Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or anything you can recognise from the books. The series belongs to J.K. Rowling and the people who publish the books and produce the movies.
Rating: T, for mild violence?
Summary: When Harry was about to go to Slughorn's with Dumbledore in HBP, something unforeseen happens. Now, he must tackle ancient fairy-tales and a mysterious, international organisation, before it's too late. HBP Divergence; Resourceful!Harry, (hopefully) Competent!Voldemort, non-slash.
Spoilers: For now, the first six books. DH spoilers will come later.
Notes: This story diverges between Chapter Two and Chapter Three of HBP, so assume that everything up to "Will and Won't" has already happened. This first chapter is in the same vein as the first chapter of GoF, or the first chapter of HBP, so please persevere with me. Chapter Two onwards will be Harry's POV.
Kudos to enembee, who so far helped me tonnes with this story. The opening of Chapter One is pretty much attributable to him.
Please enjoy and, if you have time, leave a review! Any response will help me reach my goal: to finish this story before DH: Part Two is released!
Harry Potter and the Tempus Tale
– CHAPTER ONE –
The Secret Vault
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-X-X-X-
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Mr. McGregor was a man of great discipline, or so he liked to think. He never succumbed to road-rage, even when the car in front of his was crawling instead of moving, he never ate popcorn by the fistful at the cinemas (unlike the nose ring-wearing hooligans these days), and he never dropped his expression of perpetual disinterest. Nothing – no surprise birthday parties, no phone calls from pregnant, teenage daughters – could faze him.
He was, in his mind's eye, a pillar of strength.
And rightly so, for such qualities were important in a job like his. Mr. McGregor was a floor manager at the eminent and world renowned Clarence Securities. Known from New York to Timbuktu, it was the world's foremost and indeed only provider of personal security vaults. Nine floors of completely impenetrable protection, housing millions of pounds worth of valuables and secrets. It made Mr. McGregor tremble with pride at the very thought of it.
As it happened, Mr. McGregor was very good at his job, despite only having been promoted to it last week. Though he had been working at Clarence Securities for the last ten years. His devotion to the firm had to be rewarded at some point. Under Mr McGregor's shrewd watch, attempted break-ins at Clarence Securities had fallen to an all-time low. Last month alone Mr McGregor caught two strange, robed men in one of the secured vaults, red-handed.
Strange, robed men had been trying to break into the firm's high-security vaults for all of last year.
"Most intruders get caught by the primary alarm system – the laser activated one – in the vestibule," explained Thompson, his supervising officer, as he handed Mr McGregor a grey, striped uniform; the uniform of a Floor Manager, Mr McGregor's new position.
"These last intruders, though, now they were a weird bunch. Skipped the primary alarm system and somehow got to the front of the vaults before we caught them. If I didn't know better, I'd swear to Jezzus n' Mary that it was like magic."
Thompson tossed Mr McGregor's old, orange Hall Monitor uniform into a collecting bin.
"1996 is turning out to be the strangest year yet," Thompson grumbled. "You'd better watch out, McGregor."
Mr McGregor did consider Thompson's words for a moment. The robed intruders were quite perturbing; when they were caught, they drew out peculiar, wooden sticks from their sleeves and yelled incoherently. Nothing would appear to happen, and the strangers would panic. At this point, people from higher up the security firm – higher than Thompson or Mr McGregor – would burst in and take the intruders.
Mr McGregor never knew or heard what happened to the strange, robed men afterwards.
But that didn't daunt Mr McGregor. Dealing with crazies was all a part of an honest day's work, his father would say. Life was too short to agonise over details; inexplicable things – finding misplaced car-keys in the fridge, tricks of light in crowded alleyways – happened to everyone. No need to raise a furore.
So Mr McGregor dismissed Thompson's concerns and continued his disciplined professionalism at Clarence Securities. For the week following his promotion to Floor Manager, Mr McGregor scrutinised the spy cameras on his floor, the Seventh Floor, and ran the patrols of the floor's vaults like a tight ship.
"The vaults must be protected at all times, priceless valuables from priceless clients are stored there," Mr McGregor murmured to himself. His rotund belly heaved as he admonished Vesta Smith, a Hall Monitor, for dawdling in front of Vault 713; the rosy-cheeked woman – a new recruit from the higher ups – was staring at the vault instead of patrolling, like she was supposed to.
