Chapter One

"Harry? You awake?"

Harry woke to a dark, dank, cell-like room. There was a single, metal framed bed, a sink, and what looked like a chamber pot in the corner, but Harry couldn't be sure because the lighting was too dim. There were metal shackles connecting his feet together and one cuff connected to his right wrist. When he followed the chain, it led to one of the metal legs at the head of the bed. He tried to move, but instantly decided against it when pain tore through his left shoulder. He cried out, clenching his teeth even though he knew that would not stop the pain.


"Yeah?" His voice sounded from the foot of the bed on the other side.

"I hate you."

Ron harrumphed and pouted. Harry couldn't see him, but he was sure he could hear the pout when his friend said, "Hey, at least I managed to keep the bullet from hitting your heart!"

"Wasn't what I was talking about."


Harry snorted. "Yeah, 'oh'. Where are we?"

Ron's head popped up from the other side of the bed. "Absolutely no idea. They knocked me out right after you passed out." Ron tried to move closer to Harry but was stopped by the short chains keeping his hands connected to the bed. "How's your shoulder?"

Harry shrugged with his good shoulder. "Not as bad as the Cruciatus." He moaned as he looked at his shoulder. "I think I'm still bleeding. How long have we been here?"

"Eh. I don't know. At least an hour, I'm guessing."

Harry swore under his breath. He couldn't move without causing himself pain. He had to close his eyes and recite the spells he had learned since first year in order. It wasn't working. "Merlin, that smarts. Do you still have your wand?"

He heard the exasperated sigh. "I can't reach it. Do you still have yours?"

"I can't move at all." There was a sound above them. Harry tried to look through the ceiling, which he knew was impossible but still tried, through broken glasses. The fight that had landed them there was brutal on both sides. Harry and Ron had been cornered on a mission in the United States of America on a Bounty chase. Everything had been going very well, up until they had trapped, or thought they had trapped, their target in the idiot's 'safe' house. Well, it turned out that their target was not as much of an idiot as they had thought. Harry and Ron had been ambushed when they had attacked their target and had been outnumbered five to one.

And they must have been muggles because Harry had been shot and Ron had been hit over the head with a baseball bat.

Yeah, things were really looking up.


Harry snorted. Ron questioned him, and he answered, "We were bested by muggles, weren't we?"

"Uh, yeah."

"George'll never let us live this down."



Ring... Ring... Ri-

"Wotcher, Morgan."

"... What?"

"That's what the British say!"

"... Uh huh... And why-"

"Because I managed to hack into the guy's security system," Garcia replied with a triumphant grin. "And they have video cameras trained on their victims. And there has to be a microphone in there somewhere because I have sound. And they sound very British." She frowned at her screen. "I think one of them was shot..."

Reid piped up from Morgan's side. "Have you found out who they are?"

Garcia sighed sadly on her end. "No, but... Hold on." There was clicking on her side of the conversation as she typed. "This is... weird... Hang on... What the-?" There was a gasp. "How is that-"

"What's wrong?" asked Morgan.

"Skinny Guy just-" She stopped again to gasp. "He just managed to open his shackle by glaring at it!" There was an almost comical pause. "What the- Now he's holding his hand out to Carrot Top and... Now Carrot Top's hands are free? But Skinny Guy looks like he's passed out. How far are you guys?"

"We're here, now."

"Good luck."




"Harry, come on, mate. That's not funny."

More silence.

Ron hurried to spell the shackles around his ankles open with his wand he could now reach and rushed over to his best friend. He checked Harry's pulse. It was slow and faint, something he knew was probably Not Good. Gritting his teeth to stave off the impending guilt, Ron banished the shackles from Harry's ankles and forced his friend awake. "You can't sleep now, Harry. I have to get that bullet out of you. How, I don't know..."

Harry moaned in pain as Ron woke him. "Merlin, Ron, just let me die, won't you?"

The redhead chuckled. "Now come on, Harry. I know you wouldn't give up that easily. Now... How to get this out of you..." Ron waved his wand over the wound and grimaced. "I think I figured out why it's so painful. The bullet is lodged into the bone, and the bone looks cracked pretty good. Bloody hell, Harry," Ron chuckled, pulling out two phials. "In for a Knut, in for a Galleon, eh?"

"Just shut up," Harry hissed, taking the offered piece of cloth Ron handed to him. He clutched it tight between his teeth.

"I'm really sorry, Harry," Ron said before summoning the bullet.

He almost stopped when Harry's screams tore through the still, tense air, even through the cloth between his teeth. Ron stopped, though the bullet hadn't budged. "Erm... I think Hermione might have to do this."

