Very AU, so keep an open mind
Chapter One: Potter is Guilty
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I
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James Potter cursed under his breath as the lift doors behind him opened. He hadn't been expecting someone to follow him up. He had snuck into the lift under his invisibility cloak and waited for the healers to get off on their respective floors. Satisfied that he was alone, he had pressed the button for the ninth floor and twirled his wand between nervous fingers.
He'd walked out of the lift, watching as the numbers counted down to the first floor as the lift rapidly descended down the shaft. He had turned his back to scan the corridor for possible hindrances and had found none in sight. He did not, however, expect to see someone come up here so soon.
Slowly, he turned around and sighed in evident relief.
One of the patients, presumably one of those who were low-risk enough to be allowed onto other floors, walked passed him, his freshly-scrubbed bedpan in his arms.
The healers encouraged the patients who were independent enough to look after themselves to clean out their bedpans and fetch their meals and freshly-washed linen from two floors below.
James watched, his breath tight in his lungs as the man waddled off toward his room, a cheerful whistle hissing through the patient's gapped teeth.
James waited until the door of room eleven closed before proceeding with caution down the hallway.
The locks on the door were not meant to keep people out, but to keep one person in - specifically his son, Harry.
James flicked his wand and cupped his hand around the tip to reduce the glow of his Alohamora charm. He silenced the hinges with another flick, just in case, and pushed the door open with his foot.
The room was dark as all hell, but James closed the door, deactivated the lock that would lock him and Harry in, and charmed the narrow arch of the observation window to resist the light that he was about to ignite. He cast a lumos and his eyes immediately darted toward the slab that Harry was lying on.
The slab was cold marble, jutting out of the wall like a broken toe from a giant's foot. A wafer-thin mattress and a tatty old blanket were Harry's only source of comfort. For a pillow, Harry would use his dirty uniform, colourless, thread-bare slacks and a washed-out shirt.
Harry was so heavily sedated that he didn't even blink when the light from James' wand invaded his cell. His eyes were closed, but his jaw sagged open and drool trickled down the cleft in his chin and covered his shirt, opened from the lower abdomen up toward his ribs, which poked out like the bars to a cage.
James did not utter a word to reassure Harry in case the room was being monitored for sound. Since it was too dark, he doubted that there would be any visual-monitoring charms in place.
He walked over to the slab and drew his handkerchief to wipe the drool from Harry's chin. He stroked his son's cheek while absently cleaning his handkerchief with his wand.
James listened, straining his ears for the slightest of sounds that someone was heading his way. Nothing - save for Harry's light, hissing breaths and the steady trickle of... something.
The cell stank of unwashed body, of loneliness and the tang of medication, the kind that clawed at the back of the throat and left the mouth dry after too much exposure.
Satisfied, he tucked his wand into the waistband of his jeans before lifting Harry slightly to put his arms around his shoulders. Tightening his grip, he heaved Harry off of his make-shift bed and heard something tear. He panicked, held Harry up with one arm and shone the beam of light around Harry's bed, and that was when he saw it.
Intravenous tubes had been spellotaped to Harry's hand, thin needles embedded in bulging blue veins under pale skin. They fed into the wall where they could be replenished at a healer's will. They ripped away from Harry as James pulled him back from the bed, dragging him so that his bare feet scrabbled on the floor, his long toenails skittering across concrete flooring.
Then the alarm shrieked.
Disapparating from anywhere above the first floor of St. Mungos was a no-go due to patients who were a flight risk. James had to take Harry out the hard way, but he had expected nothing less.
He levitated Harry above his head, flipped him upside-down, lowered him toward his back and conjured ropes to secure him in place. He drew the invisibility cloak around both of them and hobbled to the door, Harry’s weight threatening to pull him down as he walked.
With his wand hand now free, he opened the partially shut door and left the room, but he could already hear the lift rattle up its shaft as it approached.
Thanking Merlin that wizards were lazy, James took the stairs two at a time, wincing every time Harry’s forehead struck his coccyx. Seven flights, six flights, but there was already shouting from above.
Angry yells drifted down the stairwell as James legged it down the stairs, his breath hot and tight in his throat. He heard rapidly descending footsteps behind him and, for a split second, a thought flitted across his mind that he was being stupid and that he wouldn’t make it, but Harry Potter was too precious to let slip away.
James on the fifth floor, healers on the seventh, spells zinging off the wall beside James’ head. His cloak fluttered about him, no doubt giving glimpses of him to his pursuers who were taking pot-shots at him. He felt a spell slam into Harry, nearly sending James headlong down the stairwell, but he grabbed for the railing, spinning on the ball of his foot to keep his balance.
No time to check if Harry was alright, he’d just have to pray, pray, pray. He cast a quick diagnostic, determined that the spell was a stunner. He sighed with relief but the glow of his charm gave his position away. Stupid, but he had to check that Harry was alive at least.
The spell drilled into the railing that he was holding, heating the iron under his hand. He quickly let go of the railing, risked a glance over his shoulder and began spells of his own.
His sectumsempra missed the group entirely, carving huge divots into the wall. Chips of plaster and brick and a cloud of dust were sent whizzing through the air. Shrapnel pierced flesh with wet thunks and James grinned before resuming his flight once more.
Stairs behind him exploded and James bit back a cry as a... something embedded itself in his calf. He felt more shrapnel nip at his heels but his cloak protected him from the chips of stone that flew from the walls.
He cast a confringo, pointing his wand at the floor and staircase the healers were on and the staircase vanished, along with the healers, exploding in a deafening roar and a blinding flash of light that made James wince and look away. He heard yells as they fell to the floor below the one hewas on and he cursed his mistake. If one of them managed to get up and raise a wand, he might have a problem.
Nevertheless, he proceeded onward, feeling his movement begin to drag due to Harry's limp body. He made it to the fourth floor and started his descent, his boots kicking up a storm of debris. Stones and mortar clattered down the stairs and James fought to breathe through the miniature dust whirlwinds. He stepped over a body and stamped on a hand that was trying feebly to point a wand at him. He heard the satisfying crunch of the fingers break and the wand snapping.
At the bottom of that level, he saw a pile of struggling bodies, writhing and squirming like trapped serpents. He let rip with a barrage of stunners and the pile stopped moving. Banishing them back up the flight of stairs, he rounded the bend to descend to the next floor and couldn't suppress a smile as the entwined pile of bodies rolled back down the stairs behind him.
Third floor
James strained his ears once more and could hear a slight commotion in the lobby. He was sure that such noises as blowing up a staircase wouldn't be passed off as a patient falling out of bed.
The noises echoed up through the stairwell, noises distorted to the point of garbled bangs and crashes and a murmur of over-lapping voices. They were waiting.
He descended carefully down the second floor and caught sight of them as he reached the first floor. They all had wands levelled at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for him and he balked for a moment before he remembered what he had come here to do in the first place.
His calf stung like the fires of hell and he could murder a glass of water right now. Harry's clawing, foul odour was beginning to get to him as well as the exertion of carting him downstairs; he wasn't as young as he once was.
Silence reigned in the lobby and James' breathing was coming in short gasps. He silenced his boots, placed a bubble-head charm around his head to muffle his rasps of air and forced himself onward.
He was at the top of the first flight and he felt winded, felt empty. 'You can do it,' a voice seemed to say.
'Yeah,' he thought,'because you're not the one carting a body that feels like a sack of shit draped over your back, are you?'
That seemed to put a cork in it, and James grunted, regretting that immediately, but determinedly shuffled forward.
Ten steps to freedom.
Ten; nine more to go, no reaction from the crowd just yet.
Nine; a voice in the crowd whispered, "Do you hear anything?" The Scottish, serrated burr was loud; it cleaved the air like a chainsaw would cleave wood.
"Shhh!" another person hissed.
Eight; so far, so good.
Seven; six more to go... James reached his hand up, clutched at a stitch just under his ribs. It felt like a knife was prying them apart and, at any moment, he was expecting the wet snap of his ribs fracturing.
He got to three before something happened. Harry groaned. The trigger-happy wizards painted the stairwell crimson as they sent stunner after stunner into empty air, but James shielded as best he could. He staggered back from the force of as many curses, but adrenaline was his baby today.
He charged down the stairs, firing curses and hexes in all directions, not caring about the legality of them or who his curses struck.
Fountains of blood erupted into the air, crimson showers of life, flowing streams that made people run and duck behind tables, topple chairs and take shelter behind them.
A man directly in front of James found himself hanging from his ankles, his robes falling over his face to obscure his vision.
Fireplaces burst into life as people made a grab for freedom and James turned on the spot, attempting to apparate. He felt resistance and stopped immediately. He'd have to fight through these bastards.
He passed the desk, looking over his shoulder to deflect a bonebreaker that came a bit too close for comfort. It smacked into the poster that gave directions to the different wards on the different floors and it burst into flames. The room lit up as flames engulfed the wooden beam the poster was tacked to.
He cleaved apart the upturned desk and saw the receptionist cower back from him. He stunned her and saw a flash of green light in his peripheral vision. Ah, they were fighting dirty - a last resort.
James felt the cold chill as the killing curse whizzed passed his ear and smacked into the doors about five meters ahead of him. They were blasted off their hinges and flew through the air, hitting a corner of a building across the street and boomeranged back. James ducked and cursed the warder who had layered the door with an imperturbable charm that the killing curse had not been able to snuff out completely.
The first slab of wood flew back through the display window and across the room, curving to the right and finally settling up against the wall. Glass peppered those nearby, reflecting firelight and tiny slivers of panicked faces. Holding his breath, James hoped that the door wouldn't bounce back.
The second half flew right through the opening where the door had once been, heading straight for him and he swore on his exhale, diving forward and under the thing. He landed with an oomph, Harry's weight nearly snapping his spine like an uncooked stick of spaghetti. It whooshed over his head, occupying a huge amount of space, blocking out the sounds above his head before he stood up, turned, held up a physical shield with his left hand and blew the door up with his right.
