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!


Chapter 6: The Art of Ms. Information

As he lay on the bed staring holes into the ceiling of his hotel room, Harry Potter was experiencing some sort of recursive guilt over the fact that he had killed a man.

"It was him or me," he whispered tonelessly. And it was true; the filthy man had injured him and was quite clearly winding up to finish the job when Harry's accidental magic had blown him away. His problem was that the battered remains of his innocence he still held onto couldn't accept the grim reality of the situation.

He sat for what felt like hours wrestilng with himself, before acknowledging that it wasn't getting him anywhere. Harry was alive, his aggressor was not, and nothing short of time travel would change it. The local police had let him go, and that was the end of it.

It had, however, soured the idea of staying in Marseilles somewhat, and so he made to gather his things once again and check out; wondering, as he did, if he'd ever get more than a couple days in a single hotel room.


"Lovegood," the editor of The Quibbler barked. "I've got a new assignment for you."

Luna Lovegood snapped off a crisp salute. "Yes daddy- uh, I mean, Chief," she hastily corrected.

"More news on our man Black," Xenophilius explained. "He apparently killed a man in Marseilles. I want the details- and no more of that lone wolf stuff, Lovegood! The Commissioner has been up my ass all week about that bus you blew up on the last case."

Luna raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were reporters? That sounds more like we're cops," she queried, hands on her hips. "Daddy, have you been taking your medication?"

Xenophilius looked shifty, before his expression crumpled, shoulders slumped. "We… we ran out of Bertie Botts' earlier," he mumbled. "And my medicine has that delightful raspberry candy coating! Besides, the pills I ate expired in 1944, I figured they'd be fine!"

Luna sighed. Evidently she'd need to find a better hiding spot. "Well stop taking them, Daddy," she chided. "You know that they give you crazy ideas! Last time you took some you tried to tell me nargles weren't real, remember?"

"Perish the thought!" Xeno exclaimed, shaking his head as he left the room. "Well it won't happen again, I promise. Now get out there and get me that scoop, Lovegood!"

"Yes, Daddy," Luna said.

She was just about to chuck some powder into the fireplace to Floo call the French DMLE precinct in Marseilles, when her father popped his head around the door again.

"Oh, and if you find the time," Xeno asked mildly, "Could you grab me a fresh box of candy?"

Luna simply sighed as she opened the Floo connection. "Hello?" she called into the fire, waiting for a reply.

Her summons was answered moments later by the face and shoulders of a middle aged wizard in impeccably tailored robes.

"This is the Press Information Office of the Gendarmes d'Magie," he said, "My name is Pierre-Louis Boulanger, Senior Press Officer. How may I help?"

"Ah, hello," Luna greeted, racking her brain for a witty, effective alias. "My name is, er… Ms. Information, yes. I'm calling to ask some questions about a fellow named Mister Black?"

"Hm. One moment," Pierre-Louis said as he pretended to search for appropriate records. In actuality, his desk was positively festooned with reports and information about the exploits of the mysterious wizard; he was merely stalling for time while he thought of the most advantageous way to spin the details he was about to give.

"Alright," he said once adequately prepared. "What do you wish to know?"

"There are reports of an incident in Marseilles involving Mister Black," Luna asked. "Can you give any details on that?"

"Yes, but first there's some context you'll need," Pierre-Louis explained. "For some months prior, we've been monitoring the movements of a suspected serial killer, targeting the magical community." A lie- they'd had no idea of the killer's presence before Mister Black killed him in turn- but the press didn't need to know that. "A Squib with a grudge, using an enchanted knife to kill wizards and witches under the misguided impression that it would increase his magical power..."

"Go on," Luna prompted.

Pierre-Louis licked his lips nervously. "Well, soon after arriving in Marseilles, Mister Black started looking for him. We're still not sure how he managed to pinpoint the location, but they found each other and…" The man shuffled the papers on his desk, cursing his poor organisation skills. Where was that damn incident report again?

"And…?" the young woman hinted.

"And… er, he tried to attack Mister Black, who promptly disarmed him and broke his neck, killing him."

Luna raised an eyebrow. They knew Black was dangerous but this was the first confirmed kill that she knew of. "What spells did he use?"

"Spell?" Pierre-Louis replied lamely. He was starting to feel rather out of his depth, now; when he was given his prestigious position of chief press officer, nobody told him he'd actually have to deal with the press. "He, er, didn't use one. Broke the crook's neck with his bare hands."

