An American CSI in London
With a faint smile of anticipation, Gil Grissom turned his attention to the final clue. He had seen the potential solution to this right at the start, but had focussed his attention on all the other elements first, saving this one for the end. All the others had been examined, analysed, interpreted and placed in context. Only this final step remained to be solved. His smile grew into a grin as he re-read the statement again. It was obvious. Bird of stone, we hear (3). He wrote an 'O' in the empty square and looked at his completed, advanced crossword with satisfaction. As ever, he enjoyed saving the easiest clue 'til last.
Before turning the page to start a new puzzle, he checked his watch. According to the original data, his flight should be landing in about ten minutes. Walking over to his computer, he checked the flight's progress on- line. It was completely to schedule.
His ear operation from a few weeks ago had led his doctor to order him to abstain from flying for 6-8 weeks. This had almost caused Gil a problem. He had been keenly anticipating attending an entomophagy conference in London, Great Britain. It was to be his reward, and to not attend would have been deeply disappointing.
Fortunately, Gil had a secret. All of his life he'd kept his secret, same as he'd kept his parents' secret. He had nearly given himself away a couple of times over the years. The memories of those occasions still brought him out in a cold sweat. There had been a few crimes when he had bent his own strict rules to get them solved. His rewards had been sleepless nights of concern as a result of being told his ability to find evidence and interpret it in context was "nothing short of magic." He had had moments of sheer panic as a supervisor or co-worker told him he was "a real wizard with evidence."
He panicked because Gil was a real wizard. Just like his father was. His mother was a witch, and he had inherited his magic talent from both of them. Throughout high school he had been a ghost because he was receiving two educations at once. The normal education of his classmates was given at school by day, and at home in the evenings his mother gave him a thorough magical education. He had been equally fascinated by science and magic. The possibilities afforded by each intrigued him, but his mother had emphasised the need for keeping the magic a secret for as long as he could remember. As a result, he had chosen science for a career.
Those few cases though. Well, he had used only a little magic to solve them. Just a tiny bit to give him the breakthrough realisation that was needed to solve them. But he made a point of ensuring the science was there to explain away the results. That did not stop him being nervous though. Like his 'Red Creeper' fingerprint powder. It worked perfectly well under normal forensic conditions and procedures. However, if he were to say a certain phrase, and flick his wand in a certain pattern... It was not something he would ever do in front of his team.
Gil's secret meant that he was not limited to the trains, boats, planes and cars of Muggles. So he had developed this scheme to circumvent his doctor's admonition. Instead of flying, he would Apparate.
Gil had driven to Los Angeles airport. He had left his SUV in one of the car parks, and checked in. He had watched his baggage disappear to be loaded onto the plane. He had spent time sitting in the lounge, and waited for his flight to London Heathrow to be announced. He had gone through the same process as every single other passenger on the flight. Apart from two things. He had Apparated back to his Vegas townhouse from the plane before it had even finished taxi-ing out to the runway, and he had left an illusion of himself sleeping in his seat. The flight was an overnighter, landing in Britain in the afternoon of the following day, so he would not be disturbed by the flight attendants. As additional insurance, he had cast a spell of elusion on his seat.
Now though, the flight was about to land and it was time for him to rejoin it. Shouldering his hand-luggage, Gil checked that his wand was in its arm- sheath, that his papers were secure in his jacket, and that his hair was suitably mussed. Taking a deep breath, he Apparated into a cubicle in the Gents loos at Terminal 4.
Casting the spell of elusion on himself, Gil exited the Gents and went looking for his flight. An overhead monitor informed him at which Gate it was about to arrive. He slipped through the crowds and found a quiet corner near the gate exit. As the first passengers strode out, they passed him without ever knowing he was there. He ended the illusion of himself sleeping on the pane, and removed the elusiveness from his seat. Then he waited for the main body of passengers to exit. He did not have long to wait. He slipped in among them and removed the spell of elusiveness from himself. Then he went through passport control, baggage claims and customs like any other passenger.
Having successful gained entry to the UK as easily as those passengers who had actually flown there, Gil took his small suitcase and shoulder bag through the passageways down to the Terminal 4 Underground station. He purchased a single ticket and gained access to the platform. Another overhead sign told him he had 3 minutes to wait for the next train.
Three minutes later, a rush of warm air warned him of the approaching train. He gathered his small quantity of luggage and made his way to an empty 'end' seat. Gil counted himself fortunate. It was mid-afternoon, still too early for the evening rush-hour of commuters glaring at him for taking up too much space. Instead, there were only a few other people in the carriage and he was able to tuck his suitcase next to him, out of the way.
As the train jerked away from the platform, Gil looked around. Diagonally opposite him, a cardboard advertisement for pregnancy supplement tablets was hanging from its frame by a corner, threatening at any moment to drop onto the head of the man snoozing underneath.
He was an elderly man, possibly homeless. His clothes were dirty and worn, and although he seemed bulky under them, he had unmistakably had a hard life. What could be seen of his face was covered in scars, leading Gil to theorise that the man was a veteran of some kind. A chunk was missing from his nose, and one leg ended in a metal claw-foot.
Dismissing the sleeping tramp, Gil pulled out his puzzle-book and started a new crossword. He exited many stops later, at Leicester Square. He was booked into a hotel just off the Square. Although not particularly convenient for his convention, it was very convenient for some excellent bookshops, and the whole of the West End. Eagerly, he completed the checking-in procedure, carefully placed his suitcase on the rack provided in his room, and headed out again down Charing Cross Road.
After exiting the third bookshop, Gil could not help but notice that he was being followed. Whoever it was shadowing him was just good enough to prevent Gil from getting a good look at him, but not good enough to completely avoid detection.
Gil weighed his options. He was in a foreign country where his badge had no authority. Although he had visited London before, he was not overly familiar with the streets. He had no back-up. All pointed towards the better part of valour being the safer path. Nipping into one last bookshop, Gil made a determined effort to try and spot his stalker, but to no avail. He made a quick purchase, and started to head back towards his hotel.
