Trust and Betrayal
By: JA_Japster
Inspired and partially based on the OAV "Samurai X"
Harry Potter is copyrighted to J.K Rowling and Samurai X and Rurouni Kenshin is copyrighted to their respective owners. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.
Truth
Part III: Death at the Docks
Cornelius Fudge sat at his desk looking distinctly more disheveled than the prim and proper standard he usually upheld. His coat laid cast on the floor somewhere alongside his bowler, and dark shadows from a lack of sleep filled his eyes. He yawned from behind the mammoth stack of papers that occupied the top of his desk, and took another sip from the half emptied bottle of England's finest whiskey.
He placed the bottle back down on his desk with a bang. In Fudge's other hand was a small mirror in which a face that was not his own appeared. The face that appeared in the glass belonged to a younger man, and his voice echoed in the small chamber as he spoke.
"We heard of the news of Theodon's death." The man said.
"Yes. Tragic indeed." Fudge replied. "How is my granddaughter taking to the news?"
The man scowled. "As well as could be expected if your fiancé to be was murdered."
Fudge sighed and took another shot of whiskey. He let the slow burn of the liquor as it traveled down his throat calm him before he spoke again. "I would like her to come down to London so I can see her."
"Are you mad, Fudge?" The man asked. "She's distraught over the news of Theodon's death. She doesn't eat, doesn't sleep…she rarely even talks to anyone anymore."
"I wish for her to come to London irregardless. Getting her active again will be the quickest way for her to overcome her grief."
"Her parents will never allow for it."
Fudge laughed bitterly. "Muggles." He said disgustedly. "We need not their approval. Make it happen."
"Very well." With those last words the man's face disappeared from the mirror. A few moments past, and then the mirror shimmered, and the face of another man, older this time with light brown hair and proud eyes that glared from within the glass once again, replaced the usual reflection.
"Bishop." Fudge said in greeting.
"Minister." Bishop replied tersely
"What is your update on the investigation of the assassinations?"
"The same as twelve hours again, Minister. We have confirmed that one unknown suspect carried out all three murderers within a five-hour period. Whoever carried out these hits was strong enough to overcome our best Aurors and disappear with preciously few traces."
"You and your Aurors are proving to be…ineffective, Bishop." Fudge said irritably.
He was being generous with inefficiency; incompetence would have been a more appropriate choice of words. Since the rebellion had begun, a dozen major officials and countless other government workers had been murdered by the terrorists, and all the Aurors had to show for themselves thus far were speculations and theories. All the arrests made so far of suspected informants and spies were insubstantial. Fudge needed something more concrete if he hoped to show the reliability of the Ministry.
"We've been working around the clock on this case." Bishop protested. "It's impossible for us to try any harder than we already are."
"Well try harder!" Fudge roared. "I need to know who is making a mockery of me by killing our officials so brazenly! I warn you, Bishop, one more mishap in your security precautions or any additional delay in your investigation and…"
"You'll what, Minister?"
"I'll be forced to call in the Death Eaters to replace you."
A long uneasy silence filled the office. Bishop's face paled, and when he spoke again it was with a slight tremble. 'My men and I would redouble our efforts to catch the culprits. T-that's not necessary, Minister, I assure you.
Fudge smiled. "That remains to be seen."
--
It came to no surprise to Madam Rosmerta that Harry was not in his room when she came to wake him the next morning. When she opened the door she found the empty room as neat as it had when she'd cleaned it the day before. Even the four-poster bed was so nicely made that it might as well have been unused during the night.
She sighed. It vaguely occurred to her the bed might have actually been unused. Again. Harry had stayed at the Three Broomsticks long enough for Madam Rosmerta to discern that the boy seldom slept more than a few hours a night and never in the bed provided. The boy was a living enigma, kind and polite, yet so riddled with eccentricities and problems that it sometimes frightened her.
A boy as young as he shouldn't have to kill, Madam Rosmerta thought. But it was necessary. Few were gifted with the talents that Harry possessed…gifts that made him such an effective assassin. The harsh reality of the situation was that the Order would need people like Harry; people who were not afraid to get their hands dirty if they were to succeed in usurping the current government.
Harry understood this all too well. And that's why Harry agreed to do what he does.
She gently closed the door and was about to head back downstairs when a voice called from behind her.
"Good morning, Madam Rosmerta."
Startled, she turned and saw Harry standing nearby. He was dressed in a clean pair of black robes and his jet-black hair was tied neatly in a tail that hung down his back.
"Good morning, Mr. Potter. Did you sleep well?"
Harry nodded. "I feel refreshed. I thank you for your kind hospitality."
Madam Rosmerta smiled brightly. "Your more than welcome. Oh, and Mr. Weasley is waiting for your downstairs."
Harry nodded again, the same stiff politeness etched in the emotionless contours of his face, and then turned and walked down the stairs to the tavern below.
