Harry Potter and the Knights of Chaos

Chapter 2: 13 Fluer Boulevard

Back in his little room, Harry shut his eyes painfully. Voldemort's death had ended nothing. Sure, for several years peace and harmony had reigned and blah, blah, blah, but the core problem had really remained the same. The only thing Voldemort's death had really done was to lull everyone into a false sense of security. If the average wizard knew what Harry knew, the resulting panic would make the one during Voldemort's reign appear petty.

After Harry had graduated, he felt no direction in his life. He had fulfilled the Prophecy; his life's work was complete. He graduated as fifth in his class and delivered a brilliant speech at the graduation as was his Head Boy's duty. He had done well on his N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s, ten OWLs, twelve NEWTs, respectively. But there was no...pull. No direction in Harry's life. His aspirations to be an Auror were gone; although last he heard, Ron was doing quite well in that regard. Harry, at a loss, simply paid his bill at the Leaky Cauldron, where he had been living since graduation, placed all his money in a high-security vault at Gringotts, and left. He brought nothing with him save a change of clothes and his wand. He had even left Hedwig in Hermione's care.

Where he had gone, no one could say. He sent the odd Christmas and birthday card, but other than that, he maintained no contact with any of his school friends. Personally, Ron thought he had gone off the deep-end, but Hermione and his sister refused to believe it, claiming he was probably just taking a well-earned break from saving the world.

Of course, Harry had done neither of these things. Less than a week after he had left, he was approached by a man in a pub, and before Harry knew it, he had signed up for training with the White Council. The Council was an order of wizards that had been in organization since the Elder Days, before Muggle kind had experienced a culture explosion. He learned more in two months than he learned in seven years of teaching himself Defense Against the Dark Arts and the best Hogwarts could provide. In addition to learning how to wield such weapons as the bow, the spear, and the sword, his brain was forced to learn over thirty languages with magic (a process more painful than the Cruciatus Curse, in Harry's opinion) and relearn everything he knew about Occlumency and Legilimency.

When his training was over, Harry emerged from the training facility a new man. Though he had always been bony, skinny even, he was now slender and covered with a thin layer of wiry muscle. His wild jet-black hair was cropped so short that its unruliness was more help than hindrance now, he didn't have to ever style it, since it just stuck straight up. His thin face had developed the kind of almost-handsome features that nations used in their army recruiting posters and he purchased a pair of new frameless glasses with ovular lenses. Like all new operatives, Harry's first directive was an easy one. In his case, he was ordered to kill a Colombian wizard drug lord who had become to big for his boots. Harry not only completed his assignment, but went above and beyond his objective and destroyed every once of illegal substance in the area. His superiors were delighted with their new operative's initiative, and soon Harry found himself assigned to the big jobs, the ones classified at Red Level security.

Harry quickly built himself a name in the Wizarding underworld. He had ceased with using his real name, Potter, a long time ago. Instead, he created a new name for himself. It was this name, Anarion, that was spoken only in frightful whispers in places like London's Knockturn Alley, Hong Kong's Red Light District, or New York's Bourbon Street. It was rare not find a conversation in places that Dark wizards gathered that greatly resembled the one Harry heard, two hours after his little trip down memory lane on one bitterly cold and rainy November night in the upscale Hong Kong restaurant, Foo-Chow-Ming.

"They say Anarion has come to town," a tall, grey-eyed German was saying to his two companions. "My superiors refuse any further dealings with your people until we have complete assurance he will not be a problem."

"Dieter, my friend, you need not worry about such things," the man on his immediate left, a Russian by the name of Petrovic answered, pausing to drink from his cup of ng-ka-py. He made a face. "This tastes like shit," he remarked to the third man, a Chinese gang lord who went by the name 'Jungtao.'

Jungtao gave them a little smile his people were famous for. "Mr. Kessler, my men are the best. The chief of police in this town is advised by men under my payroll. You have nothing to worry about. This 'Anarion' is only mortal. If you wish to back out of negotiations, that is your decision. Be aware that turning your back on us now would mean to forfeit any future business opportunities. Surely you would not want that to happen, would you?" The Chinese man looked at him, speaking softly and politely. His demeanor gave no hint whatsoever to a threat; but Kessler saw it nevertheless. Men didn't rise to rise the position he held by being stupid.

