Chapter Text
Fingers curl around his scratched and blemished holly wand. Harry feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise in the silence of the Death Room. The normally whispering Veil seems oddly quiet, and Harry flicks his eyes towards it warily.
Nothing.
Unspeakable Seven had reached out the week prior, explaining their dilemma. An artifact of great importance— powers unknown to Harry— was placed in the Death Room, where it will stay for the coming months until the Georgian Ministry removes it and places it for long term storage in a classified location.
Harry knows little of who wants the artifact, or why it was important to begin with, but it is not his business. He gladly stays out of it, taking ignorance with open arms. His job is to stand guard, and he’ll be damned if he fails such a task.
Eleven years have passed since he first joined the ranks of Aurors, and Harry is on his way to becoming Head Auror. The day Head Auror Ekriss retires next year, Harry will receive his promotion from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, an event attended by much of the Ministry of Magic. He has fought alongside countless ranks of British and foreign Aurors to defeat multiple blood supremacist factions and magical terrorist groups since the downfall of Voldemort. Several smaller wars have taken place within Britain and against other countries.
Magical Britain and Magical France fell out of favor in 2009, leading to years of animosity and thinly veiled threats. In 2016, the French Minister of Magic declared war on Magical Britain. The population of both countries, both magical and muggle, had been on a significant decline throughout the past several years of war. Biological warfare of a complex strain of Dragon Pox had been employed by French Ministries to central London, expanding rapidly into the outside populations.
Harry had been part of teams who worked to sabotage French government buildings and locate as many diseased magical communities as possible to quarantine them and send resources. He saw the faces of pain and starvation, much like his own sallow face as a child. He watched once thriving communities fall silent, apart from the low mourning prayers and aggrieved wailing.
He is no stranger to death and despair, far from it. Harry walks hand in hand with Death and has done so since birth. Not for one moment does he forget the cool magic that tugs at his skin and his soul.
The Veil’s persistent thrum of magic rises to a crescendo and Harry reflexively flicks his wand, and shield sprinting to life and deflecting an orange curse. He ducks as the familiar toxic green curse shatters his defense and ruffles his curly hair.
Bloody hell.
His mind sharpens at the onslaught of curses and he steps into the vicious dance with his hooded attacker. Where they jab at the air sharply and their robes flare in the dim candlelight, Harry slashes his wand with the same ferocity that has kept him alive all these years.
Harry’s attacker is formidable, dangerous, and calculated, but he knows he will not die in such a mundane duel. His wand, magic, and body have not failed him yet, not against Voldemort, his devoted-past-death followers, the coups against the Ministry in ‘03, ‘07, and ‘09, or the various reconnaissance missions during the British-French Magical War.
Spells crackle in the charged air around him, and his breathing slowly grows ragged from exertion. He holds the defense readily as he plans his next moves. Harry is running low on energy while his attacker seems unrelenting. He doubts they are fully human, especially considering Harry’s level of control over his body and magic. He bites the tip of his tongue and casts quickly.
Jets of various colors shatter his attacker’s shields, and Harry holds back the triumph that climbs in his chest. The fight is not over yet. His attacker falls with a soft thump, but Harry misses the cool blue spell that strikes his thigh, pushing him back through the air…
And into the Veil.
Harry feels his magic sing and grasp at the whispers around him, tugging at his magical core softly. His stomach swoops as he realizes— this is death, for real. Harry flings his arms outwards, hoping he can grab anything to hang onto, but his hands are met with only the cool breeze of souls around him.
He chokes on his panic, mind whirring like a tsunami of pain and fear. He is only twenty nine, only nine years older than his parents he is to meet in death. He cannot help the irritated scowl that unfurls on his lips before his death. His goal was to reach at least forty-three, and here he is, entering the realm of Death before he is even thirty. Figures.
But somewhere along his gloomy anger, Harry realizes he is no longer moving, falling backwards into the abyss. Suspended among the whispers, he can see the light of the Veil glittering so far away, casting a silky and dim light into the darkness.
He prods his arm, finding his flesh to be perfectly fleshy and, most importantly, intact. He frowns. In limbo, he remembers his body being barely corporeal. In true death, Harry speculates he would not have a physical body anymore, if a presence at all. And yet, his body feels just as it does every day, which he takes great care to monitor for any curses, as people have become rather creative with long term decay spells.
Harry looks down at his body. He is fully clad in his dueling gear, neatly cut dragonhide covering anywhere particularly vital to his wellbeing. His wand is nowhere to be seen, likely on the floor of the Death Room.
“Fuck!”
He twists violently, staring directly at the Veil again. He has a duty and he must return to finish his attacker for good. Harry wriggles his toes, finding them just as intact as his fingers.
One step forward, and another, a third following soon after. Harry glances around warily, hands twitching without his wand in its usual sheath.
His seventh step is his last. As he lifts his foot to take another step, his body crumples under a force stronger than any human could withstand. He feels a rib crack and a second damn well near it before the pressure stops. Harry exhales sharply. The void begins to shift, spinning around him until his ears pop. He succumbs to the darkness enclosing his vision.
Harry lies on the dusty floor of a ruined building. His head pounds and ears buzz in the chaos of the air. He feels the rattle of bullet shells as they clatter against the floors, the rumbling of trucks outside, and earth shaking explosions.
There is no doubt in his mind that he is somehow in the middle of a muggle war, somehow transported to a much drier place than England. His brow creases as he contemplates how he consistently manages to get himself into such unique magical situations, unheard of by anyone else on the planet.
