Keeper, Beater, Seeker, Spy
Chapter One
Harry Potter was studying an ancient text on Divination. That might be thought unusual for a man who was a noted authority on Defence Against the Dark Arts. Indeed, he was both editor of and contributor to the standard OWL and NEWT textbooks on the latter subject. But someone whose whole life had been shaped by a Prophecy could be excused for taking, in his twilight years, an interest in the art – even a wizard could not call it a science – of prognostication.
Besides, he had time on his hands now he'd been retired. Even a man with three grown children and a football teams'-worth of grandchildren and assorted great-nieces and -nephews ends up spending a lot of his retirement alone. Especially when the chair on the opposite side of the hearth is conspicuously empty.
A stroll down to the shops, with a cup of tea at the little café or a pint at the pub. Chatting with the neighbours he'd lived among for so long – who was going where on holiday, who'd been promoted, who'd been made redundant or retired, divorces, marriages, births, deaths. It all went in one ear and trickled out of the other. Only enough retained to convey an air of polite interest.
The bright punctuation of Sunday lunches at his childrens' homes, noisy family holidays in August. Christmas at the Burrow. Poor Arthur five years gone, but Molly still the absolute matriarch of the clan that gathered there. Ginny conspicuous by her absence and never spoken of.
But in between, grey quiet days. Simple meals cooked out of need rather than for enjoyment. A few flicks of the wand all that was needed to keep the cottage clean. Harry lived at Godrics' Hollow now. Grimmauld Place long sold and Kreacher, despite his tearful protests, sent off into retirement. Money was not a problem, never had been. He made Ginny a suitable allowance, knowing that, despite her eager generosity in some areas, she knew how to hold household. His own needs were simple to the point of frugality; his only indulgences were his books, presents for the kids and tickets to the occasional Quidditch match.
Harry had become a scholar. Not a brilliant one, but a steady, careful one. No longer welcome at the Ministry, his opinions were still sought by the Wizengamot on several matters. He was a welcome guest lecturer at almost all the Schools of Magic – from the august and ancient College of Karnak to the almost aggressively modern Randolph Carter School. He'd even published several works to moderate critical approval.
So it was that this cold, wet, dark October evening found him poring over an 18th-Century translation of an ancient Greek text dealing with the Delphic Oracle. The knock on the door was so quiet that at first he thought he'd imagined it. A second, firmer knock put him on alert. There were wards and spells around the cottage which meant that nobody could come further than the front gate without him being alerted. In order to get to the front door, the knocker must be a wizard of equal skill to Harry, or greater. On the other hand, if somebody meant him harm, why knock at all?
Still, he took his wand with him as he went to answer it. A group of four men, dry despite the rain, huddled under the porch light. Standing in front was a tall, well-built fellow, older than Harry, with thick silver hair. Slightly behind him was another, equally tall, but slender; coldly handsome with thinning fair hair. Behind them both was a small, wiry fellow with mousy brown hair shot with grey, while next to him was a husky young man with fair hair. Harry knew three of them at once. "You'd better come in." He said. "I'll put the kettle on."
Making tea was always a quick process for a wizard, so there was very little delay in getting down to business.
"So," Harry said, "Oliver, Draco, Dennis and I'm afraid I don't know you, young fellow."
"Marcus Finch-Fletchley, sir." The young man replied deferentially.
"Marcus…" Harry blinked. "Ah! Justins' grandson, yes? You'd not long joined the Aurors when I…."
"When they fired you, sir." Marcus responded angrily.
"Enough, Marcus." Dennis Creevey said quietly. "We're not here to rake up the past."
"Aren't you?" Harry asked. "I can't imagine why the Secretary to the Wizengamot, the Director of WAND and the Head of the Auror Department would want to come and see me since my, er, career change. Unless it was about the past."
Oliver Wood shook his head. "The past will have a bearing, Harry, it always does. But something is happening right now. In the Ministry. Something bad. You know what my job is, right?"
