Mission Raise Potter - Part 1
24th December 1984
Albert Spinner, retired justice of the law division of the International Council of Wizards, was making an unusual visit to the island named Azkaban. The prisoner he wished to meet was Sirius Black and the order for secrecy came from the highest authority of the magical world. The order was, of course, a fabrication made by the DOI and the secrecy would ensure the truth never got out. When the ICW badge was flashed, proper procedure was merely given a side glance all over the world.
To work at the ICW and reach the highest levels of its echelon, a person had to be the best in his profession. Albert Spinner was a world renowned specialist in criminal law and it had taken Albert Croaker 5 years and three months to infiltrate the organization and bear the fruits of his work.
This was thirty years ago when he was tracking down a dangerous British citizen with an irrational rage towards the Ministry of Magic for Britain, who had come to possess an artifact with the mysterious power of sending people into the past … Permanently. The time division had been in a frenzy about getting a hold of this artifact and the Aurors were furious since the man was formerly one of them and had now taken asylum in Germany.
Chekhov had assigned his best agent at the time to recover the artifact and ensure that the man disappeared naturally.
Today, many decades later, the identity of Albert Spinner was making an appearance in the shadows to meet with an unconvicted criminal. Croaker knew keeping the high profile alias would keep coming in handy until the day he died.
Sirius Black, prisoner in the highest security wing of Azkaban was startled out of his blank gaze into the darkness and memories that accompanied him when his cell door opened with a loud clang. He heard three distinct footsteps enter his prison cell and dully wondered who it could possibly be.
He hadn't seen or heard anything apart from the insane ramblings of the forty five inmates incarcerated in the wing with him. He knew there were forty five because he had spent a significant amount of his time trying to put faces to the voices. It was what he did to keep his mind busy and restrained from falling into the same pit of madness that his neighbors were trapped in. Disgusting soup with soggy chunks of meat appeared twice a day so he was able to keep track of time as well. It took a significant amount of effort to remember the day, the date and the month everyday after the dementors assaulted him but he managed not to forget and that little thing kept him sane since the time of his incarceration.
The scratches on the wall and his infected fingertips saw to the maintenance of a disorganized calendar until the strength to scratch departed his feeble fingers... That was four months ago.
Suddenly the jarring sound of metal being dragged against stone echoed in the cell and Sirius clamped his ears shut to shut out the painful noise.
A small table and two stools were brought into the cell and Sirius Black remained still but disturbed in the corner where he was sitting.
"Sirius Black?"
A pleasant cultured voice filled the room and suddenly Sirius felt strangely weak. Weaker than he had ever felt since his relocation to Azkaban. Hearing the voice of a person who sounded normal, who wasn't screaming, who was screeching songs of praise about the dark lord; it felt so soothing and devastating to his heart. His breath came in a shudder and he felt more confused than ever.
"My name is Albert Spinner. I am with the ICW and I would like to borrow a bit of your time."
Sirius's eyes shifted towards the voice in the dark and he wondered if this was a new trick of the dementors. This couldn't possibly be real. How could it be real? A man talking in a tone that suggested he was at a sea side resort having tea and crumpets with an associate?
No, this is not real. This is not real.
"Do you need assistance to find your way to this stool I have for you?"
Illusion born from the mind; that's what this is. There is no point in entertaining such voices. The dementors are adapting to overcome my resistance.
Suddenly two hands grabbed his arms and lifted him up roughly - the chains binding his ankles to the wall clanged loudly - and he was deposited on the stool, facing a voice that was still hidden in the veil of darkness.
"Please close your eyes while I bring a little light into this room. I imagine it will be quite painful considering you have seen light for years now."
This was not real.
The strike of a matchstick and the spark of light that followed made him cry out in pain. His eyes burned and the man lit three candles fixed on the table.
Croaker stared grimly at what used to be Sirius Black. A bony face, which used to be full of life, now reduced to hollowed out cheeks and cracked lips. The pale clammy skin was overrun with scraggly facial hair. Eyes without light, without hope; dull and broken - shifting from side to side, not really seeing, but imagining only horrors. A face, devoid of hope and partly hidden behind a curtain of lackluster brown hair that was thinning black and white striped prison clothes that were covered with grime and flecks of blood hid a frail figure which had a flimsy layer of skin covering the weakened bones of his body.
Croaker decided to proceed. "I need to know that you can hear and understand what I'm saying," Croaker said with gentle firmness. "Please state your name and the year you were born in so that I know that you haven't lost your mind yet."
The shifty eyes focused on the middle aged man with brown hair and fair skin and wondered for a moment if this was actually real.
