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Bad Time for a Good Samaritan

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Summary: Caught in the wrong place and time, Bill needs help escaping the clutches of NCIS’s premier team. Enter Harry Potter, Head of the Aurors. Not that they can tell NCIS that…

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Harry Potter > Non-BtVS/AtS Stories > Crossover: OtherMissEFR1513,1770122,53017 Dec 1117 Dec 11Yes
Notes: This was written for The Multi-Fandom Crossover Fanfiction Exchange, specifically for ilovetakahana. I didn't end up using any of their specific prompts, but the general Harry Potter/NCIS crossover. It was beta'ed by the wonderful aurilly, with many thanks. And, without further ado...

Spoilers: Post-canon for Harry Potter (ie, vague spoilers for all books) and general post-Season 5 for NCIS

Disclaimer: Don’t own or claim rights to Harry Potter or NCIS


In 1990, he was a sad, somewhat neglected, somewhat abused little boy.

In 2000, he was the still-recovering Saviour of the Wizarding World.

In 2010, he was the father of a hopeful family, uncle to a number of others, and friend to someone in need, who was far from home. And so he was on his way to the other side of the world, and, to all intents and purposes, another life.


Tony watched as the Englishman was escorted to their suspect in the interview room. Gibbs quietly entered the observation room, jaw muscles working as he scowled at the pair hugging awkwardly on the other side of the one-way glass.

“Turn it up,” Gibbs instructed. “Record it, too.”

“Boss?” Tim asked hesitantly.

“He’s not Weasley’s lawyer, and he didn’t tell us not to listen in,” Gibbs smirked.

Tim dutifully tended to the controls, and the English voices began to filter through the speakers.


“Are you all right?” the visitor, one Harry Potter from some obscure British agency, asked.

“I’m a prisoner of the US Government, Harry,” their suspect, Bill Weasley, shrugged. “Granted, it’s not Azkaban, but I’d really rather not be here.”

“They’re accusing you of murder.”

“I have a family, Harry,” Bill ground out, “children. You think I’d endanger them like that? Over a Muggle?”

Harry stiffened. “I didn’t know you felt like that,” he said, turning away slightly.

Bill rubbed his face. “You know it’s not like that. But they’re a complication none of us need. I had nothing to do with this soldier’s murder, I just found him like that. Merlin’s beard, Harry,” he hissed, leaning forward suddenly, “I tried to help him. If I’d gotten there just ten minutes earlier there wouldn’t even have been a murder investigation, and you’d be hauling me back for unauthorised magic. As it is, I’m surprised someone from the American Ministry hasn’t already turned up.”

Harry relaxed, and smiled slightly. “Nonsense. I would have given you a public dressing down, and taken you home where Fleur could, er, talk to you. As it is, they expect me to discuss the matter with you.”

Merlin, Harry, you don’t mess about, do you,” Bill grinned. “Throw me in Azkaban, why don’t you? It would be more pleasant.”

Both men laughed at that, then sobered. “The fact remains, Bill,” Harry shrugged, “that you didn’t get there ten minutes earlier, and you are up on murder charges.” He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m already pushing the bounds of what the government will allow the Ministry just by being here; anything more is going to be tough, and due to the Americans’ good graces. On a happier note, though, I’ve got Hermione heading up the research on how to get you out of here.”

“Brilliant,” Bill crowed. “Better Hermione than Ron: he’s my brother, and I love him, but…”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled, “but…” He sighed, and settled further into his chair. “I need to know what happened.”

Bill nodded. “Right. I had just apparated into the back of the alley and was heading out to the street when I found the soldier just lying there. I could tell he was dying, there was blood everywhere.” He looked away, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Haven’t seen so much blood since…”

Harry reached across, covered his hand, and squeezed slightly. “Go on,” he murmured after a moment.”

Bill took a breath. “Anyway, he was just lying there, and … all that blood, I just,” he grimaced, “I couldn’t just let him die. So I got out my wand and did what I could. But I was too late,” he added, shaking his head, “too late to save him. And, of course, they found me standing over him, and, well…”

“I need to know, Bill,” Harry frowned, “what happened to your wand?”

“I hid it, Harry,” Bill smirked. “You don’t think I wanted to be found with a wand on me, do you? That would be just brilliant! I tossed it up on the roof, the left-hand one as you look out of the alley. Hopefully it didn’t roll into the drains,” he added sourly.

