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
- 42
- 43
- 44
SUMMARY: Harry’s first mission with Leon’s Field Ops team.

WARNINGS: mild swearing, guns, hunting dangerous animals, blood & gore

DISCLAIMERS: “Elephant Gun” written by Zach Condon and performed by Beirut, released by Lon Gisland in 2007.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

ELEPHANT GUN

“If I was young, I’d flee this town

I’d bury my dreams underground

As did I—we drink to die, we drink tonight.

Far from home, elephant gun

We take them down one by one

We’ll lay it down—it’s not been found, it’s not around.

Let the season begin...”

“Elephant Gun”

Beirut

Harry peered tentatively over the SUV’s steering wheel.

“Are you sure this is right?” he inquired. The question was aimed at no one in particular.

From the passenger’s seat, Leon shrugged.

Harry turned his gaze up to his rear-view mirror, observing Jedidiah, Ivan and the cowboy-hat-wearing Mr. Moreno in the back seat; they were calm, gazing out of the windows as Harry had done, hoping this was the right spot. This assignment had come through the American Ministry, the address owled to them only that morning. In a time-crunch, they’d packed a collection of bullet-proof flak vests and identification badges, all listing different organizations from Animal Control to Blackwater. With muggles involved, it was hard to know who-all would be on scene when they arrived, and thus who they should pretend to be in order to gain access.

“This is the address,” Leon confirmed. Under cover of the dashboard, the old wizard took out his wand and cast a mild Confundus Charm over his Blackwater ID, muttering, “Just in case.”

Leon got out of the SUV, making his way up to the building, set off a little ways in a pretty, sun-lit clearing. Harry observed the cheery yellow brick and large windows plastered with haphazard stickers, the red plastic fence rimming the yard, the smattering of children's toys in the grass, and a towering play-structure, all but the very top of which was hidden from sight by the building’s tall roof. It looked like a nursery school of some sort. There was no signage indicating a name, only the playful stickers adorning the windows along with those friendly, smudged-up little hand prints.

As Leon approached, two men in brown uniforms came around the side of the building to meet him. Like the Irish wizard, they had pistols holstered steady at their hips, as well as walkie-talkies to-hand and wide-brimmed hats to shield their eyes from the sun. Harry rolled his window down, hoping to catch some of their conversation on the breeze.

“Y’all must be the private sect'er,” one of the men said, waving a hand over Leon’s military-style ACUs; canvas, camouflage and utilitarian, faded from countless hours spent out in the sun. The newcomer’s accent was thicker than mud, even more pronouncedly southern than Jedidiah’s. “Been a‘spectin’ y'all fur a while.”

Leon offered his hand. “Leon Harper, Blackwater.” Handshakes were exchanged. The men called themselves officers, State Troopers.

“We got Animal Control an’ some folks from the SPCA back thur,” a trooper pointed to the fenced-in rear yard. “Reckon a few words ‘er in order ‘fore y’all get started.”

Leon nodded curtly, swinging his arm overhead to signal his team.

Harry regarded the rest of the men in his rear-view. “Looks like we’re Blackwater.”

From the boot of the long vehicle, Jedidiah tossed Harry a flak jacket with the Blackwater insignia to wear over his plain black sweatshirt. Ivan and Mr. Moreno aimed their wands at one another’s backs, spelling the bear paw symbol onto their nylon jackets. They wore plain bullet-proof vests beneath, adding to their already bulky frames. Ivan was at least Bill Weasley’s height with shoulders as broad as any professional Quidditch Beater. When he spoke, his voice was like an earthquake's rumble. “I’ll grab zhe guns.”

Harry, Jed and Mr. Moreno followed Leon and the State Troopers to the rear of the building.

The red plastic fence circled a large play-yard filled with sandboxes, swing sets and scattered, weather-beaten toys. To the west, the fence butted up against a wood, mostly tall oaks and pines. Where the fence met the forest, there were more officers gathered. Harry understood why. A large section of the fence had been toppled, bowing inward towards the yard where children played. The fence was cracked in places, stomped into fractured pieces by what had to have been hooves. Harry shivered.