Harry nodded. "You work for the Wizengamot. Specifically, you're in charge of Ministry oversight. The post was created after the War, because there'd been no real check on what the Ministry did."
"Exactly." Oliver agreed. "The thinking was that if there'd been proper oversight, Fudge, Scrimgeour and Thicknesse wouldn't have been able to get away with so much, so easily. So the Wizengamot created an Oversight Committee with a Secretary who keeps an eye on things for them."
"You forgot to mention that the White Council told the Wizengamot that if they didn't put their house in order themselves, it would be done for them." Draco Malfoy said dryly.
"Quite." Oliver shot Draco an annoyed look. "Regardless of why, I've been keeping an eye on Ministry activities for some time now. There've been trends I didn't like. The cutbacks in the Auror Branch in favour of more Whitelighters, for instance. A shift toward surveillance rather than arrest of people practising Dark magic, unless they actually commit an offence. There've always been apparently sensible policy reasons for the changes. Nothing I could persuade the Committee to take action on.
"Then there was Draupnir, of course, and the Jormungand Group."
"Oh, Merlin, yes, I remember that!" Harry interposed. "That was Percy Weasleys' big thing. The wonderful source that was giving us all that intel. He pushed it and pushed it to Kingsley, but Kingsley refused to put all his eggs in one basket. I suppose now Percy is Minister, he's got his way."
"That's right." Oliver averred. "Draupnir is now pretty much the only source the Ministry uses, and the Jormungand Group are the only conduit to it. It gives them a lot more power than they really should have."
"OK, fine." Harry said. "Percy's an idiot, I'll admit that, even if he is family. But that still doesn't tell me why you're here?"
It was Dennis who replied. "That's sort of down to me, Harry. Look, the Aurors have been downgraded. We're not supposed to launch any operations without Ministerial approval, and they always set their Whitelighters to watch us. But I run the department on the basis of what you would do in my place.
"So I developed my own sources, on the QT, and I got a bite this summer. There was a potential defector from some Dark magic organisation. They were looking for help, specifically from Britain. They wanted to meet up in Paris, so I sent Marcus.
"Tell them what happened, Marc."
"It was a Russian witch called Irina." Marcus told Harry. "She's married to one Igor Trubensky, who is supposedly an expert on international trade for the Russian Ministry. They were in Paris ostensibly to negotiate a trade deal.
"But although the trade deal was genuine, Trubensky was actually there to sit down with local wizard supremacist leaders. Irina Trubenskya was brought up as a wizard supremacist, but she changed her thinking ages ago. The idea that WS groups were joining up across borders was too much for her, so she reached out to us.
"I managed to set up a couple of meetings with her. Enough to obtain two very important pieces of information. One, that the group her husband is working for is the Black Council…"
"Isn't the Black Council supposed to be a myth?" Harry interrupted.
"Yes," Draco told him, "just like the Scholomance."
"Point taken." Harry allowed with a wry grin. "What else, Marcus?"
"The kicker." The young man replied grimly. "Irina told me that there is, and has been for a long time, a deep cover agent for the Black Council working in the Ministry, at a high level!"
"A mole?" Harry raised his eyebrows. "Is she sure?"
"Mole?" Oliver asked, puzzled.
"Muggle term for a long-term deep-cover spy." Draco explained.
"She was convinced." Marcus said. "Said she could get me evidence. I reported back to Mr Creevey straight away."
"And I made a mistake." Dennis said dourly. "I went straight to see the Minister. He told me to keep Marc working on Irina and prepare to bring them both in. Then two days later I got a crash call from Ernie Macmillan that Irina had been blown and to pull Marc out."
"I was watching Irina at the time." Marcus said. "I still wasn't fully convinced that she'd turned, you see. But I saw them grab her. Not Whitelighters, because they Apparated in and out. But somebody was on to me, as well, and I had to go dark.
"Given what Irina had told me, I thought I'd best steer clear of Ministry contacts, so I made for UNIT HQ in Paris. The UNIT wizards there thought the quickest and best way to get me out of France was to slip me onto a SHIELD heli-carrier that had been there for an exercise. Once I got back to the US, SHIELD passed me on to WAND and Director Malfoy debriefed me and brought me back here."
