Trust and Betrayal
By: JA_Japster
Inspired and partially based on the OAV "Samurai X"
Copyright Notice: Harry Potter is copyrighted to J.K Rowling and Samurai X and Rurouni Kenshin is copyrighted to Nobuhiro Wazuki and Shueisha Jump Comics. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.
Betrayal
Part I: Fisherman's Village
Patrick Langley grunted with exertion as he pushed the hulk of a small fishing vessel back into the decaying frame of a wooden shed nearby. He exhaled wearily, wiping the sweat from his broad forehead, his face flushed with exhaustion. Running a hand along the boat's smooth surface, Patrick despaired over the jagged crack along the bottom that marred its otherwise flawless craftsman ship. It was the third time this week that a stray rock on the beach had disabled the small craft, and fixing it would be no easy task, even for a master carpenter like himself.
He walked out of the shed, locking it behind him, and walked toward a cottage near the sand. The house was in an equal state of disrepair as the shed, but twenty years of operating his fishing business out of it had convinced him that it would not collapse on him any day soon. White paint chipped off as he walked up the stairs, and the door squeaked noisily on its rusty hinges as Patrick threw it open.
"Janus!" He roared, squinting in the cottage's ill lit interior. It was cramped and a mess, untouched by a woman's hand for some ten years now ever since his wife had left him. Fishing nets and half constructed rods lay scattered over the floor along with a collection of empty tankards, and recently caught fish hung from the ceiling to dry in the blazing mid afternoon sun.
Suddenly, from somewhere beneath the wreck, a man appeared in a hailstorm of trash, startling Patrick. The burly fisherman stumbled backward, letting loose a string of vulgarities in the direction of the man.
"God damn it, Janus! Don't do that!" Patrick yelled.
The man's head cocked sideways comically, and rubbed his tousled mane of white hair. He was much younger than Patrick's forty-seven years, probably only around his mid-twenties, but he still acted too childish for his age. He was a handsome man with hair the color of snow and eyes as red as fiery coals, leading many of their neighbors to believe he was a demon incarnated into a human's form. These rumors were quickly dissuaded by his quirky sense of humor and natural charm that put even his most harsh critics at ease.
"Sorry about that, Patrick." Janus O'Meara replied embarrassedly. His words were under lined not by the coarse English accent native to the region, but that of an Irishman like his surname implied. "Was there something you needed?"
"I hit a rock on the way in." Patrick told the younger man. "I need to see if you can patch it up."
Janus sighed exasperatedly. "That's the third time this week, Patrick. Where would you be if I weren't around to save you all the time?"
Patrick snorted and replied gruffly, "I'd probably better off, only with all the food and supplies you've been nicking for the past five years."
The white-haired Irishman smiled and bounced to his feet. Like all of the fisherman in the village, he wore loose clothing suitable for the beach's hot climate regardless of the time of day, and therefore had no need to change. "Sure enough," he said, chuckling to himself as he exited out of the cottage.
He sure is an odd one, Patrick thought. At first, Patrick thought Janus was just another one of the roamers that frequently came and left the fisherman's village. He was right about the first half. The Irishman showed up one day out of nowhere, but had never left. Instead, he had become first an apprentice for Patrick's small business, and eventually over the years had become his partner and friend.
Janus was a nice guy, sure enough. He had the entire village's available young females chasing after him, but his friendly demeanor could not mask the eccentricities that lurked within. For starters, take the fishing boat for example. Normally it would have taken a skilled craftsman like Patrick a half week of intense labor to repair the damage, but he was certain that Janus would have it up and going before the day was out. He had done it twice already, never explaining how.
"Magic." Janus had always replied with a small impish smile.
Magic. What a load of nonsense.
But that was not the end of it. Every so often the white haired Irishman would entertain a steady parade of the oddest people. Always clad in black robes inappropriate for the beach's sweltering heat, they would arrive at all hours of the day, stay for only a few minutes, and then depart without a word to Patrick. They never messed up anything or distracted Janus from his work, and that was the only reason why Patrick tolerated their presence.
The strange men had just shown up three days ago for the first time in over a year. This time they lingered for a few
minutes longer, speaking with Janus about something Patrick did not hear, and then left. When confronted about what the
men wanted, Janus shrugged.
"Nothing important," Was all he said.
Patrick did not believe him. He was sure Janus was hiding something from him. Janus seldom spoke of why he had journeyed from Ireland to England, but Patrick suspected those men might have something to do with it.
Bah! It was probably nothing. And more to the point it was probably none of his business what his partner had done in the past. Everyone had secrets, and Patrick knew he had enough of his own. He walked back out of the cottage into the inviting sun. There was still much work to be done.
--
Hermione trudged wearily after Harry down the well worn path, perspiration dampening her forehead from the humid climate that had steadily grown as they traveled. Over the past five miles the dirt roads she had grown accustomed to had given way to sandy trails, and the warm air was occasionally punctuated by a refreshing breeze that carried the scent of the sea. They were somewhere miles away from London on the northeastern coastline of England, just like the letter had instructed.
