Title: Masked Men And Where To Find Them

Author: tinyrose65

Summary: Harry Potter moved to Hell's Kitchen because she wanted a fresh start: time away from the spotlight, where she could focus on being the best Healer she could be. Trust the unconscious man in her dumpster to go and complicate things. (fem!Harry, AU!)

Notes: Alternate version of episode 2 of Daredevil.

Chapter 1: Chance Meetings

Harry wasn't sure how she had ended up with an unconscious man bleeding on her couch, but end up with one she did, and now she was a loss for what to do.

To be fair, he wasn't bleeding anymore. She'd healed him up to the best of her abilities (which were quite extensive, as she was a Healer and good at her job, thank you very much), and now she was just waiting for him to wake up.

With a sigh, she once again reached over to feel his pulse. It was still there, stronger than before, beating steadily against her fingers. She was about to pull away when a hand darted out and grabbed her wrist.

She nearly screamed.

The unconscious man was no longer unconscious. In fact, he was awake, eyes open and looking at her— or, at least, in her direction. They seemed to be staring over her shoulder at nothing. This, combined with the lack of reaction to light from his pupils that she had noticed earlier, helped Harry come to one conclusion:

"You're blind!" she said, perhaps more accusingly than the situation warranted. At the sound of her voice, the man's gaze shifted slightly as he was better able to pinpoint where she was.

"Thank you for noticing," he said, his voice still rough from when he had been unconscious. "Where am I?"

"My apartment," Harry said without thinking. In retrospect, this probably wasn't very useful information.

"I figured as much," he said, lips twitching slightly as he confirmed her suspicions. "And you are?"

"I'm the woman who dragged your sorry behind out of her dumpster," she told him tartly, not pleased with the way he seemed to be laughing at her. "You're welcome."

He reached up to touch his own face. "You've seen my face."

Harry rolled her eyes. Sarcastically she said, "Yes, and it's lovely. Although, you need a better costume— I mean, pantyhose? Really?"

"It's a work in progress," he said, frowning, clearly not pleased that she had taken his mask off. Changing the subject, he asked, "How did you get me up three flights of stairs?"

"…Elevator."

"There's no elevator," he said, calling her bluff.

Choosing to ignore the fact that there was no way he should've been able to know that, Harry raised an eyebrow, deciding to play him at his own game and deflect his question with a question of her own. "How did you know we were on the fourth floor?"

The man shifted uncomfortably, clearly in as little a mood to answer her questions as she was his. They had reached an impasse. He slowly sat up, Harry reaching over hesitantly to help him, if needed. She had healed away all of his injuries, but there would still be some residual soreness and stiffness in the deeper muscle and tissue injuries.

"I feel as though these wounds are days old, not a few hours" he said as he finished sitting up, amazement coloring his voice. His tone turned accusing. "What did you do to me?"

"Are you honestly complaining?" she asked rhetorically. Then, speaking in her best "healer voice", so dubbed by Ron, she instructed, "Be careful. Those wounds need a few more days to heal completely, so take it easy until then."

"That won't work for me," he said, shaking his head and moving to stand. Harry stood with him, feeling immediately dwarfed by his height and strength.

She didn't consider herself a weak woman. Small, yes. But weak? She still practiced Quidditch quite regularly at an intramural league down in Central Park, and she ran almost every day. This man, though, was clearly strong. That much she should've figured from his ability to survive sustaining all of those injuries. Now that he stood, though, Harry got a better look at how his t-shirt fit tightly against firm muscles, and, despite being blind, he carried himself with a grace and confidence in his movements that she would rather not test.

"Why not?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes. The man looked as though he was debating answering her. His eyes flicked behind her to where the window was. Harry vaguely wondered how hew knew it was there if he couldn't see it, but she didn't let that deter her. "Don't you dare jump out that window. I could stop you."

Despite their frankly ridiculous size difference, something in her voice must've convinced him that she was serious about her threat. In the end, something in him broke, because his shoulders sagged slightly and he suddenly looked more exhausted than he had even when Harry had first found him. He said, "The Russians. They're running a human trafficking ring out of Hell's Kitchen. Took over when the Italians folded up. Two days ago they pulled a kid out of the back of a van. Beat his father while he watched."

"Merlin's beard," Harry said, eyes wide. Her mind moved immediately to Teddy, who was safe at Andromeda's. If anything had happened to him… Well, the ones who took him wouldn't be pleased to meet her, that much was certain.

"So, what?" she asked, moving back to the current topic of conversation. "The Russians did this to you? Why?"

He smirked. "I've been making their lives difficult as of late."

Harry blinked. "But you're blind."

"There are other ways to see," was all he said. He bent down to her coffee table and began feeling around, as if searching for something. His mask, probably.

Well that answers nothing, Harry concluded to herself. Harry picked his mask up for him and handed it to him. He took it and slipped it on, looking, Harry had to admit, frankly ridiculous. He nodded— the only thanks she had gotten from him so far— and moved towards the window.

