Big Chicago

Big Chicago part 16...by Samayel


In the history of comedy, there have been many great strides forward. From ancient Rome’s comic plays and farces to amuse the masses, to the more contemporary Shakespeare’s careful quatrains. The humble Punch And Judy shows and Voltaire’s skewering satires. Then came Ron attempting to ride a horse.

They have horse rentals nearby, and when I saw the brochure I couldn’t resist. I used to be just brilliant at this, but I’m a bit rusty for obvious reasons. Still, it is like riding a bicycle. You never really forget how. I’m a little put off by Western saddles, since I was trained for English Dressage, but they haven’t got any English saddles handy, so I guess that’s to be endured. As it turns out, Harry rode horses occasionally for a few years after his godfather adopted him, then rode them again while he was in Afghanistan. He knows what he’s doing, even if he never trained for competition. Ron, I think, only came along out of curiosity…and because he already caught more fish than anyone could eat alone. Therese will probably be putting a few of those on the menu very soon, and I admit they look big and tasty…but they are kind of slimy and gross, even if he did clean them first. Now he has time on his hands…as well as fish, and I think he just needs to prove that he can handle anything that qualifies as a ’mode of transportation’.

Horses, as Ron found out, are quite a bit different from cars. For instance…if you’re uncertain and don’t know what to do next…a car doesn’t sense it and respond accordingly. The staff was kind enough to chase Ron down on horses of their own, allowing Harry and I to have a quiet ride after they wrestled for control of the rather spirited stallion Ron picked, which ran off with him hollering bloody murder all the while. His face was as red as his hair when they brought him back. I can’t help but tease just a little.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never forked a horse before?”

“What? I’d never do something like that with an animal! That’s sick! You rich folks are all freaks!”

“FORKED, Ron! It means ’mounted and sat upon’. Forks used to have only two tines. Like two legs. Thus, when you get on, the old term for it is ‘forking a horse’. And EEEWWW just for thinking that I would even do that!”

“Oh. Heh. Okay then. Never mind.”

“So? Ron…you really haven’t ridden before, have you?”

“Hey…I’m from West Virginia…we got horses all over. Just not at my folks’ place. Pop does workplace safety inspections for the state. I didn’t grow up doing this kinda thing. Besides…you’re the one who looks naturally comfortable with something huge between his legs!”

“Ha! Well…I suppose you could handle the penny-ponies at the supermarket parking lot.”

“Oh yeah! You ARE the penny-pony at the supermarket parking lot!”

Things kept up in that vein for most of the ride, but at least it was all good humored ribbing. It doesn’t take much to feel good, riding through easy forest paths while sunlight creeps down, guided by a young woman mounted on the horse leading the tour. It’s quiet and peaceful here, if a trifle hot, and you can see motes of dust and pollen dancing in the beams of sunlight that filter through the shroud of leaves. There is a wonderful place a rider goes to, when he or she is at peace with the animal they’re riding. It stops being about control, and it becomes a peaceful partnership. They know what to do, and you know enough to only intervene with instructions when necessary. Horses are herd animals by nature, and when you learn to think as they do, you can intuit their feelings and moods. You stop being a foreign and intrusive element, and just become a part of the herd-mind. Then you can truly ride in peace. Even Harry can’t do that. I rode horses and competed since I was only a little older than eight, and I’ve always loved it, but after years of riding I found that ‘place’. It’s nearly been a decade since I felt this way. Even bickering with Ron can’t peel away a feeling this good.

The trip is over before I know it. Almost an hour gone by just enjoying the feeling of riding again, and there we are, back and ready to head for the marina. The bags are packed and waiting at the Kingsley House, and Harry paid handsomely for a comfortable ride back to the dock where the plane is waiting. I’m already a bit stiff through the thighs, but that’s just lack of practice. Poor Ron, on the other hand, is limping along and making noises like an eighty-year-old virgin who just got deflowered by a pack of gorillas. Just sad. Such a tough guy in a car or a plane, but one little ride on a horse and he’s whimpering worse than I ever did for Flint.