Chunks of wood flew into the sprawled bodies and into the desks, catching alight and falling onto trailing robes. Shrieks filled the air as people were set alight and they rolled instinctively, putting out the flames by sheer weight. James turned and raced for the exit, the dying barrage of spells coming to a resigned, defeated halt. He twisted, disapparating, mission accomplished.
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"Susan!" James roared, his feet on solid ground as he hit the entrance to his fideliused cottage. Susan Bones came skidding into the room, swishing slippers creating friction on the carpet. James tossed his cloak aside and Susan touched his shoulder, shocking him. He flinched, adrenalin still going haywire, and said, "Harry! Help him!"
Susan severed the bonds securing Harry and caught him with a levitation charm as soon as he was about to torpedo headfirst onto the wooden floor and possibly break his neck.
James' boots thump-thumped as he followed Susan to the bedroom that had been prepared for Harry's arrival, watching as Susan gently laid him on the bed. Her wand blurred as it swished through the air, lights surrounding Harry like a fireworks display, bringing his pale visage into stark relief.
"Oh Merlin," Susan muttered, her voice a hair's breadth away from cracking at the seams. "What have they done to you?
She waved her wand and James stepped aside to let an assortment of potions fly onto the nightstand beside her.
She uncorked potion after potion, massaging their way down Harry's throat, glug-glugging to his belly and throughout his whole body. Immediately, colour began to tinge his face like a child experimenting with paint. A glow was drawn on the parchment-coloured skin and James felt better already.
"He'll be alright," said Susan as if she had read his thoughts.
"Thank God," said James, settling on the bed beside Harry and holding his hand which felt cold and clammy.
"Any problems?" Susan asked.
"No, nothing I haven't handled already," said James.
She walked over to examine him for injuries and healed the wound on his calf, which had stopped stinging and had settled down to a dull ache, but he still felt tired, physically. Lugging Harry like that was heavy work, no matter how undernourished he, Harry, was.
"Thank you for bringing him home," Susan said sincerely, before pecking James lightly on his cheek.
"Well, I couldn't leave him there, could I?" James said. "He's my boy... my only boy."
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II
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"I hate witnesses," Auror Mick Anders said over the babble of other auror interrogators.
"They hate you just as much, mate," Jimmy Matthews said, grinning.
"We all know James Potter did it anyway. It's not as if he's got a twin, is it?"
"Knowing and proving are two different things," Matthews said.
"Merlin, I really hate this job sometimes," Anders grumbled. "He's guilty as hell, but we can't lay a hand on the bastard."
"Well, the Dark Lord will find out, that's for damned sure," Matthews said.
"Yeah, no shit. I just hope he doesn't invite me over for dinner that evening."
Matthews snorted and said, "Right, let's leave this interrogation shit and go up and investigate the room, yeah?"
Anders followed Matthews to the ninth floor, thankful to leave the noise in the lobby behind. Even as he approached the lift, he had to avoid puddles of blood and chips of stone.
"This bloke really did a number on those poor bastards," Anders commented, looking at a healer who was levitating a body bag on a stretcher.
"And people wonder why healers don't do their best. There's not many of them left any more, last time I checked, never mind the shit that Potter just caused."
"Yeah," Anders agreed. "They're a dying breed."
Matthews snorted at the unintended pun and jabbed the button to summon the lift.
Anders' stomach lurched as the lift was sucked up the shaft and to the ninth floor. Clutching his belly, he exited the lift at Matthews' heels.
Room thirteen wasn't big enough for more than three people to stand in. The problem with this room was the restriction of mobility. You couldn't even fart without the walls vice-gripping your arse cheeks. So they stood in single file, Anders peering over the shorter Matthews' shoulder and running an eye over the smooth, symmetrical slab of marble that had served as Harry Potter's sick bed.
Matthews conjured a plastic evidence bag, a fine-bristled brush and set to work brushing down all the loose lint and dust and mould and other filth that had collected on the mattress and blanket. He had a nice cloud floating in the air, which he moved the plastic bag to cover, then heat-sealed it with his wand.
He removed strands of raven hair from the tatty slacks that had served as Potter's pillow, placing them in a separate evidence bag which he then tucked into his robes.
For the next twenty minutes, Anders watched Matthews meticulously lift the mattress off the slab, brush down the underside, brush the slab down and create another bag. He then moved over to the wall and brushed that down, too.
Then he saw the hole in the wall and flicked his wand, straightening a dangling tube.
"What the hell is this!" Matthews said and Anders could hear the outraged tone in his voice.
Anders shrugged, even though the man couldn't see him and said, "Buggered if I know. Probably for his medication and food and the likes."
"They had a patient hooked up to an unsterilized intravenous tube?"
"Eh, I wouldn't be surprised," said Anders.
"My mother died hooked up to tubes," Matthews said, cocking his head as if remembering something.
"You're letting your emotions affect your work, Matthews!" Sanders barked sharply, and Matthews jumped like a kicked puppy.
"Just finish up and we can go home, yeah?"
Dutifully, Matthews used his wand to siphon some of the liquid from the tube and trickled it into a conjured flask, which he, too, bagged.
"You forgot one thing, apprentice of mine," Sanders said, smirking.
"What," Matthews asked, apprehensive.
"You forgot to label the bags," Anders said, his smirk dropping. "You're gonna get a thorough buggering from Yaxley, my son."
"Shit," Matthews said, patting the bulge of plastic evidence bags in his pocket.
"Ah, just yankin' your wand. I'll help you when we get back to the ministry."
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The pub in Knockturn Alley was not so crowded, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how one looked at it. A good thing because nobody could get away with anything stupid or fancy without someone taking notice. The bad part was that people could hear your conversation and usually take notice if you have a silencing ward up. That'd mean you have secrets and in this time and place, nobody had secrets any more.
A hooded figure hunched over his drink, well aware of the hostility from the other occupants. He stared into his glass of amber-coloured fire-whisky, not daring to drink from the glass which had probably not been washed from the day it had been bought.
"Is this seat taken?" a gruff voice, also hidden behind a hood and dressed in a black cloak asked.
The man pushed out a stool with his foot and the other hood sat down, gesturing for a bottle of mead.
"You never told me that it would go tits up like that," the man in the black hood and cloak said.
"I'm not psychic, am I? So what if it went tits up," the first hood said, hunching over even further and glaring directly into the man's black eyes. "What concern is it of yours?"
"If certain people look hard enough," here, he lowered his voice, even though the first hood had placed a mufliato around the table, "look hard enough, they could pin me down eventually."
"Now you're just being paranoid and melodramatic and you know it."
"I want double the payment!" the second hood hissed.
"Ah, but you seem to forget, I've got you by the balls and I won't let go, spy or no. Just remember, my slippery friend, I've got this..."
The first hood slid a glossy black and white from a pocket of his travelling cloak and flashed it for a second, before tucking it away.
"She must have been an exquisite shag," the first hood said. The hatred in those words was so powerful that the second man flinched back.
The picture showed the man in a hood thrusting into a rather over-weight woman. "Was this whore worth it, huh? Was she worth screwing around on your wife for? What's wrong, my man, is your wife not enough vagina for you, hey?" The rant was a low hiss and every single word penetrated the second man's defences like punches to his gut.
"We both know you forced me to do it under coercion," the second hood bit out through clenched teeth.
"You know what? For all your smarts, you really are a slimy git that doesn't know the rules to the very game he started playing. Just remember, mate, this is not a fucking playground. It's not about the 'he did it, he did it, you saw him!' any more. It's about your rank, your standing, but above all, respect. So whether I forced you to do it or not doesn't matter. You took something of mine and I can easily take it from you! oh yeah," he paused as if relishing the next words, "and I don't think your lord or wife would approve of you shagging a low-life whore from the very shit-slums of Knockturn, would they?"
"Alright," the man grumbled, "you've made your point."
"Oh, no I haven't. Just remember that I have the power in this relationship and not you. I choose to pay you because I'm a generous man. But one day, one day that generosity will trickle to a stop, Got it?"
The man said nothing.
"I said, have you got it?"
"I've got it," the second hood rasped out through clenched yellow teeth.
"Good," the first hood said condescendingly, dumping a sack filled with galleons into the man's hand, which had snaked under the table.
"Oh, and next time, don't draw the floor-plan in green. It clashes horribly with my ex wife's hair."
"But it matches her eyes," the man was probably smiling under that hood of his.
"Careful," said James, "your mouth could get you into trouble. Now run along. I have some... stuff to do."
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III
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"Harry Potter's missing?" Auror Head Yaxley asked flatly.
"Yes, sir," Anders replied from his position near the fireplace.
"And you think Auror James Potter did it?" Yaxley asked.
"I suspect so, sir."
"You... suspect," Yaxley said slowly. "Anders, suspecting and proving are two different things. If you make accusations like that, you could lose your job and your life. You don't just come in here and accuse one of my top Aurors of kidnapping!"
"But sir..."
"Shut it!" Yaxley bellowed. "Just... clamp down on those suspicions. Merlin, if the Dark Lord hears that, you're dead, man!"
Anders stayed silent and Yaxley raised his wand, spheres of light whizzing about the room before he continued, his voice lowered. "Sorry for the theatrics, gentleman," he addressed both Anders and Matthews, the latter looking visibly astounded by Yaxley's sudden change of mood. "James Potter is one crafty bastard and I wouldn't put it past him to pull something like this off. But, like I said, knowing and proving are two different things."
Yaxley paused, took a sip from a conjured glass of water, then rasped, "officially, James Potter won't know what is going on. We all know he is a slimy bastard. Hell, even the Dark Lord knows it. Potter will search for his son, or pretend to do so, using up the resources of the Auror department. My guess is, the crazy bloke wants to create a diversion, but for the life of me, I can't think why."
