Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 40
- 41
- 42
SUMMARY: Harry Potter goes walking far from home.

DISCLAIMER:

- “I Couldn't Explain Why” written and performed by Clarence Greenwood (stage name Citizen Cope). Released by RainWater Recordings, Inc., February 2010.

- The lyrics from the radio are a traditional American folk song, “God's Gonna Cut You Down” or, alternatively “Run On For A Long Time.” The version I had in mind is Johnny Cash's from A Hundred Highways, Lost Highway Records, 2006.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, this chapter took forever.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

I COULDN'T EXPLAIN WHY

“This message that I've been given

Could have me drowned in the river

And still I've gotta deliver it

And I couldn’t explain why.”

"I Couldn't Explain Why"

Clarence Greenwood

There are two things in life one cannot avoid—death and taxes.

That was it.

Leon sighed, shuffling reports and bills around the surface of his desk, looking for that one bit of parchment he could never find. Perhaps they should add paperwork to the list of unavoidables in this life—muggle, wizarding or otherwise. Leon's vision of hell included the Ministry of Magic, rows upon rows of desks and paperwork as far as the eye could see, little white parchment sheets billowing up and away with each spurt of fire and brimstone and a great whip cracking over his back, relentless until he bled out against the endless sweep of parchment and pain. Bureaucracy would suck the last breath from free thinking, be the end of creativity, the last of newness and the death of humanity. And this desk was hell on Earth. Or hell in Ohio, to be specific.

He was about to shove everything off the side of his desk—lamp, laptop, unmoving photo of Charlene and Gideon, everything—when Jenny's voice crackled through the intercom. It wasn't her voice that stopped him dead in his tracks so much as what the muggle girl said.

“Mr. Harper, there's a courier here all the way from England. Alastor Moody's assistant.” There was a snap as the girl's multi-ringed finger met the telephone receiver, muffling the conversation going on in the front office. A moment later, Jenny was back. “Sorry, was his assistant.” Her tone made it clear what had happened to the old Auror, though as a muggle she'd never known the man and possessed not an inkling toward what he was—a few key Obliviations had seen to that. “Name's Potter. Should I send him back?”

Leon gripped the edge of the desk as his heart stopped. One minute there was a steady thump in his chest and the next... nothing. Alastor, dead. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at large, the Ministry ransacked and Harry Potter in his front office? Alastor was... gone. How? And when? The airwaves between the US and magical Europe had been silent nearly a week now, floo and owl post completely cut off as the heart of the magical world reeled in war as it had less than twenty years ago. Maybe Potter had some answers—if this was Harry Potter and not some Death Eater ruse. It was exactly the sort of stunt the Death Eaters would have tried in the last war. If this fight was to be anything like the first, then fake Harry Potters were the least of anyone's worries.

Leon pressed the button for the intercom, speaking to Jenny at the front desk.

“No, lass. I'll come up there. Hang on.”

The muggle intercom shut off with a crackle of static and the driest of clicks.

Leon had adopted these Americanisms to his speech over in the years since his move across the pond. It helped to blend in. That and the young folks stopping by the range now-a-days couldn't be bothered to muddle through what was left of his Irish lilt. Charlene liked it. So he spoke Yank in the office and was himself at home—a fair balance. Moderation was the key to most things in life.

He moved slowly, mindfully, drawing on his fingerless glove and taking up his pistol from the desk drawer. He cast silent spells, edging around the large stacks of boxes in his supply-crowded concrete bunker of an office. A few detection spells told him this supposed 'Potter' was alone but not unarmed. There were only Leon's own spells humming around the premises, only his wand and the intruding wizard's. 'Potter' hadn't performed magic in several hours—must've traveled here by car so as not to attract attention. Smart. Certainly not some pureblood Death Eater in disguise, then. Leon strode down the plain beige hall, passing the indoor range and ammo shop. There were only a few customers, just the regular gunpowder-junkies in for their daily fix on the way home from work. He paused before rounding the corner, still out of sight from the lobby, and released his safety. Sure it was just an ordinary CZ 85B nine millimeter pistol but, in combination, magic, bullets and an element of surprise could catch even the most well-trained wizard off guard. Weapons at his sides—muggle firearm holstered at his hip and unicorn-hair glove fitted tight over stout fingers—he pushed open the security door and stepped into the waiting area.

Jenny sat at the counter behind bullet-proof glass, her window swung wide and hanging open—a clear breach of her safety protocols—in order to flirt with the young wizard standing in the lobby. He was a slight fellow, no more than five feet and four inches but quite athletic in his stance, suggesting a background of Quidditch and probably some long-distance running. He wore a pair of close-fitted jeans that displayed thick, muscular thighs, a rather fancy black leather jacket unzipped over a plain grey tee and a fraying canvas pack slung over one shoulder. His resemblance to James was striking—that wild inky hair framing a long face, strong, stubbled jaw and glasses resting on the end of a round nose—but he must have gotten his mother's eyes because they were a vivid emerald green instead of slick, muddy brown. He was a rakishly handsome little blighter even in the unforgiving halogen lights. The boy had a deep voice, with a sort of heft and calm of a man much older and wiser. He didn't seem to care much for Jenny's tittering; if anything, he appeared a tad uncomfortable, peeking sideways at the girl through dark lashes and generally looking less than engaged in her sparkling conversation, absently chewing the side of his upper lip as he waited, hands stuffed in his undoubtedly silk-lined jacket pockets and bright eyes roving the plain, unadorned waiting room as though he expected an attack at any moment.