“God damn it! My ass is killing me!”

“You should try it after several days of top-flight, through-the-headboards-and-into-the-walls, do-it-‘til-your-eyes-roll-back-in-your-head fucking. Then tell me your butt hurts after an hour on a horse. Just imagine that before you complain.”

“Thanks a lot. I’m trying real hard NOT to imagine that, thank you very much! Just for that…I’m gonna look for turbulence on the flight home. Hope you like your baggage shaken…not stirred!”

“You wouldn’t!!”

“Oh, yeah…I would. Also…ever done a barrel roll?”

“God, no!”

“Enjoy being able to say that while you still can!”

I take it all back. If I can have Harry kill somebody…I’ll have it be Ron! The man is pure evil. I’d prefer the cement truck over this! At least once we were in flight, Harry put the brakes on Ron’s antics, but I’m still convinced that the ‘rough patch’ we hit just north of home was pure fiction. If I hadn’t been vaguely airsick most of the way, I’d have blown Harry right on the spot just for the satisfaction of knowing that it would make Ron squirm. Well, that and the satisfaction of blowing Harry. The activity is kind of its own reward. Kind of like shopping, but less expensive.

Home is just like we left it. Placid, spotless, and perfect. Ron has things to take care of at the garage before tonight’s gathering, and I need time to unpack, unwind, and properly change. I think boy clothes tonight. I kind of prefer being introduced to Harry’s associates as Drake Malfoy, and since we’re staying in tonight, I’ll be playing gracious host in a home that is only recently my own. Given that I really want to impress Harry’s coworkers, who are instrumental in speeding my revenge upon Blaise, I’ll try to blend in as much as possible tonight.

Harry’s off to the exercise room, aiming to work off a little of the luxurious living he’s enjoyed lately. My exercise will be limited to a long hot bath and some quality time wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe while I surf the channels here in air-conditioned heaven. I know…it’s torturous, living this way. I suppose we all have our crosses to bear, and I’ll try to carry the terrible burdens of comfort and luxury with as much grace as I can manage.

Yeah…I am a smug little shit. And proud of it, too.

TV has really lost its charm over the years. I remember watching for hours, loving every minute of it, being pulled into the plots of shows or just letting my mind drift while programs became background noise. Now it just appalls me. The commercialism is less subtle than ever, almost violent in its attempts to sway consumers. The years away from TV made the change more visible to me than it is to most people. Things slowly changed and folks didn’t really notice, but it’s painfully obvious if you haven’t been exposed to it in years. Especially the advertisements.

Drug companies flog their latest cure-all for every problem you can have. In the background, bright, clear and sunny skies frame women and men who are fit and healthy, smiling ear to ear because the legal dope they’ve been prescribed has taken away all that unfair stress they were suffering. Because, obviously, life should never produce any kind of stress, and no one should ever learn better coping skills when for thirty dollars a pill they can just knock back instant comfort.

Energy beverages transform your boring life in front of the TV into a snowboarding tournament that miraculously involves surviving a jump off of a cliff that would kill just about anyone. Car salesmen are cajoling you to hurry out and buy a new SUV, with deals that are barely believable but quite real…as long as you understand that no one wants an SUV that gets horrible gas mileage in an era of ever spiraling fuel prices. They’re all but giving them away, and still no one wants them, thus the frantic pleas for customers…even customers with horrible credit.

Then there’s the banks, the credit card companies, and the insurance agencies! Names I’ve never even heard of! I was only away for seven years…did every single blasted bank merge or change its name while I was gone? What they call a fair interest rate is almost double or even triple what I knew a few years ago. Apparently the concept of usury, a term for corrupt money-lending practices, is now dead and buried…along with any sense of dignity or shame. It comes down to this…if you can’t afford credit, you shouldn’t be given credit. Both for your safety and for the bank’s. Bad debt…is never good. That’s why it’s called ‘bad’ debt.