"So much for not suspecting," Anders grinned at Yaxley, who shot a stinging hex at him.
"I get to be the smart arse around here, Anders, not you!" but Yaxley grinned, too. "So, gentlemen, fuck the rules, fuck your morals, fuck everything until we can prove that Potter is guilty. Are we all on the same page?"
Matthews nodded, shortly followed by Anders. "Good. You men did well today and I'm proud of you... but you never heard me say that."
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Later, as Anders and Matthews were walking toward the cafeteria, Matthews said, "did you hear that? The boss is proud of us."
"Yeah, I was the one who did the labelling, of course he's proud of us," Anders smirked and nudged his younger companion in the ribs.
"Right, so officially, where's James Potter now?"
Anders paused in mid stride, thinking for a moment. "He's supposed to be in Manchester... there's some nutter running round over there mugging muggles with magic."
"Lucky bastard," Matthews muttered. "Gets to take the day off work just because he's suspected for-"
"Shush, arsehole!" Anders said, glaring at Matthews. "This is all hush-hush, remember?"
Matthews sighed and nodded. "Let's get something to eat," he said finally, "I could eat a hippogriff and its foal."
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Dane Brigs had picked his target - an old lady pushing a shopping trolley, packed to the brim with roasts and vegetables and tinned cat food. By her side swung a purse that could concuss a dragon, its zipper straining at the seams, little clouds of air puffing from it as it bumped against her hip.
He waited until she had drawn level with him, then passed him. He began to follow, keeping her two steps ahead of him. Tucked inside the sleeve of his football jersey was his wand, its tip the only thing poking out.
He pulled his arm back further into the sleeve, took a firmer grip of the wand and flicked his wrist, intending to sever the strap of the poor old dear's purse.
Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed his wrist and a voice from behind him whispered in his ear, "You know, you're a coward. Stealing purses from old muggles using magic? Tsk, tsk."
He felt a wandtip press into the dimple at the back of his neck, before he felt the wandtip grow hot... then the world went black. Potter's official mission was accomplished.
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IV
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James Potter levitated the mugger into the cell and used his wand to heave him onto the floor before barring it. He turned on his heel and strode toward his office.
"Potter!" a voice yelled from a doorway.
Potter stopped, glanced around. "Sir?" he said.
"Step in here a moment, will you?"
Trying to keep calm, James followed Yaxley into his office and sat in the stiff-backed chair facing him.
"So how did it go? Did he give you any problems?"
"No, sir. I just had to wait for the right moment. He seems to love the afternoons just before rush-hour."
"Indeed," Yaxley said, his fingers whish-rasping through the stubble on his chin. "Good job, Potter. Glad you've finally nipped this in the bud."
James smiled, trying to keep the smile from widening too much. "Thank you, sir."
"Well," Yaxley said and James' heart leapt. Here it comes. "I have some potentially... harmful news that might... upset you," Yaxley said delicately, his fingers steepled under his chin.
It was all an act. James knew it, Yaxley knew it and Yaxley knew that James knew that Yaxley knew about what had really happened at St. Mungos.
"Well, sir?" James said, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.
"Your son, Harry... he was kidnapped."
"Kidnapped?" James tried to sound puzzled.
"Yes, kidnapped out of his room at St. Mungos."
"Who did it!" shit, shit, shit, he reacted too soon - or was it two late.
"We don't know yet," Yaxley said. "An invisible assailant who damn-near destroyed St. Mungos."
James would have grinned at Yaxley's hyperbole if he were in the privacy of his own office, but he was facing the Head Auror, so he tightened his lips and tried to look concerned. "Well, do we have anything to work on?" he asked.
"Not as yet," Yaxley shook his head. "Anders and Matthews are on the case and they already went to check out the room and bag the evidence."
"Put me on the case with them, please?" James asked imploringly.
"You know I can't do that, James," Yaxley said. "You know it's against all Auror procedure to assign aurors to a case with any personal ties.
"But if there's anybody who'll know Harry best, it's me!" James said and he considered getting to his feet to emphasise his point.
"Don't worry, James," Yaxley said, a smirk breaking out over his face, "we'll catch the crafty bastard. Sooner or later, he'll slip up and fall and we'll be there to catch him with a couple of crucios for starting all this shit. I'm sure the families of a few healers who had perished would join in the sport."
James met Yaxley's eyes unflinchingly. "I guess I'll have the honour of casting the first curse?" James asked.
"Oh, but of course," Yaxley nodded. "But Harry will come back to us, don't you worry. He was in that room for a reason and I'm sorry to say that. He was truly a bright young lad. Sooner or later, Harry will go off the rails and we'll find him again. Sooner or later, Harry's kidnapper will find that he has bitten off more than he can chew. Sooner or later, he will find out why Harry was decreed an unfit member of society.
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V
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Wakefulness was a long time coming. When Harry finally surfaced, his ears buzzed, the static ring-a-ring causing him to groan and try to block one of his ears at least. His groan echoed and he heard footsteps approach his bed and saw a silhouette of a woman, red hair dancing about her face as if not sure what to occupy itself with.
This wasn't a healer, of that he was sure. This woman, although a blur, still looked ruffled and not at all unhappy to see his eyes shoot open, for his upper lids to shoot for the stars of a vague dream he could almost recall having.
"Harry?" the voice was familiar - so familiar that it hurt like hell. It stirred memories of that voice cycling through different emotions and octaves as if it were her own personal musical instrument. She was the only woman Harry knew that could express so much with the rise and fall of that voice.
"Susan?" he tried to croak, but it fish-hooked in his gullet, coming to a stop before ever reaching his lips.
Ever intuitive to Harry's needs, Susan asked, "Water?"
Harry felt as if the whole of London's population had shat in his mouth and had forced him to swallow every rubbery bite, but he nodded at the blur and heard her pad out of the room in those slippers. Hell, he had bought them for her on her fifteenth birthday.
He noticed, for the first time in what felt like centuries, the solitary chink of sunlight. It peered at him brightly as if it had a secret that he didn't know. He raised a hand to batter feebly at that chink, but gave up.
"Here you go," the voice was back again, the last word, "go" sounding like something that she had invented. It rolled smoothly off her tongue, ricocheted off the roof of her mouth and came through her lips. God, he could listen to that voice for lifetimes and never get bored of it.
He felt the cool glass against the cleft of his bottom lip and opened his mouth as water sloshed out of the rim and down his throat. Susan pulled the glass away and he followed it like a dog following his food bowl. "Slowly," she chided.
Harry tipped his head back and the glass returned. This time, though, Susan let him finish.
"Hey, Suzie," Harry said, his voice ripping from his still-parched throat in a gravelly croak.
"Hello, Harry," Susan's voice said and his name jingle-belled in her mouth, "glad you're finally home."
"I'm home?" Harry asked.
"Home and dry," Susan agreed, and he could hear that smile in her voice; it reminded Harry of bubbles floating atop warm bath water.
Harry automatically reached for the bedside table but came up empty. "Glasses?"
"I hear and obey," Susan said, then she leaned close to place a pair of glasses on his face... and he smelt her. That tang of her skin still remained, bittersweet. The goodness inside Susan bled through her skin like nicotine through a smoker's sweaty pores. If Susan had to go jungle bashing for a month, she'd still smell nice, even if she never washed up.
Then she came into focus through his clear lenses. She looked older and more beautiful for it. Her hair was undone and writhed about her face like living, beautiful serpents. It added an air of... something... vulnerability, maybe? Her face was without blemish or wrinkle, but heart-shaped with a neat little cleft in her chin that finished the design. She needed no makeup to improve the symmetry of her face because God must have made her with a compass. Compared to the bland cell in St. Mungos, Susan Bones was a sight for sore eyes.
Harry looked around the room, using the stray beam of sunlight that had bothered him earlier for illumination. It was plain, with a wardrobe in one corner and a desk in the other, flanking the doorway. His bed was a single, but plenty comfortable.
The bed dipped as Susan sat down at the foot of it, and to hear that voice again, he said, "So, how are you doing?" He didn't care how lame he sounded, he just wanted to hear something new other than those fucking intravenous tubes that had hissed and hummed.
"Well, I'm good since you came back... but the question is, how are you feeling?"
"Like I need to get my arse out of this bed and into a hot shower. Also, I need to dance a jig with a toothbrush for a turn or two."
"Alright," she agreed. "Need help?"
"Nah, I'll be fine, but can you show me..."
"Sure!" she said brightly, and it was brighter than the sun, brighter than the flames of his hell.
He moved his legs, one at a time, out of bed and tried to stand... and toppled backwards into Susan's out-stretched arm. "Thanks..." he said, embarrassed.
"Don't mention it," she smiled, but that smile was a flare to the rocket of her laugh as Harry tripped over the bedpost.
He limp-staggered to the bathroom, supported by Susan. "Do you need me to bath you now, too?"
Hell yes, he wanted her, needed her to. "Only if you climb in with me?"
She swatted him on the arm. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're done," she said before walking out and shutting the door.
Susan had set out fresh clothing for him, a pair of shorts and a neatly-ironed shirt. He spotted a brand new toothbrush in a drinking glass perched on the bathtub and he took the hint.
He took a shower, taking slight pleasure in the warm water that trickled over him, washing more than dead skin and hospital scum down the drain.
He stood there in the bathtub, lifted his hand and studied the needle marks. He ignored the gurgling drain and grabbed his toothbrush, stepped out of the bathtub and hunted for a tube of toothpaste.
It burned his mouth after so long and the fumes, as he spat, stung his eyes. He filled and refilled his drinking glass, spitting and spitting, watching the flemb circle the drain.
