Anguis: The Snake Within

Anguis: The Snake Within - Chapter One

Summary: It's a tale of sex, crime, conspiracy and violence. No longer the Wizarding World's Golden Boy, Harry Potter is a disillusioned Auror, unable to keep a partner and hiding a dark past. When a serial killer begins preying on London citizens and leaving a trail of macabre clues in their wake, Harry finds himself drawn into a web of deceit and betrayal that will force him to confront his secret past... or risk losing everything that he holds dear.

Pairing: H/OFC, Eventual H/Hr, Past Hr/R, Past H/G

Warnings: Sex, drugs, violence, and copious amounts of swearing

Author notes: This story is primarily from Harry's POV, but will occasionally be from Hermione's. After a few lines, this should be fairly obvious, as when it's from Hermione's POV, she's usually dealing with Harry. The story is interspersed with flashbacks, showing how Harry became the person he is - these are always in italics.

Compliant up to OTP. HBP and DH are loosely referenced, but I the fic isn't strictly inkeeping - the Final Battle, Voldie's death and the Epilogue are all disregarded.

All that out of the way - on with the show! Enjoy :D

0o0o0

It's the nineteenth of September, and I'm in a dingy backstreet pub, drunk and looking for a fight. It's always the same; every year the nineteenth finds me out for blood, drinking to drown the memories and trying my very best not to think of her. I sit at the bar, hunched over my sixth pint, keeping an eye on the other patrons. But everyone is quiet, minding their own business, and I growl in frustration.

Then the door opens and one of the biggest fuckers I've ever seen strides in. He's got a dark expression, a bad attitude and I feel the tension beneath my skin give way to anticipation. He leans on the bar, just a foot or so away, and signals to the bartender for a drink... I keep watching, smirking, until he glances at me. When I don't duck my head or look away, his face twists and he snarls, "What the fuck you looking at, pretty boy?"

Which is as good a way to start as fight as any.

I launch myself out of my seat, fast, efficient, and drive my fist into his face. He staggers back against the bar, dazed for a moment, and the entire room falls silent as everyone turns to watch.

"Now hold on a minute," says the barkeeper, but the rest of what he has to say is drowned out as the bastard roars and throws himself at me, fists swinging. I dodge the first few punches, light on my feet, a trained fighter. All around us men begin to jeer, but I block them out as we circle each other, eyes narrowed, both looking for a weakness. I can see he's untrained, but a born brawler, full of lightning strikes and dirty moves. He's good enough that his sudden lunge catches me off guard, and he gets in a lucky blow that splits my lip open against my teeth and has me spitting blood. For a big bloke, this bastard can really move, thank God - there's nothing more disappointing than picking a fight with someone who's big and mean, but too slow to get in a hit. I bounce on the balls of my feet and grin at him with blood-slick teeth, and it makes me look so crazy that he hesitates, just long enough for me to charge him, slam him into an old wooden booth that splinters beneath our weight. He groans, his fingers scrabbling at my hair, trying to get a grip, but I rear back and grab a bottle to smash across his teeth. The broken glass splits his face from ear to jaw, his howl a sickening combination of pain and rage. He shoves me away with sheer brute strength, and I stumble back, trying to find my footing amongst the overturned chairs and shattered glass. He pushes himself up, eyeballing me like a madman. We're both breathing hard, bleeding heavily and I laugh, loud and wild, and lunge at him one more time. He slugs me in the jaw, and I get him in the gut, as all around us men jeer and yell, and in the distance I can hear the shriek of sirens. We're in our last moments now - better make them count. My eye is already swelling so much it's difficult to see, and it's more luck than skill that lets me nail that magic spot, so that he goes down like a puppet with its strings cut, his eyes rolling back in his head as he crumples into puddles of spilt beer. I stand over him, chest heaving, with barely a moment to catch my breath and enjoy my victory before the police burst in. They swear at the sight of his messed up face, the blood spreading through pools of alcohol, making his injury look worse. One officer calls for an ambulance whilst the other yanks my arms roughly behind me and slaps on cuffs, a little too tight. I feel good though, great, when he drags me out into the night and cold air hits my face. I spit blood into the gutter and start laughing. The officer spins me around, shoving me hard enough that I bounce off the police car and then he's in my face, snarling. "You've just scarred that poor bastard for life. Don't you dare start laughing like it's something funny."