Honestly, the recruits were growing more and more incompetent, by Mr McGregor's estimation. The other day, Vesta Smith picked up a potato peeler and asked if it was used to clean toilet seats, and the new Hall Monitor Sturg Puddlemere didn't know how to do basic Calculus. If the clients knew, they would pull their connections and belongings out of the firm faster than you could say "Abracadabra". Where were the competent Hall Monitors of the old days, people who could do GCSE maths and use kitchen utensils appropriately?
The world was becoming less and less familiar to Mr McGregor of Clarence Securities by the month.
Mr McGregor broached the subject to his wife on one dreary, July evening, after work. Mrs McGregor looked up from her cup of tea and frowned.
"Now that you mention it, Peter, things have been rather odd this year. 1996 is shaping up to be quite terrible," Mrs McGregor said carefully.
"What on earth do you mean, dear?"
"This infernal fog, for one. We're in the middle of summer, yet some days I have to squint when I'm driving." Mrs McGregor pointed out the kitchen window and, sure enough, an unnatural mist clung against the outdoor pane, its cold fingers obscuring the streetlight which filtered into the house.
"It's not normal, Peter, not at all. Also, didn't you hear about the Brockdale Bridge?"
When Mr McGregor shook his head, Mrs McGregor looked grim. "It collapsed, like a house of cards. Dozens of cars sank into the Wansbeck River, and many more people were seriously injured. The Masons' son is still in a coma from the accident."
"That's not even the worst part," Mrs McGregor said. "The fact is, no one has a clue what caused it. The police are blaming faulty suspension cables, but experts say that's doubtful. Scotland Yard is completely bonkers these days. They still haven't pieced together how Amelia Bones managed to get murdered in her flat."
Mrs McGregor sipped her Oolong tea. "Not to mention how I keep on seeing these peculiar, robed people scurrying around that dilapidated pub on Charing Cross Road. You'd think that they feared for their lives, by the way they were hopping about."
"These are strange times we live in, dearest. I'd keep an eye out at work, to be safe," said Mrs McGregor. Mr McGregor stared questioningly at his wife through his horn-rimmed glasses, imploring her to elaborate, but she began leafing through a faded copy of Women's Weekly. The conversation was over.
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For the rest of June, Mr McGregor heeded his wife's words and paid closer attention than usual. It turned out that this exercise in increased wariness was rather enlightening. Mr McGregor discovered that Vesta Smith always carried a strange stick, in the orange back-pockets of her uniform. After work, the thatch-haired Sturg Puddlemere would creep into a dark alleyway, when no one was looking, and seemingly disappear. The higher uppers of Clarence Securities, the mysterious ones who spirited away the strange, robed intruders, would also scurry into such alleyways after work and vanish.
The most curious discovery, however, to Mr McGregor's surprise, was that all this "freakiness" was connected to Vault the attempted break-ins in the past three months; all but three were aimed at entering Vault 713. The robed intruders targeted that vault exclusively. Moreover, Vesta Smith and Sturg Puddlemere were both Hall Monitors charged with patrolling the vaults of the seventh floor, including 713. Whenever the peculiar higher ups inspected the seventh floor, they spent hours examining Vault 713, compared to the cursory minutes spent on the other vaults.
Only Mr McGregor's great self-discipline stopped him from yelling out "Fishy Business".
Mr McGregor's suspicions were further kindled on another foggy Wednesday morning. He was pouring himself a hot cup of tea (Earl Grey, two sugars) in the employee's lounge. The morning had become even colder than usual, with that dratted, frigid mist thickening every passing minute. But when Mr McGregor had downed his cup, he heard two sets of footsteps clambering towards the lounge. Feeling suspicious, he plopped the teacup in the sink and hid behind the ugly, grey fridge.
Surely enough, a pinch-faced, pink-cheeked woman and a gaunt, limping man with straw-coloured hair, both dressed in orange uniforms, soon strode into the room. Vesta Smith and Sturg Puddlemere.
The two, strange Hall Monitors huddled surreptitiously by the water cooler. Mr McGregor strained to hear their whispered conversation.