He climbed back into the bathtub and under the hot shower, thinking about being pulled out of cold darkness into rays of light and hope. Hell, he'd probably get handbasket burns from his return trip from hell. He wondered how much the return ticket must have cost and chuckled as he spooned shampoo into his hair with a cupped palm. He was wondering, though, now that he was starting to get his bearings, what the price would be for him leaving St. Mungos, but, more importantly, how the fuck he had gotten back home?
His dad. Oh, Jesus! His dad. It was the only plausible explanation.
"Now for the awesome repercussions," he muttered bitterly into the hot, hard stream of water gushing from the showerhead. As if impressed by his ability to get to the point, the water turned even hotter, a quirk of the plumbing ever since he had been a kid. Susan had turned on the cold water in the kitchen. And now thinking of Susan, thinking of how she had asked if he needed her help to wash up, he wished she could switch the goddamned tap off so he could use the cold water.
Harry toweled off, brushed his teeth again, donned his clothes and left the bathroom.
He padded up behind her on bare feet, making little sound even though the floor was made of rich hardwood. He placed a hand on her shoulder and slung his left arm around her waist.
“Give me a proper hug,†he said, grinning.
“You’re impossible,†Susan said, without any barb to it.
“Thank you, I try,†he commented.
Then, her arms around him, her hands, wet from the sink, on his back and soaking his shirt. Her smell was of apples and it almost clashed with the smell of dish-washing liquid on her hands and smeared around her arms. He moved to kiss her but she pulled away. Shrugging, he gave her a final squeeze and let go, stepping back to look at her.
"You are looking really well, you know," he said needlessly, as his eyes ran up and down her body. The phrase 'all the right curves in all the right places' came to mind and he quashed the small voice inside him that shrieked "cliché!" Not used to being on his feet for so long, he wobbled and pulled out a kitchen chair.
"Tea?" Susan asked, walking over to the kettle.
"Yes, thank you," he said. "Been a long time since I've had a good cup of tea."
He hated himself at that moment for saying things that didn't need saying. Really, pointing out the obvious made him feel like a fool.
"Are you hungry?" Susan asked, wrapping the stove smartly with her wand to heat up the kettle.
"Yeah, I must admit I-" his voice cracked from disuse and he tried again. "I am. I'll make something, though. It's been a while since I've been in a kitchen. I make a mean english breakfast... and speaking of which, what time is it and how long have I been home?"
"It's five in the afternoon and you've been in bed for three days now. Your body was on such a low-low that it took time to bring you out of whatever sleep you were in."
"Ah well, eggs, bacon and a few sausages will make a nice supper, I reckon. And my dad? Is he working?"
"He'll be home shortly, I'd imagine. He's apparently following up a lead on your kidnapping," Susan said, the merest hint of a smile gracing her not too full, not too thin, lips.
Harry chuckled. He had always gotten a kick out of his dad fucking over the Ministry. This, however, was a dangerous fucking, one which could result in all kinds of collapsing decks of cards. "Well, I suppose I better start that supper, then, eh? My dad always loved my cooking."
"Sure, Harry," Susan said. "Eggs are in the icebox over there and likewise with the bacon and sausages. Here are the pans," she pointed a slender index finger at a cupboard slightly to the left and above where she was standing by the stove, "and the salt is on the table in front of you. Go mad."
Then Harry threw the question out hard and fast, the thing he had been aiming for all along. "Can I have my wand to speed up the process?"
Susan's smile seemed to fall off her face and her eyes seemed to take on a guarded look. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said, "I can't let you have your wand."
She sounded sympathetic, but he wondered if she was smirking inwardly, something smug, something vindictive. And if she was? Could he blame her or hate her for that?
"It's alright, I understand," he said calmly. "I just thought that I'd speed up the process a bit."
Her eyes said bullshit, her voice said, "sorry, Harry. It's elbow grease until you can prove that you really are a good boy now..."
He hated that she had to repeat herself. It was always that repetitive strike that cuts the deepest. Not like he was gonna kill her, was he? Susan Bones? Goddamnit, but his dad could be a stubborn, rule-abiding sonofabitch, granted that those rules were of his own making.
Harry got up and pretended to wobble on his feet. He groaned theatrically and said, "God, I hope I can do this..."
Susan's weakness was that she was a nice person. "Hey," she said, "don't worry about it. You can cook tomorrow maybe, okay?"
Harry wondered if she saw through that one, but instead said, "Sure thing. Sorry..."
"Nonsense!" Susan said. "You've just got home. Just relax and aunty Suzie will take care of everything."
On anybody else that would be a sentence packed to the rafters with sarcasm. "You're a sweetheart, a Godsend, you know that?"
He half expected her to crack, "Yeah, so take me to bed and show me a good time," but she wasn't that kind of person. Instead, she said, "flattery will get you salt on your food just the way you like it."
Harry turned, presenting his profile. "I'm... going to sit in the lounge a bit, okay?"
"Sure," Susan said. "There're books there if you're interested..."
He nodded and left the kitchen.
Harry had felt good about his appearance; she could see it in his eyes. Wait until you look in the mirror, mate, she thought as she poured water into two mugs. He was the same old, same old, but it was impulsive. He could no more control it than he could control the flexing of his finger or the way he said his words.
She thought of his voice. It brought to mind a sickle under the tongue, metallic to sour taste buds. But damnit, she still saw that old Harry; the good Harry. He was the Harry that cared more than this one did. This new Harry was too jaded and it had made him into someone he wasn't supposed to be. His mood swings, from past encounters before he was forced bodily into St. Mungo's' psychiatric floor, pendulumed alarmingly. One minute, he would be sweet, charming and caring Harry, the next, that manipulative arse!
"Harry!" she called, poking her head round the doorframe of the living room, "would you like to come have your tea in the kitchen or would you like me to bring it to you?"
"Er... I'll come to the kitchen, thanks, Suzie."
Strike one, she thought with satisfaction. With Harry, it was the difference between manipulating and imposing and Harry hated, hated imposing on people.
Harry got up, dumping the book on a nearby coffee table. He came towards her and passed her. His natural scent had changed from how she remembered. It was tainted somehow, like the scent of a wounded or diseased animal, but not as potent.
She moved back as he passed her and he noticed. She knew that he still wanted her physically. Hell, she wanted him but it'd be different. It'd be poisoned by past wrongs and memories and she'd feel like a shit after she came, she was sure of it. But was it worth pushing him away? Could she maybe fix the broken clock that seemed to be right only twice an emotion? Well, for now, she'd keep pushing. She'd wait him out, wait for him to get his arse back into daily routine, no matter how constricting it might be for him locked up at home.
And that was another thing. If she gave him his wand, he'd escape as silently as a thief in the night. He'd run and might never look back until they had him back in psychiatric custody. Yeah, then he'd start regretting exactly as he had done the last time. He had regretted his actions the first time, but, given the chance, he'd do it all again for that thrill, for something to remind him that he was still a living, breathing human being with bad habits. And the lengths Harry had gone to feel that kick, that rush, were much different to most people. Then again, most people hated that pulse, pulse, behind the ears, so hard it hurt like a bastard.
He watched Susan work, her wand twirling as she cooked, as food simmered on the stove. "So what's been happening since I... well..."
"Not much, actually."
"Why am I not surprised?" Harry scratched his head, his fingers rasp-rasping through his short hair.
"Everybody has been living normal lives. They've gotten used to the way of the world."
"Does my dad ever see my mum or at least talk about her?" Harry asked, leaning forward.
"Nope," Susan said, "it's still a sore subject for him."
And oh did Harry know that. Honestly, Harry didn't like nor dislike his mother; she wasn't his problem, but what she had done to James was unforgivable. Harry didn't really care. She had made her bed, she could fucking well lie in it.
-----
VI
-----
"Sirius!" James hollered as Sirius Black turned the corner.
"Alright, mate?" Sirius asked.
"Yeah, smashing! What the hell're you still doing here?"
"Tackling a cursed broom," Sirius said. "Helluva dangerous broom if ever I saw one; damned-near knocked Ludo out when he brought it into the office."
James considered his friend of many years for a moment, and asked, "What are you doing after work?"
"I don't have anything planned..."
"Excellent! Come by Susan's place tonight; might have something that'll tickle your interest."
He saw the understanding in Padfoot's eyes and knew he had got the message.
"I'll be there," said Sirius. "Right now, though, gotta go find someone who knows what they're doing with hexes and such. Right nasty fucker, that hex is."
"Alright, mate," James said, turning to walk back to his office to fetch his traveling cloak. "see you in a tick."
Mick Anders was waiting for James when he got in. "Mick!" James said.
"Hya, James. Got a minute?"
"Sure," James said. "What's up?"
"Well-" Anders cleared his throat, "I just thought I ought to tell you that there have been no developments on Harry's case."
"No leads, nothing?"
"Nothing," Anders agreed. "Looks like they've vanished off the face of this earth and I don't fancy taking a look-see on the moon."
This guy's sense of humor sucked to high hell, but James nodded all the same.
"I really appreciate what you're doing," James lied. "I'm glad for Harry's sake that one of the best aurors is on the case."
"No worries, mate," Anders grinned. "We'll catch the bastard..."
James snatched his cloak from the stand behind his door. "Thanks again, Mick. I'll see you tomorrow. My Goddaughter's making supper and she'll yowl at me if I don't make it on time..."
"Cheers," Mick Anders said, dismounting from James' desk and walking past him and out of the office.
-----
"So Yaxley is top dog now, is he?" Harry asked. "Christ! The Ministry is really collapsing round it's own ears."
"And has been for years," Susan agreed. "He keeps an eye on your father, though. Never lets him out of his sight at work, so to speak."
"I remember his daughter from school," Harry said. "Nice-looking girl, about a year above us."
Susan opened her mouth to reply, but just then, the door opened, admitting Harry's father.