Luna's eyes widened. How strong was this Black fellow that he didn't need magic, or even a weapon, to kill a man? "Anything else to add?"

"Well…" Pierre-Louis muttered, giving his next words appropriate consideration before letting them free. "What I'm about to tell you must not be attributed to me, understand?"

"Your name will not be mentioned, Mr. Boulanger," Luna assured.

"Right. Well…" the bureaucrat licked his lips once more. "The tunnels the killer used; they were built by French magicals during the Second World War, to hide civilians and assist resistance efforts. Their entrance points were guarded by a variant of the Fidelius; our murderer knew of them because his father was a resistance member."

"So if Mister Black knew where to find him…" Luna mused.

"Then he was in on the secret somehow," Pierre-Louis finished, pleased that he wouldn't have to explain the mechanics of the situation. "And we think we know how."

"Oh?" Luna asked, genuinely enraptured now.

"We know nothing for certain, but rumour is that Mister Black knew of the tunnels because he was one of the first to use them… some even say that he was the man that first put the Fidelius up on them. An old soldier of the War, come again to right some wrongs…"

"But that would have been decades ago," Luna exclaimed.

"Indeed," Boulanger concurred. "But it explains how he found them so easily… and how our surveillance squad was able to follow him inside."

Luna whistled appreciatively. The mystery of Mister Black seemed to deepen with each new bit of information. "Does the French government plan to give Mister Black any sort of reward for his service?"

"Oh, of course," the man said with a nervous chuckle. They'd not waste this chance to one-up the Dutch, after all. "I'm told he will most likely be made Chevalier in the Ordre national de la Légion d'honneur. Nothing less for the man who so courageously rid Magical France of such a killer."

"I see. Did Mister Black say where he'd be heading next before he left?"

"Left?" Pierre-Louis asked, confused. "As far as I know, he's still here."

"What!" Luna shrieked. Hastily, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace; the flames had barely turned green before she leapt through them, rolling out of the other side a minute later in a plume of soot, much to Boulanger's surprise.

"Er," Pierre-Louis stammered. "Was there a reason you decided to continue the interview in person?"

"Interview?" the blonde girl asked, nonplussed. "Oh, no time for that. Now, take me to Mister Black- tout suite!"

Seeing the rather crazed gleam in the young woman's eyes, the bureaucrat winced. Quickly, he took her hand, withdrew his wand, and Side-Along-Apparated the two to an alley near to the hotel.

"What room is he in?" Luna shouted to her unwilling escort as they ran to the entrance.

"None of them," said a woman with a poodle as they walked out of the hotel's front door. "Pierre-Louis, interesting to see you out of your office for once."

The bureaucrat could only shrug, motioning toward Luna, whose excitement was fast giving way to confusion. "What do you mean, Miss…?"

"Amélie Dejardin," the beauty replied, withdrawing a badge from her breast pocket and showing it off. "And I mean he checked out and left about fifteen minutes ago."

Luna let out a short string of profanity, the intensity of which neither Pierre-Louis or Amélie would have expected a small, waifish fifteen-year-old to utter. "Well, do you at least have Pensieve reports I can look at?" she asked, not willing to give up just like that.

"Er, yes," Amélie confirmed. "but how long did you have plans to interview him?"

"Oh, only for about the last fifteen minutes," Luna mumbled, looking around with a spaced out expression. "Ever since I found out he was still here."


As the dotty reporter and her perplexed escort apparated away, the poodle turned to his partner. "Well, that explains why he left," he growled. "But how the hell did he know she was coming in the first place?"

"I can think of only two possibilities," Amélie told her canine companion. "He either has a way of intercepting Floo calls, which is impossible last I checked, or he has our office thoroughly bugged."

"Mon dieu," the poodle breathed. "He is a god."

Amélie ignored her partner's loss of composure. "Riiiight. Well, if you're done gushing, let's get back to the precinct. Chrystéle is due to give her report within the hour."

"Hit the Portkey, then," her superior commanded. "I'm very curious to know what she found."

"Engaging in three, two, one, mark," the woman counted, holding out her police badge. The two felt the tug of the portkey as they were taken back to the precinct; another tug mid-transport redirecting them to the meeting room where the report was to take place.

"Ah, good of you two to show, at last," the man at the head of the table said wryly.

"Sorry, boss," the poodle quipped. "Held up by the press, you know how it is."

"They're here already?" another person cried. "Bloody hell."

"We'll deal with that later," the head man dismissed. "Now we have everyone, I do believe the healers are eager to share their findings. Chrystéle?"