Puddlemere's voice was hoarse and rushed, tinged with a fearful urgency: "The attacks are gettin worse and worse. We've already lost Emmeline, and now, Ollivander's gone too. Like it wasn't bad 'nuff when we lost Amelia Bones."
Mr McGregor's moustache quivered. Amelia Bones? The batty woman whose death still stumped the police? Attacks getting worse?
"Pipe it down, Podmore, someone might hear you," Smith hissed. "Mind that this is a Muggle company, staffed mainly by Muggles. One wrong word, and we're finished. Azkaban can't have knocked all the sense out of you."
Puddlemere-Podmore chuckled darkly. "Aren't you a darlin, Hestia Jones? Don't worry your pretty mug. Muggles are stupid; I doubt they have two Knuts upstairs to comprehend what we're talkin about. You must have noticed that too, after working in this prison for months."
Mr McGregor bristled at the insinuation that Clarence Securities was a prison; the firm paid generously and was a perfectly decent place to work at. But Vesta (or should he say Hestia) appeared to agree with Podmore's description.
"I hope the Order knows what they're doing, stationing us to guard that vault," Hestia grumbled. "Do we even know what's inside 713? They won't let us check. Is it even worth it?"
"The Death Eaters certainly seem to think so," said Podmore. "You-Know-Who isn't someone who would waste precious followers to retrieve somethin worthless."
Death Eaters? They must be talking about those robed intruders, Mr McGregor reasoned. And You-Know-Who was their leader. Awful name for a leader, though, most probably a pseudonym.
Hestia stretched her arms out, in boredom. "Thank Merlin for Nicolas Flamel, then, and his Anti-Spell runes, or else we'd be stewing in dragon dung."
"Flamel? I was wonderin where those runes in Vault 713 came from, the ones protectin the seventh floor, but I thought Dumbledore provided them."
"No, no, Dumbledore said they were from Flamel," said Hestia. "Although, now that you've mentioned it, it'd make more sense if they were from the Headmaster. I guess he's awfully busy these days, too little time to craft runes."
Podmore scratched his stubbled chin, considering Hestia's words. "He did disappear for a few days... before comin back with that blacken'd hand of his, on top of having to deal that sudden ICW conference last week."
"The conference must have been a pile of dragon dung, because he looked mighty peeved when he came back," Hestia said waspishly.
Mr McGregor shook his head. Runes? Headmasters? Dragon dung? The conversation was getting more and more bizarre. Mr McGregor could swear that Nicolas Flamel was a chemist... from the sixteenth century. But anyone would think that these two loonies were talking about him as though he was still alive!
"How long until this job's over, darlin?" said Podmore's voice. "I'm itching to get back into some fighting. Merlin knows I want to Reducto some Death Eater arse."
"September, I think. That's when Harry Potter returns to school, and someone else can take our shift. Who knows what will happen by then..."
The two Hall Monitors moved away to the back of the Lounge, making their voices fainter and muffled. Mr McGregor slumped from the information he had just overheard was still too immense... too outlandish to process. All he had gleaned for certain were that Vesta Smith and Sturg Puddlemere was definitely not who they claimed to be, and that it all concerned Vault 713. Vault 713 wasn't even the firm's most protected vault; like all seventh floor vaults, it was only given medium level fortification. Clarence Securities's highest grade protection, with the state-of-the-art technology, was reserved for the eighth and ninth levels.
Then what was so special about Vault 713? What was inside it?
Mr McGregor decided to investigate the truth. He first kept a greater eye on Smith and Puddlemere, ensuring they were both out of sight, before logging into the company database. Clarence Securities, being a company whoseraison d'etre was to protect the stored assets of the customers, had premium encryption system which protected the database and therefore its clients' secrets. But Mr McGregor had worked long enough under Thompson to lift the supervisor's override passwords.
Two minutes later, click. The encryption was breached, and Mr McGregor was reading the private client profile for Vault 713.
"'Vault level security. Four-point system lock, voice recognition system. Client has also instituted a custom security measure of his own choosing'," read Mr McGregor. "'Client: Albus Dumbledore. Sex: Male. Date of Birth: 28/07/25.'"
