes of acceptance in this village for five years, and waved away their superstitions. He enjoyed their services and traditions, so closely tied to the phases of the moon. Their practices were as solid as any Farmers Almanac, ripe with Christian-Pagan idiosyncrasies. Their homemade remedies and benevolent avoidance of strangers, was charming. He attended church, having hated it when he was forced to do so as a lad, for the social approbation, as they all did, not for the sermon. In fact, his housekeeper, Reuse Wintry, confided to him, after a year in his employ, that she was descended from witches. While she practiced the peaceful kind of craft, she did not possess the gifts her grandmother had. The village was, in fact, all that was left of a once thriving pagan community. King Henry VIII put a stop to most of it, but it never left their blood.
When he saw processions of candles burning on the moors at night, when his hikes brought him to the remains of animal sacrifices, he let the chill pass through him, and told himself how far he was away from home. He couldn't expect anything more from them. And truth be told, his own Aboriginal ancestry, had something to do with his ability to turn a forgiving eye on what he didn't understand. He'd been warned that the dreaming was in him also.
"Go wherever the green glows. You have friends there." That statement, from his grandfather, was one of the set pieces that determined his travel to Ireland after his divorce. He didn't know what it meant, only that it comforted him.
The stranger in the next room forced him to see that 'glowing green' meant rich, unknown histories. It meant faeries and sprites. It meant witches and excitement. It meant there had to be more to life than taxes, backbreaking failure, and losing your kids because you couldn't cope without a drink in your hand. It meant magic. Life had taken away his boyhood vigor. His magic. But as he sat at his table, he felt it stir again for the first time in twenty years.
Do you want this? It whispered.
God, yes! his gut clinched in answer.
That was no mere wounded man. That was no political radical, waving threats in front of media cameras. That was someone trying to hide, undiscovered by this age. That person had fought off killers.
It made sense now, in a way that things rarely do. That man was a wizard.
The knot in Ash's stomach wasn't even about what the hell he'd seen between the man's legs. It was about the promise of so much more. Ash couldn't begin to fathom if all wizards were anatomically diverse, for lack of better phrasing, but he damn sure had to find out. He had so many questions.
Quiet perseverance had broken through to this place. After five years, secrets parted to let Ash in. He'd proven himself worthy somehow and this dangerous being was now unconscious in his bed. He'd found his glowing green. He'd found some magic, and he wasn't turning it loose until he'd fully engaged with it. When the authorities arrived, they'd just have to learn how the man sprang awake, over powered him, and escaped onto the moors. He could live with miscalculating dosage better than he could live with never knowing anything about this creature, whom he was sure he would never see again, if he allowed him to leave. Now, how does one go about crippling a wizard so that he has to stay?
That was two years ago. Ash had played every card in his power, sacrificed his practice, his life, and his sanity to keep just a little bit of Foster's magic in his world. Tonight, it would pay off. The man had no notion of his effect on people. Or did he? Even when disguised as a man thirty years older, Ash had witnessed the stares he attracted. It wasn't easy to get Foster to appear in public, but Ash had been able to persuade him to let the villagers become accustomed to his English uncle.
"Let them think you have a reason for retiring here. Otherwise, they'll be suspicious of you."
They were suspicious of him. And he them. Ash had not needed to cripple him with drugs to keep him in his home. He learned that some other ailment had the delayed effect of paralysis in the right side of Foster's body. He never got the story out of him. It took days to work out that his puncture wounds were that of a poisonous bite. Many reptiles could produce paralyzing venom. Ash was left to deduce that Foster's tattoo indicated rituals with snakes. A ritual gone badly wrong. Venom that merely limited his movement, would possibly be quite deadly to a weaker person. He was grateful to that reptile. The man needed treatment and lodging. Ash let it be known that his home, and his discretion, were available. He thought he had the upper hand until he awoke one morning to find that Mr. Foster had accepted his offer, in the form of gold coins stacked on his bedside table.
That arrangement lasted for exactly six months, whereupon Foster escaped with the full use of his body and claimed an abandoned lighthouse by the cliffs of Pitter Head as his residence. Ash thought it barbaric until Foster allowed him to get close enough to see that the rubble was an illusion and enough smooth stones had been unearthed and assembled to create layers of rooms that went deep into the caves there. Dry walls, carpet, bookcases, staircases, and all the comforts of a threadbare bungalow lay hidden behind ruins. Ash knew that Foster intended for him to see it and to take note.
I was never helpless, Foster's resourcefulness seemed to say.
After he left the rescue site, Ash knew that he would not see Foster until dark. If he tried to look for him, Foster would only keep himself hidden longer. If he went to the lighthouse, Foster's barriers would only have him going in circles, never setting foot inside the dwelling, or even being able to see what was really there. He went home, ate the dry meal Reuse had left for him, and waited for the sun to go down.
There was no knock at the door. Foster was in his dining room the minute evening's light turned from white to blue. By opening his home to the wizard, he had inadvertently given Foster permission to come and go as he please. Apparently wizards didn't need doors or windows. Ash didn't mind. He only wished that Foster would grant him the same courtesy.
