Chapter I: The wicked witch of the west

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit

Heero Yuy, pilot 01, was investigating rumors that a local cosmetics company was in truth a cover for Alliance biological weapons research. The complex had been conveniently situated at the very edge of the city, which spying on it easier… and made it look suspicious in his eyes. In his experience, if business that badly wanted to avoid attracting attention there was usually a good reason for it. He arrived at six in the morning and begun his surveillance.

He had a book of Japanese birds with him in a backpack and the memory stick of his card had a selection of pictures of local birds. He had dressed casually in dark blue track pants, gray sweater and a cap and his gun rested under the sweater at the small of his back. He doubted this disguise would help him much if it was indeed an Alliance facility he was observing and he was caught. If it was a civilian facility, however, this would convince the security guards to let him go. His camera had zooming ratio of 50x, covering ranges from wide angle to super telephoto and all featured some form of optical or mechanical image stabilization; with this he could have counted the individual leaves on the potted plant on one windowsill of an office on the third floor. Getting close wasn't necessary at this stage.

So he laid down in the thick shrubbery and watched the building through his binoculars, timing guard changes and noting when lights went on and off in different windows. He slowly worked his way around the complex over the course of five hours in a wide circle. There were three entrances to the complex and a guard station at each, but the grounds didn't seem to be patrolled. Though there was bound to be interior patrols after they closed at five for regular business. The main building was five stories and the two smaller buildings reached two stories. The top floor of the main building was the one that interested him because it had been either already or still occupied at six o'clock in the morning when he had arrived to the hill. Heero suspected that the top floor might be residential, though more intel was needed to verify that; Venetian blinds blocked every window.

The floor plans he had didn't tell much about what he would find in the upper levels. Based on the wide-open spaces on the blueprint, the laboratory area was below ground. The water system interested him as well; the complex had its own water supply, but no water treatment system so it had to be connected into the city sewer system somewhere.

This was only preliminary investigation for a potential mission. He couldn't do much more for now because he couldn't risk an injury or worse before the planned attack to a Taurus transport route, but he had never taken well to being idle. Preliminary investigations complete, he crept from the undergrowth and turned his back on the complex.

The hike back to his hideout was just over thirteen kilometers, but Heero didn't mind the exercise; he was finally reaching his optimal levels at 1 G. The colony average was 0.5200 G and the closest to Earth's gravity his training facilities on L1 had managed had been 0.7895. Despite the use of weights to further simulate planetary conditions, this left him performing beneath his usual standards when he landed. The weather had on more than one occasion proved a hindrance as well – yet another thing the colonies couldn't simulate appropriately – was near optimal now, clear yet not too hot and windless.

There was a large abandoned, but highly lucrative tea plantation in the Tagata district of Shizuoka province. The Catholic Church had established and successfully managed the over five hundred hectare tea plantation with a factory of its own, but when the business had been sold to a private business owner it had been run down due to bad management. Now shrubbery had invaded the once well-kept tea fields and the tea plants had in turn migrated down from the green hills to the courtyards of the buildings.

Heero had established a temporary base in the abandoned plantations. The old tea factory had come to hide and shelter Wing; the building wasn't high enough for the Gundam to stand straight in and so the area wasn't considered high-risk despite it's other advantages. However, unlike the mass-produced Oz Aries and Leon suits, Wing could bend from it's alighting gear joints and the midsection fold to fit in a space almost half of it's height. The large tea fields that surrounded the buildings offered privacy, clean water was easily available from the well after he had thoroughly cleaned the old pump and he had joined his own generator into the plantation grid, making the place habitable enough.

Heero much preferred this manner of hiding to taking cover under the guise of a student in a boarding school. There, he needed to blend in socially and he was painfully aware of his shortcomings in that area. The original plan for Operation Meteor had been to drop the L3 colony X-18999 on Earth, after which the Gundams would take control of the planet easily, and this was the goal Heero's training had been aimed to prepare him for. In this plan the Gundams were to be tools for a massacre, no more and no less. Blending in hadn't been an issue.

He was… more comfortable with the new plan. But now his training was less than adequate in some respects.

