Ch. 2 - Approaching the Edge
The Nimbus 1500 was not the newest broom ever made, and it was far from the fastest, but it was dependable and maneuverable. Grayson didn’t own this one, it was Ministry property; they kept it lying around for the Aurors’ emergency use. The only broom he had ever actually owned had been a 1200, which he had gotten for Christmas of his second year, and he had left it to his younger sister upon leaving school. He was very fond of flying, but far less so of brooms. The Muggles had the right idea, he thought; when you flew in one of their contraptions, you didn’t have wind in your eyes and hair, and you could get to a far more impressive speed. Shacklebolt sometimes made fun of his newest aquisition, an old but operational World War II-era P-51 Mustang, but it was the perfect mode of transportation as far as he was concerned.
Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle a broomstick, not after four years on the house Quidditch team. He had not been a top-drawer player, even for Hufflepuff, but he had muddled along as Keeper simply because he was quick and agile and not afraid of anything you were likely to find on a pitch. More important, though, he was a natural strategist, and his position gave him a perfect view of the rest of the game. Although he had let in quite a few goals, his coaching had turned his more talented teammates from jokes to contenders. He had never led them to the cup, but the Hufflepuffs had been a going concern on the Quidditch pitch for the first time in ages, and they still were.
So, after chasing down fast-flying Quaffles for four years, following the flashing lights of the ambulance was a simple task for him. He maintained a flight level of 250 feet (better safe than sorry, he thought), and he rarely had to exceed fifty miles per hour. Normally, flying in wintertime in Britain wasn’t much fun, but it was unseasonably warm for February, and the stars were out, at least in places. Had he not been so worried, he might have enjoyed the ride.
He was not worried for himself. He had done exactly what Moody had ordered him to. Even if Harry was badly hurt or killed, he would be in the clear. But his career ambitions came a distant second to the life of the little boy he had committed himself to protecting, even disregarding the fact that he was supposedly the only one who could stop Voldemort from conquering the world. If little Harry could have been saved by his intervention, he would never forgive himself.
The ambulance arrived, and Grayson swept down after it, landing in a nice shadowy spot and burying the broom in some shrubbery. Invisibly, he walked alongside the paramedics as they rolled the stretcher to the entrance, and slipped in behind them.
Harry Potter, two and a half years old, lay on the stretcher. His nose was crusted with dried blood, one of his startlingly green eyes closed and the pale skin around it swelling up like a purplish-brown balloon, and his arm bound up in some plastic and metal Muggle contraption. He had stopped crying and now lay there, looking warily around with the one eye he could still use. He had experienced much hostility in the past year and a half, and had come to expect it from everyone.
Still invisible, Grayson tiptoed into a men’s restroom as another man entered, and then stood in a corner and waited for him to leave. Once he had privacy, he shucked off his cloak and outer robe, revealing a pair of jeans and a black polo shirt. He rolled the clothes he had removed into a bundle, the cloak on the inside. From the back, it looked like a simple silver cloak, but better safe than sorry. Grayson was not in the mood for the paperwork that came with Muggle obliviation.
Reluctantly, he also tapped his hair with his wand. “Pili natural,” he muttered, and his mop of hair faded to its natural color, a revolting shade of cowpie-brown. His ex-girlfriend from school, upon dumping him, had blasted him with the harmless but silly Pili Puniceus hex. Looking in a mirror, he had been amazed how much better it had made him look. He had adopted the change permanently, but there were times when his duty required him to operate among muggles, and blend in. The last thing he did was stuff his wand, which was fifteen inches long and impossible to hide in a pocket, into the bundle of clothes.
The alterations had the desired effect: Grayson now appeared to be a perfectly nondescript muggle. Only a trained observer would notice the hard muscle beneath his clothes, or the dangerous grace with which he moved. Calmly, he exited the restroom. Harry was gone, of course, but Grayson knew where they had taken him. He made his way to the emergency room and addressed the nurse on duty. “The Potter boy, where is he?”
Some hospitals had gone to computers, but this one had not; it was after all only 1982. “I’ll need to check.”
Grayson nodded. “Do it. Please.”
The woman returned shortly. “He’s being treated right now, but the doctor says it’s just a simple fracture to the arm and a few bruises. He hit his head, though, and we’re going to hold him overnight for observation.” She eyed him oddly. “You got here fast.”