A hush settled over the room. Nobody wanted to miss this.

The healer Chrystéle cleared her throat and began to speak. "Yes, sir. Now as some of you may know, when I treated the man we call Mister Black, I had some… odd results returned by the diagnostic spells."

"Odd, how?" one of the less-informed members of the gathering asked.

"Well, the basic blood charms detected a venom," the healer reported. "I was concerned that the knife he'd been wounded with had been poisoned, so I did some more thorough checking. What I found… well, I've had it confirmed by the strongest analysis our forensics department can muster and I still don't believe it."

The room was silent, everyone willing the healer to explain.

"Mister Black has basilisk venom for blood," she explained, before wincing as a flood of noise washed over her from the disbelieving listeners.

"Quiet," the man at the table's head commanded. When this wasn't enough, he withdrew his wand and sent a mild electrical charm into the metal rim of the table, shocking everyone seated around it. "Let her explain."

"Thanks, Chief," Chrystéle sighed. "That might have been a slight exaggeration, admittedly, but not by much. Mister Black's blood contains enough basilisk venom that the small amount left on the blade was enough to kill an elephant."

"How is that possible?" a skeptical voice asked.

The healer raised her wand, and from a scrying orb in the center of the table appeared the image of a blank faced human body of roughly Mister Black's height and weight.

"The prevailing theory," she pointed with her wand, "is that Mister Black intentionally injected himself with a cocktail of equal parts basilisk venom and phoenix tears."

"So he injected himself with the world's deadliest venom and the only known cure at the same time? What could he possibly mean to accomplish?" asked the poodle, accompanied by a chorus of concurring murmurs.

"I don't know, but that's not all. Look at the left arm; see that fracture there?" As she gestured, a section of the arm glowed and magnified; revealing the bone underneath. "Within that section of bone marrow is a large piece of enamel that has been encapsulated by new bone growth. In short… roughly around the same time as the injection, he also had his humerus broken in two, and a small piece of basilisk fang inserted directly into the marrow."

"How is he alive?" a stunned voice breathed.

"That's the thing. While the percentage of phoenix tears- and proportionally, their healing property- has decreased over time, the basilisk venom has been maintained by the magic of the basilisk within the fang fragment," the healer explained. "But the phoenix tears have kept the basilisk venom at bay for long enough that the man's magic and body have adapted to it."

"Impossible," a strident voice called. "He should be dead. Why would he do such a crazy thing?"

"Well, he's not dead- somehow- and he'll never have to worry about poison or venom again," Chrystéle said. "And all he need do is bite his lip, and he has an ample supply of the deadliest substance known to wizardkind."

"The ultimate assassination tool… undetectable, impossible to disarm…" The room was united by a feeling of horror. Every time they learned something new about this Black, he only became more terrifying.

"In terms of other health issues, the man is- against all odds- quite healthy," the healer continued. "Which is amazing given the amount of scars, bone breaks, and neural damage he's suffered. Hell, there's signs that he's had the skeletal structure of his right arm completely regrown."

"So he's been through the wringer and his very blood can kill," the man at the head of the table muttered, his fingers steepled. "Who the hell is this guy?"

"I don't know, sir," the healer offered, "but at this point, I feel safe in assuming that getting on his shitlist would be a serious mistake."

Nobody in the room could disagree with that statement.


Elsewhere, at roughly the same time, Albus Dumbledore was once again chairing a meeting of the Order. More than one member mused on how much older than usual the man seemed to look.

"First, I have some amendments to make on my previous orders… concerning the search for Mister Potter," Dumbledore announced after a deep breath. "It has been said- and with ample justification- that I have treated Mister Potter… improperly."

Murmurs began to move around the room.

"I have acted in error, these past few years, you see," Dumbledore sighed. "I was so focused on Harry's role in the defeat of Voldemort, that I tended to treat him as an… object, a weapon, rather than the innocent boy that he was. And indeed, I believe that I hold at least part of the blame for his decision, earlier this month, to leave us for the time being."

The murmuring continued, though some- like Hermione, Ron and (strangely) Moody- were nodding solemnly in agreement.

"And even if we did find him, and force him to return, we would be forced to guard him around the clock- from both his enemies, and himself. Therefore, while I am not outright abandoning the search for Harry, I intend to change its context."

"What do you mean, Headmaster?" Arthur Weasley piped up.

"As before, we will continue to search for Harry both within and without Britain. But should we succeed in finding him, I order you thus: do not engage with him."

"What? Why?" Molly shrilled.

