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Author: Myth & Legend Story: Cursed Rating: Teens Status: WIP Reviews: 22 Words: 215,482
The air of the Leaky Cauldron was choked with fragrant smoke and the sticky scent of alcohol. The walls around the fireplace were stained with soot, and cobwebs hung from the more inaccessible areas of the roof. Logs crackled in the grate, supplicant to the flames that burned along their length. Chairs scraped on the floor and chimes sounded from behind the bar as bottle neck met glass rim again and again. Raucous laughter rang across the room, making those in a permanent state of hangover wince. Marlow sat below one of the windows, obscured by the boundary of shadow and light. His back was to the wall. The cool stonework pressed against his shoulder blades, reassuringly solid. He tipped the ashtray into an empty glass and reached for his lighter as he surveyed the room. Everything about his body language indicated that he was totally relaxed. His wand was nowhere in sight and his eyes were shielded behind half closed lids. He had woken as the sun inched towards noon, but there was no regret of his laziness. He had taken his time in the shower. Hot water was a rare luxury for him, and he’d let the steaming water pummel away his aches as he considered his options for the day. Eventually he decided that Gringotts bank was at its least secure during trading hours. If the building was bustling with clients and employees alike the magical protection would be at its lowest. Marlow had learned years ago that the right attitude could get him almost any information. Why steal when there was always someone gullible enough to give him what he needed? He had grabbed his hat and left his coat behind before locking his room and making his way along the corridor. A quick glance out of the window had made him pause. Diagon Alley was bustling with shoppers. They had obviously been brought out by the sunshine and went from shop to shop, calling to friends and associates as they did so. Normally Marlow would have welcomed the crowd, but it hadn’t taken long for him to notice that several wizards and witches weren’t there for the shopping. There was the pink‑haired witch from the night before, and Weasley had turned the corner at the other end of the alley, distinctive with his height and red hair. Obviously the Aurors weren’t the kind to give up easily. They meandered through the pedestrians, wands in hand and eyes keen. Their presence had made his decision for him. He would rather risk the goblins’ nighttime magical security than be recognised by one of the dark wizard catchers in broad daylight. Now the afternoon was tailing away and Marlow nursed a second packet of cigarettes. Every hour or so he drank a glass of Fenlings Brew. The potent spirit was known as a tough drink, favoured by macho men out to impress their mates or any girls that might be in the surrounding area. Marlow shook his head at the thought. He drank it for one reason alone, and that was the colour. Fenlings was a clear drink, and if it was anything but pure it reacted violently. A drop of foreign liquid in the glass resulted in a drink the colour of tar. It was impossible to poison, and you could also tell if the bartender had spat in your glass. Marlow was happy to concede that the staff might recall a man who drank the distinctive liquor, but it wouldn’t stand out as much as someone who’d sat in the pub and not touched a drop of alcohol all day. He took a gulp and peered out of the window behind him. The crowds were starting to thin, but it still wasn’t worth the risk. The bank closed at six in the evening, and it would be a good idea to wait until seven when the security staff had settled in for the long night ahead. A guard who had done his rounds and was comfortably seated would be less likely to turn up at an unexpected moment. Marlow had briefly toyed with the idea of a simple glamour, but Gringotts would undoubtedly detect the charm. It also wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that the Aurors carried devices that would be triggered by such a large‑scale spell. Glamours were powerful, as they had to be maintained for a long duration and had to be able to react with the environment. If the wind blew then the spell had to move with the wearer’s hair in order to maintain any colour or style difference. Such complexities meant that a detector would pick up the high level of magic given off by the witch or wizard in disguise. That said it would be naïve for anyone in his line of work to think they could move through the world without using some spells. It had taken him months of experimenting to find the approximate level of magic that could go undetected. