Breaking Point

Breaking Point
Chapter 2: Fulcrum

"They killed Katy."

One of the techs threw off his headphones at the sound of the gunshot, but continued the trace. When Tony hangs up the phone, the tech looks over, pained, and says, "American and Porter."

I only distantly note it.

I feel frozen.

Tony yanks me out of my chair, dragging me to the lifts. Voices echo around me as if miles away. I barely notice Tony guiding me up a staircase and onto the roof. There's an unoccupied helo pad and a few other things here, but it's essentially deserted.

"Let it out, Harry."

Let it out? What the fuck? Doesn't he understand that if I let it out I could destroy the building?

"Do I have to punch you?" He's standing with his arms crossed, glaring at me.

At last, something cracks.

"Katy's dead," I rasp, anger and pain choking me.

I sink to my knees and sob, covering my face with my hands.

I remember the conversation I had with her earlier and the loss feels even more acute. I won't be able to wake her with a shag, wake her with a kiss, wake her ever again. I won't feel her fingers on the back of my neck, massaging away the day's tension. I won't hear her reading to Emily, performing a different voice for each character so well that Emily banned me from reading to her.

And they killed her in front of Emily.

Pain rockets through me, more than I've ever felt before, even at the loss of Ron's parents, Molly and Arthur, who were the closest thing to parents I've known.

I need to destroy something. I need to cause pain to something other than myself. I want to make someone else hurt.

Wiping my face quickly, I look up at Tony. He's trying to look impassive, but I can see the cracks in his façade as well as my own, the biting of his lower lip giving him away despite his arms still crossed manfully over his chest.

"I'm going to destroy them," I tell him. I have to get some sort of handle on the emotions inside me or I'll explode, either with accidental magic or incandescent rage.

He holds my gaze for several moments, then nods. "Understandable." Cocking his head to one side, he adds, "But, as a cop, I didn't hear that."

Doesn't matter. I can do it without being caught.

In companionable silence, we exit the roof and descend the stairs. No longer am I frozen; instead, I'm simmering just under a boil. They've hurt me, torn right to the heart of what I had vowed to protect. To describe what I'm feeling as anger would be too tame.

Captain Pierson awaits me at the foot of the stairs. He glares at Tony for a moment, but Tony merely raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms and leans against the wall. The Captain sighs.

"Potter?" Captain Pierson says. "Harry?"

"I'm staying with this, Captain. I need to now."

He tucks his hands into his pockets, studying me. I wish I knew what he saw, if he could sense the rage and determination vibrating inside me. At last, he murmurs, "Unofficially. Officially, you're on leave."

"Understood, sir," I reply, careful not to allow the gratitude leech into my voice.

We reenter the office, where I once again bring everyone to a halt. This time, phones go unanswered, conversations are dropped mid-word, coffee mugs are held in mid-air. Frozen, just as I felt.

The conference room door, which had been cracked open, now opens fully to reveal a war room. A tall, thin, sandy-haired man nods at me. "Harry Potter?" I nod back. "We've got a few questions."

Glancing at Tony, he quirks a corner of his mouth up as if to say there's no way he'd leave me alone with the Feds, and we enter the room.

There are four Agents, one of whom is a woman who, physically, is a cross between Hermione and Ginny and it thoroughly disturbs me. Blinking, I look around the room. In addition to the Agent who ushered me into the room, there are two sitting on the far side of the table from me. One is an African-American man in his thirties and built like a runner, the other couldn't be more stereotypically nerdy than if he had a pocket-protector for his white button-down. They introduce themselves as Agents Johnson, Kosta, Sikes and Moore.

Johnson gestures for Tony and I to sit down. Tony declines, but I sit. Almost immediately, I begin bouncing my leg up and down to burn off nervous energy. Katy would have given me a sidelong glare and rested a hand on my knee. I blink rapidly at that thought, trying to stave off tears or a scream.

Kosta reviews the time line with me again, obviously based on the information I gave when I was still in Stone Harbor without much new information. I have nothing to add, just a restless feeling that this is a waste of my time.

