Ch. 3 - Dancing on the Brink
Since Harry had no family present, there was a nurse in the room with him. In the time it had taken for Grayson to listen in on Dr. Kirby’s phone call, she had changed Harry out of his soiled clothes. Not only were they bloodied up, but he had wet his pants at some point. Unlike his oversized cousin, Harry only wore nappies overnight.
As Grayson entered, she was helping the boy into a hospital-issue pajama top. “Oh, hello. Are you Mr. Potter?”
“Mr. Potter’s dead, I’m afraid,” Grayson said. “But I am looking after Harry. I’ll be staying the night with him, if that’s all right.” The carefully modulated tinge of steel in his voice made it clear that he didn’t care if she thought it was all right or not.
“Of course,” the nurse said, too embarassed at her faux pas to ask who Grayson was. “I’m . . . uh, glad he won’t be alone.”
“Thank you for seeing to him,” Grayson said, a bit more gently. “Is there anything I need to know?”
“Uh, no, not really. Doctor Kirby gave him something for the pain. The bathroom’s right there. Spare pajamas are on the dressing table, and nappies and wipes as well, of course. If you’re hungry, the kitchen’s closed, but there are vending machines downstairs. And here’s the call button, if you do need anything.”
“All right, fair enough,” Grayson said. “But I think all he needs now is a decent night’s sleep.”
“I could use the same,” the nurse admitted. “Good night, then.”
Grayson nodded, then turned to her silent and wary-eyed patient. “Hello, Harry. Long time no see,” he said, unbuttening the youngster’s PJ top. The nurse, flustered by their conversation, had put the wrong buttons in the wrong holes. He redid the job, fumbling a bit, since he was not used to manipulating such teensy little buttons.
Harry was shivering, despite the warmth of the hospital room. His brilliantly green eyes were brimming with fear. As an Auror and a member of the Order, Grayson had been acquainted with James and Lily, but they had not known each other well. The last time he had seen Harry, he had been eight months old, a happy and healthy little fellow. The change was enough to break one’s heart. “You were still crawling last time I saw you up close, but look at you now,” Grayson said. “What a big boy you are.”
Harry still didn’t speak, but anyone who understood kids (and Grayson did) was aware that few children his age would have been willing to talk to a stranger right away. Never mind the fact that the only man in his life was the one who had put him here. But, he observed that this one’s eyes and voice were kind. And somewhere in his head, a memory stirred, of a brown-eyed, black haired man who had been kind to him as well.
“You poor little guy,” Grayson said. “It’s OK. I understand. I wouldn’t blame you if you were scared of pretty much everyone these days, aren’t you? Well, it’s going to be over soon. Those muggles know what that fat bastard did to you, and they’re going to put a stop to it.”
Harry did not look comforted. How, Grayson wondered, could you explain to a toddler that he was out of danger, that the year of hell he had endured was finally at an end? He knew the answer all too well: You couldn’t, of course. Not even a grown-up, delivered from long-term trauma of that magnitude, could recover right away. All you could do was try to reverse the damage a bit at a time. Su Lin Chang, one of Kingsley’s several girlfriends, was a counselor, and she was full of stories about how hard it was to do that.
“Ooops,” Grayson added, lowering his voice a bit. “I shouldn’t have said that B-word in front of you. Don’t tell anyone, OK?”
Harry still made no response, and that was fine. Right now, the point was to soothe him, not engage him in conversation. He noticed that the boy didn’t smell very good. It wasn’t a surprise, really. Petunia was fussy about Dudley’s cleanliness, but she only bathed Harry about twice a week, and she used cold water out of sheer mean-spiritedness. She and Vernon seemed determined to give Harry as nasty a life as possible, even if it was less convenient for them. Had they walked in on this scene, they would have immediately tried to put a stop to it. Not because Grayson was being mean to them, but solely because he was being kind to Harry.
Grayson sighed, then gathered the boy up in his arms and made his way to a rocking chair, which had been placed there for the purpose. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “You didn’t ask for any of this. Taking down Voldemort, becoming famous, having bodyguards . . . you’d rather be at home right now, dressed in your cute little sleepers. When I saw you, you were wearing a pair of fuzzy ones, covered with little Gryffindor lions. Your mum and dad were sure you’d grow up to be a Gryffindor. Of course, so were mine, and look what happened.” He laughed. “You’d like to be in your crib right now, I’ll bet, with Lily and James coming up to kiss you goodnight.” He affectionately stroked the unruly black hair. “I wish I could have been there, lad. I wish I could have stopped him for you.”