He was almost back to Leicester Square before Gil caught a glimpse of his pursuer. He mentally processed the image of a largish man, in a long brown coat with a black hat tipped low over his face. The man moved slightly strangely too. Risking another glance behind himself as he went to cross a road, Gil almost froze. Only his training kept him moving as he realised with shock that he was being followed by the tramp from the underground train.
That did not make sense. There was no reason for him to be followed by some bum. He did not have a camera, had not flashed a fat wallet, his clothes were not particularly expensive. There was nothing about him to advertise him as a potential mark for mugging. So, if his follower was not interested in a mugging, what was he doing?
Gil spotted a decent-looking restaurant. Deciding he would probably be better off staying in public places, he dived in and asked for a table. Fortunately, he got one where he could sit facing the doorway. Unfortunately, this meant that his pursuer was able to enter the establishment through the kitchens and sneak up behind him. Grissom only realised his mistake when a wand poked him in the ear.
"Now then laddie, just sit tight and we won't have any problems," a Scottish drawl warned him. Grissom remained calm, not moving as the figure behind him shifted around to take the seat on the opposite side of the table. The wand was held discretely underneath the table-top but Gil had no doubt that it was still aimed at him. "That's good." The man continued, settling back. Gil looked closely at him, and realised it was the one-legged man again. Except, now his eyes were open and not hidden by a hat brim, Gil could see that one eye was normal and the other eye was ... different. It seemed to have a life of its own, spinning around in its socket more often than not.
"What do you want?" Grissom asked.
"There's just one thing I really want to know," the Scotsman said. "Who are you?"
Gil raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. The stranger had gone to an awful lot of bother to ask a very simple question. "Why not just ask me that on the train earlier? Or when you followed me to my hotel?"
"Laddie, just tell me who are you?" The older man's voice, unfriendly to begin with, was getting flatter.
"Who are you to ask?" Gil countered.
"I'm the man who was alerted by the alarm system when you illegally Apparated into this country. Now tell me, who are you?"
"Ah," Gil thought rapidly. "My name is Gil Grissom. I'm a Crime Scene Investigator with the Las Vegas Police Force. I have a visa and all my documents are in order, if you want to see them."
"A visa? One of the Muggle documents? Why would a wizard have one of those?" The one normal eye was staring at Grissom, as if to read his mind.
"I originally planned to fly, like a Muggle. Unfortunately, my doctor banned me from flying. Apparating seemed to be the logical alternative."
"Why would you want to fly like a Muggle?" The Scottish wizard did not appear to be warming to Grissom in the slightest.
"Because generally I live as a Muggle. Now, please show me your identification."
"Excuse me?" There was genuine surprise in the other man's voice.
"You are presenting yourself as someone in a position of authority. If you are one, you will have some form of identification."
"Laddie, I'm the man pointing a wand at your knackers. How much more authority do you need?" Grissom thought he caught an undertone of amusement in the threat, and persevered.
"A piece of identification. I am a private individual, here to attend an entomophagy conference. By what right are you questioning me?" Gil kept his voice calm. This man, although tough, was not going to rattle him. Not when he had interviewed some of the worst criminals in Vegas. "Besides, my wand is also pointing at your 'knackers.'"
Grissom saw the (presumably) artificial eye swivel down, as though it could see through the table. Then the Scotsman laughed a heavy, gravel-filled laugh. "You do indeed laddie. You've got some guts!"
"As I said, I work with the police. Now. Who are you?"
The older wizard got to his foot and peg in a surprisingly smooth movement. "I'm Alastor Moody. And if you keep your nose clean, you won't be seeing me again Mr Grissom!" With a swirl of his large overcoat, Moody started to stalk past Grissom towards the back of the restaurant.
"You still haven't shown me any ID," Gil interrupted the man's grandiose exit.
"Excuse me?" Moody's breath held a faint scent of whiskey.
"I asked you for some form of identification. You still haven't shown me any."
"Oh, my apologies, Mr Grissom," Moody seemed to be torn between amusement and annoyance. "You aren't going to be seeing any. The fact that I found you should be identification enough!" Moody exited wondering just who had gotten the best of that exchange.
The rest of Gil's evening passed uneventfully. The meal was mediocre, but Grissom barely tasted it as he considered the implications of his 'unexpected visitor'. He walked back to his hotel afterwards, and went to bed still thinking hard.
The next day was the second day of the show. Grissom set out with plenty of time, but had not quite taken into account the full effects of a weekday rush-hour on the London Underground. As such, the first talk had already started without him. Instead, Gil happily immersed himself in the various display stands, collecting leaflets, business cards and purchasing samples.
It was nearing the end of the day when he spotted the bulky form of the mysterious Alastor Moody stumping hastily across the exhibition hall towards him. By this point, Grissom was happily wearing a hat with the slogan 'I ( Orthoptera' and holding a carrier bag full of leaflets and purchases.
"I've kept my nose clean, so why are you here?" Grissom asked the Scot when he drew to a halt. Gasping in lungfuls of air, the red-faced man waved a hand in the air in lieu of speaking for a few moments.
"You said yesterday," he gulped more air. "You said you were a crime scene investigator, right?"
"Right. That's what I do. I'm a scientist."
"Am I right in thinking you look at scenes and deduce what happened? Find out who is responsible?"
"Well, we collect and analyse forensic evidence from crime scenes, yes."
"Excellent!" Moody's breathing was slowly returning to normal. "We need your expertise."
"What's happened?" Grissom's voice was sharp. Moody gave him a long look in the face before pulling him into a gap between two display stands.
"I can't tell you," Moody shook his head regretfully. "The Professor doesn't want us to 'contaminate' your point of view. If you agree to this, I'll take you where you need to be and you'll be left to form your own conclusions."
A thread of suspicion formed in Gil's mind and he retorted forcefully. "Look, I don't know who you are. I have no reason to trust you. You still have not shown me any identification. I'm certainly not going anywhere with you."
Moody's face creased in concern. "The Professor thought you may say that. Here." A large scarred hand held out a rolled up piece of paper. No, it was parchment. Grissom unrolled it, and read the text. Then he examined the seal on the bottom. It all seemed genuine enough. Carefully looking around to make sure they were unobserved, he produced his wand and waved it across the parchment. He muttered quietly under his breath, and watched the resulting coloured lights playing across the parchment surface.