Heero stepped from the bright midday sun into the shadowed interior of the factory. The facility had been low-tech, one of those places where luxury tea was manufactured and packaged by hand, and he'd only had to move a few large chutes and tables from the largest hall into the room once used for oxidation. When he had first appropriated the place it still smelled of tea leaves, but now the smell of oil and coolant had replaced the old scents. He marched to Wing and climbed in, opening the channel and waiting for his new instructions. He didn't expect to get any; this was merely the standard contact time. His next mission was already planned: on the ninth of June, five days from now, he and the other pilots were to attack a strategically important Taurus transport route.

Again, a failure in planning: they had not been trained to work together. Heero considered the possibility of arranging training in some distant location. It would be difficult to co-ordinate their schedules in the middle of five-men war, but they needed that training for future common assaults.

He waited, comfortable in the cramped cockpit; the sensation of being enveloped by his most efficient weapon never failed to soothe him. Seconds ticked by, and exactly at the appointed time the vidphone's screen flickered to life and Doctor J peered up at him from it.

"It's nice to hear from you, Heero, I see you are well. That is good, I have new orders for you," the man said, as though Heero had been the one to call him, light glinted from his lenses. Heero nodded.

He wasn't fond of Doctor J. For all his grandfatherly manner, the man was a ruthless taskmaster and Heero knew well the man demanded dedication unto death. It wasn't something to be liked, but it was something to be respected. He would do anything and everything the man ever ordered him, at any cost to himself.

"Harry Dursley is a citizen of the Euro-Russian Federation, Great Britain." Doctor J disappeared from the screen, replaced by a young boy in what had to be a photo from a school registry. "He is currently being held by Walburga Black, the head of the Black family branch of the Romefeller Foundation. You are to retrieve him from her mansion in London and bring him to safety. Dursley is capable of escaping on his own, but he has nowhere to escape to. I want him taken to a Sweeper base and then brought to L1."

"Mission accepted," answered Heero. A private mansion might have good security, but it would be easy to escape from compared to Oz holding facilities. Unlike Oz holding facilities, however, the location posed a risk to civilian lives. "How am I to contact him?" He wasn't interested in who Harry Dursley was or why he needed rescuing. He only needed to know where, when and if J had preferences on how.

"I will send you the full mission briefing. The sooner you get to him the better. To our best knowledge Dame Black isn't aware of young Dursley's importance and the shorter time he is in her hands the smaller possibility she will find out," Doctor J said and his hand moved outside of the vidphone's line of sight. After a while Wing's computer sounded a discreet chime.

"Pilot 01 out," Heero said and closed the connection. The he opened his mail account.

The need for secure communication was crucial in any operation and had Heero been prone to pity his enemies he might have spared a fleeting thought for the Alliance troops in southern Africa as he read his instructions. No such thing existed as an invincible program. Terms "secure" and "unreachable" were always relative. One day a connection was secure and the next some government hacker or rebel computer genius team proved otherwise, making it only formerly invincible. But the six block ciphers symmetric key encryption they used was currently the state of art, making his connection to Doctor J as secure as possible. Also, any computer would have flat-out refused to give an IP address to the server the message was sent from.

From:Doctor J (doctorjcmd.******.com)
To:01 (01comb.******.com)
Subject:Mission briefing
[Attachment: missiondetails017]

Codename Heero Yuy, his real name unknown even to himself, wasn't interested in who and why; those particulars were provided to him anyway. He also wasn't in the habit of questioning his orders, but the contents of the compressed file missiondetails017 made him question his commanding officer's sanity.

Maxwell had previously claimed that Heero only had three expressions. While that was an exaggeration he was unusually inexpressive, which the Deathscythe pilot had seemed to take as a personal offense of some kind. He had attempted to tease and coax and wrangle any look other than "serious" or "determined" or "angry" from Heero when they had both resided onboard Howard's salvage ship. He would have delighted had he seen the stoical pilot now.

"I am supposed to rescue a magician?" Heero wasn't in the habit of talking to himself either, but despite 02's claims, he wasn't a machine either.

Not counting the Umoja camp, the study room was the most masculine room Harry had ever seen. It emanated a different kind of masculinity from the guerrilla stronghold though, refined and gentlemanly. A bookcase full of thick, boring-looking books Harry was sure were there only for the sake of appearances – surely no one actually read those – and dark, wood-paneled walls and textured floors. His steps had disappeared into the rugged carpet in the shades of brown and red and sadly so had his kidnappers when she had managed to sneak up on him kicking the table leg, staring out of the window. The red upholstery and muted golden curtains all added to the masculine quality. The honest-to-Merlin stuffed head of a deer on top of a mantel piece, however, took the cake, the marzipan rose on top and a whole jar of cocktail cherries. Its creepy glass eyes seemed to follow Harry wherever in the room he tried to sit or stand. This was Harry's new study and he hated it almost as much as the infamous cupboard under the stairs.

