Chapter Seven - Old Enemies, New Allies
"Oy, Harry," said Ron, as he barged into Harry's hospital room. "There's a mess of those Muggle reporters out there waiting for you." Ron beamed. "They even started asking me questions! Malfoy's gotta be out of his gourd, eh?" Ron stuck up his nose and put on an imitation of a very snooty wizard. "In the news again, Potter? You and Weasley, stealing all of my attention again, Potter? Blah, blah, waah, waah, waah, Potter? Potter! Potter! Potter!"
Over the din of laughter following, Harry heard a snide, drawling voice. "I see you're still hanging around with low-class wizards and mudbloods, Potter." It was Draco Malfoy, the very person Ron had been poking fun of seconds earlier. Everyone stopped laughing.
Draco Malfoy had been Harry's greatest rival at Hogwarts. From the very day the two boys arrived at school in their first year, they had been at serious odds. Draco was from a very wealthy, and great wizarding family. Draco was incessantly spoiled by his wealthy parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and he also enjoyed a brand of popularity at school because of his parents' money, power, and influence in the wizarding world.
However, Draco's parents were also Death Eaters, and devoted followers of Lord Voldemort. Thanks to Harry's Auror mentors, the Malfoys, along with numerous other Death Eaters, were ultimately stripped of their power, stripped of their wealth, and sentenced to life in Azkaban. To everyone's shock, after Hogwarts, Draco gave up magic and foresook his wizarding roots. He chose, instead, to live among Muggles, continue his education, and to simply forget his parents and forget the death, destruction and damage they caused. This was especially surprising given the Malfoy family's sheer and unadulterated hatred for Muggles and moreso, wizards with Muggle parentage, such as Hermione.
Harry looked up and saw Draco leaning lazily against the doorframe, his legs crossed at the ankles. "Well, Potter," Draco said, "Bet you're wondering what I'm doing here."
"Malfoy? Uh, yeah. What are you doing here?" Harry felt a mixture of astonishment and growing annoyance. The man standing in the doorway before him was not the Draco Malfoy he remembered. At school, Draco was thin and pasty with a shock of slicked-back white-blonde hair. This Draco was tall, well-built, handsome, smartly-dressed, and tanned - but with the same blonde hair and steely gray eyes. Now, the hair was longer, tousled, and stylish, its glowing color broken by the trendy sunglasses perched on Draco's head. Even though Draco's look changed, to Harry, the voice, and unfortunately, the attitude of superiority, had not.
"What makes you think," Harry's ire was rising, "that I need anything from you?" Hermione and Ron matched Harry's glare. "Why, Malfoy, after all these years, and all the crap that's gone between us, all the 'Potter Stinks,' and 'Weasley is Our King' and all that rot, are you here now?" Harry could feel years of forgotten anger welling up inside him.
"What could you possibly want from me? Want to rub it in? Looking to join the bandwagon? Looking to see me all hacked off? Looking for some Muggle press of your own now you've busted your wand and gone and joined that lot? Or are you still the jealous, wormy little pansy tart attention-seeker that you were seven years ago?" Hermione laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, signaling, Harry thought, that he may have gone a bit too far.
Draco, despite the not-so-warm welcome, remained leaning in the doorway. He slowly raised his hand, curled his fingers over and casually inspected his fingernails. "I got an owl-post." Draco said calmly, his nose scrunching as if he had smelled something foul. He looked up at Harry.
"A big, ugly bloody owl. I haven't gotten an owl in seven years! I was in my office last night, working on a post-trial brief, and my partner knocked on my door." Draco, remaining affable despite Harry's insults, hoisted himself off the doorframe, and entered, placing his briefcase and sunglasses on a chair. Harry bristled slightly at this intrusion into his hospital room.
"I told him to come in, and he did." Draco continued. "Trev looked horrible, his hair a great mess, feathers everywhere, his fingers all bloodied, and his Armani ripped at the shoulder. He was shaking, holding a parchment letter in his hand. Trev asked me, he did, 'Dillon, do you know who Draco Malfoy is? Some big owl just swooped down on me in the middle of the Daley Center and pecked at me until I took this letter off its leg!'"
