February 7, 2007 - Somewhere in Toronto, Ontario, Canada
He saw him. It was definitely him. There was no mistaking the back of his slimy black hair as the tall, lanky man turned the corner into a blind alley just east of Dundas and Spadina.
Weaving in and out the sidewalk, he tried to avoid bumping into the mostly Asian crowd of pedestrians going about their usual Chinatown shopping and the vending carts that overflowed from within the stores. He was determined not to lose Greasy this time.
As he got to the alley he broke into a sprint; his heart pounding and his wand ready in his hand. He had waited months to do this. Not ten feet from where he stopped was his adversary with his back turned, facing high walls all around him. Finally, he had him cornered and he could give this lowlife what he deserved. There was no way out except through him.
"Turn around, slowly," he commanded, prepared for anything that might come his way.
Then he heard laughter; mocking, uncontrollable laughter. It soaked the air and filled his head. And as Greasy turned around he transformed; black to flaming red hair, grey to blue eyes, freckles cropping up on his face.
He heard him say in a chilling voice, "Quid pro quo, Potter. Consider us even."
Beep…beep…beep…
It was just the usual nightmare. A hand reached down on the floor and grabbed a pager from amongst the pile of clothes, shutting off the alarm. It was 4:00a.m.
Harry Potter was in a strange place, with a naked woman whose name escaped him at that moment. He wished he could explain the memory loss to the blinding pain coming from the faded lightning shaped scar on his forehead. But it wasn't that; he remembered now. Last night, they dispensed with the formality of introducing themselves to each other.
As he was dressing himself she woke briefly and asked him, "Am I going to see you again?"
He was clear about this last night but sometimes, they still asked. He looked at her, and answered truthfully, "No."
She nodded, understanding, not upset by his answer, "Please lock the front door on your way out."
A cursory okay later, he stepped out of her bedroom and Dissaparated to his leased Downtown townhome, knowing the Muggle locked the door herself the night before.
Inside his bedroom, he undressed again, stepped into the shower and turned it on, but not before glancing over at the now dated Daily Prophet laid out on the marble kitchen counter just as he had left it last night, on the Socials Section.
It was accidental, his stumbling onto the article by Rita Skeeter. He normally did not read the Socials but as he was turning pages the image of her caught his eye. Seeing the rest of the picture made him see blood red.
So, she was going out with Malfoy. He couldn't quite wrap his head around that idea. The beautifully written piece by Skeeter about her and their changed former Hogwarts classmate in the Daily Prophet was, well, surprising. Actually so shocking it blew his mind out and ripped his already tattered heart into smaller pieces.
Why Malfoy?
Dean had been cryptic when he called on him by Floo, quite unhappy that it was midnight his time. Dean Thomas was a Hit Wizard, his ex-partner and was the only person he had regular contact with from his previous life.
While Harry and Dean spoke or owled each other as needed and talked about almost everything and everyone, they almost always never talked about Hermione. That was Dean's conscious choice, telling him that he should Floo or owl her himself.
"Harry? Do you have a clue what time it is?"
He was whispering, no, hissing, at him.
"Sorry. Do you have company?"
"Don't even ask me as if you really care if I do! This better be good!"
"I read the Prophet Socials."
"Why? Did somebody tear off the Sports Page?"
He was often funny; caustic but funny.
"You never told me she was seeing Malfoy."
"I never thought you'd be interested."
He is so funny.
"Is this for real?"
"No, it's one big prank and that's why they featured it in the Prophet."
"Dean!"
"Look, I'm tired, I'm sleepy, and I have a woman in my bed who still wants to cuddle. Let me be quick. I know this must seem like an urgent matter to you but you should have seen it coming. How long has it been since you last spoke to her? When you left for Toronto,right? She did not take a vow of celibacy."
"But Malfoy?"
"They've only been out three times! And he's changed man."