He was disgusted by the gaudy nature of the room, but at least it provided him with a nice, sturdy desk that as a barricade between himself and the stern-faced woman glaring at him. Walburga Black's ice green eyes seemed to drill into his skull, making him fidget on his chair. Her face was like an artist's sunset, heavily painted and most likely also cut with a skillful scalpel to make her appear some twenty years younger than she actually was. Harry flipped the pages of the book she had given him, pausing at random to read a sentence or two.

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.

War cannot be avoided; it can only be postponed to the other's advantage.

Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved.

"Oh, you can't actually be serious…" Harry muttered and allowed the book fall from his hand. He wondered briefly if this was his kidnapper/hostess' idea of a drawn-out practical joke or if she really thought this would work. Wasn't propaganda supposed to be subtle or something?

"I am always serious," Walburga Black assured with voice dryer than Sahara at mid-summer. "Which kind of insight you gain from reading this book?"

"You tell me, you're the one forcing me to read it!" Harry snarled and valiantly resisted the urge to throw said book at her. It was a paper volume of The Prince by Machiavelli and it was nice and heavy in a way the ebook-readers couldn't match.

Harry ran an Internet search when Black first gave him the book. He had found out that many authors had historically argued that it was in fact a political satire. Many agreed that while it appeared to be written for a prospective monarch, it could be read as deliberately emphasizing the benefits of free republics over monarchies. Black hadn't been very pleased when he had pointed this out.

"Read chapters one and two for tomorrow and prepare to discuss the subject matter of new princedoms with me," she instructed. "You will become the next head of the family after all. An uneducated Black would be a right tragedy."

"Haven't I said 'no' enough?" Harry slumped against the back of the chair, annoyed beyond measure. "Is that why you decided propaganda was the way to go?"

"This is classical education, it is important you pay attention. It wouldn't do to be expelled for being lazy when you have such an important legacy to live up to," Black threatened. Harry snorted.

"One, this isn't part of Smeltings' curriculum. Two, I thought you decided Smeltings was too low-class for me? Three,since when do you have the power to expel me from there?" Smeltings was one of the classiest schools in Great Britain, but apparently nothing but THE most prestigious would do for Dame Black and her precious legacy.

"Your brother, if I'm not mistaken, still attends this school of yours?" Her voice was so innocent now, like she was talking of weather or a new hat. The room was too heavily decorated with thick fabrics for it to echo, but those words ricocheted inside his skull. Your brother… this school of yours…

Harry wasn't in the habit of attacking people; he was always the one attacked first. There had been the one notable exception of jumping Sirius when he had thought the man had sold his parents out and seriously, who wouldn't have gotten violent in a situation like that? The idea of hitting women or the elderly usually horrified him even more, but now his fists were clenching and unclenching and it was tempting. He glared at the horrible woman, but he was defeated for now and she knew it. Silence rested over them thick and oppressing.

And then her face softened a bit. In a way she almost looked kind.

"If your homework is of appropriate quality I will let you contact your previous family – under supervision, naturally," she said and with these parting words she left the study, the hem of her black and green dress fluttering against the floor. She doesn't seem to realize I can contact them by email even without a phone, Harry thought. But his stomach was churning as he watched her retreating back. She really, really thought she was being generous.

Harry stood up so forcibly the chair behind him scraped against the floor and tilted back hazardously. He threw the book to the floor and leaned against the desk, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. Inhale, exhale, he thought, inhale, exhale. He had to get out or he was going to go crazy! And without further thought he pushed the door open, slammed the door behind his back with as much force as he could muster and marched towards the stairs and the door to the garden.

A night's sleep in the mansion hadn't made it any less creepy. The portraits still glared at him like they knew he didn't belong, but it wasn't only that. Oh no, one of the previous residents had been an avid hunter and had seen fit decorate the walls of the place with dead animals. Large boar heads with stiff, brown fur and curvy tusks, deer heads with tall, sharp antlers, whole stuffed wild ducks and pure snow white swans sitting on top of tables and drawers and any other flat surfaces. They all had black or blue glass eyes that glittered in the light that seemed dim despite the curtains being wide open. Those eyes followed him as he walked past them. Just how had Sirius managed to turn out so normal, living in this place and raised by that woman?

