The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Part II - Chapter Sixteen
At five after eight, Bronzstein came looking for the others in their team. Harry wasn't at his desk and his computer was still dark. Johnny did not miss the small exchange of glances between Ron and Hermione; nor did he miss the fact that Ginny was not there yet either.
"You're wanted," Bronzstein said tersely. "Bentley's got a meeting this morning and he wants us to report before he goes."
Johnny nodded and followed him and could not help but wonder where Harry was. He was sure that Ron or Hermione would have said something if Harry had been hurt worse than he had let on the day before. On the other hand, there had been those little significant looks. He winced when Zoë stumped down the hall on her highest heels yet and said, "Where the devil is Potter? The Deputy wants to start now."
With a small cough from behind her, Harry said, "Right here."
He had emerged from the men's room and seemed to be fighting to straighten his tie. He ran a hand over still damp hair, which nevertheless fluffed up rebelliously, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief when Zoë jumped and wobbled dangerously on the thin spikes of her black suede boots. Johnny could not help staring at his friend. He would have expected Harry to look rather paler after his misadventure the previous day. He would have expected to see some serious bruising at the kid's throat after Flynn had nearly crushed his neck. He would have expected to see a different suit, or no suit at all, since the one Harry had worn the day before had been irreparably ripped in the struggle.
Yet Harry seemed to be in the pink of health: his complexion looked rosy and clear enough to be the envy of any woman; his neck rose unmarked out of the button down collar; his elegant hands were unmarked by yesterday's fight; and his suit, the same charcoal suit that he had worn the day before looked as though it had just been delivered freshly pressed by his bespoke tailor. He bowed ever so slightly to Zoë as she tottered past and she looked almost put out to see him there, exactly where he should be and suitably dressed exactly as he should be.
Johnny waited for Bronztein to pass by and whispered to Harry, "How did you manage that?"
"Manage what?" Harry responded innocently. Johnny was quite sure, however, that Harry knew exactly what he meant.
They sat around the conference table in what were now their accustomed places. With Harry on one side of him and Mac on the other, Johnny felt quite comfortable. On Harry's other side was Bronzstein, fiddling with his laptop as always, with Zoë next to him. On Mac's other side, were seated Daniels and Halsey with Bentley at the head of the table facing them all. Bentley swept them all with one look and then looked a second time at Harry. He was noting, Johnny thought, the same thing he had.
"All right, Potter?" he asked, confirming Johnny's guess, and the dark eyes narrowed and looked questioning when Harry said simply, "Fine, sir."
Bentley paused again as though Harry's very wellness disturbed him; however, whatever other press of matters had occasioned the early meeting must have prompted him to pass over the oddity of Harry's complete and miraculous seeming (well, obviously, magical) recuperation.
"I've considered the suggestion of an undercover operation at the Alliance attraction," Bentley said, without further preamble. "And I will assign Bronztein and Beauchamp to it. The fact is," he continued, "I want experienced officers on this as it could be quite dangerous. You two," he said directly to Zoe and Bronztein, "will stay in contact with Carter and Potter and MacCready. You three will stand by and be ready to run a search as quickly as possible on any information they provide you. Major, you and Daniels will coordinate plans for an operation should these two provide confirmation that this really is a cover operation for the Alliance."
Bentley was already standing to go when Harry cut in, "What if Malfoy or any of his lot actually does show up there? How will they deal with that?"
"We'll deal with it the same way we've been dealing with terrorists since before you were born, Potter." Zoe stood up and continued coolly, "We'll set up the passwords for our contacts in one hour and in the interim, I'll call the company and accept the job."
Bentley nodded and she cantered out of the room behind him swaying on her impossibly long legs and high heels.
Johnny waited until she was out of earshot before asking, "How do you suppose she defends herself in shoes like that?"
Bronztein poked his head back in and said, "She stomps on them with those spikes faster than you'd believe." He chuckled as he went out again, clearly pleased to have gotten the assignment over the new recruits. Harry wasn't laughing, however.
"Do they know what Malfoy is?" he asked Halsey. "Do they know what Hayden probably is? Because she can stomp all she wants but they'll kill her before she can move if they are behind this thing."
Halsey shifted uncomfortably and said, "Not exactly."
"Not exactly?" Harry asked.
"The Prime Minister doesn't want any more people knowing about you, and erm, about wizards than necessary. Daniels and I know. Bones knows. Your few colleagues from training know. No one else does and no one else will."
"How can they possibly work against Hayden and Malfoy if they don't know what they are?" Harry asked.
"Bones is dealing with Malfoy," Daniels answered. "We don't really have any reason to think that lot are involved in the hotel cover. In fact, we're not at all sure that the MP isn't perfectly on the up and up even if he has got some extreme ideas. That's what Bronztein and Beauchamp will investigate."
"And if Malfoy does show up there?" Harry asked.
"Then you'll be on our response team," Halsey answered, "that I can promise."
"So will I," Johnny cut in firmly. His uncle shot him a rather desperate look, and Johnny wondered whether his uncle had been talking to his dad. After an infinitesimal pause, his uncle nodded and said gruffly, "Best get on with it then."
***
The next few days settled into a routine. They would arrive at work and Harry would monitor the chat sites, sometimes posting the odd bit to stir things up when they went quiet. He would try as subtly as possible to throw in a question to see if he could get any information along with the evil nonsense that the chatterers spouted. The only hint though that anything out of the ordinary might be brewing was a post from someone called AryanSon.
"Keep the faith and be prepared for the call to the strong and willing. The time of our rise nears, when the Fearsome One will aid the Leader to his throne."
Mac's comment on seeing this was entirely profane and completely unprintable.
They would meet with Bentley mid-morning and sometimes Daniels and Halsey would attend. There was little to report, however, as neither Bronztein nor Zoe had yet to produce a serious lead. One or the other would call in at the end of the day after their shift had ended. Harry had an inkling that they simply were too tied to their "jobs" to do any serious investigating. He had suggested that he and Johnny and Mac should try checking into the hotel as guests as they'd have more freedom to explore and wouldn't be tied down to a "job" for their cover. Unfortunately, Bentley slapped down this suggestion almost instantly.