-----
Chapter One: Potter is Guilty
-----
I
-----
James Potter cursed under his breath as the lift doors behind him opened. He hadn't been expecting someone to follow him up. He had snuck into the lift under his invisibility cloak and waited for the healers to get off on their respective floors. Satisfied that he was alone, he had pressed the button for the ninth floor and twirled his wand between nervous fingers.
He'd walked out of the lift, watching as the numbers counted down to the first floor as the lift rapidly descended down the shaft. He had turned his back to scan the corridor for possible hindrances and had found none in sight. He did not, however, expect to see someone come up here so soon.
Slowly, he turned around and sighed in evident relief.
One of the patients, presumably one of those who were low-risk enough to be allowed onto other floors, walked passed him, his freshly-scrubbed bedpan in his arms.
The healers encouraged the patients who were independent enough to look after themselves to clean out their bedpans and fetch their meals and freshly-washed linen from two floors below.
James watched, his breath tight in his lungs as the man waddled off toward his room, a cheerful whistle hissing through the patient's gapped teeth.
James waited until the door of room eleven closed before proceeding with caution down the hallway.
The locks on the door were not meant to keep people out, but to keep one person in - specifically his son, Harry.
James flicked his wand and cupped his hand around the tip to reduce the glow of his Alohamora charm. He silenced the hinges with another flick, just in case, and pushed the door open with his foot.
The room was dark as all hell, but James closed the door, deactivated the lock that would lock him and Harry in, and charmed the narrow arch of the observation window to resist the light that he was about to ignite. He cast a lumos and his eyes immediately darted toward the slab that Harry was lying on.
The slab was cold marble, jutting out of the wall like a broken toe from a giant's foot. A wafer-thin mattress and a tatty old blanket were Harry's only source of comfort. For a pillow, Harry would use his dirty uniform, colourless, thread-bare slacks and a washed-out shirt.
Harry was so heavily sedated that he didn't even blink when the light from James' wand invaded his cell. His eyes were closed, but his jaw sagged open and drool trickled down the cleft in his chin and covered his shirt, opened from the lower abdomen up toward his ribs, which poked out like the bars to a cage.
James did not utter a word to reassure Harry in case the room was being monitored for sound. Since it was too dark, he doubted that there would be any visual-monitoring charms in place.
He walked over to the slab and drew his handkerchief to wipe the drool from Harry's chin. He stroked his son's cheek while absently cleaning his handkerchief with his wand.
James listened, straining his ears for the slightest of sounds that someone was heading his way. Nothing - save for Harry's light, hissing breaths and the steady trickle of... something.
The cell stank of unwashed body, of loneliness and the tang of medication, the kind that clawed at the back of the throat and left the mouth dry after too much exposure.
Satisfied, he tucked his wand into the waistband of his jeans before lifting Harry slightly to put his arms around his shoulders. Tightening his grip, he heaved Harry off of his make-shift bed and heard something tear. He panicked, held Harry up with one arm and shone the beam of light around Harry's bed, and that was when he saw it.
Intravenous tubes had been spellotaped to Harry's hand, thin needles embedded in bulging blue veins under pale skin. They fed into the wall where they could be replenished at a healer's will. They ripped away from Harry as James pulled him back from the bed, dragging him so that his bare feet scrabbled on the floor, his long toenails skittering across concrete flooring.
Then the alarm shrieked.
Disapparating from anywhere above the first floor of St. Mungos was a no-go due to patients who were a flight risk. James had to take Harry out the hard way, but he had expected nothing less.
He levitated Harry above his head, flipped him upside-down, lowered him toward his back and conjured ropes to secure him in place. He drew the invisibility cloak around both of them and hobbled to the door, Harry’s weight threatening to pull him down as he walked.
With his wand hand now free, he opened the partially shut door and left the room, but he could already hear the lift rattle up its shaft as it approached.
Thanking Merlin that wizards were lazy, James took the stairs two at a time, wincing every time Harry’s forehead struck his coccyx. Seven flights, six flights, but there was already shouting from above.
Angry yells drifted down the stairwell as James legged it down the stairs, his breath hot and tight in his throat. He heard rapidly descending footsteps behind him and, for a split second, a thought flitted across his mind that he was being stupid and that he wouldn’t make it, but Harry Potter was too precious to let slip away.
James on the fifth floor, healers on the seventh, spells zinging off the wall beside James’ head. His cloak fluttered about him, no doubt giving glimpses of him to his pursuers who were taking pot-shots at him. He felt a spell slam into Harry, nearly sending James headlong down the stairwell, but he grabbed for the railing, spinning on the ball of his foot to keep his balance.
No time to check if Harry was alright, he’d just have to pray, pray, pray. He cast a quick diagnostic, determined that the spell was a stunner. He sighed with relief but the glow of his charm gave his position away. Stupid, but he had to check that Harry was alive at least.
The spell drilled into the railing that he was holding, heating the iron under his hand. He quickly let go of the railing, risked a glance over his shoulder and began spells of his own.
His sectumsempra missed the group entirely, carving huge divots into the wall. Chips of plaster and brick and a cloud of dust were sent whizzing through the air. Shrapnel pierced flesh with wet thunks and James grinned before resuming his flight once more.
Stairs behind him exploded and James bit back a cry as a... something embedded itself in his calf. He felt more shrapnel nip at his heels but his cloak protected him from the chips of stone that flew from the walls.
He cast a confringo, pointing his wand at the floor and staircase the healers were on and the staircase vanished, along with the healers, exploding in a deafening roar and a blinding flash of light that made James wince and look away. He heard yells as they fell to the floor below the one hewas on and he cursed his mistake. If one of them managed to get up and raise a wand, he might have a problem.
Nevertheless, he proceeded onward, feeling his movement begin to drag due to Harry's limp body. He made it to the fourth floor and started his descent, his boots kicking up a storm of debris. Stones and mortar clattered down the stairs and James fought to breathe through the miniature dust whirlwinds. He stepped over a body and stamped on a hand that was trying feebly to point a wand at him. He heard the satisfying crunch of the fingers break and the wand snapping.
At the bottom of that level, he saw a pile of struggling bodies, writhing and squirming like trapped serpents. He let rip with a barrage of stunners and the pile stopped moving. Banishing them back up the flight of stairs, he rounded the bend to descend to the next floor and couldn't suppress a smile as the entwined pile of bodies rolled back down the stairs behind him.
Third floor
James strained his ears once more and could hear a slight commotion in the lobby. He was sure that such noises as blowing up a staircase wouldn't be passed off as a patient falling out of bed.
The noises echoed up through the stairwell, noises distorted to the point of garbled bangs and crashes and a murmur of over-lapping voices. They were waiting.
He descended carefully down the second floor and caught sight of them as he reached the first floor. They all had wands levelled at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for him and he balked for a moment before he remembered what he had come here to do in the first place.
His calf stung like the fires of hell and he could murder a glass of water right now. Harry's clawing, foul odour was beginning to get to him as well as the exertion of carting him downstairs; he wasn't as young as he once was.
Silence reigned in the lobby and James' breathing was coming in short gasps. He silenced his boots, placed a bubble-head charm around his head to muffle his rasps of air and forced himself onward.
He was at the top of the first flight and he felt winded, felt empty. 'You can do it,' a voice seemed to say.
'Yeah,' he thought,'because you're not the one carting a body that feels like a sack of shit draped over your back, are you?'
That seemed to put a cork in it, and James grunted, regretting that immediately, but determinedly shuffled forward.
Ten steps to freedom.
Ten; nine more to go, no reaction from the crowd just yet.
Nine; a voice in the crowd whispered, "Do you hear anything?" The Scottish, serrated burr was loud; it cleaved the air like a chainsaw would cleave wood.
"Shhh!" another person hissed.
Eight; so far, so good.
Seven; six more to go... James reached his hand up, clutched at a stitch just under his ribs. It felt like a knife was prying them apart and, at any moment, he was expecting the wet snap of his ribs fracturing.
He got to three before something happened. Harry groaned. The trigger-happy wizards painted the stairwell crimson as they sent stunner after stunner into empty air, but James shielded as best he could. He staggered back from the force of as many curses, but adrenaline was his baby today.
He charged down the stairs, firing curses and hexes in all directions, not caring about the legality of them or who his curses struck.
Fountains of blood erupted into the air, crimson showers of life, flowing streams that made people run and duck behind tables, topple chairs and take shelter behind them.
A man directly in front of James found himself hanging from his ankles, his robes falling over his face to obscure his vision.
Fireplaces burst into life as people made a grab for freedom and James turned on the spot, attempting to apparate. He felt resistance and stopped immediately. He'd have to fight through these bastards.
He passed the desk, looking over his shoulder to deflect a bonebreaker that came a bit too close for comfort. It smacked into the poster that gave directions to the different wards on the different floors and it burst into flames. The room lit up as flames engulfed the wooden beam the poster was tacked to.
He cleaved apart the upturned desk and saw the receptionist cower back from him. He stunned her and saw a flash of green light in his peripheral vision. Ah, they were fighting dirty - a last resort.
James felt the cold chill as the killing curse whizzed passed his ear and smacked into the doors about five meters ahead of him. They were blasted off their hinges and flew through the air, hitting a corner of a building across the street and boomeranged back. James ducked and cursed the warder who had layered the door with an imperturbable charm that the killing curse had not been able to snuff out completely.
The first slab of wood flew back through the display window and across the room, curving to the right and finally settling up against the wall. Glass peppered those nearby, reflecting firelight and tiny slivers of panicked faces. Holding his breath, James hoped that the door wouldn't bounce back.
The second half flew right through the opening where the door had once been, heading straight for him and he swore on his exhale, diving forward and under the thing. He landed with an oomph, Harry's weight nearly snapping his spine like an uncooked stick of spaghetti. It whooshed over his head, occupying a huge amount of space, blocking out the sounds above his head before he stood up, turned, held up a physical shield with his left hand and blew the door up with his right.