“Don’t worry, Bill; I’ll fetch it and keep it safe.” With that, Harry rose. “I’ll go, get your wand, catch up with Hermione, see what else I can do to get you out of here.”

“Good luck,” Bill offered. “I mean it, Harry. Scare up all the luck you can, and get me out of here.”

“Will do,” Harry nodded, and patted his friend on the shoulder before walking to the door.


“Okay, hands up who thinks that was weird,” Tony asked, raising his hand.

Tim, wide-eyed, raised his hand also. “Do you think they honestly believe in magic, or do you think they’re talking in code?”

“Whatever they were doing, I’m pretty sure they were hiding evidence,” Gibbs scowled. “Find out what you can on this Harry Potter,” he added, storming out of the Observation Room.

“So…” Tony drawled, “what do you think, Timmie: Wands at High Noon? Ooh, do you think they could magic my car into something nice? Say, a Mercedes SL Roadster? Or a Bugatti Veyron,” he added, almost drooling, “four hundred, eighty-eight cubic inches of pure power, with a targa top.”

“Yeah, magic would have to be real,” Tim smirked, “which, as we know, it isn’t. They’re just … deluded, or, I don’t know, talking in code or something. What do you think, Ziva?” he asked, turning to the only female in their team.

“I think,” Ziva began slowly, “I think I would be careful of someone who travels with the backing of the British Prime Minister. He must be an important person to be able to do what he’s done so far.”


Gibbs strode into Autopsy, carrying his habitual cup of coffee. “Talk to me, Ducky,” he ordered.

Ducky looked up from the cadaver he was investigating. “I don’t know what you expect me to be able to tell you, Jethro. I have only just started on my autopsy of this unfortunate young fellow.”

Gibbs frowned, and chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “Can you tell if he started to heal just before he died?”

Ducky blinked, and straightened as he thought about the request. “I did notice less damage than I expected,” he offered. “Not enough to save his life, but, well, it did almost look like his body was trying to heal itself. Very unusual once a person gets to this state. It reminds me of –”

“What do you know of magic?” Gibbs interrupted.

“Magic?” Ducky demanded, half-smiling.

“The guy we picked up just had a chat with someone from England, sent here on the Prime Minister’s say so, and they were talking about magic,” Gibbs explained, frowning.

“They weren’t talking in code?” Ducky asked thoughtfully.

“Maybe you should listen to the conversation,” Gibbs shrugged. “It was … interesting. If they’re using code, then it’s a pretty thorough one; I’ve got McGee looking up some of the words they used.”

“Very well then,” Ducky nodded. “Once I’ve finished with this poor gentleman, I’ll come up and listen to the tape.”


“May I come in?” a stranger’s voice, English by accent, asked.

Ducky looked up to see a small, slender, dark-haired man standing in the doorway. “This is a restricted area,” he frowned.

“Er, yes,” the stranger nodded, then waved to the agent standing nearby. “I have my escort, but I was assured by your Director that I was able to talk to you. I’m Harry Potter,” he added, stepping forward with his hand outstretched.

“Well, I guess a welcome is in order, Mr Potter,” Ducky smiled. “I am Dr Mallard, Ducky if you will. I, uh, can’t shake your hand,” he added, showing his gloved hands, “but if the Director says you may, please come in.”

Ducky noted the agent follow Mr Potter in to Autopsy and stand against the wall. “How may I help you then, Mr Potter.”

“Please, call me Harry.” The dark-haired man smiled. “Enough people call me Mr Potter, and I start looking around for my professors.”

“Harry, then, and you must call me Ducky. So how may I help you?” Ducky repeated.

“Oh, right. I was wondering if you could tell me how this soldier died,” Harry offered.

“Well, this Marine died of a stab wound.” Ducky pointed to the wound. “Very neat work, actually; a slim, double-edged blade, which should make it easier to narrow down, since that kind of blade is unusual. Whoever did it is well versed in human physiology, as he came in under the sternum and angled it perfectly,” he added, demonstrating.

Harry nodded thoughtfully then frowned. “Um, you said Marine? Does that mean something? I don’t really know anything about the army,” he added, off-handed.

“Soldiers are in the army, my boy,” Ducky smiled. “This gentleman was in the United Stated Marine Corps, quite different. Never call a Marine an Army man, and especially never say something like that in front of Agent Gibbs.”

