Chapter 2: Some History
1
Fearing some vicious reprisals from the Dursleys after Bones and Tonks left, Harry had cast Muggle-repelling wards on his t shirt. He had learned them before leaving school and was going to cast them on the train, but then remembered that his aunt and uncle wouldn't have been able to find him in the station if he did. He had resigned himself to more bullying until he could escape, but then Bones had broken the trace on him and the first thing he did was cast the wards on every t shirt he owned.
Sighing in relief that his uncle's furious gaze slid right off him, Harry dragged his much lightened trunk upstairs and collapsed onto his bed, which groaned like a cheap haunted house record sound effect. Got to do something about that, he thought absently, before falling asleep.
The next morning, he transfigured some of Dudley's castoffs into something a little more suitable, at least until he could get to the department store in London near the Leaky Cauldron.
He had exchanged some Galleons for Muggle pounds last summer and hid them under a loose floorboard. Looking at them now, he remembered it had taken fifty Galleons to get five hundred pounds. Surely that couldn't be right?
He reached into his trunk and pulled out a fat gold Galleon and, after making sure none of his relatives were about, snuck into the kitchen and pulled out the kitchen scale. He had left his brass potions scales at school.
He sat the Galleon in the dish and watched the number on the dial: thirty grams, or just over an ounce.
Looking around, he spotted Vernon's newspaper, still open to the financial pages. Scanning quickly, he saw that, according to the Precious Metals Exchange, the price for gold was twenty-five pounds per gram. Which would mean that, assuming all Galleons were the same size and that they were all gold, those fifty galleons should've gotten him-
Harry almost fell into a kitchen chair.
Those fifty Galleons should've given him thirty seven thousand five hundred pounds, not five hundred.
"Holy fuck!" Harry muttered, staring wide-eyed at the scale..
This either meant that the goblins were extorting him, or that these Galleons weren't all gold, or both.
Harry picked up the Galleon out of the scale and bounced it thoughtfully on his palm. It gleamed fat and yellow under the kitchen's fluorescent lights, looking for all the world like pure gold.
Remembering something he had read in a book in primary school, Harry held up the Galleon and bit into the edge.
It was soft, like gold was supposed to be, and his teeth sank all the way through.
This meant that the goblins were ripping off everybody trying to convert to Muggle currency.
For what reason though? Pure greed? There had to be something else going on... Harry vowed he would find out, but obviously he couldn't ask them. Time to bring out his curious streak, but caution was required. Who knew what might happen to him if he overturned some dark deep secret that was better left buried.
Little did he know…
2
Harry applied a glamour charm to himself to make him look older (he didn't want to answer a lot of questions about where his parents were and why he was out on his own) and headed for the train station to catch a ride to London. Arriving at King's Cross he took a bus to Charing Cross Road and, still with the glamour but fingering his wand which was in the front pocket of his sweat shirt, headed into the Leaky Cauldron.
It barely being ten in the morning, the place was more deserted than it had been when he and Hagrid arrived last summer. Tom was leaning on his stool behind the bar reading the paper, giving only a bare glance to the newcomer. Only three customers were at the tables finishing breakfast.
Harry had two hours before he had to meet Bones. They had decided on a restaurant in Muggle London. There was more chance of privacy there.
With that in mind, he decided his first stop would be Gringotts. But there was no way that he was going to mention his thoughts on the gold thing. Harry doubted he was the first to notice the discrepancy, but nothing obviously had been done about it. No, he would do his own investigating.
Harry headed through the silent pub and out the back, tapping the requisite bricks in the alley, opening up the shopping district. There weren't many people out and about here either. A few straggled in and out of the apothecary, the Quidditch shop, and the menagerie. Sunshine gleamed off the cauldrons down street and heliographed off the telescopes in the magical instruments shop.
Harry strode up the cobblestone alley toward the snowy white building that was Gringotts. Two goblins bowed him into the lobby and Harry headed for an empty line in front of one of the teller stations, standing quietly waiting to be acknowledged.
"What?" the teller grumbled, barely looking up from his ledger.
"I wish to speak with someone about my account," Harry said, handing over his key.
The teller glanced at it disinterestedly and rang a bell on his desk. "Wait," he said, handing it back and pointedly returning to his ledger.
Rude little bastards, Harry thought, standing off to one side. He guessed they could afford to be though, since they had a monopoly on the economy.
Before too long a familiar goblin slouched up, looking not at all pleased to be there. "Follow me, Mr Potter," he said, barely looking at him.
"Of course, Griphook," Harry said, following in the goblin's wake.
The goblin didn't react at hearing his name, much to Harry's disappointment. He thought remembering the goblin's name would earn him some brownie points, but no luck.
Griphook led Harry down a rough stone hewn passageway into an office which resembled a cave more than anything else. He slammed the door and seated himself behind the roughly carved stone slab that looked more like a sacrificial altar than a desk.
"What do you want, Mr Potter?" he asked, pulling out a thick ledger.
"I want to see my parents' will, for starters," Harry said, deciding to be as brusque and business-like as the goblin. "Then, depending on what it says I want to see my family vault."
Griphook said nothing, but pulled out a short document. "Since all assets are held in the name of your father, this is his last will and testament."
Harry picked it up and perused it:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT of
James Charles Potter of the Line of Potter
128 Richmond Terrace, Godric's Hollow, Wales
1. Declaration
I hereby declare that this is my last will and testament and that I hereby revoke, cancel and annul all wills and codicils previously made by me, or third parties, either jointly or severally.
I declare that I am of legal age to make this will and of sound mind and that this last will and testament expresses my wishes without undue influence or duress, be it magical, physical or mental.
2. Family Details
I am married to Lily Rosemary Potter nee Evans hereinafter referred to as my spouse.
I have the following children:
Harry James Potter, born 31 (thirty-one) July 1990 (nineteen ninety)
3. Appointment of Executors
3.1. I hereby nominate, constitute and appoint Sirius Orion Black, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black as Executor
If this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint Franklin Pontificus Longbottom, of the Line of Longbottom as alternate Executor. Should he be unwilling or unable to serve, then I appoint Remus John Lupin as Executor.
3.3. Before my executor may take control of my estate, he must provide, via blood signed magical contract, an oath that he has not, nor will he at any time in the present, past, or future, have served or been in alliance with, in any shape or form, the wizard known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, or otherwise known as Lord Voldemort.
3.3. I hereby give and grant the Executor all powers and authority as are required or allowed in law, and especially that of assumption.
3.4. I hereby direct that my Executors shall not be required to furnish security and shall serve without any bond.
3.5. Pending the distribution of my estate my Executors shall have authority to carry on any business, venture or partnership in which I may have any interest at the time of my death.
3.6. My Executors shall have full and absolute power in his/her discretion to insure, repair, improve or to sell all or any assets of my estate, whether by public auction or private sale and shall be entitled to let any property in my estate on such terms and conditions as will be in the best interest of my beneficiaries.