Sikes asks me to provide further information about our usual routine on this weekend. When I only growl, Tony steps in. He explains that it's common knowledge we have a house in Stone Harbor, a gift from my in-laws, where we spend the Fourth of July weekend, with the exception of the year Emily was born. My hands tighten on the arms of the chair at that.

She's only three.

Moore has a list of questions in front of him, but sets them aside. Instead, he meets my gaze directly, putting me on edge. "Do you have any enemies, Detective Potter?"

"You think this is personal? Unrelated to the case?" I can feel the magic rising inside me like sap in spring. I've suppressed it for so long that I can't decide if the sensation is welcome or a hindrance. Almost unwillingly, my eyes are drawn to the board. My picture is there, as well as Tony's. Linked to mine are Katy's -- with an "X" through it, making me want to choke -- and Emily's, her sunny smile adding to my guilt.

Moore glances at Kosta, then turns back to me and answers. "It has some elements of being personal."

"You fucking think?" Tony spits. The chair shakes as his grip tightens on the back of it.

"Detective DiMarino, that's not helping," Kosta murmurs, shifting in her chair.

Tony scoffs, but I understand his frustration. When I speak, my voice is low and controlled. "Do you have any more information you can give me? I have nothing more for you. Now, if you'll excuse me, my wife is dead and my daughter is still missing."

With that, I rise from the chair. Tony exits the room in front of me, allowing me to be the one to slam the door closed hard enough to rattle every pane of glass. It's oddly satisfying, all things considered. I can hear the door open almost immediately, but I don't care.

Tony interrogates the tech who traced the call to South Philly and obtains a physical address on South American Street. Though I shouldn't accompany anyone to the address -- well, if everyone knew what was good for them, they wouldn't be near me on my trip there -- no one protests. Johnson and Sikes hitch a ride with us.

I desperately want to draw my wand as Tony drives to the address. It feels as if static electricity is built up inside me just waiting for me to reach for a doorknob to spark. I can only hope that whatever we find on American Street doesn't act as the catalyst.

There are several cars blocking the street already. By the number of officers at the scene, I already know that neither Katy nor Emily are there. Had they been, I would have been called immediately, as would the Feds. And the coroner, were it Katy.

Tony parks the car in the middle of the street, not caring if he has to push aside some of the neighbors to do so. I always let Tony drive when we're around town because I've never developed that hyper-aggressive attitude that seems to be a requirement to drive within the Philadelphia city limits. The balance works because Tony says he's never seen someone drive so carelessly at high speed on highways and still live. If only he knew about the brooms.

The four of us pour out of the car silently. The neighbors part for us like we were Moses. Though I'm usually asked a few questions at a crime scene -- no one wants idle curiosity to be mistaken for snitching -- this scene is unnaturally quiet. It could be the oppressive heat lingering in the sunset but I doubt it.

It then occurs to me that whomever we're dealing with didn't give me that promised twenty-four hours. We can trust them with nothing.

The house in question is like any other on the small street. There is an anemic window air conditioning unit laboring in an upstairs window, where it certainly is doing no good even before the cops entered given the large crack in the upper pane of the transom window. Trash bags beside the front steps block access to the street-level basement windows. Black wrought-iron bars cover the ground-level windows.

I force myself to take a deep breath. I'm no help to anyone, least of all Emily, if I can't control myself. I'm no longer that hot-headed fifteen-year-old running off without complete information. That doesn't mean he's still not part of me, but he isn't the one running the show. Another deep breath and fisted hands help to calm me.

"Is there an alley?" I glance sideways and ask Tony.

He scratches the back of his head, studying the street. "Not for car traffic here, only foot traffic." It reduces the chance they used the back door if they couldn't pull a car up to it. Doesn't eliminate the possibility, but reduces it.

At this point, I have no idea what I'm feeling. Walking up those steps into that house just exacerbates the combination of emotions churning inside me.

As soon as I enter the front room, I smell it. Blood. Fresh.