"FBI! Freeze!" yelled a voice from upstairs. There was a commotion and Ron hastily put his wand and the two potions away. Steps thundered down the stairs just as Ron put the phials away. Two men, both as different as two people could get, appeared in front of their cell. The man who had shouted upstairs called for the lock to be cut, and another man soon came down and freed them. The first two men hurried into the cell.

"Are you alright?" asked the white, and quite lanky, younger man.

"Do I bloody look alright?" Harry nearly screamed. "Get this effing bullet out of me!"


"I don't care about the statute at the moment!" Harry growled at his friend. "I'm your boss, and I demand you get this bloody piece of metal out of me or so help me God what I did to Voldemort will look like a walk in the park when I'm done with you-"

Ron merely laughed at his frazzled friend and pulled out his wand. "Well, I'll let you explain why we need a team of Obliviators, then, boss. Now, be a good boy and-"

"What are you doing?" asked the dark skinned man. He stared at Ron as if he were insane. From his standpoint, Harry could see how the man could think that.

"You'll see," was all Ron said before waving the stick.

Harry screamed again, unprepared, as the bullet tried to come back the way it had come. It flew out of the wound and landed in a bloody heap by his shoulder. Ron then quickly shoved a phial into Harry's mouth after taking out the cloth and made him swallow the foul potion. While Harry was still spluttering he took the second phial he had had out earlier and let a few drops fall into the wound. Harry hissed and swore violently at his friend in displeasure. Before their eyes, the hole from the bullet closed. It shocked the two FBI agents speechless.

"What's taking so long down here?" called a stoic, monotone voice from the stairway. He paused at the door of the cell. "Oh. Harry? What are you doing here?"

Harry blearily looked over to the newcomer. Through his broken lenses he could see black hair and a handsome, concerned man. "Aaron? What're... What're you doing here?" he slurred back.

Aaron quickly crossed the room to kneel beside the younger man. "I was working on this case. I told you I was FBI, remember? Now... How did you get like this?"

"Hotch?" questioned the dark skinned man. "You know this guy?"

"Later," Hotch ordered. He turned his attention back to Harry. "Now, Harry, I need to know how you got into this situation. Last I knew you had a wife." He raised an eyebrow in Ron's direction.

Harry looked up at him, confused. "I had a wife, yes-"

Ron was quick to raise his own eyebrow, interrupting his friend. "What are you talking about?" He raised his left hand to show a gold band on his ring finger. "I'm married. Happily. To a woman." He looked at the doubtful look from the others. "What? Why? Harry's my best friend. What's going on?"

Hotch looked back to Harry. "The man who took you only took homosexual couples. You had to have done something-"

"Wait, wait, wait." Harry shook his head and sat up. "Are we talking about Bryan Williams?"

"Yeah, how did you-"

Harry shook his head again. "We're..." He looked over at Hotch. "They don't know, do they?" Hotch shook his head. "No? Alright, then. We're... special agents for our government, and Bounty Hunters, based from London. Bryan Williams is a wanted man in the U.K. for the murder of thirteen children. I don't... understand."

A phone rang, and the dark skinned man pulled out his phone. "Garcia? Something wrong? No... Yeah. Yes. Yes, I saw that. I don't know. Hotch apparently knows 'Skinny Guy', as you have so dubbed him." Harry protested the nickname, insisting that he was not skinny, he was just small boned, to which Ron snorted and told him to stop using Hagrid as an excuse. "And Skinny Guy says to stop using the nickname."

"That means you, too!"

"Garcia says she can't use 'Pretty Boy' because that's Reid's nickname."

Harry glanced between the men around him. His eyes landed on 'Reid'. "I'm guessing you're Pretty Boy." Harry tilted his head, as if to get a better look. The man he was looking at was tall, thin, and young compared to the other men. He actually looked his age. And, if Harry was going to be honest about it, the young man did look rather... 'pretty'. Harry grinned. "Yeah, I can see that. He is rather pretty. I wouldn't want to take away his well-earned title." He snickered at the shocked looks from the men surrounding him. Ron just snickered as well. "Well he is cute!" he proclaimed, raising his voice an octave or two. Ron laughed even harder, doubled over in mirth.

Reid spluttered at the blunt declaration. Ron snorted at his reaction and said, "You're a terrible flirt, mate. Almost as bad as Seamus, you are. Or Sirius."

A small, sad smile flittered across Harry's pale face at the reminder of his godfather. "Yeah..."

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron said earnestly. He gathered the pale hand tight in his own. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"Drop it," ordered Harry. He used Ron as leverage to stand. Hotch held out a hand to steady him. "Was Williams upstairs, Aaron?"

"He'd left by the time we got here."