3.7. My Executors shall have authority to borrow money for any purpose connected with the liquidation and administration of my estate and to that end may encumber any of the assets of my estate.
3.8. My Executors shall have authority to engage the services of attorneys, accountants and other advisors as he/she may deem necessary to assist with the execution of this last will and testament and to pay reasonable compensation for their services from my estate.
4. Beneficiary
I bequeath the whole of my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature to my spouse.
5. Alternate Beneficiaries
5.1. Should my spouse not survive me by thirty (30) days I direct that the whole of my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature be divided amongst my children named in 2. above, in equal shares.
5.2. I direct that the inheritance devolving upon any of my children under my last will and testament as well as the proceeds, the reinvestment of such proceeds and the income thereon shall be free from the legal effects of any present or future marriage of any of my children, whether in or out of community of property including any accrual system and with or without the presence of any pre-marital agreement.
5.3. If any of my children are proved to be indebted to me by means of a legal instrument, then his / her share of my estate shall be reduced by the amount of such debt.
5.4. Should any of my children not survive me and my spouse by 30 (thirty) days I direct that the whole of my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature be divided in equal shares between Sirius Orion Black, Franklin Pontificus Longbottom, Remus John Lupin, and Richard Evans.
6. Guardianship
6.1. Before any of the below may assume guardianship of my children, he / she must provide, via blood signed magical contract, an oath that he / she has not, nor will he / she at any time present, past, or future, served or been in alliance with, in any shape or form, the wizard known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, or otherwise known as Lord Voldemort.
6.2. I hereby direct that a vault shall be created and designated as the trust vault. All fees, transactions and funding necessary to aid in the execution of this will with regards to guardianship shall be deducted from this vault.
6.3. This trust vault shall contain five thousand (5000) Galleons and shall not be permitted to fall below one thousand (1000). It shall be replenished upon the first of January per annum.
6.4. Should neither I nor my spouse survive guardianship for my children shall fall to the following:
Sirius Orion Black
Franklin Pontificus Longbottom
Andromeda Celestina Tonks Nee Black
Amelia Susan Bones
Emmeline Artemis Vance
Richard Evans
Should any of the above listed be unwilling or unable to assume guardianship then custody of my children shall be granted to the appropriate ministerial office. At no point whatsoever should guardianship be granted to Petunia Dursley nee Evans.
6.5. Until my children have reached the age of 10 (ten) years the above named guardian shall receive from the trust vault (listed above) a sum of 100 (one hundred) Galleons, to be provided on the first day of every month. Once the children have reached the age of 11 (eleven) the sum shall be reduced to 50 (fifty) Galleons, to be provided on the first day of each month until all children have reached the age of majority, age 17 (seventeen.) Appropriate oversight shall be provided by Wizarding Child Services and Gringotts to ensure my children are receiving adequate financial and physical care.
Should any provision of this will be judged by an appropriate court of law as invalid it shall not affect any of the remaining provisions whatsoever.
Signed on this day, 21 (twenty-one) October, 1991 (nineteen ninety-one) at Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley, London in the presence of the undersigned
James Charles Potter
Lily Rosemary Potter
Witnesses.
SIGNED:
Griphook, account manager
Bartholomew Huggins, Legal Department, Ministry of Magic
Sirius Orion Black
Franklin Pontificus Longbottom
Remus John Lupin
WITNESSES
As witnesses we declare that we are of sound mind and of legal age to witness a will and that to the best of our knowledge, James Charles Potter, the creator of this will, is of legal age to make a will, appears to be of sound mind and signed this will willingly and free of undue influence or duress. We declare that he / she signed this will in our presence as we then signed as witnesses in his presence and in the presence of each other witness, all being present at the same time.
Harry looked up. This will had raised a number of questions. It was all pretty straight forward and to the point, insofar as the division of assets went. He thought he might see a last letter or something from his parents, but no such luck.
It was of particular interest to him that he now knew Voldemort's real name-Tom Marvolo Riddle. He thought Dumbledore would've shared that with him at the end of the year, but Harry was beginning to realize that Dumbledore was very frugal with his information.
It irked him that it hadn't all been executed though, especially the provisions for guardianship. He hadn't heard of most of these people. He decided to get some answers.
He put the paper on the desk and tapped the witness signatures.
"Who are these blokes … Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and this Richard Evans? Maybe he's a cousin or something?" He already figured Franklin Longbottom had to be Neville's dad, of whom Neville never spoke.
Griphook looked briefly at the document. "Black is incarcerated in Azkaban Prison, accused of betraying your whereabouts to the Dark Lord and of killing Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. Lupin is a werewolf and cannot handle legal matters beyond his own. We have no idea who this Richard Evans is. He never turned up. Of course, until now, this will had not been executed, obviously."
Harry wanted to pursue the Sirius Black issue, but he had something else he wanted to get into first. "Why hasn't it been executed?"
"Well, let's see," Griphook said, tapping his clawed fingers on the desk. "Sirius Black was incarcerated, Frank Longbottom and his wife were attacked three days after your parents, and Remus Lupin was out of contact with your parents at the time of their deaths. We think he was out of the country, working for Albus Dumbledore on something. Without any of the named executors, Gringotts was powerless to comply with the terms set forth in the will, since goblins cannot act in legal matters outside of financial issues with regards to wizards."
"What about this Bartholomew Huggins from the Ministry?"
"He died of an apparent heart attack on November Seventh," Griphook said blandly.
Harry frowned. This sounded far too convenient. All the possible executors were prevented, via one means or another, from executing his parents will. What the hell was happening? It smacked of a conspiracy, but why? And more importantly, who? His first thought was Dumbledore, but he wasn't listed anywhere in the will. But that didn't mean he didn't know who the executors were. Once again, there was not enough information to make a guess.
"Dumbledore is Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Could he have blocked the will?"
"He was not Chief Warlock at the time it was drafted. And even if he was, last wills and testaments do not fall under Wizengamot authority. They instead fall under ours. The only time the Ministry has authority over wills is to act as arbiters or witnesses."
"But he no doubt knew there was a will created, so could he have engineered events to make sure it was not executed?
Griphook shrugged. "Anything is possible," he said noncommittally.
"He had my vault key, could he have stolen money from my vault?"
"No," said Griphook, looking offended. "Vaults cannot be accessed without the owner being present, or an appropriate writ of permission given to the third party who is accessing it. He arrived on 30 July last year, telling us he would be giving you your key the next day, so he did not have it for the previous ten years."
Harry nodded, and moved on to something else. "You said that Sirius Black was accused of those crimes. Does that mean it was never proven?"
Griphook smiled for the first time. "Correct."
Harry sat back, thinking. "Why wasn't it ever proven?"
"Because he never got a trial."
Harry decided to shelve that issue for the moment. He didn't know nearly enough to ask the right questions, and the goblins never volunteered anything.