I grin wide enough to pull on my split lip, and I feel more blood run down my chin as I say, "Nah... he'll be fine. It ain't as bad as it looks."

Or at least it won't be, when I send a healer who owes me a favour to clean him up. The officer sneers, his lip curled, and says, "You're going down for this. I'll make sure of it."

Then his partner comes out, blood soaking through the sleeves of his white shirt. He opens the car door and throws me in the back. I'm still smiling, though, all tension seeped away, leaving me feeling boneless and content as we pull out, cutting into Friday night London traffic.

The officers don't talk to me, but I can hear them mumbling to each other in the front.

"He only got out of Pentonville for GBH a week ago... it was obvious he was going to start on the wrong person sooner or later. Maybe this'll teach him a lesson that prison didn't."

The driver, who'd been ranting about locking me up, meets my eyes in the rearview, and this time there's a wary respect about him. I smile coldly, and at that moment the radio squeals suddenly, then dissolves into loud static. In the same instant I feel a prickle across the back of my neck and the cold certainty that we're being followed. I twist to stare out of the back window and, although it's difficult to see amidst the headlights, I spot an unmarked black sedan, behind us but coming up fast, sliding between traffic the way only Ministry cars can.

"Aw, shit," I mutter, sliding down into my seat.

I can feel the buzz of magic now, the inside of the car feels charged, like the atmosphere before a storm, making my hair stand on end. The officers in the front feel it too, though Muggles never understand it. The driver glances in the rearview, sees the car, and swears. I know there's already some mind-fuckery going on, because, as the black sedan pulls up alongside me, I catch the flicker of blue lights from the corner of my eye, and the mirage of a ghost police car, overlaying what's really there.

"Shit, they're signalling us," mutters the driver and he begins to slow down before finally pulling over, the sedan gliding smoothly to a halt just ahead of us.

The men who climb out are wearing perfect police uniforms, everything spot-on, but, if I squint, I can see the plain black uniform beneath, a familiar logo stitched on the breast. One of them comes closer, ducking his head to glance in the back at me and the Muggle police officer in the passenger seat winds down his window and peers out.

"There a problem?"

"Radios are down," says the fake officer. "HQ wants us to take your suspect into custody."

The passenger frowns. "Why? We're on our way back now."

"There's a disturbance outside Tower Hill tube station, dispatch wants you there as back-up."

"But... that's miles away! And our shift finishes in ten minutes," he protests. The man outside stares at him, and then there's a sudden pulse of magic through the car. The passenger looks confused for a moment, then stammers, "Uh, yea... of course. Okay."

The fake officer doesn't wait, just unlocks the back door with another spell and practically drags me out. He's a bit too grabby for my liking, as he steers me around one car towards the other, until I finally wrench myself out of his grip and snarl, "I'm not your bitch. Get your fucking hands off me!"

He looks at me and swallows nervously, muttering "sorry sir" before quickly letting go. I shoot him a dirty look, and he's careful not to get too close as he opens the back door of the sedan and lets me climb in. He closes the door behind me, gets into the front seat and then we peel away, sliding between the traffic as the glamours over the car and their uniforms fade away. The inside of the sedan is much nicer than the police car, all black leather seats and walnut detailing, and the first thing I do is uncuff my hands and bring my wrists into my lap to massage life back into them. I pause for a moment and stare at the state of my hands, covered in blood, my knuckles badly torn. I can't heal them, but I wandlessly clean away the blood, revealing the snake's head of my tattoo peeking out from beneath my sleeve.

"So, what the hell do you two want?" I ask, turning my attention back to the front. "It's my night off, for fuck's sake."

"MLE couldn't get hold of you," says the agent riding shotgun, as he turns to glance at me. "So they sent us to get you."

"Yea, I left my badge at home. Like I said, it's my night off."

Fucking retrievers, Magical Law Enforcement's sniffer dogs, able to locate an official anywhere in the city and bring them in. I can elude them, but at the end of the day it'll take so long it's easier just to go with it and see what they want.