“I work only half a mile away,” Grayson said. He disliked lying and did it as little as possible, but he sometimes had no choice. “When can I see him?”
She eyed him carefully. He seemed caring and concerned, but rules were rules. “Well, that depends,” she said carefully. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m a friend of his parents,” Grayson said, and that was true. “His aunt and uncle are in crisis and can’t make it.” Also true, he rationalized. The Dursleys were perpetually in crisis.
“I’m afraid that only relatives are allowed in, except during visiting hours.”
“Listen very carefully,” Grayson said. “There is a little boy in there. He is alone. He is terrified. He needs someone to be with him tonight. And come hell or high water, he will.”
The receptionist eyed the young man carefully. Ulysses Grayson was not an overly large man, but he was not someone to be crossed, she knew that much from his eyes and the way he moved. He had not threatened her, but she did not want to find out if he intended to do so. “All right. You can see him as soon as they get a cast on his arm.”
“Of course,” Grayson said. “Thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to hassling your superiors tonight.”
“Don’t mention it, sir.”
There were no fireplaces at the hospital, making Floo conversation impossible, but that was not a problem. Since her life required her to live as a muggle much of the time, Arabella Figg had a telephone. Grayson made a point of carrying a few muggle one- and five-pound notes at all times, mostly so that he could buy food. So it was no great difficulty for him to contact her via payphone.
“Where are you, exactly,” Mrs. Figg wanted to know. “I know you’re at a Muggle hospital, but which?”
Grayson gave her the hospital’s name and location.
“Yes, I know that place. The ladies in my garden club all go there.” Mrs. Figg herself had no need for a hospital. If she got sick, she could simply brew up a potion. Rumor had it that she was slipping some of her less potent stuff to other Muggles on the sly (calling it “medicinal herbal tea”). This practice was not uncommon among Squibs or wizards who lived alongside muggles, and the Ministry generally chose to look the other way. “How is the boy?”
“They’re saying he should be all right. They’re going to keep him here for observation. I’ll stay with him, of course.”
“Someone has to.” Disgust flared in Mrs. Figg’s usually mild tone. “His relatives just went to bed.”
“Bastards,” Grayson said.
“I Flooed Albus before you called. He says you were wise not to intervene directly.” Very few people called Dumbledore by his first name, but Mrs. Figg, never having attended Hogwarts, saw no reason to call him anything else.
Grayson sighed and stared at the tile floor. “I don’t feel wise.”
“He wants you to keep us up to speed on the Muggle police. Are they there? Do they think it might have been abuse?”
“I have no doubt it was. Hopefully, they’ll figure it out, and get social services involved. Harry shouldn’t have to spend another hour with those slimebags.” Grayson saw a gurney being wheeled out, with a familiar dark-haired figure on it. “Harry’s out. I’ll go talk to his doctor. See you.”
A graying man in a white coat followed the orderly pushing the gurney out. Grayson hurried up to him. “Are you Harry’s doctor?”
The doctor turned to him. “Yes,” he replied cooly.
“Have you been able to ascertain what happened to him?”
“Are you a relative?”
Grayson, aware that he would likely have to produce ID if he said yes, admitted that he was not.
The man’s tone went from cool to frosty. “Then I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. If you’ll excuse me.”
Grayson did just that, slipping into an unattended linen closet and donning his Invisibility Cloak. He followed the doctor down the hall to his office, slipping in behind him undetected. He couldn’t get into the office, the door was closed too fast for that, but it was a simple matter to expand his ear again. If the doctor dropped a pin in there, he would know.
The sawbones wasted no time. He picked up his telephone and dialed the Operator. “Get me the police.” A pause. “This is Doctor Kirby in the ER. I need to report a suspicious injury.” A pause. “Two-year-old male, isolated contusions to the face, fractured wrist. Looks like a fairly strong man used him for boxing practice.” Another pause. “Yes, do that. I’m off at ten, but I’ll be happy to stay. I’ll either be with a patient or in my office.”
He left the office again. Grayson followed him out, then ducked into the private washroom to resume visibility. When he arrived in the ER waiting room, the receptionist stopped him. “Oh, there you are, sir. Your little patient’s been taken to pediatrics. Room 807.”
“Thank you,” Grayson said. “Can you tell me where that is?”