"What's this bit about the Line of Potter and Noble and Most Ancient House of Black? Are there nobles in the wizarding world?"
Griphook smiled again, a touch condescendingly. "Of course not. There are no lords, dukes, barons or anything else in the wizarding world. When you come of age, you will not be anything as grandiose as "Lord Potter". With the acute separation between the Muggle and wizarding worlds, no wizards want anything to do with titles designed by Muggles." Harry thought he saw a funny look of … what? Smugness? Go across Griphook's face, but it was gone too quick for him to be sure.
Shrugging it off, he asked, "So what's that noble thing about then?"
"It's all a big ego trip, Mr Potter. "Noble and Most Ancient just means they're old and have a high opinion of themselves. No lords or anything like that."
Harry was slightly disappointed. He had visions of putting on a ring or something and having instant access to all kinds of esoteric items from his ancestors. Not going to happen, apparently. Oh well, he'd make do with what he could get.
"So what does happen when I do come of age?"
Griphook shrugged again. "Not much. You can handle your own legal matters, you get the trace broken, and you can do whatever you want within the law. No titles, no seats on the Wizengamot. That body is filled with half ministerial appointees and the other half is made up through random selection, similar to the Muggle jury selection, though they don't like to think of that."
"That sounds entirely too easy to corrupt," Harry mused, thinking about Sirius Black.
"Oh it is, it is," said the goblin, and Harry was sure of it; there was a definite note of smugness there. "Most of the random selections are purebloods from so-called noble and ancient houses. I suggest you do some reading on the history of the Wizengamot and the ministry, Mr Potter."
"Oh, I will. Now, my family vault?"
"Right this way, Mr Potter."
Griphook rose and beckoned Harry to a door set flush against the wall which opened onto the familiar narrow hallway with railway tracks at the centre. A whistle from the goblin brought forth a rattling mine cart, and they climbed in.
The journey was as exhilarating as Harry remembered, and went farther beneath the bank than they had gone when retrieving the Philosopher's Stone.
At last, they arrived in a vast cavern lit by flickering spheres of what looked like swamp fire. Off in the distance, Harry heard what he thought was a subway train. He wondered idly what might happen if there was a cave-in down here. Would Muggle rescue workers accidentally open a wizard's vault and steal all the gold?
Griphook took the lantern hanging on the rail of the cart and headed for a metal door that resembled the side of a tank more than anything else. Or a missile silo. If the whole cavern came down, the door would probably stand there on its own, Harry thought, watching Griphook go through the same rigmarole of petting the door with his finger that he did last year on vault seven hundred and thirteen.
The door creaked open and Harry entered, leaving Griphook lounging out in the main cavern, doing whatever it was goblins did for fun.
"Remember that you cannot remove money from this vault, Mr Potter," he called after Harry.
The place wasn't all that interesting. There were bunches of Galleons lying around in stacks, more clusters of silver shining in the dimness. Lots of it too, but Harry wasn't as impressed as he might have been had he not discovered the duplicity of the goblins.
He went over and picked up a stack of Galleons. They were heavy and yellow, the way real gold should've been. But they couldn't be, not with the prices they were charging.
And then he thought he might have figured it out.
Putting the issue aside to deal with later (he sure had been doing that a lot,) Harry ignored the money and looked for other things.
Off in a corner were a couple of trunks. They looked like standard school trunks, but with magic involved, who knew? He went over and looked at them.
He spied two sets of initials, one on each trunk; LP and JP his parents. They must have left these here when they came to make the will, ten days before they died. This was all that was in the vault aside from the money, so they must be very important. You only kept important things in a bank vault, under all this security.
Harry picked up one of the trunks. It was very light, probably due to a spell or two. He studied the top and found a button that actually had a symbol on it. He pressed it and the luggage reduced to the size of a deck of cards.
"Magic is neat," Harry muttered, before tucking the shrunken trunk into his pocket and following the same procedure with the other one.
Since he had no need for more money Harry headed out of the vault. The massive doors cranked shut automatically and closed with a boom that Harry felt in his chest. Nothing was getting through those doors.
Griphook stayed silent all the way to the surface, and Harry didn't feel like talking either. He wanted to get into those trunks. Maybe they had some answers.
"Is there anything else Gringotts can assist you with, Mr Potter?" Griphook asked, once they had returned to his office.
"Does Gringotts have anything like a credit card?"
Griphook's lips twisted. "Of course not. Only hard currency is accepted in the wizarding world, Mr Potter."
Harry sighed regretfully. "I was afraid of that. In that case, I guess we are done here for now."
Without a word, Griphook led Harry to the lobby and ushered him out the door. Rude buggers, Harry thought again, stepping into the sunlight.
The alley had picked up in traffic while he was inside Gringotts. More people were coming into the bank, and Harry spotted some of his classmates apparently out with their families.
Glancing at his watch, Harry saw that he still had an hour before he was to meet Bones and so he decided that it was time to treat himself. This was going to be fun.
3
Harry left the department store after having purchased a few outfits. Since he didn't know how to Apparate he couldn't buy an entire wardrobe, and since he didn't know how long his meeting with Bones would take, he couldn't shrink packages since the shrinking charms would wear off after a couple of hours. Wouldn't do to have shrunken bags suddenly expand in your pockets bursting your clothes.
So he contented himself with two bags, containing three pairs of jeans and four shirts, plus socks and underwear. He would come back later for more stuff.
Now, he stood in front of the restaurant they had agreed to meet at, glancing at his watch. He was five minutes early, so he leaned against the wall and people-watched.
Here was a woman, even more gaunt looking than Aunt Petunia, wearing a dress that looked as if someone had puked blueberry Kool-Aid all over it. She was carrying a shopping bag and jabbering into her cell phone, meandering down the sidewalk without a care in the world. Here was another guy wearing a pinstripe business suit talking into two cell phones at once, the antennae giving him an insect-like look. The whole damn street looked like an ant farm. Harry remembered hearing Dudley wailing last night about how he wanted one of those cell phones himself and snorted. More power to you, Cuz, he thought, watching the Kool-Aid girl put her phone away as she crossed the street. He had heard that those things were supposed to give you brain cancer. Not that Dudley had a whole lot of brains to get eaten up, of course.
And here came Amelia Bones, not standing out at all amidst the crowd of Muggles. She was wearing a power suit and carrying what looked suspiciously like a Gucci handbag, recognizable because Aunt Petunia always drooled over them in the magazines she read.. Her monocle had been replaced with a pair of stylish looking glasses, and Harry was pleased to note that there wasn't a sign of a cell phone anywhere.
"Nice outfit, Madame Bones," Harry commented as she came up to him.
"Thank you, Mr Potter. If I need sartorial advice I'll be sure to ask you next time," she returned dryly.
Harry laughed. He liked this woman.
"No company today?" he asked, looking around for that girl she had with her yesterday. Tonks, wasn't it?
