Chapter 20 - A Squib or Not A Squib
15 February 2006 - Her hotel room, five fifteen a.m.
Harry was dressed and had been sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes contemplating if he should wake her to say goodbye. He never did with other women in the past.
He wanted to stay in bed with her, get up only when they were both good and ready, perhaps make passionate love once more and spend the day together. He could imagine them spending the week, the month, the year like this. He felt a tightening around his throat and chest.
One night with her isn't nearly enough.
He really had to leave, soon.
Tick… tock…tick…tock…
If only he could stop time…
Tick… tock…tick…tock…
Destroy all existing clocks in the universe…
Tick… tock…tick…tock…
Including that on ticking time bombs…
Tick… tock…tick…tock…
Like this Roy Hunt affair…
Compulsion prevailed over letting go cleanly. He swept her bushy brown hair off her face and watched her eyes slowly open, adjust to the light and meet his. She smiled.
"I have to go," he said to her quietly, as if doing so would make him feel better.
"I know," she replied.
"I had a really great time last night," he said to her honestly, taking her hand, squeezing it lightly.
"So did I," she answered back.
"You don't have to marry him," he blurted out, hoping she would not see or hear the obvious.
It would be a big mistake but he could understand why after ten years with the same man she would want to try and fix what they had. She would refuse to admit failure and letting go was an admission of that. Some would call that tenacity; others stubbornness.
"I know I don't."
He couldn't tell if she had indeed decided what to do. It was really not his place to ask, not even if he heeded the call of his conscience to drink the anti-Polyjuice that very moment and ask her as 'Harry'. He could not begin to imagine how that conversation would go
Staying any longer was going to make him lose control.
Tick… tock…tick…tock…
"Take care of yourself, okay?" he said to her.
She nodded.
"You too."
Harry leaned down, intending to kiss her on her cheek but instead, finding the edge of her soft lips and unable to resist its pull, turned into it fully, allowing himself to get lost in her sweet gentle reply. This would be the last time he would kiss her this way and he wanted it to be etched forever in his memory.
He left her room with a churning sensation in his gut as the tingling sensation of her mouth on his lingered. The storm of emotions within him had to be sorted out and dealt with but it would have to be when he got back to London.
A few minutes later he got a call that the Toronto Auror watching over her was in place. He focused on the task at hand, his real assignment. Armed with his transfigured wand, a signalling device and a handful of bogus research proposals, he walked to the Ghoul barely noticing the almost knee deep snow the blizzard had left all over.
At the entrance, he lined up behind a couple of other blokes he recognized from the day before, politely chatted about the snowstorm and listened as the guy in front of him bragged.
"Half an hour," Harry heard him say as they handed in their work and waited outside for what he was told was verification, "Got him plastered over a couple of shots of good ole Jack D and he was singing like a canary. Getting him to write it out legibly was something else. How did yours go?"
He wanted to make sure nobody else would get any ideas.
"She talked all night about her work I can still hear her in my head. I need a couple of Advils and to get as far away from her as possible," he feigned a headache for good measure.
The man laughed as the Ghoul entrance opened up for them. There were a few other men already inside. Breakfast was being served by the waitress and the barkeep was filling drink orders as Waxball appeared from the Employee entrance beside the bar. He was followed closely by Floyd, who was carrying a small rectangular wooden box which he set on the bar.
Harry watched him sit down on a stool and pass the time lazily away with a couple of coins in his fingers, rolling them on top of each other as he did the day before and staring at him icily with familiar deep hatred. Well, it was personal.
He found the man he sat with yesterday, Klys, in one of the booths and joined him. Looking around, almost everyone looked like they could use a good night's sleep.
"Congratulations," Waxball said to the crowd of fifteen, Harry noticed that he had all the submissions for that morning in his hand. "Our employer will be as pleased as last year. Unfortunately, she had other commitments she can't join us this morning."
Klys gave him a knowing look. Klys was right; she was a no-show. That was quite unfortunate. His instructions were to signal as soon as all the expected players were all in place; like now. He held the device in his pants pocket as he took out his pen, his transfigured wand, to activate it.
"But as promised, aside from monetary compensation you are receiving in your bank accounts as I speak, you will each get a reward for your contribution," Waxball continued he had to pause, thinking it was important to wait to see more of this. "Something that was a product of the efforts of last year. I've used it myself and the first time is special so I can only suggest that you chose well."