"I immediately contacted Creevey," Draco supplied, "he spoke with Wood, and here we are!"
"To do what, exactly?" Harry asked. "I understand there's a problem, but why tell me? D'you think I might know who this mole is?"
"Come on, Harry!" Wood admonished him. "You're still as quick on the uptake as you ever were. You know perfectly well why we're here!"
Harry looked at him. "You need a Seeker. Again." He said.
"And you're still the best, Harry." Draco reminded him.
"Look," Oliver said, "I could ask for a full audit, but if the mole is as high-up as we think he is, he'll be able to cover his tracks, or at least shift the blame. The White Council can't do anything because it's an internal matter. I could ask WAND, but…"
"But even if we tried to be discreet," Draco put in, "we would have to inform someone, and we don't know who it would be safe to tell, if anyone. Mrs Trubenskyas' intel was not specific enough to name an individual, but it was sufficient to place all the top people at the Ministry under suspicion."
"Who exactly are we talking about?" Harry asked. "I've not been keeping track. I know Percy is still Minister, of course. He's also still full of himself and still a prat. I see him at family gatherings, and he's always polite, but a little distant. Politics, I used to think, but with what I've just heard…."
"Well, there's Jeremiah Fudge." Oliver said. "He's Foreign Affairs. Cornelius Fudges' son, you know. He's trying to recoup the familys' reputation. He's as vain as his father, but much brighter.
"Then there's Dean Thomas -you remember Dean?"
"He was in my year at school." Harry recalled. "We were in the same dorm. He went through the War with us, and he joined the Aurors when he left school. He dated Ginny at school, and they had an affair later."
"Yes." Oliver hesitated a moment, embarrassed, then carried on. "Dean's now Head of Magical Enforcement, that puts him in charge of the Aurors and the Whitelighters. As I said, he's been downgrading the Auror Branch, but the Whitelighters are still going strong.
"Which brings us to our final suspect – Ernest Macmillan, Head of Whitelighters. Clever, hardworking but unimaginative and by-the-book."
"And your suspects are effectively the Jormungand Group." Harry noted.
"Except for Ernest." Oliver said. "We think he arranges the meetings and runs messages, but he's not actually privy to any of the raw intel."
"You will have noticed," Draco added, "that they are also the group – with the exception of Macmillan – who were campaigning for the removal of Kingsley Shacklebolt for some years."
"Oh, yes, I noticed!" Harry said. He raised his voice a little in imitation of Percy Weasleys' strident tenor. "Minister Shacklebolt is pleased to call his methods 'proactive'. I call them heavy-handed and divisive. He calls the habit of sharing everything to do with our world with muggle agencies 'co-operation'. I call it dangerous and careless. We must adjust our thinking to new circumstances. A more measured approach is required nowadays. There is no longer a war on, but Minister Shacklebolt is trapped in a wartime mentality. We also do not need external interference to manage our own affairs."
"Because we've been making such a good job of it for the last three hundred years." Draco added sourly.
"We've managed." Oliver said.
"Managed to stagnate!" Draco growled. "I'm a Pureblood, Oliver. A scion of one of the oldest, purest and most bloody-minded families in our world. But I've spent years working with Muggles. I have a unique perspective on this.
"While we were quarrelling over how many generations it takes to make a Pureblood out of a Half-blood and whether or not a Muggle-born can ever really be a wizard, Muggles were exploring the entire world. While we were safeguarding medieval traditions and 'the wizard way of doing things', Muggle science and technology were advancing in leaps and bounds.
"We got left behind, Oliver. Harry and Kingsley brought in a breath of fresh air. When Harry first came into his heritage, all we had was wizard wireless. Now we have Wizard Vision and the World-Wide Wizard Web. New-generation scrying equipment can do everything a Muggle computer can do. And we were contributing to the world, not just sitting apart and sneering!"
