Police

Tom Hunt climbed the hill with annoyance. The old cemetery keeper had been calling him regularly for a month because delinquents were supposedly entering his domain. And of course, each time, he found nothing, not even a graffiti. It must be said that Tom took great care to blare his siren for long minutes before parking at the bottom of the hill.

Before moving to the city to pursue his dream (which quickly became a nightmare) of becoming a great investigator, he had spent his childhood in a village very much like Little Hangleton. He remembered perfectly that places like this were often the only ones where teenagers could find a bit of privacy for all sorts of activities. The dead make poor company, but at least they won't go and tell your mother that you spent the afternoon with the shoemaker's daughter.

In short, he had no desire to catch the intruders in the act. He would have gladly told that old drunkard to get lost, but in this godforsaken place where his superiors had exiled him, he couldn't credibly claim he had better things to do.

And to think that the foolishness that had brought him here had been motivated by the deep boredom he felt in what was supposed to be a troubled suburb. He, who dreamed of action and serving the citizens, found himself alternating between night patrols on perfectly deserted streets and random identity checks to meet his quotas of undocumented immigrants or cannabis dealers (most of the people he arrested were not dealers at all, but numbers had to be made).

It had taken him a long time to question his preconceived notions, but after a few years, he had to admit it: his work was as harmful as it was boring. The few times someone came to ask for his help, he was perfectly incapable of doing anything. In the absence of emergency housing and proof, what could he do for this battered woman? In the absence of means to investigate, what could he do against this epidemic of burglaries? What to do to prevent these gangs of youths from killing each other over drugs and terrorizing the population in the process? How to stop them from joining traffickers when the only alternative was struggling between various precarious jobs that didn't pay enough for them to afford their own housing and leave their parents? And when it is common knowledge that half the local cops regularly consume, how to explain to them that drugs are bad? And how to blame the colleagues, when you yourself start wanting to shoot yourself?

In any case, according to his superiors, it was not his role. His role was to fill the prisons with people who had no business being there so that the commissioner could present nice Excel sheets showing how efficient we were. At first, he found the use of this word ridiculous because it meant nothing, but in the end, he understood that his commissioner did not dare to call them effective.

In short, he had arrived in front of the cemetery gate and had to stop letting his mind wander. Mechanically, he pushed the iron and was surprised to find it was closed. How could teenagers have closed the gate? He took the time to look around the place.

Everything was calm. Much too calm. Contrary to what city dwellers thought, the countryside was a noisy place. There, there was no noise, not even a distant dog barking. Without being able to explain it, he got goosebumps. He took out his master key and entered the cemetery. Immediately, he began to shiver. The further he went, the colder he felt. And after a while, he noticed that the graves were covered with frost. How was that possible, it was mid-June? There was something supernatural in the air that,combined with the storm clouds that had been gathering above the city since the beginning of the afternoon, gave the place a gloomy atmosphere.

He drew his weapon, prepared for a duel, and resumed his advance with extreme concentration. His instinct screamed that this place was dangerous, but far from worrying him, it excited him.

It was to experience this kind of adrenaline rush that he had enlisted. After a few steps, he heard a groan. It was so fleeting that he wondered if he had imagined it. Then he heard another groan, weaker than the previous one.

He put his finger on the trigger. Then he pulled himself together and lowered his weapon. Whatever was happening here, it was more likely he would find innocent civilians than zombies. And he couldn't afford another mistake. His colleagues and superiors had covered for him the first time, but now, he was alone. He continued to move forward, alert, when he saw a man with a turban dragging himself in front of him, emitting faint groans in his direction. He sped up and realized that the man was leaving a trail of blood behind him. If it was indeed his, it was a miracle he was still alive.

He tried to talk to him, but he ignored him and continued to drag himself forward. He placed his hand on his shoulder to stop him. He turned around abruptly and stared at him for a long time before fainting with a final gasp. His face was fixed in an expression of pain and his eyes were bulging. He examined the man and then realized that he had just been tortured. He was missing an arm and the wound seemed to have recently been cauterized with a red-hot iron. A repugnant smell of burnt flesh still emanated from it. But above all, he saw that his hand had been cut off and the wound was still open.