When Harry swayed, Hotch made him sit on the bed. It creaked as his weight settled. There was silence for several minutes as they waited for Harry's dizzy spell to end. Ron fidgeted under their curious gazes. Usually the curious gazes were trained on Harry, but it seemed as if he was now under the scrutiny, along with Harry and the Aaron/Hotch guy watching over his friend. It was a little unnerving, but Ron could take it. He had been subjected to awed looks for several years after it had become known that he had been a big part of Voldemort's defeat. Although it still made him uneasy when people trained their gazes on his friend. Ron moved closer, laying a comforting hand over Harry's.

The others shared a look. "You sure you aren't..." asked the darker skinned guy.

"Look," said Ron, starting to get angry. "Harry and I have been friends for nearly twenty years. We've been through a lot of shit in our lives, saved each other when the other was in trouble or walking up to Death's door. I love him, but he's my brother in all but blood. I'm loyal to my wife. Do you still not believe us?"

"I'm pretty sure I didn't walk up to Death's Door," murmured Harry dryly.

Ron snorted in amusement. "No? Then you ran head first through his window. More painful, which is more to your style, eh?"

His comment was obviously an inside joke between just the two. Harry, trying to hide his smile, glared at his friend. He was not all that successful. "Ha bloody ha. Funny. Aaron, arrest this joker, would you?"

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

Hotch just shook his head at the dark skinned man. He turned to Harry. "Do you have time?"

"I need to rest, yes. I'm drained. Ron-"

Ron shoved another phial into his mouth. He chuckled as Harry spluttered and choked on the potion. "I'll contact Hermione." He patted his friend on the back before moving away, pulling out a mirror as he went.

The group tried not to eavesdrop, but they had no choice. The cell was only so large and no one else had much more to say. "Hermione," he spoke into the mirror. A smile broke out over his face after a moment. "Hey, 'Mione. Sorry I couldn't answer earlier. Williams-"

"You got caught, didn't you?" accused a tiny voice from the mirror. The two men who had found Harry and Ron first glanced at each other. Hotch didn't look bothered in the least by this fact. "Ronald Weasley! Please tell me neither of you got hurt."

"Neither of us got hurt."

"You are a terrible liar, Ron," chortled the mirror. "Though Harry's wor-"


There was a sigh from the mirror. "How'd Harry get hurt?"

"Why do you always assume it's me? That's so unfair!"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Maybe because it's always you?"

"That's not true! That one time in Paris-"

"Yeah, one time."

Harry pouted. "Fine. I was shot. Ron fixed me up. In front of Muggles."

There was silence on the other side of the mirror. "... Oh. Muggles? Harry..." Her voice took on a stern, mothering edge. "We talked about this."

"Aaron is here," chirped Harry. "Hotchner. The one I was telling you about?"

"I thought you said there were Mu-"

"There are. With us. Right now."

"... Shall I call the Obliviators?"

"They're FBI."

"... Oh. Coordinates?"

Ron shook his head. "No, no. Just meet us..." Ron turned to the group on the other side of the bed. "Where are we going?"

Hotch stood, pulling Harry up with him. "We'll go to your pla-"

"No." Harry shook his head, but then hesitated. "Well, maybe. Ron?"

"Hermione, is our place big enough us plus three-"


"Six." Ron looked back at the group. "There are three more coming?"

"There'd be seven if you can fit a computer," joked the dark skinned man.

"Ah..." Ron and Harry glanced at each other. "Computers use... electricity, right?" Hotch nodded, ignoring his teammates' confused looks. "Electricity doesn't work very well in our... tent. The wards block... Well, you'd have to ask Hermione. She's the one who grew up in and keeps up with the Muggle side of the world."

Hotch nodded again, leading Harry out of the cell by placing a hand at the small of his back. "Come on, Harry. Do you need medical attention?"

Harry rolled his shoulder and winced, but shook his head. "I'll be fine. I've had worse."

"And I hate that fact."

"You couldn't have done anything, Aaron," Harry murmured, looking away and turning away from the man. "You were here, I was in England, and neither of us knew the other even existed."

"If I had-"

"Merlin, Aaron! Are you and Ron teaming up to just bring up all the bad memories today?" Harry spat out, stomping off up the stairs.

Hotch, the two members of his team, and Ron quickly followed after him. They caught him taking off his bloodied shirt at the top of the stairs, ignoring the fact he was stripping in front of many strangers. He used the ruined shirt to clean off the rest of the blood from the left side of his chest. He tossed it aside and moved forward with purpose. Everyone moved out of his way; they could practically feel the angry energy crackling from his body. He stopped in front of the house, trying to decide what to do.

Hotch moved to stand beside the younger man. "Harry, I really am sor-"

"Ron, think I'll Splinch?"

"Shouldn't try it-"

"Think I'll Splinch?" Harry asked, a hard edge in his voice.