Leon came round the glass enclosure and into sight, holding out his gloved hand for the boy to shake. He kept his face impassive, letting the hard line of his brow do the talking.

“Leon Harper.”

“Pleasure,” the young man replied, his accent lightly south-of-London. “Harry Potter.” He gave Leon's hand a quick pump, his young grip calloused and unusually firm. And suddenly his face changed, green eyes narrowing behind smudged lenses as he drew his hand back. So the chap—whether he was Harry Potter or not—could recognize embedded Neutral Magics. 'Potter' took two stumbling steps back, hand flying to his jeans pocket where a long wand was nearly concealed. “Wot the—?” he spluttered, about to draw his weapon.

“Sorry,” Leon said quickly, pointedly moving his eyes to indicate Jenny at his back. If this chap was truly The Boy Who Lived, he wouldn't pull his wand in front of a muggle—or an innocent. The real Harry Potter would be experienced in using code to talk about magic around muggles, having grown up in the non-magical world and toeing the line during his years at Hogwarts. This would be a good indication of whether this boy was the real deal... that and the Enemy Combatant Disabling Charm woven into Leon's glove, tripped when the other wizard's hand had made contact with the seemingly innocuous leather.

'Potter' was a quick study. The boy flinched and shook his hand as though he'd received a static shock, shooting a little lop-sided grin Jenny's way. The girl went back to painting her fingernails with White-Out, oblivious to the sparks of magic let loose in the lobby.

“No problem,” 'Potter' shrugged, reaching into his jacket while holding the older wizard's gaze. It was Leon's instinct to rest a hand on his gun, ready to draw. The young man produced a sealed parchment envelope from an inside pocket. “I have a letter from Alastor Moody. He was trying to get it to you the night he was murdered.”

Eavesdropping, Jenny gasped.

“When?” Leon asked quietly, angling his body away from his muggle employee.

“Four days ago,” the teen replied, a hint of discomfort making his voice scraggly, harsh. “After the Ministry was attacked.”

“You were with him, then?”

'Potter' nodded. Chunks of black fringe spilled over his eyebrows, falling between his glasses lenses and those blinking, flittering eyes. He brushed the hair away with a carefully aimed puff of air.

“Happened right outside my house.”

Leon nodded. “It was... His people?”

'Potter' looked up, meeting his gaze with confidence. “Yes, sir. Philippe Didier was in charge.”

“Not Laron Didier?” That was unusual—a real head-scratcher, that He Who Must Not Be Named would put a pup in charge of a skirmish with the likes of Alastor Moody.

“The uncle?” 'Potter' confirmed. “I think he was there. The only other person I could identify was Amycus Carrow. It was dark. And they were after me, waiting at my house. Alastor just happened to be with me....”

This was more than Jenny needed to hear; Leon took a step back, opening his arm in a gesture towards his bunker at the back of the building.

“Shall we talk in my office?”

“Sure thing.”

Leon ushered the boy into his concrete cave, closing the door smartly behind them. He turned.

“Am I supposed to believe you're Harry Potter, then?” he asked bluntly.

The teenager blinked a moment before his face softened.

“'Course not,” he shrugged with only one shoulder. The gesture smacked almost painfully of James. That half of a sad smile playing around the boy's lips was a carbon copy of the expression Auror Potter had worn the last few months of his life—knowing, resolute. Endlessly stubborn.

The smudges on the round, beaten up lenses of the boy's spectacles made his eyes murky, made green irises and the black of his pupils run together like a spinning marble seen through a Seer's crystal ball. Leon watched the boy's eyes flicker around the room, taking note of the single window in a wall of concrete, its standard, faded blue aluminum blinds pulled down against the setting sun... and against prying eyes from the employee parking lot beyond. 'Potter' reached for his trouser pocket, producing a wand of decent length and warmly-varnished holly, decorated up and down its length with the lad's fingerprints. If he wasn't mistaken, there were flecks of dirt and blood caught where the handle met shaft. The wand had seen battle recently, and perhaps the lad who bore it.

“Here,” and 'Potter' offered the wand, handle first, to Leon. “Check for yourself. The core is phoenix feather from Fawkes—that was Dumbledore's phoenix. Apparently Ollivander only made two wands with feathers donated from that particular bird. I'm sure you'll only need one guess as to who the other wand belongs to.”

Leon grunted, rolling the instrument between his left ring finger and thumb. A brother wand to He Who Must Not Be Named, huh? Curiouser and curiouser.

“Doesn't prove anythin', son,” he answered, perhaps a bit gruffly. “You could've killed Potter and pocketed it off his corpse. Wouldn't be the first time someone got possession of another fella's wand.”

“True enough,” 'Potter' shrugged dismissively. He seemed to chew the inside of his cheek a moment, thinking. “There's probably only one way I can prove myself.”

In response, Leon raised a careful brow. He kept the wand in-hand.

“A Patronus Charm.”

That wasn't the spell Leon was expecting to hear. But when he considered, it was a sensible thing—a defensive spell which would do no harm nor would it trip any of the buildings extensive wards. Even if the conjured Patronus was meant to convey a message to back-up lurking closer to town, Leon would be able to lock down the building's wards before the spell left his office. Finding no fault—and admittedly a bit curious as to what form if any the lad's wisp of smoke might take—he handed back the wand.

“Have at it, then,” he muttered, flicking his gloved hand toward the window. A swift swish of metal and plastic closed the blind completely, shutting out the glimmer of sunlight previously lilting along the linoleum flooring.