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly jaw, smiling to himself. He was still proud of his discovery, even now. It had revolutionised the way he could work. It reduced the necessity for cloak and dagger subterfuge, most of the time anyway. It was one of the few spells he ever used and it was constantly maintained, even while he slept. It was similar to a glamour, but far less complex. Rather than acting to change his physical appearance totally, it subtly altered what already existed. The result was that anyone looking at him would be troubled to recall anything specific. They could say that he had dark hair, wore certain clothes and was “about so high”, but beyond that they were lost. Hair could be dyed and clothes could be changed. As a result Muggle and wizarding police alike had only a vague description of his appearance. It was perfect. The only time the spell ever faded was if, for whatever reason, he was too severely injured or exhausted to maintain it. Any minor injury he received was instantly hidden. He bore no tan‑lines, freckles or birthmarks. He didn’t even have nicotine stains on his fingers. There was something liberating about being so unremarkable that few people could even remember him. A guffaw from the bar made him glance across the room. Several middle-aged men stood there, nursing their pints. They’d been drinking for a while and were all looking fogged by alcohol. Tom, the gap‑toothed bar keeper was the one who’d laughed. He was cleaning a glass and shaking his head as his employees continued to serve the other customers. ‘Come on, Fletcher. You know if you nick one more thing you’ll be going to Azkaban ‑ again.’ The man on the right ran a hand through his straggly red hair and shook his head. ‘Nah, it’s not as bad as it used to be. No Dementors now, just wizards with a grudge.’ ‘Yeah, well. If you try and flog me anything else to pay off your bar tab I’ll break your knee caps,’ Tom said amicably, filling up the man’s glass again. ‘You’ve only been out for a few months. Your cell won’t even be cold yet.’ Fletcher shrugged. ‘They’re short of space, so they let me out a few weeks early. If you ask me they should execute that scum who were caught up in the war, rather than picking on honest entrepreneurs like me.’ Tom gave the man an amused glance and shook his head. ‘They’ll kill the guilty ones once they’ve sorted out who was under the influence and who was behaving on their own free will. You know that. Besides they can’t just kill them all. They need to be able to make a show of who’s really guilty. If they execute the wrong person all the good feeling about winning the war will be out the window.’ ‘They have witnesses,’ Fletcher said. ‘The youngest two Weasleys and that Granger witch were there. They saw it all. Well, more than anyone else did anyway.’ ‘But it’s just their word,’ Tom said. ‘They saw how people were behaving, but they can’t say who was under a spell or not.’ Fletcher shook his head in private disgust. ‘It’s bribery and corruption. That’s what it is.’ ‘What?’ ‘The government. Oh not Arthur and the like, but those higher-up. They get gold in their right hand and grant freedom with their left!’ Fletcher lowered his voice and gazed thoughtfully into his glass. ‘I mean, what did we fight for in the end, eh?’ ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink,’ Tom said with a gentle warning. ‘I won’t fill that glass up again if you keep talking like that.’ Marlow rolled his eyes. He’d been warned before he’d arrived that the second rise and fall of a dark wizard called Voldemort was still a sore spot. Businessmen regarded the country with caution, murmuring of civil rebellion in the wizarding world. This was the first he’d seen of it, and it was hardly a stirring oration. It was a petty crook’s whine at his bar-tender. Besides from what he knew, and that wasn’t a great deal, he thought the battle had been fought by school kids in the end. Fletcher didn’t look like he’d seen a fight in decades. Bandy legged with a beer belly he could stand his pint on he was not the epitome of athletic prowess. He watched a familiar witch walk across the floor, dodging drinkers and smiling a greeting at people who called out to her. Her hair was styled into dark pink spikes and she was tucking her wand into a holder that was strapped to her forearm. She’d been helping Weasley home the night before and skulking around earlier that day. She looked like she was in her late twenties, although she could have been a youthful thirty-five. Tom glanced up from what he was doing, his face down‑cast. ‘Afternoon, Tonks.’ ‘Wotcher, Tom.’ ‘Here, have one the house.’ ‘Thanks.’ Tonks took a gulp of beer and glanced down at the objects on the bar. ‘Fletcher, you’ve got five seconds to put that merchandise away, or I’ll arrest you.’ The man did as he was told with a nod, like one businessman to another, before supping his beer again and smacking his lips in appreciation. He dug in his pocket and produced a pipe. Tonks tossed him some matches and he mumbled his thanks. ‘Something’s got you lot stirred up. What happened?’ he asked Tonks. Tonks took a gulp of her drink and sat down on the bar stool facing towards Marlow. He accepted another glass of Fenlings from one of the many waiters and slumped down on the bench, putting his feet up on the chair opposite as he listened. She probably wouldn’t recognise him, but he didn’t care to risk it so he tipped his hat down over further over his eyes. ‘I can’t say much. Someone broke in to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes last night, that’s all. They didn’t take anything except some paperwork of Bill’s. Even the cash register was left alone.’ ‘They’ve got good security,’ Fletcher murmured. ‘Petrificus, total shields and back up systems.’ He nodded like a professional appreciating good work. ‘How’d they get past it?’ ‘We don’t know, but the Muggle system went off and startled them. They probably weren’t expecting it, but of course it’s only a loud noise. By the time we were on our way he would have been making his escape. Ron knew we should get into Knockturn Alley as well and try and cut them off. We chased them into Borgin and Burkes where apparently they stole something else, although you know Borgin,’ Tonks said. ‘He probably just said that for the insurance.’ ‘They got away?’ Tom asked. ‘Ron backed them into a corner, but they used some kind of magical explosive. It temporarily blinded and deafened him while they got away over the roof tops.’ The bartender swore softly and winced in sympathy ‘Is Ron all right?’ ‘Yeah, he’s just pissed off. Moody passed what remains of the object they used onto research. We’re going to see if we can work out what it was.’ ‘And get the patents I’ll bet,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘Of course, it’s one of the government’s major sources of income,’ Tonks grinned. ‘It was pretty clever though. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ ‘I s’pose there’s no clue where this crook went?’ ‘All we know is that he didn’t Apparate away, but he’s probably still long gone. We’ve checked the Knight Bus, but we don’t have a decent description to go on. Borgin’s clammed up, apparently frightened for his life.’ Tonks frowned as she said that and looked at her drink. ‘Which is odd, come to think of it. He’s not even squealing about how innocent he is.’ ‘Maybe the bloke’s more than just a crook then, if he put Borgin in a fit like that?’ I wonder,’ Fletcher said softly, and Marlow strained to hear what the man would say. ‘I suppose not, but it could be – No. Never mind.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ the witch asked, draining her pint and letting Tom fill it up for her. ‘Well, this bloke in the cell next to mine at Azkaban, he was from Montenegro. South‑eastern Europe,’ he clarified when Tom looked confused. ‘He was talking about this criminal – this – this “Mercenary” guy. They say he’s been causing real trouble. He’s a hired crook, killer, spy – you name it!’ ‘Mercenaries are soldiers,’ Tonks said flatly, but Marlow could see that her eyes were alert and thoughtful. ‘All right, all right. Whatever. It’s just a name, like, you know, “The Cat” or something. Anyway the guy in jail was saying how nothing could stop this bloke. There were powerful people desperate to hire him. He’s left a trail of crime across half of Europe! Thefts, murders, break-ins¼ he’ll use any magic he can. Light, dark, voodoo, you name it. Never leaves any witnesses, or anyone alive. He’s merciless.’ Fletcher stopped, his eyes fierce with the intrigue of his story. ‘If he never leaves any witnesses,’ Tom said as he polished the bar, ‘how did the bloke in the cell know about it?’ Fletcher licked his lips, narrowing his eyes as he thought about it. ‘Well, rumour and the like. There’s got to be some truth in it. They say he came from the dark forests of Albania. He started off in Bulgaria where he killed seven wizards just to steal the Nithgarna Ruby. He then made his way through Hungary and up to Romania, where there’s been a spat of Dark Art object thefts. You know it, don’t you, Tonks? Remember the murders in Rome a couple of years ago? It was suspected that he was behind them. Muggles thought it was an explosion, but it was a magical curse. It killed a priest and worshipers at the church nearby. He’s struck in Berlin, Toulouse and Seville. He’s un‑catchable, and who knows where he is now?’ The bar was quiet, filled only with the sounds of people trying to listen surreptitiously to the conversation. Marlow stared at his drink, feeling nauseous, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Every muscle in his body was rigid with tension. Tom said, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘So this murdering criminal mastermind came all the way to London just to break into a joke shop did he?’ The ridiculous suggestion cut through the atmosphere and one by one the drinkers returned to their conversations, laughing and joking as before. Only Tonks seemed disturbed, and after a moment she nodded. ‘It might be true. I’d heard rumours like it. It’s more likely to be a group of people rather than just one, though. There’s too much geographical difference between the crimes, and they’re apparently aimless.’ ‘You’re actually investigating it?’ Tom asked. ‘Of course. It hasn’t happened in this country yet, but it’s only a matter of time. When he does come here, we’ll catch him, no matter how “un‑catchable” he is.’ Gradually their conversation turned to other matters, and Marlow rolled his shoulders before draining his glass. He had to get out of here. Someone knocked his feet from the chair opposite, and he spluttered on his drink as someone sat down next to him. The sharp tip of a wand dug in his bruised ribs and he tried not to wince. ‘It seems like your reputation has preceded you, Marlow,’ a blunt, male voice said. ‘Or should I be calling you “Mercenary” these days?’
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