Harry took a breath. Once was one too many. Sure, it was now ten years after Hogwarts but he would be the last person to believe Malfoy was a changed man. His entire being was revolted at the thought of Malfoy touching her, much less seeing that picture of them kissing just outside her flat.
"Can I give you some advice?"
No need to answer. He was getting it anyway.
"Write her, talk to her, and ask her how she is."
He had one problem.
"She won't talk to me or read any of my letters."
"When was the last time you tried? Months ago?" he was getting impatient with him.
"Last week, actually. Muggle Post."
He did not share with Dean that it came back unopened with 'return to sender' in her handwriting.
"Oh," Dean replied, surprised, "Well, you'll just have to try harder. I don't know what exactly happened there in Toronto and I know not to ask anymore but whatever it was, it can't be that bad."
Harry didn't think it was that bad either but it was a matter of opinion. And besides, it wasn't so much about what happened in Toronto but more about what happened after.
He sent her that letter last week. It was a long winded apology, something he had said to her before, but hoping that she would be more receptive to it after all this time. No such luck. He could not believe that it was almost a year now since it happened. He could not believe she was seeing Malfoy of all people. And he couldn't understand how she could allow that to happen. After all the evil things Malfoy had done, he was baffled that she could even consider talking to him, much less allow a picture of him kissing her in the Daily Prophet.
Incensed and hurt, he somehow found his way to a nearby Muggle bar and picked up the first brunette just interested in a one night stand. It was either that or smash in some poor blonde man's face.
Harry was too late. With her, he was always too late. She was moving on and he really should let her go. And as the warm shower continued to roll down from his jet black hair onto his face, it masked and washed away the tears that erupted from deep within him, fuelled by an overwhelming despair that there were things he could not fix and events he could not change. It was excruciatingly painful knowing that he was about to lose her, and lose her to such a scumbag; a scumbag that in her eyes was more deserving of her company than he was. That spoke a lot about how she still felt about him.
It took him a long time but he finally realized that he loved her. He never really knew how much he needed her everyday of his life until she wasn't there for him anymore. It was simple, really. He loved her. She hated him. Rephrase that; she didn't actually use the word 'hate'. It was more like she would rather not have him around and not talk to him. And she had good reason. It was a hard lesson to learn that in life, sometimes, you don't get an opportunity to redeem yourself.
He was delusional. There was no chance in hell he could be with her. His 'act of chivalry' made that a certainty. He had no right to be jealous. Revolted maybe, because it was Malfoy, but not jealous. Right now, he could settle for her forgiveness and her friendship. Indirectly, he hoped that if he succeeded in what he was in Toronto for, it would bring about the prospect of redemption and make it conceivable for her to be able to stay in the same room with him. He missed talking to her and he missed talking to Ron.
After some time, he finally got out of the shower, emotionally spent and feeling a tad better than before he went in. His pager went off. Good. Work, to get his mind off it. He was on-call for Muggle related emergencies.
Normally not part of an Auror's job description, reality was the Toronto Magical Law Enforcement Agency was perennially short staffed due to migration south of the border, where pay and weather were generally better. There was also the fact that the resurgence of Dark Arts in the recent months resulted in early retirements. The Ministry needed more staff urgently. The Ministry knew this and unfortunately, so did the witches and wizards who embraced the Dark Arts. Toronto was fast becoming the magical crime capital of the world.
Harry's official status in the Toronto was visiting Auror. In actuality, it was more like overstaying foreign Auror. The staff shortage allowed for an oversight of the fact that he should have left after six weeks. His work permit, initially renewed every ten days, was now extended indefinitely. It was approved on his insistence by the Head Aurors of Toronto and London, the latter signing with significant resistance.
Harry read the information on his pager.
A Muggle loony bin, he thought to himself as he read the address. The last time he got called to one he and his partner ended up having to Obliviate half the night staff. Hopefully this was a false alarm.
