Chapter 2
Harry stood quietly in a 'corner' of McGonagall's office. His training had taught him to examine his surroundings carefully, so that is what he did. Physically the room had not changed one iota in ten years. Dumbledore was still a heavy presence, both physically and spiritually. Today it was the occupants of the room that interested him. McGonagall herself, who had politely yet firmly asked Harry to call her Minerva, was sitting behind the desk that would forever belong to Dumbledore in his mind. Iain was sitting on the other side, looking exactly like Iain Menzies always had. When the two were so close, the years that had passed seemed less pronounced. Oh sure Minerva's face had a few dozen more lines, and Iain's hair was more grey than black, but together they seemed to be the teenagers they had been when they dated for a short time (it was so long ago Iain had taken to calling it a courting. Harry didn't understand the joke, which was perhaps why he always laughed at it)
The two were currently waiting on the final member of the golden trio of the 1940's: Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody. The sound of mismatched footsteps, long muffled click followed by short thunk, announced the paranoid professor's arrival moments before he actually arrived. The door flew open, revealing Mad-Eye with an outstretched wand. Where age did not seem so pronounced on his oldest friends, Mad-Eye looked easily thirty years older than he really was. His hair had gone off-white, and the multitude of scars had only been deepened by creases. He actually looked shorter, though that may be attributed to the harsh curve in his spine.
Mad-Eye's left eye, for which he is named, never ceased its vigil, but his right looked Harry up and down with an appraising glint. "I like him." He declared finally, turning to face Minerva. "Hire him." Whether or not he remembered Harry is something so one had a chance to ask, since he clomped off immediately after. Harry met Iain's eyes, eyebrows raised, and received only an amused smile and shrug.
Minerva looked as though she had been expecting the entire affair, which she probably had been, and scribbled something on a sheet of parchment on her desk. "That's that then. Welcome aboard Mr Potter. You are required to submit a lesson plan and book list by the end of the month, and Iain will show you to your quarters. Good day." Harry didn't mind the brusqueness, he could sympathize with the pressure the headmistress must have been under.
***
For the first time in far too many years, Harry Potter's life made sense. He had a well-paying job that he enjoyed and was rather good at, he had a beautiful girlfriend who he was going to propose to soon, and his favourite hockey team was having its best season in twelve years. Or at least, that was the way Harry would tell it. In reality, every one of his silver linings had a cloud to go with it. His job reminded him too much of his previous life, the Edmonton Oilers weren't going to make it past the Conference quarterfinals this season, and he didn't really love his girlfriend. His life was complicated.
Perhaps anyone reading his journal of those years (if he even kept one, which is unlikely) wouldn't have classified the NHL as something to dwell on, but in Harry's experience any happy distraction was a welcome distraction.
Work was becoming a stagnant mire of drudgery. Everyday he showed up at 6 fifth street west and read over reports that were increasingly repetitive. He had seen every kind of manslaughter, from alleged democide to attempted vivicide; He had seen assassinations, honour killings, lynching, proxy murder, and torture murder; Rape, kidnapping, battery, abuse in all shapes and forms; Fraud, larceny, arson, tax evasion; Perjury, bribery, malfeasance, and obstruction of justice. And that was just in the last few months. His resume over a span of three years was a veritable dictionary of criminal offences.
And then there was Sarah. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. In the year they had been dating Harry had been forced to intimidate his share of horny single men leering at her. It had felt oddly comfortable, which was maybe why they were still together. In his honest moments, Harry had no trouble admitting to himself that he didn't love Sarah. Deep underneath the bags under his eyes, and the weeks worth of chin stubble, there was still a seventeen-year old boy screaming "I love Hermione Granger!" Those moments were becoming fewer and fewer, and the worst part was Harry didn't know if that were a good thing or not. Sarah knew about Hermione. In fact she knew almost everything about his past, though he refused to divulge his treatment at the hands of the Dursleys. She wasn't the jealous type, but she every time Hermione's name was mentioned a satisfied look crossed her face. She was feeling pleased with herself that she had managed to snag this prize away from 'that Granger girl,' and hated herself for that. Harry knew he shouldn't be reading her mind, but he had to know.
Not for the first time, Harry contemplated his life over a glass of rum and coke. Each day it became harder and harder to convince himself that he had made the right decision. One of these days he was going to have to stop trying. But not today.
***
Harry woke from his reverie to find that Iain had led him to a room he had never seen before, and that was an accomplishment in itself. It was a simple one-bedroom suite. Living room with fireplace, bedroom, and bathroom. A large window overlooked the Quidditch pitch. The room was basically bare, but a large moth-eaten couch sat dead center in the living room. Iain shrugged apologetically. "It's not much, but it's your new home. I'm afraid Alastor is leaving his furniture, but that couch is surprisingly comfortable. I spent my last three dates on it, trust me." He winked at Harry, which was returned with a glare.