"No, not today," Bones replied. "Trainee Tonks is back at the academy. She left Hogwarts the year before you started and is now in her second year of Auror training. I had her with me yesterday as an exercise."
"I see. Shall we go in?"
Harry held the door open for the woman and they entered into the cool, dim interior of the restaurant.
"Bones, party of two," she said to the Maître d'.
"Of course, right this way, Madame," he said, giving a little bow and leading them past the other diners to a small room off to one side. "Your server will be with you shortly," he said, bowing again and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Nobody in this place did anything as crass as slamming a door.
"I hope everything went well after I left?" Bones asked, seating herself across from Harry and setting her handbag on the chair next to her.
"Yes, ma'am. I cast Muggle repelling wards on my clothes so I wouldn't have to deal with them."
"Good thinking, Mr Potter. Keep thinking like that and we might have to recruit you," she said with a smile.
Harry smiled back, but before he could reply, the door eased open and a waiter dressed all in white ghosted in efficiently.
"Good afternoon," he said in a soft voice that oozed refinement. "My name is Giovanni and I will be your server this afternoon." He proceeded to list off the specials and poured them glasses of water.
Both Harry and Amelia ordered lunch, and were supplied with a teapot. After Giovanni left, Harry leaned forward and spoke.
"You said you might have some answers for me about the wizarding world?"
"I do. I have been in the Ministry for a long time-ever since nineteen sixty eight, as a matter of fact-and I have made it my business to find out as much as I could about the way things are run."
Giovanni glided in and quietly and proficiently served them, and exhorted them to inform him should they have need of him again. Then he left them, in the space of about thirty seconds.
"I had a question that's been bugging me ever since I found out about Voldemort," Harry said, after buttering a roll. He was pleased to note that Bones didn't flinch at the name. "Hagrid told me that he started his little campaign in the eighties and that he was real close to taking over completely by the time he killed my parents. Why though? Why did you guys let him? Every witch and wizard carries a wand and that wand is a deadly weapon, why didn't you all band together to fight him? In the Muggle world, there is something called counterterrorism and military intelligence. Doesn't the wizarding world have such things?"
Bones looked angry for a moment, the skin around her eyes pinched tight. Then she took a deep breath and appeared to get a hold of herself.
"Believe me, Mr Potter, it's not that simple. To explain it though, I need to give you a small history lesson. Believe this, however, I and many more like me did fight him and his followers."
"In order to get the full picture, you have to remember that wizards as a whole are deathly afraid of Muggles. They have always outnumbered us more than a hundred to one. There is a department in the Ministry which watches Muggle technology very closely, and tries to come up with new wards to counter it, so that we won't be discovered."
"The International Statute of Secrecy was signed in the year sixteen eighty nine by King William III and Queen Mary II. The International Confederation of Wizards was formed for the sole purpose of drafting the statute."
Harry stayed silent.
"As a result, the wizarding community, especially here in Europe where we didn't have as much room to spread out, became rather insular. Today, it's like a small town, I guess you'd say. Everybody knows everybody, strangers are viewed with hostility, and there are all kinds of scandals. The Muggles have a little urban legend thing floating around called the Village of One Hundred Hypothesis, which posits what might happen if the world's population were to be reduced to a village of one hundred. It basically says that six people will have all the wealth, one will have a college education, and so on. The whole thing is errant nonsense of course, but they find it fun to speculate about. The wizarding world is like that, in a way.
"Also, as I say, we are afraid of Muggles. We have been ever since the Inquisition, which brought on the need for the Statute of Secrecy. So along comes Voldemort, and he says all the things wizards of a certain calibre want to hear.
"He played a very good game," Bones said as they finished their lunch. "Talked about equality and no more discrimination, that wizards would once more rise to prominence, everything most of the collective wizarding consciousness wants to hear. Contrary to popular belief, most wizards don't like hiding."
"So he basically seduced them," Harry said, sipping his tea.
"In a literal sense, yes. He was a very charismatic man and was very good at telling you what you wanted to hear. It wasn't until the late seventies that he started going crazy."
"You've met him?"
"Yes. He approached my family, but of course none of us were interested in joining him. Something about him made my father uneasy."
"Ok, so, he was good at getting wizards on his side, what's that got to do with fighting him properly?"
Bones tapped a finger on her chin, studying Harry. Would he understand?
"Because, simply put, most wizards agreed with his goals, if not his methods. As such, it was very difficult to find anyone to directly fight him. Many of us wondered the same thing as you did. But there was another reason."
She leaned forward urgently and looked around the room. "What I am about to tell you doesn't leave this room, am I clear?"
Chilled by her urgency, Harry nodded silently. "I swear on my oath as a wizard."
Bones nodded, but flipped her wand in odd patterns at the door, window and all four walls before she seemed satisfied. "Privacy charms," she said in response to Harry's puzzled look.
"as I said, the Statute of Secrecy was signed in 1689. Teams of a hundred wizards went to very specific sites on every continent," she said, keeping her voice low. "Stonehenge here in Europe, a place called Minya Konka in Asia, what's now called the Valley of the Kings in Africa, Macchu Picchu in South America, Chichen Itza in North America, Ayers Rock in Australia and of course, the very south pole itself. Lots of other places, but those were the main sites. As a side note, this was how the Portkey was created, to help with this project. It took them nearly a century and a half to develop the Portkey, and there were some very nasty accidents along the way, most notably the disappearances on Roanoke Island in the United States."
"So a Portkey is a magical means of travel?"
"Yes. It uses the wizard's own magic to power it, but not very much, more as a means of activation actually. That's why you feel like there's a hook behind your navel when you use one."
"Okay, so they develop this Portkey thing and go all over the world. What did they do then?"
"They performed a ritual that would erase wizard kind from history. The biggest Obliviation ever performed. Of course, it didn't entirely work, there are still legends and stories, but the Muggles have all forgotten that we used to live among them.
"There was a side effect though. This is one thing you must always remember, Mr Potter. Magic has consequences, everything must balance. The greater the magic performed, the greater the balance. As the Muggles say, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Especially in rituals: Something is sacrificed, always."
Harry felt his arms prickle. "And what was the sacrifice?" he whispered.
"Every so often, a child is born to the descendants of the ones who cast the ritual in 1689, and that child is a squib. This was the price to pay for hiding magic from the Muggles. In order to hide it, your descendants must be born without it every second generation.
"The Muggle-borns think it's because of inbreeding, and perhaps that is a contributory factor. But for the most part, squibs are only born to the descendants of those who performed the ritual to hide magic."
There was silence, while Harry pondered that. Bones lifted the privacy charms, seeing that Harry needed time to digest things. Shortly afterward, Giovanni came in and offered dessert, which they declined, before bringing in the coffee. He left the leather book with the check inside, which Harry absently started turning on the table.
"Why did you tell me this? Why is it a secret?"
