Breaking Point

Breaking Point
Chapter 1: Lever

"You told me to remind you when it was six."

I look up. My partner, Tony DiMarino, is raising an eyebrow at me mockingly.

"Yes, I did."

With a growing smirk, he says, "You'd better call the wife." I throw a ball of paper at his head.

Leaning back in my chair, I scrub my hands over my face, then stretch my arms over my head. Two vertebrae in my lower back pop back into place. Sighing in relief, I relax. And days like this make me even more glad Katy convinced me to have my eyes surgically corrected -- contact lenses after staring at paper so long would feel like sandpaper and my glasses would be smudged beyond belief.

As I sigh, my eyes fall on the picture of Katy and Emily on the corner of my desk. I smile broadly at the thought of my wife and daughter.

When I escaped Britain after defeating Voldemort, I wanted nothing to do with the wizarding world for a while. I'd become a murderer for them and they wanted me to be their celebrity. Instead, I vanished. I forced the Minister to get me a set of Muggle documents, including passport, and traveled the world, starting in Japan.

Eighteen, newly drunk on freedom, and Tokyo made for an interesting combination. Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Angkor Wat, Sydney, Adelaide, Aukland, Seoul, Anchorage, Vancouver. It was a scenic tour of the Pacific Rim for a year in the furthest places I could go to be away from England and still be on the same planet.

In Seattle, I bought an extremely used car and drove east, crossing the Canadian and Mexican borders often enough to give the Border Patrol chest pains. They didn't believe I would do this for fun. According to them, my behavior meant I was running drugs. In Windsor, I discovered that a body cavity search is not fun.

My aimlessness changed after I sold my car just before getting to New York. Well, sold it to the punk trying to carjack me in Newark, New Jersey. He was thrown off-balance when I showed no fear of his gun and didn't move from the car. No matter how much of a junker it was, it was still one of my few possessions. I silently raised a kinetic shield -- in Bangkok, I had discovered a regular Protego does not stop physical objects, so, with Hermione's help via telephone, I developed a shield that would -- which stopped the bullet he fired at me. He was so shocked that when I asked for one thousand dollars for the car, he handed it over. I grabbed my rucksack, gave him the keys, and walked to the nearest train station.

Stretching again, I twist my neck and pop those vertebrae into place. I've been at my desk for hours now. I haven't seen Katy since the middle of the night when I left her asleep in our bed and I haven't seen Emily since putting her to bed last night. One of the drawbacks of being a detective on a big case is the middle-of-the-night phone call. Things should change for the better now, though, because we caught the dealer last night.

Still smiling, I pick up the phone and dial Katy's cell.

Katy picked up on the first ring. "Hi, honey."

I almost ask how she knows it's me when I remember Caller ID. Though I've lived almost entirely in the Muggle world for the last ten years, there are times when either my upbringing, my magic or my British heritage put me at a loss.

"Hello to you, too," I purr. In my mind's eye, I can see her bite her lower lip, a blush high on her cheeks as she tucks her blonde hair behind one ear.

I hear Tony making gagging noises, but I ignore him.

"Emily's waiting," she says a bit breathily. "Are you on your way down?"

I glance at the clock -- ten after six now -- and at the stack of remaining paperwork. To Katy, I reply, "No, but you'll wake up next to me."

I hear her blow out a breath. "I'd rather have you wake me up long before that."

I shift in my chair as I think about ways I can wake her up. Clearing my throat, I say, "Give Emily a kiss for me. I'll try to leave in a couple hours."

"Can't wait," Katy murmurs. "I love you."

"Love you, too."

I disconnect the call, dig the other half of a sad-looking hoagie out of my desk and settle in to have dinner, ignoring both the sad face Tony's employing to cadge half of even this pitiful sandwich and his cooing noises mocking my conversation.

I look up and glare at him. "You just wish you had someone to call." He scoffs. He's between wives right now, as he puts it, having had one and on the search for the next. "And you can't have my sandwich."

If I can get through half the remaining paperwork, I'll leave a half-day early from our weekend and finish it all. It's a holiday weekend, anyway.