"Draco Malfoy - now that's a name I hadn't heard in a long time, and I was not at all keen on hearing it again." Draco moved closer to Harry's bedside, and tugged at the knot in his tie. "You see, Potter, I go by Dillon Mallory now. Dillon Mallory, attorney at law." He held out his hand for a shake. Harry, Hermione and Ron just stared.
"Well," Draco brushed his hands together. "Indeed, I told my partner no, but I asked, out of sheer curiosity, to see the letter anyways. I opened it, and here I am. I hopped on the first flight this morning from O'Hare." Draco gave a mock-bow. "At your service, beck and call - your counselor."
Harry just continued to stare, unblinkingly. He didn't know what to think. Was Draco Malfoy actually offering his help? Had Draco changed so much that he was willing to put aside his practice, travel from Chicago, and actually represent Harry? Harry knew how to read people, it was part of his job. If Draco had any ulterior motives in offering to help, Harry would have known it.
Draco continued. "You see, I've been on trial this last week - quite a nasty murder one, at that -- and I hadn't the time to absorb any news, let alone even glance at a newspaper. I got this parchment," Draco shuddered, "and started going through the stack of newspapers piled on my desk." He held his hand over Harry's bedside table to demonstrate the height of the stack.
"Imagine my increasing horror when I flipped over each paper, saw your ugly mug, Potter, and read headlines like, 'Hijack Attempt Thwarted,' 'Mystery Illness Overcomes Flight 233 Hero,' 'Hijacker's Death Baffles Experts,' and worst of all, 'Thank You, Harry Potter.'" Draco looked as if he were going to wretch. "You just can't stay out of the limelight, can you, Potter?"
Harry blinked. "Who sent you the owl, Draco? I didn't."
Draco was nonplussed. "Not you?" He looked to Ron and Hermione. They both shook their heads. "Not you two, either, I suppose? Well, we have another little mystery on our hands now don't we."
Harry simply shrugged. He really hadn't sent for Malfoy, and he knew that neither Hermione nor Ron had either. Even if he wanted to, with Malfoy renouncing the use of magic and wishing to live as a Muggle, Harry would not, as much as he disliked Malfoy, have sent an owl to deliver a parchment or to fetch him. Whoever sent for Malfoy - or, Mallory -- Harry thought, that wizard must not have agreed with or respected Mallory's wishes.
"So," said Draco, "I guess it's time for me to do my job. I just talked to the nurse outside, and she tells me you're being released as we speak. She is on her way with your transport outside." Draco gave a wry smile. "Well, again, Potter - your press awaits."
Both Harry and Draco became awkwardly silent. Harry, still leery, was the first to break it.
"Malfoy, I'll probably never like you overmuch, and I still think you're an insufferable twit. But…" Harry softened. His eyes dropped, and he fidgeted with his fingers. "I always knew you could be a good man. I just…" Harry looked at Draco, feeling a slight pang of guilt, "I wanted to say how sorry I am for you, with - your parents, being, um, where they are and with what happened and all. You, um, didn't deserve any of what happened to you, at least, Malfoy. I know that what you went through was horrible, and I know you you had faith in your parents, and you never really thought…"
Draco bristled, and spoke slowly and deliberately. "I have neither time nor energy for sentiments concerning Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Potter. As far as I am concerned, the Malfoy's never were my - Dillon Mallory's - parents, and Dillon Mallory's parents are long dead."
"Well, um," said Harry, and he gave a wan smile. "You're just in time, anyways. The American FBI wants to debrief me today. I could, um," Harry swallowed, "really use your help."
Harry never thought he'd hear himself agreeing to take anything - let alone help or advice - from Draco Malfoy. But, Harry thought, this wasn't Draco Malfoy anymore. It was Dillon Mallory -- and Dillon Mallory, Harry perceived, was going to be a great, strong, and worthy ally. "So," Harry continued, "Thanks….Mallory. Where do we start?"
"We can start by getting out of here in one piece," replied Draco. "Get your shirt on, Harry, the nurse is here."
Chapter Eight - The Surprising Interview
Hermione pushed Harry's wheelchair past the crowd of reporters and journalists waiting outside the Hospital. Luckily for Harry, Draco had insisted that the Hospital ensure Harry's safe exit, and demanded that they cordon off the press with security and roping before they left. To Harry's great relief, he did not have to answer a single question on his way out of the hospital.
