Make A Wish: The Legend of Mister Black

Original Story by Rorschach's Blot

Rewritten by CassieAsterisk


DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter or any related properties. If I did, I like to think I'd be a bit more careful about what I say on social networks.

This is a REWRITE of the excellent story by Rorschach's Blot, readable right here on FFN. I started this as a bit of creative writing practice and found that I quite liked the result; so after asking the almighty Blot themselves for permission, I decided to cast my doggerel into the sea of the Internet for others to enjoy. If the Blot or others tell me I can no longer do so, then I shall stop.

That being said... enjoy!

[AN: I'm sick and tired of FFN's mobile editor mangling my submissions, so I'm trying a different tack. Hoping it works out better.]


Chapter 5: 'Knife' To Meet You

It was a happy, sated Harry Potter that left the French cafe later that day, saying his goodbyes to his two new friends as he walked to the cab ranks nearby.

"Thank you again for the scintillating ideas, Mister Black," the Professor crowed. "And remember that we will be in Germany soon, if you wish to meet once more!"

As the two watched Harry depart, the cab he'd claimed disappearing around a Parisian corner, Henchgirl turned to her employer and best friend.

"Reckon we'll see him in Germany, Prof?" she asked in a hopeful tone.

"I certainly hope so," the old man replied. "But his world is one of intrigue and danger; he may decide it's best not to draw innocents into such a world."

"Us? Innocent? Pull the other one, Prof," Henchgirl laughed.

As they continued joking and discussing the mysterious man they'd just shared lunch with, a similar- if more subdued- conversation was happening across the street.

"Stepped into the first cab," a beautiful young woman in expensive looking clothes said with a rather unladylike snort. "The Dutch were having us on; nobody with any skill would do that. One of the first things they teach in training- never get into the first cab, it's the one most likely to have trackers!"

"Which, if you recall," came the surprisingly deep voice from the toy poodle on the end of the leash she was holding, "was why we didn't bother to put any on it."

The woman's eyes widened. "No way."

"Yes way," her poodle replied. "He's teaching us a lesson, just like the Dutch said; this time it was on cutting corners and why it's always a bad idea."

"We don't know that's the case, though," the woman argued. "You said yourself that the Dutch reports sounded like a pile of merde."

The dog snorted. Straight out of the academy and they think they know everything. "Tell me, apprentice, what we just witnessed."

"He said goodbye to those two strangely dressed people, then left," she explained, uncertainty in her voice.

"Which he took as an excuse to surveil his surroundings," the dog replied. "He looked right at us, no less, smirked, then picked the one cab that you hadn't tracked."

"What?" the woman gasped.

"There were a few other things I noticed," the poodle mentioned, "But we'll discuss those when we file our report. Suffice to say though, we've been made and no mistake."

"I still can't quite believe he's that good," the woman muttered.

"He is, trust me," the dog said with an air of finality. "So what have we learned, apprentice?"

"Never skip on the trackers," the woman listed, "Never leave any hole in the surveillance based purely on estimation."

"And?"

The apprentice sighed. "There's always a bigger fish."

"Good," the poodle said, smiling a strange canine smile. "Add another to the list, though; that the most dangerous among us are usually the ones that look the most harmless."

"Oh, so that's why you insisted on a grooming and a big pink bow around your neck before we left?"

"Er… yes," the dog animagus said, looking as shifty as a dog can while changing the subject. "Anyway, we've seen all we can see here. Let's head back."

"Yeah, early start tomorrow," the woman agreed. "Once we search his room we'll know just how skilled this Black fellow really is."


The next day saw Harry once again rising early, an itinerary set in his mind. La Musée de l'Armée in the morning, and the Folies Bergère in the evening.

As he studied the aritfacts of the French military, his mind was working at speed, absorbing the history of the place and its contents. While he was here to relax and see the sights, a small part of his mind was still devoted to the challenge of defeating Voldemort; and this part of his mind would internalize any and all lessons it could learn on warfare, both Muggle and magical. He learned much from the successes and failures of the French military, from ancient times all the way up to World War II.