By eight, the words are blurring in front of my eyes. I have nearly accomplished my goal. Locking up the files, I wave goodnight to Tony, who merely grunts and drains his coffee. I bid goodnight to the dispatcher, who then chides me for staying so late before a three-day weekend. I grin and remind her I'll be down the shore. She rolls her eyes -- it's where we've gone every Fourth of July since I met Katy and she knows it before shooing me away.

Grinning, I head down into the garage. Despite being awoken in the middle of the night, I packed my weekend bag and tossed it in the trunk so I wouldn't have to go home before leaving town or make Katy pack my bag. It's a running joke between us that she inevitably forgets something of mine when she packs for me, such as the year she forgot to pack my pants. I don't remember much about that holiday other than the places she accosted me and had her wicked way with me, turned on by my lack of undergarments. She swore the oversight was accidental, but I've never been sure I believed her. I could have purchased replacements, but I was enjoying myself, too.

Once I clear the city and cross the Walt Whitman bridge, traffic begins to thin. It won't clear completely -- even without the holiday, the area has been in the grips of a heat wave, sending temperatures into the high nineties with humidity to match. The summer weather is something I haven't accustomed myself to yet though, after seven winters in and around Scotland, I can handle winter here without complaint.

The drive is relatively uneventful after I clear Deptford. Talk radio keeps me company as a low drone in the background. Emily's car seat, without her weight to anchor it, rattles slightly. Though tempted, I don't call in the red BMW passing me on the shoulder -- but take unholy delight in seeing it pulled over by the New Jersey State Police ten minutes later.

There's a temptation to continue straight on the Atlantic City Expressway, to gamble for a while down at the Borgata, but I make the turn onto the Garden State Parkway, tossing coins into the bin, and continue on. On a night like tonight, with traffic moderate but not overwhelming, this drive takes between two and three hours. If I waited until tomorrow, it would take five. It's why Katy and Emily left this morning.

The cottage in Stone Harbor isn't much of a cottage to my mind. At nearly three thousand square feet it's a large house, but my in-laws, when they gifted us with it for our wedding, called it a cottage. Then again, their house reminds me of Malfoy Manor, so I reckon it's all relative.

When I finally pull into the driveway, it's half ten. There are no lights on inside, but Katy may have gone to bed early, despite teasing me. I look forward to waking her. Hopping from the car, I pop the trunk to grab my overnight bag. The chirp of the lock sounds preternaturally loud in the humid air.

There's something off about this, something that's making the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Then it strikes me: Katy's car isn't here. We don't tend to use the garage, since it's a detached building in the back, and park side-by-side in the driveway. My car is the only one in the drive.

Wary now, I walk around my car to the passenger side. Unlocking it, I shove my bag onto the floor under the dash. From the glove box, I take my gun; from the small of my back, I pull my wand. I don't normally have both in hand, but this is different. Situations like this are why I practice casting left-handed, gun in my right. I tried it the other way round and had too many wild shots.

The houses on either side, far enough away from ours to offer some privacy, are lit as I would expect with televisions and lamps. Sometimes I hear a snatch of noise from an open window, but more often I hear the steady drone of air conditioning. Beneath that is the sound of the ocean.

Nothing from inside my house. At the very least, I should hear the air conditioner.

There is no activity at any of the windows, no sign of any sort of struggle in front of the door, no sign that my wife and daughter ever arrived. Emily's fond of beheading blooming flowers right now and manages to behead them all in less than one minute, then laughs when I "revive" them with my wand. All the flowers at the entry are still in one piece.

Fear coiling in my gut, I cast a barely-audible Alohomora to open the door. Pushing it with my foot, I enter my home slowly, gun raised and wand ready.

The house is stuffy and hot. If Katy had ever arrived, the air conditioner would be on. If that weren't working, she would have at least opened a few windows to air it out. Neither of those happened.

Nausea slips inside the fear.

I methodically work my way through the house, starting in the front room. Other than discovering we need to clean the closets more thoroughly, I find nothing. Katy and Emily never arrived. No one has been in the house since we were here for Memorial Day.