The door to the garden was part of a whole wall of glass. Beyond it was a terrace made of blue stones that contained wrought iron table with curvy legs and matching iron chairs with soft, red cushions. On the door was a fingerprint scanner that seemed to taunt Harry. You could get out by pressing a little green button on the side, but without a recognized fingerprint, you couldn't get back in. Never mind, Harry decided, he didn't need the door anyway. So he pressed it open and stepped into the garden.

There wasn't much to see. It was surely very lush and beautiful later in she spring and once summer came, but now the old oaks and the poplar trees, carefully cut to pyramid shapes, were bare and the roses weren't even budding yet. Still, it was fresh air, as fresh as air got in London anyway, and Harry wandered around without hurry or destination. There were little stone paths that crossed the yard, disappearing between rose bushes and trees, leading to a small, creamy white summerhouse and another to a fountain where the water streamed from a cornucopia held by a naked maiden made of reddish stone. Harry was watching it impassively when intentionally heavy steps sounded behind him.

It was one of Black's security guards, a man so big he could have almost been Hagrid's little brother, though much better groomed – and Hagrid couldn't have pulled off that kind of non-descript face if his life had depended on it. He was wearing gray trousers, black blazer with a white shirt under it. Harry wouldn't have worn anything that looked like that to a job where it might get ruined. His name tag read SECURITY first and under it in smaller CEM MILHAVE.

"Excuse me, young master, but it has come to my attention that your fingerprints haven't yet been added to the security database. If you have time now…" He took a scanner from his utility belt, a small thing that, when flipped open, somewhat resembled a cell phone except for the extra "screen" at the bottom, the scanning surface.

They were keeping an eye on him? There were probably cameras all around the mansion. Harry squished the impulse to shout at the man; it wouldn't have done him much good and he would rather shout at Black. Instead he offered his right hand, his fingers splayed wide.

"Please press one finger at a time against the glowing surface. Once it dims briefly you may switch the finger," the man said with a pleasant voice. He was smiling to Harry as well. Would this man care if I told him I was held here against my will, Harry wondered. He had to conclude he probably wouldn't. He resisted the urge to kick the man.

If he kept suppressing violent urges like this he would burst soon. Just one giant explosion and the walls would be covered with reluctant heir.

"I liked it much better when the bad guys aren't acting all nice," he muttered under his breath. If the man heard, he pretended he didn't. He pressed his fingers on the scanner one by one.

"Our biometric fingerprint scanners have a panic feature; all of your fingerprints were scanned and the middle finger is designated as the panic finger. When this finger is used on the scanner, it behaves like any other finger that was scanned, but also trips a silent alarm," the man instructed him further as he entered the setting into the database. This made Harry snort; if someone wanted his help to rob this place he wasn't going to spoil their fun.

"That is good to know," he said neutrally and the man excused himself, disappearing much more silently than when he had first approached Harry. Great, now he felt like a skittish animal people were trying to placate.

The garden and fresh air had been ruined to him now. The sky seemed much darker and the wind felt chillier and watching at the naked statue made him feel even colder. And he wanted back home and he wanted back to school and Merlin help him, he even missed the terrible kidney-heavy cuisine. Black would probably try to feed him snails and other disgusting delicacies at some point. He had read from somewhere that lobsters needed to be boiled alive…

He gave himself a mental kick to the behind and decided to think positive thoughts. For all her posturing Black didn't seem very experienced at keeping people under lock and key. Harry had a free access to a computer so even if he hadn't retained the possession of the phone, which he had – and that would have been completely useless hadn't he been provided with a charger – he could have called help anyway. Then again, maybe she was confident no one would rescue Harry. If she wasn't exaggerating, the authorities were in her pockets and Harry as good as adopted already, and Harry didn't think she was. It wasn't like she thought Harry would ever ask help from the rebels who had "kidnapped" him. Oh, the irony!

