Fourteen
*
Hermione's arms were full of groceries when she Apparated into Harry's flat, but they didn't block her view of the startled look on his face. "I thought you might be hungry," she said, smiling. She put her bags down on the kitchen counter and went over to the lounge side of the room. Harry had been sprawled in a chair, but now he was standing, and she leaned up to give him a kiss.
"How was your day?"
"Ah. Erm. Long?"
"Mine too." She went back to the kitchen. "You would think things at work would slack off this close to the holiday, but you would be wrong."
"Tell me about it," she heard him mutter.
Hermione started emptying the bags. She'd got some chicken, a spice mixture to rub it in, two jacket potatoes, and some sprouts. She wasn't sure how Harry was going to take to the sprouts, but she knew how to cook them, and that was the main thing.
It had been research keeping her busy in the barrister's office that afternoon, which was quiet work, but absorbing; research plus one visitor, who had not come to see the old wizard she clerked for.
Harry had followed her into the kitchen, and was standing there awkwardly. "You don't have to cook," he said.
"I know," she said. "That's why I want to."
"Er, okay," Harry said, looking completely befuddled.
She smiled to herself. "Where's your baking dish?"
"Ah. . ." While Harry began opening cupboards and rattling around in them, she set to washing the chicken.
It was normal, Hermione supposed, to want to spread embarrassment and apologies around; told enough times a story loses its sting and becomes just that, a story. And that was why Sally-Ann Perks had come round to Hermione's work that afternoon. She'd told Hermione all about seeing Harry on the street, about asking him for an interview and making him think she was out to kill him in the process. Then she'd fretted for a good quarter of an hour over whether he thought her mad or presumptuous or a bit of an idiot or all of the above.
Hermione had reassured her, sent her on her way, and been distracted for the rest of the day.
Not just distracted; also piqued, perturbed, and very slightly cross. Harry had told her he thought what she was doing was brilliant, acted like they were exactly of the same mind, and then, when given the chance, he hadn't helped. From which followed the all-too-logical deduction that he didn't care about it as much as she did, because if so, he would have jumped at the chance.
She wasn't sure what bothered her more - the idea that he might have been pretending, humouring her all along; or the fact that they weren't of the same mind, that they weren't standing together and seeing the same thing when they looked out on the world.
No, she knew. It was the second one.
But that was illogical of her, and she'd told herself that quickly. They were two different people, with two different brain chemistries and two different sets of experiences. She should expect them to look at the world differently. It was just that everything was that much better, felt that much more right when they didn't.
And of course it came down to experiences, here. There was a reason she'd not ever asked Harry that question herself, after all; she'd felt it was just too much, asking him to voluntarily put himself in the spotlight right now. Obviously, she'd been right.
By the time she'd left the office, she was simply relieved that it had been Sally-Ann to ask and Sally-Ann to be rejected. The other girl had saved them no end of awkwardness. It would've been uncomfortable enough if Hermione had asked and Harry had said no; it would've been worse, she was certain, if she'd asked and he'd said yes because he felt he had to.
Hermione didn't like admitting it, but a small part of her was dead curious to know whether he would have done it for her.
It was that relief that had propelled Hermione to the grocer's. She'd wanted them to have a very ordinary, very nice evening because they could. She couldn't help but smile a bit while she scrubbed the potatoes. Harry was so obviously ill at ease, silently hovering near the stove. Hermione felt a little magnanimous: she got to understand and absolve without him even knowing. It wasn't a bad feeling.
She was putting the sprouts on to boil when the owl came. She assumed at first that it would be for Harry, something from Moody, most likely, that would take him away tonight. But the bird wanted her.
Hermione read her letter through twice before looking up. Harry was watching her. "What's wrong?" he asked. Two simple words, words anyone might say considering what was surely on her face, but there was something about the way he said them that suggested he was very, very afraid that he already knew the answer.
She handed the letter over, bitter disappointment twisting her stomach. Harry's eyes slid down the page, taking in the signature first, and right then, in the second before his face became blank, Hermione had her own answer.
Not looking at her, he said, "Hermione, I'm so sorry."
Through a rush of anger, Hermione took the letter out of his hand, placed it on the counter, and went back to the stove. Her hands were shaking. He'd known this was coming. He'd been talking to Percy yesterday, and walked away from that conversation knowing, and hadn't told her. And right now she wanted so much to turn to him, let him hold her up, but she couldn't.