"Of course not, Mr. Jungtao. What I was trying to say is that my superiors will hold any damage done to me- legal or physical- your responsibility," Kessler paused to chew his General Tsao chicken thoughtfully. "And since Anarion has a reputation as unbribeable, which is your organization's preferred method of handling threats, I was voicing my concern that your men might not be... capable... of handling him."

"A valid concern, you must admit," Petrovic pointed out, sounding as if he had just used every word in his vocabulary (which he probably had). "Why, just two months ago the little bastard took out two shipments of AK-47 rifles we where running to America by himself. We had forty men on each boat, you know, but he took them one as if they were," he thought for a moment, searching for the word in English. "Leetle girls," he finished, speaking with a heavy Muscovite accent.

The Chinamen just smiled serenely again. "I'm sure that no maverick wizard will pose a problem to us. Come, why don't we go upstairs and discuss the terms in a more... private surrounding.

Harry leaned back in his chair as he watched the three men get up and head for the stairs in the northwest corner of the room. He chewed thoughtfully on his lo mein and wondered whether or not he should make the bust tonight. He had followed two of the men- the Russian and the German- for three days each, learning their patterns. He knew that neither of them posed any sort of threat to him. Neither was particularly skilled in magic or had any real dueling experience. Harry would go up there right now and kill the both of them, if it weren't for one thing. The Chinamen.

Harry had tried to follow him for over a week, but the security ring around Jungtao was too good. His contacts in the underworld had given him next to nothing in terms of information. The name of this restaurant was pretty much the beginning and end to all his knowledge on what he was getting into in terms of a fight.

As Harry finished his lo mein, the waitress came over. "Anyting I can get for you?" she asked in horrible English. "You want tea or liquor?"

"No, thank you. However, I was wondering if you've seen Mr. Jungtao around. I'm supposed to be meeting him."

At once, the sweet waitress's eyes grew hard and suspicious. "You wait for him? You have appointment?"

Harry affected an even posh-er accent and developed the air of a very arrogant London business man. "Yes, tell him the man is here about the ivory shipments, if you will," he said, his voice dripping with casual contempt for the working-class girl.

The waitress bowed and set off quickly for the stairs, disappearing behind a curtained door. Several moments later she was back, beckoning him to come. Surprised, Harry followed her through the door, where he was led to a room decorated in expensive Oriental tastes. Four suited men, each with armed with a katana, stood in the corners of the room. In the center, an expensive half-circle couch made with the finest Italian leather seated Kessler, Petrovic, and Jungtao. They were all fixing him with heated stares: Kessler's suspicious, Petrovic's openly hostile, and Jungtao's perfectly cool gaze that gave nothing away.

"Hello, Mr.- I don't believe I caught your name," Jungtao inquired politely.

"I didn't give it," Harry replied, dropping his posh accent at once.

"Drop the polite act, grishkevay," Petrovic growled. "What the fuck do you want, limey?"

Harry's emerald eyes cooled about a hundred degrees and gazed at Petrovic. Harry probed his mind gently, sensing nothing more than feelings of hostility, stupidity, and the mild yearning for a prostitute. Next, he turned his attention to Kessler. Again, nothing but a vague anger and sexual desire.

When he turned his mental probe to Jungtao, he got nothing. Less than nothing, actually. Jungtao was blocking him. He was an Occlumens! That settled it. Time to do his thing. Harry gave them all a soft little grin drew his wand from his robes blindingly fast.

"Magnus Disintegro!" Harry incanted forcefully, aiming at Kessler. The German scrambled back surprisingly fast, dodging the blast of light rocketing towards him. The curse impacted instead with the small table behind him, which glowed for a brief moment and collapsed into a fine grey ash.

"Kill him!" Jungtao ordered coldly, grabbing his coat. "Quickly, you fools, come with me. The guards will deal with him," he said as he pulled on his coat and headed for the only door.

"Collo Portus!" The door slammed shut and turned into solid wall with another flick of Harry's wand.