Harry could feel himself blushing over that little faux pas. “He’s another of these Marines?”

“He is,” Ducky nodded, grinning.

“Good to know,” Harry decided ruefully. He sighed, looking at the Marine. “Bill said there was a lot of blood.”

“There would have been,” Ducky nodded. “If the assailant had left the knife in the wound, he would have bled into the chest cavity. With the knife removed, he bled out.”

Harry nodded sadly. “I would have thought we’d had enough blood for a life time,” he murmured then shook himself. He nodded his thanks, and left Autopsy and a thoughtful Medical Examiner in his wake.


Ducky rounded Ziva’s desk to enter the bull-pen, and stopped in front of Gibbs’ desk. “I think I met your suspect’s friend today,” he mused.

“Yeah?” Gibbs grunted.

“Rather short, maybe five foot six? Dark hair and green eyes?” Duck suggested. When Gibbs nodded, he went on. “He said he had no experience with the army, got confused as to which division our victim was in,” he added with a grimace, “but he then said he thought they’d had enough blood for a lifetime.”

Gibbs frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. He say anything else?”

“He wasn’t especially concerned to see a dead body,” Ducky noted, “and was curious about the fatal wound. Since the Director appeared to have authorised him, I discussed it. Anyway, you wanted me to watch something?”

“Sure,” Gibbs nodded, and instructed Tim to set it up then turned to Tony. “You got anything on those words they used?”

“Not a thing, boss,” Tony shook his head. “I got a lot of other stuff, like ‘apparent’ for ‘apparate’, ‘muddle’ for ‘Muggle’. Of course, I could be totally misspelling things. How you’re supposed to spell ‘Azkaban’, I have no idea, but it could be somewhere amongst all the ‘stans, or something.”

“Ziva,” Gibbs turned to her, “my office, now.”

Startled, the three other men in the bull-pen watched as Gibbs led her away. “What do you think that’s about?” Tim frowned.

“No idea, McGee,” Tony shrugged, “and I’m thinking we should probably not ask too closely.”


“You’re holding out on me,” Gibbs scowled at Ziva.

“I am not holding out on you,” Ziva denied. “I don’t actually know anything about this, I swear.”

“But you know something about something, enough to give me a guess,” Gibbs clarified.

Ziva sighed. “I know … I know the name ‘Harry Potter,’” she admitted. “I know he’s very important in some part of British society, but I don’t know what. And I have heard that there are some people who use wands. For magic,” she added nervously.

“You believe in magic?” Gibbs asked, watching her closely.

Ziva shook her head. “I don’t believe in magic … as such. I believe there may be something out there that I don’t understand, you know, aside from Tony.” She noted, with pleasure, that that comment was enough to garner a lightning-quick smirk from her boss. “I just think that … maybe there’s something to these people.”

“So did you manage to follow Mr Potter?” Gibbs asked.

“I did,” Ziva nodded. “However, once he was in the alley things …” she shifted nervously. “I saw him go into the alley, and I saw him come out of the alley, straightening his sleeves, and I was able to look directly into the alley when he wasn’t there but not while he was there. I … I can’t explain it,” she finished.

“So he probably has this ‘wand’ Weasley was talking about?” Gibbs asked.

“Probably,” Ziva nodded.

Gibbs hit the stop button, and the elevator began to move again. “See what you can get from your contacts.”


“Well?” Gibbs demanded peremptorily.

Ducky leaned back in his chair, and considered the conversation he’d viewed. “Well, obviously they’re friends. The hug surprised no one, and their conversation showed a familiarity of at least close colleagues. I would suggest this ‘Azkaban’ is a prison or something similar. Mr Weasley referred to himself as being a prisoner in reference to it, so it follows that prisoners are held at that place. I’m not sure what a ‘Muggle’ is, but it is most likely to be someone not of their society, whatever that is. It almost seems like they are a subculture of British society, though what exactly that means in a practical sense I can’t say.

“They believe in magic,” Ducky noted, frowning. “Absolutely believe in it,” he clarified. “They use Merlin as a swear word – Merlin’s beard, for example – and they refer to unauthorised magic and wands. Also, there is an American Ministry, presumably for magic and/or magic users, since Mr Weasley was concerned about being punished for unauthorised magic. Extrapolating from there, magic either shouldn’t be performed by foreigners, or by unlicensed persons, or some combination of the two. Perhaps one needs a visa to perform magic in a foreign country?” he mused, smiling slightly.

