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So Spoke the Idol God

Chapter 1:
Harry Potter - Thieves Like Us

21 December, 2001
Hermione Granger's Flat
Redbridge, London, UK

Harry watched Granger swallow, and nod. There were no more justifications needed; she merely nodded and said: "Where do we find him?"

"That's the big question, innit?" Harry replied, as Granger's father stumbled from the loo and joined the two:

"Hermione," the man said sternly, "what have you gotten yourself into?"

Granger turned and stared at Harry. "I don't know, Harry. What have I gotten myself into?"

He could lie and tell her father that nothing was wrong, but even he knew that would be a terrible fib. "I don't know. It probably has something to do with that prophecy."

"The prophecy?" asked the elder Granger.

"Can this wait?" began Harry. "There's a red-headed bloke out there who probably needs loads of help right about now."

Granger's father opened his mouth to protest, but a glance from his daughter shut him up. He folded his brawny arms and sighed piteously. Hermione smiled at her father's compliance, and, turning back to Harry, she nodded to him. "As you wish, but how are we to find Weasley?"

"I can't imagine it could be too difficult. After all, the man is a pretty well-known celebrity."

"What? As a third rate athlete?" Granger retorted archly.

Harry smiled at that. "Second-rate, apparently. Regardless, that doesn't change that we know where he might be."

"And where's that?"

"Archewood," Harry brightly replied, before he found himself faced with two blank looks. "Chudley's training grounds?"

"It's well past dark, Harry; he may not be there now," said Granger, crossing her arms in a perfect imitation of her father.

"Then we'll have to find out where he lives."

"How?"

"Well, they're bound to have his address on record there."

"You're suggesting to steal it," Granger deadpanned.

"I prefer intel gathering."

"Your penchant for kleptomania is more than a bit worrying," the brunette gave him a pointed look, reminding him of the accusations of stealing that had reacquainted the two earlier that afternoon.

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"Regardless," she said with a dainty sniff, "it's a horrible invasion of privacy."

Harry regarded Hermione with a pointed look of his own. "Didn't seem to bother you, did it?"

The brunette flushed, whether out of embarrassment or anger, Harry couldn't tell: "I-well-it was... that was completely different!"

Harry didn't put any effort into a return volley, and instead kept his brow meticulously arched. "I'm sure it was," he said indulgently, to an exasperated huff from Hermione; and with that, he turned away to the unconscious man.

"What do we do with him?" asked Hermione.

"I've sent along a patronus to some friends. They'll be by to pick him up right about... now," Harry's sentence was punctuated by two loud, distinct pops in the hallway. He kept his eyes focused on Granger and her father as two sets of footsteps came to the door, and then:

"Cor, blimey, Potter, your stag raised an unholy racket on its way to us! What the bloody hell happened?"

Harry turned to face a shock of spiky pink hair and the smiling, heart-shaped face of auror Nymphadora Tonks. "I think he can tell you better than I can, Dora," he said, pointing to the downed, black-robed man.

"I hope you die," Tonks said, scowling at the nickname.

Harry grinned. "Careful what you say, you may just get your wish after all."

"Would that I could," quipped the auror, bending down to inspect the body.

"A Death Eater?" said her already-squatting companion, a dark-skinned, bald-headed man Harry knew to be Kingsley Shacklebolt, another auror.

"Yup," Harry agreed, "that's a Death Eater, all right."

"You know, they're going to kill you for telling us and not them."

"I do believe a queue's already formed," said Harry; Granger and her father snorted.

"Okay," Shacklebolt said soberly, ignoring Harry's quip, "we'll take him to the brig. Make sure to keep your name and..." he looked at the two Grangers quizzically.

"Hermione Granger," said Hermione, "this is my father, Iain."

Mr. Granger unfolded his arms and waved.

"Right, we'll keep your name, as well Mister and Miss Granger's out of the paperwork, if that suits you," Tonks said for her partner.

"Works for me," Harry replied.

Tonks smiled at him. "Are you going to be out for much longer?"

"Possibly. Lots of things happening tonight."

Tonks blinked. "Well, I won't pry, Harry, but you know you've already missed dinner last night. Try to make it this time."

"Anything for you, darling."

"Do well not to flirt with me, Potter. I don't want to have to fight off Joan of Arc, thank you very much."

"Okay, okay. I'll try to be back before heads roll. Make sure to meet at Grim, tonight. Got lots of news."

Tonks nodded resolutely, and with that, she bent low and inspected the unconscious Death Eater. "Come on, ugly, we've got a nice, cozy holding cell for you back at the Auror Department," she said, "going around, wearing Death Eater outfits, scaring the public, for shame!" she finished with a wink, as Shacklebolt levitated the limp man and guided him out of Hermione's flat.

Harry turned around and found Granger and her father wearing identical, mystified looks just as another few pops of apparition went off:

"Friends with aurors, now?" asked Hermione.

"Healer Rotaru and I do consultations on some of the wizards and witches the Auror Department picks up from time to time. Tonks and Shacklebolt are two of the best I know," Harry replied simply, and walked over to the door Tonks and Shacklebolt had left through. "Well? Coming along, Ms Granger?"

The Unspeakable nodded. "I'll be out in a minute. You go on ahead. I think I do owe my father an explanation."

Mr. Granger nodded. "You bloody well do, child."

Harry shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, heading out of the flat.

Archewood was a a ground of contrasts, thought Harry, as both he and Hermione came up on the circular training pitch. This charming pitch was nestled into an equally charming cliffside and attached to a large and most decidedly un-charming administrative building painted in garish shades of burnt orange, that shined with an unnatural glow, even in the pale moonlight.

"Merlin," said Granger, squinting at the eyesore. "that building is a literal sin."

"If you think that's bad, you should see the team play," Harry said with a nod. "I still can't believe Weasley is a substitute. Every one of our chasers despised going up against him whenever we played Gryffindor."