Turning slowly to my right, it's all I can do not to vomit. I've been to plenty of crime scenes, seen bodies in grotesque situations and conditions, but nothing could prepare me for seeing the blood on the floor, wall and spatters on the ceiling and knowing it's almost certainly my wife's even if her body isn't here.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I turn my startled gaze from the wall to the homicide detective supervising the scene as he stalks toward me, forcing me into the hall. "You shouldn't be here at all, Potter."

I don't reply to that. I know I shouldn't be here. Pierson knows I shouldn't be here. Tony knows I shouldn't be here. But they both know I have to be here. We stare at each other long enough that the detective sighs, resigned to my presence.

Only then do I quietly tell him about the hairbrushes on my desk. Understanding what they mean, he curses, nods and returns to the scene.

Given the way the officers are lingering, unconcerned, in the other rooms downstairs, I assume there isn't another detectible scene on the ground floor. Biting my lower lip, I head upstairs. The stairs themselves seem to close in on me as the heat only increases with each step.

There are fewer people up here, but what I find even more strange is how they're avoiding the room at the end of the hall. In just the handful of seconds I've been at the head of the stairs, three officers have walked by and not one person has even looked into the other room. I don't call attention to it. Instead, I work my way down the hall and slip into that room.

As I cross the threshold, I understand. The chill over my skin indicates wards. This isn't strictly a Muggle crime scene.

Then I see him, one of the last people I ever expected to see again, especially in the United States: Draco Malfoy. He's been stripped to the waist, tied to a chair, and beaten. He hasn't noticed me yet, his eyes covered by white-blond fringe hanging over his down-turned face.

I don't know what to say. This entire case, the kidnapping, Katy's murder, all of it has just become much bigger than a drug gang wanting a dealer back. By Malfoy's presence, I can only assume that some of what's happening is personal, against me specifically. Therefore, though I didn't pull the trigger myself, some part of Katy's murder lies in my hands. I brought her into my life and didn't disclose all the risks.

I must have made some noise, such as a sharp intake of breath, because Malfoy looks up sharply at me through that shaggy fringe.

"I should have known you'd be here," he says, then spits out a mouthful of blood.

Crossing the room, I take in his condition. Someone worked him over like they were creating artwork. His bruises are from more than one beating, some old enough to be shaded yellow, but some new enough to still be sullenly weeping blood where his skin has split. Given how he's wheezing, I can only assume he also has at least one broken rib.

"What's going on, Malfoy?" I demand, standing in front of him closely enough that he has to tip his head back to meet my eyes.

If he were a cat, he'd hiss at me. Instead, his smile, though missing two teeth, turns feline. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Anger flares inside me. Were he thinking straight, Malfoy wouldn't try to further antagonize me, but no one ever accused Malfoy of being able to think through the consequences. The widening of his eyes in surprise when I pull out my wand delights me.

"There are Muggles here, Potter," he protests.

My mouth stretches in a rictus masquerading as a smile. "I don't particularly care."

I'm not the first to perform magic here today, despite the presence of Muggles, so his complaint -- acting as warning in his mind perhaps? -- won't help him. I wave my wand over my left hand and whisper a spell. A small mound of salt appears. Tucking my wand back into its holster, which then turns invisible once more thanks to a purchase in Singapore during my world tour, I close in on Malfoy. His eyes track my movements, puzzlement creasing his forehead.

"I have some questions for you, Malfoy," I tell him, my tone conversational to mask the murderous thoughts in my head. Given the abrasions on his wrists and the condition of his bruising, he's been tied for at least one day, maybe two, and therefore didn't have a direct hand in Katy's murder. It's the only thing keeping him alive right now.

"I don't have to answer any fucking questions from you," he retorts, spitting blood in my face.

Still smiling my terrible smile, I wipe my face clean with my right hand then straddle his knees. He grunts as his thighs strain under my weight.

"Fuck, lose a stone, Potter," he complains.

I consider asking if he thinks I'll be in his lap often enough for losing a stone to matter, but bite back the retort. Instead, I lick the first two fingers of my right hand and run them through the salt cupped in my left palm.