The letter…
She frowned just at the memory of the single scrap of parchment that had confirmed all their worst fears, changing everything. Harry had destroyed it long ago, but even now Hermione could remember the message perfectly. It had been concise and to the point.
Harry,
All safe houses in London have been compromised. All friendly contacts along with the leaders of the northern faction have been exposed and terminated. Take Hermione and head north east until you reach a place called the Fisherman's Village, a small muggle fishing community which is unlisted on maps, but the locals will be familiar with it. Watch after Hermione and protect her; she is all you have now. Contact a muggle named Jerome at the village. I have forwarded a letter to him. He will provide you with what you need. Hurry, and be wary of whom you trust. The spy is still unknown. Watch after and protect Hermione, she is now all that you have left.
I have managed to escape the Ministry watch along with other leaders and are in hiding. I can not tell where in case this letter is intercepted. Keep a low profile, and I will contact you when the time arises.
Dumbledore.
So Ron was dead, and the Three Broomsticks raided. Hermione had little hope that Madam Rosmerta, Ginny, and her other friends there were still alive. She was familiar with the Ministry's policies on the rebellion, and that they made no distinction between the rebels and those who aided them. More than likely they had all been executed. In one night the Death Eaters had shattered Harry's world. They had taken away everyone and everything he had ever known, leaving him with nothing but Dumbledore's last orders to follow.
He has me too, thought Hermione. Not that that's ever done him any good.
The two had been traveling for a week now, and since that fateful night Harry had not spoken. During the long hikes they would through open prairies, dirt paths, and twisty mountain ranges, Harry would only say enough to communicate their destination or next course of action. Occasionally they would risk taking a faster form of muggle travel like a horse drawn carriage, but even when confined alone in the spacious compartment, Harry slept or stared listlessly out the window. He ignored all of Hermione's many attempts at conversation, content with the silence.
At first Hermione thought it had been a result of the shock ever since he read the letter, but now his self pity was beginning to irritate her. It was not as though she did not sympathize with Harry's loss, but having an unresponsive traveling companion was beginning to test her patience.
But then why would he want to speak with her? All she had ever done so far was to hurt him. She wanted to apologize to him again, wishing that with those simple words she could make things right, but she knew it would be pointless. Harry's wounds would have to heal in their own time, and nothing Hermione could say or do would expedite to the process.
"We should make it there by morning tomorrow." Harry said when they stopped to rest. In the distance, Hermione could see the sparkling blue ocean lap against the beachfront, sending foamy waves crashing onto the sand. The last time she had seen the ocean was when she was only a young girl. She smiled. Seeing it again brought back fond memories of better times.
"Do you know who Jerome is?" asked Hermione.
Harry shook his head. "He's supposed to be expecting us. He owns a series of cottages near the beach; that's all I really know."
Hermione glanced over the assassin, pleasantly startled. That had been the most Harry had said since they left London.
Maybe now that they were almost safe, he would begin to relax a little. She hoped so.
"What will we do once we get there?" She leaned back and rested her head against one of the lumpy sacks of meager supplies they had scourged along the way. She had been sleeping on these for the last week, and the invitation of a regular bed and a substantial meal was not unappealing.
Harry shrugged and lay down beside her. "Lie low until Dumbledore contacts us, I suppose. It shouldn't be too long."
"And if it is?" She asked.
"It won't." Harry replied firmly.
"How do you know?"
"It won't." Harry insisted. "I have no intention of rooting myself down here. With any luck, I'll be recalled to London before long and we'll go our separate ways."
Hermione turned her head away from Harry to disguise the sudden hurt in her eyes. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
A long unsettling silence filled the air, and Harry murmured ruefully. "That didn't come out right."
"Did it?" Hermione asked bitterly. "Or are you really so anxious to return to London? For what? To avenge those who died two weeks ago by killing more people?"
"No-"Harry began, but stopped himself, realizing the lie even as he spoke it. He hung his head and turned away from Hermione's accusing stare. "The Order has suffered a serious blow, one which we may never recover from. I feel my talents were best allocated back in London. That's all."
Hermione snorted disbelieving. "And this is not at all motivated by a desire to get revenge on those who have harmed you?"
"And what if it is?" demanded Harry angrily. "You were there! You know what the Death Eaters, what the
ministry has done to our friends and comrades! What is wrong with revenge?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything." She said distantly. "It's just if you go and kill to avenge the dead, and then others go to avenge those you have slain, where will it end? When will the killing ever stop?"
Harry did not answer, and instead rose to his feet and picked up his sack. "Let's go." He said, concluding their brief discussion. Without waiting for her, he set off down the path.
Hermione sighed sadly, watching him depart. Well, at least he's talking to me again, she thought dolefully.
Author's Notes:
Well that's the first chapter of Betrayal. Guess my break was shorter than I thought. Just can't stop writing I guess. In this portion of the story, there will be a less emphasis on action and killing, and a lot more time spent on character development and interaction between the story's two protagonists. I'm going to introduce a few new characters into the mix (like Janus the albino Irishman) as well to add another dose of originality to the story.
Thanks to all those who have reviewed! Keep 'em coming, because I need people to bolster my perpetually waning self esteem. Well, not really. I just really like reviews.