"OK. Lead the way." Grissom said when satisfied that the parchment was genuine.
Moody led Grissom out of the exhibition hall, along the road outside and ducked into the first alley he could.
"It'll be easier if I Apparate you there. It'd take too long any other way."
"Fine," Grissom gave his permission to the other man. Moody held on to Grissom's shoulder with one meaty hand, and Apparated the two of them away.
They reappeared in a marble lobby that appeared to have been the scene of a battle. A large statue had been blasted into rubble. Scorch marks were seared onto various walls. There were a number of people standing in huddles looking shocked. One man, however, stood out. He was tall, with long white hair. A hooked nose supported a pair of glasses. His robes were moderately clean. Evidently, he had been waiting for them, as he strode over to greet them. He addressed Moody first.
"Excellent Alastor, thank you."
"No worries Professor. Allow me to introduce Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Police. Mr Grissom, this is Professor Dumbledore."
Gil extended his hand as he said "Hello Professor. Mr Moody has been very mysterious. What is it you want me to do?"
Professor Dumbledore shook Grissom's hand in greeting and replied lightly. "First you must meet Cornelius Fudge, our Minister of Magic. He's over here." Dumbledore led Grissom towards a shorter man wearing pyjamas under a pin-striped cloak.
"Delighted! Delighted to meet you." The minister said, pumping Grissom's hand. "So glad you were around to help. So very convenient!"
"Actually Minister, we are interrupting Mr Grissom's personal holiday. In agreeing to help us, he is missing the conference he came here specifically to attend." Moody's gravely tones corrected the minister.
"Oh, it's very kind of you to help us then Mr Grissom. What conference were you attending?" Minister Fudge was reminding Grissom very strongly of the Sheriff from Las Vegas.
"I was attending an entomophagy conference Minister." Grissom noted the blank look in Cornelius Fudge's eyes. "Would you like a sample?" Grissom held out one of the boxes he had purchased before Alastor Moody had appeared.
"Ooh, thank you!" Fudge took several of the offered chocolates, and popped them in his mouth. "Very interesting," he said as he chewed. "What did you say they were?"
"Chocolate hymenoptera Apocritas." Dumbledore noticed that their American visitor had a glint in his eye as he explained. "Ants." Fudge instantly stopped chewing, and started turning green. Grissom's eye was caught by a small clutch of teenagers. He excused himself from the Minister, and cautiously walked towards them. As he approached as he realised they were being treated for various injuries. A red-headed girl had hurt her ankle, a brown bushy-haired girl was unconscious, and a red-haired boy was giggling to himself despite being covered in angry-looking welts. Another dark-haired boy with a round face was trying to talk to the medi-witch treating his nose.
"Dey broke by wand. Whad do I dell by grandmudder? Dat was by farver's wand! She's going to kill be!"
"Mr Longbottom please! Stop trying to talk and let me heal you. If you keep talking, your nose will set crooked."
"Bud she'll kill be! I know she will!"
"Hello." The red-haired girl had seen Grissom's approach and greeted him. "Who are you?" Her unintentional echoing of Moody's interrogation the previous day made Grissom smile.
"Everyone seems to be asking me that. I'm Gil Grissom. Who are you?"
"Ginny Weasley. And yes, before you ask, the other red-head is my brother." She sounded as though she was asked that question quite often. "Are you American?" She asked.
"Yes, but I've been asked to look at what happened here." Gil continued. "Perhaps you can tell me how you were injured?" Grissom noted that she was wearing a badge with Ginny Weasley, Rescue Mission on it.
"Hah!" Ginny laughed cynically. "We were injured as we tried to avoid being killed."
"Who was trying to kill you?"
"Death Eaters." Ginny correctly interpreted Gil's silence as ignorance, and explained further. "Followers of Lord Voldemort." The giggling red- headed boy stopped mid-giggle and flinched. "Oh grow up Ron!" Ginny snapped. "He's a dark wizard. You must have heard of him, even in America."
"Not really. I live in Muggle Las Vegas most of the time, I'm only here by coincidence. So, these followers of Lord Voldemort were trying to kill you. All of you, or just you?"
"Oh, all of us. Hermione," the bushy-haired girl was indicated, "got hit by a curse but we don't know which one. Neville's nose was broken along with his wand. I think my ankle's broken and some kind of live brain latched onto Ron. It's turned him a bit strange - well, stranger anyway. Luna and Harry were the only two not hurt, I think."
"Why were these Death Eaters trying to kill you all?" Grissom made a mental note to follow up on Luna and Harry in a minute.
"Because Harry was holding a prophecy and Lord Voldemort wanted it. The Death Eaters were trying to retrieve it. I think killing the rest of us was just a bonus." Ginny sounded quite bitter.
"Do you know where Luna and Harry are?" Grissom probed gently.
"Luna's over there." Ginny pointed diagonally behind Grissom, to where a girl he hadn't noticed before was examining the remains of the statue carefully, but without touching anything. "I think Professor Dumbledore sent Harry back to school."
"Thank you Ginny, I'm sure your ankle will be fine."
"Thanks. I'm sure it will be too - right up to the point where mum finds out what we've been up to." Ginny gave a tired grin, and Grissom smiled right back before turning to look at the lobby once more.
The politician, Fudge, was wiping his mouth with a vivid lime-green handkerchief. The Professor was talking to him. Alastor Moody was nowhere to be seen, and the number of huddled people had dramatically reduced during his conversation with Ginny. Grissom headed back over to Dumbledore and Fudge.
"Where is this scene you want me to examine?" he asked.
"Oh, downstairs. I'll get Weasley to take you." Fudge beckoned imperiously and a slender young man with another shock of red hair stumbled forwards. Grissom guessed he was another relative of Ginny's. He appeared to be in shock. Certainly his face was pale, and his lips were moving soundlessly. Grissom watched closely, reading the young man's lips. I was so wrong! How do I make this up to my parents? Oh lord, I'll never hear the end of this! He's back! I can't believe it! I was so wrong!
"Weasley, escort Mr Grissom to the Department of Mystery's Prophecy Archives." Fudge interrupted his aide's silent litany of reproach.