The stamping of feet precede a wave of soldiers, giving Harry enough time to glamor blood on his body and replicate a fatal bullet wound. The door of the ruined room he lays in slams open, dark combat boots and points of guns the first to enter. Harry makes an effort not to move, refusing to let his eyelashes flutter even slightly as he observes their movements through slitted eyes.
“Civilian or one of Roba’s?”
One of the men steps up to Harry, tugging roughly at his tight-fitting attire. Harry has never been more grateful than at this moment that guards in the Ministry can wear non-robed dueling clothing as armed muggles search his person for any indication that he is part of an opposing team.
“Civilian, sir. He hasn’t got any weapons, just these odd trinkets and arm brace. Looks like it would hold a stick of some kind. Solid boots, though.”
Another man laughs. “Probably one of them rural crazy folk, not a big loss.”
“Shut it, Carthy, ya’ outta respect the dead.”
A pause, and “O’ course, sorry Lieutenant.” The lieutenant, Harry guesses, grumbles something unintelligible before calling orders to finish the sweep of the building.
After a few moments, Harry removes his glamor, shifting his body ever so slightly. He casts a silent Homenum Revelio and watches the illuminated figures walk further away from him. Harry jumps to his feet and hurries towards the door that hangs halfway off the frame. He needs to find a town, preferably a town less monitored by soldiers, and figure out exactly where he is.
He skirts around the edges of buildings, weaving through alleyways to avoid the stray fire and bullets that shatter windows and chip walls around him in torrents. Harry doesn’t trust his wandless magic to cast a full disillusionment charm, so he sticks to light glamorous and well placed Confundus charms.
“¡Al suelo, wey!” A dark haired man— heavily armed, Harry notes— shoves him to the floor, dropping down himself.
Bullets pound the walls behind them, hot shells sizzling softly in the still room. Harry exhales as steadily as he can, nodding his thanks. His heart thumps in his throat, adrenaline spiking his veins and coloring his skin.
The man next to him slowly stands, glancing out the window before beckoning Harry to follow him. Harry follows him cautiously, taking care to heed the noise he makes in moving. They reach another building, already in ruins, and the man stops.
“¿Habla?” At Harry’s grimace, the man sighs. “You speak English?”
“Yes, er, thanks,” Harry says, offering a smile, though it feels very similar to the grimace he wore only moments prior.
“Look, you’re obviously no native here, but you don’t look like one of ‘em army folk. You tell me what you’re doing here, and we go from there, yeah?”
Harry nods, thinking quickly. “Visiting, seems I chose the wrong town.”
“Ay, you did, pendejo,” the man says, snorting. “Look, I got orders to kill anyone who isn’t Roba’s, but I don’t really want to do that. I’ll take you back and convince them to let you join if you prove worthy— or I’ll make it quick.” He scratches his neck, watching Harry, who swallows.
“First option sounds good, I’d like to live a while longer.”
His savior laughs. “I’d rather not kill you, so it works out. Name’s Rico.”
“Harry. Where are we off to, then?”
Harry listens to Rico, who leads him through dusty buildings and through the dry dirt and sharp brush. In the distance, Harry sees an old car that he thinks is grey. He squints through his thick lashes as a gust of wind lifts dust and sand into the air around him.
“Take this, tie it ‘round your face to keep the sand out. Helps a bit. Can’t help much with your glasses, though. They might get a bit scratched up unless ya’ can see without ‘em.”
His glasses do prove to be difficult in tying the fabric around his face, but Harry manages with several choice swear words and failed knots. He follows Rico to the car, where he first observes that the steering wheel is on the left side. As he walks around the grey vehicle, he reads the license plate surreptitiously.
ERV-97-32
COAHUILA Tierra de Dinosaurios
Harry swears under his breath. He is in Mexico. Bloody hell, his day just kept getting better and better.
The car sputters to life and Harry grabs hold of the edge of his seat as it jolts to motion. Rico grins and revs the motor, speeding through the barren land around them.
“We’re going to head to the quarters in Coahuila. My boss will assess you, see if you’re fit for the job. You’re gonna need to learn Spanish quickly— I can do my best to teach you the basics while we drive over. About an hour’s drive.”
Harry nods silently and listens to Rico explain some rudimentary phrases alongside brief discussion of Manuel Roba. Harry soon learns that Roba is someone to keep an eye out for, incredibly powerful and wealthy.
“So, you scout towns for armies—” Harry’s voice trails off before he turns to the other man. “Bloody hell, this is a cartel, isn’t it? Smuggling and whatnot?”
Rico shrugs. “Yeah, they pay well and offer protections, though. Roba’s the boss right now. I left La Herida for Roba, gave them information. I know it’s not your average line of work, but it’s the best I can do without betraying my orders.”
He goes quiet, but Harry does not speak. They sit in uncomfortable silence a while longer before Harry speaks up again.
“Thanks for doing this. I know it probably risks your position and safety, bringing some random Brit into the fray. I’ll try not to get killed in the first week, yeah?” Harry laughs weakly, mind still occupied with all the possible ways to get out of his situation.
“Me caes bien, you’re funny, man," Rico says, turning to grin broadly at Harry. He rolls his eyes at Harry, who fails once more to offer a similar smile in response.
“You don’t get ‘round much, do ya? I’ll teach ya’ to smile proper.” Harry’s bark of laughter is enough to satisfy Rico, who turns his attention back to the road.
Harry’s eyes flick to the cream coloured stone building standing tall next to the short Yucca trees. The arches are far grander than the other buildings he and Rico have driven by. Various men stand guard outside the main doors wielding guns of various caliber and size. He glances into the windows which are bright with movement and commotion.