"Mr Black?"
"Sirius Orion Black," he finally rasped. It was difficult to speak, he realized. His throat hurt and he began to cough violently.
Croaker nodded to the two men standing in the shadows and they placed a steel glass filled with water on the table.
"Drink," Croaker said calmly.
Sirius couldn't believe it. Clean water that didn't smell? Water that wasn't delivered in a clay cup that he had to find in the dark twice a day? He greedily grabbed at it and felt the darkness become a little less suffocating with every trembling sip.
"Please state your date of birth."
"18th June 1959," he said slowly, taking his time to speak the words.
"Did you kill thirteen muggles and Peter Pettigrew in cold blood after giving Lord Voldemort the secret to the location of Potter's cottage?"
James, Lily.
Sirius' heart clenched. He as good as condemned them to die when he forced them to use Peter; A rat who groveled at the feet of those with power.
"Yes," he whispered. If this was about leaving Azkaban then he didn't care. He deserved to rot in this hell for his crimes.
"Did you use a blasting curse to kill Peter Pettigrew after he cornered you?"
What was the point of this? Why, after four years was he being asked these questions?
"Yes," he replied dully.
"Your wand is fourteen inches, has the core of a heart strings taken from a Swedish Dragon and is encased in oak wood. Am I right?"
"Yes."
"And you used the same to kill Peter Pettigrew?"
"Yes."
"The same wand was used to perform the Fidelius Charm that made you the Potter's secret keeper?"
"Yes," Sirius said tiredly. He wanted to go back to his corner and turn back into Padfoot. Padfoot didn't think complicated thoughts.
"You should know that everything you say is being recorded. Do you understand?"
Sirius nodded. He could hear the faint sound of a wave crashing against the rocky island and he wondered if a storm was coming.
"Are you aware that you were convicted without a trail?"
Empty blue eyes focused on the purposeful brown ones. "What do you want from me?" he asked hoarsely.
"Answer the question Mr. Black."
Sirius sighed. "Yes."
"Were you working for Dumbledore after your graduation from Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry?"
There was a short silence after that question to which the eventual answer was, "No."
"Were you a Death Eater serving Voldemort?"
"Yes."
"But you were not marked by Lord Voldemort."
"No."
"When did you become a Death Eater?"
James, I'm so sorry.
"Mr. Black? When did you become a Death Eater?"
"I don't remember."
"When did you give the secret of Potter's cottage to Voldemort?"
The incessant question snapped something inside Sirius and suddenly he was filled with rage. He caught the edge of the table and flung it aside, snuffing the light out of the room. For once the darkness made him feel better but the grief welling inside his heart burst out with the force of unforgiving guilt.
"I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW!"
He was screaming and straining against the chains binding him to the walls.
"LEAVE ME ALONE! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"
He started to cough violently again and the energy that it took to scream made him drop to the floor after his legs collapsed under him. He was sobbing and Croaker just looked on impassively.
"Pick him up and put the table back," he said to the two men he had brought with him. They could see in the dark with the light spell the prison guards used to see in the dark. Sirius was put back on the stool and the temporary furniture and light was put back in place. Croaker leaned closer to him, dug his hands into his robes and removed a wand.
Sirius's eyes widened when he recognised it.
"That's right. It's yours. We tested it, recreated the last five spells cast and none of them were a blasting curse. We went further back, almost six months and didn't find a trace of the spell required for the Fidelius. We questioned every Death Eater in your ministry's custody and none of them seem to remember you being within a mile of Voldemort after you graduated.
So tell me Mr. Black. What are you doing here in Azkaban?"
Sirius didn't reply. He looked away from the man in front of him, who was reminding him of the truth. The one word that sucked all the happiness out of him and in turn managed to keep him sane. The truth was that his friends were dead; betrayed by their best friend. The truth was that they suspected another and the truth that he had been too stupid to see the signs.
Telling a lie was a whole lot better than accepting the truth and now this man was making him remember all over again.
"Did you really betray the Potter's Mr. Black?"
"Yes," Sirius choked, tears traveling down his cheeks. But this time he knew he was lying and it was obvious.
Croaker waited. Sirius's body was trembling and his tears were flowing faster.
"No, I did not."
Sirius broke down. He was screaming, his eyes were roving with madness and grief, he was cursing Peter over and over again, begging James to forgive him, cursing his decision to make Peter the secret keeper and Croaker patiently waited for him to let it all out.
"I would never betray James," he cried wildly. "I would never!"
"Then why did Albus Dumbledore, the chief warlock, let you be thrown into this hell without even hearing your side of the story?"
