Out of the Night that Covers Me

Out of the Night that Covers Me

by Mephistedes


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IV. Hyde and Seiker

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As promised, a Ministry owl delivered the current issue of The Quibbler in two days’ time. Spelled between the pages were his new false Muggle identification, general information, and his C.V. for the Watford Shelter. With his credentials set and Cottenham keeping him posted, Harry spent the next few days on reconnaissance. He would have let McLaggen do the task but, well ... it was McLaggen.

During that time, Harry Apparated the distance to Watford every afternoon and watched the area for any suspect activity until the early hours of the morning. He’d spent all eleven days noting Rhys’ routine: arrival and departure times, lunch and dinner stops, errands, bringing in animals, etc. Harry also took note of the customers, but he couldn’t do much with his information from the outside.

Nothing was amiss, he was both relieved and disturbed to note, as either made his job all the more harder. Harry was also relieved to note he hadn’t seen any more ghostly figures of his owl. Even so, there were plenty of owls around Britain; he’d chocked it up to paranoia and lack of sleep, resolving to at least try to sleep at nights before he started at the Watford Shelter.

Wednesday dawned grey and wet, with Harry standing on the footpath before the building, staring at the stained and gnawed-on window shade pulled behind the glass door of the Watford Shelter. This was it.

He’d be everything he trained for, the invisible visible: seen, but nothing more than a worker. He couldn’t draw any unnecessary attention to himself or it would damage the investigation. Harry didn’t enjoy the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he reluctantly had to admit, he was used to towing it around. But the moment he crossed the threshold of the Shelter, he would no longer be Harry Potter.

With an assuaging breath, Harry grabbed the doorknob in hand, ready.

The door’s jangling bell was lost in echoing barks and mewls and other strange noises, all of which were muffled behind the black door likely leading to the kennel. The small lobby was quite dingy and musky; though it would’ve been better off had someone not tried to mask the odor with a repulsively scented aerosol spray.

The reception table was messily unoccupied, strewn with loose papers, open periodicals, an ancient computer, and coffee-stained polystyrene cups. There were some dark discolorations on a few of the greenish tiles, telling of some creature’s overexcitement at being adopted (that was something he definitely wasn’t looking forward to doing).

Harry’s attention was drawn upward to the cracked walls, swathed with circulars for missing animals and adverts for veterinary services. All in all, it was loud, stinking, and cramped: as expected.

He decided he’d have a quick look around before the manager appeared; maybe he’d left something out. If so, this was the only chance he was going to get while he was still alone. Moving to the cluttered desk, Harry got as far as pushing aside a pile of magazines when he felt something oddly familiar.

There was magic on the desk. Rather, traces of magic. He knew from Cottenham’s prior briefing that someone had come to modify the female worker’s memory, but he hadn’t been told of anyone checking the desk drawers or files.

Suspicion was beginning to brew in his mind when the door behind reception burst open unleashing a bevy of howls, yips, screeches, and caws. With it came the portly manager, Rhys Jones, whose face registered shock for a split second before he frowned. “We’re not open yet.”

“Ha, sorry. Door was unlocked, thought I’d nip in and give it a looksee. Curiosity and cats, and all. Wahh-oww, they’re loud.” Harry crookedly smiled as he ran his fingers through his soggy, spelled-russet (still messy) hair.

Rhys’ face remained impassive. “What yeh doin’ here?”

So much for humor, Harry mused, and instead pulled his folded C.V. from his back pocket. “I, uh, saw an advert in the paper for volunteers; thought I might give it a go,” he interspersed his answer with anxious nods, excessive blinking, and strange hand gestures as per S.P.O.O.K. Operations week 44: Marketing the Ploy. For good measure, he threw in another lopsided grin.

The manager’s unnaturally small, beady eyes narrowed, staring at him. He couldn’t have seen right through him, could he? But Harry wasn’t going to go to pieces: he had murders to solve and he was not leaving this place without a job. He waited, returning Rhys’ stare, awkward smile still in place as the animals continued their racket.

“Yeh do know volunteers work without compensation?”

“I’m doing it for the animals,” Harry easily returned, pleased Rhys was playing into his manufacture.

Rhys’ brow twitched before he rolled his eyes. “One o’ them, are yeh?”

“Absolutely! My grandparents had a farm in Carmarthen, with horses and — ”

“I doana care. Get back here and wait in my office. David is late again an’ I’ve got to feed ‘em to shut ‘em up. I swear, that boy....” Rhys grumbled as he turned away and disappeared in the back.

Harry allowed himself a relieved sigh as he made his way behind the desk and into the corridor, noting the kennel behind a heavy blue door on his left, and several black doors on his right. As he passed, he peered through the door windows and took stock of an exam room, a washroom, a small kitchen, bathroom, storage, and Rhys’ office as the last door.

He’d have to dig further into these rooms one at a time when either Rhys or David weren’t around. Something was definitely off if the Shelter was receiving money enough for eight Firebolts, but couldn’t fix a broken lock.

He waited a grand total of fifteen minutes for Rhys, whose stomach entered the cramped office before his scowling face did. As Harry watched him push the door halfway closed and squeeze into his protesting chair, he noticed the animals had quieted down considerably.