"I told you because I think you are going to be instrumental in our world, not only because you are the Boy-Who-Lived-" Harry grimaced at the title "-but also because you have a keen mind and are willing to think beyond the surface. And the details of the ritual are secret because, should it get out that such a ritual is possible, and should an unscrupulous person or group find out that squibs are due to performing it, the descendants might find themselves in grave danger. They might think that killing the descendants would bring wizards back to prominence."
Bones stopped there to see if Potter would follow the natural train of thought. She wasn't disappointed, as he caught his breath.
"You're telling me that Voldemort found out about this ritual?"
"Well, Mr Potter, what do you think? All of a sudden he comes out in nineteen eighty and starts killing some very specific targets. My younger brother, your family, the Prewetts, the McKinnons, the Weasleys. There are only a few families who are left."
"Wait though. If he kills them all off, that won't lift the effects of the ritual, because there will still be squibs running around. So he must've had some other goal. And if the details of this ritual are so secret, how did he find out about it?"
"That's the problem," Bones whispered into the silent room. "Those details were known only to the families, and none of those families had members who supported the dark. And, in point of fact, only I and a couple others knew the specifics of the ritual. But all of a sudden the Dark Lord starts killing off the descendants of the original casters."
And then, in a shock of realization, Harry understood. "Voldemort wasn't acting alone," he breathed, ice travelling down his spine. "Somebody was feeding him information. There's a lot more going on here than meets the eye."
"Yes," Bones said quietly. "That's what I'm afraid of. On the surface, he was going after only those who stood contrary to his views, but I can't shake the feeling that something deeper, something darker, was going on. Very rarely did VOldemort himself go after specific targets; he usually got his henchmen to do it."
Harry looked around the bright, cheery private dining room. All of a sudden, reality seemed nothing more than a thin canvas stretched across a vast hungry blackness. He was scared, because Amelia Bones looked scared, and he got the feeling that didn't happen very often.
"Do you have any ideas?"
For just a fleeting moment Harry saw
(guilt)
Somethingg flash across her eyes, and then she took a deep breath and relaxed.
"I do, but we shall have to discuss things another time. I have to be getting back to the ministry just now. Would you perhaps be available to join myself and Susan for dinner in two days?"
Harry wanted to bang his head on the table. On one hand he was suspicious over this woman wanting to invite him into her house, and on the other he wanted to shake her until she gave him the information he wanted. He just knew she had more to tell, but for some reason was scared to do so. Taking a deep breath he decided to remain civil. "How do I get there?"
"Relax, Mr Potter," she said firmly. "There is no hurry. And you can take the Knight Bus to Tinworth in Cornwall, which is where my home is located. I will meet you at the market, since nobody is permitted to know my address. Just raise your wand hand and it will come for you."
Resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get any more information from this source, Harry nodded and picked up the book with the check in it. "Until then, I guess, Madame Bones," he said, rising and offering his hand.
Bones shook it firmly. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Potter," she said with a small smile, before dropping some Muggle pounds on the table to cover her half of the bill, and sweeping out the room.
Harry put his own half inside the leather book and waited for Giovanni to collect it. He would have to do something about starting a bank account in the Muggle world. Or maybe his parents already had one. That was something else to look into.
Feeling as if he was being pulled in too many directions, Harry decided to take the train home instead of finishing his shopping. Maybe he could pull a few pranks on Dudley.
Smiling, Harry headed for a deserted alleyway, lugging his shopping bags and feeling the effects of the storm of revelations today. Perhaps he would have a nap first.
4
Ron Weasley awoke the day after school let out and spent some time contemplating his life. He began to realize that he didn't like what he saw.
The previous year, hints had been dropped by his mother that he become friends with Harry Potter. She had known which buttons to push and he had fallen for it. He saw Harry as his path to fame and glory.
Then everything went downhill.
Ron met Harry and he wasn't anything like he was rumoured. The guy was jumpy, shy and not at all glory-seeking.
Then Harry came to him and told him all about his life before Hogwarts and the image of the Boy-Who-Lived was shattered forever in Ron's mind.
Ron also realized that he needed to apologize to Hermione for being a real prat for most of the first month of school. It was his fault that she had run crying from Charms class and had been trapped in a bathroom with a troll. Granted, he couldn't be held responsible for the troll being there, but he could sure own up to the reason she was in its path, and for he and Harry locking the thing in with her initially.
Also, if he wanted to be there for Harry, he needed to start realizing his desire as seen in that mirror. He wanted to be the best of all his brothers, and he wasn't going to be able to do that riding Hermione's skirts and letting her do his homework. Hearing about Harry's life made him realize his complaints were petty and irrelevant.
Ron rummaged in his trunk and pulled out a quill and some parchment. He was going to write Hermione and apologize, but in such a way that wouldn't betray Harry's confidence.
Dear Hermione,
I wanted to write this letter to apologize for being a prat the last year. I found out some things and it made me think, and I didn't like what I had turned into. I was a jealous idiot with delusions of grandeur, as you would probably say. Well that's going to change.
Can't write much more, Percy says he needs this owl, so maybe I'll catch up with you in Diagon Alley.
Your friend,
Ron
Rolling up the scroll, Ron headed down from the attic to borrow Hermes, Percy's owl. Fred and George were in their room, making things explode, and Ginny was somewhere doing something girly, no doubt.
Ginny had pestered him endlessly last night about Harry. Ron was a little disturbed by it, actually. His ten year old sister (she wouldn't be eleven till August) wasn't supposed to show this much interest in a boy. Ron wondered if he maybe ought to warn Harry.
He snorted. Yeah, that conversation is gonna go well, he thought, shaking his head. "Hey Harry, my sister, who has never met you, never even seen a picture of you outside those fake ones in the storybooks, thinks you're going to be the perfect husband." He could just imagine his friend's reaction to that. Perhaps it was better left imagined than seen.
It was a little worrying though. Ron had been getting nudged in the direction of befriending Harry Potter. Ginny, on the other hand, had been outright told that they would make wonderful babies someday. Something had to be done, but he wasn't sure what.
Coming to Percy's door on the second landing, Ron was about to knock when he saw it was open, with no owl in sight. Ron headed further down the stairs, avoiding the creaky ones automatically. He was about to enter the kitchen when he was brought up short by raised voices.
"I'm telling you, Molly, I will not have our children used in such games!"
Ron was so surprised that he almost didn't recognize the voice. His father never raised his voice. The last time had been seven years ago when the twins had almost gotten him to swear an Unbreakable Vow. Now, he was practically shouting.
"If you persist in using Ron and Ginny in your games to get money, I'm going to cast you out of this family! Am I in any way unclear?!"
"But dear, you know how wealthy the Potters are. If we can get Ginny to marry him-"
"No! No, no, no! You will not be feeding that boy love potions. I know you have been dropping hints the size of this house about how great they will be together, but I will not have it. If they are meant to be, they are meant to be, and you will not interfere!"