After this was a show at the Folies Bergère; the famous cabaret hall. Despite the fact that there was a magical section of the old opera hall, Harry opted for a simple Muggle show instead; after his epiphany in Holland, Harry had decided that in terms of the arts the Muggle side should be experienced just as much as the magical. And indeed, the show was great; though he walked out blushing up a storm. For a long time, he'd remember the woman who wore a skirt of bananas and nothing else.

The next day, Harry discovered the less pleasant side of tourism in Paris- the queues. It seemed like every single place of note in the city had a massive line for entry; after two hours in one of them, Harry mused that they should change the place's motto from 'City of Lights' to 'City of Lines".

It was another hour of waiting in the queue to the Louvre before he gave up, stepping to the side and vacating his spot. He so badly wanted to see some of the priceless works within, but he'd only moved about two metres in the past hour and he was hot, thirsty and generally tired of standing in place.

"That's it,' he muttered as he moved away from the line. "I'm not in the mood for this any longer."

He was planning just to return to the hotel for a drink and a rest, but as he did so, he resolved that there wasn't much point sticking around Paris if all he was going to do was wait in a line. Therefore, he packed his bag and went down to the main desk to check out, giving a strained smile to the clerk.

"Was there something wrong?" The clerk asked nervously. "Problems with the service?"

"Oh, no, not at all," Harry was quick to reassure. "Let's just say that, well, I don't have the patience to see any more of Paris right now."

Subdued, Harry walked out of the hotel, hailed a cab and, after ordering the driver to take him to the Gare de Lyon, he sat back and looked out of the window, counting the amount of queues he spotted. As they drove by the Louvre, he noted with grim satisfaction that the line had barely moved in the two hours since he'd left.


Not long after Harry had left his hotel, a group of shadowy figures- the committee that governed the Gendarmerie de Magie, the French magical police force- gathered around a large table to collate, analyze and discuss the continued movements of one Mister Black.

"What did you learn by going through his room?" the man at the head of the table asked. "Any clues in his things as to his identity?"

"No," another figure replied. "Because within moments of entering his hotel room, our black bag team had to abort on orders from the observation team."

A murmur echoed through the table, and the explanation was continued by the leader of said observation team, who was sat nearby. "He knows some kind of perimeter alert charm that is Impossible to detect," she said. "We were watching him as the raid was beginning; as soon as the black bag team entered, he muttered that he 'wasn't in the mood for this' and left the queue, catching a taxi back to his hotel. It was then that I ordered the abort."

"Anything else of note?"

"Well, it would be prudent to mention that the cab he chose was the one I was driving," the woman noted, grimacing. "Not sure how he saw through Polyjuice, but it's what happened."

"I see," the man at the table's head said as he nodded thoughtfully. "What's his current status?"

"He packed up and left his hotel room," the observation team leader answered as she looked down at a pager feeding her info. "Currently en route to Gare de Lyon."

"He left?" the head figure asked, an eyebrow raised. "What prompted his departure?"

The observation leader checked her pager again. "Apparently he told the clerk that he 'didn't have the patience to see any more of Paris," she muttered. "Department speculates that he was annoyed by our intrusion and decided to leave."

"Annoyed?" the head figure parroted, sweating.

"Yes," the observation head confirmed. "But the strange thing is, his manner didn't suggest anger so much as it did exasperation. Kind of like how I reacted when I caught my three-year-old doodling on the wall using my wand as a crayon…"


From the Gare de Lyon, Harry bought fare for a train, his destination Marseilles. He didn't even notice the subtle shift in his accent as his Omniglot tongue bar altered it to fit. It didn't take long to find his seat, stow his pack, and relax into a light sleep.

So it was for the next two hours or so, until the train began to slow, Harry stirring from his nap. In the time he had before disembarking, he withdrew his trusty travel guide from his pocket and flipped to the subsection detailing Marseilles.

Marseilles is considered by many, at nearly 2,600 years of age, to be the oldest city in France. Proportionally, there are many interesting things that can be learned about the city and its past when visiting. In the interest of brevity, we will not list everything here.

The magical section of Marseilles is located just off the section known as Le Vieux Port. Access is gained through various means (listed at the end of this appendix), the most discreet of which is a small alley hidden by foliage between two old drinking establishments named 'Le Lion' and 'L'Unicorne'.