“Now then, what’s all this rubbish about yeh wantin’ a job? This is a volunteer position,” he brusquely started off, folding his beefy fingers on his cluttered desk.

“Oh, it’s not rubbish, Mr. Jones — here’s my C.V., by the way — I don’t mind volunteering, need to get a bit of experience, anyway,” Harry rambled as the manager snatched the credentials with a sweaty hand. “Going to school to be a veterinarian, you know. I love —”

“Right, then ... Hyde, is it?”

“Mm-hm.” Harry beamed widely, knowing in addition to the Headache Remedy he was going to need for the noise, he might as well throw in a relaxant for the facial muscles he was bound to damage.

Rhys’ piercing gaze rose from the paper. “Thought yeh said you was from Carmarthen. Says ‘ere yeh’re from Gravesend.”

“Ha,” Harry let out a feeble laugh, “we’re not as dour as we sound, honest.”

He faltered when Rhys simply blinked, very slowly.

Seeing that he wasn’t in a humorous mood, Harry uncertainly continued, “I used to visit my grandparents in Carmarthen every summer. They had a massive farm, really beautiful place. Oh, you would’ve loved all the animals there! My favorite was this horse, Countess Clippity Clop — ”

“Stop talkin’.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Rhys weighed him with an indifferent expression as he let the sham C.V. flutter to his desk. “I doan care much for these beasts.”

Harry’s uncomfortably scandalized expression didn’t take much acting on his part. “Oh.”

“But I’m shorthanded as it is. The last volunteer up an’ left without so much as a warning. Said something about findin’ her purpose in Cambodia,” the manager shook his head with a frown. “So, I doana like you, but I need the help. Bloody creatures need lookin’ after all day an’ night an’ it’s infringin’ on my personal time.”

“Sorry to hear that, but you did volunteer,” said Harry, unsympathetic to his troubles. If the man disliked animals so much, why didn’t he just quit? Unless something was keeping him there? Something Harry resorted to finding out when the coast was clear.

Rhys’ scowl was wholly amusing, but Harry had an act to sustain. “Just a thought, sir.”

As Rhys’ nostrils began to flare, Harry heard a very welcome sound: just below the attention-seeking clamor from the cages was the jingle of a bell.

“That’ll be David,” Rhys growled as he struggled with his chair. “C’mon. Yeh’ll meet him and start tomorrow morning. He’s another funny article, ‘e is.”

“Uh, wait, I’m hired? Don’t I have forms to fill out?”

“Carn be fussed today. Tomorrow, or whenever.”

Harry leapt out of his seat and climbed over a stack of paper, following the man out into the passageway. “Bu — aren’t you going to show me around?”

“Tomorrow. I haven’t time to be introducin’ yeh to the furry beasts.”

“Right, personal life — ruined, I remember,” he murmured.

“Wuzzat, boy?”

“Uh, I ... I guess I can wait ‘til tomorrow,” Harry hoped he projected disappointment in his tone.

“Hmf. Not like they’re goin’ anywhere.”

“What? People not adopting?”

“D’yeh not hear tha’ racket?” Rhys glanced back at him incredulously. “Yeh think people are wantin’ that in their ears at night?”

“I suppose not.”

They made it to the front room where Harry’s first glimpse of David was his sandy blond hair and the hunched arc of his back.

“Oi! David Seiker, Hyde Powell.” Rhys barked as he led the way into the room.

David did little more than greet him with a grunt, idly turning a page in the magazine before him. Harry marveled at why no one sought to adopt from here, what with everyone being awfully pleasant....

“He’s your responsibility now,” Rhys sharply said, shuffling to the back again. “And the next time yeh’re late, I’ll sack yeh, got that? Carn be fussed with yer goin’ back an’ fore all yeh like. ”

Again, David was unfazed. Harry frowned, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Cottenham was definitely going to owe him backpay for putting up with these two.

With one last sharp look at David, Rhys disappeared down the corridor, slamming the door in his wake.

An awkward silence descended on the lobby following Rhys’ departure, save for the noises coming from the rear. Harry was torn between wanting more to investigate and pressing David for answers; he certainly hadn’t learned anything today, except to treading carefully around his colleagues in the future.

“So...” Harry struck up, catching sight of David’s dull grey eyes when he spoke. Harry had no idea what it was, but a flash of ... something stirred in him. “David, is it?”

“Seiker.” The taciturn man turned another page, saying nothing more.

“Hyde Powell, pleased to meet you, heh.” Again, silence filled with barking.

Harry eyed the sickly-green floor, somewhat unnerved by their quiet. What was it about this place that made its workers either rude or unnaturally silent?

Stepping a bit closer now, Harry could see the glint of several colorful plastic badges on his t-shirt and angry red pustules covering the blond’s forehead and the bridge of his lengthy nose. “So how long you been working here?”

“Not much longer than you.”

“Is that so?” Harry snorted, glancing down at the periodical. “What, no one makes it past three weeks here, is that it?”