Lost in thought he wandered aimlessly some more until the path took him around the corner and there Harry paused. Instead of green fields or flower beds, behind the mansion was a large tarmac field with a white circle with what seemed to be capital H in the middle painted in the middle of it. A helicopter platform, he realized, Walburga Black had her own helicopter platform. Going t Heathrow must have been too plebeian for her tastes. There was a large hangar behind it that was built of some dark wood with slight golden sheen, rather than metal. Some kind of green vine crept up the sides of it. Harry wondered, briefly, what it looked like inside, what kind of helicopter the woman kept there. It would be nice if he could fly one. He would just take it right back to Uganda.

Harry sighed and turned around, returning inside. It would be easier if he just put up with this and read those chapters. He would get out of here soon enough. He wasn't sure if Black was really spiteful enough to get Dudley expelled just to put him in line, but he didn't want to test it.

Dorothy Catalonia was drinking iced coffee and her grandfather Duke Dermail was stirring his tea. It was an afternoon ritual of theirs. Not a very frequent one; his business and Romefeller kept Dermail a very busy man and often they spent long stretches of time on entirely different continents. But whenever they resided under the same roof, they would take tea together. Their "Golden Afternoon" originated from after Dorothy's parents died and she first came into her grandfather's care.

They were sitting in his study, as he called the room, though it was so cluttered actually studying there would have required very thorough cleaning. The staff was forbidden from entering the room and as neither Duke Dermail nor his granddaughter were used to menial work the place tended to be in throes of barely controlled chaos. Dorothy had made room for their tea set and unearthed a beautiful table made of wrought iron and glass by putting four books, a laptop, an espresso maker still in its box – it was a Christmas gift Dermail had never gotten to unpacking – two ebook readers and a pencil set on the desk, on top of a book case and, in the coffee maker box's case, on the floor. She had considered cleaning the desk and very quickly decided against it.

"I wish for one, just one person who could resist spouting tired clichés at me. Do you have any idea how many insipid boys think themselves oh so clever when they ask me if my red shoes are magical?" Red was one of Dorothy's favorite colors and her red haute couture Adeen Kashas were very much THE topic in her school. Sadly the conversation wasn't exactly witty. Her grandfather made vaguely sympathetic noises into his tea, but Dorothy hadn't really expected anything more.

Dorothy Catalonia was called an A-grade bitch behind her back and she was more aware of the identities of the people doing so than they probably thought. She wasn't terribly offended, however. If being self-assured, witty and at ease with her own attractiveness, knowing what she wanted in life and being willing to work hard towards her goals made Dorothy a bitch then fine! Most of her peers didn't think any further than the next party and if that was the norm she was glad to not meet the standards. If she was considered uncanny because she intimidated good-for-nothing teenagers with the spine of an oyster and the brains of a bird the so be it. Stop the press, she thought and picked a little pesto snack from the plate. Dorothy Catalonia was a confirmed bitch.

But Walburga Black was a witch. Dorothy clearly remembered wishing, when she had been but ten years old, that her name meant that she could melt the horrible woman into green mess on the luxurious Persian carpet with a well-aimed bucket of water. The unfortunate first impression of the woman had been the best impression she had ever made on Dorothy. Thus, when her grandfather informed her that Dame Black had decided to adopt a young, orphaned relation she reacted with uncharacteristic pity.

"She has already ruined two sons and one of her nieces hasn't spoken with her for oven thirteen years after she spent one summer in her house and now she has taken in a new child? Some people just don't know when to quit," she scoffed and sipped her frappuccino, remembering of the news of the elder son, Sirius Black, escaping some African prison. What a sorry state for such an old family. Her grandfather gave her an admonishing look.

"This may be good news for the family. I have decided to initiate talks about the possibility of a marriage between the heirs of the families once both have come of age," he said with a gentle but firm voice. The cup in Dorothy's hand froze in the air halfway between her mouth and the tabletop.

Duke Dermail Catalonia was the one who had raised Dorothy and it was his hand could be seen in her nature. They were both strong-willed, ambitious and prone to make decisions based on logic rather than fleeting, ephemeral emotion. But even then Dorothy was a fifteen-year-old girl and her logic had its limits.

"I don't want to marry her son. Do you really want her as an in-law?" she asked, betrayal tingling in her stomach. She could see how it would be a good match, yes, a marriage of convenience made in Heaven. And she would never given then time of the day to any common riff-raff, she had standards and one of those was that a man was her equal in everything, monetary side of things as well beauty and intelligence. An ugly man would be a tragedy, but a dumb one would be even worse.