Heart pounding in my chest, I return to the kitchen. Laying my wand and gun side-by-side on the table, I grab my cell phone to call my in-laws. Maybe Katy decided to visit them and forgot to tell me. Doubtful, but possible.

Raking a hand through my hair, I dial my in-laws. There's no love lost between us since they feel Katy married beneath herself by marrying me. I've often suspected my father-in-law ran a background check on me before my wedding because every so often he'll slip "St. Brutus" into conversation, which only annoys me and makes me glad I finally asked the Minister to fix my Muggle records after Matthew first mentioned the place.

"Yes, Harry?" my mother-in-law answers, voice carefully neutral. If I had never heard the animation in her voice when she talks to Katy and Emily, I would have thought her incapable of any warmer tone of voice than the one she uses with me.

"Sorry to call so late, Jennifer," I begin, nearly running my words together in my anxiousness. I take a deep breath. If I don't slow down, she'll dismiss me and hang up. "Did Katy bring Emily by today?"

Jennifer sniffs once in dismissal. "No, Katherine did not." Another point of contention: Katy's name.

Fucking hell, where can they be?

I must hold my silence too long, running horrible scenarios through my head of Katy and Emily hurt or dying, because Jennifer drawls, "Did you lose them, Harry?"

"No, Jennifer, I did not," I retort, injecting cool British reserve into my voice.

I can hear her smile like a shark sensing blood. "Maybe my daughter finally came to her senses." A short, sharp laugh. "You sure there was no note?"

The only thing I can be glad for is that Katy has no idea the animosity between her parents and I. Even before the background check, Matthew and Jennifer Scott never liked me. I'd like to think it would have been the same with any man seriously dating their only daughter, but I think they just took an instant dislike to me for some reason. That dislike deepened when I joined the Philadelphia police force, even though I've made their daughter happy and given them a granddaughter. Were I still in Britain, I would suspect them of having Death Eater leanings despite being thoroughly Muggle.

"Thank you for your lack of assistance, Jennifer," I retort calmly. I want to add, Give my worst to Matthew as well, but resist.

She barks a short laugh and hangs up. Despite the animosity, there's something reassuringly normal about it.

But the conversation leaves me where I was: alone in Stone Harbor with no idea where my wife and daughter are.

Huffing a breath to blow my fringe off my forehead, I dial Katy's cell number. With each ring, my breath cools more until I feel frozen. It goes to voice mail. I listen to her greeting, cheerful and bright and so very much like her, curling my fingers around the phone in a caress.

When I first met Katy, it was on the train into Manhattan. She'd been reading a book, tapping her foot in such a way that it was either nervousness or restless habit. Just outside Penn Station, the train unexpectedly jerked to a half. Her book flew from her hands to land at my feet. I picked it up, glancing briefly at the cover to discern it was a romance novel. She held out her hand and politely asked for the return of her book. I looked up, met her eyes and began to drown.

It suddenly felt as if all my time around the world had been to prepare me to meet her, so strong was the sense of rightness. I stammered a clumsy dinner request, which she accepted with a blushing smile. I can't remember now where we ate or what, just that she took me back to her hotel room -- she was in Manhattan for a shopping trip -- and I spent a heavenly night with her. I was no virgin and neither was she but it felt very much like a first time for both of us.

I returned to Philadelphia with her and found a flat while she returned to her parents' house. She was eighteen to my nineteen and had taken a year off before starting college at Bryn Mawr. I entered the police academy, planning to stay rather than move on again in a couple weeks as had been my habit.

We married quickly a bit less than six months after our spring meeting, on Halloween in 2000. Her parents were furious, fully intending not to talk to her again. That is until she told them she was pregnant two years later. Though that pregnancy ended in a miscarriage, her parents came back into her life. I would say our lives, but that would imply they welcomed me.

Emily's birth on the Fourth of July three years ago actually improved my relationship with my in-laws. From the start, I'd told Katy I was magical. She was fascinated and amused in turns by my abilities -- though I told her nothing of Voldemort -- and so was not surprised when Emily began performing feats of childhood wandless magic. It, thankfully, hasn't happened around Michael and Jennifer, but now that she's old enough to start to understand, we've told Emily not to do the "magic things" around her grandparents.