Draco had given a pre-prepared speech to the press, advising them that Harry was still very weak from his coma, that, because of his condition, he had no memory of the incident, and that he required a long, easy rest to fully recover from his ordeal. Surprisingly, and, Harry thought, with a little help from a well-placed charm or two, the members of the press were quite malleable to Draco's demands and Harry's wishes. Harry, tugging on Draco's suit coat sleeve, thanked his old rival and made it clear how grateful he was for the diversions.
The four rode in relative silence in Draco's rented Lexis SUV to an upscale Muggle hotel. True to Draco's nature, the four-star hotel had a reputation for secrecy and strict protection of its high-class, and often famous, customers. "Good thing I'd managed my dad's gold in Gringott's Bank so well," Harry whispered to Hermione, "I think Draco's bill is ultimately going to cost me a small fortune."
The four checked into their respective rooms. About an hour later, Draco knocked on Harry and Hermione's hotel room door. He entered to find Harry staring out the window, and Hermione busying herself with unpacking. Draco saw that Ron was also in the room, perched on the end of the bed, fascinated with the television remote control. "Amazing…" Ron whispered to himself, as he flipped through the channels rapid-fire.
Ron, who grew up in a wizarding family, did not have many opportunities to watch television. There were too many other things to occupy his time - reading, lessons, playing Exploding Snap and Wizards Chess with his five siblings, playing a broomstick game called Quidditch in the back acreage, chasing Cornish pixies and gnomes out of his mother's vegetable garden, and practicing the spells his father taught him.
Ron's father, however, would have given anything to have a television in the house. His father, unlike Draco's father, was fascinated by everything Muggle. Arthur Weasley even had a broad collection of Muggle artifacts - toasters, batteries, telephones, plugs, and even an old, broken radio. Ron remembered each of these items from in his father's workshop. Mr. Weasley would take these things apart, enchant them, and put them back together just to see what happened. The height and pinnacle of Mr. Weasley's tinkering was the Flying Ford Anglia car. It seemed that Ron had inherited his father's affinity for Muggle inventions.
"Some things never change," thought Draco as he watched Ron fiddle with the remote's battery compartment. "Harry?" Draco approached Harry cautiously. "We need to go. You need to give your statement to the Muggle…" Draco caught himself using the word as naturally as he did seven years ago. The prospect of diving headlong into Harry, Ron, and Hermione's world again proved somewhat unnerving. "I mean the investigators from the FBI and Scotland Yard. They're waiting for us at the Federal Building."
"Does he have to go now, Draco? I mean, really. He's tired. He needs his rest now…" Hermione moved over to Harry and offered him a glass of water. "Harry, come to bed, sweetheart, you're…"
"Hermione," said Harry, taking her hand, "I'm fine. I do need rest, but I also need to get this over with. You've already been questioned, and you told me it wasn't so bad. The longer I delay, the longer it is until we can just move on with our lives. The sooner I do this, the sooner we can go back home to Godric's Hollow, start over, and have that family we've been talking about." Harry smiled and brushed a stray piece of hair out of Hermione's eyes. "Don't worry. You and Ron go see the sights if you want. I'm sure this hotel has a limo or something. Go to the Rock and Roll Museum, maybe, or to Cedar Point?" He laughed. "Draco and I will be back before you know it."
Harry inched carefully off of the window seat and walked slowly toward the door, his muscles and bones still stiff and achy from seven days without his usual strict exercise regimen. "Besides, Hermione, the walk to the car will do me good." He bent and kissed Hermione gently on the forehead, and then her mouth. "I love you, Hermione."
"Oh, crap!" growled Draco. "Can we save the snogging and the sappy goodbyes, please? Let's go, Potter."
The drive to the Federal Building in noontime traffic seemed an eternity. Harry tried, pushed, even strained to remember what exactly happened on Flight 233. He knew that the investigators would want a blow-by-blow and shot-by-shot replay of the hijacking, and ultimately, the killings. Try as Harry could, there was a significant void in his memory - a void which he could not fill, even with the recounts Hermione gave him.
At the Federal Building, Harry and Draco were met by a pleasant-looking security officer. The name on her badge said, "Dianna Lindros." She introduced herself, and brought Harry and Draco up an elevator and to a small room - windowless with the exception of a large mirror on one side. "Wait here, please, Mr. Potter, Mr. Mallory." Agent Travis and Inspector MacGillen will be right in. Have a seat, and help yourself to coffee from the pot or soda from the fridge over there."