"Keep in mind the reason I'm doing this. Now what?" One of his less intelligent moments, Harry had clean forgotten to plan a next step. Never fear, Iain is here!
He smiled his soft smile. "Don't worry, she'll be at lunch today. Noon in the Great Hall, I'll save you a good seat. I would suggest you get started on those lesson plans. I think Alastor left some lying around, somewhere, but Min would appreciate you making your own." Harry inclined his head. It was a given. Iain turned on his heel and strolled out of the room.
***
Iain's stride did nothing to signify his inner haste. He strode through the halls at a leisurely pace, in no particular direction, greeting those portraits who he most enjoyed, until he found himself standing before the stone gargoyle that marked Minerva's office. He looked the statue right in the eye. "Good morning." He greeted cordially. The gargoyle shook its head disbelievingly and moved to the side. It was not the password, but the castle respected the Scottish transfiguration professor enough to pretty much let him come and go as he pleased. For no less than the third time in as many hours Iain found himself in the office of his old friend, headmistress of Hogwarts. "Well, what did I say?" his tone was that of a man who knew he was right. He plopped himself comfortably in a chair. A glass of Scotch appeared in his hand.
Minerva was forced to concede. "I've been saying it for ten years, they are meant for each other." She rebuked the peculiar man. "I can't say he's really going about it the right way, which is your fault you know." She glared at him.
Iain cocked an eyebrow in return. "And I've been saying it for twenty." He reminded her, "But don't blame me for his decisions. I can only advise, all his decisions are his own to make. But she does still care for him."
Minerva nodded morosely. "She does, and he does, but she won't admit it." She poured a glass from a bottle of wine hidden in the desk.
Iain drained his own alcohol. "That is why me must be very careful. Have all the staff agreed?"
"Of course, they all saw exactly what I saw. All of them except Horace, that is. You'll remember he was quite taken with Ms Weasley."
Iain wouldn't have remembered, under normal circumstances. But he had been watching. "Yes, but don't worry about Horace. She never had much respect for him anyways." Minerva conceded the point, and Iain took his leave.
***
During this interlude Harry found himself hard at work. The book lists would require a trip to Flourish and Blott's, but he could write up a lesson plan in his spare time. His own formal training on the subject could be described as erratic, at best, but in between the layers of attempted murders and incompetent teachers he did find some sort of base structure to cling to. He knew the first years wouldn't be up to the more advanced spells he knew, so he arranged a syllabus of low-level offensive magic. Defensive spells, which were more difficult by design, were saved for second year. That was as far as he got when a small clock Moody had installed awoke. Three sharp blasts of a sound Harry couldn't recognize shook him out of the depths of his mind. Apparently that meant it was lunchtime.
As it turned out the professor's quarters were accessed through their respective offices. From there it was quite easy for Harry to manoeuvre himself to the Great Hall, though he did have to wonder at first if he had come to the right spot. The hall was completely devoid of the usual house tables and head table, only a large round piece of wood sat in the center. Currently every place was filled, but Iain waved him over to where he was. Harry felt the trickle of power, and saw the table fold out to produce another setting between the Scot and his neighbour: Hermione. Harry shot him a grateful look at the same time as Hermione sent a hateful glare. Somehow, in a manner known to only a handful of people, the Transfiguration professor satisfied the both with one expression.
Harry took the proffered seat gratefully, both for its placement and the plate of food that had appeared in front of him. As he ate, in relative silence, he examined the professors curiously. There was Iain, Minerva, and Hermione of course. Flitwick was looking even more ancient than when Harry had seen him last, and gathered that the dwarfish fellow would be retiring soon. Slughorn seemed to have actually gained weight, and his moustache was rapidly turning from silver to white. Professors Vector, Sinistra and Burbage were all in attendance, but in place of Professor Sprout was none other than Neville Longbottom. Harry vowed to play catch up later.
"Good afternoon." He greeted Hermione cheerfully as he sat. She ignored him. Harry engaged Iain in a conversation regarding the intricacies of various novels he had read in his absence. The Scot was particularly pleased when he commented on the parallels between William Golding's Lord of the Flies and John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. Harry noted that Hermione strained to hear every word of the conversation, but pretended not to. It gave him a small measure of hope, and even that was better than no hope at all. Sometime after the food had vanished, and some of the professors had begun to meander of to their respective haunts, Harry rose and departed. As such he did not notice Hermione's eyes tracking him out, or sense Iain's uncanny perception noting that development. Midway through working out a lesson plan for the third years, he was reminded of fear.
***
Harry was perspiring heavily as he crept through the dark warehouse. What was he doing? This was police work and he was only a detective. But McGray had Sarah, and that was reason enough for Harry to forget about the badge and load his gun. He rounded another stack of crates and was hit in the face with an immense spotlight beam. Damn it, McGray had been waiting for him.