"We already have two officers undercover there," he said shortly. "And besides, Potter, you could use some improvement in your defense skills before you go undercover. You were damn quick to disarm Flynn, which I assure you, I appreciate; but he nearly crushed your neck for you and you weren't able to get out of it."
Harry had flushed with embarrassment. Next time, he thought, he'd use his wand and obliviated anyone who was watching.
"He's right, you know," Johnny said afterwards. "You really do need to practice, even just to keep up so Worthington won't drive you loony when we go back for our next intensive."
In the evening, Harry would return to Grimmauld Place with Ginny and Ron and Hermione. Ron had suggested once that he and Hermione ought to find another place, and when he had even suggested that Ginny should find another flat or commute from The Burrow, Harry had stomped on the suggestion instantly. If he had to live at Grimmauld Place, at least his friends could suffer with him.
Not that it was that bad. Sirius' mother usually only woke up to scream once a night, and Hermione had gotten very adept at shutting her up with a silencing charm. The only other real irritant to Harry was Kreacher. The old house elf would come out muttering to himself in his deep bass voice, but he never addressed any of them directly, and his mutterings were always about things that sounded as though they had taken place twenty years ago when they made any sense at all. "Mistress wants the furniture dusted for the Minister's visit," he would moan; or, "Those wild boys never pick up after themselves, always leaving messes for poor Kreacher to clean..." He never did any cleaning though, and Harry would forget about his presence altogether until he would feel his skin creep and turn his head quickly only to see the back of the elf's head whisking into the cupboard where he slept.
"I don't know why you let him stay," Ron had said. "He's gone right round the bend along with his dead mistress."
Harry, however, could not bring himself to actually throw the elf out of the only home he had ever known and he made sure that he always left a small portion of whatever food they had been eating for the elf. When the others had commented on it, he had said tersely, "I know what it's like to be hungry and sleep in a cupboard," which had ended the discussion for a while.
The November days had turned chill and the garden at Grimmauld Place was covered in a layer of hard frost each morning. The streets were slippery and the wind had a way of slipping through every tiny seam and crevice and freezing their ears and noses. On a gloomy Wednesday, Harry poked his nose out of the covers upon waking just long enough to note that it was actually snowing outside. He slid his wand from under his pillow, built the fire into a healthy roar and considered simply staying in bed all day.
It wasn't that he was unhappy. He supposed, in fact, that he was as happy as he had ever been. He was counting the days until the wedding and trying very hard to stay out of all the preparations now that it was fast approaching. Every day, Ginny would ask for his opinion on the menu, the flowers, the place settings, and she would have a long discussion with Mrs. Weasley through the fire, during which Harry would agree with everything that both of them said, even when they said the exact opposite of each other. They had said simultaneously, "You weren't listening!" and he had finally bellowed, "Don't ask me anything! I know when to show up, and I expect you to show up. I don't care about the rest."
It had taken the better part of a day for his apologies to be accepted and he had started wondering why anyone bothered with actually having a wedding party in the first place.
The truth was, Harry thought, he was just a bit bored at work. Chasing terrorists through Internet chat sites and through second-hand reports of other officers just wasn't very exciting. And unlike life at Hogwarts, where when classes got difficult, there was no quidditch to keep one distracted.
***
On that same snowy morning, Draco Malfoy sat alone in his great manor feeling quite miserable and dissatisfied with his life. Ministry Aurors, he knew, watched the house, on the odd chance that his father would show up; thankfully, he never did. But though his father's absence was a mercy, his mother's was a constant reminder of how much he had lost.
There had been no job to be had after he had graduated Hogwarts as no one wanted to hire the son of a known Death Eater. It didn't matter that he might swear he was against them. Everyone knew what Lucius Malfoy was and everyone suspected that Draco must actually be in sympathy with him, perhaps hiding him from capture.
Draco was contemplating whether a trip to Diagon Alley and a stop at The Leaky Cauldron for lunch would be worth the suspicious glares of those who recognized him when he heard an unusual sound: knock at the door. Had he not been so bored and restless, he might not have even answered. As it was, he drew his wand from his pocket and walked through the empty house to stand in the front entrance. He remained quite still for a moment trying to decide whether he really wanted to know who was there, but the knock sounded again.
He opened the door and covered the visitor with his wand instantly and almost immediately wished he hadn't opened the door. With her tilted nose red from the cold and from weeping and her blond hair disheveled, Pansy Parkinson looked like a small dog that had been abandoned by its owners.
"You've got to help me, Draco," she wept. "You've got to help our son."
"I have no son," he answered coldly and he made to close the door in her face, but she had thrown herself on him weeping.
"I love you," she wailed. "You're the only one I ever did and you threw me over for that half-blood *****."
"At least Parvati had a brain," Draco retorted.
"She was so smart she ditched you, didn't she?" Pansy snapped back.
"Why don't you just leave?" Draco snarled. "You're old news and I want nothing to do with you."
The momentary anger in her face dissolved and she crumpled back into him shuddering and weeping. "Here," she said, fumbling through the pocket in her robes, "Look," she cried. Tears began to leak down her face again, and her fair complexion had turned all red. She held out a photo in a shaking hand, and he would have refused it except that a glance at the photo gave him a severe shock. It looked exactly like one of his own baby photos from his Mum's album, except that the background was all wrong. He knew every one of his own photos by heart, as his Mum had liked to sit with him and tell him endlessly about each time she had taken the photo.
"I see," he said. He looked at the picture in fascination. "His eyes are blue," he added.
"They haven't changed yet," she answered. Her face had lighted up now that he wasn't rejecting her anymore. "He has your hair," she said, "and your chin. See, you can tell he'll have a widow's peak, just like you."
"Why did you come, then?" Draco asked.
"You've got to help me," she said again. Her momentary happiness had fled and she looked again desperate and lost.
"Marry you, you mean," he said. A cold weight settled in on him. The thought of spending the rest of his life with a stupid cow like Pansy was enough to strangle anyone, he thought. Suspicions rose immediately with the thought. It was the same old game. She wanted his name and his money, or what was left of it that his father hadn't spent.
"No," she said, surprising him. "No. You have to help me save him. They're going to kill him. They're going to use him to bring back the Dark Lord. He'll be their experiment, their first attempt, before they try for real with the Dark Lord's son -- your half-brother."
He seized her in a cruel grip. "How do you know about that?" he spat. How?"