Harry said nothing, but Grayson felt his small body gradually relaxing, cuddling itself against his body heat. It was hours past his bedtime, and the emotiuonal trauma had probably drained him completely. Grayson fetched a blanket from the bed and draped it around his charge, and went on. “Oh, no one believes I could have, and maybe they’re right. Whatever Voldemort is, or was, or whatever . . . he had to be pretty tough if all those dangerous dark wizards were sucking up to him the way they were. But that’s not the point, is it? It was our job, the Aurors’ job, to put ourselves between him and you guys. And if it cost us our lives, then so be it. Maybe I could have at least bought them some escape time.” He discreetly scrubbed at an annoying wetness at the corner of his eye. “Sorry, lad. I’m sorry we failed you.”
He sat there, rocking slowly, thinking. What was it like, he wondered. What was it like to have the world you were born into come crashing down about your ears in a flash of green light? What was it like to be thrust into a new world, one where you were hated and rejected, for reasons you were incapable of comprehending? He could not imagine the turmoil and torment that the small, flaccid bundle that lay in his arms had endured.
He stroked Harry’s hair again, and gently beeped his stubby nose. “I won’t fail again, boy. Not you, not anyone. That’s a promise.”
He continued to sit and rock in the dimly lit room, staring out the window as though mesmerized by the night. He noticed that Harry’s breathing had subtly shifted, indicating that he had fallen asleep. Soon, he would be sleeping deeply, and Grayson would be able to quietly get up and slide him into bed. But it was nice to just sit there, still rocking, and watch little Harry experience his first sleep in ages where he wouldn’t have to worry about what would happen to him when he awakened.
“Awww, wook what we has here. A cornucopia of wuv.”
Grayson looked up, embarassed at being caught in such an unmacho position, but Shacklebolt only chuckled. “You didn’t report in, so Moody sent me to check. What should I tell him?”
“The truth,” Grayson said. “Tell him I’m guarding Harry, just like I’m supposed to.”
Shacklebolt’s grin was startlingly white against his black skin. “Do you cuddle all the people you’re protecting?”
“Only if I think they need cuddling.”
The obligatory matter of ribbing his best mate over with, Shacklebolt turned to business. “Right. Now what’s going on? Does the doctor suspect abuse?”
“Thankfully, yes. He’s called the bobbies, and they should be here by now. What should I tell them if they interview me?”
“You know the drill, you silly git. Tell them as little as possible,” Kingsley said. “Moody’s stationed a couple Aurors to patrol the hospital, just in case. Do you want someone to take over here for you?”
Grayson shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Shacklebolt gave him an evil grin. “Yeah, of course you are. Exploring your feminine side, are you? What’s next?” (He went on in a squeaky voice) “Quilting? A spot of flower arranging, then?”
“How about you suck my big fat. . . .”
“Head? That’s the only part of you that’s big and fat.”
Grayson was ready for that, and deftly retaliated. “Of course, you would know. Been peeking at me in the shower lately, honey bunch?”
Shacklebolt gave him the two-finger V-salute, equivalent to giving the bird in America. “I have to go. Moody’s there, and he’s waiting for a report. Rather impatiently, I might add.”
Grayson nodded. “All right, then. I’ll see you after the muggle authorities pick up Harry. We can hit the Cauldron and drink a toast to his deliverance And I’ll even buy.”
Shacklebolt grinned. “Sounds great, mate.” Then, he was gone. Since he knew where he was going, he could apparate the few miles easily.
Grayson sat with Harry awhile longer, then put him to bed and went to the bathroom, then sat back down in the rocking chair and dozed for awhile. Waking up hungry, he visited the vending machines and bought a meal of diet soda and the less awful of the foods offered. He had never had a body fat percent above ten, and preferred to keep it around seven or so, it made him quicker and more agile, better at dodging unfriendly hexes. It was that speed that had saved his life when Voldemort (tired of hearing about the brash and pink-haired young Auror who not only spoke his name, but dared to mock it), had sent a troop of death-eaters to give him a fatal crash course in manners.
He smiled at the memory. They had taken his wand, and Rodolfus LeStrange himself had levelled his wand at Grayson’s nose, and gotten out half of the Killing Curse at the young man who was apparently frozen with fear. But it had been an act; as LeStrange was saying “Kadavra,” Grayson had exploded into motion, grabbed the wizard who had taken his wand and thrust him into the deadly hex’s path, rendering him quite dead. Being dead, he was unable to resist when Grayson swiped back his wand and somersaulted aside to avoid a blizzard of stunning spells. Half the Death Eaters had been stunned by their own mates, and Grayson had used the shocking spell to briefly incapacitate the rest. Then, he had made his escape. The story of the nineteen-year-old Auror trainee who defeated seven Death Eaters singlehanded had been front page news, and had made him a hero in a world that had too few heroes.