Chunks of wood flew into the sprawled bodies and into the desks, catching alight and falling onto trailing robes. Shrieks filled the air as people were set alight and they rolled instinctively, putting out the flames by sheer weight. James turned and raced for the exit, the dying barrage of spells coming to a resigned, defeated halt. He twisted, disapparating, mission accomplished.
-----
"Susan!" James roared, his feet on solid ground as he hit the entrance to his fideliused cottage. Susan Bones came skidding into the room, swishing slippers creating friction on the carpet. James tossed his cloak aside and Susan touched his shoulder, shocking him. He flinched, adrenalin still going haywire, and said, "Harry! Help him!"
Susan severed the bonds securing Harry and caught him with a levitation charm as soon as he was about to torpedo headfirst onto the wooden floor and possibly break his neck.
James' boots thump-thumped as he followed Susan to the bedroom that had been prepared for Harry's arrival, watching as Susan gently laid him on the bed. Her wand blurred as it swished through the air, lights surrounding Harry like a fireworks display, bringing his pale visage into stark relief.
"Oh Merlin," Susan muttered, her voice a hair's breadth away from cracking at the seams. "What have they done to you?
She waved her wand and James stepped aside to let an assortment of potions fly onto the nightstand beside her.
She uncorked potion after potion, massaging their way down Harry's throat, glug-glugging to his belly and throughout his whole body. Immediately, colour began to tinge his face like a child experimenting with paint. A glow was drawn on the parchment-coloured skin and James felt better already.
"He'll be alright," said Susan as if she had read his thoughts.
"Thank God," said James, settling on the bed beside Harry and holding his hand which felt cold and clammy.
"Any problems?" Susan asked.
"No, nothing I haven't handled already," said James.
She walked over to examine him for injuries and healed the wound on his calf, which had stopped stinging and had settled down to a dull ache, but he still felt tired, physically. Lugging Harry like that was heavy work, no matter how undernourished he, Harry, was.
"Thank you for bringing him home," Susan said sincerely, before pecking James lightly on his cheek.
"Well, I couldn't leave him there, could I?" James said. "He's my boy... my only boy."
-----
II
-----
"I hate witnesses," Auror Mick Anders said over the babble of other auror interrogators.
"They hate you just as much, mate," Jimmy Matthews said, grinning.
"We all know James Potter did it anyway. It's not as if he's got a twin, is it?"
"Knowing and proving are two different things," Matthews said.
"Merlin, I really hate this job sometimes," Anders grumbled. "He's guilty as hell, but we can't lay a hand on the bastard."
"Well, the Dark Lord will find out, that's for damned sure," Matthews said.
"Yeah, no shit. I just hope he doesn't invite me over for dinner that evening."
Matthews snorted and said, "Right, let's leave this interrogation shit and go up and investigate the room, yeah?"
Anders followed Matthews to the ninth floor, thankful to leave the noise in the lobby behind. Even as he approached the lift, he had to avoid puddles of blood and chips of stone.
"This bloke really did a number on those poor bastards," Anders commented, looking at a healer who was levitating a body bag on a stretcher.
"And people wonder why healers don't do their best. There's not many of them left any more, last time I checked, never mind the shit that Potter just caused."
"Yeah," Anders agreed. "They're a dying breed."
Matthews snorted at the unintended pun and jabbed the button to summon the lift.
Anders' stomach lurched as the lift was sucked up the shaft and to the ninth floor. Clutching his belly, he exited the lift at Matthews' heels.
Room thirteen wasn't big enough for more than three people to stand in. The problem with this room was the restriction of mobility. You couldn't even fart without the walls vice-gripping your arse cheeks. So they stood in single file, Anders peering over the shorter Matthews' shoulder and running an eye over the smooth, symmetrical slab of marble that had served as Harry Potter's sick bed.
Matthews conjured a plastic evidence bag, a fine-bristled brush and set to work brushing down all the loose lint and dust and mould and other filth that had collected on the mattress and blanket. He had a nice cloud floating in the air, which he moved the plastic bag to cover, then heat-sealed it with his wand.
He removed strands of raven hair from the tatty slacks that had served as Potter's pillow, placing them in a separate evidence bag which he then tucked into his robes.
For the next twenty minutes, Anders watched Matthews meticulously lift the mattress off the slab, brush down the underside, brush the slab down and create another bag. He then moved over to the wall and brushed that down, too.
Then he saw the hole in the wall and flicked his wand, straightening a dangling tube.
"What the hell is this!" Matthews said and Anders could hear the outraged tone in his voice.
Anders shrugged, even though the man couldn't see him and said, "Buggered if I know. Probably for his medication and food and the likes."
"They had a patient hooked up to an unsterilized intravenous tube?"
"Eh, I wouldn't be surprised," said Anders.
"My mother died hooked up to tubes," Matthews said, cocking his head as if remembering something.
"You're letting your emotions affect your work, Matthews!" Sanders barked sharply, and Matthews jumped like a kicked puppy.
"Just finish up and we can go home, yeah?"
Dutifully, Matthews used his wand to siphon some of the liquid from the tube and trickled it into a conjured flask, which he, too, bagged.
"You forgot one thing, apprentice of mine," Sanders said, smirking.
"What," Matthews asked, apprehensive.
"You forgot to label the bags," Anders said, his smirk dropping. "You're gonna get a thorough buggering from Yaxley, my son."
"Shit," Matthews said, patting the bulge of plastic evidence bags in his pocket.
"Ah, just yankin' your wand. I'll help you when we get back to the ministry."
-----
The pub in Knockturn Alley was not so crowded, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how one looked at it. A good thing because nobody could get away with anything stupid or fancy without someone taking notice. The bad part was that people could hear your conversation and usually take notice if you have a silencing ward up. That'd mean you have secrets and in this time and place, nobody had secrets any more.
A hooded figure hunched over his drink, well aware of the hostility from the other occupants. He stared into his glass of amber-coloured fire-whisky, not daring to drink from the glass which had probably not been washed from the day it had been bought.
"Is this seat taken?" a gruff voice, also hidden behind a hood and dressed in a black cloak asked.
The man pushed out a stool with his foot and the other hood sat down, gesturing for a bottle of mead.
"You never told me that it would go tits up like that," the man in the black hood and cloak said.
"I'm not psychic, am I? So what if it went tits up," the first hood said, hunching over even further and glaring directly into the man's black eyes. "What concern is it of yours?"
"If certain people look hard enough," here, he lowered his voice, even though the first hood had placed a mufliato around the table, "look hard enough, they could pin me down eventually."
"Now you're just being paranoid and melodramatic and you know it."
"I want double the payment!" the second hood hissed.
"Ah, but you seem to forget, I've got you by the balls and I won't let go, spy or no. Just remember, my slippery friend, I've got this..."
The first hood slid a glossy black and white from a pocket of his travelling cloak and flashed it for a second, before tucking it away.
"She must have been an exquisite shag," the first hood said. The hatred in those words was so powerful that the second man flinched back.
The picture showed the man in a hood thrusting into a rather over-weight woman. "Was this whore worth it, huh? Was she worth screwing around on your wife for? What's wrong, my man, is your wife not enough vagina for you, hey?" The rant was a low hiss and every single word penetrated the second man's defences like punches to his gut.
"We both know you forced me to do it under coercion," the second hood bit out through clenched teeth.
"You know what? For all your smarts, you really are a slimy git that doesn't know the rules to the very game he started playing. Just remember, mate, this is not a fucking playground. It's not about the 'he did it, he did it, you saw him!' any more. It's about your rank, your standing, but above all, respect. So whether I forced you to do it or not doesn't matter. You took something of mine and I can easily take it from you! oh yeah," he paused as if relishing the next words, "and I don't think your lord or wife would approve of you shagging a low-life whore from the very shit-slums of Knockturn, would they?"
"Alright," the man grumbled, "you've made your point."
"Oh, no I haven't. Just remember that I have the power in this relationship and not you. I choose to pay you because I'm a generous man. But one day, one day that generosity will trickle to a stop, Got it?"
The man said nothing.
"I said, have you got it?"
"I've got it," the second hood rasped out through clenched yellow teeth.
"Good," the first hood said condescendingly, dumping a sack filled with galleons into the man's hand, which had snaked under the table.
"Oh, and next time, don't draw the floor-plan in green. It clashes horribly with my ex wife's hair."
"But it matches her eyes," the man was probably smiling under that hood of his.
"Careful," said James, "your mouth could get you into trouble. Now run along. I have some... stuff to do."
-----
III
-----
"Harry Potter's missing?" Auror Head Yaxley asked flatly.
"Yes, sir," Anders replied from his position near the fireplace.
"And you think Auror James Potter did it?" Yaxley asked.
"I suspect so, sir."
"You... suspect," Yaxley said slowly. "Anders, suspecting and proving are two different things. If you make accusations like that, you could lose your job and your life. You don't just come in here and accuse one of my top Aurors of kidnapping!"
"But sir..."
"Shut it!" Yaxley bellowed. "Just... clamp down on those suspicions. Merlin, if the Dark Lord hears that, you're dead, man!"
Anders stayed silent and Yaxley raised his wand, spheres of light whizzing about the room before he continued, his voice lowered. "Sorry for the theatrics, gentleman," he addressed both Anders and Matthews, the latter looking visibly astounded by Yaxley's sudden change of mood. "James Potter is one crafty bastard and I wouldn't put it past him to pull something like this off. But, like I said, knowing and proving are two different things."
Yaxley paused, took a sip from a conjured glass of water, then rasped, "officially, James Potter won't know what is going on. We all know he is a slimy bastard. Hell, even the Dark Lord knows it. Potter will search for his son, or pretend to do so, using up the resources of the Auror department. My guess is, the crazy bloke wants to create a diversion, but for the life of me, I can't think why."