Admittedly, my life choices weren’t exactly stellar, but I remember how stunningly low Daddy’s credit card interest rates were. One guess as to why he got rates way, way below ten percent…he’s rich. Really rich. There’s no risk of payment failure, and he doesn’t really need credit, so it’s necessary to offer him a stunningly low rate to make it worth his while. The thirty percent plus endless fees that other people pay…makes up for the huge risk they take offering credit to people who genuinely can’t afford it…and subsidizes the great deals they offer their few exceptional clients.

Oh, Daddy. There you are again, hogging the limelight on the evening news as always. The commercials are over, and Congressman Malfoy is turning an interview that’s supposed to be news into nothing more than a different kind of advertising. Every word and look is carefully chosen, every smile and laugh seems genuine. Only someone who truly knows him would know that inside he is as empty and soulless as a shark.

It’s Daddy’s favorite new pet project, that pathetic urban renewal scheme he’s touting, and this time he’s downplaying that the surge in violent crime is damaging the prospects for the start of construction this year. Oh, God. They’re talking about Harry! Not Harry personally…they don’t know about him, but they’re talking about the deaths among organized crime groups! So many…was Harry part of all of these? He was only gone for about a week…and they’re talking about dozens of bodies.

Dead Russians at a construction site, dead Italians in a bar office, dead Chinese above and outside a restaurant. An illegal sports bookie hanged in his apartment. A gas leak that asphyxiated a supposedly retired mobster in his sleep. A Latin playboy/cartel rep stabbed in a bathroom with no trace of anyone nearby. Every criminal organization in the Chicago area is on the brink of open warfare with others, and every death is being watched closely now. They’re all attributed to and linked to the prison riot, hinting that it may have started with the inmate deaths weeks ago. They don’t know it’s all Harry, but they’ve called in the FBI.

I keep watching, wide-eyed and suddenly chilled, soaking up every weird detail that unfolds. Power outages in the neighborhoods where murders took place…as yet unexplained. Different weapons were used in different killings, so it isn’t even suggested that one man is behind it. Patrols of certain neighborhoods are being dramatically increased, and the mayor has authorized a huge budget for overtime police work. Telephone hotlines have been set up for people who wish to give information and remain anonymous. Rewards have been offered for information that leads to successful arrests. Christ…this city is on the edge of an explosion.

Maybe I’ve been isolated by luxury, and maybe I knew what Harry was up to, but the reality of it comes back again now, this time clearer than ever. He’s a one man army…and he’s starting a war.

I don’t want to watch the news anymore. It makes my stomach lurch when I think of all the scrutiny that Harry will be avoiding when he goes out again. They’ll all be looking over their shoulder for someone, and it won’t be so easy next time. Harry’s good. Ron said so…and I saw him in action in prison. But no one…no one is perfect.

All this…all these nice things…none of it means shit without Harry! I can’t…I can’t lose him. Not and keep a shred of sanity. I NEED him…not money…not drugs…him! The others will be here in a few hours. When did I start crying? I need a shower…again. I need a stiff drink…and some time to compose myself. I don’t want Harry to see me like this. I don’t want him thinking of anything but surviving out there. If I were a distraction…and it got him hurt…could I live with it?

I have a lot to think about…before they come here…and before the subject of Blaise comes up. Something different than I’d planned is called for…urgently. An intercom call gets a vodka and tonic delivered to me by Maria while I primp after my shower. I’m fortified and protected from the terrors of my imagination by a nice, comfy haze of alcohol. Not so much that I’m drunk…just enough that I relax. I need to modify my request…in a way that minimizes danger for Harry. There has to be a way.

A little product and some brush and hairdryer time, and I have straight, but neatly faux-messy hair. This is an occasion for the good suit…the best of the ones Harry got me. I really must get one hand-tailored, but I’ve been busy just lately. There will be time for shopping later. Off-the-rack this suit may be, but it’s simply gorgeous on its own merits. Very nice.