This alley runs for several meters before opening into the crossroads connecting the Rue de la Mal Absolu (aka the Rue de Chiotte) and the Rue de la Saintete.

Closing the book with a snap, Harry looked out upon the fast approaching city of Marseilles, contemplating the wonderful things he would see in this ancient city. Stepping off the train, it wasn't long before a cab answered his hail.

"Where to, monsieur?"

"The best hotel you know of, ideally nearby," Harry said. "After that, if you're willing to wait, I've got another place to go."

"Sure, I can do that," the cabbie nodded as Harry got in. "So, what brings you to the city? I assume you grew up here, by the accent?"

Harry was confused for a moment before remembering the Omniglot kit's capabilities. "Uh, no, not quite," he replied. "I'm simply on vacation, taking time to relax, you know?"

"Ah, I get it," the cabbie responded. "Got a job or something you're escaping?"

"Eh… nothing important," Harry demurred, sidestepping the question.

"Where you come in from?" the cabbie asked casually.

"Paris," Harry responded automatically as he stared out of the window. "Didn't stay long, though."

"Oh? Something happen?"

"Lack of patience, I guess," Harry clarified, straightening in his seat as the cab stopped in front of a nice looking hotel. "Hopefully I don't have reason to cut short my stop here, as well."

As he got out and walked into the hotel, the cabbie watched him carefully. "I'm sure you won't, Mister Black," he muttered. "You made your point well in Paris…"

It wasn't long before Harry re-emerged, having arranged a room and gotten a key.

"Now to Le Vieux Port, please," Harry asked. "Few places to visit before we're out of daylight."

"Aye, anywhere in particular?"

"A pub named 'Le Lion,' if you know of it," the young man clarified.

"Ah," the cabbie smiled. "I know of it. Next to 'L'Unicorne', yes? I deliver quite a few people there." I imagine you do, Harry thought.

It was a short, silent trip to their destination; the 'cabbie' not wanting to disturb the rather dangerous man in his back seat. Eventually, Harry decamped outside of a shabby looking pub that reminded him rather of the Leaky Cauldron, but with a bit more foliage here and there. Thanking the driver, he moved to inspect the area inbetween the two pubs, which looked like nothing more than a rather overgrown stretch of wall.

Frowning, he realised that the book had said there was an entrance here… but it didn't say what it looked like, or if it needed activating, or even if it still existed at all. However, the problem was solved merely by distance; as he stepped closer, the bricks began to shift and retract, forming an archway not unlike Diagon Alley's, Instead of leading directly to the magical district, though, this one just opened into a dark, dingy alley.

Walking inside, Harry shivered as the temperature went down a few degrees, but he proceeded apace, chalking the coldness down to simply being out of the sun.

He had only made it a few meters down the path before Harry felt the knife in his back.


Situational awareness: the understanding of an environment, the elements therein, and how it may change depending on certain factors. It was Harry's finely tuned situational awareness that saved his life; first developed back in his youth when one wrong move could mean a beating, and sharpened by years of Quidditch play, dodging Bludgers and other players.

He noticed the flash of movement just in time to turn and intercept the attacker; the blade still sinking into his flesh, but mercifully not as deeply as it could have.

He yelped in pain as the blade was roughly yanked from him, almost instinctively turning towards its direction and beginning to study his attacker. A filthy looking man, rather reminiscent of Mundungus Fletcher; but this man was dressed in rags that might once have been robes, and the glint in his eyes spoke of murderous intent. He raised the blade, pointing it at Harry.

"Don't know how you managed to dodge that," he said in a gravelly murmur, "but I bet you can't do it twi-"

That was as far as he got when Harry, fueled by pain and anger, raised his hand instinctively- and a wave of pure force blasted from his palm, smashing against the filthy man and sending him flying into the alley wall with a wet crack.

"Nobody move!" a voice echoed through the alley. Harry turned and saw a group of figures in shadowy tactical robes approaching. One of them, wand drawn, moved to the fallen figure, deftly kicking the blade out of his reach before reaching out to check his pulse.

"Dead," the newcomer said, "neck broken."

