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Big Chicago	By : Samaelthekind Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 27783 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Big Chicago
- 2-Part 2
- 3-Part 3
- 4-Part 4
- 5-Part 5
- 6-Part 6
- 7-Part 7
- 8-Part 8
- 9-Part 9
- 10-Part 10
- 11-Part 11
- 12-Part 12
- 13-Part 13
- 14-Part 14
- 15-Part 15
- 16-Part 16
- 17-Part 17
- 18-Part 18
- 19-Part 19
- 20-Part 20
- 21-Part 21
- 22-Part 22
- 23-Part 23
- 24-Part 24
- 25-Part 25
- 26-Part 26
- 27-Part 27
- 28-Part 28
- 29-Part 29
- 30-Part 30
- 31-Part 31
- 32-Chapter 32
- 33-Part 33
- 34-Part 34
- 35-Part 35
- 36-Part 36
- 35
- 36
Big Chicago Part 36...By Samayel

Blaise Zabini wasn’t really aware of much. Well…that wasn’t entirely true. He was aware that he was in pain…in a lot of places…at the same time. He was also in a hospital bed that smelled clean. It was a safe bet that a guard was nearby, no matter where he was. The first clue that he was in a regular hospital, and not the jail infirmary, came from the voices above. He could hear someone paging a doctor in the distance. You didn’t hear that kind of thing in prison infirmaries.

If memory served him, the last thing he could recall clearly was taunting the asshole that had been calling him out. After the first couple hits, he remembered laughing even while he spat blood…just because he’d wanted to deny any of the bastards the pleasure of hearing anything that sounded like fear or pain. He’d laughed like he was crazy because there was nothing else to do…and perversely enough…it had enraged them enough that they’d knocked him unconscious long before they got a chance at gang rape. When you considered all the ways it could have gone…waking up in a hospital with everything except his ass aching was a pretty good outcome overall.

Of course…if you thought of that as good news…your situation was already firmly in the camp of FUCKED!

The first attempt at opening his eyes was a total failure…they were gummed shut by the crust that had built up while he was out cold. He did recognize that his left eye was bandaged. He could feel the eyelash flutter against tight gauze. The second attempt brought dizzying, stabbing, painful light and a blurry world that refused to focus properly. It took a few painful blinks to clear his vision enough to make anything out through the brightness.

The room was tiny but private, clean and gleaming, and there was someone in black in the chair beside the bed. They were napping…breathing softly and evenly, but it was damned hard to make out their shape and determine if they were male or female. Blaise squinted while his right eye ached and throbbed. It was a woman…in black…dark hair streaked heavy with silver.

The word came out as a croak and Blaise wondered if it was really his own voice he’d just heard, but even croaked out harshly it still echoed with relief.

“Ma.”

The woman in black woke with a start, then stood and stepped close, laying a cool palm on the head of her son.

“Blaise.”

“Ma…I didn’t…what they said…I never…”

“Shh. I know. You were betrayed. Someone you hurt….has hurt you. In hurting you, they hurt me. It will be made right.”

He couldn’t see clearly, but her ragged tone made it clear that she was tired. His throat hurt, but there were a million things he wanted to say. It was unthinkable…but it had to have been Dee. His pride refused to admit that he’d been so easily played, but his wits told him that it wasn’t even a question. Dee had been given access, and Dee had a motive. It was the motive part that had bothered him, nagging at his conscience endlessly while he’d lounged in one infirmary after another.

Seven years. Not in some little local jail waiting for a trial that hadn’t come, but smack in the heart of the federal penitentiary. Seven years would have been a long time for anyone…but a lot longer if you looked like Dee. There had been hints when they’d spoken. Little comments that suggested that the hurt ran much deeper than was being said. He hadn’t heard them then…because he’d had his eyes on what he wanted…same as always. If it had been anyone else, he’d have guarded himself, never let them have access to his personal life so easily, but Dee was different. He loomed in a person’s memory as that one moment when you brushed up against something beautiful waiting to explode into life…and Blaise had snuffed that moment out like a candle and walked away.