"Ah, yes, 'Weasley is Our King', and all," said the Unspeakable with fake interest in the subject, "but I suppose gallant Harry Potter, seeker extraordinaire, saved Slytherin every time with his barrel rolls and aerial pirouettes and wonky faints."

"Wronski Feints," corrected Harry automatically.

"Whatever," sniffed the Unspeakable with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Harry sighed. "Are you always like this?"

"Like what?" asked Granger, a cheshire-like smile spreading slowly across her face.

"A complete pillock?"

He received a little snort from the woman: "Why, yes, Mr. Potter. Yes, I always am."

Harry sighed again. "Such a shame. You should work on your anger. Try empathy some time."

"If you don't shut up, I'll work out my anger out on you."

"Alright, alright, calm down," Harry said with a grin, raising his hands in surrender. Granger beamed at him primly, and stepped on ahead. She was an interesting woman, horribly uncouth, but interesting all the same: Harry wasn't yet sure if he liked her or despised her with all his soul.

The came to a cobblestone path, that led to the door of the Cannons' premises, which were as hideously orange as the rest of the building.

"So," started Hermione, "what's our plan?"

"Simple, I distract them by posing as a Seeker interested in trials; while they're fawning over me, you'll go on and find out where Weasley lives."

"And how, pray tell, do I go about that?"

"Figure it out, you're a clever girl."

She side-eyed him and scowled. "Merlin, I hate you."

"Oh my poor heart, I fear I shan't ever recover," Harry delighted in seeing Hermione's frown deepen.

They pushed through the doors and into an atrium, large and circular, ringed with marble-white roman columns that looked dreadfully out of place.

"It's practically dead in here," said Harry.

"It is night, Potter," replied Hermione. "Not many people are at a quidditch training pitch at night."

"Tell that to Marcus Flint," muttered the black-haired healer under his breath.

An orange desk stood as the centrepiece and a pretty blonde receptionist behind it, the centrepiece of the centrepiece, as it were: "Welcome to Arche... bless my soul, Harry Potter!" she gasped, as a the few others, mostly night watchmen, in the atrium took notice of the exchange.

"Merlin, someone in this room has soaked knickers. Three guesses who," muttered Granger under her breath.

"You?" returned Harry lowly.

"Sexually harrassing a client, then?" whispered Hermione. "I'm certain there are some laws aiming to fight against that sort of healer-patient exploitation."

"Good thing you're not my client."

"Good point," said the Unspeakable, "but if you try and touch me, I'll not hesitate to fight fire with fire."

The back of her hand brushed against his trouser leg, much too close to the groin for comfort. She observed him through amused and half-lidded eyes as Harry realised that it was an intentional move and promptly choked.

"A-are you all right, Mr. Potter?" the deskworker simpered, rushing out from behind the desk, her high heels clicking against the orange-tiled floor. "Can I help you with anything? Do you need water?" some of the onlookers mumbled to each other, perhaps wondering why Harry Potter showed up at Chudley's training grounds:

Harry regained himself just before the receptionist could place a hand on his forehead. "I'm fine, just... my chewing gum nearly went down the wrong hole," he faked a relieved smile. Granger grinned at him to the side.

Harry took it back. He definitely, completely, utterly despised Hermione Granger.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" the receptionist cried, as though she had been choking him herself.

Harry waved her away. "You've nothing to apologise for, it was my own damned fault."

The blonde blushed and smiled coquettishly at the now Man-Who-Lived. "Well, thank you. But you must excuse me, it's not every day that Harry Potter of all people shows up in your lobby. And with... who are you, dear?" the woman asked Hermione, who made to speak, but Harry interrupted her:

"This is Hermione Granger, maths wunderkind and my agent," he lied easily, earning an impressed sideways glance from the unspeakable.

"Agent?" began the receptionist, "I've never heard of her."

"She's very new to the business, but believe me when I say she's the best."

"I do," said the blonde. "Wait a minute. If you're bringing an agent with you... you don't mean you're thinking of signing with us?"

"I'm keeping my options open," Harry said with an enigmatic smile; it was enough to confirm his interest to the receptionist. "Didn't President Ryker tell you I'd be in within the next few days?"

Of course, President Ryker knew nothing about Harry's "impending" visit, but the Healer assumed that even if the receptionist told the president Harry Potter had come by, the old man would be a fool to turn them back now.

"Oh. Oh, wow! Oh my! I... President Ryker said nothing about this! I'm so unprepared, oh, I must look a complete fool!"

"Hardly," lied Harry once more, this time earning an amused glance from Granger.

"Oh, please, please, wait here just a moment! I'll be back in no time at all!" she raised her hands in a placating manner, and, once apparently assured Harry and Hermione would not run off, she scurried back to her desk, where papers and quills flew up and in the air in the organised chaos of a mass levitation charm.

While the receptionist was preoccupied with her own world, Harry turned to Hermione. "Don't do that again."

"Do what again?" Granger asked, sounding especially innocent.

"Fondle me like a Parisian whore."

"So old-fashioned," the unspeakable mocked, "I'm one of those "liberated" women, you know. My reputation is perfectly fine."

"I couldn't give a hippogriff's arse about your reputation, it's more my own I'm worried about," Harry murmured, more to himself than his companion.

"What does that mean?"

Harry shook his head. "Never mind."

Hermione regarded him with an arched eyebrow, but soon she turned away and observed the columned decor of the atrium. "I'm actually impressed," she said lowly, changing the subject.

"At what?"

"You're quite a skilled liar."

Harry smiled in return. "That wasn't impressive," he said. "It was much too easy. Being semi-famous sometimes has too many perks. People would believe me if I said I actually invented the Philosopher's Stone. Truly frustrating."

"Well, they always say that you're your own worst critic," quipped the Unspeakable.