God. I look slim and clean and well-cared for. Not looking my real age at all when I’m dressed this way. I look…Ha! I look like Drake Malfoy…the high school queer who dropped off the face of the earth nine years ago. I’d muse more, but Harry appears in the mirror behind me, wistful…and half naked. Very distracting. Nicely so, I might add.

“Well…look at you. A little sand and sun and you just glow, don’t you? Now is probably a good time to remind you of how gorgeous I think you are.”

I love that smirk of his. It’s easy to forget the terror I was feeling not even an hour ago when green eyes are shining brightly in my direction. Easy to get lost in a kiss that has warmth and hunger and all the good little things that make everything feel right and decent.

It’s also easy to yank the jogging pants he wore for the gym right off of him and suck his cock quickly and well right here in the bathroom. What could serve as a better reminder that he’s safe and alive and powerful and well…than the feel of his hands in my hair and the sound of a voice made raw and tense by pleasure? The musk of a healthy man and the acrid and peppery tang of fresh sweat. Pulsing thickness alive in my hand and thick come spilling onto my tongue while I suck every drop into me with a desperation that borders on the crazed. I give him my very best, and I know it was recognized by the way he collapses against the wall panting for breath afterwards.

“Damn! If I’d known complimenting your looks would get me something like that…I’d have started sounding clichéd by now!”

“Just reminding you that you’re adored. I have to fix my hair again…but that was worth every second.”

“But…but you didn’t…”

“So? I didn’t do all that so I could come. Don’t you get it? Sometimes I’m all in favor of coming…but that isn’t all I care about. I feel good inside when I know I just rocked your world. Sometimes that’s all I want. Nothing more, nothing less. Now go take your shower and get ready…there isn’t that much time left until your people get here, and I need to compare notes with Therese about canapés and a few other treats for the guests.”

“As you wish, my love. If you didn’t look picture perfect already, I’d drag you into the shower with me just for good measure, but it can wait…a little.”

He says the last with a smirk while he strolls into the shower naked, and I just know he’s entirely aware of the impact his naked backside has on me. Not that I’m a ‘top’ or anything like that, but a man with a sexy ass, solid shoulders and strong hips just looks positively indecent walking away. It suddenly occurs to me that third shower would almost be worth it…but the way I primp and preen after a shower, it would be another couple hours before I made it out of here. I have things to plan, and not just canapés!

One by one they will arrive. Ron, of course, is early and first, and he pulls a beer from the fridge and heads for the library, giving me a friendly wave and a thumbs up while he compliments my suit. Nice guy…as straight men go…that Ron. Maria has set up a small table and chairs for the occasion, and I’ve glued myself to the entrance, ready to meet and greet people as they come in. I get a little edgy when I’m alone, so Maria is here to take coats and hang them, and the pressure is off when Harry steps into the entryway looking casual but cool.

“Relax, love. These are my coworkers and all, but you look way too worried about this. They come over all the time. They can find their own way in. They know to buzz Therese or Maria for access, and we can just relax in the library with Ron until they arrive…okay?”

I feel sheepish. I haven’t entertained company in years. I’d forgotten how desperately I missed social gatherings that didn’t involve gang rape. I shine at this kind of thing, but here I am as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Maybe just one more drink wouldn’t hurt.

He leads me to the library, mixes a Screwdriver and hands it to me. Vodka and orange juice. I take my seat beside him and try to follow his instructions about relaxing, but my mind is still racing with thoughts of Blaise and Harry and finding a way to make this one less risk for Harry to take.

The door to the library opens, and a very tall, fairly slender black man steps in, dressed in a quiet and tasteful suit, smiling easily when he sees Harry and Ron. Ron pipes up instantly.

“Hey, Dean! Good to see you. Haven’t had one of these get-togethers in a while now. How’s life among the lab coats?”

“Just fine, really. A little busy lately, but aren’t we all?”