"You better start talking," I warn them, "or I'm going to say fuck it, and Apparate home right now."

"Sir!" He looks aghast. "You can't do that, we're in a moving vehicle!"

I look at him, and say softly, "Do you really think that matters to me?"

He stares at me for a long moment, and then looks away, mumbling, "Guess not."

I snort, and start riffling through the pockets of my leather jacket for my smokes. The box is a bit crumpled, it clearly took a hit at some point, but I shrug and tap out a cigarette, jamming it between my torn up lips as the retriever says, "There's been another murder."

I pause, and then light the cigarette with a flash of Avada-green flame at the end of my fingertips. I inhale deeply, my eyes closing in pleasure for a moment, before blowing the smoke to one side.

"The same ritual?"

"I think so, sir," says the driver, as the other agent winds down his window. "They didn't give us any details."

I glance outside, where cars are slipping by in a blur. We must be going at speeds over a hundred, running red lights and veering through oncoming traffic. My eye is throbbing, my lip stinging and my knuckles are hurting like fuck, but I feel good, alive, and her and the fact it's her birthday are pushed to the back of my mind. We pull up on a poorly lit road, somewhere near the docks, with abandoned warehouses and derelict buildings dotted across wasteland.

"Over there," says the driver, pointing towards a small knot of people half hidden in the shadows between two buildings. I don't say anything, just climb out and slam the door behind me, after all, I was enjoying my night until they came along. I trudge towards the group in silence, noting that it's made up of Magical Evidence Analysis Team, Investigators and Unsquickables, no other Aurors, though as I'm the senior on this case, that's hardly surprising.

"Anyone want to tell me what the fuck is going on?" I growl when I'm close.

One of the Investigators, Parsons, turns around and gapes. "Merlin's beard, sir! What the hell happened to you?!"

"Nothing." I flick my cigarette away to one side. "Just a little recreational activity. What have we got?"

"Well, it's definitely our perp, the ritual is pretty much the same, and the victim fits the profile - pretty brunette in her twenties."

I nod. "So what the hell did you call me in for? I could read all that in a report."

He chews his lip and looks a bit queasy. "Um... it seems that the symbols are some kind of resurrection ritual."

I raise my eyebrows. "Really? That seems a bit of a jump. What makes you think that?"

"'Cause this time..." he swallows, bracing himself. "It seems to have worked."

For a long moment I stare at him, silently. And then I snap, "Show me."

He leads me past the knot of people, who are all huddled together and strangely pale and quiet... even the Unsquickables, who deal with things on a daily basis that would make me shudder. Parsons walks with me until we reach the corner of the building, where there is just open wasteland. I can see some orb lights set up, illuminating something on the ground, moving, and, when I step forward, Parsons lags behind. I glance back; he looks ashen.

"Sir, please don't make me go near it again..."

Jesus, it must be bad. I nod, and he scurries away, back to the rest of them. I take a deep breath and slowly walk towards the lights.

She... it... is mushroom pale in the spell-light, her back arced to the point of snapping, her fingers clawed and bloody. Her dark hair is hanging across her face so I can't see her eyes, and she is making an awful, rasping, growling hiss that no human throat should ever be able to make. It is chilling, horrific, but even though it sends a shock down my spine and makes my stomach clench, I don't feel as sickened as the others. Maybe all my years of dealing with Voldemort have hardened me to monsters. I step so close that the toes my boots almost touch the bloody edges of the ritual, the ancient archaic runes that, so far, have proven meaningless to everyone. The thing in the circle hears my approach, and its head suddenly snaps around to face me, hair parting to expose eyes that are glazed, milky and unmistakably dead. A low gurgle comes from deep in its throat, evolving into something I recognize as a laugh, and I have to swallow hard. It skitters closer, contorting in a way no human body was meant to, movements awkward and jerky, like the thing inside hasn't quite got the hang of being trapped in flesh. It arcs up towards me, pressing its breasts forward and running a grey tongue over its teeth.

"Potter," it hisses, so low that, at first, I'm not sure I heard right. Then it grins and repeats itself, drawing out the syllables, so that my name sounds alien and strange. "Haaarry Potteeeer..."

My eyes narrow. "That's right, sweetheart. And what the fuck are you?"