Waxball nodded over to Floyd who put his coins away and slid the box open. There was a silence in the room as every Squib and Muggle eagerly waited what it was that Waxball referred to as something they've always wanted. It was hard to see what exactly but Floyd took a small phial that he was able to completely wrap in the palm of his hand. He slid the box shut, turned away, uncorked and tipped his head back, swallowing. Potion. Purple colored potion.
"As Mr. Floyd prepares to demonstrate for us keep in mind that you'll only have at most twenty four hours to enjoy the use of it. Have fun. You've earned it," Waxball continued speaking, drawing his attention, then turned it over to Floyd who still had murder in his eyes as he looked at Harry.
"Mr. Hunt," Floyd called out, "Join me up here. I need some assistance with this demonstration."
Harry had a bad feeling about this. A very bad one. Even Waxball had panic in his eyes.
"Tom," Waxball interrupted, "A volunteer isn't really necessary."
"Didn't you just say 'have fun'?" Floyd pointed out with an excited glint in his eyes, "Loosen up, it'll be fun."
"Yeah, let the man have some fun," Harry said stood up and walked towards him, wand pen in hand, prepared for almost anything, "We all know he could use it."
That drew laughter from the crowd making Floyd flush redder than Weasley hair. If he was a dragon there would be fire coming out of his nose.
Harry got to the front and faced Floyd, glaring back at him, the maniacal fury within his adversary transparent. He had to ask to confirm, knowing that Floyd was one to gloat.
"Is it true? Did you beat up a witch last year for being smart enough not to go out with a stupid git like you?"
Floyd replied, smiling, "She was begging for it. Halfway through, she wasn't feeling so smart anymore. She deserved to die for being the intellectual snob that she was. Just as you deserve to die for messing with me."
"Your threats really need a lot of work," he mocked.
He leaned in close enough so only Harry could hear, "I hope you like green light because that will be the last thing you will remember. You're a dead man, Roy Hunt."
For someone who had been bullied and cursed several times by one of the most evil wizards of all time, he could not be intimidated any less. His bland, bored expression incensed Floyd even more.
Floyd stepped back and took out a wand from his pocket. There was definitely no reason to wait any longer to find out exactly what Floyd wanted to do. He was an expert on death, wands, and green lights associated with the two. He had seen enough of it to last him ten lifetimes.
Harry thought about the possibility of a known Squib like Tom Floyd gaining magical ability to pull it off. It must be from the potion he just took. He almost burst out laughing as he heard Floyd mutter several versions of how to say 'Avada Kedavra', thinking, ask me, I know exactly how to say it. Floyd was a pathetic ridiculous version of Voldemort.
While he would have wanted to wait and see Floyd fall on his face with his ambitious demonstration, it was best to call in the troops. He activated the signalling device.
In no time at all, about twenty members of the Toronto MLE barged into the Ghoul Waterhole from all entrances and exits. Chaos ensued as the waitress and the barkeep took out semi-automatics and began strafing the room randomly with rapid gunfire necessitating everyone to take cover. It was literally raining bullets and it was raining hard. A few buzzed by his head and splintered the wall behind him. One grazed his shoulder.
His heart was pounding, his mind was racing. Spells were also being thrown around, likely by Hit wizards, their aim quite atrocious. More gunshots came from different areas within the Ghoul. He was crouched on all fours on the floor, quite open to anyone who just aimed at him. Across the way he saw Klys' lifeless body near their booth. One MLE was dead too. There was a clear necessity to do something promptly.
The bartender was reloading. As soon as he found cover beside one of the concrete posts, he got on his feet, quickly transformed his pen back to his wand and summoned every gun and rifle in the room.
Accio!
Finally silence. There was a sound of broken glass breaking even more in the distance as he stepped out from where he took cover, crunching noise as his feet walked on debris. At least twenty pairs of eyes peering from behind tables, chairs and walls were on him, with mixed expressions. He felt his heart gradually thud slower against his chest, the adrenaline die down, and this tremendous weight on his arms overpower him. He staggered and fell hard, the armful of heavy metals he was carrying spilling away from him, numbering more than the people in the room and more than he anticipated. Waxball must have had an arsenal nearby.
As if on cue, the frenzy around him resumed. Muggles and Squibs fought against the MLE and tried to elude arrest. Harry tried to get up several times but he couldn't. He swore. He had to get back into the fight. Floyd. He had to make sure they got Floyd for Helga Braun's murder. He looked around and he couldn't find Floyd's greasy hair nor the box of phials that was on the bar counter.