"I… I don't know. Maybe he thought I really did it. I don't know," he said in a broken sobbing voice.
"You worked for him for four years. Dedicated your life to him and he didn't bother to at least ask you why you did it?"
In the middle of his epileptic confession, Sirius had crawled into a fetal position on the floor and now he looked up with doubt in his miserable eyes. "I… He thought I was the secret keeper. And then I betrayed him or so he thought."
Croaker smiled. "You don't believe that. I can see it in your eyes. You asked yourself too didn't you? Maybe the first night or the second or maybe even for a week before the Dementors really started to confuse nightmares with reality. Why did no one come and ask you to explain yourself? Did no one care? Or was it something else? Was it because of your name that they immediately cast you aside and assumed you were capable of betraying the people you loved?"
Legacy.
The word came to Sirius instinctively and bitterly.
"Why are you here?" Sirius asked instead. Strangely the rabid confession and the absence of the dementors for so long was enabling him to think clearly after a very very long time. "Why is a man from the ICW talking to me after discovering my innocence? What country do you work for?"
"I don't belong to any country Mr. Black. I belong to the ICW law and order division and the fact that Britain has been convicting witches and wizards without a trial is disturbing news for the international community. Especially when the people cast into such deplorable prisons are innocent."
Sirius struggled to push himself into a sitting position.
"So what do you want from me? You don't sound like you're out to bring justice back to this shithole of a ministry."
"The first thing I want is for you to leave this prison if you are willing."
Sirius frowned, confused. "If I am willing?"
"That's right. If you are willing."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
Croaker smiled. "I'm glad to see your mind is somewhat intact. Most wizards lose it entirely just after a month here."
"I am not like most wizards."
"Clearly," Croaker said dryly. "What I mean, however, is that technically you would still be in prison and guilty in the eyes of the ministry."
Sirius's mouth dropped open. Was this man serious?
"You could choose to say no and live here until you die or else you could say yes and listen to my proposal after we get you out of here."
Suddenly it all clicked. ICW, Dumbledore, politics. They wanted him to become a spy for them, just like what he did for Dumbledore during the war.
"No way," he spat. "I'm not going to betray my country."
"We're not asking you to betray anyone," Croaker said sharply. "All I'm asking of you is to hear me out once we are away from these walls. If you decide not to help us, then we will ensure the truth about your innocence is made public and you will be a free man. I give you my word."
This was big, Sirius realized. There was something deeper and possibly dangerous at play and this man seemed to think he wouldn't say no. The possible reasons frightened him.
"Do you want to leave this place Mr. Black?"
"Yes," he said suddenly. He had made up his mind. "Please take me away from here." And then he collapsed. He lost consciousness after the emotionally exhausting encounter that drained every drop of strength from his body.
"Take him to the safe house," he said to his men. "And put the replacement in the cell."
"Yes Sir."
One week later
Croaker was staring at the yellow liquid swirling in the crystal glass, lost in thought.
"It might help if you drink it instead of sloshing it around," Chekhov said helpfully. Scotch was a marvelous drink to soothe the nerves.
"He's not doing good is he?"
"He's doing fine," Croaker replied.
"Then why the long face?"
"Do you remember the last time we removed a prisoner from the high security wing?"
Chekhov frowned.
"That's right," Croaker said with a chilling smile. "Never. All we've ever removed from that wing are corpses."
Chekhov realized the meaning behind 'fine' in context to Sirius Black.
"How long will it take for him to get back on his feet?"
"A couple of days more I feel. But regarding his mental condition; it's far too soon to tell. Apart from blood curdling nightmares, he spaces out for hours together and memory loss is rampant. There are times when he forgets what he did just a couple of minutes ago. I recommend we recruit a Legilimens to accelerate his recovery."
Chekhov pursed his lips. "They're difficult to find and nearly impossible to trust. Let him recover the normal way and you can recruit a muggle psychiatrist if you feel it's necessary."
Croaker nodded. "What about Hugo and Potter? What's their status?"
"That's the reason I called you in," Chekhov said. He flicked his wand towards the steel cupboard adjacent to him and the top most drawer slammed open. A folder rose up and floated towards Croaker.
Croaker opened it and started to flick through the file; it was an itinerary. "Detroit, Ahvaz, Kyoto, Bombay and Czech Republic," he muttered, browsing through the details and with every page he looked through, his eyebrows went higher. "This plan of his is … ... It's ambitious to say the least!" he said, his eyebrows going higher with every page. "But I don't understand what's in the Czech Republic; it's a magic dead zone."
"Do you think it has a chance?" Chekhov asked. "This is a long term plan unlike anything we've ever done. Actually calling it long term would be an understatement."
