Work Text:
Jefferson Pierre Harris had an excess of “go-bys”. Jeff. Pierre. JP. Perry. Joe. Parris. Pierrson… those were the most common aliases he used. Easier to remember. When dealing with French upper-crust, it was Pierre. Lower crust French (one-time clients who balked at the price of what he offered, but couldn’t resist and saved up to get their greedy hands on even one image- these were the ones that in the early days, he used to do trade with) called him Parris. Of course, that trade ended quickly- magic children were far too high risk. Early into the business, a simple cost/benefit analysis made it clear there was far too high a likelihood of an extended stay in Azkaban to be worth the risk. And downright stupid when he could just snag a muggle kid, and as long as he used the right potions or memory charms, return the kid rather quickly- sometimes even claiming a small reward for the kid’s safe return. And it’s not as though his customers could tell if the child in the photographs was magical or not- even the fanatical blood purists who refused to wank to anything they considered “lesser” couldn’t tell the difference in a photograph.
Most of his names had something to do with the locality of where he did business. It helped him keep track of things. Much the way, as his small criminal enterprise grew, branding the kids became necessary. He still remembered, sitting back for some beers with GrinGuts (not his real name, but a nickname bestowed upon him either in Azkaban or soon after his release, a semi-admiring ode to his daring failure to rob Gringotts, as well as his sheer luck at being dumped into the wizarding justice system, rather than that of the goblins). They’d been dividing photographs, tallying the money remaining after factoring in the cost of the necessary potions, when the topic of revisiting one of the kids came up. Apparently, one of the wizards they did business with- English chap who had relocated to Germany- had become somewhat obsessed with one of the subjects, buying every picture (and the original negatives) of the boy, along with the boys’ twin sister. He’d requested more, and then offered an obscene amount of galleons to be “introduced” to them.
The problem was, they had no idea where the kids were now. They’d regretfully informed the man, but promised to keep an eye out for anything similar. It was a lost opportunity that both men had felt, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to then “expand the business”. It was a strange business for either man to be interested in- GrinGuts, a man who had become obsessed with physical fitness during his time in Azkaban, wasn’t (as far as Mr. Harris could tell) interested in kids- or really, anyone except for himself . The man gravitated to reflective surfaces, and Mr. Harris would have thought it a rather funny if unimaginative curse, had he not met an old schoolmate of the fellow (Jonathan Chasandre Lestrange), who actually had a yearbook from before they’d been teenagers, in which the man could be seen admiring his own pre-teen self in the mirror. The level of narcissism was amusing, and convenient- GrinGuts wasn’t specifically attracted to the kids, but loved his own image enough to be willing to do what needed to be done, simply for the thrill of seeing some portion of his own body in photographic form.
Mr. Harris, being the cautious individual he was (always weighing the pros and cons, the likelihood of getting caught compared to the income an action might bring) had been pleased with this arrangement- he considered himself a “connoisseur” of children- he only risked himself for the most tempting of them, when the need to control, to love, to be known became an inferno he couldn’t ignore. Despite his own good tastes, Mr. Harris was overweight, and some clients would refuse to buy anything in which his own body was featured. It had been fine for a while, but as their output of material increased too many pictures had to be distributed that featured only himself or GrinGuts with the children, increasing the risk to themselves. Thus, an additional adult or two (and lots of illegal polyjuice) had become necessary. Eventually, they’d been able to use a combination of “carrot and stick” to entice the Lestrange (apparently, a bastard dead-end branch of that family Lestrange) to join their “business”. It hadn’t been difficult- “Chase” as he preferred to be called, had a natural appetite for the children, an indiscriminate urge to take any of them, regardless of gender or age, use them roughly and toss them aside. The threat of being revealed to his family hadn’t bothered him as much as they’d anticipated, but when combined with potentially limitless children, he’d happily signed on. The man wasn’t fit- if anything, he was skinny to the point of looking more like an adolescent- but he was well-endowed, which most of their clients appreciated. Glamours, or sometimes simple muggle make up, could be used to cover up the man’s many distinguishing acne scars when their polyjuice stores ran low, thus providing some small layer of legal protection, should things go pear-shaped.