Commandeered by Rico, the silver car enters the driveway and slows at the gates. The guard at the gates takes the shiny ID from Rico and glances at the back seats, and then to Harry, who sits as casually as he can muster. Evidently, it is not casual enough, or perhaps the cartel is tighter with security than Harry previously anticipated.
“¿Identificación del pasajero?”
Before Harry can open his mouth, Rico cuts in with a steady, “No tiene identificación del pasajero. Es una recluta cerca de Nuevo León.”
The guard eyes Harry with thinly veiled suspicion before raising the gate. He speaks rapidly into his earpiece before directing Rico. They drive in silence until the guard is out of earshot.
“He asked for your ID as a passenger— all members of the cartel have a form of internal identification— I told him you are a recruit. You are not an official recruit, but we can slide you in with the rest of them. When I drop you off, you will have to lay low for a bit, figure out a consistent story, and stick with it. I know you said you were visiting, but my bosses won’t take that and it will come back to hurt us both.”
Harry nods at Rico’s tense words, the weight of their precarious situation settling deeper into his bones. “And the accent? Is that going to be a problem here?”
Rico pauses. “Look, wey, I saw you move earlier, you’re clearly trained somewhere. If you can get a solid story together about being raised in Britain, but not having any ties to their military, they might take you. That is, if you’re willing to go against your home country.” Harry feels the brown eyes pinning him down in assessment.
“Yeah, I can do that. I don’t—” Harry breaks off, unsure of how to explain his situation. “I don’t have much care for the monarchy, wasn’t trained by their forces.”
“Bien. Voy a verte pronto, eh?” He watches Harry mull over his words.
“Yeah, see you soon. Hasta pronto?”
Rico grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You are a fast learner! Mañana.”
Harry repeats the word, turning it over on his tongue as Rico turns off the motor and steps out of the car. When he beckons shortly after, Harry stands and holds his hands loosely to his sides.
“Aquí, Harry,” he said, pointing towards the door. “Estrada will lead you to the recruits floor. Keep your head up and your tongue quiet. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Estrada nods, tipping his head to Rico. “Sígame, recluta.”
Harry obediently follows the burly man as he turns towards the archway, where a dark door bars entrance to the building. His hands deftly enter the code out of Harry’s sharp view and the door unlocks with a short beep. He tugs the door open and waits for Harry to enter.
Inside the door are several benches and several other sets of doors, metal or barred. Harry glances around the room, green eyes roving behind his round frame glasses. He notes the gold plated candelabras and the worn arms of the benches where people have previously been cuffed. The floor glitters with a pristine shine the further into the room he steps.
The burly guard, Estrada, watches him closely, but finds no immediate problem with Harry’s curious gaze.
A woman greets Estrada at the barred door before focusing on Harry. He feels like he is being read by a master Legimens, but Harry holds his gaze and forces his hands still.
“Gracias. ¿Cuál es tu nombre?” she asks. From her first words, Harry knows she is very similar to Minerva McGonagall, or even ex-DMLE lead, Madam Bones. She lacks the greying hairs they sported with pride and power, instead a dark brown with bleached highlights.
“Harry Potter,” he replies. His name is met with a cool stare, but eventually the woman nods and her eyes flick to a sheet she procures from a nearby desk.
She runs through the questions, some easy, such as age and health conditions. Others, like nationality and education stump him slightly and he hastens to respond, despite his whirring brain. Twenty-nine, veintinueve. Primary education, educación primaria. No health concerns, no problemas de salud.
Harry takes creative liberties with his nationality, instead stating he is American. The woman accepts it at face value, as he has taken care to hide his accent thus far through questionable Spanish. Harry, as tired as he is, has no doubts that he can cast a mild confundus if necessary. Fortunately, his information seems believable as far as he can tell.
The woman leads him through several hallways to another room with several benches and thin blankets. He sits stiffly for several hours before falling into a light slumber.
A man with dark skin and round eyes wakes him, the woman from earlier seemingly gone from her shift. He stands with a casual air much unlike the woman— Harry mentally berates himself for not asking her name, but wonders if that is even considered respectful within such cautious groups.
He listens carefully to the man, asking him to repeat his words only once. Harry is glad that most of the members he has met so far speak in simple phrases, understandable even for Harry, who knows very little of the language.
Several more guards enter the room at some point, bringing people who Harry assumes to be more recruits. He observes the newcomers and the guards with a wary eye, noting any distinguishing features or clothing. A short beard, a thin golden chain, blue eyes, auburn highlights, a notched nose.
Harry listens with half an ear as the other members strike up a small conversation. They are tentative, unsure of whether they are allowed to speak, but the guards seem to have little issue with them talking about mundane things like their favorite foods and pets at home. Several times, they glance at Harry, but he keeps his face passive and never towards the group.
The sun finally rises in the early morning, Harry drifting in and out of sleep all the while. Several times, he is woken to speak to a guard or higher ranking member, but for the most part he remains unbothered.
True to his word, Rico meets Harry outside that afternoon, handing him a folder with Harry’s identification, a couple fruits and a granola bar.
“Took me forever to convince them that you would be alright with me bringing this to you,” he says brightly, passing it over to Harry. Warm metal brushes Harry’s finger— the ring Rico wore the day before sits unmoved on his middle finger, the gold glinting in the sunlight.
“Thanks,” Harry responds, flipping through the notes. He is filed to be in the same team as Rico, of lower ranking, and his joining date.