She was ready and eager to make a good choice based on logic and compatibility, but she had always thought that her doting grandfather would allow her to be the one to make that choice.

"Don't you trust me?" she asked. She finished her cup with a swift swallow set in on the glass table with a harsh clink. She made sure to meet his eyes.

"It isn't that I think you would make a bad choice of husbands, but the heir to the Black fortune is the best choice there is. Walburga isn't a young woman any more either; the boy, Harry Dursley, will inherit soon." Grandfather smiled to her in that way of his (that meant he was remembering what it had been like to be young, or at least that was what he would have claimed. At times Dorothy wondered if he hadn't purposefully forgotten the feeling of possibilities, of he world being open and everything being for the grabbing so he wouldn't have missed it so.

"Harry? Is that short for Harold?" Dorothy wondered, as her grandfather rarely used nicknames even, of close acquaintances.

"It isn't short for anything. He is originally from an upper middle-class family and is a bit younger than you are, thirteen…"

"You want me to marry a prepubescent boy?" Thirteen, the word repeated itself in her head in an endless loop, thirteen! She had two younger cousins, twelve and thirteen respectively, and they still collected Elemental Monster cards and watched Dea Invicta and its evil nanomachine-releasing zombie-animating mobile suits. Now Dorothy didn't only feel stifled, she felt like a pedophile.

"He won't be prepubescent when you marry, of course." Duke Dermail's sigh sounded a lot more patient that what he truly felt like, coming out as a low whoosh. "He may seem very young to you now, but the age gap will narrow once you both grow older." That was true, of course, but it failed to make Dorothy feel any better now.

"I will have to think about this," she said and rose from the chair. She didn't smile to her grandfather. He shook his head sadly. She raised an eyebrow, silently asking permission to leave, he conceded a nod and she turned and walked out of the room, not slamming the door. That was the point.

She went to her room, but only to grab her gym clothes; a red T-shirt and cute little shorts. Their Lyon home had a fully equipped gym and several trainers at her beck and call and Dorothy summoned her aerobic instructor for a quick work-out. She would have preferred fencing, but the first rule of combat sports was that they shouldn't be attempted when angry and behind her cool, sky blue eyes, Dorothy was boiling, the taste of iron rising to her tongue.

His grandfather had been reasonably caring guardian to her, if a bit distant out of necessity. When had she come to love him enough to feel this betrayed now?

The instructor, Mr Oriole, was a tall, thin man with lips that seemed to pout even when he was happy and whose voice was very effeminate, much like the token gay in a bad sitcom, and his French accent hardly helped the matter. He was also twice as ruthless a taskmaster as her fencing instructor was.

"Not like that! Let the music become you, move you! Quicker, don't move so sharp, flow from one position to another!" he ordered, basic right, basic left, jumping jack and rocking horse. So she leapt and slid and stretched her body, her movements stubbornly sharp and her choice of music aggressive, until her legs felt so weak they might give up under her, and after that her whole body became feathery light, entering that euphoria beyond tired when Dorothy always felt she could do anything. She jumped up and down, surrounded by ceiling-high mirrors on every side, seventeen Dorothy's jumping and twirling with her, blond hair plastered against her face with sweat.

"Enough," she eventually breathed and leaned on her knees. When she looked at the clock above the door she was surprised to realize almost two hours had gone by. She was ravenous and her stomach grumbled in a most embarrassing way. She was red as a tomato, red as a fire truck from the exercising.

"I hope you are feeling better now!" Mr Oriole shouted after her as she walked towards the changing room and the heavenly, cool, refreshing shower, causing her cheeks to redden further.

But the cool water washed away the fury the work-out hadn't burned to cinders. Having calmed down, Dorothy concluded things weren't as bad as they had seemed at first glance. The talks hadn't even started yet, there was a good chance the betrothal wouldn't come to be. Also, as this Harry was two years younger than her and according to Alliance laws a person had to be sixteen to marry with their guardians' permission –or eighteen without permission. She would have three grace years instead of just half a year were she to marry a peer or someone older. She also conceded her grandfather's point, Walburga Black wasn't a young woman anymore, and brain aneurysms ran in her family. She might die and then the boy, who hadn't been raised in her circles and most likely had all kinds of ideas about a love match, would cancel the whole thing.