Katy's voicemail beeps. Voice choked, I say, "Call me, Katy. I love you." I snap my phone shut before I break down. I have an incredibly bad feeling about this, the type of which Hermione would roll her eyes at but follow me nonetheless.

Hopping up, I pace nervously. I'm sure my hair is utterly atrocious by now given how often I've been running my hands through it. Tucking my cell into the pocket of my jeans, I head upstairs, climbing them two-by-two.

Straight ahead at the top of the stairs is the guest bath. To the right are three bedrooms and the master suite is to the left. I turn right. Emily's room is the rearmost and most colorful. Though illusory, I can almost imagine I still smell the fresh paint from the day Katy and I painted. She'd been six months pregnant with Emily, though we didn't know it was Emily and not Evan, unwilling to find out the baby's gender before birth. Because of that, we went wild with colors. Running a hand along the purple wall, I smile. The purple, red, green and gold walls are a far cry from the sterile white of Aunt Petunia and from the tasteful pastels of Jennifer Scott's home.

My smile turns a bit lascivious as I remember christening the completed room right on the new rug. A tug in my groin accompanies the memory of Katy rising over me, a gloriously pregnant blonde goddess I was more than willing to surrender myself to.

My watch beeps. Midnight. Still no sign of Katy or Emily or a phone call. And it's now Emily's third birthday.

Flipping open my phone again, I call 911, give my badge number and ask to be connected to the New Jersey State Police. A quick conversation with the dispatch does absolutely nothing to reassure me. There have been no accidents with unidentified females matching Katy and Emily's descriptions, no sign of her car, abandoned or otherwise. Gorge rising, I thank her and call the local police. That call is just as nerve-wracking as it provides me with the same answer.

My next thought sends me practically jumping down the stairs for my wand. I have biological material from both of them here, I can do a magical trace.

My cell rings.

I look at it, lying in my hand as innocent as a coiled serpent.

Caller ID reads Unlisted.

Licking my lips once, I flip the phone open on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Harry!" Katy shouts. I can hear the tears in her voice, then tension. The silence behind her is unnaturally quiet.

"Katy, where are you?" I try to keep my voice even, as close to neutral as I can manage. If I don't I will break down and that won't help anyone.

She sniffles. I hear whispers near the phone. When she speaks again, it sounds forced. "Harry, you need to let Pike go."

My mind blanks. Pike is the dealer we were tracking for over a year, but finally caught last night on drug-related charges. When my brain restarts, I realize Katy and Emily have been kidnapped, used as either leverage or bait against me.

My worst fears have come to life, though I never expected it to happen now. It's what I had feared during the long fight with Voldemort, not while minding my own business and essentially living as a Muggle.

Then I realize I can hear Emily crying. The sound rips at my heart. She shouldn't be crying on her birthday.

"I can't do that, Katy," I whisper.

I barely catch her whispered, "I know," before the phone is ripped from her. A flat male voice hisses, "Twenty four hours, Potter," before terminating the call.

I stare at my phone once again, gently closing it. I want to toss it across the room in frustration, but that won't bring them back. I want to find the bastards who have dared to touch my family and flay them alive before watching them bleed to death. I want. . . I want my family back.

Heels of my hands pressed hard to my eyes, I choke back a sob.

Don't fall apart now.

Several deep breaths help.

Two strides take me to the house phone. I call my office and report Katy and Emily's kidnapping, knowing the FBI will be called in. Knowing I'm on autopilot, I ask for a trace on the last call to my cell and am reminded cell calls can't be traced, though they can be triangulated. I hang up after declining -- chances are they've scrambled that call and are nowhere near where the call will appear to be from. I then turn all the lights off with a flick of my wand and lock the door. Unwilling to waste another three hours on the Atlantic City Expressway, I shrink the car to pocket-sized and Apparate home.

I know I should sleep since I've been awake for nearly twenty-four hours after having only two hours sleep, but I'm too wired on anxiety and anger. Instead, I open the warded cabinet in our bedroom, the only thing I've kept from Katy.