Thus, what had initially begun as a one-man effort to fund his own interests had expanded rapidly into a larger entrepreneurial endeavor, with wealthy clients at home and on the continent being the main customers of their particular goods. Still, illegal potions (mostly sedatives, superficial bruise salves, memory-blockers, lust-inducers and polyjuice) were expensive, and also not worth the risk inherent with being traced when purchased legally. By the time Lestrange had signed on, they’d fine-tuned the process to nearly zero-risk. Nobody cared about a lower-class muggle child who went missing for less than a day, or even two days, as long as the kid was returned Besides which, muggles were doing this type of thing to each other all the time, thus they’d avoided any awareness of their activities within the wizarding community, except by the same people who commissioned their “art”. But then they’d gotten that offer, that spark of inspiration that had in fact made them wealthy beyond what any legitimate profession could. Back then, it was quick work to plan how to go about it without drawing attention, keeping their endeavor as “low risk” as possible.
“We need to avoid hitting the same area too frequently- it’s the frequency of attacks on livestock in a single area that alerts the ministry to potential rogue werewolves. I have no doubt if too many kids disappeared from one area, the ministry would feel obligated to check; even if it’s a muggle crime, when kids are involved, our ministry can be overactive.” Lestrange’s warning wasn’t anything new- the man was constantly grumbling about the absurdity of children “having rights”. In his mind, the little beasts should be grateful they were allowed to exist at all, as after they aged out of the right “look”, Lestrange firmly believed that they should be put down.
“True. And eventually someone will be careless, if they haven’t been already- the existence of the photos is proof of wixen involvement. Even polyjuiced, it’s best not to create any obvious patterns in locations.” Mr. Harris agreed, though he was far more relaxed than the high-strung Lestrange.
“So, then how do you suggest we do this? Surely the ministry would equally be able to trace a pattern of apparition or portkey travel, if they’re of a mind to look into it.” GrinGuts crossed his arms, a querulous note in his goat-like voice. It was another source of secret amusement to Mr. Harris- despite looking like a human who had somehow wound up with the muscles belonging to a giant, had a ridiculously high-pitched voice.
“Well, that’s simple enough- we’re targeting muggles, we limit ourselves to muggle transportation- inconvenient, I know, but they have almost no means of tracing travel by automobile-cart unless one crosses into another country. I don’t think we need to do that- all we need to do is stick to the low-income areas of major cities in the area, and restrict ourselves to less than ten children per location per year, and we should remain invisible. I doubt muggles will notice either way- you’ve seen how they practically salivate over their paper money, or that drug- what is it, hero? ….The poppy-based one. How many have actually proposed that we create a regular date with their own children? …They’re animals, it blasts rationality that they have moved beyond basic farming and to a system with large cities as a society.” Mr. Harris frequently made this type of comment- both because he believed it, and because his clients generally lapped it up.
From this point, they’d settled upon a schedule- one randomized weekend per month, they’d find a muggle with a van, obliviate them, and then travel to a pre-selected, low-income town in the surrounding London area, and for two or three days they kept themselves occupied, selecting children, branding them with a one or two letter abbreviation of the town, and what number between 1-9 the child was. After that, they dosed the child up, took the relevant pictures, sometimes using two children- this new system had the advantage of providing greater variety. After this they would heal whatever needed to be healed, cast a strong illusionment charm on the brand, and return the children to their families after which if needed they’d obliviate the families as well. It was damn near a victimless crime.
Of course, there had been a hiccup- despite the sheer unlikelihood of it, they’d mistakenly gotten a half-blood in Cokeworth. It was almost unheard of- the only wixen who chose to live like muggles were mudbloods. And even then, once they graduated, mudbloods almost always would choose to move to a magic community. The problem with half-bloods was the risk that they had enough knowledge to overcome any memory charms. And there were really so many children that didn’t have any defense against a magical attack, the risk wasn’t worth taking. Part of the advantage of choosing the worst neighborhoods- no self respecting wixen would live in such a place.