It was very quiet in the kitchen; she could hear the chicken sizzling in the oven. "It's just a couple months' setback, right?" Harry said finally. "I mean, Percy's got to work on this exploding popcorn thing right now, but as soon as he's got that sorted. . . can't have microwaves blowing up all over the city. . . ."
Hermione was silent, pushing the sprouts around the pot with a wooden spoon. It wasn't about exploding popcorn and it wasn't just a couple months' delay, and Harry knew that. If this law was going to be written, it would be without Percy.
Who in the world were they going to ask instead?
She would think this through rationally, and she would answer that question. This was only defeat if she allowed it.
She still hadn't spoken, and she was sure that was making Harry nervous; she didn't look at him, but she could picture him running a hand over his head, spiking that hair up, fiddling with those glasses.
Her silence wasn't for him, though, it wasn't some kind of punishment. It was for her. It was the only thing keeping her from crying.
"Tell me something," she managed finally. "You two were talking at the Burrow yesterday, I saw you through the window. What did he say?"
Harry answered after a pause, in the tone of someone being asked to dig his own grave. "He'd been dealing with some Muggle-baiting at work, and it got him worrying. He asked me if I thought there were a lot of Voldemort sympathisers still around."
"And you said?"
He gave a short, sharp sigh. "What I thought. Yes."
"Oh." She squeezed her eyes closed.
"Hermione. . . I really am sorry. I know how much this means to you. But when he asked me. . . well, honestly, I think it's only right that Percy have an idea of what he's getting into. I wasn't going to lie to him."
"No," Hermione said, her voice shaky. She drew in a breath. "No, I wouldn't expect you to."
"I didn't tell him that you lot had been getting threatening letters," Harry said.
She considered that a moment, and turned around to face him. "Are you saying that because you think it'll make me happy, or because you're insinuating that I should have told him?"
Harry shrugged.
"Both?" she asked.
"Yeah, suppose so."
"I'm not trying to keep it from him," she said, and was she trying to convince herself, too? "I suppose I don't see them as a threat so much as proof that what we're doing needs doing. With that kind of prejudice out there. . . ."
"Exactly," Harry said. "Please don't underestimate it, Hermione."
"Wait until it's safe to do the right thing, you mean?" She laughed bitterly. "Where would we be now if we'd always done that?" Before Harry could answer - or shrug - Hermione went on, "And how many werewolves will find themselves passed over for a job or thrown out of their flats before then? And how many people will find themselves wrongfully imprisoned because your lot don't have time for things like innocent until proven guilty?"
"I don't know," Harry said. "And of course I think that stuff is wrong." He stepped closer to her, but didn't touch her; just stood there in her space. He said quietly, intensely, "But I'm more worried about something happening to you than any of it."
"Oh, now that's not fair," Hermione burst out, and there came the tears. "You go to work and risk yourself for other people every single day, and I'm not allowed to think that!"
Harry said nothing; his jaw was clenched tight. Hermione hugged her arms around herself. "I try so hard not to make a fuss. I try so hard not to think about it. But there it is, every day." She reached out then, put her arms around his waist, pulled them together. "I wish you did something else," she said, her voice muffled against him, "but I understand why you do it."
Differences, that's what she'd been fretting over earlier in the day. How silly. They were more the same than anything.
Maybe that was what needed worrying about.
Harry was holding her now, too, but loosely, as if he expected her to try and get away at any moment. He cleared his throat. "What are you going to do now?"
"Well," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder, "first, talk to Roger and everyone. We'll decide who else in the Ministry to approach, and make certain, this time, that whoever we work with has the stomach for it."
"Of course," Harry murmured. A minute later, he said, "Isn't your term about done?"
"Yes," Hermione said, a bit wrong-footed by this sudden turn in the conversation. "I just have two exams left."
Harry nodded, his head bumping hers a little. "When you're done, why don't you come stay here?"
Something spread through her, warm and tingling. She'd practically been living in the last week or so, because she'd been worried about Harry, but there was a qualifier in that sentence, and it was important. Practically meant nights on couches and grabbing showers at her place and no-one asking her to leave, but no-one asking her to stay, either. This. . . this was an official invitation, and while she hadn't expected it yet - there were things that, to be honest, she'd thought they would say and do first - she knew she was ready to accept.
Hermione looked up. His face was too close to really see, but the tension was still there in the way he held himself, in the line of his chin. Afraid she would say no, she thought, and she was opening her mouth to say yes when she thought of something else.