Oh, shit, Harry thought to himself, the words cutting through the adrenaline. Self defense or not, he'd just killed a man.

One of the other figures- police, by the look of them- walked up to Harry. "Are you OK?" she asked.

"I… I think he stabbed me," Harry said, eerily calm whilst poking at the wound on his back. "I'm OK, but I don't know how serious it is."

"I'm a Healer," the officer said. "Shirt off, I'll have a look at it."

Harry and the Healer moved to the side while the others did their duties, forensic magics and ward setting. Harry shucked off the top part of his Allweather's gear, and the Healer set to running some scans over the painful spot on his back.

"How does it look?" he asked.

"I… uh, just fine," the Healer said with a tremulous note in her voice. "It's pretty deep but didn't hit anything vital. I'll run a healing spell over it; breathe in, please."

Harry did so, and felt a tingle across that part of his back- the pain dulled to nothing almost immediately. He sighed, glad that he wouldn't be bleeding everywhere.

"Thank you," Harry said. "I, uh-"

"Excuse me," another officer cut in. "Sorry to interrupt, but I need a statement. Is he OK, Chrystéle?"

"Yeah," the healer replied, somewhat absently. "I just need to do a few tests…"

"I gotta compliment you guys on your response time," Harry praised. "It's like you were right behind me."

"Ah… yeah," the squad leader stammered. "Anyway… can you give me an account of what happened here?"

"Well, uh, not much to say," Harry said sheepishly. "I was walking down the alley, heading for the magical section of the city, when I was set upon." He looked over at the crumpled man a couple of meters away, his face forlorn. "Caught him as he stabbed me. He withdrew the knife and made some sort of… threat, I suppose, and then I… well, I used accidental magic to force him back. Didn't mean to kill the guy…"

"I see," the officer said as he scribbled some notes. "You didn't go for your wand?"

"Didn't have time to," Harry shrugged. "S'pose it was for the best, I'd have violated the Statute of Secrecy if I cast magic in front of a Muggle, right?"

"Actually, I wouldn't worry about that at least, Mister Black," the officer said. "The knife was enchanted, and he was carrying a few other bits of magical paraphernalia."

"Not like I knew that at the time," Harry argued.

"True, true," the officer conceded. "I'm curious, though. Why would you believe you'd get in trouble for defending yourself? Even if it was a breach of the Statute, you'd have been well within reason."

"I've had… far too much experience with officials that are incompetent, corrupt, or both," Harry sighed. "So I like to keep my head down where possible."

"A good attitude to have, though I can assure you that you are in no trouble here," the officer reassured. "Thank you, sir, you've been most helpful."

Harry shook the man's hand before turning his head to regard the healer behind him. "How am I, doc?"

"I've a couple potions I'd like you to take," the Healer explained. "But overall, you're fit to leave."

"Thank you," Harry smiled, reaching down to don his Allweather's shirt once more. "And pass my thanks to your squad captain, too. His technique was very comforting; hell, I don't even remember telling him my name!"

Had Harry been looking at said captain, he would have seen the man turn very, very still as he overheard that last comment.

"Oh, er… yes, I'm sure he'll be quite glad to hear it," the healer stuttered. "I'm just going to share some details with my team, then you should be free to go."

"By all means," Harry said magnanimously. "I'll be right here."


As the healer joined the rest of her squad in a localised Silencing bubble, the squad leader turned to her. "Ah, Chrystéle, how's our friend Black doing?"

"Merde," the healer swore, surprising her team; she was usually quite a calm woman. "He's either very lucky or he has inhuman reflexes, to say nothing of his pain tolerance. The knife missed his heart by about three centimetres."

"Hm," the leader grunted. "Any sign of past injury?"

"Tons," the healer responded. "Enough that the triage scan couldn't list them all. Scars, broken bones… and some seriously weird readings on his blood to boot.'

"Elaborate 'weird'," commanded her superior.

"I'd honestly rather not commit myself to anything until I get this to the lab," the healer replied, confusion on her face.

"Don't worry, you'll have the chance soon. Give me the gist."