Ron sat alone at the bar, looking glumly at a tall pint of something or another. He looked exhausted, no doubt from a night severely deprived of sleep. He spotted Harry walking down the stairs and motioned to join him. Harry obliged and sat down on the stool beside his friend.
"Drink?" Ron offered.
Harry shook his head. "It's looks like you have more than your share."
Ron snorted. "Weasley's are born with a natural tolerance."
"So I take it those vomit stains on the counter belong to someone else."
"Damn straight." Ron replied. He fumbled for something in the pocket and removed a crumpled piece of paper. He slid it across the counter to Harry who picked it up and looked it over.
"Another job." Harry observed. "Kind of odd isn't it? What is this? Two nights in a row?"
"The Order can't pass up a golden opportunity like this. We're taking out Munro."
Harry's eyes widened. Everyone knew Gregory Munro. He called himself a businessman, but everyone with a half working brain knew he was one of the largest importer and exporters of illicit magical contraband in Europe. He was also a firm supporter of Fudge because Fudge chose to turn a blind eye to his illegal activities, and in return for this favor Munro was known to toss Fudge information concerning local activity from time to time.
Some of this information was occasionally about the Order of the Phoenix.
"You remember Peck right?" Ron asked.
"He was arrested for aiding the cause and sentenced to Azkiban, sure I remember. Why?"
"One of our spies has credible evidence that Munro was the one who copped him to the Ministry. Because of this, the higher ups have decided his continual existence poses a threat to Order activity."
"It's about time."
"So I take it you have no objection to this one?"
Harry shook his head. "None at all."
--
Harry sighed and took in the tranquility of the ocean as he waited in the shadows of the dock. There was something about the running of water; the sound of waves overlapping that gave him a certain measure of peace that he could not find anywhere else. If given the choice he might elect to sit here on the docks, gazing out into the fleet of trading ships on the horizon, basking in the wash of calming waves as he waited for the sun to rise.
Muggle fisherman did that Harry recalled from a periodical he once read. They lived on their boats, catching fish all day, surrounded by the same euphoric ambiance. They knew nothing of war or death, and lived day to day content with that they had. Harry would like to become a fisherman one day. He could put down his wand and vow to live a simple life. Maybe then he would find the elusive peace he sought.
One day, but not tonight. There was still business to attend to tonight.
Partially shrouded in the darkness between two anchored trading vessels was a contingent of four men. The one in the middle was Munro, a short, fat man that had grown rich through his illegal dealings. The other three men were his bodyguards, cheap thugs that one of Munro's servants hired from a nearby tavern. Scum like Munro did not warrant protection from the Ministry. Scum like Munro did not even deserve a quick death like the one Harry had granted Samuel Locke the night before.
It was men like Munro that confirmed the justice in what Harry did. Men like Munro symbolized the corruption that ate away at the government like termites inside a wooden house. They spread quickly, eating away at what past generations had fought to accomplish, until one day all would collapse into chaos. They profited from the pain and sorrows of others, and that was why men like Munro had to die.
It was for the good of the cause. For the good of England.
The group was moving up the pier away from the ships, two bodyguards in front and one taking up the rear. The bodyguards were low class wizards, men who had never attended an academy and had picked up everything they knew from experience. They posed nowhere as close to a threat as a trained Auror would, but Harry could not completely discredit them either. The stupider, weaker ones died during the early days of the rebellion. Only the strong survived.
Harry reached into his robes until he found the worn grip of his wand stored away in a protective sheath at his waist. He drew it and examined it for a second, just as he always did. It was not his first wand that he had received when he was eleven by an eccentric wand maker, but one he had meticulously constructed himself.
He ran a finger down its smooth surface and a shiver ran down his spine. It was longer than most at fourteen inches, constructed of oak and containing everything necessary for it to be a reliable instrument of destruction. Harry twirled it expertly and then replaced it in its sheath.
It was time.
Author's Notes:
Thanks to everyone who reviewed. My chapters are generally shorter because I don't have a lot of time to write and like to upload what I do have as quickly as possible. Writing this is fun because I already have a foundation, and yet can expand and take liberties wherever I want. That and Kenshin just kicks so much ass it's almost unbelievable. Deciding how to adapt the Kenshin universe into the Harry Potter universe, Japan to England, sort of thing is challenging and yet is simultaneously quite entertaining. It might not work out perfectly, but I'll try my best.
-Thanks Sauron for offering to proof read. I finished this chapter up late at night and I won't have time to check my computer for a couple of days so I'm going to pop this chapter up, but I'll be sure to send you some of my later chapters. Thanks a lot.
-Hm…thanks for pointing that out October. Something always goes wrong with the upload and Portkey has a habit of eating up spaces I put in. Made some changes. Hope it'll work.
-Thanks to everyone else who reviewed. Reviews are what keep me going and encourage me to write more. It confirms that people actually enjoy reading my stuff and that just makes my day. Keep reviewing, or I'll be forced to go back to playing video games all day…which really isn't that bad of an alternative all things considered.
Questions, comments, praises? You know where they go. Read and review folks!