By this time, Jungtao's security detail had popped into the room, each drawing long Japanese knives called tanto. Harry vanished with a whirl of his cloak and reappeared behind a group of them. With a quick flourish of his wand, liquid silver burst from the tip, suffocating or stopping the grunts. Harry saw Jungtao glare coldly at him as he used tanto that held a Chinese Fireball heartstring at its core to blow a large hole in the wall, exposing them all to the busy Hong Kong street below.

"Hurry, fools, jump!" Jungtao ordered contemptuously.

Obediently, Kessler followed him out the window. Petrovic hesitated, allowing Harry to take advantage of him.

"Pedius Cadit!" Harry shouted, successfully knocking over the bearlike Russian with a Trip Jinx. The Russian Mafiya gangster roared like a bull and withdrew his wand, brandishing it at Harry.

"CRUCIO!" Petrovic roared, his face a shade of purple that would put Harry's Uncle Vernon to shame.

Harry dove to the side, rolling as he hit. He quickly brought his wand back in line, point-blank-range at Petrovic.

"Avada Kedavra!" he cried, an emerald bolt of light as vivid as his eyes emitting from his wand. A sound of something vast and invisible was heard rushing through the air and Petrovic collapsed soundlessly onto the floor.

After using the Disintegration Curse to rid any evidence of Petrovic's body, Harry turned and prepared to jump out the window himself, his jaw set grimly. With a great running start, he leapt out the window as far as his legs would carry him. Thinking quickly, he cast a Jelly-Legs Jinx on himself, allowing his body to absorb the impact without damage to his legs. Performing the counter curse, Harry took off at a run down the street. His mind worked furiously, thinking of the most likely place Jungtao could be heading for. Of course! The Chaos Syndicate, a subsidiary organization of the more powerful Jungtao Group, owned a boating dock not three blocks away. Jungtao would be aiming to escape on his private yacht, the Beautiful Agony. Harry's eyes narrowed as his concentration level increased. A moment later, he disappeared with a pop, scaring the living Jesus out of anyone who saw.

Harry reappeared a moment later between two large crates of what smelled like cocaine. Standing from a crouch, Harry took an immediate survey of his surroundings. He was on a large cargo boat in the bay, adjacent to the Agony. Harry watched carefully for guards, counting seven of them. He spent ten minutes memorizing their patrol patterns, and then, when a gap appeared in the patrols, made his Apparition to the other side.

Harry felt a vague feeling of relief that he had remembered to Disillusion himself before Apparating as he drew a small dagger from his robes. Sneaking up behind the nearest guard, he plunged the knife into the guard's vitals, holding his mouth shut with one black-gloved hand. He moved swiftly to another position, ready to silence the first guard who turned this way. A moment later, he threw the small ebony-treated dagger across the open-deck on the stern of the boat, which buried itself into the second guard's neck. He gurgled and fell backwards off the boat, making a racket when he splashed loud enough to draw the remaining guards over.

Harry drew his wand, grim satisfaction playing across his face. Turning, he took off the Disillusionment Charm and strode down the stairs, into the ship's underbelly.

In a few moments, Harry had reached the inner sanctum of the boat. The two guards rushed to meet him, raising sub-machine guns, but were lifted off their feet by a quick curse from Harry.

"Trachea Constricto!" Harry whispered. The two guards lifted two feet in the air, bumping their heads on the low ceiling. They clutched their throats, gurgling, until a wet crack was heard and their spittle ran red. Harry cast their bodies aside with a flick of his wand and squared his shoulders. He leveled his wand at the door and felt the magical wards there. Nothing a good curse couldn't handle. They were built to protect more against Muggle things, like bullets and bombs then magical attacks.

"Reducto!" Harry thrust his wand at the door. The grey light of the Reductor Curse impacted fully on the center, shattering the door into inch-long splinters. A cloud of sawdust billowed into the room. Harry strode in through the dust, knowing what an intimidating figure it would cut. He pointed his wand at Kessler, who was cowering in the corner.