Of course, it was possible that Harry would turn out a good match for her. Maybe his young age and humble origins could prove a good thing, allowing her to tutor him, mold him into a suitable husband. Love was a bonus if it formed, but if it didn't it wasn't as if they couldn't both have their distractions after all, as long as they made sure all their children were born in wedlock. What was marriage, at the end of a day, but a legal paper? And in Romefeller foundation, "legal" was a very relative term.

Hands down, the best feature of this miserable place is having my own bathroom, Harry decided. Decorated with green and shiny white stone counter tops and white and green tiles, it was bigger than the Gryffindor common room had been. It had a tiny sauna that looked rather like a shower stall with curved glass front, just big enough for two people to sit in and not jab each other between ribs with their elbows and the best feature of all, a whirlpool bath. Harry always wanted a whirlpool bath.

Another point in the room's favor: it was No. 1 in his list of Places Where There Probably Aren't Any Cameras.

"My problem is that I'm a three trick pony right now," Harry muttered as he ran himself a bath. He never really appreciated the wealth of things he learned to do at Hogwarts before he had to try and replicate them without a wand.

While the bath was filled Harry sat on the edge of it, holding a blue toothbrush on his open palm. He'd had to rip it off the plastic container the night before and. Everything else in the bathroom was equally brand new from the cloudy-soft towels to uncorked bottles of shampoo and conditioner and at least seven kinds of soap. Someone had even bought him a small safety razor and that had made him almost giggle. He glared at the toothbrush.

"Wingardium leviosa," he commanded it, drawing from the wellspring within. The toothbrush twitched, but remained on his palm. Harry tried again, this time he imagined it rising into the air above his hand, but nothing happened.

"Wingardium leviosa," he said and remembered Mr Bing's Adam's apple bobbing up and down when he very carefully intoned Sweet Water War. Now he felt a slight tug as the toothbrush flew up above his head, as if dangling from an invisible string. "Don't tell me I actually have to do this every time?" he groaned.

Once the bathtub was filled he undressed and slipped in, wondering what he should try to do next. The bath, however, was just as hot and relaxing and pampering, massaging his back and shoulders once he positioned himself just right, and it was hard to remember he was here to practice covertly. Expelliarmus would have been a good spell, but the need of a partner to practice it with made it a no go. Mmhhnnmm, Harry hummed and leaned back some more, his mind blanking for a moment. Reducto would have been useful as well, but practicing that would leave marks and make a lot of noise. Flying… Harry really wanted to fly again, but enchanting a broom probably required a lot of spells and spells he didn't know at that. Besides, even if he had known how, trying to fly in the bathroom would have been plain silly. Also, he lacked the broom and while he was almost certain he could turn his toothbrush into a broom… no. Alohomora seemed like a good idea at first glance, but he could already bypass closed doors so he wanted to learn something more useful.

After a while he settled for the summoning charm. It was a bit dull choice, but Harry forced himself to be practical. It was easy to use, easy to practice without alarming anyone and it could be very useful to grab objects without going to them. As a bonus it could be used like the disarming curse too. Maybe it could even be used to disarm multiple opponents at the same time. Harry gave the towel cupboard a calculating look.

Harry thought about what he had read of the charm; he now wished he had appreciated more of Hermione's tendency to give spell books as presents. The charm could be used in two ways: by casting the charm, and then naming the object that was summoned or just by pointing the wand at the object during or immediately following the incantation to pull it toward the user. In either case, concentrating on the object was necessary in order for the charm to succeed, but the caster didn't necessarily need to know the location if they said the name of the object. But supposing he said "Accio gun" and there were several people with guns? If he didn't point at a specific one would he get them all, or just one? He closed his eyes and purposefully, carefully, brought the picture of Mathilda Sisulu into his mind in the red and black glory of the graffiti he had seen. Something warm and wiggling inside him immediately hardened into a sizzling ball, awaiting his orders.

"Accio towel!" he called. Not a towel, but just towel. He felt the tendrils reach towards the cupboard, but they couldn't grab and just slid off. Harry frowned. Using parseltongue had helped before and picturing the spell in effect had helped as well.

"Accio towel," he hissed and pictured in his mind the soft, red and beige and green towels flying towards him. Again, he could feel his magic move, but no more. "So this is going to be more like when I tried to apparate the first time, huh?"

