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Arc I – Death's Chess Set

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Chapter Two

Many Scattered Pieces

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Harry had to hand it to the Mercurial Old Geezer: the man was thorough.

Alivjo Perrison had gathered every parchment, book, journal excerpt and newspaper article even remotely connected with the chess pieces he was after, making copies when he couldn't keep the original. He'd even put them all in a binder, neatly displayed and clearly labelled by date and country. Hermione would love this bloke.

Of course, only about half of the writings were in English. Typical.

Harry wasted half an hour on bemoaning this fact, before being struck by a brilliant idea, and floo-calling Hermione to ask about translation charms. The wizarding world had spells for everything, surely there was one that would allow him to read the blooming texts?

Alas, no such luck.

Sure, translation charms existed, but as it turned out, in order to cast one, you had to know both languages – the one you wanted to translate and the one you wanted to translate it to. And that was without even mentioning that translating spoken or written language required different sets of spells.

As it were, entire agencies thrived on providing this service – you go there, pay, and a witch or wizard who is fluent in both languages you're interested in casts the charm on you, with durability spanning from two hours to fifteen days, in direct proportion to the amount of Galleons you are willing to part with.

Naturally, Hermione's suggestion was to find a language course: the muggle world, she pointed out, offered many such lessons, especially in London, for just about every language under the sun.

Harry's solution, on the other hand, was to ask for a list of the translation agencies and owl them about the cost of having a few things translated.

Once he had overcome the 'minor' obstacle, he set himself to the monumental task of reading everything very carefully and compiling a summarized list of the major points.

The Rooks, it seemed, had remained in the hands of their current owners' families for centuries. It looked like he would have to go to Italy…

The King had been bought by an eccentric billionaire – Perrison had tracked down the papers – but unfortunately the man seemed to have moved to Patagonia for his retirement. Harry had to locate an atlas and look up where on Earth Patagonia might be just to get an idea of how far the man was supposed to be. He wasn't happy to find out the term 'antipodes' worked well to describe the distance.

One Bishop was supposedly in Normandie, France, where Anna of Rohan, current Comtesse de Fougéres, had – hopefully – inherited it from her great-grandfather, who was the confirmed founder and keeper of the piece, retrieved during a French archaeological expedition in centre Italy under Napoleon's rule.

The other Bishop, along with the last missing pawn, could be tracked to Hungaria, specifically to a Mr. Hmrak, art collector, who had for certain acquired the two pieces just five years prior; unfortunately, after leaving notice at his place of work that he was taking a holiday to Praha, he'd never come back – and the pieces had disappeared with him. Of course.

Well, he doubted any of the current owners would just give up their pieces without battling an eye, but he might as well give it a try… if nothing else, getting in touch with them would be a start.

He started mentally composing his letters.

o

"I can't believe you're doing something so foolish!" was Hermione's comment some days later.

She and Ron had joined him in his bedroom, where he was steadily packing. Clothes and items were strewn almost everywhere in the room, like the after-effects of a whirlwind tornado that seemed to be centred on the open suitcase triumphantly sitting at the bottom of his bed, a dark sleeve of fabric dangling over one side.

Hermione was standing, rigid with disapprobation, an aged but still wrathfully glaring Crookshanks held against her bosom like a shield against Harry's stupidity.

"You've been nagging me forever to start doing something with my life," protested Harry weakly, balancing two Auror-standard Potions carriers to try and judge which weighted less.

"Something productive! Something… something sensible, Harry, something responsible. You have so many good qualities, and-"

"Hermione, please," he cut her off, rolling his eyes.

"When I said you should get out and do something, throwing yourself into a harebrained adventure, on your own I might add, is not what I had in mind!"

She'd been going on like this from the moment he'd told them of his meeting with Alivjo Perrison – and of his decision of accepting the odd 'job' he'd been offered.

"So where're you going first, mate?" asked Ron from where he was lazily lounging on Harry's bed. Hermione started instantly berating him ("Ron! How can you encourage him…!") but he ignored her rant with practised ease.

"Well," said Harry, trying to refold his latest Weasley sweater so it would fit in the suitcase, "that French Countess is absolutely thrilled that a 'researcher' wants to have a look at her family's castle, but unfortunately she's getting married in two weeks, so this isn't a good time. She'll be delighted to have me as a guest once the honeymoon is over, though – or at least, that's what her letter says."

"Good luck to the poor bugger, whoever it is," commented Ron idly.

"Ron! You prat!" hissed Hermione, now dividing with equity her reproachful glares between her two friends.