"Ignis Frigido!" Flaming pieces of ice covered Kessler. The ice froze to his skin on contact, and the cerulean fire began to spread steadily. Kessler screamed in pain and tried frantically to brush it off, but it just spread the flames to his hands and arms. As if in afterthought, Harry cast a Silencing Charm on him to avoid getting a migraine from his moans of pain. He quickly scanned the room from Jungtao.

The Chinese gangster was in the corner, seemingly unaware of Harry's arrival. He was frantically writing a letter and sealing it, stamping it with the Chinese character that meant chaos. From his pocket, he withdrew Floo powder and three it into the furnace mounted on the back wall.

"13 Fluer Boulevard, Master's Private Quarters!" Jungtao cried, emotion entering his voice for the first time that night as he threw the letter into the furnace.

Harry froze, midway to sending Jungtao to his maker. He knew that address. 13 Fluer Boulevard was the townhouse the Malfoy family owned in Paris, the only one they were allowed to keep after all their other property was seized by the Ministry of Magic for their part in the War. What would Jungtao be doing sending a letter there? Lucius Malfoy was dead, killed in the Battle of Hogwarts. Narcissa was serving life in Azkaban for using the Imperius Curse on Seamus Finnigan. Draco Malfoy, according to Harry's current information, (which was a very, very good source) was in Sweden, running a semi-legal dragon operation. Snapping out of his hesitation, Harry jerked his wand at Jungtao.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Jungtao froze where he was, dropping to the floor like a board. Harry would need him for questioning later.

Suddenly, Jungtao sprung to his feet, his arm in his coat pocket. Realization hit Harry like a brick. He must have dodged the curse and pretended to be affected! A second later, Harry felt an impact, followed by considerable pain and saw the hilt of a small knife sticking out of his shoulder. Screwing his mind around the pain, Harry brandished his wand in a short, brutal arc.

"STUPEFY!" he shouted, trying to drown out the red agony flowing freely from his arm. Jungtao ducked just in time and the Stunner missed, instead shattering the small porthole against the wall.

Jungtao removed a short sword from his coat and looked at Harry for the barest of moments, hate blazing from his eyes. He reversed the sword and plunged it into his own heart. His eyes widened and he glared at Harry again.

"Retributions will be made," he snarled. "The Dragon of the Bad Faith shall burn you alive before swallowing you whole," and, with those words on his lips, Jungtao died.

Harry leaned heavily against the wall, gripping the dagger in his shoulder with one hand. Gritting his teeth, he yanked the dagger out, nearly passing out from the pain. Breathing heavily, he threw the dagger on the floor and took out his wand. He placed it in the hole that was gushing blood and muttered haltingly. A warm golden glow filled his shoulder and blocked the blood from coming out more.

Reaching into his pocket, Harry withdrew a crystal phial filled with mother-of-pearl liquid. He opened the nozzle and tipped three drops onto his shoulder. After hitting, the wound smoked and sizzled, but Harry only felt a mild tingle as the skin regenerated and stretched back together. Harry nodded to himself. Phoenix tears. Best thing in the business for healing. The bottle was given to him by the Prince of Arabia after ridding his palace of an unfortunate zombie infestation. Harry could have transformed into a phoenix and filled the bottle with his own tears, of course, but he knew when it would be impolite to refuse gifts. Clearly, the bottle was a precious thing, and to refuse it would be to insult the prince. And insulting an Arab is never a good thing, especially the billionaire wizard ones with their own private army.

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts, turning back to Jungtao. The Chinamen was unmistakably dead. Sometime during the brief fight, Kessler had joined Jungtao, covered in burns and frostbite. Harry winced. Not a pleasant way to die, the Hot Ice Hex.

He now turned his thoughts to the Malfoy's townhouse. Could it have sold? No, too much of a coincidence. Well, he had to check it out. He'd report back to his direct superior, Radagast the Brown (color was an indication of rank in the White Council- Brown [the lowest senior member] to White [the highest]), then pay a little visit to 13 Fluer Boulevard.

* * *

At the same time, halfway around the globe, Hermione Granger stood in the kitchen of her small cottage outside Bristol. She was trying very hard to cook, the one area of study she did not excel in. Her two best friends, Ginny Weasley and Erewin Gaines, were sitting at her kitchen table, occasionally offering this- or that- as a hint.