Harry exhales slowly, the realization that he has joined a smuggling group— one that Aurors would work against— and is amicable with one of the members finally dawning upon him. He is already up to his neck in decisions, leaving him wondering what decisions Hermione would have made, or what decisions twenty-year-old Harry, freshly graduated into the Auror corps, would have made.
He shrugs it off. He has more present matters to deal with, and worrying over his past will not change anything about his situation.
In time, he finds himself falling into easy patterns, doing his various jobs. Harry works in the lower divisions of the cartel alongside Rico, who moves easily with Harry, their movements synchronous in lifting boxes and carefully executing murders.
Of all of the friends Harry has ever made, Rico is the friend he connects with closest. Ron and Hermione’s care and understanding of Harry pales in comparison to the casual comfort of the other man. Their jokes carry through the darkest hours, the hottest days, and the cruelest pains. Where Harry is too harsh, too vicious in his duties, Rico is so utterly human.
Harry’s sharp tongue lashes out like a knife— a knife with no direction and a serrated blade. As months wash by, the heavy battering of life hones his brutality, leaving him an unforgiving man. He carves his name into the new world he inhabits, cutting away any opposition, any challenger to foolishly face the end of his blade.
He laughs in the throes of danger, adrenaline driving his bloodlust and determination. Harry sets out to survive, and soon begins to thrive. The Auror Corps paid well, not that Harry cared as much in his original life, but cartels pay much better for the same skill sets and less paperwork. Harry despises paperwork, and takes every moment in the cartel stuck in stressful situations thanking every star that he is not in an office with stacks of papers in front of him.
His hand trails against the warm bricks, and Harry can feel Rico less than a meter behind him. He presses forward, the silence utterly overwhelming in his ears. They reach a corner, and in his earpiece, his boss instructs them to move forward.
Their team of seven is split into two pairs and a trio, taking up the upper floors of the building from where they are dealing. Several other teams are roaming different floors and the outsides, on lookout for double dealing and cartel enemies. They patrol with weapons of high caliber and recording devices— anything to prevent complete loss in their missions.
Harry feels a prodding in the back of his mind, nagging him something of wrongness. His neck twitches ever so slightly, and Rico’s soft whisper into the mic tells Harry that he feels similar unease. Something is wrong, and it has only been an hour into the dealings in the lower floors with Roba’s second in command.
Roba has deemed this trade small enough to stay behind, much to their buyer’s chagrin. Harry begins to connect why Vira’s text messages in his earpiece depicted him so aggrieved, when it truly should not matter.
“Víbora, Dorado—! Mantén los ojos. Matar en vista.”
Harry grits his teeth and hefts his gun with a strengthened resolve. The tenseness in the boss’ orders indicate problems, and he wants none of it.
“Kill on sight, but not telling us who,” Rico grumbles almost inaudibly. “They have reasons, but I do not feel good about them.”
Harry nods slightly, agreeance bubbling under his skin. He keeps his mouth shut and begins to move forwards again. His fingers tingle as he tightens his hold on the weapon in his hands and bends his knees enough to drop to the floor if people show up around the next corner.
The halls are dusty and dark, illuminated by the occasional window, which they duck below. Any shadows are quickly hidden from sight of the red lasers on the walls across from them. Leather boots, softened by wear, are silent, and only their slow breaths make noise within their own ears.
And then they hear footsteps. They hear footsteps that are casual enough that the person does not sense a threat, but not stomping with intent. They are heavier footfalls, a taller person, Harry surmises by the space between the steps. Harry hears nothing in his earpiece, growing more tense by the passing seconds. The footsteps are on the other side of their floor, but their floor nonetheless.
Turning to Rico, Harry gestures uncertainly towards the footsteps. Rico frowns, but points to the lower floor, mouthing:
“Find the team.”
Harry nods and they creep back to where the staircase is hidden behind closed doors. They pull them open, only a slight click and a gust of air pushing against his cheeks. Their descent is as quiet as they can make it, with the occasional click of their gear and intakes of air.
On the third floor, they soon find themselves face to face with Felino and Azrael, who glance at them with varying levels of concern.
“Pasos,” Harry says sharply, “arriba.” He points to the ceiling and watches the pair glance nervously at one another. Clearly they have not been informed about someone upstairs, which means that an enemy is in the building and is an active threat.
Azrael speaks quickly into his headset, eyes flicking between the ceiling and their party of four. They wait in silence for a moment before a clipped voice informs them that they have snipers on all four sides of the building.
Harry closes his eyes briefly and sighs. They will have to take out the snipers before they can evacuate the building, and the mystery person upstairs is to be a potential threat to their safety. They still have no idea whether the man is alone.
He meets Rico’s eyes and they nod, a shaky movement in the dim room. They split up with the other part of their team, taking both sides of the building. They will meet up at the end, Harry hopes.
The first set of windows are dusty. Harry ducks below the sill, hastily shoving the window upwards. When no red pointers pass across the window or nearby walls, Harry breathes out softly. He peers around the trim at the surrounding buildings and soon spots the watchers on surrounding rooftops and open windows. Several sit on the ground levels as well, scopes pointing in all directions.
The pair stand along the edges of the windows, just behind the walls, and aim. Just as firing on the other side of the building begins, they start their careful elimination of snipers.
Bullets pound against the walls behind them almost immediately, hitting the sturdy cement walls that protect them. Shards of glass splinter further upon hitting tile below their knees, while blistering shells clatter against the floors around them. Despite the onslaught of potentially injurious materials, Harry can only focus on getting rid of the people who will stop them from getting out alive.