“The boars broke this down last night,” a female constable informed them, “so there were no children present at the time. Still, as the animals continue to forage for food, this is only gonna get worse. And more frequent.” She had the words “Animal Control” stamped across the back of her navy uniform, a large gun at each hip. Harry recognized one as a standard muggle weapon and the second as a dart-shooter for bringing down animals without harming them. That wouldn’t work against a magical creature like this, Harry figured. It was good that someone in Animal Control had contacted the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to have a Field Ops Team take a closer look. There was no way muggles could handle a hybrid creature without getting themselves killed.

“We’ve been authorized to use deadly force, ma’am,” Leon replied easily. “If necessary. Leave it to us.” He offered her a winning, almost grandfatherly smile.

The woman produced a map of the surrounding area, pointing out sectors where she suspected the boars might have made their nests. She left the map with them when she and her fellow officers departed. Ivan joined them soon after, toting large rifle cases under each arm and a duffel in each meaty hand. Leon and Mr. Moreno scanned the area with magic before they broke out their gear, handing out rifles, attachable long-range sights, Omnioculars and food-stuffs between each man. Harry was given a slide-action rifle, rubberized at the grip for better handling. The long barrel read Remmington 7600. A detachable clip was slapped in his hand a moment later by Jedidiah.

“Feels like we’re taking down an elephant,” the brunet muttered, shaking his head, “‘stead of a couple a’ pigs.”

“Don’t underestimate zhem,” Ivan shot back. He gestured with his own magazine, off into the woods. “I’ve zeen one Russian boar kill two men, one on each tusk i not zlowed a minute.”

“We’ll all be careful,” Moreno reassured their Serbian safety officer, tipping his hat. “In an’ out.”

Strapped up and ready, they proceeded into the woods. Leon consulted the map as they hiked, using what appeared to be a non-verbal variation of the Point-Me spell every so often to confirm their course. By the looks of it, they might be walking for a while.

Ivan struck up a conversation with Jedidiah, throwing a hand over the mousy chap’s rucksack-covered shoulders.

“How iz your girlfriend? Ve didn’t zee her at zhe party last night.”

Jed blushed. His eyes darted around nervously. “That’s ‘cause we broke up.”

Ivan laughed, taking the mickey out of his shy coworker. They seemed like friends. Their banter, innocent enough in its teasing fashion, reminded him painfully of Fred and George, the way they used to go after Ron or Percy for their own amusement—a slightly less boring way to kill time than doing their schoolwork. It wasn’t that crazy to wish the twins were here; after all, their inventive side might do some good in a no-rules environment such as this one. It was probably only a matter of time before the twins came to America, if only for the lack of legal restrictions on spell and artifact research. Harry was pretty sure magic carpets were still legal here, and the twins had expressed an interest in engineering one. He made a mental note to speak with Leon and McGonagall about getting the twins out here along with Pavel Gregorovitch and his wife. What a team they would make—providing Gregorovitch could stand the twins’ boundless energy and off-color tastes. It was worth a shot.

Harry pulled a packet of nuts and dried fruit from his food supply, munching as they trudged along for the better part of an hour. Here and there, Ivan stopped their little party to point out tracks in the leafy forest floor or, in one instance, the carcass of a deer which the hybrid Russian boars had brought down. The dead animal’s legs were gnawed down to the bone in places, gore spilling from its abdomen as flies buzzed around what meat was left. Jedidiah pulled his jumper up over his nose at the growing stench.

Ivan slapped him across the back. “Enjoying zhe field?”

“No,” the younger man snapped. He backed away from the eviscerated deer, eyeing Leon cryptically. “Get some actual Field Operators, boss. This type ‘a fillin’ in ain’t in my contract.” Jed was a potions expert, after all. Harry wondered if he had a laboratory and where it was.

“I’m working on it, lad,” Leon replied a bit gruffly, hitching up the rifle which hung across his back by a strap. “We’ve got Harry, haven’t we?”

Jed looked less than pleased. His expression stated plainly what the thin line of his lips left unsaid—that one seventeen year old couldn't pull the same weight as five fully-trained men no matter how you sliced it. And Harry knew Jed was right. The man was a potion maker: he belonged in his lab. And Harry was grossly under-trained. Leon was using every asset he had in an attempt to cover his bases until more witches and wizards could be brought in.