"If it weren't for you and your lack of ambition, I wouldn't have to be taking this into my own hands!" his mother yelled back suddenly, making Ron jump. "You come from a proud pureblood name and you are content to languish away in a dead-end department that barely gives us enough money to feed all our children! If I don't do something to advance the name of this family then no one will!"
Ron had inched up and peered through a gap in the hinge side of the door. He saw his father reel back as if slapped. Then something truly terrible happened. Ron saw his father's face contort into fury like never seen before.
"Molly Prewett, if you ever talk that way to me again, I will have to discipline you as is my right as head of the family," he said in a low, deadly voice none of his children had ever heard. "Yes, I work in a not very prestigious department, but my job is necessary to maintaining the safety of our world. I make enough to feed and clothe us, and if you wanted someone rich you should not have married me. If money means more to you than this family, then you can leave now and try to find it. But I will not have you ensnaring an orphaned boy you have never even met into your game, nor will I have you using our children in such a vile, despicable manner. Do we understand each other?"
Ron observed his mother, mouth hanging open in shock. He would be willing to bet that never, in all the years of their marriage, had his father spoken to her like that, and he found himself very proud all of a sudden to be a Weasley, with his father willing to take a stand on what was right.
At last his mother got herself together. "But-"
"No, Molly, that was a yes or no question. Do. You. Understand. Me?"
"Yes dear," she said, but Ron could hear that it was only a humouring tactic. His father obviously knew this as well. "Your oath, Molly. You will swear that you will not try to force Harry Potter and Ginny together. You will swear it now."
Again Molly gaped. She was obviously not used to her will being thwarted and it angered her. But she could also see that no amount of reasoning or wheedling was going to work, so she gritted her teeth and took out her wand.
Ron knew, suddenly, that something was going to happen. Just as the first syllable of the spell passed his mother's lips, He yanked open the door and slammed into her.
"Obliv- aaah!"
Both Ron and Molly crashed to the floor, the latter's wand clattering out of her hand and rolling under the table.
Arthur was stunned into momentary inactivity by Ron's sudden intrusion, and it took him a few seconds to react. "Incarcerous!" he snapped, bundling up Molly in a net of ropes before she could reach her wand. He wanted to ask Ron where he had come from, but he had a more pressing issue to deal with.
"Why, Molly?" he asked, staring at her as though he had never seen her before. Indeed, it felt like he never had. The sweet but strong willed red headed girl he knew in school never would have been capable of this. "Why did you attempt to tamper with my memory?"
"Because!" Molly shrieked all pretence of civility gone as she wrestled with the ropes. "This family needs to be picked up out of the gutter! We deserve recognition!"
By this time, the rest of the Weasley children were clustered in the doorway, drawn by the shouts. The twins, Percy and Ginny gaped at their mother, shocked. They had always known she didn't exactly approve of their father's job, but to hear the full extent of her feelings…
She looked mad, eyes bulging and face redder than her hair, fists clenched. "You have refused to try for a promotion in the Ministry which would bring us more gold and so it's up to me to get it for us since you don't have the guts for it!"
"Whoa," George or Fred said softly, his usual grin nowhere in evidence.
"She was going to try and get Ginny to marry Harry," Ron said sotto voce to Fred, George and Percy. This changes a lot of things, he thought privately. The initial plan he and Harry had developed was for Ron to drop carefully worded hints that Harry might need rescuing to his mother and father. Then, they would be more sympathetic to him and less so toward Dumbledore, since it was likely the Dursleys would, after a year of building resentment, be less afraid of repercussions from Hagrid and would likely make Harry's life harder, which would in turn probably require a much softened up Weasley family to rescue him. Harry would then have an ally against the headmaster who had placed him in that environment.
Now, though, with the recent crumbling of his safe and familiar family life, that plan had to be scrapped.
"Silencio," Mr Weasley snapped, silencing his wife's ranting. He sank into a chair at the scrubbed wooden table and rubbed his hands tiredly over his face.
"You'd better all come in. Ginny, would you be a dear and make us some tea, Firefly?"
Shooting nervous looks at their trussed up mother, the Weasley children filed into the kitchen and sat at the table. Ginny fluttered around the kitchen preparing a pot of tea.
"What the hell happened, Father?" Percy asked, to the shock of his siblings. The prim and proper perfect prefect Percy never swore.
"I found your mother studying a very dark potions book this morning. I had to invoke family magic to get her to tell me what she was up to. It is partially my fault, I suppose," he said, rubbing his face again.
"Your mother likes to tell the story of using a love potion in school. She used it on me. Of course, I already liked her and so it was mostly just a nudge in the right direction. But love potions are banned at Hogwarts and it is a serious offence. Your mother was never punished for it and I never took her to task myself."
"We've all heard that story, Dad," Ginny said. "So what's that got to do with anything?"
"Your mother was going to try and get Harry Potter here and feed him subtle love potions to get him to notice you, Ginny," he said, sorrowfully. She wants the Potter money, basically."
Ginny's hand flew to her mouth. "n-no, she said, eyes wide. "She wouldn't do that…" she shot a look at her bound and silenced mother. "... How did that happen? And what's going to happen now?" she asked, vocalizing what everyone else wanted to know.
Arthur Weasley looked like he didn't want to say what had happened. In spite of everything, it felt like he had let his wife down, not done enough … something anyway. So Ron said it for him.
"She tried to mess with Dad's memory when he told her that he would cast her out the family if she did what she was planning, and that he wanted a magical oath that she would stop interfering with Ginny and Harry. Lucky for Dad, I was standing outside the door, and I was able to stop her in time."
"Now what?" Percy asked again.
Arthur sighed again. "I can't see any other option but to cast her out of the family."
Tears came to every eye in the kitchen. Their whole world had just come crashing down around their ears.
"She clearly has issues," Percy said softly. "What if we send her to St Mungo's?"
"Yes, yes. That's a good idea," said his father, clearly grasping at any possibility for at least maintaining some kind of cohesion in their family unit. "As a Ministry worker I can get a little help with the bill, and I'm sure your brothers will help too."
"We'll help around the house whenever we can," George said. "This family has to work together now."
"Thank you, boys," Arthur said gratefully, before levitating his still bound wife and, with a heavy sigh, disappearing through the Floo with a cry of "St Mungo's Hospital!"
5
Richard Evans groaned and rolled off the stained mattress in the equally stained hotel room located in a grungy establishment in South London. South and East London held the dodgier levels of society, and it was here where he could disappear into places that wouldn't ask too many questions.
Richard had arrived at this falling down wreck of a hotel in Brixton. Half the sign's letters were missing, there were used condoms lying on the front steps and the desk clerk was a seventy year old James Dean wannabe. It was four in the morning and the room had cost him forty pounds-what the desk clerk called 'two ponies.'
Now it was high noon and the place was really stinking in the sun. The leather jacketed desk clerk was gone, replaced by a girl with enough piercings in her face that Richard wondered if she had been traumatized by a curtain rod as a child.