Harry makes the introductions for me. Dean is an engineer and an electronics expert. Apparently he specializes in surveillance equipment, but has a talent for almost anything mechanical or electronic in nature. He’s taller than Ron or Harry, and I feel like a dwarf next to him, but he’s so quiet and easy going that it would take a real struggle to dislike him.

Then a woman steps through the door. Shorter, with bushy hair bound back in a heavy braid, wearing jeans and an almost vintage looking blouse styled after those of hippies from the Sixties. Her stride is a lot more confident and forward than anyone else’s, and I notice out of the corner of my eye that Ron’s eyes are glued to her every move. He also stopped chewing his canapé, and his beer is being ignored for the first time since I got into the room.

“Hey, ‘Mione. Long time no see.” Hermione, once we get properly introduced, turns out to be the computer and internet tech support guru for this little company. A better title for her role would be ’world class hacker’, and after meeting her in person and listening to the others talk about her skills, those power outages suddenly make an awful lot of sense.

The last to arrive is another woman, and she’s a study in contrasts. Obviously Hindu, but decked out in a power suit. Parvati is a polyglot and linguist. Communications analysis and translation. In tandem with Hermione, whom Ron is still nervously pretending to ignore, her regular duties involve sifting through global communications that have been earmarked as ‘of interest‘.

Only the mildest parts of all this get mentioned at first, but after everyone is assembled, cheerily chatting about nearly everything but business, Harry nods to Dean. Dean places a rather plain metallic box on the counter and pushes its one button. The faintest whine is audible, as if a satellite is being tracked by a dish antenna somewhere near. A very soft buzz is coming from the box itself. Dean breaks the silence by addressing me directly, answering the question I refused to ask so that I wouldn’t seem as ignorant about this as I am.

“Oscillating frequency white noise generator. Now that it’s on we can speak freely about certain things. Even if there were a surveillance bug in the room, it couldn’t be adjusted fast enough to tune in to this conversation. Once I turn it off, we stop talking business and just enjoy ourselves, but Harry said we needed to have a serious chat tonight, so I brought it along.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Harry looks seated and comfortable, but I’m surrounded by strangers. I can’t help that I fidget just a little. This is suddenly so serious that I remember with clarity that these people are involved in something outside the boundaries of the law. Wouldn’t you feel just the slightest bit tense? Harry picks up the narrative. “Now that we can speak openly for a little while, I can broach some topics I haven’t been able to safely touch on. I’m going to tell you a few things now, then I think I’ll let Hermione cover the rest.”

“Drake, we, and a few others, are only one operating branch of The Pheonix Corporation. There have been and are other groups like this one, both here in the states and around the globe. Our employer is only ever spoken of as Mr. White, unless you should have occasion to meet him personally. He is very old, very wealthy, and very powerful. He’s poured his entire life into trying to erase a mistake he made a long time ago, and we’re part of how he makes that goal plausible. Hermione? If you’ll explain the rest?”

The bushy haired young woman nods and takes a tone almost like a teacher imparting a history lesson. Annoying, because she sounds like a terrible know-it-all, but I suppose if she is collecting a paycheck similar to Harry’s, then she almost certainly earns it, and not by being stupid.

“Thanks, Harry. In the earliest days of the Cold War, a British operative who had earned his promotion during World War Two made quite a career out of confounding his Soviet counterparts. In due time, he accepted promotions and eventually groomed and trained candidates for placement as actual spies, as well as holding enormous sway over how the day to day business of his intelligence community was managed.

Among his trainees was a pupil so gifted that even Mr. White was duly impressed. That candidate was Tom Riddle. Shortly before what we consider the end of the Cold War, and the eventual changes to the formerly Soviet Union, Tom Riddle, who had spent years proving his talent for international manipulation, making contacts and consolidating his power, resigned his commission and retired from the intelligence service. He’d used his considerable influence to ensure that his financial choices worked out well, and his fortune is comparable to Mr. White’s own. Tom Riddle made allies in nearly every country around the globe, mostly industrialists and financiers. He is a silent partner in hundreds of enterprises around the globe, and by carefully hiding his involvement but retaining access to offshore accounts, he stays off the popular lists that catalog wealthy citizens of the world. More than cash, what he has is clout.