"What have you told Ron?"
"Er, well. Nothing."
"Do you think we should do it together?"
"Ah -"
Hermione pulled away so that she could see Harry properly. She knew that look: he was gobsmacked, and Hermione realised he hadn't even considered that Ron would have to know about them, because this wasn't the invitation she'd thought it was.
He hadn't asked her to stay because he wanted to come home to her every day, because he was happier when she was there, because he wanted to begin and end every day with her, because he wanted her in his bed. He'd asked her for some other reason, and Hermione had a pretty good idea what it was.
He'd asked her to stay so he could keep an eye on her.
"Hm," Harry said.
She turned back to the stove, a solid, heavy cold where the warmth had been. Wiping her eyes, Hermione bustled unnecessarily: she peeked in on the chicken, prodded the potatoes with a fork, pushed the sprouts around in the pot.
"How about this," Hermione said finally. "I'll ignore the fact that you just made an offer that you didn't entirely mean to make, and are obviously conflicted over whether you're really ready to take things further, and I won't fuss or say we need to talk about it, if you'll tell me just one thing. And tell me the truth."
She turned to look at Harry then, and it hurt. His eyes were on the floor and his lips were pressed tight, and she wanted to slap him and hug him all at once.
She reached out, put her fingers under his chin, and forced it up so that he was looking into her eyes. "What are you protecting me from?"
*
It was a weekday afternoon, and the train was crowded, packed with people heading home from their jobs. Sarah had wanted to travel this way, and Ron was completely willing. He had not the slightest desire to use a quicker, faster, more efficient wizarding mode of transport. They would get there soon enough.
It was inevitable, of course, and something he really should have seen coming. It was almost Christmas, and this was what people did at Christmas: they visited family. Whether they wanted to or not.
But he had a feeling yesterday's trip to the Burrow was directly to blame for what they were doing right now, today. She'd probably been thinking about it for a while, but hadn't felt comfortable bringing it up until he had.
"I'm glad you were up for this," Sarah was saying. "It's better we do it now, before it gets any closer to the holiday, and there's aunts and uncles and cousins to deal with."
"Hmm," Ron said. He wasn't so sure about that. He could get lost among aunts and uncles and cousins. But today, just him and Sarah and Sarah's parents, staring at each other over tea and little cakes. . . something was going to go wrong. Horribly. Ron just knew it.
"Is your brother going to be there?" he asked, somewhat hopefully. But only somewhat.
"No, I don't think so," Sarah said. "He likes to keep to his digs until the last possible moment. There aren't too many birds to pull in Little Whinging, you know."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Ron said, giving her a lewd grin. When she grinned back, he leaned in and kissed her. The lady across the aisle rustled her Times reproachfully.
A while later, Ron asked thoughtfully, "Does Piers really date a lot of women?"
"God, no. But he likes to try."
They walked down the street hand-in-hand. Sarah had suggested a cab, as her house was two miles away, but Ron had rejected that, saying that it was a nice day - well, not actually raining - and that the walk would do them good.
Sarah had given him an 'I know exactly what you're trying to do' look, buttoned up her coat, and they were off.
Ron swung her hand and looked around at the neighborhood. The narrow streets, the perfect gardens and perfect houses, the same-same-bloody-sameness of it all. It wasn't natural. He wondered if he would recognise the Dursleys' old house if he saw it. He'd been there enough times, yeah, but never approached it like this. Never seen it as just one among many.
He started wondering, then, if there were quiet hells like Harry's lying behind any of these doors, up these perfectly groomed garden paths. It's not a question of 'if', he thought a minute later. It's a question of how many.
He gave Sarah's hand a squeeze, hoping she hadn't lived one of them. He knew she didn't exactly get on with her parents - 'They're very, very Tory,' she'd said once, and while he wasn't sure exactly what that meant, her tone led him to think it wasn't a good thing. But there was not getting on and then there was not getting on. . . .
"So your job's the same, you're an investment banker. I'm not sure where you should work - if you want to pick somewhere they'd like," Ron nodded vigorously, "we should go with somewhere a bit prestigious, Barclay's, somewhere like that. Same for school, let's go with the LSE - London School of Economics - they'll be impressed, but it's safe because they don't know anything about it really. You live with your best friend who works for the CID -"
"What if they ask me about up-and-coming stocks, that sort of thing?" Ron interrupted. "I don't know anything about your exchange. . . ."