"Add a bit of nutmeg, Herm, yeah, that's it," Ginny, who had been cooking since she could walk, suggested.

"So, have you two heard from Harry lately?" Erewin was asking. She had been two years above Harry at Hogwarts, and had always been fascinated by him.

"No," Ginny said too quickly and looking at a clock that hung on the wall. "Hey, is this new?"

Hermione looked at her strangely before answering herself. "He sent me a birthday card two months ago, but other than that, no." The card hadn't even been accompanied by a letter, it simply said "Best Wishes on Your Birthday" and was signed by Harry.

"Where do you think he could have gone?" Erewin asked for the thousandth time since she began regularly joining Hermione's and Ginny's weekly tea.

The front door swung open, blowing in a blast of freezing rain and cold. "Off the deep end, more than likely," Ron Weasley called as he stomped off his boots and hung his cloak on a peg. When he got to the kitchen, he sniffed, his nose wrinkling unpleasantly. "What's the smell? The cat piss in here again?"

Hermione smacked him, hard. "Don't use that language, Ronald Weasley!" Ginny and Erewin giggled. "And that smell is your dinner, so maybe you should stop talking like that," Hermione said huffily, offending at the affront to her cooking prowess (or lack thereof).

"So, Ron," Erewin asked slyly. "You really think Harry's barmy?"

"Probably," Ron said, his mouth full of the biscuit he had grabbed. "I mean, we haven't heard anything more than his signature in how long? Six years? All those years with You-Know-Who probably did it, if anything."

"Oh, stop it," Ginny piped up. "He's probably sipping some sort of coconut drink now in the tropics, glad to know the War is over. You sound like you don't want him back," she crossed her arms angrily and sat down.

"I think you're right, Gin," Erewin put a hand on her arm to placate her. Harry was a very touchy subject with her. "I'm sure in a few years, when that fortune of his runs out, he'll come back and see you guys again."

"I think you're right too, Ginny," Hermione said from her spot elbow-deep in some sort of casserole dish. "He's probably lying on a hammock and enjoying a breeze right now."

* * *

Harry, of course, was doing none of these things. He was sitting in an old tin-pot car whose heat refused to turn on in the middle of an early snow squall, freezing his loins off. Harry was very glad that he had decreed to himself he'd never have children, because if he ever did, they'd probably be deformed if the frost damage his bits were taking were any indication.

Harry had parked across the street from 13 Fluer Boulevard nearly sixteen hours ago, and still there was no sign of any Dark activity. A small Foe-Glass on his dashboard revealed silvery-blond hair several times, but other than that, Harry had absolutely no proof Malfoy wasn't doing exactly what his tax reports said he was.

Damn, he cursed. He wished he hadn't followed this lead. It had led to a disapproving look from old Radd, a negative-three star motel, and his bits frozen to the seat. And still no sign of Malfoy or any of his known goons.

Wait! There! A weedy looking man several years younger than Harry was making his way down the street, dressed in a pea-green cloak. His beady, nervous eyes darted to and fro and he was smoking a cigarette with the furor of man making love. He turned into 13 Fluer and buzzed the door, which opened a moment later.

Harry's sharp eyes darted up to the corner window. He caught a glimpse of the famous Malfoy hair before the shades dropped down, obscuring any further view.

"Well, I guess that's my proof," Harry said to the open air. Almost immediately he chided himself. Talking to oneself was the first sign of madness. Harry chuckled as the thought brought the image Dumbledore to his mind, then silenced it immediately. Thinking of that crackpot fool wouldn't do him any good.

As he reflected how funny it was that his luck should change so soon, Harry pried himself carefully from the car and loosened his wand in its holster. He couldn't use it yet- not even to warm himself up. Malfoy was notorious for using magic-detecting spells and had quite a reputation for it. Had he been a normal person, he'd probably cast them as a living, for rich people or whatnot. However, as it usually was with Malfoy, his spells were used for more nefarious purposes.