Feeling the comforting weight of his Glock at the small of his back, Richard set off down the narrow dirty street away from the hotel toward the Underground. Stinking rubbish bags bulged from overflowing bins on the front steps of the dirtier buildings. At the corner, clusters of kids were gathered around, listening to rap music and sipping stuff out of paper bags. Across the street from the hotel, a young Slavic-looking guy was wandering around, looking in the windows of parked cars. Richard would be willing to bet one of them would be gone in an hour. The beauty and classiness of South London.
He had ditched his own car four blocks away, doors open and keys in the ignition; it was probably being stripped and sold for parts already. From here out, it was public transport all the way, at least until he found James Potter. His father's letter indicated he might seek aid and succour from Potter, but Richard wasn't holding his breath. Aid and succour had been very scant commodities lately, the milk of human kindness seemingly curdled to sour cream long ago.
He would've ditched the suitcase too, except that it contained crucial papers he couldn't give up, not to mention a few magazines for his Glock. Among the papers, was a map of London, and a big book called the London Streetfinder. Having never been here before, those items would be most crucial at present. It was just lucky that the suitcase had been packed, ready to go, in his uncle's car when the house had burned down.
Emerging onto a slightly more reputable street, Richard headed towards his destination. He had a goal in mind, a place his father's letter said he might be able to get more help and answers from. "You won't be able to see it, Rick, but just hang out across the street and watch from some oddly dressed folks and follow them."
Richard shook his head. If he hadn't seen that thing in Iraq ten years ago, and the thing in New York last year, he wouldn't have believed it. It wasn't until those assholes had burned down his house that he really did start believing.
He had gotten his father's last effects in nineteen eighty nine, when the old man had passed on due to complications from throat cancer. The guy had never smoked a cigarette or a cigar, hell not even a damn joint in his life and he got fucking throat cancer. The world was really fucked up, if shit like that could happen.
What made it worse was that the stubborn old bastard hadn't told Richard until the last minute. Almost literally. Richard had been part of Operation Just Cause (what the soldiers had called Operation Just Because) when he was given bereavement leave and sent home to New Jersey.
He had gone to Mercy Hospital in Leeds Point, only to be brought up short by the cadaverous thing in the hospital bed. This thing couldn't be his father, could it?
"Ricky boy," the thing whispered in the sepulchral voice that the cancer had left him. "Glad you could make it."
"Dad! What the hell happened to you?" This thing in the bed in no way resembled the vigorous man his father had been. The only thing left were his eyes, burning with intensity in his ravaged face. One bird claw hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, and Richard could feel the hot cancer roaring through him, going through and gobbling whatever was left.
"No time for that now, son. You got to get out to the Smithville place. Get all the boxes out, quick as you can. They might be going after them now that I'm down and out."
In spite of the gravity of the situation, Richard had to restrain mightily the urge to roll his eyes. His family and their damn conspiracy theories.
Victor Evans had immigrated to America from Yorkshire in the late sixties with his wife Alesandra, who in turn had emigrated from Spain, leaving behind his brother and wife, plus their baby daughter Petunia, who, even at the tender age of a year, looked like a horse. They arrived in Newark just in time for Richard to be born in the autumn of 'sixty nine. Alesandra viewed with good natured bemusement her new family's tendency to see conspiracies everywhere. She found it interesting actually, at least for a while. Some of their discussions were highly entertaining.
Victor and his brother John kept in regular correspondence, uncaring about the horrendous phone bills. John and his wife Sarah had given birth to another daughter whom they called Lily at the end of January of 'seventy. Then for two years they heard almost nothing from England.
Then, in early 'seventy three, Alesandra had picked up the phone just in time to hear "she's one of them" before they became aware of her presence and switched to talking about something else. When pressed on what she had heard, Victor evaded the subject and asked what was for dinner.
Victor had watched Richard very carefully as he grew up, and as his eleventh birthday approached, seemed oddly relieved.
Then had come the long father-son talks that Alesandra was not privy to. Richard and Victor sometimes disappeared for a week at a time, Victor returning looking particularly grim at the end of each one. Richard kept the contents of these talks to himself, despite Alesandra's urging.
Then Alesandra had passed away in 'eighty three, the victim of a hit and run accident while going to the store for ice cream. In the late summer of 1988 John and Sarah died; another car accident. Were Richard like his father, he might've suspected something fishy going on, but he wasn't. He listened tolerantly like a good son should, but he never put stock in his father's theories.
After the deaths of his uncle and aunt, Richard had observed his father sink further and further into paranoia, buying RF jammers and steel shutters for all the windows, boxing up his vast collection of paper and moving them to a house rented in Smithville under a false name; removing all phones from the house. In 1988 Richard joined the army and was promptly shipped off to Panama after basic, and now here he was in the hospital watching his dad die.
"You'll take care of that stuff won't you, son?" his father wheezed.
"Yeah, Dad, I will," Richard said, not really meaning it, but you didn't argue with a dying man.
"Good boy … knew I could count on you. Now, I can't talk much. Fucking cancer... Left you a letter with instructions, read it after I'm gone, hear?"
"I will," Richard said solemnly. "Dad, why didn't you tell me you had cancer?"
Victor flapped his hand as though to wave it off. "Wasn't nothing you could do about it, son. I am gonna die, it's my time and I'm tired. You just be on the lookout for the things I've talked to you about."
By this time his voice was little more than a hiss, drowned out by the beeping of the cardiac monitors and sssht sssht of the oxygen mask. His other hand clawed weakly at the air and the monitors went into a long shrill note. An alarm sounded and two doctors and a nurse roared into the room, shoving Richard aside. "Out of the way, sir," one said brusquely.
Feeling helpless, Richard moved aside and watched as they tried to resuscitate his father. The cardiac monitor showed a few peaks as they defibrillated him. Finally, after five minutes, the presiding doctor, a round fellow with a nametag on his stained white coat that said he was gifted with the unfortunate name of Dr Carver, pronounced Victor Evans dead at fifteen minutes past one on the fifteenth of December 1989.
The funeral was sparsely attended, just a few guys from his father's work and Richard himself. Then, in January, he was shipped back to Panama, then later to Iraq as part of operation Desert Shield, where he saw some things that made him realize his father maybe wasn't as crazy as he'd previously thought.
He had humoured his father and moved all the boxes of paper from Smithville to a farm house on Long island. Sat all by itself in the middle of a bunch of potato fields, rented under one of the false identities his father had stashed in a safety deposit box. Now, he was glad he had.
After leaving the army, Richard had met and married a woman called Rachel, coincidentally a teller at the same bank the deposit box was in. After experiencing what he had, he was a believer in his father's theory, though he never let himself get as paranoid as his father had in his later days. As a result, he never told Rachel anything about what he was into. She no doubt thought him an odd duck, going off every weekend or two and not allowing cellular phones in the house. Had he told her, maybe she would still be alive.