"Easy. You're not at liberty to discuss it. And I'll cut in and imply that it's rude of them to try and get free investment advice from a guest. And that'll end it, trust me."
"Okay." Ron took a breath. "We're almost there, aren't we?"
"We are." Sarah gave him a reassuring smile, and tucked her arm through his. "It'll be fine. Just don't magic anything, and it'll be fine."
"You're not worried?"
"Nope." A broad grin. "Terrified. Come on, here's our gate."
*
He had got this so wrong. He'd known a row was coming, he'd been formulating his defences, but he might as well throw them all away. Trust her to see past everything to the one thing that mattered.
What are you protecting me from?
And there was the choice, right there, right in front of him. Tell her, and keep her, and drag her into all of this? Tell her, take her by the hand, and pull her back into the darkness?
On trial for secrets, truth the only route to the mercy of the court. . . And she would have to know everything, and she would have to help, and she would have to get her law made at the same time, no matter how much of the world was dead bloody set against her.
Right and easy. Right hurts, sometimes. Protection is pain, sometimes.
And he'd done enough worrying about the people he loved for a lifetime.
Harry stepped away, and her hand fell. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"Of course you don't," Hermione said. "Of course you don't." She was shaking with anger and blinking back tears. She turned her back to him, and gave the pot on the stove one last, furious stir. "These are ready, and the chicken and potatoes should be ready to eat in ten more minutes." She propped the spoon against the rim of the pot. "As you can imagine, I've suddenly got things to do."
And she was gone.
*
"See, that wasn't so bad."
"No," Ron said thoughtfully, "it wasn't. How about that." He considered. "I think maybe they liked me."
"No," Sarah said, and she kissed his cheek, taking the sting away. "They didn't. They were just being pathologically polite."
"Oh. I'm sorry." And he was, he realised. He wanted to be approved of. "But they didn't figure out the wizard thing, did they?"
Sarah laughed. "No. They just think you're odd. Never in a million years would it cross their minds that you're," she waved a hand, "magic."
They reached Ron's building and took the stairs to the flat. It was quiet in the corridor, and there was no sound coming from inside, not the low hum of noise from the wireless, or the rise and fall of voices, or anything that would suggest that it was occupied. Ron unlocked the door with his wand and let them in.
The flat wasn't empty, though. Harry was sitting at the table, just sitting there. The room was too dark, even though the lights were on, and there was a horrible burnt smell.
Something was wrong. Ron dropped Sarah's hand and crossed the room, slowing down as he approached Harry. Ron didn't want to make a big deal of it, especially not in front of Sarah - Harry wouldn't thank him for that - but if he was sick again. . . .
"All right, Harry?"
"Yeah," Harry said, not looking at Ron, "fine." He pushed himself up from the chair, and Ron reckoned he was on his way out of the room.
"Listen, mate," Ron said, shifting position a bit - not blocking Harry in or anything, but making it just a little harder for Harry to walk away from him. "If there's something I can do -"
There was a noise at the door. It wasn't a polite knock. Harry and Ron exchanged glances, and both began moving; Ron managed to get there first. He looked through the peephole. The person out there was vaguely familiar -
"Let me in, you freaks, I want to talk to my sister."
Ah. Ron looked back at Sarah. Red was creeping up her face. "Do you want to see him?" Ron asked quietly.
"No, but I should. I will." She gestured helplessly. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey," Ron said, "it's okay." He reached out a hand and she came and took it, and was there at his side when he opened the door.
"What do you want, Piers?" Sarah was suddenly every inch the older sister.
"Mum rang to tell me who'd been round," he said. "Imagine how surprised I was. Here I thought we had an understanding."
"I don't know where you got that idea," Sarah said. "You told me what you thought. I didn't agree. End of story."
"You didn't tell me you didn't agree," Piers said.
Sarah shrugged. "Didn't see a reason." Piers opened his mouth, but she overrode him. "So what did you do, Piers? Go round to my flat, and when we weren't there, bully Mai Li into giving you my boyfriend's address? Class, Piers, really class. If you were really so concerned about me, you could've rung me sometime in the past three months - oh, but you'd forgot all about it til you talked to Mum, hadn't you?"
"Listen, Sarah," he said, his gaze flicking to Ron, "why don't we go somewhere and talk-"
"No thanks," she said. "I don't think we need to. I think I have a much better idea of who my friends are than you do. But I do think you should go."