"Well?"
He could tell that Foster was in no mood for preamble. "I saw him. The very same boy you brought here. He's awake and fine."
"The others?"
"All thirty-one survived. They still don't know who attacked the train."
"Do they know if Harry was targeted?"
"No. They're in the dark. All they can do is wait to see if anything happens near him again. That will tell them if this is a non-magical issue, or a resurgence within the magical communities."
The room had grown dark. He barely saw Foster's grimace. Before he could reach for the light, Foster did him the favor of lifting them throughout the room. Ash smiled. "Thank you."
Silence answered him. Foster was not satisfied with the news. "Did anyone seem suspicious to you?"
"Only that Minister fellow you warned me about. And there was a boy holding an odd child in the room. No matter which way she turned her head, I couldn't see her face. That was creepy. Even weirder than the little creature."
Foster disregarded this bit of detail, but not without a crease lining his brows. He held the back of a dining chair and braced himself in thought. It gave Ash a moment to trace the outline of his coat with his eyes.
Foster and that damn coat. He tried asking once, "Do all wizards dress like you?" He hadn't seen neck ties like that since his great great grandfather's suits were fumigated and donated to the central museum of Sidney, where they sat on display today as fine a example of Early Colonial civility. Cravats? Who could blame him for mistaking Foster as the newly appointed parishioner, with his layers of tweed and wool hiding his body like some holier-than-thou prick right out of the Vatican three centuries ago. Only he knew that the wizard was packing a physique of spry, noteworthy charms beneath all those Black Widow skirts. And he appreciated them.
His question had gone unanswered until tonight. Foster had given him that look. It was a look that said he'd breached some contractual agreement and needed to back off. Ash had seen all manner of modern dress on people carrying sticks tonight. Or wands, as they preferred to call them.
Between Foster's eccentric attire, and the village coming to life with recent events, Ash took entertainment where he could find it. He didn't even mind Foster's smoldering annoyance anymore, having learned from his ex that it was perfectly natural for some people to be more comfortable with dissatisfaction than happiness. Besides, if Foster wanted him dead, as his stare sometimes appeared to indicate, he would've been dead already. No. That stare was a challenge.
At first glance, he knew that unsuspecting observers saw a mature, even aging physique of no remarkable qualities in Foster. But he'd seen how Foster used it. Energy came out of nowhere for him. He'd seen the man fold his cloak and climb a sheer wall to help with church restorations. Foster kicked dirt into the eyes of the young thugs who mistook him for a hapless newcomer once, mistaking him for an easy robbery. Ash had sat in his Rover and watched, sipping tea from a thermos. Foster did not resort to his magic in front of people. Instead, he had stomped resolutely on the boys' hands when he had them down, and gave them broken fingers to remember him by.
He'd jumped, flat-footed, over a stone wall and chased them down, wielding a stick that shot out like a riding crop and beat the head of the gang senseless before giving him up. There was energy in those concealed arms and hidden thighs, that told Ash to be patient.
As Foster paraded his peculiar, Victorian tastes, in front of Ash, Ash began to regard the shapes and surfaces he was seeing with keener and keener interest. Especially since he thought he knew what was beneath them and why the layers were necessary. It didn't figure into the first time he'd seen Foster unclothed, but those questions still lacked adequate answers. There was nothing to do but enjoy the show and make himself useful where he could. Indispensable, in fact. Most in the village knew by now, that the white-haired Foster was his uncle by marriage, and the younger, black-haired Foster, on the rare occasion they spied him, was something else to Ash. Something secret, discreet, and charmingly unmentionable in polite company. His gentleman. Ash proved that he could keep village secrets. The village proved that they didn't mind his.
With two ex-wives, two teenage children, and four mortgages under his belt, Ash thought himself past his enthusiasm for temptation. All of them were happily enjoying life without him in Melbourne. Every time he looked at Foster's buttons, marching single file down his chest, or found the crease where Foster's waist went all inward and curvy, he reconsidered his options. It had been over twenty years since his medic-in-training days, that he'd let another male get that close to him. And that was only in his weakest moments. He had no confusions about himself or his preferences. He was only now more certain of his ability to make any selection he wanted from life's variety. If he had known wizards were on the table twenty years ago, especially wizards with something worth hiding, things might've been different.
He believed, the kids these days referred to such striking curves, with the eloquence of common banter. '...Thicker than a bowl of oatmeal'.
Yes, Foster's curves were.
"Well? Did you learn where they're placing him next? Is he returning home?"
Ash forgot that Foster was speaking to him. "I believe he will continue on with the tour. He seemed undaunted."
"You believe? You stood right there and applied stringent faith instead of listening to the conversation?"
Ash sighed. "He will be held at the hotel for several days for rest and questioning. Every faction under the CIUM, will have the opportunity to get his story. That includes the Minister's people. He will be shadowed by hidden bodyguards and appear at the opening ceremonies next week. Until then, he has a lecture and something called quidditch practice two days apart in Edinburgh."