"According to Severus's reports, neither the Dark Lord or any of his subordinates have any more idea of his location than we do," Dumbledore explained. "Therefore, I assume that wherever Harry has taken himself to, he is happier there than he would be at his relatives' house, and no less safe."

"That could change in an instant, Albus,' Moody warned.

"That it could, old friend," Dumbledore agreed, "and once he is found, he will be monitored in order to ensure his safety; but otherwise, I believe he has more than earned himself a little freedom."

Most of the Order nodded, though some still looked worried.

"Now, I believe Alastor has more news for us in this week's episode of 'Blackwatch'," Dumbledore announced with a wry smile. Moody just rolled his eye and stood up.

"Black killed a man in Marseilles yesterday," the scarred old Auror said bluntly, ignoring the shocked look the rest of the Order wore. "Justified, I'd say; the guy he offed was a serial killer responsible for half the files in their cold case locker."

"Surely we'd have heard of such a prolific murderer before now?" Lupin cut in.

"I'd have thought so too, but apparently he had access to a Fidelius-secured hiding place," Moody replied. "The French knew people were going missing, but didn't know who was taking them or where. Anyway, Black found out- some-bloody-how- and went after the guy… making the Gendarmes look like pillocks in the process."

"How so?" Fred and George said simultaneously. They were always up for hearing about pranks.

"He made it look like an accident," Moody replied. "Baited the guy by using one of his secret passages, then snapped his neck using wandless magic disguised as accidental. All this before they knew the dead man was a killer himself."

"And they let him go?"

Moody laughed a harsh laugh. "They had to, lad. And it doesn't stop there. My contact in the Gendarmes thinks that he either knows of a way to tap Floo calls, or he's got their entire office bugged."

"The Gendarmes d'Magie are no slouches when it comes to internal security, and as far as I know tapping Floo is impossible," Bill Weasley opined.

"Quite so," Dumbledore agreed, "but I must admit that this Mister Black does not sound like the kind of person to let that stop him. Keep us informed, Alastor; meanwhile, I believe the Scourges of Gryffindor over there have something to share about one of their newest inventions…"


Standing in front of the alley in which he had been attacked yesterday, Harry took a deep breath and stepped in once more, feeling the temperature drop and shivering. It was a harrowing few minutes as he navigated according to his travel guide, but no more crazed men with blades were waiting for him, and he soon found himself in Marseilles' magical section safe and sound.

"Uh, excuse me," he asked the first passerby he saw, "do you know where I can get a Portkey out of the country?"

"Ah, er, u-up the street, about f-fifty meters, place called Traveller's Return," the man stammered oddly. Deciding not to pry, Harry thanked him and headed off in the indicated direction. Meanwhile, the undercover Gendarme he'd just unknowingly accosted took a seat on a nearby bench, grabbing a hip flask from his robes and re-evaluating his skill in espionage.

Entering the brightly coloured building, windows covered in magical photos of various holiday activities, Harry signaled the shopkeeper and asked for a Portkey out of the country. "Anywhere is fine," he clarified, "sooner the better."

"I have a cancellation going to Monte Carlo," the shopkeeper said, checking his watch. "Three minutes from now."

"That will do nicely," Harry said. A relatively random destination would throw a wrench into the efforts of any pursuers. "How much?"

"Paid for already, as it was a last minute cancellation," the shopkeeper admitted with a shrug, tossing a small brightly coloured disc to Harry. "And my conscience would not permit selling it again. Go ahead and take it."

"Thanks," Harry said, looking down at the small disc. "Er… out of curiosity-"

Before Harry could finish asking exactly what the disc was meant to be, he felt the tell-tale tug pull him away and to his next destination; his first greeting a cacophony of sound and light.

"Would you like to place a bet, sir?" asked a voice next to him. Harry shook his head, taking in his surroundings before he dared to reply.

He'd been sent to a rather opulent looking hall, full of people surrounding small tables with rotating wheels upon them. Had Harry had more exposure to the world at large, he might have known that this was a magical casino and the portkey had deposited him right at one of the roulette tables.

Alas, the only places Harry had known for most of his short life were either the Dursley's house or Hogwarts- neither place being the kind to engage in gambling, beyond the odd Sickle wagered on that week's Quidditch match. So it was that Harry's only response was an eloquent "Er… what?"

"A bet, sir," the croupier patiently asked, being used to the occasional disoriented Portkey arrival. "You have a chip in your hand; would you like to place a bet on this table?"