"There's a lot of ifs and maybes involved in this," Croaker said, frowning. "The very first being Stacy allowing Hugo to walk right into her operations in Detroit."
"But…?" Chekhov pressed.
"It all depends on the kid's abilities. There are so many variables in here that it's hardly worth joking about."
"Hugo says he has it in him."
Croaker looked over the file again. "Well if this works, it could mean getting a live source into the Vampire Covens in the States. But it's going to take more than fifteen years before Harry can actually have the credentials to infiltrate their hideouts."
"And if he manages to befriend Dempsey Logan's kid, then we have a real alibi that spans back to childhood. The Vampires won't doubt him for a second," Chekhov said.
"His alibi for leaving and entering the country often will have to be solid as well," Croaker said. The idea that Hugo had presented them with was growing on them both and the prospects of it actually working was starting to sound like a real possibility. Inserting an agent in four different criminal circles of the world as a child and gaining the friendship and trust of key players of the future of the underground was too tempting to resist.
"Well Hugo's cover is pretty straight forward. He's a smuggler who deals in information and Goblin gold. Two things that are in high demand all over the world and accounts for his various trips out of the country as well, no matter which country it is," Chekhov said.
"Obviously their identities will change and Potter's metamorph powers will come in real handy."
"Logan is a thug for Salvic and his kid is seven years old. Potter is nowhere near ready for morphing into someone older than him let alone acting that particular age," Croaker pointed out. "All these plans are grand but it all hinges on Potter being able to do what is asked of him and I find that too big a stretch. We shouldn't be forcing his magic out so soon. It could damage his pathways."
"Hugo had a long discussion with Sanders about that," Chekhov replied. "She gave him a schedule which is quite intensive but not harmful to his growth. Plus I was able to wrestle a time turner out of Chang's grasp and considering the limits of his training his metamorph powers with a time turner, Hugo has worked out a schedule to have him ready for the basics in about six months."
"I'm still not convinced," Croaker said grimly. "We're putting an awful lot of burden on a four year old's shoulders."
"A four year old who is smarter than a kid twice his age and forced to grow up faster than normal because of abuse," Chekhov reminded. "I'm uncomfortable about signing off on this as well but think about the dividends this project could reap if it is a success."
"We could finally have a direct line on Lucius Malfoy's illegal operations via vampires," Croaker said. "You don't have to remind me about the benefits of this plan."
Croaker sighed. "When does Hugo plan on leaving?"
"We have to lay the groundwork first; muggle and magical. It's nothing not doable but just like you I'm very wary about going through with this. I need to know from you that we can trust this kid not to fuck up."
"I can't promise you that but I can tell you that we have trusted Hugo for twenty years and counting. There's something he sees in the kid so irrespective of our misgivings, I think we should trust his judgment," Croaker said.
Silence reclaimed the space of the room while thoughts and decisions were made in the mind of Dmitri Chekhov; the Russian who immigrated to Britain during the world war and ended up marrying Marylyn Selwyn, the sister of Bryce Selwyn; Alice Longbottom nee Selwyn's father.
"Let's do it," he said finally. "An opportunity like this will never present itself. O, and don't mention anything about Harry Potter to Black. As far as everyone else is concerned, Harry Potter is living with his relatives."
"Yes Sir."
"Did you take care of Arabella Figg?" Chekhov asked suddenly, the talk about Harry's old home reminded him about the spy Dumbledore had put two streets away from the Dursley's residence.
"She's a little crazy already and there's a good distance between her and the Dursleys house. But to be sure I had Blake lure her to the ministry on the pretext of winning the weekly Kneazle lottery. She was obliviated and memories of Harry Potter were replaced with the new Harry Dursley Potter."
"So no chances of Dumbledore getting wind of the switch unless he makes an appearance himself," Chekhov asked to confirm.
"He turns up to silence bouts of major accidental magic. The new Harry is as muggle as they come and the artifact Sanders built will ensure all magical traces and owls for Harry Potter will go to Privet Drive."
"Good," Chekhov breathed. "Getting back to your project; has Shaw outlined a plan for Black yet?"
"Outline yes," Croaker replied. "It requires us to recruit Glen Savage on some level so we're working on that. Shaw plans to enter the field as well and..."
The two intelligence officers continued their plotting and planning for the betterment of Britain and some miles away, in lavish mansion, Hugo Milner was teaching Harry Potter the basics of faking accents, learning languages, the mental growth of a human and many other skills on a tight schedule without overburdening the four year olds eager mind in his mission to make him the best metamorphmagus and spy that the world would never see.
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A/N: Review!