A warm wet sensation on his left side and back drew his attention. He gazed down. All he could see was red. On the floor beside him a thick puddle of it had formed and was alarmingly growing exponentially by the second.
Not good.
The room started to spin around him. He felt no pain, only numbness all over. He lost the feeling in his legs and instinctively was drawing deeper breaths as if he was not getting enough air. He could barely focus on the two wizards that came out of nowhere to help him.
"Yeah, he's the one," he heard one of them say.
The one what?
"The Brits are going to go ape on us. He's fucked up!" the other countered.
I really wanted to hear that. Thank you for pointing it out.
One of them cast a spell and he felt an agonizing tightening around his leg. A pressure spell, he presumed, to stop bleeding.
"That takes care of that one for now."
I prefer numb, really.
"What about that hole, gushing with blood?"
Great. A hole. Gushing.
He closed his eyes. He could feel his energy draining. Deeper breaths didn't seem to help. So this is how it feels to die.
Funny. Voldemort had seven years to finish him off and no amount of Dark Magic could. And here he was, dying a Muggle death from a gunshot wound. And for someone whose life was fading away, he felt way too calm.
His life flashed before his shut eyes as a series of memories, flooding his thoughts. His father, his mother, Sirius, Professor Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione. She had been there from almost the very beginning, from when he became aware of who he was. She knew him before the hype of his defeat of Voldemort and stuck by him when things were bad after Quidditch.
For the longest time, she was the one constant in his life. His friend, his anchor, his rock. She was his occasional crutch, keeping him steady when he wasn't and his lighthouse, shining the path to help him see where he was going and what dangers faced him. His home was home because he knew she was just two doors down and only a knock away.
She said something that morning that hit a chord. It was about why she would want to marry someone she did not love.
I want to be with someone who loves me, someone who I care about, to make a difference in his life and to make me feel that my existence matters.
He now realized what the panic within him since her engagement to Ron was about. She was indispensable, irreplaceable. She made a tremendous difference in his life, her existence mattered to him and she cared about him; she had ever since Hogwarts. She was the one person who consistently brought a smile to his face and made him feel good about himself. Every time she called him, came over to his apartment, asked him to take her out somewhere, or just be with each other, she made him feel that he was important to her, that his existence mattered.
He had not considered it before. He didn't think she could possibly need him as much as he needed her. He thought she loved Ron and was happy with him. But last night she admitted that she didn't and she obviously wasn't. He wanted to make her happy.
And last night he saw her bare and uninhibited, not only physically but emotionally, seeing her as she never showed him, as she never would have had he not been a stranger. Even for that brief moment with her, delusional a thought as it may be at a time like this, he was almost sure that she could be happy with him.
It was an undeniable truth. It was so obvious to him now. One night would never be nearly enough. Why didn't he see it before?
The other wizard held something against his chest, "We have to get him to a Healer, quick."
Hermione. Take me to Hermione.
"Help me get him up."
So much to tell her.
"I can't do it by myself. We have to take him Side-along together."
So much to confess.
"Quick! Before he loses consciousness!"
I can't die.
"Where exactly?"
Not yet.
"The entrance, to trauma!"
Not without telling her that I love her.
An unpleasant tugging sensation came over him. He blacked out.
XXXXXXXXX
15 February 2006 - Hermione's hotel room, moments after Roy left
Hermione knew she had to get up soon. Granted that doing so would officially end her night as her alter ego Jane, she just had to. And she shouldn't have kissed Roy that way when they said goodbye.
That's okay. You won't see him again.
She stood and wrapped the white sheet around her as she, on autopilot picked up her clothes and other misplaced stuff from the floor. She grabbed her purse and her phone fell off from it. She picked it up and turned it on. Messages. Her eyes were shut as she listened to them one at a time.
Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ginny, Ron, Ron, Ron
Just as she was finished with the last one her phone rang.
"Hi," she said to Ron, the tears that had built up as she was hearing his messages from last night were silently falling now, the crushing weight of guilt bearing down heavily on her.
He asked how she was, worried about her.
"I'm fine. I just needed some time away."
He said he understood; that Ginny explained how she needed it, how it would not be a good idea to go and see her last night, that he had to give her space. But that he wished she could have at least called to tell him she was okay.
"I know. I'm sorry I wasn't thinking," she apologized. He was right; and she would have had she realized he might be looking her. "It won't happen again."
He repeated most of what he said in his messages from last night. He said he was sorry, too, about their argument, about how childish he was, admitting for the first time how jealous and insecure he was of Harry, mostly when it came to her, and how he would try his best not to be anymore.