He’d bought his own ticket here. Seven years ago he’d thrown away someone who’d hung on his every word…because it was easier than canceling the deal and flinching in the face of an obvious set-up. What he’d felt these past few weeks had been only the smallest hint of what Dee must have felt. It would’ve been a fine time to wallow in self pity and guilt, but there were other questions to ask first, other things to occupy his mind.

“Ma…how did you…how’d you get here?”

“It’s alright, Blaise. Gregory reached me. Your bond was set and paid. You’ve been unconscious for two days. You are free to return home as soon as you are well enough to travel…but you mustn’t leave the city or violate the terms of the bond. My lawyers will take care of this soon enough, and if need be, there are a few judges I can still call upon in friendship. Don’t worry for anything, my son. Vincent is free on bail as well, and he and Gregory will see you home safely. I will visit you when I can, but it is enough to see you awake.”

“Can’t…see right. What’s…wrong with me.”

His mother’s hesitation told him that it was worse than he thought. He hurt so many places that it was hard to concentrate on just one, but his mother’s next words made his heart skip a beat with shock.

“Blaise…you…your eyes. There was…extensive damage. Your right eye…they say it will heal…but not the left. It cannot be repaired. Perhaps…perhaps a transplant someday…but not yet.”

Blaise sucked in his breath and felt dizziness overtaking him even while he laid still. He wanted to throw up, but he hadn’t had solid food in two days…there was nothing in him to void.

“Fuck! Jesus…I’m…I’m gonna be blind…in one eye…forever? This…it ain’t happening.”

“Shhh…there is nothing that can be done for that, my son…but I will make the one who did this to you pay. Just rest.”

Blaise slumped back into the pillows while his breathing stabilized, waiting for his head to stop spinning. There should have been anger…or more of it. He couldn’t find it in him to feel rage. That was the crazy part. All that was left in him was a vague sense of completion, as if the world had come full circle and nothing really mattered anymore.

“Ma…no. It’s over. Leave Dee out of it. I just wanna go home. This thing…it’s over.”

The morphine drip that fed into his IV was kicking in again, and Blaise felt unconsciousness pull him down as the words fell from his lips. His mother had heard them, but Mrs. Zabini had ideas of her own. Arrangements had already been made, descriptions passed to people who mattered, and if the animal who had done this to her son showed his face in this town again, he would pay for his temerity.

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Being roused from bed at five in the morning is nothing to cheer over…even if sleep wasn’t coming. Harry’s phone and mine went off simultaneously. Maybe I should be completely honest and say that it almost relieved me…until I remembered that only an emergency would generate a five am phone call from Hermione.

Harry is all business in a heartbeat, dressing and making ready for Ron’s arrival with only a hasty kiss between us. I’ve already been briefed about this being possible…but I haven’t had to follow through on those solemn promises to rise and shine when called until today. I do know that there are two classes of emergencies. One is the kind that requires bringing everyone up to date on a change of situation. The other is far more serious and would have included information by text. If it had been a text message, Harry would probably be opening the safe and collecting whatever we needed to get out of here in a hurry, so it can’t be all that bad, but I also know that it can’t be good.

True to form, Ron is downstairs fifteen minutes after the phones rang. I know better than to ask if anyone knows anything…if they knew anything, so would I. At this hour of the morning Chicago is concrete grey gloom and nearly empty streets on this end of town. Just a few cars drifting toward the busier places and passing through here on the way. I flick my eyes over to Harry every few seconds, and he’s as calm as could be, comfortable in the seat with an arm around me while I take a few deep breaths and try to relax.

I wish I’d slept properly. When you’re really tired, everything seems artificial. Like a vague and filmy haze is coating everything and you can’t shake the cotton-packed feeling from your mind. In theory, I’m supposed to be alert and ready for this kind of meeting, but let’s remember that I’m really just a glorified translator who hasn’t really had anything that could be a called a responsibility in the last decade. Harry’s arm feels good. I want to curl into it and try to drift to sleep, but that’s just out of the question right now.