Gibbs snorted. “‘Are you here for business, pleasure or magic?’”

Ducky chuckled. “Quite.” He frowned, then. “I believe that there may have been some … problems in their subculture, a war of some kind, maybe, since both men seem to have seen a great deal of bloodshed in the past. Where that might have been, I have no idea, but these are not ordinary civilians we’re dealing with.”

“Okay, thanks Ducky,” Gibbs sighed. Maybe it was time to go back to the scene again.


The new morning brought a distinct, if unwelcome, change. Director Vance had summoned Gibbs to his office, and when he entered, both Potter and Weasley were there, along with a stranger in a nice suit.

“You called?” Gibbs greeted.

“Sit,” Vance instructed. “You already know Mr Potter and Mr Weasley; I would like to introduce Mr Valden of the American Ministry. Which Ministry this is, I have no idea, because no one will tell me, but I have been assured that he has full clearance to be here, and to order the release of Mr Weasley,” he grumbled.

Gibbs scowled at the stranger, who was sitting quite calmly in his seat. “That so? What? They have diplomatic immunity?” he demanded.

Mr Valden sat up, and straightened his jacket. “Actually, Mr Potter does have a form of diplomatic immunity due to his position, but we have evidence that Mr Weasley did not commit the murder, and have given Messrs Potter and Weasley authorisation to show you what they can, which we hope will help you with your case. Of course,” he added, eyeing the two Brits, “they only have a limited time to do so, as they will be returning home very soon. Oh, and you are the only person who may be present when they ‘help’.”

“Just me, no one else?” Gibbs asked.

“Just you,” Mr Valden nodded. “Not even Ms David, who followed Mr Potter yesterday,” he added, smirking.

Gibbs noted curiously that Potter looked surprised by that. “Fine,” he grunted. “Well, let’s get to it,” he urged the two men, rising.

He took the two men past the bull-pen on their way to the elevator, advising his team that he was going out, and ignoring their speculative glances. They continued in silence until they got to his car and were driving. “So,” Gibbs began, “you going to tell me this is all about magic?”

Startled, Harry and Bill exchanged glances. “Why do you ask that?” Harry asked.

“We heard you in the interrogation room,” Gibbs explained smugly. “You were talking about magic, and Muggles, and other stuff.”

“Bugger,” Bill bit out.

Harry frowned then sighed. “Yes, it’s about magic. Bill and I are wizards, but our society is very secretive. In fact, there’s a Statute of Secrecy, which is why you’re the only one allowed to witness what we’re going to do. There are spells to remove memories, but you and your team are too alert and strong-willed for that to be an easy option. So the American Ministry granted a waiver for you to be informed and allowed to witness a bit of magic.”

“So what are you?” Gibbs asked.

“I’m the Head of the Aurors,” Harry explained. “Kind of like your police? We monitor and police unauthorised magic, magical crimes, that sort of thing.”

“And Weasley?” Gibbs went on.

Bill smirked; married he may be, but he didn’t look quite as suburban as most of his family. “I work at the bank.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “He mainly works at the head office, but he does the occasional curse breaking, which is why he was here in the first place. All things being equal, he’ll do that once we’re done here.”

“So what are you going to do?” Gibbs asked.

“Find your murder weapon, if we can,” Harry smiled.


Gibbs stalked back into the bull-pen coffee in one hand, evidence bag in the other. After everything that had happened, the knife had been found wedged under the wheel of a dumpster. Something his own people could have found, if they’d looked just a little harder. He dropped the bag on Tony’s desk with instructions to get it to Abby. As it was, it had taken all of ten seconds of what he took to be Latin from Potter, a flash, and a bit of grunt-work from Weasely. The perp must have simply tossed it as soon as he’d pulled it out of the Marine. Weasley had really just been a good Samaritan taken the wrong way. And now he knew about magic, but was forbidden to tell anyone. Not that he wanted to: he knew just how that would be taken.

He scowled at his monitor, and tried to figure out how to write his little excursion up in a way that didn’t involve magic. A walk-through of the scene, and a lucky glimpse of something wedged where it shouldn’t be: that would have to do. He sighed, and set to work. With any luck he’d never have to deal with anything like this again.

The End

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