He has been involved in arms trading and smuggling, the dispersal of military and nuclear engineering documents to foreign powers, white slavery, the recruitment of mercenary armies in various ’hot spots’ around the globe, organized crime around the world, and various forms of economic terrorism. He is a devout and absolute capitalist, believing wholly that any act that profits him is inherently right, and therefore worthwhile.

When Mr. White first suspected that his own pupil had become a well-connected criminal, he took steps to balk and curb Riddle’s growing power, only to learn that Riddle’s financial ties were so powerful that most of the people that might have able to exercise some authority against him…were already influenced by their profitable dealings with Riddle. Mr. White retired from the public view and the intelligence service, and concentrated on building a rival network, composed of and funded by like-minded people who feared Riddle’s meteoric rise to power and his grossly unethical methods.

That first effort resulted in the Phoenix Corporation, which allowed a legitimate front to cover the movement of his agents around the globe. The early network was cruder, and information technologies have since changed the ‘field of play’ as it were, but the refinement of those techniques has proven to be successful.

Where he backs a revolution by a brutal junta, our people dispose of the leader, freeze accounts, and deliver alerts and information aid to Riddle’s would be victims. Where he underwrites an enterprise that exploits slave labor, we slip in a camera and release the images, scandalizing the company that let him broker such a deal. When he makes arrangements for criminal organizations to follow his lead, we ’discourage’ their involvement with direct force.

That’s what brings us here. The Enigma Corporation is quietly backing the renovation of huge sections of downtown Chicago, primarily to build and cement relationships with local crime lords and politicians. It doesn’t matter to Riddle if the project is ever finished, what matters is the connections he establishes and the influence he gains. The millions of dollars in property sales and development is irrelevant. We’re here to spoil his deal, make working with his company a known liability, and frustrate him into making an error that we can exploit.

We almost had him in New York last year, and it was only by the narrowest of margins that he survived an encounter with Harry. It took months to track his involvement to here, and then weeks to get set up properly here before we moved into the ‘action phase’ of our operation. He’s invested a lot of effort into moving pawns into place, and he won’t back down easily now. By now, he knows we’re here, and he’ll be using his assets and allies to undo the damage we’ve done.

We were all recruited by Mr. White’s senior staff, and we are all some of the best at what we do. We don’t ‘gather’ intelligence the traditional way, we hi-jack it from around the world, plucking files from security organizations across the globe. When we find a link that we can verify as related to Riddle or his Enigma Corporation, then we act, doing whatever it takes to unveil and disrupt his plans.

The ultimate goal, of course, is to eliminate him completely. He’s quite elderly, and in due time nature will finish the job for us, but he has access to superb medical treatment and has survived the ravages of age for some time already. Nonetheless, we try to force his direct involvement in these affairs, or at least make it necessary for him to communicate personally with his stooges. He generally uses third parties to convey messages and conduct business, but when he is enraged, his ego drives him to intervene in person. That’s what can allow us, or rather Harry, a ’clear shot’ at removing him from the worldly equation, and putting a stop to a decades long run of graft, crime, murder and corruption.

In short, he may be one man, and stopping him won’t fix everything that’s wrong with the world, but a lot of very bad people will lose their funding and support, and countless acts of evil will be prevented. It’s worth all our efforts to make a change like that…isn’t it?”

Harry takes up the lead again, keeping his eyes on me all the while. “What we’ve just shared with you is as secret as secret can get, and I want you to understand with perfect clarity that these things can’t even be discussed directly or frankly without a box like this one in operation. Riddle has business and political interests in his back pocket, and they have police and law enforcement in their back pocket.