Piers stared for a minute, his little eyes going comically wide. His mouth fell open. "Did they make you one of them? They did, didn't they? Oh my God -"
Sarah sighed. "No, Piers."
"Aha!" he yelled. "You just admitted it. You know what freaks they are."
"Like I said," Sarah returned, "I know more about my friends than you do."
Piers folded his arms, and addressed Ron for the first time. "Tell her everything, then? Tell her how my best friend died?"
Silence. The loud, echoing kind. Ron hadn't, of course. He'd never got that far.
"He did." That was Harry, who thought he had, because Ron had let him think it. He stepped forward, and Ron realised that the open door had been blocking him from Piers's sight. "But if you want to talk about it, you should talk to me."
There was fear and fury on Piers's face, and Ron could see it was bravado that let him step forward, towards Harry, crossing the threshold into their flat for the first time. "Potter."
"He was your friend, and you do deserve to know what happened," Harry said. His words were quiet and calm, but Ron knew his face, knew he was stretched so, so tight. Instinctively, Ron slid and arm around Sarah, but she was stiff against him. Maybe from fear, maybe from anger, maybe both.
"The wizard who killed my parents never stopped coming after me," Harry went on. "He took Dudley and my uncle because he thought he could get me to do something for him that way. I did it, he killed them anyway." His face closed. "Your sister would be safer if she didn't know me. You're right about that."
"Liar," Piers said. Then, more loudly, "You're lying, oh, think you're so special, don't you? Bad wizards chasing you, your whole life! Oh no, it wasn't me, it was that evil man that follows me around that no-one ever sees!"
"Piers," Ron said, because someone had to stop this.
He thought something cracked, somewhere.
But Piers didn't listen, didn't hear Ron, didn't hear anything. Ron remembered that Dudley and his friends used to beat Harry up, and he wondered if Piers had slipped back into feeling he had some power over Harry, that he was in control; or maybe he just thought that if he yelled loud enough, someone would come and take Harry away.
"You set a snake on us when we were kids, could've killed us then, and you get away with it, scot-free! Then you get a little older, learn a few more freak tricks, and you set a monster on him! He nearly died in that alley, and what happens to you? Nothing!
"They knew what you were, and you hated them. You killed them, and you as good as killed your aunt, and -"
Ron saw it in Harry's face a second before it happened; he pushed Sarah behind him, between him and the wall, and closed his eyes.
It was the light fixtures that went. When Ron opened his eyes, the flat was dark, illuminated only by reflections of the city shining through the window. Piers was gone. In the silence, Ron thought he heard the door to the staircase slam.
"Lumos," Ron said, and then was suddenly unsure that magic was what he should have done just then. Sarah hadn't stirred from behind him. Ron could hear Harry trying to slow his breathing; in the wand-light, it was almost like he was vibrating along the edges.
Harry stood there a second longer. He caught Ron's eyes, but Ron couldn't read the look he gave him - was it anger? was it apology? - and then he, too, was gone.
Sarah stepped out from behind Ron, her footsteps crunching on glass. She was unscratched, thank Merlin.
"Sarah -"
"Piers talks a good talk, but you see who he's worried about in the end, don't you?" She gestured toward the empty space where he'd stood.
"Sarah -"
She held up a hand. "Not right now, please. What we need to do right now is find my brother, and shut him up. Hopefully before he thinks to pull out his mobile. And then we can sit down and you can talk all you want. I daresay you'll have plenty to tell me."
*
The rooftop was cold, but that was fine. Good, even. Harry was early, but that was all right. No-one could see him, even if there were still people in the building who had not yet gone home for the night; and the more he watched, the more he saw, the more he would learn.
He was in one of the surveillance locations he and Dean had scouted out that afternoon, tucked against a chimney, wearing his Invisibility Cloak. He had chosen the building behind Burke's shop, because if there were a delivery tonight, it would surely come in through the back. And if any interesting customers happened to drop in, there was a very good chance they'd choose the back door over the front.
Harry watched, trying to focus on nothing but the job at hand, trying to let the darkness and the chill of brick against his back root him to this place. Someone three doors down popped out long enough to shove something into a rubbish bin. Someone four doors down got an owl. People walked through the alley occasionally, but didn't stop off anywhere; Harry had to strain his eyes to see some of them, moving only in shadows.