Harry was convinced there was something in the water here. Or maybe Rhys and David were naturally miserable. “Right. Heh.” This was definitely going to be harder than he thought. “It’s fun, yeah?”

“Depends.”

“Oh?”

David merely swept a lock of hair from his eyes and momentarily raised his head, showing his flat, apathetic expression. Harry was painfully aware that he was somehow failing as a Stealth Auror in that single look. He had no idea why he would be bothered by this stranger’s impression of him, but he was, and that bothered him.

Perhaps he was recognized from his earlier Auror days? There were plenty of cases he had handled with Muggles, one small one not too far from here several years ago. As well, Harry hadn’t spelled his features completely unrecognizable, save for lightening his hair color, reshaping his glasses, narrowing his nose a smidge, and dashing a few freckles across his cheeks.

And, of course, he couldn’t forget his scar; that had been the most difficult thing to mask with magic. In the end, he’d thickened the hair covering it, just in case.

“Uh, this is going to sound ... strange,” he started off, wincing at the flash of annoyance in David’s eyes, “but have we ... met before?”

David arched an eyebrow — and there was that weird shift again — with an impatient sigh. “If we have, you weren’t that spectacular to warrant remembrance.”

Taken aback, Harry angrily replied, “Now you’re just being rude.”

“Get used to it,” David snapped in return, fingers sliding another page over. “If you’re going to be working with me, you’ll need a spine.”

Harry had the oddest feeling the blond was speaking about something entirely disparate of animals.

He defensively seethed, “You don’t know me.”

“Don’t I, Hyde Pratt?”

“Powell.” Harry corrected, an edge in his voice.

“Right.” Sarcasm. David didn’t trust him. A tiny smirk played on David’s lips, but it was more predatory than mischievous.

Harry frowned, glaring; he was being baited for some reason, he knew as much. The urge to reach for his wand was undeniable, Muggle or not. There was something seriously funny about David Seiker, and he couldn’t wait to get back to the Ministry to find out what.

But rather than goad him further, David gave him a weak sneer and returned to his perusal, his hair draping over his face again. “Get here before opening time tomorrow,” he drawled with the same torpor in his tone, though the effect was lost by the muffled din from the kennel. “Not one second after. This job takes work.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Harry fumed, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “I know work. I can do it.”

“Can you?” the sharp query jarred Harry’s frustration slightly. David eyed him critically and leaned forward with a dark expression. “I know your type, Powell. You think all these beasts need is a great big smile and a scratch behind the ears. You’ve got to bathe, walk, feed, vaccinate, deworm, groom them, sift through shit just to make sure they’re well, and tag every single creature that walks through that door.”

“Heh, every one, huh?”

“Every one. That’s the number one rule.” David stoically repeated. “And when the time calls for it, you’ve got to be an executioner. I’ll wager you don’t know what that’s like, that feeling of utter helplessness; when you know and they know there’s nothing you can do to stop impending doom.

“This is not some charming post-school programme,” David hissed, his grey eyes alight with fury. “And if you think that’s all it is, you’re in for a very rude awakening, Powell.”

His anger was fully roused by the end of David’s diatribe. Thankfully, he’d had enough restraint on his accidental magic that he suppressed it and let it stew until the next time he dropped by the Ministry for physical training. Or the next time he crossed McLaggen, whichever came first.

Breathing heavily through his nose, Harry glared as the arrogant blond held his gaze a few seconds more before revisiting his publication. It seemed David had said all he needed to say, and Harry thought it best to leave now while his headache was still mild (and while he still had the willpower not to brandish his wand). He’d just turned the doorknob when David spoke up.

“Tomorrow, then,” said David, turning another page.

Harry nodded once at the doorframe. “Tomorrow.”

“Unless you’re scared, Potter.”

After a mirthless burst of laughter, Harry scoffed, “You wish!” He had the door half open when he froze.

Potter. He called him Potter. David called him Potter. A Muggle knew his name.

Shit.

But he wasn’t supposed to know his name.

Harry whirled around, a panicked breath escaping him. ‘David,’ or whatever his name was, stared at him with those sharp steel-colored eyes that seemed to prejudge and disparage him. Not a word passed his lips, yet David’s gaze spoke volumes of how much the man despised him.

The last time Harry remembered being on the wrong end of that gaze was ... well, more recently, McLaggen. Then came the night of Voldemort’s defeat, several Death Eaters, and if he went even further back, Slytherins in general, including —

His mouth fell open. Impossible.... It couldn’t be, not him! Not here!

Harry almost didn’t want to look at David again, but needing proof, needing to know, to understand, he looked.

And noticed, beneath those dotty boils was a wan complexion, paler than a sunless morning. There were strands of his hair lighter than the dirty-blond it was fashioned to be. The nose was longer than he remembered, but distinguishable. Under the bristly, brown stubble was a sharp, pointed chin. And those lips ... they eased into that all too-familiar smirk.

Shit.

“Go on,” he whispered, the corners of his upturned lips twitching as if prepping for a mighty laugh. Bending forward with that unchanged, disgusting smirk, he whispered, “I’ll even give you a head start.”

For the first time since knowing him, Harry did something he had never done before when confronted by Draco Malfoy.

He fled.


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