By the time he managed the feat, the water cooled to lukewarm and the wrinkles on his fingers formed deep canyons. Ultimately, he met with success after he remembered the time Peeves threw the Gryffindor breakfast plates all over the Great Hall. A plate of toast and eggs had flown straight to his face and he had only managed to duck at the last second. So Harry imagined. Harry had been briefly distracted wondering where the new plates and food had come from, since Dumbledore hadn't done that, but that wasn't the issue now. So he imagined a gaggle of invisible little poltergeist hands grabbing the towels and flying to him. The wooden door of the cupboard opened and hit the wall behind. Seven towels flew towards him, red, beige and green, all embroidered with the Black crest, and he caught two, but the rest had dropped into the bathtub and were instantly soaked.

Harry he draped the wet towels on the open cupboard and sauna doors and on racks or hooks on the walls. The maid would find this odd, certainly. What would they think of him? Was it normal to want the maids think highly of you? At least he had upgraded into a four-trick pony, he thought as he dressed in a white shirt and dress pants. The progress was progressing.

Harry gave his room a wary look as he exited the bathroom. He sure as hell hoped there weren't any cameras there, but since Black didn't trust him yet he wouldn't have put it below her to give him a room that was under surveillance. But he took comfort in that he wouldn't have to deal with it much longer. When he called Luna, she told him someone was coming to rescue him. He wondered who would come. Quatre would be nice and so would Duo, but Duo was busy in Africa for sure. On the other hand, there were three other pilots as well and it might be nice to meet one of them. He tried to imagine what they might be like, boys not much older than himself, but they stubbornly came out as blends of Duo and Quatre. Maybe someone oriental instead, or of African descent, or even a girl?

He had dressed in the bathroom to avoid potential voyeurs so he was ready when someone knocked. Thus far nothing good came from people knocking in this place.

"Come in," he called, wary. A plump woman with bushy, brown hair opened the door, twisting a lock of hair around her forefinger. Other than the hair she didn't resemble Hermione much, her attitude least of all and she was an adult to boot, but Harry still felt like something had been stuck in his throat.

"Dame Black would see you now, young master," she said with high-pitched voice and lowered her eyes and Harry realized she was ashamed.

"It's all right. This isn't your fault or anything," he said and she blushed before turning and escaping quickly in a twirl of dark skirts and white apron.

"Where am I supposed to go to?" Harry shouted after her. The fleeing steps stopped.

"I will show you the way," her small voice replied. Harry could only hear her because he had already entered the hallway. He walked to her and she still refused to meet his eyes. Well, at least someone felt sorry for him.

"What is your name, Ma'am?" he asked as he followed her upstairs somewhere.

"I am Lillian Spelt, young master," she answered. She was holding her shoulders tight, as if bracing for a blow.

"I am Harry Dursley, it's nice to meet you," he said and muttered under his breath: "Unlike several other people here." He tried to engage her in a conversation, he truly did, but she wouldn't answer with two words if one was enough. Soon she led him to a typically gloomy room that was at least lightened up by a fireplace. Real, live fire always seemed very beautiful to Harry and Hogwarts' fireplaces had only highlighted that.

Walburga Black was sitting in a poisonous green arm chair, drinking tea from a little teacup. Harry thought briefly of another teacup and Edgar and Luna. She turned her cold, sharp eyes to Harry as he entered and he didn't blame Lillian at all for curtsying and escaping the room as quickly as she could. The fire cast pleasant golden glow and mischievous shadows all around the room, leaving the corners in darkness.

"An old acquaintance of mine, Duke Dermail, has extended us an invitation," she said and paused, presumably to give Harry time to be awed by the thought of knowing a real duke. "We will fly to his new villa in Kemet in two days. I assume he wishes to show off."

"Seems to be a common problem around here," said Harry who though Black had to be the world's biggest hypocrite to complain about someone else showing off.

Oh shit, he would switch continents again. He needed to call Luna again before the pre-paid subscription expired.

"You will enjoy this," Dame Walburga Black stated and it sounded more like a threat than anything else.

AN: I have a new beta! Many thanks to Mystic777 for helping me deliver this fanfic ^_^

I always wondered how the "Perfect Soldier" could be so bad at going undercover. This is the explanation I came up with.

Doctor J is supposed to "have an avuncular relationship with Heero". I fail to see that, but whatever.