There was, but now there was no reason to be. She felt a gnawing deep cut in her chest.
"I'll call you back," she managed to say, barely, "I have to go."
She hung up just as Ron let her. She showered, hot, long, with more tears of guilt, remorse, and heartache, unsure of which was giving her the most reason to cry about and uncertain of what to do next. And after, Hermione couldn't look at herself in the mirror, not only because she was so puffy-eyed from crying, but also because she just couldn't.
Her phone rang.
The Toronto Hospital?
She was puzzled. Not knowing what to expect, she answered.
XXXXXXXXXX
8 February 2007 - Toronto, before sunrise.
As the Healers of St. Mungo's were marvelling at the Squib Argus Filch's fleeting late onset acquisition of magical capability, Harry could not have been more disinterested in what he was doing in Toronto. He and Andy were on a stakeout in their Ford Taurus, a few meters away from the back entrance of the Ghoul Waterhole.
It was almost six in the morning. He was cold, he was tired, and all night there was nothing out of the ordinary. He could have gone to London and back.
Having been both up since four the morning before, he convinced Andy to take a nap some six hours ago. He took the first shift and he would wake her if something happened. Nothing happened and he decided to let her sleep knowing that he probably couldn't anyway.
In all likelihood, Floyd was just pulling a stunt and wanted to have fun seeing how high the Ministry would jump. Although his need to hurt Floyd was assuaged temporarily, his mounting frustration about him could not be denied. Almost a year had passed since Ron died and he was no closer to finding out what really happened and proving what he knew was a fact. Ron's fall was not an accident. It was murder, Floyd had something to do with it and he had an idea how.
He told the London authorities, Kingsley, the Minister. They said they wanted to believe him but there was just no proof. He had physical evidence, but it was proof he could not show them and Floyd only knew that too well.
Quid pro quo.
How he hated that phrase! Floyd killed Ron because he held Harry responsible for Waxball's suicide. He found out Harry was Roy Hunt and took payment in kind; a brother for a brother. And not only that, Floyd found out about Hermione and dragged her into it. He suspected that it was Floyd who made sure she would know without a doubt that he was Roy Hunt. Hermione was right. If only the Roy Hunt affair ended in Toronto.
Hermione was so distraught when Ron died. There was no explaining to her how it happened and that the Roy Hunt affair wasn't about what she thought it was about. There was no explaining to her that Ron was murdered by Floyd. There was no explaining to her that he loved her when all she could think about was how hurt Ron must have felt knowing she had been unfaithful and how he didn't get a chance to be angry at her, to tell her exactly what he thought. There was only the grief, remorse, and guilt she had to live with.
And towards him utter disgust. Not undeserving he stayed back. He wanted so much to be there to comfort her for Ron's loss, and for her to comfort him, but that was not possible, not after what had happened. This was the consequence he was dreading. It was penance she imposed and he lived with for the past year.
As an Auror there were assumed risks. Retaliation against him for a job well done was one of them but for quite some time he could not grasp the idea that Ron was dead because of him and because of what he did for a living.
Had he not jumped at becoming an Auror to make sure Hermione was going to be safe would Ron be alive today? Would Hermione? Would Hermione have had that affair? Or would they all be in London right now, having dinner at their Richmond house, them a happy expecting couple talking about what color to paint the nursery and telling him how a wonderful godfather he would make?
Toronto was an assignment and it turned out to be much more than he bargained for. It was the good, the bad and the ugly. The Toronto mission made him realize that there was more to his feelings for Hermione than he thought there was. But because he took it, Ron died and Hermione wasn't talking to him. And because of it, he could not be with her.
There was really nothing else he could do except hope she would forgive him, just enough to be in the same room with him or even start reading his letters. He had his own guilt about Ron and about Ron's death to deal with and the only way he knew how was to focus his energies to bring Floyd to justice. He worked on the case feverishly until he realized they were right. There were no clues to uncover in London and everything led to Toronto. He had to go.
On record Floyd was in a Toronto Muggle prison the night Ron died, picked up by police after a scuffle in a club. But he was definitely on the pitch that night Ron fell. He had a theory about how Floyd was in two different places at the same time but the Muggle who he suspected Floyd forced to drink Polyjuice Potion to impersonate him for one night died of 'natural causes' just before Harry was to meet him months back.