"Come with me," the voice of the receptionist called out to them from her desk; another attractive blonde had already taken her place as receptionist. "I'll show you two around the facility. I'm Anna, by the way."

They both mumbled out greetings as Anna grinned at them and bounced away. Harry and Hermione followed her away from the atrium, past double doors that led into a long hallway, littered with the ghosts of unsuccessful teams past. There were pictures of old teams from decades beforehand, all looking a little more weathered, a little more beaten down, every year. About every fifteen years, the picture once again was filled with bright and hopeful youngsters, but then the cycle would begin anew: by the fourteenth year, each of those fresh-faced youngster had become a dour old man.

There wasn't a single championship trophy to be found among all the team pictures.

It depressed Harry, and even Granger, notorious in their Hogwarts days for being an outspoken quidditch hater, couldn't resist a pitying look for the perennially hapless club. Part of him admired Weasley's commitment to the inescapably awful club, it must have been tiring, for someone like him to lose game after game.

They turned a corner, and Harry could almost hear Hermione's eyebrows shoot up in excitement, just as they came up on the man this whole search had been for.

Ron Weasley blinked. "Potter?" he asked, his thick red eyebrows narrowing. "Granger?"

"Ron," Harry greeted back.

Hermione seemed content with a frosty, "Weasley."

"Erm," began Anna, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "I forgot, you know each other, don't you?"

"'Know'," said Ron with a lopsided grin, "that's a funny way to say 'bane of my existence'."

"I'm sorry?" the receptionist began with a confused pout.

"No team can be expected to have a 150 point lead before Harry Potter spots the snitch."

"It's my one talent. My eyesight is absolute shite otherwise," said Harry, winking one of his myopic eyes behind his reading spectacles.

"You can have that fixed, you know," Hermione interrupted. "In fact, I might recommend it... as your agent, of course."

"Of course," agreed Harry.

"Agent?" asked Ron, pointing from Harry to Hermione. "You? Hermione Granger, quidditch agent? For Harry Potter?"

"What of it?" challenged Hermione.

Ron shook his head. "I just... I didn't take you for the type."

"My interest in Quidditch is rather recent; I'm what you might call a late-bloomer for the sport," Hermione said with false cheer, "but Harry here thinks he's rather good at it. And even if I didn't believe him, well... they say the customer is always right!"

Weasley raised and eyebrow and and gave the two a strange, searching look. "Well, I've no complaints," he said at length, "we've never been particularly great with seekers and signing a another's hardly going to queer the pitch, I reckon."

Harry grinned broadly. "Great!" he said, and surreptitiously elbowed Hermione's side. The unspeakable jumped and fixed him with a baleful glare, until she saw his eyes. Suddenly, Harry detected another presence in his mind. It was Hermione, though it felt different this time. Where before she tried to burst through his shields with the mental equivalent of dynamite, she now reigned herself in and knocked, so as to be let in.

So, he let her in. With restrictions, of course. She couldn't see his memories; at best, Hermione could talk to him and he could talk back, having an internal conversation while they spoke with others externally.

What do you want? Harry heard Hermione's voice in his head as they engaged in pointless small talk with Anna the Receptionist and Ron the Keeper. You look like you want to say something.

"Still have the Firebolt?" Ron grinned; the Firebolt was still a top notch broom, but a little outdated these days.

"Don't do much seeking these days, 'cept for a few four-a-sides," Harry replied airily, "when I fly it's mostly for speed. So I got the Bulgary Diavel S."

Demand that Weasley gives us the tour of Archewood, he gave a mental reply to the unspeakable.

"That's a hell of a broom," Ron remarked, awed. "It's probably the best racing broom in Europe! Those Italians really know their stuff."

How on earth am I to do that? said Hermione with sheer, unabashed incredulity.

Harry sighed; she really knew nothing about quidditch, did she? You're my agent, Granger, you're supposed to come in and throw your weight around. And, besides, it's not like they'll say no. The Cannons are completely desperate; you saw it yourself!

"I'm looking for a new broom, too," continued Ron as Hermione hemmed and hawed to Harry's side.

Fine, she growled eventually, retreating from Harry's mindscape far less gently than when she came.

"So, the Red Star 12 allows for quicker roles and slant dives, which makes it the ideal keeper's broom. The only problem is that Puddlemere is really the only club that can aff-" Ron said to Harry as he began to pay full attention to their conversation once more.

"I've just had a capital idea," blurted Hermione over Ron as he attempted to detail the pros and cons of a Red Star 12 broom to the newest Nimbus. "How about you, Mr. Weasley, give my client and I a tour of Archewood? I'm sure you can talk shop about brooms along the way?"

Wow, Granger. Subtlety, not even once.

Shut up, responded Hermione appropriately, and promptly withdrew from Harry's mind.

Ron looked taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "I mean, if that's alright with Anna..." he trailed off, looking in the direction of the receptionist. Harry usually wasn't one to have an overly-high opinion of himself, but Anna the leggy, blonde receptionist, did genuinely look put out at the prospect of not being the one to give him the full tour.

Regardless of how she might have felt, Anna nodded. "If it's okay with you, Mr. Weasley, then it's okay with me. After all, I think you can give Mr. Potter a better tour than I ever could."

The redheaded keeper gave her a charming grin. "Thanks Anna, I'll try not to break them."

The blonde receptionist nodded bouncily. "Be sure not to," she said with a flirty smirk, and sauntered back to her desk in the atrium.

"She's great, isn't she?" Ron remarked, indiscreetly staring at the blonde's backside.

"Who, the receptionist?" Harry asked, taking note of a halfway open door that led to an empty office.

"Yeah, Anna. New here, she just started a couple of weeks ago, but Merlin..."

"Yes, yes," snipped Hermione, "she's dishy, we can all see that," she then turned to Harry, "Potter?"