Mentally noting that Vesta (no, Hestia) had mentioned someone by the name Dumbledore earlier, Mr McGregor scrolled down the page. He clicked the link titled Access History.
The vault had been accessed only twice in the past three months. Once in May, by a "Johann Pfeiffer" and again in June by a "Svetlana Volkova". Both names sounded vaguely European to Mr McGregor. He remembered enough scraps of high school history to recall that Volkova sounded like an old Eastern bloc name, perhaps Ukrainian or Romanian. What was a Soviet woman doing perusing in an English company? The lack of Dumbledore's name in the Access History also troubled Mr McGregor. Most clients visited their vaults at least once; to not check on the vault at all after the initial deposit was very unusual. Unprecedented, almost.
Mr McGregor typed a few more codes into the computer and scrolled down the profile page.
"'Total weight of vault's contents: 60.05 kg. Non-magnetic protection was required, due to the vault contents' interference with electromagnetic statis fields'," Mr McGregor read aloud. Barely sixty kilogram, or a hundred and twelve pounds, in weight – that was much lighter than what most vaults at Clarence Securities carried. 713 mustn't contain very much, then.
"'Number of Hall Monitors assigned to Vault: 3. Vault Manager(s): D. Fenwick, J. Valjean'–"
The sound of approaching footsteps cut in. Careful to leave behind no evidence, Mr McGregor quickly logged off and turned off the computer. Thompson's small, crouched figure entered the room. Mr McGregor gave the bemused Thompson an acknowledging nod and scurried back to his office.
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The next day, Thompson had summoned the Floor Managers for a sudden meeting. Mr McGregor sat himself near the back, away from the door at which "Vesta Smith" stood; he wanted to keep his distance from her and her friend "Puddlemere" for now.
"– So that's why we're implementing another layer of encryption to the company database," said Thompson. He looked around the room. "Any questions?"
No one replied. Thompson nodded and gathered his papers.
"One more thing before we adjourn this meeting. Mike Gellar from the Sixth Floor injured himself yesterday. Slipped on some pastrami in the cafeteria and broke his ankle."
People chuckled at the disgusted exasperation that flitted in Thompson's eyes when he mentioned notoriously clumsy Mike Gellar.
"Therefore, he can't take his normal shift today," grumbled Thompson, arranging his files into a folder. "Someone else will have to go overtime tonight, go patrolling some vaults."
He gave his colleagues a pointed look. "Any takers?"
Once again, no one replied. Some even fidgeted in their seats and twiddled their thumbs, clearly reluctant to volunteer. Mr McGregor sighed. He was a man of great discipline, but also was a great rationalist. If no one volunteered for Gellar's night shift, then Thompson was going to have to do it himself and become very grouchy as a result. And a grouchy Thompson was not what Mr McGregor wanted to deal with first thing in the morning.
So, a little unenthusiastically, Mr McGregor raised his hand. "I'll take Gellar's shift, Thompson. I expect to be rewarded appropriately, though."
Thompson gave Mr McGregor a look of immense gratitude and assented, before dismissing the meeting. Through the jostle of people packing their belongings and marching out the door, Mr McGregor failed to notice "Sturg Puddlemere" and his narrowing eyes.
Later that day, Thompson called Mr McGregor to his office. The room was spacious, filled with bland paintings of bland landscapes and typical certificates from this university and that college; a stiff, grey armchair stood by an office desk covered with papers and a miniature aquarium, which contained some colourless and rather amorphous-looking fish. Thompson stood behind the desk, seemingly at home in what was a dullard's Ikea catalogue. Mr McGregor imagined it said a lot about Thompson's personality.
He motioned for Mr McGregor to sit.
"I'll try and keep this short. At eight in the evening, you'll lock up the sixth and eighth floors. I'm arranging for someone to lock up the ninth floor, but chances are, you'll have to do that too," said Thompson.
"Then, until around eleven, you'll be patrolling the seventh floor. Jezzus n' Mary, I know that's going to be tiring, but you'll have to just buckle down and bear it. After eleven, someone else will relieve you and then you can go home."
With a conciliatory expression, Thompson added: "You won't have to do this alone. I'll assign your Hall Monitors –Vesta Smith and that Puddlemere fellow – to stay behind as well. They're strange company, yes, but better than no company, right?"