"Yessir. This way please," the young man pulled himself together and led Grissom over to a bank of elevators. One was waiting with it's golden grilles open. The red-head gestured politely for Grissom to enter first, then pressed a button marked '9'. Grissom sought to verify his assumption.
"Are you related to Ginny and Ron?"
"Yessir. They're my siblings, although I suspect they wouldn't like to acknowledge that fact at the moment." A faint trace of disgust entered his voice. "I'm Percy, by the way. This way please." The lift had stopped and a cool female voice announced 'Department of Mysteries' and the grilles opened. Percy led Grissom into a large, black, circular room whose walls held perhaps a dozen doors. As soon as Percy had closed the door behind them, the wall began to spin, blurring the candlelight into horizontal streaks. A few seconds later, the wall stopped spinning and the doors were once again visible. Muttering something under his breath, Percy hesitated for a long moment before a door popped open. They walked though it into a brilliantly lit room full of Time. Every kind of clock imaginable was in there and Grissom wished heartily that he had a few moments to examine some of them. Percy led the way through the desks and past a bell jar to a door at the back of the room.
Through that door was a high ceilinged, cavernous chamber lit by blue- flamed candles. The only furnishings consisted of multiple racks of towering shelving that held innumerable dusty glass orbs. Percy turned to his right and led Grissom past the rows of shelving until they reached one marked 97.
"Here it is. This is where the children say the fight started."
Grissom looked around carefully. Normal signs of a fight included broken glass, disturbed furniture, scratches on walls and other vertical surfaces. Perhaps even some blood. Here, there was nothing. No physical evidence that anything had been disturbed. The shelving held glass balls with little labels underneath. There were several gaps where prophecies had presumably been removed, but no broken shards anywhere. No blood. No signs of anything. He sighed.
"Has anyone been in here? Done anything?" Grissom asked carefully.
"Oh, I believe the Minister gave the Unspeakables permission to do some clearing up, but no-one really." Percy answered, oblivious to the meaning of what he said.
"You do realise that they have cleaned up the scene? Don't you?" Grissom fought to control his temper. It was not the fault of this young man that his boss had sabotaged Gil's potential investigation. Percy looked startled, and looked around wildly.
"Oh, well, uh, I'm sure the Minister did not mean for the scene to be cleared up." He stammered.
"Stand over there. You can watch, but don't say anything." Grissom directed Percy to a point somewhere behind him. Clearing his mind of annoyance, Grissom removed his wand from it's sheath and prepared to cast a spell. This was a spell he had used maybe three times in his career, when he desperately needed to solve a case. When he knew there was evidence somewhere, if only he could find it. Concentrating carefully, he moved his wand through the air as he muttered the incantation under his breath.
When he'd finished, he stood very still, and watched carefully. The spell he had just cast was supposed to show a shadowy reconstruction of events going back a certain time period. Grissom strained his eyes, and watched the Unspeakables tidying up in reverse. With their backwards wand-wavings, shelves tipped over and glass baubles fell and shattered. Within five minutes, the Prophecy Archives certainly looked as if there had been a ghostly fight.
Then, other images appeared. Adult figures dressed in black robes with steel masks over their faces. They were casting something - no sounds, and Grissom could not see their lips to read the spells. Time continued its backwards spin, and the children he had already seen ran backwards into the hall. As well as those he'd seen injured, there was a teenage boy. Brown hair stuck up over a pale face, glasses sat over green eyes under a lightening shaped scar. He was clutching one of the glass balls carefully. Suddenly, the spell reached its limit and the translucent figures vanished.
Waving his wand again produced some paper and a pen for Grissom. He stood there, and wrote steadily for about five minutes. Having finished his report, one more wave of his wand produced two more copies of it. Then he spun on the spot and fixed Percy Weasley with a glare.
"Take me to your boss." He snapped his wand back into it's sheath.
Percy led Grissom back the way they had come, through all the doorways and along corridors, back into a lift to ascend to the lobby.
Fudge and Dumbledore seemed to be in earnest conversation when Grissom walked over to them. His knees were not bending very much, indicating his displeasure.
"Ah, Mr Grissom, wonderful. Have you finished?" Fudge poured petrol onto the blazing waters.
"Why yes Minister, I have. It appears that someone in authority gave personnel permission to clean up down there, leaving very little actual evidence to be examined." Grissom's tone left no question as to his opinion of this situation. "However, utilising my experience and abilities to the utmost, I have completed this report." Gil slapped one copy of the report into Fudge's hand, and passed a second copy to Dumbledore. The third copy went into Gil's pocket. "Now, if you've finished wasting my time, I have a holiday to continue."
"Wha... I..." Fudge was inarticulate with shock.
"Alastor, please escort Mr Grissom back to his conference." Professor Dumbledore sounded gravely disappointed. "I must speak further with the Minister before going back to Hogwarts. Mr Grissom, thank you for your time."
Grissom gave the Professor a very flat look, before turning on his heel to find Alastor Moody walking towards him. Silently, he allowed the Scot to take his arm and Apparate the two of them back to the alley near the exhibition hall.
"So the whole exercise was a dud then, eh?" Moody prompted.
"Not a complete dud. There was a fight in there. I assume Death Eaters are known for wearing black robes and steel masks. They did try and harm the children. More than that, I couldn't say, thanks to Fudge letting people compromise the scene."
"Och, he did, did he? Now that's interesting."
"Why is that interesting?"
"Because Fudge has spent the last year claiming that Dumbledore is loosing his mind and that Voldemort has not returned. Very very handy for the evidence to be cleaned up before an independent expert can verify what happened. Perhaps a little too convenient for my liking. I'll still be keeping a very close eye on Fudge I think." Moody's attention snapped back to Grissom from wherever the thoughts of Fudge had taken it. "Thanks for your help then. Enjoy the rest of your convention. And next time you want to Apparate in, owl me first!" The Scot extended a large, scrawny hand and vigorously shook Grissom's before Apparating away again.
His anger was waning, leaving a slight bemused feeling of unreality. Grissom stood for a long moment, his mind playing with possibilities. With a shake of his head, he dismissed the problem, and walked back up the steps to his conference, determined to make the most of his remaining time.