"Your father," she gasped. "I went to him when you rejected me. When you refused to believe the baby was yours. He took me in. He wanted, he said, a child to carry on his line since you had betrayed your blood by siding with D-Dumbledore. Only he lied. They’re going to use him. They fight over it, but I know, I know, Bellatrix will win. She'll use our son and risk him to bring the Dark lord back, and his soul will be extinguished."
Horror possessed him then and he managed a single word, "When?"
"I don't know," she said. "They don't tell me anything. Soon, I think."
"You'll have to go back," he said slowly. "Can you do that?"
"He's my son," she said fiercely. "I'll go back. But will you come when I call? Will you ask Dumbledore for help?"
Draco felt as though he were plunging off a cliff into a dark unknown. "I'll find help," he said. "I'll think of something. Just tell me when."
***
They still had no positive information from Bronzstein and Beauchamp and Harry was scrolling through the latest postings on his Alliance chat site feeling quite disgruntled. He had gone looking for a chat with Ron during elevenses in hopes that some conversation with his friend would dispel the uneasiness he felt every time he sorted through the random messages of hate that he monitored as his regular assignment. But Ron and Hermione and Ginny had all gone on some unspecified assignment with Bones and Harry was left to worry that they would run into Death Eaters without him.
He glared at his computer and gulped down the worst tea he'd ever tasted. He didn't quite understand how it was possible, but the only thing worse than the Services' tea was its coffee, which tasted very like what he thought an infusion of Mundungus Fletcher's pipe weed might: smelly old socks that hadn't been washed in a hundred years.
"It's dead annoying," he groused to Johnny and Mac. "The other recruits have all had a chance to get out of this office already and here we are stuck in front of these computers staring at a load of rubbish."
"Well, perhaps if you'd practice defense a bit like Worthington told you," Mac started to say.
But Austin and Hawkins, both of whom were dressed in jeans and leather jackets instead of the required suits, interrupted him.
"You busy?" Austin asked.
"Oh, yeah," Harry answered sarcastically. "We've only got another thousand hateful messages of meaningless nonsense to plow through in the unlikely hope of finding the directions and time of the next Alliance attack. As if..."
"Not that busy, then," Hawkins said with some appearance of pleasure.
"So?" Johnny said with the slightest edge of hostility. "Have you saved the world yourself lately? Which one of you disarmed a terrorist in the last couple of weeks?"
"Give it a rest," Austin said coolly. Unlike the others, once he had finished his training, he had started at a rank equal to his former police rank and he was in charge of his own team. Johnny nodded reluctantly. Harry, however, saw the hope of a more interesting distraction and said, "What have you been working on, then?"
"Gangs and drugs," Austin answered.
"You could have stayed where you were before to do that," Mac offered.
"Gangs who are funding the terrorists through the sale of drugs," Hawkins clarified. "Drugs and arms and anything else illegal that brings in the money to fund their operations."
"We're a bit shorthanded today," Austin said calmly, "and Bentley said I could borrow you three for the afternoon. We're going to sass out a pub we think is a center for their activities. It's been under observation off and on for some time now. What we'll do," he continued, "is go in as customers. I've been in before and no one will be suspicious. We check out the men there, and if we get some hint of which ones are operating, we take them in for questioning. Is that clear?"
"And if they don't want to be, erm, taken in?" Harry asked.
"That's why we want more men," Austin said. "In case things go sour."
"I'm in," Harry said instantly.
"Right," Austin said. "You'll need to lose the suits and ties and pick up a weapon from Supplies. Then meet me and Hawk in the garage in fifteen minutes."
"Finally, we get out of this office," Harry said happily.
"Let's just hope this isn't a question of regretting that you got what you wished for," Mac said dryly.
"Rubbish," Harry said cheerfully. "It can't be all that bad. It's not as if we're chasing Death Eaters, you know."
"Oh, I see," Mac, replied. "Bunches of murdering drug runners are just kids' play to you." He gave Harry the kind of grumpy look that Hermione was likely to when she thought he was being particularly stupid, but Harry just grinned and said, "Go on and admit it, you were a bit bored, too, weren't you?"
Harry whisked out of his suit, and into an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt as quickly as possible. He tossed the suit into the locker in the basement changing room and slung his dragonskin jacket on feeling much happier than he had in a while. There was something about being in a suit in an office in front of a computer everyday that made him feel as though he had been turned into a Muggle like Uncle Vernon. Every so often he would have to check that his wand was where he kept it, in his right boot or tucked in his waistband, to remind himself that he really was a wizard and that magic was not just a dream.
He grimaced at the cold weight of the gun and stuck it in his pocket. He understood that he could not use his wand where they were going, but he knew he would not use the gun unless the situation were so dire as to be life and death. No matter how easy he found it to use one, he loathed their noise, their smell and everything about them. They seemed the antithesis of magic: Unlike a wand, a gun had no practical purpose at all except to maim or kill.
They made it downstairs in twelve minutes and piled into the Department Rover that Austin was driving. From Thames Street, it was not a terribly long ride to the mean streets near the docks where the pub was located. Harry had the oddest feeling of dejavu, as the area was not far from where he had lived for a few weeks when he was sixteen. He had run away from Privet Drive as Dudley had been arrested for assaulting a neighborhood kid and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been going to blame it all on Harry. He had decided he would leave rather than wait for them to throw him out. But when he arrived in London, the magic world had been sealed due to Voldemort's latest attack and Harry, thinking he had been expelled, and having no Muggle money to be going on with, had fended for himself on the very edges of society.
The buildings in this area were grimy and old and their bricks were painted with graffiti every other block. Here and there, a scruffy old man sat on a stoop huddled against a grate for warmth. Smoke poured from the stacks of a warehouse, permeating the air with the rotten smell of burning sulfur. They parked next to a large rubbish bin which looked as though it hadn't been emptied in months and Harry wasn't entirely sure whether the swift slinking animal that whisked out of sight beneath the bin was a skinny alley cat or a very large rat.
The inside of the pub was more like the Hog's Head than the Three Broomsticks, but not nearly so old and dirty. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted through the dim room and the men seated at the scattered tables gave them only a perfunctory glance as they walked in, or so it seemed. Though no one said anything, Harry could feel eyes following them as they made their way to the bar. He had come in with Johnny and Austin, Hawk and Mac had come in together. They had not wanted to call attention to themselves by entering in such a large group at once.