"But Minister Weasley and his clique want to close all those doors. Pull us back into the century before last, if they can. That can't happen. Our world is finally moving forward rather than looking backward, and we need to keep it that way."
Harry looked with some surprise at his old schoolboy rival. Draco had dropped his usual drawl and slightly archaic, careful phraseology. He had spoken with real, if controlled, passion.
"I seem to have corrupted you, Draco." He remarked.
"Don't take all the credit, Harry." Draco replied. "Astoria has a lot to do with it as well."
"Never mind." Oliver interrupted. "Harry, we need you. We need the skills you've developed since you left the Ministry. We need your detective skills. You're also still one of the most respected and feared wizards around. And you're not part of what's going on.
"We want you to find this…mole…for us. Who he is, who he's working for and how much damage he's done!"
"We're not even sure who he works for?" Harry asked.
"We can't be." Oliver admitted. "Look, the Draupnir intel puts almost everything down to the Thule Society, right? But we only have that intel to tell us that Thule is still active. Grindelwald and Kroenen were the leaders of Thule, and they're both dead. BPRD agents killed Kroenen years ago before the Bureau became part of WAND, and Voldemort killed Grindelwald in prison in 1998. If the Society is still active, we don't know who runs it.
"There are still Death Eaters out there, and some of them occasionally show up – usually random attacks on Muggles. But they don't seem to be organised, and with both Voldemort and his daughter dead, they don't have anyone to rally around."
"My half-brother Regius would be their natural leader," Draco put in, "but unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – he is several witches short of a coven."
"Quite." Oliver said. "But now we have the information Dennis and Marcus have brought in. The Black Council. But we don't know if it's accurate or where such a body would spring from."
"We can speculate." Draco pointed out. "And that with some degree of assurance. When SHIELD finally attacked HYDRAs' HQ and the Red Skull was arrested, we of course could not get everyone. That included many wizard HYDRA agents. I killed Piet van Roek, but Cormac McLaggen escaped and has since dropped off the grid.
"Other HYDRA wizards followed their Muggle colleagues into the smaller criminal or terrorist groups HYDRA has since fragmented into. Some also joined SPECTRE and AIM. But others are, as the saying goes 'in the wind'. Now, they may have joined a resurgent Thule Society, or gone on to form a wholly new body.
"When we add the fact that Justin DuMorne, who you will recall was arrested when you destroyed the Scholomance, escaped from a White Council Maximum Security prison less than a year after his incarceration, and has since vanished, matters become more serious. DuMorne was aided in his escape, and only two wizards would be capable of such a feat. Clearly Dr Strange was not involved, so that leaves Baron Mordo, who was still at large at that point, but has since been imprisoned by Dormammu.
"DuMorne would have no inclination to join the Thule Society, which he would doubtless regard as parochial in its aims. But we cannot safely assume that he would remain inactive for so long a time. If this Black Council exists, it is likely that he will be a key figure in it, if not the leader."
"That's slightly beside the point, Draco." Oliver reminded him. "We can find out who this 'mole' is working for once we find out who he is.
"Harry, we need you to do this, and it needs to be done absolutely secretly. Will you help us?"
Harry sighed. "My problem is," he observed, "that too many people know how to push my buttons! You know I'll help. The problem is how! I'm being watched, you know. Oh, they're very discreet and non-intrusive, but they know and I know that I can spot a Whitelighter a mile off!"
"Now, Harry," Draco drawled, "you can't tell me you don't have contingencies. You trained me, remember?"
"OK, yes." Harry allowed. "I have documents and bank accounts in the name of Emrys Utterson. I can apparate, floo or portkey as I choose, but they've put a trace on my Whitelighter skills, so I can't Orb without them knowing where I've gone. But if I vanish from here, or go too far off my normal route, they'll notice."
"That I can help with." Draco stated. "WAND Unspeakables have finally come up with a wizard version of the SHIELD Life Model Decoy. We call it a Homunculus and it can be programmed to follow your normal behaviour pattern and to pass as you for a while. It can even do everyday magic. I can have one here by tomorrow.