With a faint smile of anticipation, Gil Grissom turned his attention to the final clue. He had seen the potential solution to this right at the start, but had focussed his attention on all the other elements first, saving this one for the end. All the others had been examined, analysed, interpreted and placed in context. Only this final step remained to be solved. His smile grew into a grin as he re-read the statement again. It was obvious. Bird of stone, we hear (3). He wrote an 'O' in the empty square and looked at his completed, advanced crossword with satisfaction. As ever, he enjoyed saving the easiest clue 'til last.
Before turning the page to start a new puzzle, he checked his watch. According to the original data, his flight should be landing in about ten minutes. Walking over to his computer, he checked the flight's progress on- line. It was completely to schedule.
His ear operation from a few weeks ago had led his doctor to order him to abstain from flying for 6-8 weeks. This had almost caused Gil a problem. He had been keenly anticipating attending an entomophagy conference in London, Great Britain. It was to be his reward, and to not attend would have been deeply disappointing.
Fortunately, Gil had a secret. All of his life he'd kept his secret, same as he'd kept his parents' secret. He had nearly given himself away a couple of times over the years. The memories of those occasions still brought him out in a cold sweat. There had been a few crimes when he had bent his own strict rules to get them solved. His rewards had been sleepless nights of concern as a result of being told his ability to find evidence and interpret it in context was "nothing short of magic." He had had moments of sheer panic as a supervisor or co-worker told him he was "a real wizard with evidence."
He panicked because Gil was a real wizard. Just like his father was. His mother was a witch, and he had inherited his magic talent from both of them. Throughout high school he had been a ghost because he was receiving two educations at once. The normal education of his classmates was given at school by day, and at home in the evenings his mother gave him a thorough magical education. He had been equally fascinated by science and magic. The possibilities afforded by each intrigued him, but his mother had emphasised the need for keeping the magic a secret for as long as he could remember. As a result, he had chosen science for a career.
Those few cases though. Well, he had used only a little magic to solve them. Just a tiny bit to give him the breakthrough realisation that was needed to solve them. But he made a point of ensuring the science was there to explain away the results. That did not stop him being nervous though. Like his 'Red Creeper' fingerprint powder. It worked perfectly well under normal forensic conditions and procedures. However, if he were to say a certain phrase, and flick his wand in a certain pattern... It was not something he would ever do in front of his team.
Gil's secret meant that he was not limited to the trains, boats, planes and cars of Muggles. So he had developed this scheme to circumvent his doctor's admonition. Instead of flying, he would Apparate.
Gil had driven to Los Angeles airport. He had left his SUV in one of the car parks, and checked in. He had watched his baggage disappear to be loaded onto the plane. He had spent time sitting in the lounge, and waited for his flight to London Heathrow to be announced. He had gone through the same process as every single other passenger on the flight. Apart from two things. He had Apparated back to his Vegas townhouse from the plane before it had even finished taxi-ing out to the runway, and he had left an illusion of himself sleeping in his seat. The flight was an overnighter, landing in Britain in the afternoon of the following day, so he would not be disturbed by the flight attendants. As additional insurance, he had cast a spell of elusion on his seat.
Now though, the flight was about to land and it was time for him to rejoin it. Shouldering his hand-luggage, Gil checked that his wand was in its arm- sheath, that his papers were secure in his jacket, and that his hair was suitably mussed. Taking a deep breath, he Apparated into a cubicle in the Gents loos at Terminal 4.
Casting the spell of elusion on himself, Gil exited the Gents and went looking for his flight. An overhead monitor informed him at which Gate it was about to arrive. He slipped through the crowds and found a quiet corner near the gate exit. As the first passengers strode out, they passed him without ever knowing he was there. He ended the illusion of himself sleeping on the pane, and removed the elusiveness from his seat. Then he waited for the main body of passengers to exit. He did not have long to wait. He slipped in among them and removed the spell of elusiveness from himself. Then he went through passport control, baggage claims and customs like any other passenger.
Having successful gained entry to the UK as easily as those passengers who had actually flown there, Gil took his small suitcase and shoulder bag through the passageways down to the Terminal 4 Underground station. He purchased a single ticket and gained access to the platform. Another overhead sign told him he had 3 minutes to wait for the next train.
Three minutes later, a rush of warm air warned him of the approaching train. He gathered his small quantity of luggage and made his way to an empty 'end' seat. Gil counted himself fortunate. It was mid-afternoon, still too early for the evening rush-hour of commuters glaring at him for taking up too much space. Instead, there were only a few other people in the carriage and he was able to tuck his suitcase next to him, out of the way.
As the train jerked away from the platform, Gil looked around. Diagonally opposite him, a cardboard advertisement for pregnancy supplement tablets was hanging from its frame by a corner, threatening at any moment to drop onto the head of the man snoozing underneath.
He was an elderly man, possibly homeless. His clothes were dirty and worn, and although he seemed bulky under them, he had unmistakably had a hard life. What could be seen of his face was covered in scars, leading Gil to theorise that the man was a veteran of some kind. A chunk was missing from his nose, and one leg ended in a metal claw-foot.
Dismissing the sleeping tramp, Gil pulled out his puzzle-book and started a new crossword. He exited many stops later, at Leicester Square. He was booked into a hotel just off the Square. Although not particularly convenient for his convention, it was very convenient for some excellent bookshops, and the whole of the West End. Eagerly, he completed the checking-in procedure, carefully placed his suitcase on the rack provided in his room, and headed out again down Charing Cross Road.
After exiting the third bookshop, Gil could not help but notice that he was being followed. Whoever it was shadowing him was just good enough to prevent Gil from getting a good look at him, but not good enough to completely avoid detection.
Gil weighed his options. He was in a foreign country where his badge had no authority. Although he had visited London before, he was not overly familiar with the streets. He had no back-up. All pointed towards the better part of valour being the safer path. Nipping into one last bookshop, Gil made a determined effort to try and spot his stalker, but to no avail. He made a quick purchase, and started to head back towards his hotel.