Draco gave Dianna a short, "thanks," and set his briefcase upon the long table in the middle of the room. Harry didn't know if he wanted to sit, pace the room, or even run. Harry had the distinct feeling that his confident façade was about to be shattered by those who shattered confident facades for a living. "Sit down, Harry!" Draco ordered. "You're driving me insane with your pacing, man!"
Harry obliged him, settling down in a straight-backed chair beside Draco. "Now, you listen to me, Potter. Even though this seems a friendly interview, these things can easily turn ugly, you believe me." Draco turned his chair to face Harry, and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He jabbed a finger at Harry with just about every word. "Keep your answers simple. Don't volunteer too much. A yes or no question gets a yes or no answer." Draco softened. "But above all, Harry," He glanced at the mirror. "Tell the truth, as best you can. If I feel that you're being threatened in any way, I will stop the interview. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Harry replied. "I understand." Harry was still amazed at the uncharactersistic level of concern Draco had for him. Maybe, Harry thought, Muggle life has been good for him.
With that, the door opened, and two people entered the room. One was an older man, near sixty. The man had a grizzled look to him, and wore what seemed a permanent scowl on his face. His tan jacket, mismatched tie, and white shirt were crumpled and disheveled. He lumbered into the room, placed a styrofoam coffee cup on the table, and lowered himself gingerly into a seat opposite Draco.
The other was a woman, about twenty-nine years old with starkly made-up features, bobbed red hair and sparkling green eyes. She entered and immediately shook Draco's and Harry's hands. "I'm Agent Laura Travis, FBI. This," She gestured toward the sitting man, "is Inspector Drew MacGillen from Scotland Yard."
After Draco introduced himself and Harry, Inspector MacGillen gave a curt nod and a "hrrumph" in acknowledgement. Agent Travis sat in the chair next to MacGillen and set a small hand-held tape recorder on the tabletop.
"Is it okay if we record this, Mr. Potter?" she asked. "I need your permission before we do so."
Draco intervened, leaning forward in his chair. "Why don't you interview my client off the record, first, Agent Travis." He leaned back, draping a casual arm over the back of the chair. "Find out what he knows. Then, if it's necessary we can do it again for the tape." Agent Travis, much to Inspector MacGillen's apparent chagrin and objection, agreed.
"So, Mr. Potter," Inspector MacGillen began. "Tell me, what do you know about a man who calls himself Lord Voldemort?"
Harry and Draco both went instantly white. Draco gave a small shudder at the sound of Voldemort's name. Harry looked at Draco, and then to Inspector MacGillen in amazement. He looked back at Draco, seeking some hidden advice in his face. Clearly, there was none. Draco was as flummoxed as Harry.
"Who is Lord Voldemort?" Harry stalled for time. "Is that what you want to know?"
"That's what I asked you, Mr. Potter."
Agent Travis took over. Her tone, unlike that of Mr. MacGillen was friendly, almost sisterly. Harry immediately sensed that they were working off each other, playing the 'good cop, bad cop' routine. "Mr. Potter," Agent Travis continued. "It is very important to tell us if you know anything about who he really is, his whereabouts, or who his supporters are."
Harry's face remained motionless.
"Mr. Potter, I can see you're agitated about this whole thing, and I'm sure the Inspector's question has come as some surprise to you. Let me share with you what we know, ok?" She smiled pleasantly, reached in her bag on the floor, and pulled out three copies of the Daily Prophet, the wizarding daily newspaper. She held these up dramatically, and then began to systematically flatten them onto the table, facing Draco.
Both Harry and Draco struggled to keep their mouths from hanging open. All their lives they had been trained and taught that Muggles should never know about the wizardnig world. It had just become apparent to both of them that they did. At least the intelligencia knew. More surprising, the Muggle investigators were actually following and seeking out Voldemort for some reason. Knowing that they both wore shocked looks on their faces, neither Harry nor Draco would even think to hide their knowledge of these publications.
"Where did you get these?" Draco insisted, taking another glance at the mirrored window. "How did you get these?"