'Potter' didn't bother reaching for the light switch now that the room had darkened; instead, he widened his stance on the threadbare office carpet, digging in the balls of his sneakers as he shifted his weight forward. His eyes closed for a moment as his breathing slowed, an almost... enchanted look coming over his features. An appearance of peace flooded him—nearly lifted him chest-first from the earth. He seemed to rise, filling himself with the memories and magic necessary to cast a true, corporeal Patronus. White smoke burst from the tip of his wand, wind-tunneling into six and then eight distinct spikes—horns. There was a horned creature falling from the end of the boy's wand.

With nowhere to go, the beast leapt up on Leon's desk, sending his papers everywhere. So much for finding that elusive bit of parchment he'd spent the better part of lunch rooting around for.

A stag. The animal was a great buck, maybe three hundred fifty pounds had it been made of flesh and bone instead of the magic of memories.

Leon shut his mouth with a snap when he realized he was gaping. 'Potter' looked non-plused.

“I don't get it,” Leon admitted. “Impressive, surely, but....”

“You knew my father when he was around my age. Did you know his friend, Sirius Black?” the boy inquired passively, face angled down as he examined a bit of lint caught in the zipper of his jacket. “Remis Lupin? Or maybe Peter Pettigrew?”

“Black and Pettigrew, yes.”

“Then you know what they were like together,” 'Potter' said. “My dad was young when he started with the Auror Office. I'm guessing he and his friends were pretty green, probably hung around the office making a ruckus. That's what people say he was like when he was my age, anyway,” he shrugged. “I'm sure you heard the nicknames they had for each other, those four.” He gestured with his free hand, inviting Leon to fill in the gap.

“Prongs.”

Jagged, dusty pieces fell into place then. It was reported after his death that Black took the form of a large black dog. James must have been an illegal Animagus, too; his form, a mighty stag. James had called his surly friend 'Padfoot' back in the day. He remembered those fools running circles round the cubicles at the Ministry, having stolen a love-owl from some fellow's sweetheart and prancing around with their prize, dodging hexes and making a right mess of the place. They never quit, that lot—so full of energy and mirth. They'd had spirit. And that was something which couldn't be taught. Leon had taken James Potter on for that very reason.

The young man before him had that same pluck—tempered, of course, by his mother's intelligence and genteel candor. With the things he knew and the things he did, this was Harry Potter.

“Alright then,” Leon said, brushing at the parchments which had fallen to his chair. He shooed the hearty Patronus from his desk. It was with a clattering of hooves and the slide of wood that the creature returned to its master, dissolving into swirling, murky sparks which dissipated as soon as Potter adjusted the shade, bringing some light back into the room.

Picking at dirt and adjusting curtains—the boy did these things manually, of course, having been raised by muggles. Leon made a mental note as he gestured for Potter to sit in the metal and canvas camp chair opposite his desk. This was Leon's private office rather than the one used for meeting with muggles or clients. It had once been a storage closet, buried back here at the end of the hall where no one ever ventured. This was where he kept his mess, his essence. No one disturbed him here. They knew better. He settled behind his desk, kicking his boots up on the corner, dragging the piece of furniture back where it belonged by the heels of his heavy workmans boots and folding his hands over his paunchy stomach.

“I assume you've come to me for something.”

After stowing his wand, Potter's hands returned to his back pockets even as he sat. “Yes. I reckoned Alastor would have wanted me to bring you the letter.”

“But that's not why you're here.”

“I beg your pardon?” Black brows scrunched, etching miniscule lines across his smooth caramel brow. Oh, to be young.

“An owl can deliver a letter. And you, lad, are no post owl.” He fixed the handsome teen with a look.

“You haven't even looked at it,” Potter said, avoiding the true subject at hand.

“I'm sure it will say something of you and your aims,” Leon bobbed his head, surveying the boy from well-worn trainers to messy bed-head. “So tell me. I'm in no mood to hear words from beyond the veil.”

Leon took the letter from his back pocket and slapped it to the desk. The paper spun off to the side, catching itself under the lip of his laptop and there it stayed. He didn't want to touch the thing, wanted nothing to do with it. As though the aches and pain of age weren't enough; to be so close to death was not a thought he welcomed.

“I...” Potter glanced up and to his left, beseeching the heavens as though they might give him words. “The Minister of Magic, Scrimgeour. He's been gunning for me since last year. He wanted a poster boy and I wouldn't do it. For whatever reason, people have faith in me—they believe that I can stop Voldemort once and for all. And whether or not I can do that, I won't let the Minister use me for political gain. I won't stand up in some conference room and shake his hand so people will think I support his office—because I don't.”

“When I was eleven and I first heard about the Office of Misinformation, I thought it was funny. Now it's not such a joke. The Ministry really isn't about giving people the truth; at least, they haven't been for a long time. They're all scrambled, doling out fear and the occasional outright lie along with their so-called 'information.' When Voldemort came back, all Fudge wanted to do was cover it up. And it's been one lie and scheme after another when it comes to my dealings with the Ministry. They're worse than a bunch of girls—and I had a bird try an' slip me a love potion my sixth year, if that gives you any idea.”

“I know you've taken issue with the Ministry. I think Alastor recognized that we have that in common... along with some of our 'unorthodox' methods, I've been told. I need someone to work with—someone I can trust. The Ministry's in serious trouble and if the last war has taught us anything, the Ministry reincarnate—a Ministry born in war—is likely to be even worse than the last. I don't want to be a part of that. I don't want to be anywhere near it.”