It tilts its head, its smile stretching too wide and showing too many teeth. In the dim light it's creepy as fuck, and I strengthen my Occlumency shields, trying to stay calm. I'm confident it's trapped in the ritual, otherwise it'd be long gone, but I can see why the others backed away and decided to call me. With a deep breath, I crouch, getting down to eye level with it, staring it down, trying to use my legilimency to figure out what the hell I'm dealing with. It's not remotely human, and all those eyes give me is a feeling of emptiness and cold, terrible hunger.

Slowly, it begins to creep forward. "Let me out and I will do things for you, wonderful things. I will serve you," its eyes rake my body, "anyway that you want... I will teach you magics humans were never meant to know..."

It crawls closer, and it takes every ounce of my determination not to get up and run.

"With me, you will the most powerful wizard ever to have lived. All you have to do is set me free..."

I study it, only inches away and hold my hand out, carefully keeping it my side of the ritual. Its eyes flash and it leans forward to take my hand, but the second its fingertips cross the circle it screeches, rearing back, its fingers blackened and smoking. It writhes and contorts for a moment, the scream becoming a low gutteral growl, and then its neck twists at an impossible angle as it glares at me through its hair. Whatever the hell it is, it's not the girl under some spell, it's not human, and now that I'm sure I stand up, lip curling, and pull out my wand.

"Avada Kedavra."

The thing inside the ritual doesn't even flinch, just watches as the green light streaks towards it and sinks into its chest, small flashes streaking out to flicker like lightning across its skin. Then, still grinning that awful, wide smile, it raises its eyes to mine and rasps, "Can't kill something already dead."

There is a cold intelligence in those eyes, something evil, alien and ageless, and I stare back for a long moment before answering.

"No. And you can't possess ashes. Incendio!"

The flames catch her dress first, and then her hair, before enveloping her entire body. She never screams, but continues to stare at me the whole time, her lips stretched into that grotesque parody of a smile until the flesh blackens and burns and, finally, collapses in on itself. Eventually, the flames die down and there is nothing left in the circle but a small pile of ash, the only remains of the girl. I watch for a moment, and, at first, I think it is my eyes, still adjusting after the brightness of the flames, when a thin oily shadow snakes from beneath the ashes, but when I blink it's still there, coiling and twisting, before it, too, disappears.

"Jesus," I mumble, and rub a hand across the back of my neck, feeling the scars hidden beneath my hair. I keep a close watch on the ashes in case anything else emerges and, after a long, tense moment where nothing happens, I close my eyes and expand my senses. From the inside of the circle I get an echo of great evil, a malicious and volatile force, but it is only an echo... the thing, whatever it was, is gone.

Feeling drained, I trudge back to the group, the hardened professionals huddled together like small, frightened children. They stare at me with big scared eyes in pale faces and I clear my throat and say, "It's gone. The thing and the girl. I want you in there inspecting the ritual right now, and all preliminary reports on my desk by noon tomorrow." When no-one makes a move I suddenly become furious and snarl, "What, do you want me to come over with you and hold your fucking hands?! The thing is gone, I've done my job and dealt with it. Now, how about the rest of you act like fucking professionals and go and do your part, so we can actually catch this sick bastard?!"

This time they move, fast, careful not to meet my eyes. I shake my head and swear again, still angry. It started about a month ago; a murdered girl with a strange, archaic ritual painted around her in someone else's blood. But no-one could figure out what the ritual was, or what it meant, or why that girl... and so the murders kept coming, each with a slightly altered ritual painted in the same blood, each with a young, pretty brunette as the victim.

The loose, relaxed feeling I had after the fight is well and truly gone, and there's no point going home when there's no way in hell I'll be able to sleep. At least tonight we had a break-through. At least knowing that the runes are some kind of resurrection ritual gives us a new angle to work from. And so, instead of going home to bounce off the walls, I decide to Apparate to the Ministry Library, find all the books I can on necromancy, and start reading.