He tore a piece of his clothing (which was very strange, he must have been a foreigner) and quickly made a tourniquet for him. Then he tried to call for help on his radio, but only static answered him. He cursed the junk the state provided them and then thought that given the situation, the ministry's stinginess was not to blame. He had to quickly get out of the cemetery to call for help. He ran to the entrance where, by a miracle, his radio worked. He shouted for them to send an ambulance without giving details (knowing that they wouldn't believe him anyway).

Then he returned to the man, half expecting that he had disappeared and realizing that in the end all this was just the product of his overly fertile imagination. But he was indeed there. He made sure a pulse was still present, then delved further into the labyrinth of graves.

In the section where he entered, the graves were more elaborate and the ground began to be covered with a thin icy mist. Most were richly decorated works of art that were the size of a man.Regarding the names, he understood that he was in the section reserved for the Riddles. This upstart family, which had grown rich by speculating on wheat during times of famine, was extremely famous in the region for their detestable character as well as for their end, as tragic as it was mysterious. Even he, who was not from here, knew the story.

Suddenly he had to stop himself from stumbling. His foot had just struck something hidden by a fog that was now as thick as pitch. Bending down, he discovered with horror that it was the body of a child. He searched for a long time for a pulse or any sign of life. However, he had to face the facts. At least, this one bore no wounds or signs of torture. Whatever had killed him, he must not have suffered. He made the sign of the cross, turned around, and had only a few steps to take before he saw it. In the center of a fog-free circle stood a large stone arch marked with runes with a veil floating on the whim of a nonexistent wind. At its feet, the body of another child.

He rushed towards him, praying that he wasn't dead too. He quickly realized that he was breathing. He should have left him there and waited for help, but he didn't seem to be injured. Moreover, his instinct was screaming that he had to get away from the arch at all costs. He grabbed the child and ran to the cemetery entrance without looking back.

He noted in passing that next to the arch was a satanic ritual knife, a cauldron of a supernatural black that seemed to absorb the light around it, and a partially open grave. Later, he would discover that it was that of the last of the Riddles.

Once outside the cemetery, he saw with relief the ambulance arriving, along with his colleagues.

oOoOoOo

The child slowly opened his eyes then suddenly tried to get up. He was prevented by his bonds. He said in a panic:

Where am I? Free me?

Calm down young man. You are currently at the Bristol hospital and you are safe.

What am I doing here? Where are my parents?

Then suddenly, he withdrew into silence.

I would also like to know the answer to his questions, to begin with, could you tell me your name, your age, your parents' phone number, and your address?

He replied in a sketchy manner with an emotionless voice:

Harry Potter, 11 years old, 0160894578, 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging.

Little Whinging, I don't know. Where is it located?

It's in the suburbs of London.

The investigator had plenty of questions to ask, but he didn't know where to start. He was unsettled by the child's behavior. He was used to dealing with insolent young teens, not with children who seemed on the verge of tears. He should have asked Maria to stay. Like him, she was single, but she was a woman, so she would have known how to comfort the boy, thought our inspector, who had plenty of qualities but did not escape the most common prejudices of the 90s. Finally, it was the boy who resumed:

Is the Dark Lord back?

Sorry?

No, nothing.

Did you say the Dark Lord?

Please forget what I said. Declared the boy with what seemed to be fear.

Listen, I don't know who is threatening you, but I can protect you. You must not be afraid to speak.

Protect me? The boy burst into a sinister laugh. I am the danger. My parents died to protect me, and Dudley (...) Dudley! I thought he was dead, but no, I saw him, he was alive. Where is he?

He hesitantly took out a photo of the child that the rescuers had found dead.

Is that Dudley?

Yes. Did you find him? How is he? Is he not injured?