“I've seen that, the more groups organize and march as one against the Death Eaters, the more mercilessly they're cut down. I don't want that to happen to me, to the people who've allied themselves with me thus far and the many more who might yet join the fight if we come at it right.” The boy's eyes lit up. He was a man on a mission, a man with a vision. Behind that childish face and stubble-strewn jaw lay an honest tongue and a ready mind. Potter was the kind of man who wouldn't stop, wouldn't rest or eat or sleep until he knew the world was safe. All of it. Men like him died bellowing, waving a bloodied sword above their heads. But Potter was different—no less passionate, no less determined, but cutting and calculated in a way which was almost... Slytherin. The boy knew he only had one shot and he wanted more than anything to make it count. “This needs to be a guerrilla affair—underground, in the night, coming from the darkness without warning and slipping away just as quiet. That's the only way I can see this working. We hit Voldemort while he's distracted, while he's got the Ministry in his trap and he's toying with them. We get in there, hit him fast and hard... and it could be over before anyone else has to die like my parents did.”

“This doesn't have to drag on for years. We can end it. But we have to do something now, while there's still a chance to catch him with his back turned.”

A tingle ran up Leon's spine as the boy spoke, drawing him up in his seat until he was rigid in attention.

“Couldn't have put it better myself.”

They went back and forth for the better part of two hours—the Ministry's manhandling of people and information, the lack of international communication and the ineffectiveness of large-group strategy against the Death Eaters. The boy told him about the events in Spain, the synchronized attacks on safe-houses, the Ministry, The Prophet—everyone; the flight of the wounded into the mountains, huddled in the cold just to escape for a single night. They rehashed the suspicious death of Arnett Didier; his only son rising in the Death Eater ranks shortly after surely held dark and unknowable significance. It really looked as though, every time a group of individuals got together to oppose He Who Must Not Be Named, every time there was a whisper of insubordination among the ranks of the Death Eaters or a politician spoke out against the rising darkness, blood would run in the streets. Potter was right. In order to fight, they had to remain invisible. The Ministry was already You-Know-Who's primary target. Let the Dark Lord focus his attention while invisible forces mounted in the shadows, ready to strike at a moments notice and then dissolve like Potter's Patronus, as though they'd never been there.

He begged the boy not to use The Name. He explained about the Tracer Spells used in the last war. But it seemed a habit, as if by naming the thing the lad dispelled some of the frightening myth behind it. Leon still got the shivers whenever he heard that gathering of vowels and consonants strung together like ominous, ever-dissonant chords. It wasn't too long ago when he'd imagined they might never hear that name again.

He glanced at the time on his laptop where he'd been making notes.

“A Dhia mhóir! Cher's gonna kill me.” Leon pushed his papers into a disordered pile, vowing to deal with them in the morning. He paused when Potter raised a brow.

“I haven't kept you?” the boy asked earnestly.

“No, no. My wife, Charlene. I told her I'd be home for dinner at some kind of reasonable hour,” and he glanced at the clock again. “She'll understand.” Leon looked Harry Potter over once more, lingering at the bag slung over the lad's shoulder and the classy jacket still covering his shoulders, just a feathering of dust at the shoulders from the surrounding country roads. He'd rode in with the windows down—the yellow-white stone dust lingered at his temples where the wind had swept it into disarray. “Where you staying? I can set you as far as Euclid.”

Potter looked sheepish. “I hadn't arranged for the night yet. If you know of any hotels—”

“Nonsense,” Leon cut him off right there. “You'll stay with us.”

“I wouldn't want to inconvenience you.” The boy's watchful eyes took in the way Leon shuffled his papers, slammed his laptop and jammed his pens into their Kent State mug.

“Not to worry. My wife will be delighted to meet you.” And he stood, slamming a desk drawer shut with his hip as he went. He waggled his brows at the boy. “Hope you don't mind, my truck's a right mess.”

- - -

Leon Harper hadn't lied—his truck was a ruddy pig sty. Fast food wrappers, empty soda cans and crunched-up paperwork discolored with age and exposure littered the floor until the shade of the upholstery was indistinguishable, the lights of the car park shut off for the night and only the automobile's wavering dome light to show where a bench seat and safety belts lay hidden beneath... stuff. Harry made out the shapes of clip boards and a construction hat, what appeared to be a broken cricket bat and a big book with fabric samples. It was the strangest amalgamation of junk Harry had ever seen. And Mr. Harper swept it all into his backseat without a care, slapping the seat and urging Harry to get in before the mosquitoes ate him alive.

The little bugs were biting the hell out of his neck worse than Grindelows at the bottom of the Hogwarts lake. So Harry gave in, using the door handle, the pick-up's runner and a firm grip on the fabric seat in order to boost himself up into the vehicle. The truck was unusually high up in the air, its tires large and imposing, the body boosted up in the air as though about to trundle off to war out there in the stretched-out countryside beyond. The thing gave a tremendous rattle as Mr. Harper twisted the ignition and feathered the gas. The truck was old—probably older than Harry himself—but from the sound barreling from the engine, Harry guessed it ran just fine.