The bartender looked simply bored, however, when Johnny ordered two beers and he plunked their glasses down in front of them without interest. Austin had taken a corner booth and Hawk had taken their orders-- a Guinness in a dusty bottle, and two shots of what looked like very watered Scotch-- back to the table without a glance at Harry and Johnny.
Harry took a cautious sip of his beer and examined the other occupants of the bar with apparent indifference. There was a large screen telly hanging above the bar showing a football game, and he found that the color on it was dark enough that he could actually see the reflection of some of the men behind him in the screen. To Harry's eyes, most of the men did not look particularly suspicious. Rather, they looked like average dock men coming in for a pint and a sandwich on their lunch break.
Casually, he turned to look at the rest of the bar and saw that there was, in fact, another smaller parlor off to the side. A man in a sheepskin jacket tossed a couple of pound notes on the bar and picked up an amber beer bottle and another packet of some kind from the bartender. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, Harry thought. His curiosity aroused, Harry left his glass on the bar and followed the man into the smaller side parlor, where he immediately felt a sense of satisfaction. At a large table, five men were in the middle of a card game, with a large pot of money in the middle. And in the far corner, at a lace-covered table, an old woman sat holding a young man's hand. Before her, was a large crystal ball and spread out in a classic cross formation was a deck of tarot cards.
***
Leave it to Harry, Johnny thought, to take off on his own in the middle of an operation. He picked up his beer and followed Harry into the side parlor and saw with annoyance that Harry was up to something that would likely bring trouble.
"You have room for one more?" Harry asked the card players at the table.
The men gave Harry a summing glance, taking in his youth and his lovely leather jacket. The quick exchange of looks between them said; here’s a likely victim.
"Twenty pounds gets you a place at the table," one of the men answered. "After that, we bet in increments of ten."
His green eyes sparkling with mischief, Harry tossed a twenty pound note on the table and hitched his chair around so that he was seated backwards on it, like a naughty child just waiting to see if his Mum will notice. He swept up the hand that was dealt in his long, elegant fingers and set his face in a look of almost childish glee. He threw down another twenty and Johnny winced at the amount of money Harry would likely lose.
"So," Harry said after he'd lost his first hand, "do you play here often?"
"Most nights," one of the men answered. He wore a sheepskin jacket despite the fact that the pub was well heated and was thin to the point of emaciation. Jaded dark eyes considered Harry out of cavernous sockets. Johnny wondered how it was that even these hardened men could not see there was something different about Harry, something extraordinary. To his eyes, in the smoky gloom of the pub, Harry seemed to be almost inhuman in his youth; there was a peculiar aura of purity about him that not even the present mischief in the green eyes could blot.
Harry tossed down another note and followed up carelessly, "Have you been playing here a long time, then?"
"Couple of years," another man replied. This one was stockier and had a deep, rumble sort of voice, perhaps roughened by years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes like the one drooping rather limply from the corner of his mouth.
They played on in silence for a bit before the thin man said softly, "Looks like we won't get a visit from His Nibs tonight then."
"Aye," the smoker agreed.
"His Nibs?" Harry asked casually.
"Yeah," the thin man replied. "Our backer, you know. Fancies himself, he does, but he comes through with the ready, you see."
"Right royal pain he is, if you ask me," the smoker said. "Doesn't like our old name, The Hanged Man, so he wants to change it. Not lucky, you know, to change a pub's name. Specially not one as old as this one is."
"So what's it being changed to?" Harry asked.
"The Sword and the Chalice," the thin man said rolling his eyes. "I ask you, what kind of a name is that for a pub like this. Sounds like one of those ones they tart up for the tourists. You know, they serve fancy Frenchy type food and lousy weak beer."
"I dunno," Harry said. "This place seems good enough as it is," for which remark he scored approving looks from all the men at the table. He let the remark float there and then said almost indifferently, "So what kind of trade do you get? Lots of men like us, just wanting a good game now and then?"
"Some," the thin man said. The smoker regarded Harry with a closer scrutiny than he had before. He swept all of the cards together and handed them to Harry. "You deal, boy, and let's see if you can prove your mettle here."
Harry took the cards and stilled momentarily. His face now showed nothing but calm, but Johnny could imagine the thoughts that must be flying in his head. Should he show how good he was? Should he just continue to play the innocent? After barely a flicker of an eyelash, he squared off the deck in his long fingers and shuffled the cards with a smooth skill that matched any of the other older men. He dealt rapidly and waited coolly for the others to consider their hands.
The thin man now regarded Harry with open amusement and fascination. He laid his cards on the table - four aces - and said, "Who taught you, boy?"
The smoker also grinned and laid down his cards - four kings. The two other men, who had remained silent till now, laughed and slapped down theirs. One had four queens and the other four jacks. Harry then laid down his own four tens and grinned at them. "I learned a couple of years ago when I worked in a pub called the Black Jack. The owner there had a game every night, only I don't think the pub's there any more."
The thin man's eyebrows rose as high as they could go. "You learned from old Black Jack Crowley, did you? He was a bit particular whom he taught.
There was a brief silence as everyone contemplated the hand Harry had dealt them. It seemed that Harry had passed some unspoken test, though, for the thin man said, "Right, then. Deal a proper hand this time, and no cheatin' mind you."
Harry swept the cards back up and shuffled them in a smooth blur. As he dealt, he answered, "Old Jack would tell you that everyone cheats, and everyone knows everyone cheats, and no one bothers to point it out, as it's who cheats best that wins, isn't it?" He regarded them all angelically, and as if daring them to contradict him, he threw in another twenty-pound note.
There was another silence, even briefer than the last, then the smoker tossed in his own twenty with a hoarse chuckle. "Aye," he said, "that's what Black Jack always said when anyone complained. Now mind you," he added, "there were some as didn't care for that, but they were...shall we say...discouraged from returning to his table. It's a pity what they did to the old *******, really."
"Yeah," the thin man said softly. "That lot, they made His Nibs look like an amateur. Specially the one that called himself Lord what sis." He leaned forward and whispered even more softly, "I heard they carved a skull on his skin and left him dying as an example to the rest of us."
"The rest of us?" Harry asked quietly.