Harry promptly grabbed Weasley by the shoulder and dragged him into the empty office; Hermione followed close behind.

"Bloody hell, Potter!" cried the redhead. "What in blazes do you think you're doing?"

Hermione cast an incarcerous on the redhead, binding him tight to a plush executive chair behind the office desk.

Harry cast the counterspell almost as quickly. "Merlin, what is it with you and ropes?"

"It's so they stay in one place," Hermione snipped back, recasting the spell.

Harry once more dispelled it. "It doesn't work very well, then," he flashed Hermione a smug grin, not-so-subtly reminding her of how he had bested her when she ambushed him in his office.

The unspeakable scowled and waved her wand once more. "You were lucky, not good."

"And you're much too arrogant for a person who's done nothing but lose all night," Harry growled, dispelling it for the final time.

The brunette Unspeakable opened her mouth for a retort, but Ron had enough, or Harry supposed he did, because he stood up and bellowed, "What the bloody hell are you two talking about!?" at the bickering duo. Both turned to him nearly immediately:

"Listen closely, Ron," said Harry, sobering up quickly, and then nodded to Hermione.

"Weasley, I'm a-" she paused, and looked as though her throat locked up. Coughing once or twice, she cleared her throat and began again. "Ronald, I am a-" but her mouth clamped shut once more, and she let out an exasperated huff, as Ron looked more confused than ever before. "Oh, hell! Potter, I can't get it out. Do it for me?"

"She's an Unspeakable," Harry said quickly, not really caring if divulging that information threatened Granger's job or not.

Ron stared back. "And?"

"And three nights ago, a prophecy was stolen from the Department of Mysteries," replied Hermione.

Ron glared; his bushy red brows furrowed. "And?"

"And apparently that prophecy concerned the three of us," Harry finished for Hermione, who only seemed to be getting annoyed by Weasley's behavior.

"So what?" said Ron. "You think I stole it?"

"No," said Harry, right at the same time Hermione said, "Yes."

"Which one is it?" Ron growled.

"Don't listen to Granger, she's an idiot," Harry deftly avoided the swat that came at his shoulder from an outraged Hermione, "I already know you didn't steal the prophecy, because you probably didn't even know it existed until we just told you about it, right?"

Ron nodded slowly. "Right."

"Welcome to the club," said Harry, smiling. "I didn't know about either until Granger over here barged into my office and tried to mind-rape me."

"It was not mind-rape!" Hermione squeaked, affronted.

"Sure it wasn't," Harry replied with a patronising look. Hermione's face took on that familiar shade of volcanic red, indicating to Harry a massive blow-up was coming, but the saint that was Ronald Weasley interrupted and, thus, saved his life:

"Not that this isn't wildly entertaining," the redhead said dryly, "but what the hell are you two talking about? I'm guessing it's not a spot in the reserves with me, is it?"

Harry sighed and explained more slowly. "No, I love quidditch, but as a hobby; I'm quite happy with my job, thank you. But Ms. Granger here was dispatched to find out who stole the prophecy we just mentioned. And since we're the three in the prophecy, well..."

"It had to be one of us that stole it," Ron finished for him.

"Right," replied Harry, "Granger didn't steal it, or she wouldn't have come rampaging around St. Mungo's looking for me. I didn't steal it, that much Granger can confirm. And you just said you knew nothing about it."

"Okay," started Ron, "where are you going with this?"

"Because there was a fourth person," Harry said.

"Who?" asked the redhead, folding his arms. Hermione nervously glanced Harry's way before she answered:

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," she said, rather ominously.

Ron paled at the name, but he seemed to plaster a too-bright grin on his lips. "You're having me on, right? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead. He died twenty years ago. Hell, Potter, you were the one who killed him!"

The little office fell silent.

"Not entirely," said Harry quietly, at length. Both Hermione and Ron whirled on him:

"What? What do you mean, not entirely?" Ron whispered, his face gone pale as chalk. Hermione, predictably, looked annoyed. Harry surmised it was the divide between having been brought up in the wizarding world and being a muggleborn. Ron had heard the stories, spoken to the survivors, and he was afraid; all Hermione had ever heard were a few hushed lines about a supposedly dead man, so she was annoyed.

But while the cultural divide between muggle and wizard was a fascinating academic topic for Harry to ponder, it wasn't important right then, and both Hermione and Ron looked at him expectantly, though for very different reasons:

"I mean I didn't kill him entirely."

"I got that much," Hermione growled, "now do us a favour and stop speaking in riddles."

Harry sighed, and turned around, casting a few of the diagnostic spells he knew to check if there were tracking or listening charms of any kind in the room. When he found none, after a fairly involved scan, he turned back to Hermione and Ron:

"What you're about to hear cannot leave this room. Am I clear?" Ron nodded quickly; Hermione looked a little suspicious, but eventually moved her head downward the scantest bit. "Good. It's a little known secret that Voldemort-" Ron and Hermione both flinched, "-didn't die after he tried to kill me. His body was destroyed, yes, but sometimes an angry soul is too powerful to simply be tethered by whether their body is alive or dead."

"So what?" asked Hermione, folding her arms. "He's a... wraith of some kind?"

"I suppose," replied Harry, "you could call him wraith, fed solely on anger and a desire for revenge. Though rumour has it he's not so much a wraith anymore."

"Then what is he?" Ron asked.

"What he is or isn't, is not important right now. What is important is that earlier this evening, a Death Eater, who works for Voldemort, attacked Granger and I in her flat. We dispatched him easily, but it's quite a coincidence that a prophecy goes missing with her name, my name, and Voldemort's on it, and then a Death Eater pokes in. And since you're in that prophecy, too, I have a feeling someone will be coming after you soon enough. Which is why we should get out of here as quickly as possible."

"And go where?" this time Hermione asked the question.

"I have a place where we can all stay for the time being," Harry replied shortly.