Soldiers slump against walls and floors when his bullets hit, and Harry is only braced with further determination. They are getting out alive, one way or another. One by one, he knocks down various targets until no more bullets hit the windows around them.
He catches his breath and swivels his head to listen. Someone is in the stairwell, coming down the stairs. Harry leaps up, jerking his head towards the other direction.
“¡Necesitamos salir, vámonos!”
Their footsteps are heavy, gear rattling, but all caution is abandoned at the quickly approaching person. At corners, they pause only briefly, making sure to avoid walking face first into the barrels of enemy weapons. None are to be seen on the floor, although Harry is now certain he hears more people than the single person from before.
“Tejado,” Rico hisses into his mic, rounding the next corner swiftly behind Harry. “Follow me!”
Harry lets him take the lead, following him up the stairs and to the rooftop.
“Todo está claro.” Harry sighs in relief at the message through their earpieces as they step out and open the metal door. A nondescript helicopter is approaching them and Harry squints slightly, unable to make out any logos or indicators it is safe.
“That’s ours, I recognize it from the other headquarters.”
Thank God for Rico. Harry would never have trusted the copter without an indication that it is theirs, but he is fortunately spared that panic. They watch it draw nearer with bated breath and anxiety at the precarious situation.
And then the door from the floor below bursts open and someone is ascending rapidly. They share a moment of quick alarm before making a dead sprint to the area where the aircraft is descending. A ladder drops down and Rico starts the short climb. In the time Harry waits, he spares a brief glance back, where he sees the metal door of the roof open.
A tall man, broad shouldered and imposing, steps out, his gun immediately finding Harry. As his eyes latch onto the pale hair that flutters from under the man’s helmet, Harry feels the bullet enter his arm. All he can discern in the moment is searing pain and panic as he turns and grabs the ladder with shaking arms. His mind is woozy and he watches Rico’s arms extend out for him, hands just out of distance.
Harry reaches for the next rung, body screaming in protest and agony, but he pulls himself higher, enough to reach the brown hands that clasp him tightly. His feet slip through each rung, the frenzied air and adrenaline burning through his pain, and with his last stamina and Rico’s strength, Harry makes it into the body of the helicopter.
As his eyes begin to go dark, his mind latches onto the panicked light in Rico’s brown eyes.
Thank God for Rico, indeed.
The crinkling of a bag draws Harry from his distressed sleep. He doesn’t move, instead waiting until his senses become more aware of his surroundings.
Cool air. Dark room. Scratchy cotton sheets. Stiff mattress. Harry is in a hospital— again.
He groans, a scowl crawling across his face. He is tired of waking up in hospitals, whether it is the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, St. Mungo’s, or wherever he rests now. Harry’s irritation is noted with a laugh that he would recognize anywhere.
“Someone isn’t a morning person today, eh?”
Harry grumbles. “Not a hospital person, more like.”
Rico laughs harder, and Harry can see the bright expression on his face, even without his familiar round framed glasses. He gropes the edge of his table, finding it empty of any glasses-shaped items. Only a bottle full of water, a package of— he squints tiredly— some type of crisps, and a pill bottle which he notes by the rattle of the falling bottle.
“Ah.” Rico sounds anxious. “Your glasses broke when I pulled you into the helicopter. I tried to find someone to repair them, but they were not repairable.”
“Fuck.” Harry is silent, but notes his friend’s building anxiety. “I can get tested for a new pair, my prescription was probably due for a change anyways,” he says, lying through his teeth. It works enough to calm Rico, who promises that the cartel could pay for them, as Harry is injured on the job.
Silence falls once more, and Rico shifts again. He produces a bag of what Harry assumes to be crisps, offering them to Harry.
“You’re not supposed to have these, but I figured you might want them.” At Harry’s raised eyebrow, he swiftly adds, “I got hungry, only ate a few.”
Harry is almost certain that he has eaten more than a few, but he says nothing, instead taking the offered snack with a grateful nod. He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the headache beginning to pound behind his temples and at the crease between his eyebrows.
He hears Rico shifting again to his left, and he decides to break the silence, instead of leaving his friend to sit awkwardly next to him.
“How did the deal go?”
Rico shrugs. “Not sure yet, we have a meeting tonight. Vira got torn up a bit, but she’s on the mend. Doctors said you are healing pretty quickly, faster than average. You’re not going to be doing anything too strenuous for three weeks.”
Harry groans. That means paperwork, and Harry holds paperwork in the lowest of regards. He joined a cartel for field work rather than customary military service, which he had begun to tire of as of late. He loves the thrill of field work and a place where he can devote his raw power, but his irritation with authority being easily manipulated by other authority began to annoy him very quickly in the Ministry.
Why should he be working for a government that does not care about him or his well being? The Ministry of Magic was initially very happy to have him, seemingly putting all grievances aside from the past, expecting him to do the same. Harry did, for a while.
He had been expelled, given Ministry scrutiny about Voldemort’s return, and commentary about his late godfather. After he joined the Auror Corps, there had been several months of delight— The Saviour of Wizarding Britain joined the Aurors— and then a quick descent back into questioning his paranoia, whether his joining was due to nepotism and fame, and constant challenging of his skill.
Authorities wanted Harry to submit and behave nicely, so they had a weapon to use at their leisure. Harry spent years trying to validate his position and be smaller, just for the sake of his free time not being filled with work or interviews.
His promotion to Head Auror was his only saving grace, as it would have given him the highest position under the Head of the DMLE. He worked for eleven years, only for a veil to toss him into Mexico, several years in the past.