I don't know how she'd handle the knowledge her husband is a murderer. Of course, it wasn't called that when I killed Voldemort, but that doesn't change facts. From the cabinet I pull my Invisibility Cloak, several bracelets Ron and Hermione helped me impregnate with single-use shield charms, and Voldemort's wand. I never wanted the last item but neither did I want the Death Eaters to search for it and use it as a rally point to regroup. I'm able to use it for darker spells only because of the compatible core.

My cell rings again. It's been three hours since I called the office, so this call doesn't surprise me: they gave me time to come home.

I flip the phone open, unsurprised when my supervisor doesn't even offer a greeting. "Are you on your way in?"

"Gathering some personal effects, then I'll be there," I reply, stuffing the Cloak in my pocket.

"In twenty?"

"Yes."

From the bathrooms, I gather Katy's and Emily's hairbrushes. If I need to do a magical trace, I'll need their hair. Swallowing hard, I also acknowledge the worst-case scenario: DNA identification of the bodies.

Outside, I pull my car from my pocket and enlarge it. Fifteen minutes later I'm back at the garage under the Roundhouse, the police headquarters.

The place is wide awake, several officers milling about while Tony is leaning on my desk, arms crossed, waiting for me. A smile ghosts my mouth. One of their own has been threatened and they're here to help. It's comforting in a way.

"Potter!"

I shift my eyes from my desk to my supervisor. Captain Andy Pierson is a solidly-built man is his late forties and always makes me think of Mad-Eye Moody, but with all his limbs. He waves me into his office. I follow silently, shutting the door behind me, and take a seat.

"Harry, I'll understand if you want some personal time."

I look up, shocked, from my absent perusal of his desk. "No, sir, not yet."

He eyes me carefully then nods sharply once. "This is in regards to the Pike case?"

"It seems to be," I reply slowly, shifting my mind from victim to cop. "Though I don't know why so much effort would be put forth for him. He was, while large-volume, a lower level than they'd normally rescue."

We'd dealt with this group before. Three years ago, just before I'd been promoted to detective. The man we'd thought second-in-command was caught. We later discovered, after he'd escaped, that he was further down the food chain than we thought, making all our intelligence on that group suspect. Given that, I reckon we could have misjudged Pike's importance as well.

"This is the first time they've used this tactic," Captain Pierson murmurs, steepling his fingers under his chin.

"Forgive me if I don't rejoice in leading the way," I reply dryly.

The Captain snorts. "Given your account and timeline, we think they were taken from the Parkway. We've got Jersey involved, but the FBI will be here within the six hour window."

I can only nod, my emotions swinging as wildly as a pendulum. Fear coagulates in my throat, threatening to choke me. Swallowing hard, I meet the Captain's eyes.

"I'll understand if you can't do this, Harry," he says softly. I don't reply. "It's your girl's birthday today, isn't it?"

Fuck, don't fall apart. I nod tightly. "Yes, sir, it is." Swallowing again, I say, "No, sir, I need to do this."

He studies my face, noting the exhaustion, I'm sure, but also the determination. I've worked through pain before, but nothing quite like this.

"Very well," he says at last. "I will pull you away if I feel you can't do it any longer."

"Noted, sir."

He stands, as do I from reflex. We say nothing more as we exit his office. Conversations fade as all eyes shift to me. Normally it's something I hate, the very thing I ran from England over, but I don't find it bothersome in the least at the moment.

Somewhere in the quiet a phone rings, breaking the silence. Feet shuffle, slowly resuming normal business.

Tony walks up behind me, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Catch a few z's, Harry. We'll hold it down until you wake."

I want to rage at him, demand to know how he thinks I can sleep when my family has been stolen, when they're in danger. But I don't. I know he means well, that he's thinking of what's best, not easiest.

I nod and hand him my cell. "They've called on this before."

"I've got you, Harry," he says, shoving me in the direction of the overnight room.