Foster's face lost a bit of its tension. A slight nod of his head was all that Ash would ever hear in the way of 'well done.'
It was Ash's turn to get some answers. "Now, will you please tell me what this boy means to you? I'm risking my practice to get the information you want, you could just turn into the old man and show up yourself."
"Harry would know me in an instant."
"Know you from where?"
When Foster declined to answer, Ash insisted, "Well do that thing where he can't even see you. That's how you got past him on the train."
Foster looked up at the ceiling, resigned to Ash's ignorance. "I told you. I can't risk someone bumping into me. That spell is only effective from a distance. As long as no one touches me, no one sees me. The closer I am to them, the more I seem like a disturbance in the air. I barely survived the cabin with him. I'll not put myself through that again."
Ash laughed. "You actually witnessed that. Ah, to be that young and unaccountable."
Foster whipped around. "He is unstable! You have no idea what was done to that boy. He was tortured. He's lucky he can put one foot in front of the other, let alone gallivant all over the world giving sold-out lectures. He may be forgiven for his indiscretion."
"That's not what you said when you got back."
"Unless you have anymore relevant information, we're done this evening."
Ash pulled a face. "That was short. You promised you'd stay for dinner."
"I see no dinner, and I'm in no mood for food."
Ash went quiet, his voice singing, "You promised. That was the deal."
"The word dinner was never used. Implied, but never used. I said that I would give you something in return for the favor you have performed for me."
"I was there all day and I have to return tomorrow."
"I'm not asking you to. You've given me the information I wanted. You're free to do as you choose."
"It doesn't work that way with the military. When you tell an Admiral you'll be there the next day, it's my experience that officers will come looking for you. I signed on to recover bodies and I will."
"You're no longer in the military and I didn't ask you to commit to such an obligation."
Ash placed his drink on the table. "Okay, lets skip this game and get right to the point. I'm a gentleman. You know what I want from you. I want to be more than friends. Hell, if we could become real friends, that would be a start. I want, for lack of a better word, a date. Nothing serious, just your company and to hear you speak to me in a civil tone. I've earned it."
He braced himself for the explosion of outrage building behind Foster's eyes. In the two years of their association with one another, they had never broached the subject. Ash wasn't even sure Foster comprehended human desires on that level. All he'd been telling himself for the past four days was, if he did this, if he helped Foster get to the boy, Foster would once again have a reason to sit at his table. It wouldn't be paralysis forcing him to stay under Ash's roof, eating Ash's food, and warming to the friendship he offered. It would be trust. As for the 'something more,' Ash was willing to wait and see if the wizard could allow that possibility.
Foster's explosion never came. His tirade of educated insults fell quiet behind his eyes. To Ash's surprise, he looked down, letting his dark hair fall forward and showing that he didn't always know what to say.
Score. Me, Ash thought.
Foster leaned into is weight before letting his attention resurface. For one beautiful second, he looked as if he might take a seat. Then, "I'm leaving. If there's something you want for your troubles, you should specify it now."
So that's how he wanted to play it. All right. Ash was young once. He remembered what it was like to be the insensitive jerk no words could break. He put on that face now. Foster, apparently, had an issue with gentleness and self-worth. Well, no one really likes indecisiveness anyway.
He pushed his chair back and stood, taking Foster up on his offer. He approached with caution, not fear. Foster's stern expression tried to intimidate him with each step. Ash knew that there was an unspoken link between eye contact and aggression. Foster waited to call his bluff, emitting a vaporous chill meant to deter the most determined admirer. Just before he reached his face, Ash gave Foster a chance to see that he wasn't backing down and he wasn't embarrassed. In the wild Outback, one did not win a mate that way. He might not know how to keep them, but Ash knew that he could get them.
He leaned in. When Foster didn't pull away, he sped towards his mouth. It could've been a twitch. It could've been a knee-jerk reaction. The turn of Foster's head, ever so slightly, could've been outright rejection. Ash didn't waste any time figuring it out. The kiss he gave, made sure he extracted his pay for a day's service. And for tomorrow as well. If Foster permitted him this moment, now was not the time to go shy. In fact, he advertised his skill. This had always been the healthiest part of his marriages, and the reason why they lasted as long as they did. He held Foster until he was sure the other understood this somehow as well.
Just when he thought he felt their heat rising mutually, he attempted to touch the scars at Foster's neck with one hand, and run the other inside the center of his coat. Foster gripped his wrist.
They looked at one another with something hostile and anxious between them. Uneasy reflection on Foster's face made Ash glad to see his saliva glisten on the other man's mouth. Glad, and ready to give him more. But time was up. Foster disengaged himself as swiftly as yanking attachments from Ash.
He pulled his body out of reach. His black-eyed reprimand, either complained that Ash had asked for too much, or too little, before turning and storming out of the room. Only the slamming of the door told Ash what he wanted to hear. He'd caused a wizard to forget that he could apparate. Foster had not needed a door to enter his home. But after the kiss, he needed one to exit. That was some satisfaction.
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