Trying to focus, but not particularly succeeding. . . .
Hermione was furious with him. Ron probably was too. Harry reckoned he deserved it, but why couldn't Ron have picked another girl? Why did he have to throw himself into a relationship that was sure to be complicated and messy from the very beginning?
Why couldn't Hermione let the world be, for once?
People are who they are, Harry. And now. . . now they're remembering who you are.
Dean showed up, bang on time. "Harry? You there?"
Harry pulled the cloak away from his head.
"Cold up here, isn't it?"
Harry nodded. Dean was busily warming his coat and shoes and gloves with charms.
"Seen anything?"
"No." Harry pushed off the chimney, stretched, and turned to Dean. "You want to go watch the front?"
"Okay." Dean fitted in an earpiece, and Harry did the same. A moment later, Dean was out of sight, and speaking to him through it. "Okay, I'm in position. All quiet this side - looks like he's closed up for the night."
"He always looks closed, these days," Harry pointed out.
"True."
They watched. By the laws of things, there should have been nights of this, weeks of this. But luck decided to pay them a visit, for once, and there were only hours.
It was shortly after midnight when Harry saw the owl, gliding down to a window ledge on the first floor of Burke's shop. He imagined it tapping its beak on the glass. A light went on upstairs; a minute later, there was light downstairs. And then the owl and its package were let inside.
"He's got something," Harry told Dean.
"What?"
"Don't know. But the window's open and I'm going to find out."
"Harry. . . ."
"Going silent now. I'll report when I can. Stay put until you hear from me."
Harry Apparated down to the alley, still wearing his cloak. He went to the window, his feet carefully quiet, and looked inside. The package was on the floor in the middle of the room, a much larger box, now - it had been shrunk for transport, obviously. Burke was kneeling in front of it, checking through the contents; Harry couldn't see the interior of it at all. A minute later, Burke, apparently satisfied, pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it out for the owl.
The opportunity would be gone, very shortly. He Disillusioned himself, just in case Burke had means of seeing through Invisibility Cloaks. Then, willing himself silent, Harry hoisted himself up and through the window.
His feet met the floor without a thump, thankfully. Keeping against the wall - he was less likely to be bumped into accidentally that way - Harry got as close to the box as he could. In the box were plain bottles, filled with something very dark red. Yes.
When the delivery owl left, Burke snapped his fingers, and his own bird appeared. He went over to a desk - Harry held his breath as he passed close by - and wrote something on a piece of parchment. A note telling the buyer his goods were here, probably, and hopefully encouraging him to pick them up immediately.
Burke's owl left, and the window closed. Harry settled in to wait.
It was a good sign that Burke went back to his desk, rather than back to bed; it meant chances were good he was expecting more company tonight. But Harry wished he would've found somewhere else to wait. There were boxes stacked all around the room, and interesting-looking bottles on the shelves; Harry wanted to see what was in them all. Dragon's blood might be legal, but how many things in this room weren't? He toyed with the idea of knocking Burke out and having a good snoop, but decided against it. Whoever showed up for the transaction needed to see Burke there, needed to think things were perfectly normal and be given the chance to talk perfectly normally - and, maybe, give something away.
The only sound in the room was the scritch-scratch of Burke's quill on parchment, and Harry was growing light-headed from the effort of keeping his breathing shallow and silent. The room was strangely, oppressively hot, particularly for December, and Harry felt almost as if he were swimming in the air. He was too close to Burke's desk, but he was afraid to move, afraid to make the slightest sound. Burke might be old, but that meant he had been around a long, long time.
A crack, and then a deferential, "Mister Burke, sir?"
"Ah, yes." Burke rose from his chair and came forward, towering over his visitor. "This is it," he said, indicating the box. "You have the payment?"
"Yes, sir. It is here, sir."
Burke spread the contents of a little bag out on his desk and counted them. "Thank you. You may take the merchandise to your master."
Bollocks. It was over, over that fast, and Harry had learnt absolutely nothing - it was now or never - "Dean," he whispered, and then, pointing his wand at Burke, "Stupefy!"
Burke fell, and Harry ripped off his cloak and trained his wand on Burke's visitor. In an instant, Dean was there and doing exactly the same thing.
"Shite," Dean said. "An elf."