Harry took one of the newspapers and began to scan it. It looked extremely familiar. This Daily Prophet edition was from years ago. The lead article concerned the Ministry of Magic accepting Harry's account of Voldemort's return to power after Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts. It said that Voldemort was back, and that he was congregating his Death Eaters again to wreak havoc and destruction among both wizards and Muggles. Harry's name was all over the article, and his picture was plastered on the front page. Harry knew there was no denying it now.
"We've intercepted numerous owls flying over the U.S. and England carrying this particular publication, and others like it, Mr. Malfoy." She replied, slyly.
Before Draco could correct her to say, "Mallory," a sick, sinking wave of dread washed over him. "My name is Dillon Mallory. Not Malfoy." He replied as calmly as possible.
"No," she smiled benignly, tilting her head, "It's Malfoy. Draco, isn't it?" Agent Travis took another newspaper, and turned it over. There, Draco saw a photograph of his younger self and his parents, along with the headline, "Malfoys Sentenced to Azkaban."
Draco was all too familiar with the headline and story, as he had read it over and over and over again when it was first published. In fact, Draco still had a rather crumpled and beaten up copy of this edition hidden in his Chicago Lakefront condo. He would read it now and then when he felt particularly low about his decision to live as a Muggle -- to remind him of how horrible his family, and its legacy as a pack of Death Eaters, was.
"Actually, Agent Travis, we know quite a bit about Lord Voldemort." Harry injected. Draco, still reeling from the shock of seeing the article about his family's disgrace, did not try to stop Harry.
Harry continued. "His given name is Tom Marvolo Riddle." Agent Travis looked at him quizzically, holding her pen suspended above her notepad. "Oh, Marvolo - M-a-r-v-o-l-o; and Riddle - R-i-d-d-l-e."
After Agent Travis finished writing the name, Harry went on. "Fifty or so years ago he was a star student at Hogwarts - a school prefect, Head Boy, and all that. Then, about 24 years ago, when I was a baby, he, then calling himself Voldemort, killed my parents."
Again, Agent Travis held her pen suspended and looked up at Harry. "Oh. Yes. Their names, right. James Potter and Lily Evans-Potter." Harry continued after the second interruption. "He tried to kill me as well, gave me this scar." Harry pushed his hair off his forehead to reveal his scar. Harry could see Agent Travis making a small sketch-drawing of the scar's shape. "As to his whereabouts now, what he's doing, and exactly who he's associated with," he shot a quick glance at Draco, "neither of us know." Draco nodded his head in agreement.
"In my line of work," Harry continued, "it's my job to find the Dark Lord's supporters, and prevent the mayhem they cause in his name. In fact, I've sent quite a few of them to prison." Harry shot a glance toward Draco. "But, as to Voldemort himself… he's been more elusive than ever. The Ministry's last spy to infiltrate Voldemort's circle was killed about four years ago. We haven't been able to keep tabs on him since."
"You, Mr. Potter, are an Auror, am I correct?" grumbled Inspector MacGillen. Harry nodded. "Stupid, meddling gits. Your kind, with your strong-arm tactics, have gotten your noses 'round about, ruining my investigations for years now. In fact, just four weeks ago, you sent my agent -- who has managed successfully to, as you say, infiltrate -- to that Ass-key-bland place. It's taken up a week's worth of my valuable time just to get the Ministry of Magic to let him out!"
"Azkaban," Harry corrected. "And if Crabbe was your agent, I would never have known it." Harry shook off the thought, focusing on the conversation at hand. "But regardless, what does this have to do with the hijacking and the flight? Do you think Voldemort had anything to do with it?"
"Harry, Harry, Harry…" Agent Travis said in a suddenly familiar, mock-soothing, and almost condescending tone. "We know you don't remember what happened. We know you can't tell us much about how the co-pilot died, or why the entire crew and passengers were asleep when the plane landed - even though the pilot said they were gassed, which we found no trace of evidence to support -- or why there was a pool of blood on the floor of the coach cabin when no one seems to have been hurt back there. Those things may always remain a mystery."
Agent Travis paused, her sympathetic smile fading, and her eyes boring into Harry's. "Despite all that, Harry, we do have our suspicions about the death of the hijacker. However, we won't share those suspicions with the Ministry of Magic just yet if you are willing to cooperate with us, to help us."