"The rest of us thieves," the thin man clarified. "Everyone got the message. I heard the coppers finally got him, but we still get his friends in here from time to time."
Whether by design or not, Harry lost the next two hands, and passed the deck on to the smoker to deal. His face was as inscrutable as a meditating cat's as he played the hand in front of him. He exchanged three cards and then two and then asked, "So His Nibs knows them, Lord Whosis' old crowd?"
"Yeah," the thin man answered. He leaned forward again and said confidentially, "Yeah. He lets them run some of their stuff through here. Drugs and guns and gold and gems and stuff nobody wants to know about. But, we like; look the other way, see, on account His Nibs runs the shots."
"And no one wants to end up like poor old Black Jack," the smoker added. With an air of disinterest, he asked, "So why'd you leave Black Jack anyway, if he taught you so good."
Harry looked up, and for a moment, his cool mask slipped away as unpleasant memories surfaced. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I didn't like him so much. He had a heavy hand if you didn't do exactly as he said, and I'd only just... well, I decided to go back to school is all."
"School? You're joking," the thin man said.
Harry seemed to realize that his cachet with the others was slipping. "Well that didn't last so long either," he said. He shrugged eloquently, and threw down his cards, winning cards, and scooped the up the whole pot. "I think I got a better education from old Black Jack in the end." He rose and said, almost as an afterthought, "You don't think His Nibs --erm, what his name anyway? would mind me coming back?"
"King is his name," pitched in the fortuneteller from the other side. "H. King, if you want to know. But I'd advise him to send you packing as quick as can be."
Harry turned and gawped at the woman, who was standing at her table, her stout chest heaving so that the numerous strings of beads clinked against each other.
"I don't..." Harry started to say, but the woman cut him off, "Gypsy Jack he named you," the woman said. Her dark eyes were sunk in a doughy old face that looked weary as Time itself. "And you came and went just like a Gypsy, a thief in the night, leaving bad luck behind you."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "Madam?"
"Blavatsky," she said. "You ought to remember those that you cheat of a living, Gypsy Jack. Oh, I remember those eyes well enough, green as glass, green as a cat's, unlucky, like a black cat on All Hallows Eve."
"That's not what you told me," Harry said. "You told me I'd find love and be happy."
"And you told us you'd die young and in sorrow," she replied. "And Black Jack liked you for that. He always lapped up misery, he did."
"He was a sad man at his core," Harry said. "He lost his only love and it turned him bitter and with nothing left in him but the wish for revenge on anyone in his way." He paused a moment and said more softly, "I felt sorry for him, you know. What's worse, do you think? To lose the only love you ever had, or never know it, never feel it at all?" Then, as if answering himself, he added, "The latter, I suppose. At least you have the memory of it, even if you lose it."
The old woman stared at him and her face softened just a little. "I'm thinking my prediction for you was a mite more accurate, lad. I'm thinking you found your love and your happiness, else you wouldn't speak so sadly of losing it. Come on, then, and I'll look in my fine new crystal that His Nibs gave me and tell you your future, Gypsy Jack."
Harry looked as though he'd refuse, but his glance lit on the large glowing crystal, which was as big as any Johnny had ever seen. One brow rose, and he looked at the fortuneteller sharply. "His Nibs gave this to you? Do you mind if I look at it?"
"Oh, what?" the thin man chuckled. "You going to prophesy for us, too? How many games do you know then?"
Harry ignored the comment and stepped closer to the fortuneteller's table. He had that concentrated look he got when he was about to do something quite outrageous in pursuit of an answer to an enigma only he could see. He waved a hand in the air above the crystal and its clear depths turned milky as white fogs misted through it. He stared at its depths, and a peculiar expression crossed his face, half-anger, half-mischief.
"It's cursed, you know," he said. "There's your bad luck, right there. He seized the ends of the black lace cloth that was draped over the table and scooped up the ball in it.
"That's mine," the old woman protested. "You can't have it." She reached for it, but Harry threw it, as one would throw a weapon, straight into the heart of the dying fire. The ball smashed as it landed and then the fireplace exploded, erupted in angry green fire; but the fire was not nearly so bright as the green of his eyes.
The old lady shrieked again and started to sob. "That's twice you've stolen my living, Gypsy, boy. I'll never be able to charge so much without such a grand crystal."
Harry looked at the woman as though he were seeing her for the first time. With shaking hands, he pulled out all of his winnings and more and laid it on the now bare wooden table. "There," he said. "Take it. There should be enough there for you to get a start on your retirement. I reckon a place by the seaside would do you good. Somewhere warm, and out of the way, where you can bring comfort to other lonely old people and where you don't have hard hearted murderers to fear."
The old woman stuffed the notes into her big bag and left quickly, almost at a run, as if she feared that staying one second longer would bring Harry back to his senses and make him re-think his generosity.
"Proper Robin Hood, you are," the smoker said. He didn't look entertained at all now, perhaps because Harry had given away so easily what he had won.
"I didn't steal any of that," Harry said sharply. "I won it fair and square, without cheating. If you really know how to play, you don't even have to cheat to win."
"Seems a shame you've beggared yourself to make that fake old harpy shut up about your luck," the thin man answered. "And how will we get a chance to pluck some of our own back off you, when you've gone and chucked the lot at the likes of Madam B?"
"I expect you'll find some other cheat to out-cheat," Harry snapped back. Then his green eyes narrowed in thought and he said more placating, "You might even get to try it on me again, and next time, you might even win."
For a moment, Johnny thought they would go for him, but the moment passed. "Never mind," the thin man said. "We might bring you into the game for real once in while, when the big players come in. Madam B was always a fake, and I reckon she hadn't a clue when she says you were bad luck."
"I hope not," Harry said quite seriously. "I really do."
The smoker rose and clapped him on the shoulder, practically knocking Harry over. "So, Gypsy Jack, is it? That's a good name, it is. I expect we can get some real mileage out of a lad with your talent."
They had all been so intent on the exchange between Harry and the old woman that none of them had noticed Austin and Hawkins had slipped into the parlor. Consequently, every one of them, even Johnny jumped a mile when Austin moved in radiating that aura of authority that true coppers all acquire.
"Gypsy Jack, are you?" Austin said unpleasantly. "We've been wanting a word with you for some time now."