"Well, I was checking for poison, as you do with blades, so I hit it with a basic detection spell… and the readings were off the charts! There was enough poison on that blade to kill a hundred men, never mind just one!" the healer babbled in disbelief. "By rights, this man- Black- should be dead already."

"You miscast the spell, perhaps?" a reasonable squad member cut in.

"See, that's what I thought too. But then I used a more thorough spell and the results were even weirder," the healer said. "According to the second spell… it wasn't the blade that was poisoned, it was Mister Black's blood showing up as a deadly toxin in itself!"

"How is that possible?" one of the squad breathed.

"I couldn't begin to explain," shrugged the healer.

"Fine; we'll know more when we get to the lab," the squad leader announced. "Meantime, anything else?"

"Well, he said a few things… for example, pointing out that you, Pierre, slipped up and mentioned his name during the interview," the healer ribbed. The leader blushed, looking shifty, while the rest of the squad laughed. "He also specifically mentioned that with how fast we responded, it was like we were following him; which we were."

"Certainly has a sense of humour," Pierre groused. "I'd love to know how he knew of this entrance, frankly. It's hardly been used since the Maquis d'Magie set it up back during WWII."

"More to the point, how did our dead mugger know about it?" another squad member asked. "Just like Mister Black to give us so many questions to answer…"

"With the man's reputation, I'm amazed the mugger left a scratch on him at all," the healer opined. "Though it does present an interesting theory…"

"Go on, Chrystéle," Pierre encouraged.

"Well, through all of the dealings Mister Black has had with us and other law enforcement agencies, his primary trait has been that he likes to act dumb. He makes no show of the fact that he's spotted all his tails, for example; he only reacted openly when the Paris department tried to actively break his privacy."

Everyone nodded in unison, enraptured by the healer's theory.

"So what's to say that this wasn't more of the same?" she continued. "What if he intentionally allowed our man to injure him?"

"I'm not sure I understand," Pierre said. "Regardless of anything, why did he go after our dead man?"

"I might be able to answer that," the forensics specialist of the team pointed out, licking his lips nervously. "Analysis spells picked up emotional spoor and blood spots from multiple magicals on our dead man's robes. If I had to guess, this guy might be responsible for more than a few cold cases of murder in our files. If I had to guess… Mister Black decided to come by and… well, execute him."

"Execution?" Pierre said, his eyebrow raised.

"Well, what else would you call it?" the healer shrugged. "Look, whether or not this guy had it coming is a secondary matter."

"So what's your point?" Pierre asked, rubbing his temples.

"My point is that we are now in a very tenuous situation," the healer explained, emphasizing the word tenuous. "I believe that after the Paris raid on his room, Mister Black was concerned about our possible reaction to his presence in France. So he engineered a scenario that allowed him to get our measure- without any fear of reprisal from us."

"By killing this guy and making it look like a complete accident?" Pierre questioned. "How did he pull off such a plan in so short a time?"

"Exactly. If this went to court Black would have the prosecution laughed out of the room before we even finished reading the charges. So we have a choice: we can either trust Mister Black's judgement on this and potentially let a murderer go free, or we arrest him and almost certainly make ourselves look like complete idiots."

"Merde," Pierre swore. "Fine. Black has made himself easy to track so far, so I say we let him go for now- but keep an eye on him. Chrystéle, you go and tell him. Meanwhile, I want John Doe here on a slab and looked over as soon as possible."

A chorus of assent was his reply as the rest of the squad moved to their tasks. The healer walked back over to Harry, trying not to show any fear.

"How was the meeting?" Harry asked, smiling as warmly as he could manage.

"You're free to go, sir," she told Harry. "But may I ask you for permission to cast a few more charms on you? I'd… like to get a better reading of your vitals for future reference."

"Er, sure," Harry said. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," the healer reassured. "Just being paranoid." She began to cast a plethora of spells upon Harry, displays and readings appearing all over his body; all in medical jargon that Harry couldn't hope to understand. Finally, after conjuring a rather long scroll of parchment with the results, the healer dismissed Harry with a glazed look in her eye.

As he left down the alleyway, Harry could have sworn he heard her mutter something like 'none of this makes any sense'. Chalking it up to adrenaline and an overactive imagination, Harry shrugged and went on his way.


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