He was almost back to Leicester Square before Gil caught a glimpse of his pursuer. He mentally processed the image of a largish man, in a long brown coat with a black hat tipped low over his face. The man moved slightly strangely too. Risking another glance behind himself as he went to cross a road, Gil almost froze. Only his training kept him moving as he realised with shock that he was being followed by the tramp from the underground train.
That did not make sense. There was no reason for him to be followed by some bum. He did not have a camera, had not flashed a fat wallet, his clothes were not particularly expensive. There was nothing about him to advertise him as a potential mark for mugging. So, if his follower was not interested in a mugging, what was he doing?
Gil spotted a decent-looking restaurant. Deciding he would probably be better off staying in public places, he dived in and asked for a table. Fortunately, he got one where he could sit facing the doorway. Unfortunately, this meant that his pursuer was able to enter the establishment through the kitchens and sneak up behind him. Grissom only realised his mistake when a wand poked him in the ear.
"Now then laddie, just sit tight and we won't have any problems," a Scottish drawl warned him. Grissom remained calm, not moving as the figure behind him shifted around to take the seat on the opposite side of the table. The wand was held discretely underneath the table-top but Gil had no doubt that it was still aimed at him. "That's good." The man continued, settling back. Gil looked closely at him, and realised it was the one-legged man again. Except, now his eyes were open and not hidden by a hat brim, Gil could see that one eye was normal and the other eye was ... different. It seemed to have a life of its own, spinning around in its socket more often than not.
"What do you want?" Grissom asked.
"There's just one thing I really want to know," the Scotsman said. "Who are you?"
Gil raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. The stranger had gone to an awful lot of bother to ask a very simple question. "Why not just ask me that on the train earlier? Or when you followed me to my hotel?"
"Laddie, just tell me who are you?" The older man's voice, unfriendly to begin with, was getting flatter.
"Who are you to ask?" Gil countered.
"I'm the man who was alerted by the alarm system when you illegally Apparated into this country. Now tell me, who are you?"
"Ah," Gil thought rapidly. "My name is Gil Grissom. I'm a Crime Scene Investigator with the Las Vegas Police Force. I have a visa and all my documents are in order, if you want to see them."
"A visa? One of the Muggle documents? Why would a wizard have one of those?" The one normal eye was staring at Grissom, as if to read his mind.
"I originally planned to fly, like a Muggle. Unfortunately, my doctor banned me from flying. Apparating seemed to be the logical alternative."
"Why would you want to fly like a Muggle?" The Scottish wizard did not appear to be warming to Grissom in the slightest.
"Because generally I live as a Muggle. Now, please show me your identification."
"Excuse me?" There was genuine surprise in the other man's voice.
"You are presenting yourself as someone in a position of authority. If you are one, you will have some form of identification."
"Laddie, I'm the man pointing a wand at your knackers. How much more authority do you need?" Grissom thought he caught an undertone of amusement in the threat, and persevered.
"A piece of identification. I am a private individual, here to attend an entomophagy conference. By what right are you questioning me?" Gil kept his voice calm. This man, although tough, was not going to rattle him. Not when he had interviewed some of the worst criminals in Vegas. "Besides, my wand is also pointing at your 'knackers.'"
Grissom saw the (presumably) artificial eye swivel down, as though it could see through the table. Then the Scotsman laughed a heavy, gravel-filled laugh. "You do indeed laddie. You've got some guts!"
"As I said, I work with the police. Now. Who are you?"
The older wizard got to his foot and peg in a surprisingly smooth movement. "I'm Alastor Moody. And if you keep your nose clean, you won't be seeing me again Mr Grissom!" With a swirl of his large overcoat, Moody started to stalk past Grissom towards the back of the restaurant.
"You still haven't shown me any ID," Gil interrupted the man's grandiose exit.
"Excuse me?" Moody's breath held a faint scent of whiskey.
"I asked you for some form of identification. You still haven't shown me any."
"Oh, my apologies, Mr Grissom," Moody seemed to be torn between amusement and annoyance. "You aren't going to be seeing any. The fact that I found you should be identification enough!" Moody exited wondering just who had gotten the best of that exchange.
The rest of Gil's evening passed uneventfully. The meal was mediocre, but Grissom barely tasted it as he considered the implications of his 'unexpected visitor'. He walked back to his hotel afterwards, and went to bed still thinking hard.
The next day was the second day of the show. Grissom set out with plenty of time, but had not quite taken into account the full effects of a weekday rush-hour on the London Underground. As such, the first talk had already started without him. Instead, Gil happily immersed himself in the various display stands, collecting leaflets, business cards and purchasing samples.
It was nearing the end of the day when he spotted the bulky form of the mysterious Alastor Moody stumping hastily across the exhibition hall towards him. By this point, Grissom was happily wearing a hat with the slogan 'I ( Orthoptera' and holding a carrier bag full of leaflets and purchases.
"I've kept my nose clean, so why are you here?" Grissom asked the Scot when he drew to a halt. Gasping in lungfuls of air, the red-faced man waved a hand in the air in lieu of speaking for a few moments.
"You said yesterday," he gulped more air. "You said you were a crime scene investigator, right?"
"Right. That's what I do. I'm a scientist."
"Am I right in thinking you look at scenes and deduce what happened? Find out who is responsible?"
"Well, we collect and analyse forensic evidence from crime scenes, yes."
"Excellent!" Moody's breathing was slowly returning to normal. "We need your expertise."
"What's happened?" Grissom's voice was sharp. Moody gave him a long look in the face before pulling him into a gap between two display stands.
"I can't tell you," Moody shook his head regretfully. "The Professor doesn't want us to 'contaminate' your point of view. If you agree to this, I'll take you where you need to be and you'll be left to form your own conclusions."
A thread of suspicion formed in Gil's mind and he retorted forcefully. "Look, I don't know who you are. I have no reason to trust you. You still have not shown me any identification. I'm certainly not going anywhere with you."
Moody's face creased in concern. "The Professor thought you may say that. Here." A large scarred hand held out a rolled up piece of paper. No, it was parchment. Grissom unrolled it, and read the text. Then he examined the seal on the bottom. It all seemed genuine enough. Carefully looking around to make sure they were unobserved, he produced his wand and waved it across the parchment. He muttered quietly under his breath, and watched the resulting coloured lights playing across the parchment surface.