0o0o0

I can tell I'm in a hospital because of the smell. That clean sterile odour, barely covering the sickness and death, that is the same in all hospitals, magical and Muggle alike. There's no whirr and buzz of equipment, no burn of healing charms knitting me back together, and when I open my eyes, it's to a white room stripped bare. I blink in confusion and try to sit up, but my muscles don't work like they should and I collapse back against the sheets. I try to remember why I'm here; Quidditch? An accident in class? But my mind is blank... I could have been here for an hour or a year. With a groan, I struggle to sit-up, propping my back against the headboard and fumble to push the covers aside in search of any signs of injury, but I stop when I see my hands.

I've always been cursed with being slight, a little smaller than the other boys, a little weaker, a late bloomer. I'm used to looking down and seeing thin fingers and bony wrists... but nothing like this.

I claw desperately at my t-shirt, raking it up under my chin, and stare horrified at the clear arc of every rib, my concave belly, and skin stretched so tightly over bone that it looks sharp enough to tear through. I watch my panicked breath swell my rib cage and my heart feels like a bird trapped inside; fast, fluttering, but fragile.

What the hell happened to me?!

I brush too-long hair out of my eyes and look around. There's no alarm button, no monitoring charms and I realize the only way of getting a healer, and answers, is if I make it to the door. My legs are as thin and skeletal as the rest of me, all strength gone. I'm not sure that they'll support my weight, and it takes time just to maneuvre to the edge of the bed and get my feet on the floor. My muscles are wasted and useless and when I haul myself upright I fully expect to crumple, but, somehow, although they shake, my legs hold true. The thin grey slacks I'm dressed in must have fit me once, but now I have to clutch them to stop them sliding down over my hips, and I fumble a knot in them with my claw-like fingers, bunching them in at the waist. Then I begin an awkward, stumbling shuffle towards the door.

The room isn't big, but by the time I've crossed it I'm shaking, drenched in sweat, and have to slump against the wall to catch my breath. The doorknob slips in my hand, and it takes a few attempts to get it to turn. Then finally it swings open, but outside the corridor is deserted. I try to call out, but my throat is too dry, my voice as broken as the rest of me and so, instead I take a few tumbling, tentative steps forward.

And all hell breaks loose.

As I cross the threshold I feel something stretching over me, almost trying to hold me back and then there's a ping, like the snap of an elastic band and a tidal wave of power comes crashing into me, snapping my head back and battering my flesh. There's a buzzing, so low than I can't so much hear it as feel it, rattling my teeth and deep inside my bones. There's pressure in my head, building and building, and the smell of ozone in the air. I cry out and stumble back into the room, but it doesn't stop, just keeps on coming, relentless and endless, until it feels like my head might split open. I feel something give, and a sudden rush of warmth spills over my top lip, flooding my mouth with copper and heat and the next thing I know, I'm running. I sprint down labyrinthine corridors, skid past white clad healers, and, although they call out to me, their words are lost beneath the pounding of my heart and the screaming in my ears.

The pain, the noise and the pressure only end when I burst out through double doors and into the weak sunlight of London streets. There's blood in my mouth and sweat in my eyes, and my whole body is shaking, but it won't be long before they come after me and for some reason, I know I can't let that happen. I'm ready to collapse, to just crumple onto the pavement and shake and cry, but I don't want to be caught. Instead, I force myself to keep going, to stumble my through the Muggles swarming the streets, and find my way to safety.

0o0o0

SSA Matthew McGregor is a large man, and looks like he's been folded by an origami expert to fit behind his desk. He's in his early sixties, so looks mid-forties by Muggle standards, with dark facial hair that's more stubble than beard, and a muscular build that's beginning to go to seed. He's the Senior Supervisory Auror of the Department, and my direct superior - which means that I get the happy task of explaining what the hell happened last night, even though I don't understand it myself. He looks up from his paper work when I lean on the doorframe of his office, and jerks his head to the chair in front of his desk.

"Potter. Get your sorry arse in here."

I snort, and cross the room, throwing myself into the chair. He watches me for a long moment, dark eyes over steepled fingers, and I stare blithely back, one eyebrow raised.

"I hear there was another death last night."

"Sort of, yea. That's what I'm here about, I thought you might appreciate hearing immediately, rather than waiting for my report."

He nods. "Go on."