Harry shook his head to clear it. Focus. Focus, focus, focus. Harry stepped inside the door lobby. How to make his way to the apartment? He couldn't transform, the transfiguration would set off alarms like Guy Fawkes strapped with explosives at a gas station. He couldn't Apparate, the same thing would happen. He couldn't just walk up either, alarm spells would still go off. Harry lit a cigarette as he thought.

Harry didn't smoke, actually, he hated it, but the man he was undercover as, Jean du Baptist, was a rather heavy one. He fought the urge to cough as the foul smoke hit his lungs. Reminding himself to drink some phoenix tears later, Harry stabbed out the cigarette and decided to go about things the Muggle way. Removing a set of lockpicks given to him by Fred and George, Harry took nearly fifteen minutes to open the ancient electric door, passing into the halls of the building.

Built as a townhouse for the elite in the early 1900s, 13 Fluer Boulevard had four apartments, each with a kitchen, living room, office, and bedroom. They were rather nice in their heyday, but the other three apartments had been unoccupied since the early nineteen-fifties. Lucius Malfoy had never even set foot in the building; it had been a purchase of Lucas Malfoy, his father. After all their other property and ninety-five percent of their family fortune was seized, Draco Malfoy was left with this poorly heated, grand apartment in a city he had always hated.

Slowly, an idea formed in Harry's head. He would go to the floor above Malfoy's and drop down from the ceiling. Not the most airtight plan he had ever formulated, but under the circumstances, Harry forgave himself.

Harry climbed the stairs, pausing at Malfoy's floor. One more, and he'd be on the next floor. Harry lockpicked the door to the next apartment and entered.

The place had obviously not been used in a very long time. Dusty sheets covered all the furniture and numerous portraits. Harry inhaled deeply and nearly choked from all the dust in the air. Not wanting to waste time, Harry went about what he needed to do.

First, he removed a collapsible cauldron from his pack. Then he took out several ingredients resembling cabbages and began slicing them into small, triangle-shaped pieces. When those were done, he added them and a quantity of water to the cauldron. Next he spent five minutes lighting a small fire with Muggle matches and the leg of chair. Harry paused to wipe nervous sweat from his eyes. Potion making without magic was difficult.

When the spleenwort was boiling, Harry added seven crocodile tears and stirred in an orange. Usually, he didn't carry around ingredients to potions, being an abysmal potion-maker, but he found that the potion he was making was often useful in situations like these, when using magic was off-limits.

Ten minutes later, the potion was cool enough to bottle, which Harry did, collapsing the cauldron as he did so. Harry help the phial upside-down and counted to three in his head. On three, he pulled the stopper and began squeezing out drops of liquid over the welding that held the bathroom drain in. At once, the Instant-Acid Solution burned through the thin iron and allowed Harry to lift the grate to the drain.

Very carefully, Harry lowered himself in, descending very slowly down the vent. Harry thought it rather convenient the ventilation wasn't great in 19th century France, otherwise Harry would have had to do something really stupid to get in.

Finally, Harry was above Malfoy's apartment. Using more of the acid, Harry lifted the grate on Malfoy's end and hopped down, landing silently. Harry grinned at his luck. He had landed in a room that apparently was not being used. Good. Malfoy wouldn't know what hit-

Suddenly, the lights flicked on. Harry found himself surrounded by a group of Malfoy's large and invariably stupid goons. The whole room was brilliant lit and there was no place Harry could hide. Only one corner was still in shadow, from which a figure suddenly walked out of.

Harry saw the man's visage, half in shadow, half in light. A large, thin scar on the man's pale face stood out grotesquely. The crooked grin on his face looked to be continued by the scar, going up the rest of the side of his head. His sleek, silver-blond hair was slicked back with a liberal amount of something shiny, making his head look like it had a built-in helmet.

Harry swallowed nervously. He was over his head this time. Outnumbered, outgunned, wand stupidly in his pocket. "Hello, Malfoy."

The man stepped into the brilliant light of the room, throwing sharp relief on his once-handsome features. He was dressed in an expensive black set of dress robes, which he brushed imaginary lint off as he favored Harry with an immensely smug look.

"Hello, Potter."

The last thing Harry remembered was a jolt to his head. After that, blackness overtook him.