"I suppose so," Mr McGregor said half-heartedly. Then, his eyes hardened like polished granite. "Seventh floor? That includes Vault 713, doesn't it?"
"Yes, but I don't see that should bother you so much, Peter," said Thompson, waving his hand. "That vault does have a nasty history, but we always caught those intruders in the end. Nothing to worry about, especially with your stellar reputation!"
How wrong Thompson turned out to be. From the very beginning, the nightshift was a disaster: an askew cog jammed the locking mechanism for the sixth floor, so Mr McGregor had to spend the first ten minutes tugging the damn thing, and then spend the next twenty minutes kicking the cog back into place. This was followed by the amazing, limping Puddlemere (no, Podmore) tripping over by Vault 859, and setting off the alarm. Only when Vesta/Hestia slunk behind a corner and did something, did the distressing blaring stop. Mr McGregor suspected it involved her peculiar, wooden stick.
"Right, now that we've had enough debacles, I'll get down to business," said Mr McGregor, throwing Podmore a withering look. "Smith, go to the fourth corridor and patrol Vaults 741 to 750. Pod-Puddlemere, you take Vaults 721 to 730. You can do that without test-driving the alarms, I hope?"
Podmore wore a blank expression, much like one of Thompson's lifeless fish. It was almost as if he did not understand parts of Mr McGregor's lingo, like the term "test-driving".
Shaking his head, Mr McGregor dismissed the two Hall Monitors with a wave of his hand. "What are you waiting for? Go!" he said, for good measure. Hestia and Podmore gave each other a strange nod, raced down the corridor, and disappeared from sight.
Mr McGregor walked back to his office, a small room wedged between Vault 737 and Vault 739. Throwing his keys on the desk, he rummaged his drawers and fished out a cigarette. Grasping a vintage lighter with the other hand, he flicked his wrist, lit the cigarette, and puffed. A comfortable sensation settled over him, like a well-worn blanket.
As he smoked, Mr McGregor wondered what his wife was doing right now. It was nearly nine, so Mrs McGregor was most likely preparing for bed. Donning her dressing gown, the one with the patterned purple peonies. Perhaps she was watching the telly with a well-loved cup of Oolong tea, like she did the other day, studying the late news updates. Because there was another freak hurricane in the West Country, she was probably frowning...
A lot of freakish incidents were happening lately. Mrs McGregor was right: these were "strange times" they lived in, there was no denying. But times like these demanded great discipline and control. Mr McGregor had to hold his cool and get to the bottom of this fishy business.
He snuffed out his cigarette and stood up. Suddenly, a peculiar, nervous feeling churned in his stomach. Mr McGregor's Danger Sense, a remnant of his marine training, spiked. Something was amiss. Something felt wrong, as if a terrible event was about to unfold.
Mr McGregor already knew where this was going to happen. Pulling a dark cloak over him, he crept to the first corridor by the stairwell and into a small crevice. The combination of the shadowy lighting and the steep bend of the stairwell meant that Mr McGregor was effectively concealed, impossible to spot unless actively searched for. And from this angle, he had a clear view of the fourth vault from the left, the giant, mysterious vault which eluded so many. Vault 713.
Mr McGregor gripped a black walkie-talkie in one hand and small, grey device in the other. One press of the grey device's red button and the police would be alerted immediately of a break-in. He wasn't going to let anything happen, if given a chance. Mr McGregor just knew a break-in attempt was about to occur, like how he knew that "Sturg Puddlemere" and "Vesta Smith" were no regular Joe and Jane. Any minute now, the suspects were going to appear, any minute now. Mr McGregor gritted his teeth.
He was not disappointed. There was a faint swish, and a tall, cloaked figure emerged from the stairwell. The figure paused for a moment, to survey the surrounding vaults, and stalked carefully towards Vault 713.
A minute later, a second, shorter figure, also cloaked, arrived. This figure, unlike the first, did not hesitate at all and dashed to its apparent companion.
"What are you doing? Wait! We were meant to neutralise Dumbledore's little lackeys first," said the second figure. It was a woman's voice. The tall, first figure ignored the female and remained silent.