"OK. Lead the way." Grissom said when satisfied that the parchment was genuine.
Moody led Grissom out of the exhibition hall, along the road outside and ducked into the first alley he could.
"It'll be easier if I Apparate you there. It'd take too long any other way."
"Fine," Grissom gave his permission to the other man. Moody held on to Grissom's shoulder with one meaty hand, and Apparated the two of them away.
They reappeared in a marble lobby that appeared to have been the scene of a battle. A large statue had been blasted into rubble. Scorch marks were seared onto various walls. There were a number of people standing in huddles looking shocked. One man, however, stood out. He was tall, with long white hair. A hooked nose supported a pair of glasses. His robes were moderately clean. Evidently, he had been waiting for them, as he strode over to greet them. He addressed Moody first.
"Excellent Alastor, thank you."
"No worries Professor. Allow me to introduce Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Police. Mr Grissom, this is Professor Dumbledore."
Gil extended his hand as he said "Hello Professor. Mr Moody has been very mysterious. What is it you want me to do?"
Professor Dumbledore shook Grissom's hand in greeting and replied lightly. "First you must meet Cornelius Fudge, our Minister of Magic. He's over here." Dumbledore led Grissom towards a shorter man wearing pyjamas under a pin-striped cloak.
"Delighted! Delighted to meet you." The minister said, pumping Grissom's hand. "So glad you were around to help. So very convenient!"
"Actually Minister, we are interrupting Mr Grissom's personal holiday. In agreeing to help us, he is missing the conference he came here specifically to attend." Moody's gravely tones corrected the minister.
"Oh, it's very kind of you to help us then Mr Grissom. What conference were you attending?" Minister Fudge was reminding Grissom very strongly of the Sheriff from Las Vegas.
"I was attending an entomophagy conference Minister." Grissom noted the blank look in Cornelius Fudge's eyes. "Would you like a sample?" Grissom held out one of the boxes he had purchased before Alastor Moody had appeared.
"Ooh, thank you!" Fudge took several of the offered chocolates, and popped them in his mouth. "Very interesting," he said as he chewed. "What did you say they were?"
"Chocolate hymenoptera Apocritas." Dumbledore noticed that their American visitor had a glint in his eye as he explained. "Ants." Fudge instantly stopped chewing, and started turning green. Grissom's eye was caught by a small clutch of teenagers. He excused himself from the Minister, and cautiously walked towards them. As he approached as he realised they were being treated for various injuries. A red-headed girl had hurt her ankle, a brown bushy-haired girl was unconscious, and a red-haired boy was giggling to himself despite being covered in angry-looking welts. Another dark-haired boy with a round face was trying to talk to the medi-witch treating his nose.
"Dey broke by wand. Whad do I dell by grandmudder? Dat was by farver's wand! She's going to kill be!"
"Mr Longbottom please! Stop trying to talk and let me heal you. If you keep talking, your nose will set crooked."
"Bud she'll kill be! I know she will!"
"Hello." The red-haired girl had seen Grissom's approach and greeted him. "Who are you?" Her unintentional echoing of Moody's interrogation the previous day made Grissom smile.
"Everyone seems to be asking me that. I'm Gil Grissom. Who are you?"
"Ginny Weasley. And yes, before you ask, the other red-head is my brother." She sounded as though she was asked that question quite often. "Are you American?" She asked.
"Yes, but I've been asked to look at what happened here." Gil continued. "Perhaps you can tell me how you were injured?" Grissom noted that she was wearing a badge with Ginny Weasley, Rescue Mission on it.
"Hah!" Ginny laughed cynically. "We were injured as we tried to avoid being killed."
"Who was trying to kill you?"
"Death Eaters." Ginny correctly interpreted Gil's silence as ignorance, and explained further. "Followers of Lord Voldemort." The giggling red- headed boy stopped mid-giggle and flinched. "Oh grow up Ron!" Ginny snapped. "He's a dark wizard. You must have heard of him, even in America."
"Not really. I live in Muggle Las Vegas most of the time, I'm only here by coincidence. So, these followers of Lord Voldemort were trying to kill you. All of you, or just you?"
"Oh, all of us. Hermione," the bushy-haired girl was indicated, "got hit by a curse but we don't know which one. Neville's nose was broken along with his wand. I think my ankle's broken and some kind of live brain latched onto Ron. It's turned him a bit strange - well, stranger anyway. Luna and Harry were the only two not hurt, I think."
"Why were these Death Eaters trying to kill you all?" Grissom made a mental note to follow up on Luna and Harry in a minute.
"Because Harry was holding a prophecy and Lord Voldemort wanted it. The Death Eaters were trying to retrieve it. I think killing the rest of us was just a bonus." Ginny sounded quite bitter.
"Do you know where Luna and Harry are?" Grissom probed gently.
"Luna's over there." Ginny pointed diagonally behind Grissom, to where a girl he hadn't noticed before was examining the remains of the statue carefully, but without touching anything. "I think Professor Dumbledore sent Harry back to school."
"Thank you Ginny, I'm sure your ankle will be fine."
"Thanks. I'm sure it will be too - right up to the point where mum finds out what we've been up to." Ginny gave a tired grin, and Grissom smiled right back before turning to look at the lobby once more.
The politician, Fudge, was wiping his mouth with a vivid lime-green handkerchief. The Professor was talking to him. Alastor Moody was nowhere to be seen, and the number of huddled people had dramatically reduced during his conversation with Ginny. Grissom headed back over to Dumbledore and Fudge.
"Where is this scene you want me to examine?" he asked.
"Oh, downstairs. I'll get Weasley to take you." Fudge beckoned imperiously and a slender young man with another shock of red hair stumbled forwards. Grissom guessed he was another relative of Ginny's. He appeared to be in shock. Certainly his face was pale, and his lips were moving soundlessly. Grissom watched closely, reading the young man's lips. I was so wrong! How do I make this up to my parents? Oh lord, I'll never hear the end of this! He's back! I can't believe it! I was so wrong!
"Weasley, escort Mr Grissom to the Department of Mystery's Prophecy Archives." Fudge interrupted his aide's silent litany of reproach.