"I can also give you use of a SHIELD safe-house in London and some off-the-books help. Shall we begin?"
Tyler Broughton had been drawn to the greenhouses ever since he had first arrived at Hogwarts a few weeks ago. So tonight, he had naturally gravitated toward them. He knew some of the older students, especially the Prefects, were unhappy with his evening walks, often reminding him to be back in time for lights-out. But the noisy cheerfulness of the Gryffindor Common Room, with its endless chatter about Quidditch, was oppressive for a naturally quiet boy. So, homework done, he would put on his cloak and go outside for a while. Even cold, misty nights like this were a relief and a refuge.
Still, being inside was better than out, so the door left ajar had been a temptation he couldn't resist. He wandered among the plants. Examining them, inhaling the mixed fragrances, reading the labels and wondering when he might get to study them.
"Well, young Broughton, what are you doing here?"
The voice made him jump out of his skin. The more so because he hadn't heard anyone approach. He turned quickly, too quickly and almost fell over his own feet. The tall figure reached out to gently steady him.
"Did I leave that door open again?" He asked. "Forget my own head, next! Breathe, lad! No harm done."
"S-s-sorry, Professor!" Tyler managed to squeak.
Neville Longbottom, Professor of Herbology, was a tall man who walked with a pronounced limp. Two fingers were missing from his left hand. His face was gaunt, with the appearance of having shrunk from a much fuller shape, and disfigured by a long, puckered scar that ran along the left side, pulling the corner of that eye down. A scar that didn't seem to bother the Pureblood and half-blood students, but did render the man a little scary at first for the Newbloods.
"Nothing to be sorry about!" He told Tyler. "I was careless, true. But you were just curious, as a lad of your age ought to be.
"But why were you outside on a filthy night like this, instead of snug in your Common room with your friends?"
"Don't have any friends." Tyler mumbled.
"Are you getting bullied?" Neville asked sharply.
"Oh, no!" Tyler said at once. "Well, some of the Slytherins – but they do it to all the Gryffindors, and we get them back, anyway.
"I mean, some of them take the piss a bit, but I'm used to that. I've always been clumsy, and sometimes the magic gets a bit out of hand…."
"Wait a minute!" Neville said. "Broughton, Broughton….You're the lad whose feather got stuck to the ceiling in Charms, right? And the one who turned the frog into a miniature velociraptor instead of a hedgehog?"
"I couldn't stop thinking about Jurassic Park." Tyler explained. "My parents love that film."
Neville laughed. "I heard some of the other kids talking about that!" He said. "They said it was the coolest thing they'd ever seen!"
"Professor Potter said the same." Tyler confided. "'Very cool but wrong species', he said. But it escaped and I don't think they've caught it yet."
"It'll help keep the mice down." Neville told him. "But look, Tyler, it is Tyler, isn't it? Tyler, it takes time to settle down and make friends, so don't worry too much."
Tyler shook his head. "Not for me. I got put into the wrong House. I told the Hat Hufflepuff, but it just laughed and said Gryffindor. But I'll never be a Quidditch player, or an Auror, or any of the things Gryffindors are supposed to be!"
"You mean like Herbology Professors?" Neville asked. "Oh, yes, I'm a Gryffindor, too! Just like you. I even wanted to be a Hufflepuff when I first arrived. Only difference is that your magic is too powerful while mine was hardly there for a long while.
"So yes, I felt wrong at first, and thought I'd never have any friends. But now I've got lots of friends. Some of the best friends a man can have."
"Give it time, Tyler. Relax and be yourself. The others will do the same in time – they're all busy putting on a show right now, or re-inventing themselves.
"And if you ever need a quiet chat, well, I'm here most evenings. Now you'd better scoot, before lights-out!"
Neville watched the lad go, then went back to his little office and made tea. There was a student like Tyler came along every few years – he'd been one himself, as he'd told the boy. He'd have a word with Jessica to keep an eye on the kid, though.
Friends, he mused, we all need friends. Especially ones who will sacrifice everything they've worked for to get you out of a jam!