He dressed quickly and Disapparated to the Toronto Centre for Mental Health at Queen and Ossington. He was met at the sidewalk by a woman in her early thirties, with long blonde hair under a red toque and blue eyes peering through the top of a flowing red scarf.
Andrea Marsh was the person who had the misfortune of having to put up with him for the past year. At five feet ten, Andy was almost as tall as Harry, and had a most disarming smile many have been fooled by their disbelief that she was an Auror. There was a rumour in the office that a younger version of her had won the Miss Canadian Witch title years ago. Anyone caught repeating said rumour was definitely a dead wizard or witch if she found them out.
An expletive greeted him. Did he mention the foul mouth that she had under stress or with sleep deprivation? She was not a morning person. It did take some time before he got used to hearing such colourful language from someone with her good looks. Like him, she was bundled up in layers of winter clothing. It was minus twenty degrees Celsius outdoors and he felt every bit of the biting cold as they walked toward the entrance.
"A good morning to you, too," he replied.
"No. A good morning at fucking four o'clock is only appropriate if you've had sex with the person you're saying it to and it was good."
"Okay," Harry actually enjoyed her company; he found her amusing, "I'll keep that in mind."
"Did you memorize the article by heart?" she jibed seeing that he still had the same expression she left him with at the Auror Office hours ago. She knew he was that pathetic.
"Muggle Lawyer-Solicitor and Magical Being Rights Activist Draco Malfoy has finally cured celebrated Healer Hermione Granger of her year old heartache," he recited the first line to her from memory.
Not by choice, Harry had to tell Andy about Hermione a few months ago. Sick and tired of his constant foul mood, his partner had taken matters into her own hands and started forcing him to go on dates. It was funny really, that after all his five dates reported back to Andy that Harry was a perfect gentleman, the sixth one she had him date was a man. He definitely had to put an end to that. She was the only person in Toronto he ever discussed his past with and did not approve of what she termed as his 'laid back' approach. Harry did not tell her the entire story.
"Take some time off and see her," Andy suggested a common theme with his former partner. "She can't not talk to you if you're there."
She could if she chose not to. Andy did not know Hermione well. In his six trips to London since he started working in Toronto, she made sure their paths did not cross once.
"I'll talk to Jack," he answered, referring to their boss, Jack Muller. Harry did decide after his conversation with Dean that he had to try something else and it would mean going against her wishes. At their last conversation she was clear when she asked him to leave her alone. Yup. Give her something else to be pissed about. And, of course, it had to be done soon, hopefully to get some sense into her head about why she should stop dating Draco Malfoy. How he was going to convince her of that he had not figured out yet.
They walked the remainder of the path to the hospital entrance in silence. Having been there before, they knew exactly where to go on the 5th floor where the page came from. Harry and Andy had an understanding that he was lead on any call before ten in the morning and after ten at night.
"Hi," he said to the night nurse at the station as both he and Andy unzipped their coats. "I'm Dr. James, this is my associate Dr. Lillian. We were paged."
The night nurse, Doris, surveyed them with suspicion for a good couple of minutes before buzzing them into the high security area.
"Room 538."
"Geez, somebody should get Doris some medication," Andy said to him from the corner of her mouth as soon as the nurse was out of earshot, causing him to smile.
The long hallway was dimly lit by a few fluorescent bulbs. The rooms they passed were mostly occupied by sleeping patients, and on occasion, sleeping hospital staff. Room 538 was at the very end of the corridor.
A stocky elderly man with thinning grey hair in a white lab coat greeted them in a hushed voice.
"Dr. James?" the man inquired. Doris must have informed him of their arrival.
He nodded, extending a handshake. He introduced his partner.
"Dr. Smitherman," he shook their hands, "I'm so glad you could come."
Without wasting time, he led them into the room and at the bedside of the lone patient occupying it. Sitting on the bed in a somewhat reclined position was a young woman, probably no more than eighteen years old, with pale skin and curly brown hair, brown eyes wide open and seemingly in a trance. Her arms were on her side, her fists were clenched tight and she did not blink or turn to them when they entered. Brown hair and brown eyes and aptly named.