At about 3:30 in the morning, secure in the knowledge that his comrades were standing guard outside, he allowed himself to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was rising outside, flooding the room with orangey light. It was a new day, and Harry was starting to stir.
While he was waking up, Grayson called Mrs. Figg. He was informed that the Dursleys had not budged, and instructed to remain with his charge until the Muggle authorities arrived.
And he was more than happy to do so. Once Harry awoke, first on the order of business was to get the several days worth of grime off of him. This took some doing; Harry had learned to associate bathtubs with frigid water and angry yells. Grayson had to let him carefully dip his fingers into the water before putting him in it. Once he realized that the water was warm, not cold, he was willing, though he remained nervous. Grayson scrubbed him down as quickly as possible, careful to keep his cast dry, then dressed him and took him to breakfast. He was voraciously hungry: Grayson filled his plate three times before he was ready to be done. With the necessary matters seen to, Grayson led him by the hand down the hall to the children’s playroom, and turned him loose there.
He kept an eye out, not because he was expecting hostile action (the death-eaters were careful to enforce the statutes of secrecy; a public muggle place was anathema to them), but because he was expecting visitors. A couple hours later, he was rewarded: a police officer showed up, along with a woman in a nice suit and Dr. Kirby. The latter looked into the playroom and indicated Harry. “There he is.”
“Is that Dursley?” the cop wanted to know, looking like he would very much like to club the man in question unconscious.
“No, he’s a family friend,” volunteered another man behind him. That fellow was dressed in a Muggle leisure suit, but Grayson recognized him and his cohort. But why, he wondered, had they sent professional obliviators?
Obliviation was a tricky field. Erasing memory was easy enough, but the real trick was the careful use of legilimency to provide the obliviatee with a new and convincing memory. They didn’t want muggles wandering around with blank spots in their brains; that would just make them suspicious, and they would undoubtedly try to figure out what had happened. The point was for them not to think anything was amiss.
Still wondering, Grayson accompanied the group to the doctor’s office. As they proceeded, he was introduced to the group. The woman was a social worker; she was there to take Harry into protective custody. The police officer had been assigned the case the previous night; his job now was to make sure that the social worker was safe. Sometimes, relatives got violent when their children were taken away.
Grayson fell back a bit to talk to Miles, the junior obliviator. “What’s going on? What’re you doing here?”
“Our jobs, obviously.” Miles was all business, like always. “Does anyone else know that Harry’s uncle beat him up?”
“Probably dozens of people. This is a big hospital, and rumors spread.”
“All right, let’s put it another way. Did anyone other than Dr. Kirby, his nurse, and the ER receptionist see Harry’s injuries?”
“Not that I’m aware of. There was a nurse who was dressing him last night, but I think it was the same one who examined him.” Warning lights flashed in Grayson’s mind. These weren’t the questions he was expecting to have to answer.
“We’ll talk to Kirby.”
“Why are you here, anyway? Are you going to place Harry with a wizarding family?” If that were the case, perhaps they would need to erase the muggle authorities’ knowledge of his existence.
Miles shook his head, and his tone became bitter. “No. We’re here to make the evidence go away.”
Grayson’s jaw dropped. “WHAT?! But that will send Harry back to the bastards who did this to him.”
The obliviator beckoned Grayson into a nearby men’s room, verified that they were alone, and then secured the door with a tap of the wand. “Look,” he said. “I don’t like it either. But the order is down from Moody himself. Come hell or high water, Harry stays with his aunt and uncle.”
“So they can kill him next time? You really think I’m going to stand for. . . .”
Miles drew his wand. “I don’t like it either, Ulysses. I think it’s fricking insane. But orders are orders, and we’re authorized to obliviate you as well if we have to. It won’t look good on your record, but we. . . .” He trailed off as Grayson suddenly vanished before his eyes.
Miles cursed. His young colleague’s actions had been incredibly dangerous. Proper apparition took time to execute. A speed disapparition was just asking for a splinch or a mixing, unless you knew exactly where you were going, to the inch. He spun on his heel to leave the room, and was knocked off his feet by a powerful right cross by Grayson, who had appeared directly behind him. He dropped to the floor, his wand clattering away, and his addled mind heard Grayson’s voice: “Rictusempra!”
Grayson disapparated from the bathroom, leaving the door locked and Miles writhing on the floor, howling with laughter from the tickling hex.