"You will talk, Malfoy," I say, my tone almost abnormally pleasant.

He realizes what I'm going to do a half-second before I touch him. He starts to shout curses that devolve into screams as I rub my fingers into one of the weeping wounds on his chest. He tries to buck me off, but has no leverage to do so.

When his shouts fade to pained whimpers, I ask, "Where is my daughter?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

I use salt on the lash over his stomach this time.

He sobs pitifully when his screams cease. The silencing charms woven into the wards must be holding because no one investigates Malfoy's screams.

Leaning in, I ask again, "Where is my daughter?"

His eyes, though red-rimmed, are defiant and very typical of the Malfoy I knew. "I. Don't. Know."

I sigh and shift so my knee is between his thighs. He doesn't mistake this for sexual at all. I lick my palm and coat it with salt. Holding it up, I murmur, "I wonder how this would feel rubbed down your chest."

Malfoy glares back until I follow through on my threat, grinding my knee into his groin at the same time. His screams are horrific. In other part of the city his screams wouldn't matter. This neighborhood, however, is still upscale enough that, without the silencing charms, his screams would draw attention.

I have nothing left to lose. Torturing Malfoy isn't providing the righteous satisfaction I was hoping for, though. Instead, I feel incredibly detached from what I'm doing. A part of me knows I should be worried by my disassociation, the rest advises taking advantage of it then breaking down after I find Emily.

Malfoy dissolves into hitching sobs.

I climb off his lap, Vanishing the remainder of the salt with a whispered spell.

"Where is my daughter?"

"A warehouse by the river," Malfoy rasps.

"Which river?" Both the Schuylkill and Delaware have warehouses on them at various points so "the river" isn't helpful.

"I don't know."

Thrusting my hand into his hair, I jerk his head back. I bend down until my face is mere inches from his. "Which river?"

He sniffles, blood and snot running from his nose and sweat pouring down his face. He's broken and I take no pleasure in the fact. "I don't know," he repeats.

Holding his gaze, I demand, "Northern Liberties or Gray's Ferry?" Each of those is an area close to a river and, in parts, heavily dotted with warehouses. Malfoy doesn't reply and I get no impression via Legilimency. He either doesn't know or has managed to lock it up tight in his mind.

Disgusted, I release him and step back. Turning to the door, I pull my wand, intending to drop the wards and Muggle-repelling charms. Malfoy shifts behind me, scraping the chair against the bare floor.

"Your little girl is cute," he offers.

I don't know if it's ice flowing through my veins or hot blood, but I stop in my tracks, hand tightening painfully around my wand, my head echoing with the pounding of my heart. Other than with Voldemort, this is the first time Avada Kedavra has tempted me. I stand utterly still, trying my damnedest to keep myself under control. It feels as if I'm a lightning rod between the pressure of my magic and the oppressive heat and humidity, that if I'm not careful, I'll generate a storm right here in this room.

No one, especially me, needs Draco Malfoy to be the spark that sets me off.

"Zabini," he hisses, moaning in pain with another shift of the chair.

Blaise Zabini? He's the bastard behind this?

But before I can curse out loud or interrogate Malfoy again, a fuzzy brown object near the door catches my eye. As I get closer, I see it's a teddy bear.

My heart contracts painfully and my stomach lurches as I pick the bear up. He's about ten inches tall and dressed in a Phillies uniform, "Potter" stitched above the "7" on the back. The bear is named Jimmy and it's Emily's favorite animal, the uniform custom made by Katy based on my old Quidditch jersey.

Kneeling on the floor, I have to fight back tears yet again. Without this reminder, I could have walked out of this room and left my humanity here. Malfoy didn't deserve what I did to him, but I'm not going to apologize. Even if he didn't pull the trigger, he's part of the reason Katy's dead and my little girl is missing.

Gritting my teeth, I clutch the teddy bear and release the wards.