It was with a great deal of shocked alarm then, that they’d realized one of the children they’d selected from Cokeworth was not only a halfblood, but apparently some sort of prodigy- it had taken all three men to restrain the boy, to force the tranquility potions down his throat- twice, because the little bastard puked the potion the first time, all the while insulting everything from their competence to their parentage- at one point, Chase got so furious he nearly killed the kid. Needless to say, the boy did pay for his vituperative and combative attitude- they’d had to keep the little runt for an extra day, just to heal him by the time they were finished. The child, along with having far too much wandless magic at his disposal, also seemed to be resistant to their memory charms. In the end, the only reason they didn’t kill the boy outright was the fact that the pictures had turned out so well- they rather suspected at least one client would be interested in keeping him permanently. Thus, they’d had to resort to some truly creative threats- promising to feed the boy to a werewolf if he so much as thought of telling anyone what happened, on top of all three casting memory charms on the kid at the same time.
The boy was small and malnourished, initially they’d thought him to be about 7, they’d been unpleasantly surprised when they’d learned he was 11, would be attending Hogwarts in just about six months… It meant that killing him was no longer really an option, and revisiting him would be particularly difficult. But still possible, for the right price. They’d ended up dumping the glassy-eyed, dark-haired child into a snowbank in front of the school. GrinGuts had insisted on lingering under a notice-me-not to be sure someone found the boy- probably a wise choice, as even accidentally killing him from exposure could have caused problems. Luckily, they didn't have to wait long- a group of teenagers had walked by, and after making sure the boy was alive, began to mercilessly tease and push the kid, who apparently couldn’t think of anything to say in response. The little brat had probably run out of insults in the time he’d spent with them. Satisfied, they’d left, knowing they were about to get top-coin for their new collection.
Unfortunately, he had run into the child again- several times in fact. Each time, more unpleasant than the last. The first time had been when the boy was clearly shopping for his first-year supplies in Diagon Alley- it had been then that he’d had the unpleasant realization that the boy had either faked them out, or had somehow regained the memories of his abduction- he’d stared at Mr. Harris with those pitch-black eyes, murder in his expression, and an odd gleam seeming to burn in the darkness of his retinas. It was especially badly timed, as Mr. Harris had been just at the start of chatting up a stunning little red-headed girl. Though he didn’t distribute photos of magical children, he himself was a man of expensive and good taste, and the girl had had the most beautiful vivid green eyes and red hair. She’d have been amazing in photographs. Instead, he’d had to beat a hasty retreat out of Flourish and Blotts, his heartbeat racing, palms sweating, and feeling as though he could feel those creepy eyes burning into his soul as he rushed back to his shop and apartment in Knockturn, where he’d immediately locked every door and spelled every window shut. After that unpleasant encounter, he’d fled to a small apartment he kept in the south of France, and spent a full month of being nervously paranoid, constantly checking the papers, flinching whenever someone knocked on the door, expecting the aurors to come down on him at any moment. After he’d calmed down, he had still abstained for several more months, instead limiting himself to selling stolen goods and cursed items.
The next time he’d run into the boy, he’d been a rather sullen 13-year-old, and before Mr. Harris knew what happened, he’d paid top coin for a Selkie hyde (something as illegal to own as child pornography) and had no idea what to do with the damn thing. But his choices had been limited, given that when he’d tried to refuse to purchase the thing, he’d gotten a severe cutting hex to his neck and nearly bled out in the middle of his shop.
~
Now, forced to remain awake, his entire body prickling with agony, blistering in the fallout caused by burning hot air from the explosive rolling over his skinless body, Jefferson Pierre Harris knew they’d made a mistake. They should have killed the child that first weekend. They should have known a kid with that much ability before even attending Hogwarts would grow up to be dangerous, that the boy probably faked being affected by the memory charms in order to escape them.