"I'm not sure of all of the details myself yet, because it was my night off and I got dragged there by the bloodhounds, but it definitely seems to be our guy." I stretch my legs out and slouch down further in the seat. "Same victim type, same sort of ritual... but the girl, Jesus. There was something possessing her."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really?"

"Yea. And no-one could figure out how to get rid of it. The body was already dead, so AK didn't work. Had the burn the creepy bitch to cinders in the end."

"Interesting."

I snort. "That's one word to describe it."

I pick at a spot of blood on my jeans, idly considering if a cleaning charm will fade the denim. There's a sharp sting along my arm as the snake tattoo shifts beneath the skin, the head slithering up to my shoulder, whilst the tail flicks out across the back of my hand to run down the side of my palm. I wince, and pull aside my collar to glance down at my shoulder, where the snake has frozen mid-strike. The movement makes my jacket fall open, and gives Matthew a good look at my blood spattered t-shirt. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and his eyes narrow.

"Do you want to explain me to me why the hell you're in such a state?"

I give him an innocent look. I ducked into the toilets before coming here, and although I cleaned the dried blood from my stubble, I do look pretty awful. My left eye is swollen closed, the skin a dark, angry purple. I have a fat lip with a nasty tear, that pulls open if I move my mouth too much, and my knuckles are scabbed over.

"Your reputation is enough to contend with, but I refuse to have one of my senior agents roaming the corridors looking like they've been taking part in a Muggle bar brawl." I shrug. You think after all these years, he'd pretty much be used to it. "The first thing I want you to do when we're finished is to go find the field medic and get him to patch you up." He shakes his head. "Bloody hell, Potter - you might think you're the rock star of MLE, but that got old years ago. Don't you think it's time you grew up? The kids at the Academy look up to you, be nice if you were a good example rather than an anarchic one."

"Nice dream, but it's not gunna happen anytime soon," I scoff. "Are we done?"

"Not quite. You still have that graduate coming next week to shadow you. She'll be spending two days a week finishing up at the Academy, and the rest of the time split between your team and you." He gives me a stern look. "Don't punch this one, we don't need another incident like what happened with Alfie, and don't sleep with her like Francine from the year before."

"You just said I was anarchic, what do you expect?! If you're so bothered, why send me a graduate at all?"

He stares. "Because you're Harry Potter, for God's sake. They worship you. Most of them have written essays on you. They even have a prize draw for who gets to work with you."

I wince. "Really?! Eurgh, poor saps. Who's she been shadowing so far?"

"She's been working with OCD for a few months... and she's good, excellent in fact and definitely on the fast track to being a supervisory." He shrugs. "The last student to progress so quickly was you - so I suppose on paper having you work together looks like a good idea."

"Oh great. OCD. An obsessive compulsive."

"Organised Crime Division, Harry," he says sternly.

"Same fucking thing in my book," I mutter. I scrub a hand through my hair, and when my fingertips glance off the scar hidden on the back of my neck my shoulders slump. I sigh. "You do realise that she won't be on the fast track once I'm through with her?"

"No need to tell me, I've had to clean up your disasters for years now. Sometimes I'm seriously considering early retirement - and apart from the Potter element, I like my job."

"Matthew," I gasp dramatically, my hand clenched above my heart. "You wound me."

"I'm not even getting into it." He rolls his eyes. "So, what's your plan now?"

I smirk. "Well... hopefully the Unsquickables will find some way to ID the victim, and then I'll send a couple of my team to look into her background, question her friends and family, trace her final movements, all that stuff. But judging from the previous victims, I don't they'll turn up anything useful.

"The fact the ritual seems to work is new though. I spent all night in the library, ploughing through some pretty suspect memoirs, which turned out to be a complete and utter waste of time - I swear, the authors were no more necromancers than I am. And there was nothing on rituals." I tongue at my cut lip thoughtfully. "So, since that was a no-go, I'm going to compile a list of experts to contact; blood magic, runes, ancient languages, ritualistic magic... necromancy if there is anyone, which I doubt."

"You do realise that we have some of the best minds in Britain, if not the world, working right here in this building."

I snort with contempt. "The Unspeakables?! Yes, because they're so well known for their eagerness to work with MLE."