Wait.

"You're not actually leaving, are you?" Harry demanded. "Did you hear a word I said about those injuries?"

"Yes," he told her, opening the window. "And I appreciate the advice. But those Russians have a little boy. I can't just let that go."

"You'll be walking into a trap," Harry pointed out, quite reasonably she felt. The man didn't look particularly concerned. In fact, he was already halfway out the window. He had only stopped when she started to talk to him.

"That's a risk I'll have to take." He said simply.

Then he was gone.

Harry was left gaping, rather ridiculously, she might add, at an open window. She went over to it and stuck her head outside, wondering if she could see him still. She couldn't He had disappeared. Harry shut the window and began cleaning up the mess she had made healing him— potions bottles and poultices were strewn all over the floor. As she did so, she muttered angrily to herself.

"Didn't even say 'thanks.' Honestly. The nerve…"

It had been several hours since the strange man had left her apartment. After a rather interesting visit from a detective, Harry had gone ahead and showered, taking the time to bask in the hot water of her apartment and rinse the blood that had gathered on her hands from treating the man's wounds.

I wish all of the blood on my hands would wash off this easily, she thought to herself as she finished.

She wrapped herself up in a fluffy towel and then changed into the most comfortable (and ragged) pajamas she owned. She had just settled down on the couch with a good book and some warm tea when there was a knock at her window.

Harry jumped, jostling the tea and spilling some on her lap in the process. She hissed as it burned her slightly through the material, setting her things on the table. She looked over to the window and, to her surprise, saw the masked man perched on her fire escape, seemingly waiting for an invite in. Harry considered the situation only briefly before getting up and opening the window. She stepped aside as the man climbed in.

"Did you find the boy?" Harry demanded, as soon as he was inside, taking the chance to look him over. There were a few new tears in his clothes and his jaw sported a new bruise (probably not the only one— just the only one that she could see), but he otherwise looked no more worse for wear.

Good, she thought, satisfied. I'd hate for all my hard work to be undone so quickly.

"I did," he confirmed. "The Russians were waiting for me— a trap, like you said— but I took care of them."

Harry sighed with relief. Although she'd never admit it to him, the boy had been on her mind since he'd left, along with thoughts of what that poor kid's father must've been going through. To know that he was safe (that they were both safe) took a load off of her mind.

"How did you track him?" she asked.

"I found a Russian. Got him to talk," he said tersely. It was clearly not a subject he wanted her to pursue any further. Harry never could take a hint though.

"How?" she persisted, with the dogged determination that had won her the war.

He didn't answer, but that was answer enough for Harry.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that, to be honest. There was a time when she never would've condoned any form of torture, but that was before the war, before the Battle of Hogwarts. Now… well, she wasn't sure. She decided to focus on the fact that a little boy was alive because of the man's actions.

That had to be enough for now.

"You thought he was a detective, the man I found" the man said suddenly, breaking their silence. His head was tilted in a way that reminded Harry of a confused puppy. She doubted he'd appreciate the comparison. "Yet you lied to him anyways about seeing me. Why?"

She shrugged, feeling a bit self-conscious under his gaze, even though he was blind. "Didn't seem like my place to say, I suppose."

The man hummed noncommittally, clearly not believing that her answer was that simple. Still, he didn't push it, seemingly deciding that it wasn't worth it. "He didn't believe you, at any rate."

"My friends always said I was a terrible liar," Harry snorted. "Or maybe the blood stains on my couch gave it away."

He looked a bit guilty, although it was admittedly rather difficult to see behind the mask. Harry wished he'd just take it off so they could talk properly. She already seen his face— despite how upset that had made him earlier— there wasn't much reason for the mask at this point, aside from sheer paranoia, which she supposed he must have plenty of.

"Sorry about those," he said sheepishly.

Harry just shrugged. "The price you pay for helping people."

The man had been wandering around her living room, reaching out here and there to run his hands over things. He was getting a feel for things, she supposed. Literally. She should've felt angry about the invasion of privacy, but to be honest, there wasn't much here for him to feel. She had moved in only recently, so the apartment was relatively bare aside from some essentials. The most personal items on display were the moving photographs from Ron and Hermione's wedding, but he couldn't see those.

When she spoke, he stopped and walked back towards her. He was facing her when he asked, "How did you heal me?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. This was the question she was been hoping to avoid. She had known from the moment she brought him up to her apartment that she was more or less flouting the Statute of Secrecy (or whatever the American equivalent was). She should've taken him straight to a Muggle hospital and let them deal with him, but no. That would've gone against her very nature.

The right thing to do would be to call in some government officials and have them use a Memory Charm on him—remove all memories of the incident from his mind. Harry couldn't bring herself to do that, though. She had always thought that this was a rather drastic measure, especially in this case, where the man's concern for his own secret identity meant that he was unlikely to go on nattering about the night's events to anybody.