Harry knew immediately what "suspicions" she was talking about. "You…" he felt a sudden wave of mild anger. "You know how the hijacker died? Why don't you tell me your theory? Share with me your suspicions."
MacGillen smiled at Harry for the first time since the interview began. "Avada Kedavra." He need say no more. Harry and Draco both became intently silent. MacGillen continued. "Under our laws, Mr. Potter, no prosecutor in his right mind would press charges against you for killing the hijacker - you did it in self-defense, defense of your beautiful young wife, defense of the entirety of that plane, and defense of this country. You were a hero." He paused, smiling again. "But, I can't say that your Ministry of Magic and your Wizengamot judges would be as sentimental, or as lenient, now, can I?"
Harry knew immediately that he was right. "What can we do to help you?"
"Mr. Potter," began Agent Travis, suddenly formal again. "Just like in the 1970's, there has been, over the past ten years or so, a rash of people going missing, of mysterious deaths - not unlike that of your hijacker friend."
Harry bristled, scowling at the juxtaposition of the words, "hijacker" and "friend."
"Also, within the last four to five years, there has been an immesurable surge in the amount of terrorist attacks, kidnappings, public murders, beheadings, bombings, gassings, shootings, and other horrible, horrible events."
"But," interjected Harry, "Aren't all of those caused by terrorist factions -- Bin Laden, Hussein, Chechnyan rebels and the like? These are religiously and politically motivated, naught to do with wizards! From what I've read in the papers, there's enough hateful and evil impetus to supposedly motivate these - people - without the need for outside influence from Voldemort! What makes you think that he - that Voldemort -- has any control over these terrorists?"
Agent Travis nodded her head, apparently impressed with Harry's grip on non-wizarding world affairs. "Very true, Mr. Potter, and a very astute observation." Agent Travis said calmly. "But, the three terrorists we arrested from the plane acted very strangely when we questioned them. It was as if they were all struggling against some form of mind control, some kind of drugging, or something that forced them all to do what they didn't want to do. We hadn't seen this behavior in a very long time."
Harry's suspicions grew, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as Agent Travis continued. "They would go back and forth from acting defiant, spitting at us, and calling us infidels -- to breaking down, sobbing and begging us to help them. They even went in and out from speaking in a strange, unintelligible language none of us could place, translate, or figure out!"
She stared at Harry for a moment, searching for a reaction, seeing if she could jog a memory. When none came, she went on. "Plus, Mr. Potter, these hijackers had guns! You know how impossible it is to get guns - or weapons of any kind -- on a plane, even if there is an inside job. Our airport security is so high that…"
Harry finished the sentence for her. "they only could have gotten the weapons on board using some kind of spell or magic" Agent Travis nodded slowly and deliberately.
"Agent Travis," Harry continued, now leaning forward, his elbows on the table. "I don't remember how these people acted, but I will lay you odds that those people weren't drugged. They were under the Imperius Curse." Agent Travis cocked her head, and blinked. MacGillen looked up at Harry over his coffee cup. "It's an unforgiveable curse that subjects the victim to the total control of the person who cast it. I was a victim of it once. I was able to fight it, but I can't imagine a Muggle…I mean, a normal person being able to, or even surviving under it with their wits intact."
"That makes sense, Mr. Potter," Agent Travis pondered. "The people we arrested - all three of them were Americans. They were people with normal families and decent jobs. They were well-known and loved in their communities. One was a church pastor! Even Peter Sariens was a good person before this all happened. He was a star marketing student at Northwestern University, was the Historian of Kappa Sigma - a top fraternity, and was on his way to being a ranking professional golfer. Before this, Peter would never have attacked anyone, let alone killed someone at point-blank range in cold blood."
Harry thought momentarily. "If Voldemort is using Americans against their own people, he must be having trouble controlling the other terrorists - the ones who flew the planes and attacked those people on September 11th." Harry thought harder. "Or, perhaps, Voldemort wants to be caught. Perhaps he wants someone, an Auror, like me - or like you, Agent Travis -- to know he was behind the hijacking. Maybe he knew you were onto him."
"Or," Draco said ominously, "perhaps Voldemort's ultimate target was not the plane or the people or Capitol Building after all." He looked at Harry, worry glinting in his otherwise cold, gray eyes. "Perhaps, Harry, his target this time, after all these years, was - you."