This is why we work in small numbers, live privately, use carefully forged identification and routinely purge any records of our purchases, movements and activities. As a rule, we don’t let just anyone slither in and join us. It doesn’t work that way. We can’t afford an information leak. The last time one of those happened, it got my parents killed. I’ve vouched for you, personally, and that makes this conversation possible.

So what we need to talk about now is Blaise Zabini. How to deal with him in a non-fatal way. Drake…would you feel comfortable explaining the background details between yourself and Blaise…or would you like me to cover it?”

I pause a moment. I never really embraced the idea of talking about that in front of others, but I want these people to have confidence in me. Being a nervous, quiet, little church mouse won’t help anything…so what else can I do? I speak up after clearing my throat.

“Heh. I suppose everyone here probably knows more about my past than I like, but at least it means I haven’t anything to hide.” I get a few grins with that one. That and the warmth of vodka gives me a little more courage.

“Blaise Zabini was just a small time pusher for his family when I met him. We were both seventeen. I was crazy over him then, because he had money, looks and attitude, and I’d been in a pretty bad spot in my life until then. He had rivals inside his own organization, and they set him up because they didn’t like the idea of a punk kid who’d never done any time strutting around like a mafia Don. He had friends that were well connected, and they warned him about the sting. Rather than ditch the delivery and let it be known that he was aware of the plot against him, he sent me.

As soon as I was arrested, he cleaned up his act and avoided any contact with me. No support, no lawyers, not even a letter. I kept my mouth shut, figuring he’d come get me out of it all. No such luck. I went down for seven years. You can probably guess that seven years in a federal penitentiary for someone who isn’t tough or well connected would be rough. You’d be right.

He owns a nightclub called the Fire House now, and that’s where I ran into him. All I have in the way of information to work from is his business card and the fact that the Zabini name is fairly easy to track in this town. Because he’s ‘connected’, I hoped it might be possible to justify tacking him onto the list of targets you have in this town.

I know you don’t have to do this. It’s a complication you don’t need, and I don’t want anyone to risk anything over my grudge…especially Harry. I want revenge, but I don’t want anybody’s death on my hands. I want an eye for an eye. I want justice. No more…no less. I want Blaise Zabini in prison. Anything that will put him there is good by me. And one more thing…”

This is the telling moment. I must be crazy. Maybe it’s the vodka talking, or maybe it’s my conscience. (Where the hell it hid out the rest of my life I’ll never know…but it sure is back with a vengeance! I can’t let Harry just do this for me…not when I can make it easier and less risky for everyone involved.)

“I want to set him up and see him fall, but I don’t want Harry involved. Blaise already knows me, and thinks that I accepted his apology and actually wanted to make peace with him. I can get access to him easily and safely. If anything like that needs to be done, I want to do it myself. Will you help me?”

I guess I’ve done it now. Harry’s face is an enigma of it’s own, but the others look like they approve. It’s all nodding heads and murmured agreement. I don’t get immediate answers, but they agree to make initial plans and study possible ways to accomplish this when they can. Obviously, I take last priority over their work, but at least they’re willing to help…willing to try to give me a justice that the law never could. It’s enough. More than I had a right to ask for…and I still got it.

The white noise thingy is off, and it’s card games and comparatively mild cocktails for hours. Jazz and blues playing on the stereo, conversation and the subtle dance of personalities. I shine in situations like this, where charm and wit endear you to others. Social skills really are my forte, but not tonight. Tonight my stomach feels like it’s full of ashes and lye. My palms sweat and I can’t concentrate on anything.

Because Harry’s enigmatic face hides his displeasure, and I can feel it. It radiates off of him, invisible to others, but clear only to me. When the party is over, and the last stragglers leave…I’ll have Harry to answer to for what I’ve done and said. An angry Harry. I’ve never seen him genuinely angry at me before. I tell myself it won’t be bad. I say it over and over again in the back of my mind. Like a mantra, a prayer for peace that will come true if I just close my eyes and wish hard enough.

But I’m terrified anyway.


TBC!!!