Leon pulled out of the car park and onto the main road, heading away from town, where Harry's cab had come from a few short hours before. They passed fields and farmhouses, pastures which wreaked so badly of manure that Harry had to hold his breath. Swarms of bugs like steamy storm clouds hovered over the road, parted like a waterfall by the headlights of Leon's Ford. Out in the farmlands, wild animals scuttled through the high grass and cornfields, disappearing into the distant patches of woods with hoots and clicking, cackling calls. They were driving too fast for the pervasive bugs to fly in through the windows. Leon stuck a hand out the window, flexing his stout fingers in the wind as he croaked along to the song on the radio.

“Go an' tell that long tongue liar, go an' tell that midnight rider, tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter—tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down.”

They hit a bump in the road, trundling from dirt to pavement. The last of the gravel cracked beneath the pick-up's tires, flying out behind them, spat out in their wake. Harry watched a patch of houses on the horizon—all clumped together, mansions of modern stucco with gleaming two-story windows and pretty, manicured landscaping. There was a petrol station at the development's edge, nice cars fluttering around it like lightning bugs at a muggle light bulb, buzzing around in the night.

Leon slowed as they approached the edge of town, sailing through the stoplight and down a countrified main street of sweet little floral shops, jewelers and pharmacies and services all encased in rustic wood shingles, whitewashed and gentrified. Every car they passed gleamed in the darkness, the green of traffic lights and the sunrise yellow-orange of streetlights making streaks of color stretch across their smooth, pearly paint-jobs. People waved at Leon as he rode past—muggles, Harry guessed. They all looked quite proper, with buttoned shirts, fancy hair cuts and sparkling silver watches—no tutus or Halloween costumes, just the relaxed linens, cashmere and silks of the wealthy at rest.

At a red light, Leon pulled a mobile from his pocket, mouthing along with the last dregs of the radio as he pressed a few buttons and then held the flip phone to his ear. He listened for a few rings and then gave up with a sigh, tossing the phone back onto the debris-covered seat between them. A nearby pizzeria flashed “Open” in red and blue neon, mingling with the reds and yellows of the traffic light. The shades played harsh games with the lines of the old man's face, colors collecting in his salt and pepper hair, splaying out over his light checkered shirt, points of light reflecting off the pearly snaps stretched over a portly stomach which nearly touched the steering wheel. Features sagging in age and worked over with time-worn scars, Leon looked a bit like a tired old goblin hunched over a Gringotts desk, ornery and awaiting the future with grim resolution. The truck's cabin lit up in green as the light changed. Leon hummed his approval, tapping the gas.

Over a cobbled old bridge and a meandering brook which couldn't quite be called a river, they came into a quiet no through road or “cul-de-sac” of a neighborhood. Trees lined each drive in an easy wave, shielding the houses from the main road as they melted into natural woods. Peeks of warm light shone through the bare trunks of fire-shaded aspen, maple and speckle-barked birch. Leon took the center drive, the most thickly wooded and secluded of all, his pick up truck bumping along down the driveway in a steady sway. Overhanging branches slapped at the truck's metal roof and sides like birds trying to gain entrance through a closed window.

The house came into view around a bend of trees—a pleasant two-story structure of old tan stone with a turret at the center, fall flower beds lining the walkway and a newer-built garage tacked onto the side. As soon as Leon killed the engine, Harry heard a rush of water from the backyard, echoing off the stone of the house—the creek they'd crossed, meandering its way through the backyard. The house looked old—a hundred years or more but immaculately kept and painstakingly renovated over the years. If it weren't for the garage and the very personalized sculptures of angels and metal-and-glass butterflies scattered throughout the garden, Harry might've thought the building was some sort of members-only club rather than a private residence. Stained glass sparkled in the lower windows, offering glimpses of dark wood fixtures and the heavy, comfortable furniture kept within.

Leon had parked his truck in the garage beside a large navy SUV. He and Harry got out of the car, Harry following in his wake to the utilitarian white door leading into the house.

“Would you wait here a moment?” Leon asked, a hand on the doorknob. “I want to let my wife know you're here.” And he snorted. “Seers don't like surprises.”

Harry nodded. It gave him a moment to survey the contents of the garage—perhaps slightly more organized than the jumbled and haphazard contents of Leon's truck and office, but only just. There were shelving units almost utilized, tools hung crookedly on pegs, dirty rags left everywhere and great collections of junk in semi-tidy but dangerously teetering piles. Hermione and Madam Pince would cringe. But Harry suspected that Leon sat in the middle of it all, Summoning what he needed and shooting out Stasis Spells to catch anything delicate before it fell. Rather than ordering the disorder, Leon was the sort to park himself at the very center of the chaos and revel in it.

Near the doorway to the house sat the recognizable skeleton of a motorbike, similar to the one belonging to Sirius which Harry kept, similarly dismantled though probably less knowingly, in the empty dining room back at Grimmauld Place. He'd stepped closer to examine the shifting gears when he picked up muffled conversation from the other side of the wall.

Leon's wife was a crumbly voice, dark-sugared like the coffee cake he always spotted through the lace-curtained windows of Madame Puddifoot's. She had a southern accent shot through with French, dropping the 'H' and a few other letters like Fleur Delacour and her family. Mrs. Harper's diction was drizzle in the crags of her husband's interjections, getting louder as she came toward the door separating the old house from its newer addition.

With a flick of the wand, her figure was illuminated in the doorway—thicker than Mrs. Weasley though taller, round-faced and with a splash of wavy blonde hair piled on top of her head, held loosely in place with a red lacquered clip in a shade to match her painted fingernails. Her blouse was splashed with red and orange poppies, water-colored and weepy, with bone-colored trousers rolled up to her knees and bare feet, blueish spider veins at her ankles brought to light as she twitched her wand again, bringing up the lights in the two-car garage.