The warehouse is strange with the light of false dawn just barely peeking through grimy and sometime broken windows. Little motes of dust that spin and dance on soft currents of barely moving air. Maybe I only notice them because of the weird mood I’m in and because it’s hard to concentrate on any one thing at the moment.

Hermione is already in the strategy room, computer terminal in front of her, big screen behind her, while everyone is taking seats with serious faces. Doc Snape is standing in the corner sneering with disdain and irritation. Dean and his crew, Parvati, Ron, Harry, me and a handful of other translators and technicians are all present. No one is in the mood to talk and the silence is eating at me while Hermione preps the display. It’s almost a mercy when she finally coughs for our attention. She looks as tired as I feel, but full of nervous energy that puts me to shame. When she talks her voice is hoarse and tense, but I still crane my neck and listen as closely as I can.

“Sorry about the early call, folks, but it looks like we have a real problem…probably two of them…on the way into town…fast. Interpol picked up a transmission between an unknown party and a man they suspect of association with various underworld activities…including negotiating black market weapons sales and connecting assassins for hire with prospective clients. The outbound call could only be traced to the US, but Interpol was lucky that they happened to be listening to the right man at the right time. When they passed word of what they heard to their associated agencies and this information traveled up the chain of command, our interception personnel picked up what they’ve already analyzed.

“Someone, and we can safely bet on Tom Riddle, spent a small fortune hiring two of the most notorious killers for hire alive and getting them to come here to Chicago before the week is out. We have a little time before they arrive, and forewarned is forearmed, but we have to assume that they’ll both be here and operational sometime in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.

“There isn’t much I can tell you about these two, but I pulled as much information on them as I could in the short time before this meeting. I’ll start with the one we know the least about. Fenrir. That’s what the Russians called him after he went freelance. MI6 and Scotland Yard are only certain that he was a member of a radical splinter cell of the Irish Republican Army. He was known by reputation as The Irish Wolf, and he was responsible for nearly every kind of atrocity that was spawned in Belfast during the late Seventies and early Eighties. His real name has never been confirmed.

“There are no pictures on file, and profiles that have been drawn up over the years only suggest that he is male, likely well past forty five years of age, but extremely fit. What is confirmed is that he is credited with multiple assassinations by use of timed or controlled explosives, and should be considered an expert in their making and use. Although some of these claims cannot be substantiated, it has been asserted that he also prefers violent personal killings of single targets whenever his employers permit it. I couldn’t acquire any proof of this, but I do have police photos from several crime scenes that they attribute to him and they‘re damned unpleasant looking. It’s safe to assume that if he managed to elude law enforcement for this long, he is thorough and cautious about picking his time and place to strike, and we‘ll need our guard up and a complete overhaul of how we conduct ourselves from day to day.

“Our other likely visitor is only a little better known, and then only because she was identified and arrested early in her career. Her name is Bellatrix Lestrange, and while all we have are a few pictures of her as a very young woman and some blurry security recordings from two airports in the Nineties, at least we have something to work with in terms of information. She’s a former Basque separatist, and one of the most violent ones that movement ever produced. She was arrested in Madrid early in her career, and that’s where our photos come from, but she escaped with the help of a cooperative policeman and a small team from her own terror cell less than a week after her capture. She has never been caught since.

“When portions of the Basque separatist movement switched to more peaceful negotiation and became a legitimate political entity, Lestrange severed contact after reportedly killing several of her own former teammates for treason to the cause. She dropped off the map for several years after that, then emerged as an assassin out of a mixture of necessity and what is reported to be a hunger to kill. She was interviewed and interrogated during her brief incarceration, and the records of those interviews are frightening.

“In short, she was described as homicidal, remorseless, manipulative and resourceful. She appears to be in love with the act of killing, and may very well have chosen her new career as a convenient way to enjoy a life as a serial murderess while gaining from it financially. Whatever her old political beliefs, they haven’t affected her choice of jobs, and it is believed that she feels no connection to them anymore.