Harry nodded grimly. There wasn't much they could do with an elf. A house-elf couldn't be bullied, couldn't be bought. . . no matter what he and Dean said or did, the elf couldn't rat out its master. It was magically impossible. Of course, if the elf wanted to, it could give hints, but Harry had met precious few elves willing to work against their families. Dobby was the exception to every rule. There was really only one thing they could hope to get.
"Who are you working for?" Dean asked.
There was a chance they were facing that one-in-a-million disloyal elf, or even a free one. There were more of those about these days, and some chose to turn their freedom to criminal purpose, but Harry doubted that this was one. People who used the Dark Mark had no use for servants that could give them away.
"Misters is knowing better! Misters is knowing elf is not being able to answer!"
Harry and Dean exchanged glances. Right. Not a free elf, and not new to this game, either.
"Let's try another one," Dean said. "Where are you taking this?"
The elf shook its head from side to side. Its eyes were huge and wide, yes, but Harry could tell: it was not terrified.
Dean kept up the questions. "Have you been here before?"
"Do you know what this is?"
"What does your master want with it?"
Finally: "Do you want to go up before Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures? Do you?"
"Misters cannot! Misters is knowing better! Elf is invited into shop, is buying legal goods! Misters is having no cause!"
"Very aware of his rights, isn't he?" Dean said quietly.
Harry pushed ahead of Dean and knelt down in front of the elf. "Hello," he said. "We've never met, but you've heard of me, I expect. I'm Harry Potter. Oh good," he went on, as the elf shrunk back, "you have."
He didn't have to fake the edge to his voice; it was there, hard and dangerous. "You know I've done a lot of things that were supposed to be impossible, then. You know how I got this scar? Killing curse. And you know why Voldemort isn't around anymore, I'm sure. And there's something else I bet you've heard, but maybe you've forgot - I freed a house elf who wasn't mine." He waited while that sunk in. Now those eyes were terrified. "His name's Dobby, I'm sure you've heard of him. The elf who gets paid?"
The elf threw itself at Harry's feet, banging its head on the floor. "Please sir, please! Tarky is not a bad elf! Tarky does what he is told! Tarky does not deserve freedom!"
"Maybe not," Harry said. "Maybe not. But if you don't want it, you've got to keep a secret for us. You can't tell your master we were here tonight. And if you ever see us again, somewhere else, you can't run off and warn master. Got it?"
"Yes sir! Yes sir!" The elf was calmer, but still lying prostrate, still trembling.
"Get up," Harry said, "and do what you came to do."
The elf scrambled to its - his - feet, ran over to the box of dragon's blood, and gripped the corner of it with his little hand. With a crack!, he and the box were gone.
"Well," Harry said, "we did what we could. We got the elf's name."
"I could've slipped a tracking amulet in that box, while he was flipping out," Dean said.
"And he'd have ended up dead."
And here was another reason Harry liked working with Dean: there were too many Aurors who would've shrugged the life of a house-elf off, but Dean said, "Yeah. You're right. Bad idea."
Harry leaned back against a table, taking deep breaths in, slow breaths out. Part of him had wanted to shake that elf until he told - or bully him into beating himself up. Part of him still wished he had.
He realised, with a sort of detachment he didn't often manage, that he was beginning to crack along the stress lines.
"Shall we have a quick look-round?" Dean didn't wait for an answer, but began opening cupboards and poking through boxes. "This place smells awful, what do you reckon it is?"
"I'm going to guess that he mixes up potions in his spare time," Harry said, "strong ones. Dark ones. Who knows what we're breathing in."
Dean shuddered, and kept snooping. Harry still didn't join him, because he was beginning to realise that it wasn't just stress that had his body on edge.
This job was about to nosedive in the same way that their last one had.
He couldn't do that to Dean again. And he couldn't be forced into rest and recuperation again, or worse, into a
hospital bed, or even worse, into some sort of heavy-going observation/hunt for pernicious magical influences. Not
right now. He didn't have time.
Harry gave up on the deep breathing. "Dean, will you be in charge of finding out who Tarky belongs to? You could go talk to Dobby - if he doesn't know, he could probably find out."
Dean turned to look at him, obviously surprised. "Yeah, okay. . ."
"And you'll owl me?"
"Why -?"
"There's something I need take care of," Harry said. "And you'll be better off on your own."
Dean, who was a very good Auror, studied Harry. "All right," he said finally.
"Thanks," Harry said, and left while he still could.
*
A/N: Many thanks to Cynthia Black, Dorotea, Paracelsus, and Sahiya for beta.