“An' you leave him out 'ere in the dark, the poor thing,” she called over her shoulder, scolding Leon even as she descended the half flight of stairs down to the garage floor. “He'll think no one wants him. 'Ow long you been travelin', dearie?”

“Er,” Harry fumbled. Mrs. Harper was a strong personality, squinted brown eyes drawn even tighter against the unforgiving light of the utilitarian garage as she regarded her impromptu house guest. “Just the day. Since the afternoon, really. Time difference from England,” Harry shrugged, ending his awkward little speech before it could get worse.

“I'm Charlene. And I 'ave dinner on the stove,” she smiled, sending wrinkles shooting out across her face. She was perhaps fifty five to Leon's seventy-some. “I 'ope you like étouffée.”

Harry swallowed, throat gone brittle and taut. Even the mention of a strikingly French word reminded him of Draco. Dry-mouthed and vaguely watery-eyed, he worked at the persistent lump in his throat. Mrs. Harper noticed his eyes stray to the motorcycle propped against the wall. Her conversation followed his gaze.

“Leon thinks 'ee can fix it yet,” she said, pondering the bike as well with her arms folded under her ample bosom. Her husband appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Though the maker went bankrupt years ago an' there's been no luck finding any useable cast-offs 'round these parts. Tell 'Arry what happened last time you flew it,” she teased.

“Splinched my feet off in front of near a dozen muggles,” Leon chuckled under his breath—a wheezy sound blending with the country winds through drying fall leaves and the babbling of the stream.

“Thought 'ee could prove the folks at Triumph wrong an' build an Apparition-compatible auto.” She shook her head fondly. A few tendrils of blonde came untucked from her hair clip. There was just a touch of white at her temples, visible in the brightness of plain, unadorned utility bulbs.

“Leave me my dreams, cher,” Leon teased.

The couple showed him inside for dinner, a faint but steady, rhythmic peep guiding them through the maze of old, odd rooms to the window-studded kitchen at the back of the house. Mrs. Harper waved her wand, silencing the incessant sound which had been coming from her oven. Harry quirked a brow at Leon.

“Integration's different here, lad,” the man provided, speaking of the mixing of magic with muggle objects like microwaves and curling irons. Mrs. Harper flicked her wand at the refrigerator and other appliances, orchestrating the setting of an extra place at the table and the stirring of a pot on the stove, an opened pony-necked beer finding its way to her husband's hand with a sly Levitation Charm. A slow smile curled the old man's lips. “It's not like England—their Ministry's the worst. Stuck in quite the rut. Can barely handle the Wizarding Wireless, last I heard.”

“Leon, please, no politics at the table,” Charlene tutted, swigging happily from her husband's beer as she waltzed by. Her bare feet were light on the worn floorboards, following a familiar track as she tidied odds and ends, preparing her home for company.

They sat down for a pleasant dinner, Mrs. Harper ribbing her husband for Harry's amusement. She had many questions for Harry about Hogwarts, having never been to the castle herself. Apparently Leon told such wild stories of his school days—musical suits of armor, headless ghosts, giant squids and a Poltergeist gone mad—Charlene always thought her husband was engorging the truth. Harry confirmed the tales between extra helpings of her spicy-yet-sweet cooking.

“You know,” Leon spoke, fork gesturing at his wife's ample backside as she reached into the refrigerator, fetching him a second beer. “I heard from Arty today—wants me to haul the whole bloody crew up there before the week is out, double-check the wards and tighten up security. Apparently,” a bushy brow was raised quite meaningfully, as though his wife had eyes in the back of her head with which to note his expression. “A few key parties remain... concerned.”

Charlene's hand settled at her hip, blonde head cocked to one side, the beer clamped tight beneath her lacquered fingernails as she regarded both her husband and the young man beside him at the kitchen table.

“Again?” she sighed. Catching Harry's blank expression, she explained, “'Arty' is Ferrard Lachlan, dear. 'Ee—”

“Owns the Stonewall Stormers,” Harry put in, nodding. “Yeah, I've heard of him.”

Charlene smiled weakly, setting the green bottle before her husband. She dropped into her seat, leaning against the wicker chair-back until it creaked slightly. It seemed she didn't want her husband to go. Harry got the impression Leon was traveling more of late and his wife didn't appreciate his being away so often. “Art and Leon were at 'Ogwarts together. A year apart, of course, but they always scheduled their prefect rounds together. They were quite the mischief-fighting team. A Slytherin and a 'Ufflepuff—can you imagine?” She nudged playfully.

“We found common ground chasing Ludo Bagman 'round the castle most nights,” Leon reminisced. He scooped up his beer, peering into the past. “Young thing he was, then, and a troublemaker! Suppose some people never change. Art an' I used to catch that little shit in the deepest of pickles....”

“Sounds like the Bagman I know,” Harry snorted into his water glass.

Charlene laid a hand on her husband's forearm. “Tell him how you met Arty,” she said softly.

Leon nearly recoiled: Harry heard the old man's foot collide with the table leg as he jerked, stunned by the sudden mention of that particular memory. He shook his head.

“'Arry should know,” Charlene insisted, red nails tightening ever-so-slightly on her husband's arm, holding him more with her ardent gaze than her polished hand.

Leon's voice was gruff when he spoke. “Bit of a bully problem in Slytherin. One of the older boys had it in for Arty.”