Convinced that the boy was more a victim than guilty (and eager to gain his trust), he untied him.

I'm sorry, he is dead.

To the great dismay of the policeman, the boy began to cry softly. His first impulse was to take him in his arms, but he was not allowed to touch a minor like that. And then what would his colleagues say if they saw him acting like a sissy (Did I mention that he was a cop from the 90s? What do you mean, they're still just as stupid 20 years later?).

Pull yourself together. A man doesn't cry.

I am not a man anyway. Despite everything, the boy forced himself to stop crying.

What do you mean, you're not a man?

The clothes I was wearing, where are they?

In the bedside table, but answer my question. Who told you that you were not a man?

The kid ignored him and rummaged through his jeans until he pulled out a piece of wood, then he made a motion with it and said:

Wingardium Leviosa

To the policeman's astonishment, the empty bed in front of the boy began to levitate and then came back down. At that moment, the investigator regretted having untied theBoy.

You said you were responsible for the death of your parents and that Dudley. What are you?

The ministry has placed a kind of bug on me that alerts them if I use my powers without authorization. They will probably send agents soon to lock me up or something like that. No one will die because of me anymore.

He said that with a detached voice, but everything in his attitude betrayed fear and sadness. For the moment, he was just a broken little boy in front of him and not a demon. Finally, the inspector decided to cast his fears aside and took the boy in his arms. He said nothing, but the child began to cry bitterly.

They remained like that for a few minutes until the child's tears dried up. Tom Hunter inwardly swore to find a way to help the child.

Listen, you must tell me everything you know. I'm sure there is a solution. Tell me what happened last night?

You should leave. The ministry agents shouldn't take long to arrive. If they find you with me, you'll be in trouble. If they question you, say you know nothing.

I'm not afraid of them, kid. I'm a police officer, I know how to defend myself, and I don't intend to let them push me around. And what do you think they can do to me? They can't make me disappear without it being noticed.

On the other hand, they can erase your memory. And whatever they say, I doubt it's without effect to have your brain tampered with. You can't do anything for me.

The child turned around and stopped talking to him. After a moment, he left the room determined to find out more. And that started by getting information on the other survivor from last night. But once at the reception, he saw an elderly man dressed in a long purple robe and with a large white beard asking where Harry Potter's room was. Next to him was a man covered in scars, with a wooden leg and a green eye that looked everywhere with a threatening air. When the man looked in his direction, he froze and tried to look as neutral as possible. He pretended to take a candy from a vending machine and went back where he came from. They were there for the child and although the receptionist had told them that no Harry Potter had been admitted to the hospital, there was no doubt they would find him very soon.

Tom had the impression that the choice he had to make would determine the rest of his life. And yet, he did not hesitate for long. He finally had the opportunity to do what he had joined the police for, and he was not going to waste it. The kid did not deserve to be locked up somewhere in a secret government prison. He was going to force the kid to tell him what was going on and then find a better solution. In the meantime, he had to allow him to escape (whether he wanted to or not).

oOoOoOo

A few hours later in the parking lot of a service station.

So if I sum up, you abducted an 11-year-old child because he convinced you that government agents were going to take him to a secret prison? Asked Alastor Moody to the Muggle he had just immobilized.

Then said like that, it seems ridiculous. Tom Hunter defended himself.

Ridiculous! Why? It's exactly what any good auror would have done. However, you should have expected him to resist and be ready to knock him out. Constant vigilance!

Alastor, I admire your passion for a job well done, but currently, I think your advice is misplaced. And then I like to think that you would have behaved like him in his place. Dumbledore intervened.

Certainly not. I would never have been caught so foolishly by my pursuers. Constant vigilance. You must always have a fallback plan if an enemy finds you.

I don't doubt it, my old friend, but that doesn't say what we are going to do with him. Dumbledore replied.

Do not harm him. It's all my fault. Harry intervened for the first time.

No matter whose fault it is, the code of secrecy is clear. Snapped the old auror.