Harry opened his mouth. “I might know some people. Let me put out a few feelers and I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay,” Leon nodded.

“Much appreciated,” Mr. Moreno chewed the inside of his cheek, pushing leaves around with the toe of his big workman’s boot. “The more bodies we have to bring to Lachlan’s, the better. His men’ll need training.”

Harry gave a grunt of ascent. Leon’s team was busy, the demand for their services seemingly at an all-time high. And securing Lachlan’s Quidditch sanctuary was top priority—Harry understood the number of lives at stake. It would be no small task, building the magical side of the fortification from the ground up. Even though this was thousands of kilometers from his home, what happened here in America effected the war back in England, effected Voldemort’s movements in Scotland, effected Death Eater recruitment, effected moral, effected... well, everything. Harry could all but see the lines connecting it all. He understood the danger and the need as well as the strategic potential.

“I’ll see what I can do,” was his reply.

Eventually they reached a large clearing where Ivan brought their party to a halt. For several minutes, Ivan and Moreno prowled the perimeter, observing the area—examining animal tracks and sections of disturbed earth, consulting one another over a stand of trees with the bark all rubbed off at around three feet high. Pig tusks, Harry imagined. The feral hogs would sharpen their tusks and protruding teeth on the bark, stripping it away. Half the trees in this clearing were missing their bark, some as far up as four feet. These pigs had to be huge.

Moreno took off his cowboy hat, scratching at his head of thick black hair. Ivan's ginger blond caught the light, standing beside him, absently rubbing his beard in thought. They came back to Leon with their verdict.

“Ve can zet up here. Zhe trees are good,” he gestured upwards, to the swaying boughs overhead which dappled sunlight along the forest floor. “Zheir den should be close.”

“Show time,” Jed sighed, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's. The chubby man did not look happy.

Leon walked to the center of the clearing. With an intricate spell, he Transfigured a rock into a very convincing-looking deer carcass, like the one they'd passed earlier. This one had meat on it, though. It looked freshly killed. Strolling back, the old Irishman rubbed his hands together. “Up we go, lads.”

Ivan slung his arm around Harry's shoulders, guiding him to the south end of the clearing. “Ve'll have yoo here, firtat. Vith me.”

Harry nodded, watching as the men all drew their wands. Ivan's grip tightened, hand clamping over Harry's shoulder and pulling him close. Harry recognized the familiar, nauseating pull of Apparition and had the sense to clamp both arms around the Serbian's meaty torso before they were gone, reappearing high in the tree's branches, leaning against the trunk.

Harry's fingers closed into fists so fast, his knuckles popped. As a Seeker, he had excellent balance. But they were high enough in the air that he would have only a split second to Apparate to safety if he fell—no time for a Levitation or momentum-slowing spell.

“What if we fall?” he blurted out.

Ivan patted the back of Harry's head with a chest-vibrating chuckle. He swished his wand twice, muttering “Rederre Magnes” each time. Instantly, Harry's feet felt rooted to the spot as though by molasses, like the soles of his trainers had been turned to sticky chewing gum. He lifted his foot experimentally—it came loose, but only when he tugged with all his might.

“Sticking Charm?” he asked, peering up at the blond Serb.

“Magnetizing,” corrected Ivan. “Allows us more movement.” And he demonstrated, sliding his foot along the bark of the thick tree limb. It looked a bit like he was ice skating, his foot not wanting to leave the branch. But he could move easily, without worry of losing his footing thanks to the charm attracting his feet and the tree to one another in equal portions. As his foot slid between Harry's, the Englishman could feel the branch lifting ever-so-slightly, the wood groaning as it came up to meet the larger man's step. “Zafer, da?”

Harry nodded his agreement. “I've never heard of that spell, though. Where'd you pick it up?”

Ivan's lips twitched. He cast the spell on both his and Harry's left hands so they could have an extra anchor point to the tree. “Durmstrang. Zixth year.”