He hoped the young man still suffered nightmares, that the damage they’d inflicted had been permanent. If this was the way he was going to die, stuck to the corner where the wall met the ceiling like some nightmarish version of a humanoid spider in his filthy little (now destroyed) shop, then at least he hoped that the damage he’d caused was equally permanent.
Everything had happened so quickly- from the three Death Eaters entering the shop, to being taken upstairs and skinned, to GrinGuts and Chase being murdered and his primary home exploding. At first, he’d hoped this meant that perhaps he would survive- after all, they hadn’t killed him, and they’d cast charms to protect him from the worst of the explosion. But as he’d sat there, frozen facing where the front door to his shop used to stand, unable to at least escape pain with unconsciousness, he suspected that he’d read that wrong as well. The camera was still below him, facing him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t move, and he’d never had an aptitude for wandless magic. He’d dangled there in agony for three hours, first simply trying to understand what was happening, trying to differentiate the forms of aurors and Death Eaters through the smoke. Then things had gone mostly quiet, but still he’d been left hanging there, waiting. He’d heard several other explosions, and the sounds of curses being flung. At one point he’d heard some excited yelling of what had to be normal Knockturn dwellers, and wasn’t sure what to make of that. Then the sound levels seemed to even out to slightly above the normal Knockturn-levels, and he’d just been stuck, silently waiting.
Finally, when he thought the physical pain he was in was going to drive him mad, four aurors walked into the remains of his shop. He recognized two of them- Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had always been an irritatingly by-the-book man, impossible to bribe, and always suspicious. He’d nearly been sent to Azkaban by the man, after he’d nearly traced back a bribe from him to a ministry official. It was such a minor bribe, it hadn’t even registered on his radar as serious until he’d had to get legal representation and avoided several months in Azkaban by the skin of his teeth. Since then, he’d been especially cautious around the annoyingly implacable auror.
Everyone knew about the black-sheep of the Black family, and though he’d never met the man personally, he recognized him from the resemblance to Orion and Cygnus. That left Potter, whom he’d met at a ministry function. He’d recognized the same condescending attitude most old wealth had towards working class men such as himself, and so hadn’t put any effort into speaking with the young man then, but had taken note that he and Black seemed joined at the hip. The woman at Potter’s side was obviously his wife- he didn’t know anything about her except that she, like Potter and Black, was one of the newest batch of aurors to complete training, and they were all considered promising additions to the DMLE. He’d already given up on speaking- he’d been permanently silenced with a curse, so he simply had to wait to be found. He watched in a haze of silent rage and agony as the four moved cautiously through his shop, calling out for anyone there to make themselves known. Shacklebolt had fired off some spell, meant to find a human in wreckage.
“Someone’s here. There’s a heartbeat. But the trace isn’t working properly, I can’t tell where the person is.” Shacklebolt was scowling, clearly on edge.
“Do you think they’re hiding? This building is more damaged than any of the others, maybe the Death Eaters wanted something?” Potter’s wife had a nice voice, Mr. Harris thought.
“Come on. Do you really think anyone in this shit-hole alley is going to go against Death Eaters? They love you-know-who here. Look at how angry they got at us when we were trying to clean up earlier.” Sirius Black, that was his name, responded with a sneer. Interestingly, Potter’s wife scowled, and turned away from him, apparently not willing to discuss it. Shrugging, Auror Black strode further into the decimated shop, ignoring a sharp warning from Shacklebolt. “Well, this part seems to be relatively intact… finite !” Black waved his wand, but nothing happened.
“Evans, can you take a look over here? Your charm work tends to-”
“It’s Potter now, as you well know, and yes, get out of the way.” The woman’s voice was cold. Apparently, she didn’t care for her husband’s partner much. Black just rolled his eyes and stepped away. The woman’s wand movements were far more graceful, her voice soft as she whispered several incantations. As she did so, Black looked curiously down and then picked up the camera, right as Shacklebolt shouted another aborted warning at him.
Perhaps it was fitting that the last thing Jefferson Pierre Harris saw was the horrified expression of four aurors as he bled out, but instead he found himself plagued by the black endless eyes of C6 , before the darkness finally opened and swallowed him.