Which reminds me…

"I'll tell you how I healed you, if you tell me your name," Harry said, rather proud of herself for coming up with a such a compromise. The man looked less pleased, a frown passing over his face, as much as Harry had expected. When he didn't respond, Harry tutted knowingly. "I thought so."

"It'd be dangerous for you to know my name," he explained.

Harry wasn't impressed. "I understand, although it's a shame. I mean, I'll have to call you something if you keep coming here to be healed."

"Pardon?" the man asked, confused.

"You're obviously not going to stop getting beat up," Harry explained. "As a Heal— I mean, doctor, it's my job to fix you up. I doubt you'll take yourself to the hospital."

"I can't ask you to do that," the man denied.

"That's why I'm offering," Harry snapped, raising an eyebrow. She pushed the man slightly to the side so she could reach the desk shoved off to the corner of the room. She grabbed a scrap piece of paper and pen and scribbled her number down onto it. Then she turned around and all but shoved it at the man. "Take this and call me when you need help. It'd be nice to have some warning before you show up here, in case I'm entertaining guests."

The man hesitated for a second, clearly debating the merits of having somebody like Harry on-call. She hoped he'd agree— aside from the guilt that would be eating at her for not helping, she was admittedly curious about him and his quest to beat up Russian mobsters. Healing him on a regular basis would give her the chance to learn more. In the end, he took the piece of paper and shoved it into his pocket.

"I'm Harry, by the way," she offered by way of greeting, sticking out her hand for him to shake. "Harry Potter."

He didn't show any sign of recognition at her name, which Harry had expected given his lack of knowledge about the magical community. It was a nice change from the reactions she often got, even here in America, where she had come to escape life in the public eye.

He took her hand. "Nice to meet you, Harry."

"I have to call you something, you know," Harry mused, eyeing him critically. "What do you think of 'Draco?'"

"Draco?" the man— now Draco— sputtered indignantly.

"The name of an old boyfriend," Harry laughed. Growing a bit more serious, she added, "He liked keeping secrets, too."

Draco considered her words, then, with a completely serious expression on his face, he asked, "You really dated a man named 'Draco?'"

"Not one of my wiser moments," Harry said, moving past him and finally letting herself fall back onto the couch. At this point, she was fairly certain he wasn't going to murder her, so she could afford to let her guard down a bit (although she still had her wand holstered up her sleeve, just in case). Then, defensively, added, "But I found you half dead in a dumpster. You don't get to judge."

The man laughed.

Dating Malfoy had been… interesting (and not in a good way). Harry had decided to give him a try not long after the Battle at Hogwarts. Looking back, she supposed she was just searching for a way to get move on past Fred's death (funny, charming, sweet Fred). She was in a dark spot in her life and Draco Malfoy, her old nemesis and perhaps Fred's opposite in every way, seemed like a good idea at the time.

Their relationship had been fine at the beginning— more heated and wild than anything, but that's what she had wanted. Once the heat had died down, the problems had started. War had changed them all, Harry knew, and she thought that maybe it had changed Malfoy, too.

She wasn't wrong, but it hadn't changed him for the better.

He was meaner and more manipulative even Snape at his worst. He was constantly on edge from his parents' impending court date. He had treated her alright, at first. They had their squabbles, same as always, but would always apologize to each other and make-up. Then one day they'd gotten into a massive fight (about her testimony at his parents' trial) and he'd back-handed her across the face.

It was the wake-up call she had needed. Harry left her old life behind and had never looked back, eventually going on to become a Healer and moving to New York to get away from the limelight.

"Got a thing for bad boys?" the man in the mask— Draco— asked, bringing her attention back to him.

"Apparently," Harry said with a laugh. She eyed him. He was smiling a bit now, and Harry had to admit that it was a nice small— friendly, a bit warm.

Aside from the blood in his teeth.

Harry found herself smiling back as he headed back towards the window, having seemingly decided (like her) that their conversation for the night was over. He was halfway out when she called him back.

"Wait," she said, sitting up slightly. He stopped on the spot and angled his head towards her to show that he was listening. She bit her lip worriedly, then asked, "Why did you come back?"

"I forgot to say thank you," he parroted with a smirk. Harry felt the heat rush to her cheeks, although the part of her that wasn't embarrassed wondered how he had heard any of that. Before she could hazard a guess, he added, sincerity coloring his voice, "Thank you, Harry."

"You're very welcome," she told him warmly. She liked helping people, after all. "I'll be seeing you, I suppose."

After a moment's thought, she warned him, "Try to stay out of trouble."

He gave her a mock salute, then was gone, out the window once again. Left alone to her now very-cold tea and her thoughts, Harry couldn't help but wonder what in the world she had gotten herself into.

AN: So there you have it! This is set in a completely different universe than my other fem!Harry story (I thought about making it the same, but the timelines didn't work out- oh well). This might be a one-shot, or I might add more to it. Sorta depends on the reaction it gets, I guess. I hope you enjoy :)