That probably meant the spell was neutral magic, at best. Harry wondered if it was something Draco would know—with the blonde's superior Sticking Charms, this one wouldn't be far off. Dmitry and Nebojsa would know the spell, too, since they'd finished at least their sixth year at Durmstrang and perhaps their seventh. Misha was too young.

Harry watched as Ivan conjured a few boards, jumping in to help secure the wood between the tree's thick branches, forming a sort of platform for the two of them to sit on. Across the clearing, Leon and Jedidiah were in pines of their own, cutting away hanging boughs and placing boards and Cushioning Charms in order to make a sort of nest for themselves, as well. Harry figured this must be the way wizards went hunting, making stands like muggles and then improving on them with magic. Maybe folks like Cormac McLaggen, who went hunting with the Minister of Magic, had finer accommodations; but the sparseness didn't bother Harry any. It wasn't like he'd be stuck up there all day.

Ivan threw down a pair of Cushioning Charms as Harry finished securing the boards to the branches with a combination of sticking and magnetizing spells. Harry stepped out first, testing the platform with his lesser weight before Ivan followed. Beneath the man's eighteen stone, the wood gave a groaning creak—but their stand held. They sat, shouldering their weapons and peering across the clearing with their Omnioculars.

Harry watched Jedidiah fuss about with his stand, conjuring extra boards to build a sort of back rest against the bark of the tree—presumably so he wouldn't get pine sap on the back of his coat or in his hair. From his rucksack, the Southerner pulled a holster full of potion vials and a muggle CD player. He put the headphones over his ears and pressed play, twirling his wand idly.

Leon and Ivan exchanged hand signals, then Leon signaled Mr. Moreno, nearly invisible in a willow tree closer to the ground. Harry could barely pick out the glint of metal on his cowboy hat, watching as the man disappeared behind the hanging branches. His stand had to be further in, close to the trunk. The last hand signal was to Jed. The young man plucked a potion from his holster, floating it out to the middle of the field, hovering over the Transfigured deer carcass. With a flip of Jed's wrist, the phial overturned, dumping its contents over the area below. The forest was so quiet, Harry heard the liquid splatter out over the leaf-covered ground. He even heard Jedidiah sit back down with a thump, raising the volume on his CD player and closing his eyes, his portion of the mission now completed.

Nothing happened at first. It took ten minutes before Leon was signaling Jedidiah once more—Summoning a rock from the forest floor and throwing it at the man to get his attention. Jed started, nearly kicking his potion pack off his stand. Beside Harry, Ivan snorted, muttering something under his breath in what sounded like Serbian. Harry was starting to recognize the language. It was different from Russian—softer, he thought, closer to Italian or French in the swell of syllables, the enunciation and effect. He heard a few familiar curses in there.

Jed sent another potion phial hovering over the conjured deer carcass, once again distributing his potion over the area. Harry leaned, addressing Ivan in a whisper.

“What's that supposed to do, exactly?”

“Pheromones,” Ivan explained. “To draw out zhe hogs vith magic in zheir blood. Ve kill zhem first, zhen follow zheir tracks back to zhe nest i kill zhe rest vhile zhey are zleeping.”

“Got it,” Harry nodded curtly. “And we're up here because the ones we're trying to lure out are the most dangerous.”

“Da. Zese Tebo breeds—they'll charge yoo. Zhey run. Zo ve get zhem vhen zhey are still, vhen zhey feed or zleep. Less danger to us.”

It was only a matter of minutes before Harry detected a rustling in the underbrush. He tried to breathe through his nose, to stay as quiet and unmoving as possible, as the creature approached. Beside him, Ivan reached over to adjust Harry's grip on the rifle, moving his finger to hover over the trigger before shouldering his own weapon and peering down the sights. Harry checked his scope, panning slowly through the brush, not entirely sure what it was he expected to see.

Leon had been the one insisting that Harry learn how to shoot. Harry hadn't been keen at first, but the old man eventually talked him into it. He couldn't exactly say no when Leon offered to be Harry's instructor and teach him personally. The secretary, Jenny, had drooled all over the window, watching them out on the range. The girl had a thing for guns. And men with guns. She would jump Harry after each of his lessons, praising his skill. Harry didn't believe her until days later, when Ivan echoed the sentiment. They called his frame steady, his hands sure and his aim uncanny. Harry attributed this natural ability to his six years spent as Gryffindor Seeker.