Tony must have been right outside. He steps into the room and looks around, both puzzled and pissed off. He's been my friend and partner long enough to realize strange things happen when I'm around, but rooms suddenly appearing have to be near the top of his "what the fuck was that, Harry?" list. He spots me on the floor clutching the bear at almost the same time Malfoy spits blood onto the floor again.

"Harry?" He says nothing else, all his questions wrapped in the tone of voice used for my name.

I stand slowly, feeling much older than my nearly twenty-eight years. Jerking my head in his direction, I growl, "That's Draco Malfoy. We know each other from way back. He's involved. I didn't beat him." Tortured him a bit, but didn't beat him. And I know Malfoy won't mention a thing.

"And the bear?" he asks, softening his voice.

I meet Tony's eyes and he flinches. That alone surprises me because there isn't much in this world that makes Tony DiMarino wary. "It's Emily's."

"Fuck," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, shaking his head slowly.

"Can someone untie me?" Malfoy asks, voice strengthening yet still hoarse from screaming -- and just as whiny as it ever was despite his position.

Tony glances at Malfoy dismissively, then calls for a uniform to take him to the hospital and into custody. He'll get the finest treatment since he's involved in the murder of an officer's wife. The thought makes me want to smile. The department has been on edge since the killing of an officer back in May. Malfoy won't have it easy.

"Take it and go, Harry," Tony says softly. I raise an eyebrow at him. "This is beyond personal. I'll do what I can, but go."

I want to say thank you but don't know how. Mere words aren't enough. Despite his olive-colored skin, his cheeks pink with embarrassment at my expression. He grunts and waves me off before I can figure out what to say.

I hitch a ride back to the Roundhouse with a uniform leaving the scene. We don't talk, though I know by his sidelong glances he has a list of questions for me. Instead, I stare out the windshield.

Night is falling. With it comes the hope of cooler temperatures and the anticipation of fireworks. Emily is both delighted and afraid of the fireworks. Who is going to hold her tonight when they go off? Choking on a sudden sob, I shove a fist into my mouth and turn to look out the side window. The officer sniffs suspiciously but stays silent.

He pulls into the garage several minutes later. As I place my hand on the knob to open the door, he clears his throat. I turn to look at him over my shoulder.

"Detective Potter," he begins. Damn, he looks so young. Was I ever that young? No, I don't think I was allowed to be that young after hearing the prophecy. "Um, just wanted to let you know that, um, if you needed anything, just ask." He blows his breath out in something like a huff. "You've always been good to the rookies and we've been talking about it and what's happened to you is really shitty and if we can help, just let us know, m'kay?"

I blink and turn more fully toward him. After stammering through the first sentence, he sped through the second, and it takes me a moment to decipher his words. At last, I swallow the lump in my throat and reply, "I will. Thank you."

Then I escape the car.

It's not that I don't appreciate the support, but I've never quite learned how to accept it gracefully and use it. Even accepting Ron and Hermione's help was hard and they had been there through damn near everything with me.

Though I should go back to my desk just in case there's new information awaiting me, I can't. I can call Tony later, though I'm sure he will call me if there is a break of some sort from the Muggle police work. In the meantime, I have ritual magic to perform for the first time in a long while.

The garage feels like an oven in which exhaust has been baking all day. Between my own emotions choking me and the heat of the day playing havoc with the air quality, there's a haze in the air and over my eyes. I feel like I'm existing in a parallel world once again, something akin to the worst of my post-Voldemort disaffection eating away at my sanity. I put my family in danger this time, not just friends, and the terrible knowledge is stifling me.

Settling into the driver's seat of my car without quite knowing how I got here, I stare straight ahead. Though I know I shouldn't drive home in this condition, I do anyway. Once again sitting in my driveway, it takes five minutes to gather the courage to get out and enter the house.

We bought the house a month before we married. Matthew and Jennifer were so positive I was worthless, both literally and figuratively, that after I paid cash for the house, Matthew tried to convince Katy I'd stolen the money. I'd been honest with Katy about my inheritance, but she chose not to tell her parents I had as much money as they did, merely brushed aside their concerns that their new son-in-law was a thief. I reckon she didn't do me any favors with that in the long run, but my in-laws don't need to know everything. Katy appreciated not having to reduce her standard of living, as she often teased me, but the money didn't matter to her beyond that.