The Unspeakables are undoubtably skilled, each and every one a master of their field, but they trade in secrets, make it their business to keep things hidden from the world, and when it comes to their dealings with MLE... we are no exception. There are laws about co-operating with investigations, to force people of interest to tell us what they know, but the Department of Mysteries is as much a part of the Ministry as we are, and they're exempt from the rules. If they are the only ones with information on necromancy, then we are screwed. As it happens, I do have an inside contact, someone who will help me off the record... but she's also the last person in the world that I want to ask for help. Unfortunately, our 'friendship,' to use the term loosely, is no secret, and Matthew gives me a shrewd smile.

"But there is one, at least, who will be willing to work with you," he says smoothly.

I grit my teeth, suddenly furious, and glare at him.

"No," I growl. "I refuse to go down that road."

"You refuse?" he repeats softly. "You would condemn more girls to death, rather than sacrifice your pride?"

"There are other experts," I grind out.

"Tracking down others, half way around the globe, is a waste of time and resources when we have the skills right here."

"What resources?! A dash of floo powder?"

"No! The resource of this Department's best SA! You, Potter!" He glares. "You have other cases, remember, and I will not allow you to let those slide, just because you're wasting time being too stubborn and arrogant to ask for help in the most logical place."

"It's not a case of arrogance," I say hotly. "I can't work with that woman. And forcing me is only going to cause distraction at the worst possible time."

"Potter, there are so many people that you don't get along with - all six of your previous partners, for example... you ever think the problem may not be them, but you?"

My hands clench into white knuckled fists beneath the desk, and I grit my teeth. Choosing to ignore his comment, I growl, "Are you ordering me to contact my... acquaintance, sir?"

He sighs. "Harry, you know I hate to pull rank on you. But I'm concerned that you are letting your personal feelings cloud your judgement. The Department of Mysteries is the best source of information that we have available, and as this is your case and you are the one with an 'acquaintance' within the DOM, the task of enlisting their help must fall to you."

"Are you ordering me?" I repeat, still annoyed.

"I'd prefer to call it a suggestion."

"And if I choose not to follow your 'suggestion'?"

He smiles wryly. "Then it'll become an order."

I snort. "Well then, I suppose I have little choice. I'll owl the good Doctor this afternoon and ask if she'll meet with me." Then I add, dangerously softly, "But I want you to know that I'm not happy with this, Matthew, not happy at all. And if it blows up in your face, and throws me off my game, I'll be the very first to say 'I told you so.'"

"I'd expect nothing less." He watches me stand, and when I reach the door he calls, "And Potter? I almost forgot. I have another case for you."

I pause on the threshold, and slowly turn. "You're kidding."

"I assure you, I'm not. Here." He holds out a couple of slim brown folders, and I 'accio' them with a flick of my wrist, not bothering to use my wand. Silently, I open the cover, skim through the brief introduction on the first page, and then snort.

"These came from Dahl, didn't they? Bastard's finally admitted he can't do his job, has he?"

"Potter, Andri Dahl is the best agent in all of Organised Crime Division - "

"Oh, please. Matthew, the fucker spends more time trying to catch me than he does trying to catch the big fish, like, oh I don't know, Jason Turner."

Turner is London's biggest potions baron, who under the umbrella of legitimate business, is into everything from prostitution, importation of dark artifacts and, of course, narcotics. He employs a legion of trappers and breakers, and there's not a knocking, a gangland killing, that goes on in this city without him knowing about it. I'm not an idiot, I know Turner is untouchable, but Dahl's fixation on me makes me uncomfortable, because I know that if he tried, really tried, he could pin me down for what I really am and get me sent to Azkaban for life.

"And why are you giving this to me? In case you've forgotten, my plate is pretty much full dealing with my own psychopath, without dealing with Dahl's cast-offs."

"Potter, every other team in the Auror division is already overworked taking the cases you'd normally have, in addition to their own workload. That," he nods to the file, "is already half complete. Dahl's team has done most of the legwork already. Now I just need you to finish it." I open my mouth to argue again, and he growls, "This is not a negotiation, Potter. I am your superior officer, and I am assigning you this case."

"Fine," I mutter.

"Good." He glances down at my clenched fists, where last nights cuts have split open again. "Now get the hell out of my office. You're bleeding on my carpet."