The first clear sound was a grunt; rutting, like a rusty saw rubbed against tree bark, rough and grating. It took Harry a moment to realize the noise was all hog. Harry detected the whistling of Ivan's rifle barrel as the Serb aimed his weapon toward the noise. They both squinted down their sniper scopes.

He caught a flash of dirty tusks in the sunlight. Then the animal appeared through the bushes, snout low to the ground. He was surprised, first by its speed. And then its size, nearly four feet high and at least forty stone. His next breath was uneasy. Under his breath, Ivan swore.

A hand signal from Leon caught Harry's attention—don't shoot the gesture read. So there were more coming. Unable to spot them in the undergrowth, Harry returned his aim to the impressive creature now approaching Leon's conjured carcass.

The boar was even larger than the dead deer, with mud caked in its bristly, wired hair. What startled him most was the eyes—glowing a faint reddish color, even in broad daylight. The animal snapped its teeth, warning the others to stay back until it had its fill of the dead deer. Clearly, this was the alpha male of the herd. The noise it produced was disturbing; something like a baby dragon, all spit and howls meant to assert its dominance.

Harry flexed a finger against the trigger, very glad he was up so high. Distance was good—Mars wouldn't be too far away, he reckoned. He very much wanted to shoot the creature and get this over-with.

He watched for Leon's signal. The old man tapped his head twice, then pointed to Harry and Ivan. They were to take out the alpha. He then sent orders to Mr. Moreno, that they would snipe the other animals now emerging from the brush. Harry could make out their bodies, striped and spotted under all that mud, cowering under the thumb—or perhaps the hoof—of their leader.

After a few flesh-ripping bites, the alpha boar relented, allowing his followers in with a shake of his gore-covered head and a mighty roar. Leon signaled the countdown.

Harry began singing the fight song of Ireland National in his head. The Quidditch cheer was the team's preferred method of syncing fire, undoubtedly due to Leon's Irish heritage. The tune was also long enough to provide time for sneaking around corners or lining up shots before the final note, when they were supposed to fire. Harry suspected the jaunty cheer also helped keep things light, especially in otherwise nerve-wracking situations. It certainly helped to bring about a team spirit. Harry and Ivan were both grinning broadly by the time they pulled their triggers.

Four shots rang out as one. Then Ivan, Mr. Moreno and Leon worked their pump-actions, taking aim once more. Harry reacted instantly, putting another two bullets in the alpha boar before it went down, blood trickling bright red over the mud decorating its flanks. His final bullet was a head-shot, striking the beast clean between the eyes. The animal's final scream died in its throat, gurgling, as it hit the ground. Dead flesh jiggled, the wound on its rump spurting blood on impact.

One last shot and five wild boars lay dead in the field. Leon and Ivan cast spells, checking that there was no other magical signature in the area. From his roost, Jed removed his headphones to offer a thumbs-up. They Apparated down to the killing field, Vanishing their stands from the trees. Jed took samples of teeth, blood and hair from their kills, mixing them with potions in his pack to determine if the animals had any diseases, magical or otherwise.

“No rabies,” he announced happily, “or anythin' else I can see. I think we're good 'fur phase two.”

Jedidiah stayed behind to run more tests. Harry tromped off through the woods, trailing behind Ivan as the big blond man tracked the path of the magical creatures back through the underbrush. They weren't too far from the animals' nest, a cave-like hole dug into a nearby hill. It looked like a rock outcropping which would have been used by hikers to stay out of the rain. Someone had built a bench there, which was now broken down to splinters and bits of twisted metal. The boars had dug back into the hill, making a home for themselves.

Hanging back, Harry used the night setting his Onmioculars to peer inside. He could just discern the shape of a boar's back rising and falling in slumber, several babies curled up around it.

“Looks like they've been breeding,” Mr. Moreno commented. He'd had the same idea as Harry, peeking into the cave with his Omnioculars zoomed.