Harry finds that he doesn't mind it, getting a break from the constant pressure of a world who trades him as their hero and scandalous dark wizard by the week. He has new friends, new skills, and rarely sits in an office. As risky as cartels are, and as binding as they hold him, Harry is content. He is more content after he has healed, returning to normal scoping of buildings and guarding of the various cartel locations. Being back on his feet feels wonderful, and Harry revels in it.
Several months pass quickly, Harry rising through the hierarchy and being assigned to classified tasks. He begins working alongside Roba and his most trusted, to his surprise. Harry stands guard as they hold meetings, briefly speaks up on safety concerns at events, and his newest favorite, interrogations.
In the dim basements of many of the cartel locations are high security cells, not unlike Azkaban. The biggest difference is the use of technology instead of soul-devouring creatures that keep prisoners inside. Harry doesn't mind this in the slightest, having quite enough of reliving his most horrific lived experiences.
Manuel Roba contacts Harry’s team directly and Rico collects the group of six at the top of the concrete stairwell. Harry works alongside Rico, Vira, Azrael, and two older guards by the names of Nube and Corta. Azrael and Corta are similarly shorter and lean, with scraggly beards. Vira is the only woman in their team, but she made it very clear within their first week that she was to be treated with the same respect that any man would receive.
Anyone who defies Vira faces a sharp punch to the sternum, rendering them breathless for the next hours.
Harry knows both Rico and Vira’s names from their unconventional meetings, but the rest of his team he only knows by their codenames. He is not bothered, as he is not particularly close to any of them.
“Ay, bueno.” Roba enters the hall, flanked by several more guards. The group walks down the long hall, pausing momentarily at several sets of locked doors. Several other cells are past the next layers of security, and Harry notes a man slumped against the concrete walls.
It is the same man who shot him on the rooftop during the double-crossing, rendering him a desk worker for several weeks. Harry bites back a scowl, hands tightening fractionally. He feels an arm brushing against his, ever so lightly, and Harry knows it is Rico who notices his sudden tenseness.
Never before has Harry been particularly anxious about interrogating a captured person. He is generally told to use any means necessary, including knives and threats of family, which have so far been convincing enough. Occasionally, Harry will use mild confundus charms weaved into his voice to get particularly strong willed people to break enough to talk.
Roba has appointed him for a reason, and Harry has yet to fail him. In fact, he is even more determined to have similar success with this man, harboring a personal grudge against him. While Harry may have healed quickly, the amount of paperwork that passed through his hands and across his temporary desk within three weeks was far too much for Harry’s liking.
“Our friend,” Roba begins, “is an English soldier by the name of Simon Riley. We captured him late last night, and I require information. Hacerle hablar, serás recompensado.”
Roba slides a key into the lock, unlocking the door with a click. He steps back, gesturing for any of Harry’s team to begin.
Rico steps forward first, by their group protocol. He will ask the questions and see what the man will offer willingly. Any answers are jotted in a small notebook with his favorite green and gold pen.
“Simon Riley. What team do you work under?”
Riley spits at Rico, and Harry’s vision sparks. He steps towards the man, bending down to face height with Riley.
“Do that again, and I will skin you alive.” His voice curls into a hiss, words barely distinguishable as English. The knife he keeps strapped to his forearm slides into his palm, blade glinting in the barest rays of light.
Cool blue eyes focus on Harry, who raises an eyebrow, spinning the blade between his fingertips.
“It’s fine, you can go at him later. I don’t care whether he spits at me.”
I care. I care if someone spits at you. Harry cuts off his train of thought, nodding tersely and stepping back. He watches as Rico asks questions while Riley does not answer, not even when Vira joins them in the cell and employs the use of her steel toed boots.
When Rico and Vira’s attempts do not bring any information from the man, they exit. Harry notes the curious glimmer in Roba’s eyes as he is nudged forwards by his friend. He steps in slowly, but pauses at the entrance of the cell.
“I’ll see you in quarters later,” he says softly to Rico, a subtle dismissal. Harry knows he will be driven to kill Riley if he makes any more aggressive motions towards Rico that evening. His friend’s dark eyes weigh heavily on Harry, momentarily flicking to Roba. The man nods, and he turns to leave with Nube and Vira following in close succession. Corta and Azrael stay behind to watch Harry’s rumored methods.
“Obey your pretty boyfriend like a dog, what a good boy,” Riley says scathingly, as Rico’s back turns. “Do you beg for him to—”
Harry kicks him in the chest, enjoying the sight of the man spluttering to regain his breath. His boot finds rest upon his bruised cheek and Harry presses down slightly. The corners of his eyes crinkle in satisfaction at the coarse groan that he draws from Riley’s throat.
“I will skin you alive until you answer my questions, understand? I do not appreciate how you treat my crew.” Harry flicks his wrist and the knife drops into his palm with a smooth movement, much like before. He takes his time, allowing the silence to prod at Riley’s anticipation.
The blade presses against skin, and he watches a clean shaven jaw flex, muscles tensing. Harry does not move the blade, pinning it to the blond man’s skin with only more pressure.
“Answer the questions, and I will stop. Until then, I hope you have a plan to stop the infection and potential sepsis from being flayed by an uncleaned blade,” Harry says, a cruel grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I last used this to kill a scorpion, you know? They are very feisty little creatures, as I am sure you are aware.
“Or not,” Harry adds, “as you seem to be far from home. England, yes?”
Harry observes Riley closely, under the careful pressure of his blade and cool voice, which he takes care to allow to return to his voice to the accent of his London home. Blue eyes stay low to the ground, widening just slightly. Harry’s hand twitches, and his simmering rage begins to boil over.