It's a room I haven't used often, and even more rarely since Emily was born. Nothing has changed other than the pillows might be more flat. Kicking off my shoes, I lay on the cot. It's too warm to use the blankets -- air conditioning for the Roundhouse isn't a priority despite the need to keep cops happy. The soundproofing is good enough that I only hear a susurrus of voices and phones.

I can't sleep. Nearly an hour later, I'm still staring at the ceiling, hands folded on my chest. I'm the fucking Boy Who Lived to Defeat Voldemort. How can I be so helpless now? If I contacted Hermione and Ron, I'm sure there would be a magical solution to this, some way of finding the bad guy and rescuing the hostages.

Yes, because that worked so well for the first years Voldemort killed, didn't it?

"Fuck," I hiss, twisting and punching the pillow.

I don't want to remember the siege of Hogwarts and the people, the children, I failed. Everyone assured me it wasn't my fault, no one suspected the Muggleborn Justin Finch-Fletchley, but that's no consolation to me or the eleven families missing children.

Cursing again, I sit up. Elbows on my knees, I drive my hands through my hair until I lace my fingers together at the back of my neck. I'm suddenly craving a Dreamless Sleep potion.

A quick knock sounds on the door before it eases open. I look up as Tony pokes his head through.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

I scoff. "Hell, no. My brain won't shut off."

He enters the room, closing the door softly. Tony DiMarino is physically nothing like Ron -- dark and swarthy to Ron's pale skin and red hair, short and stocky to Ron's thin and lanky -- but the friendship is similar. We met at the Academy, graduated the same day. Though we worked in different precincts, he in vice and me on the streets, we became detectives within a month of each other. It was only natural we work together, much as Ron and I might have had we become Aurors.

Tony takes a seat on the cot opposite me. He shifts uncomfortably before finally speaking. "We'll find them, Nigel."

I smile bittersweetly at his use of my nickname. Though Tony's nickname is Guido for his Italian heritage, I don't use it. I don't mind, however, being referred to by the moniker bestowed upon me in my first month on the job -- my uncomfortable formality, coupled with my accent, amused my fellow officers. Hence the nickname Nigel, which implied to them a very stodgy, upper-crust butler.

I don't want to break down. I can't break down. Though I feel on edge, I have to be there for Emily and Katy.

Releasing the back of my neck, I straighten. "I know." I just hope it's not too late is left unsaid.

"The Feds are here," he says.

I nod and stand, slipping my shoes back on. "Give me five minutes." Tony gives me a searching look before nodding and leaving. I walk over to the small bath area, lean over the sink and splash cold water on my face. It helps a bit, reducing the worst of the mental fog.

"You've dealt with things just as bad," I tell myself in the mirror. My red-ringed eyes are accusatory. "It's not your fault." And though I say it out loud, I don't believe it.

Cursing, I dry my face and exit to meet the Feds.

Before I make it to the conference room the FBI is in, though, I hear the ringing of a phone once again. Though every phone in the office sounds alike, though there are dozens of phones here, I know it's mine. I pause. Tony, seated at my desk, meets my eyes and nods.

The ringing stops just before it would go to voicemail. I've no chance to hope I've dodged anything, though, when it rings again.

Willing my legs not to shake, I cross the room to my desk. Tony scrambles out of my chair to allow me to sit. I fall into my chair more than gracefully sit, take a deep breath, then pick up the receiver on the fourth ring.

"Potter."

"When are you releasing Pike?" the voice demands without preamble.

I look up and meet Captain Pierson's eyes. "We aren't releasing Pike."

There's a brief pause, then with words almost a pitying sigh, "Your loss, Potter."

Before I can puzzle that out, I hear Katy in the background chanting, "No, please, no, not her, no...."

My gut churns. I never thought they'd harm Emily.

The gunshot is so loud that I jump in my chair, startled.

I can't think, I can't breathe. What the fuck just happened?

Then I hear Emily. "Mommy, wake up."

Katy?

Before I can process anything, the voice returns and growls, "Your little girl is next."

The dial tone reverberates in my head.

Tony takes the receiver from me, replacing it in the cradle.

I look up, frozen beyond shock, and whisper, "They killed Katy."