"She's our resident Jane Doe, been with us for almost a month. No one has come to pick her up or ask about her. She was found in a somewhat similar state just a couple of blocks from here and was brought in by a Good Samaritan because we're the closest hospital. To make a long story short, she's been turfed around the city, nothing seems physically wrong with her, but she does meet criteria for catatonia so she ended up here."
Andy had been fidgeting throughout this monologue. Harry nodded to her so she could ask her question, "If she's been here for weeks, what's the emergency?"
"I was doing some tests on her, trying to measure electrical activity in her brain as familiar objects are placed in her hand," Smitherman explained, "When she suddenly responded for the first time to one of the objects amongst her personal effects."
"Next time, best test her when the rest of the normal world is awake," Andy muttered under her breath, still quite unhappy being dragged to what seemingly was an unimportant call.
Harry, on the other hand, was eyeing a polished piece of reddish brown wood, about ten inches long, sitting on top of her bedside table. A wand.
"Is that the object she responded to?" he motioned.
The doctor nodded, "It looks like a drum stick but missing its pair. She must be a musician or knows one. A lot of struggling artists from across the country sometimes find their way in Toronto seeking fame and fortune and end up with nothing. I'm not surprised if she's one of them."
Andy caught on and asked, "What exactly happens when she touches it?"
"This."
Smitherman placed the wand in Jane Doe's right hand and a sudden gust of cool wind filled the walls of the windowless room. There was also unmistakably a faint light at its tip. Andy looked at him. They were in agreement. Jane Doe was a witch.
There was a definite need to alter a memory and persuade the good doctor to part with his patient. Harry slowly reached into his jacket pocket and took his wand out.
"Dr. Smitherman," Harry spoke, after muttering an incantation, "You're going to release Jane Doe to us tonight and will have no recollection whatsoever of us ever meeting."
"Of course," the Muggle doctor signed the release papers which magically appeared on his clipboard and left them with Jane Doe.
Harry quickly gathered her personal belongings as Andy magically dressed her in warmer apparel, in preparation for Apparition to the Downtown Toronto Hospital for Magical Illnesses and Injuries. With Harry being the more magically endowed between the two of them, Andy knew Side-along Disapparition would be safer for Jane Doe if she travelled with him.
"What about Doris?" he asked Andy.
"Let's leave her. She seems batty enough to not be believable," she replied.
As Harry took a hold of the young woman's right arm which still held her wand, Jane Doe suddenly grabbed his hand, her entire body shaking, her eyes rolled up with just its whites visible. And a deep, earthy voice came from within her sending shivers up his spine.
"Help…Ron…waiting…forest…hill…four… five…five…hurry…no time…must haste…set him free…save her…"
And her grip loosened as the words stopped. Harry and Andy stared at each other in silence, trying to think about what just happened. Further attempts to get her to talk failed. This was bizarre.
"A seer?" he asked his partner, right in front of their expressionless and immobile company, thinking about his similar experience with a former Divination teacher. But what she said was not a prediction. It was more an instruction. It was confusing.
"Maybe. Or maybe, momentarily possessed," Andy suggested and continued. "Four five five and she said to hurry. It is 4:40 now, if she means this God forsaken hour. But what forest is she talking about? Maybe High Park, that's the biggest one close by. Do you know any Ron who could be in trouble?"
Harry was deep in thought, still trying to dissect Jane Doe's message. He was hoping that after all this time, he finally had a break. Maybe the gibberish meant nothing but he was at a point when he was willing to go after any lead, no matter how crazy it was.
"I only know one Ron so I don't think she means right now."
His partner fell silent, now as perplexed as he was. She knew the one Ron that he meant. And because she did, she knew that Ronald Weasley was not in any imminent danger because he had been dead for close to a year.