Certainly, but I need someone to watch over Little Hangleton, and unfortunately, that old Ortis has not proven very effective. If you (...)

But Mad-Eye interrupted Dumbledore:

Have you gone mad? Have you forgotten that you need to keep a low profile until the end of the trial with the Longbottoms and the Weasleys? Keep going like this and you'll be retired before me. Although it wouldn't be entirely undeserved.

Alastor, there are more important things. And once again, there is no connection between the troll I introduced into the school to guard the stone and the Halloween incident.

Keep your lies for the trial and stay in line if you don't want Malfoy to take your place. Retorted Moody.

The child, what are you going to do to him? asked Tom Hunter, interrupting the two men in their argument.

I unfortunately fear that I must inflict the worst punishment on him: take him back to his guardians and then let him endure his aunt's reprimands for skipping school. Finally, as soon as we understand what happened.passed that evening and found his cousin.

Replied the old man.

He is dead. Harry declared grimly.

How so? What happened? Asked Moody with a suspicious look.

The child recounted in a trembling voice:

I don't know. Voldemort ordered the man with the turban "kill the other" and then, I saw a green flash and he collapsed to the ground. I tried everything to revive him, but he wasn't breathing anymore. It's all my fault, I should have (...).

Harry, it's not your fault. Dumbledore interrupted him.

How can you know, you don't know what happened?

Certainly, but I have fought Voldemort often enough to know that you couldn't do anything to save him.

Harry was about to answer, but a pale-faced Moody declared:

Did you just say Voldemort?

I believe we should continue this conversation in a private place, my office for example. Dumbledore decided.

I'm not going to prison? Yet, last time Lupin told me (...) intervened Harry

Professor Lupin. And I confirm that the penalties for willfully violating the magical secrecy code can include imprisonment. But given the circumstances, I am sure that Auror Moody here will conclude that, given the presence of another wizard in the hospital, it is impossible to prove that you are the one who cast the spell that triggered the trace. Isn't that right, my friend?

Let's say I'm considering this possibility.

Then the old man made all three of them apparate, 'accidentally' letting go of Tom Hunter's arm. Tom Hunter was left alone, his mind full of questions to which he would not have answers for many years. He got into his car, which now had a full tank, and drove straight ahead without stopping, intending to disappear for a while.

Harry, for his part, had to recount in detail what had happened that night. It was painful, but at the same time, it relieved him. And he was able to ask the questions that had been haunting him since he woke up in that hospital.

Sir, why couldn't Quirrell touch him without getting burned? Had Voldemort really disappeared? What was that veil?

Calm down, Harry. He said kindly. One question at a time. To begin with, I believe your aunt told you about the protection spell resulting from your mother's sacrifice.

Harry nodded.

Was it him who protected me? Is that why he couldn't touch me?

This is indeed the most plausible hypothesis. Your mother protected you.

My mother did nothing at all. She is dead. And it's petunia my mother.

One does not preclude the other. Despite their differences, Petunia loved Lily. That's why she found it so difficult to make room for you in her home. But don't think you have to choose between your two parents. I'm convinced that Petunia loves you enough to agree to share you with her sister. And you, I think you have enough love for two mothers.

After a few minutes of silence, Harry asked:

And Voldemort. Is he going to come back?

At that moment, he seemed to age 10 years.

I fear so. But let that not diminish your victory. You have greatly weakened him. More than I thought possible. That night, you probably saved hundreds of thousands of lives.

And I condemned another one.

Harry. You are not responsible for Voldemort's actions. It is he and he alone who decided to spread death. Ah. I hear Pomfrey's footsteps in the distance. I think it is time to end this discussion. Please, don't tell her that I delayed your visit to the infirmary so we could have this little conversation. Even at my age, some things still scare me. Angry nurses are one of them.

Harry smiled at the old man with a grandfatherly appearance. Of course, he was going to tell him everything. He, too, was afraid of the school nurses.