"So much for not suspecting," Anders grinned at Yaxley, who shot a stinging hex at him.
"I get to be the smart arse around here, Anders, not you!" but Yaxley grinned, too. "So, gentlemen, fuck the rules, fuck your morals, fuck everything until we can prove that Potter is guilty. Are we all on the same page?"
Matthews nodded, shortly followed by Anders. "Good. You men did well today and I'm proud of you... but you never heard me say that."
-----
Later, as Anders and Matthews were walking toward the cafeteria, Matthews said, "did you hear that? The boss is proud of us."
"Yeah, I was the one who did the labelling, of course he's proud of us," Anders smirked and nudged his younger companion in the ribs.
"Right, so officially, where's James Potter now?"
Anders paused in mid stride, thinking for a moment. "He's supposed to be in Manchester... there's some nutter running round over there mugging muggles with magic."
"Lucky bastard," Matthews muttered. "Gets to take the day off work just because he's suspected for-"
"Shush, arsehole!" Anders said, glaring at Matthews. "This is all hush-hush, remember?"
Matthews sighed and nodded. "Let's get something to eat," he said finally, "I could eat a hippogriff and its foal."
-----
Dane Brigs had picked his target - an old lady pushing a shopping trolley, packed to the brim with roasts and vegetables and tinned cat food. By her side swung a purse that could concuss a dragon, its zipper straining at the seams, little clouds of air puffing from it as it bumped against her hip.
He waited until she had drawn level with him, then passed him. He began to follow, keeping her two steps ahead of him. Tucked inside the sleeve of his football jersey was his wand, its tip the only thing poking out.
He pulled his arm back further into the sleeve, took a firmer grip of the wand and flicked his wrist, intending to sever the strap of the poor old dear's purse.
Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed his wrist and a voice from behind him whispered in his ear, "You know, you're a coward. Stealing purses from old muggles using magic? Tsk, tsk."
He felt a wandtip press into the dimple at the back of his neck, before he felt the wandtip grow hot... then the world went black. Potter's official mission was accomplished.
-----
IV
-----
James Potter levitated the mugger into the cell and used his wand to heave him onto the floor before barring it. He turned on his heel and strode toward his office.
"Potter!" a voice yelled from a doorway.
Potter stopped, glanced around. "Sir?" he said.
"Step in here a moment, will you?"
Trying to keep calm, James followed Yaxley into his office and sat in the stiff-backed chair facing him.
"So how did it go? Did he give you any problems?"
"No, sir. I just had to wait for the right moment. He seems to love the afternoons just before rush-hour."
"Indeed," Yaxley said, his fingers whish-rasping through the stubble on his chin. "Good job, Potter. Glad you've finally nipped this in the bud."
James smiled, trying to keep the smile from widening too much. "Thank you, sir."
"Well," Yaxley said and James' heart leapt. Here it comes. "I have some potentially... harmful news that might... upset you," Yaxley said delicately, his fingers steepled under his chin.
It was all an act. James knew it, Yaxley knew it and Yaxley knew that James knew that Yaxley knew about what had really happened at St. Mungos.
"Well, sir?" James said, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.
"Your son, Harry... he was kidnapped."
"Kidnapped?" James tried to sound puzzled.
"Yes, kidnapped out of his room at St. Mungos."
"Who did it!" shit, shit, shit, he reacted too soon - or was it two late.
"We don't know yet," Yaxley said. "An invisible assailant who damn-near destroyed St. Mungos."
James would have grinned at Yaxley's hyperbole if he were in the privacy of his own office, but he was facing the Head Auror, so he tightened his lips and tried to look concerned. "Well, do we have anything to work on?" he asked.
"Not as yet," Yaxley shook his head. "Anders and Matthews are on the case and they already went to check out the room and bag the evidence."
"Put me on the case with them, please?" James asked imploringly.
"You know I can't do that, James," Yaxley said. "You know it's against all Auror procedure to assign aurors to a case with any personal ties.
"But if there's anybody who'll know Harry best, it's me!" James said and he considered getting to his feet to emphasise his point.
"Don't worry, James," Yaxley said, a smirk breaking out over his face, "we'll catch the crafty bastard. Sooner or later, he'll slip up and fall and we'll be there to catch him with a couple of crucios for starting all this shit. I'm sure the families of a few healers who had perished would join in the sport."
James met Yaxley's eyes unflinchingly. "I guess I'll have the honour of casting the first curse?" James asked.
"Oh, but of course," Yaxley nodded. "But Harry will come back to us, don't you worry. He was in that room for a reason and I'm sorry to say that. He was truly a bright young lad. Sooner or later, Harry will go off the rails and we'll find him again. Sooner or later, Harry's kidnapper will find that he has bitten off more than he can chew. Sooner or later, he will find out why Harry was decreed an unfit member of society.
-----
V
-----
Wakefulness was a long time coming. When Harry finally surfaced, his ears buzzed, the static ring-a-ring causing him to groan and try to block one of his ears at least. His groan echoed and he heard footsteps approach his bed and saw a silhouette of a woman, red hair dancing about her face as if not sure what to occupy itself with.
This wasn't a healer, of that he was sure. This woman, although a blur, still looked ruffled and not at all unhappy to see his eyes shoot open, for his upper lids to shoot for the stars of a vague dream he could almost recall having.
"Harry?" the voice was familiar - so familiar that it hurt like hell. It stirred memories of that voice cycling through different emotions and octaves as if it were her own personal musical instrument. She was the only woman Harry knew that could express so much with the rise and fall of that voice.
"Susan?" he tried to croak, but it fish-hooked in his gullet, coming to a stop before ever reaching his lips.
Ever intuitive to Harry's needs, Susan asked, "Water?"
Harry felt as if the whole of London's population had shat in his mouth and had forced him to swallow every rubbery bite, but he nodded at the blur and heard her pad out of the room in those slippers. Hell, he had bought them for her on her fifteenth birthday.
He noticed, for the first time in what felt like centuries, the solitary chink of sunlight. It peered at him brightly as if it had a secret that he didn't know. He raised a hand to batter feebly at that chink, but gave up.
"Here you go," the voice was back again, the last word, "go" sounding like something that she had invented. It rolled smoothly off her tongue, ricocheted off the roof of her mouth and came through her lips. God, he could listen to that voice for lifetimes and never get bored of it.
He felt the cool glass against the cleft of his bottom lip and opened his mouth as water sloshed out of the rim and down his throat. Susan pulled the glass away and he followed it like a dog following his food bowl. "Slowly," she chided.
Harry tipped his head back and the glass returned. This time, though, Susan let him finish.
"Hey, Suzie," Harry said, his voice ripping from his still-parched throat in a gravelly croak.
"Hello, Harry," Susan's voice said and his name jingle-belled in her mouth, "glad you're finally home."
"I'm home?" Harry asked.
"Home and dry," Susan agreed, and he could hear that smile in her voice; it reminded Harry of bubbles floating atop warm bath water.
Harry automatically reached for the bedside table but came up empty. "Glasses?"
"I hear and obey," Susan said, then she leaned close to place a pair of glasses on his face... and he smelt her. That tang of her skin still remained, bittersweet. The goodness inside Susan bled through her skin like nicotine through a smoker's sweaty pores. If Susan had to go jungle bashing for a month, she'd still smell nice, even if she never washed up.
Then she came into focus through his clear lenses. She looked older and more beautiful for it. Her hair was undone and writhed about her face like living, beautiful serpents. It added an air of... something... vulnerability, maybe? Her face was without blemish or wrinkle, but heart-shaped with a neat little cleft in her chin that finished the design. She needed no makeup to improve the symmetry of her face because God must have made her with a compass. Compared to the bland cell in St. Mungos, Susan Bones was a sight for sore eyes.
Harry looked around the room, using the stray beam of sunlight that had bothered him earlier for illumination. It was plain, with a wardrobe in one corner and a desk in the other, flanking the doorway. His bed was a single, but plenty comfortable.
The bed dipped as Susan sat down at the foot of it, and to hear that voice again, he said, "So, how are you doing?" He didn't care how lame he sounded, he just wanted to hear something new other than those fucking intravenous tubes that had hissed and hummed.
"Well, I'm good since you came back... but the question is, how are you feeling?"
"Like I need to get my arse out of this bed and into a hot shower. Also, I need to dance a jig with a toothbrush for a turn or two."
"Alright," she agreed. "Need help?"
"Nah, I'll be fine, but can you show me..."
"Sure!" she said brightly, and it was brighter than the sun, brighter than the flames of his hell.
He moved his legs, one at a time, out of bed and tried to stand... and toppled backwards into Susan's out-stretched arm. "Thanks..." he said, embarrassed.
"Don't mention it," she smiled, but that smile was a flare to the rocket of her laugh as Harry tripped over the bedpost.
He limp-staggered to the bathroom, supported by Susan. "Do you need me to bath you now, too?"
Hell yes, he wanted her, needed her to. "Only if you climb in with me?"
She swatted him on the arm. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're done," she said before walking out and shutting the door.
Susan had set out fresh clothing for him, a pair of shorts and a neatly-ironed shirt. He spotted a brand new toothbrush in a drinking glass perched on the bathtub and he took the hint.
He took a shower, taking slight pleasure in the warm water that trickled over him, washing more than dead skin and hospital scum down the drain.
He stood there in the bathtub, lifted his hand and studied the needle marks. He ignored the gurgling drain and grabbed his toothbrush, stepped out of the bathtub and hunted for a tube of toothpaste.
It burned his mouth after so long and the fumes, as he spat, stung his eyes. He filled and refilled his drinking glass, spitting and spitting, watching the flemb circle the drain.