“Blast 'em,” Leon replied curtly. Ivan and Mr. Moreno nodded, drawing their wands and pulling supplies from their pockets.

“Might wanta step back,” Leon advised Harry, drawing him away by the shoulder. “'S gonna get messy.”

Harry watched as Ivan twirled his wand, producing a cloud of thin smoke. He edged the substance closer to the mouth of the cave, a forearm clamped tight over his mouth. The gas seemed to fold in on itself, becoming more and more dense the further away it got. Harry recognized the look of concentration on the Serb's face—it was like when he cast Eptir Eldr, or when Draco cast the Imperius Curse. This was Dark Arts at its finest. As the smoke curled, disappearing into the cave, Moreno and Ivan backed away.

Mr. Moreno lit a match, levitating it to the mouth of the cave. A moment later, there was a great explosion without sound—a rumbling of the earth and a shock-wave which popped Harry's ear-drums with its might, but the blast itself didn't make a sound. Stones jumped up from the ground, trees dropping their leaves. Harry and Leon were showered in red and amber leaves as they fell. From behind a tree, Harry caught Ivan rubbing at his temples as he caught his breath.

Leon let Ivan be the first into the cave, hanging back with Harry. It seemed one of the perks of being the boss was that Leon rarely got his hands dirty. Mr. Moreno followed Ivan, stooping and removing his hat as he disappeared into the dark, wand lit. The man came back a second later, blood on his boots and a smile on his tanned face.

“They're intact, boss,” Mr. Moreno called out. “You owe me twenty bucks.”

Leon shrugged. “I'll be damned.”

Moreno gave a salute before ducking back into the cave, pulling on leather work gloves. Harry could almost hear mud, made with pig filth and blood, squelching under the man's heavy boots. Harry was glad to be the new kid, able to hang back with Leon, away from the massacre. He wasn't sure how anything could be considered “intact” after a magical explosion like that. But he wasn't exactly eager to see whatever Ivan and Mr. Moreno dragged out.

Harry turned to find Leon patting his pockets, retrieving his mobile with one hand and a small leather address book with the other. The old man's gaze darted between the two muggle items, licking his lips as he punched a telephone number from the book into his mobile phone. He held the device to his ear.

“Who're you dialing?” Harry inquired as it rang.

“A charity,” the old Irishman replied. “If we kill somethin' the muggles can eat, these folks 'r willin' ter come pick it up, butcher it and hand it out to the poor.”

Harry thought that was rather lovely. Then Ivan walked by, dead baby pigs slung over his broad shoulders by their bloody little hooves, gore running from their ears as though their tiny brains had been turned to mush. The sight made him cringe.

He'd have to get used to it—the blood, the death. These were just animals; animals who posed a threat to people, of course. He would have to learn to separate the types of killing, the senseless slaughter which Voldemort and his Death Eaters championed versus the elimination of a threat to people's lives and safety. When he was young, murder was murder and dead was dead. Voldemort had been bad because he was a monster, murdering children and their parents. But now Harry too would be a killer. Of more than pigs. He might have to kill someone's child one day, someone's parent; granted, they would be a Death Eater, but that did little to lessen his dismay. Murder was murder, and he struggled, turning it over and over in his mind.

To get to Voldemort, he may have to kill. Ron had already killed for him. Would Hermione be next? Or, Mordred forbid, Draco?

He didn't want anyone killed. He didn't.

But maybe Voldemort was like these hogs, bred so far away from his wizarding species that, rather than flee, the only instinct he knew was to charge. And when attacked, you had to fight back.

That was how he would justify his actions. Protecting himself and the lives of others. After all, Draco said his magic acted out of self preservation in times of duress. Perhaps he, too, was only doing what he knew.

~ * ~

“Charlene!”

She bit the inside of her lip. It was nosy Mrs. Brewber, the matriarch of the muggle family next door. The woman's brother was a state senator and the position gave Mrs. Brewber a sense of “community” and “outreach” which drove Charlene to drink. She could smell the fakeness wafting off the woman, mingled with her Chanel number five and La Mer face cream. With a resigned sigh, Charlene plastered a fake smile on her face and turned away from the mailbox.