Harry gawped at him, clearly taken aback by Austin's interruption. "What?" he said in annoyance.
"That's what we'd like to know," Austin answered. "What have you been up to and what do you know about Jack Crowley's operation and his murder?"
"I didn't kill him!" Harry blurted out. "They can all tell you that."
"Why don't you just come with us and you can tell us all about it?" Hawkins said coldly. Johnny found himself gawping at them, too, trying to figure out what they were up to. They both seemed dead serious and he could not understand it. He supposed that Harry had the same reaction as he replied, "I don't have to go anywhere with you."
He was still quite unprepared obviously, as he put up only a token resistance when Austin shoved him against the crumbling plaster wall in the classic position for all suspects and proceeded to pat him down. In barely a second, Austin pulled the gun out of Harry's pocket, the very one that he had been issued less than two hours before, and at his nod, Hawkins had cuffed Harry's hands behind him.
"That's quite a piece you've got there, Gypsy Jack," Austin said. "I think you can help us with our inquiries, son. I think you'll be helping us a lot."
Harry pulled so hard at his cuffs and tried with such force to pull away that he nearly upended Austin. "What are you doing?" he bellowed. "Let me out of this!"
The two of them got hold of him again and marched him right out. As he went, the four card players looked away and Johnny heard one of them say clearly, "Maybe Madam B was right. Maybe that boy does have bad luck, even if he is good with the cards."
"Nah," was the smoker's hoarse reply. "They're just giving him agro. Everyone knows that Lord of Death did old Crowley, Even the coppers. They like to keep us small timers in line, you know, just to keep a hand in, cause they can't catch any of the big fish, like his Nibs."
Johnny used their inattention to slip out and sprint down the street before the others could pull away. In the rear, Harry was flushed and furious and he kept tugging at the cuffs. "Get them off," he said angrily, but before Hawkins could move to unlock them, they came apart with a click and Harry was out of them and rubbing his wrists.
"What was that for?" Harry demanded.
"Gives you credibility, Gypsy Jack," Austin answered. "None of them would think you're really a copper like us after that show." He fixed Harry with the cold stare that cops like to use on their suspects. "I wonder about you myself, sometimes. Seems like you've got some really unorthodox talents even besides being a magician."
Harry did not reply. His face was still taut and his posture tense; nor did he reply. For a moment, Johnny thought he might just fling himself out of the car. However, he stayed utterly still as they drove out of the dock district and returned to the broader streets of the City.
Instead of returning to Thames Street, Austin pulled up in front of a pub Johnny knew was frequented by bankers and lawyers and well-to-do City types. "I think we could use a chat and a beer before we all go back," he said calmly.
Wordlessly, they all followed him into the pub and took seats on the red leather chairs at the tile top table that was nothing like the rough wooden ones they'd been sitting at only a short time before.
After a sip of his beer, Harry seemed to pull himself together, and almost shamefacedly, he handed Austin back the cuffs. "Sorry about that," he said. "I should have caught on to what your were up to a bit quicker.
"How'd you get out of them?" Austin asked. His tone was curious, and only barely noticeably hostile.
"You didn't lock them," Harry responded. Austin shook his head and Harry opened his mouth and then shut it and flushed again.
"I thought you need, you know, a wand to do that," Hawk said very quietly and with a glance at the other business suited men reading their papers to be sure they didn't overhear.
Harry looked quiet blank for a second and then said, "Usually, yeah." He paused and added, again with a trace of embarrassment, "But sometimes, if I'm erm, upset, things happen anyway. I haven't done that for a while really." Then quickly, as though he wanted to get off the subject, he went on, "Did you do that because you want me to go back there?"
Austin considered him thoughtfully and said, "That was the reason, yes. In case we needed someone inside. Only, if we do, you need to follow directions, Potter, and not go off on your own without so much as a wink or a nod." Though his tone was quite calm and mild, none of them missed the fact; Harry was being dressed down by a superior officer and none of them missed the fact that Austin had chosen to do it away from the office.
Harry flushed again and nodded, but he remained quite tense, ready, it seemed to react at the slightest provocation.
"Did you really learn to deal cards from Black Jack Crowley?" Austin asked intently.
Harry nodded and pushed his beer away.
"He was quite well known," Austin said, "a canny, wicked operator, and I'd like to know what you were doing mixed up with the likes of him."
Harry looked away for a moment, his green eyes darkened with some thought or memory. Then he looked back and said, "I worked in his pub for a few weeks a couple of summers ago. I didn't know what he was, really. I just needed to earn something to live on is all."
"You stayed long enough to learn quite a lot," Austin said searchingly.
Harry shrugged and frowned. "Just a bit with the cards is all," he answered briefly.
They waited, but he said nothing further. You could see that something was troubling him and he was clearly disinclined to explain any more. That did not suit Austin, though.
"I'd like to know more about it," Austin said patiently. "How did you get involved with Crowley and what did you know about him?"
"I told you," Harry started to say, but it seemed that Austin's insistent stare persuaded him that avoidance would be unwise. "I got involved with him by chance, really," Harry said reluctantly. "I had a row with my Aunt and Uncle and I was sure they were going to chuck me out, so I left instead. I went up to London thinking I'd get a hold of Ron's Dad only I couldn't get in contact with him and I was stuck. I hadn't any money and nowhere to stay when I ran into Annie."
He paused and looked away and then continued, "Actually, she sat on me cause I was sleeping on a bench in the park. Anyway, she offered me a place to stay and one of her mates said he could get me work. He was a bartender at the Black Jack and Jack owned the flat. So I worked there and did whatever they said. Cleaned the tables and mopped the floors and learned to deal the cards."
He paused again, and said baldly, "I hated it, actually, only I had nowhere to go but back on the street." He shrugged once more and added, "Well, I just left and went back to school after a few weeks. And that's it."
"What about his operation?" Austin asked.
"I only saw the pub," Harry said. "Nothing else."
"It can't be coincidence," Austin said, "that Jack Crowley got killed by the Lord of Death, and you were mixed up with him, too."
Harry went even more still and his face paled further. His eyes looked weary and ancient, as they often had when he had begun training in the summer. "No," he said after a moment. "Voldemort went there looking for me. And he killed Crowley because he wouldn't tell him where I went. He couldn't have, because I never gave him my real name." He looked down at his hands again and shook his head. "I reckon she was right, Madam B. I am bad luck. I was bad luck for Black Jack Crowley, that's certain."