It took all of Mr McGregor's discipline to resist pressing the red button at that moment. The woman and her companion reeked of intruders and thieves, but Mr McGregor first wanted to ascertain that they weren't the helpers Thompson sent to lock the ninth floor. He just needed to eavesdrop a bit more.
The woman threw off the hood of her cloak. Cropped, green hair gleamed in the low light, like washed-up seaweed; a pretty but heavily scarred face glowered at the first figure.
"Jack – Jack of Spades – stop it," said the scarred woman, putting her hand on the first figure's arm. The Jack of Spades threw off the woman.
"I don't have time to deal with Hestia Jones and Sturgis Podmore yet," the figure said. He pulled something long and thin from the confines of his cloak. "I need to do this first. Stand back, Macdonald, unless you have a death wish."
The woman – Macdonald – caught the man's hood and shook it off. The man was young, perhaps only in his twenties, compared to the woman, who was approaching her middle age. He was rather handsome too: pale skin served as a strong contrast to his dark hair; striking grey eyes flashed dangerously under long bangs.
"Get off, Macdonald. Your behaviour is very unbecoming, for a Queen of Spades," the man said. His grey eyes flashed again, this time more dangerously. The woman, to her credit, did not lower her fierce gaze. For a moment, Mr McGregor thought the two figures were going to fight, but then, Macdonald released the man's cloak and stepped back, conceding.
The Jack of Spades did not wait another moment. He waved his wooden stick at Vault 713 and muttered something under his breath. The air in the corridor grew hot, and strange sparks exploded outwards. Mr McGregor heard a strange, melodious humming, which washed over him comfortingly, like a lost, Romantic language.
After what seemed like an eternity, the man finally lowered his stick. The humming and sparks stopped, and the corridor returned to normal. The woman drew out her own stick – shorter than the man's and made of a lighter, softer wood – and cried, "Orchideous!"
It took all of Mr McGregor's famed self-discipline not to choke in shock when a garish bouquet of freesias burst out from the woman's stick.
The woman took the flowers in her other hand, waved her wooden stick again, and said, "Salvio Resnovae".
An odd, cool wave blossomed out of the stick. By now, Mr McGregor was agitatedly pressing the red button of the grey device. What he was seeing was far from ordinary; Thompson, boring old Thompson, wouldn't dare send such...monstrosities.
"Well, it appears our magic is working now. Congratulations, twerp. You've done the impossible and broke the Anti-Spell runes of one of the greatest wizards in known history," Macdonald said. She chucked the freesias at the Jack of Spades, who lazily flicked his stick.
Instantly, the bouquet of flowers vanished in mid-air.
"It helps when you're as gifted and powerful as I am," the man said. Macdonald gave him a scornful sneer, which he ignored. "Not that I doubt you could do what I just did. You too would have probably broken Flamel's runes if you had a decade or two to spare – "
"As much as your youthful flattery sends flutters in my aged heart, we have a job to finish. What you did, in your arrogant impatience, was undeniably risky. If Dumbledore's lackeys were on this floor, or if you had been a minute slower in your impertinent disregard of rules and plans, we would be dead by now."
Macdonald gave her companion a gimlet gaze. "Still, your idiocy and, I suppose, talent has saved us some time. We first need to cripple the threat that Jones and Podmore pose."
"And the prize for stating the obvious goes to Miss Mary Macdonald. Well done, I'd say," the cloaked man said breezily. He brandished his stick and muttered a few more nonsensical words. Sinister, blue glints emerged and leapt into the walls.
"Don't test me, twerp. I'm still your superior on this mission, regardless of your rune-breaking miracles," hissed Macdonald. From her stick, she viciously sent a jet of red light at the man, who idly flicked his wrist. A fat, ugly canary materialised, swallowed the beam, and exploded in a cascade of yellow feathers.
"Yet it wasn't you, but me who was tasked with infiltrating this security firm incognito," the man said. His striking grey eyes glimmered. "Do I have to brag again how it's only on my information that we're not failing this mission, like the Death Eaters have so spectacularly done before us?"
Macdonald grimaced. She bowed her head slightly, acknowledging her companion's words, albeit grudgingly. "Regardless, we still must neutralise Podmore and Jones. It'd be best not to leave any traces behind. Any ideas,Jack?"