“We can place her operative name, Siren, as ‘in use’ during several incidents abroad and in the USA. Extortion, kidnapping, assassination and corporate or military espionage have been her trade for the last fifteen years. Most notably, and this may interest you, Harry…her operative name came up in several intercepted transmissions right before your godfather’s disappearance in Romania. There’s no confirmation for this, but it isn’t likely a coincidence that her operative name landed on several desks right about the same time that our organization lost contact with Sirius Black.

“We’re fairly certain that Riddle has used both of these people before, but if he’s called them both here to Chicago less than three days after Harry spiked the machinery for the Urban Revitalization Project, we can guess that Riddle was furious past the point of reason. Interpol couldn’t place the point of origin for the call…but they had a sonic microphone aimed at the man they were investigating overseas and they picked apart as much of the conversation as possible from that end. Both operative names came up, and Chicago was mentioned as a final destination. We wanted to drive Tom Riddle to desperation and get a fix on his location. Well…we got half of what we wanted. We may not have his location just yet, but if he’s moving in people like these…believe me…he’s desperate.

“This means we’re slashing unnecessary exposure until further notice. If there’s anything anyone feels like doing outside of work…do it now. Even if they aren’t aware of our location…and even if they aren’t in Chicago and fully briefed, in two days we have to start acting as if they’re around every corner. If we have any reason to believe our security is compromised, we flinch before they do. We’ll pack up and pull out, then try again somewhere else. You all know the security protocols for a situation like this, in a few days, consider those protocols engaged. Any questions?”

There are a few, but my heart is thundering in my ears. It’s hard to pay attention to anything when your thoughts race and you can’t make them stop long enough to catch your breath. The others are talking, but all I can think of is getting away from here, getting out of this insanity and never wondering if we’ll be safe again.

“Don’t worry. There’s still some time left, love.” Harry’s voice is a calm whisper that cuts through the haze of exhaustion and fear. “Some things will change, like Therese and Maria, but we’ll get in some good times before we have to change our security precautions.”

“Wait…Therese and Maria? What about them? They aren’t part of the company…” My questions are answered a heartbeat later while we stroll back toward the offices.

“We don’t put civilians in harm’s way. When we get back I’ll have to hand them severance packages and let them go. They’ll be out of town by tomorrow morning. They knew this could happen…that my situation might change suddenly, and they’ve been paid well enough to have plenty saved up. I can’t justify keeping them here if hired killers are coming to town. They may not know where I am…but if Riddle hired the best, we have to assume that they might find where one or any of us live. It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s possible.”

“So what about us? Are we safe here or anywhere else? How can we operate like this?”

“Well, most of our security is passive…alarms and cameras to give us advance warning of approaching intruders, but you already know we have some active countermeasures here…the gas traps and secure doors that lock and bolt if someone doesn’t identify themselves properly. This site is fine, but in two days you and I won’t be going out on the town until this is over. We stock up supplies to last us for weeks if necessary, then we only leave the condo for work. I have some ‘active’ countermeasures we can engage at home…including electric connections on the doors that could stun a rhino if the alarm system isn’t deactivated properly. Once Maria and Therese are out, I’ll be keeping guns within reach even at home. You won’t be in danger unless we both are…and believe me…anything or anyone dumb enough to look for that kind of trouble will wish it hadn’t.”

He says it so confidently. As if there was no real danger at all. I want to believe, but I also want to scream and run and keep running until Chicago is a distant memory. Even while trying to control myself, my laugh sounds nervous even in my own ears. My voice is just shaky enough to betray me even while I try to sound flippant.

“Oh, sure! Trapped in a mansion with the man I love, a piano, a library and all the gourmet food I can feast on…sounds like hell! Other people should be so lucky as to get psychotic killers trailing after them!”

“Now you’re looking on the bright side again…that’s more like it. Besides…didn‘t the words ‘stock up‘ mean anything to you? We‘re going shopping…and a mandatory last night on the town is completely required!”

The kiss that follows that reassurance is more helpful than the words ever could have been, but duty calls, and the rest of the day is a mind numbing haze of translation, more than ever before, as surveillance of law enforcement and intelligence transmissions reaches heights I never imagined, and really didn’t want to imagine anyway.

