Ch. 1 - Facing the Abyss
Ulysses Grayson was in a less than chipper mood as he Apparated in the foyer of Arabella Figg’s residence. He knew that with Voldemort’s presumed destruction and the capture of most of the death-eaters, there were going to be cutbacks in the Auror Corps. He was lucky to have a job in Britain at all. But it was so boring to sit there and watch the Dursley house. And it became utterly heartbreaking when anyone did come out, to see that adorable little boy treated like yesterday’s cat litter. And Mrs. Figg was always brewing potions (which was about the only magic a Squib could do), so the whole house stank. And Grayson always had to bring his allergy potion because of all the cats.
But that was his life and he accepted it. No, what really saddened him was the dream he had just awoken from.
It was Estella again. It was always her. Grayson had met the beautiful blonde on a trip to America, training with the West American Aurors. They were among the few who were even close to the British ones in training and skill level, thanks to Mars McClane, their chief. He had known that she was older than he, figured her to be thirty or thirty-five. In fact, she had been fifty-seven, exactly three times his age at the time. A special longevity potion that she took monthly, plus her natural resistance to aging, made her look so young.
Of course, once he knew her age compared to his, they both understood that they could not be anything other than friends. But he had never quite been able to sustain a romance with anyone else since then. After Estella Chance, most other women just seemed kind of insubstantial in comparison. It seemed a unique curse, to finally find a soul mate, only to have her prove too old for you. Well, since the anti-aging potion in question didn’t work on him, she would age only half as fast as he did. Maybe in a few decades, he would catch up with her, in appearance if not in numbers.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was sitting at the window, idly gazing at the house across the street. He and Grayson had been four years apart at Hogwarts, and in different houses to boot, but they had still wound up spending a lot of time together, maybe because both had been wanting to be Aurors since they were barely out of nappies. They remained the best of friends to this day. Kingsley was detailed to watch over the Potter boy during the day.
The tall, black, shaven-headed wizard in question turned away from the window upon hearing the “pop” of his cohort’s arrival. “Finally decided to show up for work, did you?” he said.
“I know, sorry. I lay down for a quick catnap, and woke up three hours later,” Grayson said, telling the truth as always.
“Yeah, I’ve done that,” Kingsley said. “I need to go, though. Got a date and I’m already late for it.”
“A date, huh? Who with this time? Su Lin Chang again?”
“Not this time. I told you that she has to baby-sit her niece, Cho, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It’s with Mikayla Quirke.”
“Quirke. . . ” Grayson’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, yeah, I remember her. She was in my year. Ravenclaw, right?” Shacklebolt nodded, and he went on: “Well, just tell her it was my fault.”
“I planned to,” Kingsley replied. “See you later, mate.” He vanished.
Grayson headed over to the kitchen table, which had a window overlooking the street. “What’s it been like?” he asked Mrs. Figg, who was seated there, sipping a cup of Earl Gray with two cats curled on her lap. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“It’s been quiet,” she replied. “That bag of lard, Vernon, hasn’t come home yet, so it’s just Petunia and the boys.”
“Otoengorgio,” Grayson said, tapping his left ear with his wand. Although he lacked the transfiguring skill to be a full Animagus, he could transform various body parts of his, to temporarily enhance his senses. His ear grew until it was the size of a serving platter and capable of hearing a whisper at five hundred yards.
Aunt Petunia was talking to Dudley while she fed him, even though he was two and a half and more than capable of feeding himself. “Duddiekins? Try the nice peas. You like peas, Duddy Duddy. How about the yummy peachies? Eat the peeeeeachies, sweetie, eat them all gone.”
“No!” Dudley yelled. “Me want cupcake!”
“Of course, sweetiekins. You can have cupcake after you eat your din-din.”
“No! Me want cupcake now!”
“Finite,” Grayson said in disgust, and his ear shrank back to its usual size. “That woman is totally disgusting.”
“Not as bad as her husband. He threw a rock at poor Muffin.” She pointed out one of her cats, a fat gray tabby with a bandaged paw.