The Jack of Spades – "Jack" – nodded. "A Compulsion Charm, with some Disillusionment and a Bedazzling Hex should do the trick. I'll do it, my Queen of Spades, if you'd like."
"Compello, Dissimulso, and Astraere. Sounds like an ambush. Knowing you, you'd Stun them once you've trapped them? You are too soft."
"We're not Death Eaters, Macdonald, no need to be heavy-handed and violent," Jack said. His grey eyes darkened. "Although some of what we do as a corporation can be considered as Dark as Death Eater raids. We collect certainobjects and hunt down people who –"
"We are not having this conversation again. What we do is completely different to the havoc those Death Eaters get up to every fortnight," snapped Macdonald, the Queen of Spades. "For one thing, the Death Eaters are just a renegade terrorist group, while we are a government-sponsored body –"
Jack snorted. "Murder is murder, whatever terms you use to sugarcoat it."
"Murder is preferable to the alternative, should we not do our job. Stop trying to play the saint. You knew what we were dealing with when you signed-up."
Mr McGregor had to take a few calming breaths. What he was hearing made his toes curl. Magic, government corporations, murderers – Mr McGregor did not knew which rabbit hole he had fallen through, but he knew it had landed him somewhere dark and terrible. This probably wasn't what Thompson was envisaging when he was offering Gellar's nightshift. Mr McGregor tightened his grip around the grey device. What was taking the police so long? Why weren't they here yet?
The Jack of Spades glared at Macdonald, and then softened. He sighed.
"You're right, Macdonald. This pot is calling the kettle black, huh? I guess I've always been a hypocrite. Anyway,Dissimulso."
There was a faint ripple, and the cloaked man melted into the background. Mr McGregor had to squint to even recall that the Jack of Spades stood there. A few low footsteps indicated that the concealed man was already moving down the hall, without his friend. Macdonald scowled, as though she were exasperated with her ally. Shaking her head, she pointed her stick at herself.
"That scummy little twerp. Astraere," she said.
And Macdonald glowed in a bedazzling, purple light, which seemed to effervesce. A second later, the light died down, and Macdonald was nowhere to be seen. However, Mr McGregor spotted a slight wrinkle on the left wall which crept resolutely down the corridor. He shook and gripped the grey device. By now, he was certain the police would have arrived – had they even received his distress call. Those intruders – those freaks – had done something to jam the honing signal. Perhaps the green-haired wench did it when she was waving her stick around, after conjuring those flowers. It was all so wrong, so wrong...
Mr McGregor froze. Two footsteps, approaching. Accompanied by whispers of a conversation. A very deep conversation, it seemed, between two people Mr McGregor trusted the least. He pressed himself more securely into his hidden crevice.
" – I'm tellin you, Hestia Jones, that Muggle is onto us. McCrealy – McGrisham – whatever his name is, he suspects somethin, I'm sure!"
Podmore's features were pinched with anxiety. His orange Hall Monitor uniform was in disarray; Mr McGregor could see a wooden stick poking out from the trousers.
His escort, Hestia Jones, rolled her eyes. "It's McGregor, Sturgis. Not McGrisham. And there's nothing to worry about; we've been careful in covering our tracks. Didn't you yourself say that Muggles are stupid and that they don't even have two Knuts upstairs to comprehend our world?"
At the mention of his name, Mr McGregor whimpered and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was starting to comprehend the world which Hestia and Podmore came from. But he'd trade it all away – and more – to be safe at home with his wife, so blissfully unaware...
"I was wrong, then. That McGregor fellow knows what we're up to. He knows, I'm sayin, he knows about Vault 713 and Dumbledore and the danger – "
"Azkaban has gotten to you, Podmore. Get a grip, you sound delusional," Hestia said disdainfully.
Podmore growled, though he did not appear to repudiate Hestia's statement.
"Are you sure Flamel's Anti-Spell runes are infallible? This corridor feels different from usual," Podmore said. "Yet it should be spelled to stop all magic, as it's always done."
Hestia's expression darkened. "Are you doubting Albus Dumbledore's words?"