The redhead held up his hand in a placating gesture, amusement shining in his eyes.

Harry went on: "And since the billionaire who moved to Patagonia has virtually dropped off the face of the world during an expedition to the Tierra del Fuego..."

He shot Hermione a smug look, inordinately proud that he knew the right name of the Merlin-forsaken place.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly, her lips almost slipping in a small smile despite the worry apparent on her face.

"And since I've heard nothing sensible from that Hungarian…" continued Harry.

"What do you mean?" asked Ron sharply, propping himself up on an elbow with a frown.

Harry shrugged, turning to look for the next item to pack: "It's pretty much confirmed that two pieces were acquired by this Hmrak bloke who is, it seems, an art collector. Apparently he bragged about them to all of his colleagues when he bought them, some five years ago. Then about two months ago he went to Praha on holiday – something about seeing some precious ceramic piece at an exhibition there – and… nothing."

He threw a bag of bath stuff into the suitcase rather carelessly.

"Nothing?" repeated Ron incredulously.

Harry dropped to his knees to look for a pair of trainers under his bed and his voice came out rather muffled as he rummaged: "He disappeared. Left said at his hotel that he was going to the police station and then… puff. Never came back, never called… nothing."

He came up again, triumphantly holding one shoe: "Perrison found the report he made to the muggle police there – apparently he told the hotel staff the truth about his intentions – and it is full of what the agent who heard him out classified as 'utter nonsense': like being robbed by 'man-beasts as savage as wolves'. We know better than to dismiss his claims, but it's not much use anyway, because of course, the Muggles didn't believe a word Hmrak said…"

"I'm not surprised," commented Hermione with a sniff.

Harry shot her an annoyed look: "Really, Hermione, there's no need to be like that… Muggles are this oblivious because we work bloody well hard to keep them that way!"

Hermione glared at him: "That's not what I meant! I'm not surprised that this Mr. Hmrak was attacked by werewolves, is all. Praha is in the territory of the biggest and most structured lycanthropic pack in Europe, after all."

"Really?" asked Harry in total astonishment.

"Certainly!" exclaimed Hermione, clearly surprised that he didn't already know. "Not only do they number in the hundreds, they're also pretty well organized and have fought tooth and claw – literally, at times – to be ruled by their own Lore rather than by common law. It was a big uproar, the matter was heatedly debated for ages and there were a number of terrorist attacks both against the werewolves and by them… There's a whole chapter on the matter in Martin Causius' A Contemporary History of Eastern Europe… oh, but, for pity's sake! Don't you two ever read?"

Harry and Ron glanced at each other sheepishly, trying hard to contain their mirth. "Well, anyway, I'm starting with Bologna," hurriedly concluded Harry, diving back under the bed for the second shoe.

"Italy, huh?" commented Ron, winking at Harry. "Cool. I've heard the birds there are beautiful and friendly, if you get what I mean!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ronald!" cried Hermione exasperated, while Harry laughed some more.

Hermione turned to him with a frown, not saying anything, but clearly disapproving.

Harry dropped the pair of trainers atop a precarious pile of socks inside the suitcase and sighed: "Hermione…"

"I just don't want you to get hurt!" she burst out suddenly. "You don't know what all you're getting yourself into and- and…"

In two steps, Harry was by her side and engulfing her in a huge hug, not bothered by Crookshanks' ferocious hiss as he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor: "I'll be careful, Hermione. I promise."

She sniffed and hugged him back "You'll better!"

She squeezed him tightly and then let go of him, her eyes a little puffy: "You keep in touch, you hear? I don't want to be left wondering what absurd mess you've managed to plunge headfirst-"

Harry's laughter interrupted her: "Hermione, everything will be fine!"

"So you say, mate," threw in Ron, "but Hermione and I, we know what kind of luck you have…!"

Harry rolled his eyes while Hermione sniffed a little.

"I'll try and find you some up-to-date books on the situation in Prague, while you're away," she promised then. "Unless I can talk you out of this nonsense…?" she trailed off looking hopeful.

But Harry regarded her seriously: "No, I'm sorry but… I really want to do this. It's interesting," his eyes pleaded with her to understand.

She sighed and shook her head, but looked resigned: "Don't go looking for trouble."

"I don't go looking for trouble…" grinned Harry, and Ron finished the running joke for him: "…trouble usually finds him!"

They laughed together and then Hermione whipped out her wand, casting a swift and perfect pack! and making Harry groan: "You couldn't have done it sooner and spared me grief!"