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Neville Longbottom arrived for work in timely fashion, ten minutes early, like clockwork. With the exception of one particularly nasty flu, he hadn’t had cause to miss a day of work or appear late even once since he’d left his education behind and started working. Today was no different than any other, or at least it wasn’t until he walked past the secretary and was handed an urgent missive from ’above’. In this case, ’above’ meant the man one notch on the ladder higher than his immediate superior, Mr. Moody.

“Mad-eye” Moody was a leftover from a bygone era, relegated to administration despite injuries that would have retired most others. The man was a collection of scars, one earned in the Falkland Islands, another in North Africa, and, in the incident that left him desk bound, the lower half of one leg and one of his eyes were ruined beyond repair in a small bomb blast in Ireland. He was famously short of temper, regarded everyone born after his own era to be ‘soft as bloody pillows’, and was a notorious stickler for detail, but he inspired a weird loyalty and affection from his staff. If a man wearing a prosthetic limb and blind in one eye never shirked a minute’s duty and restlessly hungered to serve his country, how could his younger peers do any less?

Unlike usual, Moody’s office door was closed, and when Neville knocked a gruff request for him to enter followed. It was strange enough that a young officer of the Royal Navy was within, but it was stranger still to see old Moody subdued and quiet, motioning discretely for Neville to come in and shut the door behind him. There were no introductions after Moody raised a finger to his lips in the universal gesture for quiet. The old man unlocked and opened the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a small black box. Just the sight of the box made Neville break out in a cold sweat. Moody pushed a button on the box and finally spoke.

“Alright, lads, the time has come for plain speech, but quietly as we can. Vigilance, you know…you can never tell who might be listening. We’re all allies here, though the two of you have never met, but you both share an ‘old friend’ and an affiliation to his organization, like myself.

Seamus Finnegan of Royal Naval Intelligence, meet Neville Longbottom of Scotland Yard. You’ll be leaving together for America tonight. Your destination is Chicago, your mission is to advise the Yank’s local personnel on the tracking and, God willing, the catching of two known terrorists. You won’t be the only ones either! Interpol has people en route as well. Tom Riddle, damn his withered soul straight to hell, is back at his old game, and this time he’s pulled in two of the worst killers for hire in the business.

The dossiers on your two targets will be provided before you leave. This mission is confidential, but entirely legitimate, so no loose lipped office gossip, mind you, but you’ve nothing to fear about doing this job by book as you would any other. Mr. White has made sure that the two of you and a pair from Interpol will be in place to help our Chicago team cope with the extra stress of international killers running loose. Riddle may yet overplay his hand…and if either of you find a solid lead, see to it that it falls into the right hands. Finnegan will be your communications and tech man, he’s a wizard with those godawful computers everyone uses nowadays. Longbottom, you’ll be the face man, glad handling the locals, shaking the right hands and dropping suggestions in the right ears.

And one more thing, Longbottom. One of the bastards you‘re after…is the Irish Wolf. The very same one that set the bomb that took my leg and eye, and we both know he was a suspect in the blast that took your parents from you. Consider this opportunity to bring him to justice a gift from our mutual friend, Mr. White. He knows you‘ll give us your best and nothing less.”

The old man stiffly rose and uncorked a bottle of single malt scotch that had been tucked into the same locked drawer of his desk. He plucked three small shot glasses from the drawer and filled them one by one, then offered the two nervous young men their glasses. They were not equals outside these walls, but here, for a few brief moments in the electronically scrambled silence of Moody’s office, they were fellow soldiers in a hidden war, and they drank their glasses dry and steadied their nerves as best they could.

The black box was deactivated, the whiskey and glasses put away, and the dossier packets handed over in short order. The conversation returned to the gruff and businesslike orders that any passerby might expect to hear, and Neville and his new traveling companion left in short order, bound for a private car and a swift journey by plane across the Atlantic.

“Oh God!”, thought Neville as the car hurried to the airport, his companion singing along to an iPod that was clearly blaring “American Woman” by Lenny Kravitz. In the hurried confusion and urgent inspection of his dossier packet, he‘d forgotten about one incredibly important thing.“What about my plants!”

TBC!
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Big Chicago