In 1997 they had a daughter, Amanda, who was the apple of his eye. Then the World Trade Centre Bombings had occurred last year.
Yes, Richard thought, settling into a seat on the underground and closing his eyes. That's when everything went to hell.
He had made the mistake of posting on a 9/11 blog last November, underestimating the enemy's ability to find him.
The next day, his entry was gone, Rachel and Amanda were missing, and he found a termination notice from his job as a security guard at one of the high tech firms.
Frantic with worry, Richard searched all over town for his wife and daughter for three days, only to have them returned, minus their memories of the past three days. The enemy had given him a clear warning. He was easy to find and they would strike at him where it hurt without fear of retribution.
That was it for Richard. The house was sold. Using yet another false identity, although he didn't think it really mattered anymore whose name was on the papers since it seemed the enemy could find him anywhere, Richard shipped all the boxes in the Long Island house, having them placed in a cottage bought by his uncle John located in Essex, England.
They had bought passage on a fishing boat and snuck into England, stealing ashore at the coast of Cornwall. It was a harrowing journey made even more difficult by their four year old daughter, who didn't understand why they had to stay in this cold, damp place for three weeks, only let out for bathroom trips. On top of that, the boat's crew were ogling his wife in a manner which made Richard's blood boil, and only the certain knowledge that, paid or not, the captain wouldn't hesitate to throw them all overboard in the chilly Atlantic waters stayed his hand.
That had been three weeks ago. Upon arrival in Cornwall they had been faced with a new difficulty: lodging. England watched its citizens far more closely than the United States and obtaining false identification was not nearly as easy, although there were rumours of something called the Patriot Act being enacted in his home country that would apparently remedy that state of affairs.
Luckily, his Uncle John had been even more paranoid than his father. There were quite a few houses scattered about under various branches of the Evans family, and Richard moved his own little offshoot of the family into one of these. It was a small bungalow about twenty miles east of Norwich. The whole area was as flat as a pool table and windier than Chicago.
There they had stayed until those fuckers found them.
Now, sitting in a dirty train rattling over rusty tracks, Richard shuddered as he remembered how it all went down. He doubted very much if he would ever be able to erase the guilt from his soul stemming from his inability to save Amanda and Rachel. He would hear their screams until his dying day. Even if his mind got eaten by Alzheimer's, he would hear them.
All that remained now was for Richard to catch the animals responsible for their deaths. He would find this James Potter and make up for ten years of not really paying attention to his father, of only humouring the old man when he should've been taking every word, every warning to heart.
Shaking off his reminiscences, Richard glanced around the car, looking for any watchers. After the house fire, he was going to be on high alert.
Sitting directly across from him was a man wearing a denim jacket that looked like it hadn't been washed since Harold Macmillan was Prime Minister. The smell wafting across in the warm June air circulating in the train suggested that the coat's occupant hadn't been washed since then either.
A pretty brunette with one of those new media players that had been rolled out last October was sitting a couple seats away. What were those things called? Something weird … Ipods. Yes that was it. It sounded like a disease, but they were popular as hell. The brunette was bouncing very obviously to whatever was blasting out of her ear buds.
Bag ladies and business men, students and random cross sections of society sat and stood around him, all with eyes in the paper, out the window or on the floor. Nobody appeared to be watching him, but he wasn't going to take that for granted anymore.
He sat on the train all the way to Waterloo Station, where he got off hurriedly, losing himself in the morning rush of travellers.
Heading into the station, Richard went to the loo and pulled off his jacket, making sure the Glock didn't fall out of his S.O.B. holster and turned the jacket inside out. It was now green instead of grey and it gave him a different look. He pulled a peaked cap out his suitcase and put it on, then headed out of the loo and toward another over ground train. He would take this one to Elstree Station, which was at the very end of the London transport network. From there he would catch the underground to Tottenham Court Road, and then a bus to Charing Cross road.
Richard adopted a weary look similar to the rest of the commuters and sat on the train, keeping his eyes on the newspaper in front of him. He watched the reflection in the window to ensure nobody was paying him any undue interest.
At Elstree Station, Richard bought a token for the Underground and climbed on a train, standing just inside the doors. He ducked out just as the doors were closing and dodged quickly behind a pillar.
His subterfuge was rewarded, as he saw the bouncy brunette looking angry as the train roared into the tunnel.
That sent a chill through him. It meant he hadn't been nearly as sneaky as he thought he had been. Did this mean that they had an idea where he might be heading? Had they found his evidence stashed away and done something with it?
Of course, if they hadn't yet found it and he went there, they sure would know where it was then. No, he had to keep on. All the evidence was in his head anyway. With the right help, he could have his evidence properly catalogued.
Richard pulled out a wrinkled photo and stared at a man with glasses and messed up black hair. He was standing next to his cousin Lily, whom he'd never actually met. This photo was in the last correspondence his uncle had sent before he died. James Potter and Lily Evans had apparently gotten married right after school.
Tucking the photo back into his pocket, Richard got aboard a southbound train and headed for Tottenham Court Road. He pulled the same trick at two intervening stops, but caught no other watchers.
Feeling secure finally, he ditched the green jacket and bought another one in a tourist shop, then caught a bus for Charing Cross Road. It was time to set up vigil in front of the Leaky Cauldron.
6
Harry got off the train at the Little Whinging station and trudged wearily toward Privet Drive. Bones had told him how to use the Knight Bus and he probably could've taken that home instead, but he wanted to use the train trip to think. She had warned him that the driver of the bus wasn't bothered overmuch with using a steering wheel and the ride would've been not very conducive to cogitation.
The sun beat down on the back of his neck as he trudged through the small town centre. Rituals to hide magic? Squibs? Something even worse than VOldemort pulling the feared Dark Lord's strings like a puppet?
Harry somehow got the feeling that there was a hell of a lot more going on out there than anyone realized. He wanted to get back to the bookstore in Diagon Alley and read as much as he could on the history of the wizarding world. Something was going on out there and he wanted to know what it was.
Lots of people conspired to hold different pieces of the puzzle, but he was sure that if they were all fitted together they would produce a picture far more vast and complicated than blood purity or ideology. Harry wanted that picture. He needed to have it. He got the feeling that if he didn't put all the pieces together, he was going to die. Him, and a lot more others. Possibly the whole world, as melodramatic as that sounded.
Without realizing it, Harry arrived at Privet Drive. Jerked out of his thoughts by the sudden sound of a lawn mower, he looked up. Number Four loomed in front of him and he trudged wearily up the walk, peering at the flower beds which were going to seed since he hadn't been there to take care of them. Not that he ever would. He wasn't going to be the Dursleys slave all summer.
He was thinking about which books to look for when he opened the door, mind not really on his surroundings. As the fireplace poker came swishing through the air at his head, he remembered all of a sudden that he hadn't cast the Muggle repelling wards on his new clothes.
Then the hard metal sent him sliding into the blackness.