“Allison! It's good to see yoo. 'Ow 'ave you been?”

Allison Brewber waddled her way down the cul-de-sac, pregnant again. She wore one of those hideous woolen capes which were in muggle fashion, caught half-way between wizardwear and a poncho. The ends were caught up in a breeze, the woman's long brown hair pushed across her face. It took Mrs. Brewber a moment to disentangle the strands from her sticky lip gloss. She reached out for Charlene, planting air kisses to both her cheeks—either a pandering to her French background or some fluting of high society. Charlene endured it, keeping the stiff smile on her lips.

Mrs. Brewber's hand went to her belly, supporting the weight. “Number four on the way,” she announced. “We just found out—its a girl!”

Charlene offered a polite congratulations, eyeballing the letters she'd received in the mail. She let the woman prattle a bit. Eventually, she came to her point.

“I couldn't help but notice,” she whispered conspiratorially, “the handsome young man you have staying with you.” Mrs. Brewber waggled her eyebrows, indicating Harry, raking leaves from the lawn at the front of the house. He had several neat piles, already, and was hard at work. Mrs. Brewber leaned closer. “Charles said they bumped into each other this morning, jogging back by the river. He's from Britain?”

“Yes,” Charlene nodded absently. The less she titillated this woman, the better. “'Is name is 'Arry. 'Is father was Leo's best lieutenant—"

“Oh! You mean in Homeland Security? Back in England” Mrs. Brewber interrupted.

Charlene nodded. “At MI5, oui.

“And he's here...?”

“Apprenticing,” Charlene filled in, wishing the woman weren't quite so keen on other people's business. She'd once let herself into the Harpers’ home unannounced, nearly catching a few potions brewing on the stove. A speedy Vanishing Charm had saved the day. Now Charlene kept her guard up around all the neighbors, just to be sure.

Mrs. Brewber's face pinched. “He looks awfully young for the service.”

“'Ee's just graduated school,” Charlene supplied. “Leon's alma matter. It would seem 'Arry is... very gifted.”

Mrs. Brewber observed Harry through the trees. The boy had paused to wipe sweat from his brow, peeling off his ratty sweatshirt. His tee nearly came with it, exposing a swath of toned caramel stomach. His physique rivaled any Calvin Klein ad. It was the look of an Auror, battle-hardened and deathly quick.

Beside her, Mrs. Brewber tittered, “He's... remarkably good-looking.”

“Fetching, oui,” Charlene agreed off-hand. “And very considerate. Yoo know, 'ee made me breakfast zis morning.”

“What a sweetheart!” A manicured hand was pressed to Mrs. Brewber's ample bosom as she swooned. “He's going to make some lucky young lady very, very happy one day.”

Charlene thought about that a moment. Already, she'd seen the letters Harry passed to Leon, all addressed to influential witches and wizards involved in the fight against You Know Who. Harry wrote owls around the globe—to his fellow Triwizard Champions, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum, to potioneers in Belgium, curse breakers in Egypt and dragon tamers all across Russia. There were very few letters home. And Harry was standoffish whenever the subject of a girlfriend was brought up, leading Charlene to believe there had been a bad break-up or two, some troubles of the heart.

She wondered how that could have come about. Harry was such a sincere and compassionate soul; any girl would be a fool to do him wrong. Perhaps there had been more to it, then. It was none of her business, anyway, and she wasn't one to pry. She had faith that the right girl would come along in time. Harry deserved no less.

Harry was a good boy; upright, noble and kind to a fault. He was everything a Gryffindor ought to be, Leon had said. And Harry's loyalty to Leon was clear, even this early in their acquaintance. Harry Potter was a young man with a job to do—and nothing would keep him from his goal. That brand of determination was admirable, though it could border on fixation at times. She'd seen the mindset before in many a soldier. She couldn't fault him for it. That was the type of attitude which brought men home from war.

But she worried for him. The boy had so much on his young shoulders—quite literally the fate of the world. Greatness was expected of him. He was their champion, the last hope of the magical world at seventeen. It gave her a terrible feeling.

She grimaced, hoping he might have the strength to live through this war—to live a second time.
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Conscience