Nausea churns in my gut again, the image of that blood-soaked room flashing before my eyes. Her standard of living doesn't matter now. I lean forward against the steering wheel, breath hissing from between clenched teeth, as I attempt to keep myself under control.

I have to call Jennifer and Matthew once again. I have to tell them their daughter is dead. I can put that off for a while until I find Katy, or even pawn the job off on a homicide detective, but I can't delay talking to them forever, no matter how much I wish it. I have to find Emily before I can stomach calling my in-laws. I have to find Emily, period.

Clutching Jimmy, I walk up to the front door. Near the door are a few beheaded flowers I haven't "restored" yet. I close my eyes and turn away.

A deep breath helps, then another. It takes me several minutes, but I finally feel I can enter the house. Then I open my eyes and notice the door is ajar.

The curses that roil through my mind can't begin to describe how furious I am.

With the same care as when I searched our home in Stone Harbor, I pull my gun and wand before I ease open the door. It sticks halfway, as if something or someone is blocking it. I stop pushing for a moment, then shove my shoulder into the door. It crashes to the wall and I hear ceramic shatter and wood splinter. Spinning around the door with my gun ready, I find a broken vase and table, but no person as I had thought.

The table and vase were not behind the door when I left the house after returning from Stone Harbor. Someone else has been in my home in the last few hours.

Though the crash of the door would have alerted someone to my presence, I close it as silently as I can and lock it. If there is someone else in the house, I don't want to make it easy for them to run by leaving the door open.

Panning the entry, the only thing out of place is the now-destroyed table and vase. I turn to the left to enter the parlor -- living room, Katy's voice reminds me in my head -- flip the overhead light on and stop cold.

The entire room has been tossed and trashed. The couch cushions are shredded, stuffing scattered; the rug has been pulled up and cut into uneven strips; the side tables have been reduced to splinters; the lamps have been shattered and broken into at least two parts; and the brick mantle around the fireplace looks as if someone took a sledgehammer to it since parts of it are reduced to dust. I stare in shock, arms falling to my sides.

I can't wrap my mind around the destruction. Though a few spells can fix it, they can't negate the wanton and deliberate damage done to my home and my family's belongings.

Blowing my breath out, I move into the kitchen. In here the cabinets have been thrown open, their contents emptied onto the floor. The refrigerator door is propped open by the mop, mocking me. Liquid items still drip down from the top shelf, exacerbated by the melting ice cream from the freezer above.

Still in shock, I move into the dining room and find that every piece of the china given to us by Katy's grandmother when she died four years ago is broken. Even the salt and pepper shakers that were on the dining room table are broken.

My hands are trembling now. I wouldn't trust myself to fire my gun, but my spells can go wide since they'll be stopped by the walls. Bullets have no respect for arbitrary boundaries and I could seriously injure someone I don't mean to injure with the shape I'm in.

Upstairs, the near-immaculate home I left not twenty-four hours before is complete in its ransacking. The guest bedroom, Emily's room -- and at that, I have to pause and it's a serious effort to fight back my tears -- even the fucking bathroom.

But in the master bedroom is when I can't keep it together any longer.

For Christmas, Katy talked me into sitting for a family portrait. Not just a photograph, but an actual painting. The artist seemed to capture all of us exquisitely, so much so that, had he been a wizard, I would have commissioned him for a Wizarding portrait. We received the completed artwork in April and had hung it above the fireplace downstairs.

It is now ruined on our bed. What looks like red paint but is probably blood is painted over Katy's face as if someone were using the red from Emily's fingerpaint set. Around Emily, there is a circle with a slash through it, a "no" symbol. Around my head is a target. To add to that insult, nearly every portion of the canvas has been slashed to ribbons, though carefully enough that the portrait is still anchored in its frame and all three of us are completely visible.

I don't know why, but this is the last straw.

I collapse next to the bed, falling hard on my knees, cross my arms and sob.