He climbed back into the bathtub and under the hot shower, thinking about being pulled out of cold darkness into rays of light and hope. Hell, he'd probably get handbasket burns from his return trip from hell. He wondered how much the return ticket must have cost and chuckled as he spooned shampoo into his hair with a cupped palm. He was wondering, though, now that he was starting to get his bearings, what the price would be for him leaving St. Mungos, but, more importantly, how the fuck he had gotten back home?
His dad. Oh, Jesus! His dad. It was the only plausible explanation.
"Now for the awesome repercussions," he muttered bitterly into the hot, hard stream of water gushing from the showerhead. As if impressed by his ability to get to the point, the water turned even hotter, a quirk of the plumbing ever since he had been a kid. Susan had turned on the cold water in the kitchen. And now thinking of Susan, thinking of how she had asked if he needed her help to wash up, he wished she could switch the goddamned tap off so he could use the cold water.
Harry toweled off, brushed his teeth again, donned his clothes and left the bathroom.
He padded up behind her on bare feet, making little sound even though the floor was made of rich hardwood. He placed a hand on her shoulder and slung his left arm around her waist.
“Give me a proper hug,†he said, grinning.
“You’re impossible,†Susan said, without any barb to it.
“Thank you, I try,†he commented.
Then, her arms around him, her hands, wet from the sink, on his back and soaking his shirt. Her smell was of apples and it almost clashed with the smell of dish-washing liquid on her hands and smeared around her arms. He moved to kiss her but she pulled away. Shrugging, he gave her a final squeeze and let go, stepping back to look at her.
"You are looking really well, you know," he said needlessly, as his eyes ran up and down her body. The phrase 'all the right curves in all the right places' came to mind and he quashed the small voice inside him that shrieked "cliché!" Not used to being on his feet for so long, he wobbled and pulled out a kitchen chair.
"Tea?" Susan asked, walking over to the kettle.
"Yes, thank you," he said. "Been a long time since I've had a good cup of tea."
He hated himself at that moment for saying things that didn't need saying. Really, pointing out the obvious made him feel like a fool.
"Are you hungry?" Susan asked, wrapping the stove smartly with her wand to heat up the kettle.
"Yeah, I must admit I-" his voice cracked from disuse and he tried again. "I am. I'll make something, though. It's been a while since I've been in a kitchen. I make a mean english breakfast... and speaking of which, what time is it and how long have I been home?"
"It's five in the afternoon and you've been in bed for three days now. Your body was on such a low-low that it took time to bring you out of whatever sleep you were in."
"Ah well, eggs, bacon and a few sausages will make a nice supper, I reckon. And my dad? Is he working?"
"He'll be home shortly, I'd imagine. He's apparently following up a lead on your kidnapping," Susan said, the merest hint of a smile gracing her not too full, not too thin, lips.
Harry chuckled. He had always gotten a kick out of his dad fucking over the Ministry. This, however, was a dangerous fucking, one which could result in all kinds of collapsing decks of cards. "Well, I suppose I better start that supper, then, eh? My dad always loved my cooking."
"Sure, Harry," Susan said. "Eggs are in the icebox over there and likewise with the bacon and sausages. Here are the pans," she pointed a slender index finger at a cupboard slightly to the left and above where she was standing by the stove, "and the salt is on the table in front of you. Go mad."
Then Harry threw the question out hard and fast, the thing he had been aiming for all along. "Can I have my wand to speed up the process?"
Susan's smile seemed to fall off her face and her eyes seemed to take on a guarded look. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said, "I can't let you have your wand."
She sounded sympathetic, but he wondered if she was smirking inwardly, something smug, something vindictive. And if she was? Could he blame her or hate her for that?
"It's alright, I understand," he said calmly. "I just thought that I'd speed up the process a bit."
Her eyes said bullshit, her voice said, "sorry, Harry. It's elbow grease until you can prove that you really are a good boy now..."
He hated that she had to repeat herself. It was always that repetitive strike that cuts the deepest. Not like he was gonna kill her, was he? Susan Bones? Goddamnit, but his dad could be a stubborn, rule-abiding sonofabitch, granted that those rules were of his own making.
Harry got up and pretended to wobble on his feet. He groaned theatrically and said, "God, I hope I can do this..."
Susan's weakness was that she was a nice person. "Hey," she said, "don't worry about it. You can cook tomorrow maybe, okay?"
Harry wondered if she saw through that one, but instead said, "Sure thing. Sorry..."
"Nonsense!" Susan said. "You've just got home. Just relax and aunty Suzie will take care of everything."
On anybody else that would be a sentence packed to the rafters with sarcasm. "You're a sweetheart, a Godsend, you know that?"
He half expected her to crack, "Yeah, so take me to bed and show me a good time," but she wasn't that kind of person. Instead, she said, "flattery will get you salt on your food just the way you like it."
Harry turned, presenting his profile. "I'm... going to sit in the lounge a bit, okay?"
"Sure," Susan said. "There're books there if you're interested..."
He nodded and left the kitchen.
Harry had felt good about his appearance; she could see it in his eyes. Wait until you look in the mirror, mate, she thought as she poured water into two mugs. He was the same old, same old, but it was impulsive. He could no more control it than he could control the flexing of his finger or the way he said his words.
She thought of his voice. It brought to mind a sickle under the tongue, metallic to sour taste buds. But damnit, she still saw that old Harry; the good Harry. He was the Harry that cared more than this one did. This new Harry was too jaded and it had made him into someone he wasn't supposed to be. His mood swings, from past encounters before he was forced bodily into St. Mungo's' psychiatric floor, pendulumed alarmingly. One minute, he would be sweet, charming and caring Harry, the next, that manipulative arse!
"Harry!" she called, poking her head round the doorframe of the living room, "would you like to come have your tea in the kitchen or would you like me to bring it to you?"
"Er... I'll come to the kitchen, thanks, Suzie."
Strike one, she thought with satisfaction. With Harry, it was the difference between manipulating and imposing and Harry hated, hated imposing on people.
Harry got up, dumping the book on a nearby coffee table. He came towards her and passed her. His natural scent had changed from how she remembered. It was tainted somehow, like the scent of a wounded or diseased animal, but not as potent.
She moved back as he passed her and he noticed. She knew that he still wanted her physically. Hell, she wanted him but it'd be different. It'd be poisoned by past wrongs and memories and she'd feel like a shit after she came, she was sure of it. But was it worth pushing him away? Could she maybe fix the broken clock that seemed to be right only twice an emotion? Well, for now, she'd keep pushing. She'd wait him out, wait for him to get his arse back into daily routine, no matter how constricting it might be for him locked up at home.
And that was another thing. If she gave him his wand, he'd escape as silently as a thief in the night. He'd run and might never look back until they had him back in psychiatric custody. Yeah, then he'd start regretting exactly as he had done the last time. He had regretted his actions the first time, but, given the chance, he'd do it all again for that thrill, for something to remind him that he was still a living, breathing human being with bad habits. And the lengths Harry had gone to feel that kick, that rush, were much different to most people. Then again, most people hated that pulse, pulse, behind the ears, so hard it hurt like a bastard.
He watched Susan work, her wand twirling as she cooked, as food simmered on the stove. "So what's been happening since I... well..."
"Not much, actually."
"Why am I not surprised?" Harry scratched his head, his fingers rasp-rasping through his short hair.
"Everybody has been living normal lives. They've gotten used to the way of the world."
"Does my dad ever see my mum or at least talk about her?" Harry asked, leaning forward.
"Nope," Susan said, "it's still a sore subject for him."
And oh did Harry know that. Honestly, Harry didn't like nor dislike his mother; she wasn't his problem, but what she had done to James was unforgivable. Harry didn't really care. She had made her bed, she could fucking well lie in it.
-----
VI
-----
"Sirius!" James hollered as Sirius Black turned the corner.
"Alright, mate?" Sirius asked.
"Yeah, smashing! What the hell're you still doing here?"
"Tackling a cursed broom," Sirius said. "Helluva dangerous broom if ever I saw one; damned-near knocked Ludo out when he brought it into the office."
James considered his friend of many years for a moment, and asked, "What are you doing after work?"
"I don't have anything planned..."
"Excellent! Come by Susan's place tonight; might have something that'll tickle your interest."
He saw the understanding in Padfoot's eyes and knew he had got the message.
"I'll be there," said Sirius. "Right now, though, gotta go find someone who knows what they're doing with hexes and such. Right nasty fucker, that hex is."
"Alright, mate," James said, turning to walk back to his office to fetch his traveling cloak. "see you in a tick."
Mick Anders was waiting for James when he got in. "Mick!" James said.
"Hya, James. Got a minute?"
"Sure," James said. "What's up?"
"Well-" Anders cleared his throat, "I just thought I ought to tell you that there have been no developments on Harry's case."
"No leads, nothing?"
"Nothing," Anders agreed. "Looks like they've vanished off the face of this earth and I don't fancy taking a look-see on the moon."
This guy's sense of humor sucked to high hell, but James nodded all the same.
"I really appreciate what you're doing," James lied. "I'm glad for Harry's sake that one of the best aurors is on the case."
"No worries, mate," Anders grinned. "We'll catch the bastard..."
James snatched his cloak from the stand behind his door. "Thanks again, Mick. I'll see you tomorrow. My Goddaughter's making supper and she'll yowl at me if I don't make it on time..."
"Cheers," Mick Anders said, dismounting from James' desk and walking past him and out of the office.
-----
"So Yaxley is top dog now, is he?" Harry asked. "Christ! The Ministry is really collapsing round it's own ears."
"And has been for years," Susan agreed. "He keeps an eye on your father, though. Never lets him out of his sight at work, so to speak."
"I remember his daughter from school," Harry said. "Nice-looking girl, about a year above us."
Susan opened her mouth to reply, but just then, the door opened, admitting Harry's father.
-----