Grayson nodded gravely. He liked animals, especially cats, but couldn’t own one unless he wanted to be constantly guzzling anti-allergy potion. “I’m not a bit surprised.”
He sat at the window, sometimes reading the latest defensive spell book he had acquired, sometimes playing solitaire with a deck of muggle cards, and sometimes just staring out the window at Number 4, Privet Drive. He sometimes fantasized about seeing Voldemort pop into existence in front of the house, and terminating him on the spot. With him gone, little Harry would not have to hide out in the muggle world; he could be taken in by a proper wizarding family. Grayson knew several good ones: the Corners, perhaps, or the Bones’. Or even the Weasleys. They already had seven of their own, but they would be only too happy to take one more. And they had a son Harry’s age, and a younger daughter who was just the most adorable baby you could imagine. Grayson had met the whole clan at the Ministry Christmas gathering.
His thoughts returned to Voldemort. He often wondered why people were so scared of the snake-kissing freak. Even his sister and her husband refused to say his name, and they were the Gryffindors. He, Ulysses, was the first of his line in six generations not to be sorted into that noble and well-regarded house. No one could figure out why, everyone had been sure that he was the bravest of the bunch. But the Hogwarts Sorting Hat had barely hesitated before declaring him a Hufflepuff.
He had taken occasional ridicule from his family for being placed there, in the so-called “leftovers house” (so called because Helga Hufflepuff had been known for being willing to take the students that the other three houses didn’t want). That came to an end when, in his seventh year, he led his house to their first house cup since the 1890's. His name was still on a plaque in the Hogwarts Trophy Hall for having single-handedly earned over 900 house points that year.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a taxicab, in front of number four. It was nearly dark outside, only some of the streetlights on Privet Drive still worked. “Oculus Nox,” Grayson said, tapping his head with his wand. Immediately, he had night vision better than a cat’s.
Vernon Dursley staggered from the cab, yelled something foul at the driver, and made his way up to the door. He pounded on it. Grayson had gone on a bender or two at Muggle pubs, and could safely assume that the barkeep at Vernon’s had taken his car keys, to prevent him from killing himself or someone else while driving drunk.
A long pause; one assumed that it was for Petunia to hear the racket and hurry to the door let her husband in. The door opened and he barged in. Dimly, a scream of surprise and a thud. Then, bellowing. Grayson powered up his ear.
“Where is he?! Where is the little freak?!”
“In his cupboard. Vernon, what’s the problem? You’re. . . ”
“I’ll fix the little brat!” Lumbering sounds, then screams, crying, struggling, thuds, smacks, breaking glass. Then a long and ominous silence.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Figg queried.
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good. Should I go see?” Grayson snatched up his Invisibility Cloak. He was directly forbidden to intervene in anything unless he thought Harry was in terminal danger, but invisible reconnaissance was tolerated.
“No. Wait a few,” Mrs. Figg said.
Although Grayson was nominally in charge, he generally deferred to Mrs. Figg’s judgment, so he stood down, but kept the Invisibility cloak handy. He heard Petunia on the phone, summoning an ambulance. “I think something bad’s happened,” he said. “Maybe to the kid.”
“It might also be Vernon. Maybe the fat prat fell downstairs. We just don’t know.”
Grayson’s eyes were hard. “If he’s hurt that boy, I’ll tear his head off and use it for a Quaffle.”
Tense minutes ticked by, then the ambulance arrived. Two young people in paramed uniforms emerged, wheeling a stretcher. They returned with it laden, and the size of its occupant left no question.
“Oh, no,” gasped Mrs. Figg.
Grayson swept up his cloak. “Accio, Nimbus,” he said, and his Nimbus 1500 sprang into his hand. “I’m going to see what’s up.”
“Your cloak will blow. You’ll be seen.”
Grayson draped the cloak around himself. “It’s dark out; I should be okay if I stay above two hundred. I’ll take off from the back, it’s fenced in.” At two hundred feet, partially cloaked, he would most likely be mistaken for a bird. “Besides, I need some air.”