Charlene cleared her throat. There was a look of utter concentration on her face, as though she were willing her husband to tell the truth telepathically.

“Art was a bit of a runt, yeh see,” Leon continued, taking both his wife's hands in his. “Gang of sixth and seventh years decided he was an easy target, gave him a rough time of it. I was only in my second year but... I couldn't stand seein' them go after Arty like that—house loyalty or not. I put the memories in my Pensive and marched straight to Headmaster Dippet's office. I knew he wouldn't believe me otherwise.”

Charlene's manicured fingers twined around Leon's, squeezing gently. She had her eyes closed, as though she could see her husband's memories inside her own head. Her face was pained, full of worry and sadness. It was a moment before Leon spoke again.

“Tom,” he said slowly. “Tom Riddle. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” Leon swallowed heavily, shaking the dark, niggling things from his shoulders before he went on. “No one knew what he would become—how could we? The signs... they came later. He was Dippet's Golden Boy back then. Ole Tom could do no wrong. Dippet didn't believe me at first, nearly resorted to Veritaserum. But the memories were irrefutable. Riddle and his gang got a month's worth of detentions. And Arty attached himself like a barnacle on my back after that,” a brusk little laugh snuck through, twitching Leon's bristly mustache, a tiny but happy memory shining through all that looming darkness. “I felt bad for him, taught him to stick up for himself. Not exactly in a Hufflepuff's nature but eventually he got the hang of it.”

“Art is a very peaceful man,” Charlene added, nodding.

“But stubborn. Likes to do things his own way,” added Leon. There was a hint of a smile peeking out from under the tips of his white mustache.

“So he's one of the ones with concerns about the Stormers security?” Harry inferred. “With more players coming in every day, I can see why he might be worried. I mean, he's taking responsibility for a lot of lives. People are counting on him. I'm sure he wants security to be as tight as possible, with families coming and everything.”

Leon stared at Harry, his mouth ever-so-slightly open. “You know about the sanctuary?” he spluttered.

“I have a friend heading up there,” Harry offered with a shrug. “I didn't know it was top secret.”

“It isn't,” Charlene reassured him from across the table. “It's just that... Arty 'asn't really put the word out yet. 'Ee doesn't feel the facility is ready yet.”

“Old military base in Manitoba, Canada,” Leon explained. “We scouted it a few years ago as a potential training facility for the Stormers—plenty of buildings, out of the way and the muggles were selling it for a song. Nothing's been done with it for ages, though. Arty was wary of inviting anybody in but, after the attacks in September, he realized it was the right thing to do. Ministries attacked—radio, floo and papers down—people are bound to be scared senseless. A few dilapidated buildings and Repello Muggletum isn't much reassurance to offer.”

Harry set his fork on his plate as quietly as he could. He spoke to the leftover bits of onion and yellow rice sticking to the painted white porcelain. “Sounds like he just wants to protect people, keep them safe and away from the fighting. I can understand that.”

Harry had had the same idea in sending Ron, Hermione and Draco to Hogwarts—easily the most well-fortified magical building in all of Europe. He thought they would be safe there. But the battle had come to their door. He understood more keenly than most what Mr. Lachlan was going through. And the man was starting from scratch with that muggle military base. It was probably just barracks, training areas, an armory and perhaps a medical building, missing all the accoutrements of a magical place like Hogwarts or Diagon Alley. Every magical fortification would have to be constructed from the ground up. Stubborn or not, Ferrand Lachlan would need all the help he could get.

Charlene's beer was half-way to her pursed lips when an idea struck her. She pointed between Harry and Leon with her bottle's neck, the fat of her under-arm swaying beneath her flowered blouse as she gestured.

“Lee, you should bring 'Arry to Manitoba,” she said. “If you'll still be in town, of course,” she added to Harry as an afterthought. “I'm sure you're eager to see what it is Leon an' the team do... an' you can see your friend.”

Harry looked to Mr. Harper. The old man was chewing the inside of his cheek in thought. After a moment, the old man asked, “This friend of yours—Viktor Krum, from the Triwizard Tournament?”

Harry shook his head. “I didn't know Viktor was a part of this. My friend is Viktor Novikov—Vitya. He played for Ukraine National.”

Leon slapped his thigh in recognition. “Novikov! Eastern Quidditch League's top-scoring Chaser two years running! Heard he was a shoe-in to captain the new Omsk Optiones... well, before he disappeared last year. Quidditch Monthly swears he's dead.”

“Undergound,” Harry corrected after swallowing a sip of water. “Vitya has Death Eaters in the family. When they started pressuring him, he ran.”

“Smart lad,” Leon clanked beers with his wife. Charlene seemed troubled as she drank.

“I'm sure you've 'ad a very long day,” she said in a distant voice, eyes unfocused. She looked a little dreamy, like Luna Lovegood, the way her wavy blonde locks extended out from her head in a gentle frame. Raddish earrings wouldn't be too far off, either. Mrs. Harper took half a dozen silent, mindless sips from her drink before rising. “Let me make up a room for you, 'Arry.”

They listened as her bare feet padded down the hallway—listened until she was out of hearing, a door latch snicking behind her. Leon looked about to voice a thought. Each time his mouth would open, flap listlessly a moment or two before he slipped his beer bottle between his lips. When his was empty, he started on his wife's. Harry supposed that whatever Leon had to say to him would probably have to wait until morning. Mr. Harper wasn't exactly young and by the looks of him, he'd had a very stressful time of it the last few weeks. He could do with a good night's rest.