He wants to watch the man scream, writhe, and beg for his mercy. Harry wants him to break and spill all of his secrets. A reaction is what he wants, and he intends to get it.
Beads of blood appear at the tip of the blade, and Harry pushes harder. He hears the stutter in breathing, the barely concealed gasp of pain. Riley’s cheek twitches, and Harry slides the knife slowly down his arm.
“I am going to flay you, and I am going to ask you questions. When you feel up to answering, I will stop. If not, I will continue until you have no skin left.” Harry’s lips stretch over his teeth in a cruel smile.
The initial cut is deep, wet with hot blood that spills down Riley’s arm and Harry’s hand. He withdraws the knife slightly and then twists it to sit nearly flat. The blade slides easily beneath Riley’s skin.
“What team do you work under?”
The blade drags further downwards, cutting through small nerves and parting the skin and flesh in a several centimeter cut.
“What does your team know of our organization?”
He pulls with the flat of the blade at the parted skin, watching as the man ‘s eyes clenched shut.
“Where are your team’s headquarters currently located?”
The sound of tearing flesh permeates the room. Harry pays little attention to the bloom of whispers behind him. His focus is on Riley and on breaking everything the man holds dear in his mind.
“What was your duty in the abandoned Cantor Hall building?”
Eyes shoot open, and Harry meets them evenly. Riley only grits his teeth and looks away.
“Oh, yes, Riley,” Harry croons, “do you not recognize the man who you shot on the rooftops? Look at me.” His demand is met with silence.
Harry’s blood boils. He rolls his sleeves, cuffing them at his elbow. A large number of purple scars sit, raised, on his forearm.
“I was unable to work in the field for weeks because of you. Stuck in an office, signing notices and reading documents. I want you to suffer all the mental pain I endured that week, the irritation I have with you for causing me such displeasure.”
Riley laughs. He laughs, a short and barking laugh, and Harry seethes.
He digs the knife deeper into the man’s skin, eliciting a soft grunt.
“I will ask you these questions again. The pain isn’t very nice, is it?” he says, pressing the weight of his arm into the sturdy handle.
When Harry steps back, blood soaks his white button up shirt. It plasters against his skin, and stains his hands. The edges begin to brown, drying in the cool air. He flicks his knife and sheaths it in the dark leather on the inside of his arm.
He turns to Roba, informing him that he will return by morning if the man speaks no words that night. His dismissal is prompt, and Harry walks through the building’s empty halls, taking great care to avoid splattering blood everywhere.
Under the warm, morning sun, Harry descends to the basement once more.
Riley is barely recognizable.
Harry knows that he did not do this level of physical violence the night prior, and a cold prick of something curls in his spine, like a larvae emerging from the earth. He sees the man he left last night, raw flesh exposed to the cool air and blood stained skin, and he now sees the nude figure with bruises of all shapes and colors painting his body.
As soon as the cold prickle moves in his spine, it dissipates into nothingness. Harry feels nothing. His job is to get information from a British soldier, and his job is his safety.
“They did a number on you.”
Blue eyes flicker up to him, empty and half-lidded. Harry is even more aware of the hollows and deep crevices forming in the man’s face, hunger and exhaustion. There is nothing for a moment, and then a brief nod, blond hair dipping downwards.
“Back to finish the job, since they couldn’t break me?” The voice is hoarse, cracking from strain.
Harry laughs coldly. “You know the answer to that already, Simon. Would you like to do this the easy way, as I proposed last night, or are we going to have to keep digging?”
A muscle in Riley’s jaw flexes, and Harry nearly grins. There is the fire again, just beneath the surface of immovable stone. Where there are embers he wishes to coax a steady flame, allowing no talent to crumble into the forgotten oceans of time.
“Why are you here?” he asks, surprising Harry with further words. “You are English, working against their forces. Does the Queen mean nothing to you, a traitor to our country?”
A laugh bubbles out of Harry. By no means was it friendly, or even joyful, rather a cruel sound. Harry’s calm demeanor shutters slightly for a hysterical moment, mouth agape in wordless thoughts.
“The Queen has meant nothing to me for years, Riley, and I have not once been a sycophant of her forces. Believe me when I say that I do not care about her, nor do I particularly care about England. I have cared far too long, and I am quite done.”
Riley stares at him, and then turns away. “Get on with it and kill me, why don’t you. There is no information I will give you while I am breathing. You cannot hurt me in a way that matters.”
Harry stares at him, and sighs. He is in for a long day of blood and subsequent scrubbing of his skin in the shower that evening. His work is slow, questions repeated for hours amidst the ever growing smell of copper in the basement.
Manuel Roba and several guards enter during his work, overseeing him for quite some time. Fear prickles Harry’s neck ever so frequently as he wonders what his position will look like if Roba’s high standards of his interrogation drop because of Riley. He takes his fear out of his mind with the steady work of his careful blade and handfuls of salt.
Screams fade in his head to a low thrum, and he nearly flinches when he receives the barking orders, “¡pare!”
Harry steps back, turning to the man who has called for his halting. He nods sharply at the orders to be at the cemetery at dusk, and turns on his heels to leave the dungeon. While he does not look back, he knows that multiple sets of eyes, including the cool blue ones that mock him so cruelly, are heavy on his retreating figure.
He watches the fall of the sun, the mess of blond hair so similar to his own, and Harry mourns the loss of Riley’s unbreakable walls. He is sure that if Riley were magical, he would be an Occlumens of high esteem, perhaps even a master. Harry mourns such talent being buried under layers of heavy dirt and sandy clay.