Ron looked unmoved by the story. "Well, that's great and all, but I don't really believe you and I'm going to go home," he stood, only to be blocked by both Harry and Hermione.

"Weasley," said Potter. "Look at me. Do I have any reason to lie to you? And even if I did, does Granger have one? We barely even know each other, let alone go around pulling pranks on random schoolmates together." Ron opened his mouth, and then shut it in favour of a very contemplative expression:

"I mean, yeah, I guess you don't have a reason to lie, but you must admit the whole thing sounds really bloody farfetched-" his rebuttal was cut off by a very loud, very feminine scream, in the direction from which Harry and Hermione had come.

"What the hell was that?" Hermione gasped, alarmed.

"It came from the atrium," Ron affirmed, and, quite suddenly, a look of terror flitted across his face. "Oh, no," he murmured, and took off running, bolting off before either Harry or Hermione could stop him or tell him to slow down.

"Merlin," Hermione sighed, her easily annoyed nature once more rearing its head. "Can we just let him die? Pretty please?"

Harry shook his head.

"I said 'please'!" she cried with mock sincerity.

"Unfortunately," said Harry, "I think we might need him, if this prophecy means anything at all."

"Damn," cursed Hermione with a soft smile.

Drawing their wands, the two followed after Ron in the direction of the atrium. They found him crouched over a fallen figure. It was Anna, the leggy blonde receptionist that had left them only five minutes earlier. Around her, the watchmen lay strewn about the atrium.

"You see anyone?" Harry asked the redhead.

"No," Ron replied, "well, yes if you're counting the stiffs. No, if you're not."

"Are they alright?" Hermione asked Ron quickly as she and Harry strode up to the redhead.

"I think so," replied Ron. "They were already down by the time I got here."

Harry bent low and took the woman's pulse. "Been stunned," he said, before moving onto one of the motionless guards. "Him, too. Looks like our killer is trying to avoid collateral."

Hermione fixed a strange look on the healer. "Why would a Death Eater care about not killing civilians?"

"I don't know," said Harry, "bigot with a conscience?"

The Unspeakable raised an eyebrow as she trained her wand around the room. "What aren't you telling me, Potter?"

"My favourite pizza, my life story, my favourite movie, whether I prefer bovril or prawn sandwiches, my waist size, the hand I hold it with-Expecto Patronum!-I don't tell you a lot of things, Granger; I hope you won't hold it against me," said the healer as a silver stag burst from his wand and galloped out from the atrium.

"You are an imbecile," Hermione said drily.

"I do try," quipped Harry. "We should have some friends coming along in a moment. Now, to make sure we don't get killed in that moment."

"Well, if someone came here looking for me, they can't have gotten far," Ron said, standing up and fingering his own wand.

"If I were a betting woman," agreed Hermione, "I'd say they're still in this room."

That did a particularly good job of heightening everyone's awareness, particularly for Ron, Harry thought. They bumped back-to-back in an odd, three-pronged triangle, watching and waiting for any sign of movement, any at all, that might have looked suspicious.

It came very suddenly, when Harry had his back turned to the receptionist's desk and faced the hideous orange doors to the complex. He heard Hermione shout and someone drag him downward. A purple curse flew over their heads and slammed into a wall, reflecting harmlessly. Turning to the side to thank his would-be saviour, Harry found himself staring at a grinning Ron.

"Nice reflexes," praised the Healer lightly.

"Ah, no need to flatter, mate. It just comes natural," said Ron roguishly, before he scarpered off to were Hermione was, ducked behind the receptionist's desk. Harry, for his part, scrambled on hands and knees to one of the pillars ringing the atrium and pressed his back to it.

He poked his head out, but had to stumble back behind the pillar, because the moment he did, a spell flew his way from up ahead, and slightly to the right.

"Good," he murmured quietly to himself. I've got you now.

Harry drew back into the cover of the pillar. Whispering a few words, he tapped his wand to his head and felt something wet and cold run down from the crown of his head and slide down his chest and arms, to the tips of his feet. It felt something like someone had cracked a very viscous egg over his skull.

But, the uncomfortable wet feeling soon receded and Harry knew the disillusionment charm had worked when his pressed against the wall and could only see a transparent, camouflaged sleeve where his arm should have been.

He moved. Harry passed Hermione and Ron, both of whom held a hushed conversation among themselves, and stalked over to where the spell had originated from: behind one of the pillars on the opposite side of the room. Tiptoeing toward the column with his wand trained forward, he slowly crept around the face of the pillar.

Behind it, Harry found nothing but air.

Damn, Harry thought as he made a quick retreat back to where Hermione and Ron were, and crouched next to them.

"Six o'clock," he whispered from behind them, causing the two to jump, engrossed as they were in their conversation.

"Merlin, Potter!" Hermione gasped. "You near sent me into cardiac arrest!"

Harry, in response, tapped both of their heads with his wand and watched as they too, turned transparent against the circular desk. "The other bloke might be running around with a disillusionment charm as well. We should move."

"What? And leave all those people here with a bloke who may or may not be, by your own words, a bloody Death Eater!?" Ron growled under his breath.

"It's taken care of," Harry replied. "Help is on the way. Our only job is making sure we don't die in the next five minutes. So get up and move."

If Ron or Hermione had any objections, Harry couldn't tell, he could only tell when they stood up and made to follow him. Harry almost did the same, until he saw a green light sailing straight for Hermione. There was no time to think; he grabbed Hermione about the legs and pulled her down atop him. Unfortunately, she also tripped up Ron, who also went crashing atop Harry. They ended up an unceremonious pile on the tiled floor, Ron at the top, Hermione sandwiched in the middle, and Harry crushed at the bottom.

A laugh came from somewhere behind the desk. "Disillusionment charm?" came a disembodied voice, neither masculine or feminine. "Clever, but not enough by far."