Hotch clutched his arm, stopping Harry. "Don't even try, Harry. You know you shouldn't try when you're injured."

Harry watched the surrounding area, feeling very lost and rather alone, even with Ron standing near him. His shoulder throbbed in tune with his heartbeat as the bone mended. He ignored it in favor of examining his surroundings. People swarmed the area, trying to figure out where Bryan Williams could have gone. He turned his attention to the men on either side of him. Hotch was to his left and Ron was to his right. He looked down at his battle scarred chest, finally realizing he was shirtless in front of strangers. Oh, yes, he could name where and when he gotten the scars, as well as who had given them to him. Many were given to him by cursed items when he was hunting dark wizards, and a few were given to him by muggles- like the gunshot wound- that were healed hastily in the field instead of by a professional. He sighed when he realized that he would have yet another scar.

There wasn't much that Harry really hated anymore. Nowadays, Slytherins weren't all that bad and, it may be his Slytherin side saying this, they could be very useful. Most of the time. Of course he had hated the Dursleys for what they had done to him and his childhood, but he had learned to live and forget about it; they didn't matter in his life any longer, despite what Aaron Hotchner might have thought. Harry had even managed to forgive Snape after watching and thinking about the memories he had left when he had died. He had named his second child after the man, after all.

The only thing Harry really hated now was the scar Voldemort had left him as a baby. It no longer pained him, but it was a harsh reminder of what had happened to him and the war he had been a part of. He also hated the scars that marred his torso. Speaking of his torso... He was still pretty skinny, and sometimes he could count his ribs if he looked close enough, like right now. He had never really gotten any taller after he had defeated Voldemort. Ron teased him frequently about his height and Mrs. Weasley and Hermione always got after him about his weight.

Harry pouted at the thought. "Let's just go."

Ron grinned and poked his side. "You were thinking about my mother, weren't you?"

"What? No!"

His grin only brightened. "You always get that pout when you think about her mother-henning!" He moaned at the thought of her food. "Now I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," said Harry, bumping his hip into Ron's thigh. His friend was at least a head taller than him, which Harry thought was rather unfair. "Give me your shirt?"

Ron sighed, pretending to be put-upon. He made no other protests as he took off his torn, blue button up shirt to give to Harry. Underneath he wore a new, clean shirt that Harry was sure Hermione had bought for him. Harry shrugged on the shirt and frowned as the fabric hung rather unflatteringly on him once it was buttoned up.

"Yeah, mate, you should stay a couple weeks at the Burrow so Mum can fatten you up," Ron teased, elbowing Harry's side. "You're too skinny."

Harry playfully glared at his friend. "It didn't help when I was there for a month each summer. Why would it help now?"

As the two British men bantered back and forth while Hotch led the two to his car, Morgan turned his attention back to the phone in his hand. "Did you catch all that, Baby Girl?"

"Of course," replied a confused Garcia. "And I looked up Ronald Weasley and nothing! He doesn't exist! There wasn't even anything in sealed files. I looked up 'Harry' since I don't think anyone ever said his last name... I think I found something, if he has green eyes and a... lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead?"

"Yeah, sounds about right," answered Morgan.

"Then he is Harry Potter, and I assume he would be thirty- almost thirty-one- by now-"


"That's what I'm getting to," she replied, frowning again at her screen. "He was born July 31, 1980, went to a local primary school- elementary school in American English terms- until the age of eleven when he just drops off the face of the Earth! His relatives didn't ever report him missing."


Garcia's frown deepened. "Yeah, he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle when his parents died in a car crash when he was about fifteen months old," she replied as her friend got into his car with Reid. Reid gave him a questioning look so Morgan put the phone on speaker. "There's... a report of abuse when he was about eight, but Social Services didn't find anything."

"You're talking about Harry, right? I bet that was what they were talking about a minute ago," Reid murmured, looking over at their boss's car. "Hotch sounded apologetic about Harry staying in England."

"There has to be more to the story than that," argued Morgan. "I mean, did you see the scars? Some of those are old."

Reid nodded. "There was one on his right hand. 'I must not tell lies,' I believe it said. He did say he was a type of bounty hunter, didn't he? That could explain most of the scars..."

Garcia made a noise of sympathy. "Poor boy..."

Morgan snorted. "I'd hardly call him a 'boy'..."

"You still call me 'Pretty Boy'," protested Reid.

"That's because you are," replied Morgan with a grin as he pulled out behind his boss. "... Pretty Boy."

Reid glared at his friend. "Just... keep your eyes on the road," he grumbled, for lack of a better comeback in his embarrassment. Morgan just chuckled and wisely did as Reid requested.

Now Morgan had more... ahem, material to tease the 'boy' with.