"Yessir. This way please," the young man pulled himself together and led Grissom over to a bank of elevators. One was waiting with it's golden grilles open. The red-head gestured politely for Grissom to enter first, then pressed a button marked '9'. Grissom sought to verify his assumption.
"Are you related to Ginny and Ron?"
"Yessir. They're my siblings, although I suspect they wouldn't like to acknowledge that fact at the moment." A faint trace of disgust entered his voice. "I'm Percy, by the way. This way please." The lift had stopped and a cool female voice announced 'Department of Mysteries' and the grilles opened. Percy led Grissom into a large, black, circular room whose walls held perhaps a dozen doors. As soon as Percy had closed the door behind them, the wall began to spin, blurring the candlelight into horizontal streaks. A few seconds later, the wall stopped spinning and the doors were once again visible. Muttering something under his breath, Percy hesitated for a long moment before a door popped open. They walked though it into a brilliantly lit room full of Time. Every kind of clock imaginable was in there and Grissom wished heartily that he had a few moments to examine some of them. Percy led the way through the desks and past a bell jar to a door at the back of the room.
Through that door was a high ceilinged, cavernous chamber lit by blue- flamed candles. The only furnishings consisted of multiple racks of towering shelving that held innumerable dusty glass orbs. Percy turned to his right and led Grissom past the rows of shelving until they reached one marked 97.
"Here it is. This is where the children say the fight started."
Grissom looked around carefully. Normal signs of a fight included broken glass, disturbed furniture, scratches on walls and other vertical surfaces. Perhaps even some blood. Here, there was nothing. No physical evidence that anything had been disturbed. The shelving held glass balls with little labels underneath. There were several gaps where prophecies had presumably been removed, but no broken shards anywhere. No blood. No signs of anything. He sighed.
"Has anyone been in here? Done anything?" Grissom asked carefully.
"Oh, I believe the Minister gave the Unspeakables permission to do some clearing up, but no-one really." Percy answered, oblivious to the meaning of what he said.
"You do realise that they have cleaned up the scene? Don't you?" Grissom fought to control his temper. It was not the fault of this young man that his boss had sabotaged Gil's potential investigation. Percy looked startled, and looked around wildly.
"Oh, well, uh, I'm sure the Minister did not mean for the scene to be cleared up." He stammered.
"Stand over there. You can watch, but don't say anything." Grissom directed Percy to a point somewhere behind him. Clearing his mind of annoyance, Grissom removed his wand from it's sheath and prepared to cast a spell. This was a spell he had used maybe three times in his career, when he desperately needed to solve a case. When he knew there was evidence somewhere, if only he could find it. Concentrating carefully, he moved his wand through the air as he muttered the incantation under his breath.
When he'd finished, he stood very still, and watched carefully. The spell he had just cast was supposed to show a shadowy reconstruction of events going back a certain time period. Grissom strained his eyes, and watched the Unspeakables tidying up in reverse. With their backwards wand-wavings, shelves tipped over and glass baubles fell and shattered. Within five minutes, the Prophecy Archives certainly looked as if there had been a ghostly fight.
Then, other images appeared. Adult figures dressed in black robes with steel masks over their faces. They were casting something - no sounds, and Grissom could not see their lips to read the spells. Time continued its backwards spin, and the children he had already seen ran backwards into the hall. As well as those he'd seen injured, there was a teenage boy. Brown hair stuck up over a pale face, glasses sat over green eyes under a lightening shaped scar. He was clutching one of the glass balls carefully. Suddenly, the spell reached its limit and the translucent figures vanished.
Waving his wand again produced some paper and a pen for Grissom. He stood there, and wrote steadily for about five minutes. Having finished his report, one more wave of his wand produced two more copies of it. Then he spun on the spot and fixed Percy Weasley with a glare.
"Take me to your boss." He snapped his wand back into it's sheath.
Percy led Grissom back the way they had come, through all the doorways and along corridors, back into a lift to ascend to the lobby.
Fudge and Dumbledore seemed to be in earnest conversation when Grissom walked over to them. His knees were not bending very much, indicating his displeasure.
"Ah, Mr Grissom, wonderful. Have you finished?" Fudge poured petrol onto the blazing waters.
"Why yes Minister, I have. It appears that someone in authority gave personnel permission to clean up down there, leaving very little actual evidence to be examined." Grissom's tone left no question as to his opinion of this situation. "However, utilising my experience and abilities to the utmost, I have completed this report." Gil slapped one copy of the report into Fudge's hand, and passed a second copy to Dumbledore. The third copy went into Gil's pocket. "Now, if you've finished wasting my time, I have a holiday to continue."
"Wha... I..." Fudge was inarticulate with shock.
"Alastor, please escort Mr Grissom back to his conference." Professor Dumbledore sounded gravely disappointed. "I must speak further with the Minister before going back to Hogwarts. Mr Grissom, thank you for your time."
Grissom gave the Professor a very flat look, before turning on his heel to find Alastor Moody walking towards him. Silently, he allowed the Scot to take his arm and Apparate the two of them back to the alley near the exhibition hall.
"So the whole exercise was a dud then, eh?" Moody prompted.
"Not a complete dud. There was a fight in there. I assume Death Eaters are known for wearing black robes and steel masks. They did try and harm the children. More than that, I couldn't say, thanks to Fudge letting people compromise the scene."
"Och, he did, did he? Now that's interesting."
"Why is that interesting?"
"Because Fudge has spent the last year claiming that Dumbledore is loosing his mind and that Voldemort has not returned. Very very handy for the evidence to be cleaned up before an independent expert can verify what happened. Perhaps a little too convenient for my liking. I'll still be keeping a very close eye on Fudge I think." Moody's attention snapped back to Grissom from wherever the thoughts of Fudge had taken it. "Thanks for your help then. Enjoy the rest of your convention. And next time you want to Apparate in, owl me first!" The Scot extended a large, scrawny hand and vigorously shook Grissom's before Apparating away again.
His anger was waning, leaving a slight bemused feeling of unreality. Grissom stood for a long moment, his mind playing with possibilities. With a shake of his head, he dismissed the problem, and walked back up the steps to his conference, determined to make the most of his remaining time.