Hermione rolled around atop Harry and beat at Ron's chest. "Get-off-me-you-lummox!" she said, enunciating each word with a swat, and eventually heaved the tall redhead off her. "Who are you!?" she yelled out into the ether as Ron scooted back, rubbing his chest.

"Just a messenger," replied the voice.

"A messenger? A messenger from whom?" Hermione challenged, rolling off Harry and ducking back behind the table.

"He can see through the disillusionment charm?" Ron murmured quietly to Harry. "How else could they have shot a perfect curse at Granger?"

Harry sighed. "I dunno. Never assume things will come easy where Voldemort is involved."

Both Ron and Hermione flinched.

"Well, we can confirm it now, can't we?" Hermione snipped, as she awaited the answer from the intruder.

"From no-one," the words came from very far away, as Harry scrabbled back to cover. Silence fell around the atrium for one long moment that seemed to stretch out to infinity.

And then, "Just a messenger from no-one."

It came from right behind the ragtag trio.

Perhaps he came so close with the intent to frighten, to really lay it on thick before delivering the killing blow, or blows, in this case. In hindsight, Harry decided, he did it because he was simply a moron. Whispering right behind the trio gave all three a very clear idea of where the man was: Harry blindly reached out and grabbed a fistful of invisible robe:

"Granger!" he shouted back at Hermione, who was the only one with her wand at the ready. She fumbled with the wand for a moment, nearly giving their assailant enough time to get away, but Ron reached over Harry and sent a wild haymaker in the general direction of the spectre; there was a fierce jitter in the fabric, indicating to Harry that Ron had at least gotten a hit on the invisible man. All Ron's work was vindicated when Hermione had finally regained control of her wand and pointed it at the thin air in front of Harry, tip glowing red:

"REDUCTO!" she screamed, and proceeded to send one of the most powerful blasting hexes Harry had ever seen right into the figure Harry had been holding. The fabric was yanked from his grasp and a dark figure went was sent flying some distance off into one of the pillars. Time froze for a moment as their assailant collided into one of the columns, and then, the body fell limply to the floor, in a heap of black robes.

Harry readied his own wand. "Stupefy," he said, stunning the figure for good measure. All three moved slowly toward the figure, as though he would get up at any point and start firing off unforgivables at any moment. Reaching the body, Harry pulled off the mask, revealing a feminine face he didn't quite recognise. Shaking his head, he crouched down and pulled up the sleeve of her left arm.

"Yup, Death Eater. Dark Mark confirms it."

"Goddamn. Death Eaters, here..." Ron remarked behind him, trailing off.

Hermione shook her head. "What on earth is the world coming to?"

"Hell if I know. Though that was a nice shot, Granger," Ron whistled low at the downed, figure.

"Oh, well, it's... erm..." Hermione trailed off, clearly unused to receiving compliments.

"It's all in the reflexes," said Harry with a smile, recalling her fumbling episode.

The unspeakable arched a brow. "Are you mocking me, Healer Potter?"

"A little, yeah."

Her nerves likely too shot to take a offence to it, Hermione laughed instead. It was a soft, tinkling giggle that proved to be deceptively infectious, and the three were soon tittering like a pack of schoolgirls together, which only stopped once several cracks rang throughout the air:

"Looks like the cavalry arrived too late to matter at all," Harry said wryly.

"Harry! Are you in here? Are you alright!?" A very familiar voice cried from the entrance of the building.

Smiling, Harry stood up. "And here I thought this would be the day when you lot would finally come to my rescue. Tsk, tsk. Shame on me. Should know better by now, shouldn't I, Sirius?"

Across the room stood Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, former convicted criminal, and holder of perhaps one of the most charming grins of all time. "Harry. Glad to see you're still capable taking care of yourself."

Harry's smile broke into a full-blown grin; behind his godfather were Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt; one of Harry's former professors and a man who seemingly owned only the shabbiest of robes, Remus Lupin; an odd man with a fake eye, a wooden stump for a leg, and a very shifty-eyed look, that Harry knew to be Alastor Moody; and last, but certainly not least, with his piercing blue eyes that seemed to belong to a much younger man than his long, silvery beard suggested he was, was Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and, in many ways, Harry's mentor.

"Oh, well," sighed Harry theatrically to Sirius, "I suppose I can't take all the credit. I have these two to thank for at least some help," he bent low and pulled both Ron and Hermione up to their feet, punctuating the action with a hardy clap to the shoulder of both.

Dumbledore stepped forward, and Ron seemed to take notice of the headmaster for the first time, though Hermione had been staring at him nearly since the old wizard had phased into the atrium.

"Professor?" Ron questioned.

"Mr. Weasley," greeted the headmaster with one of his usual, knowing smiles, "Miss Granger."

"What on earth are you doing here, of all places, Professor?" asked Hermione.

Dumbledore's eyes smiled more than his mouth did. "Why, I'm helping young Mister Potter, here, Miss Granger."

The brunette's brows furrowed in confusion. "Why would you, of all people, be helping Potter?"

The headmaster finally turned to Harry. "Have you yet told them?" Harry immediately knew what he was talking about; he was careful to not let it slip in casual conversation.

"Not in as many words," Harry replied truthfully. "But it needs to happen. Boy, have the three of us got a story for the Order tonight."

In good cheer, the elderly headmaster smiled. "Well then," he said, a twinkle in his eye, "it appears we've all the need to travel to London tonight. I shall take Ms. Granger and Misters and Potter and Weasley with me, and it would be best if Remus came along as well. I will leave this... ahem... scene in the capable hands of Britain's finest Aurors."

Sirius nodded to Dumbledore and then turned to Harry, giving him a look so as to say "We'll speak later". Remus, the moustachioed man with the threadbare robes and thinning brown hair, perked up and padded over to the headmaster and shared a wink with his three former students.