"Good evening Inspector Potter, how good of you to join us." Michael Wayne McGray's voice was unnaturally deep. Harry had read the case file, which guessed that he suffered from some sort of psychological disorder. Auditory hallucination was cited as the most likely.
Harry brought his Colt M1911 up. "You have something I want McGray. Hand it over and I might just forget this ever happened." It was a shallow gesture. No serial killer in his right mind would fall for it. Too bad McGray was one of the few who actually was in his right mind.
"Nice try Inspector, but I'd prefer to keep an insurance policy. You can see her if you like." By now Harry could make out the form of his quarry next to the source of blinding light, but something swung from a long rope before the lamp. It was a human figure, female, well bound and dangling from a cord. Not around the neck, he noticed with relief. When the swinging shape next blocked the light, Harry could identify it. When he did his heart plummeted. It was Sarah. "Now you just back up and leave me be, and I won't have to drop your girlfriend." Harry wasn't even aware of McGray's words anymore. He was devising a plan.
There was no safe way to take out the serial murderer without hitting Sarah, so he would have to improvise. He timed the manoeuvre carefully, wishing that Hermione were there to help him with the calculations and hating himself for it. Finally, when Sarah was at exactly the right point in her swing, he fired. There was a loud crack, an explosion of glass, an angry cry from McGray, and the sound of a rope snapping. Harry rushed forward and was quite pleased when a wriggling, human sized bundle dropped into his arms. It seemed like an unlikely occurrence, and Harry would have to heavily doctor his formal report later to remove any trace of his magic from the equation. But now McGray was blind.
Of course he hadn't stuck around. Harry had felt him leave when the light exploded. Leave the police to get him, which they would in eight months.
***
"Harry?" the new Defence professor spun around, shocked out of his memories. It was something he was glad for, especially when he saw his visitor. It was Hermione, come to speak to him. She looked fully confident, without a trace of insecurities or fear. It didn't look like her.
"Well, well. And here I thought you weren't speaking to me." Maybe he was being a bit cruel, but what the hell. It was true after all.
Hermione didn't seem to think so. "Fine, be like that. I come in here to have a serious discussion and you can't muster the maturity. I'll come back later. Maybe." The menacing quality of her voice on the final word did not escape Harry, nor did its potential implications. As she tried to leave his quarters, she found the door locked behind her. She turned to see Harry looking at her, equally stony-faced.
"Don't. Maybe we do need to talk." He offered her a seat, which she accepted, and a drink, which she did not. "May I ask what persuaded you to break your silence?" she shot him a scathing look, which he ignored.
"I wanted to apologize." He was shocked, though we would not give her the satisfaction of showing it. "I was too harsh at the party, but I was angry. You pushed me and Ron out of your life like we meant nothing to you, and then you vanish for ten years. But that doesn't excuse my actions." By now Harry's eyes had widened, but he showed no other signs of reaction. "When you left, it hurt. I cried for weeks, and I couldn't even tell anyone why. Then I realized something. In seven years, I had stood by you every time, no matter what anyone else said. But you, you turned on me over a broomstick. A bloody broomstick! And then, at the most important moment in your life, you tossed me aside like a used rag. So, in a way, I'm also here to thank you."
Harry did not stand, but he had to fight to keep his hands unclenched. "And just what are you implying?" he asked, trying and failing to keep anger out of his voice.
"Nothing." She responded simply. "I'm just describing my feelings." She rose to leave, but Harry's next words stopped her.
"Oh? That didn't sound like a feeling." He had risen as well, and was facing her when she turned back to him.
Her eyebrow rose challengingly. "Really? What's the sound of a feeling?" her armour was down. Harry could hear anger and amusement in her voice, the latter being devoured by the former. His answer was thoroughly non-verbal. He closed the short distance between them and kissed her. In one kiss he released his inner tensions of ten years as a muggle, without his friends, six of them spent in a loveless and childless marriage. At first she had resisted, but as his arms pressing against held her back she had gradually returned the gesture with equal vigour.
Time stood still. They had entered the immeasurable expanse of time between heartbeats. If either of them could look around without breaking the moment, they would find themselves surrounded by complete and utter blackness. But no moment can last forever, and this one reached its inevitable end. "This doesn't make up for the last ten years you know." She informed him.
"I know." He responded simply. They re-entered the moment, and didn't exit it again until the next morning. Somewhere, a painting of an incalculably ancient wizard with a long silver beard and twinkling blue eyes smiled softly in his sleep. There was a little bit more love in the world.
No, it is not the end. Almost, but not quite. As you may be guessing this will not be a long fic. In fact it will probably end in the next chapter or two.
Micheal Wayne McGray was a real Canadian serial killer. He was arrested in May of 2001 and is serving several consecutive life sentences.
BTW: Oilers rule!
R&R, eternally.