"Uh… sure," Harry mumbled. At the croupier's direction, he placed the chip on a random number. Seeing no need to watch it inevitably disappear, Harry then wandered away from the table, musing that he could at least add gambling to his growing list of new experiences.

After a few minutes of wandering and trying to find the exit, then about an hour of exploring Monte Carlo's magical area, Harry found himself in a seedy bar with an unpronouncable drink in his hand. It was all downhill from there, and the last thing Harry could clearly remember was being challenged to a drinking competition by a group of several Australian backpackers…


Harry woke up the next day and immediately wished he hadn't. He could barely see straight, his head felt like somebody was fighting a duel in it, and his mouth felt- and tasted- like the floor of the Leaky Cauldron's men's room… on a Quidditch World Cup night.

A knock on the door roused him- he must have found a decent hotel to crash in, thank Merlin- and he tumbled out of bed, staggering to the source of the noise.

Opening the door, he beheld a middle aged, rather severe looking man in an odd, yellow striped outfit, who raised an eyebrow as he saw the obviously hungover person he'd been sent to contact.

"Good afternoon, Mister Black," he asked in a crisp voice. "Are you feeling well?"

"Er… sorry, who are you?" Harry asked. He'd have been more polite if every word didn't feel like the Cruciatus. "And where am I?"

"Must have been quite the night, hm?" the man chuckled. "I am Gunter Schmitt, of the Swiss Guard, and you are currently in the magical district of the Holy City of the Vatican."

"Bloody hell," Harry groaned. What in the hell did he and those Aussies drink last night? "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping to follow up on our discussion yesterday, Mister Black," Schmitt said. "About the wards?"

Discussion? Harry's mind helpfully supplied. And indeed, there was something familiar about this Schmitt fellow's face, but for the life of him Harry couldn't remember a single word they'd exchanged. "Refresh my memory, please," he asked.

"I had come in search of you, Mister Black, on the recommendation of many of my colleagues among other police forces," Schmitt explained. "They told me you were a man of considerable skill who could also be discreet."

"And what do you need me for?" Harry asked.

"Recently we were forced to repair the wards around something extremely valuable, but we require somebody of above average magical power to check them," explained Schmitt. "And you volunteered your services."

"I'm sorry, Mister Schmitt, but I'm not sure how I can help you," Harry confessed. "I don't remember what I told you, but I'm not all that familiar with ward schemes or methods of checking them."

"Worry not," reassured Schmitt. "You said as such during our first conversation. The requisite procedures are surprisingly simple; it's mostly an issue of magical power. I believe I gave you a book with all the spells within…?"

Harry turned and indeed, there was just such a book on his nightstand. "Ah," he exclaimed. "Well, uh, can I get back to you on this? You may have noticed that I'm, er… not at my best right now."

"Of course, Mister Black, this isn't particularly time sensitive. Here," he said, handing Harry a small wooden token. "This is a portkey to the location, triggered by saying my name; simply ask for me once you arrive. If you don't appear within the next day or so I shall simply look elsewhere."

Harry simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak right as his stomach was doing some interesting gymnastics.

"Out of simple curiosity, Mister Black, and if you'd rather not answer I will understand," Schmitt asked, "but last night you appeared to be doing your level best to get incredibly soused. May I ask why?"

Harry paused to think of a reply while his stomach finished winning the gold in acrobatics. "I admit it was partially accidental," he moaned, hazy memories of the Aussie bastards egging him on, "but also… well, I had things I needed to forget, and alcohol does a very good job of clearing my mind, so to speak."

"I do believe that I understand perfectly," Schmitt said, nodding. Indeed, his old mentor in the Swiss Guard- before he died the year before at the ripe old age of 154- had a habit of drinking himself into a stupor at the same time every year… the same time that he'd been part of the squad that liberated Nurmengard during Grindelwald's fall. "Well, I shall leave you in peace for now, Mister Black. I hope you have a restful time here in the Holy City."

Harry nodded and thanked Mister Schmitt, then after seeing him off and putting in a call to room service for a jug of water and the strongest painkillers they could provide, he fell back onto the bed for a few more hours of blessed unconsciousness.

As Gunter Schmitt headed back to his precinct, his thoughts were clouded with uncertainty. He'd found Mister Black last night genially sipping absinthe straight out of the bottle with a straw, surrounded by unconscious men with backpacks; not even his old mentor had dared to touch that stuff, strong as it was. Mister Black must have scars on his very soul to need such an exorcism…


Reviews welcome; I hear they kill 99.9% of germs and leave your toilet squeaky clean.