"Why do you always call him Voldemort and not the Lord of Death?" Hawkins cut in irritably. "And doesn't he have a proper name?"
"That's what he called himself," Harry answered, "because he didn't like his proper name. Tom Riddle was his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle, actually. He wanted a name everyone would fear and he hated his father, whose name he bore."
"So," Austin continued, "Vol...Riddle only went after Crowley because he was looking for you? And it had nothing to do with Crowley's operations?"
Harry shrugged. "I dunno about that. You might ask Bones. I know Voldemort was going after all of the London gangs at the time and coordinating them under his control. It was all part of his plan to terrorize everyone."
"So Crowley might not have wanted his gang swallowed up by Riddle either?" Hawkins asked. "But why torture him then? Why not just kill him?"
"He liked to torture people," Harry answered, "especially those that defied him." His face tightened even further, and Johnny was reminded of what the Death Eaters had done to him only a few weeks ago.
"I think that's enough!" he said sharply. "Harry's one of us. You don't have to question him like he's a suspect or something, just because he managed to get a whole load of information out of that lot, when you couldn't."
"I needed to know," Austin replied.
Austin continued quietly, "Next time, give me a nod or find some way to let me know what you're doing. We have to act as a team for our own safety. If you go off and do your own thing in the middle of an operation, Harry, it can bollix things up. You know that."
"Yeah, I do," Harry admitted. The trouble cleared from his face, then, and his eyes narrowed. "We did get some good stuff out of them, didn't we? Looks like some of Voldemort's old crowd are still running things through there. And it looks like some of the same gangs are still cooperating with them. Maybe we should go back and check the place out one night when they've all gone home. We should see what's in the floors above the pub."
"It'll take some time to get a warrant," Austin answered.
Harry smiled a very small smile. "But a thief doesn't ask for a warrant first, does he?"
"You wouldn't," Hawkins objected.
"I would if Austin says so," Harry replied. "I'd really like to know what they're up to. Specially since it looks like there's a connection to the Death Eaters and maybe to the Alliance as well."
"How d'you make that out?" Austin asked.
"It's obvious," Harry answered. "Hayden has got to be His Nibs."
"I don't know about that," Austin said.
Harry shrugged. "Look," he said, "Madam B said his name was H. King, and Hayden's alias is Hengist. He was playing King Hengist in the movie he was trying to make, and he's got some bee in his bonnet about being descended from the Saxons. Plus, she had a real enchanted crystal ball. Where'd she get that from, if not from Hayden or Malfoy or one of that lot?
"Could you actually see something in it?" Hawkins asked with unwilling fascination.
Harry shook his head. "Not really. Not the future or anything like that."
"Then what good would it be?" Austin asked, "especially for someone like that old witch."
Harry's brows rose. "She's not a witch," he said indignantly. "She's a fraud, a conwoman. It's how she makes a living. She reads the tarot cards and people's palms and pretends she sees something in the crystal ball."
"But you said the crystal was real," Johnny said. He was quite curious to know why Harry had destroyed a really beautiful object.
"Yeah," Harry answered. "It was jinxed. Whoever gave it to Madam B was using it to spy on the doings in the pub. She's probably there most of the night, every night."
"That wouldn't be seeing the future," Hawk objected again. "That'd be seeing the present."
"Exactly," Harry said, as though Hawk were a slow learner and had finally gotten the point he was trying to teach. "Practically no one, not even most wizards or witches actually have any talent for divination - that's seeing the future. Whoever gave it to her is using it like we use a bug to listen in on someone or to video their doings."
"You're kidding," Austin said.
"Nope," Harry answered.
"You can do that with magic?"
"Shush!" Harry said. "Not so loud. The banker over there might hear you."
He nodded his untidy black head at a man whose pinstripe suit and bowler hat were a dead giveaway and who was even then peering at their table from across the room with unusual curiosity.
Surprisingly, the man rose and approached their table. He was wearing, Johnny saw with a shudder, an orange and maroon striped tie that clashed horribly with his charcoal grey suit. Come to think of it, the tie would clash with anything, it was so awful.
"It's Harry Potter, isn't it?" the man said.
Harry gawped at the man for a moment, trying to think why he knew him. He was a tall man with fair hair going almost invisibly gray, and quite nice blue eyes. Then it clicked, and he recalled meeting him last at Uncle Vernon's funeral.
"Mr. Smyth?" Harry answered. "From Little Whinging? Ashley's dad."
Mr. Smyth nodded and extended his hand and Harry shook it feeling quite bemused. Of all the things he might have imagined in his future, shaking hands with a banker friend of Uncle Vernon's had not been one of them.
Harry offered Mr. Smyth a chair, thinking his Aunt Petunia would rail at him for his poor manners if he were to do anything else. Not that Aunt Petunia would ever speak to him again, he thought.
Smyth took the chair quite comfortably as though Harry's gesture was entirely routine and expected and said with only the mildest curiosity, "You look quite well. Are you in London for university, then?"
Harry shook his head. "I'm working," he answered, giving his official cover story. "For the government."
"That's a good start," Smyth commented. "Nothing like a good civil service job to get you going in life. Or a good business." He paused a moment and then asked delicately, "So you don't want to work in Vernon's old business?"
"What, Grunnings?" Harry replied. "No, Dudley's taken over it, I guess. But I expect you know that seeing as Uncle Vernon did all his banking with you. So how come you're in the City?" he asked, thinking to distract Mr. Smyth with his own doings.
"Oh," Mr. Smyth answered. "I've moved onto the board of directors for the bank. I come into the City three days a week for meetings and such." He shook out his cuffs, clearly chuffed with himself over his new, more elevated status. Then he gave Harry a stern, rather fatherly look and said, "You must come and visit me one day. I'm sure I can give you some advice on how to invest your salary. In the way of a favor, you know, since Vernon was an old Smeltings man like me, may he rest in peace."
"That's very kind," Harry said. He risked a glance at Austin and the others and saw that they were torn between curiosity and hilarity.
"I was always surprised," Smyth went on, "that Vernon didn't send you to Smeltings, too, along with Dudley." His glance noted Harry's jacket and boots and jeans, and Harry was sure that he must present a considerable contrast to his usual appearance in Little Whinging. These clothes actually fit him and didn't look as though they were several generations old.