"Alright then, Remus?" Harry asked, as he and his former professor began moving toward the exit.

"Alright, Harry?" Remus returned in a manner that seemed natural only to other Englishmen. They continued walking for a moment more until they reached the entrance doors to Archewood, and promptly realised no-one else walked with them. Remus was the first to do a double-take and turn around, and Harry, noting his compatriot's sudden turn, did the same, finding Weasley and Granger rooted to where they stood.

Thankfully, Dumbledore had a very soothing voice that could convince even the most stubborn to do his bidding; Harry supposed he would have made a very dangerous Dark Lord.

"Come along now, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger," he said calmly, beckoning the two forward. "We've all a long night ahead of us, and Harry tells me you've a story to tell. As a matter of principle, I never tell a story on an empty stomach, and I'm sure you think the same."

The mention of food alone was enough to get Ron on board, though Hermione looked a mite conflicted still. Harry quirked his head and sent a questioning glance her way, and Ron remained to her side, giving her puppy looks. Eventually, and with a very heavy sigh, she relented. "Very well, take us wherever you wish," she said to Dumbledore.

His wish for food seemingly granted, Ron gave her a dazzling smile, and promptly scampered toward Harry.

"Look at you, all a-flutter," said the healer with a raised brow, "weren't you the one who was denouncing this all as bollocks not twenty minutes ago?"

"I still think it's bollocks," Ron replied cheekily, "but you've got to admit: there's something rather exciting about this whole thing!"

"Oh, Merlin, Potter," Hermione murmured as she came up to the other two at more measured pace. "I think we've created an adrenaline addict."

"How wrong you are, Granger! I've always been an addict," Ron returned once more, the very picture of boyish charm.

"Come along, now," chided Dumbledore, "we must make haste; I do adore Mrs. Potter's bouillabaisse. A sentiment, I'm sure, that Harry already shares and that the rest of you will by dawn."

Harry did very much agree, his mouth watered just thinking about it.

Ron blinked. "Mrs. Potter?" he asked, exchanging confused glances with Hermione, but Dumbledore and Remus had already opened the door into the winter night and Harry didn't have the heart to leave the old man waiting in the cold.

"Coming along, then?" He called out to the two lagging behind.

"The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at..." Hermione began, eyes focused on the small scrap of parchment in her hands, "number 12 Grimmauld Place?" she looked up at the houses in front of her. "But there's only Number 11 and 13 her... oh, my word."

Harry gave a wry smile at her, reminded of the first time he'd seen that house balloon up from the ground in between two fully sized homes, stretching until the space between could accommodate another home. Ron wasn't very surprised, as he expected the pureblood wouldn't be, but Granger's reaction was a treat. Now he finally understood why people always found his reaction to new forms of magic so amusing: the barely undisguised wonder looked a bit childish on a woman as notoriously mature-beyond-her-years as Hermione Granger.

"Shall we go in, then?" he asked. Dumbledore nodded and Ron faked a little, girlish curtsy, as if to tell Harry to go first. Remus merely watched the others with a good-natured expression and Hermione looked as though she had a hundred questions ready to tumble out of her mouth. The headmaster seemed to sense the former Ravenclaw's excitement and raised a hand:

"Questions once we're inside, Miss Granger, my dear."

Hermione, who perhaps hadn't gotten over seeing Dumbledore as her old headmaster, clamped her mouth shut immediately. Harry gave the group one last once-over before heading up to the door, where Dumbledore let them in.

They opened the door to bedlam.

The first thing Harry heard was the shrieking of a woman. The second thing he heard was the shrieking of a child.

He cringed.

The woman he knew all-too-well. Sirius's mother, a vile, odious woman, by her son's description, had taken it upon herself to be painted and have her portrait hung in the entrance hallway to the very unwelcoming 12 Grimmauld Place. She now took it upon herself to scream every opportunity she got, which was always, if the inhabitants of the house were ever too loud, or strayed too close to the portrait. The only thing that seemed to work was draping a curtain over her every time she got worked up. But it was truly a chore. But it was a necessity, given the filth she spewed.

Thankfully, Albus Dumbledore was the hero they needed at that moment. "Oh, that won't do," he said, clucking his tongue and shaking his head at the portrait's bulging, red eyes, pale face and the rant she had been on that had increasingly turned into incoherent shouting and growling. He waved his wand in several complex movements, and the drapes flew over the portrait, reducing the incoherent shouting to muffled, incoherent shouting.

That was one batch of shrieking done with, now where was the other?

"Wonderful," said Harry, sighing, "was that the "blood traitors, mudbloods, and mutants" tirade again?"

Someone snorted off to the side. "Is it ever anything else?" And then, they were introduced to the second source of screaming. There, standing on the landing of the stairs, was the predictably beautiful Tracey Davis carrying a squalling babe in her arms.

Harry gave her a rueful smile. "Alright then, Trace?"

"Potter, come and get this she-devil away from me," she growled. Harry, still smiling, complied and headed up the stairs, scooping up the crying infant from the woman's arms into his own. Nearly immediately, the child stopped crying and looked up at him with sparkling green eyes. She babbled softly and reached out a fat little hand to rub Harry's stubbled chin.

Tracey wasn't amused. "Oh, so you're a little viper when Aunt Tracey's carrying you, but when your father comes 'round, it's daddy's little girl, is it? I see how it is."

"Mmhmm," agreed Harry, "Chloë's a proper little lady, isn't she?" Chloë happily babbled some more, speaking some unintelligible language with her father. "Thanks for looking after her, Trace."

"Don't go thanking me yet," snipped Tracey, "I hear your wife's in a towering mood."

"What have I gone and done this time?"

"Oh, I dunno, forced her, as well as the rest of us—on a Friday, mind you" Tracey added with a little bit of unnecessary venom, "to relax in this hovel for a night when we could be preparing for Christmas week?"