“I'll... see if Mrs. Harper needs a hand with anything,” Harry announced awkwardly, pushing himself away from the table. Leon grunted in ascent. Harry watched as the gray-haired man flicked his fingers at the dishes; they jumped up from the table to make their way into a muggle dish washer, Summoned as though the fingerless leather glove on his hand were a wand.

Harry was tempted to say something. Ultimately, he kept his mouth shut. Leon was rising from the table, too, offering a simple handshake before inviting him down the hall after Charlene.

The glimpses Harry caught of the Harpers' decorative style was eccentric, a mix of country patterns and rich leathers, knick-knacks, moving photographs and oddly-shaped magical artifacts occupying almost every available display surface. Every bookshelf, wall-panel and cupboard was crammed full with this and that, the entire house filled with ephemera and memories. Mrs. Harper was a diligent housekeeper. Harry spotted two independent vacuuming spells in the time it took to go from the eat-in kitchen to the sleeping quarters on the second floor.

“End of the hall, there... on the right,” Leon pointed, yawning as the words left his mouth. Harry could spot a few golden fillings in the yellow lamp-light. The walls were done in a rich, waist-high wood paneling with green paint above, artfully swirled in a pattern that suggested leaves and wind and the naturalness of the outdoors. The table at the end of the hall was made from a knotty, twisted tree trunk, polished to a mirror shine. Wiring had been run through the center of the trunk, little lights appearing in the holes where larger branches had been sawed away. Charlene had hung leaves made of colored glass from different sections of the trunk, giving the appearance of clusters of sparkly leaves. A mild Oscillation Charm to each leaf gave off the illusion of wind blowing past the tree, shaking the leaves. The picture was nothing short of magical.

Mrs. Harper bustled out from a room at the end of the hall, wand in hand. Her jaw wobbled at the bottom of her round face, teeth clenching and unclenching as she neared. She placed a less-than-steady hand to his shoulder.

“Let us know if you need anything, 'Arry. Bathroom is across the 'all.”

With a whiff of beer and flower-petal perfume, she disappeared through the double doors to the master suite. They closed by magic behind her, leaving Harry alone in the hall.

Curious, Harry peered around the heavy door frame, into the room Mrs. Harper had prepared for him.

It wasn't at all what he was expecting. Tree trunks wove in and out of the walls, with branches all along the ceiling to form a canopy of green. The bark was lacquered like the tree-lamp in the hall, except these branches didn't glow. They were natural and dark, like an indoor forest. Beyond the thick, lush-looking leaves was a ceiling enchanted like Hogwarts' Great Hall, stars twinkling and night clouds scuttling by. A double bed seemed to fold out from the trees, its frame made of the same heavy, bark-covered wood as the trees that dominated the walls. Tucked between the trunks were nooks and crannies, sections cut into the wall to hold pictures and precious items—books, several faded leather Quaffles, a pair of golden Omnioculars, a baseball glove.

This was a family member's room.

Harry made his way to the dresser, dropping his bag on a navy arm chair with half the tree-wall grown around it, like a back yard oak creeping its way around a fence post, absorbing it over the course of decades. Harry suspected the trees in this room had had some magical help in taking over. The top of the dresser was dominated by two silver trophies—one from The Junior Potioneers Society of North America, a cauldron perched on top that actually gave off puffs of silvery steam. The other was a broomstick hovering over a yellow and blue striped pillar, stars streaming from its tail. The plaque displayed in swirling engraved lettering, “Salem Witches Institute, Fifth Year Quidditch League, Most Valuable Player.”

Between the awards sat a single picture in a dark wooden frame. A boy of fifteen or sixteen beamed up at Harry, navy Quidditch robes displaying a tall, lanky form, mates' arms thrown over both his very bony shoulders. Wavy golden hair blew over the fellow's eyes and he brushed it away, favoring Harry with an even larger, genuine smile. He had Charlene's smart, no-nonsence disposition. You could read it in the way he cocked his head, the glimmer of annoyance each time the wind mussed his hair or a celebrating mate trod on his foot. Leon's intelligence and bone-dry humour lingered in the jovial, vaguely devious expression etched forever on his long, fair face. Behind him, a girl of about the same age hoisted a Quidditch trophy into the air, eliciting silent cheers from her teammates. The blond boy had a smile that crinkled his cheeks into two well-defined dimples, happy wrinkles shooting out from his eyes as he squinted against the sun.

Harry looked around the room once more, absorbing each detail more carefully this time. In every picture, the young man was sixteen or younger. After this Quidditch match, the photos seemed to stop completely, leaving Harry with a very unpleasant feeling deep in his chest. The entire room was a sort of museum—preserved, lights dimmed, fixed and unchanging. Even the bed, made up with pale blue sheets, lay crisp and unused. There was just one spot, right at the edge, that sagged; a depression exactly the size of Mrs. Harper's ample rear end. The dip in the mattress faced a photo of the young blond—no more than twelve years old and thin as a waif—standing on a riverbank with his father, fishing rods in hand and a large trout held proudly between them.

Harry sat on the bed, looking up at the photo as Charlene would. It sat alone on the shelf, bark and feathery leaves forming a kind of shrine around the happy, idyllic image. Inside the frame, a brown-haired Leon was grinning, his son waving enthusiastically, the fish dripping.

A silver box of tissues sat rather conveniently on the bedside table—a stump grown out of the wall, as though it had risen out of the mossy ground, grown up from Mrs. Harper's tears.
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Conscience