Then suddenly, nothing. Floyd appeared to convert to a church choir boy, hair parted in the middle, neatly pressed, voice always perfectly hitting the high note. He became a legitimate businessman on paper but that was all hogwash. Twice Harry went over the edge to provoke him to prove that the Squib could do magic and twice he came close to being thrown out of Canada.
And he could not prove that the magic enabling purple potion existed. Floyd had slipped out that post Valentine's day carnage at the Ghoul last year with it and Waxball was left holding the bag of research papers. He was going to be tried for Helga Braun's murder and decided to make his exit by taking his own life. With Waxball's death, they not only lost their link to the witch who was paying for and reaping the gains of his troop's 'research' work, they lost the link to Floyd as well.
That was what was frustrating. His quest for justice for Ron's death was not only because Ron was his best mate. He had to prove that it was not an accident. He had to prove it for him, but mostly for her. Hermione continued to blame herself for the 'accident', believing that had Ron not known she had an affair it wouldn't have happened. To those who knew about the affair, her arriving at that conclusion was quite annoyingly far out and there was no convincing her otherwise. Rational thinking left Hermione that moment Ron died and her overwhelming guilt and grief took over. In her mind, none of this would have happened had she abstained from Roy Hunt.
Maybe he was delusional but he was hoping that if he could at least prove that Ron's death was not an accident, that it was intentionally malicious and that it would have happened despite of what she did, it would make her feel better about herself, and stop punishing them for it.
This thing with Malfoy just proved how bad her loss of rational thinking had become. The thought of her with anyone else was gut wrenching but the thought of her with him was maddening. Pink Floyd may have lessened the exasperation he felt but as he sat in the cold, sleep deprived, staring at the dead stillness in the dimly lit back alley and simmering from thoughts of her, it was growing to dangerously high levels again.
He had to see her soon if it was just to tell her what a big mistake it was to trust that arrogant oaf. Ugh! Just imagining her say his first name made his blood boil.
A rustle behind mercifully distracted him. Andy must have shifted. All night he was hearing Andy's breathing it reminded him of Hermione that first time they made love, how exhilarating it felt to watch her fall asleep in his arms and then have her soft breath lull him to rest. The evening with her was so special, not to mention amusing and enlightening, thinking about it always brought a bittersweet smile to his face.
The backdoor he was watching suddenly swung open and several of Floyd's goons, five of them went off in different directions afoot. One got into a parked van. He nudged Andy.
"Something's up," he said to her, now fully alert and starting to get a rush.
Andy got her bearings back and asked, "How do you want to do this?"
Just then, Floyd's tall figure emerged from the Ghoul with a small wooden box in his hand, paused at the exit. He took out a wand, conjured a dark colored backpack out of thin air and slipped the box in it. It looked like the same box he saw last year. His long legs started walking away from them.
Andy commented, "Fuck. You're right, he can do magic."
Harry replied abruptly, "I'll follow Floyd on foot. Trail the one in the van and search it as soon as he gives you probable cause. I'll meet up with you later."
Floyd was a distance off and was quickening his pace. Harry donned on an Invisibility Cloak and walked briskly across the street from him. He was heading south towards Dundas, turning east at the Art Gallery and down the flight of stairs into the subway. Floyd joined a fairly small crowd of early morning commuters.
He got on the lead car and sat on an empty seat looking around as if waiting for someone. The train rolled off into the tunnel. The Squib seemed to be enjoying a carefree ride. An announcement came.
Arriving at College. College station.
The train stopped. A woman boarded and sat beside him despite the numerous empty seats. That was definitely not right. As the train left College Station Harry moved closer and was standing almost over them just as she gave him an envelope. Floyd looked in it. It was full of Muggle cash.
Harry was taking out his wand when the train experienced a sudden jolt caused as it ran roughly around a bend. His cloak must have moved because Floyd gave the wad of money back to the woman and began walking to the back of the car. He opened the connecting door and walked into the adjacent car, quickly.
He followed him between cars, taking his Cloak off in the darkness between. Greasy looked back, saw him and started running towards the very back of the train. Startled commuters expressed their shock as the two men ran from car to car. Harry couldn't use magic, not in such public place and not against a known Squib. Floyd was bound to run out of space soon.
Somebody had sounded the emergency alarm and rightfully so. As he got into the last car, he was just in time to watch Greasy, open wooden box in one hand, take the same purple potion he saw him take a year ago. He smirked at Harry then Disapparated!
Argh!
Extremely frustrated, he went over to the spot where Floyd had stood just before disappearing. Something caught his attention.
There were two phials on the floor.
He picked them up.
One was empty.
One was full of purple potion.