"As opposed to what, sitting in a cramped flat in Sunderland? I'm sure she really misses the Midlands air."

"I'd rather live in a shoebox than spend any amount of time in a house whose previous owner was deep into house elf taxidermy," she pointed downward to the hall of decapitated house elf heads. Somewhere behind him, Harry heard Hermione gasp and Remus launch into a frantic explanation of the history of the house. "Speaking of which, why do you even live in Sunderland? Move to a city that actually matters."

"Tracey, darling, I love you, but if you're about to knob off the home counties again, I will punch you in the gob."

Tracey's mouth snapped shut. Then, it opened again:

"In any case," she continued, as if the aside about Sunderland had never happened, "don't take my word for it, go on to the kitchen, Harry. Let's see where your gibes be after that."

With that, Tracey huffed, turned around and stomped up the stairs, leaving Harry to shake his head at her retreating form:

"Why am I even friends with her?" he murmured to himself, "you still love me, don't you, dear?" he asked the baby in his arms, but found her dozing off. "Traitors, the lot of you," he cursed, and then looked up to find an interesting mix of emotions in the frozen group in front of him: knowing amusement in Dumbledore's eyes, unbounded pride in Remus's, barely restrained surprise in Hermione's, and naked confusion in Ron's:

"Wait a minute!" Ron started. "You have a—ow!" he finished with a cry as Hermione stamped on his foot.

"Don't be rude, Weasley," she snipped, and immediately turned to Harry. "You're married?"

"That's the exact same thing I was going to say!" Ron exclaimed, incredulous; Hermione ignored him.

"Erm, yeah, I guess," replied Harry. "For nearly two years, now."

Ron's reaction was one of surprise. "Weird, would've thought we'd have heard of it by now, given how the Prophet never shuts up about you."

"It was a small affair," Harry shrugged. "No journalists allowed."

Hermione's reaction, unlike Ron, confused Harry at first: she pinkened and started rubbing the back of her hand against her trousers vigorously. Harry eyed her questioningly, but then remembered Hermione's bold "fight fire with fire" episode, and grinned:

"I did warn you not to," he said smugly.

"Yes, after the fact," sneered Hermione, wiping her hand all the harder.

"Eh, well then, lesson learned: don't fondle strangers you bleeding nympho," Harry merrily announced, to a comically scandalized look from Ron, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and be castigated by the old ball and chain."

He skipped down the stairs to Ron's mocking tune of: "Ooo, frost queen Hermione Granger, a scarlet woman! Oh, tomorrow's Prophet will be sordid!"

And Harry left the hallway to Hermione's snappish reply. "If you call me 'scarlet woman' one more time, Ronald Weasley, so help me Merlin, I will turn you into a toad."

And so he stalked past the dining room, which he knew would be packed with people tonight, down another flight of stairs to the kitchen, and immediately the air thickened with the rich aroma of wine, cheeses, and the riviera. Several pots sat on the burner, being stirred by self-moving wooden spoons. Over at the kitchen table sat an all-too-familiar figure, reading a book Harry didn't quite recognise. She perked up from behind her book; her senses had always been finely honed, and a dueling champion like her could never be taken by surprise.

So, that's how Harry found himself staring in her cerulean orbs, betraying nothing. "Husband," she greeted neutrally. Even now, Harry was struck by her beauty. Long, flaxen-blonde hair, luminous blue eyes, a face constructed almost entirely of pleasing angles, as though fashioned by a renaissance sculptor: she was the picture of beauty, and quite often made Harry feel a bit like an ogre who had kidnapped a princess.

"Fleur," Harry answered, "you wouldn't believe the day I've had."

His wife, angel that she was, didn't look particularly pleased. "Smart."

"What?"

Fleur ran a hand through her long, blonde hair and replied with that Parisian accent of hers. "Smart. It is smart of you to have brought my daughter with you. Now I cannot hex you where you stand."

Harry shrugged, attempting a disarming smile that seemed to work on every woman but her.

She nudged out another chair from the kitchen table with her foot. "I have time," she replied with a wry. "I should like to know what it is that made us come to this... this.. Grim-old place."

Damn, cursed Harry internally, Tracey was right.

He sat down, hoping Ron and Hermione were at least faring better than he was.

A/N: Chapter 2 done, heading back to finish up the next chapter of Midnight Blues after this. Next chapter will be from Ron's perspective, and while you've already met some, you'll get to meet some more of the friends Harry's made while not being being around Ron or Hermione, as well as the new-look Order of the Phoenix. Next chapter will be from Ron's perspective.

Chapter Notes:

"It's all in the reflexes": A slight reference to Big Trouble in Little China. If you don't know what Big Trouble in Little China is, you can go fuck yourself. And then go watch it afterward, because it's fantastic.

Harry's tone shift: You might wonder why Harry's much more merry in this chapter than the last; it's explained away by the simple fact that Harry isn't at work.

Fleur's accent: Will not be phonetically spelled out as it is in canon, because "'E eez a leetle boi" is annoying as hell to write.

Sunderland: Harry and Fleur live in Sunderland, which is why I said Harry's accent was a mix of Londoner and Mackem (the Sunderland accent/dialect), from Hermione's perspective last chapter.

Home Counties: The counties in and around London.

Married with Kids: If you were hoping for a steamy romance between any two members of the trio (or perhaps a ménage à trois), let me quickly disabuse you of that notion: I did this precisely to head off any pairing questions involving the trio, because I want to use this fic to focus on the three purely as friends, not as the complex weave they would become if R/Hr or H/Hr or some weird love triangle happened. Now, Ron's too much of a happy-go-lucky playboy to ever fit with ultra-serious Hermione and Harry's out of the contest because he's already got a family. As for why I chose Fleur over the many Hogwarts girls nearer to Harry's age, you'll have to wait to find out.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.