"'Course not. But Hestia, the man's is gettin any younger. Haven't you heard about his sister Ariana, and what about the whole caboozle over the Mirror of Erised – "
There was a muted sound, like a small footstep toward them. Hestia instantly whipped out a strange, wooden stick from her uniform. Podmore, noticing her wariness, fished out his own stick. The two began surveying the local area. Hestia frantically pointed her stick all around her, suspicious and guarded like a wartime veteran. Her eyes widened as she leapt out of the way.
A voice shouted: "Stupefy!"
"Expelliarmus!"
Beams of red light crashed against the walls. Podmore lunged aside.
"We're being effin ambushed!" he shouted, wildly pointing his stick at the darkness. "REDUCTO!"
The bolts surrounding Vault 717 blasted outwards in a shower of metal. Mr McGregor's great self-discipline only barely stopped his scream. Trembling with fear, Mr McGregor seized the walkie-talkie and bolted to the stairwell.
"Deprimo! Reducto!"
"PROTEGO! PROTEGO TOTALUM! Hestia, what's goin on? Hestia, answer me! PUNICEA!"
Ominous, violet sparks deflected on a silvery shield. The ceiling right of Vault 719 crumpled in a burst of purple light.
"Stupefy! Confringo!"
"Protego! Podmore, I don't know! W-Where are these spells coming from? What, no! Podmore, they're Disillusioned!Homenum Revelio!"
A sapphire light streamed from Hestia's stick and struck what appeared to be the furnishings of Vault 711. Instantly, a young, grey-eyed man – the Jack of Spades – materialised. He grinned.
"Stupefy!" he yelled, shooting a red beam at the surprised Hestia. The rosy-cheeked Hall Monitor gasped, as though she was drenched in cold water, and collapsed as the beam hit her.
Meanwhile, Podmore dodged a volley of sharpened rocks. As he contorted out of the way, a sharp shard grazed his knee. He winced, but pointed his stick at the crevice between Vaults 713 and 715, the source of the Debris Spell.
"HOMENUM REVELIO!" Podmore bellowed. A blue beam shot, like an arrow, through the floating rocks and into the crevice, revealing the green-haired MacDonald.
Podmore's success was short-lived, though. As soon as Macdonald was forcibly revealed, she whispered something under her breath, and the iron bolts of Vault 714 shook terribly, before flinging off. A second later, they gleamed in a brilliant white and transfigured into long, metal chords.
The cords whipped at Podmore, who redirected them with a silvery shield, but not for long.
Two more seconds passed: an iron band wrapped around Podmore, binding him. A nonverbal Stupefy from Macdonald, and the thatch-haired man crumpled, defeated.
Fear jolting down his cold spine, Mr McGregor feverishly clutched at his walkie-talkie.
"Anyone, anyone, please help me," he whispered into the handheld. "I'm on the seventh floor and my life is in danger –"
"That was some pretty Transfiguration there, Macdonald," a male voice said. The Jack of Spades sauntered towards Macdonald, while levitating the unconscious Hestia Jones. He dropped the body near Podmore's prone form.
"You said that we'd only need to Stun them, yet I just had to duel Podmore into submission," snapped Macdonald. She grinned and bared her sharpest teeth. "Why was that? Can it be that the great Jack of Spades was wrong?"
Jack shrugged. "They were more alert than I thought. Doesn't matter, though. Your skill as the Queen of Spades was more than enough to deal with the repercussions."
He flicked his stick at the two defeated opponents. The metal ropes binding Podmore loosened and extended, before binding Hestia as well.
"I just have one more thing to do before we break into Vault 713 and take what we came for," said the Jack of Spades.
He walked slowly, but purposefully, towards the stairwell in which Mr McGregor stood. The terrified Floor Manager whispered into the walkie-talkie again and tried to dash down the stairs, but an unknown force stopped him.
The Jack of Spades stood in front of him and smiled, almost sympathetically.
"That walkie-talkie isn't going to work. My friend's spell made sure of it," he said gently. Mr McGregor looked fearfully at the younger man.
"I can't let you get away; you've seen too much. I promise this won't hurt at all. I don't like hurting people, when I can help it," the man said, ignoring Macdonald's scornful looks.
Then, with a sad smile, he pointed his stick at Mr McGregor.
"Obliviate!"
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-X-X-X-
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A/N: Thanks to the astute folks at DLP, this chapter has been edited as of 28/01/11