Such a surprise it was, for the sun to shine upon the cemetery, mounds of dirt surrounding a small hole all the way down to the rotting wood of the casket.
Harry cannot help the excitement that thrums beneath his fingers, the magic that dances in his whispers and his clothes, driving his performances to the highest levels seen before.
His next assignment ends up in utter failure, and any of Harry’s confidence and delight over an equal in this world shatters like the glass from the nearby window frames. He is bleeding from the thigh and forehead, a bullet and a shard of debris respectively.
His left foot is lost of a shoe and trapped in the rubble while his pack is lost to the swiftly climbing fire. Harry’s hands are shaking, heart pumping wildly and ears ringing from the blasts.
All his thoughts are silent.
There are no words, no ideas, no plans. Harry is lost and his mind consumes him more swiftly than any fire could surround a barrel of gasoline. His mind is a storm of brutal winds and unforgiving lightning, and he is standing in the open field with his arms to the sky, pleading.
"Ojos en mi, Harry," he whispers, "por favor."
Harry's eyes open fractionally, blurry from tears and his glasses askew. He is only vaguely aware of a hand curling around his wrist and shouts that they need to leave.
"If I am to die today, my dying wish is to see your divine eyes, mi cariño." His breath shakes, jaw slackening.
The world goes silent, and in jerky movements, Rico slides his ever present golden ring from his index finger. Harry's throat constricts further, unable to do anything but stare into his closest friend's dark brown eyes, at the thick eyelashes that cling to one another from unshed tears.
His muscles loosen, only slightly, and the heavy emotion in his eyes begins to fade. Harry's body falls, and he presses his forehead to Rico's, hands tangling in the loose curls slick with blood. Sobs break any last composure he has, mourning the man he has spent his many months with, working, joking, laughing, singing, and caring.
When their teammates drag Harry away, a desolate and despairing moment, he toys with the ring placed so gently onto his own middle finger, golden and bloodstained. His mind is barren, his chest a void as he follows the team to the helicopter with tears dripping from his jaw and chin.
He mourns.
He screams.
He pleads.
He breaks.
Again, and again, Harry’s mind shatters, his hands to his skull and the sound of relentless bullets replaying in his brain, up until the final explosion. His team’s frantic voices never sound the same; each flashback he has, they’re more distorted than the last, like a mockery of his ability to cope.
Rico Cuatlehua is dead.
Vira Ramirez is dead.
Manuel Roba is dead.
As he understands it, everyone he knows in this world is dead and all he cares about is gone. In the wake of destruction, Harry can see the effects of the power vacuum taking hold, and he knows he must leave if he wants his freedom once more.
His feet move before his mind does. He is in Roba’s mansion, a building of luxury and fear, once upon a time. Harry does not care. He needs money to leave the country, and a dead man cannot care for his crimes.
Diamond and gold jewelry falls into the pack he wears over his shoulder, and he occupies his hands with picking the locked closets and drawers, breaking open the safes, and grabbing anything of importance. He can feel the entrance of people, whom he does not recognize by footsteps or voices, and he runs.
The window is several stories up, but Harry has adrenaline and magic pouring from every orifice of his body. He lands softly on the ground, making way for the nearest car. His foot hits the gas pedal, and he is gone.
Harry is gone, and only the moon may know of his sins.
It turns out that adrenaline-fuelled Confundus Charms make booking a flight with no identification incredibly easy. Harry slips through security with little effort, boarding the first plane out of Mexico. He hops several flights, trains, and taxis.
London feels so very wrong.
The moment Harry steps foot onto the busy streets of Muggle London, the prickle in his spine returns with a vengeance, and he feels like he has messed up somewhere in his life. He decides soon after that he's messed up many times and he would need his instinct to be more specific.
Finding the street where The Leaky Cauldron exists takes very little time. Harry’s mind is once more a thrum of excitement, a layer of paint over his wounds. He waits for the moment he can step back into magical society and take his first breath of air once more. Harry walks faster, despite the ache in his legs from the improperly treated bullet wound.
He turns the corner, and rushes down the street, looking just past the bookstore.
And there is nothing.
The Leaky Cauldron does not exist.
Harry’s mind goes blank, all excitement gone. Panic builds inside of him, and he briefly registers that he is not breathing, he is not moving, and he is being approached by muggle strangers, or perhaps they are just strangers, and there are no magicals or muggles in this world he has fallen into.
He tears away from the group forming around him and runs. He runs until he finds himself at any other magical location, only to find places completely mundane, void of magic. His hands are on brick, tracing stones, searching for anything to show his home, but he finds nothing.
Harry screams. He knows the muggles are looking at him, judging him, worrying for him. Harry does not care, for after all he has seen he ought to be allowed a good scream, a bit of insanity.
There is nothing in this world for him, but to live.
Clarity enters his mind again, and Harry is not sure on quite why. Tears stain his cheeks, and his throat is sore. He is sitting on the curb of a busy road and his pack is covered in dirt. The crashing realization that his world does not exist burns— it is like scalding hot water in his palms— and he begins to revel in it.
He isn’t the great Saviour or the Boy-Who-Lived, and in Europe, he can do whatever he pleases. He can go into the arts, or perhaps he could become someone who fixes the unfixable objects people care so much for. He knows he has magic, perhaps he could hone it to make money in a world with no Statue of Secrecy.
The decision is easy— Harry wants a break from being important in society, a break from people relying on him as they have his whole life.
His feet move under him until he is no longer running by for his own sake.