Harry would have liked to say that he would rather face an acromantula than go to Smeltings, but he settled for saying very politely, "I went to my Dad's school, you know. He and Mum had me down for it the day I was born."
Enlightenment gleamed in Smyth's eyes. Harry was quite sure that he would have heard Vernon's old story that Harry had gone to St. Brutus' School for the criminally insane - which, of course, did not exist.
"Good school, was it?" Smyth asked.
"Frightfully," Harry said. He grinned to himself inside thinking he had got the tone Petunia used when she wanted to be most snobbish just right. From Mr. Smyth's expression, he had.
"It's quite a coincidence seeing you here," Smyth went on genially. "In fact, we're going to be relations as Dudley and Ashley are to be married. Now do remind me, were you Vernon's nephew or Petunia's?"
"Petunia's," Harry answered briefly. He was not anxious to be asked whether he was going to the wedding, to which he had not been invited (not that Dudley would know where to write to him) and so he hit on asking Mr. Smyth about anything else to divert him from the subject of weddings.
"So," Harry ventured, "I expect you're involved with some pretty important people these days."
"Oh, yes," Mr. Smyth answered. "Quality men come to bank with us. We provide a fine rate of return, I can tell you."
"I bet you hear some interesting gossip, too, about what people do with their money," Harry commented casually.
"Certainly," Smyth answered. "One must be discreet, though."
"Naturally," Harry answered. He cudgeled his brain trying to recall how Uncle Vernon talked when he was trying to socialize with other men like himself. He coughed gently and said, "But if I were thinking of, erm, putting some of my money into something, you might be able to tell me if it were, a, err, sound investment?"
"Investment?" Smyth asked. "How much? In what?"
The others were looking puzzled, almost irritated. Harry tried to think how much would be enough to keep Mr. Smyth on the hook and get him to give out some information. "Erm, about ten," he ventured, "thousand."
"Pounds or euros?" Smyth asked.
Harry couldn't recall which was better these days but he suspected that Mr. Smyth might be as conservative as Uncle Vernon. "Pounds," he said firmly.
"That's a tidy bundle," Smyth said thoughtfully. "I didn't realize you, erm..."
"From my Dad," Harry clarified, "when I came of age."
"Ah," Smyth said. "That the whole lot?" he asked cautiously.
"Not at all," Harry replied. It was, he knew, not even close to what he had, though he actually wasn't at all sure just what the total was. Since he had inherited Sirius' fortune along with his Dad's, he had enough money to keep him for the rest of his life and then some.
Mr. Smyth looked happier and friendlier than ever. "Well, I'd be pleased to advice you."
"Right," Harry said. "I don't suppose you know anything about this company called Anglian Manor Productions. I think that's it. They own a fancy hotel and property up near York."
Smyth's fair eyebrows rose. "You don't want to put your money in there," he answered promptly.
"No?" Harry asked. He contrived to look quite crestfallen.
"You haven't already?"
"Oh, no," Harry answered. "I just thought, you know, well, I heard that Eric Hayden owns it. The big movie star, you know. I thought that might be a good one."
He heard the slight hiss of breath taken in from one of the others, a sound so quiet it could be the faint noise of a snake in the grass.
Smyth did not hear it. Instead, he leaned forward and said very confidentially, "Fact is, Hayden banks with us. Fact is, he's in trouble. The Manor, it's mortgaged to the hilt, and so's his flat, and the investment building he owns down by the docks. The Bank lost confidence in him after he left the country. Those rumors, you know, about him being allied with some odd political group. No," he said, "I wouldn't advise that at all."
Harry managed to look disappointed, though he was actually excited. This was very interesting information, though how they would use it, he wasn't at all sure.
"Actually," Mr. Smyth said, "if you want an investment, wait until we call in the notes and put it on the auction block. You can get at least one of those for a song. The building by the docks would be the cheapest and it's got a working pub on the ground floor to pay the mortgage. You wouldn't even have to buy it outright."
"Really?" Harry said casually. "So what's on the other floors?"
"Warehouse space," Mr. Smyth answered, "and maybe old flats. If you put some money in to renovate them, you could rent those too, or sell them off as condos. Stands to reason with the price of property in the city, and gentrification, you could make a tidy packet off of it." He looked nearly as happy as Uncle Vernon when he was about to make a large sale of drills. "I could help you with the financing, if you like."
Harry said, "That's brilliant! Thanks very much, Mr. Smyth. That was most helpful and informative. I will talk to you again about my investments. I might even consider this one, if you let me know when the auction happens."
Mr. Smyth shook Harry's hand and said, "Pleasure to help a neighbor, you know."
Harry glanced at Austin and tried to tell whether the officer was angry with him for taking the initiative again. Not that he could have known Smyth would actually know anything about Hayden. That had been a guess in the dark. He excused himself to go to the bathroom as the bit of beer he had drunk was making itself felt and thought he might have escaped another lecture from the approving nod Austin gave him as he went.
Smyth's gaze followed Harry's retreating back as the kid made his way toward the w.c. "Looks different," he said after a moment.
"How so?" Austin asked.
Smyth shrugged fractionally and looked uncomfortable. "His clothes fit, and he looks...healthy." He paused and added, "Don't like to speak ill of a neighbor, you know, especially not when he's passed on."
"But?" Johnny prompted, his curiosity roused.
"It's not a big town, Little Whinging," Smyth said. "Everyone knows everyone, at least in passing, by reputation. In Little Whinging, everyone thought Harry'd come to no good, you know. Except you had to wonder when a child in a house like Vernon Dursley's went about the way the Potter boy did. One boy, the son, dressed in only the best. Has every toy and fad the kids could want. And the other...well...was always dressed in the scruffiest clothes; always too big, never fit; and he was too thin - underfed. People wondered, talked in whispers."
Smyth stopped as Harry was returning, but his meaning was quite clear and explained quite a lot. The waitress at the bar made some comment to him, something cheeky no doubt, for he smiled at her and laughed. Smyth stared, as did they all. The smile and laugh had lifted the tension from his face, and the sorrow from his eyes. For one moment, Harry looked exactly what he was, an eighteen year old, just at the start of it all, and happy to be so.
